From Sacred Ash

by Son of Caliban

Marcus Venier is a young student from Canada, who jumps off a waterfall and falls into another world entirely. Markus Venier is a young Templar from the Dales, who fails to prevent the death of the Most Holy. I am the man born of their convergence. I am the Inquisitor. And this tale is mine to tell.

20. The Allies We Need

Haven welcomes us home with the sound of martial exercises and the scent of forge smoke. Our tiny little pocket of military and industry here amidst the Frostbacks, gates open wide to bring us back into its warm, yet still frigid, embrace. I watch through the window of our surprisingly warm carriage interior ("simple spellcraft, my dear, hardly the work of aeons")

It is quieter inside the walls, where the soldiers seem half a world away when the gates close behind us. Vivienne takes in the quaint rural settlement with a distant sort of intrigue, while Sera shoots off for the tavern the moment Varric mentions the general direction it's in. I suppose I'll have to catch up with her later then. For now I settle for a nice brisk walk to the Chantry, shedding followers along the way until it's just Vivienne and I.

Haven. It's changed; significantly enough to concern me for the future. It's larger, like everything else; from the gates a main street ascends a hillock and then splits cleanly in two, circling around the base of the Chantry's front courtyard where Quartermaster Threnn and Leliana have divided the open ground rather cleanly between one another. The left road swings past two small clusters of homes, then up and around to the Chantry proper. The right road is more gently arced, with numerous houses along its length before turning to the left, the Flissa's tavern sat neatly on the inside edge of the elbow, leading up to the small plaza where Adan's apothecary is at the crown of a semi-circle of even more small houses. The Chantry looms tall and proud over all of it, twice as high as any other building present.

We pass through its vast double-doors, swung open by two Templars in Inquisition regalia who salute my passing. Vivienne examines them as we go, nodding once.

"You still have a store of lyrium," she notes, and I nod.

"Leftovers from the Conclave, and a small supply from an unknown benefactor," I reply. "I'm not yet privy to the details on the latter; I assume its some Chantry mother with connections and some sympathy for our work."

"The Chantry has lost nearly all its lyrium contracts," Vivienne notes. "Sales dried up after the Templars abandoned them. From what I understand, the order of events has greatly displeased the dwarves."

"Then perhaps we ought to move in and provide a more consistent stream of income for Orzammar," I say. "If we are to bring the Templars into the fold."

"Then you have made up your mind?" Vivienne asks, both of us nodding kindly to Mother Giselle where she stands in quiet conference with a pair of Chantry sisters. "The Templars over the mages?"

I may very well have to, I reflect bitterly. Not a goddamn word from Fiona before we left Orlais, and nothing since. She couldn't even be bothered to show up this time, not that I really expected that particular order of events to go unchanged. Travelling all the way to Val Royeaux from Redcliffe would have been a monumentally risky task for one of the most wanted women in Thedas, particularly in a time when Templars were pouring into and out of the city.

Still, the change stings. Now I have even less justification to try for the mages. Maker knows Markus doesn't even want to bother; the Templars are his brothers and sisters, my brothers and sisters. To leave them in the hands of Corypheus and Samson and Lord Seeker fucking Lucius… it curdles my blood. But I want both; I have to prove I can change things too, things of my own, not just occurrences in the world.

Besides, it's hardly as though the situation is untenable. I can just go to Redcliffe anyways, demand to speak to whoever's in charge. If it's Fiona, then I'll deal with the change to the order of things the same way I've dealt with the rest; charisma, fancy words and a whole heap of meta knowledge. If it's the same, then things proceed as usual until the throne room. I'm not getting hurled into It's a Terrible Life if I can help it. Or if Dorian can help it. Hopefully the both of us.

I am a walking, talking force of anti-magic at least. That should shift things in my favour.

"My dear, you're allowing your thoughts to overtake you again," Vivienne warns, touching me on the shoulder to stir me from my planning. I nod gratefully before we step into the war room, where the rest of the Inner Circle is already assembled.

Cullen looks as stoic as ever, jaw set in a firm line, though he blinks at the sight of Vivienne when she enters behind me. Leliana looks much less surprised, though I doubt anything I do will surprise her for a while, what with the networks of agents and spies. Josephine looks… chipper. Alarmingly chipper. Doubtless that will soon be explained. Cassandra…

Cassandra looks tired. But she also looks determined, which means I may still have a chance to make up for my mistake.

"Ser Markus," Cullen greets me first, nodding respectfully. "We were just about to begin. You weren't due back until the day after tomorrow, I thought?"

"Benefits of a good carriage, it seems," I reply, chuckling. "Men and women of the Inner Circle, this is First Enchanter Vivienne de Fer, Arcane Advisor to the Imperial Court and ally to the Inquisiton."

Vivienne curtseys with the sort of crisp precision that makes her the envy of half the court in Orlais.

"A pleasure," she says, voice relievingly free of sarcasm. "Josephine, my dear, how wonderful to see you again! I had heard you were called to the side of the dear late Divine, but I hadn't thought it would be in this capacity."

