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.

23. My Mother's Son

I can't do this.

I hate it, but it's the truth. Regardless of what percentile of my mind actually knows this woman before me as "mother" it's entirely too much. Lysette understands at once; she doesn't know the story. None of them do. I could never let it slip, it was too much, too soon. But she knows enough to reinforce me, taking my arm in her hand, bracing me when the sight of this willowy woman fills me with more fear than a crashing tide of demons.

Blue eyes burning with so many things; in her gaze I see amazement, grief, fear, shame… she takes a half step forward, reaching out a hand as if to cup my cheek. It's Bull who pats the hand away, pushes it down, shaking his head.

"You know this lady, boss?" he asks, voice low, gruff, playing the stoic bodyguard even as his Ben-Hassrath training fills his eyes, analyzing the situation.

"I…" Words falter and fumble, falling like flailing fools from towers. "I do."

I swallow hard, bite back the bile and the building grief, Lysette's touch rooting me in the here and the now even as my mind casts itself back, back to those early days best forgotten before I'd learned how to smile. My mother… Maker, my mother is here. In Redcliffe. I'm in Redcliffe, I need to plan, deal with Alexius, I don't have time for this.

But time is torn here, and my mother looks at me for the first time in thirteen years, and neither of us knows what to say or think. Beck braces me, warm about my arm, then around my chest, stretching herself around me, and the dread panic settles back into the depths of my stomach. She is Calm and I am calmed, and gently I put a hand on Bull's arm.

"It's fine, Bull," I say, though the tremors in my voice betray my uncertainty. "I.. I'm fine. I didn't expect to… see her here."

My mother takes in my company for the first time; Blackwall, whose arms are crossed and whose eyes are like stone; Lysette, who glowers at her, the only one of them to know who she is; Bull, guarded and guarding; and Solas, who looks upon this unlikely reunion with a building realization hidden behind his silent eyes. And then she looks back at me, sees her only son, and my heart burns with grief when she smiles weakly at me.

"Markus," she says my name with uncertainty, but a mother knows her child, and again her hand reaches out. "It's really you, isn't it?"

Bull does not move to intercept, and I reach up and take my mother's hand in mine. It's thin, but not wizened, well tended. She was an archivist, her purview was dusty tomes and quiet halls of high shelves and stacked leatherbound volumes. My hands are rougher than hers, and I am barely half her age.

"It is," I say, softly. "I… I had not suspected that… I didn't think to find you. Not here."

"I never thought to see you again." Her eyes glimmer with tears unshed she says it.

I have to bite back an envenomed retort, though it would be far too easy to say it aloud. She had no intention of seeing me again; she sent me away, after all. What right has she to play the wounded party here? This should be the opposite for her, yet she does not flee. She stays, she tries to take my hands…

"Chanson was good to me," I say, but I feel a pang of guilt that echoes her own when we both process the words. "I… I imagine you've heard all the tales."

"They say you're some manner of… of chosen hero," she says, though her tone belies a measure of disbelief. "I've heard you put an end to Gavriel's extremists, and that you're here to seek help. But…"

She bites the corner of her mouth, looking down at her hands. She seems uncertain, afraid even, before she shakes her head.

"I would come with you," she says. "But Fiona… she's sold us, Markus. This Magister of hers, he all but owns us now."

Fuck if that doesn't make me angry. I don't know why it feels so much stronger now; or perhaps I'm simply in denial, having spent so long bereaved over my own mother that I've forgotten who she really is, that the source of all that pain is because I love her and she couldn't bring herself to love me back. Or maybe it's the slowly crashing realization that Fiona sold the mages to a fucking cultist who uses blood magic to travel through time, who represents a nation of slavers and mage supremacists.

Maybe it's her I should have stabbed on sight? It's hardly as though there were any worse choices to be made. Maybe next time she can lead them into the Deep Roads, to keep them away from predations of the surface? Or a fun trip to Par Vollen, away from the tyranny of the Chantry forever?

