Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The nightmares begin on the road back to Haven.

He bolts upright with a gasp, sweat on his brow and soaking through his shirt. A single thought runs through his mind as he untangles himself from his bedroll and stumbles out of the tent into the cold.

“Herald?” a soldier asks, startled. “Ser?”

Maxwell stares at the sky; the Breach is visible but contained, swirling slowly high above the Frostback Mountains. It hasn’t spread and devoured the night, hasn’t ripped the world apart. He’s safe. They’re all safe. Whatever - whoever - created it hasn’t claimed Thedas yet. He still has time.

“Ser?” the soldier asks again, coming up behind him. “Are you all right?”

He turns to her with a weak smile because it’s all he can do. He rakes a shaking hand through disheveled black hair and says, “I’m all right. Don’t worry about me.”

The soldier looks unconvinced but she doesn’t question him again. She lingers and he says, “You can go back to your post. I won’t wander far.”

She salutes him reluctantly and trudges away to join the others around a nearby campfire. Maxwell then turns gray eyes heavenward to watch the Breach for a few minutes more.

When he falls asleep again, he dreams of a green sky tearing away the earth underfoot and demons crawling through the bloody streets of Ostwick.

Word reaches the deep recesses of the Hinterlands faster than Leliana’s ravens fly. Every day, more mages emerge from the woods and abandoned villages, offering their talents and knowledge to the Inquisition in return for protection against rogue templars and an angry world.

“Five more for the enchanter,” Cassandra says, watching a group of bedraggled mages follow two soldiers to the former Grand Enchanter’s camp. “How do we know that they’re sincere? How do we know they want to help instead of using us as a shield to hide their activities?”

The sun is setting, casting everything in rich shades of red and orange, and the mages’ staves glint in the light. The vivid sunset still pales in comparison to the Breach.

“We don’t,” Maxwell says, “but we need the help.”

“Then petition the templars next,” Cassandra replies. “For now, I’m posting more guards around the perimeter and telling the Grand Enchanter to watch for signs. I’ll not have the new alliance fall apart over some apostates thinking they have permission to do whatever they want.”

“They’re all apostates,” he says. “They’re outside their Circles. Have been for years.”

She sighs. “I’ll try not to bring that up.”

He watches her walk away. He blinks and for one breathless second she’s glowing a sickly red, the dissonant song of red lyrium humming all around her. The moment passes and he realizes it’s just a trick of the light, the setting sun fooling his mind. He rubs his face and looks away, tells himself that she’s alive, whole and hale. Like Varric. Like the rest of the Inquisition.

Maxwell stares at the mages’ camp a little longer, until the sky becomes purple and the first of the moons rises above the mountains. He made the right decision, didn’t he? The former Grand Enchanter made a mistake but she was cornered and couldn’t see any other way out. He may not be a mage but he knows how that feels, how desperation can drive someone to make the foolish choice.

This isn’t a fool’s decision. This is the Herald’s. Andraste chose him and he thinks She would’ve wanted this. Right?

“What do you think, Evie?” he asks softly of his older sister, now an apostate wandering through the wilds in the Marches many miles north of where he stands. “What would you have done?”

He wishes she was here with their older brother and sister, former templars who turned on their knight-commander when the Ostwick Circle fell. They understood the broken system better than he ever would but the three of them should be hiding near Ansburg, waiting for Divine Justinia’s Conclave to bring back some semblance of order.

He clenches his left hand tightly, feeling the strange mark throb on his palm, and walks back to the Inquisition camp.

That night he dreams of spider mandibles clicking all around him and jointed legs skittering in the dark. Demons flay his siblings alive with slivers of red lyrium and Evelyn cries out while twisted bony fingers peel off her freckled golden skin.

“They came for us. You weren’t there to stop him and and the Breach rained demons on us. You were supposed to close the Breach and you didn’t! You left us!”

“I’d never leave you!”

“It ate the sky. The Inquisition collapsed and Orlais fell. The Elder One came for us. He sent his demon army and they blighted the land. They destroyed everything. Everyone’s dead. They’re all dead because of you. You abandoned us. You ran away when we needed you most. How could you do this to us? How could you? How could you!”

He bolts upright, gasping, heart pounding. Blackwall is awake, too, a dagger in hand. The Warden lowers it when he realizes there’s no imminent danger.

“You all right?”

Maxwell scrubs his face, pushing back damp hair. “I - I’m fine.”

“Sounds like a bad dream.”

“You could say that.” He sees the faint warm glow of a campfire through the thick canvas of the tent and kicks free of his bedroll. “I need some air. Don’t stab me when I come back.”

Blackwall chuckles. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Maxwell crawls out of the tent, shivering when chilly air swirls around his sweaty skin. This close to the mountains, snow covers the ground in patches and his breath fogs as he walks to the campfire. The soldiers huddled around it leap to their feet when they see him. He holds his hands up before they can salute and then immediate drops them to his side when the soldiers stare at his left palm.

“That’s not necessary,” he says. “Um. Anything to report?”

“No, ser, nothing right now,” one of them replies. “Been quiet the last three or so hours. You need not worry.”

“That’s good,” Maxwell says. The soldiers continue standing at attention, watching the faint green glow on his hand, and he quickly says, “You may… return to your post. I’ll just be over there. And stay warm.”

He walks away before someone else can get a word in or salute him. He climbs a hill crowned with a stand of scraggly pine trees and stares up at the Breach. It swirls lazily, crackling eerie green like the mark on his hand. He’s holding his breath and lets it go but his chest still feels tight with anticipation, with dread.

Something flashes out of the corner of his eye and he glances down the slope at the mages’ camp. If he squints, he can make out people sitting around a few fires but they’re not the ones spellcasting at this hour. Someone is out in the field beyond the tents, littering the ground with fiery mines and snuffing them out in a flash. Violet-tinged lightning crackles over the snow-dusted grass, and Maxwell’s strongly reminded of his sister’s preference for destructive primal spells.

He stands on the hill for a long time, rubbing his cold arms while watching the mage slowly blacken the ground around them. Eventually, a patrol catches wind of the activity and moves towards the camp. The mages still awake at this hour then start shouting at the one out in the field to stop. Maxwell turns and goes back to his tent.

“So,” the Iron Bull says while Maxwell catches his breath, “what do you make of the Vint?”

He wipes sweat off his brow before adjusting the wooden buckler on his arm. “Who?”

Haven’s a half-day’s march away. The mountainsides echo with the crackling roar of the Breach overhead, and the mages stare at the magical anomaly with awe and horror. Maxwell caught Fiona looking up at the sky, too, but her eyes are hard and her mouth grim with the knowledge that her mages are the world’s best hope of closing it.

Maxwell knows that feeling all too well.

“That Tevinter mage,” the Iron Bull is saying. “You sure he should stick around?”

He blinks at the Qunari mercenary and then over his shoulder at the bustling camp. “He’s still here?”

“You didn’t know? He’s with the mages - sort of. They don’t trust him, either.”

“I had no idea. I thought he left after Redcliffe.”

The aftermath was sheer chaos. Castle and village emptied of mages as soon as Maxwell and the former Grand Enchanter announced their alliance, and he lost sight of Dorian. He had a furious King Alistair to placate and the fates of the magister Gereon Alexius, his son Felix, and surviving Venatori agents to decide on; the “Vint” ended up slipping his mind. If he thinks about it, he might have overlooked a lot more than the status of his Tevinter ally.

Why do they assume he can handle all of these responsibilities?

“Well, he didn’t. I’m guessing he wants to talk to someone about this Venatori cult as soon as we get back to Haven.” The Iron Bull raises his buckler and hefts the wooden stick in his other hand. “Shields up!”

Maxwell lifts his just in time to block a blow and then retaliates with a swing at the Qunari’s exposed side. They keep at it for another hour, slowly gaining a small crowd of onlookers; the match ends when Maxwell tries to brace himself for the Iron Bull’s next charge and gets thrown back into the crowd.

He sits up with a huff of winded laughter. “I think that’s enough for today. Rematch at Haven?”

“Sure thing, Boss.”

He waits for the crowd to disperse before depositing the buckler and stick with the requisitions officer and going to the stream winding through the camp. He stomps on the ice before crouching to splash water all over his face and neck. The water is frigid, just like everything and everywhere this high up in the Frostbacks, but it’s a welcome respite.

He goes still at the sound of hesitant footsteps and looks over his shoulder at the mage leaning against a young crooked pine.

“Quite a show you put on back there,” Dorian says casually. “Didn’t think you’d last a second against that brute.”

Maxwell laughs, wipes water off his face, and stands. “Seriously? After what we went through, you think I can’t swing a sword? And his name’s the Iron Bull.”

“A name I’m sure he picked out himself with no small amount of effort,” Dorian says. “Anyway. I want to talk to you about your… Inquisition.”

“What about it?”

The mage folds his arms tightly while looking around at the soldiers, runners, and the occasional mage crossing the camp. “I talked with Felix before he left. Thank you, by the way, for the escort. Can’t imagine that being a popular decision.”

“It’s the least I could do,” Maxwell says.

It was a very unpopular decision, though Cassandra and the others quieted once Maxwell reminded them that Felix was the reason why they even heard of the Venatori. He also remembers a hollow-eyed Leliana cutting Felix’s throat, driving Alexius to grief and madness. Felix will die no matter what happens, but he’ll die in his homeland, not on the side of the road or in the halls of a broken castle. Not if Maxwell has any say in it.

“I’m sorry for what happened here,” Felix had said in the castle’s courtyard, apologetic even though he didn’t cause any of it. “Thank you for showing my father mercy. And please, look after him for me.”

Maxwell thought Felix was talking about his father, a reasonable request despite what Alexius did trying to save him from the Blight sickness. Now, hearing the fondness and gratitude in Dorian’s voice, he realizes that Felix was talking about someone else.

“Were you two close?” he asks.

“The only one I would call a friend,” Dorian says. “When I was Alexius’s student, he made every effort to be kind to me, which was… well. Anyway, we believe your little Inquisition may encounter more Venatori agents in the coming weeks and months, probably to stop you from closing the Breach and ruining this so-called Elder One’s plans. You’ll need someone on your side who knows how to counter them, and who better than me?”

He smiles disarmingly, arms unfolding and hands held out, palms up. He must know all too well how people see him, how much they distrust people like him. That would explain why he’s wandering through camp without his stave, but who is he trying to convince? Maxwell doesn’t fear who Dorian is. A mage sister and several hours together in a harrowing future erased whatever reservations he had about an alliance with a Tevinter magister’s son.

