Thank you for reading!
Blackwall stood still in the middle of a stand of trees. Ahead of him there was a small campfire, and around it several unhappy and discontented individuals; apostates, if he gathered correctly from the complaining. Mages so rarely were equipped for the real world, especially the ones he had been running into recently. There were more and more of them, and he disliked the idea that his haven of refuge, this abandoned wilderness, was being taken over by these spoiled children who seemed to feel that life had dealt them a harsh blow.
A life of leisure, to learn and to study, a life where every need was taken care of, where the biggest problem seemed to be that one's guards were mean to you … well, all right, it sounded like jail, but Blackwall had often thought that perhaps jail wouldn't be so bad. He knew well enough that if he were ever caught, there would be no jail for him; he would hang. And maybe that was what made jail, and therefore the Circle of Magi, sound as though it couldn't be all bad.
Nonetheless, apostates were touchy; they saw a Templar in every cracked branch and every sigh of wind. Blackwall had no intention of moving again until all of these were asleep. If they were smart, they'd set a guard, but he'd have bet a pretty hefty pile of coin that this bunch wasn't that smart. Not that he had a hefty pile of coin or anyone to bet it with, but the point stood, and so did he.
Occasionally a group like this was good for some decent gossip, but this crew were too unhappy with the cold and the wind and the scant rations they'd been able to scrounge to give a thought to anything beyond their fireside. None of them even had anything to say about the green tear in the sky, which was what Blackwall had truly been hoping to hear about when he stopped to listen to them.
And then the Templars stepped out of the trees. Blackwall didn't see what happened, but from the way the mages reeled, he assumed the Templars had performed a smite. They began attacking, the mages nearly helpless, and without thinking, Blackwall broke cover, drawing his own sword.
It was touch and go for a few minutes, the Templars strong and well-trained, but he hadn't been fighting on his own for more than a decade for nothing; he was well used to larger groups and knew how to work their numbers to his advantage.
When the Templars were all dead or vanquished, two mages were dead, but the other three were staring at Blackwall in wonder. He was cursing himself for having gotten involved; their fight wasn't his. What had he been thinking? But the mages were helpless, and he'd had enough of helpless creatures dying.
"You can't just sit here and wait for someone to attack you," he said impatiently. "Learn to hide better, or learn to fight better. Or both."
"Will you teach us?" one of the mages asked.
Blackwall shook his head heavily. "No." He sighed, surrendering to the inevitable. "I have other places to be." And he took to the woods again, this time in the direction of the break in the sky.
The Breach was halted, but not closed. Bridget had failed. But strangely, her failure seemed to have endeared her to those in the camp at Haven … and caused her to become a holy figure, the Herald of Andraste, to people across Thedas. Pilgrims climbed the icy, muddy paths every day.
When Chancellor Roderick had continued to insist that Bridget was a suspect in the explosion of the Conclave, Cassandra, of all people, had come to her defense, formally breaking with the Chantry and declaring an Inquisition.
Of course, it wasn't quite as easy as simply announcing an Inquisition. Over the next few days, Cassandra and Leliana were busy writing letters and preparing the camp and talking over the many objections they heard, and Bridget worked along with them. At least these were things Bridget could help with; she'd spent years talking apprentices and Templars into seeing things from her point of view. Here it was easier; the people already wanted to believe what she said. She wouldn't have chosen the appellation of Herald of Andraste for herself, but she was willing to use the belief to garner support for the Inquisition.
She also spent time getting to know the people in the camp and the roles they filled. Threnn in requisitions was surly and unhelpful, but Harritt, the armorer, was cheerful and friendly. He had made her a new set of leather armor to specifications given him by Leliana, promising that his gear would see her through anything the world could throw at her. Bridget found it an impressive guarantee.
In the corner of the camp, a small hut held familiar scents and an atmosphere Bridget had been in many times—that of a person who cared most of all about the research they were doing and not at all about neatness or about what anyone else might think. She couldn't help thinking of Garcelle, who had been the senior alchemist in her Circle, and she smiled.
The balding, bearded man who worked in the hut glared at her. "What are you smiling at?" Then, with only slightly less hostility, "Oh, it's you. Back from the dead. Again."
Bridget frowned. "Have we met?"
