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Chapter Text

            Seekers of Truth. The name itself is self-explanatory, but it does little to lend to the scope of what a Seeker must actually do in pursuit of the truth. Detaining Varric Tethras was a menial task, though interrogating him had been a daunting process…not morally, but mentally. The man blathered on and on in circles, and just when it seemed his words were mere ramblings, he brought it right back around to the point of the interrogation. Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, their capabilities and the tale of their involvement in sparking the Mage Rebellion.

            And ultimately, how he had absolutely no idea where to find the Champion.

            All in all, his interrogation was the very least of what a Seeker could do—should do—to unveil the truth of any matter.

            Thoughts lingering on the face of her most current prisoner, Cassandra Pentaghast wished for the umpteenth time she could thrash that damned Dwarf. Maybe Andraste would convey her wishes to the Maker and he would flip the scenario on them—that it would be Varric receiving the full extent of a Seeker’s wrath, and this…impossibly young-looking girl could be given the courtesy of a chair and a chat with the Lady Seeker.

            But no. That was not how this story unfolds. Varric was somewhere on Haven’s Chantry grounds, probably spinning a yarn and having a drink with the men who were assigned to guard him, while Cassandra Pentaghast knelt in the lowest levels of the Chantry preparing herself for what had to be done.

            “Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter,” not as her voice did as Cassandra kneeled with hands clasped, alone outside the door to the gi—the prisoner’s cell. “Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.”

            "You’re going to want to see this, Cassandra.”

            Leliana’s voice was quiet and certain when she’d approached the Seeker after her scouts’ return to Haven from the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Cassandra had been in the ‘war room’. What an awful thing to have in a Chantry. It wasn’t the room itself’s fault, it was just the biggest and most convenient focal point that wrought privacy, where they could plan, or attempt to plan how in the Maker’s name they were going to handle…this.

            A hole in the forsaken sky. An explosion at the conclave—the Temple of Sacred Ashes and all who had been inside obliterated.

            Behind Leliana came two Inquisition soldiers and between them, a woman, head lolled back in unconsciousness, left hand blazing with the kind of veil-light that rend the sky in twain.

            No. Not a woman. Well on her way, but no—this was a girl, she could not have been older than Cassandra had been when she’d begun her training to become a Seeker. Younger possibly. She should be somewhere worrying about what to wear to the next ball or if the boy she likes will ask her to dance, not…committing acts of terrorism? Treason? The mark on her hand could be no coincidence—and something annoying in the back of the Seeker’s mind spoke in Varric’s voice ‘caught green handed, you could say’. She couldn’t.

            And then the mark sparked, crackling to life and casting a sheen of sickly Fade-green across the hard grey stone of Haven’s walls, prompting Cassandra to draw her sword, fulling expecting the green glow to summon Demons into the room, but no, no Demons, the only thing the mark summoned was the Seeker’s reaction and the feeblest of pained whimpers to drop from the girl’s lips, her face contorting in agony before she fell lax again in the hands of her captors.

            The Apostate Solas, the Elf that approached the Inquisitions soldiers with an offer of assistance, took over the girl’s care—he was her cellmate after all. Cassandra thought it too coincidental that the Elf was so near when the conclave exploded, but readily offered knowledge and help on how to deal with this breach in the sky. So, he was cast into Haven’s dungeon, and the girl soon after. The Elf quietly intoned instructions to his guards who, under the watchful eye of Leliana, carried out Solas’s wishes, bringing him fresh water and dry cloth, Elfroot, and any Lyrium that could be spared as he attempted several different magical and traditional techniques to stop the Mark from spreading such that it killed the girl before she could be questioned and brought to the Breach to test the Mark on her hand—if she could close it.

            There was a hanging implication that such preventive treatment would be stopped after questioning and closing the breach, and that such a thing would be merciful for a girl facing charges of treason, settled a cold dead weight in the Seeker’s stomach.

            “O Maker, hear my cry: Guide me through the blackest nights. Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked. Make me to rest in the warmest places,” the Chant sounded like a plea more than a prayer, Maker she had to be right, this had to be what was right it was her duty. “O Creator, see me kneel: For I walk only where You would bid me. Stand only in places You have blessed. Sing only the words You place in my throat.”

            She would interrogate the prisoner soon. Solas had confirmed she would be rousable within the next few hours. Maybe less. This girl, chained and crouched on the cold dungeon floor.

            This was not personal. And yet it was. Divine Justinia was everything, and this girl should mean nothing, especially if she had carried out the attack on the conclave.

            If.

            “My Maker, know my heart: Take from me a life of sorrow. Lift me from a world of pain. Judge me worthy of Your endless pride.”

            She would have to do whatever it took to get the truth from this girl. Questioning would be a kindness that could be quickly ripped away, beating, torture—Solas had been reticent to confirm the aura of magic that emanated from the girl, it wasn’t the Mark it was her, she was a Mage.

            He had nodded gravely when the Seeker ordered him to ensure the girl was administered a draught of Lyrium before questioning. That the glowing blue liquid would be coursing steadily through her bloodstream by the time Cassandra woke her from her days-long slumber. Both women had to be prepared for the Seeker to use her gifts if necessary.

            “My Creator, judge me whole: Find me well within Your grace. Touch me with fire that I be cleansed. Tell me I have sung to Your approval.”

            She would light a fire in this girl’s veins, burn the truth from her blood if she had to. It was her duty. And then she would lead her to the Breach, by force if necessary, and make her close that damned thing if it killed her.

            “Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.”

            “She is ready, Lady Seeker, whenever you are,” the Elf Apostate said in clipped syllables as he steadily met the gaze of the Human woman standing just outside the dungeon doors. Inquisition soldiers—guards—flanked him, ready to escort he and the Dwarf Varric to the forward camp. They’d both volunteered to be of assistance, regardless of their treatment at the hands of the Inquisition, the hole in the sky made every injustice seem inconsequential.

            Cassandra had finished her prayers. Her vocal ones, anyway, the ones handed down through the Chantry that everyone said. Her internal monologue which projected eternally to the Maker, however, did not quiet even as she said, “Very well.” Politeness put a ‘thank you’ readily at her lips but it died in her throat. The courtesy of a ‘thank you’ felt crass given what the gratitude covered.

            Thank you, for keeping a young girl alive long enough so that she could be questioned and tortured if need be.

            Thank you, for preparing her blood so that it may burn in her body to force truth to spill from her until she has earned the right to breathe without the air in her lungs tearing at tissue like knives tracing the lines of her every vein.

            Thank you, for being complicit to the demands of the Inquisition.

            Solas gave her one of his very regal nods. The motion struck her oddly, like the respect he placed in the act was meant to mock, not to regard someone in any high esteem. Or perhaps it’s that it seemed a gesture a king would give to dismiss a lesser man. Then, head held high despite his voluntarily captured state, he led his guards down the dark hallway, ready to face the Breach.

            Leliana emerged from the dungeon then the door closing silently behind her. Blue eyes were hard with determination that spoke of hatred. Cassandra’s resolve wavered but for a moment more as the thought glanced her mind that perhaps the Lady Nightingale would be better suited for questioning the girl. As in, perhaps the red head could better stomach the task of interrogating their prisoner and all that may involve.

            But no, the glimmer of hatred in Leliana that would allow her to do unspeakable things to any she thought had brought harm to Divine Justinia, would blind her to the truth. It would take little to convince the woman that this girl killed her mentor, and then nothing would convince her otherwise—regardless of what may actually be.

            Angered and hurting as Seeker Pentaghast was, as much as she desperately wanted this girl to be a monster hell-bent on the destruction of the world, if she was nothing more than an innocent bystander, some strange girl with a glowing green birthmark that fell out of the Fade because that’s what she usually does on a Tuesday, Cassandra would be able to accept either of those truths, and any in-between.

            So, Leliana at her back, Cassandra Pentaghast stormed into Haven’s dungeon, ready to seek the truth.

            She’d been burning for days. Her left hand, sometimes further up her arm, and at one point burning in her chest, creeping ever closer to her heart. And then hands, cool and soothing, with long, fine fingers that’s touch brought healing and comfort, would douse the flames, set back the burning until it was just a flicker in her hand. It was contained, it could not be extinguished, but she was grateful for what little had been done. Thank you, to those hands, and whoever they belong to.

            She thinks they belong to the voice—the voice was nice. Calming. Masculine but gentle, it spoke with certainty and short syllables like he was used to speaking in the rhythm of another language, his mouth was not made to speak common Trade, but he deigned to, in order to tell her…something. Stories maybe. That’s what it felt like—something in his tone implied he was launching into a great Epic, and sometimes she actually understood the words he was saying—catching phrases describing fields of flowers, colors that name could not be given to, and for some reason ‘griffins’ were a consistent theme, that was something she noticed through the haze that left most of his words heard but not comprehensible to her pain-clouded mind.

            She lulled in and out of conscious, like a child’s toy, yo-yoing between agonizing darkness, and blacked out nothingness. She couldn’t see when she was ‘awake’ or as much as she could be. She wasn’t sure if perhaps she’d been blinded, or if it was just heavy lids she couldn’t feel to raise. When the burning wasn’t consuming her weary attention, the aching did well to make up for it. Her shoulders, chest, back, even her legs ached. She was kneeling, crouched on something solid and cold, knees pressing into chest, chest curving inward as shoulders hunched lax and unmovable. Her body felt like lead. Burning, aching lead.

            She was so tired.

            Until the hands carded through her hair and then tilted her head back. They’d done that a few times before to administer fluids—sometimes broth, or water, or the occasional potion that eased her aches. But this time was different.

            Cool magic slinked seductive down her throat. Lyrium.

            That was…nice. Good even, her bones felt less heavy. Her magic was appreciative, drinking it up like a person dying of thirst, it sang pleasant songs in her blood.

            But then the hands were gone. They took the voice with them.

            That felt…lonely. Sadness seeped between the cracks pain had left in her chest. The pleasant singing of magic changed its tune to something meant to soothe. She was not alone, she had her magic, and the Maker—neither would leave her.

            CRACK

            Green flame sparked brighter, and brighter still as pain flared even stronger in her left hand. Fear ignited in her veins and for the first time in the days that weighted her like years, she felt alive, and aware. Jerked from her dazing half-sleep, she could finally open her eyes, and her body wrenched upward of its own accord only to be slammed back down against the stone floor of what she realized was a prison.

            The bars were one clue.

            The chains that restricted her every movement, keeping her crouched on the floor, were another.

            The armored guards wielding swords all pointing at her throat, were a rather solidifying suggestion that yes, she was in prison.

            Huh. On their journey to the conclave, the Noble Mage from House Trevelyan had bragged about his night in a cell in Val Royeaux. Being a noble gave him certain allowances, he’d been allowed to leave the Circle to visit family in Orlais and he’d used the liberty to get rowdy in the open-air pub, had too much to drink, and too many encouraging friends, so he’d brandished his manhood for all to see.

