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.

24. Play, Counterplay

Fortune is with me, in the first few hours at least. Our return again to the Hinterlands (I understand better now why there are so many complaints about the place in Marcus' world, I think) coincides with the return of another band of unlikely companions, whom I am most pleased to see. We come to stop for the evening at the Crossroads, to ride for Redcliffe castle on the morrow and put an end to this absurd charade. It is gathered near the cookfires, awaiting our turn at the roasting goat that will be our supper, when we are interrupted by a voice all too familiar to my ears.

"The Herald of Andraste, returned to us?" The accent is faint, an Anderfel burr long lost to the ebb and flow of the thousand accents within the Order, but echoing present in the Rs and Es. "And here we thought we had been forgotten in this land of hounds and hills."

I turn to see Otto, the rakish rogue that he is, standing with arms crossed and eyes narrowed. He has not changed much in the month since last we met, still tall and lean with dark eyes and pale hair. At his belt he wears a different sword, one that looks dwarvish in its shape, at least to my untrained eye. I meet his gaze, level, and return his frown.

"If you hadn't made such a colossal mess of things here, Otto, I would have stayed in Haven," I retort. "But here I am."

He maintains the act of irritation for a few moments longer than I, but soon we both crack and begin to laugh at the display. He steps forward and claps me about the shoulders, damning me with a smile. From behind him the rest come up; hulking Brent fire-scarred and stoic, and lean Velle grinning, Nathaniel with his stern eye glimmering warmly, and last wild-haired Craichlun, who engulfs me in an embrace that smells of sweat and steel.

"'Tis good to see you again, Markus," he says, and I can believe him in spite of how little time we've truly shared together. "Tell me we march on the Tevinters; their stink pollutes my homeland."

Eager for battle as ever, I see. It is good that some things remain static in this world of constant change. The others share in his eagerness; Velle especially has a certain air about her as she circles around her fellows, her hands resting on the pommel of her thin-bladed Orlesian sword at her hip, black hair drawn back in a bun. Nathaniel is the only one to show reticence, his arms crossed, pale eyes narrowed and staring at the back of Craichlun's head. He has a new scar, a narrow line cut deep into his cheek, and his face is solemn.

"It is as you hope," I tell Craichlun, and then I smile at them as fortune has seen fit to smile upon me. "Indeed, I have need of each of you. Otto, you in particular should find this assignment fitting…"

I lay out for them, then, the plan that Leliana and I had constructed back in Haven. The secret passage under the windmill, an ambush in the main hall to cut the head from the Tevinter serpent all at once. Alexius befuddled and unmanned, encircled by our host… and with the scouts, five ordained and anointed knights of the Templar Order, freshly fed on lyrium and rested in preparation…

My grin is contagious, and soon each and every one of us, even grim Nathaniel, looks devious indeed.

"Tevinter Templars have no lyrium, no song," I say. "They are a political force first and foremost, from what I am told. These Venatori have no experience in counteracting anti-magic. The seven of us, together…"

Alexius' spell is supposed to be complicated and dangerous. Desperate as he is, he may still try it, and Lysette and I alone may not have the might to suppress such power as a rift in time. But seven Templars, seven voices conjoined, singing Abnegation or Contempt… it matters not how powerful the spell. It would fizzle on his fingers and he would be powerless before us. Then I just have to wrench that necklace from his throat, steal away the catalyst…

No time travel. No red future. The others cannot understand my raw excitement but the echo it regardless. This is, for them and I, the purpose to which we are sworn. Alexius is maleficar, a mage unbound by principles of morality and the common law of reason. The place of the Templars, our founding purpose, is intercession against just his breed of mad mage. It feels right to plan his downfall, clean and pure compared to putting down a revolution.

"Then as a company we march," Nathaniel decrees, his voice hard like cold iron, his hands falling upon Otto and I's shoulders. "And put an end to this maleficar of the north."

The order given, they fall in behind me as I see Lavellan. She is in the old grain silo, leaning over a table and reading a sheaf of papers intently. By strength of will and thought of Lysette alone I do not stare at her backside as I enter the musty old stone cylinder. The interior is gloomy, but her eyes gleam aquamarine as she looks up at me, a smile splitting her previously grim expression.

"The Herald is returned to us," she says the words like a song. "And with him, pray, explanations of Lady Nightingale's schemes?"

