Chapter Text
Note to self, Trevelyan thinks, Snow and Heralds of Andraste definitely do not mix.
It's been less than two months since the flight from Haven, and once again, he's lost, alone, and freezing to death in the thrice blasted, wretched snow. Next time, he's taking the team and going somewhere nice and warm and sunny.
He takes a laboured step, then two, and glances down at the trail of blood that he's splattering across the otherwise pristine white.
Problem is, there might not be a next time.
But let's back up a bit.
--
Varric's the one who stumbles across the passage through the mountains, a dark, winding thing full of deep mushrooms, which cuts through the sheer cliffs of Emprise du Lion, opening out onto the sun splashed, red lyrium dotted heights. This high up, the air is sharp and fresh but thin, and the malevolent humming that he's grown to associate with red lyrium is an almost painful, annoying buzz in the back of his mind. But even that is not enough to detract from the splendour of the view - all of Emprise du Lion sweeping out majestically below, the ancient Tevinter highway stretching its shadow over the village of Sahrnia below, snow-dusted ruins scattered jewels across the landscape. Dorian huffs out an awed breath that turns to steam on the wind, and even Cassandra, normally so stoic in the line of duty, pauses to stare, as wonder lights her eyes.
"Let's make camp," Trevelyan suggests. The sun is still fairly high in the sky, but he is conscious that it sets early in the mountains, and they've already trekked for hours, climbing and scrambling around in the thin mountain air. No one's saying it, but he's fairly certain that they're all exhausted.
They scout out a suitable location, far away from the red lyrium deposits, and start pitching the tents. It's the most peaceful trek he's enjoyed in a long time, which of course it's too good to last.
Varric's the first to call out the alarm, as an intruder steps onto one of the perimeter traps that he's set up, triggering a blast. Trevelyan glances up, immediately yanking his staff from its harness, eyes darting around as he tries to assess the situation. "Back!" he yells, seeing the glint of light on silver sun-shields, hears the menacing clank of heavy armour that takes him right back to the Circle in Ostwick. Their location makes for a great vantage spot, he realises, but it's also far too exposed, open to attack from all sides. They'll be surrounded in an instant. "Back to the passageway!"
His order comes too late. A second later, red templars are swarming them. Arrows come flying and he ducks instinctively. A shadow darts over him as Cassandra dashes to his side, raising her shield to ward off the attack, buying him the second he needs to drop a barrier over both of them. Magical shields in place, he shifts his grip on his staff and summons fire, blasting the templar archer right off the edge of the mountain.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Varric plant a crossbow bolt straight through a templar's throat, before ducking and rolling away. Cassandra is a steady presence at his back, yelling taunts at the templars. Check, and check … but where is Dorian?
For a moment, dread floods him, ice to veins and a gaping vortex to his stomach. He can't see him anywhere, and his mind, unbidden, conjures up images of the Tevinter mage run through by a templar's sword --
-- lightning crackles from a cloudless sky, slamming down across the field, and with a triumphant "Ha!", Dorian hops up onto an outcrop of rock, sparks still crackling from the tip of his staff. The relief that sweeps through Trevelyan is like the waves breaking over the Storm Coast.
"Dorian," he calls out, dryly sardonic, because he's terrified that anything else will betray the way something moves in his chest when he sees the other, the whispers of something that feels terrifying like the start of a flame that he cannot control. "Late to the party, are we?"
He can hear Dorian's sniff even all the way across the battlefield. "Fashionably late, you mean. But it seems to me that you haven't even gotten started."
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of Cassandra rolling her eyes. "We are in the middle of a battle, Inquisitor," she rebukes him. He smiles; they've faced down death often enough that this is almost routine, and though the enemy has superior numbers and their position isn't the best, he's confident that they'll be able to fight their way out of it.
He reaches for the power of the Fade, sparing a moment to drop a barrier over Varric before channeling the energy into a blade of pure magic. A templar lunges at him, silver flashing on steel as it glances off his barrier, even as he brings his own blade crashing into the attacker's side. Blood sprays across the snow as the air fills with screams. He sketches a glyph then yells cheerfully at Cassandra to duck, before lobbing a fireball over her head at the templar she's engaging. In the distance, he can hear Dorian firing off spell after spell, and a well-timed explosive bolt tells him that Varric is holding his own.
Templar after templar falls. Adrenaline singing through his veins, Trevelyan sweeps into the fray, swinging left and right with his spirit blade. Cassandra is off to his right, cutting her way through, with Dorian and Varric raining spells and bolts down on their enemies from the backline, and as Trevelyan strikes down the templar knight who seems to be commanding this unit, victory feels like it's well within reach.
Abruptly, a shadow falls across the battlefield. There's a moment where everything feels too still, like the calm before the storm, or a moment of silent dread before the axe falls.
