Veins of Blue Lightning

by Gene Dark

AU DAI. In 9:37 the mages voted for independence. Anders saved the rebel mages at Andoral's Reach. Knight Commander Rylock fights to protect the Ferelden Circle of Haven, including her mage parents and mage daughter, from Red Templars. Lambert Hawke and his husband, Fenris, were fighting to free Tevinter slaves from Venatori, but fate intervened and now Hawke is the Herald.

13. Chapter 13: The Adamantine Gates

Song is (of course!) The Phantoms: Into the Darkness

Lambert stood on the balcony of the Winter Palace, its white marble held up by giant chess pieces. All pawns. He worried about the symbolism. The garden beyond was shadowy and gray and still and lonely – the bare branches like bones – the magic used by Morrigan to sustain Celene's dreams vanished like smoke. The sprawling branches reminded him of the limbs of figures crouching in the dark. The intricate tangles resembled the skeletons of non-existent creatures. Here and there between these deceptive simulacra, authentic husks of dead birds fluttered in the wind. The broken trees had the dead stillness of Wintermarch...but Lambert's time in Lothering told him life was growing deep within the earth.

He had come here to escape. After his time in the shifting dream world of the Fade, reality seemed too loud, too hard, too sharp, too bright. This brightness was a gift from the Maker – but to one who had spent so long (a blink of an eye but aeons could pass in the mind) in shadow, it was a lot to take in. Had Fen felt this way when he first ran from Castellum Tenebris?

Where was Grace? Lambert worried about them – hoped they would appear to guide him against making the tragic mistakes he had seen through that dark mirror.

He was concerned for Morrigan too. She had relied on her hold over Celene to protect herself and her son from those who would use a child of the Theirrin bloodline - or want to destroy him. Lambert did not want to believe that of King Cousland but who would bet a child's life on the morals of kings?

Morrigan would not. Fenris had told him of her words. Now Prosper was Emperor – and had already stated he had no truck with, "seeing the future, speaking with the dead, all that blasphemous rubbish with which fortune-tellers gull the desperate" - where could she and her son go? To The Silent Grove, to hide as her sister had hidden, before Magister Titus had used her skull as an occularum?

The moon was barely visible now; the sky had turned slate-gray and hung swollen with undischarged snow. The stars shone between thick swatches of grey and the moon floated in and out, lightening and darkening the landscape every few moments. The fires where Prosper had ordered the Venatori burned lay in dark haloes of ash and scorched earth.

The night air was cold and electric, lit by a dull orange lamp like a faded phoenix; the tarnished glow spread in a pool around it, but did not touch the edges of shadow. Lambert could smell approaching rain – from the coast to the north – feel the icy wind on the back of his neck and the hot thud of his heart...

...three years...

He could hear the flutter of redwings overhead – restlessness creeping into their hollow bones - moving north in search of new territories. Winter would not last much longer, and soon the flocks would be gathering for their long flight to Tevinter.

As would the Inquisition.

The ice would start to thaw and the earth glow green with new life.

Lambert remembered his time on Llomerryn Island: a beautiful chaotic place, overwhelmed by sunlight and spices, where in the evenings he and Fenris would swim in the Amaranthine Ocean and let cool salty water wash away dust and sweat. The waves had pushed down on the coast in an endless rhythm, embracing and withdrawing beneath the moonlight. Under the water shoals of tiny fish had nibbled painlessly at his legs, reviving and renewing their bodies. Sometimes they had been swept by the force of the waves and carried back to sand like driftwood, all resistance futile. Trying to stand against the tide had been like trying to stop time; better to float through it and embrace the rhythm.

Beyond the Winter Palace gardens was a forest of yew trees that had survived only by Emperor Florian's decree. They had been lucky: in Orlais, most of the yews had been cut down, because yew was perfect for the production of the longbows – used by Loghain Mac Tir during the rebellion and by Briala in Halam'Shiral – that could kill chevaliers. Large yew forests were now a rarity across Orlais. In Ferelden the yew was a symbol of 'sudden death'... because almost every part was poisonous.

A yew could live thousands of years if left undisturbed. As the trunks aged they became hollower and the old branches took root into the ground to create new roots, forming one cryptic, tangled hollow. To Fereldans the yew tree symbolized immortality and strength – resilience in the face of adversity – growth and renewal.

Lambert shivered. One of the shadows was moving! There was not enough breeze to account for it. He reached for Bard's Honour...even now, as a Seeker and passable mage, he still thought of daggers first.

The lone woman stood upon frost that glittered like icing sugar, her high black boots making no dent. Magic, he realized...or something more? Rumours swirled around Morrigan and she did nothing to discourage them.

After seeing her in action at the Battle of Drakon River Lambert had always wondered.

Morrigan stood in the bitter shade, her pale hands twisted. They made him think of broken trees, splintered like bone... of the bodies left in her wake at that long-ago battle. Long ago? The Fifth Blight had been only seven years ago! Lambert had been an eighteen-year-old army medic – Carver a seventeen-year-old scout – Loghain Mac Tir's best.

Morrigan faced him like a painted ghost – the lines of her face too perfect to be quite human. The half-Dragon shapeshifter appeared human – but only in the way a tigress resembles a house cat. Her outlined lips glowed out of her moon-pale face like dying coals. Her hair and eyebrows and lashes were blue-black - a living, iridescent black that resembled rain clouds. Her lenticular irises seemed to change colour: from a green somewhere between emerald and turquoise to a strange yellow, almost lupine. When the colours were visible together it was like looking into a melting opal.

"The Orlesian nobility make drunken toasts to your victory and yet you are not present to hear them." Morrigan's laughter might have been mocking, might have been hurting. "Do you tire so quickly of their congratulations, Inquisitor? Tis most fickle, after all your efforts on their behalf."

"I would have stayed but the Purple Rain ran dry. Scandalous."

She laughed. "Indeed. Let us see if you take this next piece of news as poorly."

"Go on."

"By Imperial decree, I have been named liaison to the Inquisition. Emperor Prosper wishes to offer you any and all aid – including mine. Prosper knows you face an opponent of great magical power – which is far more important than any service I could perform for him or his heir. You will require my knowledge if you are to defeat such magic. I have knowledge which falls...beyond the realm of most mages. Including mages trained as Seekers. I place this knowledge at your disposal. You are intending to take on Tevinter, yes? Thus it behooves you to add to your arcane arsenal. Congratulations."

The yellow light in her eyes was hungry as a wolf and looking at her was like looking at the side of a smooth cliff, lit by the flames of burning cities, with twin caves that, defying gravity, tunnelled into the precipice, giving him a glimpse of emerald and citrine pools.

Lambert did not believe that for a second. Prosper had no reason to trust Morrigan – or to assume that Lambert would work with her. Yes, they were both mages who had fought during the Fifth Blight, but he recognized this as Morrigan's attempt to save face. She was asking the Inquisition for protection – for herself and for Kieran. Where else could they go?

He would never let on that he knew. Lambert had feeling for the pride in others.

"Welcome to the Inquisition, Morrigan. Thank you for agreeing to take on a threat like Tevinter with us. We will fight together – as we did in the Fifth Blight. Oh - you probably don't remember me! I was a junior medic. But I remember you. You faced down those darkspawn at the Drakon River like...like a cloud of vengeance. It's something I'll tell my children. Yes, Fen and I intend to adopt, one day."

Morrigan looked genuinely surprised. She stuttered a little – clearly as unused to politeness and respect as Fenris had been.

"A most gracious response," she said finally. "I shall be ready to attack Adamant. In hawk form, I can scout ahead - warn you of any danger."

She left as silently as she had come.

Alone, it became easy for Lambert to imagine the Walking Things he had seen in the Fade lurking ahead – every twig and shrub contorted into pale hands and hidden faces; every shadow enlarged in the murky moonlight. The night mutated things familiar in daylight into forms unknown, unwelcome.

Fenris joined him. His husband had been healed of his wounds - how had Fen moved, or fought? - by Lambert's magic, but there was still a stiffness in his stance. Lambert would make sure to make him Fenris' Friend.

Being unable to see each other's faces clearly, he and his husband relied on changes in tone – the natural, uninhibited behaviours that could not be concealed by the cleverly worded sentences of the Game. Fear faded to peace, and with it joy came swimming back to Lambert, the sense of being around someone who made him fall so in love that all the loneliness of being alive transformed into something new; two souls joined together with the rest of the universe...an infinite, effervescent reverberation between them and the stars.

"I can't believe you escaped before me! Cyril de Montfort insisted on talking about you for fifteen minutes."

Lambert blushed. He knew his seduction of Cyril hadn't hurt Fenris, who had been a friend and protector at the time but not a lover. It hadn't hurt his former partner either – Anders had found it amusing - but he found it reprehensible in himself, that he could use another person in such a way. That the lessons Madame Lusine had taught him had come so naturally he had not minded sleeping with the man – a fast, sweaty encounter in one of the cupboards at Château Haine – just to steal his father's key. That Lambert had returned to Cyril the minute he found out Tallis' real intentions. No way would he have helped a Qunari spy murder a man who had invited him as a guest!

Cyril did not know the whole story - had convinced his father Lambert had been a bard working for him and Leliana all along – and Lambert was at no pains to admit it. He felt sorry for Cyril. Now he was Emperor Prosper's declared heir, and being a man who liked only men, he was in exactly the same position Dorian had been back home.

"Are you alright? After Envy...after everything?"

