Author's Note:
I know, it's a new fic. I'm not really, sorry though. This won't be long, about 6 chapters total. Two chapters each for my three Inquisitors. One has been pretty well played through, except some exploring. One has been partially played, and one has been barely played at all. However, all three are drastically different, and I thought I would share with you all. I hope you enjoy.
(LINE BREAK)
Raist Trevelyan hated the Circle.
Not because he was treated overtly poorly, not because of the Templars breathing down his neck (though that had grated on his nerves to no end), and certainly not because of the Circle itself: Ostwick was rather large, after all.
He hated it because of what it symbolized.
It symbolized the Chantry's control over mages and Templars alike, showed the vast hatred of magic and those 'cursed' with it. It brainwashed intelligent people, through the same Chantry scriptures, through controlling the lyrium leashes that the Templars were tethered to.
"Magic exists to serve man, never to rule over him."
That line of thought was bombarded at Trevelyan constantly, and how he and 'his kind' were less than the ordinary people. How magic was a curse dealt to mankind because they were somehow worthy of the Maker's rage.
"It was mages that caused the darkspawn, and the Blights!"
That may be true, but that had been the result of seven cruel men. An entire population of people didn't need to be sequestered and treated like the most dangerous of people because there was simply a chance of possession.
If that was truly the case, everyone should be held in the same regard, except for dwarves-possibly- Trevelyan had never heard of a demon possessing a dwarf.
He especially hated the Chantry, and the Circle, more than he could have imagined. For they were the cause of the scene in front of him.
The Templars were sacking the Circle. Fires were burning everywhere, and the mages were fighting for their lives. Templars attacked with impunity, not caring if they killed a child or adult. Mage attacked mage, Templar attacked Templar. Siblings fought one another. All was chaos, a cacophony of noise and death.
Trevelyan clutched the small apprentice to his chest, and motioned for his friends; Fera and Lynold to follow him. They clutched their staves in their shaking hands, and followed.
The roaring flames caused chaos all on their own, but the group was mostly able to avoid the flames. Trevelyan was doing his best to lead them out, to try to get to the safety of the outside of the Circle, where the Templars wouldn't be.
When he heard Fera scream in anguish behind him, he made sure he didn't turn around. Instead, he grabbed Lynold and pulled him forward, making sure he didn't lose the girl in his other arm.
When Lynold fell, blood spraying from a wound to the neck, Trevelyan forced himself to let go of his best friends robe, and continue through the chaos. Trevelyan didn't stop when Senior Enchanter Lydia fell in front of him, despite the sudden knowledge that it had been Tren, one of her students, that killed her with a knife.
Blood covered almost all surfaces, with fire dancing off the shining surface of the Templar plate-mail. Mages were being slaughtered wherever Trevelyan looked, so he did his best to make sure little Abela didn't see, and she did her part, by making sure she buried her head in his shoulder and didn't look up.
Trevelyan managed to make it to the heavy, wooden doors, and slammed into them with full force. An earth-shattering crack, and a startling amount of pain ran through his shoulder. Rage replaced pain, and Trevelyan reached into the Fade, pulling fire and anger through the Veil, and throwing it at the door.
An earth shattering, colossal, boom shook the foundations, and Trevelyan was curled up around Abela to ensure the shrapnel didn't pierce her delicate flesh. A blast of cold air hit Trevelyan, and he breathed it in happily, no longer choking on the death-tinged air of the Circle.
However, there was a group of Templars standing in between him and the chance to live. Before Trevelyan could blink twice, he began to attack, despite Abela and his injured shoulder slowing him down.
Soon, the Templars lay dead, but Trevelyan knew Abela was injured. He couldn't stop to check how bad the damage was, though. He would have to stop when they were safe. Trevelyan ran, even though every step shook the air from his lungs, and jolted his shoulder. He ran through the back streets of a city he had only seen from the few windows that were at viewing height. When he ran out of the city, he ran into the nearby woods, his heart pounding so fast he was wondering when it was going to explode.
Squinting through eyes that were trying to see through blood, sweat, and tears, Trevelyan spotted a cave near a stream. Trevelyan stopped his frantic pace, and approached slowly, his steps fumbling and faltering.
The cave was empty. With shaking arms, Trevelyan gently set his burden down, then wiped a hand through his blood streaked, white hair. It was long, matted, and now drenched in blood. Using the last of his mana, Trevelyan lit up the cave, softly, so he could see Abela.
The young, elven apprentice was unconscious, from blood loss or exhaustion, Trevelyan wasn't sure. He carefully peeled back the layers of bloodstained fabric, only to vomit at the sight of the ghastly wound that had somehow missed him completely, and hit the young girl on the side.