She did, but pretending to be surprised by things you've known for weeks or even months is apparently an Orlesian tradition. Josephine knows that, she's probably known that for longer than I've been alive, but she plays along anyways. The two titter back and forth, somehow saying a thousand things of value and nothing of importance under the auspice of "catching up", before at last Vivienne deigns to address the others.

"And you must be Leliana, darling," she says, nodding to the redheaded former bard, before she turns expectantly to Cullen. "And the noble Commander, of course. I do hope you've made arrangements to implement my humble entourage of followers into your ranks? We simply must set aside some time to discuss their roles in the Inquisition's forces."

Cullen, surprisingly, takes this in stride and nods.

"I've already begun arrangements for training the soldiers to fight under barriers," he says. "The men will be ready for magical support, though the process may take some time."

"Excellent." Vivienne nods respectfully, before looking to Cassandra. "And of course, the woman of the hour; my dearest Seeker, I do wish we'd had the chance to meet in Val Royeaux. I have so very much I need to speak to you about."

Cassandra looks like she'd rather charge a Fade Rift naked, but she nods regardless. With that, we begin to discuss tactics and the affairs of the Inquisition, Vivienne settling in on one side of the table opposite Cassandra, rarely interjecting. First Cullen reports our status in Ferelden; more recruits by the day, eager to do their part in reclaiming their homeland from the daemons. Still no word from the Mage Rebellion in Redcliffe; the town's gates have remained barred to us in the interim.

Then Josephine clears her throat, raising a very important looking piece of paper.

"We have received official correspondence from Prince Sebastien Vael of Starkhaven," she says, making me blink and everyone else shift, suddenly very attentive. "It appears Ser Markus' actions in Val Royeaux have reached his ears, and after some consultation with his… infamous paramour, he has made the decision to support the Inquisition both publicly and in private."

"We have the support of Starkhaven?" Cullen asks, clearly stunned. "An entire Free City?"

"Not the whole of the city; one must remember that Prince Vael is but one of the city's leaders, though his role as a mediator between the rest does infer a certain level of authority to his words and actions that his fellows lack." Josephine sets the paper down on the table in front of me. "He also names you personally; your words to the Lord Seeker impressed him greatly."

"My words?" I pick up the letter and begin reading. Much of it is officious, lots of legal sounding words and repetitions of titles.

Then I reach the bit she was talking about, and read it twice.

I have no doubts that these promises seem hollow; I do not doubt you have received many such empty letters from fellow Marcher Lords and nobles of Thedas. But I am a man of faith, and though my opinion on the Herald of Andraste's deserving of that title is still conflicted, his words in Val Royeaux to the disgraced Lord Seeker are most bracing. To call the man a blasphemer and a heretic to his face only speaks the words many of the faithful no doubt carry in their hearts. His courage, and a word of favour from my dear Elaine, has steeled my nerve; the Inquisition are doing what the Chantry has failed to do in these times of fear and doom, and I wholeheartedly support your efforts.

The rest is promises; weapons, armour, gold and supplies. I blink twice, setting the paper back down.

"'Dear Elaine' is no doubt in reference to Elaine Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall," Josephine says, and I am grateful that Marcus takes the time to sequester away that nugget of information while I'm still reeling from the letter. "And his support is genuine. The letter was accompanied by a small shipment of gold and Starkhaven-made weapons. Upon our acceptance, he promises an addition ten-thousand sovereigns, as well as enough arms and armour to outfit two hundred men, with more to come so long as our "holy work" continues to impress."

"There is more," Leliana notes, nodding at the map. "Starkhaven is centrally located within the Free Marches. If it provides safe harbour, our agents could move freely from the Vimmark Mountains all the way to Antiva."

"This alliance is very fortuitous," Cullen agrees, nodding. "And Prince Vael's offers are… generous. Starkhaven smiths are famous even in Ferelden for the quality of their work."

"This offer is just what we need, right when we need it," Josephine agrees. "With the support of a Free City, the Orlesian and Ferelden factions will begin to look at us as a true power in Thedas. Before now we were a small band of the faithful and the desperate; now we have the backing of a prince and the funding to match."

"Won't Orlesian aristocracy frown at the support of a Marcher Lord?" I ask, and Josephine nods.

"Openly, yes," she says. "However, it is Prince Vael's title that makes him so valuable. He bears a proper royal title, and has a reputation as a pious and noble man. His relationship with Elaine Hawke only adds to his mystique. In public, they will scoff; in private, they will wonder what he saw in us, and try much harder to see it for themselves."

"Has Prince Vael demanded anything in return?" Cassandra asks.

Josephine shakes her head.

"The support is given freely, he says," she explains. "There is one more thing to note here; Prince Vael has chosen us over the Chantry."

"And with his reputation for piety," I conclude aloud, drawing an approving nod from Vivienne. "The rest of Thedas will take it as a sign that we are to be looked to, instead of the Chantry mothers."

I chuckle.

"One letter and a chest of gold has done more for us than three weeks in Ferelden," I say. "One wonders why we try."

