All Fall Down
By: SurreptitiousFox245

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Dragon Age or Elder Scrolls - all rights go to their respective peoples. I'm only using them as a sandbox in which to build a lovely sandcastle...and by lovely sandcastle, I mean hopeless lump of sand. Can't win them all.

QUICK AUTHOR'S NOTE: So, college is fun. I feel like I have no time to myself, and I have a doozy of a cold right now, but it's fun. My classes are a blast aside from my two and a half hour music appreciation class on Thursdays...it's from 6:30-9 PM...And I have to get up at 7 AM on Thursdays, so I'm more than beat by the time that class rolls around. On the bright side, no classes on Friday means I get that whole day to recuperate.

Anyway, you're not here to listen to me rant about my weird ass schedule. You're here for the chapter. I apologize that it's taken this long. Lys wouldn't cooperate with me. I tried wrangling her into submission numerous times, but she wouldn't behave. And then Alan wouldn't behave. It was a nightmare. Hope you like it and it's not too cryptic. Bonus points if you figure out what the mysterious It is. ENJOY!


Chapter 12


"It's not what it seems.
Not what you think.
No, I must be dreaming."

-Evanescence, "Bleed (I Must Be Dreaming)"


~?~


A sneeze caught you off guard. Frozen where you were crouched in the hallway, you listened intently for any indication that you had been heard. The sounds of the party in the other room carried on almost boisterously, laughter and merriment broken only by the bard's flute. You allowed a minute to look back at the closed wooden door behind you wistfully. It was too late. You couldn't back out now.

The Khajiiti cook was missing from her post. Something about that nagged at you, as well as Malborn's absence, but you pushed that aside. It didn't matter. The fact that the cook was gone was good, and Malborn had pointed you in the right direction before returning to his own post serving drinks. If the Bosmer was gone too long, it would elicit suspicion that neither of you needed.

You still crept across the flagstones a bit quieter, though.

The embers at the bottom of the stone oven crackled ominously, wood in the cooking fire giving convincing mimicry only seconds later. Your eyes were locked on a door across the open room, but it was not to be an easy task getting there. Tables laden with vegetables easily knocked over and cuts of meat blocked your path, and hanging racks of garlic braids and elves ear threatened to be knocked together like chimes. Just about everything in the room, including yourself had the chance of giving you away. Vigilance was the only way you could possibly make it through your mission successfully and undetected. The weight of it all caused sweat to drip down the back of your neck and tickle your spine.

Jarl Idgrod had asked you to take the mission as a personal favor, though, and you didn't want to let her down. It didn't matter that you spent the past three months wanting to punch Delphine in the face, it didn't matter that having to act as a Thalmor sympathizer in order to sneak into the embassy made your stomach turn. You owed Idgrod much, and you'd be damned if you didn't pay.

It took you around five minutes to dart shadow-to-shadow the meager eleven feet to your target, but it was still nerve wracking enough that you were shaking by the time you yanked the door to the larder open. Eager did not even begin to describe how you felt about grabbing your gear Malborn had stashed and getting the mission over with. Your anxiety over the situation meant that it took you a few minutes for the sight laid out in front of you to register. It wasn't until you stepped into a puddle of something red that you had the sense to look down.

And you screamed.

Bodies. Red scales shone even redder in the dim candlelight from the sconces on the wall. It took only a closer look at the broken tusks to determine that it was Lurks-In-Shadows, face down with one of your own glass daggers in his back. Its twin was on the ground covered by a limp, scaly hand. Leaning up against the wall was Vienelé's decapitated body, her own head lying in her lap with glossy eyes that were bleeding red tears. Next to the vampire sat a little Dunmeri girl with tell-tale hand prints around her neck. It was bent at an awkward angle, obviously broken. That sight alone made your knees give out and bile rise at the back of your throat.

Turning your head did not clear your gaze, as you then saw a very familiar Altmer sprawled next to the chest that should have held your armor and bow. Undilar's eyes were thankfully closed and no obvious wounds leaped out at you, but his golden skin was just too pale against his cerulean robes. Black hair and a wrinkled hand you just knew belonged to Idgrod peaked from around the chest. You bowed your head. Apple colored eyes were wide and tears trickled from the sides unbidden. This wasn't how it was supposed to have gone. This wasn't how the memory played out.

But as soon as your gaze went down, you scrambled frantically backwards. The scream caught in your throat and sounded more like a choked breath than anything else. Dand and Alan had lain on either side of you. The Rivaini's precious armor was scuffed and dented and cracked, his throat slit where the metal left it vulnerable. Alan's left hand was missing, the stump remaining mangled and torn. Blood loss was evident, and you suspected most of the red ichor you were sitting in was Dand and the Herald's.