Stumbling to his feet, he managed to drag Abela away from the vomit, and went to the stream. He drank greedily, doing his best to wipe of the blood from his hands and face. He then, using a cup he had stashed in his pack, thinking it would be useful in the flight, brought some to Abela. He poured the water over the wound, and the cloth that was still stuck to it. He managed to get the clothing away from the wound, and he cleaned it as well as he could..
With shaking hands, he tore off his filthy, outer robes, and revealed the more practical outfit underneath. He was wearing pants, and two shirts, taking the thicker one off, despite the chill of the night and the supernatural cold he felt at all times, and ripped it into strips. He bandaged the wound as best he could with shaking hands, and curled up around the little girl. He extinguished the light, and fell into unconsciousness himself.
(LINE BREAK)
Raist knew Abela was going to die without a proper healer, but he knew that he would find none. The wound was infected, and Raist knew that there was nothing he could do that would help. His magic had never been suited to Healing, and he had never bothered to learn beyond basic first aid he could apply with his own hands.
He did his best to quench her thirst, and feed her almost everything that he found that was edible. He carried her everywhere, despite the aching of his arms and broken shoulder, despite the blister beginning to form from where her small body rubbed against his chest.
It had been a week since Ostwick, and Raist now knew the meaning of hell.
People attacked him on the road, shouting the Chantry poison at both him and Abela. The ordinary folk knew the Templars would soon target them, even if they didn't harbour mages. They just wanted to survive.
Raist still hated them for it. Hated them for every time he had to curl himself over Abela to protect her weakened form from the beatings. Hated them for not offering food or fire. He hated them for ignoring his pleas for help, for ignoring the plight of a young man and child. Raist hated them because there were no Templars around to hate. He hated the people for ignoring the obviously ill child dying by inches in his arms.
Raist hated himself for being unable to help Abela, or himself. The longer he went without proper clothing and food, the more acutely he felt the effects of the lyrium accident so long ago. The accident that had left him mentally sound, but changed his hair from black to white, and his eyes from brown to pale blue. It had changed him completely, almost killing him before he had miraculously recovered. The frequency in which he had nightmares skyrocketed, he felt the cold more acutely, and if he wasn't careful, the lung diseases that he had suffered from as a child would resurface.
Raist had found mediocre shelter underneath large willow tree. They would be protected from the elements and from prying eyes. He carefully woke Abela up, fed her some berries, and made her sip some water. He cradled her against his chest, humming a tune he couldn't remember the words to. It calmed them both, and often helped Abela fall to sleep without fuss.
Suddenly, she shifted in his arms, and smiled, "You're re'ly nice. Did y' kno' that?"
Raist smiled weakly, "No one's ever told me, no."
"You're 'lot nicer tha' the boys my age," She said quietly, " 'nd you're takin' care of me... My side doesn' burn so bad now."
This filled Raist with alarm. The last time he had asked her how she felt, a few hours ago, Abela had told him it felt like her side was on fire. He had checked it not five minutes ago, and found it had turned gangrenous.
"I hope you ge' free from th' b'd men in armour," Abela whispered, "they alwa's scared me."
"You don't need to be scared of them any more," Raist said, stroking her hair away from her face.
"I know tha' now... 'm tired. C'n I go to sleep now?"
Raist nodded, his voice unable to work because of the lump in his throat.
He held Abela as she fell asleep, and held her until she stopped breathing. Then, he clutched her corpse and sobbed bitterly, cursing everything that had caused her death, including himself.
Raist buried Abela the next morning, leaving her under the willow tree where she would be safe. Using his dagger, he cut her name into the trunk of the tree, and then cut his long, matted hair. It was impractical, and filthy.
He sniffed, scrubbing at his eyes, and running a hand through the shorter, choppy hair that fell into his eyes. Raist stood his staff up against the tree, and left. If he got rid of it, than he could pretend to not be a mage until he figured out where he was going.
Trevelyan left, despite the unsettling feeling of weightlessness that came from the absence of Abela and his staff.
(LINE BREAK)
Trevelyan kept to himself as he travelled, only stopping when he saw the chance to make a few gold, or when he found a small village that he could buy supplies from. He learned about the Divine's Conclave in one of these villages.
Trevelyan couldn't stand by anymore and watch the chaos and disorder that was unfolding throughout the country. He desired freedom, but he wanted to make the fighting between the Templars and mages stop. The fighting beniffited no one, and endangered all.
So began the journey to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, where he could watch, and hopefully share his story to the woman that controlled the Chantry.
(LINE BREAK)
As weeks passed by, Trevelyan began to wonder if he would make it to the Conclave after all. His shoulder hadn't set properly, making it almost impossible to do anything with his right hand. His lungs began a daily battle to see if they could kill him, they hadn't won yet, but it was beyond difficult most days.