Maxwell’s heart flutters for a breathless second as he smiles back and says, “Welcome to the Inquisition.”

The corridor won’t end. At every turn, they’re met with another dank hallway, water dripping down the slick stone walls to pool at their feet as they run and run. The air fairly sings with red lyrium, prickling up his spine and setting his teeth on edge, and he’s not even a mage. He can’t imagine how the Tevinter mage is handling it.

“Kaffas,” Dorian hisses when they turn left into another empty hall.

“That mean something?” Maxwell asks. He leans against the wall, catching his breath.

“Shit,” Dorian replies with feeling. “If I knew I needed to run this much. I’d have stayed in Val Royeaux.”

Maxwell laughs. It chokes at the back of his throat when his left hand abruptly seizes up. He looks at it in alarm, thinking it’s reacting to a rift somewhere, and then tries to pry it away from the red lyrium growing through the stone around it, on it, through it. Lyrium pushes through muscle and bone, bursts out of his skin and armor. He falls to a knee, trying to breathe through the pain, eyes burning with tears as lyrium crawls up his arm.

“Dorian!” But he’s the only one in his endless hall underneath Redcliffe Castle, the only one watching the red lyrium rip his arm apart and move relentlessly towards his shoulder, his chest, his beating heart. “Anyone there? Help me! Please!”

Unearthly green crackles and shatters, spilling demons into the castle’s underbelly. Maxwell reaches for his greatsword but his right hand finds air and then red lyrium erupts form his collarbone. He screams and then chokes as lyrium pushes out of the back of his throat. Red seeps into his eyes and he doesn’t know if it’s blood or lyrium.

A demon’s spindly claws reach for his head. With his last choking breath, he wrenches himself away from it and off the bed.

He kicks away the sweat-soaked sheet and stares up at the ceiling, trying to breathe. His heart pounds. His throat is raw and his body aches all over, like he’d been throwing himself at the wall for an hour. He lies there, heaving for air, and then hears voices, the nightwatch whispering outside the cabin in low nervous voices. He should - he needs to calm them, ask them to forget what they heard, and send them on their way. Nobody needs the rumors.

Nobody needs to know the Herald has a frail mind.

Maxwell staggers to his feet and reaches for the mud-stained coat he left hanging over the back of his chair. His leather gloves are on the rickety wooden table, half-hidden under letters and salvaged books. Nights here are so cold and he needs to hide his vivid mark. He knots his faded silk sash around his waist and takes a steadying breath before opening the door.

The five men and women standing outside his cabin snap their mouths shut and hastily salute him. He recognizes one of them from the road, when the night terrors first drove him out into the dark. She nods sympathetically and turns to the others. “The Herald is all right. You didn’t hear or see nothing. Off you go.”

The others cast doubtful glances over their shoulders as they trudge back to their routes. She keeps her eyes lowered while quietly adding, “I will not speak of this if that’s what you wish.”

“Thank you, uh….”

“Sergeant Katarin, ser.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.” He rubs his face, breathing in the chilly mountain air with its bright pine scent. The cabin is stifling, stinking of sweat and fear, and he needs to get out. “If anyone asks, I’m talking a walk.”

“Yes, ser.”

Sergeant Katarin stations herself by the door while he walks away. Maxwell keeps his head down to avoid attention and quietly eases past the village gates. He stops short at the sea of tents right outside Haven’s walls; more mages followed him back to Haven than the village could accommodate, forcing them to settle outside near the stables and smithy. Cassandra’s already complained about the former Circle mages making unreasonable demands about the situation but who could blame them? They never had to live with such hardships before the Circles revolted.

A few mages sit around low-burning fires, reading or chatting animatedly with each other. They appear to revel in their precarious situation.

Maxwell considers the empty smithy and then trudges up to it, a thought taking hold and blossoming in his mind. He’d been taught to fight since childhood and training sessions with the family’s guard captain became a reliable distractions on the days when expectations breathed down his neck. He clenches his hands, already aching for the feel of a greatsword’s grip.

He raids the smithy for a battered iron sword and walks out to the makeshift training ground. A few straw dummies still stand, limbs intact; he stops in front of the nearest one and hefts the sword, testing its weight. Its balance is excellent and he tells himself to commend Harritt later.

Maxwell recalls his trainer’s voice - Captain Carrine’s sharp reprimands whenever he took the wrong step, reminders to stay aware of his surroundings no matter the circumstances, terse commands to never use just his arms but also his whole body. He remembers what he learned while on the run in the Marches, when form and technique gave way to brutal survival. He thinks about the magic on his hand that ordained him Andraste’s herald and heretic, the demons spilling out of the tears in the Veil all throughout the Hinterlands, and his first near-fatal attempt to close the Breach. He thinks about a year-old future where the sky and the Breach are one and everyone he knows is dead or dying.

The horizon is pale when he finally cuts down the last dummy. His muscles burn and his lungs strain for air, and he feels free for once, clear-headed and unafraid. He goes to the frozen lake and kicks a hole through the ice, kneels to splash his face before gulping frigid handfuls. He watches wildlife slowly creep out of their shelters to forage and listens to Haven stir. He rises to his feet and returns to his cabin with the dull sword on his shoulder.

“Oh dear,” is the only warning anybody gets before Chancellor Roderick storms through the chantry doors, face red with fury. His eyes sweep the dim hall before finding the source of his ire.

“You!” he shouts, finger pointing at Maxwell. “You went and brought back the rebel mages? You offered an alliance with their leader? I expected better from a Trevelyan. You should know better-”

Cassandra steps in front of Maxwell. “Enough, Roderick.”

“And you!” Roderick says, turning his shaking finger up at Cassandra’s stony face. “I expected better from you, Seeker. You should’ve gone to Therinfal Redoubt and convinced the Lord Seeker that you needed the templars-”

“Seekers do not play favorites,” she replies coldly. “And Sister Leliana sent a messenger to Therinfal when we left for Redcliffe. She’ll have Lord Seeker Lucius’s response soon enough. And the Herald believed it to be more prudent to ask the former Grand Enchanter first, seeing as she came to us offering assistance instead of punching Mother Hevara in public.”

The chancellor flinches at the reminder. He glares at Maxwell over Cassandra’s shoulder and at Josephine and Cullen standing at the doorway to the diplomat’s shared office. “You realize what this could do to your Inquisition. How much harder it will be to be recognized by the Chantry. What do you say to this, knight-commander?”

The former templar grimaces. “That is not my title anymore. And what I or the Chantry have say doesn’t matter. The Herald believed the Breach to be a magical problem that needed a magical solution, and the Grand Enchanter invited him to Redcliffe to discuss one. The Lord Seeker… did not.”

“You’re harboring the mage that started the entire war, that forced the Divine’s hand and brought her here to her death-”

“Now you go too far, Roderick,” Leliana says softly, stepping out of the shadows and brushing black feathers off her shoulder. “Attitudes like yours made the war possible. She was trying to change them at the Conclave. What the Herald did was what the Divine would have wanted.”

Chancellor Roderick finally backs away, shoulders slumping. “I’m not wrong. You know what they’re already saying. If you wanted legitimacy, this was not the way.”

“The templars broke with the Chantry and holed up in a fortress rather than try to solve the problem. We would have been fighting for it no matter what.”

The older man throws his hands in the air. “Fine. Do what you think is best. I’m only a chancellor, what can I possibly do?”

“Help the Inquisition, Roderick.” Mother Giselle appears in the hall and Maxwell wonders how long she’d been standing in the shadows, listening to his accusations. “The Chantry will not find answers for Divine Justinia’s death or why the Breach came to be. You know that as well as I.”

The chancellor sighs. “There hasn’t been an Inquisition for a thousand years.”

“The world did not need one,” Leliana says. “Now, we do.”

Still, Chancellor Roderick shakes his head. “You said the Divine gave you permission to form the Inquisition. I hope you know what you’re doing.” He looks at Maxwell suspiciously. “Many still suspect you as the cause of the explosion, Trevelyan, but if you can close it….”

“Come with me, Roderick,” Mother Giselle says, placing a hand at his elbow and steering him back out of the chantry. “There are still those who sympathize with the….”

Once the doors shut behind him with a resounding clang, Josephine lets out the breath she’d been holding.

“Well. That went better than I expected.”

Cullen snorts. “He just told us Fiona’s mages jeopardized our chances with the rest of the world. I wouldn’t say it was ‘better’.”

“They’ll be singing a different tune once they learn the mages helped close the Breach and did so voluntarily,” Leliana says. “Solas should be here soon to discuss the next step. Shall we?”

Solas joins them while she talks about the rumors her people overheard in the villages near Therinfal. The apostate brings with him a gust of mountain air and a lingering scent of elfroot; there’s something else, a prickling sensation, and Maxwell shivers, slides closer to Cassandra until the discomfort disappears. Solas quirks an eyebrow at him but says nothing.

“What do you have?” Cassandra asks and Solas begins by unrolling a hand-drawn map of the temple ruins on top of Josephine’s map of southern Thedas.

Maxwell feels himself list to the side while watching Solas draw lightly on his map with a charcoal stick. His eyes are uncomfortably dry but he can only rub at them so many times before they become swollen and red and noticeable. He stifles a yawn and that, unfortunately, catches Josephine’s attention.

“Are you all right?” she suddenly asks.

Everyone stares at him. He flushes. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look it,” she says, studying him with narrowed eyes. Unable to hold her gaze, he drops his eyes to Solas’s diagram and the larger map underneath. “Are you not sleeping well? Is your cabin not comfortable? I can request a-”

“No, it’s fine.” He glances quickly at the others and cringes at the exasperation on Solas’s face. “The cabin’s fine. I turned in late last night, that’s all.”

“‘That’s all’, he says,” Leliana snorts. “You’ve been spending the last four nights out on the training ground.”

“I like the dark,” he says. Of course she’d know. Did she have to mention it in front of everybody else? “Can we get back to this? I know I’ll sleep better once I know the Breach can be closed.”

“I agree,” Cullen says. “What was it you were saying, Solas?”

“I said you must prepare for what comes after. Not the… state of your Chantry but the expectations once the Breach is gone. Closing it will not make the existing rifts disappear. The Herald must still find and seal them before one of the rifts opens and grows into a new Breach.”

“I see,” Cassandra says flatly.

Maxwell nods slowly, acknowledging, mouth pressed tightly. The mark thrums hotly in his hand, a heavy burning weight, and he curls his fingers around it like they can contain its magic.

