Kinloch Hold smelled of lyruim and stoneācold, unfeeling, and ever-watching. The Circle tower was meant to be a place of learning, bur for Mairead Thorne, it was a prison gilded in silence. The youngest daughter of Bann Gavan Thorne, she had been born to a name steeped in Ferelden honour, a house that once served the old kings with fire and sword. But nobility was no shield against fearānot when your daughter could summon sparks with her breath.
Her family, practical and loyal to Ferelden above all, had handed her over to the Circle with clenched jaws and dry eyes. "Better here," they said. "Better safe."
She hadn't seen them since.
In those first years, Mairead did not cry. She observed. While other apprentices broke beneath the pressure of templar gazes and whispered rumours of Harrowing failures, Mairead studiedānot just magic, but people. She learned who to speak to, and when silence was stronger than argument. She listened more than she cast, and when she cast, it was with eleganceārefined, efficient, precise.
She excelled quickly, and not just because of natural talent. She pushed herself. Always farther. Always harder. When others sought praise, Mai sought mastery. She devoured the teaching of Spirit magic, a school many found too abstract, too intimate. But to her, it felt like truth, rooted in empathy, will, and purpose. With it, she mended bones and quieted pain, sometimes in secret, when templars turned their backs. She did not ask for thanks.
But healing was only half of it.
In dim, forbidden corners of the library, beneath dust-covered tomes that the Chantry often 'forgot', she discovered whispers of the Knight Enchantersāmages who once stood beside the greatest warriors of Thedas, wielding spirit as both shield and sword. It called to her like a memory from the Fade. She trained in secret, borrowing from Illusion, Warding, and Spirit alike until she could call forth a blade of light with thought.
Templars watched her, but she never stepped out of lineāuntil she had to. When a friend's Harrowing turned violent, when a templar struck down a frightened boy rather than listen, Mai didn't shout. She acted. Calmly. Deliberately. A healing spell laced with subtle force. Enough to stop a heart for a breath, and start again just as quickly.
They never proved it was her.
They learned not to underestimate the quiet ones.
During her time in the infirmary wing, she encountered Mother Giselle, a visiting Chantry representative sent to report on the mages' "well-being." Most scoffed. Mairead did not. She walked with Giselle, explaining the injuries the other mages were too ashamed or afraid to speak of. They spoke of duty, of faith, of silence and survival. No judgments were exchanged. Only understanding. And when the Chantry mother left, Mai returned to the shadows she'd built around herself, stronger than before.
Years passed. The world shifted...
Whispers of rebellion grew louder. Templars grew restless.
Then came the explosion: the Chantry fractured, and with it, the Circles. Kinloch Hold fell into chaos againāhistory repeating in ash and blood. But this time, Mairead did not wait for a rescue that would never come. She didn't rally the frightened or seek to lead. She moved through the halls with spectral blade in hand and shield in her eyes.
She walked out alone.
No title. No name. Just a robe, a staff, and a fire that never went out.
Now, years later, she moved unseen through the Hinterlands, answering need where it found her. Her house was gone, her name a ghost. She existed in half-remembered storiesāa veiled mage with healing hands and a blade of Fade-light who appeared in times of pain and vanished before the sun rose.
The Crossroads called to her. A wound in the world where the Fade bled into waking life. It was quiet hereāunreal, yet more honest than the halls of the Circle ever were. She wandered among the wounded and the lost, offering her gifts as she always had, without question or title.
And then, through dust and flickering veilight, she saw her.
Mother Giselle.
No pretence. No fear. Just recognition. The woman approached her without ceremony, her voice low but resolute.
"I remember you," Giselle said, linking her arm in hers with a familiarity Mai hadn't felt in, well, she couldn't remember when. "You know how to heal before the world remembered it needed healers."
She gestured to the growing crowdāsoldiers, refugees, the battered remnants of a war no one had agreed to fight.
"Stay," she said gently. "We need more hands, and yours know where to mend."
Mai did not answer right away. Her hand gripping the tattered robe she still wore over her armour. Her other hand curled in the soft light of a soothing spell still humming at her fingertips.
And then she nodded, once.
In the fading shimmer of the Crossroads, she took her place.
It was that one fight too many that changed the direction of Velaren's life.
Life in the Teyrnir of Highever wasn't rosy, for sure, but under the Cousland family it was tolerable. The Couslands were a kind, generous family, welcoming and forgiving, wealthy and powerful but not arrogant. They looked after the people in their lands, encouraged people to fend for themselves.
Velaren's father, Harren, was one of those people. A merchant working in the Teyrnir, he traded commodities: cloths and materials, leathers and hides, occasionally potions and herbs and salves. His store was stocked and frequented, but there were times ā particularly in the winters ā when trading was tough because of the increased difficulty of getting stock in.
Then there were the lessons. Vel hated those, although he still accepted them and studied. He didn't want to be a merchant, but his father was convinced. Harren had three other, younger, offspring that could have taken up the family business, but Vel was the Chosen One. Vel didn't have the temperament for the lessonsā¦and the local bullies picked up on it, calling him stupid and slow and an idiotā¦Vel was often in trouble for fighting with the likes of those., and they didn't stop until he'd knocked one out.
Then the Templars came and took the boy with them.
There was something different about Templar training and lessons. Maybe because he was trained to fight in addition to doing studies. Vel accepted it gratefully, thankful to be doing something that was helpful, even if it meant giving his life to the service of The Maker.
Then came the news: Highever had been attacked, the Cousland family slaughtered, other families also killed or missing or scattered. Arl Howe was suspected, but there were no firm leads and Howe denied his involvement, and the lands of Highever were now being looked after by Howe. A few months later was the confirmation that Vel's entire family was also killed that nightā¦and a bit of Vel died that night, too.
Templar training because his sole focus in life. He had nothing else. Studies to exhaustion, training to exhaustionā¦if the life of a Templar was all he had, then he was going to be the best damned Templar that Thedas had seen. He took his vows, and his first draught of lyrium, when he turned eighteen, six years after the attack on Highever.
He went to the Denerim Chantry, he went to the Redcliffe Chantry, he spent months on patrols through the Bannorn. He spent a couple of years in the Ferelden Circle. He watched over Harrowings, and started to see things a little differently. He killed a Mage during one "failed" Harrowingā¦there was something not right about killing a person on nothing more than a suspicion. He went to the West Hill Chantry. West Hill was quiet, peaceful; there he learned a lot more about the history of the Templar Order. He was also very aware of the events occurring in Kirkwall, just one hundred miles away across the Waking Sea.
Then the Circles fell.
The news came like a bolt: Maker's Breath, how was that allowed to happen? The people were scared, mages were loose in the country. There were no mages in West Hill, but that didn't stop the people from looking around nervously. Anyone could be a mage, possibly. Anyone except a Templar, that is. He received his orders: hunt down and kill Apostate Mages, because apostates were a danger to everyone and there were no Circles to deliver apostates to. The Templars had abandoned the Chantry, abandoned the Nevarran Accordsā¦so what did orders matter any more?
He took his greatsword, took his armour, took a bedroll and blanket, took a couple of handfuls of coin when he left West Hill.
The Mage-Templar War ā or the Mage Rebellion, as it was also called ā grew. The conflict increased over time. And in that chaos, bandits increased in both number and boldness; there were no routine Templar or soldier patrols to stop them.
Except one man, a ghost of a whisper on the lips of farmers through the Bannorn and Hinterlands.
The man fought off small bandit groups where he encountered them, accepting nothing but food and shelter, and occasionally lyrium, for payment. He was once a Templar by his armour and demeanour, and his fighting was something not seen in a long time. He was a large man, a solid man, a rock, a boulder, a mountain of a manā¦he grew slightly with each travelled whisper.
But even the biggest mountains fall over time.
He'd heard rumours coming out of the Hinterlands that a new organisation was forming ā The Inquisition. He wasn't too keen on that name. Yes, the stories had the Inquisition trying to stop the fighting, but that was just making them another power, putting a third force on the battlefield. Not a good idea, and something to avoid. He'd been a part of a "big organisation", and that had crumbled under its own weight and corruption. Far better be be alone, or maybe part of a small group. Right the wrongs of the world one at a time, not all at once.
Fate had a different idea.
"Quick, get him onto the cart!" A male voice.
"But he's too heavy, father!" A female voice, younger.
"Come one, sister! He saved us!" Another male voice, but younger.
"If only he wasn't wearing that armourā¦" The same female voice.
"On the count of threeā¦" The first male voice again. "Oneā¦twoā¦three!"
Rocking, pushing, shoving, rollingā¦still. Clanking of metal ā his sword being dropped next to him?
"Nowā¦on the cart with you all. We'll leave him at the Crossroads. We'll be there by nightfall, now." Another female voice, older.
Silenceā¦darknessā¦motionā¦? Darkness again.
"What do we have hereā¦?" Female voice. Orlesianā¦?
"Former Templar." The first male voice. He knew that voice. "He fought off a bandit group as we were coming here. He saved us ā me, my wife, my son and daughter. Butā¦you can see he's badly injuredā¦"
"I'll see he's looked after." The Orlesian woman again. "Go, get some rest. The Inquisition will look after you."
"Thank you, Mother." The male voice. The woman was with the Chantryā¦?
"Now you, young Templar." The Orlesian woman againā¦talking to him. "You've seen better days, I'm sure. Stay a while."
Like he had a choice. His arms refused to obey him. Breathing wasn't easy, either.