The closer Trevelyan got to the Frostback Mountains, the colder it became. The chill that never left his body, no matter how close he sat to the fire, made it difficult to do anything. The fact that Trevelyan hadn't been able to afford anything more protective than a thin cloak and fur lined boots hadn't helped him any.
One day around four days travel from the Conclave, the Conclave being held the week after to allow people from the farthest corners of Thedas to attend, Trevelyan stumbled across a lone farm, sitting atop a hill.
Trevelyan knew he was ill, could tell because he shivered so much that his teeth chattered, even though his body was bathed in sweat. He could tell because of the cough that made his throat and lungs feel like they were on fire. Trevelyan knew that he would probably die from the illness that was robbing him of his air.
What he didn't expect was suddenly fainting in front of the farmhouse, in full view of the occupants, who had been watching him warily from the door.
(LINE BREAK)
When Trevelyan woke up, he found himself warm for the first time in weeks. He could hear the sounds of a roaring fireplace, and could hear someone breathing. Eventually, his curiosity won over his exhaustion, and he slowly opened his eyes.
He was in a large room, in a cot that was pushed close to the fire. Thick, rough blankets covered his lanky frame, and a surprisingly soft pillow cushioned his head. Trevelyan looked to his right, where he could hear the breathing, and saw a middle-aged woman stoking the fire.
Trevelyan swallowed dryly, and coughed, igniting a sudden pain in his throat and lungs.
The woman turned around, and she smiled, "Good, you're awake. My husband was beginning to worry," she filled a cup from a pitcher, and brought it forward. She helped him sip the water, then tucked the blankets back around him, easing Trevelyan back onto the pillow, "I'm Melanie."
"Raist," Trevelyan rasped, not wanting the woman to hear his influential last name.
"Good to put a name to your face, young man. Now, I suppose you're going to the Conclave?"
Trevelyan nodded, "I...haven't missed it?"
"No. There's still eight days. You can rest here until you're ready to leave."
"Thanks," Trevelyan rasped.
"What did you do to your shoulder, if you don't mind me asking."
"Fell," The lie came quickly to his lips, "Down stairs."
Melanie nodded, "My brother broke his shoulder. There's nothing we can do, sorry."
"S'okay," Trevelyan replied, "Knew it would be...difficult."
Melanie smiled reluctantly, "Do you need anything? I've got some soup on the fire now, that shouldn't take too much longer to cook."
"That sounds heavenly," That wasn't a lie. The majority of the hot food he'd eaten during his travels was the sludge that inns and taverns sold cheap. From the smell, Trevelyan could tell the soup cooking beside him was nowhere near the level of depravity of the sludge he's been almost unable to choke down.
"We've been getting loads of traveller's passing through this way now, with the Conclave and all. Why are you going? You don't look like a mage, and you don't look like a Templar."
Trevelyan smiled, "This effects...everyone. Not just mages and Templars."
Melanie nodded in agreement, "Maker knows that's true enough."
The next while passed in silence. Just as Trevelyan was beginning to fall asleep again, Melanie forced him to eat some soup, then let him drift back into unconsciousness.
(LINE BREAK)
The next three days passed in a blur of sleep and food. Trevelyan slowly grew back to strength, and the farmers were kind to him. The first real kindness he'd experienced since Ostwick. It was refreshing, and comforting.
On the fourth day, Trevelyan felt well enough to continue on his journey. It would be rushed and hard, but Trevelyan was confident he would make it. He felt better than he'd had since Ostwick, even with his shoulder unable to do half of what he wanted it to do.
He woke up and thanked the farmers, especially Melanie, who had given him a better cloak and another thick tunic to wear. Then he had set off, toward the Temple.
After that, Trevelyan's memory became more than a little blurred. He remembered the sight of the gleaming stones, the magic filling the air. He remembered the glare of the templars hidden behind their helms.
He remembered...blackness... then running, and a glowing woman who said something he couldn't quite hear. Then, he remembered stepping through something, and breathing in a lungful of sooty, thick air.
Then, nothing once more.
When Trevelyan woke up again, he found himself on his knees, chained to the ground. Everything ached, especially his left hand. A sudden pulse of something that felt suspiciously like the Fade ignited something that was more painful than fire, that started in the palm of his hand and travelled up his arm and into his shoulder.
Trevelyan cried out, and stared down at his hand. There seemed to be a rift in the skin...which was glowing lime green. Confusion filled Trevelyan's still tired brain, and he tried to look around to see what was going on.
There were guards, but they wouldn't meet his gaze. In fact, most of them wouldn't even look in his general direction. Trevelyan slumped against the ground, clenching his glowing hand into a fist.
Oh, this is not good.