Chapter Text
Wind shot across the open expanse of rubble, biting at his skin. A quiet ache had seeded in his chest since the moment he had woken up in chains. He had been trying not to think of it— “it” being all of this. Scattered in broken fragments on the ground lay what was left of the temple. Snow drifted quietly towards the broken floor, upset by the biting wind. The tips of his ears were long frozen, and he welcomed the numbness. He hoped it would spread.
Cyrlen clenched his hand as an alien pain thrummed in his palm. His eyes flickered across the wreckage. Bodies, or what remained of them, stood frozen in the last seconds of their demise. His heart shuddered. Swallowing, he pressed forward. Debris crunched under his foot. The Temple of Sacred Ashes persisted only as jagged pieces of stone and lost lives.
So many lives...
He took another step forward and felt his breath catch. The inevitable truth lay before him with no way around it. No other way except this— to think of this. Cyrlen forced himself to take another step as hushed mutters trailed behind him. Voices of strangers that fought alongside him. Strangers whose names he could not remember. He knew there were three of them; a strong jaw, a hairy chest, and a shiny head.
Another sharp cut of wind sliced by, ruffling his armor as he stepped further across the ruins. The breach stood so close to them now, its haunting green tethers reaching up and ripping apart the sky. A matching green light pulsed from his hand, and an aching burn teased up his arm. Pain settled in his shoulder and the muscles in his neck to tensed.
He felt like a hollow husk - like the wind might be able to just whip up around him and carry him away. He wanted it to. Clenching his teeth, he summoned a sudden burst of determination to get through the mess of people. Not people, corpses. His breath was one beat away from panicked. His feet found rhythm, and he moved without seeing or feeling. His vision narrowed on the only opening towards the heart of the blast.
Something new crunched beneath his foot.
Cyrlen stopped and took a step back to peer at what lay victim to his boot. Gold winked up at him in the sickening light of the breach. He felt knives in his chest when he crouched, gently lifting a pendant off the ground. The roaring wind silenced, drowned out by the calamity of realization. Tears burnt the back of his eyes. Breath spilled from him in disbelief. Of course, he had already known. How could he not have? But there's a difference between knowing fire burns and being thrown into the hungry flames.
Tenderly, he cradled the pendant in his hands and studied the scuffed gold. The jewel in the middle must have cracked in the blast, and the leather that once held it had disappeared. Burned, probably. Cyrlen took in a small, shaky breath. Grief had always been described to happen in stages - but it seemed as if everything was waging a war inside him at once. Disbelief, despair, anger, and so many more indistinguishable emotions that cut off his ability to breathe. Or maybe that was the looming threat of sobs. The world dissipated and became nothing but the pendant and his quiet anguish.
A hand rested on his shoulder, stern and gentle. "We have to keep going.”
Each breath felt like scraping against broken glass. Cyrlen lifted his blurred gaze. He didn't expect to see kindness, or even worry, and he got neither. Rather, in her eyes he saw strength. Something learned over years of hardship. His pain bubbled inside of him, burning his insides. It threatened to spill out. He ached to tell her, to tell anyone.
You see this? Long ago, I found it while traveling. It was caught in a river between two rocks. The water was so cold that by the time I finally freed it, I couldn't feel my fingers or toes and shook miserably for nearly an hour. I kept it with me, for a while. Until my brother came around. I gave it to him. It's his. He'll want it back.
The world obscured into a haze - that was the tears. He blinked to force them back, peering away from the woman, away from the ruins, away from the breach, away from the grief. "H-He used to cry," Cyrlen whispered, his voice breaking underneath the weight of loss. "A-And cry, for no reason. I didn't know what to do. But for some reason..." he held the pendant out for her, lungs tightening against the need to cry. "He loved this. Something about it soothed him, and he would stop crying."
Something flickered in the woman's face—surprise? Sorrow? Annoyance? Cyrlen didn't know. He couldn't read faces. Shakily, he stood. A deep breath locked down his grief and stalled his emotional collapse. Strangers surrounded him; people who had no idea who he was, people who judged him and waited like snakes for the time to strike. His eyes fell to the pendant as unanswerable questions festered in his mind. Questions that he would consider later, when it was safe to breakdown. Safe to bleed out his pain and sorrow. When he was safe and alone. His brows pulled together and he gently ran his thumb across the surface of the broken jewel. Beside him, the woman stood and considered him. He could feel her impatience like a probing wave.
"I suppose we should go," Cyrlen said thickly, so she wouldn't have to. He pocketed the pendant and lowered his head. Without another word, he dragged himself forward and further into what was left of the temple. He wished numbness would take over him, and swallow him whole. But every new step throbbed, every single breath stung. It was going to be a long, long time before he ever felt "numb."
