like a storm rolling in - binchickendreaming (2024)

Chapter 1: The Silver Amulet

Chapter Text

The purple-grey face, wide with a toothy grin, shattered into a thousand shards as Mara Cousland woke up in her old bunk bed, her extremities chilled and her coarse linen robe sodden with sweat. Last night, close to midnight, the templars had awoken her and delivered her to the Harrowing Chamber, where she was cast into the Fade to test her will against a demon and prove she could resist possession. After the Pride Demon that called itself Mouse told her that tests never ended, she’d fallen into true unconsciousness, only to awake back in the advanced apprentices’ dormitory. When Jowan, a pasty-faced apprentice with unruly dark hair, shook her shoulder again to rouse her, she sat up and startled him. “What?” she demanded irritably.

“You’re finally awake,” Jowan said, collecting himself. One of those squirrelly people who almost invited the scorn they received by dint of mere existence, he was of low talent and less reliability but had become her acquaintance more by being of a similar age than any deliberate effort on her part. “They brought you back around dawn and it’s now just past noon. What happened?”

Mara raked her ash-blonde hair back from her face, yawning into her other hand. Accompanying Jowan were Daylen Amell, who’d come from Kirkwall years ago, and Neria Surana, an elven apprentice whose penchant for Primal magic was the pride and curse of their study group. It was likely that those two would face their own Harrowings within a few months, especially with rumours of trouble in the south and both of them being very adept at destructive magic. “I had my Harrowing,” she admitted, yawning again. “No, I’m not talking about it.”

“I thought it was,” tall, olive-skinned Daylen observed in his well-enunciated tenor. There was enough of the noble he’d been before his magic manifested remaining in his impeccable carriage and grooming, drawing the eye of all genders alike. It concealed the absolutely terrifying array of Primal and Entropic spells that he knew, drawing the attention of the templars who’d openly debated on whether he should be made Tranquil instead of undergoing his Harrowing as a safety precaution. Only Irving’s intervention had prevented that fate from befalling him. “And why not?”

“Because I’m not about to put myself on the templars’ sh*t list just to satisfy your curiosity,” Mara told him bluntly. “Suffice to say, it’s named well.”

Neria lifted her chin. Gangly and brown-haired, she had a mousy quality that belied her ability to simultaneously freeze, burn and shock whatever foe drew her ire. She was true friends with Jowan, bringing him into their study group by default, and arrived in Kinloch Hold at the tender age of four. “You can’t warn us?” she asked.

“No,” Mara said shortly as she swung her legs around, sticking them out from under the rough blanket that covered her. Apprentices were stacked three to a bunk bed in the dormitory until they passed their Harrowing, were made Tranquil or died. Their belongings were passed down from previous owners and given to younger apprentices when they moved elsewhere while few keepsakes were permitted to them. She tried not to consider the odds of Daylen, Neria and Jowan passing their Harrowings when it was roughly one out of three to become a full mage, the second being made Tranquil and the third dying to templar or… other reasons.

“Well, some friend you are,” Neria said sourly. “But then, you’ve always been a good little Loyalist, haven’t you?”

Mara got out of bed, smoothing down her rumpled robe. Coarse linen dyed the medium green of an apprentice who pursued Creation, it had been discreetly mended by her own hands during the mandatory sewing lessons that all apprentices undertook. While the heavy work was done by the Tranquil, apprentices were expected to keep themselves and their spaces clean and tidy. In another life, her fingertips would have been pricked from embroidery, not from mending but she tried not to think about that too often. “Why was I woken?”

“Irving wants to see you,” Daylen said smoothly, flashing Neria a warning look. “Now we know why.”

She sat down and stuck her feet into the leather-soled stockings that apprentices wore inside the Tower. Nothing of theirs was suitable for life outside to discourage them from thinking of escape. “I suppose I better go immediately then,” she noted. “Anything I need to know?”

“There’s a Grey Warden in the Tower,” Daylen supplied. “I’ve heard he’s recruiting.”

“Well, I guess that would be you or Neria then,” Mara pointed out. “You’re the best battlemages in our group.”

“Maybe,” Daylen said wistfully. “But he might go for someone with more experience.”

“Possibly.” Mara rose to her feet and they stopped crowding her. “I… Just remember what we’ve been taught in our lessons when you come to your Harrowings. If you take too long, the templars have someone ready with the Sword of Mercy.”

As one, the other three shuddered at the heavy two-handed claymore forged from volcanic aurum that was used to relieve mages found guilty of various crimes of their lives. That was the only warning she could give them because everyone knew that the templars were always waiting with one hand on the Sword, be it the ritual one reserved for executions or their own weapons. Magic was like fire, dangerous and useful, and the wise mage remembered that it was to serve man, never rule over him.

“Well, that’s reassuring,” Jowan said sourly as he exchanged glances with Neria. “You better run along before Irving wonders where you are.”

“Congratulations,” Daylen said softly. “You worked hard for it.”

“We all do,” Mara said with a sigh as she combed her hair into a neat bun. Now wasn’t the time to look slovenly, though her robe couldn’t be helped as she’d receive two new ones from Owain. “But it’s will and knowledge that count in the Harrowing, not effort.”

Jowan blanched, as well he should. Eighteen years old and he still only knew three spells. She expected to see him with a sunburst brand on his forehead soon enough, which would devastate Neria and distress Daylen, but she’d known he’d be made Tranquil almost as soon as she met him because of his lack of ability. It didn’t make her happy, of course, but she’d long since learnt to accept what she couldn’t change.

The apprentice chambers were on the first floor of the Tower with the library while the stockrooms, quarters for Harrowed mages, laboratories and the Chantry were on the second floor. Senior Enchanters lived on the third floor except for First Enchanter Irving, who kept his quarters next to his office, and the templars dwelled on the fourth floor. Fifth and final floor was the pinnacle of the Tower where the Harrowing Chamber was located. Mara walked through the curving corridors, aware of the whispers that she’d passed her Harrowing that flitted through the apprentices who came and went, and reached the stairs that led to the second level. The templar standing guard let her through the door with a curt nod of respect. Now she was Harrowed, she was a little more trustworthy in their guardians’ eyes.

