If someone had asked him what had happened, Cian would have floundered like a fish, struggling to find some answer, because the truth was that he didn't know.
He remembered the fear and worries of what would happen after the battle in Kirkwall between mages and templars. He remembered how that one night of rebellion and war spread across the Free Marches, and then further spread, like an infection left untreated. He remembered the whispers as news reached them that the Circles had dissolved, that the mages were no longer restrained, and that the templars had also broken away from the Chantry. How the battle had worsened.
He remembered the Keeper, worried about what this war would mean for Clan Lavellan. He remembered being sent out to learn more, being given what little could be in coin for safe travel. Of the month and a half of travel to Fereldan, careful to avoid being caught by either mage or templar, yet trying to learn what he could. He remembered hearing of the Conclave and heading to the Temple of Sacred Ashes to find out more, to learn if the war might finally end, or if things would worsen. He remembered seeing the templars and mages both marching up the mountain to the Temple, barely restraining themselves from fighting under the fragile pretense of a ceasefire as their leaders sat with the Divine to try and find peace.
After that… there was nothing. He had vague memories that flitted about in the corners of his mind like a distant dream, half-forgotten.
And then after all that, he had awoken in a cold, dark cell. He had been stripped of the light armor he was wearing, left in only a simple shirt and his trousers. Even his daggers were gone. Leaving him feeling uneasy, feeling vulnerable.
Though, clearly, that was intentional, for four armored guards surrounded him. He did not recognize the crest that they wore on their breastplates, could not tell if they were Ferelden, Orlesian, or something else. Their swords drawn and pointed as if he were a demon, and they were waiting for him to move so that they might cut him down. Though there was little he could do with his hands were bound together at the wrists by thick metal shackles. And chains binding him to the stone floor. The most he could do was hit one on the head with his cuffs, but he suspected he wouldn't even be able to get to his feet before a sword found his heart.
Cian wished he could say that was the worst of it, but then he'd be lying through his teeth.
His arm was burning, searing pain pulsating from palm to shoulder, like fire wrapped across his flesh. Every so often the pain would worsen drastically, accompanied by a violent splutter of green light that would erupt from his palm. The guards always edged closer to him, their swords glinting dangerously in the green light, ready to strike. As if he was intentionally causing it, as if he were intentionally causing himself more pain, so much more that he had doubled over the first few times, gasping for breath as the pain overwhelmed, sending his nerves aflame.
The pain never went away, but after he stayed kneeling in the small cell for Creators only knew how long, it grew easier to endure the pain. Because endurance was the only choice he had.
Suledin, the Keeper had told him whenever he wanted to give in to pain when he was younger. "Mala suledin nadas." Now you must endure. Though circumstances were different, though the pain he felt now was different from the pain he had felt when Deshanna told him those words, Cian held them tight to his chest all the same, like a lifeline, to keep him from succumbing to the agony.
He could endure the pain, but that was about it.
Falon'Din, Cian silently prayed, afraid that if he spoke he would lose this tongue. Though there were many unknowns about what was going on, there was only one outcome he could see for himself. Ma ghilana mir din'an.
He looked to his shackles and slowly, carefully turned his hand, difficult as it was with the bruisingly tight binding, a blessing Cian supposed, that his wrists were so thin. The mark was there, like a glowing green gash across his palm, smaller, thinner lines spread across it, covering his hand, and inching up his arm, disappearing under his sleeve.
Immediately, the mark pulsed with light and the green energy erupted from his palm. Cian couldn't help the gasp as he reeled back, as if to protect himself from what was already attached to him. His arm surged with burning pain as the invisible flames licked his skin.
The door opened with a slam.
From it walked in two women, one marched with fury and purpose with each step. The other was more graceful, moving silently, nearly gliding across the floor on light feet. One of the women were armored, the same sigil the soldiers wore presented proudly in chalky white on her leather breastplate, and she wore a sword at her hip. Yet it was the other woman, weaponless as she appeared to be, that radiated danger the most.
The sheathed their swords without even the need for a command. An instinctual knowing.. Fear ran down his spine. These were important people. Probably the ones who would decide his fate, if not had great sway over what would happen to him. Or perhaps that was just wishful thinking, a flickering hope that there might be some chance of survival, slim as it might be.
And it was very slim.
This was clearly a human prison of some kind, and any elf with half a wit knew what happened to elves left to the mercy of humans in human prisons. What the shemlen do to his kind. Which of these women will cut off my ears? Cian wondered, and his gut instinct told him that it would be the light-foot woman who lingered in the back, shrouded in the shadows like a ghost.
If they planned to kill him, then he would accept that that fate, would accept meeting Falon'Din, though it was far sooner than he cared for. But that didn't mean Cian would just bow his head and let it happen. If these shemlen wished to kill him, he was going to fight back as much as he could, he'd make them work for it. Even if he was without his daggers or armor, he wouldn't go out quietly.
Not for them.
The armored and armed woman drew closer, circling him like a predator to prey as Cian stayed kneeling on the floor. He followed as best he could with his eyes, until his eyes could move no further without pain. Eventually she stopped behind him, and he heard the rustle of fabric and chainmail as she leaned down to speak.
"Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now," she asked, speaking with an accent he couldn't pinpoint. Her breath was on his ear, the hairs on his neck rose. She was walking again, circling him again with slow steps, and speaking before Cian could even think of what to say. "The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead."
She stopped in front of him, pointing at him with as much accusation in her gestures as was in her voice. "Except for you."
His heart stilled in his chest.
The Conclave.
The crowds of people, mages and templars, priests and commonfolk alike gathered together, waiting with bated breath for the decision, whatever it might be, that was certain to change everything across the lands. He remembered, vaguely, like a distant dream, the conversations, some hushed whispers, other loud and abrasive, as he snuck around, sometimes staying out of sight, evading the Valo-Kas that were hired to protect the Temple in the place of the templars who had abandoned their duties to the Chantry.
There had been so many people, the crowds packed so lightly one could scarcely move in some areas. And now this woman was telling him that they were all…
Cian swallowed hard, he didn't want to think of it, of the corpses filling a Temple. "You're lying; you have to be," he breathed out, feeling his body shake. "All those people, they can't—they can't all be dead."
She didn't answer him, and instead took hold of the metal bar binding his arms together, yanking it up so that his marked hand was shown to all. "Explain this!" she demanded as fiery pain coursed through the limb once more as light sparked in the darkness between them, casting a green glow on them all, before fading away once more.
Just as fast, she let go and his arms flopped heavily back to his lap. His body sagged in defeat as she began circling him again. "I can't," he said, knowing how pitiful an excuse that was. But what else could he say?
"What do you mean you can't?" she demanded, her tone growing sharper, her patience thinning. Her hand was on her sword and a stab of dread shot through him. How much longer would this drag out before she began dragging the steel edge of that weapon across his flesh in punishment for a crime he had no knowledge of?
The other woman began to circle him, too. Or perhaps she had already been, and he had not noticed her and her feather-like steps, as if she was a part of the shadows, seen only when she wished to be.
Cian hated how helpless he felt, as helpless as a newborn babe. Left among armed and angry humans who had already proclaimed him guilty of murdering hundreds of innocents, for no other reason than that he had somehow survived.
"I can't," he emphasized with a stammer in his tone. "I don't know what this is, I don't know how I got it. I don't know anything!" Oh, Mythal, help him. He wished he knew more, that he could tell them more. All he knew was that whatever the mark was, it caused him unbearable pain.
Releasing her grip on the sword, the armored woman lunged forward, grabbing him the shoulders with a grip that was painfully tight, and he was sure he would have hand-shaped bruises on his skin later. It's the left arm that was affected the most. It was already overloaded with pain, the viper-tight grip she had only worsened it, and all Cian could do was grit his teeth and try to pull free. To no avail.
"You're lying!" she snarled in his face.
The second woman was there in a flash, pushing herself between them, pushing the other woman away from him, putting distance between them before she could hurt him further.
"Calm yourself," she warned, "We need him, Cassandra."
Cassandra, he noted. It probably didn't matter whether or not he committed his soon-to-be executioner's name to memory, but it helped to have a name to match a face.
Cian supposed he should be grateful to the other woman for pushing Cassandra off of him, but he couldn't even pretend to be. She wasn't protecting him from further harm out of any form of kindness, or even for a moral reason. She wanted to use him. For something. To wring out more information that he just didn't have before sentencing him guilty of a mass murder he didn't commit and executing him.
If that wasn't what she was referring to… He had heard enough stories of how humans used elves, he had seen even more examples of uses. Enough of both versions that he didn't want to even try thinking of what other kind of needs they might have for him.
Bolstered by pain and fear, Cian met their gazes and straightened his shoulders. "Whatever you think I did, I'm innocent," he said. He didn't yell, he knew that yelling at his jailers would only make things worse, but he made his tone firm. It was doubtful they'd believe him; they'd already cast their judgement the moment they saw him. But he was not going to back down.
The cloaked woman drew closer to him, stood over him, but not towering, not trying to intimidate him like Cassandra had—like Cassandra was even now as she stepped forward to stand at the women's side, hand on her sword, staring down at him with a frosty gaze.
"Do you remember what happened?" the woman asked, her tone was not as accusatory as Cassandras. It was almost kind, Cian dared to think. "How this all began?"
That was the big question, wasn't it? What he remembered.
Everything at the Conclave was foggy, the more he tried to remember, the worse the pain seemed to get. There were holes in his memories, a span of nothing, where something should have been, the only proof of that being small crumbs left behind. He tried to find those crumbs, to pick them up, to grasp the echoes of memory that he might still catch.
"I remember…" Maybe it was because he wasn't being screamed at or actively threatened, but he was able to focus, and by focusing, he was able to find something—a place that he didn't recognize, that left him feeling cold and afraid.
"Running," Cian said with certainty. He had been running, with aches in his legs and a desperation to just keep running, to not stop. But what had he been running from? There had been…something… skittering, skittering, skittering. "Things were chasing me and… a woman?"