Wait, there! The vein in Alan's neck jumped, though it was barely visible where the cloth wound around his throat had fallen away. Focusing your ears, you noticed a heartbeat, albeit faint and distant. You could save him. You could save him!

Fumbling to reach down, you grabbed the Trevelyan's left arm. Restoration magic sparked at your fingertips, but before the spell could do much on closing the skin and encouraging production of lost blood, Alan's right hand shot up from the opposite side of his body and closed around your own wrist in a vice. You were startled out of your concentration, and the spell fizzled out. Burnt sugar mixed with the metallic stench surrounding you.

Eyes shot to meet with the human's, which had pried open at some point. They had a haze to them, full of pain but also brimming with accusation. Blame.

"You did this," he rasped. A cough was next, spewing blood into the air to dribble down his chin. You barely missed the spray and flinched. "You didn't stop it."

You whimpered, "Stop what?!"

"Your fault, Lys," Alan hissed. His grip tightened even more – you swore you felt a bone crack. "Your fault they're dead and we're next. You couldn't stop it then and you won't stop it now."

Whipping your head up, you wound your gaze around the tiny room again. Everyone's eyes were open. Everyone was looking at you. Lurks-In-Shadows had craned his bloodied neck so he wasn't face down on the stone anymore, and Jarl Idgrod had peered out from behind the chest to stare you soullessly in the face. The Dunmer girl was holding Vienelé's head now, both her and the vampire giving you blank looks. Undilar's was the worst of all, though, because his gaze was clear. And in it was hate – unadulterated hate. You hadn't seen him in years, but that…that hurt more than anything.

Just as you were going to look at Dand, another hand yanked roughly at your shoulder. The Rivaini in question had pulled you down to his level, Alan never releasing his hold on your arm and causing you to be bent over uncomfortably.

His lips were at your ear. "Be wary the mage." Startled, you drew back with no small amount of effort. His voice didn't sound like Dand's. Though dull, it held an otherworldly resonance. It was a resonance you recognized.

"No, no, no, no," you murmured, more frightened than you were willing to admit as you wrenched yourself free from Dand and Alan's grip. This was supposed to have just been a nightmare. "No, no, no. Not again. Get out of my head!" You pushed yourself to your feet and stumbled to the center of the room. Before you could get too much farther, another icy hand snatched up your ankle. You shrieked.

Looking down, you saw Lurks-In-Shadows staring up at you unblinkingly. Only, it wasn't Lurks-In-Shadows. Something in your mind had clicked, and you knew far too well how this worked. "Be wary the mage." It wasn't the Argonian's voice, not really. There wasn't a voice at all that echoed around you, trying to choke you with its tone. It was more of a suggestion that compelled you to listen, an imprint on your mind. This imprint was one that no matter how many times you were determined not to listen, in the end you always did.

You could feel It slithering around in your mind, embossing itself or whatever it was that It did.

"What mage?" You finally decided to bite. It wouldn't have been speaking if there wasn't something important to be told. But still, you thought you were done being It's chess piece. "Be wary of whom?"

A hand was on your shoulder and whirled you around. Undilar's orange eyes met you, their clarity making you try to push him away to no avail. The old Altmer held fast, lips pursed into an uncharacteristic thin line. "The mage." It spoke through the priest as if the answer was obvious.

"That's not much to go on!"

Undilar vanished in the time it took you to blink. Another and the room was void of blood and corpses, the wall sconce flickering out to plunge the larder into darkness. The floor beneath your feet suddenly faded away, and you were left floating. The abyss was familiar, but you couldn't place from where.

"BE WARY THE MAGE." There was a brilliant flash of simultaneous emerald and aquamarine. Symbols blinked and disappeared just as quickly as they had come, foreign figures you didn't – and maybe even couldn't – recognize.

"BE WARY THE MAGE." It spoke once more, deafeningly loud.

"BE WARY THE MAGE."

The last repetition of the message flashed in Nirnish characters instead of echoing in the void, and that was the last you knew as the abyss swallowed you whole…


~Thedas – 9:41 Dragon~


SCUFF!The quiet sound jolted you from your nightmare quite suddenly. You tensed briefly before relaxing when a muttered curse sounded from a very familiar voice.

"Tethras, what are you doing?" You remained perfectly still as you asked the question. There was a bit of humor, but you were mostly annoyed.