Irving was in his office, arguing with Greagoir and a sinewy umber-hued man in the blue and silver of the Grey Wardens about the King’s request for mages to serve at Ostagar. The Knight-Commander was reluctant, as always, to release the Tower’s inmates while the Warden was arguing that the mages’ raw power could turn the tide of the battle against the darkspawn. Darkspawn? Had a Blight begun?

“Ah,” Irving said as she knocked on the doorframe. “I see our newest Harrowed mage has arrived.”

Mara found herself the subject of an intense dark gaze from the Warden. “Is she skilled at combat magic?” he asked in a rich baritone.

“No, that would be Daylen or Neria, who will be Harrowed within the week since the King has need of our best,” Irving explained. “Mara’s talents lie in Creation magic.”

“Ah.” There was a note of disappointment in the Warden’s voice. “Well, two candidates are better than none.”

“You can choose one and that’s it,” Greagoir declared, drawing himself up proudly. Despite being nearly as old as Irving, he was still an impressive figure in his heavy volcanic aurum plate. The Knight-Commander’s armour was passed from leader to leader of the Tower’s templars, just as was the Sword of Mercy that he (or another) wielded when it came to end a mage’s life. “We just can’t hand you mages on a platter.”

“I’m sure one will suffice,” the Warden said mildly, though his dark eyes flashed with annoyance. “Thank you for your assistance, Knight-Commander.”

Greagoir grunted as he strode towards the door, Mara quickly getting out of the way. Even Harrowed, she was still vulnerable to the templars if they were in a foul mood. But the Knight-Commander stopped and looked down at her. “You did well during your Harrowing,” he said brusquely. “We will see if your two friends will do the same.”

“Thank you and I hope so,” Mara said softly, bobbing her head in gratitude.

He stalked off and Irving gave an aggravated sigh. “I apologise for that,” he told the Warden apologetically. “Greagoir and I had little sleep last night and we’ll have little tonight because of Daylen’s Harrowing.”

The Warden bowed slightly. “It’s nothing, Irving. I simply assumed that the Knight-Commander’s armour was pinching him in a place best left unmentioned.”

Irving chuckled softly. “I suppose when you have the rights of a Grey Warden, Duncan, you can say what you will about the templars.”

“Not quite. The Grand Cleric is still rather unhappy about me conscripting a templar recruit from the Chantry,” Duncan said wryly. “But I digress.”

The First Enchanter nodded. “Just let me sort Mara out and then I’ll have her take you to the guest quarters.”

Mara walked up to the desk. “I slept for a while, First Enchanter,” she explained. “I apologise.”

“It’s nothing, Mara. Last night was hardest on you of all.” Irving pulled out a silver ring with a vein of blue-green lyrium cast into it. “Your ring of study. I’ll give you a token for Owain to give you the robes and staff.”

She accepted the ring and slid it onto her left index finger, feeling the chill of lyrium-infused enchantment against her skin. “Thank you, ser.”

“Do not thank me. The effort was all yours.” Irving sighed and looked elsewhere for a moment. “Once you’ve escorted Duncan to the guest quarters, you have liberty until dinnertime. I suspect that you’ll be accompanying Wynne to Ostagar, so you’d better enjoy your rest while you can.”

“Of course, ser,” Mara said, trying not to tense at the thought of leaving the Circle.

“Then go along. I have other business to attend to.” Irving sighed and deliberately reached for a piece of paperwork from his table. Mara took the hint, heading for the door, and Duncan followed her with a wolf’s prowling grace.

Outside the office, the Warden threw her a curious glance. “Mara. I seem to have heard that name before. It means ‘bitter’ in Old Alamarri, does it not?”

“Yes ser,” she said politely.

“A prophetic name, given what magic is,” Duncan noted. “Do you know Daylen and Neria?”

“We study together,” she said, sliding him a sidelong glance. “Both are talented battlemages.”

“And yet you pursued healing. Interesting.” Duncan sighed and looked ahead as they walked through the corridor. “Are you proud of your magic, Mara?”

“Pride gets people killed. I am a mage. Changing that fact is impossible short of a death of personality I needn’t worry about now,” Mara said shortly. “I will serve wherever I am sent, mindful of the laws of the Circle.”

“Hmm. I see.” Duncan fell silent as they reached the guest quarters. “I will undoubtedly see you around over the next few days. Have a good day.”

“And you, Ser Duncan.” She nodded and turned on her heel, eager to escape him and his too-curious questions.

She was halfway towards the storeroom when a bulky shoulder, clad in the steel pauldron of a templar, interposed itself between her and her destination. For a moment, she felt a flash of anger, and then she saw tousled golden-brown hair and warm amber eyes in a flushed youthful face. Last night, he’d held the Sword of Mercy in his hands, ready to execute her at the Knight-Commander’s orders. Undoubtedly because they were… close.

“Cullen,” she said softly, glancing around to see if anyone was in earshot.

“I-I’m glad to see you’re up and about,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I-I was given the task of striking you down.”

“I noticed,” she said with a sigh. “But you didn’t have to.”

“Thank the Maker,” he said in relief. “Now you’re a full mage.”

“I am,” she agreed. He hadn’t shaved for a couple days and the stubble roughened the planes of his face. He was handsome and kind, the sort of man she might have married in another life. She was drawn to him despite the danger of loving a templar. “I’ll finally have my own bed and chest.”

He chuckled softly. “I suppose that would seem like paradise after the apprentice barracks.”

Mara looked into those warm amber-hazel eyes. “I’m glad you didn’t have to be the one to kill me.”

“So am I,” he whispered. “Come with me. I have something to give you.”

She followed him into an empty classroom, relieved that no one had noticed. If it was dangerous for an apprentice and a templar to dally, it was little less for a Harrowed mage, though her punishment wouldn’t be Tranquility but instead exile. Even if everyone knew how he felt for her and she for him, it was politely ignored so long as they were discreet. “What is it?” she asked quietly.