A voice calling out to him. A figure at the top of a mountain. The only light in the darkness. He couldn't recall the sound of her voice. A hand reaching down—she was trying to help him. But she was cloaked in flames and the fire was unbearably hot. But Cian didn't pull away. He had to get to her, he had to take the hand she offered, he had to—
The memory faded like a star at dawn.
"A woman?" the woman repeated, curiosity and obvious interest in her tone and face as she leaned closer.
He could only nod. "Bright as the sun. She reached out to me, but…" Cian lowered his head; his shoulders fell once more. The heaviness of the sky felt like it was pressing down on him. "I don't know. I can't remember."
He wanted so badly to remember. To know.
Cassandra stepped between them, holding a hand up to herd the other away, leading her to the door. "Go to the forward camp, Leliana," she instructed as both turned to watch him with expressions he couldn't name. "I will take him to the rift."
The rift? He wanted to ask, but he kept silent. The air was still tense, but he had noticed something had changed. Cian could only hope that change was a good one, that it might have given him more time to his life, however meager it might have been.
The other woman—Leliana—left. The guards remained on the four walls, silent and statuesque. Cassandra had turned to face him once more, and Cian flinched back. The woman felt far more dangerous without her partner at her side to hold her back. He knew the guards wouldn't step in if something were to happen, and Leliana was likely the only one in the room who had been keeping an interrogation from becoming a murder.
But to his surprise, Cassandra knelt in front of him, procuring a key and undoing the cuffs and chains that kept Cian bound to the floor.
Swallowing hard, Cian watched her carefully. "What happened?" he asked.
The cuffs fell to the floor with a loud clatter, leaving his wrists tied only by rope. It's still not ideal, but it's better than heavy iron.
Cassandra pulled him to his feet—roughly, but he had a growing suspicion that might be her only mode of conduct. With him standing now, half a head shorter than her, he could do nothing but remain still as the woman stared at him and studied him. He didn't know what she was trying to find, but it made him want to squirm, made him feel small.
"It will be easier to show you," Cassandra finally answered after what had felt like an eternity.
She turned and walked out the door, and all Cian could do was follow, afraid that if he didn't, he'd be left to the mercy of her silent soldiers and their sharp swords. His steps were uneasy, his legs stiff and aching after kneeling for Mythal only knew how long. He almost tripped going up the few steps leading to the door.
When he made it out, he had to flinch from the light. After being in the cell for so long, the glow of the snow was almost blinding.
Adjusting his vision, he saw Cassandra staring at the sky and slowly turned his head to follow her gaze. When he saw what she did, he stumbled back, nearly tripped, and tried to make sense of exactly what he was seeing.
A giant hole in the sky.
Clouds swirled around the space ominously, a green hue washed over it all as lightning flashed within. Light swirled around it, drifting down to the earth. Horror and dread both left his blood frozen in his veins.
"We call it the Breach," Cassandra said, filling the silence. "A massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour. It's not the only rift," she said, and his anxiety spiked higher than he could recall ever having before. Rips in the Veil leading into the Beyond—that was not good. Not by a long shot. "But it is the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave."
Cian tore his gaze from the sky to her. She had a shield, now, he noted; he wasn't sure when, but had someone passed it to her while his gaze was locked on the hole? "An explosion can do that?" he asked, incredulous. Oh, Mythal, how was that even possible? How was any of this possible?
"This one did," Cassandra confirmed as she turned to look at him again "Unless we act, the Breach will continue to grow until it swallows the whole of the world."
That was one way to make a point of the grave severity of the situation as if there being a massive hole in the sky wasn't enough to emphasize how screwed everything was. Still, his gaze fell on the Breach once more. It looked every bit as terrifying as she made it sound to be. He had no doubt that a hole leading to the Beyond could do that.
Just how many demons was it letting loose? Cian was lightheaded just thinking of it.
Thunder rippled through the air as a particularly powerful surge of energy flashed across the sky, and with t, the mark on his hand sparked to life in the same way. Pain engulfed all his senses as Cian cried out, falling to his knees as light and energy cracked across his skin, burning his nerves, the agony was all he could feel.
He was panting for breath when the pain began to settle back down from mind-numbing agony to barely tolerable misery. When his vision focused, Cassandra was kneeling in front of him, her face severe, but he could almost see hints of concern—No. he was just imagining it due to a pain-induced muddled mind.
"Each time the breach expands, your mark spreads," she explained, and okay, Cian was starting to see why they had suspected him of being responsible. The glowing green hand thing was far more damning evidence than just surviving some devastating incident. Cassandra's gaze tightened as she stared at him. "It's killing you."
Cian's mouth dried up. How was he supposed to respond to that?
He looked at the sky once more. It's killing me, he repeated in his mind with dread. Fitting, Cian supposed. The pain alone made him feel like he was dying. He might as well make it literal. He sent another prayer to Falon'Din in hopes that it may help him in some way.
"It might be the key to stopping this, but we must hurry. There isn't much time left."
She reached for him, and Cian instinctively pulled his bound hands away, closer to himself. "The key to doing… what?" he asked, tentatively.