"You need healing, and a good clean." The Orlesian woman again. Annoyingā¦but calm, soothing. "I know someone who can help, but you have to trust me."
Trust. Not an easy thing to come by these days. Did he manage a nodā¦?
She had not intended to stay as long as she had. The Crossroads, with its churn of tents and makeshift pavilions, its broken banners and whispered prayers, had felt too raw, too full of things she could not fix. But the hurt clung to this place, quiet and cloying, like damp that never leaves the bones.
So she stayed.
She wove herself into the rhythm of the wounded: binding shattered limbs, cooling fevers, whispering soft assurances to the dying when words no longer held power. It was not the glory of a Knight-Enchanter's charge, nor the silence of her wandering days... it was work.
Bloody, breathless... necessary.
In time, the rhythm became ritual.
At first, she treated the worst of them beneath a leaning oak that still clung to its leaves despite the corruption in the air. Her old staff, once more talisman than tool, became an extension of her hand, glowing faintly as it summoned spirits of comfort and clarity. Nearby children had began to call her 'Ash-Breath', for the wisps of the Fade-ember that flickered always near her robes.
Then, the Dalish came.
They were not welcomedānot at first. Elven refugees from the north, driven from their forests by storms that cracked the sky and monsters that fell with green fire. Their hahren came with them, her hair braided in the old ways, and her eyes lined with suspicion. But sickness among their youngest forced humility, and Mairead knelt at their camp without word or weapon.
For seven days, she worked among themālearning herbs not found in Chantry texts, pressure points known only to elvhen hands, and the sacred murmurs that guided spirits into calm rather than command. In return, she taught what she knew: how to harness healing through the Fade without pain, how to protect without harm. They parted without ceremony, but not without respect. The Dailish left her a charm of vhendahl bark, strung with a single blue feather.
She wore it beneath her robes.
When the wounded templar arrived, Mai was binding a burn with marrow salve.
Mother Giselle found her not long after. The Chantry woman's steps were always deliberate, as if the ground itself waited for her words before it dared shift.
"There is a man," she said, gently, knowing what was to come next might raise a brow, or furrow it. "Templar, or former Templar. He saved a family on the roadānearly died for it."
Mai glanced up only briefly. "There are many men."
"This one was carried in by cart. Half-dead. He needs healing that others here can't give."
A pause. Mairead's hands did not stop moving. "Then perhaps you should call for a Revered Sister. I am not in the habit of treating blades meant for mages."
Giselle said nothing at first. She stepped closer. "You and I both know there is no place for old grievances here..."
"Grievances?" Mai's voice was soft, but it carried. "If he dies under my hand, even as I try to heal him, what will they say? That I finished what his vows began? That I bled him with mercy and called it a kindness?"
"You think too little of yourselfāand too much of the chaos," Giselle replied, more gently now. "You fear that saving him makes you complicit. But tell me, childāif you do not try, and he dies, will your silence weigh less than your guilt?"
Mai's jaw tightened. Beneath the hood of her dark curls that spilt over her face as she continued to work, her eyes dimmed like distant coals.
"It is not guilt I fear," she murmured. "It is symbol. A mage laying hands on a fallen templar... healing him. That means something. And in a world as broken as ours, symbols spark fires.
"And perhaps," Giselle said, laying a warm hand on Mai's shoulder, "this world needs that fire to warm it, not burn it. You have walked among ashes long enough, my dear."
Mai stood without another word.
She found the manāVelaren, she would learn laterāunconscious beneath a tent flap heavy with storm-scented canvas. His armour had been half-peeled away, each movement resisted by limbs swollen with bruises and fever. Blood crusted like paint at the corner of his mouth. He had fought well.
And paid for it.
She knelt. Slowly. The breath she took was long and steady.
Her hand hovered above his chest, glowing with the soft, golden pulse of Tranquil Touch. Her other hand trembled slightly, just for a moment, before it found its place above his brow.
"I will not let you die," she softly swore, to no one.
The darkness continued. The silence continuedā¦maybe. He wasn't sure. Sometimes he thought he heard thingsā¦other times he didn't know whether he was hearing or not hearing. The absence of sound didn't prove whether he was hearing thingsā¦.
He was awareā¦tugging, fiddling, clanking of metalā¦his armour being removed, maybe with care, maybe not. Arms ached. Ribs ached. Legs ached. He couldn't tellā¦so much ached, hard to know the difference between aching and not-aching. Tried to say something, didn't hear his own voice. A jumble of images flashing through his mind meeting a voice not capable of articulating or expressing. Aching was cold, not-aching was hotā¦or maybe it was the other way around. Hard to tell. Could be both. Could be neither. He wasn't making sense to himselfā¦
Five men in front of him, two with swords, one with daggers, one with a large club, one a little further back with a bow. Again wished he spent more time training with a sword and shield. Greatsword preferred, though ā better range and damage, but sacrificing defence.
They came at him. Seemed to not care that he was using a large greatsword, didn't care that he was very relaxed in his fighting stance as they approached.
Arrow whizzed past as he locked blades with one of the bandits. Blades clashed again, another arrow. Keep awareness, Daggers trying to get behind him. Noā¦use reach to stop him, make him wary. Archer having a hard time shooting at him without risking friends. Good. Club trying to flank him. Block him with reach ā this far, no more.
Sword-One closed againā¦feint, slice, sliceā¦Sword-One went down. Daggers got behind him. Shit. Swing, cut slashā¦Daggers got nicked, but still in fight.
Thunk, recoilā¦Club hit him hard on forearm, Sword-Two slashed from opposite side. Vel was in trouble, he knew it. Arrow bounced off armour. More hits deliveredā¦more hits receivedā¦he was weary. Too much time on the road without proper rest or food, no time to really recover from past battlesā¦
Archer starting to find his mark, his rangeā¦can't get rid of Club, Daggers still flanking him, Sword-Two still holding in front. Sword-Two finally went down as Club grazed his cheekā¦thankful for reflexes. Daggers striking at his backā¦lash out savagely at Club, almost took his arm off. Club's out. Turn to Daggers, arrows start biting through armourā¦
He was shivering slightly, sweating in spite of the cold, tossing and turning as the memory of fighting replayed in his mind, cracked and weakened voice crying out in silent pain as remembered blows landed. He was completely unaware that someone had joined him and was studying him critically, almost with contempt; he had no awareness that someone was kneeling next to himā¦
Daggers finally down. Where's Archerā¦? There. Move to him, slowly, fight through pain and blood. Archer caught, not free to move, overconfident perhaps, trying to get swordā¦slash, slash, exchange blowsā¦another blow received before Archer fellā¦ He turned, saw familyā¦they're safeā¦weakness, fatigue...collapseā¦
"I will not let you die." Refugee-father-man speaking, but not his voiceā¦? That was odd.
Warmthā¦that was odd, too. Didn't remember feeling warmā¦
Eyes flickeredā¦woman above himā¦kneelingā¦mageā¦? Healerā¦? Long time since he'd seen a healer-mage.
"Thankā¦"
That cracked whisper of a voice again. Pitiful. Surely not his own voice. Pathetic.
Darknessā¦
Then a whisperā¦still don't know if it's his own voice. Too weak, too soft, Maker will never hear. Useless, a shell. "Maker, t-ā¦take this s-servant toā¦your side. This serv-ā¦servant has sinned inā¦inā¦inā¦in your nameā¦but seeks forgiveā¦giveness. I didā¦did not forsakeā¦you. Maker, be myā¦my guideā¦"
She had been at his side for three days without rest.
The Templarāwhat was left of himāhad been a ruin when they brought him in. His armour had nearly fused to his flesh from the heat of exertion and poorly healed wounds beneath: old bruises bloomed anew as she stripped the plates away, each one a bruise not just of body but of years spent throwing himself into the teeth of every fight he could find.
He reeked of lyrium, though it was fading now, like copper and frost, and something faintly divine. She had smelled it before, too many times, lingering on men with blank eyes and shaking hands, on templars who were no longer templars but engines of faith and fury.
His fever had not broken. Nor had he woken.
Mother Giselle visited every evening with fresh cloths, herbs, poultices, and that same serene calm that irked and soothed Mai in equal measure. On the third evening, she arrived at sunset, the light spilling amber through the slits in the tent.
"He remains the same?" the mother asked, crouching at Mai's side.
She sighed and leaned back on her heels, pulling her sleeves higher to expose her sweat-slicked forearms. "Unconscious, but stable. I've kept him sedated... to let his body do what it must."
Giselle raised a brow, reaching out to press a palm lightly to the man's forehead. "Sedated still, after three days?"
"Yes," Maid replied, and then, quieter, "Not only for him..."
Mother Giselle turned, her gaze sharp but not unkind. She waited.
"I needed time," Mairead murmured. "To let myself recover. Mana doesn't just bloom endlessly from the Fade, and I don'tā" She paused. "I don't take lyrium. Not unless I must.
"You know we have stores," Giselle said gently. "Clean. Not corrupted by the red. Safe, and blessed."
"I know." Mai's voice was barely above a whisper. Her fingers were tightening a cloth around the man's forearm, where infection had threatened to take root. "But others may need it more than I do."
Her eyes flicked to the man's face. "Like him."
Giselle regarded her for a long moment. She didn't argue.
She wrung the cloth and reached for a fresh bowl of water, still lukewarm from the kettle. The man had begun to twitch in his sleep. His body trembled, small spasms in his arms and legs, jaw clenched so tight once, she had feared he would shatter his own teeth.
