CHAPTER 25: Coming Full Circle

It was a slippery, cold day. The rain had somehow made its way through the cracks down to the stony passages below.

As for the cold… every day was the same, or worse. His body should have adapted by now. But the climate on the Frostback mountains was not a force to contend with, testing even the hardiest of men. Or women. And the woman he was waiting for lived through these blasted blizzards without batting an eyelash. In fact, if Rector didn't know any better, he would say she relished it with an almost perverse enjoyment.

Rector shivered in his leather jerkin and hopped on the spot, trying to ease the stiffness in his joints. He held the torch close to him- not too close, lest it set his clothes on fire- and peered around the corner.

Where is she? He thought, desperately yearning for a warm seat by the fire in the armchair.

The constant dripping in the background, the cold and the dark unnerved him, heightening his senses uncomfortably. He shook himself, concluding that it was probably his growling stomach and the cold that was making him like this.

A few more minutes passed.

He purposely avoided looking at the dishevelled figure hunched over behind the bars in front of him. He had learned not to return the glares long ago. Just when he was about to consider going back up to take a leak, a new sound joined the drip-dripping.

Rector's ears perked up and he stood to attention as the footsteps grew louder. The pitch black depths of the passage became lighter and lighter before a ball of flame appeared. He let out a breath when he realized it wasn't a ball of flame at all, but a torch. The figure holding it approached with measured, controlled steps. Her hood cast a shadow over the contours of her face but the vivid blue of her eyes cut through it like crystals.

"A lot to do, my lady?" he asked, hoping to lighten the atmosphere. One was always treading on thin ice around this woman.

"My apologies," she said. Her voice was edged like broken glass. "There has been a complaint by the Lord Kildarn about some refugees. I had to organize the others to take care of the issue."

"Of course," said Rector, following her as she walked deeper into the dungeons.

"Any progress?" Sister Nightingale asked.

The agent shook his head, and then realized she probably couldn't see it. "No, my lady. We have tried but-"

"Did they try the fingers?"

"Yes…"

"The wrist?"

"Gone, Sister Nightingale."

There was a pause.

"Well, there's no point in doing any more." They rounded the corner and he took out the keys. Leliana fixed her eyes on the man slumped against the wall. "And the barons? Have we heard from them?"

"Er… not yet, my lady. They are still discussing the reinforcements."

"Typical."

She gestured for him to open the door. There was a rusty click as he inserted the key and turned it. He followed her in and they stood over the prisoner. The man's clothes were rags hanging off a thin frame, muscles atrophied from disuse and malnutrition. Bones were jutting out at sharp angles and he was covered in sweat and blood. Long, filthy hair covered his gaunt face and he took shallow breaths because of the pain.

Rector took one glance at the forearms, which ended in black, infected stumps.

"Do you know who I am?"

The prisoner stirred and opened his eyes weakly, but didn't reply. Leliana lowered herself down to his level. Her icy gaze would have frozen Rector on the spot- the prisoner seemed unfazed.

"We can make this much easier for you," said the Sister, her voice low and deceptively soothing. "Or it can be a slow… painful death."

Unexpectedly, the man's dry lips stretched into an ugly smile. Dark blood flowed from behind cracked scabs.

"Nearly had him," he rasped. "She won't be pleased."

"She?"

The man laughed unpleasantly.

"Who sent you?" demanded the Sister.

He still continued to laugh, coughing up blood at the same time.

Leliana's expression was as unreadable as stone. "A troop of our men- including the weaponsmaster- was intercepted on the road to the Hinterlands. Was that you?"

"The Inquisition is doomed," cackled the prisoner, smiling to reveal broken teeth. "You won't get nothing from me."

"Oh?" said the Sister dangerously, pressing a finger into the open wound in his chest. The man hissed and arched his back. "I have spent years. Years hunting down people like you and losing people I cared about. Do you know what I do with people like you?"

"It doesn't matter," said the prisoner. "He'll come for you."

"Who? Who's coming?" demanded Leliana, digging her finger deeper into the weeping gash.

The man laughed and cried out at the same time.

Tears spilled down his cheeks at the pain but he continued to laugh. "He will come and you will bow to him. And he will reward me for my devotion."

Rector stood there grimly as Leliana took her hand away from the wound. The man coughed and doubled over gasping. Sister Nightingale rose to her feet in one fluid motion and glared down at him in disgust.

"You won't get any more from him," she said, contempt in every syllable. "Lock the door."