"We've helped Briala and unified a country. I hope they elect Leliana as Divine – and, knowing her, she's already started to use her connection at Château Haine to that advantage. She'll have to be very careful managing Petrice and Iona but I think she'll be up to the task. I think...I hope...things might work out for once. I can't say I am sorry about either Gaspard or Celene. They were both rapists. I know about the initiation of chevaliers. And I know how Celene used Briala. I wouldn't have killed them myself – but I'll lose no sleep over it. I'd say this is a victory. One of the first in a while."

"It is a bit of a surprise, isn't it," Fenris agreed dryly. Then the warrior was all business. "You will need to put the Inquisition soldiers on alert. We march on Adamant tomorrow. If we are to catch up with King Cousland's army we cannot delay."

Lambert thought of the dolphins that swam around Llomerryn – the way they used echolocation to talk to each other in the dark – interpreting echoes and sharing feelings.

"Wait," he said with a subtle, mischievous smile, "There is one thing we must do before we go. Let's dance, you and I."

Fenris was genuinely shocked. "At the Winter Palace! Spies are everywhere – even at this hour. Especially at his hour. How is it going to look, for the Inquisitor to be seen dancing with a 'rabbit'?"

The words hit Lambert like cannonballs – made him certain attacking Tevinter was the right thing to do. He hated the country that had made his husband see himself in that way. He started to feel a new kind of clarity – a sense of what he wanted. Sometimes it is not until we admit our thoughts that we truly start to hear them.

"One: I do not care. Two: don't ever describe yourself in those words to me. Three: we have just seen Briala named Marquise of the Dales. Times are changing. As Rylock said earlier, "A testing is on us, and we lead the way."

Fenris did not smile but his entire face lit from within like a shy candle. He took Lambert in his arms.

"I suppose this isn't...terrible..."

---

Afterwards Lambert was a long time going to sleep.

He lay curled into Fenris, who – after the wounds sustained in that terrible battle – was out like a light. But Lambert lay staring up at the ceiling - watching shadows boil on the colourless arches and thinking of that dark future. Images seemed to flicker behind his eyelids.

When Leliana had left for Val Royeaux – along with Grand Clerics Iona and Petrice - he knew that part of Envy's nightmare would proceed exactly as shown. This new, darker Leliana had the skills and the cunning and the ruthlessness. But she would be forced to compromise with Petrice and Iona, who were powerful in their own right. She would use Iona's hatred of Tevinter and Petrice's hatred of the Qunari to keep their murderous ambitions away from her – for a time. And ensure Argent was ready to move against them when required.

Was the rest of the vision going to come true as well? What would happen after they had taken Weisshaupt? Could he be strong enough to prevent it? To not only restrain his colleagues but to restrain himself?

He knew he had never been strong in that way. Sloth had got him, after all. It felt like one of those nightmares where you know something terrible is going to happen yet can do nothing to stop it.

He was going to free slaves. After Fenris had done him the honour of marrying him - of trusting him after everything another human mage had done to him - he could do no less. But he knew the road to hell is paved with good intentions. At best he would have to look away while unwelcome allies did things he disagreed with. Hadn't that started already? He had overheard a conversation between Leliana and her agent, Charter, that made it clear unshared things were happening as early as Haven...

…"Make it clean. Painless if you can" ...

He had met Argent in Skyhold gardens and felt for her as he had felt for Fenris – knowing this woman, though human, had had a similar background. Trained to kill since birth and used for nothing else. Leliana had taken her as a spoil of war from a rival in the Game and was using her in the same way: a weapon not a person.

The anger over what Leliana was doing to Argent was worse than the knowledge of what she was using Argent for. Lambert had tried to talk to Argent, in Skyhold gardens – to show her she had value and worth – but soon realized that, for her, the approach of a powerful man could mean only one thing. Flushing, Lambert had left her alone. He did not know how to help her.

Yet Leliana never listened – why should she listen to an unpromising bardic pupil? Why should anyone?

Would Lambert really betray Anders to free slaves? Do to his ex-lover what Anders had done to Fenris, to free mages?

No.. .it was a plea as much as a promise. A plea for help to...whom?

Suddenly, he noticed one of the shadows above his bed was moving of its own volition. There was no wind to explain that...no candlelight.

"Thank you," Lambert said quietly, "Thank you for saving me in Envy's realm. Thank you for everything. I owe you more than my life."

Grace looked around them. "The inside of the Winter Palace is shadowy and gray and still and lonely. Lonely? I never thought that before you planted the word. Words are like seeds – they take root and then they grow."

"You don't have to be lonely. If you choose to stay a mortal, you will have friends here. I am one."

Grace materialized from the shadows and stood at the foot of Lambert's bed. Close up, Grace seemed all muscles and flesh. Real blood ran through their veins. They looked so different. Lambert could not tell whether they were male or female – both or neither – and he knew that did not matter. Grace would decide when they were ready.

"The Hunterhorn Mountains - the Winter Palace…they seem so long ago," Grace told him. "You went away. I was so lonely. I did want to be friends but the wanting frightened me. Only demons want to be friends with mortals. I was afraid I would ask you to let me in. That I would make you an abomination. Then I remembered you are a Seeker - that you would be safe from me. When I followed you I could feel things in me…changing. I didn't feel the same anymore and I couldn't stop it happening. And all the time the blood was moving through my veins and I was changing."

"It sounds like being born,' Lambert said softly. He would never forget his own memories of babyhood unlocked in the Fade. Of being locked away in a secret, dark, silent world. No choices, no understanding of who he was, or what he was. "It sounds like growing up as well."

Fenris stirred, and Grace tiptoed out the room. Lambert's heart felt inexplicably lighter.

...That dark future won't happen. I won't let it. The minute I cross the line Grace will warn me and I will listen...

He was armed with knowledge of the dangers - of the consequences of certain choices. He would help Fenris end slavery in Tevinter but he would not - as Varric had warned him in the dream - make any decisions he could not fix. Chemical and biological warfare were forever. They must have treaties to forbid their use. He hoped and prayed that would be enough.

He snuggled into Fenris, who rolled over with a grunt. Fenris was sleeping more peacefully than he normally did, and soon Lambert was out like a light.

That night, the nightmares left them both in peace.

---

The fat, pale moon glared down at them from behind its gauzy veils of clouds.

It was the month of Wintermarch. Catkins hung like tassels - pale green floppy icicles with a yellow tinge - from hazels, alders and willows. The clouds of pollen cast on the wind would mostly be wasted...only those lucky to hit their targets would give rise to fruiting bodies in early spring.

The lanterns reminded Lambert of the lollipops father had made for them as children.

At the Winter Palace, the War Council were planning the attack on Adamant. Emperor Prosper had invited King Cousland and Prince Sebastian – while insisting their armies stayed behind – and the new Knight Vigilant, Rylock, sat beside Vivienne – leader of the Loyalist faction of mages, Sweeney - leader of Ferelden's mages - and Anders, leader of the Free Mages. Cyril de Montfort and Lambert were conferring in low voices. Fenris was here - in his official role as Captain of Starkhaven's men rather than as Lambert's husband – as were the Hero of Ferelden and Marquise Briala of the Dales.

Times were changing indeed.

Lambert fought the urge to look at Fenris and grin. At especially boring War Councils he would think of Fenris struggling through his day and the pleasure that awaited them together later. He would look around at the others – the King of Ferelden, the Prince of Starkhaven, the Emperor of Orlais – and pity them because he was going home to Fenris and they weren't. It was nauseating smugness but there was a grain of absurd and genuine compassion in it. He knew how he stood his three-year prognosis; how on earth did they stand their lifetimes?

So Lambert got through the military planning with very little of his consciousness applied to it. All he was doing, after all, was making sure that no plan that was utter dreck left the room – and, given he was being advised by the likes of Cullen, there was little chance of that – and that everything that looked promising was being considered by wiser heads than his.

Not present were Divine-elect Leliana, and Grand Clerics Petrice and Iona. They were in Val Royeaux, to prepare for the ascent to the Sunburst Throne.

Nor was Morrigan - which did not surprise Lambert. She had too many enemies. Emperor Prosper and King Cousland would tolerate no untainted scion of Theirrin blood. Rillian and Alistair had personal reasons to find it an uncomfortable meeting.

"If we march following the Waking Sea then up to Lake Celestine it will be wet and windy – but possible in winter. The Imperial Highway is a good road. Will we face opposition from Montsimmard?"

"My father-in-law has wrested control from Warden-Commander Clarel, who fled to Adamant. Loghain named a young woman named Jana as his Second. She was first to oppose Clarel. Loghain knew he'd have our backing but Jana didn't wait. Why? You must have made quite the impression on her, Inquisitor."

Lambert said nothing but smiled inwardly – remembering the courageous Elven woman – all ideals and faith – who had been so sure she wanted to join the Grey Wardens and save the world. He had not tried to dissuade her – persuading an Elven woman from Ferelden to join him rather than Rillian had seemed pretty arrogant. He had been disappointed in Rillian for sending Jana to Montsimmard rather than Soldier's Peak. He had learned enough of the Game to recognize why she had done it – it appeared Rillian had not been betting solely on Loghain's loyalty – but he had hoped for better. Still, Rillian's gamble had paid off – both Jana and Loghain had rallied Montsimmard to fight for their cause rather than Clarel and Weisshaupt.

"I'll put depots for my own armies at your disposal – including at the Exalted Plains. I will be needed in Val Royeaux – but my son will command the wyvern riders. They and your griffons can counter any airborne threat – if indeed they manage to taint another dragon."

