Chapter 30: The Sword of Mercy

Alistair / Ser Alan Sellose

I had awoken in a cell, Letha kneeling beside me, stroking my hair, muttering softly. I rasped at her, my throat dry, trying to be comforting. On seeing that I was awake she scuttled over to a bucket at the front of the cell and brought me a dipper of water to wet my parched lips.

The water smelled brackish and it was unclear how long the bucket had been there, but I sipped it, grateful that I could still swallow. With a grunt I got myself into a sitting position and checked on Letha, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, "Are you alright, Letha? No one hurt you?"

She seemed more lucid and focused; she shook her head no and returned the dipper to the bucket. Once that had been done she took up a spot next to me on the pile of straw I had been sleeping on. The straw smelled stale and musty and caused me the insane desire to itch behind my ear, but it could not be helped. We were captive on the estate in Cloughbark. There was no way of knowing where Svenya would be, even if she were on the grounds. For all I knew, she might have collected her mother and brother and was on her way back to Herfirien.

I recalled what Bruna had said the previous morning, "Mae is a clever girl. She may find a way to rescue us before the week wanes."

As much as I hated to admit it, being a king and all, I could really use a rescue in this situation. I prayed quietly, "Maker, let that girl be safe. Also, if you could manage to arrange it, find a way to save us as well."

"We are in Cloughbark," Letha observed suddenly, her voice had lost some of the trembling quality I had grown accustomed to and I turned to look at her.

"You know where we are."

She nodded again, "My Chantry was not far from here."

I was reluctant to force her to speak considering the state she had been in the other night, but I wanted to test how coherent she was and if she understood what was happening, "We were brought here by Templars."

"False Templars," she seemed to correct me, "but yes. We were brought here by Templars."

"Do you know who I am?" I asked gently.

She turned to look at me, furrowing her brow, "You are a friend. Your name escapes me. It seems like you have two names. You are two people, but you are only one. Do you know who you are? Have you forgotten?"

I opened my mouth to answer but closed it just as quickly when I considered what she had said. The look in her eyes was confusing, as if she was looking at me and looking beyond me at the same time. Since coming to the Cauldron I had become far more aware of the Fade and Letha seemed to be suffering some queer side effects from her lyrium poisoning. At times she behaved thoroughly addled and seemed to be a danger to herself. Other times she had seemed serene, like a trusting child or an old woman in her dotage.

It reminded me of the Templar Irminric, the brother of Bann Alfstanna. He had been trapped in Arl Howe's dungeon and was suffering lyrium withdrawal. He had been so childlike and only wanted us to send his sister to fetch him. There was no one to send for Letha, there was no real safety for her, perhaps that is why she panicked so easily.

Now she was neither addled nor doddering. She seemed to be thinking clearly, but something still seemed strangely out of joint.

"Last night you had run from the camp," I reminded her, hoping that perhaps she could give me some explanation for what happened. Bruna had said that because of the lyrium poisoning Letha was more attuned to things that normally others would remain unaware of, like the "torn air" that she had described for us, "When I caught up with you, you spoke of something coming through the tears. Could you have been speaking of the Templars?"

"No. They are not Templars. The Templars are similarly hungry, unsure of what they search for and desiring what they do not understand. Their hunger and ignorance leads them to poison the land, the people, with something that should not be touched by any but the Maker. The poison is spreading and it rends the Veil with its presence. The poison beckons things older, more dangerous, things hungrier than the Templars." Her voice was dispassionate, a definite contrast to the terror she had exhibited the previous night.

"You are no longer afraid of the hungry things?" I prompted.

"I fear them," she admitted, "but they do not seem to want me now. The poison is not as strong in me and is stronger elsewhere. Their humming has dimmed somewhat."

"Good to know!" I responded, "And the Templars?"

She stared at me a long moment before answering, "They are dangerous, but it is hard to fear something that is hunted by predators far greater."

"So the hungry things from beyond the Veil are hunting the Templars?"

"No," trying to qualify what she had already revealed, "it is searching for the hungry to sate it of its own need. The lyrium is the key."

"The key to what?" This entire discussion was starting to feel like a repetition of some of my previous conversations with beings in the Fade. The fact that Letha was starting to speak like one of them was troubling to me and I could not help but ask, "You are still Letha, right?"