He reached into his beltpouch and pulled out a silver amulet in the shape of a laurel leaf. “I-I remembered what you said about your family,” he whispered, taking her hand to turn it over and place the amulet in her palm. It had the cool sheen of enchantment. “I was over at the Spoiled Princess, saw a trader selling that amulet, and had one of the Tranquil enchant it.”

Mara closed her eyes. Laurel leaves had been the symbol of the family she’d left behind when she was taken to the Circle. “Cullen, it’s beautiful.”

“I waited until your Harrowing to give it to you,” he said softly. “I’m… glad you survived.”

They looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment before kissing, long and deep and sweet. Stolen, as all their moments were, and never lasting long enough. But it was all they had.

“I love you, Mara Cousland,” he whispered when they broke apart. “And I always will.”

“I love you too,” she admitted softly.

They rested their foreheads together for another precious moment before leaving the classroom separately.

That amulet never left her neck for the rest of her life.

Chapter 2: The Long Farewell

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Cullen was removing his armour after his shift was done when Ser Rioran, a senior templar who was getting on in years between the vagueness and the greying hair, entered the barracks with a grim expression. Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing and waited with bated breath as the Knight-Captain paused, obviously trying to remember what he’d been sent for. In the next couple months, he’d be sent to Val Royeaux for retirement, replaced with another Knight-Captain from the senior templars who answered directly to Greagoir. His face cleared as he recalled what he was sent to tell them. “We’re locking down,” he announced in that twangy Free Marcher accent. “A maleficar escaped Kinloch Hold with assistance from a newly Harrowed mage.”

A buzz of conversation broke out among the templars and Cullen felt a chill run down his spine. Three mages had been Harrowed over the past few days and his beloved Mara was one of them. But surely she was too smart to be taken in by a maleficar. “Who escaped and who assisted them?” he dared to ask, praying for a miracle.

“Jowan,” Rioran said shortly, naming an apprentice of little talent and prospects who was slated for Tranquility. “He was assisted by Neria Surana. The scheme might have even worked had not one of the other mages overheard something and alerted the Knight-Commander.”

“This puts us in an awkward position,” Fletcher observed, rubbing his stubbled chin. Like Cullen, he was a younger templar, though he had a few years’ experience over him. “A Harrowed mage can’t be made Tranquil without extenuating circ*mstances and just executing her could cause discontent among the mages. What are we going to do?”

Rioran gave an aggravated sigh. “Not much. Warden-Commander Duncan conscripted Surana then and there after already recruiting Amell. Irving allowed it over the Knight-Commander’s protests and because of the treaty, there wasn’t much he could do about it.”

“I saw him questioning all three new mages over the past few days,” Fletcher said with a sigh. “Unsurprised he chose Amell. That boy’s power is terrifying. Surana might have more raw power but she isn’t as flexible as him. And now they’re both Warden-Mages.”

“Well, we’re locking down until we discover how deep the rot is,” Rioran decreed, not vague for once. “The Circle’s sending a contingent of mages down to Ostagar and ten templars will be going with them. Yes, Cullen, your girlfriend is one of them. No, you can’t accompany her.”

Cullen flushed as the other templars chuckled roughly. Was his affection for Mara that obvious? He’d tried to be discreet with her so she didn’t get into trouble but apparently that hadn’t worked. “I have no i-idea what you’re talking about,” he stammered, trying to lie and failing poorly.

“You’re not the first lad to have a crush on a pretty mage and you won’t be the last,” one of the older templars, a grizzled veteran named Dagobert, said sympathetically in his thick Nevarran accent. “Just don’t let it get to your head and you’ll be fine.”

“I’m not,” Cullen muttered with a deeper flush.

Rioran nodded. “Dagobert, you’ll be leading the templars as a Knight-Captain. We can refuse neither the Grey Wardens or the King, so it behoves us to send our best to make sure the mages don’t… forget themselves.”

The newly promoted templar nodded sagely. “Wynne will be leading the team, so we can count on her to keep the younger mages in line. Bit surprised the Cousland girl’s been chosen though. I thought Greagoir liked to wait a year or two for the newer mages to settle down before sending them out?”

The other Knight-Captain shrugged. “She was the one who turned Surana and Jowan in. Irving wants her out of the way for a while so the others don’t start to resent her as a tattletale.”

Cullen returned to removing his armour as the other templars discussed who was going to Ostagar. He knew that Mara would have done the right thing and reported Surana and Jowan to the authorities, just as he knew that the Libertarian faction would hold it against her as they resented any mage who cooperated with the templars. She wasn’t particularly devout, so the Loyalists couldn’t claim her as their own, and the Formari were solely made up of Tranquil, so that left the hermitlike Isolationists or the moderate Aequitarians for her. She’d make Enchanter in a handful of years, easily, because her focus was incredibly intense when she wanted something. Enchanters got their own rooms instead of an alcove in a bigger dormitory and had a certain freedom of movement. He could see himself as her guard on some mission to cure a sickness in some village somewhere…

The next few days were hectic as the Circle prepared for the journey south. Tents were sewn and enchanted to resist the weather and other mishaps, supplies for sorcery, healing and enchanting were organised, junior mages were educated in what was expected of them outside the Tower and the templar detail was briefed on the quirks of each mage and the protocols for managing them in an army camp. Cullen was kept busy by making sure that the templars’ arms and armour were ready for extended service, oiling straps and polishing metal and sharpening swords. But he found a few moments to just watch Mara whenever she was on the second floor, wishing that he was going with her.

Finally, the day for the mages to leave had arrived, and he was too agitated to sleep so he arose early and went to the Chantry to pray for Mara’s safe journey and return. After the embarrassment of an initiate helping a mage escape after becoming his lover, the other clerics were subdued, keenly aware that Irving had made a big deal out of it to shame them in petty revenge for ruling his life. Assignment to the Circle Chantry was a thankless task for many initiates as it meant distance away from the politics and power-plays of the senior clerics. They would be more stringent after the scandal of Lily and Jowan.