Quiet footsteps shuffled behind him. Their questioning gazes gently pressed against his back. They were nothing but a means to an end. The gold he collected sat heavily in the small purse hanging on his belt, and it held little comfort. Even if it were enough for him to survive on his own, he would have to consider running from shemlen authority, to escape a trial that wasn't his. Ruined walls barely stood on their own around him, offering a meager shield as he followed what once was a short hallway. Pieces of stone crunched under the soles of his unfamiliar shoes and clattered away when he accidentally kicked them.
After all of this, he would go. Somewhere. Maybe he would just walk and walk until the soles of his shoes were long since worn through.
The mark in his hand burned, and another flare shot nerves up his arm. His shoulder ached from the constant abuse. Walls and crumbling stone parted and revealed a large, crystallized rift. Its dark crystals shifted and changed by each passing second.
Cyrlen's heart dropped. The breach conquered the sky, enormous and hungry. He could feel its power like a sharp sting of electricity against his skin, weakening his spine. There were more mutters behind him. The meanings behind the words muddied together. Someone spoke to him.
Blinking, he cast the bald mage a glance. Eyes were on him, waiting. He missed a question. Cyrlen felt his heart beating in his palm, and managed a nod.
The mage narrowed his eyes, as if he worried if Cyrlen understood anything at all. "This rift is the first. And it is the key." His calculating eyes turned to the breach and he nodded, as if affirming his own hypothesis. "Seal it, and perhaps seal the breach."
"Then let's find a way down. And be careful," the Seeker demanded.
Cyrlen's chest seized and he nodded stiffly. There was a possibility he wasn't going to see the other end of this. That thought didnt scare him. Soldiers began to line the open walls, weapons pointed towards the floor. The breach shifted, eerie with dark promises. He reached a hand to brush the pendant in his pocket. Its familiar edges comforted him. Did he want to make it through? His brother waited for him, on the other end of somewhere. "Find a way down, you say?" Cyrlen muttered.
He stepped up to the rail, peering at it for a moment before pulling himself on top of it. "Carefully," the woman added, voice thick with warning. "You break your neck and-"
" Now is the hour of our victory." A deep voice rumbled through what was left of the temple. Cyrlen's breath caught. "Bring forth the sacrifice."
The Seeker spoke with thick surprise, "What are we hearing?"
"At a guess: the person who created the breach," the bald mage answered.
Cyrlen carefully slid off the railing, falling onto a broken piece of flooring on the other side. He used the rubble to slide down to the rift. Angry mutters sounded behind him, and he ignored them with expertise. His eyes raised to the breach. Another careful step down, and he was on the ground. Another echoey voice filled the air.
"Someone help me!"
Lifting his staff, Cyrlen used it to shield himself against the bright light that flashed from the breach. Then he heard it. "What is going on here?" His own voice. It ricoched against the ruined walls, taunting him. Sputtering, he stared dumbfounded at the breach.
"You!" The Seeker's voice cut across the air and she came running for him. "You were there! The Divine-"
"I don't," shaking his head, Cyrlen lifted his widening eyes towards her. "I don't remember any of this."
The woman stared at him, her face filled with a mix of confusion, anger, and... awe. Something whispered in her expression, something akin to revelation. Revelation of what, Cyrlen didn't know.
But he felt uncomfortable under that stare.
I hoped it was a dream. The explosion - everything. I woke to the sky torn asunder, to fragments of what I thought the world was. Everything is in uproar. People are scared and confused. As of now, everything is at an unstable peace.
The reports I hear from people are disorganized. There was a fiend, who is now a hero. They are whispering about him—a lot about him.
The healer tells me I need more rest. But if I don't write, I'm afraid I will lose my mind. I need to get words onto paper, or they will fester in my mind. And I'm afraid they will tear me apart. There are some questions that I'm afraid to hear the answers to. Questions that I am not yet ready to ask myself.
What has happened to the world?
Light danced across his eyelids, gently stirring him. Pain echoed in the hollow husk of his body, whispering to him that he made it. Despite everything. His jaw tightened and he clenched his hand. Something bit into his palm. Cracking his eyes open, Cyrlen shakily pulled his hand into view. The pendant sat in his hand, glinting more vibrantly underneath the candlelight. It looked as if it had been scrubbed clean.
Cyrlen felt a pressure on the back of his eyes and carefully propped himself up onto his elbow. His body cramped at the simple movement. Blankets that were pulled up to his shoulders fell away, baring his dark skin. The pendant sat heavily in his hand, and his vision began to blur. He lived. And all he had left of his brother was a broken trinket.