“The… Enchanter Fiona and I need more time,” Solas continues. “The last thing we need is a miscalculation backfiring on us that could kill the Herald or-”

“How long?” Maxwell asks. How much longer can he carry the hopes of every person in his left hand? How much longer until he can stop wondering why he has this mark? Why Andraste chose him over even Divine Justinia?

Solas stares at him for an uncomfortably long moment. “Two weeks, perhaps. You were on your own the first time and the mark nearly killed you. I believe I speak for everyone here when I say I want to make sure you survive, so we will take the time to ensure it.”

He nods, then stifles another yawn. His right eye twitches but nobody notices, or pretends not to. “So, two weeks. Is there anything else?”

“I’m waiting on word from two of the sympathetic nobles I petitioned for aid,” Josephine says. “Hopefully, they haven’t changed their minds now that the mages are here.”

“I’ll inform you once I have a response from the Lord Seeker,” Leliana says. “Teyrn Fergus is sending us weapons and armor as thanks for our presence at the Divine’s Vigil.”

“No word from my men or Sister Dorcas yet. I hope this axe is worth the effort,” Cullen says. He suddenly hesitates, mouth pressing into a thin line while considering his next words. “Herald, there is something. You know many former templars joined the Inquisition. They’re… uneasy about the mages here. Fiona promised that she’ll keep her people in line but we should consider taking precautions in case someone tries to cross it.”

“Precautions?” Leliana asks. “They’re our allies, Cullen. You don’t imprison them just because of what they might do.”

“That’s not what I mean-”

“Then what do you mean?” Maxwell asks. “Should I not have asked Fiona to help us?”

“No, that’s not it.” Cullen sighs. “Chancellor Roderick was right about their presence here. Not everyone in Haven is happy, Herald. You made your decision and I will defend it, but know that others feel differently. Show them you’re aware of their concerns, too.”

He stares at the former templar, fingers curled tightly, trembling with uncertainty, doubt. Did he make a mistake? Did he anger that many people with his decision to go to Redcliffe? Did he jeopardize the Inquisition before they even had the chance to close to the Breach and prove themselves?

“Perhaps you should assign your templars elsewhere, Commander,” Solas replies before the silence drags on for too long. “If they can’t tolerate the mages being here of their own free will, send them elsewhere to occupy their minds and time. That is always an option. If you’ll excuse me.”

He leaves the room. Once the doors shut, Cassandra turns to Cullen. “If anyone is questioning the Herald’s decision, send them to me. I'll not risk uncertainty and unrest destroying what we already achieved.”

“No, I - I should do it myself,” Cullen says. “I just thought the Herald should know what’s happening within the ranks.”

“I have an idea now,” Maxwell says a little too quickly. He clears his throat. “Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

Cullen nods. “I’ll take my leave. I have… matters to discuss with them.”

Maxwell doesn't relax until Cullen is gone. His shoulders sag and he bows his head, staring at the mark on his left hand. If only he could will it away.... He glances up when Cassandra leans on the table, peering at him with sharp eyes.

“You look exhausted.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? First the Breach and whatever happened at the Conclave that I can’t remember, then Redcliffe, and now this… problem with the mages and templars here, the entire reason why we were here in the first place,” he says and the Seeker winces. “It’s been a very… trying several weeks, and I guess they’re finally catching up.”

Cassandra sighs, her guard slipping in a rare moment. “You’re right. What happened at Redcliffe-”

“Happened. I just need a few days to… clear my head.”

“None of us have been able to do that in a very long time,” Cassandra agrees.

“Especially you, Cassandra,” Leliana says. “You’re being too hard on yourself again.”

“I started this. It’s only right that I see this to the end.”

Josephine quietly organizes the missives and sketches and Maxwell takes it as his cue to leave. While easing the door shut, he hears the Divine’s Right Hand say, “There’s more - Charter said she’d been watching Therinfal for four days now and no one’s left or entered it in....”

Maxwell nearly collides with Vivienne on his way out of the chantry.

“I overheard your conversation with the chancellor. You should heed his warning,” she says while he steadies himself. “Do you think people will care that you took the mages and a Ferelden bann’s home from a Tevinter magister - are you well, dear? You look under the weather-”

“I’m fine,” he snaps. His face burns as she flinches and nearby sisters whip their heads around to stare. He quickly composes himself and says, “I apologize. That was unbecoming of me.”

She hums. “Apology accepted. We’ll have this discussion another time. Consider visiting the apothecary. I’m sure that Adan can concoct something to help you recover from whatever’s ailing you.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, my dear,” she says, sounding too much like certain relatives back home. “After all, we want the Herald to be at his best when he closes the Breach for good.”

Haven thrives on renewed hope despite the misgivings about the mage alliance. People greet the Herald with thanks and well-wishes wherever he goes; even the eternally irritable Adan pulls together a half-smile while offering him several flasks of a restorative concoction to use at night. Minaeve declares it a miracle and Adan scowls before grumbling about the mages raiding his meager stocks for their own needs.

The former Circle mages and former templars appear to come to an unspoken truce. Other than a few arguments, they keep to their camps, their halves of Haven, and greet each other tensely when crossing paths. It’s not so different from the weeks before the Conclave, Maxwell thinks, except the leaders are all dead and there’s a hole in the sky. Still, one can appreciate the effort to appear unified against a common threat. But what happens once the Breach is gone?

“You’re positioning them too far away,” Fiona says during a meeting between her, Solas, and Maxwell. She frowns at the marks Solas made with red chalk on his map of the temple grounds. “If you place them here and here, you’ll increase the odds of interference from these….”

Maxwell watches the two mages trade chalk pieces across the table. Next to Solas’s hand-drawn map is a larger map of Haven and the Temple of Sacred Ashes. A soldier had helpfully drawn in the size and scope of the explosion with ink, including a large black dot pinpointing the likely epicenter. He stares at the dot, wishing he can remember what part of the temple that was and why he went there.

“Maybe I should go,” he says when neither mage shows any sign of simplifying their arguments for him or even acknowledging his presence.

They stare at him and then the former Grand Enchanter turns back to the maps, tapping a finger on her chin.

“If anyone asks,” Solas says with a long-suffering sigh, “the enchanter and I will be at the valley to observe the red lyrium growths. From a distance, of course.”

Free of immediate responsibilities for once, Maxwell retreats to his cabin. He sits at the rickety wooden table and stares at the stack of letters Josephine handed him earlier this morning. With a sigh, he pushes them aside and fishes out an unfinished letter from under two dusty books he found while poking around the chantry. He unfolds the piece of paper and stares at his hesitant handwriting.

They believe She saved me and I can’t deny them. They need to believe in something, even if it’s me.

I wish you were here. I wish

It’s a pointless exercise. He doesn’t know if Evelyn and the others are still near Ansburg or if they’ve gone even further north towards Antiva. No matter what Leliana claims, he doubts her messengers can find them in time and return with an answer. But who else can he write to? He looks at the letter at the top of the heap, no doubt intentionally placed there by Josephine to get his attention. He’s in no mood to read anything from his father, though, and turns his attention back to the his unfinished letter.

He should… he should tell Evelyn about their older brother. He should tell her that he found Edmund with the mages at Haven. She can draw her own conclusions as to whether or not one of Ostwick Circle's most promising enchanters survived the explosion.

What else would he tell them? The vicious fighting that tore up the Hinterlands? The wild beauty of the Storm Coast that felt oddly like home? The bright and deceivingly festive Summer Bazaar at Val Royeaux?

He could write about Redcliffe.

Maxwell goes outside and spends an hour asking the Iron Bull about Seheron and Krem about the Chargers.

Night finds him striding out to the training ground, sweat clinging to his forehead and heart pounding like he ran through endless corridors instead of dreaming about them. The dream fades rapidly but he still remembers the flooded prison cells and the red lyrium blooming from the corpses; one had the Iron Bull’s great horns and the other Sera’s mop of straw-colored hair. They weren’t the ones he and Dorian found and sprung free but they easily could’ve been. They could’ve been two of the many sent to Redcliffe in search of their missing Herald.

He stares at the jagged green line across his left palm and then clenches it tightly against the frigid cold. Cursing himself for forgetting his gloves, he tears off a strip from his shirt and winds it tightly around his hand; the mark glows faintly through the fabric but it’s easier to hide now, easier to put out of sight and mind. Maxwell then looks up at the row of straw dummies waiting in the clearing. Someone had been leaving them out after sunset - Cullen, probably - after Leliana mentioned the Herald’s nighttime activities.

The iron greatsword shreds the dummies and then splinters the poles propping them up. Each blow jars his arms, a welcome reminder that he’s not trapped in another dream. He moves faster, swings harder, wears himself down so that he won’t dream of red lyrium when he stumbles back to bed. He pulverizes the last pole and stares at the splinters and shards all over the ground, breathing hard, and wipes sweat off his brow.

“There must be better things to do than hack a poor log to death at this dreadful hour.”

Maxwell turns sharply, greatsword held out in a defensive position, and the dull blade stops short of slashing Dorian’s chest open. The mage holds his hands up but faint green magic already coats his skin. After a second, Maxwell lowers the sword and Dorian banishes his barrier with a gesture. Leftover magic gathers into a wisp and it floats around the mage, glowing softly. Maxwell stares at it, remembering Evelyn complaining of her struggles to summon them.

Dorian looks at him curiously and then at the greatsword in his hand and the carnage in the snow behind him. “Come here often?”

Maxwell snorts at the casual tone. “Perhaps.”

He stabs the greatsword in the ground before turning to clean up the mess. The pile of splintered wood and straw bursts into flames before he can carry it to a nightwatch fire and he glances sharply at the mage.

“Sorry about that,” Dorian says brazenly. “Old habits die hard.”

“So I’ve heard,” Maxwell says. He’s spent far too much time around mages to flinch at the first burst of magic-fueled fire.

If anything, Dorian looks even more bemused by his lack of reaction. He doesn’t say anything, though; he watches Maxwell scuff snow onto the fire after it burns through the straw and then follows him down to the frozen lake, the wisp trailing after them. Maxwell glances over his shoulder at the mage, wondering why Dorian is awake this late at night.

Maxwell gives Dorian a few more seconds to speak, then breaks the ice with his heel and crouches down to splash water on his face. His face prickles and burns from the cold and his breath fogs as he soaks his sore hands.

“Can’t sleep?” Dorian finally asks.

He huffs and shakes water from his hands, wiping them on his trousers while rising to his feet. “What makes you say that?”

“The entire village has been for several hours, yet here you are.”

“I could say the same about you.”

