From Sacred Ash

by Son of Caliban

Marcus Venier is a young student from Canada, who jumps off a waterfall and falls into another world entirely. Markus Venier is a young Templar from the Dales, who fails to prevent the death of the Most Holy. I am the man born of their convergence. I am the Inquisitor. And this tale is mine to tell.

25. Sin of Want

I will admit, I do rush us back to Haven with perhaps a bit more speed than is necessary. But can I truly be blamed? There's a great deal going on; Cassandra and Vivienne's work at Therinfal Redoubt is at risk if Corypheus knows of my attachment to the Templars, for one. And if he was proactive enough to arm Alexius against me, then there is no small chance he similarly prepared Envy as well. I can only hope my dispatching others to deal with the Templars has wrongfooted whatever he may have had planned for me there. Otherwise…

I try not to think about the otherwise on my way in. It's probably better for my mental health. Also better for my mental health are my companions; Blackwall, Lysette and Bull ride full speed with me, ahead of the main company. Solas and Dorian remain behind, ensuring Alexius and Quintus are kept well guarded by two of the best mages I know, and the rest of the no-longer-apostates are kept in magical company. Ahead of us, even quicker on the road, go Devehra and a pair of scouts who happen to ride better than the rest, serving as a sort of vanguard and recon team ensuring we don't come across any unsavory highwaymen.

The formation works well enough; we make damn good time across Ferelden and steadily back to Haven, the Frostbacks growing larger in the distance every day. By time we reach the slowly expanding snow-line we are only four days out from Redcliffe, nearly twice the speed of our usual journeys. These horses Dennet has afforded the Inquisition with are damn fine beasts, Blackwall remarks at one point; he claims to have scarcely ridden finer. Even Lysette, raised in the pomp and propriety of Orlesian nobility and one of the wealthiest Circles in the world, seems pleased with her Ferelden mare.

It is only in the mountains that we must slow; the chill and snow are slowly seeping in as the summer months draw to a close, and the harvest descends. Here in the mountains that simply means it is time for the winter to begin, slowly at first, but soon it will come roaring in as the last of the harvests are cut down. It's been, I chuckle to myself as I think the thought, one hell of a summer. Much has been done, and there is much more to do.

I've a war to win, an entire organization to reform, and a title to earn. Inquisitor I shall be, I suspect, though I'm still not certain on it. If the position is offered to someone else, Cassandra perhaps… I don't know if I will contest it or not. It would be unseemly for me to clamour after power, especially considering I've scarcely tried to throw my weight around before now. At the same time…

No. Vivienne, Leliana, Josephine, Cullen, all will want me. It makes the most sense, even in this course of events which so slowly drifts from the ones I know from Marcus' time playing his games. They looked to me to make the call between Mages and Templars, agreed to go along with my mad plan to bid for both. No need for doubt, I suppose. I will almost certainly be Inquisitor. No other choice makes much sense, if any at all.

Haven before me feels even more like home than usual, due in no small part to the sight of Jacques at the gate on guard duty, his new Inquisition sigil upon his surcoat bright and almost glowing. He waves to me as I bring my horse down to a slower walk, and stop by him as two men inside pull the gates open.

"You're not dead," he begins, grinning up at me through eyes narrowed against the sun above. "So I'll suppose it's worked? You've found even more mages for us to mind?"

"Around three-hundred," I reply. "Most of them the madly disobedient sort. You'll be working day and night, I'm sure."

"Did you find any pretty ones, at least?" he asks me, and I just wink and ride through the open gate.

It feels good to be among my family again.

Haven bustles even more every time I return; the streets aren't quite packed, but our numbers continue to swell. The Apostates and Templars will only add to that, though by now I'm beginning to dread the future evacuation. There must be a couple thousand people in and around Haven by now; our soldiers' camp stretches across nearly the entire lakeshore, and every building within the village is packed.

It makes me think of the battles ahead. An invasion thousands strong, though that makes less sense the more I think about it. How is an army of Red Templars, or an army of Tevinter soldiers, going to march all the way across the Orlesian side of the Frostbacks, in the midst of a nation-wide civil war, without being noticed? A force like that doesn't move silently; just fifty Inquisition soldiers on the march into Ferelden leaves a trail. Five-thousand? More? And not common men, no; twisted Templar warriors engulfed in hateful red, foreign Tevinters in peaked robes and jagged armour. How can Corypheus move all of that into position to attack us, without exposing his entire operation?

It's no use worrying about it at the moment, I tell myself. I have a rift to close first.

I ride right up to the Chantry, leaving my horse with one of Quartermaster Threnn's people to be fed and watered. Lysette and Blackwall flank me as I head in, Bull returning to check on the Chargers. We pass by Chantry sisters, a few of the Chanson mages (little Elise waves emphatically with both hands) and a few Orlesians seemingly waiting to speak with Josephine. Before I can enter our makeshift war room, Ambassador Trevelyan swoops in at my side, a roguish grin on his face.

"You've caused quite a stir in Ferelden, meeting the king as you did," he says, his voice low. "The first birds flew in today wondering if we aren't officially backed by the Fereldan crown. Any statements I should work in?"

I think about it for a moment, but it's pretty easy to come to a conclusion.