"She sent a letter ahead, I hope?" I ask, and when she nods I lay down the second, far more detailed letter she entrusted to me. "This contains the full measure of the plan. I will be making some alterations, to better utilize previously uncertain resources."

"We're the resources," Craichlun cracks, leaning forward past Nathaniel and grinning. "Seven Templar knights, at your service ma'am."

Velle drags him back by the shoulder with a frown, and I have a brief chuckle at his impudence before looking back to Devehra. She reads the news with a raised eyebrow, before nodding once approvingly. Her confidence bolsters mine; I've little experience on either end of infiltration, but I gather she's rather good at it.

"Planning as plans go, good be this," she says finally, sliding the parchment back to me. "Let us hope this tunnel of the Lady Nightingale's lay unaltered, elsewise we shall needs improvising."

"Five Templars and a mage, guided by five agents, using her maps," I say. "Can it be done?"

"To send eleven is many, but should the enemy shrouded be…" She holds up her hands as if to say 'it is what it is'. "The challenge is yours, Ser Herald. We needs only be swift and silent; you must face the foe."

"Alexius thinks he can buy and sell lives as if they were lumber and stone," I reply, my hand falling to the pommel of my Fereldan blade. "It will gladden me to disabuse him of this particular error in his judgement."

She examines me for a moment. There must be something in my expression, something I hope looks more alike to confidence than the anger I feel when I think of my foe, for she smiles at me with trust in her bright eyes.

"I shall gather five best," she says then. "On the morrow, together to war."

And so said, it is done.

Redcliffe Castle is a half-day's ride out from our encampment at the Crossroads, and I ride in good company atop a swift horse; a Feraldan Forder from the farms of Master Dennet, a proper warhorse beneath me instead of the usual swaybacked old nags that have carried me across half of southern Thedas until now. I am accompanied by Lysette and Blackwall, Bull and Solas; Varric remained at Haven, which I do not begrudge him in the slightest. I would not mind the chance to stay in one place for more than a few days at all. But alas, I am the chosen one, and so I must carry on.

We pass through Redcliffe village as a company; I am accompanied also by two standard-bearers of the Inquisition, and half a dozen of our men-at-arms in short order. The show of force is all posturing, but I want Alexius to understand that I too have people, and none of mine were bought or bribed. Besides Bull, but there's little I can do about the company I keep in regards to my Ben-Hassrath friend.

"This feels weird," Bull says, voice rumbling softly as he nudges his own mount nearer to me. "The whole thing. Time magic is…"

I can almost see the goosebumps pimpling along his grey back, as his one good eye narrows. HIs hands tighten on the reins, leather creaking under the pressure.

"It is unnatural," I agree, nodding. "The Maker did not set an order of things for mages to disrupt. What Alexius has done… he blasphemes against creation itself, and all things that have been and are yet to be."

"Plus it's just fucking weird," Bull adds, shaking his head. "How… how do we know he hasn't travelled back again? He could know we're coming."

"The temporal distortions around the rifts have not increased the rate of their spread," I reply. "Had he cast the spell again, we should have seen more."

"That is the hope, at least," Solas interjects. "This is bizarre, untested magic. We cannot be certain of the effects outside of those which we have already observed."

"Fuckin' magic crap…" Bull groans, before his hand falls to the axe currently slung on his saddle, a finger gently caressing the edge. "Guess I'm gonna see a lot of that working with you, boss."

"Most likely," I say, a wry grin stretching unbidden across my face. "Don't worry. I'm sure our erstwhile allies will do their best to keep it away from your tender skin."

He scowls at that, before chuckling. It's not a bitter sound, thankfully, just weary. I've thrown him rather fully in the deep end, I suppose, though that's hardly my fault. He just came to us at a time when magical crap abounds. I'll find him something to kill at some point along the way, I'm sure of it. I have a counter to Alexius' magic, but I don't doubt he'll have a backup plan. If I were him, it would be archers in the shadows; unfortunately for him, I'll have people in the shadows as well.

This will work. It has to work because if it doesn't I'll have proven to myself that I can't actually change anything, only react to the changes the world throws at me. That such a thing may yet come to pass frightens me, but I don't let the fear linger. There's far too much to be done for me to quaking at the thought of what might be; what will be is worrying enough.

Redcliffe Castle rises before us, so very archetypically Fereldan; the high, squared keep upthrust toward the heavens, surrounded by blocky walls capped with battlements. There are few guards on patrol, and those we can see are Tevinter one and all, red and white and silver clad, peering down at our approaching congregation. A few vanish behind the walls, doubtless relaying word of our coming to their master.

