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Part 11 of DAI: Knight-Enchanter Trevelyan
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2023-02-04
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2023-02-19
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Linnea

Summary:

How could Linnea remember Trevelyan so clearly, with all his quirks and most grating qualities, when he'd never even known she existed? How was it that people like him always got to be the important ones?

"You don't deserve it, you know," Linnea said. "You're not a hero."

Notes:

Linnea is never a fan of mage Trevelyan, and I think she'd hate Galen more than most. (This one is part of a series on Galen/Dorian, and it will make the most sense in that context.)

Chapter 1: The Start

Chapter Text

Linnea pushed the tavern door open, hoping for a breath of fresh air. But once she'd left, she found nothing of the sort. She'd simply traded the stink of ale and armpits for the mucky, wet smell of Lake Calenhad docks. But at least she was free from the sound of Trevelyan's voice.

Right now, in the Gull and Lantern, the Inquisition's so-called herald was chatting with anyone he could find — not just the mages, but the Tranquil, also. And most of his targets were being far too obliging in response to his inquiries. It was as if they actually wanted to speak with him.

"They're peddling a cartload of horseshit," Linnea said, referring to the Inquisition itself. "They're just Templars by another name. And don't be fooled by their pet mage. Trevelyan's a Loyalist through and through. He'd return us to the way it was in a heartbeat."

"I share your concern," Fiona said. "Believe me, I do. But our Tevinter allies have not been honest with us."

Fiona lifted her hand, shielding her eyes as she squinted against the late afternoon sunlight. Stretched out behind her, and cast upon the tavern wall, her shadow moved as she moved, using its slender hand to shield its blank face from nothing.

To Linnea's eyes, the former Grand Enchanter looked old and weathered and small.

"You have it wrong," Linnea said. "The Tevinters aren't the problem."

Even here at Redcliffe among the rebel mages, there were whispers of Andraste's herald come to save them.

"You can't trust a fanatical Chantry splinter group," she said. "And what's more, you can't trust him."

Him.

Of all the people who could possibly have survived the Conclave explosion, it had to have been Galen Trevelyan — one of the biggest Templar-sympathizing bastards to ever walk the halls at Ostwick.

"His family is Chantry," she told a few of the others later, as they gathered near the hearth in one of Redcliffe's drafty cottages. "He's not a friend to us."

The others stayed silent for a time, perhaps not eager to argue. Linnea had seen each one of them talking to Trevelyan earlier.

"I know he seems friendly," she added, "but his words shouldn't sway you. He's not what you think."

"I heard things were easy at Ostwick Circle." It was Talwyn who spoke — an older mage from Hossberg who wasn't fond of the Tevinter alliance. "For one thing, no dungeons–"

Linnea cut him off before he could finish.

"They'd lock you in your room just the same if they thought you were trouble."

"And I heard they had jobs there?" Lysas spoke up this time — a nervous fellow. "Real trades and things. More than just the Tranquil working at enchantment. I heard there was brewing and crafting–"

"So what?" Linnea said. "More mages worked at more things. All profits for the Chantry just the same. That's not better."

"Maybe not, but at least those who left Ostwick would have some skills that aren't magic," Lysas said. "They could live out here in the world. They could find a decent job."

"You're naive if you think that." Arguing with this lot was a waste of breath, but Linnea carried on nonetheless. She'd grown tired of stifling her opinions and holding her tongue.

Besides, all the evidence they needed was right here in front of them. The hearth at which they sat was only theirs this evening because most of Redcliffe's former residents had fled. The villagers had made themselves refugees rather than sharing their homes with mages.

"What kind of townsfolk would just let a mage live among them?" she asked. "Skills or not, you'd need an army of other mages at your back to keep you safe."

"Maybe not. If they pretended to be normal — a normal craftsman, or craftswoman — I bet they could blend in that way..." His words trailed off. Lysas looked down at his hands, and his shoulders seemed to shrink a bit, slouching as though he were trying to disappear.

Aren't you tired of making yourself small?

If she had any interest in his answer, she might have asked that question. But Lysas was a hopeless case.

"That's no life at all," Linnea said, addressing Talwyn instead — he'd started this line of inquiry, after all. "We shouldn't have to pretend we're not mages. That shouldn't be the price to pay for safety."

"But it is," Talwyn said.

"Look, just, never mind all that," Linnea said, growing frustrated. "My point is Trevelyan. He's got everything backwards and he always has."

"He shut down those rifts" — a new voice this time, it was Hanley, a Circle apologist who had tagged along with the rebellion, though he didn't belong — "and he stopped those demons getting through. Even your precious Tevinters couldn't do that."

"Oh, look, it's Hanley. Queueing up to kiss some Chantry arse. Why am I not surprised?"

"Oh, come off it, Linnea," Talwyn said. "They've had you at Montsimmard a dozen years. Can't you let an old grievance go?"

"You don't get it," she said. "Trevelyan was their pretty story — the model highborn mage who proved them right. A Circle could be better, they said. But it wasn't. Not for those like me."

"Sounds like jealousy to me."

"Shut it, Hanley," she said. "You don't want to cross me, I promise."

Her voice was harsh enough to make the empty threat sound real. It felt like power, even if it was just an illusion — like a shadow on the wall, pantomiming spells.