When no response is forthcoming, he turns around. Dorian is looking at him strangely.

“Started after Redcliffe, didn’t it?”

He goes still, his chest twisting painfully at the name. Dorian sighs knowingly, tiredly, and now Maxwell sees the dark circles under the mage’s eyes, the stress lines creasing his face. He hasn’t been dealing well with what happened at Redcliffe Castle, either.

“I try not to let most things get to me. But what we went through, that future we saw, that’s not something anyone would recover from.” Dorian shakes his head, shoulders sagging. He looks nothing like the confident man Maxwell met at the Redcliffe chantry and followed through the castle’s broken halls. “What he did trying to save Felix, what he sacrificed... they always think they know what’s best and who pays the price? He would’ve let the world burn instead of accept the inevitable.”

There’s a slight tremble in Dorian’s voice and Maxwell wonders if he’s not just talking about his former mentor. Dorian made plain countless times how much he despises what Tevinter had become but something heavy and personal weighs down his words, like Alexius wasn’t the first to disappoint him.

“Can’t be easy seeing someone you looked up to fall so low,” Maxwell decides to say.

“You’d be surprised,” Dorian replies lightly, like he didn’t just give himself away a second ago. “It’s a habit of ours - one day you’re the talk of Minrathous and the Archon’s best friend, and the next day you’re shipping out to Seheron to spend your last days in the fog fighting Qunari. But one thing you can count is that we like to talk about our glorious past and how we can restore the Imperium to her former glory.” He sighs., then suddenly perks up “At least our mysterious enemy has no idea we know his plans so I'd call it a success. Wouldn’t you agree, Herald-”

“Maxwell,” he blurts out. “I’m not fond of that… title. Not this late at night. And it’s only fair, after Redcliffe.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now? ‘After Redcliffe’?” Dorian joins Maxwell at the edge of the frozen lake. He’s just a bit shorter but gives the impression of being much taller. “We’re the only ones who saw what happens to the world without you in it. I imagine that leads to a lot of sleepless nights.”

“They do,” Maxwell says before he can stop himself. It’s not really a secret though, is it? The nightwatch and a handful of people already know he tends to wander at night. “If I sleep, I’m at the castle except we never find Alexius and we die in the dungeons. Or I’m in Ostwick, the Breach is everywhere, and I can’t save my family. Everyone dies because I wasn’t there to stop the Elder One. Because they didn’t have this on my hand….”

If only he didn’t go to the Conclave. If only he didn’t somehow survive it while every prominent leader perished. If only it wasn’t him. He looks down at the eerie green glow seeping out from under the strip of cloth. “If Solas and Fiona make a mistake, this could blow up in our faces and kill me.”

“Do you really trust that apostate? He looks and lives like something the cat dragged in, and claims he’s self-taught. Not my first choice for sealing that hole in the sky.”

“You weren’t there. He realized this mark was connected to the Veil and showed me how to close rifts and stop the Breach from growing. He saved my life, too,” Maxwell says. “So be nice. You want to be there when we close the Breach, right? You should talk to him about it, see if you can help.”

“What can I possibly gain from talking to someone like him?” Dorian grimaces. “That was rude of me. Didn't take long for me to come off like a rude evil magister in front of the Herald himself, did it?”

“But you're not a magister,” Maxwell says immediately, confused. Then, “Wait. Is that what people are saying?”

Dorian waves it off. “I’ve heard much worse on the road. And back home, if I think about it. Which I won’t. I have better things to do, like waste my time and talents trying to stay warm on this absolutely frigid blighted mountain. How do you stand the cold?”

“I run around a lot,” Maxwell says promptly and Dorian laughs, shattering the quiet. “It helps, I swear.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it.” Dorian flashes a smile, then tilts his head to the training ground uphill behind them. “So, you come out here when you can’t sleep and hit things that don’t hit back? Seems rather unproductive and boring.”

“I don’t exactly have a lot of options at this hour.” Dorian just looks at him and a bewildering second later, it clicks. “You… want to join me. As in, fight me.”

“I promise not to prick my dainty little finger to summon demons, if that’s your concern.” Dorian shifts uneasily like the cold is getting to him. “Nights like this are an excellent time for me to practice but the last time I did that, a bunch of your soldiers and the southern mages shouted me down, threatened to dispel my magic and worse. But say I’m offering to show the Herald how to defend himself against magisters and blood mages. Who’ll argue against that?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“On the contrary. Thanks to-” Dorian gestures in a direction that isn’t the Hinterlands. “-‘after Redcliffe’, neither of us can sleep. I’ve been trying to bore myself reading your Chantry’s history and all that came of it was an insatiable desire to set the books on fire, continue my blasphemous ways. Meanwhile you’re out here smashing up straw dummies and learning nothing. Why waste these hours? Mock fights are far more productive and entertaining.”

His idea is absurd but Maxwell can’t find a reason to turn him down. The fledgling Inquisition is in limbo while Solas and Fiona determine how to close the Breach without killing Maxwell or destroy the Veil, leaving him with too much time on his hands. He can always go a few rounds with Cassandra, Blackwall, or the Iron Bull, but a mage presents an interesting challenge and Dorian is offering to be that mage. His reasoning - excuse - isn’t illogical, either; he’d know how Tevinter-trained mages fight better than anyone here in the south and Maxwell could stand to learn how to battle the Venatori if they remain a threat afterward.

“This could blow up in our faces,” he says but he can’t stop grinning and neither can Dorian.

“Isn't that what makes living fun?” Dorian replies. “Here, tomorrow night?”

“Yes, that sounds perfect.”

Dorian bows with a flourish and leaves, the wisp trailing after him. Maxwell watches them disappear inside Haven, feeling a strange lightness in his chest, and then looks up at the swirling Breach.

For once, he doesn’t feel so afraid of it.

“You don’t use arrows. Why you making a bow if you don’t use arrows?”

Maxwell looks at the loops of rawhide in his hands, the unfinished longbow and the schematic on the worktable, and then at Sera. “Because I can? Because you use them?”

Her eyes narrow. “So what if I do?”

He grips the rawhide a little too tightly while walking around her to the table. He sets the material next to the longbow and skims the schematic. “I don’t know what’ll happen when I try to close the Breach. So this is… I don’t know how else to thank you. For wanting to help me.”

“I don’t-” She stops, blinking rapidly, and her forehead crinkles.

“If something goes wrong,” he adds, “you can stick the Breach full of arrows with this.”

She laughs nervously. “Don’t be stupid. You’re not messing up, not when we’re this far ahead. Yeah?” She leans on the table, studying the schematic and then the longbow. “Just ‘cause you have instructions doesn’t mean you get it right the first time. Or ever.”

“My brother is - was a bowman in the Templar Order. Oswald didn’t trust the bowyers to make his bows right so he made his own. He showed me how but the bows we use are a bit… different. I still need instructions for these types of bows.”

“You know how to shoot.”

“All Trevelyans do,” he says. “We learn how to handle a bow since childhood, even on horseback.”

There’s a joke in there somewhere, he just knows it. But Sera just hums, tapping the table with restless fingers. “Prove it.”

“Prove what?”

She points to the archery range on the training ground and the row of targets painted on stacks of hay. “You, me, arrows. Whoever misses most pays for drinks.”

“What, me against you? That’s not fair.”

“We’ll just grab someone else to help you out. You beat them, they pay for everything. But not Varric. He doesn’t miss.”

“I don’t think he ever does,” Maxwell says. He considers turning her down but he sees the glint in her eyes and something swells at the back of his throat. “All right. Let’s go.”

It takes two minutes to know who’ll win but they still test each other for thirty minutes more. A crowd slowly gathers, curious eyes watching a self-taught elven archer easily outshoot the Herald. His attention starts pulling away from the bow and arrow in his hand, his stance, his posture, the target fifty-five paces away. They’re all watching him, staring at the glowing mark on his hand as he draws the arrow back.

He misses the hay bale entirely and hands the bow back to the soldier he borrowed it from. “I’m out.”

“What, that’s it? Just like that?”

He holds his hands up. “I know when I’m beaten.”

She huffs. “Fine,” she says, dragging the word out like a petulant child. “You, me, the Singing Maiden tonight, or else bees.”

Maxwell grimaces. Sera had found, in her own secretive fashion, that someone was peddling tossable jars of angry bees for perplexing reasons and insisted the Inquisition bring him in. No one took her seriously until she threw a jar at lyrium smugglers in the Hinterlands. The cloud of bees swarming the smugglers and scattering them into the woods made quite the spectacle, and then the swarm turned on them.

She still totes a jar whenever they leave Haven, no matter how Vivienne glowers at her over the incident.

“Gave my word, didn’t I?” he says. He has a pouch of sovereigns and silvers from Josephine’s latest attempt to fill the Inquisition’s meager coffers, which should more than cover the pints Sera intends to put away. “I’ll be there.”

Their audience slowly disperse, especially with Cullen wading in to send the soldiers back to their posts and tasks. Blackwall reluctantly hands the Iron Bull some coin, having clearly and miserably lost a bet. What convinced the Warden that Maxwell ever stood a chance? He’s still grateful for the gesture and returns to the smithy with a smile. It stays on his face while he finishes crafting the longbow and tests it at the range.

“That’s a well-made bow,” Cullen remarks after Maxwell fires an arrow at a surviving hay bale from sixty paces.

“Thank you. I never made one on my own before.” Maxwell glances up at the sky, gaze sweeping past the swirling Breach to the slowly sinking sun. “Should go pay for Sera’s ale before she tips a jar of bees into my cabin.”

“Maker. Do I even want to know?”

He recalls running for his life through Hafter’s Woods, ears filled with furious buzzing and Blackwall’s panicked cursing. “You really don’t.”

Hungover and shivering is not how he wants to meet Dorian. Details fade the longer he’s awake, fumbling in the dark for clothes that aren’t soaked in sweat, but horror still clings to him. The demons didn’t drag in Cassandra and Varric’s bodies when they came for him and Dorian; they threw Hildred and Oswald’s mutilated corpses at his feet and laughed. Evelyn’s head rolled along the floor and came to a stop at the bottom of the steps, red lyrium bursting from her eyes.

“You’re too late,” she whispered. “The Elder One has come for you.”

He woke right when the demons severed his left hand from his wrist. He stared at the ceiling for too long, heart pounding and eyes wet with tears.

“I hate this,” he hisses while pulling a belt tightly around his brocaded sash and waist. He grabs the dinged greatsword from its resting place against the wall and stalks outside into the night.