"Our interaction with King Alistair was little more than a happy coincidence," I begin. "Though the Inquisition hopes to foster further positive relations with the nation of Ferelden and offer further aid in managing the crisis at hand, we do not make claim to any official treaty or alliance with the crown. Will that suffice?"

"Very diplomatic, Ser," he says, patting me on the shoulder. "Ambassador Montilyet and I will fiddle with the wording a bit but in all consideration, it should go over quite well."

"I'd rather not get us entangled in the mess of Ferelden and Orlais' politics," I reply, and he laughs aloud before leaving us. Another sign of my impending Inqusitorial office, I suppose; I'm being asked for official statements representing the entire Inquisition.

I enter the war room, Blackwall and Lysette remaining outside to mind the door. I am alone in here, surprisingly; I suppose everyone else must be hard at work. For a moment I consider turning around and leaving, but… no, that would be a touch embarrassing. Better to wait a while and see who else comes in. After all, it's not every day I'm afforded the chance to be here before the rest of the inner circle.

I look over the map of southern Thedas, finger tracing the various locations to which I know I must go. Crestwood is hard to find, a tiny dot in Ferelden only identifiable because of the lake it sits next to and the fact there is another, faded dot labelled "Old Crestwood" in the pool of blue. I find the Western Approach easily enough, though it is hard to say exactly where in that wasteland I'll be going. The Winter Palace is marked just south of Montsimmard, surprisingly, afforded a teeny-tiny crown, and a raven pin pricked right into the centre. Leliana is taking my advice then. Excellent.

The Exalted Plains and the Dales, here and there marked with little mailed gauntlets, Cullen's efforts to track the battlelines. Neither side has ceased moving yet; the ceasefire hasn't yet been made official, and apparently the fields are still host to a number of skirmishes and minor troop movements. I wonder after Renard du Palais, better known to me now as Renard de Rousselle. The son of Gaspard du Chalons, the Grand Duke himself, there's a twist in the tale. He was headed to that very front when last I saw him, doubtless to represent his father on the field, or else to meet with Marshal Proulx for some clandestine plot or another.

I put thoughts of Orlais behind me, and look north to the Free Marches. Starkhaven is a cluster of little pins, Lelian's ravens first and foremost, three of them, then two from Cullen doubtless marking those promised weapons shipments, and a single set of crossed keys where Josephine has likely dispatched an ambassador or emissary to meet with the Prince. My eye wanders down to Kirkwall, where a raven pin lay, and then trails across the rest of the coastal cities, barren anything. Ostwick… Trevelyan is from Ostwick, perhaps there's something there worth discussing?

Tevinter looms at the northwest, only the southern provinces visible on our map here. Not a single pin anywhere, though I'm hardly surprised; with Dorian just arrived and then so quickly dispatched at my side again, it's unlikely we'll have much of anything to do with Thedas' oldest empire for some time yet. I wonder if I might end up going there myself some day; it seems rather far afield, but at the same time I should like to witness the Imperium with my own eyes at some point.

At last, I look for Therinfal. I find it in Ferelden, a pyramid-marker topped with Josephine's mask icon. They would have arrived around the same time we went to Redcliffe; that was half the point of the plan. Simultaneous actions, too quick for Corypheus to respond to. Greedy, maybe, going for both, but if I can't break the sequence in this most crucial of ways then what the hell is the point of any of this?

I still don't know that, now that I think about it. No idea what the hell dropped me in this place, the spawn of two minds blessed with the same name and little else in common. Happenstance? Fate? The whims of some higher power? As I think about it, I realize I'd honestly rather not; the whole thing concerns me. If this is a game, be it of the Maker's or some other power… I suppose it mustn't matter much at all. I am here, and here I shall remain. No point in searching for a way to split myself in half again. Without Marcus Markus would be lost, without Markus… well, Marcus has much more to gain from that divergence. A life to get back to, a… well, a girlfriend to see again.

But no. No angst there, no longing for what cannot be. This is who I am now, the mission I pursue. The past is the past; the future races toward me at a dangerous pace, and I must endeavour to survive it. Fuck it, I remind myself. Let's save the world.

The stirring of the two minds within my own echo thoughts of affirmation, of agreement and of reassurance. We're in this together, mind and body and yes, Markus, spirit as well. Beck thrums against my arm, and I smile as I bring a hand up to touch the spot where I can feel her warmth seeping through the fabric of my coat and the metal of my chain. It feels so very good to be whole.

The door swings open as I hear Lysette snap to salute, and Cullen enters behind me with a soft clearing of the throat.

"Herald," he greets, then corrects himself. "Er… Markus. We hadn't expected you back so quickly."

He circles the table to face me from across it, in his usual spot leaning against the heavy wood and looking down at the map. But for now his eyes seek mine, and I smile at him. He looks tired, but satisfied, doubtless having just concluded some drill or exercise with results that pleased him.

"I came as quickly as I could, ahead of the main party," I explain. "I… I had hoped there would be news of Therinfal. The rest of the company, and the mages, should be here within a few days."

"News of Therinfal," Cullen echoes, and it stirs fear within me when I see the worry in his eyes. "Yes, we've had some. I had best leave it to Leliana to explain."

"Cullen," I say, forgoing titles. "Please. How many?"

He sighs, his head falling, his hands curling into fists against which he leans in a somewhat simian fashion. He looks frustrated, fearful, angry and exhausted all at once. Not physically, no, he bears himself with strength still, an energy humming beneath his stillness as if expecting to surge into motion at any moment. But his eyes… he looks haunted.