"Fiona is a fool," I declare, and then all at once I am holding my mother's hands and looking into her eyes, my conviction set like stone. "And I will not suffer her mistake. Nor will you."

I don't know what's more surprising; the fact that she doesn't flinch away from my touch as she once did, or the fact that she so plainly believes me. She squeezes my hands, her voice soft, hopeful.

"How?" she asks, and I look upon her solemnly.

"Because Gereon Alexius has no idea who I am," I declare. "And he has no idea what I'm going to do. But he will fail here, whatever his scheme. I promise."

We stand there together for a long moment, looking at one another as if it is the first time. I did not know my mother; I knew her pain, I knew it better than anyone else because I was born of it, created by it. But I did not know who she was, not really. I was too young. And she has never known me, not as anything more than a living memory of her misery. But now… the pain is old, faded, a wound long reduced to a fading scar and a memory of a worse time.

I don't know if I can forgive her yet. She has cut me too deeply for me to do that. But I can accept her, and I think she can say the same of me.

"I am glad to have seen you here," she says, softly. "I… I am sorry, for what was done, for what I did. I've been sorry a long time. I only wish I could have said it sooner."

"I am not him," I say softly, and her hands tense. "If I could, I would kill him for what he did to you. Know that of me, if nothing else."

I turn then, because this is still too much, too soon and too quick. She does not pursue me as I push past my fellows, the rest falling in line. Varric pursues me closest, clearly aiming for some misplaced apology. I hush him with a hand, looking over my shoulder at my mother. She watches me go, forlorn. That is what baffles me the most.

Varric says nothing as we walk. I suspect he knows he's made some mistake, though my brief rush of anger toward him is already fading. He didn't know, not the whole story; I've endeavoured to tell as little of it as possible. But now… I have to. I can't have these people, some of whom I've come to consider my friends, wondering what it is that so stunned me back there. Lysette is an anchor, holding firm to my side, silent and steadfast.

"Thank you," I whisper to her, as we walk through the gates of Redcliffe village, past two Tevinter men who watch us go with suspicion behind their masks. "I… I should have expected her there. I should have been ready."

"Do not think of her," she advises, squeezing my hand. "Think of me. Think of us. She is an old wound, Markus, nothing more."

How I wish that were true. But I can't forget her, because she is so much of who I am. My anger has faded, though something still simmers inside, the old frustration of being the one cast aside. Lysette can see that; my paramour may be quick to temper but she understands me more than most. A woman's intuition perhaps. The thought makes me smile.

Back down the path to the Crossroads, back to Haven in time. I'll need Leliana for the secret passage, infiltrators for the castle proper. I'll take Alexius and secure the mages, get them back to Haven. Then preparations for withdrawal, the retreat away from Corypheus' inevitable counterattack. I focus on these things, goals and plans and schemes, and let memory of my mother fade back into the depths where it belongs.

It is only when we come to the Crossroads, as the sun sets to our backs and I breathe in the familiar scent of campfires and evergreens, that I allow myself to rest. We don't need to make camp for the night; the small village here is more than willing to shelter us for the time being, in squat round huts with fire pits in the centre of the floor and conical thatched roofs. Lysette and I take one to ourselves, but I ask the rest of my company to join us after supper.

I think Bull knows. He's likely put the pieces together, context clues and the way I speak of such things. I can't say for certain what Solas has or hasn't figured out. He knows more than most, from my unintended revelations during that little debate of ours on our first day in Haven. Lysette has an idea. The others…

I put my head in my hands, sitting by the fire, and let out a long sigh. I don't want to do this. I don't want to have this put on me, Marcus and I both agree on that. It's unfair to Markus, but… fuck. He dropped this on us, now I have to deal with his issues. I can only hope this doesn't give my companions cause to doubt me or second guess my place as their leader. I need them to have faith in me, even if I'm starting to run out of faith in myself.

They come in one by one. Lysette sits by me, hand firmly in mine. She tries to convince me not to go through with this, but she needs to know, all of them need to know. When Varric joins us at last, and we're all sat around the fire, I let out a long breath.