"The Western Approach is bleak and anything might boil up from the Abyssal Reach. Some say it descends all the way to the Deep Roads. And we know from Ser Ruth Erimond has persuaded Clarel to summon a demon army. They have the sacrifices already there - every non-mage Warden. How will we counter that?"

"We don't need to take the fortress," Cousland said darkly, "We'll burn them and reduce it to rubble."

"Easy for you to say about a fortress in my country!" Prosper snapped. "We have enough manpower and supply lines to be able to starve them out. Less fuss – and less mess. Orlais will retain a useful outpost."

The Emperor wore the deep purple of royalty, trimmed with the gold lions that were the symbol of Orlais itself. Apparently, Gaspard had once said, "Maker knows what Ferelden and Tevinter will do when they see Orlais weakened."

Go to war with each other, it seemed.

"I don't think we will have the time for negotiations," Lambert said thoughtfully, "But you are right – all the military tactics in the world won't stop a demon army."

"Magic will," Vivienne said in a bleak, hard voice, "I'll gather our strongest mages and cast Barrier all around Adamant. When you summon the genie but give them nothing to do they become angry. When the demons cannot escape, they will turn on their summoners."

Rylock grinned. "Demons eating their summoners - it has a certain justice."

"Listen to yourselves!" Alistair shouted in distress, "Preparing to treat Wardens as game pieces!"

Lambert did not have the heart to tell Alistair his wife had done exactly that with Jana.

"The Wardens at Adamant are like Ser Ruth – good people misled by an evil Magister. We should be trying to convince them. To save them."

Words like Alistair's had set off emotional depth charges at first...after a while he hardened to these, and got through them by thinking of Fenris with his cropped metallic hair like a helm, one strand askew like a pale sickle.

"You're both right," Lambert said softly, "A siege and Barrier will keep the threat contained – but I will also take volunteers to accompany me into the realm of Nightmare. We'll need to break that beast as we broke Envy, else it will always be able to use Wardens. And not only Wardens...it isn't controlling them through the taint but through their dreams. Making them think they are going through the Calling. It's panicked Clarel into summoning a demon army to kill Razikale and Lucasan before they can rise. All that will happen is they'll rise tainted, like the Architect did to Urthemiel. That will please the Magisters Sidereal, who are waiting at Weisshaupt. Once we've taken Nightmare, the Anderfels Wardens may rise against their own leaders."

"I agree," Rillian said thoughtfully, "And I'll go with you into its lair. I wouldn't recommend other Wardens do...we don't know how Nightmare will affect them. But in me the taint has been accelerated and run its course."

"Ser Otto and I are Templars as well as Wardens," Alistair protested, "We've got the mental discipline to withstand demons."

"I'm with you," Rylock said at once.

"I wish I could go with you, dear," Vivienne said, "but I will be needed to cast Barrier."

"I'll go with you," Fenris told Lambert – surprising no-one.

What did surprise some was Anders lending his support.

"I think this group will need a healer," he said calmly.

Lambert swallowed hard. "Thank you," he said – his voice strangely choked - "All of you."

---

After the War Council Cassandra sought Cullen.

"All this talk of taking Adamant – of war and politics - and no one has even thought to wonder at the fate of our fellow Seekers! Even Lambert has written them off as though the men and women we trained beside are no longer worth saving. But we know from his vision they are being held in a Fereldan Keep – we know Bann Loren is a long-time ally who has always put religion above nationalism. I believe Lucius Corin is being held at Caer Oswin. The others too. I intend to look for them."

"In Ferelden? You'll never reach Fortress Adamant in time."

"I am no longer Right Hand and have never been a soldier. Being a Seeker is all I have left and I will not fail them. Will you come with me to find Lucius and the others, without delay?"

Cullen was troubled, "Who will take over command of the Inquisition's forces against Adamant?"

Cassandra smiled - a surprisingly dark smile. "If the Herald wishes to become a credible war leader the men should see him commanding."

Cullen was shocked, "Seeker - he has never been trained for war!"

"He'll have good advisors. I'll suggest he promote Fairbanks – who ran a successful campaign in the Dales on nothing but hope. Please. There's others who can fill your role but no one else I trust for this."

Cullen met her eyes – very dark eyes, encircled by a ring of shadow. Cassandra Penteghast had helped him ween himself off lyrium - helped him find redemption after the Gallows. Had given him the chance to make himself more than he ever dreamed he could be. He'd love anyone for that. After Thomas Amell…Lambert…Samson…he had not thought he could love again - had known he could not trust himself - but he loved Cassandra. He did not know if she felt the same. She had been loyal to the mage Regalyan, who had died defending Haven, but of course she had kept her vows. So would he. A physical relationship was not the important thing. In their souls they would be more than ever united, saving the Seekers.

He gave the ancient Ferelden oath of loyalty.

"Here, my lady, I become liege man of yours for life and limb and earthly regard, and I shall keep faith and loyalty to you though life and death, Maker helping me."

---

"Leliana wanted my support – something to do with a message at the Valence Cloister – but I told her I don't have time," Lambert murmured to Fenris. "I've got to focus on Adamant – I can't be thrown off by these fits and starts. Oh, and the Dowager Lady Mantillon invited me to dance the allemande with her. Unfortunately, the next person I'll be dancing with is Nightmare."

Fenris chuckled.

The breakfast room in the Winter Palace had stained glass windows that overlooked the gardens. The glass showed a burning sun rising in the east into a sky of electric cyan, haloed in purple and orange and gold. An arch of metallic leaves cast silver rain like a benediction. The dining hall was decorated with Elven relics – including the halla statuettes.

Briala wore an emerald gown but remained maskless – not beneath but above the Game – and showed her pointed ears proudly.

"You have done so much," the Marquise of the Dales said to the Inquisitor, "For my people. I pledge myself, my network and our Eluvians to the service of the Inquisition and the Wraiths of Tevinter. We won't forget this. We Elves always pay our debts."

"It was my pleasure. Both you and Fen deserve to be happy. To be free. So does everyone living in slavery and in Alienages. A good man told me, " The Maker creates no slaves." He was right – and Divine Leliana will recognize this universal justice."

The Inquisitor bowed – gentleman to lady – then left the room via the white spiral staircase. Briala and Fenris remained. The room was chill – unlit by fires in the grate – but having a purpose was warming.

Briala bent forward and whispered the passphrase to the Eluvian network for Fenris alone. If he wished to share it with his human husband...well, she still believed it a mistake, but freedom of choice was important to her. She...Fenris...the Alienage Elves they were fighting for...had the right to make mistakes. And own them.

"Fen'Harel enansal," she whispered.

The Dread Wolf's blessing.

---

In Val Royeaux the sun was low and red; the shadows long and dark. Pine seedlings bristled on the edges of the courtyard, amid a shimmer of birch...thin upper limbs of russet and wine over slivered, glimmering statues.

The ground was sodden and shrouded in heavy, wet snow. Glimmers of light from street lanterns shone like coloured teardrops.

"By decree of the Emperor my name may be added to the list of candidates for Divine," Leliana told Josephine with a chill, dark smile, "We have our way in. We will have to 'convince' the other Clerics…and we will die if we fail. That is the Game."

Josephine was looking stricken, frightened. Politics was her arena, not assassination and blackmail.

"Come now, Josie. We cannot expect to hedge our bets. The Inquisitor can't hedge his."

...The Divine has a long reach but it is always her Left Hand that stretches out. A thousand lies...a thousand deaths...Justinia's commands, but my conscience that bore the consequences...

In the Valence Cloister had been Justinia's final message to her – to be opened only in the event of her death - "the Left Hand should lay down her burden." Leliana had understood that Justinia was releasing her...that all this time she had carried the fear she was using Leliana, just as Marjolaine had done.

But Marjolaine's games were trifles. Justinia gambled with the fate of nations. It was the Chantry who told people what was right – it was a sacred duty.

Leliana had been betrayed by her former friend, Sister Natalie, who believed she was too progressive. Who followed an obscure contender – Grand Cleric Victorie. Natalie would not have listened to Leliana – prepared to die for her beliefs – but when Victorie allied with Iona Leliana had been able to bring the conservatives to heel.

Offering the Inquisition to take on the heresy of Tevinter was a deal Iona could not ignore.

"I want to help you, Leliana...but what if we're wrong? Oh...destroying the reputation of a noblewoman in Lydes was one thing – a simple matter of the proper glove left on the proper table - but what Argent and Charter are doing...my husband believes such things are sinful and I fear he is right."

"The Chantry determines what's sin and what isn't. When I'm Divine, I'll absolve you."

And myself...

Lambert declared for Leliana immediately. As did Prince Sebastian of Starkhaven. Viscount Nathaniel Howe declared for Petrice. Emperor Prosper declared for no-one – in pretense of being above the Game – but Leliana knew his support for her inclusion was as good as a vote of confidence. He trusted she was a good enough bard to take care of the rest. Cousland waited…and then shocked everyone by backing her. Leliana knew he was up to something. She - the master Game player - did not know what, but accepted his support graciously.

When the Council of Grand Clerics declared for her, Leliana smiled. The smile of someone who sees events work out as they should. She quickly named Petrice her Right Hand and Iona her Left Hand – they were too powerful to leave out in the cold. A bard learned early to keep friends close and enemies closer.

Marjolaine had taught her that.

---

The ground near the Waking Sea was crisp with frost that lent bite to the air. Vegetation clung to chill rocks with tenacity. A sharp bluff overlooked the road to Montsimmard.