"The news is better than our worst anticipations," he manages. "But… Lucius wasn't just misdirecting the Templars with words, Markus. He… he has them taking the red."

I know this already, and it still hits me like a punch in the gut. The full horror of the concept sinks in as I think about it, about what I saw at Recliffe, what I felt; the roar of the red, screaming hateful fury tearing at my mind and at my spirit. The thought of that poison, so potent its mere proximity can incite such damage to me… the thought of it being ingested, taken and inhaled or injected or crushed between the teeth, or else drunk as an elixir…

"Maker," I say, a prayer of a single word. "How many?"

"Too many," Cullen replies. "Enchanter Vivienne reports two-hundred and eighty-seven resistant who survived the battle. The Lord Seeker… Maker, your guess was correct. He was an imposter, an envy daemon. He alone killed two dozen; his followers even more. The Order may not recover."

His voice is hollow, defeated, but there is a part of what he says that lingers with me.

"Lady Vivienne sent the report?" I ask, and when he nods I continue. "What of Cassandra?"

"She is not dead," Leliana says suddenly, almost appearing behind me. "Lady Vivienne reports that, at least. But she was injured, gravely, and… Vivienne fears her possessed."

"Possesed?" I repeat the accusation and turn to face her, following her as she circles the table like Cullen. "How? She is a Seeker of Truth, not some apprentice mage gone unharrowed! How could any daemon have…"

"They ride with all speed to Haven," Leliana replies, and then she looks me in the eyes and I see that somewhere behind all those masks and shadows she too is afraid of what this might mean. "They cannot be more than a few days out."

"Then there is little we can do," I reply, leaning heavily against the table, my eyes staring at the map without seeing much of anything. "Maker. I should have…"

I punch the table, hard. Wood splinters under my mailed fist, and I scowl down at the dent I've put in the wood.

"I should have… I should have known…" I whisper. "It makes sense, doesn't it? Red lyrium, our enemy's scheme conjuring the stuff, and then templars gone missing… the sudden, mad turn, alike to Meredith in Kirkwall… it makes sense, it all makes sense…"

And I said nothing. I didn't warn them, I didn't fucking say a thing. I just… I let them go, unprepared, walking into the hell of Therinfal without so much as a "by the way" or a "my dreams have shown me"... because I was so fucking focused on beating Alexius, on outplaying the Magister and his time-travel nonsense, I all but forgot that the entire Order was being corrupted into monsters by Envy and Raleigh fucking Samson.

I had the excuse, and it all would have made sense. Why didn't I say it? Was I too stupid to see it? Was I being arrogant, assuming it would all just be taken care of because I'm so goddamn smart I managed to make a play for both factions?

It shouldn't matter, because it worked about as well as it should have, right? We got the Templars, the rest are Red, it was never going to change that much. Having the Templars and Mages both should be reward enough but it tastes sour in the mouth because I could have had more, could have done more, and I didn't because I was too busy arguing with myself in that Val Royeaux square to just stab Lucius in the throat and be done with it.

Damn it. Damn it all. I can't make a mistake like that again.

"I suppose," I say, after a moment of silent, heavy breathing. "That all we can do is wait, and pray."

"Indeed," Cullen agrees.

And so we depart, going our separate ways to whittle away the days. It is the first time I've been able to sit and do nothing for more than a few hours in… well shit, over a month at least. From Haven the first time off to the Hinterlands, rampaging around there for a while, then quick-step marching back to Haven and straight to Val Royeaux, barely an hour spent there without either sleeping or adventuring… back to Haven, arranging my schemes, down to Redcliffe to "make contact" then back up to Haven to get some things and then back to Redcliffe and then back to Haven.

Fuck, I've spent a lot of time in Ferelden.

When at last the Templars return, I am sparring. It's all I've really been able to do these past few days; sitting still only left me restless and uneasy, pacing with a manic sort of energy that alarmed those around me. So the same day I returned I went to the training yards, and began to spar. Then I just… kept sparring. Every day, dawn till dusk and even into the night a while, clashing blades and wills against any and all comers. I spar with Orlesian Chevaliers, Inquisition soldiers and scouts, Ferelden warriors, a Starkhaven cavalier and even a warrior from the Anderfels with a maul as long as I am tall.

Jacques and Cordeau join me with some regularity; each is good, but neither has quite honed himself so well as I have. Ferelden has hardened me and I think neither is quite sure how to take it. Cordeau is brought to the ground five separate times, Jacques sparing himself the fifth when our fourth bout ends in my knocking his sword from his hand and sending it spinning end over end toward the distant fence.

My sword crashes against chain and plate and scale and shields, deflecting blows from a hundred different swords and spears and axes and hammers, and each time I fight I feel like I can breathe regardless of how breathless I become. The weight settled on my chest falls away, and the racing of my heart settles into a steadfast rumble like a drum as I force myself to the limit and beyond it over and over and over again.

And after three days, the Templars arrive.

I greet my brothers and sisters in the Order stained by sweat and mud, my swordbelt sloppily lashed around my waist and my overcoat forgotten on a post of the dueling ring. A scout warns me they've come and I rush down the road to meet them long before they reach the gates. They come as a ragged company, near three-hundred strong. So few of us left, marching with battered bodies and broken spirits, heads downfallen and eyes empty. The guilt of my reluctance crashes into me again all at once.