Withdrawal.
She had seen it before, the way the body turned on itself without lyrium. The shakes. The sweat. The haunting, broken prayers whispered to gods who stopped listening long ago.
"I'm worried," Mai said at last. "He's older than most initiates. He's had his first draft, likely more. If he wakes too soon, the withdrawal could..." She shook her head. "Maker forgive me, but it could kill him faster than his wounds ever would."
"He may need it, if he wakes in pain."
"I know," Mai replied, the admission burning in her chest.
Mother Giselle reached for one of the tonic jars on the shelf and inspected the seal. "You've done well enough to keep the fever down," she offered. "The other healers speak highly of your work, Mairead."
Mai let out a dry breath that might have been a laugh if it wasn't so tired. "If he dies under my hands, I wonder how kindly they'll speak then."
There was silence. The kind of silence the Chantry women used like incenseāhollow but sacred, meant to make you reflect.
Finally, Mairead turned to her. "Have you learned his name?" she asked, voice hoarse, almost lost to the rustling canvas and distant campfires. "Anything at all?"
Giselle shook her head. "No official records. He bore no crest, no insignia beyond his old Order. The family he saved said only that he fought like a man who had nothing left to lose."
Mai looked at him again.
There was something terribly human in the way he slept. No fury, no purpose, no righteousness. Just a man curled up in pain, retreating into whatever warmth he could find in the dark.
She reached out and brushed a damp lock of hair from his brow, her hand lingering a moment longer than necessary.
"I wish I knew what name to call you," she whispered. "So I could remind you who you are. So you don't forget, if you ever wake..."
The only reply was a shallow breath and the quiet tremor of his limbs.
Not noisy sounds, though. Gentle sounds. Birds chirping, wind rustling, people walking around. Normal sounds. The sounds you'd expect ā want ā to hear when things were peaceful. He could get used to those sounds. The sounds of peace. They were calming, soothingā¦relaxing.
It struck him, then, that he was awake. His body ached, but it was no longer in pain. The aches weren't sharp and forever reminding him of battles fought; rather they were like a memory, a reminder that rest was needed, the warning to not push further.
Where was he?
He wasā¦warm, but comfortable. It had been a while since he'd felt that way. Not since West Hill, not really. Since then, he'd always been on his guard, or recovering from winning a fight that had been forced and unnecessary. Furs and blanketsā¦not armour. He was lying on his back, a straw mattress under him. Hadn't had the comfort of one of those since West Hill, either.
His breathing wasā¦calm, regular. Not laboured. Not difficult. Not painful, beyond the current aches his body was still working to recover from. The air wasā¦clean, warm. Steamā¦? He could smell herbs and poultices, gentle fragrances to stimulate his senses even if that was not the intent. Elfroot, most likely. Andā¦Embrium, or Prophet's Laurelā¦? Couldn't tell. They all had medicinal, healing properties, he remembered that much for now.
Sounds were soft, muted. Hearing issuesā¦? No, distance. He was in a quiet part ofā¦wherever this was. Last he remembered, he was helping a family fight off a bandit attack. Five against one. He knew he'd won the fight, thenā¦blank. What had happened? He was on the open road when he came across the family ā father and son, mother and daughter, a cart with a few belongings on it, a couple of horses. He was a couple of days' walk from the Crossroads, walking away from it when he found the-
Surely not. Damn.
It was dark. Night? No, eyes closed. Try to open them. Eyelids refused to move. Okay. Breathe. Try again. There.
Bright blue eyes peered out from beneath a strong brow that was covered by matted black hair to take in his surroundings. It was bright, and eyelids quickly squinted to protect his eyes from the sudden rush of light. It wasn't bright by normal standards, but still brighter than they'd seen forā¦however long it had been. He was in a tent, flap drawn closed as far as he could tell. Someone near him, kneeling or sitting, he couldn't tell. It was daylight outside, he could see that much from the muted light visible through the tent walls. What time of dayā¦? No idea. He'd find out in due course.
Hunger. A gentle grumble in the pit of his stomach. He was slowly becoming aware of that, the gnawing pang slowly trying to assert itself through all of his other aches and issues. How long had it been since he'd last eaten anything? Again, no way to tell, at least not now. Another piece of information that would ā hopefully ā be given to him in due course.
Another hunger. He knew that one, too. It wasn't bad, not yet, but it was scratching at the back of his mind. This hunger needed a specific reliefā¦and would never be fully sated. The only question was: wouldā¦whomever was looking after himā¦be able to satisfy this hunger? He had time, he knew the signs within himselfā¦but he didn't have a lot of time.
Easier to close his eyes for the moment. Light hurt. He'd try again later. When he was stronger. If he got stronger.
He wondered what became of that family he'd saved last. Had they run and left him, too scared to help? They hadn't said where they were going, but it was likely that they were heading to the Crossroads, like so many other people trying to find safety from the ravages of the Mage-Templar war. If they hadn't brought him here, then who did? Who did he have to thank for bringing himā¦here? Did he want to thank them? If he was indeed at the Crossroads, then he'd been brought to the place he'd been trying to avoid.
Noā¦that family had carried him. Memory started working. He remembered a conversation, arguing about how heavy he was, how he'd saved them, lots of effort involved in moving him, how they were lifting him, placing himā¦ He did owe them thanks and gratitude. It became more likely that he was at the Crossroads, but that still needed confirmation. The family wasn't to know he didn't want to go there.
He coughed slightly, weakly. Maker's Breath, how pitiful was he that he couldn't even cough properly? Even coughing hurt right now, sending ripples of annoyance through his chest. At least it proved he was alive.
"Whereā¦"
His voiceā¦at least it workedā¦kind-of. But so weak, a dry rasping croak that barely made any sound. Would the person next to him have even heard him attempt to speak? What would they think of the shell, the shadow, that he was?
Try again. Another soft cough, followed by a barely-wet swallowing of saliva to try and moisten his throat.
"Whereā¦am I? The familyā¦safe?"
Maybe that made more sense to whoever was there than it did to him.
She had long since forgotten what proper sleep felt like.
For five days, her world had shrunk to the flickering light of magefire lanterns, the quiet hiss of boiling kettles, and the slow, shallow rise and fall of a broken man's chest. She moved like a ghost through the Healer's tent, always in motion, always purposeful, even when exhaustion threatened to pull her down like river stones.
When she wasn't by his bedside, Mai was hunched over what little remained of the healer's library, parchment and worn binding spread across the small side table. The texts were oldāsome water-damaged, others missing pagesābut she scoured them anyway, searching for anything on lyrium withdrawal, long-term coma states, or ways to maintain mana without constant consumption. The sedatives had given him time. But now, time was growing thin, and her mana reserves were running low again.
When her hands shook too much to copy notes, she sought conversation insteadāshort exchanges with Corporal Vale about the stability of the Crossroads and the new Inquisition scouts combing the region. He always spoke with the weight of responsibility, but with a trace of hope in his voice. The bandit attacks had slowed, he said. A new group had driven them back. There was talk of a leaderāno, a Heraldāwho could close the Breach itself.
Recruit Wittle was less restrained. The young man had bounced into the tent more than once, full of rumours and wide-eyed awe. "She's a warrior, can you believe it?" he whispered once, leaning in conspiratorially. "Swung her blade and just banished a demon mid-charge. They say she's the Maker's chosen, walked out of the Fade itself."
Mai had smiled politely, indulgently. She hadn't known how much of it to believe.
Then came the fifth day.
Mother Giselle arrived just past midday, her robes drawn tight against the wind that rolled over the hillside encampment. She entered quietly, nodding at the guards stationed near the tent flap before gliding inside.
"How is he?" she asked, voice gentle but clear.
Mai looked up from her task, changing the bandages on his side, where deep gashes had only now begun to close. The colour had returned to his face, the stiffness of unconsciousness no longer gripping his limbs. His chest rose and fell with steady rhythm. His lips, once pale, had warmed with blood again.
"He's healing," she replied softly. "I stopped the sedative yesterday. His vitals have held steady since. Breathing's strong, colour's good. No fever. If the Maker's kind, he'll wake any day now." She glanced at the bedroll. "Any hour, maybe."
Giselle nodded, pleased. "You've done much with little, Mairead."
"I did what I could."
"You've done more than that." The older woman knelt beside her, smoothing the blanket where it had bunched at his waist. "And you'll want to hear this. The Herald of Andraste... she's been revealed."
Mai's brow furrowed as she reached for a cloth. "Revealed? I thought it was just camp gossip."
"No longer," Giselle said. "It's true. A young woman from Ostwick. Evelyn Trevelyan."
The name struck Mai like a blow to the chest.
"...Evelyn?" she breathed. "From House Trevelyan?"
"You know her?"
Mai slowly sat back on her heels, her eyes distant. "Yes... Maker's breath, yes. I met her... years ago. Ferelden's noble houses hosted many celebrations after the Blight. I was a guest more than once, before..." Her voice faltered. "Before I was found out."
She had been but a child. It had been summer. Evelyn had been a flame in the gardenādressed not for combat but for charm, laughing too brightly for a proper noble. They had danced once, before Mai was taken to the Circle. Evelyn had made a friend that night. Mairead had lost one.
"She was kind," Mai murmured, "and strong. I never imagined..."
But before either woman could say more, a low sound rippled from the cot. A coughādry, weak, but unmistakable his.
Mairead frose.
Then his throat shifted. A rasp. Two wordsābarely audible.