            Somehow, she didn’t think she’d be bragging about this stint behind bars. He’d at least had a funny story to tell any who would listen—she…she wasn’t even sure what she did.

            She certainly didn’t have a manhood to brandish in public so that was one probability down the drain.

            Maker, why couldn’t she remember?

            The Conclave. That’s where she’d been, she could remember that much.

            There was a new-found hope among Apostates—the Conclave, and Divine Justinia, the head of the Chantry, had given them reason to believe that maybe, just maybe Mages and Templars could sit down and build new bridges to better places. Perhaps the Circles would serve as places of learning Mages actually wanted to pursue, rather than prisons they were forced to serve life sentences in simply for being born with what the Chantry claims is supposed to be a gift from the Maker Himself. Maybe Apostates could see a future where they did not live in fear of being found by Templars—maybe they could live their lives as anyone else did, in the public, doing whatever it is they found their niche in.

            That the price for unruly magic could be patience and practice, not Tranquility—that the ultimate loss of self was reserved only for those who truly wished to do others harm.

            She’d gone to the conclave as a representative of…well…Apostates. Not all of them, obviously. Ones that had been Apostates before the rebellion. And even then, it was really just those who had gotten together in the Free Marches, at the meeting.

            Apostates were constantly on the move to stay out of sight of any who would suspect their magic or report them to Templars, but a great many of them knew of each other, either through association, rumor, or the occasional face-to-face encounter.

            When news of the Conclave ran through the community, there was a meeting of sorts. Rumored meeting. That had almost resulted in her being eaten by a bear. Several bears. It was a saga in and of itself, the journey from a small Nevaran village to a cave nestled in the Vimmark Mountains in the south of the Free Marches, where the single largest group of Apostates she’d ever seen in her life, gathered. One of their own—a Trevelyan of all people, who rebelled in the Circle at Ostwick, had called them to this place and claimed to have heavy ties to the Chantry in Ferelden. Ties that could get the Apostates a moment with the Chantry’s higher-ups, and quite possibly, with Divine Justinia herself.

            Of course, Trevelyan was going as a Representative of Ostwick’s Circle. But he’d come to know and meet many former Apostates in his time in the Circle, and felt it was a duty owed to his fellow Mages to offer the same chance he had at having a voice at the Conclave.

            They’d argued for hours. ‘They’ meaning her fellow Apostates, she wasn’t one for yelling, or giving orders for that matter. She was just a kid. She’d just gone to listen. She had been worried their din would have alerted outsiders to their presence in the caves—but that was likely why they were in the middle of nowhere and not a nice, warm pub with drinks and any number of witnesses.

            Some of the Apostates wanted nothing to do with the Conclave and were merely there to naysay—no one should go at all, it was dangerous! And what the hell did a noble like Trevelyan know about Apostates, this was obviously a Templar trap. Others thought they should all show up in force, and demand to be heard in front of their Circled brethren and Templars alike, with the ear of the Chantry provided by their noble ally.

            What they’d settled on, was a single ‘Representative’ of their own. One of them would go, watch, listen, and be a voice for their fellow Apostates. Trevelyan was pleased with the decision and confirmed getting one of them in would be absolutely “no problem”. In fact, the clan Trevelyan was so large it would be easy for them to just go along and get to meet with the heads of the Chantry under the guise of a member of Trevelyan’s family.

            “Ellie.”

            She’d been listening very carefully, but her name dropping from the mouth of an elderly Mage—a woman with kind eyes, a sharp tongue, and once upon a time, the guts to hide a young magical child in the kitchens of her Ladyship’s House until the Templars went away—that still surprised her enough to jolt like she’d been half sleeping.

            “Who?” a shouty one, an Elf man, no Vallaslin over his dark features.

            No one answered him really, but a dozen or so other faces in the crowd, familiar faces, began to chime in with affirmations.

            “M-me?” she’d asked and drew the gaze of all seventy some odd Apostates huddled in the just cave just clinging to the light of the setting sun.

            “Yes you, fool girl, you’re practically a poster child for good Apostates,” the hedge Mage who’d offered her name as tribute. “You don’t cause trouble, you’ll not start a fight or make us all look like barbarians. If you identify yourself as an Apostate, you’ll certainly be painting a picture the Chantry has never clearly seen. Apostatehood aside, you’re not a criminal, you have control over your magic without the guidance of a Circle, and you just want the right to live as anyone else. You’ve stated your case rather eloquently in the past.”

            Yeah. To Templars. And only to distract them long enough while she built up the nerve to Mind Blast them. Gently. Just enough so she could escape—she’d not been trying to kill them, they were just doing their jobs. While she didn’t appreciate their job descriptions, she at the very least could respect them as Human beings.

            Trevelyan had appraised her silently, though there was something like acceptance in his face. She would do.

            But no, she couldn’t possibly! She was maybe fifteen? Years were hard to count when you were the only one keeping track. They couldn’t honestly think sending someone like her would make the Chantry see Apostates in a different light. Unless that light made Mages look like they should all be in playpens and had no business being out of the house after dark. In which case, the Circles were doing just fine, no need for correction at all.

            Her objections were cut off when the one voice that had gone unquestioned all evening sounded, the one that sealed Ellie’s fate.

            “Yeah, send the kid.”

            He was a man Ellie recognized from a bar in southern Antiva. He ran the place as an underground operation to help free Apostates stay free. It was the last resort of desperate men or the luxury of well off Apostates—you absolutely have no other options, you can’t get the Circle’s dogs off your back, or you simply didn’t want the hassle of handing another big move. So, you go to his bar, order Blue Templar. He pours you a shot, you hand over more money than most make in a year. Then you knock back the shot, and the ghastly stuff knocks you out like a light and next thing you know, you wake up days later and you’ve been somehow smuggled to a new town to live a new life, and it’s your job to keep it safe.

            Ellie was really, really glad she only ever asked him to let her fill up her water skin with the pump out back for herself. She didn’t think she’d like blacking out and waking up in a new life.

            Correction—she could now confirm she did not like blacking out and waking up in a new life.

            Why was she in prison? Was she still at the Conclave? Where was Trevelyan?

            BANG

             Oh Maker, she really did not like blacking out and waking up in a new life.

            Anger incarnate came bursting through the dungeon doors. The woman looked like wrath—sharp cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, dark eyes like smoldering coal. For a moment, Ellie wondered if perhaps this was not a woman, but a Spirit of Rage here from the Fade, made flesh.

            “Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now,” she seethed, in what Ellie could almost assuredly place as a Nevarran accent.

            She couldn’t help it, her arms began shaking in their restraints, shivers coursing up and down her spine, cutting deeper into the soreness in her muscles. With panic, she thought her magic might rear up inside her to protect her, and she clenched her eyes shut and put her best efforts into quieting it—somehow, she didn’t think adding fire to this situation would help anything. Her magic teasingly played through her body that she wouldn’t have released fire, but ice.

            Oh, to chill Rage’s temper. Ha ha. No, ice wouldn’t be helpful either, she assured her magic.

            Everything in her went still and silent once this woman of wrath gave explanation for just why exactly Ellie was being held prisoner.

            “The conclave is destroyed, everyone who attended is dead. Except for you.”

            Destroyed? Everyone was…what?

            Bile blazed a path up her throat. Everyone? All of the Mages, the Templars—the heads of Chantry and…oh Maker, not Divine Justinia! Not…

            Not Trevelyan. No please no.

            “Nervous? Don’t be. Just stick with me, kid, and you’ll be fine.”

            Swallowing hard and then gasping for air she looked up into her interrogators face, meeting her eyes as she begged to know, “W-w-what do you mean everyone’s dead?”

            Her question was not met with an answer. Instead, Rage took her shackled left hand sharply by the wrist and yanked it up for her examination.

            “Explain this.”

It was the first time Ellie properly saw what exactly was causing her hand to burn so, waxing and waning from the feeling that her hand was being stuck directly into fire, to hot sand being ground into an open wound, and back again.

            Green, shining light that sputtered and spat, gaping from her hand.

            “I-I-I can’t,” oh Maker that was not a helpful answer, the hand around her wrist tightened and Maker she could feel it bruising, the bone questioning if it should crack. Her magic surged, wanting to protect, but the girl took a deep, deep breath and forced it back. “I don’t know what that is, or how it got there.”

            Tighter. Maker, Maker, Maker that hurts, but then her wrist was released, flung back at her face as Rage exclaimed, “You’re lying!” and her hand raised like she would strike the girl, but her fingers met like she intended to snap them.

            It was then Ellie noticed the red head. A woman in purple-silver armor, she seemingly materialized from the shadows, striding forward to place a hand on Rage’s wrist and halt the snapping motion with the cry of, “Stop!”

            “Leliana,” the Nevarran woman objected.

            “Don’t! We need her Cassandra.”

            Ahh, Rage had a name. Cassandra. Pretty—she was pretty too in a ‘I could kill you and you would thank me for the honor’ sort of way.

            Cassandra growled, and her eyes blazed with something that said she would be yelling at the woman named Leliana in private for interfering with her interrogation. “I know.” Was all she ground out, for now. There was something in what little she said that implied ‘I was hardly going to kill the girl’.

            There were worse things than dying though.

            Worse things than dying…everyone is dead.

            She couldn’t quiet herself. Sniffles, sobs worked through her body as she tried to still herself, cease her carrying on. But good god.

            Everyone was dead? Everyone?

            “I-I can’t beli-lieve it. You’re certain everyone is dead? My- I was with my fr-friend. Trevelyan. Y-youngest of his H-house.”

            Youngest of his House, save the few baby nieces and nephews he had. That he adored. The noble Mage from House Trevelyan had taken their travels to the conclave like a grand adventure shared between two upbeat kindred spirits. He’d chattered most of the time, about what would happen at the Conclave, all his relatives that would be there, and most reverently he revealed a multi-faceted locket that unfolded several times over, holding tiny perfect portraits of his beloved nieces and nephews. He’d rattled off their names, their favorite colors, who could walk and who was learning, what their first words were—and even offered her an invitation to meet them sometime when this mess was over.

            You’re technically a Trevelyan now, he’d joked, you should meet the rest of your ‘long lost’ family. Wouldn’t that be a laugh? I have so many cousins, introducing a total stranger as one even to actual members of the family would likely go unquestioned. You’ll probably be claimed by some poor aunt or uncle out of their minds trying to keep track of all of their actual children.

            Their children. Thank the Maker, thank everything that is holy out there no little ones had been brought along to the meeting of the Conclave.

            Everyone was dead.

            Except for her?

            Why?

            She hadn’t realized her internalized “Why?” had torn from her throat and exposed itself before her captors, laced with all her sadness, her anger.

            Who would do this?

            Cassandra looked at her prisoner, assessing her as Trevelyan had that day in the cave. Apparently, there was something to be seen in Ellie, some truth, and she gave Leliana a nod. The red head came to stand before the girl.

            Where Cassandra had been rage, this woman—closed off, reserving resentful judgement until now—was something akin to compassion as she spoke.