He was just leaving when Mara arrived. Apprentices wore coarse wool and linen dyed in their major School’s colours but full mages were given robes of softer weave with a little embroidery around the shoulders while Enchanters and Senior Enchanters had a great deal of personalisation in theirs. The sky-blue of her garments suited her with her ash-blonde hair and big blue eyes while her leather-soled stockings had been replaced with proper boots for the journey ahead. Wynne had leveraged ten wagons for the journey to Ostagar and two of them were just to carry the mages but the camp would need sturdier footwear than just leather slippers. Her staff was already customised with a thorn-carved wooden grip and an iron blade at the end.

“Cullen!” she remarked, surprised when he stepped out of the Chantry.

“I’m glad I was able to catch you before you left,” he told her huskily, pleased to note that she wore the laurel-leaf pendant he’d given her around her neck. It had cost him a full gold sovereign to purchase and have enchanted and he was glad to have found the Prophet’s Laurel that was part of the Couslands’ family sigil. “I-I won’t be going with you.”

Mara hugged herself defensively, looking unsure and nervous. “I know. Irving sat me down and explained… things. Wynne’s nearly as strict as Greagoir in her way, so even if you came, nothing could have… happened.”

Unbidden, his hand came up to cup her cheek and he was surprised to see the slow red flush rise. Like most mages, she was pallid from being indoors all the time, though she had the fine features of the noblewoman she could have been had her magic not manifested. When she returned, she would be sun-kissed, probably with freckles. Would she be changed from exposure to the outside world?

“I’ll miss you,” he whispered, thumb feathering over her cheek despite his best intentions.

“And I you,” she said softly.

They kissed briefly, resting their foreheads together for a moment, before stepping back. Mara slipped into the Chantry and Cullen went to don his armour and report for duty. Long days of service with no respite loomed ahead as even Irving couldn’t say when the mages sent to Ostagar would return.

Someone must have seen them together because three hours later, he was called to Knight-Commander Greagoir’s office on the fourth floor. Dragging his feet, knowing he was about to be reprimanded, Cullen entered at the old man’s order and stood before that large mahogany desk. Shame mingled with resentment as he waited his superior’s harsh words. Would Mara get in trouble because of his lack of control.

Much to his surprise, Greagoir’s voice was mild when he spoke. “I suppose you know why you’re here,” the Knight-Commander said without preamble.

“Yes ser,” Cullen said, feeling his cheeks crimson with embarrassment.

“I know Dagobert had a word with you about it,” Greagoir said with a sigh. “But I know the heart is a powerful thing that can’t be denied unless you have years of discipline.”

“I wouldn’t… we haven’t…” Cullen stumbled over his words. “We’ve just…”

“Kissed? I know. If it got further than that, you’d be chanting Transfigurations on night vigil for a month and she’d be sent to another Circle to protect you both,” Greagoir said bluntly. “Lad, I of all men understand. Most templars, if they’re so inclined, crush on a mage during their first few years of service. That’s when they and we are our most human.”

Cullen raised his eyes to Greagoir’s sympathetic grey gaze. “What changed?”

Greagoir sighed. “My first infatuation… ended poorly. I was assigned the killing strike when she was Harrowed and… she wasn’t strong enough. The second… we realised it wouldn’t work and we were better off as friends. Mara’s a strong girl with good character despite her friends’ best efforts. Irving’s thinking of making her an Enchanter within two years, which is an unprecedented step for so young a mage, but she’s that good.”

“She’s special,” Cullen agreed, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

“She is. And you’ve got a lot of potential yourself. I can see you wearing the Knight-Commander’s plate in fifteen years if you apply yourself.” Greagoir sighed again. “I know it sounds romantic – Knight-Commander to First Enchanter. But the Chantry will take note and split you two up. I’ve spoken to Wynne and she’ll be explaining things to Mara during the journey to Ostagar.”

Cullen flushed darker. “Are you trying to make me hate her?”

“No,” Greagoir said, shaking his head. “I’m trying to lay this foolish infatuation to rest as gently as I can. I know you’ve instigated it as much as she has. But I’d rather not ship you out to Kirkwall or Orlais when you’ve got enough potential to follow whoever my successor will be. Understood?”

“Understood,” Cullen said with a sharp salute, trying to keep his resentment from his voice.

“Good. The mages are leaving soon. You’re on foyer duty.”

Cullen left the office and went downstairs to the foyer, relieving Ser Fletcher at the basem*nt door. Wynne and the nine mages chosen for the journey to Ostagar were there, clad in fur-lined cloaks as the autumn had arrived hard and early this year, frost already blighting late-harvested crops in some parts of the Hinterland. Duncan had claimed this was a Blight in his argument to Greagoir for more mages but the Knight-Commander was certain that this was simply an unusually large raid.

Each mage had been given sturdy boots, a new staff and fur-lined cloak for the journey. Ten Tranquil accompanied them to do the work that needed to be done and each one had a templar to watch over them. Wynne was paired with Dagobert as Senior Enchanter and Knight-Captain. Mara was walking alongside a middle-aged templar named Sandria. Cullen tried not to feel resentful and jealous that it wasn’t him.

The doors opened, revealing the grey-brown landscape, and the mages began to leave. Mara looked back and their eyes met, Cullen’s heart twisting with grief and love. And then she was gone.

It would be months before he saw her again and all things had changed.

Chapter 3: Maker Help Them All

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It was a three-week journey to Ostagar on a wagon and Mara found herself riding the one that contained Wynne. Mages rarely rode horses as the templars preferred they didn’t have the sort of skills that would allow them to readily escape. It was strange to be under a sky that changed so many colours and spat drizzle for much of the journey, requiring them to huddle beneath an oiled leather tarpaulin because the templars didn’t allow them to cast Arcane Shield. The evenings were spent crammed into the tents brought by the wagons after a simple meal of a thrice-baked biscuit that Wynne called hardtack that needed to be soaked in water to be made edible with some pickled vegetables to avoid scurvy. To their credit, the templars ate similar rations, but there was none of the easy conversation and camaraderie from the Tower. They were mages, they were Outside, and they were watched like hawks in case one of them tried to flee their guardians.