"... Where.. am I?"
Her heart leapt to her throat.
She turned sharply to the cot, kneeling close, watching as his eyelids fluttered beneath his brow.
A second attemptāsofter, but still there.
"...Family...safe?"
Mairead rose to her feet so quickly she nearly stumbled. "He's waking," she said, wide-eyed.
Mother Giselle was already moving, calling softly to the guards for water, for broth, for the others.
But Mai stayed at his side, hands trembling as she leaned in. He was still too weak to see clearly, but his eyesābrilliant blueāmet hers, even if just for a moment.
"You're safe," she whispered. "Rest now. You've come back..."
And this time, when she reached for his hand, he didn't flinch from her touch.
There were voices talking around him. They were in the tent with him. He'd thought they were outside. He really was ā or, at least, had been ā in a bad way. Talkingā¦he struggled to hear clearly, they were talking quietly. Hard to make words outā¦Trevalyanā¦? He knew that nameā¦
Then he coughed, spoke, and the talking stopped as people seemed to focus on him.
One person moved ā how he knew that, he didn't know ā to the front of the tent, called out for somethingā¦cloths, water, brothā¦? Something like that. His stomach might appreciate a little broth. Maybe.
The other person knelt next to him, touched his hand gently. He might have flinched from the touch, but he was still so weak that he couldn't. Eyes flickered open again, trying out the light once more. Still not easy to see as he squinted against the soft daylight, but he was looking up into what he assumed to be a pretty faceā¦he met the eyes of the face's owner for a moment, before the light made him close them again.
He groaned softly. Probably the most useful noise he'd made in the past few minutes. He needed to rest. He didn't want to rest.
His brow furrowed deeply as he tried to summon his strength, and he attempted to push himself up onto his elbows, to try and see what was around him, get an idea of his surroundings and who was with him. He partially succeeded, in that he managed to push himself up on one elbowā¦then he groaned again, a little louder, and fell back onto the mattress. He'd failed, but at least he'd proven that his body was capable of responding to his own commands. He only lacked the strength to do what he wanted to do.
That would come.
"You're safe. Rest now. You've come backā¦"
The words had bounced around in his mind while he'd made his pointless attempt to elevate himself, and he chuckled weakly before coughing from the effort of chuckling.
"A flyā¦thinks it's safeā¦before itā¦it gets stuck inā¦in the webā¦" His voice was still quiet, barely more than a whisper still, but at least it was a little clearer ā at least to his own ears. The comment proved to himself that his mind was starting to work properly, too. He coughed again, a bit stronger now, although coughing still hurt a little.
"I've restā¦rested enough. Questionsā¦"
Of course he had them. But could he articulate them properlyā¦and would they be answered?
"Whereā¦am I? Who areā¦you? Is the fam-ā¦family safeā¦?"
The Orlesian woman answered ā he couldn't see her, although he opened his eyes briefly to try. She wasā¦he couldn't tell how far away she was. She sounded closer, but maybe she was talking louder than the other woman. So hard to tell these things when your senses were still waking up after what must have been a while of being turned off.
"Hush, dear boy," she told him, her accent frustratingly annoying but her voice so calm and reassuring. "Do not rush these things. The answers will come in time."
Someone put a cold cloth on his forehead. That helped, and he couldn't help sighing softly at the coolness. The Orlesian continued speaking.
"For now, I can tell you that you are in The Crossroads in the Hinterlands, being cared for by members of the Inquisition. The family you savedā¦they brought you here as thanks for saving their lives." Did she laugh softly? "I think the young girl might have taken a fancy to you, young man."
His brow furrowed slightly. No, that's not what he'd intendedā¦he was fighting, saving, not flirting.
"I am Mother Giselle." The Orlesian woman again, still. "I will let my friend ā your healer ā introduce herself. Do you have a name? Referring to you as 'him' or 'that templar' is getting a little tiresomeā¦"
He coughed in the back of his throat at her comment, then coughed again as he attempted to speak.
"Velā¦Velaren Marks," he managed, his voice croaky and cracked. "Kn-Knight-Lieutenant, I suppose, i-if the ranks still hold weight." Another cough, weak, but getting a little stronger. Just like his voice, it seemed. "Most rec-ently of the West Hill Chantry."
Wellā¦if they hadn't realised it before, they know knew he was a Templar, one who'd taken his vows and lyrium.
She had been wide-eyed the moment she heard his first broken cough.
She moved before she consciously thought to, her body responding with a fluidity that had long since become ingrained into her very bonesāan almost muscle-deep memory of years spent running to bedsides of the wounded, the dying, the barely-holding on.
Barely noticing the startled expressions of those who came rushing into the small canvas tent, Mai knelt with a practised sweep of her robes beside the cot where he lay.
Her hands moved deftly: checking the rapid pulse at his wrist, pressing a cool cloth against his brow, murmuring soft reassurances more for his benefit than her own.
It was a reflex.
Habit.
Survival.
The healer's art was not only spellwork, but the gentling of mind and heart.
Mother Giselle was there, of course, gliding forward with all her quiet, matronly command. She knelt on the opposite side of the cot and, hearing his broken wordsāquestions, desperate for answersābegan to speak in that even, musical cadence of hers.
Mai barely listened at first, too focused on the Templar's shallow breathing, the way his fingers twitched weakly against the sheets. Only when Giselle mentioned the family, and the little girl's fondness, did Mai glance up, a faint, tired smile ghosting her lips.
When heāVelaren Marks, he saidāmuttered his rank and allegiance through the croak of a raw throat, Mai's heart gave a strange little twist.
Knight-Lieutenant...
West Hill...
Templar, through and through...
There was a flicker of something on Mother Giselle's faceāconcern, pity, Mai couldn't tellābut the older woman leaned slightly toward her, murmuring, "A word, my dear, if you would."
Reluctantly, Mairead rose, smoothing the blanket over Velaren with one careful hand before stepping outside to where Giselle stood, near the tent's flap.
"He's stronger than I expected," Giselle whispered, voice low to keep from alarming anyone passing by and careful to not let her voice carry back inside the tent where the patient rested. "But this is early tet. His mind will clear faster than his body. We must be cautious."
Mai nodded. She had already been formulating a list of things that would be needed, "He'll need constant tending. Food, water, elfroot poltices, something to help keep the fever at bay. And..." She hesitated, glancing inside the tent, looking in the direction the TemplarāVelāhad already slumped back against the mattress, eyes fluttering.
"And?" Giselle prompted, a curious brow raised.
"And he's already feeling the lyrium withdrawal," she answered quietly. "The shakes will start soon. The visions to follow, maybe. Night terrors at the least. If his last draught wasn't long before... Maker's Breath, but it's going to be rough."
Giselle's face softened, her sharp Orlesian features melting into something more grandmotherly. She touched Mai's sleeve. "You know this well."
Mairead exhaled shakily. "Too well."
"You will stay with him?" Giselle asked.
Mairead nodded before the words even formed. "I will..."
The older woman smiled warmly, then turned to slip away, murmuring something about fetching broth and a clean ledger for notes. As she disappeared, Mai squared her shoulders, pushed back the strands of hair escaping her braid, and returned to Velaren's side.
She knelt again beside him, more carefully this time, folding herself close so she could hear without straining.
"You are safe, Knight-Lieutenant Velaren Marks," she said softly, her voice steadier than she felt. "You're at the Crossroads now. There had been a group of Inquisition soldiers who brought you here. You are safe enough now... I'm Mairead. I've been keeping watch over you and doing what I could to help you mend... though, you have done more work than I, in that regard..."
His cracked lips moved, as if he meant to say something, but she laid two fingers lightly on the back of his hand to still him.
"You've been through quite the battle, fever, andā" she glanced at the faint blue tinge still clinging to the veins at his temples, a cruel erlic of lyrium's touch, "āthough more than your share of suffering."
Strange a mage should say that to his kind... Though she supposed, after witnessing what she had over the time she had spent at the Crossroads, that both sides of the conflict had experienced suffering for their Order or Circles...
His brow furrowed faintly, a silent protest she gently ignored.
Mai wet a cloth from the basin at her side and pressed it once more to his forehead, cool and soothing.
"You saved a family's life," she continued, her voice almost a whisper now. "You saved your own life, too, Velaren. Now, you must let us help you keep it."
For a long moment, there was only the faint crackling of the campfires outside, the occasional clatter of armour as patrols passed by. And the fragile, stubborn, rhythmic breathing of a man too broken to fight, and too stubborn to die.
She watched over him like a hawk over wounded preyāwilling, hoping, commanding him to survive. For both of their sakes.
The two women walked away. At least he guessed they had ā he couldn't feel their presence nearby, and their voices had become very faint, distant. Vel opened his eyes slightly, let his head roll to the side slightly, found himself looking in the direction of the tent flap and brighter light, which made him squint a little. He was slowly getting used to the light again.
He could make out their shapes, silhouettes against the light from outside, standingā¦apparently talking. He could make out the movement of their mouths, but he was no lip-reader, and he could barely hear them, nevermind make out what they were saying. He could only guess they were talking about him, but he had no idea what. Hopefully it was a vaguely-positive discussion.
Then one of them left the tent, leaving the other to return to his side. She spokeā¦and confirmed ā again ā what he'd hoped he had wrong. But she did also confirm something he'd hoped he had right, so he supposed her words weren't all bad. Somehow that was funny to him, and he attempted a weak chuckle that turned into a small coughing fit instead. At least the return of the cool cloth was niceā¦just as the light touch to his temple was a bit of a surprise.
