Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The dreary quiet of the dungeon is punctuated suddenly by the sound of footsteps: a lighthearted, cheerful patter against the cold stone. The drowsy guard looks up, blinking thickly through the slits of his helmet. There’s a protective layer of steel shielding his (rather pudgy) body and hiding his face from view — but somewhere inside that metal bucket, he is smiling. He cannot help it. No-one can. Not even Seeker Pentaghast. Heck, not even the Fereldan members of the Inquisition, who normally recoil at the sound of an Orlesian accent. The Herald just has this effect on people.

'Good afternoon, Godfrey!' a bright voice chirps, with that telltale soft lilt.

A silhouette of a short, curvy person — half-dwarf, half-elf, a tad bigger than one, a tad smaller than the other — pops up with the flourish of a character in a shadow puppet play. It's inky black against the vivid square of light that floods into the dungeon stairwell from the Chantry’s hall above.

'Is everything all right down here? Flissa sent you your lunch yet? I shared my family’s fruit preserve recipe with her, though there’s not much fruit to choose from, with snow everywhere…'

'Good afternoon m'am!' the guard booms back through the bucket helmet. 'All's well, and thanks for the lunch, to both of you! That was better than anything Andraste cooked for the Maker!'

The Herald snorts with laughter as she approaches Godfrey, tapping lightly at the stone floor with the heels of her well-worn boots, as if she were dancing.

The contrast of light and shadow is now not so stark, and more of her features come into view: the two buns of sleek dark hair, with strands of green woven in, colored with some Orlesian dye. The aquiline nose. The palm-sized, ever so slightly pointed ears. And the large black eyes, which are filled with a genial glow.

‘I heard some Chantry sermons from the humans in my hometown, but I don’t remember the part where Andraste cooked meals for the Maker,' the Herald chuckles.

Godfrey shuffles his feet sheepishly.

'Well, nah... But I figured, even the Maker had to sit down for dinner some time! Maybe He and Andraste take turns cooking, like my old ma and pa did... Please — ' he swivels his head around, rather comically, and looks over his shoulder. 'Please don't tell Mother Giselle or the Lady Seeker that I said that!'

'Don't worry!’

Two soft dimples appear on the Herald’s sun-bronzed cheeks, and she presses her finger against her lips, winking.

'The Canticle of Home-Cooked Meals is safe with me!'

Godfrey breathes a sigh of relief.

'You are awful nice, m'am, for a —'

He stops in mid-sentence and hastens to end it with a loud, awkward sneeze — but fails to deflect the Herald’s attention.

‘I hear that often,’ she says, still smiling — though the light fades from her eyes, a crease cuts across her broad, joined eyebrows, and her jaw hardens, ever so slightly. Godfrey squirms with guilt, as much as his armour allows him.

‘You see someone half the human height, with ears to match, and your mind instantly jumps back and forth between "servant" and “smuggler”… And yet humans are not so quick to let either of my kin learn a trade, no?’

She sighs, and the momentary flash of bitterness on her soft face gives way to sadness.

‘The dwarf side of my family was lucky to start a fruit orchard on the surface instead of getting sucked into the Carta… And even then, my sister almost —'

She shakes her head, chasing the lingering darkness away, and bites into her lower lip to brace herself.

'But that is idle talk. You are a good human, Godfrey, and I know you can do right by me, and the other dwarves in Haven. That is not why I am getting into your…’ she squints hesitantly at the bucket helmet. ‘Your hair? Anyway. I was actually rather hoping... That you would let me talk to the prisoner — alone.’

Godfrey lets out an echoing metallic gasp.

‘But m’am! I can’t just go off and leave you with that... that evil... villain! What if he tries to pull something... blood-magicky?'

'Shush, Godfrey,' the Herald attempts a new smile, but it still looks crooked and forced. 'I have... dealt with him before; I can handle myself. Besides, if he wanted to do something blood-magicky, he would have done so already. Do you know how flimsy the locks are in here? Before the cells started filling up, I would watch Sera — who is a friend, by the way; do not be hard on her — pick them for sport!'

Godfrey mumbles something incoherent, but eventually concedes, clumsily inclining the bucket on his shoulders to look at the Herald's left hand — the source of her wondrous power, which has been helping her slay demons and heal the sky and vanquish evil... villains.

'Right then,' he says, straining to be heard over the rattle of his key chain, as he fumbles for the key that unlocks the cell. 'I will just... Head out... Drop by at the tavern... And by the time I get back, you better still be alive m'am!'

After the metal door swings open with a dreary creak, and Godfrey ambles off, the Herald freezes on the cell’s threshold. Looking straight ahead, into the rank, slightly humid darkness.