"Andraste's sweet ass," Varric breathes.
The thing that looms overhead seems, on first brush, like some giant, studded with red lyrium crystals, distorted and grotesque. Then it opens its mouth and screams, a primordial sound of sheer hate and rage and anguish. It tears through the very soul, and Trevelyan very nearly drops his staff as he staggers back a step.
"Unleash the behemoth!" a templar cries, and the creature lunges forward with surprising agility, while the remaining templars redouble their attack. Trevelyan throws up a barrier barely in the nick of time to avoid being run through, and that's when he sees the behemoth close in on Dorian.
The warning leaves his lips a moment too late, and he watches, almost in slow motion, as the behemoth's fist catches Dorian right in the chest, sending him flying through the air like a ragdoll, red lyrium shards snapping off at the impact and scattering in a shower that looks like blood.
Dorian slams into the ground, hard, and stops moving.
"Get to him!" Trevelyan yells at Cassandra. The templar knights have all closed in around them, and Varric is pinned down, trapped behind the behemoth and too far away to reach Dorian.
"But the templars--!" Cassandra yells back.
"You're closer to him, I'll hold the templars back. Now go!"
It isn't often that he resorts to direct orders. Cassandra has more battlefield experience and he values her counsel, but he knows in this case that he is the templars' target, and she stands a better chance of getting Dorian to safety than he does. She stares at him for a moment, and he can practically see the indecision warring in her eyes - the need to protect him, as against his direct order to leave; it's an impossible choice. Good thing he's not asking her to make it.
Without waiting for her response, he raises his sword, the mark crackling an angry green around it, radiating challenge and defiance, then charges the nearest rank of templars. Cassandra shoots him a glare that could melt the snow clean off the mountain-top, but latches onto the distraction he's caused and breaks away from the fray. Trevelyan spots the attacking templars trying to follow, and with a snarl, he rains fire on their heads.
The behemoth screams again and rushes at him, and the world dissolves into a frenzy. He calls on ice and the powers of the storm, intent on bringing down this monstrosity. If Dorian is dead - and no, Dorian can't be dead he can't - the least that Trevelyan can do is to make sure that this creature pays. Spell after spell snaps from his staff as he hurls everything that he has at the monster. Freezing it with a blast of ice, he reaches deep into his reserves of mana and summons fire. The spell slams into the beast, shattering the ice and consuming it in a blaze. The creature screams as it falls, lashing out blindly in its death throes. Its jagged arm catches Trevelyan across the chest, crashing harmlessly into his barrier, and Trevelyan raises his blade, ready to end this--
--when his barrier fails. Red lyrium shards scour right through his light armour, plunging into flesh, and there's fire pouring through his veins, and he can't think can't move can't breathe for the agony of it. He staggers backwards even as the behemoth falls still, clutching at wounds that feel like they should be bleeding molten lava instead of blood. He glances down, and nausea twists his gut as he sees three gashes right across his upper torso, the white of his breastbone peeking through the edges of the deepest one. Someone's yelling his name, but he can't hear it above the ringing in his ears. He blinks, and he sees Cassandra starting to her feet, making to run towards him. Blinks again, and he sees a templar knight standing right before him, sword raised in a killing blow.
He's clean out of mana. His mouth tastes like sulphur and ash, exhaustion and agony clawing at his skin, threatening to drag him down into a deep dark that he knows he won't awake from. Somewhere, somehow, he raises the strength to bring his staff up to parry the blow. Steel hits into wood and slices right through, and the templar raises an armour clad knee and slams it into his chest.
He feels more than hears the sickening crunch of breaking ribs even as he falls backwards. It seems like it should be impossible for the pain to increase, but it somehow does, and he would scream except that he has no air. He's on his back in the snow, his staff nothing more than splintered wood beside him, and he wonders, vaguely, if this is how it's going to end.
The templar seizes his left arm by the wrist, dragging it up, and he wants to laugh hysterically - they aren't even going to kill him, it seems, they're just going to chop his hand off and probably leave him to bleed to death. The templar adjusts his grip on his sword, and that hysteria crystallises sharply in an instant, lancing through the pain, providing one, vivid moment of absolute clarity.
No, he thinks. No, he's not going to die here. Not like this.
"Did you really think I needed a staff to be dangerous?" he hisses, the echo of words that he had spoken to Cassandra back at Haven, in what feels like another lifetime ago. So saying, he hooks a leg around the templar's, kicks other's feet out from under him, and flips him over sharply, sending him crashing down to the ground… and over the edge of the cliff face.
For a single flicker in time, he thinks he's done it. It's over, the fight is done. He'll grab a potion from their supplies and check on Dorian, and they'll be on their way.
That sense of relief is shattered as the templar grabs his ankle and drags him down into the abyss along with him.
And the Inquisitor falls.