"Uh," the dwarf floundered, "Green wants you for something?" Turning your head from where it sat on the pillow, you allowed the mask to scrutinize him for a moment. In that moment, Varric shuffled awkwardly thrice, picked at a fraying thread on one of his jacket sleeves, and coughed four times. His discomfort was like sweet music to your ears.

"Liar."

He grinned that insufferable grin. "Why, Prowler, I'm insulted! I would never lie to you! Green really does want to talk to you about something."

Sitting up from where you'd fallen asleep sprawled across your bed, you replied, "You could have knocked just as easily. Weren't you ever told it's rude to sneak into a lady's room?"

"Once or twice," he shrugged, still grinning.

"So you're just a horrible listener? I'm sure Momma-Tethras is very proud," you deadpanned. Hearing him flinch denoted the taunt as a low blow, but you really didn't care. Varric deserved a good dressing-down, and if touchy subjects were the only way to do it, then so be it. You'd do it – anything to make the jokes stop.

His voice was strained. "Her ashes are probably rolling over in her grave, more likely." You raised an eyebrow. Low blow, indeed.

"Hmm."

A tense moment ticked by where you made no move to get up, and Varric made no move to leave. He scuffed the toe of his boot on the wooden floor. "So, uh…do you really sleep in that mask?" Did you…? Your face fell into a scowl of epic proportions.

"Do I sleep in the mask?" you growled. "Really? You snuck in here to see if you could catch me without it, didn't you?"

Varric snorted. "Maybe?" You froze.

Grabbing the first heavy object within your reach (which just so happened to be a spare boot), you chucked it at the dwarf for all you were worth. "Get out!" The blond snickered as he ducked. The sound of feet scurrying across dusty wood sounded, and you leaped to your thankfully sock-covered feet to follow him and make extra sure that he really left. Your other boot was poised in your hand as you strode along, just in case.

"Y'know – ," Varric began, but he cut himself off when you lifted the shoe a little higher.

"OUT!" you bellowed. Varric seemed to hesitate only for a moment. When he heaved a sigh and stepped back out into the insufferable cold, you felt a little relieved.

"Green's in the chantry and your mask is creepy!"

Your eyes were fire at the slurred, hurried phrase, and you couldn't contain yourself any longer when you threw the boot in Varric's direction, growling venomously. A testament to the years of training as a rogue, his reflexes were outstanding. The wooden door was shut a fraction of a second before the mass of soft leather hit the planks. The thud was still satisfying, you insisted to yourself. It was just missing the scream of pain.

Damn dwarf, you grumbled as you turned back towards your bed and ripped your mask off. Hoping you were imagining the dull ache, you rubbed viciously under your nose. A wet, red stain came away, and you stared unseeingly down at it. Your face was pinched. You never got nosebleeds…except for… You quickly wiped all evidence of the blood from your glove, eyes hard.

It hadn't been a dream at all.


As always, the chantry was annoyingly pious. The Chanter standing outside the doors dutifully recited some line from the Chant of Light when you passed. Her look was probably meaningful…or spiteful, you didn't know. Either was entirely possible. The Mothers hadn't taken kindly to the fact that you refused to convert. Apparently, the Divines you frequently cursed to were considered heretical.

Candles and incense made the tiny cathedral stink of myrrh and copal. Villagers offered prayers in a few of the apses, their mutters sounding much louder than they really were thanks to the acoustics of the vaulted ceilings. A couple of young priestesses wandered around, heads bowed in perpetual contemplation. All and all, it reminded you of the Temple back in Kvatch. Perhaps it was an after-effect of the nightmare, but you easily were able to picture Undilar's cerulean robes standing before one of the altars set up in an apse, tending to it. Instead of Andraste, the magnificent carvings and statues depicted Auri-El and Phynaster. The guards halfway down the room were ceremonially barring entrance to the imaginary Wayshrine, not keeping unwanted ears away from the war room.

Shaking yourself out of it, you headed towards a door and silently slipped inside. Sticking to the shadows was second nature. Avoiding a stray puddle in the stone was child's play. Stealth was your mistress, and you knew her well.

So it didn't take you long or much effort before you found yourself standing in the shadows behind Alan. As you had predicted, the warrior was straight-backed about three feet from the door into the holding cells, fixated on the center of the rotunda. The cells were empty and dark and dank, the epicenter illuminated instead by an exotic combination of torchlight and filtered sunlight through the grate on the ceiling. A set of shackles were what really caught Alan's attention, though. They sat askew the sunburst eye etched into the stone.