A soft, choked noise left him, and he curled around the piece of old gold. He pressed his face against his hands and let out a broken whimper. His soul twinged from a raw wound that no magic could soothe.
So many of his memories were fragmented pieces. The RIft, the mass amount of people that sent waves of anxiety through him. "I'll be right back." Cyrlen remembered saying that while placing a hand on his brother's shoulder. Wide eyes had flickered up towards him, filled with worry and curiosity. “ Right back,” Cyrlen had promised.
Tears prickled. He let out a small, choked bit of air. His teeth clenched until his jaw creaked. Grief threatened him, sinking its claws into his throat. Which one of those statuesque corpses, he wondered, was his brother?
A door opened. Cyrlen startled and blinked back his tears. A small room hosted him, with quaint decorations on the wall and even an empty cage for a bird in the far corner. He spotted his armor folded on a desk; cleaned by the looks of it. His eyes finally fell towards his guest, a young elf. Sitting up, Cyrlen pulled the blanket up to cover his chest with his cheeks heating. Whoever tended him would have seen the scars, but his modesty had a mind of its own.
The young elf took two breaths to register him, before shock filled their eyes. The box they carried dropped, clattering to the floor. Cyrlen winced at the crash. "You—you're awake!" The nervous elf stammered. "Oh! Oh, my, I..."
Confusion settled over Cyrlen. The distraction gave him a chance to actually think. For some reason, they had nursed him back to health. Again. They left him alone, unchained and as far as he knew, unguarded. His eyes swept across the room, hoping an explanation might be laying around. He needed a plan. "It's okay," Cyrlen soothed, his brows pulling together. He shifted on the bed, ignoring the pain that skittered across his sleeping muscles. "There's no need, I won't-"
The elf dropped to the floor, their head bowed to him. "I beg your forgiveness and blessing; I am but a humble servant." Their voice wavered as they added, "You're back in Haven, my lord. You're all anyone has talked about for the last three days."
Cyrlen studied them for a moment, or maybe minutes, and asked, "Talked of what?"
A startled gasp escaped the elf. "I-I am certain Lady Cassandra would want to know you've awakened. She said, 'At once.'" They stumbled to their feet. Wide eyes flickered towards him, reminding him for a moment of his brother, before they dipped they head. "Oh, I am sorry—'At once,' she said! I must-" Turning on their heel, they darted out of the room.
Silence sat uneasily in the room. Cyrlen frowned. Their fear could mean anything. Maybe he was a wanted criminal, maybe 'Lady Cassandra' terrified them, or...
Lips pressed into a thin line, Cyrlen slung his legs off the bed. Needles pierced every nerve that ran down his body. He breathed out to steady himself. Staying in bed wouldn't answer any questions. He leaned forward and eased up onto his feet. Like a child learning to walk, he wobbled across the floor and made his way towards his armor. By the time he pulled the last bit of it on, his body had only barely awoken and it desperately wanted to collapse on the bed again. He glanced around the empty room. No one had arrived to check on him. Muscles tightening with unease, he stepped toward the door. He paused with his hand hovering just above the knob.
On the other side of the door, what would he find? A noose? An angry mob? A sigh parted his lips. Fearing the inevitable was just plain stupid. He pulled the door open and stepped out into the brightness of the cold day. Shielding his eyes, he squinted blindly ahead of him. He heard the quiet rumble of a crowd, seconds before the image unfolded before him.
A sea of people stood before the small hut, with soldiers standing guard and keeping the crowd at bay. Cyrlen felt his heart pound in disbelief. “That’s him! The Herald!” a voice cried. Ears twitching, he froze. A pathway forged from guards led away from any escape, only deeper into the sea of people. Anxiety stole the air from his lungs. He dared to take a step forward. His skin flushed with heat underneath all the eyes. Whispers hit his ears, slapping against his eardrums.
“That’s the Herald? Do you really think he was sent to us? An elf? ”
“I heard he was supposed to close the breach.”
Cyrlen’s eyes flew towards the sky. Disappointment crashed through him. He failed. The breach taunted in the sky with haunting beauty. What would they want from him now? His hand ached with the hollow possibilities. More voices and whispers bombarded him. He followed the path with little to no choice, fighting to keep his spine straight and his chin proud as countless eyes followed him. The path curved towards the heart of Haven - some sort of tall building that had weathered more than a few decades. Cyrlen focused on not giving in to the pain. Every step his body threatend to give out, and he waged war to force it forward. Before he knew it, two large wooden doors unfolded in front of him, and his legs shook with unease. What was the building called? A Chantry?