She smiled weakly, "Unfortunately. I have been wishing to be someone else. I am still me, but so much is broken in me. So much that I cannot recall. Even my memories from yesterday are frayed at the edges. The shape of your memory is a phantom to me, but it is there. You are familiar to me and that is comforting."

Suddenly she reached out and gripped my hand, her eyes started to lose their serene quality, the all too recognizable panic was returning. Her next words were choked, "Do not leave me. Do not leave me!"

I placed a reassuring arm around her and leaned my cheek on the top of her flossy blond head. She sobbed quietly for a few minutes before drifting to sleep and I was left to wonder why her peace seemed to ebb and flow like the tides.

Time passed but I could not measure it in the dim of the dungeon. Letha woke at some point and had returned to her usual timorous self. She muttered and sang her snatches of Chantry hymns, though not loudly. When I was certain of her stability, I stood up and tried to discern the layout of the dungeon by peering through the bars down every direction. We were at the end of a corridor of cells and to our left was a room. From the light smell of smoke I could discern there had to be a fire of some kind in the room closest to us, but under the smoky smell was an oily fragrance I could not place. It was similar to the smell of burnt meat.

None had come to see us, so I was unsure even of the direction of the exit. There was a sound of light dripping, which accounted for the musty damp smell. There must have been a water source nearby to the estate, perhaps a river. The stones felt chilly with the damp. It made me worry for Letha's health to be housed here because she was so physically frail to begin with and did not have her cloak.

Out of the stillness, the sound of armored greaves clattering in heavy steps against the stones reached my ears. It reminded me of something Svenya had said about our former armor, "… those damn things made you jangle like Chantry bells…" I smiled in spite of my surroundings at the memory and it strengthened my resolve. There were other things stronger than armor.

At the end of the corridor was the crash of a door and the clatter of armor grew closer. The sound caused Letha to rock ever more slightly and she muttered in further agitation, but she remained fairly quiet. Peering down the corridor I saw the Knight Commander as he rounded the bend and heading for us.

On thinking of it, he looked like any other Templar in armor, except for one small difference. Instead of the herald of a Chantry Templar on the front of his armor, which was a halo burst of flames, there was symbol of a sword of mercy. I had never seen any other Templar use this symbol. It appeared occasionally in the form of small trinkets, but it was not a dominant symbol within the Chantry since it represented Andraste's execution. It had far more macabre implications than what most Fereldan or Orlesian Andrastians were comfortable with. From what I recalled it was a symbol more commonly used in Tevinter.

He was closely followed by another man in a rich brown velvet tunic and a non-descript guard. The man in the tunic carried himself with an elevated chin, all his features were angular and the eyes were a dark yellow, like you would see in a fox. The neatly clipped hair was thinning at his crown, and though mostly red in hue, it was generously a washed with silver strands. His face remained neutral but his eyes had a banked gleam to them, feeding on everything he looked at, weighing the worth of everything it gazed on.

Without a word the angular man removed a ring of keys from his belt and unlocked the cell. The Knight Commander yanked me from the cell by my collar and I offered no resistance or word.

Letha was startled and cried out in alarm as I was pulled into the next room. Though she said no discernable words, her sobbing was audible and I was powerless to comfort her as she scrambled to the bars and gripped them in white knuckled hands.

The Templar clapped me in irons dangling from the far wall of the room, rings caused them to fall from a socket near the ceiling and the height pulled my hands above my head. The guard stationed himself in a corner near to me, waiting patiently for orders. Near the doorway stood a large bellows like one would see in a blacksmith's forge, though the fire was low and the coals were gray. The Commander and the angular man stood before me a moment, weighing the situation carefully before proceeding.

"Who was the woman in the mask?" The Commander finally demanded, placing himself squarely before me, his nose inches from my own.

"I did not know her." I explained, with as good a shrug as I could manage, "I met her on the road. She was looking for a safe group to accompany and decided to aid us on our journey."

"Why did she attack my men?" he spat.

Remaining calm I replied, "She attacked no one that I recall, except for defending herself against wolves. She was hardly armed and quite a scrawny thing, really. That is why she travelled with us… we were two skilled knights and we were armed, though we lost our armor when the mercenaries attacked us and tried to hold us for ransom. We were better equipped with the dangers of the road than she. She ran particularly fast. That is all that could commend her. As I stated last night when you first found me, I was separated from her and my comrade. I have not seen them in days."