"I wish I knew how to say this," I speak the words softly, slowly, still full of doubt. "I wish I didn't have to say it, in truth, but it needs to be said. I… Bull, you've entrusted me with the truth of your role here. The rest of you have been forthright with me, and so I need to be forthright with you as well."

I see Blackwall visibly twitch, out of the corner of my eye. A part of me wants to wink at him, but I don't dare. That secret is between him and I for now, until I am ready to scare the living daylights out of him. Today is a day for my truth, and nobody else's.

"My mother was a mage of the Montsimmard Circle," I continue. "As you may have guessed when we met her in Redcliffe. She… I am her only child. I am not a mage, and I have never known my father. I never wish to know my father."

Varric leans forward, and he looks concerned. He's piecing it together then. Bull has it, if he didn't already, his lone eye darkening. Solas knows. I think he's known for a while. He looks unperturbed on the surface, but under the lie he wears I see his anger, his scorn. It is not for me, I don't think, only for the man with whom I share some of a face. Blackwall doesn't understand yet, maybe he doesn't want to. Lysette grips my hand tighter.

"My father was a knight of the Templar Order," I say. "He…"

I bite the words, feel them burn inside me, and only when the tears begin to sting at the corners of my eyes do I let them out.

"He assaulted my mother, when she was an apprentice." I say, voice hoarse. "He had made… advances, before then, always rebuffed, and so one night when she was alone he attacked her and had his way with her. She was only a little older than I am now, at the time."

My hands tremble, but I don't stop. Lysette has a death-grip on me now, her other hand rising to touch my shoulder. She's here, she's still here.

"She said nothing of it at first, under threats to her life," I say. "But when she began to… show signs, that she was with child, it… there was a new lie, one he forced her to tell, that it was a nobleman's child, one who had visited the Circle around the time he had attacked her."

Varric looks the most horrified. The rest, I think, have seen worse. Blackwall's jaw is set in a hard line, his teeth clenched and almost creaking, his eyes dark. Bull has relaxed, which is odd. Solas… Solas is furious and Solas is calm. Solas is Solas. He feels nothing but what he allows himself to feel.

"Only when I was born…" I want to throw up at the thought. "When I was born, the lie died. I looked too much like him, and my mother spoke up, told it all. He was banished from the Order, cast out by the Knight-Captains at Montsimmard. I… I remained with my mother until I was four. She raised me, though as I grew older she…"

I cough, trying to ignore the lump in my throat. Lysette by now is all that's stopping me from standing up and leaving, getting away from this fucking mess.

"I began to look more like him." I say. "I looked like my father, and my very presence was a constant reminder of what he'd done, how he'd hurt her. It was too much for her; just the sight of me awakened those memories in her. Eventually she could take it no more. She pleaded with the Enchanters of the Circle to send me away, to take me from her and put me somewhere far from Montsimmmard. By then I was four years old."

"I cannot, please sers, I can't." My mother wails in my mind, on her knees before the Circle Enchanters and Knight-Captains, pleading with them, hands clasped. "I wake in the morning and see him and all I can remember is Devan. He comes to me, calls me mother and I feel ill, please…"

My head hurts. Markus doesn't want to remember this, but I need to. I must understand, I need to know how we became the man I am, the man I am to be.

"His eyes are like mine, but the rest…" She flails a hand toward me where I stand, nervous under the eyes of so many elders and terrified at the horror my mother shows when she looks at me. "It is Devan, it will always be Devan! I cannot take it, please… take him, send him away, somewhere far from here please…"

"You would have us take your son from you?" the Knight-Captain with red hair says, her voice soft, her eyes wide. "What madness is this, Marianne? Is he not your blood?"

"He is not my son!" My mother cries.

I lurch forward at the memory, hands clutching my head. Fucking hell. So that's… Markus had that tucked away? That kind of shit fucks up adults, let alone four year old children. That's not… I was civil with her? I acted like I was at fault too?