"Who do you think was hounded into patching you up after you staggered out of Maker-knows-where?"
"Then I owe you my thanks."
He appeared somewhat mollified. "You can pay me back by fixing the world."
"I'll do my best." Bridget smiled, holding her hand out. "I'm Bridget."
"Adan. I'm in charge of keeping our little band here stocked with potions and elixirs."
"On top of being a healer? That's a lot of work."
He frowned. "I'm not a healer. Just the closest thing we have. You want something to burst into flame on contact with the air? Done. Gladly. You want someone patched back together? Find someone who knows how and stop wasting my time and talents."
Bridget snorted a laugh. "You ought to have been the Herald of Andraste." She looked at the mark on her hand. "Other than this mark, my only talents are in healing … at least, out in the world."
Adan looked her over, a faint sympathy in his eyes. "No doubt you'll learn, and learn fast. I doubt Seeker Cassandra is going to leave you to work healing magics, not when you could be out in front closing rifts and impressing people with your mark."
"You don't think I'm sent by Andraste herself?" It was a refreshing change of pace.
"Do you?"
"No."
"Well, then." He turned back to a bubbling potion, clearly ending the interview.
Outside the hut, Bridget ran into Solas.
"Is it time for a lesson in magic?" she asked him.
He looked around. Few people came to this corner of camp; it seemed a safe enough place to openly practice magic. "Very well." He led her behind the hut. "Would you say you feel an affinity for any particular discipline? Ice, fire, earth?"
Bridget shrugged helplessly. "I'm not certain. Not ice, that I can say for sure." She shivered, and Solas smiled.
"Since light was what came most naturally to you, perhaps we can try lightning."
"Thank you for doing this, Solas."
"It is my pleasure. The least I can do for the Chosen of Andraste, a blessed hero sent to save us all." He frowned at her. "You need a staff."
"I've never owned a staff before. And I don't feel like much of a hero."
"How you feel is ultimately irrelevant. A hero is required; you carry the mark on your hand that will seal the rifts, therefore a hero you must become." He studied her for a moment. "In the absence of a staff, I will show you the hand motions for a simple lightning strike; if you speak to Seggrit, he will no doubt sell you a staff at a tremendous profit to himself, or if you ask Harritt, I imagine he can make you one."
"Where were you before this, Solas? You're not from a Circle."
He smiled. "No. I am … a wanderer, if you will. I seek out ancient ruins and long-forgotten battlefields; I dream there, seeking the hopes and sorrows of lost civilizations." He turned to look at her speculatively. "I have seen hosts of spirit armies reenact the bloody past in ancient wars. Every great war has its heroes; I admit to being curious what kind you will be."
"I hope to avoid being known as an incompetent one."
"A worthy goal." For some time they focused on the lightning spell, until Bridget thought she had a reasonable grasp of how to call the lightning down and how to control where it struck.
"Keep practicing," Solas told her. "There is more I can teach you, if … Yes," he said decisively, "I will stay, at least until the Breach has been closed."
"I didn't know that was in doubt."
"I am an apostate surrounded by Chantry forces in the middle of a mage rebellion."
"As am I," Bridget pointed out. "And I have to stay; or at least, I feel that I have to. I would ask no one to stay against their will, but I would certainly appreciate having someone at my side who understands what it's like."
He nodded. "Then I will."
"Thank you."
The following morning, Bridget was summoned early to attend a meeting in the Chantry with Cassandra and Leliana.
She reached for the armor Harritt had given her yesterday, a pair of leather pants and a long leather vest over a thick, warm wool jacket, all in a deep grey, with gloves and boots in a slightly darker color. It was remarkably light and comfortable and easy to move in—much more so than the robes she'd been wearing for most of her life, which had typically been scratchy and cumbersome.
Bridget paused to study herself in the mirror. It seemed such a long time since she had looked at herself, she was almost surprised to see the same face there: the broad forehead and wide cheekbones, the narrow nose and full-lipped mouth, the blue eyes under their arched brows. Her hair was twisted tightly into its complex braid and pinned up securely; what she wouldn't give for a long hot bath and the chance to wash it thoroughly. It gleamed in the light, dull and heavy with the built-up oils. It was a dark gold, like old brass, right now, but would lighten a bit once she washed it. When she was a child it had been practically white, but it was getting darker every year.