When the wagons rolled through villages, the peasants hawked and spat in disgust, making the sign of the Sword to fend off the mages. Wynne soothed the more sensitive mages, assuring them that it would pass and they’d feel more comfortable in the army camp at Ostagar. Sometimes, to distract everyone, she would lecture them all on bits of history or magical theory despite every last one of them being a Harrowed mage. That state encompassed a wide variety of skills and temperaments, as demonstrated by the factional arguments between Loyalists, Isolationists and Aequitarians when they were all alone in the wilderness. Knight-Captain Dagobert only intervened whenever he sensed mana rising, clapping a Silence on the offending parties and separating them into two different wagons. Those who pressed the issue were put on vigil for the night with the night-watch templar watching them as they sung their way through Transfiguration from dusk to dawn. It made for a quieter trip the next day though.

In between stopping for the night and eating their dinner, Wynne ran everyone through staff exercises while a templar watched sombrely. Mara quickly found that she excelled at fighting with a staff and was put on more advanced exercises to make sure she could hold her own at Ostagar. Though she was a Creation mage, Wynne assured them all that at the worst, they could all face combat and needed to be ready. The darkspawn were relentless, they were warned, and a mage could face a fate worse than death if they couldn’t defend themselves ably. It was a measure of how deadly the threat from the Korcari Wilds was that the templars allowed it all to happen. They didn’t like battle-hardened mages unless there was no other choice.

By the time the wagons rolled into Ostagar, which contained more people than she’d ever seen in one place since leaving Highever, she was comfortable with her new staff of lyrium-infused birchwood. Enchanters and Senior Enchanters got the more elaborate staves while recently Harrowed mages like herself were expected to be happy with whatever they were given. Surana had managed to filch a blackened staff from the storerooms of the Tower and Irving had let her take it when she was recruited by the Grey Wardens over Greagoir’s objections. Sometimes Mara fantasised about Duncan conscripting her and Cullen together but she realistically knew that she wouldn’t survive the life of a Grey Warden. She missed him like fire even after Wynne had given her a frank lecture. She knew it was for the best but still…

The mages were given a small encampment at the top of the army camp near the bridge that spanned across a chasm and their tents were set up by the Tranquil who would spend their time producing potions and enchantments for the army. Much to Mara’s surprise, they were given the freedom of that part of the camp, only forbidden to bother the ranking army officers or go into the larger camp. Wynne set herself up at the entrance to the mage tents while Dagobert’s templars arranged themselves as guards, one following whatever mage decided to go exploring just in case something happened. Some of the other mages were quite resentful about that.

Mara left the mages’ encampment one morning just to stretch her legs and was accompanied by Sandria, a bluff and pious templar who was absently kind, and found herself in front of an elaborate pavilion that bore the Laurel Crown of the Couslands. Of course her father would be here – it was a general mobilisation after all – but it was still a blow to the heart to see the half-remembered sigil here after thirteen years. Did they remember her or was she written off as ‘dead’ and the family moved on? There were so many questions that she wanted answered.

Sandria placed a hand on her shoulder when she hesitated for too long. “The clean cut is best,” she said kindly. “Your family’s moved on and so have you. Why open an old wound?”

She allowed herself to be led away, though she looked back over her shoulder at the blue-and-white pavilion.

Because of her skills in healing, she was assigned to the infirmary tent, and there was little enough that could be done for soldiers suffering the black-veined Blight sickness beyond a merciful blade across the throat. She eased what pain she could, healed the wounds that weren’t tainted, and found herself wishing that she could do more. But her skills were still too limited to learn the greater healing arts and many a younger mage had pushed themselves into an early grave by overusing their mana. So she used potions and poultices for the greater injuries, learnt about local remedies from the medics, and tried to make herself as useful as possible.

It was about a week after she arrived in the camp that Duncan finally reached Ostagar with Daylen, Neria and a couple other Warden-Recruits in tow. The Warden-Commander set himself up by a great bonfire in the centre of the camp and gave everyone the run of the camp. Mara could feel the glare sent her way by Neria across the field when they crossed paths while Daylen was more involved in flirting with one of the other recruits. Well, he’d never let a little thing like gender bother him back at the Tower.

One evening, a tall, handsome, blond youth in Grey Warden armour with a battered templar shield on his back approached the mage encampment with a package in hand. “Ah, excuse me, I need to speak to a Senior Enchanter Wynne?” he asked in a well-educated tenor.

“That would be myself,” Wynne said warmly. “You must be Ser Alistair.”

Alistair flushed. “I was conscripted before I took final vows, ma’am. Duncan needs the contents of this package prepared for the Joining tonight.”

“Ah, so it is tonight then? I imagine that’s why you’re going out into the Wilds so late,” Wynne noted, taking the package. “I’m familiar with how the lyrium is prepared. It’ll be ready by the time you return.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Alistair glanced at Mara, sucking in his breath sharply and flushing darker, and she was surprised to be warmed by the blatant attraction in his golden eyes. There was elven in him, judging by the sharpness of his features, and she wondered how an elfblood became a templar and Warden. But not for long as they were walking different paths. “I’ll… be going now.”

“That would be wise,” Wynne said amusedly as Alistair scurried away.

“I didn’t know that Wardens made use of lyrium,” Mara observed, fanning herself to cool the blush in her cheeks.

Wynne chuckled softly. “It’s one of their secrets. I don’t pry, I just prepare the lyrium for potion-strength. Come, you might as well learn to do it yourself.”

Mara applied herself to the process, which required cutting the refined lyrium dust with a distillation agent and then boiling it into a thick syrup that could be mixed with other ingredients. What would the Wardens mix with it to make this “Joining?” She knew she’d never know the answer but she hated not knowing.