Whatever it was, it held a small audience of people in robes. They looked at him as if he pretended to be far more important than he was. Their muttering chafed him, like wool itching his skin. Breathing deeply, Cyrlen resigned to his fate and pushed against the large wooden doors. His arms screamed in protest. The heavy doors opened to an empty hallway, lined with a red carpet and lit by orange candlelight. A voice echoed off the stone walls, sharp and annoyed. Alone, he walked along the carpet, breathing too loudly. The strong-jaw's sharp voice cut across what Cyrlen recognized as the Chancellor’s voice.
The two argued. Cyrlen felt his hands slick with sweat and clenched them into fists; he yearned to pull out the pendant, which sat safely tucked away in his pocket, but he didn’t want to make a habit of it. He stepped up to another wooden door and swung it open with another protest from his sleepy muscles. Voices cut off immediately, attention landing on him like bees to a bright flower. Cheeks flaring, Cyrlen stepped inside and surveyed the room. A large table sat between three familar faces and Cyrlen. A sparse few other decorations littered the room, shelves, old books, and the like. Candles that sat on the heavy wooden table flickered, making shadows dance across semi-familiar faces. Before Cyrlen could take note of anything else, the Chancellor called, “Chain him! I want him prepared for travel to the capital for trial.”
“Disregard that, and leave us,” the strong-jawed woman said, her eyes sitting on Cyrlen. He swallowed.
“You’re walking a dangerous line, Seeker,” the Chancellor hissed between his teeth, his eyes slicing towards her.
“The breach is still a threat, and we will not ignore it,” the woman snapped, her voice thick like a bear’s growl.
Clamping his jaw shut, Cyrlen chose to remain silent. The Chancellor searched his face, and whatever he found made his lip curl with disgust. He turned his attention towards the other two in the room, his words cutting through the air with venom. Except, Cyrlen couldn’t understand a single word. He grasped the growls, hisses, and snaps, just not the meaning. His mind wandered, floating outside of his body. A ghost heat brushed over his skin. He needed more rest.
Something slammed onto the table, snapping Cyrlen to the present. His eyes fell to a book on the table, thick and old. “Do you see what this is, Chancellor? A writ from the Divine, granting us the authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.” The Seeker charged the Chancellor, her face pulled into tight scrutiny. “We will close the breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order. With or without your approval.”
The Chancellor stared slack-jawed and stood in complete bafflement. Moments passed. And maybe a minute. Then he left the room without another word.
That left Cyrlen alone with the two indivudals who once interrogated him in chains. Uncertain of what to do with himself, he quietly stepped over to the book and pulled it towards him. An eye stared at him, with a blade stabbing through it. Some sort of wiggly lines wrapped around it - and it took a few moments for Cyrlen to recognize it as the symbol for the Chantry. The Inquisition - that's what the Seeker had said. His finger traced the blade.
“We aren’t ready,” the other woman spoke, her voice soft and lilting. “We have no leader, no numbers. And now, no Chantry support.”
“But we have no choice. We must act now.” The Seeker spoke decisively. “With you at our side.”
The weight of attention startled Cyrlen. His eyes snapped up to meet hers for long enough to realize she was looking at him. She was talking to him. His skin prickled under her calculating gaze. Questions bubbled in his mind, ways to stall his answer and to buy him time. Why him? He sat on the sharp edge of a sword, forced to choose to fall forwards or backwards. The mark on his hand thrummed quietly, reminding him of its presence and of what he failed to do. The Herald. Cyrlen clenched his fist.
If it were Maeron, he wouldn’t have hesitated. He would have wanted to help.
But unfortunately for them, he was not his brother. People have never been Cyrlen’s favorite, not when it came to interactions and conversation. He always felt as if he said the wrong thing, or held his face in a way that wasn't normal. Granted, he treasured them. He had always watched from the sidelines, and protected and cared from his clan from afar. He feared the day that it was time for him to step up and lead his clan. Then he was given a gift of freedom, sent off to watch two groups of humans squabble over a disagreement. His brother followed him, of course. Even if at the time he didn't have any other choice, the two were always inseparable.
And now, for the first time in more than a decade, Cylren was alone. I should leave, he thought. Let the wind guide him and decide his fate. Every single piece of him wanted to leave. With a quiet breath, he stirred his voice and said something that surprised him: “If you’re truly trying to restore order…”
“That is the plan,” the other woman said quickly, hope softening her sharp face.
“Help us fix this, before it’s too late,” the Seeker turned to him and held out a hand.
Cyrlen swallowed. His knees felt weak, and the pendant in his pocket felt heavy. He had forgotten what it was like, to live life alone. But he supposed it started with a single step at a time. Alone or not, he had nothing else.
He shook her hand.