"I still don't remember what happened. Y'know, in the Fade and at the Conclave. There was that vision at the Temple, but I can't actually remember it," said Alan suddenly. You admitted to jumping a little, not having expected the man to notice you so easily. You hadn't made any noise walking in.

Still, you recovered quickly and shrugged. "Maybe you will, maybe you won't, but I don't think staring at those shackles is going to get you any answers."

"Never know," he turned to you and grinned broadly. "They could be magic shackles."

"I'm being serious, Trevelyan. You've spent the last three days since you've been back from the Coast staring at the damned things."

The forced jovial smile faltered, but only for a moment before Alan managed to plaster it on full-strength again. "I've eaten. I think that counts as a break."

You let your mask do the talking. "Trevelyan."

He sighed heavily. "Alright, alright. You've got that mum tone down pat, you know. It's a little terrifying." Snorting, you stepped up beside him and leaned against a pillar.

"Hardly, but I think it's only going to get some practice the more I have to deal with you." You nodded at him. "What's going on? Tethras said you wanted to talk to me."

"Yeah, I uhm…" Alan crossed his arms and kicked at a stray pebble. "Well, Cassandra and the others have been at each others' throats about if we should go to the Templars or the mages. It looks like I'm going to have to be the tie breaker."

You pursed your lips. "So?"

"So?" he asked, obviously bewildered. "I'm going to have to make that decision! I don't…I don't know who to choose."

"And you think I'm a good one to ask? Alan, I'm the most neutral person out of everyone in this gods forsaken village!"

"Exactly!" he exclaimed, almost leaping forward with excitement. "You don't have a stake in the mage-Templar thing! You're unbiased!"

You floundered for a moment before finally settling on gesticulating wildly. "Flip a coin, pick from a hat? Auri-El's wings, eenie-meenie-minie-moe it, the fuck do I care?!"

Alan gave you a pleading look, "You've got to have an opinion!"

Sighing, you fiddled with the chin of your mask. The shiny finish caused your gloves to slip along the surface. "I don't know. On one hand, the mages can give the mark enough strength to maybe close the Breach. On the other, the Templars could weaken the Breach itself."

"Politically," he whispered, "which do you think is best?"

"Politically, I think Josephine would be better equipped to answer that."

"You're the – "

"Shadow Broker?" You raised an eyebrow. "Just because I sell information on political affairs doesn't mean I have to or do understand them."

Alan groaned, "Please, Lys, give me something?! I need an opinion."

Scoffing, you pushed off the pillar to stand directly in front of the warrior. You were sure you shocked him when you reached up to poke him in the chest. "No, you don't need an opinion; you want someone else to make this decision for you. Did you maybe think of sitting down with Josephine, Cullen, Leliana, and Cassandra and getting their opinions on why they want to go for the mages or Templars? Their reasoning behind it?"

His brief silence was almost unnerving. "Well, Josephine thinks the mages are a better bet since Fiona approached us in Val Royeaux. Formal invitation and all that…"

Thinking about it for a moment, you had to wince. You hadn't liked the robed elf; it was something in her tone. She had carried herself much too confidently for a woman leading what was effectively a group of fugitive mages in the middle of a war.

Be wary the mage. Freezing at the memory of your dream and the words contained in it, you backpedaled. Be wary the mage…be wary the Grand Enchanter? Be wary the rebellion?

With the dread settling over you, you hadn't recognized that Alan had still been speaking when you interrupted him. "Templars."

"What?" asked the Herald incredulously.

"Templars," you said again, more forcefully this time. "Approach the Templars."

He motioned awkwardly. "I thought you didn't have an opinion. Why the sudden change of heart?" You blanched. He couldn't know about It – Alan wouldn't believe you anyway, no one in their right minds would. You'd be an unwilling test subject in an hour if you showed your face.

You growled, "Bad feeling? Damn it, what does it matter? I gave you an answer."

"Yeah, an answer you were vehemently refusing to give not two minutes ago," was the exasperated response. You rolled your eyes and shoved the man aside, moving to stomp your way out of the dungeon. Alan had other plans, and instead grabbed your wrist and tried pulling you back. You tried to dig your heels into the flagstone, but your arm still wouldn't budge.

"Let go of me."

Alan shook his head. "Not until you tell me what's going on. Something's bothering you."

A barking, un-amused laugh tore from your throat. "Yeah, something is bothering me. It's a tall human with a strange mark on his hand whose name is Alan, and he won't let me go." He was quiet for a minute, probably staring you down if the weighty feeling on your face counted for anything.