Dorian is pacing around the training ground when he steps through Haven’s gates. The mage is a sight in the light of the twin moons, breath fogging around his head as he tracks looping circles through the light dusting of snow. Maxwell watches for a moment longer before pulling the gates shut with a violent tug. Dorian starts and turns to him, looking at once annoyed and relieved.

“Oh good, you’re finally here,” Dorian says as he approaches. “For a second I thought I might have to come banging on your door, see if you weren’t still sleeping off that disgusting swill Sera kept plying you with. How does someone so small put away so - are you all right?”

“... what?” Maxwell asks, and then flinches when Dorian steps right into his space to look him over with a critical eye. “It’s nothing. I really shouldn’t have had that much.”

“Isn’t that what we all say.” Dorian pulls a tiny vial from a satchel tied to his belt. “This’ll help with the headache.”

“I’ve heard that before. You sure?”

“I made it myself. Never know when you have to fight off nosy highwaymen after a night of heavy drinking.” Dorian then gestures at the training ground. “If we want to do this, perhaps we should go somewhere else. I’d hate waking up the village trying to set you on fire.”

Maxwell uncaps the vial and swallows its contents, grimacing at the bitter grassy taste. The dull pounding in his head fades and he runs his tongue over his teeth while pocketing the ampoule. “You’re not actually going to set me on fire, are you?”

“Wouldn’t be a challenge if I didn’t try,” Dorian replies smartly. “I’ll cast a barrier first, don’t worry. Why don’t we go over there?”

He points his staff at the cluster of trees and snowy hills beyond the soldiers’ tents and the nightwatch fires. Maxwell has been there before, tripping over elfroot in the glistening snow and startling rams into bolting up the mountainside. There’s plenty of space and not enough buildings to accidentally set aflame or bring down.

“Why not,” he says, sets his sword on his shoulder, and follows Dorian to the edge of Haven.

Soldiers walk the outskirts and they stop in their tracks to either salute him or ask bewildered questions. One of them is Sergeant Katarin, who simply nods and directs her patrol elsewhere.

“We won’t be far, Herald,” she tells him. “Just shout if you’re in trouble.”

“I’ll keep him safe,” Dorian says over his shoulder, some five paces ahead. “Though really, the only real danger out here is the footing. If the boots that officer was offering weren’t so unsightly and of improper fit, I would’ve taken them….”

Katarin raises a sharp eyebrow and Maxwell quickly says, “We’ll only be gone for a few hours. If a tree catches fire, don’t raise the alarm yet. It’s probably just us.”

She nods slowly. “Yes, ser. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He returns her salute while leaving and almost slips in the muddy slush, catches himself and runs after Dorian. They pass by an abandoned cabin, a logging stand, and too many trees until they reach a wide clearing covered in deep snow and druffalo tracks. Dorian walks around, getting a feel for the footing, and then declares, “This’ll do.”

Maxwell slides the greatsword off his shoulder and gives it a few experimental swings, reacquainting himself with its weight and balance. “So how should we start?”

“Without warning, if we’re serious,” the mage says, walking in a large circle around him. The staff’s head glows faintly and Maxwell watches it, remembering what his templar sister told him about fighting apostates. “To first blood or until someone keels over?”

“No blood, if possible.”

Dorian sweeps his staff over the ground and a warm green barrier wraps around them. The gesture is the only warning Maxwell gets; with another sweep, Dorian litters the ground with glyphs and sends a bolt of energy at Maxwell’s feet. He leaps to the side and almost loses his footing trying to dodge another blast. Hildred scolds him from memory.

“If you can’t catch a mage off-guard or dispel her magic, then charge her. Distance is her advantage. Always move and always move closer.”

He twists away from a bright salvo of energy and looks for a path between the fire mines. Another barrage comes at him and he runs through it in a crooked line; the bolts land all around him, tossing up mud and snow, crackling with energy. He falters once when hit in the shoulder and back, but the barrier shrugs off the damage and he keeps moving, eyes on both the glyphs and Dorian.

Like Evelyn, Dorian seems to favor the more destructive spells but he shows a flair that she and other southern mages lack; he casts confidently, boldly, spinning out a storm of magic with ease and utter delight. Are all the Tevinter-trained mages like this, or is it just him?

The differences are so striking that Maxwell keeps changing tactics on the fly, adapting his sister’s knowledge to combat those who were never afraid of their gifts. He runs himself ragged trying to keep pace and find an advantage, and slips while dodging a bright purplish lightning bolt. His foot slides across the line of a fire mine and it explodes; heat licks at the barrier and he shields his face while quickly backing away from the flames.

“Come now, Maxwell!” Dorian calls out. “I know you’re better than that.”

“Just warming up!” he says and means it, exhaling harshly and swinging his greatsword while shifting stance and strategy.

“Such bravado. I hope it’s not all talk.”

Maxwell bolsters himself with a deep breath and then charges. Dorian immediately brings up a wall of flame to deter him; he angles away and around it without slowing down, watching his footing so as to not trigger another glyph. The barrier is fading and he grimaces at the sudden intense heat on his right, quickens his pace to get around it and barrels right into Dorian before the mage can react.

He rubs snow out of his eyes and waits for the world to stop spinning, then picks himself up. The collision had thrown them off their feet but not far away enough from each other; he lunges for his sword while Dorian scrambles for his stave. A new barrier ripples around Maxwell as he launches himself at the mage, closing the distance as Hildred instructed. He interrupts Dorian’s next spell but loses his upper hand when Dorian twists out of the way at the last second and trips him with the staff blade.

“Try to keep up,” Dorian says, breathless and laughing.

“If you insist,” Maxwell replies and kicks at Dorian’s knee, sending the mage tumbling into the snow. He gets to his feet and gives Dorian the smallest of courtesies by waiting until the mage is standing to attack.

He recognizes the motions and closes with a rush as the air crackles with lightning, forcing Dorian to stop his spell and block the swinging greatsword. Maxwell disengages and swings again, stopping another spell from forming. Hildred’s advice clings to his every move as they fall into an intense rhythm. Without space to cast and distance to allow the spell to gather strength, Dorian can’t use his magic at will but he still holds his ground, fending off Maxwell’s every advance with his staff.

“You look surprised,” Dorian says. He sneaks in a quick pulse of energy that pushes Maxwell back a step.

“Was told mages keep their distance for a reason.” He makes up the lost ground before Dorian presses the advantage, forcing the mage to stay on the defensive. He breathes deeply and readies for another assault. “Guess they were wrong about one.”

“I’m flattered.” Dorian sways, tiring, but still manages a gracious bow. “And now for my next trick-”

He swings the staff blade up at Maxwell’s face. Maxwell blocks it but the sudden momentum knocks him off-balance and he stumbles back. It’s all the space Dorian needs; he presses his fingertips to his temple and summons a tremendous explosion of telekinetic energy.

The trees at the edge of the clearing sway, dumping snow and startling sleeping birds into flight.

Maxwell stares up at the swirling Breach, breath steaming into a cloud above him, ears ringing from impact. Damp cold starts seeping into his clothes and he slowly gets up with a low groan. Dorian sits some distance away in the middle of a small crater, muttering under his breath. He falls silent while Maxwell brushes off snow and looks around at the damage.

“You were right,” Dorian eventually says. “Running around does help. I don’t think I’ll ever be cold again.”

Maxwell laughs until his sides hurt.

He’s limping when he reaches his cabin, though the small vials Dorian keeps on his person helped with the aches and bruises. Maxwell drops the sword and clumsily sheds his clothes before collapsing in his unmade bed.

If he dreams, he doesn’t remember.

“Why you so bloody cheerful,” Sera moans when he sits down at her table in the Singing Maiden and places the longbow in front of her. She clutches at her mop of straw-colored hair before burrowing her face in the crook of her arm, not seeing what’s in front of her.

“If you ask nicely, I’m sure Adan can make you something for your headache,” Maxwell says.

She groans at the suggestion. “No thanks. More ale.”

“Drinking isn’t going to make it go away.”

“Don’t care.”

Flissa hovers nearby, glancing between them with a raised eyebrow. He shakes his head and she walks away to clear a table of three empty pints; he wonders who started drinking this early in the morning. Sera lifts her head and props it on her left hand, staring at him grumpily.

“What d’you do? I mean, I know where to put it. I can hold my drink. Didn’t look like you did.”

He shrugs, trying not to remember the taste of Dorian’s bitter concoction, and regrets it when he pulls a sore muscle. “Like I said, go ask Adan. Nicely.”

“Ugh.” Her large eyes finally notice the longbow. “You made it.”

“Tested it, too. Light and strong. You’ll like it.”

“Sure,” she says warily but she doesn’t sound so abrasive or incredulous now. She looks bemused by the gift and he wonders if he was too forward.

“Suppose I should thank you,” Sera slowly says, touching the padded grip. “Not like I lost all of my manners.” In a lower voice, “Piss off, Vivvy.”

“You’re welcome,” Maxwell says, relieved. “Anyway, if you won’t see Adan, maybe ask Flissa to make elfroot tea. Oswald always swore by it.”

Sera makes a disgusted noise and buries her face in the crook of her arm again.

“And the shields?” Maxwell asks, glancing at the Warden loitering near the smithy’s shed.

“Almost ready,” Harritt says. “Though with that Blackwall snooping around, it’s getting difficult finishing them without him noticing. But I’ll have them ready in a day or two.”

“Thank you.” He turns to leave, thinking idly of the makeshift pens holding Dennet’s horses and the apples in his pockets.

“Suppose you can tell us exactly when you and the mages are getting rid of that,” Harritt suddenly says.

He looks up at the Breach swirling lazily high above the blackened ruins. The longer he stares, the more clearly he remembers a sky storming green, tearing Thedas apart and dragging the pieces into the sky.

“Herald?”

He blinks and the sky is wintry blue at the edge of the Breach. He slowly unclenches his hands and says, “It’ll be gone before the week is over.”

He quickly walks away before Harritt can ask more questions because he doesn’t have the answers. Solas does and that’s what he told Maxwell, Cassandra, Leliana, and the others at the meeting this morning. The former Grand Enchanter held a similar meeting with her mages, informing them of the tentative strategy she and Solas are putting together and asking for input. Fiona hasn’t returned to the chantry, though, and he considers visiting her camp to ask.

Instead, he goes to Blackwall to lure the Warden away from the smithy and give Harritt some peace of mind.

“Can I ask you something?”

Blackwall gives him a look. “Exactly how many questions do you have about the Wardens?”

He stares at the ground, cheeks reddening. “Many?”