Even though he must have heard them talking about him, the prisoner never moved an inch. Now too, as the Herald draws closer and closer to him, bathed in the golden torchlight that does not quite reach his little corner, he refuses to stir.

He is slumped against the far wall, one leg bent slightly in the knee. His face is turned away from her, so that all she can see is the rim of his broad, outlandishly decorated hood, which is now covered in splatters of dirt and smears of mould from contact with stone.

She pauses when there are barely inches of space left to separate them. Then, she swallows, steadies her breath — and, nearly even height with the sitting human, wraps her arms around his shoulders.

Finally shaken out of his stupor, the prisoner shudders violently and lets out a hoarse, hissing curse,

'Kaffas!'

A moment later, he musters some degree of composure; enough for saying curtly,

'Pardon the language. You startled me with your… arrival. I believe our dealings are completed, Herald. I have submitted to the Inquisition, and now wish to be left in peace. Kindly remove yourself from my cell.’

She shakes her head, moving a step away yet determined to search his face.

'Not until I say what I came here to say.’

Her voice is quiet yet resolute. The prisoner inhales deeply. As she finally catches a peek of his haggard profile underneath the hood, she sees his weary eyes slide shut.

'And what could that be?' he asks, his voice hollow and expressionless. If you are so eager to gloat, there are many places to do that. Where I can’t see you.’

The Herald swallows again.

'I wanted to say that I am sorry,' she breathes, her eyes beginning to brim over with tears. 'In... In the future... When the Elder One had taken over the world... I — I had to kill you.’

The prisoner's eyes remain closed.

'Well, we all fought you, actually... ' she corrects herself. 'Cassandra, Leliana, Varric... Even Dorian... had to... strike at you... But — but it was me who made that final blow. And — '

Her voice cracks, and she leans forward again, instinctively gripping at the grimy cloth of the prisoner's once-embellished sleeve.

'And I... held you, bleeding… I looked in the eyes before you... before you slipped away... I am so, so sorry!'

Something twitches momentarily in the corner of the prisoner's mouth. A ghost of that cold, domineering smile that he gave Grand Enchanter Fiona while announcing that her charges were to join the Imperium's Legion.

'I imagine the experience must have been very gratifying, Herald,' he says venomously. 'I cannot fathom why you would want to apologise.’

'No!’

Her heated, almost pained protest echoes through the dungeon — so loud that it sounds like it’s about to make something crumble.

‘It was not gratifying! It is never gratifying to kill people — not for me! I am a gardener, not a warrior. And even if I was a warrior from the start, I still wouldn’t stop thinking about why every highway robber I “take care of”,’ she mimes very disdainful air quotes, ‘Chose to do what they did… And you... I know what made you choose... all of this. The time magic, the Venatori, the Elder One. It was all to save your son! I — '

A shiver runs up her spine. The prisoner's nostrils quiver; he bites hard into his lower lip and shoots a long glare at the Herald. Yet she continues, undeterred.

‘My eldest sister joined the Grey Wardens many years ago... After the Fifth Blight ended and the Hero of Ferelden vanished, Empress Celene sent her to Amaranthine… to rebuild… And I ran away from home, all the way from Orlais, to visit her.’

She swallows a hard lump.

‘I was still so young back then, and I thought it was going to be some grand adventure, but — but instead, I saw the darkspawn come back. I saw an entire city almost fall to the Blight. And I saw what the Taint does to people.’

Her fingers twist and lace frantically together; a moment more like this, and she might start snapping her own bones.

‘It’s — it’s easy to understand why you’d break the world to prevent that terrible darkness from claiming someone you love. I am not saying you are a poor innocent lamb, but I… I understand.’

'Well, I failed, did I not?'

The prisoner still tries to sound sarcastic, but his voice barely escapes from his thin, ashen lips. 'The world is far from being broken, and — '

He scrapes together at least some shreds of strength to make the next sentence sound like a harsh, ringing slap.

'And I think you have outstayed your welcome, Herald.’

He pointedly turns away again, apparently intent on glaring a smoking hole through his prison wall.

‘If I am to be your captive, at least allow me some share of dignity. You were not making a grand discovery when you said I was not innocent. I know that. I will spend my final hours pondering that. Your sympathy is not required.’

The Herald throws her head up, seeming to add a couple inches to her modest height. Behind her, the torch chokes and splutters, suddenly producing a burst of light bright enough to touch the prisoner… Before it sizzles off.