"She denounced me." I say, and my voice is hard now, a tremor of something like hate inside it. "She said I wasn't her son, and she begged them to send me away and they did. They sent me to Chanson, on the opposite end of Orlais. I grew up there, joined the Order. I…"

Chanson is everything Montsimmard is not. It is a good place, a kind place, walls of warm brown stone, nothing like the cold white marble of Montsimmard. It is where Venerable Sarker made me alike to his own son, where I was first accepted, where I had brothers and sisters. Beck warms me, Calm at my breast. Lysette holds me, my lover at my side. My mother…

No. I am not her son. She is Marianne de Sabert, and I am Markus, Markus Venier, Ser Markus Venier of the Templar Order, Herald of Andraste. Enough of this pain. She set me aside, pushed me away, denounced me. I will not let myself hate her, but I will not let her hurt me any more.

Let go, Markus. Let her fade. We are whole without her, and this memory will do nothing for you or I.

I say no more. Not to him, not to the rest. But I can feel Markus relax, that needling itch of wrongness at last settling. He puts her aside, as she put him aside. My father was a monster, and if I could kill him I would. But I cannot save her from him. I can only be better than he was, and I have proven myself his superior in a hundred ways already.

Lysette rests her head on my shoulder. Beck thrums around my waist. Blackwall is the first of us to break the silence.

"You do not look so troubled now," he says, observing aloud what I think they can all see.

For the first time since Redcliffe, I smile.

"I've said it," I say. "I've said it aloud, haven't I? It's off now, it's out and spoken, the truth is plain for you all to see. And now that I've said it, I think I understand it better. I was afraid because she put me aside, threw me away, and I thought it was my fault. I wasn't good enough. But that's a lie."

Solas nods.

"It was always a lie," I say, and then I reach an arm over Lysette's shoulder, holding her close. "I do not hate her for what she did, but I do not hate myself either. I was a child, and none of my father's sins are mine to inherit. I am free of that, of him, and of her."

"Back in Redcliffe, you said you'd kill him for what he did," Bull observes. "If that doesn't tell her you're nothing like him, nothing will. You gonna be alright, Boss?"

He cares. It's strange that he does, a part of me thinks, we've scarcely known one another for a week. But he cares, because the Iron Bull is a person to whom caring is natural. It's what makes him such a good spy, and such a terrible Qunari.

"I will," I say, nodding. "I… I think I'm more alright than I've been in some time. Thank you, Bull."

They all say their part, Varric apologizing for his starting this whole affair, but I wave it off. It is good that this has happened. It is good to be free of it, to feel right again. Markus can heal now, and as he is made whole so too will I become stable. I hold Lysette, and once they are gone I thank her.

"It is nothing," she says, nuzzling her cheek against mine in a catlike motion. "That has been eating you inside for some time. I could feel it. In Val Royeaux it began, I think."

She thinks for a moment, eyes narrowing, then she frowns.

"The Enchantress," she says softly. "She was from Montsimmard… like your mother. She knew you."

"She apologized for what happened," I say, heading off my paramour's anger before she can start planning to do something we'll both regret. "It was one of the first things she said, actually. I… I do not begrudge her. I don't think I begrudge anyone."

"But she sent you away," Lysette says, her hands finding mine at my sides. "How can you accept that?"

"I know what you think of this," I tell her, and I raise our conjoined hands in front of me, and meet her hazel eyes unblinkingly. "But it is not the same, Lysette. Your father sent you away to cover for his crimes. My mother sent me away because my presence hurt her."

"She was your mother!" Lysette protests. "She… she should have cared for you! Enough to keep you, to…"

I see now where her pain comes from, the hurt she betrays in her passion, and I silence her rant by pressing my lips to hers. She is stunned at first, but after a moment she leans into it. Lysette is a startlingly bad kisser, to be wholly honest. Our first kiss began as a violent headbutt, and she has not improved much with practice. She leads with her nose, pressing our faces together with all the strength in her neck. It's endearing, if slightly uncomfortable.