"Closing the Breach," Cassandra answered without pause. As if that was obvious, which, sure, maybe it was for her, but he was still in the dark about most everything going on. "Whether that is possible is something we shall discover shortly. But as of right now, it's the only thing we have."
Things were bad. No, scratch that, things were worse than bad. 'Bad' was several, several tiers below whatever they were in right now. Cian wasn't even sure if there was anything that could top the level of "oh, shit" they were at with a big ass hole in the sky.
A lot of terrible things were coming out of it, and that meant a lot of people were going to get hurt, worse than the templar-mage war had done. A lot of good people were going to be killed. Worse yet, according to Cassandra—and whatever group this was—it was clear that Cian and his cursed magic hand were the only things that could maybe, and there was a big maybe there, stop it.
Creators help him. He didn't want people to die, not good people.
Breathing deeply to steel his nerves, Cian nodded his head. "There's a lot going on, but even more at stake," he said slowly. This was bigger than him, bigger than anyone. If this Breach was left unhindered, too many would be lost. His Clan could be lost. If there was anything Cian could do to help close the Breach, he couldn't back away. "I'll do what I can. Whatever it takes."
There was relief on her face, gratitude that Cian hadn't been sure she had the facial muscles to express, let alone the ability to feel. But it was there, and brief as it was, he was sure that it was real this time.
He offered a hand—or both, considering his bound wrist. "I'm Cian of Clan Lavellan. I suppose it'll be nice working with you for… however long I've left."
Cassandra watched him for a moment before taking his hand—and dragging him back to his feet with an easy tug. "Cassandra Pentaghast." Saying nothing more, she took hold of his bicep and began leading him across the snow.
They walked past tents and people. Mostly human, though he thought he had spotted a dwarf or two within the crowds. They gave a wide berth and whispered and directed hateful and fearful looks to Cian as they passed. He could hear the slurs and obscenities they muttered that made him flush with shame and rage, his arms trembling. Terms and words that made knife-ear sound like a compliment in comparison.
More than one weapon was pointed at him, the faces of those who carried them just daring Cian to give them a reason to use them.
Suddenly, Cian was glad Cassandra was holding him as they walked; the thought of what these people might have done if she hadn't kept a hold on him had left him more than a little nervous. They wanted blood, and his jailer was the only one keeping him safe.
Someone threw a rock. It brushed the tip of his nose and landed a few feet past in the snow. Cassandra ignored it, kept him walking at a brisk pace as others loudly whispered their vile opinions, and another small rock whizzed past his ear. They were all laying blame for all that had gone wrong at his feet. The scapegoat.
"They have declared your guilt. They need it," Cassandra explained as they walked, as if that justified the hurtful, hateful things they muttered. Cian didn't understand why they needed any of it, but he knew better than to ask. "The people of Haven mourn our Most Holy; Divine Justinia, head of the Chantry. The Conclave was hers."
He'd known the Chantry had called for it, and it made sense that the Divine would be at the head of that. If she truly was dead… Cian supposed with that in mind, he couldn't be too angry at the people for their anger and mistrust. They had lost their leader, the woman who united all the different lands together, and following her death was the Breach. Maybe their feelings were a little justified.
Escaping the bulk of the people, as the heavy gates leading out of Haven came into view, Cassandra continued to speak. "The Conclave was a chance for peace between the mages and templars, a chance to end this war," she said as they walked. She spoke as if she truly believed what she said, and Cian found that he envied that doubtless conviction she had, just a little. "She brought their leaders together so that they may talk, and now they are dead."
They approached the gate and soldiers opened it without being asked. Cian followed as Cassandra led them on across a bridge full of more soldiers, crates, and weapons. "We lash out like the sky, but we must think beyond ourselves, just as Justinia did," she said, and the passion in her voice—Cian was starting to see why others would be inclined to listen to her. "Until the Breach is sealed."
Cassandra stopped, and Cian did as well. Her hand went to her back, beneath the shield she wore, and withdrew a knife. Small, but an effective weapon. Cian's heart stilled, and the pit in his stomach dropped even lower when she turned to face him, knife held firmly in her grip. For all her talk, her actions were louder.
He took a trembling step back from her, she was going to cut off his ears, wasn't she?
That's what shemlen loved to do to his people, right? Cut off their ears and keep them as trophies. Maybe she was going to saw off his accursed hand to see if she could take the mark and use it on the Breach without having to deal with just another knife-ear. Honestly, if she wanted that stupid mark, then she could have the hand and all the pain that came with it.
She looked him in the eyes, and Cian noted hers were an impressively deep brown surrounded by dark shadows of endless sleepless nights and exhaustion. "There will be a trial, but I can promise no more," Cassandra said as she grabbed him by the arm to bring his hands up, effortlessly cutting through the ropes that had left him bound. Freeing him. The knife disappeared back into her belt, and she gave him another long, appraising look. "Come. It's not much farther."
I guess I have a few more minutes of life. Mythal save me, the anxiety of it all will kill me sooner than any executioner's blade, Cian thought to himself as he rubbed at his wrists. The skin had turned red and raw from the rough hemp of the rope and the tightness of the bindings, and he knew the throbbing aches would last a short while before dying down.