This Mairead was an interesting one. Even though she was likely a mage and likely had good reason to avoid him, she stayed by him for reasons that were, for now, her own. The Maker's blessings came in many varied ways. A lesson for him, perhaps?
He took a slow , deep breath that threatened to make him cough, but he managed to mostly suppress that particular urge.
"I've suffered through too man-y battles since the Circles fell," he told her through a tightly-controlled release of breath. He found it helped to speak if he took a deep breath first then hold on to it as he spoke. "Ro-roamed the Bannorn, the Hinterlands, Southron Hi-ills, the Coastlandsā¦"
He coughed softly, quickly. Okay, so it didn't always work, controlling his breath like that as he spoke. But it was better than his earlier attempts. He tried again in effort to continue. His eyes opened so he could look at his carer, although he couldn't see her properly or clearly at this time. It made his confession a little easier.
"Fought manyā¦bandits, helped many refugees like theā¦the family that brought me here," he continued, his voice carefully controlled, as best he could manage. "I did wh-what I could."
He sighed heavily, let his head relax against the mattress beneath him.
"I didn't want t-to come here," he admitted quietly. "Inquisi-itionā¦adds to battlefieldā¦chaosā¦" He paused, as if collecting his thoughts.
"Butā¦if the Maker has decided m-my time is done, then I suppose it is better to beā¦not alone."
He fell silent, his breathing heavy but steady. He remained silent for a short time, just listening to the sounds of what he presumed was a camp outside ā although how big a camp it was, he had no idea. Maker willing, he'd find out soon. Did they know he'd need lyrium soon? If they did, would they be able to provide? Questions for a later time, he knew.
"Thank youā¦Maireadā¦" he breathed softly, his eyes closing slowly. "Thank you forā¦for this extra timeā¦"
The camp outside sounded peaceful, at least. Armoured footfalls of patrols, calm talking of guards, gentle laughter in the background, the unmistakeable sound of a whetstone honing a blade's edge. Not that peaceful, thenā¦but still better than the hectic uncertainty that had been his life for the past two years.
Blessed Andraste, please let me find out what makes people laugh in these troubled timesā¦
She kept her vigil with a steadiness that had returned only gradually, like dawn breaking behind stubborn clouds.
Velaren's fever had broken completely during the early hours of the morning two days past, and that was when she'd finally allowed herself to breathe properly again. Until then, she had moved around him like a shadowāchecking his temperature, coaxing spoonfuls of broth into thin, reapplying cooling poultices when the heat of withdrawal flushed his skin. Even now, though his strength was still a fragile thread and his v voice carried the dryness of long days without speech, he was no longer on the knife's edge between life and death.
And yet, Mai did not relax entirely. Not with his state so tenuous and his body, tempered by lyrium and divine purpose, showing the first signs of unravelling from its dependency.
She had seen it before...
So she remained close, even when his breath deepened into sleep again. She had moved quietly, lighting lanterns against the early dusk, writing notes on his process, accepting the camp's quiet rhythm with a calm that only healing work could give her. But her eyes always flicked back to the pallet.
It was in those later hours, while Velaren dozed lightly and the shadows began to shift in the tent, that a sharp whistle from outside caught her earāa practised tone, not warning, but greeting.
Scout Lace Harding ducked beneath the tent flap with the ease of someone used to ducking beneath many things. She stood short and solid, all braid and leather and a dusting of Hinterlands dirt over her boots. A bow slung across her back and a map-case under one arm marked her for what she was: a dward of business and battlefield, not ceremony.
Mother Giselle rose from her seat with the poise of a woman who had been waiting for this moment.
"I am surprised to see you here, Harding," the cleric said kindly. "But I suspect this is no social call..."
"'Fraid not," Harding replied, tucking a loose strand of hair that had escaped its braid behind one ear. "I brought word from Haven. The Inquisition has come together faster than expected. Thought you should know. They've appointed a leader. They're calling her the Herald of Andraste."
Mai, still seated nearby with a cloth in her hands, tilted her head at the sound. She exchanged a brief look with Harding, who offered a small nod in greeting, then turned her attention back on Giselle.
The older woman's brow lifted just slightly.
"Andraste's name is ever a powerful one," Giselle murmured, then straightened her shoulders. "I have heard rumour of this Herald, that her name is Trevelyan, yes?" she paused long enough for Harding to nod. "Then I must meet this Herald myself. Too many wounded are scattered in these hills, too many frightened souls uncertain of whom to follow. If the Inquisition is to be more than a campfire dream, it must know the reality of these people."
She laid a hand on Harding's shoulder. "Please, return to Haven. Tell them I request an audience. And not for myself alone. I have news... of interest to their leadership."
Harding grinned, all warm practicality. "You got it, Mother. I'll be back in a day, maybe two. Depends on the wolves."
She gave Mai a parting nod, then vanished through the tent flap again, leaving a rush of cool dusk air in her wake.
Giselle turned to Mairead, who stood, brushing her hands against her robes.
"You think they'll come?" Mai asked, her voice quiet.
Giselle offered a small smile. "They will. If they have any sense in them. And if they have none... well. Perhaps Andraste will guide them despite themselves."
Mai folded her arms loosely. "And this Herald? Do you believe in them?"
"I believe in people who need to believe in them," the older woman replied. "And that, my dear, may matter more than any truth."
They stood in thoughtful silence for a moment, broken only by the muffled cough from Velaren's pallet.
Mai turned instinctively. "I should see to him."
Giselle nodded and smiled. "Go..."
She moved back to the bedside, gracefully lowering herself to the stool beside his cot once more. She could see, even now, the faint flutter of his lashes as he began to stir again. His breathing, though still shallow, had steadied. His skin no longer burned beneath her hand.
"You've been doing better," she said gently, voice low and steady, barely more than a murmur as she dipped a cloth into the basin and laid it across his brow. "The fever's been broken, and your strength's creeping back in little steps."
She took his hand briefly, not to comfort, but to check for tremorsāthere, yes, just faintly. A sign of the absence. Of what the Chantry had fed him.
She drew in a quiet breath.
"The Inquisition is gathering, Velaren. There is someone the people are calling the Herald of Andraste. Mother Giselle has sent word for them to come here, to the Crossroads. She has information to share, and she believes they'll come."
She paused, shifting the basin slightly to refresh the cloth. The silence stretched.
Mairead glanced down at him. "And you? How are you feeling?"
Her voice softened, her expression sobered. "Do you... need any lyrium? We've some. I can send for it..."
She hesitated, just a beat.
"I don't like what the Chantry's doneāhow it made you all depend on it. But I won't let you suffer."
She smoothed the cloth gently against his temple. "If you need it... just say."
Then she sat back on her stool beside him, keeping her hand resting gently atop his as he drifted again between sleep and silence, the hush of the Hinterlands stretching softly beyond the tent walls...
He was now becoming aware of the passing of days. He knew that to be a Good Sign. It also meant that the Maker has not called for him, and that Andraste had decided he should find out what made people laugh in these times. He supposed that, too, must be good.
Vel was aware that the fever had broken. He could feel it in the way he was no longer shivering with cold while under a mountain of blankets or burning with heat in the chill morning air. He no longer felt clammy with unwanted sweat. He could feel it in his lungs, in the way he was breathing slowly and easily. He feltā¦almost better. He knew he was a long way from Great, but he was no longer a lost cause. At leastā¦not physically.
The gentle rhythms of the camp helped soothe him. The sharpness of his senses was returning, although his strength to move was still lacking. At least he no longer felt helpless-weak.
He was dozing lightly when a sharp whistle brought him out of his light slumber. His head rolled around slowly, saw a solid dwarf woman enter ā Harding, this one was apparently called. Might be a name to remember. She was known to Mother Giselle, at least, and apparently trustedā¦whether that was a Good Thing he wasn't prepared to decide just yet. Someone called ā or calling themselves ā the Herald of Andraste had been nominated the leader of the Inquisition. One of the Trevelyans was this Heraldā¦? What he knew of that noble house didn't lend itself to that kind of lofty ideal, but then these were interesting times.
Mother Giselle was asking Harding to arrange a meeting with the Herald. Would that happen? Vel was sceptical. Nobles tended to be more focussed on themselves than in the Little People, although he knew some ā like the Couslands ā bucked this trend. It would remain to be seen. Then Harding left, to deliver the request to Haven ā was that place really still standing? ā and Giselle and Mai spoke softly between themselves.
Should he say something? Speak up? Ask what was going on?
Maybe he should. He opened his mouth to speak, ask what he thought might have been a pertinent or important questionā¦and coughed instead, softly, but enough to draw attention.
Typical.
Giselle left the tent as Mai returned to his side. Her hand felt nice, although he recognised she was holding his hand out of necessity and not from any kind of affection. The tremors of lyrium withdrawal hadn't started yet, at least.
And she wanted to know how he was doing, how he was feelingā¦whether he needed lyrium.
He inhaled slowly, exhaled slowly. It was getting much easier to breathe without coughing, and that was something that made talking simpler.
"I willā¦I will need lyrium soon," he had to admit. Not admitting it was going to be a death sentence for him ā a long, drawn-out, painful, humiliating death sentence. It was also giving Mai a means to control him ā behave or you don't get lyrium. The Chantry had done that for many Ages; why would this Inquisition be any different? "I still have a day or so before the tremors start." He sniffed quietly.