We come to a halt upon the bridge, before the great wooden gate, and dip our banner in greeting. In turn a mage whose robes are accented in the familiar pale yellow emerges and peers down at me, the twisted daemon-shape of his mask leering cruelly at us.

"The Herald of Andraste comes, in company of his noble band, seeking the Magister Gereon Alexius for parlay!" The senior soldier in our company calls, her voice carrying clarion-clear up ot the Tevinters.

"And the Magister Gereon Alexius receives him," the mage replies, after a moment of hesitation, or perhaps simply while awaiting instruction. "Pass through the gates and await your escort in the courtyard."

The gates open with a heavy creak, and we ride through as one. Solas looks to me, an eyebrow raised.

"A warmer greeting than I expected," he says, and I chuckle. "You disagree?"

"This is a trap," I reply, before leaning back in the saddle, stretching my back a bit. "And we're just walking into it with smiles on our faces. You don't think that's a bit funny?"

He doesn't answer, which I think is answer enough. We come to a stop as the mage commanded, there at the centre of the courtyard. We are exposed to arrows and magic alike, yet none come. I am wanted alive, or perhaps Alexius simply doesn't want to chance taking us in an open field, with how many valiant allies I can boast. He's down at least one mage, perhaps more if they made a habit of interfering with that rift. Or perhaps he simply wants to be polite. I can't imagine he's convinced himself wholly that I'm unaware of his plan.

Or, that petty voice in the back of my mind taunts, he is aware of my awareness, and his plot has encircled mine. It is the near-impossibility of that idea that girds me as I step forward, hands upon the pommel of my sword and spirit-blade. In my shadow follows Lysette; beside her, Bull, and to my back at the left Solas flanked by Blackwall. I smile amiably at the mage sent to attend us, and the half a dozen swordsmen who flank him.

"Your company shall need to wait here," he says. "My master has bid it be so."

"And I have bid it be otherwise," I retort, and for a moment I let the smile fade, and meet his eye behind his leering mask. "Your master's paranoia is ill-placed; I am no threat to he unless he should prove the inverse true. I will meet with him as equals, in the company of my fellows as he shall gather his about him, or elsewise there will be no parlay. Tell him this now, if you wish, or belay it until the business is finished; it matters little to me."

And so he goes to relay the bad news, and I remain beside my fellows. Bull bristles beside Lysette, rolling his shoulders and shaking his head slowly. The Ferelden sun burns high and hot in the sky above. Sweat runs down my shoulders and back, my hands resting on my belt. Solas shifts, leaning against his staff. Blackwall is stone still. All around us the Tevinter men wait, though I tally their number to be less than a dozen. Doubtless no more than a dozen or so inside. I can't imagine Alexius travelling in company of more than thirty, perhaps thirty-five at a stretch.

We wait a wile, and a while longer, until at last I roll my eyes and make a circular motion with my hand.

"Inquisition, enough of this game," I call out loud, so that the Tevinters might hear me as well as my allies do. "It seems the Magister is content to wait; he can wait a while longer while we rest in Redcliffe."

That does the trick; I'm standing with one foot above the trap, near enough to the trigger for Alexius' bones to itch. He'll be eager to bring me in. I just have to force him to do so while I have company. Sure enough, a moment after I begin to turn a Tevinter mage emerges from the doors of the keep. I recognize his mask at a glance, and turn to face Quaestor-Militant Quintus Laval with an affable smile.

"The Magister will see us now," I assume, and when he nods (though not without a hint of nervousness, I note) I gesture for my chosen three to follow. I don't want all five with me, not if it risks inciting Alexius' paranoia. Solas, Blackwall and Lysette file in after me. I chose them in particular; the elf, whom Tevinters disregard; the soldier, whom a Magister will disregard; and Lysette because I don't feel safe venturing in without her at my side. Our voice conjoined may be the last line of defence against Alexius' spellcraft, should the plan fail.

But the plan will not fail. I have decided it be so, and I will not permit it be otherwise. The plan is even better than when we made it; Templars now, and agents in concert, anti-magic and stealth, outnumbering perhaps Alexius' own servants. He will be surrounded, outnumbered, and most certainly outplanned.

I remind myself of this as we pass through the high halls of wood and stone that constitute Redcliffe Castle. Marcus was not so diligent a fanboy as to impart me with any sort of omnipotent knowledge of this place, and I doubt it would match the game anyways; it is enough that the main hall is before me, the doors opened wide, Gereon Alexius sat in his highbacked chair before the fire with his back to me.