A trial was a nice promise, but Cian was under no illusion of its authenticity. It'd be a farce at most, a pretend trial where the verdict was already decided upon before it began. But it was still a kind promise, hollow as it was.
"Where are you taking me?" Cian asked, broaching the question with some hesitance as Cassandra began to march onward once again. He slowly followed, still trying to calm his beating heart, still holding his hands to his chest as if it would provide some comfort.
She did not even spare him a glance back as she walked, passing soldiers who looked onward at him with increased suspicion and unease. "Your mark must be tested on something smaller than the Breach, so that we can know if it may truly be of aid."
That was reasonable, he could admit. They continued to walk across the bridge, and he tried to ignore the hostility of those they walked by, but he still watched it all carefully. The shemlen were using the bridge as some kind of staging ground, that much was clear. The soldiers around them were all preparing for something. Some were packing, some were praying, some were sharpening their blades, and a few were helping to coordinate care for a number of wounded and dead.
The fear in the air was thick.
Cassandra led him through another gate at the end of the bridge, and the cut stone they had been walking on turned to snow covered earth. There were still several blockades in front of them, a final line of defense—or rather the first line—between Haven and whatever was out there.
A group of soldiers ran past them, abandoning whatever was further up the mountain, bleeding and tattered, and shouting for reinforcements.
There were many dead bodies scattered across the paths, their blood turning the snow red. Burning carts and crates and equipment that fouled the air with smoke. The further along the snowy path he and Cassandra went, the more destruction, more death, more misery there was to be found.
The sky roared with another crack of lightning, and his hand surged in response. The pain was overwhelming, and Cian stumbled—then collapsed into the snow as he gripped his burning hand, gasping for breath.
Cassandra kneeled before him, and when the pain passed and he could breath, she held out her hand. Cian took it, and she helped him up far more gently than she had treated him before.
"The pulses are coming faster, now," she said, her gaze on the mark on Cian's hand, her tone ominous. The meaning was clear, however. What little time the mark had left for him? It was even shorter, now.
They resumed walking, their pace brisk. Cian stepped over the charred body of a soldier, still smoldering, the stench of burned flesh was sickening. "The larger the Breach grows; the more rifts appear. The more demons we face," Cassandra said as a means of warning. All of it should have been impossible, it sounded impossible, but it wasn't. it was their reality now, and Cian was still trying to process any of it.
"How did I even manage to survive the blast?" Cian asked, more to himself than anything as he tried to picture it. Whatever the explosion was at the Conclave, it tore open the Veil, and yet, despite it all, he was still standing. It wasn't as if he had some magical wards to protect him, or had been wearing enchanted armor. Was it a miracle? Or dumb luck that he survived when none others did?
Cassandra faltered in her step. "They say…" she hesitated, but continued. "They say you stepped out of a rift and fell unconscious." The snowy path curved and turned once more, and they walked under a stone arch back onto another bridge. More soldiers were running on ahead of them towards a gate at the other end.
"They say a woman was behind you, just as you recalled," Cassandra continued, her tone no longer as certain as it had been before. "No one knows who she was."
Cian had no words for that, and so he said nothing, he continued walking. It didn't matter, he supposed. They were only halfway across the bridge when green lightning struck in front of them, hitting the several soldiers who were ahead of them. Cian threw himself backward on instinct to escape the damage, but a moment later, he realized the bridge beneath his feet was collapsing.
He would have liked to have said he landed gracefully onto the ice below, but he didn't. He hit rock and stone and rolled down the rubble before striking the cold, hard ice. Had he been wearing his armor, perhaps the impact wouldn't have hurt as much. As it was, he felt bruises on his bruises.
This really just was not his day. Did the Creators just look at him and decide, "That elf. We're going to make that elf's life miserable from this day onward" or something? It was starting to feel like it.
He heard screaming from above, and then nothing. The soldiers on the bridge who had been struck by lightning had been less lucky than him, and his cold had tumbled and landed. Maybe some had gotten away, but most had likely not. More needless deaths.
The ache in his chest didn't go away.
He had barely pushed himself up to his knees when a blazing ball of green flames shot from the Breach and landed in front of them, far too close for comfort. He flinched from the explosion, from the smoke, and watched in horror as darkness bubbled on the ground and a demon rose with a roar.
Cian really could have gone on with his life without having ever seen a demon, and he would have been more than happy about that.
Cassandra was on her feet in seconds, and he was quick to follow suit. Her sword was drawn, her shield held, and she put herself between him and the demon. "Stay behind me!" she ordered, rushing for the demon with the ferocity of a beast.
Unarmed, unarmored, and defenseless in every way, Cian would have been content to do as she said and let her kill the demon. Not to mention the amount of pain he was in thanks to the mark on his hand, he really wasn't in the best shape.
But the earth rumbled, and another swell of smoke, much like the first, began bubbling on the ice. Moments later a second demon rose with a flash of green.
It stared at him with empty eyes, its roar reverberating across the ice.