Night fell and the Warden-Recruits returned with Alistair before vanishing into an isolated part of the ruins. Mara ran the lyrium mixture to Duncan, who thanked her with a grave nod and quiet word, and was quickly sent on her way again. Rumour was rife in the camp that the main battle against the darkspawn would happen tonight and so she slung her staff across her back at Wynne’s insistence. The camp was all but abandoned now with only the Master of the Hounds readying his charges for the battle. Mabari didn’t stand a chance against darkspawn but no Fereldan army would fight without them.

Most of the mages and templars were assigned to units in the main combat force, leaving Mara and Wynne alone with Sandria and Dagobert in the top end of the camp. “I have a bad feeling about this,” Sandria told her Knight-Captain. “Something’s going to happen.”

“Then we are ready to retreat,” Dagobert said calmly. “Pray for our brethren who are on the frontlines.”

The minutes dragged on until the night’s silence was suddenly shattered by the sound of trumpets that was swiftly followed by the clash of metal. Mara felt a thrill of fear as she realised that battle had been joined. What was going on down there? Would Ferelden prevail or would they be overrun by the darkspawn?

Her first inkling that something was wrong involved two soldiers running in from the bridge, screaming that the Tower of Ishal had been overrun, and Wynne forgot herself enough to swear. “That beacon needs to be lit,” she told Sandria and Dagobert. “If it isn’t…”

The templars exchanged glances. “That order was given to the Grey Wardens,” Dagobert said after a long pause. “We shouldn’t intervene.”

“If the darkspawn get past that bridge, we’re all in danger,” Wynne protested. “If the Tower’s infested by darkspawn…”

Sandria looked to Mara. “How much Primal magic do you know?” she asked.

“Lightning, Winter’s Grasp and Flame Blast,” Mara told her.

“It will have to do. Knight-Captain, me and Mara will go assist at the Tower of Ishal,” she said with a salute. Mara’s chill turned into bowel-watering fear as she realised she’d just been volunteered for open combat.

“Assist the Wardens but return as soon as possible,” Dagobert ordered. “Teyrn Loghain has yet to assist the King’s forces, after all.”

Wynne showed Mara how to kilt up her robes for running and laid a hand on her shoulder. “You’re a tough girl,” she said. “You’ll survive this.”

Then they were running for the bridge, where the soldiers at the catapults were launching flaming bolts and spears into the chasm below, and the rain pelting down as hard as it could. Mara cast Arcane Shield to give herself some protection and ran as fast as she could, which wasn’t very fast because she wasn’t in very good shape. A sedentary lifetime in the Tower hadn’t prepared her for battle.

They reached the Tower of Ishal, where the Warden-Recruits were fighting off darkspawn, and she froze one that was about to stab Alistair in the back solid with Winter’s Grasp. He spun around and smashed it into pieces with his shield; it had been replaced with a steel kite shield that was better than his old templar one. Daylen and Neria were clad in blue-and-silver robes while two more Wardens wore the lighter leather armour of scouts or rogues.

“Everything’s gone to the Void,” Daylen said tersely as he rammed the butt of his staff into the throat of a squat darkspawn she identified as a genlock. “Try not to die!”

Mara’s own staff, reinforced with iron at the butt, cleaved through rotting flesh and she felt the tainted blood splatter on her Arcane Shield. Sandria was fending off two hurlocks and faring poorly but there was no way she could fight her way towards the templar. All she could do was try to stay alive.

When the fighting was done, Sandria was on the ground with blood leaking from her many wounds, and Alistair knelt by her to close her eyes and cut her throat mercifully. “Rest in the Maker’s bosom,” he said softly.

“We can’t dally here,” Daylen said flatly. “If the entire Tower’s full of them…”

“I know.” Alistair rose to his feet and gave Mara a sombre glance. “I don’t know whether your chances would be better with us or not. But you better be prepared to fight for your life. The darkspawn will do worse than kill you.”

Mara recast Arcane Shield and nodded. “I will be fine. Go.”

He nodded and raised a hand. “Maker with you.”

“And you.”

Daylen nodded as they turned for the entrance. “Better be prepared to flee if you can. If we’re too late lighting the beacon…”

Mara didn’t wait to hear a second warning. She ran to the edge of the bridge and looked down. The soldiers down there were getting slaughtered by darkspawn left, right and centre. She looked across the bridge and saw genlocks climbing the stone to attack the soldiers on the bridge. There was no getting back to Wynne and Dagobert.

Alone for the first time in her life, Mara ran for the other end of the bridge. She just hoped she could reach Loghain’s forces or something. Maker help her. Maker help them all.

Chapter 4: Circle's Breaking

Chapter Text

The days dragged on and the Tower felt quieter without those ten mages and ten templars. Cullen found himself in the Chantry, praying a lot and wondering how Mara was coping with the outside world. With her absence, Knight-Commander Greagoir was giving him more responsibility to wean him off the “ill-advised infatuation” that bound him to the mage. But time without her brought her into focus instead of dimming the memory. He knew it was necessary for them both to be parted but it didn’t lessen the pain of losing her.

The mages remaining in the Tower were sullen because of the lockdown, venting their spite in a thousand petty ways that would demean a templar to punish in retaliation. Cullen tried to ignore the flat stares, hostile tones and carefully blank faces that greeted him whenever he went about his duties on the first and second floors. In the weeks since Jowan’s escape, three apprentices had been made Tranquil, only one by their will, and Anders had attempted to escape yet again. The Libertarians were riling everyone up over what had happened, blaming the templars instead of Jowan, and it was only the absence of Senior Enchanter Uldred that kept the peace. Greagoir was muttering about cracking down on certain privileges in response but that would kindle the spark of a riot. Templars were one to one against the mages with a clear advantage because of their sacred powers but all it took was one creative rebel and the battle could turn against them.