I go to them, my brothers and sisters from all across Thedas. Some of them recognize me as one of their rank, or else from the Val Royeaux market. I touch hands, shoulders, I am grabbed and shaken and hugged, or else saluted. A few kneel, greeting me as Herald; others scowl, call me a pretender. All of them are too exhausted to contest with one another over it, a small mercy.

Then, at the rear, a covered wagon, driven by an Inquisition soldier, flanked by two more on horseback. Vivienne rides with them, waving me to their small company. I rush to her and am startled to see she is ragged from the road, far from the usual prim perfection she presented in the game.

"It is good you did not accompany us, my dear," she says first, as if to waylay my own guilt ahead of the curve. "The Redoubt was laden with that dreadful crimson lyrium. These poor souls barely escaped with their sanity."

"What happened?" I ask, breathless.

And Vivienne tells the tale.

It is familiar, in many places; the arrival alongside the Orlesian nobility, Josephine's magnificent scheme paying some dividends in forcing the Templars to acknowledge us. But it is Cassandra who stars in the story; it was her who the "Lord Seeker" bid enter the Redoubt first, who met with Templar Barris and Knight-Captain Denam. Things proceeded perhaps as expected… until "the boy" arrived.

I stop myself saying Cole's name aloud, but Vivienne does not seem to notice my little verbal stumble and continues in her telling. The boy was a mysterious figure, who assisted them in seeking pure lyrium for those Templars not yet corrupted by the Red, and in eventually slaying the monster. Cassandra…

"She is in a dreadful state, dear," Vivienne tells me, her voice low. "Whatever the daemon did to her, she is still recovering. She sleeps, mostly, bucking and thrashing. I've done all I can to ease her fever, but whatever is affecting her appears to linger in the mind… or perhaps the soul."

I breathe deep, and consider. I have no idea how to deal with the backlash of a daemonic intercession into someone's brain. But I have a few ideas, and more importantly I have a new battalion of Templars, including senior knights and officers who may just know a few tricks of their own. And, failing that; I have the key to the Fade on my hand, which has proven quite able in ridding the world itself of daemonic incursion.

We pass through the gates of Haven, and by my order swiftly obeyed Cassandra is taken to the Chantry. We pass through the grand doors, past Chancelor Roderick and the cloistered Sisters, and down into the cells below. Two soldiers carry Cassandra on a makeshift litter, while I send a third to fetch Venerable Sarker and the other senior knights of Chanson with all haste. A fourth is sent for lyrium.

Cassandra… Maker, she looks nightmarish. She can't have been under the effects of the daemon's attack for more than a week but she's practically wasting away, her skin tight around her cheekbones and jaw, her eyes sunken. She's asleep, but in her sleep she babbles and mumbles. I kneel beside her and listen as she calls for the closing of ranks, withdrawal on the flanks; she demands the rearguard advance to replenish the lines, and I close my hands around one of hers. She is cold, so dreadfully cold, murmuring orders to invisible soldiers.

"She battles the affliction as though it were an enemy host," says Venerable Sarker, and I blink when I realize he's kneeling beside me now, a warm hand on my shoulder. "What would you have us do, lad?"

Knights Devine and Balthus kneel opposite us, on Cassandra's other side. Devine looks upon the Seeker with a bereaved sigh.

"I've sent for lyrium," I say, before raising my marked hand and showing them the sigil burned into my palm. "I… I believe that if we unite in Chant, we may be able to weaken the affliction enough so that I might purge it from her body."

They each consider it; Balthus hums softly and pinches one of the ends of his moustache, while Devine touches a hand to her cheek. Venerable Sarker breathes out, slowly, and then nods once. It bolsters me, strange as it is to say, seeing him agree with me.

"It's certainly worth an attempt," he says. "The Seeker was good to us when first we came. And if what the newcomers say is true… the Order owes her a great deal."

The soldier I sent out arrives shortly thereafter, carrying in his arms a small sealed box. He sets it down and hands me an equally small brass key, bowing and scraping his way out of the door again. I open the chest and gaze in wonder at the most lyrium I've ever seen in my life. Ten full vials, each half as large as my fist, sat in little padded alcoves. I withdraw one, hands tingling at my nearness to so much of the potent element.

Balthus takes a decanter from his belt and we pour. We'll drink for this, hasten it inward so it can power us immediately. My hands tremble as I loft the cup, whispering a prayer to Andraste and the Maker before drinking deep. Lyrium tastes of iron and electricity, but there is something deeper there as well, an earthy bitterness and the vaguest hint of sweet, sugary delight. It chases itself down my throat and settles in my stomach, and by the time I look up from setting down the cup the others have all drunk their share.

Our eyes alight with a luminance unnatural to any world but this one, and the three of them link hands above Cassandra in a triangle of interlocked arms and murmured prayer. I bow my head and breath out as they begin to utter the Chant, focusing on my own inward power, and on Beck still gently warming my wrist.

"Together," I whisper to hear, and below us Cassandra begins to buck and thrash ever more violently as she is enwreathed in a corona of arcane power. I can almost feel the demon revolting, as her face flushes and her hands curl helplessly into fists. I lean over her and, face to face, I press the marked hand against her forehead and push.