"It's amazing, the things you can find on the road," he told her, his mind drifting into memory for a moment. "I would sometimes manage to acquire a vial of lyrium as thanks for my servicesā¦and I would occasionally find a vial on bodies that had been left on the side of the road or under some scrub." He smiled faintly as he looked into his healer's eyes for a moment. "A single vial can really be drawn out when you need it to."
He paused, wondering how to best continue. Would she appreciate that he'd been half-listening to their conversation with that dwarf, Harding? He decided to admit to that, too.
"I overheard part of your conversation with the dwarf," he replied, feeling a little more relaxed now that he was actually talking with someone in a manner that was not related to life and death either directly or indirectly. "Harding said that the Inquisition now has a sort-of leader, someone calling themselves the Herald of Andrasteā¦? And that a Trevelyan is this Heraldā¦? Iā¦in another life, I knew a little of the Trevelyans ā only second-hand knowledge and stories, mind ā and they didn't strike me as the type to get mixed up in that sort of thing." He shook his head slowly. "It doesn't matter, I suppose. This Hearld is here, whether we like it nor not."
He groaned quietly and let his head roll back to a more neutral position.
"I'm feeling better, though," he added softly. "A tribute to your healing and care as much as to my stubborn refusal to die, I suppose. Right now I'm happy that I can breathe and talk without coughing through every other word. My strength will return in time, I know. Until then, I'm confined to this cot." He smiled faintly, although the smile did not, for the moment, reach his eyes. "I'm sure you'd tell me something like that if I was stupid enough to try and get up, so I thought I'd save you the trouble."
His eyes fluttered closed. Maybe talking too much at once hadn't been the smartest thing to do ā he now felt drained. Was he really that weak, still?
"As for myā¦sufferingā¦" He snorted softly and with a hint of derision. "That's what Templars do. Suffer. Preferably in silence, if you ask the Chantry. But thank you all the sameā¦"
His voice faded as he relaxed, his energy all but gone for the time being. He was trying to work out just what he'd said ā too much? Too little? Had he said anything stupid or unwarranted? He hadn't accused anyone of anything, had he? No, he felt that everything he'd said was more-or-less okay.
He didn't sleep, but he did fall to silence, his breathing now slightly deeper and with more rhythm.
Rest. He'd had plenty, and needed more. He had no doubt Mai would see to that. But he was now getting to the point where he was getting tired of lying on his backā¦and his back was starting to get tired of being laid on.
He'd need to move, if only a little. Maybe he'd roll onto his sideā¦soonā¦in a little whileā¦once he had the strength toā¦
For nowā¦just lie here. And listen to the sounds of quiet camp life. Was that the sounds of soldiers doing training drills he heardā¦? That could be good motivation, to feel a sword in his hands againā¦
She had heard every word he managedāquiet and rasped though they wereāand listened in silence. She didn't interrupt, didn't correct or comfort, not right away. There was something sacred in the act of letting someone speak without weighing their words down with your own.
Instead, she dipped the cloth in the basin again, the warm water no longer needed for fever but soothing nonetheless. She wrung it out slowly, watching the water drip between her fingers before folding the cloth and laying it gently across his chest, just above the sternum where she'd seen his breath struggle before.
He was recovering, and she could see it now more than just colour and breathing. His speech held clarity. His eyes found her when they could. He was still weak, yesābut his mind was moving.
And that, perhaps, was the most dangerous part of healing.
"You're right," she said at last, her voice quiet but steady, her eyes not quite on him, but somewhere just past the cot. "A Trevelyan wouldn't be the sort you'd expect to throw themselves into a storm like this. But Evelyn... she was never quite like the rest of them."
Her lips pulled into a faint, fond smile.
"She and I were raised in the same way, of a sort. We had had a short friendship when I had visited for a time, one could have said I had lived under her house's protection while our parents and the others gathered for those sorts of festivals they used to have before all of this began. Her parents thought it charitable. Evelyn thought it fascinating," Mai chuckled softly under her breath, shaking her head. "Most Banns try to raise daughters like prized houndsāobedient, graceful, destined to be married off to fatten a dowry or seal a deal. Evelyn had none of that in her."
She reached for a fresh bandage, replacing the cloth with it and keeping her hands busy while she spoke. It was easier that way.
"She used to say the world was more than dining tables and dances. That maybe nobility wasn't about who you married or how you carried a titleābut who you helped, who you fought for." Her voice softened. "I suppose it makes sense that she'd be the one to end up leading the Inquisition, if anyone."
There was a pause. The fire outside the tent crackled softly, and the distant ring of steel echoed onceātraining drills, indeed.
"I don't know if I believe in all of it," she admitted quietly. "This talk of Heralds and holy signs. But I know this: the Templars and mages can't keep bleeding the world dry. And if the Inquisition means to stop that, if it means to change something, then maybe it's worth hoping for."
She rose then, walking across the tent to sort through a pack near the table. From within, she retrieved a small satchelāshe knew it held a vial of lyrium, carefully rationed for when the time came. She didn't bring it to him yet. Just kept it close, for when he asked again.
"I don't have the luxury of pretending I'll be safe if I walk away," she continued as she returned to her seat beside him. "The Crossroads has protected me so far, but for how long? The moment I leave, I become another hunted thing, another apostate."
Her gaze dropped to her hands, folded in her lap.
"I've saved lives here. I've done more good than I thought possible. And still... someone, somewhere, would burn me for the magic in my blood."
She looked at him then, her voice quieter still.
"So if the Inquisition is different... if there's a place for in it for people like usādamaged, dangerous, tired but tryingāmaybe that's something worth fighting for."
She reached out, brushing a strand of his hair away from his brow where it had fallen, a small gesture of care and nothing more. Then she rose to her feet, taking the cloths and basin with her.
"Rest while you can," she murmured, voice dipping low again as she moved toward the corner and set down the basin. "I'll be close by if you need anything."
Outside, the light was fading, and the Crossroads settled into another evening beneath a bruised sky. The Inquisition was on its way. Change, for better or worse, was coming.
And Maireadāfor all her scars, for all her uncertaintyāwould meet it standing.
He listened silently. Partly because he didn't really have much energy to engage in a protracted conversation, but also because it was apparent that he didn't know the Trevelyan woman as well as his carer did. Vel would be quite happy to admit that his knowledge of the Trevelyans at all came from second-hand hearsay and rumour; the only time he'd come close to one of them was when he was in the back of his father's store once and Lord Trevelyan stopped by to purchase some cloth for his wife to doā¦whatever with. Lord Trevelyan had seemed nice enough, he supposed, and the man had treated well with his father.
He was aware of the darkening skies outside. He felt more alert now than he had for quite some time ā but then he'd never really had the luxury of properly resting while he'd been aā¦a wandering saviour, for lack of a better term. He was aware the sounds of the camp were changing, less movement and more talking, the sort of talking that occurred around fires. He knew that much, at least, from those nights where he'd been asked to share warmth with farmers or travellers he'd saved from bandits. Talk around fires he knew, but restā¦that was different. He was always on his guard then, rarely a moment to truly rest. It was probably little wonder that he'd collapsed when he did.
There was something in her words that made him think, thoughā¦she was always going to be an Apostate, now, regardless of her proximity to any Inquisition camp. The Chantry had declared it so when the mages rebelled against the tighter restrictions placed upon them. But then, as much as Mai would always be an Apostate, Vel knew he'd always be a Rogue Templarā¦because he'd defied the orders given to him when the Circles fell. It was funny, that, an apostate talking with a rogue templar. He supposed she was as wary of him as he was of her. Maybe it was better that he'd figured on leaving the camp when he was properly recovered.
His eyes closed as he slowly drifted into sleep ā a proper, restful sleep, not the sleep of the fevered or injured.
His fading thought was that he'd protect her from those who might harm her. That's what he didā¦
* * * * *
The days passed. Night became day, mornings filled with light and sound. A bowl of gruel was breakfast, with a cup of water, slowly consumed. It was hot and filling and nourishing and very welcome, despite the simplicity of the meal.
Mother Giselle stopped by on occasion to chat with him, check in on him, see how he was doing and recoveringā¦checking up on the quality of Mai's work and skills. Of course, the Revered Mother didn't put it like that, but Vel fancied it felt like that, although he was just as sure it was out of sheer curiosity and not from any malicious intent. They conversed briefly about what life was like in the Hinterlands and the Bannorn, even though Mother Giselle was not native to these parts; Vel got the idea that she was genuine in her desire to help the people forgotten by the conflict. He appreciated that.
Mai was less talkative, more focussed on the care of her charge. They still engaged occasionally, but he felt that the stronger he got ā as slow as his recovery might have been ā the more guarded she became around him. Maybe she was concerned about his Templar abilities returning to hamper her. Maybe Templars in generally just made her uncomfortable. He didn't know what it was, and he wasn't going to askā¦although he believed that she wouldn't tell him even if he did ask. It was better to not broach the subject in case he was completely correctā¦although, if he was totally wrong about his suspicions, then he'd be needlessly accusing her of something she wasn't, and that would be just as bad. It was far better to keep his thoughts to himself.
He began to look forward to meal times, such as they were: the gruel and water for breakfast, bread and fruits for lunch, hot lamb stew for dinner. Simple meals, but sturdy and filling. By the end of the second day after the discussion of the Trevelyans, he was pushing himself up into a sitting position. It took some effort, sitting up, but he did it anyway. The actual sitting wasn't too difficult, but the act of sitting up ā and lying back down, for that matter ā was what taxed him. He struggled to make himself upright, and he knew he had a long way to go before he could swing himself out of bed for any great length of time. But he was happy with his progress, little as it was.