The angular faced man tapped the Commander lightly on the shoulder, gesturing for him to move back so that he could step forward and examine me. While he was not physically menacing and kept a larger distance between us, he made me feel more on my guard. There was a mill moving behind the eyes and it ground things to powder, I could tell.

"You fail to mention why a detail of knights would venture into the Cauldron in the first place." He observed this with a slight tone of interest.

"We were sent by the arl of Redcliffe on behalf of the king. In the thaw since the Blight ended, he had noticed that the darkspawn numbers were not allaying as quickly as predicted by the Grey Wardens. A new Warden stronghold is to be situated in Amaranthine and they are waiting for wardens to man it, but in the interim as they wait for the promised wardens from Orlais, they needed men to investigate possible darkspawn activity here in the Cauldron. They had not received word in quite some time regarding the state of affairs in these freeholds and there had been no representation from here during the previous Landsmeet. It seemed only natural that they would be concerned when receiving no word and wishing to know if aid was required." I rattled through all of this from what I could pull from my own mind. It was vaguely true and offered a plethora of insignificant information giving it credence.

"Wardens from Orlais?" the angular man cocked a curious brow.

"Yes," I replied, "you may not be aware, but the Ferelden based Wardens were wiped out at Ostagar. The king has set forward a mandate to replenish the order here and remain vigilant in the event of darkspawn activity. The closest reinforcements are based in Orlais."

The Commander looked troubled at the mention of Orlesian Wardens, but the other man seemed to take no interest in it and answered, "I had heard reports of what transpired at Ostagar and of the subsequent death of King Cailan. I was also informed of the new king's coronation after we received word that the Blight had been ended. We are slightly isolated, but not completely in the dark."

"He is lying," the Commander growled.

"No, he has been fairly truthful," the angular man paced away slightly with a careless wave in the man's direction, "one can tell with the eyes. He has not lied openly yet. Some of it is information that I had gleaned from other sources so it can be corroborated."

"It still does not explain why my men were attacked!"

"It may have been random," the other man allowed, "it may have been the result of seeing civilians being gathered and being unaware of the purpose. He is not as enlightened as you are, Ser."

I bit my tongue to prevent myself from responding rashly. Lashing out would not help Svenya or Rian. My best chances lay in them concluding that I was harmless and returning me to Redcliffe.

When the Commander did not respond, the man turned back to me, pulling an item from a pouch concealed in his tunic and held it before my eyes. I tried to make myself numb to hide the recognition that would betray something in my eyes before I cast a glance to it. On seeing it clearly I knew it instantly: it was Svenya's mask.

The man inquired, watching me carefully for any response, "Is this familiar to you?"

"Should it be?" I spurted.

"This was worn by a woman that we currently have in custody," the man explained in an enigmatic tone, dangling the dark green mask from a thong pinched between his thumb and index finger.

"Our guide's mask was brown," I explained, "and sloped further on one side than the other with more elaborate embroidery. This mask is unfamiliar to me."

"Ah, so we have a different woman in custody who coincidently adorns a mask and was accompanied by a red haired man claiming to be a knight."

My heart sank slightly, though I tried not to show it. They knew of Svenya and Rian, but there was no surety that this was anything other than a way to bait me. Perhaps they had been seen and she had lost her mask but they were not truly in custody. Unless I knew for certain it seemed better to hold my peace and play ignorant.

The Commander brought forward a sheathed sword that he had been carrying in the girdle by his side, so I had not marked it. He impatiently held it before my eyes, grabbing my hair at the top of my head close to the scalp in order to force me to look at it. The hilt was similar to my own sword since it carried the insignia of Denerim on the pommel, but it also bore the initials H.F. in script near where the grip and guard met. It could be none other than Rian's sword and it had the tarnishing of blood near the grip as well, implying it had been used but not cleaned. I swallowed involuntarily as I examined it and realized the implications as the Commander ground out harshly, "This was recovered from the knight who accompanied the woman."