'There will be no talk of final hours. Whatever happens next — whatever the Inquisition decides to do with you... I will vouch for you. No-one who was in that future with me will die a second time. Not Cassandra. Not Varric. Not Leliana. Not Fiona. And not you.’

Chapter Text

'And then…'

Felix waves his fork with a flourish, tracing some elaborate formula in the air.

No magic sparks into life at the motion. He has not cast a spell in years, not since he realised that he did not have to cry and strain till he was red in the face to kindle a flame the refused to spark, just to make his parents happy. Because they already were.

'And then, he goes up there, to the blackboard, and shows the whole class, clear as day, that the professor made a mistake in the very first equation — making the entire solution to the problem completely wrong! Oh, you should have seen her face… That pompous Orlesian, getting it handed to her by an elven student!'

He has to pause for breath at this point, and Livia gives him a gentle smile.

'And you were the one who encouraged that boy to speak up.’

Felix’s eyebrows, raised in excitement, slide downwards.

‘I cannot take any credit for that, mama. I am a human, an Altus — it is wrong to ride on an elf’s coattails just because I was not horrible to him.’

‘Of course, dear. The story is not about you, is it?’

She inclines her head, soft yet solemn; and gradually, Felix’s eyes light up again.

‘Blaise was the class hero for the remainder of the semester — I am looking forward to sharing a class with him after I go back — '

Parched with his boisterous chatter, he reaches out for the water pitcher. His reflection stretches across the surface, a hazy cloud amid flares of polished silver. Alexius, who has been listening to the conversation between his wife and son with a warm, languid contentment over the rim of his wine glass, glances at the pitcher as well... And freezes.

With a viscous ripple, like the pitcher were about to melt, the distorted copy of his son’s face is replaced someone completely different. A pale, straw-haired youth in an utterly ridiculous hat. Perhaps a mage, concealed by an illusion spell? Reflective surfaces often betray those.

Alexius has certainly never met him before, but his first guess, as the startled numbness thaws and his mind begins to race, would be a spy from the Magisterium. Maybe even an assassin. Those blighters never did like his proposals for educational reforms... Well, the little fashion criminal will certainly regret interrupting their first family dinner of this Satinalia season!

Alexius flexes his fingers, ready to cast a fire ball, and tilts his head subtly: to signal Livia that there is an intruder lurking somewhere behind the dinner table. She would have understood the gesture, she would have lit up her battle magic beside him. They’ve always had such remarkable synergy when casting, like one hear pulse chasing after the other, falling into a perfect rhythm…

As the light hits the pitcher again, the youth's reflection vanishes. Alexius gapes blankly at his hand, straining (with the first inklings of a headache) to puzzle out why there are mage fire sparks tickling his skin. Was he preparing a spell? Whatever for? He cannot quite remember.

'Amatus?' Livia lays her hand on his. Her eyes search his face, and some of his tension ebbs just from looking back at her. Nearly thirty years of marriage, and he’ll never stop being in awe of how beautiful she is.

'You seem distracted... Is something the matter?'

'You do look troubled — and please don't try deny it, not like you usually do,' Felix joins in, laying down his fork with a resolute Clang!

 'I am home now, and I can help. Are those politicians breathing down your neck again? Or is it Dorian? If it's Dorian, I can talk to him. The holiday season has always been hard for him, because he is expected to leave our household and be with his family, and well, you know Lord and Lady Pavus…'

He trails off, and Alexius shakes his head.

'I — thank you, my boy...'

A thought begins to stir at the back of his head; vague and slippery, it escapes any words he tries to find, and attaches, leach-like, to his left temple. The headache is beginning to worsen.

'But it really is nothing serious. I believe I had a bad dream...'

He blurts this out before really registering the movement of his mouth. How odd. He did not expect he’d end up saying this; he did not even remember what he dreamt this night. Until now.

'A bad dream?' Livia straightens up in her seat. 'Please, Gereon, tell me everything: it could be a side effect of my apprentices' latest experiment with the Veil!'

Alexius waggles his hand dismissively, still stupefied by his own words.

'Don’t worry, delectatia mea, it was something so bizarre that frankly I do not know why I am giving this a second thought. I dreamt that I had joined an insane cult that wanted to bring Tevinter back to "former glory”. For that, they apparently needed the time magic that Dorian and I have been working on —'

He shivers uncomfortably, overcome by a nagging, prickly feeling that someone is watching him from behind his back. As the pain in his temple twitches and coils, he turns, in a slow, choppy, wooden motion to look over his shoulder.

Standing perfectly straight, like a scarecrow in the fields, there is a figure on the other end of the room: a lanky youth in bizarre patchwork garb and a hat shaped like mill wheel. How did he get here? He is not one of the servants; most of them are on leave for the holidays anyway… Why is he staring like this? What is his game?