The Inquisition campfires sprang to life, lighting up the darkness. Hours went by, and little by little their brightness was spent, burning down to embers. All the while, Linnea sat alone on a wool blanket, distant from every firepit, and watched.

She could piece it together well enough, based upon the things she'd seen and heard. Earlier that night, the Inquisition had defeated Magister Alexius by relying on help from a traitor within. The magister's own son had conspired against him. He was in league with an outside liaison — another Tevinter mage, it appeared — the fancy man with the waxed mustache. Somehow they'd brokered a deal, teaming up with Trevelyan to infiltrate Redcliffe castle and bring the old magister to his knees.

It all seemed rather suspicious.

Linnea had never been one to balk at the idea of subterfuge — nor at a weaker opponent using their own pluck and cleverness to win the day — but she didn't endorse this. Not when it was the Inquisition — his Inquisition — using devious tactics to steal her own people away from the powerful Tevinter alliance they truly deserved.

All she could do now was sit and watch, a quiet rage burning through her as Fiona and the other mages declared their relief and gratitude. Then they all settled in, finding their places around each fire. All the while, patrols of Inquisition soldiers moved among them, keeping watch. So much for mages being treated as allies, free and unfettered. Trevelyan's promises sounded pretty at first, but then they rang hollow.

Linnea had been watching him all night as he made the rounds, stopping diligently at every fire — talking to the mages, reassuring them with his ridiculous platitudes. When Trevelyan caught sight of her through the trees, Linnea considered the footpath nearby. She could have left, slipping deeper into the forest. But the scouts told tales of wolves and giant spiders. She didn't want to risk it. And returning to Redcliffe was out of the question. King Alistair and Queen Anora had showed up in person to kick them all out.

So Linnea sighed, and resigned herself to the fact that she'd have to speak to Trevelyan once more.

"You again," she said, when inevitably he found his way to the edge of her blanket.

"Hello, Linnea," he said, remembering her name this time, and smiling as though he were pleased with himself for having done so.

"Go fuck yourself," she said.

At that, Trevelyan nodded — and without even giving her the pleasure of looking miffed — he turned to walk away.

"Galen, wait."

He stopped when she called his given name, and turned towards her.

"Is there something you need?"

Linnea pointed to the sky, looking northwards, to where a vortex of clouds encircled the Breach.

"If you fix it, they'll just lock you away again. You know that, right?"

He nodded.

"They'd be foolish not to." He held up his hand, and she could see his palm shining faintly green, a bit of Fade magic bleeding out of him. "We don't even know what the fuck this thing is."

"Well then," she said. "They might just kill you. Or make you Tranquil."

At that he shook his head, and she almost thought she could hear him chuckle.

"I'm pretty sure closing the Breach will kill me first."

Oh, yes, even after fifteen years away from Ostwick, she remembered this about him. This thing he did — a strange mix of pride and melancholy — she hated it, and she always had.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" she said. "A hero's death?"

How could she remember him so clearly, with all his quirks and most grating qualities, when he'd never even known she existed? How was it that people like him always got to be the important ones?

"You don't deserve it, you know," she said. "You're not a hero."

Once again, Trevelyan nodded.

"Goodnight, Linnea," he said. "Try to get some sleep. We leave for Haven in the morning."

Her only response was to give a rude gesture, suggesting once again that he ought to go fuck himself. And yet again, Trevelyan didn't seem bothered or surprised.

Linnea sighed as he walked away, and she let her gaze drift back to the dying campfires. The others were mostly all sleeping, but Linnea herself would have a cold and wakeful night.

Chapter 2: The Breach

Summary:

Linnea shrugged, torn between the desire to speak her mind, and the conflicting urge to meet Trevelyan's question with a joyless, unflinching stare.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

At Haven, in exchange for food and shelter, the Inquisition offered its mages an endless stream of chores, tasks, and lessons. Linnea shirked, avoiding as much as she could. Her ire had not cooled, and her disposition had not changed. She did not wish to aid the Chantry, no matter what it chose to call itself. So she remained aloof when Solas began teaching the mages a channeling spell. She was curious, of course, because the magic was unfamiliar, but its only purpose was to boost Trevelyan's spellpower and assist him in closing the Breach. Linnea wanted no part in that endeavor.

She didn't count on the fact that Talwyn would catch on right away, and then become insufferable because of it.

"Actually, I found it simple," he told Hanley.

He began to explain the proper form as though he were suddenly the resident expert.

"Maker's balls, it's not some rare gift," Linnea said, as she stepped forward to join the group.

She attempted the spell herself and got it right, more or less, on the third try — not quickly enough to stop Talwyn from gloating. But still, she'd done it, and earned herself a solemn, approving nod from Solas. That felt good, even if it was rather strange.

Why in the world would an elven apostate join the Inquisition and know how to shut down a thing like the Breach?

If Trevelyan weren't so busy cozying up to the Chantryfolk in charge, then perhaps he'd think to ask a few questions. But it didn't matter. It wasn't her business. Linnea wasn't going to waste her breath telling the important ones how to better do their jobs. Plus, she'd been trying to keep her distance from Trevelyan.

Unfortunately, when he wasn't being sent away on mysterious adventures for weeks at a time, the man was constantly making the rounds, roaming through camp and bestowing a few minutes of meaningless conversation upon everyone he could find.

"Well," Trevelyan said as he waved in greeting on the day Linnea's luck ran out, "now that it's been a few weeks, how are you settling in?"