The Warden huffs and sits back on his heels. “Most people don’t care once the Blight’s over. Ten years and they’ve forgotten about us already.”

“How did you know it was the Blight?”

The Free Marches were left in the dark when Ferelden closed its borders during the civil war but rumors were abound that a terrible sickness was spreading, a plague upon the land. He was just a child then but heard the whispers, saw the refugees at the port and in the chantry with horror in their eyes and stories on their lips. They all said it was darkspawn, it was the Blight, no matter what their regent said.

“We Wardens just know these things,” Blackwall says. “You have to join to learn how we read the signs. How we know if it’s not just pockets of darkspawn wandering up from the Deep Roads.”

“Why not tell everyone how to watch for them?”

Blackwall huffs. “Because we go a hundred years between Blights and people forget. They always forget. But Wardens are vigilant, always watching for the signs of another Blight, another Archdemon rising. Doesn’t make us popular, but without us most everyone would be dead.”

“Is that how you go around recruiting people?” He remembers Blackwall telling the villagers to return to their families at the Crossroads, not that they were sorry to go. “You tell them nothing goes on between Blights and most people won’t believe you until the darkspawn are marching into their cities with the Archdemon at the head?”

“You’ve been reading too many stories,” Blackwall says - which is true, Maxwell did read every book about the Blight in the Ostwick chantry’s library. “But yes. The life of a Warden isn’t all glory, honor, and noble deeds. Anyone who takes their vows believing that are only fooling themselves.” He suddenly clears his throat and Maxwell glances at him sharply. “Been meaning to say this but your footwork needs… work.”

“My what?”

“Saw you training with Bull yesterday. Always good to know how to fight with whatever you have but you could use a lot of practice with bucklers and shields. Come on.” Blackwall starts walking to the training ground. “Learned some things from a chevalier when I was younger….”

“Ah, there you are.”

Maxwell starts, yanking Haven’s gates shut with a loud clang. “Dorian?”

“Who else would be standing here at this blighted hour freezing their bits off while hoping the Herald-”

“It’s Maxwell, remember?”

“Hoping that you might turn up?” Dorian paces back and forth on the training ground. “Interested in another fight?”

Someone left a row of dummies for Maxwell’s use but he’s now more interested in the mage swinging his staff about, uncaring of the alarmed looks the passing patrols give him. “I am.”

Dorian smiles and turns dramatically on his heels. “Off we go.”

The nightwatch looks on curiously as they walk to Haven’s outskirts. When Maxwell isn’t paying attention to where his feet sink into the snow, he’s looking at Dorian and wondering what to make of the mage waiting outside hoping he might show up.

“You’re staring. Something on my face?”

“Besides your mustache?” He hesitates. “Bad night?”

Dorian shrugs. “I couldn’t sleep. You?”

He doesn’t remember what woke him but he did so with a pounding heart, curled tightly with his back against the cabin wall. “I tried.”

A fresh layer of snow covers the clearing, hiding druffalo tracks and the damage from four nights ago. He wonders where the animals sleep at night and if there’s a chance a miscast spell will rouse them into a stampede through Haven.

Dorian strides halfway across the field and turns around, staff on his shoulder. “This looks like a good place to start, or shall I move closer to make things easier for you?”

Maxwell huffs and takes a few practice swings. “Just don’t strain yourself.”

Dorian laughs and casts a barrier around them. His next gesture is a forward jab guiding a bright bolt of light but Maxwell is already sprinting in a crooked line toward the mage.

The fight is intense and explosive. Dorian pelts him with fire and lightning and the occasional wall of ice to keep him at bay, forcing him to weave around the clearing. Every time he gets close, Dorian sends out a wave of telekinetic energy to thwart him; tonight, he also uses his magic to whisk across the clearing and force Maxwell to give chase. Dorian pulls that trick again and again but after the fifth time he slides across the field in the blink of an eye, he stops to open a small vial of lyrium.

“I’d say that’s cheating,” Maxwell calls out while picking himself up from the snow. He dusts off his trousers and adjusts his grip on the heavy greatsword, steeling himself for another attack. “But I guess that’s the only way you’ll have a chance of beating me tonight.”

“Hilarious. Don’t forget who won last time.” Dorian tosses the vial over his shoulder and casually casts another barrier around them. He follows that with a fireball.

It becomes clear in a few minutes that Dorian is still feeling the effects of their fight three nights ago. Maxwell keeps slipping past his defenses and each time Dorian just barely manages to push him back. When Maxwell comes at him a sixth time, he’s too slow with his explosion of energy and instead blocks Maxwell’s sword with his staff blade. Now that they’re toe-to-toe, Maxwell presses his advantage as a trained swordsman while Dorian stubbornly holds his ground with the help of his magic. Maxwell catches on when he nearly slips on a patch of ice that wasn’t there a second ago.

The match ends when Maxwell feints left and creates an opening for Dorian to spellcast; just as he raises his hand to force out another telekinetic burst, Maxwell turns right and barrels right into the mage’s side, knocking them both into the snow.

“I’ll have to watch out for that,” Dorian declares while sitting up and brushing snow off himself. He looks exhausted, hair pushed in every direction and body steaming from exertion, but he’s smiling widely, eyes overly bright in the moonlight. “Next time someone charges me like a druffalo, I’ll just step through them, scare them stiff. Literally.”

“I’ve seen my sister do that. It’s… disturbing.”

“Your sister? She’s a mage?”

Maxwell nods, sinking hot aching hands in the snow. “She lived in the Ostwick Circle. Now she’s somewhere north in the Marches, hiding from the war.” He looks skyward. “She’s the reason why I went to Redcliffe.”

“From what I understand, your Chantry thinks we’ll turn to blood magic and demonic possession in the blink of an eye and that's why we should all be locked up in these Circles of yours. Wasn't fully convinced of that until after I came south."

"'Magic exists to serve man, and never rule over him'," Maxwell says. "'Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world or beyond.' They use that to justify it but I like to think most mages don't want to hurt people. They just want to be like us."

Dorian looks at him strangely. "Not an opinion I expected. You're really not afraid of us."

"Evie looked out for me, protected me. That's how her magic appeared. So why should I be?"

He’s the reason why she went to the Circle. She never blamed him, though and kept in touch through letters and supervised visits that her Circle’s First Enchanter Rhona allowed after her Harrowing, determined not to lose him. She was the reason why he left home after her Circle was violently annulled, and the reason why he went to the Conclave. She was the reason why he acted on the Grand Enchanter’s invitation rather than chase the Lord Seeker and the templars to Therinfal Redoubt.

He looks at his gloved palm and the faint green line cutting through the leather. “She’s the reason why I’m here.”

He scrubs at his damp hair and decides he’s been sitting in the cold long enough. He slowly gets to his feet and kicks at the snow, looking for his greatsword.

“While you’re at it,” Dorian suddenly says, “I don’t suppose you can find my staff as well? I can’t feel my legs on account of how cold everything is.”

“Herald?”

Maxwell glances at the courier hovering at his right elbow. “What is it?”

“A message from Lady Josephine. She requests your presence at her office.”

“Is it urgent?”

“She didn’t say,” the courier says, “but she sounded impatient.”

He nods and drags his eyes away from the small stack of battered books on Seggrit’s table. “Tell her I’ll be there later today… or I’ll see her right now. Thank you.”

“Herald.” The courier bows and runs off, probably to report to Leliana for her next assignment.

“If you like,” Seggrit says, “I can hold these books until you return. Tell the truth, I wasn’t sure anyone would care for some light reading while that’s-” He nods at the Breach. “-going on, but if you’re interested-”

“I’d like that. Yes, thank you.”

Josephine is at her desk, reading a letter with a frown, when he enters her office. She glances at him and then at Minaeve, who bids Maxwell a good day and steps outside to give them privacy. Josephine adds the letter to the impressive stack on her desk and smiles warmly at him.

“Herald,” she says. “I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything.”

“I was just browsing Seggrit's table. And waiting for Solas and Fiona to tell me they know how to close the Breach without me dying or blowing it up instead. You said you needed me?”

“I do.” She extracts a letter from another stack but doesn’t open it. “I have a contact in Ostwick named Lady Buttlefort. You may have met her… well, as soon as we declared ourselves, I reached out to her. It appears that your relatives are using your name for themselves. In her last letter, she wrote that a distant cousin of yours threatened to have the Inquisition fight a rival on his behalf.”

He knows exactly which distant cousin would try that. He just doesn’t know why this is his concern. “I’m… not sure what the problem is, exactly. It’s not like I’m actually going to send Inquisition soldiers there because he asked for them.”

Josephine stares at him for an uncomfortably long moment and he starts shifting from foot to foot, worried he just gave something away. Then her eyes widen. “Oh. Forgive me. Let me explain - the Inquisition needs all the support it can get, which has been difficult since the Chantry denounced us and we allied with Enchanter Fiona. But if we’re to court noble families and ruling powers, we need an exceptional reputation. If your family misrepresents us for… personal gain, they’ll tarnish our name. You can imagine what sort of reception we can expect to receive as a result, if anyone bothers to see us. That makes more sense, I hope?”

He slowly nods. This reeks of the Game, something he has only observed from the periphery. His oldest sister knows how to navigate the treacherous waters; him, not so much.

Thank the Maker that Leliana brought Josephine to Haven.

“I… imagine Leliana and Cullen had something to say about it?”

Josephine actually rolls her eyes at the spymaster’s name. “She suggested using a rumor of assassins to encourage your cousin - and your family - to stop. I’ve no doubt they’ll disapprove of the tactic but it’ll certainly dissuade them. You can imagine what the commander’s advice was.”

“Be as tactless as possible.”

“An indelicate way to handle the situation, though it would resolve the matter much more quickly.” She leans forward, businesslike, eyes too keen for even a diplomat. “I would promise them favors in exchange for their… humility.”

“Favors?”

“Little things. Nothing of consequence, but substantial enough for them that they’ll stop using us as a shield and a threat. Eventually they’ll all be in your debt. But you know your family best. What would you recommend?”

What can he possibly do to stop them from talking? Years of his father complaining that none of his children would take up the cloth has culminated in his youngest child being blessed by Andraste Herself - if the stories were true. They’ll never stop talking. He tries to think as his sister would but his mind draws a blank.

“I’m the youngest in my family. I wasn’t taught how to… take advantage of these situations,” he finally, awkwardly says.

“Do you want to solve the problem immediately, scare them into silence and possibly earn their ire, or play a longer game? However you decide, I will help as you as best as I can.”