Felix is there, and four Tevinter mages. No Fiona, because of course there's no Fiona; the absence of Fiona is more predictable than her presence these days. Quintus assembles as the fifth, taking station at the foot of the stairs which lead to the dias upon which Alexius waits. I walk with him to their base, flanked by Blackwall and Lysette, and then pause as Alexius speaks.

"Fifty," he says, his voice creaking, aged unkindly by stress and paranoia. "I can afford for you fifty mages, Markus Venier of Orlais. No more than fifty."

"Fifty may be enough," I reply, though I am slightly wrongfooted by his hyperfocus on the least important detail of this meeting. "Though I would rather more. Can I bargain you up to seventy?"

"You cannot." He speaks solemnly there, rising from his seat and turning. He is pallid, unshaven with grey and black stubble peppered across his sagging jaw, dark bags under his dark eyes and a dark mood about him. "Fifty, Markus Venier. No more."

"You do not look well, Magister," I reply, my hands resting on my swordbelt, so I can draw swiftly should the need arise. "Your son's affliction has not worsened, I hope?"

His eyes narrow. Fuck, spoke too soon on that one. It's obvious to anyone that Felix is sick; he's got the eyes of his father, bloodshot and rheumy up close as I was, and his little trip and fall play shouldn't have evoked anywhere near as much panic as it did. But I am applying post-point rationale in a way Alexius, wracked with paranoia and fear for his son, cannot.

"Felix is as fine as he has always been," he says, sharply. "And do not attempt to shift the direction of our conversation, boy. Fifty mages. Will you take it?"

"What is your cost?" I ask, and I hear his mages shift slightly, though he does not gesture. I dare not look away from him, not even to check for my own agents in the shadows. I cannot offer any hint, any sign of scheming. Let him see a naive, stupid Templar boy from the backwater of Orlais. Let him see Markus Venier, lackwit thief of his master's great victory. Let him see no more, I pray in a silent way. Nothing more than that.

"The cost is you, Markus Venier," he says, and his mages move, staves coming up; I see Quintus hesitate, bless him, but a few minutes of battlefield camaraderie are not equal to a lifetime of service, and he points that short metal rod of his at my chest, the end already sparking slightly. "The Elder One seeks you… and what you have stolen from Him."

Fuck, I can hear the capital H. Either he's guzzling the kool-aid or he's so damn desperate he's convinced himself he really believes. His hands do not shake as he reaches into the folds of his robes, his hands emerging with a set of black metal shackles. His left hand, bedecked with the gilded gauntlet of his office, is alight with fire even as he does so.

"Bind your hands and command your fellows to surrender, or I will have them killed, and you maimed beside them," he says, before looking for a moment at Quintus. "Quaestor Laval, if his hand should stray for a moment toward either of his blades, remove his ability to hold them."

"Yes, Magister," Quintus says, his voice cold. "Hands together before you, Ser Venier. Do not make me hurt you."

"I thought you a decent man, Quintus," I say, looking at last to him, and in the silvered gleam of his helmet seeing a slight sliver of green in motion. "Barefaced as an equal, I thought, yet here you are. Is the mask to hide your countenance, or your shame?"

"Quiet," he snaps, head tilting down, and in the silvered forehead I see for certain green in motion. "Cooperate, Ser Venier. You saved my life. I would not reward that with violence."

"Slavery, though, that's a fitting reward." I scoff, then scowl at him and take an entirely blind shot. "What would your father and mother think of you now?"

That sets something off in him. He steps forward, into me, the rod aimed for my stomach like a great heavy cattle prod. My arm swings down and bats his aside as I sway the opposite way, the rod missing my stomach before my other hand comes up. Behind me Lysette's voice sings, and as I join my voice I am relieved to hear others with us; Brent's rumbling baritone, Otto's soaring tenor, Velle high in the alto as Craichlun belts his verses and Nathaniel intones the Maker's will with a gentle tone alike to a male soprano. I can feel the electricity in the rod die, and the mages around us are baffled as I slam my fist into Quintus' throat.

He stumbles back, coughing, hacking and gagging; I pass him, leaping forward and bounding up the stairs two steps at a time. Once, twice, again, all the while bringing my Fereldan blade up and out of its sheath, away from my belt, around until Alexius is pinned with my blade at his neck. One of the Tevinter men is shot in the throat when he tries to brandish his staff; the others are beaten down by Templar fists and Inqusition boots, brought to heel by the chant and by the blades of the righteous brandished with noble intent.