The power flows through me at my command, as if she were a rift to be sealed, but this feels different. Emerald energies coruscate around me in narrow black-lined ribbons, enwreathing my outstretched arm and crawling up to my chest. I breathe the words of the Chant, each inhalation tasting of smoke and iron. Each whispered word of the Maker empowers me. Three Templar veterans at my back, and Cassandra's soul revolting below.

I can hear the wardrums echoing, the crash of steel. I push deeper, my thumb pressed right above the bridge of her nose, leaning in so close her ragged exhalations warm my face. My eyes shut and I try to find her amidst the noise, listening for Cassandra in the chaos.

Then I fall in.

I don't know how it happens, or whether it actually happens as I think it does. It feels for all the world as though everything beneath my hand ceases to exist, falling through Cassandra as though she were not there, nor the stone floor beneath her, or the mountain beyond that. All the world ends where my hand begins, fingers plunging into an inky blackness that drags me deep into the void.

I open my mouth to scream, and whatever it is that constitutes this hollow place rushes in. I gag on the nothing, choking on absence. My eyes open and I see nothingness stretching in all directions; that or I am so engulfed in blackness that there truly is nothing else to see. My whole body feels weightless, freefalling end over end into nothingness. There is a surge, a crash, my whole body shattering into a thousand pieces that I rush and scrabble to pull back together. It hurts like nails all over, pounded into my arms and legs and skull. But in an instant again I feel whole.

My eyes open. The sky above me is the void below, criscrossed with jagged lines of green light emanating from a yawning maw of madness at the centre of it all. On the ground I lay, the uneven stones of an overgrown courtyard pressing against my back. My head swims, each breath a labored effort on the part of my chest. I am surrounded by old stone walls, overgrown and eroded by the ages… or by ruin. It takes considerable effort to turn my head to the left, staring along the ground at the shape of an advancing demon.

A Terror looms over me, mouth open and needle teeth running with black spittle. Its claws flex and clench at nothing, tail swaying behind the mass of its body as it leans down, peering at me with an eyeless face. I stare back, forcing myself to look up again.

"Not afraid," it says, and the sybillant wetness of its voice makes me sick to my stomach. "You… know danger… no fear…"

Its entire body contorts suddenly, bucking along the spine as if a wave of motion were passing from its feet ot its head, and when it refocuses on me it seems almost curious. I am reminded, alarmingly, of a cat examining a cornered mouse.

"Not afraid." Then that horrible mouth distends, a yawning smile stretching from one side of its face to the other. "You will be."

The lower jaw distends, stretching down until there's over a foot between the rows of its teeth, and it leans down to eat me. It stinks of rotting meat and rotting vegetation and the coppery tang of coming rainfall. My arms move to stop it, grasping at the blank space where its eyes should be, and for the briefest of moments I stop it. It's like holding up the sky; my arms burn with the effort, and it seems further bemused by my attempt at survival. I cannot hold long.

A moment is long enough, however, as it suddenly stiffens and freezes up before recoiling. It scrambles over me, one clawed foot stomping on my leg painfully, The swod in its back is familiar, an unblinking eye worked into the base of the blade, engulfed in the shining sun. It stares at me, jaw drooling and slack, as it falls onto its stomach splayed like a spider crushed underfoot.

"Traitor…" It rasps the word as it dies.

I lay still, breathing heavily, arms collapsed at my sides. Each inhalation takes a long moment, scratching dry and hot at my throat. The air here tastes like blood. After a long moment a gloved hand enters my view next, grasping my shoulder and attempting to lift me.

Cassandra looks like hell. Her armour and tabard are battered and torn, steel tarnished and cloth singed and cut and torn. Her hair is overgrown, nearly down to her shoulders, tangled and almost feral in its untended form. Her eyes are cold and hard as they were before in the place I have just been, when first we met. Despite this, the gentle smile on her lips is a welcome sight.

"Are you well, Herald?" she asks me, her voice soft.

"I could ask the same of you," I reply, holding her forearm and climbing to my feet. "I must confess, I have no idea where we are."

"I… could not say," she hesitates, and then she frowns. "How did you come to be here?"

"You… or, your body, or you and… well, you're back in Haven now," I tell her. "Alive, but not well. I gathered some of the veteran Templars and attempted an exorcism, or something along those lines. I have no idea if this all means its working or… not…"

The sentence drifts to an unnatural end as I look past her, at the veritable host of demons surging toward us through the shattered remains of the courtyard's main gate, shades and wraiths flanked by more terrors, demons of despair and rage screaming and wailing. I stare wide-eyed at more demons than I've ever seen before in my life.

Without speaking Cassandra grabs me and pulls me toward the keep, helping me along as we climb up the stairs toward the twin oaken doors. I feel like I should know this place, but none of it is quite familiar. Is this Therinfal Redoubt? Redcliffe Castle? It cannot be Adamant, I'm not meant to be there yet, and Cassandra would have no memory of that place.

The doors open at the insistence of Cassandra's shoulder and she pushes me inside, turning to slam them shut behind us. She drops the bar into place, but there are no impacts or crashing blows from angry demons seeking entrance; there is only silence between those oaken twins, as Cassandra takes me by the shoulders with her gloved hands, an almost manic gleam in her eyes.