Cassandra was busy fighting the first one, so she wasn't going to be able to come over and fight this demon as well. He needed to defend himself, but his own weapons had been confiscated when he was thrown into the cell.
Stumbling back, scanning the surroundings, Cian searched for something he could use to fight. A broken wooden plank or even a sizable rock would have been better than nothing! His eyes fell on a crate that had fallen down with the broken bridge and half buried under snow, glinting metal.
Two daggers, mismatched in size and style, nowhere near the value or quality of his own lost ones. But a blade was a blade, he knew how to work a blade, and he was in no position to complain about the details.
The demon lunged for him, and Cian dived to the side, rolling across snow and ice to reach the crate. He then snatched the daggers up from where they lay.
Armed, he turned to face the demon as it locked on him once more. It was strong—he'd have to be an idiot to think it wasn't—and it swung at him with a clawed hand. The demon was strong, but it was slow—its movements almost lethargic—and Cian could use that to his advantage. Despite the pain and the unfamiliar daggers, he was faster.
He ducked and wove, quick and always quick on his feet. He swung the daggers with the grace and swiftness that came with years of practice, always staying out of reach of the demons' attacks and circling.
He sunk both daggers into the back of its neck, and that was all that was needed for it to collapse and melt away. A part of him couldn't wait to see the look on Renan's face when he got back to the clan and told her how he killed a demon. Talk about a rare experience.
Don't get cocky, Cian warned himself as he stepped back from the dissolving, oozing goo. Not all demons would be as easy to fight and kill. Mar sola sena mar din, arrogance oh so easily became ones downfall.
Turning back, he saw Cassandra dispatch her demon as well and relaxed. They were in the clear, for now. "It's over," Cian said with a bit of relief in his voice, offering her a smile.
Cassandra answered with a sword. "Drop your weapon," she commanded, her voice hard and her accent even sharper. "Now."
He wanted to fight back, to stand his ground. A demon had just attacked him! What was he supposed to do? Just stand around and let it? Was he to just be a damsel, unable to defend himself when Cassandra had made it clear that things would become increasingly dangerous the further from Haven they got?
But he wasn't in a position to argue. It'd do him no good to be belligerent, so he lowered the daggers and slowly knelt down to place them in the snow. "All right, I'll disarm," he said.
Cassandra watched him before sighing and lowering her sword. "No, wait," she said, shaking her head as she sheathed her weapon. "Keep them. I cannot protect you out here, and I cannot expect you to be defenseless," she conceded. "I need to remember that you agreed to come, willingly."
Good, Cian decided. They didn't have to be at each other's throats, and he could have something to protect himself with, that was good.
Though they were sidetracked, they continued forward. Aiming for the Temple, Cian could only guess, though he had no idea where they were outside of Haven. It was unnecessarily cold and wet, too. He was not wearing the right kind of shoes for this terrain. He should have worn shoes with soles.
There were dead bodies scattered around here, too, though Cian couldn't see any sign of battle outside of the fight that he and Cassandra had just been in. They were all stiff and cold, had been dead for a while, but not long enough to begin rotting. He stopped to check a few of their pockets.
Cassandra chose not to comment on it, and Cian chose not to explain.
With a handful of coins in his pocket and a slightly better dagger to replace one of his current ones, Cian turned his gaze on Cassandra. "Where are your soldiers?" he asked her. They were supposed to be at war, fighting demons and holes in the sky, right? But beyond the dead, and that group on the bridge, they hadn't come across anyone else.
"At the forward camp, or fighting further on," Cassandra answered as if it were obvious and started walking once more. "We are on our own for now."
Oh. Goodie.
Eventually they reached the frozen river again. There was another flight of stone stairs that led up into the mountains. Down on the ice were more of the demons they had already fought. He and Cassandra were able to dispatch the two easily enough working together and flanking them.
Another one waited further along the frozen river, but at the top of the stairs was something entirely different. Green, wispy, almost like the light pulsating from the Breach. When Cassandra charged forward, sword in one hand, shield raised in the other, the wisp fired green lightning at her. Magic? Or the demon alternative of? It didn't matter.
Falling into instinct and what he knew, Cian fell into the shadows, and they embraced him with open arms. As Cassandra fought against the lethargic demon and blocked attacks from the Wraith, he climbed the stairs. Careful, slow, silent.
He got behind the demon, and once he was close, he could see that there was a solid body beneath the green mist surrounding it. It was vaguely humanoid, something killable.
The daggers went into the demon, smooth and deep, and cut through it with more ease than they did the flesh, muscle, and tendons of a person. Cian was surprised at how easy it was to take out when it caused so much difficulty from a distance. Glass canons, he faintly remembered Hahren Athim saying, an opponent who could cause serious harm but was just as vulnerable to harm.
Not that he was going to complain, however. The easier the demons were to kill, the better. It was just something good to know if they ever went up against these fuckers again.
Cassandra handled her demon easily, far more easily now that she wasn't blocking projectiles hurled at her, and she joined him at the top of the stairs. No words were said, but she gave him an approving nod. Or, at least, he hoped it was approving.