She didn't wait for an answer and swept out of the cell. Her agent did as she commanded, hurrying to follow her through the gloomy dungeon.

"What should I tell the jailers, my lady?"

"Leave him. Let him waste away in his cell."

At that moment, the prisoner's manic laughs echoed off the walls to meet them. The sound was chilling, and Rector knew it would stay with him in his dreams.

"No. I've changed my mind," said the Sister, stopping abruptly. "Kill him."

She strode off into the darkness, her back intimidatingly straight and cold. Rector stood there for a long while staring at the stairs, accompanied only by the sounds of insanity.

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Leliana stepped out of the bathing chamber, more relaxed than before. But more importantly, she was clean- free of the blood and filth of the dungeons. The spymaster walked to the mirror and lowered herself in the chair, taking a look at her reflection. What she saw brought a bitter twist to her lips.

The face staring back was a shadow of the girl from a decade ago. Her features were much the same, but the characteristic open smile and the bright life in her eyes were no more. Now dark lines rimmed her steely blue eyes, her lips fixed in a grim line and her cheeks gaunt with exhaustion.

She let out a heavy breath and lifted her hand to the brushes and opened the ornately decorated box. Leliana found herself staring inside it awhile before she made herself apply the base to her skin. Simple, routine things such as these held little joy for her now. She used to love the finer things in life- make up, clothes, shoes… her throat constricted at the thought.

For the thousandth time, she found herself reaching for the box tucked away under the desk. Leliana stopped her hand and retracted it. To distract herself, she finished applying the make-up and changed into her armour. But before leaving the room, she couldn't help gazing in the direction of the box again.

With some effort, she tore her eyes away from the desk and left the chamber. As she made her way down to the lower level, chantry sisters greeted her with bowed heads and murmurs of "Sister Nightingale" or "my lady". Leliana barely heard them and walked down to the double doors, her head quickly going through the list of tasks she needed to oversee.

The spymaster pushed the doors open and broke out into the frigid air outside. As usual, people made sure to steer clear of her, avoiding her eyes and giving a hasty dip of the head before hurrying off. Again, Leliana barely noticed.

She wasn't deaf- she knew what they whispered. The people feared her as much as they loved the Herald, and that was exactly what she intended. And speaking of the Herald, the spymaster found the man leaning against the pole of her tent.

She felt some irritation at his visit- she preferred to be alone. Maxwell Trevelyan pushed himself away from the pole and inclined his head when she approached.

"Sister Nightingale," he greeted her.

She nodded politely. "Herald, what brings you to my tent?"

"I was wondering what news you have had so far."

Leliana sighed, and came to look down at the map on the desk. "Bad news, I'm afraid. Reports of demons and Fade Rifts keep coming. The people are terrified, and it's only getting worse."

Trevelyan nodded. "Then I guess we'll have to keep working at it."

"You are the only one who has power over the Rifts. Seal them. Your legend will spread, and Thedas will learn to trust the Inquisition."

The Herald chuckled softly. "It's going to take a while, but I'll try."

"That is all we can ask of you."

"Cassandra seems to think otherwise."

It was Leliana's turn to chuckle. "Yes, she is… difficult to impress. And your situation was not quite what we expected. Give it some time- she will learn to overcome her distrust."

"I'll keep that in mind."

The spymaster bent down to examine the map, expecting him to leave. He did not. Instead, the man stood there for a while before speaking again.

"I wonder," he started. "Bards tell tales. I bet you tell some good ones."

Irritation flared up in her again and she resisted the urge to sigh. "There are plenty of tales in the library," she said curtly. "Perhaps you should look for them there."

But the Herald wasn't dissuaded.

"What did you do before you worked for the Divine?"

Leliana stiffened and studied him with a steely gaze. Trevelyan looked away uncomfortably. She knew he was only trying to be friendly, but today was a bad day to choose.

After a tense moment, she relented. "I was a bard," she said slowly, carefully. "An Orlesian spy, for many years."

The Herald seemed to regret questioning her. He looked uncertain as he continued. "And… how did you come to work for the Divine?"

"I served for a small time in a cloister. After the Blight, I was called on by Justinia to oversee her personal network."

"Which involved…?"

Maker, he was persistent! Very well, if he was going to probe her past, he was going to do it by her rules.