            “Do you remember what happened? How this began?” she asked.

            It took a moment, curse the sniffling gasps that held her words hostage. Ellie took another breath, and tried to speak clearly, and calmly. “My name is Ellie. I was attending the Conclave as a guest of the Mage Trevelyan, to represent my people.”

            “Your people. As in Mages? Or an organization?”

            “My people as in Mages. Apostates, specifically.”

            “Charter.”

            The name summoned a pretty Elf woman, her red hair was woven into intricate braids atop her head, and Ellie absentmindedly wondered what Leliana did with her own locks under her hood.

            Charter held a clipboard with several sheets of thick parchment hooked on it, her eyes scanning pages and flipping them to reveal the next, and then the next before she held the clipboard out for Leliana’s appraisal.

            “Ah. You are listed here as Eleanor Trevelyan?”

            “I’m just Ellie. The Trevelyan is borrowed. I’m not a noble, I’m just a Mage. Ser Trevelyan called a meeting of Apostates and said he wanted to give us a chance to speak for ourselves at the Conclave. They decided I should go, and he lent me his family name, so my attendance wouldn’t be questioned, and I could get the chance to talk to members of the Chantry, and…and if Templars were looking to start snatching up Mage attendee’s, my supposed noble status would make me a less vulnerable target,” she rambled.

            But Leliana had picked up on one thing in particular. “Talk, to members of the Chantry.”

            “Oh, oh no I really do mean talk, honest! I would never hurt anyone—that’s why I was sent! To make a good example and prove we don’t have to be a danger! I’ve never once thought of killing anyone! Ever!”

            “So, you arrived at the Conclave. Then what happened,” Leliana continued.

            “I…” her eyes clenched shut, and a wave of nausea passed through her as she tried to remember, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m trying to think. Trevelyan and I got in line to enter the Temple of Sacred Ashes…we got in pretty early—the line was much longer behind us than it was before us. He introduced me to a few Chantry Mothers and then one of them—Mother Penelope? She said she wanted to introduce me to…Dory I think she said. Trevelyan didn’t know who that was, and we were separated—he wasn’t allowed to come for some reason.”

            He hadn’t liked that, he’d immediately suspected her cover had been blown somehow. He made it clear that he didn’t like his ‘young cousin’ being whisked away from his supervision. She’s my responsibility, he’d said. And something warm had settled in her chest, that she had an ally nearby that was looking out for her.

            Dead.

            “Dory is not a name she used after her promotion, it is used like code now. Mother Penelope told her fellow Chantry Mothers who she was taking you to see without tipping off those who needn’t be in the know. You must have been surprised,” Leliana said.

            Ellie shook her head. Both as a negatory, and to clear it. “I don’t know. I can’t remember much after that. I-”

            Her mark crackled again, sending even Cassandra taking a step back and placing her hand on the hilt of her sword.

            Ellie pulled her hand as close to her body as she could, as if to keep it from sparking at anyone else, “Sorry sorry sorry,” she half-hissed as her hand burned. “I don’t know why it does that.” I don’t know what it is.

            “Do you remember anything else? Anything at all?” Leliana asked.

            “I don’t know…it’s strange. Weird-strange. It might have just been some kind of nightmare when I think of it, but I remember…running. Things were chasing me, and there was this woman…”

            “A woman?”

            “She reached out to me, and then I…I fell? Something like that—I remember rubble, air that smelled like rain. There were people shouting maybe? I’m not sure. Then there was the burning, and the hands with the nice voice, and then the whole—bang! With the door there.”

            Charter covered her mouth with her clipboard, like she might laugh at the girl’s summary of her time in…wherever she was.

            “Leliana,” Cassandra spoke then, “go to the forward camp. I think it is time I take the prisoner to the Rift.”

            Rift? Oh Maker, Rift?

            There was a Rift somewhere near by?

            And she was being taken to it?

            Was it wrong that Ellie could picture Cassandra bringing her to a Rift, only to throw her in? She wasn’t a seer by any means, but the probability of such a thing happening in the near future seemed high.

            Guards, swords now sheathed, stepped forward undid the chains that held their prisoner in place, but her hands were quickly captured again by Cassandra as she tied them together at the wrist, then hauled Ellie to her feet. The girl worried she may have bitten a hole in her lip to keep from screaming along with her muscles’ protest. Her bones felt hallow, and what little toned bulk gathered around them was little more than mush beneath her skin. Her legs tingled like electricity traveling up and down them as blood more freely flowed to the recently underused appendages, waking them from their own achy slumber.

            But she stumbled along, trying to keep one foot in front of the other as, with an affirmative nod from Cassandra, she followed her captor out of the dungeon.

            The stairs were just not nice. They were long, and her legs didn’t understand why she insisted on stepping so high, and then resting her weight on just one leg at a time to pull her body up and forward of all things when they just wanted her to lie down.

            But she became awash with something both haunting and welcome at the top of the stairs. Once they were on the main level of the building, she realized she was in a Chantry of all places. It was…unnerving that a Chantry had been her prison where she’d felt so much fear. But it was soothing that she was somewhere ordained for the worship for her god. Somehow, the idea made her silent prayers for salvation feel more heard.

            She followed Cassandra out of the Chantry, and her eyes widened at the sight.

            The sky was…gone? No not gone just covered.

            The heavens were awash in glowing green light—in places the light faded, the blue of the sky was corrupt with a haze of green making it look almost sickly. Like an infected wound.

            “We call it ‘The Breach’. A massive Rift into the world of Demons that grows larger with each passing hour. It is not the only one—but it is the largest—and all were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.”

            Explosion? That’s what killed everyone at the Conclave?

            So, someone had blown open the sky—and these people thought Ellie had done it.

            She liked the sky the way it was before this Conclave mess, thank you very much. Maker, she loved the stars, and she couldn’t see how they’d shine with all that hell-scape polluting the sky with unnatural light.

            “Unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world.”

            And then the torn sky rumbled and crackled, and pain ripped through her left hand, sending her to her knees with a scream, cold-wet seeping into her pantlegs. Snow, cold snow, maybe it would cool her hand…

            Cassandra kneeling before her distracted her from that line of thinking. The woman looked…less scary than before. Like she was trying to appeal to Ellie as opposed to forcing her.

            “Each time the Breach expands, your Mark spreads, and it is killing you. You say you went to the Conclave with no ill intent—but the Mark on your hand is somehow connected to the Breach in the sky. Regardless of how it got there—it may be the key to stopping the Breach, but there isn’t much time.”

            Ellie looked at the Breach overhead. It was only by the grace of the hands and their voice that she was alive right now. The Breach would grow stronger and she would die—may still die even if she manages to do something about it and Maker it’s huge how do these people even begin to think Ellie could have done this, and then look at her and say ‘ah yes, we think you can seal that world-swallowing hole right on up just zippity zap’?

            But then she met Cassandra’s gaze. This woman believed the Mark on Ellie’s hand could stop this, not Ellie herself. She wasn’t sure what this thing burning her to death was exactly, but maybe it could be of help to someone. Maybe she could spend her few hours before the Breach consumed her either in its victory, or its closure, doing something that would help people.

            “I understand.”

            Surprise was definitely a new look for the Nevarran woman.

            “Then…?”

            “I’ll do what I can. Whatever it takes.”

            Maybe when this was all over, she would see Trevelyan again, and that was a comfort. Maker preserve their souls.

            Cassandra escorted her prisoner through Haven’s estate. She would have to talk to Leliana later, about their joint interrogation technique. While she was admittedly…glad to have spared the girl her special talent with Lyrium, she didn’t appreciate that Leliana thought she had so little control over her own abilities. She had been merely going to jolt the girl in the hopes of getting more out of her before she had to take things to the next level. A flash of her power, and she knew the girl would have become a fount of information. She was a Seeker, the title is hardly one they just hand out, it has to be earned. And she had earned it, with everything in her—the title Seeker of Truth was more her identity now than her own name, than her place as the Right Hand of the Divine.

            Though Leliana’s approach, asking the girl questions so calmly after Cassandra’s fury, had left the girl practically rambling off every last thing she could possibly remember—the desired result procured via a different method.

            Eleanor Trevelyan…and the Trevelyan was merely borrowed. The girl was obviously young, her parents…she hadn’t mentioned them being at the Conclave, but surely, she must have parents. Did she have a last name of her own? Or was she just as she said, ‘just Ellie’?

            It was hard to believe the girl was ‘just’ anything, with that Mark on her hand.

            But Cassandra had seen the truth in her. When the Seeker informed Eleanor of the demise of the Conclave, she’d been truly shaken—grief, and not the sort Cassandra had seen in guilty men realizing the full consequences or true horror of their crimes, but genuine shock that such a thing had happened, and true grief for those lives lost. The girl’s face…it had been almost like a mirror of her own, when Antony…

            Eleanor hadn’t gone to the Conclave to cause the sort of havoc that had ensued. So, the Mark on her hand, it had to be somehow coincidental—she’d gotten caught up in the explosion in some way that left her Marked but spared for the moment, perhaps.

            For the moment. Solas did not believe he could keep the girl alive indefinitely. The Mark would eventually kill her, so long as the Breach continued to grow. He hoped that the Mark could close the Breach and believed that quite possibly the Mark would either vanish on its own at that point, or at least stop spreading.

            And as Cassandra walked alongside Eleanor through Haven’s camps, watched her grief, how she shrank back from the glares and resentment pouring from those around her, she allowed herself to, for a moment, hope beyond hope the girl’s life could be spared, and she would be proven innocent.

            But the most she could do for now was silently vow to protect the dying girl with her life, and offer quiet words that may bring her some peace. “They need to believe you did this. They are angry and hurt just as we are, but they have a focal point for that anger, while we still scramble for the truth. It grounds them, gives them purpose.”

            Eleanor for her part gave a subtle nod and looked like she might have offered a smile to the Seeker but thought better of it. Which was likely for the best—it would unsettle, and possibly unhinge any who saw the girl and thought her a cold-blooded killer, the destroyer of the Conclave, smiling at her captor while being led to what they were hoping was her punishment, her death.

            When they made it to the bridge that would lead them out of Haven proper, Cassandra brought the girl to a halt, and drew her knife.

            The girl flinched, closed her eyes as she gasped and then braced herself, as if accepting…what? Oh goodness.

            Cassandra took hold of her prisoner’s hands, so she could cut loose the ropes around her wrists. When her bindings slipped to the ground at her feet, Eleanor opened her eyes and looked down at the hand holding her own before meeting the Seeker’s eye.

            “There will be a trial,” she promised.

            That seemed to settle it for the girl. She nodded, confirming that she understood the Seeker had no intention of murdering her anytime soon. Cassandra released her hand and resumed leading her unbound captive.

            “Open the gates,” Cassandra ordered, “I am taking the prisoner to the forward camp.”

            Inquisition soldiers pushed open the heavy wooden doors, and Eleanor followed the Seeker onto the dirt road, inturrupted every so often by barricades, more soldiers stood their ground while a few were running back towards Haven with cries of “It’s the end of the world!”.