"Had it not been for your efforts in Ferelden, none of this would have come to pass," Leliana replies. "The Prince is supporting us because of your encounter with the Lord Seeker."

"And the good word of the Champion," Cullen notes, frowning. "I… I must admit, I didn't expect that."

"So she is in Starkhaven."

It is Cassandra who spekas those words, her voice low. I blink, and remember suddenly a rather violent, or at least potentially violent, confrontation in Skyhold about this very topic. Already her hands are closing into fists; I close the gap between us, place a hand on her shoulders to steady and calm her, and then very carefully attempt to defuse what could become a very dangerous situation.

"And we had no way of knowing such before now," I say. "Nor did anyone else. It is possible she isn't even in Starkhaven, and is maintaining contact with Prince Vael in some other fashion."

This does not help. Cassandra turns, and takes three steps toward the door. The last thing I need, the last thing the Inquisition needs, is to witness its founder on a warpath through its headquarters with the intent to beat the living piss out of one of its members. It's not the worst thing that could happen, but I'd really rather it didn't. Not now. Not on this day, at this time, not ever if I can help it.

And I can.

"Cassandra, you must think before you act." I speak the familiar words with a firm authority, assured in my tone, but I am still surprised when she stops at the war room door. "What will this accomplish?"

Cassandra takes the time to think about it. Her brow furrows, her posture shifts, and one of her hands comes up to gently stroke her chin with the knuckles of her index and middle fingers. I can even tell she's worrying the inside of her lip. Thank you Marcus, for actually using those face-reading skills. Cassandra considers my words for a long few moments.

"Nothing," she concludes, thankfully. "I… it will accomplish nothing. We have… it does not matter any more."

She turns, walks to the map table, and before she leans against it again, she nods gratefully to me.

"Thank you," she says, and I only nod in reply.

With that matter attended to, the rest of the meeting is brief; we discuss the rest of our operations, the security of the paths and roads used by pilgrims and would-be recruits, the continuing agitation of Marquis Durellion's tentative claim to Haven, and Leliana passes each of us a brief update on the Orlesian civil war.

"Still a deadlock on both main fronts, then," Cullen murmurs, frowning. "The Exalted Plains I expected; Celene's forces refuse to be moved from the Citadelle, but Proulx has claimed everything south and east of the river. But the Heartlands… Marisch has half again the numbers Bohemond does. How is it she can be so completely toothless?"

"I have had the indistinct honour of meeting Marshal Marisch before, my dear Commander," Vivienne says, shaking her head. "The woman is a fine speaker, and a marvelous dancer, but her office was widely perceived to be a political one before now."

I read through the missive myself, frowning. I don't know these names, not from Marcus' memories. Markus has a bit to offer; six Marshals holding military command over certain regions of Orlais, divided in number by Gaspard's claim to the throne. I look up, and frown.

"I am… unfamiliar with the state of the war," I admit. "How exactly are the sides divided at the moment?"

Leliana smiles. It is a strange thing to see, but she reaches inside her long coat of chain and leather, and retrieves a small deck of playing cards. She lays down six; three kings, two queens and an ace. Two of the queens are in black; one more queen and two kings are in red, and the ace in black as well. She sets the down in their three groups.

"Gaspard's claim to the throne has split the Marshal's of Orlais between himself and Celene," she explains, and I note the very careful exception of titles from both names. She touches a finger to the two black queens. "Celene has Marisch and Havelle, both for Celene," the finger moves to the red. "Bohemond, Proulx and Ducotte, for Gaspard," and then to the ace. "And Valleton has refused to choose a side."

"Valleton maintains the standing army on the northern border with Tevinter, Nevarra and the Free Marches," Cullen notes, gesturing to the northmost sectors of our map. "He has stated six times now that he will not pick sides, and will hold to his post to prevent any of those factions from making attempts on Orlesian territory."

"Wise," I say, nodding. "Tevinter would be eager to claim whatever it could in a time like this."

"Havelle holds dominion here," Leliana says, gesturing to the northeaster corner of Orlais between the Heartlands and the Frostback Mountains. "Her position is largely contested by Proulx, who controls the Dales and has been moving north for some time."

Her hand moves to the Heartlands proper.

"Marisch is here, contesting Bohemond coming from the Western Approach, and soon Ducotte once he has finished calling his forces. Ducotte controls the Tirashan and much of the Nahashin Marshes."

"So Celene holds the loyalties of those closest to the Waking Sea, but Gaspard controls the rest," I say. "Can Celene even hope to win? She must be grossly outnumbered."

"The Heartlands muster more soldiers than the Western Approach and the Northwest Reaches individually, and nearly their equal when combined." Cullen notes. "It's a game of numbers Marisch is playing, which is why she's held against Bohemond for so long. Havelle only has to concern herself with Proulx, and has done an admirable job locking him up in the Exalted Plains."

"But once Ducotte joins, Marisch risks being overwhelmed," Leliana continues. "Her position is already at risk against just Bohemond's forces. She has already lost Val Soret, and with it much of the respect of her subordinates. She holds at Val Fontaine and Salmont, but if either should fall…"

I trace the locations on the map, and frown.