Cullen was relieved to cross the lake to retrieve supplies and new apprentices because Greagoir had made him the acting quartermaster as Sandria had gone south. With Mara, he recalled, and flinched at the memory. It should be him down there, protecting her from the darkspawn, instead of the female templar. He knew her like no one else.

It was a cold blustery day in late autumn when two battered mages, accompanied by a single templar, returned to Kinloch Hold with fell news from the south. Wynne, Uldred and Dagobert approached the ferry where Caroll, who was already addled from the lyrium, stood guard as Cullen was overseeing the loading of supplies for the Tower. With word of spreading Blight in the south, the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter had decided to stock up on preserved foods in case they were put under siege or supply lines were threatened. In normal times, the Tower had enough supplies for six months. For times of turmoil, that increased to three years at minimal rations, which would only fuel the mages’ resentment.

“Thank the Maker,” Wynne uttered in a spent voice as she stumbled forward, leaning heavily on Dagobert’s arm. They were bruised and bandaged, robes in tatters and armour dented, grimy and gaunt from long hard travel. “We made it.”

“Knight-Captain?” Cullen asked, looking between them. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

Dagobert sighed. “Ostagar was lost. We three are the last of the contingent that went south.”

For a moment, Cullen felt nothing, then the pain of the emotional blow hit him with the force of a runaway wagon. Mara was… dead? Mara, the sweet quiet healer, was dead? It took all of his discipline not to fall to his knees and howl his grief to the sky. They should have kept her here, safe and sound, not sent her away to die on the battlefield!

“You’d better report to Knight-Commander Greagoir,” Cullen managed to choke out, proud of how steady his voice was. “Irving will want to know as well.”

They waited for the supplies to be loaded before boarding the ferry and crossing Lake Calenhad to the Tower’s dock. Tranquil picked up the crates and bales as Ser Fletcher looked at the battered three with widening eyes and a muttered prayer to the Maker. Even bruised and covered in grime, Wynne and Uldred were recognisable, and Dagobert was as sturdy as ever. If only three out of twenty returned, it was worse than even the greatest nightmares of the Circle.

Cullen followed them into the Tower, taking them to the office where Irving and Greagoir were having their daily meeting, and both old men blanched when they saw the trio. Uldred was short and sullen in his responses, his Libertarian heart unwilling to cooperate with the templars even in the wake of disaster, and Wynne told them the little she knew. Mara and Sandria had been sent to help secure the Tower of Ishal while the other mages were with the bulk of the army in the chasm. The beacon had been lit… and Loghain had retreated north, leaving the army to die at the hands of the darkspawn. Her opinion of the Teyrn was clear but Greagoir’s expression was bleakly accepting of whatever military tactic he saw in the man’s withdrawal. After the King was slain, it was everyone for themselves, and they’d fought their way north through hostile Chasind refugees, fleeing Fereldan freeholders and survivors of the army turned brigands.

Dagobert had brought them home as fast as he could to report to Greagoir. The Knight-Commander was at a loss as to what to do because Ferelden was on the verge of collapse with the King dead. Wynne was heartsick at losing so many friends and students. Irving mourned the loss of talent. Cullen only knew that his heart had been ripped out of his chest with Mara’s death. If she had stayed, they could never have been together, but he would have seen her every day, safe and sound. Now she was unburied in some southern ruin, mourned by few.

Once the report was given, Greagoir sighed. “Get yourselves fed and bathed,” he said bleakly. “I suppose we’ll have to reach out to Queen Anora and find out what’s happening next.”

Wynne stiffened. “You’re reaching out to the daughter of the man who abandoned the King to die?”

Greagoir gave the elder mage a sad look. Wynne, because of her loyalty and wisdom, had earned much tolerance and privilege over the thirty years of her service. “We don’t have the full story. Uldred says it was a strategic withdrawal because Cailan overextended himself. The Chantry isn’t in the business of deciding what military decisions are moral, Wynne, only in protecting the souls of the people. Anora is likely sole ruler now and it is to her we must reach out.”

“You don’t know how bad it is,” Wynne retorted. “Every. Grey. Warden. Is. Dead. The only people in Thedas who can kill the Archdemon. If no more come…”

“I’ll send word to Ostwick and Kirkwall,” Irving said wearily. “Perhaps Loghain will be more tolerant of Grey Wardens from the Free Marches instead of those from Orlais.”

“Maybe,” Wynne said dubiously. “Irving…”

“You’re tired from the journey. Go and get some rest,” Irving told the Senior Enchanter. “Your talents will be needed in the coming days with so many lost at Ostagar.”

Cullen’s face ached from maintaining its stoic expression as Wynne nodded shortly, taking herself out without any leave. It was a matter of how shocked Greagoir was that he didn’t react to her defiance. Uldred drew himself up and asked, “May I leave?”

“Of course,” Irving said, waving a hand wearily.

Dagobert sighed heavily as the balding Senior Enchanter left. “I’ve been without lyrium for two weeks, Knight-Commander. It’s going to be a week or so before I’m ready for duty again.”

“You’ll have that week,” Greagoir promised with a sigh. “Cullen, take him back to his quarters.”

“Yes ser,” Cullen said monotonously, saluting.

They left the office and Dagobert sighed, giving Cullen a slightly guilty look. “I should have told Sandria and Mara to stay with us instead of reinforcing the Tower,” he said apologetically. “But she was determined to go, even if Mara wasn’t, and I knew the beacon had to be lit.”

Mara had died fighting when she didn’t even want to. Cullen nodded once, not trusting himself to respond to Dagobert’s confession. When he left the Knight-Captain in his quarters, he was going to go to the Chantry and hold a vigil for her. It was the least he could do for the woman he loved.

Thankfully, Dagobert was wise enough to remain silent as they climbed to the fourth floor, where the old warrior entered his quarters and closed the door in Cullen’s face. That was fine by him, because he didn’t trust himself not to explode on the senior templar. So he turned around and went downstairs back to the Chantry to pray.