"Tell me you have a way out," she says. "I have been here…"

She blinks, eyes dropping to the floor. I swallow and lift my hands, holding her forearms, my grip steady on her vambraces. How long has it been for her, in this place? I recall the ten to fifteen minutes of the confrontation in the Inqusitor's own mind passing in seconds in the real world, back in the game. If she has been here for days on our side…

"Cassandra," I say, and rather boldly I touch her cheek with my hand, lifting her head. "I'm here. We're going to get out of this."

"I hope so," she murmurs, before swallowing and stiffening up. "Herald. I… I have never been in this part of the castle before. Perhaps there is something?"

"I think…" I blink when she doesn't let go of me, but it occurs to me then that she likely hasn't experienced the touch of another human being in… some time.

I reach up, and take her hand. My Mark flares, but I ignore it; if this is some kind of demon-made reflection of Cassandra's inner mind it's probably mostly made of the same demon and Fade bullshit that makes it act up on the other side. I'm surprised it hasn't been on fire since we got here. It actually doesn't hurt at all; is that because this is where it belongs, with the rest of the magic? I don't know. Right now I don't care, though I'm sure it would make for a riveting conversation with Solas if he were here.

"That one could get us out of here, I'm sure," Cassandra says.

"What?" I blink.

"I… Solas. He could get us out of here, I'm sure." Cassandra repeats, looking at me oddly.

"I didn't say that," I reply. "I didn't say anything about him."

"I heard you say his name," Cassandra replies, blinking. "I…"

She shakes her head.

"This place confuses me," she admits. "I hear things that are not there. I thought perhaps it was the demon, but I have seen no sign of him. Only the rest."

"On the other side, you sound as though you're waging a war," I tell her, and to my surprise, she chuckles.

"That makes sense," she says, and then we look around the room for a few moments before she points to another door in the wall to our left."Perhaps that way?"

"Better than any idea I've had so far," I reply, shrugging. "Lead on, Lady Seeker."

She says nothing as we go to the door, and instead of trying the latch she just kicks it, smashing the frame and forcing it open with her boot. I follow her through, wishing I had a sword. I check my belt; no Ferelden blade, and no spirit blade either. Dammit. Cassandra still has her sword, at least, so we won't be entirely defenseless.

I want to ask her what it's been like here, as we pass through musty old corridors full of decaying furniture and broken remains of lives long lost. I want to ask what she's been doing, how she's survived this nightmare for what must seem like years to her. But I don't because I have no idea how to brooch that kind of topic to her and I dare not speak up and risk offending or upsetting her with the wrong words. Though, if she can hear my thoughts…

"It was hard," she says, at last. "I am glad you are here, Herald. Truly. I…"

She turns to face me, and grasps my hand, holding it tight. There's a hunger there, something that makes my stomach burn, and then she pulls me into a tight hug. Hard armour presses against my chest, the stink of sweat and blood and demonic ichor filling my lungs, but I do not deny her. I wrap my arms around her, holding her in turn.

"I was afraid," she confesses. "I have been so afraid here. I cannot sleep, I do not hunger or thirst, but I have never felt so weary. It's… it's eternity here. I cannot say how long it has been. I cannot remember when last I felt… anything."

Her arms tighten around me, squishing the breath from my lungs, but there is a frailty in her voice.

"Thank you," she whispers. "Thank you for coming to save me."

She releases me, only to hold my shoulders. There is no hesitation as she pulls in and, in a move that leaves me flushed a bright red, kisses me right on the lips. It is not so chaste as to be simple affection; her tongue presses against my lips and pushes inside, and I recoil against her grip. It's wet and hot and deeply uncomfortable. It tastes like blood and other things I dare not try to name. This should be incredible, kissing a woman like her, but something feels so very wrong. I can't claim to have felt nothing for her, I'm young and stupid and Marcus was always into Cassandra. But this isn't right, it can't be like this. It shouldn't be like this.

She holds me like that for a long few moments, before at last releasing me and letting me stumble back. I fall flat on my butt, staring up at her. She stands there a moment, looking almost smug, before blinking and then covering her mouth with a hand.

"Oh," she says. "I-I… I am sorry. I did not, I mean, I was not thinking."

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, gasping. Between having the breath crushed out of me and kissing Cassandra, my lungs are aching right now. She offers me a hand up, and I take it. Fortunately she doesn't pull me into another embrace, looking at me with those cold eyes. She smiles apologetically.

"I am sorry," she repeats. "But… I have wanted that for some time, Herald. Forgive me?"

"Forgiven," I say instantly, waving a hand. "But… please, let's focus on getting out of here?"

"Of course," she says, nodding. "Where do you think we should go next?"

I think about it for a moment, rubbing my palm against the side of my head. Where to now? I have no point of reference for this; if this were my mind, I'd just will a door to appear, or go to bed. Somehow I don't think that would work here; this is demonic possession, a battle for Cassandra's mind and soul. What can I do here?

Well, I reason with myself, how do you win a war?

"Envy," I say, and Cassandra stiffens up. "We have to kill the demon, Cassandra. Envy, that was what it called itself? If we can kill it, we prove we are stronger. Then…"

I hold up my left hand, showing her the mark. She stares at it for a long moment, as if pondering it, then nods.

"Very well," she says. "And where could we find this… Envy?"