I am elated as I smile at Alexius, the edge of my sword pressing a gentle steel kiss against the hollow of his throat. Dorian crows at the sudden turn of fortunes somewhere behind me.

"I shall have more than fifty, Gereon," I tell him. "I shall have them all."

Then my mark flares with raging scarlet anguish, Beck retreating from the surge of pure pain that floods my left side, and Alexius smiles back at me. He grins through thin, bloodless lips, his eyes half-mad with hate, and I topple backwards as he lifts an amulet into the air. It is a simple thing, deceptively so; a leather band tied in a long, loose loop, at the bottom edge of which rests a sigil-scribed skull the size of a fingertip, made of glistening, growling red lyrium.

"Did you think me a fool, boy?" he asks, as the hateful hell-scream of a titan's blighted blood barrages my ears and aching mind. "Did you think I would not come prepared? Or did you think that I would not know of your Order's disgusting predations upon we Dreamers?"

The voices of a thousand dead warrior-gods wail for war and massacre. I hear Lysette stumble and drop, the other Templars faltering. Dorian calls out, but even he is buffetted by the raw malignance pouring from that accursed artefact. This must be a purified stone of the stuff, the runes upon it some sort of amplifier. I doubt he made it himself. I doubt he came up with any of this himself.

Corypheus knows what I am. He's known since Sacred Ash, since he saw me in my surcoat and armour and helmet, emblazoned with the burning blade. How could I have been such a damned fool? I am a Templar, my body inundated with Lyrium on a daily basis; a prime victim for the very material which my enemy has crafted much of his army with. Corypheus knows that the Red's roar can ruin me, and many of my closest allies…

And he has armed his servants well.

"The Elder One will reclaim what was stolen," Alexius continues, droning on with his little speech as though I'm paying any attention to him through the haze of bloodlust and screams. "And he shall reward me justly."

I feel Beck encircle my neck, trying to ground me; sweet Calm, this spirit that calls itself my daughter, pulling me back to the realm of the real. She is balm on my burning blood, and I force myself to focus through the Mark's merciless agony and the cries of the Red. I'm on my ass at the edge of the stairs. The Fereldan blade has tumbled from my fingers and landed somewhere behind me, probably a few steps down…

And Hugo's spirit blade still sits on my hip.

My left arm is nonfunctional. I can barely force my right to move but I do, chomping down hard on the skin inside my cheek so the sudden, sharp pain will snap me into motion. I fumble a moment and recover the blade, and as Alexius realizes what I'm doing Beck surges into the sword and bids it to be.

Glimmering blue light erupts from the blade and, with a desperate lashing swing, severs Alexius' outstretched hand just above the wrist.

Immediately whatever spell he was channeling through the amulet ceases, and my left arm goes numb as the nerves desperately try to recover. Alexius stumbles backward screaming and cursing, while I swing out with my foot and kick the accursed amulet away from me, sending the scarlet skull skittering across the stone floor. With my spirit blade in hand I rise to my feet, swaying and staggering as my sense of balance resets.

Then I start moving, twisting and running down the stairs as spellfire begins to fly over my head. The Tevinter mages, the three that live, have regained their footing as well, reclaiming the initiative from my still-stunned Templar companions. Solas is blazing away with lightning already, while Blackwall rushes to my aid. Lysette is on one knee, hands over her ears. The other Templars are doing little better.

But Devehra, Dorian and the Inqusition scouts are not Templars, and so to them the Lyrium was nothing more than the shock of seeing me collapse. The Tevinters, incensed at the sight of my maiming their master, have focused foolishly on me and me alone, meaning that within just a few moments arrows begin to fly and they are sorely unprepared for the counterattack.

Devehra's gleaming greatsword whirls around and decapitates one; another dies with three arrows in his chest and another through the back of his neck; the third lives long enough to blast his assailant with fire before turning to me again. By the time he's hefted his staff to unleash an undoubtedly ruthless spell upon my advancing form, Devehra has crossed the empty ground between them in three long, loping strides and takes his raised arm off at the elbow, before bringing her blade up by her ear and impaling him through the chest.