Linnea shrugged, torn between the desire to speak her mind, and the conflicting urge to meet his question with a joyless, unflinching stare.

"I know. It's cold," he said, filling the silence with friendly chatter. "Trust me, I've been informed. Dorian has an awful lot to say about it. But aside from that, it can't be that bad, can it?"

She sighed, and then opted for candor. "Not as many Templars as I expected."

"Former Templars," he said. "We've got the few who left the Order."

"A few for now," she said. "I've heard rumors that your Chantry friends plan to recruit from Therinfal, as well."

"Not happening," Trevelyan said.

"Oh? I thought you'd be in favor? Loyalist and all that."

"Well, I'd be glad for a few from Ostwick — my cousins, my aunts and uncles. Maybe their abilities could help keep this magic in check." His gloves were off and he frowned as he turned his left hand over to inspect the mark.

"Not Therinfal, though," he said. "I met a group of them, led by Lord Seeker Lucius, in Val Royeaux. They were... unsettling. Menacing. I don't know, I just don't want them here."

"How fortunate that you get to pick and choose which Templars you'll allow," she said. "It doesn't work that way for the rest of us."

"No. I guess it doesn't." He looked uncomfortable for a moment, but then swiftly changed topics. "We'll close the Breach fairly soon, I think. Or at least we'll attempt it."

"Why not let it be?"

"Because– wait," he said. "Are you being serious?"

She looked up at him, baffled by the question. Why wouldn't she be? No one from the Inquisition had yet explained why they needed so badly to snuff out the light in the sky. And without a sensible reason, why on earth would she take the Chantry at its word?

"It's a giant churning hole in the Fade," Trevelyan said.

"Right," Linnea said. "But who is it hurting all the way up there?"

Trevelyan's mouth fell open, presumably in disbelief. It gaped unattractively for several seconds before he finally shut it, and then found his words.

"More demons will get out and ravage the countryside," he said. "That doesn't worry you?"

"You worry me," she said. "You, closing that Breach and sending all of us back to the Circles. I'd rather take my chances with the demons."

Trevelyan made a face that looked as if he'd tasted something foul. Linnea glanced up the path behind him, which led to the tavern. She was hungry, and after talking to Galen she could do with a drink. For just a moment, she dared to hope that having triggered his sense of disgust would put an end to their otherwise charming conversation. But no, apparently Trevelyan had more to say.

"I saw you in the future, you know?" he said. "At Redcliffe castle."

"Oh?" she said. "Did you save my life or something? That doesn't make us friends."

"You joined the Venatori."

He gave her such a pitying look that Linnea couldn't help but roll her eyes.

"Well, yes," she said, reminding him, "that was the plan. We had an alliance until you showed up."

"You cast a blood magic summoning spell," he said. "It worked, but then... you couldn't control it. You were taken by the demon. And that was it — you were gone."

Linnea snorted, unimpressed with his moralizing. "You must have loved that even more."

"It was awful," he said. "That entire nightmare of a future — it's what will happen to everyone if we just 'let it be,' as you suggest." He looked up at the sky, his eyes tracking the Breach as it swirled above them. Then he glanced down once again — at his boots, at the tents and cabins nearby, and then at the mark on his hand.

Trevelyan shook his head. "I'm not even sure why I'm talking to you. It's not much fun."

At that, Linnea laughed, loud and sudden, a burst of ridicule and disbelief.

"Fun!?"

She laughed again as a torrent of words spilled forth.

"No, this isn't fun, Galen! Our lives aren't fun. Not like yours. First Enchanter's favorite, with your family of Templars who would probably die to save you before they'd ever put you down. Our lives aren't special — they're certainly not fun — but for some reason yours is. It isn't fair! And I hate you for it."

She hadn't planned to shout at him, but once she got started, there it went. Floodgates open, levy breached — all the water metaphors she'd never cared for — right now they seemed to fit. In the silent aftermath, Linnea shut her mouth, opened her eyes, and looked at him.

Trevelyan looked stunned. Not angry, not defensive — just surprised, as though he'd stumbled upon something he hadn't expected to find.

"Right," he said very softly when at last his words came back to him. "I guess I'd hate that, too."

He seemed rather humbled, actually. And he left after that, which was good, because Linnea had nothing more she wanted to say.

The nightmare began with torches in the darkness and the thunderous ringing of the chantry bells. Linnea had no idea what was happening, but the rebellion had taught her how to grab her belongings quickly, preparing to fight her way past an invading group of Templars and then to run. She could ask her questions later.

She darted back to her tent for just a moment, grabbing her satchel and the thick fur blanket that kept her warm at night. When she threw the tent flap open again and emerged with her things, the trebuchets were already firing. And then Trevelyan was right there in front of them, urging the mages and scouts to run.

"Pair up, keep moving, and get to the chantry!"

His bladed staff crackled with lightning as he ran towards danger, unleashing spell after spell — buying time as the others fled.

Linnea didn't wait to be told a second time. She caught sight of Talwyn through the rising smoke — half of the mages' tents were already on fire! She raced towards him, and grabbing Talwyn's hand, she pulled him along behind her. As they ran, she cast a barrier — as best she could do while on the move, and with only one hand free — and Talwyn threw a blast of ice, cutting a safe path through the sea of burning canvas. Together, they fled up the hill and made it to safety. She cried out in relief as the heavy doors of the chantry were barred shut behind them.