He was surprised that Corporal Vale had made the effort to give him a surprise visit. At least Vel was managing to sit when the Corporal stepped into the tent. Vale himself was a local from a village at the foot of the Frostbacks, part of a village militia that had suffered one attack too many during the Mage-Templar War. It turned out that Vale had made his way to the Crossroads when he'd heard of the Inquisition forming, had offered his aid in training soldiers, had been given the task training and organising the local forces to best help the refugees that kept coming in. It was tough work, but Vale seemed to enjoy it. In return, Vel offered some small insight into the life of a Chantry Templar: the training, the study, the Vigil, the ordersā¦the aloofness. Their conversation steered towards military matters, discussion of training and techniques and tacticsā¦and somehow Vale extracted a promise from Vel that the former templar would stop by when he was up and about to offer insight and suggestions. Maybe Vel just didn't have the energy to refuse. There was always that possibility.
Unfortunately, events have their own ideas plans and were not above hampering progress.
He noticed them the morning after his conversation with Vale: the tremors in his hands that marked the initial onset of lyrium withdrawal. It was the moment Vel had been quietly worried about, had dreaded, from the moment he'd opened his eyes in the tentā¦and now it was here. He knew what he needed; he knew it was his admission that he was going to be a slave to this Inquisition, just like he'd been a slave to the Chantry. He hated this weakness, this crutch of the Templars, but that was the price for the ability to stop mages from accessing the Fade to cast their magic.
No seasoned Templar was immune to the effects.
Mai was not in the tent at the moment, though; neither was Giselle. Right now, they were the only two he really trusted with this. He took a deep breath, released it slowly, eased himself back onto his cot, clasped his hands together on his chest under the blankets. It helped still the tremors, just a littleā¦but it didn't slow the slowly-growing hunger, nor the creeping clamminess.
How long did he have to wait before Mai returned? He didn't know. Difficult to measure time when you're preoccupied with keeping symptoms still. But return to the tent she eventually didā¦and he inadvertently closed his eyes and heaved a sigh of relief when she appeared.
His voice was croaky, shaky, when he mustered the courage to speak.
"Maiā¦" he whispered hoarsely, like he was speaking reluctantly ā which he was, in a way. He took in another deep breath before forcing himself to continue. At least he knew she'd understandā¦it was just a question of her willingness to assist.
"Itā¦they've begun," he told her quietly, reaching out to her with a shaky hand as if he was proving a point. "I don't know if youā¦I hopeā¦" His hand fell to his side on the cot, his eyes slowly opening so he could look at her, show her that he was both trusting her and asking for a help he didn't know she could provide.
She had kept herself busy in the days that followed their first true conversationābusy enough to stave off the worst of her thoughts. Mother Giselle helped, and the Crossroads was no place for idle hands. Even with the newly raised banners of the Inquisition snapping in the wind and Harding's scouts patrolling the hills, the camp remained a tenuous thing. Refugees still poured in from the Hinterlands, driven by fire and steel, each carrying stories of terror: apostates hunted like beasts, Templars gone rogue, villagers caught in the crossfire with nowhere to go.
There was healing to be done. Not just the dressing of wounds or the lancing of fever, though there was plenty of that, but hearts needed tending too. Children would not sleep through the night without crying. There was an old woman whose husband had perished somewhere on the storming slopes of Redcliffe. A boy no older than ten hadn't spoken in days. Mairead moved between the makeshift tents and fire pits, her satchel ever at her side, a soft word here, a tinture there. If Mother Giselle was the voice of comfort, then Mai was its quiet, steady hand.
She checked on Velaren regularly, though seldom lingered. A question about his appetite. A brief press of her fingers to his wrist, to measure his pulse. She brought him gruel in the morning, sometimes with a pinch of wild ginger to east the blandness. Once, she'd given him half a pearāa rare treat salvaged from a passing caravan. There exchanges were short, her gaze keen but cautious. There was a heaviness between them, not of animosity but of history. She bore it in silence, nursing no hatred, only a wariness learned from a lifetime spent looking over her shoulder.
And yet, despite herself, she admired him.
She had seen Templars beforeācommanding, armoured, cold-eyed and judgmental.
But Velaren...
Velaren fought.
Not her, nor the mages outside these walls, but something inside himself. She knew what was coming. Had seen the signs before: the lingering stillness in his hands, the way his breaths grew tighter as his wounds healed, the damn sheen of sweat despite the morning chill.
So three days prior, she'd prepared.
Quietly.
Without comment.
A small amount of lyrium, taken from the supply stores that the Chantry had set aside for the healers to use when their magics grew low, so they could keep healing the masses that came in. She was certain it had more to do with it being seized by the guards when a fleeing Templar patrol had been run out of the Crossroads for fighting.
She had measured a small amount already, no more than half a draft, sealed in a glass vial, its vivid blue glow dulled only by the smoked glass. She'd tucked it away inside the pocket of her leather bag, beneath the pouches of elfroot and spindleweed.
Just in case.
When she returned to the tent that day, the way Velaren's eyes fluttered openāthe near imperceptible sigh of reliefāspoke louder than words. She knew before he whispered.
Mai crossed the space between them in a few soundless steps, already reaching for the satchel that rested on her workbench beside the old mortar. The contents clinked faintly as she opened the clasp and drew out the vial, cradling it in her palm.
It was still cool.
Still potent.
She crouched at his side.
Her fingers brushed his wristānot to measure him, but simply to ground them both. The tremors were there now, the ache creeping behind his bones, the way it always did. She didn't pity him. She respected the fight he had made to hold out this long. Templars were trained to dominate, to command, to suppress. But he had chosen restraint.
And that... that meant something.
"You are stronger than most to have waited this long," she murmured, her voice was soft, but certain. "I've known others who wouldn't have lasted half as long. It speaks well of you, whether you see it or not."
She set the small satchelāpouch and vial nestled within into his hands, folding his trembling fingers gently over it.
"I fault you not for what the Chantry made you," she said. "Nor do I blame you for what's been done to my kind in their name." Her eyes met his.
Calm.
Tired.
Not hardenedābut tempered, like steel cooled too many times in flame. "I hope this brings you some comfort. It's not a full draft. But if it's not enough, I'll see what I can do."
She stood, adjusting the strap of of her medicinal satchel once more over her shoulder, already preparing to turn away and give him the dignity of privacy. But she paused, one final glance down at him.
"You know yourself best, Velaren," she said with a nod, her tone quiet but resolute. "But I ask that you do not harm yourself. I hope you know... I respect you for trying to break the chains that have been placed upon you."
Then, she stepped back, giving him space. The tent was silent again but for the distant murmurs of life outside, and the quiet hum of lyrium waiting to ease its captive's pain...
There was an almost-palpable, definable sense of comfort that washed over him as she knelt beside him and allowed her fingers to brush against his wrist. Vel fancied he could feel the tension ā the tensions caused by the slow but inevitable rise of the symptoms his lack of lyrium ingestion ā fade slightly at the contact. Mai may not have known it, may not have felt it ā after all, to her he was just another person who needed her healing talents ā but it was there.
Her words, though, as she gently pressed a vial into his hand and folded his fingers around itā¦her words made him pause for a moment. They were confusing, almost. He hadn't been waiting, as such, although he supposed that he had been; no, he'd just been carrying on until the need could no longer be denied. Was he stronger than most for taking longer to feel the effects of lyrium withdrawal? He didn't know. Maybe he was, in her experience. It was hard to tell ā the Chantry didn't deny Templars lyrium, although it had known to be withheld as a form of punishment for minor transgressions.
And if what she'd given him was not a full draught, then perhaps she'd taken it without formal sanction ā although he knew that Giselle was aware of his needs. Thatā¦was curious, if it was true. Not that it matteredā¦he was used to not taking full draughts of lyrium. He'd quite often made a full vial last far longer than it would have done underā¦"normal" circumstances. Even a half-vial could last him two or three weeks. He could only hope that she could see the thanks on his face for her efforts on his behalf.
He watched as she turned to give him privacyā¦and her comment caused him to frown as he pushed himself into a sitting position, the thin tunic hanging loosely on his shoulders. He unstoppered the vial, looked at it, looked at the contentsā¦and hesitated.
Did she think he was trying to break the addiction the Chantry had given to him? Was that what he was doing? He wasn't sure. The idea of going through the pain of withdrawal was one no Templar really discussed. It was well-known that the addiction would eventually claim a Templar's mind and leave the man a shell, but there was no escaping that. Unlike the Grey Wardens, the Templars didn't really have a ritual for a soldier whose time had come. It was known that a Warden went into the Deep Roads when his time had come, there to fight Darkspawn until death, but the Templarsā¦they didn't really have any such rite of passage; Templars were just allowed to fade away.
Maybe trying to break the chains of addiction was worth considering, especially in these uncertain and volatile times. But not now. Now, he needed this potion to help his recoveryā¦even if it prolonged his suffering.
He placed the vial to his lips, took a couple of sips, leaving about half of Mai's offering still inside the small container. He stoppered the vial and sighed as he felt the power of the liquid course through him, felt the heightened awareness wash over him. If he'd been about to head back into the Bannorn to wander and fight, he'd have taken the entire offering, but while he was lying here recuperatingā¦there was no need.