"You've been acting strangely since the minute you walked through that door."

You huffed. "I have not. How would you know if I'm acting right or not, anyway?"

"I could hear you walking at the other end of the hallway," he said quickly, the tone dry. "I've fought with you enough to recognize that's not normal." He'd – ?! Suddenly, you flushed an angry orange. You hadn't even realized you'd made any type of sound. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy.

Alan's grip had slackened, and you finally wrenched your arm free once the opportunity presented itself. "Stop analyzing me."

"I'm not analyzing you. I'm concerned."

Though you had started to walk out of the room, you paused at his words and gave a rude gesture over your shoulder. "Well, take your concern and shove it up your ass. I'm fine."

The sound of angry, heavy footfalls following you sounded immediately after. You didn't even have to look back to know that Alan wasn't going to let anything go without a fight. He was too short-fused, too stubborn. "Hey! That was uncalled for!"

"So was your question." You winced as soon as the words were out of your mouth, but didn't let your gait falter. That was about the stupidest comeback you could have thought of. You listened to the echo of your footsteps – halfway to the stairs…

The Herald, however, did pause momentarily. "What the – ? How?"

At the landing, you suddenly turned around and marched the five feet separating you from Alan. You pulled a scroll containing a report you'd requested from Dand out of one of the pouches on your belt and shoved it into his chest. Maybe it would shut him up.

"Here," you hissed. "Consider this my opinion. Now make your own decisions for once." The scroll tumbled to the ground as you pulled your hands away without waiting for the warrior to take the rolled parchment. Allowing the scowl of your mask to leer at him for perhaps a moment longer than necessary, you turned crisply on your heel and began climbing the steps.

"Lys, wait!" You ignored him and the stares the shout had garnered as you slipped out of the chantry and back to your cabin.


You had at first tried to busy yourself with cleaning. Once all of the dust had been cleared off of every conceivable surface of your cabin, you tried mending a tear in an old shirt you'd never quite gotten around to fixing. It had taken you a grand total of five seconds to remember that you were horrible at sewing anything but flesh, and only two pricked fingers later found the fabric torn worse than it had originally been and discarded in a corner. Alchemy had been your next futile attempt at distracting yourself, but the lack of a proper alembic made the task difficult on a good day, disastrous when your mind was only half-there.

Eventually, you took up one of your many spare scraps of parchment and began attempting to scribble down the symbols you'd seen in your "dream". "BE WARY THE MAGE" was translated several times over in Daedric characters, common Nirnish, Ehlnofex, Altmeri, even Bretonic and rudimentary Argonian – the list went on. When no patterns had jumped out at you, the letters you hadn't been able to decipher were next.

You prided yourself in having a good memory – it came with the job – but not knowing what the symbols meant was hindering you. Growling as you scratched out another heavy-handed character resembling a triangle twisted in on itself, you re-read what you had already written. Lines criss-crossed the page in what came off as chaotic, connecting words and phrases with little comments written alongside them. The foreign letters down at the bottom were shaky at best, horrifically malformed at worst, and thick layers of ink bled through the paper where you had angrily slashed out mistakes. It honestly looked like someone had murdered your inkwell. Violently.

"Damn it!" you groaned finally when your fingers made another pass over the stupid phrase that kept tumbling itself through your head like a mantra. "Be wary the mage". What mage? Perhaps It had meant the rebellion? No, you shook your head, it was "be wary the mage", not "mages". Singular, not plural – and it could have meant anyone. Fiona, Vivienne, Solas, even yourself – anyone was fair game to your paranoia.

You had too many variables and not enough explanations as to what they were to figure out the missing piece. And you wanted to tear your hair out. You very badly wanted to tear your hair out. Hair-tearing-out was not conductive to the proper logical deduction and reasoning required for…

…fuck it…

Infuriated, you reached under your hood, grabbed a fistful of chin-length blond hair, and pulled. It wasn't hard enough to actually rip the strands from your scalp, but it was jarring enough to alleviate your irritation. Your fingers then began massaging the ache away before twirling a few strands between them out of habit. It was probably a bad habit, you realized, but it helped clear your mind enough for you to look at the problem in front of you again with a semi-clear head.

A comment you had written then suddenly decided to stand out. Nightmare used as conduit. You narrowed your eyes. The dream itself had been a conjuration of your own mind – the memory of the job at the Thalmor Embassy so many years ago hadn't been false. The lack of Malborn escorting you to the larder where he had stashed your smuggled things had been wrong, as had the absence of the cook. Your own insecurities had reflected in seeing the people that you had dead. The "speaking", though – that hadn't been you at all.