            It truly did seem that way, didn’t it?

            Regardless, they were going to the forward camp, and onward to the Breach. If the world decided to end in that time, well then, that was the Maker’s business.                     

            The sky rumbled, and to Cassandra’s dread, the Breach expanded yet again. It’d been less than half an hour since the last such pulse, maybe it wouldn’t…

            “AHH!”

            Cassandra turned to find the girl, Eleanor, fallen straight onto her bottom, clutching her hand to her chest, all color gone from her face—her complexion practically turning gray.

            The Seeker went down on one knee, and with care not usually found in her motions, she laid a hand on Eleanor’s shoulder.

            “Has it passed?” she asked. They couldn’t sit here for long, but…Maker—she was just a girl.

            Eleanor took a deep breath. “S-sorry, sorry. Yeah, I-I’m okay.”

            Cassandra, used her other hand to brace Eleanor’s arm before rising to her feet and bringing the girl with her, and then both hands were giving Eleanor’s shoulder’s what the Seeker hoped was received as a reassuring squeeze. “The pulses are coming faster now.”

            “Well then,” the girl said, now steady on her feet, she beamed her own reassurance in the form of a smile, “we’d better get a move on, huh?”

            The Seeker of Truth nodded, and set a faster pace for them, hoping the girl could keep up. She began explaining to her, about just how Eleanor had found herself locked in Haven’s dungeon—she had fallen, just as she’d claimed, and Inquisition soldiers found her. They brought her to Haven and said she’d fallen out of the Breach itself. They too, had seen a woman in the Breach behind her.

            There were already some mumblings going around Haven’s camp that it was Andraste—that Eleanor had been caught by the Maker and delivered by his bride to receive justice for her hand in the Divine’s death.

            Cassandra left that theory out of her explanation—though there wasn’t really a chance to say much beyond “You fell out of the sky, we found you, and yes, there was a woman like you said,” when they began crossing the second bridge.

            Green light hurled from the heavens and Cassandra sent a hand back, pushing the girl away in the hopes she would find solid footing on uncollapsed bridging, but the effort was in vain. They both went toppling onto the ice below with the rubble Fade fire had left in its wake.

            And then, as if there weren’t enough obstacles in their way, a Demon appeared.

            A mere Shade, but a Demon was still trouble. Cassandra drew her sword and ordered the girl to stay back, while she handled the cursed creature herself. It clawed and screeched, knocking taloned fists against her armor, and it moved like water, trying to strike her while not being struck itself. But it was no matter, she almost had it down, it’s movements becoming more sluggish with effort after a few slicing blows of Cassandra’s blade.

            Movement, fast, dark, clawing, and most definitely coming from behind the Seeker, distracted her just a split second, and one of the Shade’s claws met its mark, tearing at the flesh of Cassandra’s cheek.

            But then lightning struck both Shade creatures and gave the Seeker the opening she needed to finish the creatures off herself.

            And then she found herself face to face with a wide-eyed, weaponized Mage. Eleanor had apparently found a staff.

            Cassandra leveled her blade at the girl’s throat, and commanded, “Drop your weapon, now!”

            The staff fell from the girl’s hand immediately and she tucked her hands behind her back in surrender, to show she wasn’t going to summon any form of vicious spell that might free her from captivity.

            “I only—they were trying to kill you, and you didn’t see the second I…I only meant to help,” Eleanor promised. “Are you alright?”

            The Seeker let out a dismissive sound—not quite disgusted, but close. “I am behaving like a fool,” she admitted quietly before sheathing her blade. She knelt down and picked up the staff, extending it to the Mage. “You need protection and I am not best equipped to offer that all on my own. We must work together.”

            Eleanor gave her a small grin as she timidly took hold of the offered staff, as if half expecting she was being tested—like if she took the weapon Cassandra would turn on her.

            “I should remember you came willingly,” Cassandra offered. It wasn’t one of the girl’s ‘sorry’s but it was as close as the Seeker would have liked to get to an apology at the moment. Well…almost as close. She barely thought to stop and consider her actions more fully before offering from her personal arsenal of healing draughts to this girl she’d already allowed a weapon of all things. “Here. These will help if you are injured—we must use them wisely, we do not know what we will face.”

            She tucked almost all of the bottles away in the pockets of her Mercenary Coat, with the exception of one, and Cassandra began looking her over more closely—was the girl injured from their fall? Had the Demon attacked her before turning on the Seeker? She should have been paying better attention, two lesser Demons were hardly a challenge.

            “Liquid Elf-root, right?” Eleanor asked as she held the bottle in the light for examination, then uncapped the vial to sniff its contents.

            “Yes, drink it if—” Cassandra’s hand flew to the hilt of her sword when one of the girl’s hands drew too close to her suddenly, and something wet swathed across her cheek followed by the slightest tingle of…oh come now.

            The wound on her face was closing up.

            Eleanor had jumped back immediately after her impromptus application, re-stopping the bottle of draught before tipping into her pocket. “It looked bad, Elf-root can be used topically even in liquid form—better than downing the bottle when you’ve only got littler dermal injuries.”

            Huh.

            “Do not do that again,” Cassandra warned, “I could have snapped your neck out of pure reflex.”

            “Thanks for heads-up, I’ll have to keep that in mind in case that trial thing doesn’t work out in my favor,” she said with a grin. “You know, a broken neck is a swifter death than burning at the stake or something.”

            Was she jesting? Fool girl. Well, a sense of humor in the midst of all of this wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

            Cassandra and her prisoner walked side by side then, the girl keeping a firm grip on her staff as they picked up the pace. More Demons fell from the Breach, groups of three or four scattered across the landscape between them, and the forward camp. Seeker Pentaghast had been leery of arming Eleanor—though she supposed most Mages did not need staffs to truly cast all magic, she’d suspected the girl, being an Apostate, would be highly untrained and incapable of magic without the assistance of a staff. But as they fought together, she came to realize that perhaps the girl was more qualified than she’d originally appeared. Not ‘tear a hole in the sky’ powerful, surely, but capable. After the first few Demon skirmishes, the girl had politely asked the Seeker if she would object to Eleanor including Cassandra in her own personal Barrier spell—she had apparently been mindful that her captor may not appreciate being cast upon without consent regardless of the magic being used.

            Cassandra had grunted and insisted she needed no such assistance, but she would not object.

            She almost had second thoughts about that the first time she felt the girl’s magic wash over her. Cool comfort swept across her skin and sent a wave of security through her, almost enough to make her lose focus on the active danger before them. But she was prepared for the feeling as they moved forward and found it beneficial both physically and on a mental level—after her initial encounter with this spell, she found the added feeling of safety took some level of unnecessary worry from her mind and allowed her to focus more on the task at hand—more on fighting and not just surviving.

            There were sounds of battle just up ahead—a smaller rift had been reported in the area, and Cassandra could hear the distinctive sound of Varric’s crossbow Bianca firing, and the din of Solas’s magic sending crackles and booms through the air over the sound of the Rift itself hissing and spitting green flame.

            Cassandra reached out for Eleanor’s arm, bracing her by the elbow and dropping with the girl over the steep drop off that led to the field where their allies fought against the Demons and their Rift.

            The Human women joined their fight, Eleanor casting her barrier wide to assist the inquisition soldiers before slamming her staff into the ground and setting several Demons aflame.

            Varric, for his part, shot down yet another of the Shades and called out, “It’s about time you got here, Seeker!”

            That seemed the be the last of the Demons for now, the Elf—Solas took two long strides to Eleanor’s side and captured her left hand in his own. “Quickly! Before more come through!”

            And then he raised her left hand to the sky.

            Zap-crackle-CRACK

            The world felt still for a moment. The Rift had sealed completely, leaving nothing but the smell of atmosphere in its wake.

            The Mark worked. It could close these things.

            It could close the Breach.

            “Well done,” Solas said to the girl as he released her hand.

            Maker, she could close the Breach, Cassandra felt almost giddy with relief.

            But the closed Rift seemed to be a secondary priority to Eleanor. She looked at Solas with widecast eyes and then a blinding smile broke out across her face.

            “It’s you! You’re the hands with the nice voice!” and then she proceeded to bounce in place before launching herself at the Elf man, wrapping her arms around his neck in a bracing hug.

            For his part, Solas seemed startled and unsure of exactly what to do. He finally settled at awkwardly patting the girl on the back, which seemed to be appropriate since she released him then, though she stayed close, still bouncing on the balls of her feet.

            “You’re the one who helped me while I slept. Thank you, er—” she seemed to only notice his ears then and she performed a sort of bow, arms bent at the elbow, casting her hands out wide at her side—well, her left hand, in her right she still held her staff—and she said, “Ma sereanas.”

            “Andaran atish’an, Da’len. I am glad to see you are well. You speak Elvish?”

            Eleanor blushed and admitted, “Not fluently, just enough for niceties—to say hello, or offer help, ask for directions and the like.”

            “Well, I am Solas, if there are to be introductions.”

            “Ellie, it’s a pleasure.”

            A high-pitched whistle brought their attention to the Dwarven man in their ranks. “Hey kid, thanks for the help, I thought we were gonna be ass deep in Demons forever.”

            Ugh. Varric.

            Eleanor turned to look at the Dwarven man as he holstered his crossbow on his back. “No problem, I wouldn’t want to be ankle deep in Demons, myself,” she said with a shrug.

            “I hear that. Well, you’ve met Chuckles,” the Dwarf said, gesturing towards Solas to indicate that he nickname was, in fact, for him. “I’m Varric Tethras—rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong.”

            And then he winked. At Cassandra.

            The absolute nerve.

            For her part, Cassandra let out a disgusted grunt.

            The girl giggled at the Dwarven man’s antics and dipped a small bow his way, “It’s very nice to meet you, Varric. That’s a beautiful crossbow you’ve got there.”

            “You noticed Bianca, huh?”

            “Is Bianca her name? It’s lovely.”

            “I’ll tell her you said so,” Varric said as he looked at the Mark on Eleanor’s hand, and then around the girl as if he expected to find someone else with she and the Seeker before he looked up at Cassandra like he’d just put the pieces together—he hadn’t been given much information about Eleanor when she’d been brought in, only told that a suspect had been found. Solas may have informed him of the Mark. At the very least he’d seen it in action now.

            “Oh Maker’s balls Seeker, this is your prime suspect? Shit, she didn’t rough you up or anything, did she kid?”

            “You’re a Seeker?” the girl asked Cassandra. Ah. She hadn’t offered up her title, had she?

            “I am.”

            Eleanor seemed pleased? Relieved? Had she thought Cassandra a random entity working alone, who enjoyed capturing young girls and interrogating them? Upon reflection, perhaps she should have been more forthcoming with her title in their interaction back at Haven, perhaps that would have loosened the girl’s tongue faster if she’d known she was in the hands of the proper authorities.

            “Cassandra was just doing her job,” Eleanor said then, “I just wish I remembered something useful.”