"Your father is a bastard," I tell her when at last we separate. "He is an unjust man and a fool besides. I know that as well as you. But my mother was a victim. Please Lysette, do not compare them, not even inside your mind. She deserves better than that, at least."

It does not please Lysette, but she nods grudgingly. The compromise is not likely to last, but for now it will suffice. I do not think my mother is a monster. I was a living monument to my father's sin, and a persistent reminder of his evil. That she endured me as long as she did is perhaps a testament to her own strength. To accept me again, all these years later… is that strength as well? Or is it weakness? Is she ashamed, as I was?

Lysette kisses me again, and I stop thinking of my mother. We sleep together that night, half-disrobed and tangled together on the single bed in the hut. Nothing untoward happens; I am in no mood, and she recognizes that. Lysette is impatient, but not irrational, not in this at least. Holding me is enough, and her powerful arms are a comfort that more than suffices to drive away the pain of those old memories.

I wake to Beck, inside the dream. She does not speak; she rushes to me, throws herself at me and wraps me up in a hug as large as she can manage in her little body. She has stopped growing, stopped changing, comfortable at last in her composite child shape. She has a little bit of everyone I've come to know; black hair like Cassandra's, cut short and jagged, with Varric's crooked nose rendered much smaller on her face and Lysette's pale skin. Now I see more; she has a little of Blackwall now, his pale green eyes, and Solas' elven ears. I even see a little Sera now, the way her fingers twitch and tangle with a dress very much like a miniaturized version of one of Vivienne's classy ball gowns.

She holds me, warm and loving, this little thing I helped make with my mind and my care. Is it any wonder she calls me father, that I've begun to think of her as a daughter? I've never thought about fatherhood, nor have the other two that share my mind. But it fits. It feels good.

"You've untangled the anguish," Beck says, voice perfectly clear despite her face being buried in my shirt. "Markus is mending, Marcus is helping, and you are you for true."

She giggles, leaning back from me, looking up into my eyes. Then her expression fades a little, the smile dying, doubt crossing her features.

"Soon… you might not need me any more." She looks downcast at the thought, and I reach out with a hand to pat her gently atop the head.

"Nonsense," I say the word with conviction that does not belong on the word 'nonsense'. "Beck, you are the reason I've managed to maintain a semblance of sanity for this long. I may have helped you become realer, but you've helped me just as much."

I kneel down in front of her, and hold her tight to my chest. She is warm, another learned behaviour; perhaps I ought to find her more unsettling, a haemonculus of my own making, fragments of other things I know connected by a truly alien mind, but I cannot. She is Beck, she is the Calm that keeps me, and without her I would have faltered and fragmented, and the world would have been subject to my madness.

She is my daughter. I accept that now, readily as I've accepted everything else. Acceptance is the key to this journey; acceptance of my place in the affairs of the world, acceptance of the changes that have come… and acceptance that I must carry on.

Markus has let go of his mother. I let go of the pain as well, because it is mine to feel and mine to be rid of. It doesn't matter what she has said, nor what she has done. The past was the path, and I can only go forward. Beck nuzzles herself against my neck and I allow myself to be now, not then, not therefore; now, in this moment, with the child I've come to love and the peace she has given me.

Come the morning and Lysette shakes me awake, her hands on my shoulder and a nervous smile on her face. I hear a voice from outside; Bull, inquiring as to our state of readines and asserting terrible, terrible things about our night. I help Lysette with her armour, dress for the day myself and within the hour we are again on horseback and venturing toward Haven. Though not before being rather politely interrupted by a new figure, one familiar to me.

"Ah, excellent, I didnt' miss you." Dorian says, looking up at me atop my horse with his hands on his hips. "I don't suppose you have another of those kicking about? I'd rather not stick around where Alexius' people can see me by glancing over the village walls."

