"So Rae, I'm just checking for the sake of the crew here. We do have a plan? Or at least you have a plan?" Briggins was struggling to keep up, round stomach bobbing in the crisp Haven air. The rest of the crew lagged behind, loudly discussing the best way to pick a pocket, not that they really needed to pick pockets.

"I've always got a plan, Briggins." she smiled, "We simply walk to the temple, announce that I am not dead and return to the ship."

"Yes, Rae, but why must we tell these people you're not dead? Surely you could just send a letter." Briggins puffed, "Save us having to climb all these stairs, eh?"

"I owe someone up there a great debt, one I intend to pay." She would say no more and left Chail to fill the silence, matching her pace as they went along.

"I expected you to wear a dress." he deadpanned, earning himself a laugh from Briggins and a scowl from her. "Have you ever seen me in a dress?"

"No." He doubted he ever would, she preferred Rivaini breeches, light and flattering, coupled with a Qunari-style shirt, if one could call it that, which left little to the imagination. Such clothes, however, were unsuited to the Fereldan winter and thus she had chosen a simple figure-hugging linen lace-up shirt and a beautiful ebony coat that flared at the tail. She looked noble, or at least wealthy, despite the headscarf and hat that she'd pinched from his head only minutes before.

The road to the Temple of Sacred Ashes was long and uncomfortable until the majority of the crew decided to remain at a tavern situated in the village not far from the Temple. Only Cail remained, hoping to somehow make the trip worthwhile for himself or perhaps to check that she really was simply paying a debt. Either way she didn't mind. As they neared the entrance, her smiles became less frequent, her hands had begun to shake as she asked a stern-looking enchanter about something, as she walked back she ignored Cahil, passing him as if he weren't even there, so he grabbed her hand. That surprised her, hand-holding wasn't part of the agreement.

"Tell me the name of the person and we'll split up, or you can take a seat while I bring them to you." The offer was kind. "His name is Alin, he's an elf. Red hair…" she put a hand to her lip, rubbing a scar as she thought. She had many scars, he hadn't really had to pay attention to the ones she'd received before they met, the two slices along her cheekbone was his fault, he knew, he should have parried the scimitar. "Blue eyes, I think."

It didn't take long for Cahil to bring the elf back, by force of intimidation. She could see it in the set of the elf's shoulders, in the way he walked just out of arm's reach of Cahil. That was, until the man grabbed him and shoved him in her direction.

"Messere, I can assure you, I have no idea what you're talking…" he stopped when he saw her. "Maker above, you have to get out of here."

"I realise this has come as a surprise, but I wanted to pay you for your services, I'll be needing them no longer." She threw a large, heavy coin purse at him. He caught it and stared at her in horror.

"Do you have any idea what your death did for the mages?" he looked as If he were about to cry. "The Templars, the Marcher Lords… all because you're dead." This wasn't what she expected, a 'thank you' would have sufficed. She didn't want to hear how appreciated her death was, didn't want to hear about Templars or Lords. She was not the Lady Trevelyan any longer.

He saw her face in dreams, in mirrors and in magic. Every brazier that burnt with that cool, blue light was a reminder. It had been a year and a half and still he couldn't pin his cloak without thinking of that scared girl who'd clutched at it all those years ago. It still didn't make any sense. If he hadn't seen the body, he wouldn't have believed it. The Lord Trevelyan needed no more proof than the staff, a gift from himself, the first he had ever given her, he said.

It had been Ellion's duty to report the death of the Lacy Trevelyan to her father, he made sure to do it at court- so the man's wife and son could see the damage they had caused, though the son was nowhere to be found. The Lord had sat quietly as Ellion explained what had happened, that he had tried his best. It sounded pathetic even as he was saying it, but it needed to be said. The pale, drawn woman beside the Lord opened her mouth to speak when he was done, but the Lord roared at her before she could draw breath.

"Out! All of you, out!" From the reaction of his courtly fellows, Ellion could tell, this was a man that did not raise his voice. The elder Lady Trevelyan shot him a rancid look as she exited the Hall, skirts swirling

"I apologise, young man, I had planned to shake your hand under better circumstances." he rose and approached the Templar. "You must think me quite pathetic. The sort of man that lets his own blood suffer under his roof." There were tears in his eyes and voice as he spoke. "Was she happy? Please tell me again, she was happy."

"I-I believe she was, my Lord." his own voice spoke to his grief as he produced her staff from the bag at his side. "I am sorry I failed you. I failed her."

"No son, it was I that failed her."

That was the beginning, since the Circle was in ruins, the Lord Trevelyan offered his house and grounds to the Templars and Mages. The house was relatively safe, considering Dante had taken up training to become a Chevalier in Orlais, denied the right to become a Templar by his father, despite the family's history of Chantry service. They had received word in the next autumn that there was to be a meeting of Chantry officials and the leaders of the Mage rebellion in Ferelden. The entire household prepared for the journey, Lord Trevelyan was determined not to be inactive in the matter, and organised passage for a variety of Chantry-goers and Mages alike, including the elf Alin. Who was tried as a conspirator, but thanks to Knight-Commander, the previous Commander had been killed in the uprising, Ellion- he was acquitted.

Ellion had to find Alin now, the man was always getting lost in a crowd and the meeting had already begun. The elf was apparently taking an interest in a woman, for the first time in his life, though it seemed she terrified him. A man stood behind Alin, a tall, pale rogue with dark hair and stubble. The pair of strangers seemed to be the sort of rogues that liked to tag-team the picking of pockets, and Alin was doing a fine job as a target. He drew his sword, the remaining stragglers separated as he passed and placed a gauntleted hand upon the male's shoulder. "The Chantry has little tolerance for thieves, Messere."

Alin turned and the look of pure terror upon his face suggested something other than petty crime was afoot. The dark-haired man piped up arrogantly, "Well who in the Black City is this?" Nobody answered. The woman was staring, mouth open wide. She was pretty, from the little he could see of her face. Twin scars ran along the cheek he could see, another pierced her full lips. He'd kissed that scar, he'd beaten a man bloody in the infirmary for that scar. Had she come to haunt him?

The question remained unanswered as the sky split in two and the world was torn asunder.