Prosper's Imperial soldiers carried purple banners - the mounted chevaliers wore ornate silver armour with feathery plumes of green and gold fluttering atop their helms. Even their destriers were adorned with fancy barding – unlike the pragmatic armour of the Fereldan Forders, this appeared mostly for show. Cousland's Fereldans carried the blue insignia of Highever, along with the colours of their own families. The Inquisition carried the black banner and silver sigil designed by Leliana – it seemed a lifetime ago.

Every now and then Lambert would look around him, wondering if there was any evidence of Grace. But the young person did not appear to want to show themselves. It would take them a while to trust the others - particularly the Templars. Grace had helped Cole through his imprisonment in the White Spire - had healed Lambert after torture in the Gallows – did not trust an army that included Templars.

Warden Loghain came riding from Montsimmard's front gates to greet them. He surprised Lambert by trading jokes with Rillian just as he asked pointed questions of Channon about his daughter and three grandchildren. During the Fifth Blight, Lambert had seen General Loghain Mac Tir and Warden-Commander Rillian conferring, but had supposed their relationship had been business only. It appeared he had been wrong.

Loghain was polite but formal with Lambert: he remembered him as Wynne's protégé - a junior medic during the Blight - but they had not had much to do with each other; he was respectful of the office of Inquisitor but would reserve judgment on the man. But Loghain and Carver greeted each other enthusiastically. Before Carver had taken the Joining the seventeen-year-old had been Loghain's best scout.

Carver still reminisced about their time at Ostagar, "when the darkspawn rolled up our right flank I thought, 'this is it. My hide is in the loft.' But the Teyrn got us out. I've got no patience for the whimpering shitholes who think he shouldn't have saved our bacon."

Neither did Quartermaster Threnn, whom Loghain also stopped to talk to. "General Loghain never betrayed Ferelden!" she had told Lambert once , "He saved his army...after the king had listened to bad advice...the people who call him traitor clearly think kings worth more than grunts!" As a medic working for Wynne...brother to a scout who had been one of the 'grunts' saved by Loghain...Lambert had always agreed with Threnn but learned the wisdom of keeping such opinions quiet in the wrong company. Threnn was more straightforward – he had seen her getting into more than one argument over the issue.

Traitor…deserter...regicide…the coward who ordered his troops to flee instead of charging to save the king…since Carv and I are two who, because Loghain made that choice, are still alive, it might be said I plead my own case; but – if I live to be a hundred - I shall never see what else he could have done.

Afterwards Carver and Threnn reminisced, "I can't believe he remembered me!"

Loghain was clearly as well-loved by his Wardens as he had been by his troops - why Clarel had been forced to flee to Adamant with the few (all the mages, since after performing Erimond's ritual they became very biddable, and some old veterans - very near the end - who wanted their lives to have meant something). Like Clarel, the Wardens of Adamant had been kept out of the Fifth Blight - had grown old and tainted without ever seeing more than a few random darkspawn boiling up from the chasm - and Clarel was promising them meaning in death, for their lives not to have been in vain. If their blood could summon a demon powerful enough to take out the remaining Old Gods, that was a better death than being sent to the Deep Roads to become ghouls…or worse.

Loghain also stunned Lambert by greeting both Knight Vigilant Rylock and Senior Enchanter Wynne like old friends. Wynne smiled archly. Rylock blushed furiously. Lambert recalled Envy's words to Rylock – those scurrilous rumours about the three of them after the battle of Drakon River – and couldn't help but smile. Vivienne looked disapproving – whether at the idea of what had occurred between a Templar and a mage or because she saw Loghain as a war criminal he wasn't certain.

Lambert was delighted when Jana came out and the two were soon in enthusiastic conversation. He wanted to know whether her dream of Joining had been everything she had hoped for – and was thrilled when she nodded enthusiastically. She fell into a conversation with Minna – their latest and unwilling Warden recruit – and soon Carver's wife had begun to look happier than she had in a long time. Lambert and Carver traded relieved glances.

Their combined amies made camp and discussed strategy in a tent provided by Rillian.

"I see you are still using that overblown monstrosity, Warden," Loghain commented. She made a rude noise. He greeted Lambert more respectfully.

"Sending raven to Duke Stefan de Firmin was sensible. That Orlesian idiot thought you should waste three days riding to Val Firmin to ask him what to do. I'd say your schooldays are over."

The Western Approach was drier than the rest of Orlais. Lambert had read the history. The place was the site of one of the great battles of the Second Blight. A thousand years ago darkspawn had swarmed out of the Abyssal Reach and corrupted the land so severely it had never recovered. Under the Archdemon, the skies had opened and rained black death. Lambert remembered Andoral's Reach – and Haven - and the dark future.

Never again.

The sky was white cloud, too bright to look at, and the air was still. A smooth curve of ice lidded the surface of Lake Celestine. The soldiers tested it first – and soon found it hard enough to march across, even with siege weaponry.

On the other side the icy desert was mottled purple, like gangrenous flesh, and boulders jutted from the ground like bleached bones. In the distance, the blowing sand obscured a tall iron tower.

"Adamant Fortress lies at the lip of the Abyssal Reach," Loghain explained, "It's a fortress designed to halt those creatures should they ever rise again. The Veil is very thin there. It has helped with what Livus Erimond is persuading Clarel to do."

As they marched through the sand the vague shape of the tower slowly grew clearer. They passed a rocky surface black as pitch and polished to a shine by the howling winds. The names of the fallen had been inscribed there, but now the carving was illegible.

Will anyone remember us in a thousand years?

The tower was a hundred feet high and Morrigan was perched on top – in hawk form.

The horses fidgeted and nickered – and when night fell the wind stopped so abruptly Lambert shuddered.

"The air grows still at night," Loghain explained.

Morrigan joined them in human form.

"The second Watchtower is a mere sliver – but sentries from Adamant will be watching. We must prepare for battle."

A curtain of shadow descended, and the chill crept through their bones. Their breaths were plumes of white quickly sucked by the night air.

The dark skies were alight with strange, shimmering ribbons of light – flowing like lyrium then boiling to nothing. It anointed the night with a silvery sheen. Somehow – Lambert could not have said why – he looked at Fenris, seeing the future before him.

Fenris' Friend - Apostate's Friend – I will cure you.

Lambert would never tell Fenris of Envy's promise that he, the Herald, had only three years before the Anchor killed him. So long as he cured Fenris in that time that was all that mattered.

During the journey west Lambert received two ravens. Both Cassandra and Leliana had been busy. Cassandra and Cullen had found and given the Sword of Mercy to Lucius Corin and his doomed Seekers – including Daniel, which gave Lambert an unexpected pang. Daniel had chosen to join Lucius rather than defend Andoral's Reach because he wanted that promotion – but Lambert had been through Seeker's training with him and nobody deserved that fate. He prayed – not sure if the Maker would really listen to a mage but willing to try.

Cassandra was now talking about seeking redemption by opening the training to anyone who wished it.

"We will be as we were always meant to be - a way for disciples to seek truth - not an unaccountable organization that hoards power and keeps secrets."

Both Lambert and Rylock approved.

Meanwhile Leliana's ascent to the Sunburst Throne had been bloodier than the campaign. Lambert refused to judge her for doing what she had had to do to survive – as Morrigan had told him, there were sharks in that water and you were either hunter or hunted. He was just happy her first proclamation as Divine Victoria had been to restore the Canticle of Shartan – dissolve the Circles – and declare both Elves and mages equal children of the Maker.

Hearing that, Lambert embarrassed himself by holding Fenris tightly and bursting into tears. He couldn't help it. After being told all his life he was a sinner condemned by the Maker for the way he had been born this struck home. Fenris did not mock him. Said only,

"Sebastian always told me the Maker loved me. I believe it now."

Lambert swore to himself that he would never judge Leliana again. No matter how bloody her methods – no matter how ruthless a Game player – anyone who could change souls like that was the Maker's representative.

He found himself looking northward – far past what his eyes showed him. He realized other Tevinter slaves would not hear this – the Black Divine preached something very different and the punishment for a slave who taught themselves to read was death.

Cousland had his eye on dominating Orlais and Leliana on shoring up Orlais. But neither was the Inquisitor and Lambert was determined to be worthy of the title. He had recruited Fairbanks to replace Cullen and Briala's people as archers. He had also recruited Iron Bull and his Chargers.

"Just because they're not welcome in Ferelden doesn't mean they're not welcome in my Inquisition. I would have thought a Qunari spy would approve a war against Tevinter."

Lambert had done it in defiance of King Cousland – who would not deign to show anger because he knew very well he had no authority over who was hired to fight in Orlais. Lambert supposed the King wouldn't mind if all Iron Bull had to report were Orlesian secrets. He checked with Cyril first – but his friend shrugged and said,

"Well - if the Divine herself vouched for him I don't see why I should have to listen to a Ferelden ruler. Don't worry – I'll tell father I gave my permission. It looks like we'll need all the soldiers we can get."

Lambert was taken aback when both Anders and Fenris cornered him and called him an idiot.

"It's bad enough you're focusing on Tevinter to the exclusion of Qunander – but hiring an actual Qunari spy just reeks of stupid!"

Lambert looked from one to the other. "Well - things must be bad if the two of you are singing from the same hymn sheet," he said shakily.

Anders and Fenris stood there in the darkness, the wind whistling around them. There was nothing further to say.

A conversation between three brothers provided a welcome distraction. The dark-skinned young men – a Seeker, a Chantry brother and a Templar recruit – were discussing the campaign.