“I’m glad Leliana reached out to you,” Maxwell says, earning a pleased smile from her. “I think… I think we’ll go with your suggestion. It’s my family and they’ll never shut up anyway. Why don’t we make the most of it? But if this cousin is who I think it is….”

Josephine opens the letter and skims it. “Is his name Cerdic Fulbert Oswin-”

Of course it’s him. “Send him the rumor of assassins. He always needs someone to put the fear of the Maker in him.”

She laughs and then hastily smothers it. “Careful, Herald. We don’t want word getting out that you are using the Inquisition for your own gain.”

“Then we’ll just have to keep it between you and me. And Leliana, since she suggested it first. Is there anything else?”

“I have these.” She slides over an intimidating stack of letters. “Requests from all over Ferelden and eastern Orlais for help. They know you’ve been closing whatever rifts you found while traveling and want you to know that demons still remain.”

He stares at them, his heart sinking. How many pleas are there? “They want me to deal with those demons.”

“Not you personally, though I’m sure some of them are hoping to be graced by the Herald himself. Cullen thought we should send our soldiers to assist but I believe the Inquisition shouldn’t handle everything.”

“Why not?” he asks.

“We exist to deal with the Breach, end the war between the mages and templars, and restore order to the Chantry. It’s not our responsibility to also worry over every little problem that can be addressed by the local nobility, and it would not reflect well on us if we overstep our authority, especially when we’re so young and of precarious standing.”

“Okay,” Maxwell says. “Then you’ll ask the nobles to help?”

“Yes.” Satisfied that the minor matter is resolved, she searches her desk for a sheet of paper and opens her inkwell. She then pauses and looks up at him. “Before I forget - are you sleeping well?”

He cocks his head. “I’m sorry?”

“At our last meeting, you… didn’t look well and I was worried the cabin assigned to you was perhaps too drafty or lacking in some fashion. You’re looking much better now, though, so maybe I shouldn’t have asked.” Her cheeks darken. “Thank you for your time, Herald.”

He bows and steps out of the office, and nearly collides with Leliana. She glances at him and then at Josephine with narrowed eyes. “Did you-”

“No assassins,” Josephine says firmly. “Except for the cousin Buttlefort mentioned. What was it you said? ‘Put the fear of the Maker in him’?”

He briefly considers taking it back. Leliana has a long and storied, if shady, reputation in the Chantry, and after spending weeks around her, he knows she’ll instruct her people to do it. He really shouldn’t resort to such tactics since it’s his family but.... “Be creative.”

Leliana laughs. “Oh I like you, Herald.”

The book he buys from Seggrit is Ferelden: Folklore and History by Sister Petrine. He read it many, many times before as the lonely child in a large estate; that copy is still in the family library, the corners folded to mark his progress and the margins stained wherever he accidentally spilled food or drink on the pages.

Rereading the familiar words is comforting and lulls him into a dreamless sleep.

Maxwell looks up when Varric sits down at the table across from him and then returns to his book. Flissa comes by with a frothy pint and Varric passes her a silver, then sits back and drinks while listening to the bard Maryden sing and the people around them gossip.

“Ferelden: Folklore and History,” Varric reads. “Huh. You read that for fun?”

“I like knowing things,” Maxwell replies and turns the page.

Time passes. The Singing Maiden slowly fills as people come in for late afternoon drinks and Maryden ends up leading half the tavern in a rousing rendition of “Andraste’s Marbari”, a song he would never hear at the inns at the Ostwick docks. Maxwell continues reading and Varric continues drinking until evening sets in. Flissa offers them supper and Maxwell eats through several apples while Varric helps himself to the rest of Maxwell’s meal.

Eventually, evening deepens into night and people slowly wander back out to their cabins and tents.

“So,” Varric finally says, pulling Maxwell’s attention away from the pages on Highever, home of Ferelden’s heroic queen. “Seeker came to me the other day, asking about you.”

“Really? Why?”

“Said you weren’t coming around to talk with her. I told her to go bother you about it but that got me thinking. You used to bother me a lot, too. Always asking about Hard In Hightown, Kirkwall, Hawke. Did you finally run out of questions to ask, or is there something else going on?”

Maxwell slowly shuts the book. He hoped - foolishly, he now realizes - that Varric wouldn’t notice or think it odd enough to come ask him about it. A few questions still bounce around in his head but every time he thinks about finding Varric, he remembers red lyrium in the dwarf’s voice and eyes.

“Don’t break the book,” Varric suddenly says and he looks down at his hands gripping the old book a little too tightly. “What is it? Was it something I said?”

He shakes his head. “If you’ve been wondering, then you know when I… stopped coming around.”

Varric answers immediately. “After we came back from the Hinterlands. After we left Redcliffe.” He drinks and wipes off the foam. “Thought about it but nothing weird happened. Well, nothing besides that magister trying to use time magic-”

“He did. Use time magic.”

“What are you talking about? That amulet did nothing.”

“It did.”

Varric frowns. “Wait a minute. Are you saying-”

“Yeah.” His mouth is dry. He wishes he had a stiff drink in hand. “Cassandra knows. She and Leliana thought it’ll be best if nobody else knew. Everything about me is crazy enough as it is, but going from being saved by Andraste Herself to traveling into the future is….”

“Certifiably nuts. You’re joking. I was standing right there. Nothing happened.”

“Fiona had no idea she went to Val Royeaux to find me,” Maxwell says. “She told me later that she would’ve gone if Alexius hadn’t show up. That’s how it works. Do it right and you won’t remember anything you did before. That’s why they told me to keep it quiet.”

“What, you think I’ll just start telling everyone I meet? Do you know who I am, serah?”

“I do, and that’s not it. It’s.” He presses his mouth tightly, wondering how to tell Varric. How to explain something that only one other person knows is true. “Varric, Alexius sent me and Dorian into the future and I saw you die. I saw Cassandra die. I saw Leliana… and the others, the Inquisition, it died trying to break into Redcliffe Castle to find us. The Elder One that Alexius spoke of? He conquered Thedas with a demon army. Orlais couldn’t fight back because Empress Celene was assassinated and the civil war fell apart. And the Breach… it was the whole sky and it was tearing the world apart.”

Varric stares at him. “Maker’s breath.”

“Yeah.”

“So those are the stakes?”

“Yeah.” He laughs shakily. “Those are the stakes.” He hears, suddenly, the eerie chime of red lyrium, and shivers while looking elsewhere. “Every time I look at you, all I remember is you dying and it was just… easier going somewhere else.”

“Can’t blame you for that. Wish you said something but… Andraste’s flaming hair.” Varric shakes his head. “Time magic, huh? I’ve read some bad serials about some intrepid explorer stumbling into the past and discovering shit like Arlathan in all its elvhen glory. The real thing sounds a whole lot uglier.”

“It was something. It was awful.”

“Of course it was. I died in it.” Varric drains his pint. “All this talk about how the world ends makes me wish this was the Hanged Man, though this is much better than the shit they serve there.”

“Didn’t you say it tastes like rat piss?” Maxwell asks, smiling wryly.

“Half of Kirkwall thought so, not that it kept them away.” Varric’s eyes sweep around the tavern. “What I’d give for a pint of it and a game of Wicked Grace.”

“My brother tried to teach me,” Maxwell says. “Oswald was never very good at explaining things, though. That and he kept cheating.”

“I’ll have to show you how to play properly. Remind me later, will you?”

They talk for twenty minutes more, until they both start yawning and Maxwell reads the passage on Highever’s marbari kennels four times without remembering a single word of it He bids Varric, Flissa, and a sleepy Sera a good night and leaves the Singing Maiden with the book tucked under his arm. He takes the path across the village square and sees Cassandra talking with the quartermaster. He hesitates, wondering if he should keep walking, and decides instead to wait.

Threnn sees him immediately. She says something to the Seeker and walks away. Cassandra watches the Ferelden go down the steps to the tents and then strides over to Maxwell.

“Herald,” she says. The word swirls in the air like silver fog. “If you’re here to apologize, it’s not necessary.” She notices his bemusement. “I saw Varric going inside. I assume he told you.”

“He did. Cassandra, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ignore you or-”

“I just said you didn’t have to,” she says wryly. “Later, I remembered your report about the future. What you saw, what you endured… it is difficult to put such things behind.”

“It was,” he admits. He remembers the strange eerie aura, the flicker of red in her eyes, the song in her voice. He remembers her praying in a prison cell, surrounded by red lyrium growth. “But it’s no excuse.”

“You’re young. It’s understandable. But… thank you, for taking the time.”

Strange, he thinks while walking away, how much lighter his shoulders feel.

“Maker’s breath, what is that?”

Maxwell follows Cullen’s horrified gaze to the… thing two soldiers are escorting on long lead ropes to Dennet’s pens. Other soldiers stop their exercises to stare. So do nearby mages, villagers, and refugees. Someone starts murmuring prayers to the Maker.

“Is that a dead horse?” Cassandra asks incredulously.

It certainly looks like one, a gaunt black-skinned beast with a skull for a head and a stringy reddish mane and tail. Someone had thrust a rusty longsword through its skull from under its jaw and the blade sticks out of its forehead like a horn.

Maxwell hopes it doesn’t reek of rot.

A soldier approaches him hesitantly. “Ah, Herald? Ser? A gift from the, uh, Collective that you had us bring back. They call it the, uh, Bog Unicorn.”

“The Collective thought this an appropriate gift for the Inquisition?” Cullen asks disbelievingly. His hand tightens on his sword hilt while he appraises the beast. “What dark magic did they use on it?”

“They wouldn’t say how, Commander. Only said that it desires to serve a worthy cause and a noble master.”

“Do they take us for fools? This is obviously some kind of demonic-”

“If I may.” Fiona appears next to Cassandra, looking thoughtfully at the creature as it surveys its surroundings with sunken unseeing eyes. There’s a charcoal smear on her chin; she must’ve been working with Solas. “The magic that resurrected this creature is powerful but not malicious. I can examine it and determine its nature. If it is indeed being animated by a demon, I or one of your men can destroy it before it causes harm.”

The gesture is in good faith but Cullen still hesitates. Maxwell says, “I’d appreciate it, Enchanter.”

The undead horse holds still while she runs her hands over it. After a minute, the creatures snorts, a ragged hollow sound, and stamps its hind leg impatiently. She steps back, amused and intrigued, and says, “Whatever animates this beast is no demon.”

“But it’s not harmless,” Cassandra says.

“Most things aren’t,” Fiona says pointedly. “If this Collective says it seeks to serve, why not let it?”