"What were those things!?" Someone else asked the question before Linnea could gather her thoughts. But she'd been wondering the same. Their attackers looked like men, but changed — warped and twisted, with red crystals jutting out of their flesh.

"Those were Templars!" One of the mages spoke up. "I recognized some of them. But that was red lyrium. Are they using it?"

"Quickly now, we have to move!" Fiona's voice drowned out the rest — she was shouting to make herself heard.

There was a plan, then? Something better than dying here, in the smoke and flames of a chantry under siege? Linnea was glad to hear it. Without protest or question, she fell in line with the others. Together, they followed a hidden path that began beneath the chantry and rose halfway up the mountains in the frigid night.

Much later, after climbing for hours and making camp, Linnea awoke to the sound of singing. But she was far too exhausted to care what it meant. So she rolled over, away from the light, adjusted her blanket, and soon fell back to sleep.

Notes:

I caught an instance where I used the title "Inquisitor" too soon! That's such an annoying mistake, though, lol!

Chapter 3: The Work

Summary:

Linnea wanted nothing to do with the cult of personality that was springing up around Galen Trevelyan. But the reminders were everywhere.

Chapter Text

The level of ambient religious fervor grew more oppressive by the day. Almost everyone at Skyhold and its nearby settlement had been dazzled by the combination of Trevelyan's good luck and the Inquisition's propaganda.

"It's not a miracle that he lived," Linnea insisted, bestowing her opinion upon anyone who would listen. "And he's not Andraste's chosen!"

She wanted nothing to do with the cult of personality that was springing up around Galen Trevelyan. But the reminders were everywhere. And too many of her fellow mages were caught up in a haze of admiration.

Linnea stayed away from the ceremony in which Trevelyan was named Inquisitor. But the others returned to the mages' encampment afterwards, breathless and inspired by "how powerful and moving it was" to see "a Circle mage like all of us" become the Inquisition's leader.

"He's not like us," Linnea said, but they didn't listen.

One of the worst offenders, Hanley, prattled on enraptured as he sang Trevelyan's praises. "He said we have to stand together and do what's right. He promised to fight for us all."

"And you believed him?" she asked, dismayed that anyone would.

They all stopped speaking to her about it after that.

Of course Trevelyan was talented. Not even Linnea could deny it. At the fall of Haven, she'd seen him stave off half a dozen attackers, stunning them all at once, and then taking them down one by one. The man was powerful in his casting, deploying spells from an impressive repertoire of elementals — and with a depth of mana that seemed inexhaustible compared to what she herself could muster. When he moved, it was fast and fluid — like dancing — but with a brutal aptitude for war.

Of course she was jealous. What mage here wouldn't be?

Except for Trevelyan and his chosen few, the Inquisition kept all its mages busy with an unending series of menial tasks. Their jobs included mixing and bottling potions, assisting at the infirmary to heal minor wounds, and going on long group walks to pick medicinal plants from the wooded slopes of the surrounding mountains. It was boring, but the alternative was, what? Freezing to death in the mountains if she tried to leave? Or surviving, only to arrive at a village that didn't want her and would immediately drive her out? Linnea didn't care to risk it. Not without the others.

She hadn't always seen eye to eye with the other mages, but at least the rebellion had shaped their collective purpose. Here at Skyhold, she simply felt lost — like an outsider, collaborating with a group she didn't believe in. Oddly enough, it was Trevelyan who remarked upon her mood before anyone else noticed or thought to ask.

"You never look happy," he told her one afternoon as she sat in the yard, exhausted and miserable, her back against the tavern wall. "I'm surprised you haven't just left with one of the merchant caravans."

She looked up at him. His face was flushed and his tunic drenched with sweat — the result of a sparring session against Bull, the massive qunari.

"You don't want me here," she said, because clearly he didn't. "But wouldn't your spies just track me down again?"

"Well, yes, probably," he admitted.

"There you have it," she said. "I'm stuck here. Just like the Circle."

"Mages aren't wards of the Inquisition," he said. "We're allies."

"But you just said–"

Linnea's jaw quivered with rage. Was it really a free alliance if they'd haul her back when she tried to leave? Of course not! But Trevelyan didn't care — he valued the words and not the substance.

She looked up at him, and then spat into the dirt beside her feet.

"Your problem," she said, "is you think being a good little mage will solve everything — all 'please' and 'thank you' and 'I'm so, so sorry for every fucking thing!' Galen, I am so exhausted by people like you."

"Look, the Circles have to change, I know that–"

That earned him a scoffing chuckle.

"Change?" she said. "No! They have to fucking disappear."

"They can't just–"

"No, they can't" — she cut him off before he could finish — "because someone like you would have to dissolve them. And that's never going to happen, is it?"

She glared up at him, and he met that look with a worried frown.

"Magic is dangerous," he said, in a tone of voice that would brook no objections.

Linnea voiced her opinion nonetheless.

"Magic is beautiful! And if I were half as good at it as you are, then I'd never let anyone tell me otherwise."

"Linnea–"

Trevelyan sighed, his expression softened, and he seemed to reconsider whatever point he'd been about to argue.

"You know, you sound like Dorian sometimes."

"The Vint you're fucking?" She'd heard the rumors, the same as everyone. He hadn't denied them, so she presumed they were true. "Maybe you should listen to him."

Trevelyan nodded. "Maybe."