Seeker Cale had undergone training with Lambert – he had chosen not to join the defenders at Andoral's Reach but neither had he joined Lucius Corin. He had returned to Val Royeaux to warn Most Holy. Brother Nyle had taken over from Josephine – he spoke thirteen languages and had incredible writing speed. The youngest, Drem, was a seventeen-year-old Templar recruit who had fought Envy with them and reminded Lambert a little of Carver during the Fifth Blight: raw-boned, cocky, idealistic.

"What if an Archdemon appears?" Nyle asked his brothers nervously.

"Then we soil our drawers, that's what," said Cale.

"After that disgrace at the Winter Palace I want to redeem the Templar Order," Drem said passionately.

"What do you have to worry about? Everyone says you fought Envy bravely. That's why Knight Vigilant Rylock asked for you as squire."

Lambert smiled. Listening to the three reminded him of himself, Carver and Bethany during happier times.

Adamant Fortress slowly coalesced amid the sand; a sombre island in a yellow sea. High walls of dark jetstone were sturdy and defensible; on either side archer towers were manned. The sinister watchful air was of a bird of prey, its proud eyes claiming the land to its furthest end. A black haze carried the stench of carrion.

The Adamantine Gates were said to be able to absorb sunlight and release it after nightfall in power like lightning...Adan had explained it to him enthusiastically, but Lambert was not an alchemist. He had heard Adan and Sweeney in deep discussion and left them to it with a sense of relief.

Adamant Fortress was of unusual, brutalist design. V shaped pillars supported long battlements; the smooth outer surface of the iron railings came away in water-logged plates, baring the rusted metal girders. Ruination was an organic process; the long-abandoned fortress needed attention, maintenance, occupation. The presence of Clarel's veterans was like a tainted heart.

The rigor mortis of the environment had taken hold; guts and bones and veins hiding behind a thin willful veneer of life.

Parabolic arcs of cloth - decaying banners - were draped languidly over ribs of steel and wood. The desolation was dusted in sand the colour of mustard, which smoothed the stark edges.

Beyond Adamant the land around the chasm was irrevocably tainted. The taint had affected the land in strange ways. Animals had switched from sexual to asexual reproduction. An entire forest of scorched pine trees was rust-red, dropping dead needles on the barren land. The pines were double-headed, their torsos twisted and limbs braced against each other…conjoined twins eternally at war with their siblings.

Far in the distance a wolf howled, hoarse-throated, through the long dark hours. The wolves had survived taint…though they were not - quite - the same species as before.

The stark shrub steppe skirted the Fortress warily. Lambert patted his horse, which shied nervously. The Templars had better control of their destriers – clearly used to attacking strongholds of dark magic – and the Ferelden Forders were always steady.

"Where do the Adamant Wardens get their water?" Lambert asked Warden Loghain curiously. It had only just occurred to him to wonder.

"There are Deep Roads tunnels from the Abyssal Rift to Weisshaupt…I have heard some continue to Minrathous. Which wouldn't surprise me: I doubt Magister Livius Erimond would want to make his home in Adamant," Loghain replied dryly, "The Deep Roads do have pools…King Maric Theirrin and I discovered this during the rebellion."

Loghain's voice warmed faintly as it always did whenever he said Maric's name.

"But also," Loghain mused, "the longer someone has been a Grey Warden, the less they need water…or air. Darkspawn need neither: they respire through taint."

Lambert's first thought was horror for his brother: it isn't right that young people - Carv was only seventeen! - are allowed to drink this poison, when they can have no idea of the long-term effects! Rillian had told Carver the truth - unlike every Warden before her - but still…Avernus' mixture had been an untried experiment, and Carver had not reached the age of majority. He didn't listen to me…he never listened… but Lambert stopped himself. What was he going to do: tell Carver he had been a victim not a hero?

I was the elder brother, and a mage who by the law of the time belonged either in a Circle or in the Wardens. I should have Joined instead. Lambert realized much of his anger at the Wardens was guilt…no, shame. What will they think: these men and women being judged by an Inquisitor who has never made the sacrifices they have, for the people of Thedas? The only one evil is that bastard, Erimond, and you can bet he never made that sacrifice either... I wonder how Rylock is doing? How would I feel, if it were Alrik out there? Not that she'd ever tell me.

A thin sliver of new moon provided barely enough light. During the last hours of daylight the Inquisition's army shouted insults at the Wardens manning the walls. The war cries and shouts of the Orlesian chevaliers eddied over the dunes. The foot soldiers - required to hold pace - reacted like tethered animals. Fear and bloodlust touched each one, even as they counselled each other against the dangers of both.

Occasionally a potential hero would break from the masses of foot soldiers, racing out in front of friends, screaming challenges. Sometimes a Warden on the walls would fire back. The arrows fell short but a great, feverish surge would move the army. That brought the officers riding forward to restore order. The overwrought champions trotted back to their respective units while their friends whooped.

As darkness fell, a line of magefire blossomed at the head of the army. Rillian and her twelve griffon riders took one tower – silhouettes batlike in their rush and flurry – prowling aggressively. They were the stalkers – warriors whom other soldiers spoke of in the careful mix of pride and fear that people afford predators.

In the moonlight, the dunes gleamed like a silver sea.

Lambert moved to pet Ripples. Ripples stood stock-still atop a slender spire, breath condensing in clouds at each nostril. The fluffy female griffon whuffled in pleasure as he praised her. Her enormous green-golden eyes were luminous with intelligence; like iridescent circles of wet glass. Lambert buried his face in Ripples' fur.

The griffon was blessed to live on the cutting edge of time, with all that lay before her hidden. Ripples had more than an animal's intelligence, but not enough to understand death. An animal had its death in back of it, forever, and the Maker in front. When Ripples flew, she was already in eternity.

Lambert thought of his three years – of Solas, of demons and spirits - of all who tried to lift that Veil. It would be the fastest route to dissolution and despair. For what could lie beyond that curtain? Only three things: the salvation of Thedas – the freeing of Fen from the brands, so he could be happy after Lambert was gone - or the world becoming Red Lyrium: Fen a Red Lyrium warrior, or the Dread Wolf's rise. Which Rillian had convinced him would be the same as existing in the Fade forever – everything a kind of half-life where nothing they did could have any meaning. Three of those futures – if they were to be known for certain – could not be borne. Their lives - the lives of all mortal creatures - were sustainable only through ignorance.

Ripples seemed to understand something unique was taking place. The griffons munched their fish with much tossing of heads. The moon gleamed from their eyes.

Darkness and speed were their allies. Warden Commander Rillian hoped to gain them another. Terror.

Rillian had adapted what she had explained had been the design of something called a 'hang-glider' to create taut rigging almost as sturdy as that on Isabella's ship. The harnesses and saddles had the effect of leaving both arms free, so the griffon riders could wield long tubes that needed both hands.

The tower on the other side of Adamant Fortress was being held by Prosper's wyvern riders – led by Cyril, because his father had told him in no uncertain terms an Emperor-elect must be a hero first. Cyril would never be a chevalier - and didn't want to be - but he knew if he failed here his father would disown him and breed another heir – even at seventy. Besides, Cyril enjoyed discussing flight with Lambert.

Morrigan quickly impressed them both. The wyverns obeyed the half-Dragon by instinct, as Alpha. Far from being put out, Cyril had the grace to be admiring and relieved. Lambert could see Morrigan would find a place at the Emperor's court after all. He was happy for her.

The most amazing sight was Lady Sapphira Vindicare...flying on a blue disc of shimmering magic that took her where she wished to go at a thought. The Southern mages were awed – Dorian was eyeing her as if he couldn't believe someone so young had mastered that spell – and even Morrigan looked jealous.

Hira was never far from Lambert's side, whispering in his ear. He couldn't help but feel an instinctive bond – she loved an Elven escaped slave just as he did. Her father had died for speaking against slavery - a hero as Malcolm Hawke had been. But neither Anders nor Dorian trusted her – and Fenris was wary. Lambert understood Fenris was always going to worry for Miriam, but he didn't see why a relationship between Elf and human couldn't work. It certainly had in their case.

Lambert shut the train of thought off, aware he had to follow Rillian's orders. Rillian had been conferring with Morrigan – and with Anders. Their griffon and wyvern riders all carried long tubes that fired payloads of large containers. The tubes reminded him of drain pipes, the payload was simply a glass bottle. The propellant was – so Anders claimed – the same substance that had saved the lives of Ferelden's army in Lothering forest. But that story bothered Lambert because he could see this was the substance Anders had given Fenris – and used at Haven – and that the mixture was more powerful.

Fragments of a half-heard conversation between Fenris and Anders rose to trouble him.

…"I'm going to call it Kirkwallian gaatlok."

"Mages in glass houses shouldn't throw fireballs" ...

Fenris' dry tone had been a warning. One Anders had heeded.

Lambert hadn't worked on the bench with Rillian for nothing. He knew this was the same substance said to have been used by Knight Commander Meredith to destroy Kirkwall Chantry. How had Anders gotten hold of it?

Apparently Rylock had asked pointed questions about how Meredith could have gotten hold of a substance so obviously based on the one Anders had used in Lothering forest...and Viscount Nathaniel Howe had told her the Templars had captured several Qunari after the invasion and tortured the secret of gaatlok out of them.

Cullen, Keran, Paxley and Ruvenna had all backed him, and Rylock had dropped it.

Only...this wasn't gaatlok...and it wasn't blasting powder...

Lambert shivered. If Anders had destroyed the Kirkwall Chantry he would shed no tears for Elthina. But innocents had died – people who were praying for family at that Chantry – and those deaths would be on his conscience. Because he had resisted torture to protect Anders. If he had given Anders up – as Cullen had demanded – those innocents would still be alive.