The doors of the main hall swing open as the dozen or so Tevinters from outside rush in, swords at the ready, but before they can do much more than take in the madness the hall has become Dorian detonates a ball of fire in the midst of their formation. They stagger and burna and scream, and immediately I am upon them with my blue blade of light. I slice one's torso clean open, ducking another's swing and stabbing him deeply in the chest with the blade after vanishing it and summoning it back. A third tries to encircle me only for Blackwall to crash into him shield-first, knocking him clean off his feet.

Devehra joins us and we settle into the butchery of pitched battle; I am a touch unmanned with only one blade in my hands, but any hesitations or second-guesses are covered by my erstwhile allies, and by the time the last Tevinter warrior falls with one of Blackwall's two axes buried deep in his breast, we are triumphant.

"Go to the courtyard," I instruct Blackwall. "Tell Bull and the rest what's happened and tell them to ready a horse for a prisoner."

"Aye." He nods and takes off, and I turn to look to Devehra.

"Sweep the castle; I want any prisoners freed and any more Tevinters dealt with. Aim to capture, if possible, but I will not weep for the dead."

She nods and whirls about, calling to her scouts. The Templars are regaining their feet, still recovering from the mayhem of Alexius' accursed amulet and spell. I'll have to find some measure to counteract that if we're going to go to war with the Venatori and Red Templars in the future, though hopefully whatever spell that was is something that requires a great deal off effort and energy from the user. Dorian's made his way over there already, clearly battling the effects as he tries to speak to Felix. The young man is stunned, looking almost shellshocked at the rapidity and violence of what's just occured.

Brent is the first on his feet, moving to Otto's side across the hall. Craichlun curses as he rolls onto his feet from his back, reaching for his Fereldan claymore. Velle is still rubbing her ears, as if the echoes linger. I move toward Alexius, stepping over the still form of Quintus. The amulet roars at me in my mind, but Beck soothes me as I stoop down to grab Alexius by the collar of his robes and haul him up to his feet.

"Enough simpering and sobbing, Gereon," I say to him, forcing him to look at me. "You've lost. Accept that, at least."

"I cannot," he moans, as the stump of his right hand flails weakly at his side. "He is too powerful to resist, you must know that! The Veil itself was torn asunder by his might! You cannot stop him, no one can!"

"So I should just bend the knee, submit to him?" I ask. "Is that the solution, Gereon? Surrender and slavery? That is what awaited you, you have to know that. He was never going to heal Felix."

"Felix…"

The anguish in his voice is audible, and my chest aches. For all the harm he's done me, damn him for making me feel something. My hold on his robes slackens a touch, before I sigh.

"The Inquisition will do what we can for him," I say, softly. "It may not save him, but we will try."

"My boy," Alexius laments. "I've failed. I've killed my boy."

"Felix isn't dead yet," Dorian retorts, striding to my side and, with a rather firm scowl affixed on his handsome face, slapping Alexius across the face. "Come now, Gereon. This is no time for hysterics. You have a lot of duck!"

He hits me with his shoulder and I stagger to the side, dragging Alexius with me as a bolt of crackling blue electricity flies past my head and blows a hole in the wall. I release the aged Magister and turn, but by the time I do I am forced to throw myself backwards to dodge a second blast of lightning.

It occurs to me only now that I never actually knocked Quintus out, or did much more than punch him in the throat. He's up, brandishing his gleaming silver rod in one hand and his staff in the other, advancing upon me up the steps. Dorian flicks a bolt of fire at him and he deflects it with the crackling head of his staff. I try to draw on the Litany but the Red is still making it damn near impossible to focus; the radiance barely takes root, and only Dorian's magic flickers for a moment before the power dies.

Fuck. I've a mage on my side as well now. I roll to avoid another blast of lightning, before Quintus howls in anger and brings his staff around, whirling it in his hand. No projectiles are forthcoming, but I glance up to see a small stormcloud forming above me. Shit.

"Damn you, southern dog!" Quintus screams.

My options are to dive on top of Alexius, who is still crumpled on the floor where I dropped him, or roll down the stone stairs. Neither is appealing. Fortunately for me Solas, who was knocked damn near right on his ass by Alexius' red lyrium assault, counters Quintus' impending lightning bolt before he can fry me like a fish. Quintus is surrounded on both sides by mages many years his senior (many, many years in the case of Solas), and I allow myself to relax ever so slightly as I take in the sight of mages in battle.