"He sounds like a wiser man than you are."

After that, Linnea was done with the conversation. She turned her attention to the ghastly state of her fingernails. She flicked out the dirt from underneath several, bit off the start of a hangnail, and then continued to inspect them until the leader of the Inquisition took the hint and wandered off. A petty move on her part, perhaps, but it felt good.

Fiona was old and tired, yes, but she wasn't useless after all. She had been advocating for better opportunities, and after months of nothing changing, the Inquisition had at last given in to her petitions. Unspecialized mages were to be offered training, and then deployed in accordance with their choosing — magical research, herbalism, combat, the healing arts, or scouting. Those who didn't wish to participate could continue performing miscellaneous tasks at Skyhold and the settlement, as assigned on a daily basis.

Linnea was considering research, not because she'd softened her stance about helping the Chantry, but because she hoped to gain access to all sorts of books that had once been forbidden. She'd heard rumors of obscure magical tomes in the little library near the Skyhold kitchen. And Talwyn claimed to have overheard a tantalizing conversation between Dorian the Vint and spymaster Nightingale.

"He said our mages should research Tevinter magical theory or we won't understand who we're fighting. Leliana agreed — she's acquiring materials, and Magister Alexius will serve as a tutor."

"You're lying," Linnea accused him. "They'd never allow it."

"I'm telling you," Talwyn said. "Choose arcane research as your specialty. We'll get to learn from an actual magister."

That, in the end, was what convinced her. But of course, it was too good to be true.

At Redcliffe, the sight of the magister marching through the village flanked by his retinue had thrilled her with awe and respect. He'd given her hope that the position of mages could change. But here in Skyhold, as a prisoner of the Inquisition, Alexius was a changed man. The fight had gone out of him.

His lessons were dull; his mentorship nonexistent. He went through the motions, speaking in a bored monotone as he assigned simple readings — books for Tevinter adolescents, translated to the common tongue. It was useless drivel — nothing more advanced than what the Chantry had already allowed her to learn. Clearly, the lessons were a farce, providing the mages with busywork but teaching them nothing.

"When do we learn about blood magic?" Linnea asked her tutor after weeks and weeks had gone by with nothing truly interesting to show for it.

"That, I cannot say," Alexius told her. "Because you will not learn it from me."

"How are we to defend against it if we haven't learned what there is to know?" she asked.

"I imagine your leaders will deploy a sound strategy, and that you will defend yourself by other means," he said. "That is what I would do also."

She hadn't expected him to be so toothless — cowed by the Chantry to such an extent that he would echo their talking points.

"You're no help," she told him, and stopped asking questions.

If not Alexius, then perhaps another mage?

There was Solas, of course, who clearly knew spells beyond what was taught in the Circles. But he counseled the Inquisitor often, and that gave Linnea pause. She didn't want Trevelyan to find out how badly she thirsted for whatever scrap of magical learning could help keep her safe.

Fortunately, there was another, more intriguing person present — one whom Linnea was eager to meet. Surely, an apostate witch from the southern wilds would be willing to share her knowledge freely with a fellow mage. The only problem, of course, was that Linnea had not yet been introduced to Morrigan.

To remedy that, she spent the better part of an afternoon lurking near the garden, trying to work up the courage to approach the woman and ask her about magics beyond the pale of the Chanty. Linnea was about to leave the cloistered walkway and make her move, when out of nowhere, Trevelyan stole her moment. The door to the keep flew open ahead of him. He crossed the garden, waving a friendly hello to Morrigan, and then the two of them sat on a garden bench to talk for what seemed like an hour.

From what Linnea could overhear, they were chatting about magical artifacts and arcane devices that Corypheus might have acquired in the far western deserts beyond central Orlais — and from the sound of it, this was a friendly conversation. The only reason it ended was because Kieran came racing down the stairs. He dashed through the garden towards his mother, and then dragged her away with him for a game or a lesson — thus ruining Linnea's chances to introduce herself to Morrigan later.

And even worse, Trevelyan didn't follow them out. Instead, he veered the other way and approached Linnea directly.

"What are you doing there?" he asked. "Hiding in the shadows?"

"Oh, relax," she said. "I was waiting for someone, not spying on you."

It was not quite the truth, but not a lie either.

"You've been waiting a while, I think," he said with a chuckle, which meant — what? — that he'd noticed her there all along? How unfortunate, and just her luck.

Linnea changed the subject.

"Tell me," she said. "How is it possible that you, Lord Magic-Is-Always-So-Dangerous, are on friendly terms with a mage like her?"

"With Morrigan?" he asked. "She's here to help us. And she knows the dangers of magic — that's the point. She doesn't pretend that the risks aren't risks–"

"You're just comfortable with her because she's nice to you. And you don't even care if her niceness is real or feigned."

"Well," he said. "I hadn't thought of it that way..."

Linnea scowled at him. Trevelyan always did this. He made an outward show of being thoughtful and reflective, but underneath it all, nothing changed. It made her angry in a way she hadn't expected and couldn't explain.

"I mean, I almost wondered," she said, "could the witch be sleeping her way into your good graces? But it can't be that — not with you. And besides, Dorian's doing that already."

The remark was beneath her — a cheap shot based upon rumors that Dorian cared little for the Inquisitor, and was simply trading sex for influence. She didn't know if it was true or not, but it was mean and it was personal. As soon as she'd spoken, Linnea wanted to snatch the words back, swallowing them down into silence.