The sword implied that Rian was unarmed, and good knights never allowed themselves to go unarmed. It meant one of three things: Rian was in custody, Rian had abandoned his sword out of necessity or Rian was dead. None of the possibilities were particularly comforting. I held my silence, since the men did not seem to need me to speak. They asked no questions, they were merely trying to read my responses to divine the truth.

The Commander released by head roughly with a snarl and nodded to the guard. The guard stepped forward and unsheathed a small dagger. Without a word he used it to make a small cut at the collar of my tunic before resheathing it and using the cut to make a clean tear down the front with his hands. The guard proceeded to rip off the tunic, leaving my torso bear and causing me to comment sarcastically, "Blast, that was a new tunic! If you wanted it so badly I could have just handed it to you."

The angular man smirked in the face of my words and declared, "You have lied. According to the Chant, lying is a sin. Since Ser Manning here is a Templar, it is within his jurisdiction to punish you on behalf of the Maker for your falsehood. Ser Manning, he is yours, but do not mar him. I have a plan for him."

"Yes, Arl Crewe!" assented the sullen Ser Manning, smiling for the first time since I had initially encountered him. He stepped forward, removing his gauntlet, stating, "This is for my men!" With that he made a solid blow to my gut, forcing the air from my lungs and it was a few long moments thin gasping before I could finally take a steady breath again. Once I was breathing normally, Ser Manning took that opportunity to make another gut blow and kicked into my shin; if not for the thick leather of my boots the greave would have torn my leg or perhaps fractured the bone. The sudden disruption to my footing would have caused me to collapse, but for the shackles that held me upright. I lurched to the side and felt a sickening pop in my right shoulder, nearly dislocating it with the pressure of my weight pulling down on my arms. A third blow to my gut and a sudden backhand across my temple and rendered me into a state of merciful blackness, unaware of what transpired beyond that point.

I dreamt of a memory. It was of the days during the Blight before I was king, when I was merely a Grey Warden, a former Templar and a willing companion to Nerine Tabris. We had been wandering the Brecilian Forest searching for signs of the Dalish after having dealt with the tragedy that had befallen Redcliffe and retrieving the Ashes of Andraste to restore Arl Eamon. There had been so much death; I was relieved to be someplace surrounded by things green and growing.

I had been partnered with Leliana and charged to search out some game to serve as our meal in camp that evening. Normally I had easy silences with Leliana as we travelled, but something gnawed at me that evening, causing me to ask her suddenly, "So what do you think will happen to all those people we left behind in Lothering?"

"Some will make their way to Denerim. Many of them will die, as the Maker wills," she had answered in her usual heavy Orlesian accent, the tone slightly sad but resigned.

"Don't you wish you could have stayed there; to help more people I mean," I pressed, not comfortable with the simplicity of her answer.

She went on to sermonize how what we were doing was equally if not more important. If we did not defeat the darkspawn and archdemon far more people would die than the unfortunate souls we had abandoned to the threatening darkspawn horde in Lothering. It was merely a matter of weighing the greater good when making a decision.

"So it's alright to let some people die for the greater good. I'm not so sure about that," I had responded when she finished, "I felt bad leaving all those people there, all panicked and helpless."

Her eyes were almost pitying as she paused to look me in the eye and tried to reassure me, "You're doing what you must Alistair. There will be worse to come yet. You will need to steel yourself, you know this."

"I've never been really good at that: the steeling myself part," I admitted with a mournful shrug, "I find it better sometimes to just be a little weak. I'm alright with that, really."

"I don't believe you and either way it's not as if any of us has a choice." She had insisted before turning from me to refocus on our task, taking aim with her bow at a stag wandering through the forest, not far in the distance. The animal had turned to stare at us just as she took the shot, catching it in the throat, killing it quickly.

Though I loved Leliana like a sister, it always disturbed me her easy acceptance of the arbitrariness of life and death. She accepted fate from the Maker with a ready palm and meting out death in sudden silence. Even her mercy seemed brutal to me.

The memory seemed to play forward, Leliana laughing to me about something as she stripped the carcass as I watched, but suddenly I was not able to hear her. The scene had gone silent when suddenly from behind me I heard my own voice question, "Do you still feel as you did?"