"It's a wretched creature," I reply, turning to look at the wall, trying to think about what I know of the Envy demon. "It thrives on spite and a measure of self-loathing. It desires to be that which it attacks, more than anything. So… where would you be yourself? Where could it best imitate you, try to be you?"

I turn to her, and note the fury in her eye that vanishes after a moment of observation. She seems to ponder my words for a moment, and then nods.

"The chantry," she says. "Here, in the castle. I can show you the way."

We go on, her hand still firmly holding mine. We pass through several more doorways, each of them either shoved open with her shoulder or kicked down. I see no more demons, nor any sign of spirits. There is only us, and this rotting corpse of a castle that seems to stretch on forever. We pass by mouldering furniture, moth-eaten and aged in excess of decades. Rusted swords and axes lean against stone walls and flagstones blanketed thickly with moss and mold. Were I less certain this wasn't real, I would probably be worried about poisoning myself with spores.

We come at last to the chantry after what could have been a minute or an hour of racing down the halls, two vast and rotten wooden doors hanging limp and weak in the stone frame. I push one aside, the hinges screaming their rusty protest. The floor here is uneven, stones upturned and strewn about by the massive oak tree growing at the centre of everything. Pews sit half-collapsed from rot and the impacts of falling stones.

The branches of the tree form a grand canopy, as if aiming to replace the caved-in roof above us. The black sky throbs and pulsates with veins of green light, and I look away after a moment of staring and examine the tree instead. Slowly I move to circle around it, only to freeze at the sight before me.

Cassandra lay in silent repose at the foot of the tree, her tarnished armour pierced through the chest by a rusted sword almost exactly alike to her own. Her face is pale and drawn tight, her eyes clenched shut. Her upper body rests in the lap of a tiny girl, who cradles her head in delicate hands and whispers gently to her.

Beck looks up at me with Blackwall's pale green eyes, gently caressing Cassandra's cheek. She is Calm, soothing me with her presence alone. Cassandra stirs gently in her repose, and Beck rubs her temple gently.

"She is not well," my daughter says. "Her soul is trapped here. The monster has anchored her."

Cassandra rounds the corner and sees herself, blinking once. I stare at her. She looks up at me, and the two of us stare at one another for a long moment.

"Herald," she begins.

"Markus," I reply.

"What?" she asks.

"Cassandra calls me Markus, or Ser Markus," I say. "Herald is what the soldiers call me. Cassandra calls me Markus."

"Ah," Cassandra says.

And then she lashes out with an arm thrice as long as it ought to be, and tries to tear my throat open. I smack it aside with the heel of my left hand, while rushing forward. My right grabs the sword from the fallen Cassandra's breast, and it emerges with a rasp of steel on steel as I duck another swing of an overlong arm and surge forward to stab the creature in its stolen face.

The thing pretending to be Cassandra recoils backward, sliding off the blade in a wash of black ichor. It falls on all fours and scrambles backward, shedding armour and clothes and skin alike with a hideous sound. For a moment there is a black shadow of Cassandra left, then that too sloughs off like so much mud in a rainstorm, and all that remains is Envy, the wound in its empty face forming a makeshift eye that slowly shuts. It is a disgusting, gangly thing, arms with too many joints and hands for feet and a scrawny torso with the points of jagged ribs jutting from beneath its skin like tiny teeth. It folds itself upside down, head below its pelvis, leering at me with its ragged gash of a mouth

"You should have let me be," it says. "I would have been better than her."

"You should have let her be," I say. "You would have lived far longer."

Behind me, Cassandra vomits up blood into Beck's lap. I slide one foot back, raising my left hand in front of me. The Mark burns as it always does in the presence of demons. The sword in my hand is unfamiliar, but I can cope. This thing is a pretender, and it tried to steal the face and name and life of a woman of whom I am very fond. That I will kill it is a foregone conclusion.

"She was a wasted vessel," Envy declares, slowly creeping backward toward the wall. "Too resistant, stubborn. Dreadful manners. She called me a monster, like that little creature you have."

"Beck is often right," I say, twirling Cassandra's longsword in my right hand and tilting my head down. "I've learned that much."

"You will be a better fit," Envy continues, ignoring my reply. "She will die, you will live. Failure. They will excuse any errors I make in the beginning; you will be grieving. I willl-"

"Turn the Inqusition into a weapon against Corypheus' enemies," I reply. If Envy had eyes, it would goggle at me. "Play me as the monster, the greatest foe. Kill the Empress, aid the Grey Wardens in calling forth their demon army, make Corypheus a new god of the world."

Envy hisses at me, alarmed and unsettled by my knowing so many things I should not. I laugh at it.

"I should thank you," I tell it, grinning. "I was afraid I'd miss out on this. Dealing with Alexius was entirely too easy. I barely got to kill anything."

"I will tear your soul apart," Envy snarls. "What little remains I will permit to watch as I rape your miserable world and kill everyone you've ever loved."

"No you won't," I reply. "I'm going to kill you, Envy. Get that through your skull, if nothing else. There will be no rape, no murder, no grand atrocities. You're going to die here, in Cassandra's mind, or else you will force yourself into the realm of the real and my father and his fellows will cut you to pieces. This was a trap, Envy. But you've only trapped yourself here, with me."

It has no witty rejoinder or violent threat with which to reply to that. It just snarls and rushes toward me, its arms and legs fuelling a savage charge that would doubtless terrify any other victim. But I am a Templar, and I am the Herald, and I am not afraid of this third-rate lickspitle that poisoned so many of my brothers and sisters.