Too late for that. The damage was done. She'd at last found a blow that could hit him.

Trevelyan's face had gone tense and serious in a way she'd never seen. This was real — a mess of unruly emotions lurked beneath that perfect surface, and at last they were threatening to break free. But then everything shifted. Trevelyan drew a deep breath in, and he shook it off somehow — as quickly as a hound shaking rain from its coat. All evidence of his impending wrath was swiftly wiped away.

"Fiona's fond of you for some reason," he said, and then he chuckled. "She told me she likes your fiery spirit. I assumed she was speaking metaphorically, and that you haven't been summoning demons lately."

"Oh, fuck you, Trevelyan," Linnea said. "Don't talk to me again."

In truth, she was less annoyed by his petty insult, and more ashamed of herself for the one she'd thrown at him first.

"Right," he said. "That works for me."

He shrugged. Then he turned and walked away.

Chapter 4: The Plan

Summary:

Time and again, Linnea warned them. The balance would shift. A new Divine would be named, the Circles would return, and at that point, it would all be too late.

Notes:

I thought this would be the final chapter, but then I split it in half. For pacing and impact, Linnea needed a chapter to herself before Galen shows up again.

Chapter Text

Time and again, Linnea warned them. The balance would shift.

A new Divine would be named, the Circles would return, and at that point, it would all be too late. The Inquisition would show its true face — and the only mages spared from a dismal future would be Trevelyan and his chosen few. And so, before any of that happened, Linnea would flee. She advised the others to consider it, also.

No, she told them, of course she didn't know where to go. But what did it matter? She could figure it out on the road. The important thing was to get out before the Chantry closed its gilded fist, tightening its grasp.

"Never again," she said.

But the others had grown tired of living their lives in a state of perpetual worry. That's how they put it — a subtle dig, suggesting that Linnea herself was the problem. And it piqued her anger — it did! — because the danger was real, and therefore the only thing that made sense was to worry.

To worry, and then, to plan.

"Tomorrow morning," she said, as she climbed the stairs to the mages tower. "It will have to be tomorrow."

She was talking to herself. An anxious habit, it was worse today than ever. Linnea had been muttering and cursing aloud since early afternoon, when she'd tried to cross the main hall en route to the kitchen. She'd stumbled her way into a formal event with Vivienne at the center, surrounded by a fawning crush of nobles. And these guests weren't minor gentry either — they were the powerful sort whose decisions helped shape the future of Orlais, and of the Chantry itself. Linnea recognized a few by their crests and their colors.

Right away, she understood it.

Vivienne was making a play to become the next Divine. The highest nobility was on her side. And even Trevelyan was among her supporters — that much was clear by the way Vivienne had pulled him aside, smiling with affected delight as she gave him a gift. She was flaunting her influence for all to see. A token of friendship, she called it — but this was no mere token. Linnea had never seen a ring that sparkled as brilliantly. An enchanted emerald. The magic was a fire that lit the stone from within. It called to mind a burst of sunlight, glimpsed through a canopy of leaves. And it must have cost a fortune.

Linnea had fled from the hall after that.

She wasn't even supposed to be there. Crossing the main hall during events was discouraged, because there could be visiting dignitaries with delicate sensibilities — and, by the Maker, they wouldn't want to see an unescorted mage moving freely through the keep. What a scandal! Except that it didn't matter if the mage was Trevelyan or Vivienne. Everyone seemed perfectly at ease with them. And Dorian had become a thrilling curiosity — visitors often desired to catch a glimpse of him — so he could do whatever he wanted.

And even Solas, in a strange way, seemed to fit right in. Linnea had watched him once as he'd walked through a gathering of the Orlesian nobility. He'd been smiling enigmatically and bestowing his greetings as he went — as if he were the liege lord and they, his vassals. It was an odd memory, to be sure. But Linnea had plenty of those. By lingering in dark corners and corridors, she had seen and overheard quite a lot she didn't fully understand.

The political friendship between Trevelyan and Vivienne, however, was quite clear. They shared a common purpose. Obviously, Trevelyan would adore the idea of a "good mage" rising to power — and that meant someone like Vivienne, who would climb her way to glory while kicking other mages down. With Trevelyan's support, she would become the next Divine.

No question, then. For Linnea, it was time to go. She would pack supplies from the mages' tower — elfroot and lyrium potions, a few other herbs and tonics — and then return to her tent in the valley as quietly as she could. The next morning, she would slip away before anyone else had noticed.

It was a good plan, and she hadn't told anyone about it. So there was no reason to believe that the spymaster was onto her.

"Are you joking?" Linnea asked the messenger, who had been waiting outside her tent in the cold air of the early morning. "Leliana said she wants to talk to me?"

"Don't believe me?" the man said. "Read it yourself."

He held out a slip of paper, marked with the spymaster's seal.

Linnea was dressed and packed and ready to be on her way. Her rucksack was filled with clothes, a blanket, and victuals for the road. And her satchel was heavy with potions. They clinked when she stepped up to take the sealed letter. The messenger glanced at her bags, his eyebrow raised. Linnea ignored him — and then she clinked a bit more as she broke the seal and read.

Yes, it was true. Leliana required her immediate presence.

"You'd better hurry," the messenger told her. "I think she's in quite a mood."