The doppelganger wore my royal ceremonial armor that had been fashioned to resemble Cailan's armor, though I had insisted that it not be gold. The royal armor had a dull grey sheen and I had the crest of Ferelden altered so that instead of two lionesses emblazoned on the front, it was a lioness and a griffin, to commemorate my devotion to the Grey Warden order. It was in stark contrast to the old Templar suit of armor my dream self was donned in, which was the armor I worn at the time of the memory. It felt disconcerting to be wearing the old armor and see my reflection in the newer armor. Neither armor seemed to truly fit me, a farce of what I was now. I was no longer who I was and I fell far short of who I intended to be.

"Yes," I admitted defiantly to my double, "I do not believe it is right to allow some people to die for the greater good if it is in one's power to save them! Who am I to decide what the greater good is?"

"You are a king," offered the doppelganger.

"Mayhap," I spat, "but I am not the Maker. I do not presume to wield the Maker's divine authority. I am a man. I know not what the future holds. All I am able to do is act in the here and now."

The doppelganger nodded, seemingly pleased, "Remember that…"

Suddenly I was choking on water, shuddering with the suddenness of a dousing. Coming to myself I realized that I was still chained in the room near my cell. I could vaguely hear Letha still sobbing, though it seemed softer. I lifted my head to see the guard holding a bucket, which I assumed was the source of the water and realizing that someone had stoked the fire since the room was smokier.

I looked to the doorway and beheld two people by the red glow from the fire at the bellows: one was the Knight Commander, Ser Manning, and the other was a woman in a rich crimson gown. Her eyes met mine, widening, and I had a moment to take in the scars on the right side of her face close to her eye and down her cheek in serpentine tendrils. It was Svenya and she was at the mercy of these men.

Ser Manning questioned Svenya none too gently, "Do you know this man?"

"Who is this?" I piped up tartly, trying to cover my concern at seeing her, "Don't tell me I am to receive visits from perfect strangers." I tried steady myself by shuffling my footing slightly, keeping them all squarely in my sight.

"So you have never met?" was the pointed question from the man I assumed was Arl Crewe based on how Ser Manning had addressed him earlier. He had put on heavy blacksmithing gloves which boded ill.

I tried to chuckle through my suddenly dry lips, "I am certain I would remember her."

"We found this man wandering the woods with a woman not a far ride from here." Ser Manning was speaking to Svenya; punctuating his words every so often with a sturdy shake of her arm where he forcibly gripped it, "He said he had become separated from his party. We suspect he was one of the men responsible for interfering with the Templar winnowing."

"Are there any witnesses that can identify him?" she responded, trying not to look at me directly in an attempt to hide the fact that she knew me.

"No, but though he is not dressed in a knight's attire, he carried a sword that would not be owned by any peasant. Interestingly enough, that sword shares a similar insignia on the hilt as the sword belonging to the man who accompanied you here: a man who, it is reported, claimed to be a knight of Denerim," Ser Manning snarled close to her cheek before confirming my worst fears with a hiss, "a man who is now dead!"

I jerked forward with that, enraged at his harsh treatment of Svenya, wanting to rip his offending arms from his body with my bare hands. I only vaguely registered the pain of my wrists as the shackles bit into my wrists with a sluggish trickle of blood welling in the wounds, so acute was my anger, and I heard Arl Crewe chortle, "Are you certain you have never met her, Ser?"

"There is no honor in manhandling an unarmed woman," I ground out, taking deep breaths to calm myself since I could not fly at the Commander without taking the wall with me.

"Very well, since neither of you are willing to claim each other, let us conduct a test," the Arl explained, removing a glowing iron from the fire before approaching Svenya, "I am sure you recall these, my dear. They are probably the source of some very unpleasant memories for you."

The implications were all too obvious. I had suspected that Arl Crewe was responsible for scarring his daughter, causing her to hide her visage behind a mask. Now I watched helplessly as she cringed slightly while he advanced on her, a hot brand in his hand. I roared, "Get away from her!"

"Oh, I have no intention of using them on her. I will use them on you. If you mean nothing to my daughter she will have no issue in seeing these used on your body." He threatened, turning back to me with a smile on his lips.

"Father, do not do this," Svenya pleaded, going paler and I realized that this was the first time I could recall ever seeing her desperately frightened. Even in the village with the threat of the Templars there had been concern tinged with a grim resignation, but now she was genuinely terrified and that bastard knew it.