            “Shit, really, you don’t remember anything?” the Dwarf asked, and at Eleanor’s affirmative nod he sighed, “and you told the Seeker that?” again, another nod. He sighed, “Damn kid. You should’ve spun a story.”

            “That is what you would have done,” Cassandra seethed, in fact she still suspected that was precisely what Varric had done. She had no proof, and she had followed up on every lead his cockamamie tale had held, but something told her he was still holding back on what he knew of the Champion of Kirkwall.

            Despite the long, very detailed, three act saga he’d practically performed for her when she’d questioned him. She knew far too much about Hawke’s sex life, and little to nothing about his current location.

            Which was why she’d kept Varric captive, so he could tell the Divine herself, to her Most Holy’s face that he couldn’t help her find the Champion of Kirkwall and mend the rift between Mages and Templars. Justinia had a way about her that made Cassandra certain that, despite the Dwarves attitude, he would have told her the absolute truth. Sans Hawke’s more carnal exploits.

            “Perhaps we should keep moving,” Solas interjected, sensing Cassandra’s patience, or lack thereof, was wearing with the Dwarf. “You were headed to the forward camp, were you not Lady Seeker?”

            “Yes,” Cassandra looked to Eleanor then, “it is good we have confirmed the Mark’s abilities to seal Rifts. Now we must use it to seal the Breach—come.”

            “Right,” the girl affirmed.

            The four of them pursued the path to the forward camp. There was a barricade, some wood paneling put up in an attempt to contain the Demons from the Rift Eleanor had just closed, blocking their path. Solas, with his long legs merely leapt over it and held out his hand as offering to those behind him—Cassandra nodded, acknowledging the hand but not using it to assist her own assent over the fence. Varric belligerently used both hands to push himself up and over the fence, gripping the wood board tightly so he could flip his body over the fence and plant his feet on the other side before letting go.

            Eleanor did take the hand Solas offered and used it to help her step up on top of the fence, only to discover the incline was steep and drop farther on the other side, it made her pause and she wobbled a bit. Varric stood just a head above the fence and held up his hand for her to steady herself—she smiled her thanks and placed her hand in his gloved one but she still ended up tumbling from her precarious perch with a surprised yelp, and an overlapping:

            “Shit!”

            “Lethallan!”

            “Eleanor!” came Cassandra’s own startled cry.

            The girl caught herself on her hands and knees, her hair, which had been in a falling pony tail for the better part of her time in Haven, whipped back and fell loose when her head shot up and she began laughing as she sat back, her bottom against the heels of her feet as her laughter subsided into giggles and she brushed her hands together to rid them of the mixture of dirt and snow.

            “Are you injured?” the Seeker asked.

            Her prisoner quieted her giggling and smiled up at her. “Nah, I’m okay, sorry! That was just about as graceful as I get.”

            “Jeeze kid,” Varric said, “at least the Demons aren’t challenging us to a dance off.”

            For all his teasing, he and Solas both offered their hands again and helped her to her feet.

            Cassandra eyed her carefully. The girl was shaking a bit, obviously weary, and the Seeker wished they’d had more time—that matters weren’t so pressing that they could spare even a moment to rest. She’d only let them chatter so long because it got introductions out of the way and it allowed the girl a moment to gather her bearings before pressing on. But the closer they drew to the Breach the more concerns came to mind. The girl hadn’t had a meal in days, since whenever she ate the day of the Conclave, Solas had provided her some level of sustenance with broth and potion but she had to be famished, and her in and out of conscious state had obviously not been very restful. And all the potion in the world, it did little to quench thirst, Cassandra knew from experience it often left her throat dry, could even dehydrate you if it was a potion that used the water in your system to work.

            Water. That was something she could offer. That was a concern that could be dealt with.

            “Here,” she said, the word coming out more roughly than intended but never the less she uncapped her canteen and held it out towards the girl.

            Eleanor looked at the canteen and then the Seeker for a second as if not entirely sure what the woman wanted her to do, but she took the canteen in hand and raised it to her cracked lips. She took a drink, a big gulp she swallowed quickly before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and returning the canteen to Cassandra.

            “Thanks,” she said with a smile.

            Cassandra held her hand flat in refusal, instead offered up the cap to the girl, “Keep it, should you have need.”

            The smile on her face grew into something blinding and hauntingly familiar to the Seeker and to some level of horror she felt a pang of warmth and grief in such a way she hadn’t felt in years.

            It was the sort of smile she’d only received from one other in the entirety of her life. Antony had smiled like that—like the sun. He’d had a way with people, with Cassandra, that made one feel like they could do anything. Even as her features were soft, where his had been jarring, and her hair curled unruly and auburn where his had always been pin straight and smooth and even darker than Cassandra’s black locks, this Eleanor smiled at Cassandra the way Antony had, with a level of warmth and light that Cassandra could only scarcely remember now, tucked away in the fading portrait of an old locket.

            Capping the canteen, the girl used the strap that had been wrapped around it to sling it over her shoulder. Cassandra nodded, seeing it sit secure at the girl’s hip before turning on her heel and marching forward to continue their progress to the forward camp.

            Combat was a welcome reprieve. There was nothing confusing about the motives of Demons—they were Demons, and you had no options when it came to their handling. Either you killed them, or they killed you, and there were no trials or interrogations, or emotions involved.

            It seemed beneficial, having the girl fight alongside a fellow Mage. Eleanor appeared to be taking Solas’s example and keeping to the high ground to cast her offence. It was a marked improvement from earlier when she’d followed Cassandra’s lead—running headlong into Demons and casting while simultaneously using her staff to physically strike the creatures. Up high, behind Cassandra seemed safer for the girl, and that was what was important. They could not lose her, not with the Mark meant to close these damned Rifts.

            “You fight acceptably, Ellie. Your barriers are quite impressive,” Solas said as they walked from one battle to the next, it felt. “In which Circle did you train?”

            “Wait, let me guess,” Varric interjected, “You sound like a Marcher—from the east maybe? Your accents got that eastern lilt to it like you’re from Ostwick or Ansburg, one of their Circle’s I bet.”

            “Neither,” Eleanor said with a shake of her head. “I’ve never been Circled. I just learned what I could, where I could.”

            “What of your parents?” Solas asked the question Cassandra herself had been reticent to ask. The girl had only given the name of Trevelyan as someone she personally mourned the loss of at the Conclave, but she hadn’t mentioned parents or family at all.

            “Dunno,” Ellie said lightly with a shrug. “It’s always just been me. There was a sweet Mage, Ava, who kept an eye out for me when I was littler, taught me what she could, and even built my staff. She was from Ansburg. Hence, lilting eastern accent.” She asked Cassandra, “There wasn’t a staff with me when I was brought to Haven, was there?”

            “If there were it would be held as evidence, and you would not be permitted its return—you’re allowed the staff you have now for the duration of our fight against Demons, but it will be confiscated the moment there is no need,” Cassandra made sure she knew she was still a prisoner, not an ally. But she did add, looking at the girl out of the corner of her eye, “However, there wasn’t one. Our soldiers saw you fall from a Rift, with just the clothing on your back.”

            Cassandra wasn’t expecting to see the girl’s chin begin to quiver at the news. She’d wept openly when she’d been told of what had happened at the Conclave, but the Seeker hadn’t thought the loss of a staff to inflict itself upon the girl like she’d lost a relative.

            But Eleanor didn’t cry, not as she had before. She bit her lip and hastily swept a hand at the corners of her eyes. “It was just a staff.”

            “Hey kid, don’t sweat it,” Varric said, patting the girl on the arm, “if I lost Bianca I’d be a blubbering mess. You’d have to scrape me off the tavern floor.”

            “From the looks at things back in Haven, you already have an affinity for the floor at taverns,” Solas jested in an obvious effort to assist the Dwarf in lightening the mood.

            “Ha-ha! Good one, Chuckles. See? I knew you’d be funny.”

            “Hilarious,” Cassandra deadpanned drily.

            Eleanor actually snorted, and shook her head, smiling at their antics.

            And then she was gasping, clenching her left hand and her footsteps faltered momentarily, swaying on her feet before catching herself and standing firm as she shook out her left hand.

            “Shit. You alright?” Varric asked, trailing after her as she resumed lumbering up the snow-covered steps leading them further along the trail to the forward camp.

            No, Cassandra thought, she could not be ‘alright’. That was the fourth pulse in under an hour. The Mark had engulfed the entirety of her hand and was now trying to creep up past her wrist.

            But Eleanor grinned and said, “That one wasn’t so bad. You should have seen me earlier; I thought Cassandra was going to have to piggy-back me to the Breach.”

            “Ha, I’d pay real gold to see that,” Varric said.

            At the top of the stairs their banter died, Demons were waiting. More Demons, was there no end to them? Cassandra had been keeping an eye out for Leliana along the path but had yet to see a trace of the Lady Nightingale. Hopefully she was already through this mess and waiting for them with Chancellor Roderick.

            This was Cassandra’s hope. Leliana would likely prefer being ‘ass deep in Demons’ than spend even a minute enduring Roderick’s company alone.

            “I think there’s another Rift nearby,” Eleanor warned them as they dispatched the last of the Demons on their path. Did her Mark tell her this? Her jaw was set, Cassandra noted, the way she herself often when she was dealing with pain kept silent. The Fadelight ingulfing her hand flickered more wildly, in a way similar to its movements when the Breach expanded.

            And there was, indeed, another Rift. Just before the entrance to the forward camp.

            “We must seal it, quickly!” Solas said as his stance spread, and he cast his barriers across their party, Eleanor flipped her staff around to slam the butt of her staff into the ground, sending bolts of fire flying through the air to rain down on a wraith’s head.

            Cassandra ran to take down a Shade under cover of Varric’s fire. After the initial awkwardness of their first few fights, the four of them were now working together rather smoothly. Like a team, rather than strangers fighting alongside one another purely due to circumstance.

            When the Rift stopped dripping with fresh Demons for them to fight, Solas drew Eleanor to his side and she nodded as he gave her advice on how to use the Mark on her own without his hand to guide.

            She raised her left hand to the sky, tremors working through her arm as green light blasted from her Mark and into the heart of the Rift, zapping it shut.

            The girl looked relieved even as she slumped forward, standing with her hands on her knees as she took a moment to catch her breath.

            “Well done,” Solas commended her as he placed a hand on her shoulder.

            “It’s over,” Cassandra called to the soldiers still standing dumbstruck by the gates to the forward camp. “Open the gate!”

            The Seeker’s sharp command seemed to jolt the soldiers and they immediately went to task.

            “We’ll regroup and press on to the breach,” Cassandra said as she came to the girl’s side. Eleanor stood up straight then, wincing slightly, and it was then the Seeker realized there was a tear in the side of girl’s mercenary coat, blood was seeping from a gash left by some Shade’s claw. When had that happened?  “Here. Drink it,” she sternly intoned as she passed a vial of healing potion to her prisoner.