He joins us atop a Fereldan Forder that he grumbles incessantly about the breeding and ability of, largely to do with its long and bobbing gait. Bull mocks him ruthlessly for his poor riding posture atop a "proper horse", while Blackwall just sneers every time Dorian complains of saddle sores or chafing. A part of me had begun to dread the constant back and forth; free of the grace of a loading screen travel takes on a new and threatening posture. But if my companions are to be this consistently entertaining I almost relish the chance to spend more time on the road.

A week's riding later, hard and fast, and we return to the village in the snow. A bird sent ahead has informed Leliana to be ready for us, and she meets me at the gate and walks in with me, flanked by one of her agents while I am flanked by Lysette. Dorian, whom Leliana thoroughly distrusts in spite of his affable nature nad natural charm, agrees to an escort of two Templars from the Inqusition; Jacques and Cordeau, as it happens, who both barrage him with questions about Tevinter, its landscapes and its breeds of hounds the moment they're alone with him.

"I admit, I have not thought of Redcliffe in some time," Leliana says, holding up my letter. "But you are correct; I was with Neveric when he broke into the castle to put an end to the undead menacing the village. We entered through a secret passage inside a windmill on the hills over the village."

"Could you repeat the process?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. "Preferably with a squad of your best agents?"

"It is a risky proposition," she replies, frowning. "Against a Magister I would advise sending Templars, but this would be a mission of stealth. The Order is not known for its gentle touch or discreet behaviour."

I chuckle.

"I have known one Templar who was any good at stealth, and he's apparently somewhere in the southern Hinterlands chasing down Carta agents," I reply, thinking fondly of sly Otto. "No, this would require your agents, I think. A small company of picked men, perhaps a dozen at most."

"You have numbers for Alexius' cohort?" she asks me, and I nod.

"At least four mages remaining, as well as a small detachment of Tevinter soldiery." I recite what I remember. "The mages are all Alexius' personal apprentices and… Quaestors, I think the word was. They'll be loyal, likely to the death."

"In that case, our approach will need to be lethal," Leliana nods. "Scout Lavellan is in the area already, and she's adept at killing mages. I'll gather her and a few of my best archers, then volunteers from the rest."

"Will you lead?" I ask, and she shakes her head.

"I would, but Scout Lavellan is an able field commander, and I cannot leave our network untended for that long," she replies. "We've begun seeding agents into Orlais as you requested; why the emphasis on Halamshiral?"

"Rumours in Orlais spoke of the Grand Duke's sister hosting peace talks," I reply, lying through my teeth with a disarming smile. "I had hoped your agents might be able to confirm or deny the suspicion."

"I've heard little of Florianne," Leliana admits. "Though the Winter Palace is undergoing a rather impressive series of renovations. It bears watching."

She looks me at me appraisingly, before nodding once.

"You know, you remind me of him," she says, and her eyes seem to look past me, past Haven, to somewhere far away. "He was like that, always thinking five steps ahead."

"Who was like that?" I ask, and she smiles; a little, private thing, one that I'm not sure I'm meant to see.

"Neveric," she replies, before blinking. "Oh, but they've done a horrible job spreading his proper name. Neveric Aeducan, the Hero of Ferelden. He and I were… close."

I blink. I've known for a while now that the Hero of Ferelden was a dwarf this time around, but I hadn't known it was the noble. Then it occurs to me that I've done a rather terrible job inquiring as to my predecessor's accomplishments; Hawke remains most of a mystery to me as well, though I know she apparently went for Sebastian in this timeline. Now is hardly the time for research, but once the Templars and Mages are wrapped…

Well, then it'll be Corypheus, but I'm sure I can find some time in the interim to ask some pertinent questions.

"I will not pry," I say, smiling at her. "Though I don't doubt you know much more about my relationships than I do about yours."

"You and Ser du Montefort are close," she replies, nodding. "Much closer than I expected, to be sure."

Lysette flushes bright red, a colour that, while hardly flattering on her, is very entertaining. I give my unlikely paramour a pat on the shoulder, reassuringly, before raising an eyebrow at Leliana.

"I didn't think you had any expectations," I say. "Was there some pool of bets I was unaware of?"