The Herald of Andraste. I’m not sure what that means, exactly. It seems as if the Herald is Dalish, too. A lot of people are uncertain about that. They are whispering, and I can feel their slander against my hot ears. I am not sure what to think of it either. I am not sure about the Inquisition, or its Herald. They tell me he’s tall, and frightening. That he wears a face of stone and hardly cracks a smile. I am not sure what this Inquisition will bring, but I am here. They want to “fix” things, or so they say—they want to fix the hole in the sky.
I can feel it in the air, a slight shift in the wind. Things are changing. And I don’t know if that is good or bad.
Last I heard, the Inquisition plans to move to the Hinterlands. I am being sent there to scout for them. I’m afraid. I’ve never killed anyone before.
At least, never on purpose.
“I sense magical energy ahead. The mages can’t be far,” Solas said as soft as a whisper. A soft breeze picked up, sliding through the gentle hills and pressing against their backs. Cyrlen breathed out through his nose and tried to ignore the stabbing pain in his right foot and the stiffening of templar’s blood on his robes.
“Oh really?” Cyrlen responded, tone as dry as a piece of driftwood in the summer heat. He was about five hours past having any patience. “What made you think that?” His eyes lifted towards the scene before him. “Was it the tall ice spires, or perhaps those robed apostates patrolling the front of the cave? You know, the one with the entrance covered with that fire barrier?”
Varric let out a soft snort behind Cyrlen, and muffled a comment. The bald mage shot him an irritated glance. Jaw clenching, Cyrlen trained his eyes forward. His muscles sighed, weary and worn. The templar camp had been more than easy to find. It felt like a slaughter. His eyes fell to the lines he had carved into this staff. The number was growing at a frightning rate.
“We will need ice magic to combat the fire barrier.” Solas spoke as if Cyrlen hadn’t said a thing at all.
Guilt pinched his insides. Cyrlen leaned his head against his staff and counted the group patrolling outside of the cave. “Solas, you will need to take care of that—but after the battle. I only want to handle one group at a time. Put up a barrier as soon as they rally toward us. Varric, stay back. You know where to hit them. Cassandra, keep them off of us.” After two moments of silence, he realized with a start what he just did. He gave them orders. A deep breath filled his lungs and he straightened, his eyes brushing over Cassandra. “Unless, you have any other ideas.”
“No,” the Seeker frowned, her eyes pointed forward. “I will distract them.”
“Just make sure not to burn any of our asses,” Varric said, wryly.
With a soft nod, Cyrlen started forward. “Let’s go.” Underneath the warm light of the sun, he summoned his magic. His muscles whispered with fatigue and promised him that he wouldn’t be at his full wit. He watched the others out of the corner of his eye. Their faces held tight determination. At what point, he wondered, would they tell him it’s time to quit?
He wasn’t any better than this needless war. Two groups fought another, because they were frightened. Cyrlen fought numbly, rashly. Without cause for thought. Killing wasn’t an answer he wanted to resort to. But they couldn’t sit the opposing sides down and tell them to play nicely. That had been tried once, and it ended in his brother’s death. Clenching his jaw, Cyrlen launched himself forward. He pulled energy through his staff and shot a fiery ball towards a mage.
The battle began. Magic surged across the frozen ground, sparking his skin. He felt a barrier engulf him, a second before an ice shot crashed into it. Cyrlen flickered a grateful glance towards Solas, who gave a small nod before turning his attention towards the enemy.
Cassandra let out a battle cry, slamming her shield onto one of the apostates. All attention snapped to her. Taking his chance, Cyrlen spun a silent spell and directed it towards the feet of the enemy mages. Runes inscribed into the ground and-
Boom. An explosion. The mages cried out in pain; the sound chased away any satisfaction. Clenching his jaw, he shot another ball of fire, and another, while he focused his magic for another rune. It wove into the ground with ease, and in moments another blast rang across the clearing. A single apostate screamed, set afire by the explosion. They rushed away from the others, their agony rising in octaves as they fell in a desperate attempt to snuff the fire.
The barrier dropped. Cyrlen felt naked air on his skin and let out a shaky breath. Cassandra cut down another apostate, her face pulled into tight concentration. Even from a distance, Cyrlen could see the sweat that licked her brow. She seemed fine. Cyrlen surveyed the battle, his muscles tight with unease. There was a powerful shift in the air.
Cyrlen spotted two apostates, hands held out in concentration. Then his eyes whipped towards a trap. Icy ruins carved a powerful spell into the ground. His breath caught. “Solas!” Cyrlen cried out in warning, and time slowed down. Solas had his eyes trained on an enemy, icy bursts shooting from him with lethal expertise. He stepped aside to dodge an incoming attack. His foot landed on the edge of the rune’s circle.