It wasn't the first time. The same thing had happened thrice back on Nirn – It using your own dreams as a medium in which to contact you. It didn't do it often – only when there was something earth-shatteringly important to say. And even then, the messages were vague, at best.

You leaned back in your chair, feeling like the information had somehow managed to wrangle you into a corner. There was so little to go on. Instinct and logic could only get you so far, and that wasn't very. It was akin to fumbling around in the dark with only a spark to see by.

The footsteps crunching the fresh snow outside was able to be heard before the loud knock. Steeling yourself to open the door, you were unsurprised to find Alan looming in front of you. What did shock you, however, was the forwardness he displayed by snatching up your wrist and dragging you off without giving you a chance to even say hello.

"Trevelyan, what the – ?!"

"Do you have all your weapons?" he interrupted. There was solidity in his tone that caused your jaw to snap shut. Subtly touching your fingertips to his gauntlet, the hazy outline of his face presented to you then gave an unsettling stony look. He was a man on a mission.

So you grudgingly admitted, "I'm never without them." He nodded briskly, stopping in front of Solas' cabin and issuing three swift raps of his meal-covered knuckles on the door. It was then you realized the Herald was in full armor.

"Good," he said. "Pack a bag. We're going to the Hinterlands."

The elf chose that moment to swing his cabin door open, obviously having heard the preceding conversation if his question was anything to go by. "Why the Hinterlands, if I may ask?"

"Did something happen at the Crossroads?" you ventured tentatively. "Because I swear that we got all the bandits with that last sweep through Fort Connor. Any stragglers shouldn't have been more than Corporal Vale and his men there could – "

Alan breathed an annoyed sigh through his nose. "It's not the Crossroads." Whereas you were baffled, Solas seemed to understand what the Trevelyan was getting at.

"You intend to take the Grand Enchanter up on her offer."

You started, wrenching your wrist free and "staring" wide-eyed in Alan's direction. You screeched when he made no move to counter Solas' claim. "WHAT?! Did you even read those reports I gave you?"

"I did," the warrior confirmed. "So did Cassandra, Leliana, and Cullen. They agreed that not only is Redcliffe closer than Therinfal, it's in the most immediate danger if your information is accurate." You wanted to punch something. Or someone. Damn it, you'd hoped Alan to have had more sense than this.

You snarled, "I gave those reports to you – not Leliana, not Cassandra, not Cullen. Going to the mages would be suicide!" Wholeheartedly engaged in your little spat with Alan, you failed to notice Solas watching the conversation with the eyes of a hawk, settling against his doorway to observe.

Alan yanked a crumpled sheet of white out of a belt pouch and waved it around like a madman. "This said only that there were sightings of Tevinters in the city, not that the rebels were associating with them at all. If we come in and drive them out…"

"B'vek, ohn – !" you growled under your breath, cutting yourself off with an exaggerated throw of your hands into the air. "You really think that waltzing in and killing a few Tevinters is going to make the rebels up and trust us? Tel'eth – this is a horrible idea!"

"It's the only solid plan we've got!"

"Bahris! The Templars would be a safer option!"

Alan scoffed loudly, "After what the Lord Seeker did in Val Royeaux? That's suicide! Besides, if there is a Tevinter presence in Redcliffe, those mages present more of a threat than the Templars should they decide to attack!"

You gestured to Solas, who was still watching your argument with a, dare you say, amused look on his face. "If, by chance, you don't get us killed and you do manage to convince the rebels to ally with us, those 'not so threatening' Templars are going to be able to cripple our offensive, defensive, and support systems if they get pissed enough! At least with the Templars, the only thing that can be knocked to Oblivion and back is our offense. We can still defend and retreat if need be."

"Why would the Templars attack us?" Alan asked. You gaped at him for several moments when you realized that he was actually confused.

"Why would the - ?!" you barked a humorless laugh. "I don't know! It could happen – anything could happen."

"Just because it could happen doesn't mean it will," the Herald pressed, voice firm, and you knew then that any chance you had of winning the argument had withered and died. "We're going to the mages, end of discussion. Now, are you coming or not, Lys?"

You grit your teeth. "Yes. I am. Only because I want to be able to say 'I told you so'."

Alan nodded with finality. "Good. We're leaving in a half hour. I want both of you to meet me by the gates then." Where you remained silent, Solas broke his own muteness with acquiescence.