"Hardly anything so crass," she says, shaking her head at me. "It is my job to anticipate things, Herald. That is rather the point of me. I had anticipated you and your companion's closeness, but I did not expect it to become romantic so quickly."

Lysette is still red, and by now I feel a little sorry for her. I'm surprised by how well I'm taking it, though I've been the one receiving the brunt of Bull, Blackwall and Varric's combined teasing. At this point it all sort of rolls off me. Their insinuations that we're fucking like rabbits are rather unwelcome, but the rest is harmless. The idea of Leliana having even a tiny facet of her network dedicated to observing us is, however, far more alarming.

As Herald, I will be the centre of attention almost everywhere I go. I suppose I'll just have to get used to all of that, though I do hope Lysette can manage the same.

"The mission comes first," I say at last, just as we reach her little cluster of tents in front of the Chantry. "If you could draw up a map or some sort of plan for Scout Lavellan and her troops, we can begin as soon as we return to Redcliffe. I do not doubt Alexius is eager to see me, doubtless to clap me in irons for his master or some other nefarious plot."

"You do seem to attract nefarious plots," Lysette agrees.

"Plotters attract plotters," I say. "The trick is to be better at it than the other fellow."

Leliana leaves us with a promise to have plans prepared, while I make my way into the Chantry. I've got time, at least until tomorrow, to spend on the crucial art of developing relationships with my companions I can't drag into battle with me all the time. My first objective is Vivienne; she's actually where I anticipate her being, at her little alcove office to the side of the Chantry's main hall. There she pours over several large texts all at once, scattered across her desk, hands flat against the surface and eyes narrowed. She hears our approach, the clank of Lysette's armour at least, and turns to greet us with a smile.

"I've seen the reports," she says, and the smile sours instantly. "Oh Fiona… the poor girl's dementia is showing. Tevinter? One wonders if she actively intended to earn the ire of the entire continent."

"From what I understand, the deal is barely above outright slavery," I reply, shaking my head. "It's… absurd. I know little of the Grand Enchanter but surely she wasn't this foolish before?"

"Not to this extent, no," Vivienne shakes her head. "Fiona was always a touch odd, but most of us assumed that was due to her time in the Grey Wardens. She'd tasted her misguided ideal of liberty and I think it upset her that she could not retain it. I wonder if we might have been better served letting her tend to her gardens far away from the halls of power."

"A hero is a hard thing to set aside," I say. "Though I doubt her reputation could get much worse now. Even her fellow mages are chafing at the idea of Tevinter rulership. I…"

I swallow.

"I met my mother ther.," I say, and at once Vivienne steps forward and takes my hands in her own, a uniquely warm gesture for a woman I've long perceived as an ice queen.

"My dear, you needn't say any more," Vivienne says, shaking her head. "It is none of my business."

"You stand beside me now," I reply, mirroring her head-shake. "You ought to know. I have… I have decided to cut ties. I do not wish to live with the shadow of what was hanging over me, any more than I must. She denounced me there, before the Circle and the Order. I am a Venier, not a de Sabert. She has no want of me, and I have no need for her."

It is odd, I think, that Vivienne should look pained by that statement. But she knows well the experience of leaving one's family behind; in that we are alike, and I am perhaps more alike to a mage than most Templars. Another excuse for my empathy then. I will not be a lost little boy chasing after a mother whose affections are lost to him. I must be the Herald. I must be Markus Venier of the Order and the Inquisition, as she needed to be Vivienne of the Circle and Imperial Court. Anything else is a waste.

"She chose this," Vivienne decides, nodding. "And you are merely obeying her wish. It is good that you have set this aside, darling. It would not do for the Herald of Andraste to be haunted by his past."

"I have enough future haunting to manage," I reply as a joke, though it's not as funny when it's almost certainly an objective truth. "And besides, Chanson provided more than most can claim."

"Indeed," she agrees, before letting go of my hands. "As to Chanson, my dear, I must admit that your fellows are most delightful. Knight-Captain Sarker is a delightful gentleman… I've missed the company of good and decent Templars."