Magic rippled through the battlefield and siphoned away heat. Power tossed Solas aside, and icy fragments shot through the air like a swarm of arrows. His body hit the ground, and his staff clattered across the ice away from him. A deadly calm settled over Cyrlen. He moved like a viper. Runes drew themselves at the feet of the apostates, and the rest of his mana drained. After a minor second of charge, fire roared to life. Cries rose above the cacophony of battle. Cyrlen dove into the fiery mess, aiming for the figures in the dancing flames. His staff whipped around and connected to the side of an apostate's head with a sickening crack. They crumbled.
An arrow materialized from the smoke, landing dead center of another mage’s chest.
“Check Chuckles over there,” Varric shouted. “I got you covered.”
Shakily, Cyrlen scrambled across the frozen pond towards a limp form. Ice wrapped around the mage’s foot, and blood streaked the area around him. Cold air cut into Cyrlen’s lungs, chilling his insides. He slid to a stop beside the mage and dropped to his knees. Leaning over Solas, Cyrlen tried to rip his last potion free from his belt. The strap securing the damn thing wouldn’t budge. A cold hand landed on his own, stilling him.
“Calm,” Solas spoke, voice rough but not weak. “I’m fine, if a bit dazed.” He shakily pushed himself up and peered at the ice that encased his foot. “Cassandra needs another barrier.” His eyes flickered up to Cyrlen.
Relief poured over Cyrlen and he passed his potion to the elf. He pushed himself up onto his feet and turned his attention towards the warrior. With a deep breath, he sent a spell over to her. The barrier wrapped around her, and her face eased from the tight strain that it held moments before. Whirling through the air, she slammed her sword against the temple of another apostate. Archaic bolts pelted the barrier.
Cyrlen shot fire across the ragged plane, his eyes admonishing the few of those who stood. Arrows and magic flashed like deadly jewels, and Cassandra’s shouts dominated the din. In moments, they were the only ones left standing. Apostates littered the ground, either groaning and rolling, or unmoving. A chill settled in Cyrlen’s skin.
The bald elf stepped up beside him, his eyes narrowed on the fire barrier. He stood solid and determined. A bruise marred his cheek, and no doubt more whispered up his legs and side. “A moment’s rest,” Solas said in a quiet question.
With a small twinge of guilt, Cyrlen nodded. “How is everyone fairing?” Their faces held an aura of fatigue. His gut twisted. And here he thought he stopped being selfish years ago. The dwarf and Seeker made their way towards him. Cassandra leaned against an ice spire, her arms folded across her chest. She watched Cyrlen with a tight gaze. Cyrlen turned most of his attention towards scavenging. There wasn’t much. Only a handful of coins, and a few potential weapons for the Inquisition. He felt eyes on the back of his head.
“They know we’re here,” Cassandra pointed out. Sighing softly, Cyrlen glanced towards the fiery barrier. “We will have to be smart.”
Cyrlen turned towards them, his chest whispering with uncertainty. He searched their faces, before his eyes flitted over Solas. The mage had a few tears in his robe, with a few splatters of blood. How much of it was his own? “Perhaps it would be best to pull back,” Cyrlen said. He straightened and turned his eyes towards Cassandra. All eyes fell on him. The ache in his foot pounded like a second heartbeat up his leg. “We can resupply, get some rest.”
The Seeker watched him critically, her sharp eyes fighting to peer into his mind. He was a puzzle to her, that much was clear. Not even Cyrlen fully understood himself, at the moment. He felt like a teenager charging off of hormones. Especially at Haven. “A pleasure to meet you,” he had said, just about as friendly as a snarling mabari before the advisors. And he had managed a smile—one that only made them wince. His pleasantries weren’t up to par at the moment. Breathing through his nose, Cyrlen shifted his weight off his foot and leaned against his staff.
“Oh sure,” Varric rolled his shoulders. “Pull back, and give them time to reconnaissance too.”
Through her teeth, Cassandra growled disdainfully, “Varric’s right.” She surveyed the two potions on her belt before looking over everyone else. “How many do we have?”
“I have two,” Solas responded quietly, his attention on a tear in his robe.
“After elf-boy here charged those templars,” Varric flashed Cyrlen a humored glance, “I have none.”
A guilty breath left Cyrlen and he looked over at Cassandra. “All of us have four then.” He frowned and looked over his team. “We’re this far only using half. But we’re tired, and injured.” Trying not to look at Solas, Cyrlen forced his eyes to Bianca. “They know their best chances are in that cave—we won’t be able to draw them out.”
“And we’ve no way of knowing how many reside within,” Solas pointed out.
Cyrlen searched their faces. They waited. With a start, he realized they were waiting for him to make a decision. Swallowing, Cyrlen raised a brow. “Are all of you willing another battle?”