Surely...surely Anders wouldn't have done that? And why would Fen have warned him if he had?

What was the reason Justice left Anders? A spirit of Justice would not have chosen death unless it had committed a crime for which death was the penalty.

"Keep your mind on the job, soldier," Fenris told him – and Lambert's dark thoughts vanished like smoke. Fenris always had that effect on him.

He decided it was best to forget.

Lambert put one foot in the harness and mounted cavalry-style. His knees slid beneath the dappled wings and he blended his body to the hammering beat of her heart. Her wings lifted. Her feathers whispered. Another heartbeat joined his own - his head spun with images, memories, wisdom. Bonded for life, Lambert felt himself lifted and taken out of the mortal body already on a countdown from the Anchor. Since learning the truth he had seen the glowing left arm as no more than a giant clock, counting down the remaining 94,608,000 seconds of his life.

He shut his eyes, feeling the cold electricity of the Anchor bathing him in a current of which he was only abstractly aware. It was one thing to understand the concept; another thing to comprehend his body at the mercy of it. Will it be like Fen's brands? No - those caused agony and Lambert was, thankfully, free of pain. For now… a dark voice chittered, but he shut it off at once. Whatever happened before the end, he'd take it as bravely as Fenris. I am a twenty-five-year-old man…Fen was a thirteen-year-old boy…I hate Tevinter…

Now, his soul washed pure in that great aerial bath, he felt himself connected to everyone else. His fellow griffon riders: Fenris, Carver, Rillian, Alistair, Isabella, Ser Otto, Jowan, Varric, Bianca, Donnic and Sebastian. He knew a sharp stab of grief for Zevran, their thirteenth rider, who had already crossed the bridge. Who had died fearless.

He felt his boundaries blur, grow indistinct, like surrendering to a higher power. He thought, with a wild, strange, sweet elation: I am not afraid…

...Each moment free from fear makes a life eternal…

Thoughts of mortality – and the godlike freedom of killing fear – let Lambert consider the Wardens. Of their twelve griffon riders, only Rillian, Alistair, Ser Otto, Jowan and Carver were Wardens…the other seven were not. Nor had Zevran ever Joined, though he had pledged fealty to Rillian. They were the thirteen adventurers who had found the griffons in Red Bride's Grave and reversed the spell of stasis with which Issseya had held them. The griffons had bonded with their rescuers and would tolerate no other riders.

Yet one of the non-Warden griffon riders - Donnic Hendyr - had told Rillian he wished to Join! She had agreed but said he must wait until they had defeated Nightmare…all the Wardens had begun to hear the false Calling, " scratching at the brain like a cat sharpening its claws."

When Lambert had nerved himself to ask Carv his brother had claimed it was easy to block out, but he could tell this was bravado. In any case Carv was more worried about his wife. Why was Donnic suddenly so keen to Join?

Lambert knew it wasn't because Donnic was tired of life in Kirkwall - or displeased with Viscount Nathaniel Howe's command. He suspected it had something to do with the red-headed Amazon – Warden Captain Aveline Vallen - but both were keeping tight-lipped. Aveline and Donnic were often seen together though, and Lambert suspected - hoped - they had another romance on their hands.

Lambert was a romantic, and love the only antidote to death. His whiff of envy at couples allowed to legally marry - who could have their own biological children - had magically disappeared with his three-year prognosis. Now he just needed more good news in his life.

Keep your mind on the job.

The payload itself – the substance in the bottles being fired - was a closely guarded secret. There was a slight problem in that the substance was highly flammable - but Rillian's new research assistant had solved that by encasing it in bottles traced with sigils of lyrium. They were designed to break on impact.

Rillian was ebullient. The wind was almost perfect; her confidence in Anders' and Adan's inventions unquestioning. She had been saved by Anders, Nathaniel Howe and Zevran at Ostagar and had seen Adan in action at Haven.

Lambert couldn't muster the same enthusiasm. He too had been saved by what the two men had unleashed – they all had. It was just the prospect of what they would do tonight – in full knowledge, and as attack rather than desperate defense - that made him feel unclean...

...The final War Council was more muted than the one in the Winter Palace. The thirteen: Lambert, Warden Commander Rillian, Cyril de Montfort, King Cousland, Prince Sebastian, Admiral Isabella, Marquise Briala, Senior Enchanters Sweeney, Vivienne and Anders, Knight Vigilant Rylock, Loghain Mac Tir and Fenris, mulled over a design laid out on the pinewood trestle.

It was the prototype of a new weapon designed by Rillian, Bianca, and Rillian's new research assistant, Dagna of Tantervale.

Lambert wanted to tune out – to look at Fenris and dream of how they would celebrate victory – but he forced himself not to. He wished Grace were here. Then he grew impatient with himself.

...For a mortal with free will to depend on a spirit only just learning how to be a person is not humility; it is laziness and cowardice. You must make this choice – and own it...

He met Rillian's amber eyes, their irises stretched to a pale rim around the black; hard-shut white lips and fixed glittering stare: a blazing determination, condensed by silence like the core of a furnace.

"You tell me the propellant is the blasting powder with which Anders saved our lives in the Fifth Blight...but the payload: it's white phosphorous, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"As Inquisitor I forbid the use of this weapon in attack."

Of the twelve pairs of eyes that met his, only Sebastian's looked at him with unmixed approval.

"I agree," the Prince said, "Men like you – that one can trust to do the right thing even in extremis – are rare."

But Loghain said, "If Rillian's griffon riders do not use this more of your men will die scaling the battlements. Or in getting Lady Seryl's battering ram close enough to break the gates. Soldiers have the right to expect their leaders put their lives above the lives of Wardens who murdered their own comrades to summon demons."

Lambert remembered being a junior medic – his brother a scout – the lowest and most expendable troops in the army. He remembered how they had loved Loghain for putting their lives above a nobles' desire to save a king.

"Soldiers also have the right to expect their leaders don't order them to commit war crimes."

He looked to Fenris – before anyone else. Fenris looked back a long moment, giving the unspoken question its due weight. Fen's eyes were green – flecked with gold – encircled by a ring of shadow; their dancing lights half-hidden in lustrous darkness. He was thinking deeply – aware he was being trusted with Lambert's conscience – wanting to be worthy.

Finally, Fenris asked, " Is this a war crime? These are all combatants who made the choice to murder their own comrades to summon demons. We saw in Haven the effects of white phosphorous do not last like uranium or taint. Their deaths will be hard...much harder than if we use our own men in a conventional siege until it becomes possible to cast Barrier and kill Nightmare. Which is worse: to cause more of your own men to die or to cause unnecessary suffering to the enemy? Pick the choice you can live with; all you do is well done to me."

Then Anders faced Lambert. "I don't feel guilty for fighting for mages – by any means necessary - I feel sad about the cost. I would advise you to choose sadness over guilt."

Lambert considered opening the Rift first – if he and the others killed Nightmare the Wardens would be freed of its influence and would probably surrender of their own accord.

Only – what guarantee did he have they wouldn't all be killed – or return as abominations? Then – by ordering his army to wait – he would have doomed all Thedas. Who knew how many demons the enemy had summoned already?

He thought of Rylock – of Rites of Annulment. But she hadn't done it at Kinloch Hold, even though she could not have known for sure. What was the difference? Because the Ferelden Circle had included children? Because many of the Enchanters had not joined Uldred and – although the letter of the law said circles had collective responsibility – it was obvious that these were morally innocent?

There are no children at Adamant. I can't judge moral guilt but there are no non-combatants.

It occurred to him that – if only he had paid more attention to what Rillian, Bianca and Dagna were doing in the lab – he could have swayed them to research a less horrific weapon. There was no reason killing someone by sloughing their skin off and burning them alive would have been more effective than a payload of...say...Quiet Death.

He had been Rillian's research assistant once – she had helped him create Fenris' Friend – but, since becoming Inquisitor, he hadn't set foot in her lab. And now it was too late. The weapon was the design on the table – his choices: use it or order his men to scale ladders and get close enough to use the battering ram. Lambert had never had a strategic turn of mind – Carver had always beat him during war games as children – but you didn't have to be a military genius to realize many soldiers would die going over the top or at the gates.

Now he was in this situation – partly by taking his eye off the ball and partly by 'luck' - he couldn't decide to sacrifice his own men for his misgivings about using white phosphorous. He was on their side totally.

You can't pull punches in a fight to the death.

A line from a long-ago poem he had written - back when he had feared possession more than death – came back to him.

...I'd rather die hard than live hollow...

Lambert stopped himself - just barely – from looking at Rylock. He was ashamed to realize he had been going to ask her – given her own experience of being Erimond's Blood Puppet – whether the souls of the Wardens would thank him.

Like a Templar seeing Rites of Annulment as being, "for the mages' own good," he thought in self-disgust.

Not only would the question be grossly insensitive it would also be leaning on a comforting lie. How could anyone know what was best for another? That decision could be made ethically only if the life were one's own.

I won't lean on a lie.

It is necessary. That is enough.

---

At Rillian's orders both griffons and wyverns flew.

On the ground, Loghain Mac Tir lifted his chin. A moment later he turned to Rylock, white grin gleaming against the blur of his features.

"They're up, Knight Vigilant. You can see them if you look close – black against the stars."

Rylock raised her head and peered. She never actually saw anything, but their invisible presence blinded the stars and moved on. It was as if the darkness itself wavered.