The rookery tower was a mess of feathers and droppings, of splattered ink, and of notes tied up with string. In the middle of it all, the spymaster did indeed look harried.

"Ah," Leliana said, waving Linnea forward. "It is good you are here."

"Because you asked for me," Linnea said.

Her voice was tight and flat and cold. She was steeling herself for whatever punishment would come her way. She'd been caught with packed bags, leaving — of course she'd be censured. She only wished she'd left the evidence behind. Her rucksack felt heavier now after having climbed all those stairs. And the satchel was worse, with its strap digging into her shoulder, which ached from the weight. How foolish she had been to think she could flee.

"Set your things down, child," said a warm, familiar voice. "We have a proposal. And we think you will want to hear it."

A hidden, cloaked figure stepped away from the shadows and into the soft glow of the lamplight.

"Fiona?"

"Yes, my dear," she said to Linnea, and then turned her face to the light.

She gestured to the table, and then sat down. But Linnea remained, unyielding.

"Go on," Leliana said, as she took a seat herself.

Linnea preferred to stay where she was. But neither Fiona nor Leliana looked angry. And Linnea's bags were awfully heavy. Giving in to their request, she unburdened herself, sighing with relief as her bags hit the floor. As soon as she joined them at the table, a rush of words came at her.

"The war is upon us," Leliana said. "I have sent out crows, calling our allies to aid us. In three days' time, we march to the Arbor Wilds."

"I cannot stay here, child," Fiona said.

Leliana hummed in agreement. "Mmh. So it is. Fiona is a hardened battlemage and a former Grey Warden. She must lead the younger mages who have enlisted to fight."

"But I am old — not as strong as I was," Fiona admitted. "I fear I may not return."

"I have heard you are a fighter, yes?" Leliana asked, her gaze leveled straight at Linnea. "But not a warrior. This distinction matters. It is just what we need."

"Very much so," Fiona said, nodding in agreement.

And that was it. Linnea had no idea — not the slightest inkling — as to what was going on. Were they punishing her for leaving? Or not?

"Maker's breath!" she said, her patience worn thin. "Will someone here speak plainly!?"

"Of course," Fiona said. "If the next Divine is one who reinstates the Circles, the mages of the rebellion will still have a choice. Because we will give them one."

"Precisely," Leliana said. "There are places to live, hidden strongholds that Fiona will lead them to–"

"And if I should fall in battle," Fiona said, interrupting her, "then you, my child, will lead them."

Linnea's mouth fell open, and her hands went limp.

"What?" she asked, her mind somehow failing to piece it all together.

"You will not be alone." Fiona reached across the table to clasp Linnea's hand — and then to squeeze it once before letting go. "We have other leaders, it is true. But they are not here with the Inquisition."

"I don't understand." Linnea felt as if something was breaking inside her. But she did not know why or what.

"When the time is nigh," Fiona said, "you will lead our Skyhold mages to the first rendezvous, and then onward to their new lives. Together with our allies" — she nodded at Leliana — "we will build a new path. One that rivals the Circles in both strength and influence."

Linnea looked up from the table — from its thick boards, knotted and warped with age — and she focused instead on the gentle expressions of the women across from her. At last she understood. They weren't punishing her for trying to leave. They were encouraging her to bide her time, and then to take the others with her.

"You're joking," Linnea said. "No one would follow me. Not ever."

"They cleave to the Inquisition now because of what freedoms it offers," Fiona said. "But you can see the problem in that as clearly as I do. Can you not?"

Linnea nodded. Of course she knew the problem. "It's not real," she said. "We have no power here."

"Well spoken," Fiona said, and when she nodded in approval, it felt like a deep well of kindness — and so much was there to drink.

So this is how it must have felt for mages like Trevelyan to be First Enchanter's favorite for all those years.

Linnea didn't want to start crying. Not here. Not now. But she felt the tears pooling, and though she tried to blink them back, a few drops escaped her.

"I am telling you now," Fiona said, "if the Circles rise again, the other mages here will look to you for guidance. And they will do it because you, alone among them, will have been right all along."

It was all too much. Linnea was wracked by a shiver, and then more tears than she could fight. She was openly weeping in front of the Grand Enchanter and the Inquisition's spymaster.

"What must I do?" she asked, while wiping her face with a kerchief, handed over by Leliana. It was soft and embroidered, and it smelled like Ambassador Josephine's perfume.

"Stay here," Leliana said, and for the first time, she glanced at Linnea's packed bags on the floor. "You will be caretaker of the mages' tower while the rest are away in the Arbor Wilds. After the battle, I will call upon you — if and when the need arises."

"I was going to leave," Linnea said.

Of course they knew already, but it felt good to tell them — to be open and honest with two people who'd shown they were safe. So she reached for her satchel, hauled it up, and then dumped her supplies on the table.

"I would have left."

"Of course, my dear, we know." Fiona's voice was filled with warmth and understanding. "You are ever watchful, and for a mage, that is wise."

"We did not want to lose you," Leliana said. "And we could not let you die in the mountains all alone."

When Linnea left the rookery tower, she took the kerchief with her. Her bags stayed behind. She would need them later perhaps, but not today.

Chapter 5: The Rift

Summary:

Linnea sighed. She needed to confront Trevelyan — for closure, if nothing else.

Chapter Text

The waiting was awful. But afterwards, when the couriers had arrived and delivered the news of the next Divine — the knowing was somehow worse.