They continued along the river, picking off a couple more shades along the way, until another ball of flames was dropped from the Breach, and with it came more demons.
Cassandra stopped him as they took cover behind the rocks, watching as two Wraiths and four Shades lumbered about, blocking another set of stairs leading further up the mountain. six on two, not the prettiest of odds, but not impossible.
"You can disappear?" Cassandra asked, looking from the demons to him. She had seen him do it, so there was no point to ask, but she did, so Cian nodded mutely. Stealth was a useful skill for a hunter, it let them hunt prey undetected, and let them tail and kill those who threatened the clan without being seen.
Cassandra gave a nod back. "Good. Sneak past the Shades and take out the Wraiths as quickly as you can," she ordered. "I'll draw their attention and handle the Shades."
That sounded risky. Cian stared at her, fidgeting in spot, "Are you sure?" he asked. It didn't feel right to leave someone to fight that many on their own. He didn't doubt her ability, but having to fight four of the Shades, along with dealing with the wraiths shooting from a distance—that was too dangerous. It left his stomach twisting into knots of worry. "Wouldn't it be better if I took out some of the Shades first? Cut down the numbers quicker?"
She gave him a stern look, "You will focus on the Wraiths," she said, as if that were to be the end of it. "I will not require assistance beyond that."
There was no point in arguing.
Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Cian allowed the shadows to cover him once more, disappearing from sight. He rounded the rocks they took shelter behind and circled the field, trusting Cassandra to know what she was doing as he got closer to the Wraiths.
The first demon didn't see him coming, perched higher on the stairs and too busy focused on Cassandra as she charged into battle, and he cut it down quickly. Now out of the shadows, the other Wraith noticed and turned its attention from Cassandra to him, firing blasts of magic at him from its vantage point on a rocky outcrop along the mountain wall.
Diving out of the way, Cian rolled across the snow and dashed forward. He vanished once again and bounced from side to side as he charged forward, making it harder for the Wraith to pinpoint where his unseen form might be as its attacks missed.
It took some fancy movements and a bit of acrobats to get from the stairs to the rocky platform the Wraith was on, jumping and diving around, eventually the demon was killed, and that took care of the ranged enemies.
Cassandra still had two of her demons left, and Cian didn't care how confident she was or how her accent made everything she said sound like an undeniable fact. He wasn't going to sit by and leave her to fight on her own.
With one of the Shades circling around her to try and attack from behind, Cian lunged. It took a moment to calculate the speed and distance needed, but he launched himself off from the rocky overhang and pounced, his daggers driven into the demons back as he landed. It hurt his legs a little, those kinds of landings were always bad on the knees no matter how cool they looked, but it had been effective to get rid of the demon.
Cassandra killed hers and sheathed her sword. There was a look, hard and sharp, but not so much as a thank you. She just started marching up the now-cleared staircase. That's fine, Cian supposed, he'd been treated worse by shemlen before. He could handle this one being rude.
The higher they got up the stairs, the louder the noises of chaos became. Screaming, clashing of metal. "You can hear fighting," Cian noted.
"We're getting closer to the rift," Cassandra explained, her pace quickening.
There were likely soldiers there, trying to keep it clear as best as they could so that when they got there, Cian could—well, he had no idea what he was supposed to do to close the rift. He'd have to figure it out when they got there. He wanted to ask who, specifically, was fighting, but that was a stupid question. Soldiers, obviously. Maybe templars who escaped the Conclave's destruction. Probably soldiers from whatever group Cassandra was with. It didn't really matter who was fighting, so long as they were fighting demons.
They continue onward at a more hurried pace, coming to a stop where a glowing green wisp of energy floating in the air, crackling with lightning, looking reminiscent to the one in the sky. The mark on his hand burned and tugged, drew him closer, past the bodies of dead soldiers and ashes of slain demons.
There were a few survivors still fighting. A dwarf and an elf among them.
Cian dove into the fight without hesitation, disappearing from sight as he snuck behind a demon, clad in what almost looked like armor, and stabbed it in the back. It didn't kill it, but it drew it's attention off the other elf—a mage, Cian noted, seeing the staff and the ice he used. Sandwiched between the both of them, the demon didn't last long.
The elf's eyes were on him, recognition and knowledge, and Cian wanted to run and flee. Something itched in the back of his head that told him to bad and he didn't know why. He didn't have the time to act, either.
"Quickly," the elf yelled over the cacophony of violence, grabbing Cian by his wrist, the arm that carried the mark. "Before more come through!" He dragged Cian's arm up and all but drove it into the rift.
The pain was excruciating, and Cian bit back a scream. Up until now the pain felt like his arm had been on fire, and now he knew that was inaccurate, that he was giving the pain too much credit, for now it felt as if all flesh and blood in his arm was burning away. Starting at the palm and spiraling out, further along his arm and to his shoulder, and then spreading further across his chest and back.
And then the rift imploded. It collapsed on itself and dissolved, leaving only a pile of dust—void dust? He wasn't sure, didn't care, not right now—in its wake.