"Bohem ond will have a clear shot at Val Royeaux, or freedom to enter the Heartlands." That makes me wonder. "If he does the latter, he will be able to press Havelle's flank, while Ducotte fights on to Val Royeaux. Marisch would have to rally to the capital, and then Havelle is alone."

"Salmont is the most important front in the war," Cullen nods. "If Bohemond can take it, Gaspard has almost complete freedom of movement through the Empire. If Marisch can hold it, Havelle's flank stands strong, and she can deal with Proulx. If she does, she can bring her forces west and press back Bohemond, freeing up Marisch to deal with Ducotte."

"Alternatively, whoever Valleton declares for would be able to win the war near instantly," I say, pointing to his position at Ghislain. "He could come south and crush Bohemond, or support Ducotte in the advance on the capital. His forces would be better experienced from skirmishes with the three bordering powers as well."

"The situation is precarious, but currently at a standstill," Josephine concludes. "Until Ducotte has finished gathering the banners and marches, it is expected to remain a stalemate for some time."

"And so the grand game carries on," Vivienne says. "Now, what is left to be discussed?"

I swallow hard. This is where it comes down to the wire; I have to get these three on board with not making the obvious choice, and instead going for the third option. It'll take some finesse, a bit of effort, and no doubt I'll have to concoct some grand speech to sway them to my side. I look at the map, and sigh.

"Therinfal Redoubt," I say. "And Redcliffe."

"Templars or Mages?" Cullen says the question aloud, frowning. "That is what you're suggesting?"

"Templars and Mages," I correct. "I am concerned we may not be able to take one without the other."

"You want both," Leliana finishes my thought before I can, correctly guessing at my intent. "How can it be done? We've received no word from the rebel mages."

"Then we must make contact with them," Josephine replies. "We could send a diplomat to open negotiations; perhaps Ser Trevelyan?"

"I should go," I say. "I've been in the Hinterlands before, and I put down the most rabid of them right on Redcliffe's doorstep. Besides, if I take Enchanter Vivienne with me, it will give the mission a measure of political urgency as well."

"And if the Grand Enchanter refuses to treat with us?" Cullen asks.

"Then she is a fool, and we find someone who will." I tap a finger against the map, right on top of Redcliffe's little pin. "But here are the mages I need to strengthen the Mark, and in Therinfal are the Templars who can suppress the Breach. Without one or the other, this plan of ours may fail; but with both, it is almost certain to succeed."

"Almost is not certainty," Leliana replies. "Besides, if you go to treat with the Mages, who will go the Templars? You are the only one the Lord Seeker has deigned to invite, no doubt so he can add you to his scheme."

"I named the Lord Seeker a heretic," I reply. "Cassandra, did your research turn up anything at all?"

"There have been cases of Lord Seekers being investigated by the Order," she says. "Few enough across the ages, but it is not unheard of. But to accuse one of being possessed? Never. Seekers are trained to resist such things, to a degree that no other could match."

"What if it isn't possession?" I wonder aloud, frowning. "What if… what if the Lord Seeker was replaced, instead of possessed?"

"There are few daemons capable of taking on a human guise so convincingly," Vivienne interjects. "But… there are a few."

"Solas may have some idea," I say. "He's well versed in the creatures of the Fade. I'll speak with him on it later. But if the Lord Seeker has been replaced, possessed, whatever, then there is cause for an investigation."

"But I have no other Seekers to accompany me," Cassandra says, audibly frustrated. "This entire plan does not work if it is I alone who must carry out the mission. Lucius would turn me aside and refuse to open the gates."

"Then we force them open," I reply, before snapping my fingers. "Therinfal Redoubt is in Ferelden."

"Yes…" Leliana nods slowly, "Why?"

"The Templars have abandoned Val Royeaux, and Orlais," I say, tracing a finger between Val Royeaux and Therinfal with a grin. "And run right to Ferelden. The Orlesian nobility must be furious. Their defenders have fled their fields, and gone across the mountains to dwell in the lands of their long-time enemies. All they need is a banner beneath which to march in protest… a banner we can provide."

The rest of the war room begin nodding in concert with me, as the idea takes hold. It feels a little rude to steal Josephine's fine idea right out from under her, but someone had to speed things along, and what else is Marcus good for?

"An assembly of concerned Orlesian nobility would be very difficult to ignore," Josephine agrees, the dry scratching of her quill on paper accentuating her words. "We could send letters, arrange meetings… I will begin immediately. Enchanter Vivienne, perhaps we could leverage your influence in this affair as well?"

"Of course, my dear," Vivienne smiles. "Returning the Templars to the fold should be our foremost priority, and I have many associates troubled by recent events."

I allow myself to breathe a sigh of relief. If I can actually pass off the Templars to Cassandra and Vivienne, I should be able to handle the Mages myself. That's the side of things that worries me; no word from Fiona and indeed not a peep from Redcliffe. Are they hiding from us as well? I can't afford that.