The Bog Unicorn tilts its head in Maxwell’s direction while the two unlucky soldiers lead it away. Everyone keeps gawking at it until it’s out of sight and then Cullen shakes his head.

“I didn’t sign up for this,” he mutters.

“These are strange times. Expect to see stranger things before this is over,” Cassandra says. “Though that was… not what I expected. We should stop accepting every offer of aid, or at least thoroughly investigate first.”

The crowd slowly disperses, people talking amongst themselves about visiting the chantry to seek reassurances from Mother Giselle. Fiona wanders away to talk to a group of older mages while Cullen calls several of the gawking soldiers in for a drill.

“You should warn Master Dennet before he loses his mind, Herald,” Cassandra says wryly. “I’ll go talk to Leliana and Josephine about this.”

Maxwell walks up the snowy slope to see the horsemaster standing in front of a hastily put together pen, staring at the Bog Unicorn. Dennet turns to Maxwell with a scowl and jabs a finger at the undead beast.

“When I agreed to provide and care for the Inquisition’s horses, I didn’t mean this - this thing - what do you expect me to do with this, Herald?”

“Well it’s already dead so you won’t have to worry about feeding it,” Maxwell replies immediately. At the expression on the horsemaster’s weathered face, he adds, “If you don’t feel comfortable working with it, then I’ll take care of the… Bog Unicorn.”

Dennet’s eyebrow arches sharply. “Is that so?”

“My family raises warhorses and coursers. I know my way around them.”

Dennet mulls over this for a few seconds, then sighs and shakes his head. “I thought I saw it all. Found the first cases of Blight sickness in Arl Eamon’s horses. Saw the undead and darkspawn raze Redcliffe twice. But now there’s a hole in the sky and the Divine is dead. What’s an abomination with four hooves and a head?” He looks the Bog Unicorn over critically. It snorts defiantly and bows its head, hitting the fence with its grotesque “horn”. “You’ll need a bitless bridle and a narrow saddle since…. Yes, I can manage this. Give the word, Herald, and I’ll have this… beast ready for travel.”

Maxwell smiles gratefully. “Thank you.”

“Just do what you promised, and we’ll call it even.”

“A hole in the sky, time magic, an undead horse that follows only the ‘worthy’. All the Inquisition needs now is an archdemon at its doorstep,” Dorian muses.

“We do not need an archdemon on our doorstep,” Maxwell replies, aghast. “Ferelden just had a Blight! It doesn’t need another.”

“I’m only saying. At the rate you’re going, you’re just as likely to trip over a pebble and rediscover Barindur.”

“Barindur?”

“A city in a time before the Imperium. Supposedly, their fountains granted eternal youth, though none of the stories explained if it also gave them eternal life. Contrary to popular belief, the two are not mutually inclusive,” Dorian says. “Anyway, during a religious celebration, High King Carinatus turned away an envoy of the High Priest of Dumat. Offended the man so much he called upon the Old God to punish the king. The city abruptly fell silent. After several months, the High King of Minrathous sent soldiers to investigate. They found nothing.”

“What do you mean, they found nothing?”

“I means exactly what I said. The road to Barindur ended at a barren wasteland. Not a stone remained. The city had disappeared. Vanished.” Dorian shrugs. “That’s the story. You’re more likely to fall into the Deep Roads, I imagine.”

“Probably. Haven isn’t far from Orzammar.”

They reach the clearing on the outskirts of the village and share a look before walking to opposite ends. Maxwell hefts his greatsword and Dorian casts a barrier.

“To first blood or until I knock you out?”

“Your overconfidence is inspiring,” Maxwell replies, grinning. “Let’s try to avoid the blood-letting.”

“May the best man win,” Dorian says and carpets the snow with fire mines.

Maxwell stops mid-stride while leaving Josephine and Minaeve’s shared office. An argument is carrying on in the room at the back of the chantry. He looks over his shoulder but the doors are almost shut; a tiny gap in between gives him a glimpse of the former Grand Enchanter tilting her chin up at someone before stepping back and out of sight.

“-our backs, Enchanter. You are no longer the rebellion. If you require something, make an official request and the quartermaster will handle it. Otherwise, people will suspect-”

Cullen.

“Like you, Commander?” Fiona asks coldly.

“I’m not - that is neither here nor there. The Inquisition is the priority. Sealing the Breach, uncovering the circumstances behind the Divine’s death, restoring peace and order to Thedas, they all come first.”

“Not at the expense of my people. Might I point out that you came in here demanding I tell you exactly what I was planning to do with all that lyrium?” A weighted pause. “You still suspect us. Don’t deny it.”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Then what is it? Where do you think your fears come from?”

“If I may point out,” Solas’s voice cuts in. “Commander, the Inquisition has almost no lyrium. Without it, the mages cannot help the Herald close the Breach.”

“She could have just told us that-”

“So you’ll accept his word but not mine, your ally?” Fiona asks. “That is what I am, do you recall? Am I not capable of making the best decision for my people, your allies in this struggle? Or do you insist on going through ‘proper channels’ as though this is a Circle and we are your charges?”

“Not everything is about the war, Enchanter,” Cullen says.

“Then you should not have come in here demanding answers from me as if it was your right.”

Cullen sighs. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have… I was only concerned-”

“Of course you were,” the enchanter says.

The commander changes tactics. “Couldn’t you make up for the low lyrium supply by bringing more mages to the temple grounds?”

“You’ll be surprised by how many are apprentices. And a number of them are children. Others simply lack the training or talent, and we don’t have time to teach them. So you see, there are fewer of us than you think.”

“She is right,” Solas says. “Mages with years of experience are best able to help the Herald seal the Beach….”

Maxwell decides he’s heard enough and that he doesn’t need to intervene before Cullen and Fiona destroy the alliance. He continues down the chantry hall but slows upon seeing Vivienne leaning against her table, staring at a piece of paper in her hands. There’s an odd look on her face, a strange glimmer of distress, but it disappears when she notices him. She quickly folds the letter and tucks it away.

“Did you need something, my dear?”

He might regret this, but he tilts his head to the back of the chantry and asks, “Do you know what they’re arguing about?”

She sighs. “Lyrium. Apparently, Enchanter Fiona decided of her own accord to purchase a significant amount of it from smugglers. She’s developed some truly unsavory and selfish habits.” Another sigh, and then Vivienne looks at him sharply. “If the commander had not found out and put a stop to it, she could’ve started a scandal and ruined the Inquisition. Need I remind you that you chose to ally with her? Go address the situation before it boils over.”

He shifts uneasily and then stops when he notices her watching his every move. “I heard Solas say we have no lyrium. Is that true?”

“It is, but that’s not the problem. Her attempt to circumvent the Inquisition’s chain of command to get what she wants is. She appears to have forgotten that she is only here thanks to your timely intervention. See that she doesn’t forget it.”

He winces internally. Vivienne will never forgive him, will she? “I’ll tell her to go through the requisitions office next time.”

“If by ‘office’ you mean a rickety table out in the cold,” Vivienne says with a delicate scoff. “When the lyrium arrives - and I know it will, if your spymaster has any say in the matter - remember to assign eyes on it at all times. You can never trust what a mage will do with all that lyrium within reach.”

Down the hall, a door opens and Cullen walks out looking utterly winded.

“If you’ll excuse me, dear,” Vivienne says, turning away, “I have my own matters to attend to.”

Maxwell steps aside and intercepts the commander. Cullen stops and blinks at him. Apparently he didn’t see the Herald standing in the middle of the hall, which says a great deal about what happened in the meeting room. “Herald. You’re - good. There’s something I need to discuss with you and Cassandra.”

“It’s not about lyrium, is it?”

Cullen sighs heavily and kneads his temple, then gestures for Maxwell to follow him out the door. “Let’s discuss this elsewhere.”

Maxwell follows him into the shadow of the unadorned chantry. He scuffs at an elfroot sprig growing in the snow while Cullen paces, searching for words.

“Cullen,” Maxwell prompts after a minute of watching him walk in a stressful circle.

The former templar sighs, fogging the air. “I was hoping to keep this under wraps but…. Fiona tried to purchase lyrium from smugglers.”

“Vivienne told me.”

“She must’ve heard everything. I was hoping that wouldn’t be the case.” Cullen stares off into the distance. “Fiona needs to understand that her actions will only hurt the Inquisition.”

“But… do you think you should be the person to tell her that?” he ventures. Cullen’s face becomes unreadable and he quickly adds, “You were a templar, and everything you said… what Circle mage wouldn’t get angry? Nothing was ever freely given in the Circle. They always had to ask for permission and they didn’t always get it.”

Cullen arches an eyebrow. “How would you know this?”

“Family in the Circle and the Order. They told me everything. She was the Grand Enchanter, Commander. She started the revolt for a reason. Don’t give her another one.”

“It wasn’t my intention. I-”

“I’ll talk to her,” Maxwell says. “I’ll tell her that all she needs to do is ask.” He considers the older, weary man. “You told me you wanted to make amends for your past. If you keep thinking like a templar, you’ll keep having these fights… I think that’ll hurt the Inquisition more.”

“Blind faith, Herald-”

“We have to start somewhere,” he replies. “No one ever trusted them before. Isn’t it time to change that?”

Cullen is confounded. “Not the words I expected from someone who’s neither a mage nor a templar.”

“My revered mother thought the way to end the war was to listen to those who spent their lives locked away from the world,” Maxwell says. He smiles wryly. “She wasn’t very popular with the local nobles.”

“I can imagine.” The former templar sighs and looks up at the Breach. “You’re right. I didn’t - I’ll apologize to her later today. Thank you for reminding me why I’m here.” He smiles tiredly and then catches himself. “You… know this isn’t going anywhere, right?”

“What isn’t - oh. I know.” His face burns with the memory. “I only - I don’t want this alliance to fall apart. No one’s heard anything from Therinfal in days. Right now, the mages are our best chance of closing the Breach. They want it gone just as much as we do. You have to trust that.”

“I know.” Cullen gestures for Maxwell to follow him back out to the village square and points in Cassandra’s direction; the Seeker is talking with Leliana about something, her back to them. “It’ll take a few days to find a reputable lyrium trader and the coin to purchase it. Then you have to consider the time it’ll take to bring the shipment up here. We’re still clearing roads and dealing with bandits. Weeks will go by before the lyrium arrives and we can attempt to close the Breach. That should give us enough time to solve a problem.”

“What is it?”

“One of our patrols has gone missing in a mire in southern Ferelden.”