"As you wish." Something in his voice still sounded amused, and in hindsight, the childish grumbling you slipped into after Alan walked away probably only served to fuel it.

"How dare he!?" Obviously seething, you stuffed your gloved hands into the crook of your chilled elbows. "I gave that information to him in confidence!"

Solas pushed off of the doorframe. "I was not aware you spoke a language other than elven." His abrupt dismissal of the subject both jarred you from your anger as well as fueled it. Realizing that some slurred mix of Dunmeris and Aldmeris had escaped you, you stiffly shrugged the question off.

"Picked it up on the road. I don't even remember what it's called – doubt I got any of it correct, anyway." You began taking small steps backward to your cabin, giving Solas a small wave. "I need to pack. See you at the gates!" The elf wasn't given time to respond in kind before you had shuffled into your humble abode and slammed the door behind you.

Once inside, you leaned against the wood, head back and eyes closed. Gods, you thought. Its stupid warning about the mage was ringing in your head like a vice. Desperately, you hoped Alan knew what he was doing. You had a terrible feeling that the costs if he didn't would be more than anyone was willing to pay.


Alan, you decided, was really a cruel mastermind in disguise. The five-day journey from Haven to Redcliffe village was anything but leisurely. Camp never lasted past sunrise, what the Trevelyan deemed as the "necessary" amount of time, and it was never set until long after sundown. You didn't know whether it was spite for your disapproval or an angered urgency to reach the mages, but the Herald seemed to have felt the innate need to push you, Solas, and Sera almost to your limits.

The addition of the female elf was also a slimy move. She was constantly complaining about the hurried pace to anyone who would listen, and she appeared to consider the air a listening entity when no one wished to put up with her shenanigans. You took absolutely no pleasure in catching Alan's satisfied smirk whenever the archer took to annoying the snot out of you and your mage companion. In all honesty, it was beginning to appear as if the blighted little shit had made a deal with Sera about tagging along only if she made your life miserable.

Respite came only in the form of clear roads. After having swept out the nearby bandits those weeks before, the trek would have actually been pleasant had you been allowed the time to enjoy it. Only one Fade Rift had jumped out at you all, and the wisps following had been easy enough to take care of. Your nerves were screaming at you that the calm was unusual, things were going too smoothly. Bluntly, you were terrified of what could possibly lay beyond Redcliffe's gates, not that you divulged your fears to anyone in your group. Alan had already made it clear that he would have nothing of it, you had your doubts about Sera's motives to wishing to "tag along", and Solas seemed to have enough on his mind. The mage spent just about every waking moment with one of the most scrutinizing looks on his face that you had ever seen. Bothering him just seemed like a bad idea.

"Carts upturned ahead. Dunno if that's bad or whatever," Sera chirped offhandedly as she darted her way towards the group. You and the other rogue had been taking turns scouting, and her turn had given you a bit of a respite from all the running.

"Why?" Alan frowned almost instantly. "What happened to them?"

The elf shrugged, "Bugger if I know. Nothin' was there, really, 'cept the carts. It looked like some fancy-pants merchant or someone just left 'em there and took off. Bit strange, though, with how quiet everything's been, yeah?"

You shook your head slowly, "Why would a merchant just up and leave their carts? And why would they be turned over? Alan, something's wrong here." Your voice pleaded with the warrior to listen. He grumbled under his breath, probably rolling his eyes at you if the muttered "Maker-damned mother hen" was evidence of anything.

"She's right." When Solas' tenor agreed with you, you swore you could've sung out praises. "We're only a few minutes from the village – "

"I want a constant watch on that damn thing!" cried a voice from ahead of you, though it was heading closer. "Sound the alarm at the first sign of demons!"

Huh. Demons. Well, that explained everything.

"And there's our answer," you drawled, whipping your daggers from their sheaths at your hips. No sooner did the words leave your mouth and the frazzled woman who had spoken – a guard, you realized – passed than did the mark on Alan's hand start its tell-tale fizzling. The warrior groaned in agitation, but drew his sword and shield and advanced anyway.

You could sympathize – none of you were thrilled to fight more demons.

But while you weren't looking forward to fending off the malevolent creatures of the Fade, you doubly so weren't expecting to have found what you did. The usual feeling of a Rift swamped over you, the Aetherial magic that leaked through the small tear inconsequential compared to what the Breach itself had done. However, under that was something you'd felt twice, maybe three times in your life, and it made you pause in running a shade clean through. It suddenly felt like you were trying to run through molasses. Almost like…

"Watch it!" Solas bellowed from above the sounds of battle, flinging frost out of his staff to and fro. "It appears the Rift can manipulate time!"