Without speaking Jana reached to grab Minna's shoulder. Minna did the same. For a long second they remained in contact – then they moved to join the ground group of Ferelden Wardens – led by Warden Captain Aveline Vallen – and the Wardens of Montsimmard, led by Loghain Mac Tir.

The breeze that murmured around the flight was an asset, as it whispered through the sand dunes. The noise of their approach would be masked.

King Cousland's mabaris – Ravenous and Lady – trembled, cocking their heads, ears flicking rapidly. They were against the king's legs, growling steadily - a bass rumble that could be felt rather than heard. He patted the square slabs of their heads.

"Remember who we are."

A blood-curdling screech ripped the dark sky.

---

A plume of dust drifted over Adamant.

Warden Commander Clarel de Chanson took up position on the south-eastern observation tower. She had prepared the fortress for siege. If it was unimaginative, it was certainly solid. It had always succeeded in the past. The past was imprinted on the present, in every place, but never more tangibly than here. Adamant had withstood the worst of the darkspawn boiling up from the chasm – it could certainly withstand a ragtag alliance and some traitor Wardens.

Memory...

…"if my sword-arm can no longer serve the Wardens then my blood will have to do."

Clarel fought not to weep. Friend...lover...comrade...sacrifice. She held the knife steady.

"It will."

Guillaume Caron may have seen the knife in Clarel's hand that slashed murderously across his stretched, exposed throat. If he did, he still had no opportunity to avoid it. He straightened in one spasmodic lunge, both hands clutching the gaping wound. Blood spurted between his fingers. Eyes still living watched with the glazed disbelief of the dead.

Summoning impossible strength, the veteran stepped towards her. He extended reddened hands. The flow was a sickly, slack thing already. His collapsing embrace left terrible accusation staining the front of Clarel's armour.

For just a moment, she questioned.

As if sensing her doubts, her wavering resolve, Erimond was suddenly there – close as her own shadow.

"Is it worth it?' she asked the Magister shakily.

Erimond had long been an ally of Weisshaupt – their most generous sponsor – and he often cited the history of how Magister Verinius had created the Joining mixture which saved Thedas

"All these lives…and not in combat against darkspawn but having their throats slit by their own Commander. It's...not the same. Not what any of them signed up for."

"No Warden was ever told what they signed up for...until the so-called Hero of Ferelden betrayed Warden secrets. A foolish Elf blabbing a sacred duty as if it were Alienage gossip – letting every Fereldan discuss it in taverns. There are secrets so dark...so deep...they are fit only for the select few. Those who have accepted their duty with unwavering resolve. Who have earned what is both an honour and a burden."

Sometimes Clarel forgot how much she had confided in this man...the words brought out, like hidden weapons, at the right moment.

Seven years ago the golden young King Cailan had approached her for help during the Fifth Blight and she had answered the call. But the king had been betrayed to his death by Loghain Mac Tir – who then sealed the borders of Ferelden. Resentment was too mild a word...to have your life's work reduced to a footnote in history – imperfect, petrified, ended – so much smaller than you'd dreamed.

Last year, Clarel had been promoted to Commander of the Grey of Orlais...months later every Warden in Orlais had begun to hear the Calling. Guillaume Caron – Commander of the Grey in Ferelden – had believed it caused by the Hero of Ferelden's forbidden research.

"Oh - I do not believe she is trying to hurt us intentionally...but an Alienage Elf conscripted after murder – who survived killing an Archdemon through a forbidden Blood Magic ritual – would not know what she was unleashing. And now she has gone to ground, afraid of reprisals."

Rillian had reappeared a month ago...just in time to witness – or cause – an explosion that had left Rifts all over Thedas. They only had the word of her allies about a Magister Sidereal; King Cousland had refused to let Orlesian Wardens into his country to check the evidence.

The king had conveniently sheltered Rillian. What else could Clarel conclude but that this nationalist – married to Loghain's daughter – was happy to sponsor research that was killing all the Wardens in Orlais? Too stupid to realize the same disease would claim Ferelden Wardens too.

The next steps had unfolded as expected - Rillian had suborned the Wardens under Guillaume's command to mutiny. He had been forced to flee to Montsimmard. Where Loghain and Rillian's little Elf, Jana, were continuing to spread treason. It still hurt that so many of the men Clarel had been honoured to command had joined the sedition. All she and Guillaume could do was flee to Adamant – along with the loyal Wardens. Watching Rillian operate was like watching poison work.

Still, Clarel had not stooped to that level. Was not concerned with politics – or her own pride. She had written to Weisshaupt in the hope they would help her cure the disease. They had sent Erimond – for many years research assistant to the First Warden.

Oh, the man was almost a caricature of a smirking Tevinter magister. Clarel's family had fought slavers at the border and he reminded her of the worst.

But good and evil had ways of changing places when the stakes were extinction.

"I promise you - this demon is worthy of your strength...powerful enough to vanish Razikale and Lucasan. With the accelerated Calling - spread by the so-called hero of Ferelden in her foolish research - you had no other choice. In death, sacrifice ."

Guillaume had less than a year. Thanks to the traitor Warden's insane research, we all do. What else could I have done?

The knowledge steeled her. She would not let the deaths of these brave souls have been for nothing. There was no turning back.

...Our men die proudly for a world that will never thank them...

Nevertheless, the efficiency of the attackers in matching her dispositions disturbed her. And their siege weaponry was more advanced than anything seen in Orlais. Soldiers heaved and strained to draw an enormous battering ram. They were surrounded by Orlesian chevaliers. Long glinting lances reached forward. But they kept back – far out of arrow range.

Then a strange thing happened. Twelve griffons flew as if to meet her. Wonder usurped anger. I thought they were extinct. They flew right over her men on the walls - but when her archers raised their weapons she stopped them with a sharp command.

...No Warden willingly kills a griffon...

When Livius Erimond at the foot of the observation post pointed up and shouted, "Watch out!" she thought the man had gone mad. Then she saw the griffon riders holding long tubes which launched glass bottles that gleamed with lyrium sigils. Clarel had never fought Qunari but the tales came back to haunt her.

In the time it took for her to process the thought, Erimond had already cast Barrier – around himself – and raised his staff. He fired a bolt of lightning straight at the Inquisitor.

---

Everything went gray-white as the griffons entered a swirling low cloud and for a moment Lambert was terrified Ripples would be crushed on the fortress stone because he hadn't been paying attention. But she pulled up at exactly the right moment. The fortress swam into view – large, terrifying as the view of Kinloch Hold to a mage child. He could see the Wardens on the walls...about the size of the military figurines Carver had collected as a boy...

Rillian was in the lead, with Alistair and Ser Otto beside her. She had picked the Templars due to their ability to nullify magic. On their right flank flew Fenris, whose abilities worked in the same way – Lambert had seen him gulp a vial of lyrium with resigned sadness and burning admiration – and Lambert was on the left flank.

He risked turning his head toward Fen. The flight had turned Thedas to a conspiracy of dark and movement that revealed only uncertainty – but he would know his husband through any nightmare.

He saw Fen duck to lower his silhouette and that simple movement changed everything for Lambert.

Ahead was a Tevinter Magister. He wanted to harm Fenris. Make him a slave again.

Sharp, nipping bites of fear worried at Lambert's resolve. Fenris mustn't be hurt.

Fen would fight. Ending slavery was the core of his existence. He was the core of Lambert's.

A small voice protested life was a dance above the Void; death ever-ready. Lambert dismissed it. He and his husband were warriors. Born for each other; born for this moment.

No-one would harm Fenris. He would prevent it.

Lambert took the chaos as his own; absorbed it. Sweat bathed his face. He held the ugly metal tube in a grip that made his knuckles crack. Nervous fingers drummed. Muscles in thighs, knees and calves guided Ripples and she responded as a friend, alert to the slightest change.

The shouting of the defenders broke in a crescendo of hoarse voices. They were all wearing silverite armour except one. This one wore robes pale as a bleached insect. In a fraction of a second Lambert saw this was the one who had to have it. He raised the tube in both hands. Erimond raised his staff. An arc of electricity sought Lambert like killing lightning.

Lambert's Mark was facing the magister because his hands were raised. The Anchor felt hungry. But he didn't dare open a Rift to swallow the lightning into the Fade – not this close. He used his Seeker powers to nullify it...the lightning became a sickly, sputtering thing that trailed away in disappointment.

Fenris grinned – a silver sliver against the dark – and cast his own brand of Dispel, careful to keep it away from his mage's area of effect. Alistair and Ser Otto used Templar powers augmented by the Joining. Ser Otto's blindness did not prevent him being stunningly effective; he could sense both magic and taint, and his bond with Astra had illuminated his world. In the dark they were all half-blind, reliant on other senses.

The range of the new weapon was two hundred yards – about the same as the yew longbow used in Ferelden – the longest ranged spells just over half that. But Erimond was a magister and these Wardens all Blood Mages – they were taking no chances. Lambert, Fenris and Rillian had the Litany on their lips.

Really, we are a dream team against magisters.

As if not wanting to be outdone, Varric opened fire. He had managed to combine the tube with his crossbow – leaving neither weapon behind – and was leaning so far back to counterbalance the weight he had to guide Lore with his ankles. Bianca, Isabella and Jowan backed him up. Carver, Donnic and Sebastian balanced them on the other flank.

Lambert has said to Sebastian, "We are going to get close enough to see what we unleash. Any soul who believes this is immoral may join the ground forces with no loss of honour."

But Sebastian had said, "I'd rather be flying – at risk myself – than on the ground protected by someone else getting their hands dirty. You are the Herald of Andraste – if you order me to use white phosphorous I will. If you order me to walk bodily in the Fade I will. Do what your conscience demands."