Did he destroy it? Or did the rift somehow go into him? That was a question Cian was uncomfortable thinking of. His arm still hurt, pulsating pain originating at his palm, but it wasn't as bad, not anymore. He shouldn't think of it.
All that mattered was that the rift was gone.
He turned to the elf, and tried not to let it show that somehow being near him felt wrong. "What did you do?" Cian asked, his voice hoarse.
"I did nothing," he replied, his voice smooth as water. "The credit is yours alone."
His alone. Cian look down at the mark on his palm, still holding his wrist, still cradling it to his chest. The mark hadn't changed, but since that also meant it didn't get bigger, Cian wasn't going to complain.
"Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand," the elf explained in a tone that Cian felt meant he was happy to talk. He'd had others in the clan like that. Love to talk if they got the chance. "I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the wake of the Breach, and it seems I was correct." Boy did he sound so smug about that.
Cassandra wiped her sword clean before joining them. "Meaning it could also close the Breach itself."
The elf nodded. "Possible," he said, and smiled at Cian. "It seems you hold the key to our salvation."
Oh. Oh, no. Oh fuck no. He didn't like that, not one bit.
Sure, he knew that was going to be the case, but it was one thing to think of it as a potential possibility, and another to see his scarred had actually seal the rift—and seal his fate. A little fun and a little adventure was fine and dandy. But savior to the whole world? Big hero responsible for saving all life from doom? Cian was not a fan. That wasn't him. He was a hunter, not a hero. He didn't want to be a hero. Leave that to the others. This was too much.
It was all too much. Cian just wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole. He couldn't find his words, and the others seemed to accept his horrified silence as some kind of confirmation.
"Good to know! Here I thought we'd be ass deep in demons forever," someone else chimed in before his inner panic could spiral to a visible meltdown. Cian turned and the dwarf—beardless, red hair, rather enviable chest hair—approached. He grinned with a cocky smile, but radiated gentle friendliness. "Varric Tethras. Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong," he introduced, winking at Cassandra who growled in disgust.
"Cian," he returned, trying to figure out why the name sounded so familiar—and when it did, he perked right up. "Wait, wait, wait. Are you the Varric Tethras? Author of Darktown's Deal?" he asked.
The dwarf laughed, "I'll be honest, I don't hear people talking about that one as much as some of my other works. But yes, that's one of my publications. Always nice to meet a fan."
It was weird. Though there was a lot of weird things going on today. Still, even among all the weirdness and oddities going on, Cian hadn't expected to meet the author of his favorite book out here of all things. Sure, Cian had never actually read it himself, but Hena, who could read and write common better than anyone in the clan, save for the Keeper, often read it to him when they had time to spare.
It brought a kind of levity to the situation, though. "I have so many questions I want to ask if that's okay," Cian said, feeling giddy as a child.
"Of course," Varric nodded, smiling generously, "And I'll be happy to answer them while we travel the valley."
"Absolutely not," Cassandra butted in. "Your help is appreciated, Varric, but—"
The dwarf cut her off, "Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker?" he asked, still smirking at her, and Cian had to admit he had a lot of courage to talk to her like that. The woman was kind of scarier than the demons they were fighting. "Your soldiers aren't in control anymore. You need me."
The way he said it was absolutely taunting, and Cassandra held his gaze for a moment before stalking off with a sharp ugh.
The elf stepped forward and offered a smile. "My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions," the elf said as he brought the staff to his back. Solas. He had a Dalish name, but he lacked Vallaslin, so clearly not Dalish. The man was taller than Cian, and his staff even taller. That wasn't unusual, staves were often taller than the mage who carried them, but—aren't human soldiers supposed to be attacking mages? "I am pleased to see you still live."
A weird way to put it.
Varric must have noticed Cian's expression because he added. "He means; 'I kept the mark from killing you while you slept.'" He answered in a poor imitation of Solas' voice.
Cian spun back to Solas and found a soft smile on his face. He felt a rush of shame for immediately feeling uneasy about him. "Ma serannas," Cian said, and—worried that perhaps the man did not speak Dalish despite the name—he added, "You have my thanks."
His gratitude seemed to have made the man swell a bit with pride, but he hid it well enough behind another smile. "You can thank me if we manage to close the Breach without killing you in the process," he said, and it gave Cian a wave of comfort. Even if the words were hollow, it was nice to think they weren't all for killing him to close a hole.
Turning his attention from Cian to Cassandra, Solas continued to speak. "Cassandra, you should know; the magic involved here is unlike any I've seen," he said, his voice both serene and serious, a way of talking he'd heard other Keepers use whenever their clans crossed paths. "Your prisoner is no mage. Indeed, I find it difficult to imagine any mage wielding such power."
Cassandra nodded, "Understood," and it took Cian by surprise how quickly and easily she accepted his words. Solas, an elf—an elven mage at that. Just what was going on? "We must get to the forward camp quickly, then."
Oh. So, they weren't done walking. Tragic.
If he was expected to keep climbing a mountain and fighting demons, then when they got to the forward camp (if it was even still standing), Cian demanded he get some armor to better protect himself. At the very least, he figured he deserved some proper boots!