            “Oh, thanks,” the girl said, with such surprise Cassandra thought she may have forgotten the Seeker had potion, had even given her some for herself.

            Though the sinking feeling in her stomach said that chances were, the girl was still surprised the Seeker would deign to see her wounds tended, despite her actions.

            “Is everyone else alright?” Eleanor asked.

            “I am well,” Solas said as Varric confirmed, “All good here.”

            The girl nodded and then downed the potion in one go. “Oh gosh, that’s so much better,” she said with obvious relief, “thank you.”

            And again, the only response Cassandra could give this grateful girl, someone who could seal Rifts, make bad jokes, and had a smile like actual sunlight, was a dismissive grunt.

            Cassandra wanted nothing more than ignore her task of bringing the girl to Roderick. She simply wanted to keep the girl from Chantry clutches, seal the Breach, and see her freed. Something in her said Divine Justinia would have agreed with such actions.

            Duty drew the Seeker into the forward camp with her prisoner.

            That Elf-Root was something else. Wow. Maybe she hadn’t realized just how badly she’d been feeling, but as the potion from Cassandra (Seeker and now officially a Saint in Ellie’s book) coursed through her veins the ache in her head died away, and her limbs felt lighter and no longer ached from their sudden use after being prone for so long. She could breathe easier and feel the gash beneath her ribcage beginning to itch—which meant it was at least starting to heal. Light and itchy was better than the feeling that giants were taking turns stomping her into the ground and bleeding out. Even her magic was feeling relieved as it thrummed pleasantly under her skin. It liked how much use it was getting today, and with Ellie feeling better it seemed her magic half expected her to perform the equivalent of magical cartwheels.

            Cassandra led them into the camp and brought them to a supply point where she retrieved more potion and began passing them around, to Solas, and then with some reticence, to Varric.

            “Here,” she said.

            “Thank you, Seeker,” Solas said with sincerity as he tucked his portion of potion in the pockets of his vest.

            “Yeah, real thoughtful of you,” Varric said albeit sarcastic.

            There was that disgusted sound again—though Ellie wasn’t sure what Cassandra had against the Dwarf, he seemed perfectly nice. Sweet, even. Like a plushie bear with an overtaxed liver and the mouth of a sailor.

            She was very…rough, this Seeker. Oh gosh, an actual Seeker. Ellie’d had this weird mix of excitement and horror—she was in the presence of one of the most seriously badass women Humanity had to offer, but all that badassery was targeted at finding the murderer of the Divine and right now Ellie was still at least on the list of suspects because, well, there was just no one else. But a Seeker.

            And Maker was it ever a relief to find out just who she was being held captive by. There were obvious Chantry markings on Cassandra’s armor, but still, the confirmation that she was actually an agent of the Divine was beyond reassuring. Until Varric had given her title, Ellie hadn’t been super sure what was happening, who had her, who exactly was going to be doling out this ‘trial’ Cassandra had spoken of.

            The burn climbing up her arm told her she didn’t have long. Her death was certain to her, like a truth you knew in your bones. It was a certainty that made her magic frantic in her blood—like it was fighting against an invisible enemy, mourning her, and trying to console her all at the same time. which was getting to be exhausting—it was hard to differentiate where her magic ended and Ellie began, sometimes the things it felt bled into her own feelings, but that was often useful. It worked both ways—it just took a lot of focus and some patience.

            But she could be glad of some things, and so she led that thought to her magic. She’d met some of the most interesting, incredible people in these last few hours of her life. Solas—an Elf Apostate with incredible magical knowledge that had been implemented on her first hand. Varric—the Varric Tethras, the published author who wrote stories everyone across Thedas enjoyed, an adventurer who’d lived such a colorful and vibrant life that lead him somehow to the Breach.

            And to top it off, Cassandra. Ellie could only hope that if she’d had the chance to, she would have been half the woman Cassandra was. Just…maybe less scary. The Seeker had every right to be scary, and it was in fact her job to put the fear of the Maker into those who sought to destroy the Chantry, but Ellie didn’t think she could ever do ‘scary’ well herself.

            Some people knew only nothingness, or pain, or terror in their final hours. Ellie…she got to know people, and the hope that when she was gone, the world would still keep moving forward to brighter and better days.

            That notion quelled her magic’s panic and made it…thoughtful? It quieted drastically, and coasted smoothly along its usual path, its orbit through her body around her mana pool.

            Peace and acceptance. Her magic would be there to help her no matter what they faced.

            As for her list of amazing people, it expanded further still. Leliana was affirmed as a member of the ‘amazing’ column of the list. She was at a table set up with maps of the valley and a few books with Chantry symbols emblazoned on the covers, with a Chancellor, Ellie guessed by the imperious robes he wore. Leliana had been arguing with a Chancellor when they entered the camp and was holding her own admirably without punching the man, which it seemed the Seeker would rather do, from the way Cassandra’s fists clinched upon spotting the red-faced…was it buffoon, she’d muttered under her breath as they approached?

            This Chancellor actually created a ‘not amazing’ column on Ellie’s list. He was…well, mean. And rude. And loud. And was unfortunately under the impression that she shouldn’t be taken to the Breach—but instead to Val Royeaux to await her trial.  And wanted her back in irons, which her wrists certainly wouldn’t appreciate. Nope, she was not a fan.

            The arguing quieted as Cassandra stormed up to their war table with Ellie in tow.

            Leliana shared a look with Cassandra that conveyed their shared…was hatred too strong a word? Or not strong enough? Either way, Chancellor Roderick had obviously worn out his welcome with the two women.

            “You made it,” Leliana said with relief. She gestured to Ellie. “Chancellor Roderick, this is—”

            “I know who she is,” Roderick snapped, ignoring Ellie as he addressed Cassandra in a tone that she supposed was intended to make him sound all-powerful, “As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution.”

            Cassandra stepped forward to be in front of Ellie, her stance like she was posed to go into actual battle with the man. “Order me? You are a glorified clerk. A bureaucrat!”

            “And you are a thug, but a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry.”

            “We serve the Most Holy Chancellor,” Leliana corrected, “as you well know.”

            “Justinia is dead!” he snapped, “We must elect her replacement and obey her orders on the matter.”

            Anger on behalf of the Divine and those who were working to fix this mess being impeded by this man’s garbage bureaucracy reared its ugly head in Ellie. How dare he be so blasé about Divine Justinia—she’d only just died! The world was still in the wreckage of her demise, and as far as Ellie was concerned, even in death she was still Divine, not just ‘Justinia’. And just why did he care so much about the Divine election anyway? He certainly wouldn’t be called upon for the role. The Breach was a much more pressing issue.

            “Hey!” Ellie snapped, her magic riled up at this, like a wing man egging her on as she railed at the man, “Divine Justinia is dead, hundreds of people are dead, and more will die if we don’t deal with that hole in the sky.” She raised her glowing hand eye-level with the Chancellor. “This thing is killing me, I won’t live to see your trial. You can either throw me in a cell to die, or you can let Cassandra and Leliana do their jobs. Get me to the Breach, seal it, and neither it nor I will be of any concern of yours anymore. Then you can hold your precious election.”

            Solas made a noise like he’d swallowed a surprised sound and attempted to make it sound like a cough. Varric just whistled lowly and muttered, “Damn, kid.”

            Cassandra was staring at her like she wasn’t sure if she should throttle Ellie for her unwelcome intrusion, or back her up.

            “And how do you propose we do that? Insolent brat,” the Chancellor groused. “Our forces are outnumbered here, we must retreat—”

            “We will take Eleanor to the temple, and she will seal the Breach. Our forces are enough for one last push,” Cassandra inturrupted. Ahh. No throttling for Ellie right now, that was nice.

            “Charging may be too dangerous,” Leliana said, “our soldiers can distract the Demons while you take the girl through the mountain path.”

            “We lost scouts out there, and our soldiers cannot distract the Demons for long—time is of the essence we must move quickly,” Cassandra countered, and then quieted as she turned and faced Ellie. “What would you propose we do?” she asked.

            “You’re asking her?!” Chancellor Roderick cried in outrage.

            “I kinda have to second him on that,” Ellie admitted, nervously, “I don’t know anything about soldiers or fighting or how to win a battle.”

            “But you do know the Mark, and the stakes we face,” Cassandra said. “The mountain path will take the longest and though we did lose sights on our scouts there, it may be the safest way for you to reach the Breach. Charging would be more dangerous for you personally, but fastest. You said the Mark is…you would be the one most aware of the time we have left to get you to the Breach.”

            Ellie held her hand close to her chest, her Mark flaring again, and if Chancellor Roderick wouldn’t absolutely delight in a display of her weakness, she would have screamed at the pain that shot through her body, fighting against her own magic as it carved a zigzag path across it.

            “Charge. Definitely charge,” was her vote.

            Cassandra regarded her thoughtfully for a moment and placed a firm hand on her shoulder before looking back at the Chancellor.

            “Then we shall charge.”

            Charging, in retrospect, might not have been the best idea in the world. There were Demons, lots and lots of Demons. She even had to seal another Rift and that was no picnic—it hurt. Like ‘everything in me is on fire’ hurt.

            Though when it was over, that was nice—kind of like the feeling you get after letting off a huge sneeze, much more painful, but afterwards your whole body sort of relaxes. And Solas’s praise of her proficiency in sealing the Rifts replaced the burn of the Mark with a soothing warmth.

            But then Ellie was faced with something most frightening. As soon as that Rift was sealed and the Demons dispersed, a Templar approached them.

            A Templar. In armor, and feather pauldrons, and everything!

            Ellie shrank back and away from the golden-haired man as he approached, she practically knocked into Solas, and her hand clenched the sleeve of his shirt—as if the best way for a Templar not to notice an Apostate was to stand right next to another, even more obvious, Apostate.

            But the Templar didn’t even comment on her magic, or on her at all really. He instead offered congratulations to Cassandra for closing the Rift which was mildly insulting—Cassandra certainly helped but she wasn’t the one slowly burning to death to close those things. Rude!

            “Do not congratulate me,” Cassandra said, “this is the prisoner’s doing.”

            Oi! Traitor! Ellie would have appreciated Cassandra’s correction of the Templar if it hadn’t drawn his eye to her, and her glowing hand and her staff and her Apostate Elf friend.

            But all he said was, “Is it? I hope they’re right about you. We’ve lost a lot of people getting you here.”

            Oh, Maker he was talking to her. At least he hadn’t immediately jumped to slap chains on her or something, but what was she supposed to say?

            “I’m willing to try, I’ll do my best.”

            “That’s all we can ask,” he said, was that warmth in his tone? Was he being nice? Templars weren’t nice, they yelled and chased.

            “The way to the temple should be clear, Leliana will meet you there?” he confirmed with Cassandra.

            “Yes, she’ll be along with forces to face the Breach. Keep them off us, Commander,” the Seeker said.

            The Commander nodded. He looked over the four of them, “Maker watch over you—for all our sakes.”