“Bianca’s not complaining,” Varric smiled.
“Better to stop all this nonsense so that the refugees can be safe,” the Seeker shifted and glanced up at him. “So long as you have a plan.”
Cold wind pressed against them, and Cyrlen’s skin prickled. His eyes were drawn towards the barrier once again. He swallowed. “Solas will take the barrier down. Varric, you shoot explosives in there as soon as you can. I will put a barrier on us. As soon as there is a sign of trouble, pull back.”
Cassandra stepped in front of Cyrlen, searching his eyes. Baffled, Cyrlen stared back at her. The tips of his ears began to burn from her critical eye. He could smell a soft hint of sweat and leather. And an even stronger pinch of blood. The crimson glint painted her armor, covering the Inquisition symbol on her chest. “Are you ready for this?” Cassandra asked. The question carried weight.
Heat brushed over his skin and he studied her expression. This. What was “this?” The battle, or the Inquisition as a whole? Taking in a determined breath, Cyrlen nodded. “It’s too late to back down now.”
Something shifted in Cassandra’s eyes, and she stepped away. She continued to watch him closely. A puzzle—Cyrlen could feel her trying to put him back together. But he was June’s knot. All the pieces weren’t there. They had been mauled, torn, and abused into new shapes. There would be no putting back together. With a soft breath, Cyrlen gave her sad smile and said, “Save the refugees, and we might have enough people whispering about us for Val Royeaux.”
More people have joined, so many with the stories of the Herald. I spoke to a young woman who told me she saw the Herald in battle, and spoke of him in awe. She told me Andraste’s very hand was guiding him, and that I wouldn’t understand until I met him. But I won’t meet him. I’ve been sent out again. Apparently, I am a good scout. I am back in the Hinterlands. This place is enormous, awesome in size. And absolutely aggravating.
Harding is amusing company. She is determined to make me laugh, and it reminds me of my cousins. I wonder how they are doing. I wonder if they even know of our absence. Harding told me the bears are too scarce here. The others laughed.
I don’t get it.
Snow definitely was among the least favorite of Cyrlen’s choice weather. The cold bit his exposed ears, numbing the precious tips. He frowned grumpily out at the frozen lake that sat in front of quaint little Haven. The breach’s light danced across the surface of the ice, hauntingly beautiful. A cold draft made him shiver as he turned towards the Inquisition soldiers.
Sparks and clanks filled the air. The mere sound alone filled Cyrlen’s stomach with dread. Quietly, he stepped away from the lake and limped toward the tents. His eyes flickered over to Cassandra. She stood with her arms crossed, and her eyes narrowed on a dummy. Hesitantly, Cyrlen limped to her, using his staff as a cane. “If you’re looking for the Commander, he isn’t here.” Cassandra said, her eyes grazing him.
Cyrlen hesitated and felt his cheeks fill with heat. The curly-haired man might make him weak in the knees, but he had hoped it wasn’t obvious. Cullen had a face to admire, and admire Cyrlen did. “I…” His brows came together and he looked around. “Why?”
The Seeker shifted on her feet and sighed. “A runner came for him.” She looked like she wanted to say more. Her eyes lifted to him and she said, quietly, “It… occurs to me that I don’t know much about you.” Her voice thick with curiosity.
Cyrlen shifted his hold on his staff, running his thumb over the marks carved into it. Carefully, he asked, “What would you like to know?”
Most of anything everyone already knew. He was Dalish, from the clan Lavellan. His little brother died at the Conclave, and he was a grieving confused mess. Sighing through his nose, he lifted his right foot off the ground to nurse it. He still remembered the templar, the size of a horse, who had stomped on it.
“I’m not sure.” An exasperated huff left Cassandra and she rubbed the side of her neck. She looked uncomfortable and out of place, as if this was a conversation she had been rehearsing inside of her head and was now second-guessing the lines she wrote out for herself. “Where are you from?”
Cyrlen hesitated. That much was obvious. He doubted the Seeker wouldn’t have already run across that little bit of information. Dubiously, he said, “My clan never stayed in one place for long.” The pendant found its way into his hand and he ran his thumb across the surface. His brows pulled together. “We’ve mostly roamed the Free Marches, though have made our way around.”
The Seeker shifted on her feet and stared thoughtfully at him. Her face relaxed, if a mere centimeter. Something he said met with her approval. “I am told some members of your clan might still be alive.” Her face tightened for a moment, her eyes falling to the pendant. “Do you intend to go back?”