…like the Tiid-Ahraan…

"Bloody pissing sod it! Why isn't any of this shite normal!?" bemoaned Sera.

Alan barely rolled out of the way of a materializing terror demon. "It's what? How?!" Solas casted a barrier spell over you just in time to block a wraith's spell from slapping you with a stamina drain. You shot him a thankful nod, but you were almost certain he didn't see it.

"I'm afraid I do not know!" the mage replied. It was all very reassuring, but, you had to admit, you hadn't a clue, either. Thedosian magics were still a tad beyond your comprehension. How the one Rift in front of Redcliffe's gates had managed to somehow interfere with time, well, your guess was as good as any…probably worse, actually.

The battle proceeded rather swiftly after that once Sera had managed to feel out a spot where time was quickened. It had made her shooting that much faster and that much more effective. Arrows had felled more beasts than did blade or staff, you were chagrinned to admit. When the guardswoman finally crawled her way back from whatever hole she'd squared herself away in, her simpering thanks were more towards Sera than the rest of you. Alan had bristled a little at that, displeased that his meager endeavor of ripping the Rift closed had gone pretty much unnoticed in lieu of the demon corpses littered with arrows.

"Maker have mercy! It's over. Open the gates!" Gears grinding on gears sounded as the creaky metal grate slowly began to rise. Almost immediately upon clearing the threshold, there were murmurs, both of awe and of discontent. People whispered amongst themselves and eyed Solas' staff with either unease or curiosity, and Alan was regarded with no small degree of wonderment.

An Inquisition scout bounded up to you within moments, giving Alan the customary bow. Without wasting time on pleasantries (you liked the man already), he spoke. "We spread word the Inquisition was coming, but you should know that no one here was expecting us."

Be wary the mage. "No one? Not even Grand Enchanter Fiona?" You tried to keep the fear out of your voice, but it still wavered with the effort.

"If she was," shrugged the scout in response, "she hasn't told anyone. We've arranged use of the tavern for the negotiations." Be wary the mage!

An elf, young and nervous by the sound of him, suddenly decided to run up. "Agents of the Inquisition, my apologies! Magister Alexius is in charge now, but hasn't yet arrived. He's expected shortly. You may speak with the former Grand Enchanter in the meantime." Your eyes flashed the angriest you were sure they'd ever been as the boy nonchalantly walked away.

"Magister Alexius?!" you growled, yanking back on Alan's elbow to stop him from following after the elven boy. "And he's in charge? Can I say 'I told you so' now?"

Solas and Sera wisely stepped back from the conversation the minute you'd reached for the Herald. Alan sighed after a pause, and he reached up to pinch his nose as if it would make all of his problems go away. What you could see of his green eyes seemed burdened.

"Lys, please, just…," he lifted his eyes to the slanted, blacked out horizontal slits your mask claimed as eyes. "Just don't." He was guilty enough, you realized. The minute the elf boy had said that a Magister was in charge, it had dawned on him just how sticky the situation with the mages was. You relaxed your grip. After all, he hadn't known about Its warning.

"I sure hope you know what you're doing," you pleaded.

Alan just scoffed as he turned back around. "Yeah. You and me both."


FINAL WORDS: Well, there we have it. I owe you some translations, so let's get to it.

ALDMERIS/DUNMERIS (most of the Dunmeri words I used are pure Aldmeri used in Dunmer speech. I couldn't find a pure Aldmeri dictionary, so I went with what I could):

B'vek: An exclamation of surprise - an Aldmeris word.
Ohn: You - a Dunmeris word.
Bahris: Literally "nothing", but I took it more to mean "no" as I couldn't find a Dunmeris or Aldmeris word for "no".

THEDOSIAN ELVISH:

Tel'eth: Literally along the lines of "not safe", however with how ambiguous Elvish can tend to be, I meant it to be more akin to "this (idea) is not safe".

Hope the nightmare sequence wasn't...too much. As for "Be wary the mage", I meant it to be able to mean several different things, of which will be revealed...eventually. And on another note, Alan and Lys are butting heads. I feel like with how I've decided to depict the Herald to be, Lys wouldn't get along with him too well. Alan's young, brash, and idealistic, whereas Lys is weathered. She's experienced her world being destroyed and is actually kind of a pessimist. She sees Alan as being immature, and I think that his stubbornness would only clash with Lys' own. Just my take, though. Please tell me if you think something could have been done differently/added/taken away. I love feedback!

Thanks!
~SurreptitiousFox