Not my game. Yours.

That’s impossible! At this distance, the boy's voice should not have sounded so clear — unless he shouted. But he is not shouting; his tone is calm and even; with a rhythmic undercurrent in time with the throb of blood in Alexius’ aching head.

You created this game all for yourself... Like the one you used to play with Felix when he was little. Eyes closed, lips tingling with subtle laughter; I do not need to look at him to see him, my darling boy, a gap between his milk teeth as he smiles, black locks curling in a halo around his head. Hide and seek, do not peek... You are playing hide and seek again.

How… What is he saying?! He has to be a blood mage, sorting through his thoughts like some vermin hunched over a garbage pile!

Alexius slams his open palm into the table.

‘My memories are not yours to gawk at! And my home is not yours to intrude in! Get out!’

'Who are you talking to, amatus?'

The sound of Livia's voice makes Alexius turn back to the dinner table... And there he is again, that interloper in his ludicrous hat, standing right behind his wife's chair, shaking his head from side to side like a mourner at a funeral!

Apparently, neither Livia nor Felix can see him, or hear him. The ragged wretch circles around the table on cat-like tiptoe. And not once does either Alexius' wife or his son as much as slant their eyes into his direction.

So he is not physically here, is he? A projection then? A personal apparition, meant for Alexius’ eyes only, sent to... deliver some sort of a rambling message? From Dorian maybe? Felix was right; this is a trying time for the boy; he may have gone on another binge and tried experimenting with magic while drunk…

'I... I have to deal with something private,' Alexius says stiffly, getting up from his seat. 'You can finish eating without me.’

With that, he marches across the room, and the ragged spectre floats all the while in the corner of his eye. Like a grainy spot from staring too long at a bright light. Teasing him, luring him away from Livia and Felix, further and further away...

Alexius is so focused on the ever-shifting apparition, that does not pay heed to his surroundings for quite some time. When he finally decides to slow down and recover his bearings, a falling blade of pain carves at the back of his legs, making his knees buckle.

They are no longer in his house — or in the surrounding garden. The ragged boy has led him into a desolate wasteland, dotted with jagged spires of emerald-tinted rock, all underneath an undulating tangle of green and black smoke trails instead of the sky. The Fade. Damn it all, they are in the Fade!

You are in the Fade, the boy corrects him, flashing into being right in front of his face. His face, even more sallow in the green wash of the Fade’s light, is frozen like an Orlesian mask; but his blue eyes, peeking through the strands of matted hair, look almost… pained. And guilty, somehow.

And I am in you... And also, around you. And... next to you? It's... It's hard to explain.

Cryptic speech patterns, affinity to thoughts and memories... A spirit. Why did he not see it sooner? He is in the Fade, talking to a spirit — which means that... that...

'That dinner with my family...' Alexius asks, each syllable draining more and more of his strength. 'It was... It was never real, was it?'

No, the boy says simply.

It could have been, in another past, down another path, but it wasn't. You wanted it to be, so you wrapped yourself in a dream like a blanket, a comfort in the cold, and hid what was real, pretending that it was the dream, and not them...

Alexius feels like his whole body turns to shattered glass. The pieces hang in the air for a second, suspended in slow motion, and then turn inward and rain down in a cutting deluge, slicing up his innards and making every inch of him bleed.

'Livia...' he groans, no tears in his burning eyes. Remembering.

'Felix... They... They are gone... Despite everything I've tried, despite the depths I've sunk to... They are gone!'

The last word turns into an incoherent screech, as Alexius lunges at the spirit, his fingers ablaze with mage fire once more.

'You!' he wails, his mouth twisting into a snarl. 'You ruined everything!'

He tries to shoot the spirit down with a charge of lightning, but it (he? Ah, what does it matter!) dodges the sizzling, bluish-purple burst, and meets Alexius' helpless glare with an intent, understanding look.

This infuriates the magister even further.

'Why did you have to show yourself?’ he spits.

‘Why did you have to cast off the illusion? I — I was so happy! Felix was telling us stories about his studies at the university, and I was going to surprise him with his Satinalia gift after dinner... A sending crystal... very rare, very hard to procure... I wanted to give it to him so he could contact me any time he wanted while in Orlais... So we could talk, and share excitement over our research, and I... I could tell him how much I miss him...'

I came to help, the spirit whispers, catching Alexius as he is about to collapse to his knees. Its… His arms feel surprisingly solid, but that only makes Alexius recoil from the touch.