            As he left them, Ellie slowly released the sleeve of Solas’s shirt, and smoothed the crease she’d left in it with an apologetic smile.

            “That was Commander Cullun,” Solas dropped the name quietly into her ear, “I have had scarce contact with him, but he left the Order—a former Templar.”

            “That’s…kind of comforting,” Ellie said, and then she met Solas’s eye, as she spoke softly, “Solas, what will happen once we close the Breach, do you think they’ll keep you captive?”

            Cassandra had started moving then, Varric, Solas and Ellie followed after.

            “My hope is that they will remember that I offered assistance when I could have turned a blind eye to save my own skin.”

            “Just run,” Ellie implored quietly.

            “Pardon?” the Elf asked.

            “You’ve more than done your part. If you would like to face the Breach, do so, but the second its closed, just run for it. If I can, I’ll make a distraction—it’s me they’re wanting to give a big fancy execution.”

            Solas slanted her a small smile. “You face your fate admirably, da’len. I appreciate the sentiment, but I believe I shall see what the future holds.”

            “Okay, but just say the word, and I can whip up a spectacular distraction—I once faked a heart attack to evade Templars on my trail.”

            His smile grew, and he shook his head at the preposterous notion. “Surely you jest. I may not have previously had this much contact with Humans, but no one would think someone as young as you could be suffering heart failure. You’re not a day over twenty.”

            Ellie giggled. “Well, you’re right about that—I’m several days under twenty.”

            “We guessing ages now? I’m almost as good at that as I am with accents,” Varric chimed in. He’d seen Solas and Ellie talking and started chatting Cassandra up to give them more privacy…or to annoy her to the point of violence which wasn’t the brightest idea Ellie thought since the woman had a firm grip on the hilt of her sword. He hung back a bit to walk more closely with his three fellow prisoners and put on a thoughtful look. “Hmm, I’d say you’re younger than that—eighteen tops.”

            Ellie scrunched up her nose and shook her head. “You’d better stick with accents,” she said.

            “Sixteen.”

            The trio looked at the Seeker as she firmly offered her own guess.

            Ellie smiled at her. Well, at her back, Cassandra did not look back as she led them, her hand was no longer on her sword but hanging at her side, clenched tightly.

            “Oh wow, close!” Ellie said, “She beat you good Varric. Let’s see…” thinking on it, she’d gotten into the habit of updating her age with the change of year. “Its still 9:41 right? Fifteen, then.”

            Varric cleared his throat. His voice was…off when he spoke what sounded like he was trying to make a joke, but it rang with accusation;

            “Guess you win, Seeker.”

            Cassandra had nothing to say to that.

            “This is the Temple of Sacred Ashes,” Solas announced.

            “This is where you fell out of the Fade and our soldiers found you,” Cassandra said.

            Ellie was confused at first, they’d approached an area of just…pure rubble and ruin.

            She’d had heard of the Temple—it was hard not to, Andraste’s ashes were a pretty big deal for anyone who even remotely had any love for the Chantry, or at least the Maker. Trevelyan had told her just about anything a person could care to know about the temple—its founding, what it was built with, which of his family members helped in its foundation. He’d had a wealth of knowledge on the subject but none of that had even remotely prepared her to stand at its doors—the temple of Sacred Ashes had been massive, a true monument to the Chantry and to the Maker. The sight of it as they came up over the hillside—the sun had just been rising and the world had been quiet, peaceful, and the valley was drenched in the beauty of sunlight, and its reflection off the Temples many golden sigils and stained-glass windows. It had been all fine silk draperies, golden images of Andraste, and slick marble floors. It felt like just hours ago she’d been clinging to Trevelyan’s arm like it was a lifeline, he’d offered it to her ‘like a gentleman’ and she’d been glad because otherwise she feared falling flat on her face.

            Now there had been no grand view, no warning before they were suddenly upon the ruins. The temple was gone. In its ashes, it left jagged stone that pressed into the soles of Ellie’s shoes, and she was more fearful of the aftermath of such a fall—before she’d just have bruised her ego, but now she might actually lose an eye or something to the cracked rubble.

            And then there was the smell.

            Corpses littered the ruined ground—burned and burning alike, some had become molten statues forming the shape of their agony when the Conclave collapsed.

            When the sight and stench finally hit her, Ellie stopped in her tracks and crouched down, torso curled around her knees, left hand pressed against her stomach as her right hand flew to her mouth and she fought not to vomit—she wasn’t sure what would come up exactly, she didn’t really have anything to throw up. Her magic was crying in her blood, sorrow spilling through her veins, and then something wet slipped down the back of her hand and she realized she was crying.

            “Ellie?” Solas asked, his worry translating clearly as he tentatively placed a hand on her shoulder.

            “Seeker!” Varric’s voice called and he went to Ellie’s side.

            Cassandra’s boots crunched the rubble underfoot as she quickly moved to join them, she stood somewhat between Ellie and Varric, placing her hand on the shoulder opposite the one Solas’s hand occupied and said, “Eleanor. I know this is difficult, but we are close. If you’re going to be sick we’d best get it over with, yes?”

            That had Varric backing up big time, but he didn’t stray too far, and he smoothed his retreat over by pulling Bianca from his back like he decided to guard them from sudden attack, instead of turning tail at the mention of sicking up.

            Ellie took a shuddering breath and moved her hand away from her mouth, Cassandra clasped that hand in her own and held it as Ellie went to her knees and retched and sobbed. Someone rubbed soothing circles on her back.

            She’d been right—she’d already metabolized any potion or water she’d taken on before. Her stomach heaved but all it offered up was acidic bile and a mildly concerning trace of blood as it splattered onto the rocks before her, and then dry heaves worked their way through her body.

            Solas offered her a handkerchief when she stilled and all that was left was Ellie sniffling from her tears. She wiped at her nose and mouth, and then tucked the handkerchief into a pocket when Solas quietly said she was free to keep it. He was then busy digging through his satchel with both hands, looking for something, and it was then Ellie noticed the hand on her back still continued its ministrations—rubbing a circular path between her shoulder blades. Cassandra’s hand, she realized, and the Seeker was still holding her right hand, firmly but not painfully—no trace of the violence she’d used on Ellie’s wrist during her questioning.

            “Here, it isn’t the most pleasant, but it should help,” Solas said as he extended a vial of thick, translucent goo to her. She stared at it dumbly, not quite comprehending what he intended for her to do with it, and the man uncapped the vial and dispensed some of the gunk onto the pad of his index finger.

            Oh, it was something that smelled strongly of heavy, almost sour, mint. Eucalyptus? He carefully dabbed the gel over the bow of her top lip, just under her nose and it went a long way to shield them from the stench of the valley and her own vomit.

            Cassandra’s hands detached from Ellie’s hand and back and the Seeker took a hold of the water canteen hanging at Ellie’s hip, handing it to her. Ellie did take a careful drink, grateful to wash out her mouth a bit and clear the burn from the back of her throat, and her stomach didn’t do anything in protest.

            “Can you stand?” Cassandra asked as the canteen fell to Ellie’s hip again.

            She didn’t have much of a choice, did she? She kind of just wanted to lay face first in the rubble and die, but maybe she should at least seal the Breach first. So she nodded, not trusting her voice, and the Seeker helped her to her feet.

            “We’re almost there, kid, you’ve got this,” Varric said as he rejoined them, he gave Ellie’s elbow an assuring pat.

            “Can we…” Ellie grasped for words, and she hated how she was shaking now. This was really it, they were about to approach the Breach, and she would hopefully seal it shut. But with everything, everything that had happened, there was so little left in her to give, her vision wavered, and her magic was trying its best to still be useful for casting while attempting to keep her…well…alive basically. The only thing she relied on more than, or at least as much as, her magic, was the Maker.

            Prayer. That’s what she wanted. And somehow Cassandra seemed to hear the word Ellie had only just realized she’d meant to say.

            “This situation calls to mind Andraste’s Sermon at the Valarain Fields,” Cassandra spoke with all the certainty her years studying the scriptures lent her. She placed her hands on Ellie’s shoulders and bowed her head so their foreheads touched. “Transfigurations, 10:1.”

            Ellie closed her eyes and listened to the Seeker’s chant;

            “Many are those who wander in sin, despairing that they are lost forever. But the one who repents, who has faith unshaken by the darkness of the world, and boasts not, nor gloats over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight in the Maker's law and creations, she shall know the peace of the Maker's benediction.”

            Cassandra’s hands gripped tighter, and her conviction was clear as she continued their prayer: “The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next. For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water. As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, she should see fire and go towards Light. The Veil holds no uncertainty for her, and she will know no fear of death, for the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.”

            And then, after a beat, “Or, her Staff, should she prefer,” the Seeker allowed.

            “Thank you, Cassandra,” Ellie said, wiping at her eyes before they spilled over again. She was good now, she was ready. “Really.”

            She was going to seal the Breach.

            The Breach was monstrous from a distance. In person, at its very core, it was indescribable the level of hell it brought to Thedas. It was just so massive.

            Eleanor, in horrifying juxtaposition, was small. Tiny. Only Varric was shorter than she, but he easily outweighed her.

            Cassandra stood alongside the girl as their party stared up into the Breach. Nothing could be seen past the haze of Fade green that illuminated the crater left behind where the core of the Temple had once stood.

            And it contrasted horribly with the bright, blazing scarlet chunks of Red Lyrium growing along the crater’s walls.

            Leliana was a welcome sight in comparison, flanked by soldiers of the Inquisition.

            “You’re here! Thank the Maker,” Leliana breathed as she joined them.

            “We haven’t much time, have your men take up positions around the temple,” Cassandra ordered. Leliana nodded and turned to her soldiers to give some orders of her own.

            The Seeker looked at the girl then. Eleanor was staring up into the Breach, her mouth ground into a grim line, glaring at it—with such fervor, it was little wonder the Breach didn’t seal under her gaze. That would certainly be a welcome surprise.

            She’d stopped shaking, and Cassandra was glad of it. Her tremors had stilled after the Seeker’s offer of prayer, and she was admittedly pleased to have been able to provide for her. She was still much too pale—even Solas had more color to his cheeks from the bitter cold. Eleanor was just sickly white, even the freckles on her face seemed translucent. She was bruised, and bloodied, and burning. But was she ready?

            How could she be?

            “This is your chance to end this, Eleanor. Are you ready?”

            “Yes,” she said with finality. Her brow furrowed then, and she looked to Cassandra, “How exactly am I supposed to get up there though? Please don’t say Human ladder.”

            Solas gave a low laugh and said, “You’ve no need to go up, Ellie. The answer lies below,” he gestured down deeper into the crater, and Eleanor’s eyes followed to look at the Rift at the base of the Breach. “That Rift was the first and is the key. Seal it, and we may just seal the Breach.”

            “Then we must find a way down,” Cassandra said, eyeing the trail blazed in Red Lyrium. “Carefully.”