So she answered cautiously. "A Divine always has enemies. And Justinia had more than most. I protected her." Another pang of pain at the name. "I watched, had an ear to every door. I identified threats, and I dealt with them." Too much plotting, too much bloodshed. She remembered every throat she slit, silent and clean with her knife.

"You can't have done this all on your own."

"Oh, I had help," said Leliana nonchalantly.

"From your agents?"

The spymaster raised an eyebrow, with a look that questioned his intelligence. "If I only had my agents to help me, I would be a poor Hand indeed."

Maxwell blushed slightly.

"To play the Game," she explained patiently. "You use everything and everyone around you- you waste nothing. You must be both no one and someone."

The Herald frowned. "Meaning?"

"Simple: you use your influence to keep enemies at bay. But when the time comes to strike, you hide yourself in the shadows. If you play it well, enemies can become friends… but of course, the reverse is also possible."

"So you couldn't trust anyone?"

"Trust is an illusion," she replied, smiling slightly at his expression. "I take it you have never been to Orlais?"

"I have not had the opportunity to, no…"

"Then pray that you never will," said Leliana, hoping that would end the conversation. It did not.

"You seem to know a great many people."

Leliana sighed. "I have made friends. And, on occasion, enemies. It's unavoidable."

The Herald nodded, and seemed to her convincingly innocent when he said the next statement. "I heard you met the Hero of Ferelden."

Merde! She thought, hating herself. This was exactly what she had hoped to avoid. How had she let this happen?

She fixed a calculating gaze on him, wondering at another intent underlying the question. The man averted his eyes, uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

"Perhaps that was an inappropriate question," he said quickly.

"Excuse me, Herald," said Leliana, voice strained and clipped. "I'm afraid I have much to do."

"Of course," he said, looking apologetic. "I'm sorry… I shouldn't have… I will leave you to your work."

She nodded numbly and placed both hands on the desk in front of her to brace herself. Leliana closed her eyes and tried to dispel the memories churning in her head.

Kallian…

Bitterness coated her tongue as the emotions barrelled into her chest. It had been ten years. Ten years since her lover died. Ten years for Leliana to mourn for her and get over it. Why was she not over it?

Leliana laughed harshly. She had foolishly, naively believed the dream had been real- but now she had come to the bitter realization that it was something she had wanted to believe. It had been no vision at all, but a dream borne of desperateness. The spymaster breathed out heavily and scanned the crowd for her agents. Now was not the time for weakness. Now was the time to focus.

She could see every one of them where she had posted them. They returned her gaze with a subtle nod of the head.

Good.

They couldn't afford to let another man slip past security. There were plenty of empty cells left in the dungeons, but she would rather not stain her hands with more blood.

Leliana looked down at the map. It would be weeks before her scouts returned. And even longer for those in Orlais to report back with details about the state of the Court and possible alliances.

She sighed and looked up hoping, for once, the sight of the chantry would offer some measure of comfort. That it wouldn't fill her with the feeling of betrayal and disillusionment.

What she saw instead knocked the breath out of her.

A dark skinned, unfamiliar Mother walked toward the Chantry doors. Leliana assumed this was Mother Giselle, whom she was to meet. However, her eyes were primarily drawn to the black haired person following behind her. The woman wore the uniform of a new recruit- simple armour, dark forest pants and shirt. She shrugged the strap of her bag onto her shoulder. As she did, their eyes locked. And when they locked, Leliana felt her whole body tremble.

The woman was impossibly, extraordinarily like Kallian.

Minus the ears, the taller height and the less angular bone structure and it was Kallian. Absolutely Kallian.

The newcomer didn't look away but maintained eye contact, walking toward the Chantry doors…

A laugh nearly burst out of Leliana's mouth when the woman almost banged her head against the door. Her lips twitched up briefly in an amused smile- brief because she was too shocked. Too overwhelmed by what she had seen to move her muscles.

She quickly looked down at her map, unable to calm the thoughts racing through her mind. And after a while, she returned her gaze to the Chantry. The doors were closed.

For a long while, Leliana stood there gaping at the Chantry. Then she shook herself and racked her mind rapidly. A few days ago, she had been quick to dismiss it. It had been so insignificant to her that she had been annoyed with her agent for telling her. The name… what was the name?

And then she remembered.

Ria Lewis.

Thank you everyone for reading and reviewing. I have to admit, this was harder to write than the other fanfic... found myself depressed a lot of the times because of it lol. But glad you enjoyed the story and hope I made up for that painful death by ending it on a more positive note :)