When she'd gone to the estate in Ostwick after the circle fell, her brother Malachy said he would never have recognized her. Of course, it had been years before that since she'd seen him, and he had been shocked and a little frightened of her sudden appearance at his door. Any thought she'd had of going home to stay had been erased by that reaction. It was what she should have expected, but it had broken her heart to be sent away so soon, with only a brief scrap of time to spend with Declan.
She shook herself. No time for self-pity; Cassandra was waiting for her, and there was more to do today than worry about her dirty hair.
Outside, the wind bit into her, but Harritt's good warm leather provided far more of a barrier than what she'd been wearing. It still wasn't exactly pleasant, but it was better.
Haven was bustling, filled with even more people than yesterday, unless Bridget entirely missed her guess. Including something she hadn't seen in quite some time—a woman in full Templar regalia.
Bridget stopped to speak with her. "I can't help but notice your armor," she began, striving for a friendly tone. All too often mages and Templars jumped at each other's throats out of self-defense, and whatever of friendly relations her influence could buy, that was what she wanted. "I haven't seen a Templar since I arrived in Haven; not one in armor, at any rate."
"It's all I have," said the woman. Her tone was neither hostile nor friendly, which was really somewhat better than Bridget had expected.
"I wondered if you were planning to return to the Order."
The woman shook her head. "It's not what it once was. Where once we protected all people from the dangers of magic, now we posture and grab at power. That's not what I joined up for. One day, I hope the Circles are again sanctuaries where mages can practice their craft."
"I hope for that, too. Ostwick was my home, not my prison, the Templars my guides and not my tormentors." Bridget held out a hand. "Bridget."
The Templar hesitated for a moment before clasping Bridget's hand. "Lysette. I … I remember you, from the Conclave."
"You were there?"
"I was at the edges, not important enough to be part of the talks. I—" She blushed a little. "I remember the man you were with."
"Oh, you must mean Franko." Bridget smiled. "He was quite the charmer."
"Was? I am sorry," Lysette said.
Bridget nodded her acknowledgement of the sentiment. "How did you come to Haven?"
"Your forces were the first on the scene when the Tower went up; they rescued those few of us still alive." She met Bridget's eyes squarely. "My life is a debt I intend to repay, Herald, however I can."
"Please, call me Bridget. And I'm glad you're here, Lysette."
With a smile for the Templar, Bridget moved along toward the Chantry.
Cassandra met her outside the building. "Harritt does good work," she said, looking Bridget's new armor over critically.
"It's warmer, I'll give it that."
They walked through the chantry together. The mark on Bridget's hand itched and tingled, as it often did, and she turned her hand over, flexing it in an attempt to make it stop.
"Does it trouble you?"Cassandra asked.
Bridget frowned, closing her hand so she couldn't see it. "If it wasn't enough to close the Breach, what use is it?"
"You did everything we asked of you," Cassandra said, sympathy soft in her voice.
"And it still didn't work," Bridget snapped.
"What's important is that the Breach is now stable, as is your mark. You've given us time, and Solas believes that if we can give the mark more power, a second attempt might succeed."
"'Might'?" Bridget echoed. "What a ringing endorsement. Where are we going to get that kind of power? And couldn't it just make things worse, channeling so much power into something we don't entirely understand?"
Cassandra chuckled. "And people call me a pessimist." She opened the door of the room at the end of the Chantry and ushered Bridget through.
Everyone in the room turned to stare at her. Bridget could feel her fair skin redden under their scrutiny.
"You've met Commander Cullen. He'll be leading the Inquisition's forces."
Bridget locked eyes with the cold Templar she had met before the assault on the Breach. Today his eyes were warmer, and he even smiled a little. "It was only for a moment on the field. I'm pleased you survived."
"Cullen, is it? From … Kirkwall?"
A spasm of pain crossed his handsome face. "Most recently, yes. I'm from Ferelden originally, though. I seem to recall you were from the Ostwick Circle? I heard good things."
"Yes. I liked it there. I miss it."
"A rare statement."
Bridget nodded. "So I gather." She didn't ask about his experiences; the whole world had heard about the Kirkwall Circle, and the Ferelden Circle where he had been stationed before. No one deserved to have those experiences taken lightly; instantly she forgave him the coldness of their first meeting.