            The girl was clumsy, that much had been seen on their journey—Cassandra did not have enough fingers to count the number of times the girl had tripped or skidded or slipped and nearly flattened her face.  It would do her little justice to topple into the crater head first and die from some shoddy footing. Her earlier quip of fearing Cassandra would have to piggy-back her to the Breach came to mind, and for a moment the Seeker seriously considered doing just that.

            As before, Cassandra led them down into the crater. Either through some level of mercy, or sheer circumstance, there was a path that sloped down and around the outer edge of the gaping hole. Mercy would be too kind a word—perhaps conspiracy was more accurate. Because the path was littered in Red Lyrium, heat pouring off of the vile substance in waves as they made their way to the Breach.

            “Seeker. That’s Red Lyrium,” Varric hissed at her as they traversed the rocky path.

            “I can see that, Varric,” Cassandra seethed sharply. It wasn’t like the foul stuff was invisible. It literally glowed bright red, almost in warning of the danger.

            “But what’s it doing here?”

            “Magic could have drawn on the Lyrium beneath the temple and corrupted it,” Solas supplied.

            “It’s evil,” Varric insisted, and he made sure Eleanor was listening when he intoned, “Seriously, whatever you do, don’t touch it.” he’d been trailing behind Eleanor and Cassandra, alongside Solas, but he picked up the pace and walked on the girl’s other side as if to keep a barrier between her and the larger shards of Red Lyrium that jutted from the ground around them.

            Any affirmative Eleanor was about to give the Dwarf was cut off by a deep, booming voice echoing out across the crater, pouring from the Breach.

            “Now is the hour of our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice.”

            Solas almost ran into the girl when she came to a full stop at the sound of the voice. They all stopped to follow her gaze up into the Breach.

            “What are we hearing?” Cassandra asked Solas, as she placed a hand on Eleanor’s shoulder. More so ready to push the girl back and behind her should they be attacked, than for comfort.

            “At a guess, the person who created the Breach,” Solas said.

            “Have you heard this voice before, Eleanor?” Cassandra asked the girl.

            She shook her head. “N-no,” but she looked conflicted about the answer. “I don’t know really, I can’t remember.”

            Cassandra released her hold of the girl and led their party forward, deeper into the crater.

            “Keep the sacrifice still.” The voice from the Breach commanded.

            And then a voice Cassandra had thought she would never hear again cried out:

            “Someone, help me!”

            It sent Cassandra running forward automatically, the call of her vows rang strong in her blood as she drew her sword. The path came to an end at a drop that would cast them down to the Rift Solas labeled a key, and she stopped in her tracks, her prisoners catching up shortly after.

            “That is Divine Justinia’s voice!” Cassandra cried.

            Without a moments more hesitation, the Seeker dropped down into the lowest level of the crater. It took a second for her to realize she’d essentially abandoned her prisoners up above, but Solas had stepped up and with a hand cradling Eleanor’s arm, he assisted her own dissent to reach the Rift. Varric, surprisingly, followed suit.

            “Someone, help me!” the breach repeated Justinia’s plea.

            “What’s going on here?!” Eleanor’s voice.

            Cassandra turned to look at the girl. “That was your voice. Most Holy called out to you. But…”

            Eleanor’s Mark crackled again, bringing a surprised cry from the girl’s lips, and then the Rift before them began projecting an image, some ghostly scene, a memory trapped in the Breach.

            It was an image of Divine Justinia, magic bindings keeping her arms held taunt and a large creature, a mass of black smoke with glowing red eyes looming over her. They were in the centermost worship hall of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The doors swung open and through them, came Eleanor.

            “What’s going on here?!” she snapped, a staff in hand, prepared to defend the Divine.

            But the ghostly image of Justinia shook her head, “No! Eleanor, run while you can, warn them!”

            The ghastly red-eyed thing spoke with that deep voice they’d first heard upon approaching the Breach. The man or monster Solas suspected of making the Breach.

            “We have an intruder. Kill her, now.”

            And with that, the Rift crackled and went dormant, the scene before them disappeared.

            “You were there!” Cassandra…hadn’t exactly meant for it to sound as accusatory as it did, but urgency robbed her of her cool, “Who attacked? And the Divine, is she…?” Eleanor had survived somehow. Was the Divine truly dead? “Was this vision true, what are we seeing?”

            “I don’t remember!” Eleanor promised desperately.

            “The Fade bleeds into this place, what we saw appears to be echoes of what happened at the Conclave, Lady Seeker,” Solas said, coming to the girl’s defense. And then he refocused them on the task at hand. “We must continue. This Rift is not sealed,” he brought their attention back to the Rift before them. “It seems to be closed, albeit temporarily. I believe with the Mark, the Rift can be opened and then sealed properly. However, opening the Rift will likely attract attention from the other side.”

            “Meaning Demons,” Cassandra concluded. She could see Leliana’s men had taken position around the crater—archers up high while swordsmen held their place at key points surrounding the base of the Breach. She raised her voice to echo across the crater, “Stand ready!”

            Archers knocked arrows, ready to fire, their fellow soldiers drawing their blades.

            Solas pulled Eleanor close and began instructing.

            “This will be the most trying use of your Mark yet, da’len. You must ignore your every instinct and rip open the tear in the veil. Your magic…may not wish to cooperate. It isn’t exactly desirable, calling Demons to attack.”

            “Yeah, it’s not real high up on my list of favorite things,” Eleanor agreed. “Any chance ripping open the veil will rain chocolate? Or puppies?”

            “I could go for a nice ale shower, myself,” Varric said.

            “Unfortunately,” Solas said, “no such thing shall happen, but perhaps pretending it will could assist in garnering your Mark’s cooperation. You must find a desire to open the veil and pour that will into your Mark.”

            “Opening it will give us the ability to properly close it,” Cassandra recited Solas’s earlier deduction. Eleanor looked to her. She almost felt foolish for saying it, but with the girl’s gaze on her now, seeking guidance, she pressed on, “If it is the Demons you fear, remember that you have many surrounding you who are more than capable of handling them, who will defend you. We will remain at your side.  Focus your mind on the end goal: opening the Rift to seal the Breach.”

            The strength with which the girl flung into her caught Cassandra off guard, knocking her back a step, but her arms came up automatically which was surprising since she hadn’t been hugged since…well, it had been a long time. The motion was a bit awkward since she still had her sword in hand. The girl squeezed her arms around Cassandra’s waist, though with her armor the effect wasn’t much, but it seemed to make Eleanor feel better, using her unarmed hand, Cassandra patted the younger woman on the back.

            “You’re amazing, you know that right?” Eleanor asked. She loosened her hold on the Seeker and smiled up at her. “Thank you for everything. Whatever happens, I’m glad I got to meet you guys.”

            Eleanor stepped away then, faced the dormant Rift overhead, Marked hand raised to the sky.

            Solas and Varric flanked the Seeker, weapons drawn as they watched.

            Cassandra’s advice had evidentially helped.

            Fade light burst from Eleanor’s hand and into the dormant Rift, sending the tear rippling and fluctuating erratically until it burst open, a full-blown rip in the veil, and the Demons emerged.

            Or Demon, singular.

            A Demon of Pride.

            Eleanor screamed in fright and was already backing away from the great hulking purple scaled monster as Cassandra rushed to get between she and the beast.

            Electricity passed between the Pride Demon’s hands, and then a great crack resounded through the crater. It had cast a barrier of its own, protecting itself from its enemies.

            “Stay back, let the warriors handle this!” Cassandra barked over her shoulder as she heard the whirring of a powerful blast coming to life in the Demon’s hand, it would charge and unleash lightning upon them all if they weren’t careful.

            “Lethallan, use your Mark to strip its defenses—manipulating the Rift will weaken the beast and aid our companions,” Solas instructed.

            Cassandra saw green light fly overhead and into the Rift, and just as the Demon was about to cast off his spell, the rift fell in on itself, and then spilled open again, sending a wave of pain through the Demon that sent it to its knees, and knocked the barrier it had made away, his uncast spell dying in his hand.

            “Now!” Cassandra called out to her soldiers.

            Arrows began raining down on the Demon of pride as warriors rushed forward and beat it back with their swords, Cassandra felt the familiar wave of security spread over her as Eleanor cast her own Barrier spell doubled by Solas before the Mages began working together to cast an offense against the beast to the rhythm of Bianca firing off in Varric’s grip.

            They’d made progress with allaying the Demon when the Rift shifted once more, and the Demon stood tall, reviving its lost barriers.

            Eleanor cast her Mark once more, pouring power against the Rift, and it began to fluctuate, but then the burst of light was cut short—the Demon’s barriers were unaffected, the Rift didn’t collapse like last time, and a startled cry of pain tore from Eleanor’s lips.

            Cassandra turned her attention from the raging Pride Demon to Eleanor running as fast as her legs could carry her from two Shades. When had they appeared? She should have been paying better attention, not trusted Varric of all people to watch after the girl Solas’s help or no.

            “Eleanor needs help!” she shouted, and Dwarf and Elf alike turned focus to the Demons giving the girl chase.

            The girl stumbled and fell, skidding on her knees before rolling onto her bottom, and the closest Shade was just within clawing range when the Seeker forced her way between them, standing firm with her back to Eleanor as she shouted unintelligibly into the creature’s face, sending it reeling back as if struck before Cassandra came down on its forearm with her blade, slicing the offending appendage off. Solas’s blast of ice froze the second Shade while Varric shot the creature through with bolts, and Cassandra absently wondered if the Dwarf just had an endless supply of the things.

            Fadelight shot overhead as the trio worked together to defeat the Shades. Eleanor cast against the Rift once more, and this time she was uninterrupted, and the Pride Demon’s defenses came crashing down.

            Cassandra turned and saw the girl was still on the ground, pulling her left hand close to her chest once she’d finished manipulating the Rift.

            “Well done,” Cassandra commended, offering an arm to the girl and pulling her to her feet. Once she’d risen the girl’s staff slammed into the solid ground and Cassandra expected fire to fly from the top but nothing so spectacular occurred, the girl instead leaned her weight against the staff, more like a crutch at the moment.

            “Kick that thing’s butt,” Eleanor said.

            And ‘kick that thing’s butt’ she did. Cassandra ran to get back the mix with the Demon of Pride, and this time, its barriers stayed down as the creature was bombarded by Inquisition forces, and finally slain, its great body evaporated into fade ash and floated back up into the Rift.

            “Now! Seal the Rift!” Cassandra called to the girl. This was their chance.

            Standing tall, Eleanor raised her hand to the heavens once more, and light shot from her Mark, deep into the Rift, her arm shaking with the effort to keep held high and casting, she relinquished hold of her staff and used her right hand to brace her arm and she screamed the way Cassandra found herself doing when face to face with a Dragon—a battle cry.

            The Rift sealed shut and sent a quake up through the entire Breach.

            And then Eleanor collapsed.

            And despite his earlier jest, Varric Tethras found nothing amusing as Cassandra hoisted the unconscious girl onto her back and carried her away in their retreat.

            The Breach hang, stationary and repressed, but still high in the sky, marking the world.