"Montsimmard was less fortunate?" I ask, and she shakes her head.

"Hardly, darling; we were a proper Orlesian Circle, rooted in the traditions of Andraste's dreams for mages." She gestures to the books behind her. "A true sanctuary for those attuned to the Fade, and a repository of priceless knowledge besides. Our Templars were hardly the thugs of Kirkwall, nor the spineless fools of Ferelden. Captains de Sardet and Salline were properly raised and trained, educated and able. It is tragic what became of them."

"I had heard de Sardet did not survive the first days of the rebellion," I admit, shaking my head. "When the reports began to come in… an entire tower, lost?"

"Resolutionists." She speaks the name as a curse. "An attempt was made on my own life as well; it is fortunate the fools that came did not think to check my quarters for warding. But it was savagery, and the Templars were forced to respond in kind. Foolishness, utter foolishness. I made plain my intention to harbour those who did not believe in Fiona's misguided little crusade, and still they insisted on bloodshed. It is fortunate Chanson maintained its senses."

"We made plain our intention to stick to standard procedures," I reply. "We would not punish them for the sins of the other Circles. In return, they did not attempt to murder us all. I have heard a few other Circles managed similarly?"

"Not enough," she says. "Not nearly enough as should have known better."

"It ends soon," I promise her. "Fiona and the Lord Seeker will be brought to the table, and under our auspices they will be made to discuss a proper peace. This war has cost Thedas too much for too long."

"And if it must be forced upon them?" Vivienne asks, raising an eyebrow. "If the Mages refuse to see reason, dear, what will happen then?"

"Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children," I reply, and she nods approvingly as I recite Transfigurations. "And they shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world… or beyond. I do not want to kill mages, no more than I wish to kill Templars. But I've seen enough in the Hinterlands to know what this rebellion has become."

A farmer, his home destroyed; Mattrin, his hand burned to ruin; the Hinterlands aflame… Gavriel of Tesserana, sneering at Shartan as he slays him. The little girl in Val Narie, dangling from the tree, tiny shape swaying in the wind… My hands clench into fists, though I do not bid them do so. Beck warms my arm and I relax.

"If the Mages wish for freedom, let them first show that they can behave like men," I say. "The rest will follow in time. The Circles may need refurbishment, changes must be made. But total freedom is a path to ruin for they and for their fellows."

"Well said, my dear," Vivienne nods proudly. "I only hope you can convince certain associates of ours to see the light as well."

I glance over my shoulder, half expecting to see an angry Solas lurking in the corner or something. He is not present, we are indeed speaking in confidence, thankfully. The last thing I need is to have this argument with him for the third time. I'm sure I'll get an earful about it when I actually bring the two factions into the fold; it'll take a great deal of finesse to assure him that no, I am not going mad with power and tyranically steering the Templars and Mages in accordance with my own personal whims.

I have a plan. I have to have a plan. If I don't have a plan then I'm lost. I bid farewell to Vivienne and make my way next to Josephine, in hopes of figuring out exactly what dividends our Starkhaven assistance might have made. Fifteen minutes later I leave Josephine be, crestfallen to learn that nothing much has happened yet, though there are stirrings of potential support. We just don't have the pull in Orlais to make any big waves… not yet, at least.

I go to bed that night with a smile on my face, in spite of it all. I'm going to win this. I'm going to take down Alexius, save the Mages, we'll get the Templars into the fold. We'll evacuate Haven early, bury half Corypheus' army in snow, assemble our hosts… it's all looking up. I just have to do what needs to be done.

Unfortunately for me, as I soon find out; my enemies know that as well.

AN: A big old wrap-up/catch-up/mash-up chapter to bring us sweeping into the delightful fun of In Hushed Whispers, which I hope has answered a few pressing questions about our hero's history. Don't be fooled by optimism though; it's a rocky road to victory, and things may not go as well as our boy hopes.

After all, what fun would that be?