Cassandra gestured to the other new face in the room, a dark-haired woman in very shiny, fancy clothing. "This is Lady Josephine Montilyet, our Ambassador and chief diplomat."
"You have your work cut out for you, my lady," Bridget observed.
"Yes, I suppose I do." Josephine nodded her head in greeting. "It is a pleasure to meet you at last."
"And of course, you remember Sister Leliana."
Leliana said, "My position here involves a certain—"
"She is our spymaster."
"Tactfully put, Cassandra."
Cassandra smiled. Then she cleared her throat, standing at attention. "Now that introductions are out of the way—I was telling the Herald—"
"Bridget."
"What?"
"Please call me Bridget. I don't feel much like a Herald of Andraste, and I don't want such formality. Not here." Not when everyone in this room had more experiences than Bridget had ever imagined.
"Very well. I was telling Bridget that more power is required to close the Breach for good, power to be channeled through her mark."
Leliana said, "We must approach the rebel mages for help."
"I still disagree. The Templars could serve just as well," Cullen said.
"We need power, Commander. Enough magic poured into that mark—"
"Might destroy us all," Cullen interrupted. "Templars could suppress the Breach, weaken it."
Leliana snapped, "That is pure speculation."
"I was a Templar. I know what they're capable of."
Josephine spoke up, cutting through the argument. "Unfortunately, neither group will even speak to us as of yet. They do not trust us; they have no reason to. And the Chantry has denounced the Inquisition—especially you," she added, turning to Bridget.
"They still think I'm guilty."
Josephine nodded. "Yes, that, and … the fact that you, a mage, are being referred to as the Herald of Andraste. That frightens the Chantry. The remaining clerics have declared the title blasphemy, and the Inquisition heretics for harboring you."
Bridget sighed. "That wasn't my idea."
Laughing a little, Leliana said, "That is exactly what Una Theirin said when they started calling her the Hero of Ferelden."
"And according to Varric, Gideon Hawke said something similar, in slightly more colorful terms, when Knight-Commander Meredith named him the Champion of Kirkwall." Cullen smiled. "None of us choose our destiny, Herald—er, Bridget. This appears to be yours."
"Either way," Josephine continued, "the Chantry's censure limits our options. Approaching either the mages or the Templars for assistance is currently out of the question."
"No matter what the Chantry may say, the people are desperate for a sign of hope," Leliana said. "For some, you are that sign."
Josephine sighed. "For others, you are a symbol of everything that has gone wrong."
"So if I wasn't with the Inquisition …" Bridget hesitated. Maybe she should just bow out now, wait until they needed the mark for the Breach again.
But Cullen was shaking his head. "They would have censured the Inquisition anyway. You are merely the excuse they've chosen."
"And you not being here is not an option." Cassandra's voice was firm, certain.
"I think I have a place to start rebuilding your—our—reputation," Leliana said. "There is a Chantry cleric by the name of Mother Giselle working near Redcliffe, in the Fereldan Hinterlands. She has asked to speak with you."
"With me? Isn't she afraid I'll turn her into a toad?"
Much to Bridget's relief, there was a general chuckle. Cullen as a Templar and Cassandra as a Seeker were familiar with mages; Leliana had worked with some during the Blight. Josephine was an unknown quantity. Bridget needed to be assured that her magic, and her control of it, weren't going to be constantly in question in this room. The laughter in response to her comment was heartening.
Still smiling, Leliana said, "I understand Mother Giselle is a reasonable sort. Perhaps she wishes to decide what she thinks of you, and of the Inquisition, for herself."
"As long as you're there, you should look for any opportunity you can to expand our influence and improve our reputation," Cullen said.
"As long as I'm there?" Bridget said, surprised. "Are none of you coming with me?"
"I'm afraid not. There is much to do here to get the Inquisition off to a good start," Josephine said.
"I will accompany you." Cassandra gave Bridget a reassuring look.
"Thank you."
"Just let me know when you are ready to depart." She frowned thoughtfully. "It might be wise to bring Solas along, in case we run into any trouble."
"And Varric," Bridget added. She wanted the only person who made her feel like herself at her side if she was going to be meeting and talking to a lot of people who wanted to see her only as a symbol.