"Have you decided to accept Ser Manning's proposal of marriage?" Arl Crewe inquired chillingly and I realized what game he was playing. He was using me as leverage against her.

"Don't do it!" I demanded, refusing to allow him to terrorize her, straining against the shackles again to no avail.

The man seemed secretly delighted by my response as he quipped, "There is one bid for the fire. This first brand I will place on his upper arm."

I had a moment of seeing the brand advance to steel myself for the inevitable pain that would follow. Above the maddening sizzle of my own flesh under the brand I barely registered Svenya screaming at the Arl, "Father DON'T!" My vision became bleary has I gritted my teeth, willing myself to remain conscious and not be overwhelmed. Suddenly the sizzling stopped but the burning remained as the Arl withdrew the brand, casting it into the coals to reheat.

Mustering some courage, trying to reassure Svenya that it was not unbearable, I mocked the Arl, "Is that your worst?"

"Hardly," was the short reply as he extracted an even larger brand from the fire, casting a glance with a casual, almost conspiratorial explanation to Svenya, "This one was a gift from Ser Manning, and I believe this one should go over this man's heart."

I had been mildly distracted by the castoff comment he had made and was not anticipating him to turn so suddenly, placing the brand on my chest, catching me mid-breath. I let out a strangled scream, howling before Arl Crewe removed the iron. The smell of my own flesh cooking beneath the brand was sickening. As the smoke wafted to my nostrils, I absently considered the outline now permanently imbued on my breast. It was the angry red silhouette of a sword of mercy, similar to the one decorating the front of Ser Manning's armor.

Past the throbbing in my ears, I could just barely discern Arl Crewe say, "Any recommendations where we should proceed, Daughter? ... Now that I look at your face I am inspired." My face jerked up, realizing what the words had meant. The arl leveled his arm holding another glowing red iron, this one coming close to my face. I involuntarily cringed but could not look away as the blistering heat emanated towards my right cheek, the red glow nearly blinding me.

"I yield! I YIELD! Stay your hand and do not harm him!" Came an impassioned scream, the voice nearly unrecognizable in its hoarse volume and the iron withdrew without touching me.

I swallowed deep breaths of air as the arl turned from me and approached Svenya, "What did you say, Daughter?"

"If you swear not to hurt him further and release him, I will agree to marry Ser Manning." She confirmed brokenly, tears streaming down her face, her eyes fully on her father.

"It is pleasant that you have finally come to see reason, my dear." The arl nodded cheerily to Ser Manning as if Svenya had shared a good joke rather than surrendering her life to the monster that gripped her by the arm, "As I said before, she is witty enough to learn."

"Guard," the Arl ordered over his shoulder as he exited the chamber, "unchain the prisoner and return him to his cell. I will no longer require him today."

I felt boneless as the chains were unlocked and I collapsed to the floor, just barely managing to catch myself with my arms, the muscles burning much like the brands that throbbed against my skin. I gulped air and forced myself to look up, seeing Svenya dragged from the room against her will in Ser Manning's wake.

"I am so sorry! Forgive me." She rasped out to me, her eyes pleading for some kind of absolution before Ser Manning jerked her to face forward.

As I woodenly watched her forced retreat, the view of her red gown as it swept down the corridor away from me and feeling the subsequent twinge of our widening gap, all I could think to myself was, "There is nothing to forgive. I am the one who failed to protect you."

The guard grasped me under the arms, his hand lightly brushing against the brand on my chest as he lifted me from the floor, causing me to suck in the air in a groan. He unceremoniously guided me to the cell, opened the door and pushed me in. Letha came forward, careful not to touch my wounds, and assisted me to the straw on the floor. She muttered to herself as she tore the sleeve from her own tunic and doused it in the water bucket.

As she tenderly placed the drenched fabric against the raw, oozing skin over my heart, I found myself praying softly as I had not done since I was a young boy at Redcliffe, "Maker, bestow your mercy on me, a sinner. Do not abandon me here. Give me the strength necessary to restore what other men have sundered. If not, liberate those suffering at the hands of the unholy who pretend to do your will."

I could feel myself gripped by exhaustion as I drifted to sleep, just barely hearing Letha whisper, "So let it be!"

**Author's note: The discussion between Leliana and Alistair is taken directly from party banter in the game, . I adapted the setting of the conversation.**