Linnea sighed. She needed to confront Trevelyan — for closure, if nothing else. Otherwise, it would gnaw at her, and when she left the Inquisition, she'd regret all the things she'd left unsaid. And so, the day after the lavish party, held at Skyhold to celebrate the Inquisitor's victory, she sought him out.

He'd slept late, of course, and then spent most of the afternoon engaged in friendly sparring matches with his closest companions — showing off, as always. But later, as the evening approached, Linnea found him in the yard. He was sitting alone on the stairs near the kitchen and eating an apple.

"I thought the green ones were for the horses," she said, watching him chew as she approached.

Trevelyan shrugged.

"They're tart, but I like them."

He took another bite of the apple. And then another, after that. All the while, he looked at her — waiting, perhaps, for Linnea to speak. She had plenty to say, of course, but no plan for how to begin. So she stood in silence at the base of the stairs while Trevelyan finished eating. Behind her, a kitchen's maid was chopping firewood to fuel the stoves. And she could hear the horses as they snorted and whinnied in the stables nearby.

"So," Trevelyan said, when nothing was left but the apple core, "what is it you're here for?"

An easy question to answer — it was also a good place to start.

"An apology," Linnea said.

Trevelyan nodded. "Right. And you deserve one. I am sorry."

"No–" she said, confused for a moment, because that hadn't been what she'd meant. She'd come to deliver the apology, not to demand one from him. But now? Well. Of course she had questions.

"What are you sorry for?"

"You've been right an awful lot," he said. "And I do listen, even if it doesn't always seem like it. Even if it takes me a while to figure it out."

"Is that why you vouched for Leliana?" she asked.

Linnea knew it was true, because the spymaster herself had told her. Trevelyan had supported neither Vivienne nor Lady Cassandra in their claims. Instead, he had backed the only candidate who promised a radical new future for the Chantry — and for mages.

Trevelyan sighed as he set the apple core aside, careful not to let it touch his blue satin cloak, which was draped on the stairs beside him.

"I wrote a letter," he said. "I'd like to think it helped."

"There will be no more Circles," Linnea said. "You're all right with that?"

It was the outcome she'd wanted, but not the one she'd counted on. Instead, she'd been ready for a future where the Circles were reinstated. She'd been ready to join the opposition, to lead, and to fight. By supporting Leliana — soon to be named Divine Victoria — Trevelyan had taken that future away.

"No Circles, but a College led by mages," he said. "Yes, I suppose it's been long overdue."

Linnea shook her head. "Never thought I'd hear that from you."

"People change," he said. "Some do. Sometimes. We're not all lost causes, forever set in our ways."

He reached for his cloak, and from one of its pockets he took out another green apple.

The sight of it appearing made her laugh. "How many of those do you have?"

"You like the red ones?" he asked, and from the same pocket, he pulled out a flawless red apple, and tossed it towards her.

Linnea caught it, fortunately, and saved herself the embarrassment of having to fetch it from the grass — which she would not have done.

"Go enjoy it somewhere else," he said. "I'll see you later."

Obviously, he was trying to hurry her along. She would have appreciated it, too, if it weren't for the fact that she still owed him a genuine apology.

"I insulted you," she said. "I was rude about Dorian when last we spoke."

"About Dorian?" Trevelyan scoffed. "Please, don't apologize. Lots of people were saying those things about us. I had to get over it, so–"

"It was wrong of me," she said, interrupting him as he tried to brush it off.

She had been right to dread this conversation. It was difficult and awkward. But she hated unfairness in all its forms — and in this, she had been decidedly unfair towards him.

"You're forgiven. It doesn't matter." He waved her off, but that only made it worse.

"It does!"

She hadn't meant to yell at him — not in the midst of an apology. But he still didn't understand, and she had to make him see.

"It matters! I only said it because I wanted to get a rise out of you — to see if you're even capable of caring about something enough to get angry. But then... you didn't. And you didn't because you're not."

"Not capable of caring?" he asked. "Or getting angry?"

"Yes," she said. "Both."

When she looked at him again, he was smiling, but his eyes were the saddest she'd ever seen.

"You know they mostly trained it out of me, right?"

"What?" she asked.

Because what did that even mean? Who trained what out? She had no context; it made no sense.

"First Enchanter Lydia, primarily," he said. "I was her favorite. But all my teachers played a part. And I know why they did it — I had to be an example, of course. The perfect mage. And it wasn't all bad — a certain amount of learning to reframe one's anger is probably good for all of us. But I don't have much of it left — or if I do, it hits me like a wave of sorrow instead, and I can't always see it for what it is."

"That's– I hadn't imagined–"

She understood it now, but had no idea what to say. He was talking about emotional abuse of an insidious kind. It erased its own footprints.

"It's good to remember it, though," he said, continuing on as if he hadn't just quietly reframed every piece of the way she saw him. "The anger, I mean. And you've got a current of it, running right through you."

That made her laugh, which cut through the silence and sorrow.

"You just notice it because I'm always angry with you," she said. "You irritate me, Galen. Uniquely. All the time."

"Well. I may not show it as easily," he said, "but the feeling's mutual, I promise."

It was true, and she knew it.

They didn't like each other. They never would. But it didn't have to bother her as much as it used to. Because now, at last, Linnea could leave.

"Goodbye, Galen," she said. And tossing the red apple back to him, she turned and walked away.

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