"In the meantime, I should go to Redcliffe." I declare, drawing all eyes back to myself. "The apostates are holed up there; I can initiate a dialogue, even if we have to go through the Arl. We eliminated both the renegades and apostates from his doorstep; he'd have to be an utter fool to ignore us."

"I can send letters… perhaps Lord Trevelyan should accompany you as well." Josephine nods. "He has ties to Ferelden through his mother's side of the family, and is familiar with their culture. He holds an honorary title as Second Blade of the Bann, though it is only inherited."

"Second Blade of which Bann?" Cullen asks, to which Josephine shrugs.

"Apparently that particular detail was never recorded," she says. "The title is his solely by a quirk of Ostwick's matrilineal succession laws regarding honorary military titles… though it is also unkown what import the title has in the Fereldan military. Regardless, it matters little. Lord Trevelyan has experience in Ferelden politics, and his expertise may be of use to the Herald."

"I would be pleased to have him along," I say, nodding. "Commander, how are our forces in the Hinterlands faring?"

"We've located a number of fade rifts," Cullen notes. "Captain Fallon has reported one on the road to Redcliffe. Closing it should be your top priority before reaching the town itself."

"Of course." I nod. "And the matter of the abducted natives?"

Cullen frowns then, searching through his sheaf of parchments to pull out an unfolded letter. He reads over it again, quickly, before nodding.

"Your group of agents have successfully tracked the apostate's allies to their position in the forest villa, and found many of the abductees," he says. "However, there were… complications. The apostates were entangled with a band of mercenaries who were, themselves, apparently involved in a lyrium smuggling operation. Ser Nathaniel suspects Carta involvement."

"They appear to operating out of an old dwarven thaig south of Lake Luthias," Leliana adds. "I have agents watching the entrance, but they've seen no activity yet."

"Lyrium smugglers." I frown. "That must be how the renegades were supplying themselves."

"And the smugglers were also working as middle-men for the apostates and Tevinter, through their mercenaries," Leliana confirms. "They played both sides, and neither was any the wiser."

"They'll have to be dealt with at some point," I say, Cullen and Leliana both nodding in reply. "But for now, we should focus on the mages we didn't have to wipe out. I'll depart for Redcliffe as soon as the sun's up tomorrow, with Lord Trevelyan and Lysette. Varric also."

Cassandra side-eyes me, but I don't react. I'm not risking her losing her temper and storming into his quarters while I'm gone. I also consider Solas… perhaps Sera as well? Part of me rebels at the idea of bringing too many people along, but who is to say I must observe Marcus' three-follower limits? I'll bring the entire weight of the Inquisition down upon my enemies if I wish, it's my prerogative.

It will be. I'm not Inquisitor yet, though I do plan to be. It's the best option, and I can't see anyone else here stepping up to do it. We all have our roles; if mine is to be command then I will sit that throne willingly.

With that the meeting is effectively ended. I take Leliana aside to inform her of Sera's resources, knowing full well the elf won't bother to do so herself until she needs something, then depart to go find Solas. I just need him to confirm the Envy demon, relay that information to Cassandra and Josephine, and then we're on our way to success.

If I can steal Corypheus' Templars and his Mages, I'll be a full step ahead. He'll still have some Red Templars, I don't doubt that, and the weight of the Venatori, but reducing his access to two prime resources such as these is a good play. I wonder if he'll execute Samson and Calpernia both for their respective failures? Not having to deal with either would be a nice change of pace. Just myself and the monster of the bad old days, and I'll be the one with an army of powerful friends.

I grin as I push open one of the Chantry doors. Things are coming up my way, at last. Just got to tie the knot on things right. I make for Solas' usual haunt, sparing a moment to discuss supplies with Quartermaster Threnn and hand off that tip about Verigon Lavonne and the potential weapons from Val Chevin. She takes the note I've written down and frowns at the idea of looking to Orlais for aid, but doesn't complain. She's wiser than that, thankfully.

Then It's off to Solas. I don't find him where I expected; he's not lurking near Adan's hut, which leads to me looking around a little longer. Eventually I find a villager who advises me that she saw the "bald elf fellow" heading down the street toward the gate, perhaps. Instead I find him at Varric's campfire, a place rather suspectly devoid of Varric.

"Ser Venier," he greets, nodding to me and nearly blinding me with his remarkably shiny head reflecting the firelight. "How go your efforts?"

"I'm heading for Redcliffe tomorrow to seek the rebel mages," I say, warming my hands by the hearty fire. "Whilst Josephine and Enchanter Vivienne organize a political maneuver aimed at getting the Templars to speak to us. If we're clever, we may be able to get both."

He says nothing at that, and when I look up across the fire at him I see his brow furrowed in grave consternation, leaning against his staff. I know precisely what's upset him; I only wish I knew how to resolve that displeasure without furthering it.

"I do not plan on locking mages in towers, Solas," I say softly. "Nor do I plan on letting them run free with no oversight."