His soft groan was filled with relief as he slowly lay back on his cot, a very-obvious smile on his face as the tremors faded, the clamminess became insignificant. He felt stronger for the potion, as he always did. He feltā¦in control.
"Thank you, Mai," he offered sincerely as he felt his breathing settle in his chest. Was he pronouncing it correctly when he made it a hard sound? She hadn't corrected him so far, and he didn't know what that was suddenly important. Still, there was an undeniable clarity and strength in his voice, things that had been missing since he'd first woken in this tent. He sighed slowly, enjoying feeling whole for the first time inā¦he didn't know how long.
"As I believe I mentioned before, I've become quite good at making a vial of lyrium last," he pointed out slowly as he watched her turn back towards him, to face him as he spoke. "What you gave me just nowā¦It will last me a while, two or three weeks." He smiled faintly. "Of course, that's assuming I'm to remain bedridden and in your care. If I'm to go into battle against rebellious apostates, then I expect it won't last as long."
He chuckled, a little darkly. "I'm sure there are those types in the Hinterlands around us, for sure. Just as I am sure there will be rogue Templars blindly following their orders to hunt down and kill all 'apostates' in these same hills. The Templar Order is all but gone since the Circles fell and chaos took hold of the lands, but these rogue Templars do all a disservice by following those orders."
He tilted his head so he could better see her, her reaction. "What path will this Inquisition take, I wonder? Will it side with the Mages against the Templars, or the other way around? Or will the Inquisition put itself in the middle and fight both at once?" He snorted softly. "There are dangers in any of those pathsā¦and perhaps fortunately, it's not a decision you or I will have to make."
Vel lay still for a moment, silent, listening to the sounds of the camp around them. This healer was a curiosity to him ā why she stuck by him now that he was on the path to recovery he did not know, but he was thankful for the company and conversation.
"What will you do when I am no longer confined to this tent, Mairead?" he asked her thoughtfully. "Will you remain to heal and help, or will you forge your own path? For myselfā¦I somehow promised Corporal Vale that I'd help his soldiers in their training, at least for a time. I shall see that done, and thenā¦I don't know. By its very name, I'm cautious about this Inquisition."
Her response would be telling, he feltā¦and interesting.
Still standing with her back to him, her hands folded neatly in front of her, fingertips brushing together in quiet thought as the subtle sound of the vial being unstopped met her ears. She heard it even over the whispering of canvas and the occasional rustle of the camp beyond the tent. It was the silence after that caught her attentionāthe pause, the breath, the weight of decision before the liquid touched his lips. And then, when he drank, the shift came.
It wasn't something most people would notice, but May had grown used to listening for the faintest change in breath, the tremble or stillness in another's voice. And with Velaren, she heard it as clearly as a storm passing through still trees. The tension that had thrummed beneath every word he's spoken since she found him there began to ease. The edge of pain dulled, the desperation fadedānot entirely, but enough.
A Templar's breath, steadied.
It gave her no small sense of satisfaction, though she didn't let it show in her posture. She was glad he could not see the faint curve of a smile at the corner of her mouth. Mages like her were not expected to help men like him. To many of her kind, he was a walking weapon of the Chantry's making, a symbol of repression and chains forged in lyrium. Some mages would have rather seen him writhe through the full fury of withdrawal than lift a finger to ease his suffering. But Mairead had seen enough death in the tower, enough agony behind closed doors, to know better.
Mercy was not weakness.
And compassion could be rebellion in its own right.
She turned when he spoke again, watching him with a quiet kind of calm. He looked more alive now, the faint colour returning to his face. That faint smileāit was real.
She had done that...
Magic had done that...
It wasn't the kind of power that broke mountains or summoned fire from the skies, but it was power nonetheless.
Healing.
Grace.
A balm to something that had once broken so cleanly along the lines of Mage and Templar.
And wasn't that the world now? Splintered, blurred, wounded?
She stepped back into the circle of the tent's light and sighed softly. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was low... Steady.
"The world's unravelling, Velaren. You feel it, I know you do." Her gaze drifted toward the flap of the tent, where the wind tugged lightly against the seams, as if reminding her how thin the veil between safety and chaos truly was. "Some nights I should sleep, rest aching head, regain my magic and strength... But, instead, I walk the camp. Quiet. Listening. Watching. It reminds me of the Tower sometimesāthose hushed moments in the halls before dawn. Before the Templars made their rounds. But this... this is different. Something is building..."
She glanced at him then, her expression unreadable. "The pressure. The fear. The distrust... It's all straining at the seams. And something will snap. It's only a matter of time.
A pause.
Then a breath...
"If the Inquisition really means to shape the world, then I pray it does more than simply choose a side. I hope it sees what most refuse to." She lifted a hand, palm up as if balancing two halves of something unseen. "That magic and faith aren't enemies. They never were meant to be. The Chantry fears what it does not understand, and Mages grow bitter for being caged. But both serve the same end, don't they? To protect. To heal. To help."
Her voice softened with something like wry amusement. "And let's be honest, abominations are notoriously poor guests at any sort of gathering. Bit of a mood-killer."
But her expression sobered again just as quickly, and she met his eyes, her tone quieter now, more personal.
"You wouldn't be here without magic, Velaren. Neither would I, for that matter." She shook her head slightly. "Maybe that's why I still believe it can be more than what they say. That it should be. And the Chantry, for all its mistakes, still has the reach to help heal a broken world. But only if it learns to see us not as threats... but as people."
She took a step closer, then knelt, mirroring the posture she had taken beside him earlier. Not in deference, but as an equal. As someone asking a question that mattered.
"So, I ask you, if you were in any sort of position to make this world better... if you had the time the Maker has seen fit to grant you, what would you do with it?"
Her gaze held his, steady and unwavering.
"Because I don't think we're meant to sit idle and just see how it all ends. I think we're meant to fight for the ending we want."
He watched. He listened. These things he could do now with a clarity that he'd missed for a long time. The sips of lyrium had sharpened his senses, sharpened his mind, returned an edge he'd been lacking for months, at least. For a Templar, a vial of lyrium was not to be used sparingly, as he had done, making them last weeks or monthsā¦he had not known when his next vial would become available, so he had to use them sparingly when he had them. He supposed he still did not know when his next vial of lyrium would come, if his suspicion was true that Mairead had brought the half-vial to him just now without permission.
It was a very refreshing thing, to be able to properly focus, even if that focus was fleeting, lasting only as long as the lyrium did in his veins.
She had a presence about her, he could see it as clearly as he could see her connection to the Fade. Of course, he wouldn't tell her that. He didn't want to make her feel like he was watching her like she was back in a Circle; and she likely knew, anyway.
She was reflecting, using those reflections to deal with the present.
"I remember those days and nights in the Circle Tower," he heard himself agreeing sombrely. "The days of quiet, patrolling the tower corridors, watching mages studying in the library, watching mages practice their craft under supervisionā¦" His voice became a little distant and dispassionate as he spoke.
"The nights were quieter as we patrolled the halls and corridors, making sure no mage was moving around unsupervised, checking that classrooms and laboratories were locked and secured." He sighed softly. "Harrowings were the worst. I took part in four while I was stationed there at Kinloch Hold. Unfortunatelyā¦I had to kill one mage while I was in attendanceā¦he failed to defeat his demon. It wasn't pretty, but I had to do it. We were always vigilant."
He closed his eyes for a moment, his expression hardening for a moment against the memories he'd have loved to forgetā¦but Harrowings never faded.
"'Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him'," he quoted quietly. His eyes opened, but for the moment they look up to the roof of the tent even as he was aware of her kneeling next to him. "If the Inquisition truly seeks to bring order to the chaos that engulfs Thedas right now, then it must address the question of how to reconcile Andraste's teaching. The Templar Order held the statement as a maxim, almost, but became too unflinching in its perception and definition of rulership." He took a slow breath. "By failing to correct the Templar's position on the matter, the Chantry sided with the Order; when the mages rebelled and the Chantry tried to become the mediator, of course the Templars cried foul."
He chuckled softly as he considered her words. "Ah, yes ā the question of 'if you could make it better'ā¦" he mused candidly. "Because everyone agrees on what 'better' entails." He snorted with soft derision. "But what would I do? I would see that men are trained to be vigilant against corruption, regardless of who or what it is that might be corrupt."
He brought his gaze down so he could look into her face as he spoke. He wanted her to see his sincerity, even if she didn't agree with his words.
"The Circles should be restored, but they must not be prisons; the Circles should be places where mages can study in peace. The Templar Order should be restored, but they should be as militia, not jailers. And the Chantry should step back from interfering in the affairs of Templars and Mages both and simply provide guidance."
Vel paused to give Mai a wolfish grin.
"These are things I believe would make the world a 'better place'ā¦and I have no idea if they would, in fact, make things better. If this Inquisition believes similarly to myself, thenā¦perhaps there is hope for the world. At the very least, we need order to be restored."
He breathed in deeply, let the breath out slowly.
"Two days," he continued cryptically. "I want to be on my feet in two days. That's my immediate goal. I don't have to be in armour and waving a sword around, but I do want to be moving. I've been in bed too long, and this world is not in such great shape that it does not need an extra man with a strong arm and a stout heart. If that means I end up lending my sword arm to the Inquisition, thenā¦so be it."
He nodded his head towards the tent walls.
"You have walked the camp. I would do the same, to find out what people we have here, to find out more of this Inquisition, to see for myself if the Inquisition can be trusted." He sighed softly. "Will you help me with that much, at least?"
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