For all the gap in experience, Quintus holds his own for longer than I expected; which is to say, he holds out for about ten seconds. The first few are even seemingly in his favour; he screams again and hurls bolts of arcane lightning at both his enemies. Dorian whirls his staff in a great big flaming pinwheel that disperses the energy, while Solas just conjures a barrier heavy enough to be visible as a wall of blue light in the air, that absorbs the hit. Then he grins, possibly the first time I've seen him do so, and his barrier breaks into several dozen little motes of electrified light that surge toward Quintus in a cloud.

At the same time, Dorian pirouettes and sets his pinwheel of fire rolling along the ground toward Quintus. The Errant is forced to choose, and swings his silver rod in a glimmering arc that conjures a dozen tendrils of electricity to destabilize and disperse the flaming wheel right before he takes about thirty-six bolts of magic full on his back. His robes scorch and burn and even ignite in a few places, his voice cracking as he screams in pain.

He stumbles, falls to his knees, and then Dorian eschews spellcraft to take a long step forward and, with the form of a star hitter at the top of a championship game, wallop him in the face with the fist-sized white gemstone at the end of his gnarled wooden staff, knocking the poor man out entirely and denting his mask as he does so.

"Sorry about that," Dorian quips, bending down to look at the unconscious Quintus where he lay on his front. "But I do work for that southern dog now."

Solas ascends the stairs, looking at his own handiwork as well. I leave them to admire their abilities, kneeling down beside the still weeping Alexius.

"Come along," I say to him, softly, taking his arm and lifting him to his feet. "It's done, Magister."

"It's over," he agrees, though I'm not sure he even heard me. "It's all over."

Bull comes crashing through the doors when I get to the bottom of the steps, Brent and Otto moving to my side to take Alexius from me. The Qunari looks up at me and, with a wide eye, says exactly what I didn't want him to say.

"Boss," he alerts me, his voice almost manic. "Half of Ferelden's fucking army just showed up at the gates. At least fifteen banners flying… the Fereldan boys are saying one of 'em is the king's."

"Indeed it is," declare the warm tones of Steve Valentine, as King Alistair of all bloody Ferelden strides into the hall behind him, flanked by the regal figure of Queen Anora and a full company of twenty Fereldan royal guard, their spears and axes gleaming.

The king of all Ferelden looks… well, he looks young. Not as young, perhaps, as he could be, but young enough to still have a hint of boyish charm in the grin he shoots me as he comes to a stop. Bull has moved to my side, but Alistair seems utterly uninterested in the nearly eight foot tall Qunari warrior I have at my flank. Instead he looks right at me, head downturned slightly to see me properly.

"Dreadful thing, that old banner," he says. "Can't stand the embroidery."

I crack. It's a tense situation, my entire body still aches from the fighting and running and red lyrium exposure, but I can't help myself. My hand covers my mouth but an almost childish giggle still escapes me, muffled by my fingers. Bull snorts, either at the King's disdain for his banner or at my helplessness. Alistair, for his part, looks rather satisfied with himself.

"So, I understand you and your Inquisition have been responsible for tidying up this corner of my realm?" he asks, and I straighten myself out enough to nod. "Excellent. Glad somebody was on top of at least one of these damn fires. I was worried I'd arrive too late to be of much use, but… well, there's a lot of fires these days."

He smiles apologetically at me, before Anora puts a hand on his arm.

"We are grateful to the Inquisition for their noble efforts in quelling the madness, is what my royal husband means to say," she says, her voice warm; she reserves the sharpness for her glance at Alistair. "And for their able work in ridding our realm of Tevinter infilitrators."

Alexius groans somewhere behind me, as Velle bandages his stump.

"Yes, very well done on your part, that," Alistair declares. "I can't help but feel at least somewhat responsible for the whole affair. When I told the apostate mages they were welcome to take refuge in Redcliffe, I hardly expected them to be such dreadful houseguests."

It is now that Devehra returns, in the company of elf of the hour. I look at Fiona, stumbling along beside the Inquistion captain, and wince a little at the sight of her. She's dirty, her robes ragged, her hair dishevelled. There's a rather hefty bruise on her cheek, and from the way she's limping I can wager her left leg has been shown a similar kindness. Anora inhales sharpy; I can hear leather creak as Alistair's hand squeezes into a fist.

"Grand Enchanter Fiona," I greet the elven woman, nodding. "I assume Alexius showed you firsthand the comforts afforded to Tevinter's indentured?"

At least she has the sense to look chastised. It's hard to pity her; maybe because she tried to sell my mother into slavery, alongside a few hundred others who entrusted their lives to her leadership. It's hard to say with things like that, I think.