Pain prickled in his chest. Swallowing, Cyrlen’s hand clenched around the jewel in his hand. She had been thinking of it, of his broken mumbling that day, the way he choked with the stories of his brother—his pain. She had been right there, watching him. Cyrlen curled his shoulders and took in a small breath. It felt like a blade cut into his throat “Home was with…” Deflated, Cyrlen shook his head. “It is wherever I am.”
Cassandra’s voice softened. “That’s how I feel now, after years of tending to business for the Divine.” She paused, her hand lifting as if she wanted to say more. To give him more than just cold words of a stranger.
Stepping away, Cyrlen dipped his head. “Thank you, for… the conversation. I am going to go check in with everyone. We should be leaving within a few days.”
Her eyes narrowed on him, whispering of something she wished she could say. Dipping her head, she said, “…another time, then.”
Cyrlen retreated. He held the pendant to his chest, walking faster than what the healers advised him. Behind him, the sound of clashing swords receded. He stepped through the large doors of Haven and slowed to a quiet limp. Another cold wind raced across the ground, cutting through the layers of his robes.
Everywhere he walked, he felt questioning eyes on him. Cassandra wasn’t the only one trying to figure him out. He clenched his jaw and quietly pocketed the pendant. Her questions reminded him of the hollow ache in his chest. Brows pulling together, Cyrlen let out a breath that felt like needles cutting into his lungs. There were so many people around him. He was their topic of conversation, the mystery that held their attention.
And he had never felt so alone in his life. Cyrlen awkwardly hobbled up the stairs. He thought of his brother’s smile, trying to form it in his mind. The image felt fuzzy, and he regretted not memorizing that smile. Somewhere, someone laughed. The sound soothed him, somehow. The fact that someone could laugh was promising.
Something brushed against his ears, a faint noise. Frowning, Cyrlen headed towards Haven’s chantry. The noise grew. Fighting. Quickening his pace, he limped up more steps and rounded the corner. Two large groups of people opposed another, growling and spitting. Without even hearing their words, Cyrlen could guess the dispute. Mages shouted at templars, and templars threw accusations right back at them.
Cullen stood in the middle, his authoritative voice cut across the din and warmed Cyrlen’s chest. A brush of heat painted his cheek. The Commander’s voice softened him and made his spine into butter. Soft, fluffy, warm butter. Cyrlen carefully stepped up towards the crowd, hearing one last biting insult before the two groups disbanded.
They walked away with their fur still spiked up in defense. Cullen might have ordered them to play nice, but that wasn’t going to change much when it came to comradery. Sighing through his nose, Cyrlen headed towards the Commander. His eyes passed over a mildly familiar older male, who charged Cullen like a rabid puppy. “I am curious as to how your Inquisition and Herald,” he said the word like it was a swear, “will restore order, as promised.”
A sigh left Cullen and he rolled his shoulders. When he spoke, his Adam’s apple bobbed. The thick fur on his shoulders must keep him warm, Cyrlen thought. There was minor stubble on the Commander’s throat, along with his chin. Cyrlen watched his lips move as he spoke, alluring and-
“The rebel Inquisition and its so-called ‘Herald of Andraste?” The Chancellor shot Cyrlen an unimpressed glance. “I think not.”
Blinking, Cyrlen’s cheeks became hot. He hadn’t been paying attention to their conversation. Clearing his throat, he shrugged and quickly said, “It seems as functional as any young family-“
“Ha! A family with dangerous spells and heresy!” The Chancellor barked.
Stifling a sigh, Cyrlen pointed towards the annoying old man and raised a brow at Cullen. “Why is he here?”
Amusement flickered in Cullen’s eyes, and a small smile whispered on his lips. “He’s toothless.” The Chancellor let out an undignified snort. Shifting on his feet, Cullen continued. “It’s a good chance to know what to expect.”
Heart fluttering, Cyrlen gave a quiet smile of his own. Part of him wanted to ask more—if just to have Cullen explain more to him. Though, sense told him not to bother the Commander any further. Eyes darting to the old man, before flickering around them, Cyrlen said wryly, “Don’t let anyone riot when we’re gone.”
With a smile, Cullen said, “Don’t worry. The walls will still be standing when you return.” His face sobered for a moment and he frowned. “I hope.”
As I’ve heard, the Herald has made his way to speak to some important people, to try and get help for the hole in the sky. I watch the breach at night, when I can’t sleep. The thing glows like a second moon, a hazardous beauty. Could a single man truly hold the power to mend the sky?
Harding tells me that all the rifts I’ve run across can be closed by this man, this Herald. I feel sympathy for him. How would it feel, to have the world’s weight on one’s shoulders? I’ve never had that before. I’ve always had someone else to shoulder my burdens, and to lift me up after I’ve fallen…
So many people have lost loved ones.
I wish this man luck. We will all need it.
Also, I get the joke about the bears now.