Lambert sensed the visceral loyalty like a far-off cloud-shadow – was troubled by it – terrified of failing Sebastian. Of failing them all. Guilty because he knew the tales of him being the Herald were a lie made up by Leliana. But now Leliana was Divine Victoria, why had the faith not transferred? It should have. He believed in Leliana.

Lambert did not need to use magic to ignite the blackpowder. The percussion cap – which reminded him of a top hat – did that. The blackpowder would force the payload out the tube. He aimed right at Erimond.

Once, when Lambert had asked Fenris about his time commanding the Wraiths of Tevinter, his husband – usually so taciturn – had opened up and laughed, "A day without a dead magister was not a good day."

Lambert had felt shocked – then guilty about feeling shocked – had not known what to say.

Fenris hadn't been put out but had never confided in Lambert again.

Now Lambert thought about what the scum had done to Rylock – what those like him had done to Fenris – and fired. In the swirling darkness, the tube shuddered in his hands like a shiver of repressed rage.

"Take that , you..." The word was lost in the wind. It described anything but a fellow human being.

He gently nudged Ripples so she would get safely back into some altitude. He saw pieces of burning phosphorus flying through the air leaving brilliant white smoky arcs from where the payload had exploded.

Almost immediately Fenris, Varric and Isabella delivered their strikes on the first pass and managed to hit a bunched group by the left tower. He could see the stunning wave of concussion as if a burning meteor had fallen on a stone jungle. Then everything blazed. In the smoking ruins he could see the charred burning bodies of those they had lit on fire. Some were crawling like damaged insects, trailing smoke from their clothes and skin.

It was a glimpse, then the world turned gray-white and empty as they returned to safety. Lambert knew intellectually he had done a terrible thing - spewed a substance impossible to put out that burned deep holes into mortal bodies – but his gut feeling was fear for his team...and elation when he realized they had all made it.

He saw Cyril bravely flying after him - leading the wyvern riders, including Morrigan - and cheered their courage. Especially Hira…who was following their flight path with her own glowing nimbus and firing spells as well as the white phosphorous. He hoped he had got Erimond.

"Ha! Bet you thought you were the baddest magister on Thedas! We'll have you for breakfast..."

For just a moment, he experienced the same feeling of dissociation he had felt after Alrik.

Afterwards, safely on the ground, he checked his people - and these included their griffons - for wounds. All were unharmed.

Then the hideous picture wormed behind his eyelids. Of men and women crawling…melting…wriggling like half-crushed insects. He flinched. He wanted to bury his face in Ripples' fur. He stopped himself.

What good are your tears going to do them now? These deaths were necessary. I hope they go to the Maker…that He won't let them remember the nastiness of how they died or where they fell...but I can't regret it. I have much work left to do.

Fenris touched his arm and Lambert calmed. Vivienne was casting Barrier - a translucent shimmer against the blood-red dawn - and that meant they would need him to open a Rift. Fenris, Rillian, Alistair and Ser Otto were already with him. Rylock and Anders joined them.

The rest of the army was completely hidden in a creeping fog he could feel but not see. In the cold darkness he met Fen's eyes.

"We got Envy...now we will get Nightmare." Fen's gravelly voice was a low rumble that mixed with the bleak emptiness.

Changes were happening...deep as roots beneath the earth...strange and troubling. In Kirkwall Anders had often been exasperated by Lambert's passivity – his wish to remain neutral in every debate for fear of offending – had said once, "You see me operate on patients...know the consequences of doing nothing. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the oppressed."

Lambert had never been an idealist – the sort who would have chosen to sacrifice soldiers before he compromised his conscience – but he had always had such a strong nurturing streak it had been impossible to commit murder – deliberately and in a brutally painful way. Yet by sheer chance he had ended up a warrior: the protector of lives in his own unit. Which was the Inquisition...their allies...mortals. It was hard to pinpoint the day he had become responsible for these lives and deaths.

"Don't feel guilty for fighting to end slavery – feel sad about the cost. When you have to choose, choose sadness over guilt."

The seven formed a circle and Lambert raised his left hand. The Anchor opened the world...its luminous green light a strange fire... the edges of reality wavering like a painting left in rain. Surreal...like the transition from life to death.

His lessons in eternity were not over.

---

The glass bottles fell on the fortress. They seemed so slow. Or as if the Wardens were living fast...their lives counted in seconds. The bottles were large as hail must look to an insect.

Lyrium sigils gleamed silver as the carapace of metal spiders. On impact they shattered. Shards splintered – fragments lodging in wood, cloth, flesh – and liquid blossomed into sparks of fire as soon as it touched the air.

The burning droplets became clouds of white fire. The shower of burning particles coalesced into a firestorm. The aerial pillar of smoke rose above livid flames; incandescent sparks luminous in the dark. The false dawn unzipped the night; turned clear air to red mist.

Her men dropped in writhing, screaming heaps as the bombs melted armour into flesh in a hideous dance of agony. Clouds of what looked like white ice blinded them. Their skin came away in sections, wet and flimsy, like the skin of a rotten apple, or a corpse. The screaming Wardens raced for water but it had no effect. The substance melted flesh like candlewax, down to bone. Nerves and hair were burned to the skull like paper.

Those not killed outright ran in crazed, blind circles. Their skin was bright red; water dripped from eyes, noses, ears; the faces nauseating masks. Three Wardens put an end to their agony by cutting their own throats. Blood fountained...turned the air itself a poison green as more demons came through, unbound to Erimond's will. The bloodless shadows closed in like vultures around a feast.

Sheer will sculpted Clarel's words to clear, cold precision as she cast Dispel.

Then the wyvern riders flew overhead to drop their payloads.

Their high, elephantine screams rose above their heads, along with the creak of a heavy iron gate, turning on old hinges. Air blown hard through metal pipes. Clarel felt like a lost child wandering the wilderness, far from safety. Even here, at her command post.

"BARRIER!" she screamed, and a handful of others joined her. They clung to each other like drowning men cling to wreckage but – seeing what she was doing – they cast too. Each surviving mage used their own blood – the souls of all the dead floating on the air had filled them with tenderness for the nearest life.

Streams of molten fire cascaded over the evanescent bubble but did not touch them. The sea of flame engulfed the battlements and courtyard – sucked all air from their lungs. The weakest perished; the strongest felt taint flower in dark life.

So, it is true , the nascent scientist thought in wonderment. Clarel had already been an Enchanter when she had taken the Joining – voluntarily, not through conscription – and remembered a tutor who talked about something they couldn't call life, that could nonetheless produce locomotion and have intentions. Something which, at any rate, shared with life's intention to kill. He had called this something 'viruses' though he had never seen one, and suspected darkspawn might be akin.

Or Wardens...when far enough into our Calling. Even if the Elven traitor hadn't doomed us all, I'd still have been close to the end.

Inquisition pennants danced in the air. The blast of command whistles came to her as faint calls. Drumbeats changed.

Clarel gripped hands with another survivor, exultant. The enemy had dropped a weapon straight from the Void but now were spent. They had survived the nadir and stood unbroken. It appeared the attackers were falling back.

Then she noticed the Inquisition cavalry were protecting their flanks very well. And a group of mages were being protected by Elven archers.

A woman of Rivaini heritage in a glittering white gown commanded the mages to form a gestalt. There was a low, mechanical whine as a translucent shield began like a bubble in an Orlesian bath and spread and spread like a watery flower. Soon the enormous Barrier covered half the fortress.

"Bring it down!" Clarel commanded her mages – but there were so few left uninjured. She cast Dispel, aiming it right at the Barrier – the survivors who knew the spell joined her. It became a battle of wills between her and this other woman.

Clarel knew she must not lose. The Barrier would keep the demons inside the fortress – and if they did not taste blood soon they would turn on their own summoners.

Then the Inquisitor – it had to be him – raised his glowing left hand and was joined by six others in a magical circle. The dark-skinned Elven man who had flown with him, a pale-skinned mage with dirty-blond hair wearing feathery pauldrons, the Knight Vigilant of the Templars, another Templar who she would have sworn was blind but who moved with confidence, and the two traitor Wardens who had made a sham marriage in Arlathan Forest.

The luminous green light arced from the Inquisitor's hand, more than whip-fast. The strand became a shimmering flame that reached out and engulfed them. The seven winked out like black stars.

"Who would dare face Nightmare in its own realm?" Livius asked, a sneer in his cultured Tevene voice, "No one wise."

Clarel reached inside her mask helmet to rub her suddenly aching temples.

---

AN: Anders' saying, "The Maker creates no slaves" is by Beta Gyre, author of Spells.

As for the identity of the person who created the Joining mixture – me and my co-authors icey cold and Shakespira wrote 'The Grey Tales' before the codex entry about Nakiri of the Donarks, so TGT is history for this series.

The longest spell range is given as thirty-five metres in Dragon Age – compared with sixty metres for the Archery tree. As this seems to me a bit short, I looked up the range of the yew longbow and kept the same ratio.

The new weapon is based off the Northover projector except in the rl equivalent the glass bottles were much riskier to handle! DAI lets you use Sigils of Lyrium on armour to increase Barrier so I figured Dagna would try that. The Northover projector had a maximum range of three hundred metres, but then that was WWII. As we are not there yet, I settled on two hundred metres for the new weapon because I wanted it to feel like very early aerial combat.

I've based Vivienne's Barrier on The Holtzman Shield from Dune (Timothee Chalamet is my Lambert face-claim after all!)