The part of him that burned his world away and sealed the ashes behind a wall of forced mundanity rebels at that statement. It is plain in his eyes when you know what to look for; grief, guilt, pain, anger, hatred and loathing. All of it directed at himself, at the world around. He doesn't understand. Part of me fears he never will. He looks up at me, all that feeling vanishing behind a wall of cold stone and stoicism, and nods his head.

"You would see it necessary," he says. "Of course. It is your nature."

"My nature is to do what I can to keep safe everyone, be they mage or Templar." I shake my head. "I have seen… terrible things, in these dreams. I cannot say if they are visions of what was or what is to be. All I know is how much they terrify me."

He looks up, eyes narrowed. He examines my face, but I am telling the truth. I cannot say why, but my dreams have been haunted by Red Templars of late, the howling hate-song of the blighted lyrium from the Temple of Sacred Ashes echoing in my subconscious. Part of it calls to me even from here, though Beck denies it even the slimmest foothold in my mind. Its song is muted, but I know it is being sung still.

"And what do you see, when you dream?" he asks me.

I sigh, and let him see the truth; I am afraid. Afraid for the Templars, afraid of the future, afraid of failure. And I tell him the truth again.

"I dream of red ruin," I say. "And of the death all I know."

He takes that as well as can be expected. I don't think he believes me. I don't expect him to, but it is surprising when he nods, an expression of sympathy on his face.

"When first we met, properly, I mean… I asked if you were a mage." He speaks softly. "I did not think before I said that… indeed, I do not think you are one of the dreamers. But you are different, unlike your fellows. You…"

He frowns suddenly, doubt on his face. It passes in an instant, but I see it because I almost expect it. Then, without speaking, he walks around the fire and reaches for my marked hand. I take a half-step back but he chuckles.

"Forgive my impudence," he says, raising his hand. "May I see it?"

I offer him my hand, and he stares down at the whorling sigil burned into my palm. He prods it gently with a finger, tracing the shape. It doesn't hurt to touch, not on the outside. The scar on my skin looks old, the skin puckered and hardened somewhat. It only hurts from the inside, when I come too close to the Fade or its misbegotten denizens. He breathes a word I don't understand, and his eyes burn green for a moment.

They flick up to my wrist, where Beck hides beneath my sleeve. He whispers something, and I blink when I can hear a tiny voice reply, as Beck thrums warmer against my skin. Then he lets go of my hand, and his eyes return to normal as he looks up to me.

"She calls you father," he says, plainly surprised. "Did she begin to do that on her own?"

"You call her she?" I raise an eyebrow, and he nods.

"She is… her nearness to you is changing her," he says. "She is something of her own now, I think. I have seen its like in the Fade only a few times before; spirits which were drawn by the truly exceptional, and shaped by that which defined them. A great general may have a spirit of valour or command which shades his every movement, fed by his ability. Preachers followed by spirits of faith that drank deep of their sermons. But this… she is not deepened solely in her calm. She shows other things; exuberance, perhaps, joy, excitement."

He sounds… Maker, he sounds delighted. Positively overjoyed. His finger traces the edge of my sleeve, and I take a quick look around for any suspect passers-by before pulling up the sleeve. Beck is there, a little ribbon of soft blue light, warm to the touch. Solas looks at her, then reaches out with a finger. He touches her, and she thrums a deeper, more vibrant shade for a moment.

"You are a strange man, Markus," he says. "But you continue to surprise me. Beck… that is her name?" I nod. "Beck calls you father. This is… unexpected."

Then the doubt strikes him again. His eyes fog over with fear, I see him stiffen slightly, his hands pull away. He is incredible at concealing himself, wall after wall of false feeling, but I know him for who he is in the deepest well of his being and he cannot hide that from me. All at once he smiles again, and it is a magnificent lie.

"I have had friends of her sort before," he says, deflecting, leading me away to a story of his own making. "A spirit of wisdom who was especially near to me, a spirit of honesty whom I aided in untangling a terrible deception. That you can befriend her in such a fashion, without beholding the Fade as a mage, does you great credit."

"I ever endeavour to impress," I reply, before sliding my sleeve back down. "But please, let us keep her between us. I cannot have the faithful suspecting their Herald to be possessed. There are others whose compact with spirits has left them infamous."

The name goes unspoken between us, but I think he knows of whom I refer. He nods, understanding at once, and we stand near to each other by the fire for a while. I did not expect this of Solas; this quick companionship, nor for him to be so damn personable. That I am utterly unlike his anticipation of a Templar is doubtless a great help in that. He expected a thug of the Chantry's making, an addle-minded addict fearful of every flicker of fire and gust of wind. Instead he has me, and I expect I am rather unlike anyone he's met before.

I like it. He's… fuck me, he's actually just a decent person to know. I hope and pray I can preserve that; to lose him to his own destructive mission would hurt now, because I know him for who he is, and perhaps who he can be.

I just have to stop him from attaining his lost godhood. No sweat, right?

Our quiet reflection together is only interrupted when a man in the green hood of an Inquisition scout approaches us, raising a hand to beg my attention.