"I was imprisoned shortly before your arrival, Ser Venier," she says, her voice hoarse. "The Magister was… not pleased when I told him I would rather go with your Inquisition."

That raises an eyebrow.

"I thought you had made a rather satisfactory deal with the Tevinters, Grand Enchanter?" I ask, managing to keep the smug from my tone.

"Some of my advisors made more plain their misgivings," she says in reply, rubbing her arm and looking at the floor. "I… was convinced to reconsider. Enchanter de Sabert in particular was very… vociferous. She claimed you could save us."

I am forced to take a deep, sharp breath of my own to conceal the shock I feel. My mother said that, in front of Fiona herself? Argued that? Does she truly have that kind of faith in me now, to entrust me over her own Grand Enchanter? Admittedly it doesn't take much to choose me over a damned Tevinter Magister, but still…

"I am glad she managed to bring you around," I say, before looking to Alistair and hoping I haven't broken anything in the process of events with all my meddling. "Your majesty, what should be done with the Apostates?"

Fiona looks to him as well; everyone in the room does. Alistair, for all his many virtues, doesn't really like being the centre of attention, nor being called upon to make such grand and important choices without a great deal of consideration first. It is that, I think, combined with my obvious prodding that makes him nod back to me.

"I leave the fate of the rebel mages in the hands of the Inquisition," he says, Anora nodding in agreement beside him. "You have proven your organization to be rather prudent at dealing with problems. I just don't want them in my damn country any more. Should reduce the number of incoming Tevinters, at any rate."

I wince a bit. Cold, if not accurate. Then…

Well. Here we go, I suppose. The big one. My first major decision as… well, I'm not Inquisitor yet, though I do plan to be. How do I handle this?

I've made it pretty damn clear I'm pro-Circle, even if my idea of the Circle is definitely idealized. To that end I don't think anybody would be surprised if I decided to subsume the mages, make them all but captives of the Inquisition. At the same time… I just fought a rather bloody little battle to ensure the mages wouldn't be treated like chattel. True, I need them; not really, actually, the Templars suffice just as well. In actual truth, I don't need them. I could have just let Corypheus get his small handful of apostate mages, and in the long run little would have really changed. Calpernia is even less frightening than Samson, all told. But I didn't.

Why didn't I? Because Alexius' time shenanigans needed to be stopped, obviously. But I could have done that by stabbing him in the face back in the Gull and Lantern, and I didn't. Because I didn't want to risk the mages. Because I want to save the mages. Because…

Because what? Because they're people? So were the dozen or so Tevinter men I just killed. So were the apostates under Gavriel, the renegade Templars, that poor fucking mercenary in the copse by the roadside who I stabbed in the heart and watched bleed to death in the dirt. What makes the mages so damn special? I don't need them, not really. I just don't want them to suffer.

Because I'm a Templar. Because that's my damn job, even if most of the Order seems to have forgotten it. Templars were founded to protect mages, from the world and from themselves if need be. Fiona is a mage who did something unthinkably stupid, and nearly ruined her own life and the lives of all her followers. And I stepped in to fix it, to save her and them, because that's what Templars are meant to do.

That's what we need to do.

"Grand Enchanter, I invite you and your followers to join the Inquisition," I say, my voice firm, strong, as clarity dawns on me. "You will be the first members of our new Circle, under the protection of our agents. You will be free to study, learn and grow as mages, under our watch and within our walls. You will aid us in our battle to end this chaos, and in time, perhaps, you will be as free again as you so dearly wish to be."

I speak from the chest, my voice echoing through the hall, and at the end of it I offer Fiona my hand to shake. No bowing, no curtailing, not any more. No more Templar masters and cowering mages treated like animals. Mages like Gavriel acted like feral dogs because the Order and the Circles of so many cities and provinces treated them as such.

"The Order failed the Circle," I tell her, my voice softer. "But the Inquisition will not. This, I promise you."

She takes my hand, and the pact is sealed. I've made my stance clear, my purpose spoken aloud. I have no idea what comes next, from my companions or from my enemies. But I won't back down. I can't. This is the path I've chosen, fucked if I'm going to turn back now. So here it goes, I think to myself, to Markus and Marcus and Markus Anew.

Here goes everything.

AN: The first real battle is won, and the mission is at last, perhaps, realized. But soon, the hammer will fall; nothing is ever easy.