Cassandra sighed. "If you insist."
The meeting broke up then, Bridget walking out of the room with Josephine. "Trevelyan," Josephine mused. "Daughter of Bann Carrick Trevelyan of Ostwick?"
"Yes, that was my father. My brother Malachy is Bann now; Father passed away several years ago."
"Of course. I knew that; I had merely forgotten. I am sorry for your loss."
Bridget winced. "I hadn't seen him in quite a long time. It's—difficult to mourn what you don't remember having."
"Yes, I can see how that would be."
"If you don't mind my asking … these seem like strange surroundings for an Antivan noble. What brought you to the Inquisition?"
"To put it briefly, Leliana. We have been acquainted for quite some time, and she can be very persuasive when she has determined to put her mind to something." Josephine shrugged lightly, a hint of a smile on her lips. "Fortunately for her, being the Inquisition's diplomat has become as interesting as she promised it would."
"The Inquisition is lucky to have you, Lady Montilyet."
"Josephine, please. And thank you. Those are kind words. Let us hope they are also true." She hesitated for a moment. "There was something I wanted to ask you."
"Of course."
"Are you in touch with your family?"
Bridget thought of Malachy, and Declan. "Yes," she answered, hoping her trepidation wasn't evident in her voice.
"I was hoping to dispatch a courier asking House Trevelyan to openly declare their support for the Inquisition."
Bridget blinked. "Oh." Malachy might like that; as long as she was with the Inquisition, she couldn't come back to the estate. "I could write and ask my brother if he would agree to that. He might consider the request more carefully if it comes from me."
"Wonderful." Josephine beamed. "Val Royeaux has noted your lineage. It gives the Inquisition some … legitimacy, although not as much as we'd hoped."
"Because I'm a mage?"
"As you say. It is unfortunate, but …" She gave an eloquent shrug, and then a small chuckle. "Not to mention that you are from Ostwick. Orlesian nobles consider the Free Marches somewhat … quaint."
Bridget grinned. "I know what the nobles of the Free Marches would do if an Orlesian called them quaint to their faces."
"Which is why no Orlesian would dare." They laughed together. "I wondered … are the quarters to your liking? I confess, I have never been inside a Circle …"
"Oh. No need for concern. My quarters are fine. Not quite the same as the Circle, but … well, I wouldn't have thought so before, but I find I rather like the freedom."
Josephine nodded. "The life of a noble is not the same as the life of a mage, but I find I rather do, too."
"This can't be what you're accustomed to. Surely you're used to much more opulence than can be found in this camp."
"One adjusts. Indeed, my duties keep me almost too busy to be aware of my surroundings. And the cold. And … the wildlife. And the lack of civilization for miles around."
"Be glad you're here, then, and not trekking through the Hinterlands."
"Oh, I am," Josephine assured her fervently, and they laughed again.
They were at the door of Josephine's office now, the Ambassador's mind clearly on the work that awaited her inside, so Bridget let her go.
The day was wearing on and she was wearing out; all she wanted was to lie down on her bed and sleep, but she was hungry, as well, so she stopped in the tavern, hoping to be able to relax. It was nice—warm, with soft music and the hum of conversation. But too much of the conversation was about her, and Bridget found herself wolfing down the meal she had hoped to enjoy at a more leisurely pace, just to get out from under the weight of everyone's eyes on her.
She heard a familiar voice, or as close to one as Haven had, over her shoulder. "Here, Sunflower. You look like you need it."
Varric was holding out a flask.
"Oh, I shouldn't," she said. "We weren't allowed to drink in the Circle, except on very rare occasions. I'm afraid I don't have much of a head for it." She smiled. "The last thing we need is everyone seeing the Herald of Andraste get plastered."
"You start thinking like that, you're going to go off your nut pretty fast," Varric said. "You can't weigh down every minute trying to be everything everyone wants from you." He nudged her with the flask. "One sip won't hurt you."
She took it from him, taking a careful swallow of the fine brandy. It warmed her all through, even more than the fire and the food—but not as much as the friendly way he was looking at her, as though he was looking at Bridget Trevelyan, not the prisoner, or the Herald, or the woman with the mark on her hand. It was the first time since the Conclave. She handed the flask back to him, with thanks.