"Ser!" he calls, before pausing. "Ser Herald, there's a party of mages and Templars at the gates. Their leader was looking for you by name."

I blink. Who could be looking for me by name? Mages and Templars… more who have heard of Val Royeaux? It doesn't make much sense, word cannot have spread that quickly to isolated cells of either faction. Who, then? I bid farewell to Solas, who watches me go with wondering eyes, and go down to the Haven gates with a frown on my face.

The gates swing open before me, and I step out into the field outside the walls. There I see them; Templars and Mages, in uniforms of the Circle. Many of them are curiously familiar; the old mage with one eye, the young Templar with yellow-blond hair grinning at me. Then there is a cry, and something hurtles toward me, moving fast and low to the ground. I reach for my sword for a moment before it hits me with a rather light impact, wrapping itself around my leg.

It's a child, a girl with white-blonde hair and bright eyes, hugging me and squealing my name. The sound of her voice invites a host of names, hers foremost among them; Elise, youngest mage in the Chanson Circle. The rest approach more slowly, but I hear my name called and tears flood my eyes as I recognize them.

Jacques is the first to reach me after Elise, and he pulls me into a warm brotherly hug that Cordeau joins a moment later. They are both larger than I, a year older and much taller, but there is awe in their eyes when they break off and look at me. They look so alike, Jacques with longer hair of a brighter shade of blonde, Cordeau with a jaw like a brick and the scraggly beginnings of a beard on his chin. Then Jacques is shouldered aside by a stocky woman with harsh green eyes that soften when they fall upon me; Knight Devine, who grasps me firmly by the shoulders.

"You've not grown," she teases, and Cordeau slugs her in the shoulder in defense of my honour. "Have they forgotten to feed you up here?"

"Leave off him, you old bat," Jacques protests from behind her, though his tone is playful. "Better a short man than an old woman."

"Careful, Jacques," inject the warm tones of Enchanter Ghelaine, who rounds the rest of them to smile down at me. "If she is an old bat, then what am I?"

"Well aged," I tell her, and I take her hand and kiss it as I did when I was learning etiquette as a boy. She laughs, delighted, before all of them pause and step away, making way for their leader.

"Markus," he says, smiling down at me. "Let me look at you."

Knight-Captain Vendrick Sarker is called "Venerable" for good reason. He is an older man, not so aged as to be withered but far from the boyishness he still shows in spirit from time to time. His eyes are the colour of a stormy sky, but there is a warmth there I can find nowhere else. Strong hands calloused by years of handling blades and hammers touch down on my shoulders. His face, tanned and weathered by decades of the Dales' warm, dry climate, is alight with a fatherly smile. His armour is silverite-edged, but good Orlesian steel at its heart, with the scarlet sword of the Templar Order emblazoned proud upon his breast.

Here is the man who raised me, moreso than any father of birth could have. He eyes me up and down, and his smile broadens as he claps me firm upon the shoulder.

"You've grown," he says, and Knight Devine chuckles behind him. "We've heard stories, you know… but to see you…"

There are tears in my eyes, which is hardly fair. He draws me into a hug, smelling of oiled leather and steel and lapping powder, and holds me tight for a long moment. I return the hug, and he sighs deeply.

"Herald of Andraste," he says, so softly only I can hear it. "I never once dreamt…"

He relinquishes his hold, and we part. But he is still smiling; pride, pride in me, in what I've done, in who I've become. The tears swell. The rest of the Circle surrounds us.

"You've become a fine knight," he says. "Finer perhaps than any of known before. We are yours, Herald, each and every one of us."

Then, to my shock, they start to kneel. Jacques and Cordeau drop down first, fists clapped to their chests and heads bowed. The mages descend gracefully, holding their staves upright with the heads bowed toward me. The older knights are next, and even little Elise sits down on the snowy ground, though she seems a little confused. Vendrick is the last to fall, head bowed in reverence.

I stand among them, surrounded by the names and faces of my childhood, who behold me no longer as squire and student but as hero and Herald. It is a humbling thought, that swiftly turns to fear before I drown it in its infancy. This is the path I chose, the title I have taken. I am Markus Venier, Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor-to-Be. If I balk here, I cannot hold to that promise unspoken, and so I reach down and offer Venerable Sarker my hand.

"Arise, Aegis of the Faith," I say, and I speak with my voice uplifted and my tone clear, so all of them can hear me. "You are not forgotten."

Vendrick takes my hand, firm in his, and rises to his feet. The rest stand, and it is my turn to throw myself into a hug, wrapping my arms around him. I cling to him for a long moment, before at last I let him go, and the two of us meet eye to eye. He is proud of me. Maker, so proud. It is like a fire inside me now, feeding this feeling of right. I am the Herald, and he helps make me so.

"I have no words for this," I admit to him, to all of them. "I was not afforded warning by Her voice or grace. But I know this; you are each of you dear to me, you who made me who I am to be chosen. I welcome all of you, with open arms and open heart. And together we will save His children, one and all."