I didn't want to at first, because you hurt a lot of people, even if it was the never-you... But then I felt your own hurt, gripping, gnawing, all gnarled on the inside — and so I found you, where they forgot you…

…I don't like it when people get forgotten in dungeons.

'They would have come down to judge me eventually,' Alexius shrugs.

The boy shakes his head. And there is that guilt in his eyes again.

They can't. Not any more. You think there is still Haven above you, but there's nothing left. Even the air is beginning to forget the smoke and the screams...

'The screams?' Alexius echoes. And in his shattered mind, among all the sharp, bleeding edges, a heavy, dark thought begins to swell.

So, they came after all... Samson and his legion. The half-elf disrupted the plan, took the mages — but they still came. The Elder One still prevailed.

The spirit's gaze grows distant, filling with a glassy blue glow.

Black wings slashing through the air; so much scorching red over the white, cold snow. Feet stumbling, running, slipping; hands, a shield from the glare of the flames.

She came, she helped; arms small but strong, helping them stand, taking them to where they can breathe; pearly smile against a sooty face.

She is truly blessed — Maker forgive me for all the times I laughed at a rabbit joke, or looked at a dwarf,and locked away my silverware.

To the Chantry, everyone to the Chantry!..

A deep sigh comes to quiet the dark, wet sobs of blood leaving the wound, and a thought shines clear and bright in the Chancellor's mind. He remembers; he remembers the path, hidden, sheltered, winding out of the dark. She must have shown me — Andraste must have shown me!..

They leave along the path, hustling, hasty, too scared to think, to turn around, to count. Those who lead do try to count, as they guard and guide; but there are so many orders to give, so many people to think of all at once. The soldiers, the traders, the pilgrims, the clerics, the farmers, the workers, the wounded, the children... Nobody remembers the man in the dungeon, bound, broken, abandoned.

Dorian would have remembered. But he is with her, in a whirlpool of fighting, facing a wall of merciless red. And by the time she tells him to run, to join the others, it will be too late.

Alexius runs his hand across his face.

It is not easy, to take these ramblings and deduce what has been happening while he was rotting away in a prison cell. Especially when his chest is still caving in on itself. But at length, he manages to speak.

'The Elder One has destroyed the village, and while the intrepid leaders of the Inquisition were evacuating the survivors, they did not think to look in the dungeon? Fitting end, I suppose, being left for dead... Not the kind of judgement that the... Herald promised, but... fitting.’

It is not an end, the spirit says firmly. It does not have to be if you try.

There is a blanket of snow, shrouding everything above, soft and thick and downy, lulling the ruins to sleep. Thoughts are fast, much faster than snowfall: while we are here, talking, time does not pass. But when it begins to move again, the snow will press down on you, growing heavier and heavier, a perfect, stainless white tombstone, like the one over Livia's shrine. You do not have much air: the last precious droplets at the bottom of the flask, to feed the thirst in a desert. But if you use it well, you can escape. Through the gap in the crumbled wall, then down, then up, up, into the mountains...

'Why should I?' Alexius glares at him, lowering himself onto the nearest half-floating chunk of rock. 'Why not just... succumb to the snow and go to sleep?'

Because they want you to escape, the spirit replies, still sincere and insistent. They want you to breathe, to run, to live, as their thoughts seek you in the dark. Dorian, Felix... Yvie.

'I don't know anyone by that name!' the magister snaps.

For the first time since he set eyes on him, the spirit smiles.

That is her name. The Herald's.

Yvonne Kader, a name for Chantry halls, under vaulted ceilings, where she melts away, tiny, tinier, tiniest, in the glare of steel weapons and brass words.

And Yvie, just Yvie, a name for friends, for sunlit meadows, for hands grasping warm soft bundles of food, sharing with everyone like she did back home.

Strong and happy, smiling and singing, always hoping, always getting up when she falls, and keeping others from falling, too.

You liked it when she hugged you. You felt too numb to realize it at first, but then, you knew you liked it. Soft and soothing, a welcome warmth; lux en tenebris — a light in the dark.

She promised that she would give you a second chance; and you promised yourself that you’d thank her — but you can't keep your promise if you are dead.

Alexius draws a ragged breath. He still aches, but somehow, at the mention of the Herald, the feeling subsides just enough for him to humour the spirit.

‘Very well,’ he agrees, even managing a crooked little smile. ‘I shall make my daring escape... But first, spirit, tell me one last thing: did... Yvie… Yvonne face the Elder One? Did...'

The question crumples into a lump that blocks his throat. But the spirit understands.

He did not get what he wanted. Yvie is alive, and she still glows. You will see if you keep your promise. If you wake up.