"You holding up all right?" he asked. "I mean, there you were, the most wanted criminal in Thedas, and here you are today part of the armies of the faithful, with a shiny new nickname and a lot of expectations riding on your shoulders. Sounds pretty tiring to me."
Bridget nodded. "I might be a little tired. To be honest with you, I really don't have any idea what's happening. I'm just … going where the winds take me, it feels like."
"It's been blustery out," he agreed. "Probably going to get worse before it gets better."
"I thought you were trying to cheer me up."
Varric laughed. "I thought you were trying to cheer me up." Sobering, he took a drink from the flask. "For days now, we've been staring at the Breach, watching demons and Maker-knows-what-all fall out of it. 'Bad for morale' would be an understatement."
"But you stayed. Surely you didn't have to."
He looked down at his hands. "Yeah … I like to think I'm as selfish and irresponsible as the next guy, but … Thousands of people died on that mountain; and now there's a hole in the sky. Last time thousands of people died near me was in Kirkwall, and there was nothing I could do there, not by the time the Chantry— But here, maybe I can help. At least I can try."
Bridget looked at his bowed head, remembering what she had read about the explosion of the Chantry in Kirkwall. Being that near two such massive explosions—she wouldn't have blamed him for running. It was odd to be this close to someone who had been there in Kirkwall when it all started; that seemed like the kind of thing that happened to other people, people in books, not real, live people who sat next to her and shared their brandy with her. Of course, then, here she was having survived an equally massive explosion, marked by it in a way she assumed was permanent.
"I'm still not sure if I believe any of this is really happening," she said.
"You and me both, Sunflower."
"Varric?"
He glanced at her, his eyebrows raised.
"I'm glad you're here."
He smiled. "My pleasure."
They sat for a while, and then she said again, "Varric?"
"What's up, Sunflower?"
"What if I can't do it? If I let the world down and can't close the Breach?" Bridget stared into the fire, seeing destruction in its flames.
"You'll do it," Varric said softly.
"How do you know? You just met me, and I haven't exactly done a stellar job keeping up."
"You don't think so?" He chuckled. "You're doing fine."
She looked over at him. "I read your book. You're used to being surrounded by people who know what they're doing."
At that, he laughed outright. "You believe everything you read?"
"No, but …"
"When I first met him, Hawke was as green as you are. A better fighter, I'll grant you, and he hadn't been locked up in a Circle, but mostly a scared, skinny kid trying to provide for his family in a place that thought he was all but worthless. Kirkwall wasn't a great place to be a Fereldan at that time, spilling over with refugees."
"So what happened? You took him under your wing?"
Varric smiled at her. "I only gave him a nudge. Circumstances got in his way and he rose up to meet them, like a good hero should. I have the sense that you will, too." He stood up, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Live your story, Sunflower. The world put you on the page, but you decide what's written there."
He left her there in the tavern, staring at the fire, feeling warmer inside and out than she had since she first woke up in that cell with Cassandra shouting at her.
Even the walk to her hut didn't chill her; she sat down at the table with a quill and a piece of parchment, and began her letter.
Dear Malachy,
You will, I know, be relieved to hear that I survived the Conclave; one of the few to do so. I do not know how I survived. I know only that I was found in the wreckage, with a mysterious green mark on my hand. You may have heard of the Breach, the tear in the sky over southern Ferelden—this mark appears to be connected, but how, or how I got it, no one here is certain.
I have been taken on with the Inquisition, and we are working to determine what the Breach is and how best to close it. It appears I will be here for some time, which should satisfy everyone's needs. If you could see your way clear to supporting the Inquisition amongst those you come in contact with, that would go a long way toward making it a success—and thus, keeping me here and busily occupied.
My heart is there, as you know, but I agree with you that it is in no one's best interests for my body to be there, as well. I seem to have found a home here. I lost friends in the Conclave, and I mourn them, as I mourn the Divine, although I never had the opportunity to meet her. But I am making friends here, and I feel I have a purpose, which is a new sensation for me, and one I am surprised to find I rather like.
My love and prayers for your continued well-being and that of your family,
Bridget
She sealed the letter and set it aside to be mailed tomorrow, and then she blew out the lantern and went to sleep, ready to set out first thing in the morning.