So I step into its charge and swing the sword with both hands in a majestic downward arc, and it throws itself into the edge of my sword with all its impotent fury. The shock runs up my arms, but it is far worse for Envy; the sword bites deep, splitting its head and neck, cutting almost halfway down the spine into the torso. It flails and rasps and gurgles, and as I tear the sword free it falls limp at my feet. One arm lashes at my face, but I sever it at the wrist with the sword. Envy writhes and wriggles and then lurches into my ankles, knocking me off my feet.

I roll and catch the next claw on the edge of the sword, severing a few fingers and saving my throat, but it gets a grip on my ankle and tries do drag me into itself. I buck and swing, slicing it along one flank, and it hisses and crawls up into the tree, its split torso and head slowly knitting themselves back together. Cassandra is still coughing and hacking, black demon's blood ejecting from her mouth with every expulsion. Beck looks at me.

"Her mind," she says. "Not the monster's."

I don't have time to think about that, because Envy dives onto me from the tree's trunk, claws swinging wildly. I have to leap backward, slashing at one of its arms, then another. I can't strike a proper blow with how it's attacking, four arms all trying to catch and tear at me; it's barely enough to block, duck and weave each blow. One of the claws catches my cheek and I hiss as I smack another aside. The Mark blazes on my hand, and I swallow the pain.

Envy snarls at me, catching my forearm with a hooked claw and dragging me off balance, another claw coming for my neck. I sway under it, whipping my head forward and smashing the top of my head into its torso. It hurts, but it forces it to catch itself with its upper arms. I raise a foot and stomp on its pelvis, trying to pin it down; it rolls and nearly knocks me off my feet again.

I bring the sword around and, with a grunt of effort born of the muscles burning in my arms, sever one of its hands at the wrist again. The appendage spins away, and I drop down low to plant my shoulder against its stomach and knock it back. That gives me just enough space to bring the sword around in a sweeping arc, opening its stomach. By now its head is intact again, but now it has to focus on mending its belly, trying to shield its exposed innards with two of its remaining hands.

I bring the sword back around in another lopping cut, but it dances nimbly backward, and my foot catches on a tree root when I step to follow. I hit the ground on my front, throwing up an arm to guard my face; the impact jars the sword out of my hands. Envy screeches in delight, all hands coming up to tear into my exposed back.

When however many pounds of pissed off Cassandra slams into its side, it falls to the ground. I grab the sword by the hilt and climb to my feet, taking off after it. It tries to claw at Cassandra, claws scraping on her armour as she cocks a fist back and punches it in the face hard enough to dent the bone beneath. She has one knee on its chest and her other foot pinning an arm, her left hand holding it by the neck as she pounds at it with the right. One of the other hands tries to grasp at her from behind, but I sever it at the elbow with the sword in a reaching cut that nearly takes me off my feet again.

"ENOUGH!"

Envy bucks us both off, throwing Cassandra into me as it whips forward, then back, rolling onto all six of its appendages and crawling away. Its head is under it again, bent over double like a fucked up paperclip. I catch Cassandra, but she is both larger and heavier than me, so we hit the ground. The sword clatters on the stone again, my back cracking over the raised edge of a stone tile and driving the breath from my lungs.

"Terrible, terrible hosts…" Envy rumbles. "Dreadful manners. Why must you insist on such feeble resistance? You cannot rid yourselves of me, not as I am."

"Leech," I cough. "You're nothing but what we make you."

It snarls at me.

"I am what you truly are, Herald of Andraste," It speaks the honoured title like a slur, venom in its voice. "What you have denied yourself to be. Markus Venier, broken little boy… did your own mother truly deny you because of your father? Or was it because she could see what a pathetic thing you would be?"

"You're about a week late for that," I retort, as Cassandra rolls off me and I help her to her feet. "I already met my mother. That affair's been settled."

"Has it?" Envy sneers at me, lipless mouth twisted hideously. "Truly? Tell me Herald, did it not occur to you that desparation drove her to lie? She and her fellows, facing the shackles of slavery. Her estranged son, leader of a company of so-called heroes, eager to prove himself to her after years pining after affection she would not give… salvation, in exchange for a peaceable lie."

I bite the inside of my cheek and breath in hard through my nose. I need to focus. This thing's a liar, I already know that. Marcus already knows that.

"Marcus," Envy hisses, and my eyes shoot open wider because I can hear the fucking C. "Yes, I see you in here. So secure in your knowledge of what has been, and what will be. So happy to be of use at last."

"Markus," Cassandra rasps, voice dry and hoarse. "Do not listen."

"I see you," Envy repeats. "Let us speak as equals, Marcus Venier. Let us see what you are."

AN: I'm gonna be honest fellas, I almost didn't bother writing this. That trailer for the next Dragon Age absolutely murdered my hopes and dreams for this franchise, and scattered the ashes on a stormy sea. Modern Bioware is a disaster and I thank God every day that anyone actually talented abandoned ship years ago.

But here we are again, with more of this, because every time I think I might be ready to let this story go it creeps back into my head with a song or an idea that just won't go away. Next update comes at some point, I hope, but frankly I'm currently between jobs and bouncing around freelancing so my time is limited. I'll see what I can do. Thank you all for your patience.