They raise their voices in a cheer, Jacques leading them as he leads in so many things. I look upon them; brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles. They made me in part, their teachings and values informing those which I hold to even now. What I owe them I cannot calculate; what they deserve I know full well. They deserve the salvation of their world. I will deliver it to them.

I lead them into Haven proper, and together we march up to the Chantry. I'll need to arrange quarters for them, though I don't doubt Leliana has already informed Josephine and Threnn if one of her men provided the news of their arrival to me. As we go I talk with Jacques and Cordeau, these cheerful idiots I called brother before any other.

"I heard you went to Ferelden," Cordeau says, leaning forward in that hawkish manner particular to him, to better see me as we walk. "Did you see a Mabari? Pet a Mabari?"

"Maker's breath, Cordeau, that's what you've been so damn desperate to ask?" Jacques scoffs. "We've heard you slew some mage warlord in single combat! Forget the damn dogs and tell us of that!"

"I slew an apostate leader, yes," I nod. "But I had aid; a battlemage and a fellow brother of the Order. I was the only survivor."

They both bow their heads, doubtless moreso for memory of Shartan than Hugo, but I cannot fault them. The Order is a brotherhood, after all, and we care for our own.

"Is that when you got your sword?" Cordeau asks, the mood suitably sobered. "We'd… heard of that too. You a mage now, or something?"

I shake my head, before reaching down to my hip and taking up my spirit blade. Beck hums warm and ready against my wrist, but I do not bid the blade forth. I merely present it for both of them to see. Cordeau hums appreciatively, doubtless admiring Hugo's craftsmanship, but Jacques merely frowns.

"Witch's work," he says softly. "You can work it?"

"Same as any other blade," I reply. "The mark… it comes naturally, like unsheathing my sword."

"That's not your sword," Cordeau notes, glancing at the Ferelden blade on my hip. "That's Ferelden make; crossguard's a straight rod, and the pommel's a disc. Where'd your Chanson blade go?"

"Lost in the Fade," I reply. "Along with most of my armour. I…"

I shudder at the memory; the spiders pursuant, the climb, the face of Andraste or the ghost of Divine Justinia… the shiver comes unbidden, but it feels like things crawling across the tender flesh of my back. Jacques pats me on the shoulder, affirming, and I swallow hard.

"It was a terrible thing," I say, and then I say no more.

My brothers are kind; they do not press further. I return the blade to my hip and together we walk in solemn silence to the Chantry, where the sisters and brothers flitter about, chanting and helping however they might. I see Chancelor Roderick directing a few, but when our eyes meet he nods respectfully, before looking over my unlikely company. At his urging two brothers in the red and white push open the doors of the Chantry, and allow us entry.

"Welcome, friends, welcome," he greets, coming to our side and addressing the full crowd of us. "I hope your journey was easy. I will have food and water brought immediately."

It is a strange thing, to see the first enemy the Inquisitor typically makes playing such a role, yet it is also bolstering. I changed this, if nothing else; Roderick is not the man he was in the game. He believes in my mission, my ability to save us all. That is proof enough that I can do this; it is not a fanciful dream. He has changed; now I need to change the rest.

Most of the Chanson group disperses throughout the Chantry, relishing in the warmth and seats available from the benches brought in by laysisters and sworn brothers. Jacques and Cordeau only depart at my insistence that they find something to eat and rest a while; doubtless Cullen will want them to join the ranks soon enough, and he'll keep them busy enough. It is little Elise to whom I must promise a later visit so she will go and eat without tears, Vendrick watching over my shoulder with a subtle smile.

"She has missed you something terrible, you know," he says, as I take him directly to the war room, one of the door guards informing me Cassandra and Vivienne are still within. "Nearly every day she would beg news of you."

"I should have written more," I admit. "But… you're here now. Welcome to Haven, by the way. I hope the journey wasn't too trying?"

"It was easy enough," he says. "A long march, and we had to be careful through the Dales, but neither of the armies seemed especially interested in our comings and goings. Along the way we met fellow travelers and pilgrims, and a few others making the journey to Haven."

I nod, pushing the war room door open and bidding him enter, but what he says ensures I am too frozen by surprise to follow.

"There was a mercenary company as well," he notes. "Shortly behind us. The Bull's Chargers, they called themselves."

AN:My legacy of having the worst Dragon Age opinions continues with everybody's least favourite archer being the first major supporter of the Inquisition. Furthermore, Orlesian Civil War lore? You betcha. I really don't like the way the Civil War is all but handwaved away in Inquisition; this is the greatest nation in southern Thedas split in a schism over its throne and all we see of it is a zombie apocalypse in the Exalted Plains and a single (admittedly very nice) quest to all but instantly bring it to an end. Where's the troop movements? The divided loyalties? How can the Inquisition march an entire Maker-damned army from the Frostbacks to the Western Approach, across the bulk of Orlais, without anyone even looking twice? It's all very underwhelming, and thus I have elected to expand the conflict. This is the second (third maybe?) big change from the game. There will be more, though none quite so drastic as my modifications to this particular plot.

More to follow next Friday, thank you again for all your wonderful reviews, and have a lovely weekend!