The initiates in the chapel left him alone, not saying anything about his tears, as he said the mourning prayers for Mara where no one else would. She was at the Maker’s side, he was sure of it, and it cut him to the quick to know that he’d never see or speak to her again. Why did she have to die and some ingrate like Ulfred live?

Lost in a fugue of grief and duty, Cullen spent the next few weeks going about his duties automatically, barely talking to anyone, sleeping and eating. He failed to notice the cluster of mages who were gathered about Uldred, taking in his words about the Libertarian cause, as that was someone else’s problem. The other templars were distracted by their grief for the dead brethren at Ostagar while the mages only grew more resentful and bitter at the deaths of their colleagues. Word filtered in from Denerim, carried by a templar messenger, that Loghain had blamed the Grey Wardens for betraying the King at Ostagar and taken power as Regent because Anora was prostate with grief. The central Bannorn disagreed with him… and the north was too broken by the butchering of the Couslands by Rendon Howe, Arl of Amaranthine, to argue the point.

Mara’s entire family were dead as “traitors” and she was an unburied corpse on a blighted battlefield. Cullen wept when he found out.

The Circle reached out to Loghain, who responded with promises of more autonomy in return for support. That swayed many of even the Aequitarians to support Uldred, who was the biggest proponent of the plan, and even Irving looked thoughtful. Greagoir, of course, was livid at the idea and told Loghain’s lackey to return to Denerim and remind the Teyrn that secular authority had limited powers over the Circle. Even Cullen, beset by grief, could feel the tension in the air.

What broke it violently was Wynne taking the stand at the weekly Circle meeting and telling everyone what it felt like to be left to die at Ostagar as the bulk of the reserves drew away with Loghain. She denounced Loghain as a traitor and Uldred as a fool for trusting him. Mages chose their sides then and there, raising their voices as mana increased sharply.

Uldred struck first, impaling his hand with a dagger and using blood magic to snap every templar’s neck in the room. Then violence erupted as mages began volleying spells at each other and every templar who tried to disrupt the magic. Cullen managed to fight his way to Wynne’s side as they got the younger apprentices to the chamber before the foyer. “Can you hold here?” he asked the Senior Enchanter, who looked wan and exhausted.

“Until death, if I must,” she said firmly, resting the butt of her staff in the ground.

“Good. Protect the children.” Cullen squared his shoulders and looked towards the apprentice quarters. “Keep those doors shut if you can. If we fail, Greagoir will call for the Rite of Annulment.”

“I know,” she said bleakly. “Damn Uldred to the Void. Jowan was a pupil of his, you know.”

So Uldred was the source of the corruption. Cullen flashed her a look. “And you said nothing to Irving?”

“I did,” Wynne said grimly, pressing a hand to her heart. She wasn’t a young mage anymore. But she was the only one who could keep the children alive. “But he wanted to see how things developed.”

Cullen closed his eyes. “He insisted Mara go south when she should have stayed.”

“I know.” Wynne squeezed his shoulder. “At the end, she didn’t flinch at her duty, Cullen. She’s at the Maker’s side.”

Cullen gave her a bleak look. “I have to believe that or I’ll just give up now.”

Then he opened the doors and strode to his likely doom.

Chapter 5: Into Lothering

Chapter Text

The Mara who arrived in Lothering was a far cry from the one that fled Ostagar. Her robes were little more than rags, her once-sturdy boots had been crudely resoled with scavenged leather and the only sign of her status as a Circle mage was her ring and staff. Deserters from the army had taken over the bridge into the village, extorting money and goods from the refugees, and when the leader tried to intimidate her – well, she froze him solid with Winter’s Grasp and then swept Flame Blast across the other four to prevent them from attacking. Whatever hesitation she’d possessed at fighting and killing had been flensed from her by the retreat from Ostagar, darkspawn and Blight-maddened ghouls attacking her, and her staff-blade was corroded from their tainted blood. But it was still good enough to finish off a few bandits and she leant on her staff, panting from exhaustion, wondering what she was going to tell the templars stationed at Lothering’s Chantry. Prudence dictated a return to the Circle. How would she tell the story to Greagoir and Irving? Was she the only survivor?

Pulling herself together, she pragmatically looted the dead bandits and their crates, finding a motley array of trinkets and coin that she pocketed. Maker willing, the Chantry would shelter her until a templar could be spared to escort her back to Kinloch Hold but she’d like some better clothing and shoes at least. Would any local merchants sell to a mage or would they just call for the templars? Life outside the Circle was terrifying for a woman who had no concept of finances. She hoped the locals didn’t just decide to burn her at the stake.

Mara crossed the bridge and approached the village. Its green was full of refugees, both the dark-haired, olive-skinned Chasind and the fairer Fereldans from the southern parts of the kingdom, and a templar stood guard at the entrance. Inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly, she walked up to the knight, praying that he wouldn’t assume she was an apostate and react accordingly. Village templars could be as twitchy as their peasant charges, she’d been warned by Wynne.

“Ser,” she greeted with a polite nod. “Name’s Mara. I was with the Circle contingent at Ostagar. Where’s your Knight-Captain?”

The templar’s eyes, glossy from a little too much lyrium, peered at her through the eye-slit of his helmet. “At the Chantry,” he said tersely. “He’ll know what to do with you.”

“Thanks,” she said gratefully. “I’ll go there right now.”

“Good idea.”

Along the way, she came across a sister and two farmers arguing with a merchant over the pricing of his goods. Mara shook her head and headed for the Chantry. She wasn’t going to get involved and be accused of being an apostate. Her goal was to return to the Circle as soon as possible and report what happened to the others. Hopefully more than just herself survived. Did any of the Wardens? They’d be needed for the Archdemon.

Farmers gave her wary looks as she passed by, noting the staff that she leaned on, and a couple spat in her wake while making the sign of the Sword of Mercy. In the front yard was a gnarled, twisted rosebush with green-brown briars and leaves, incongruously blooming a lush single red rose. A pretty redhead in Chantry robes – her mind flashed back to Jowan’s lover Lily, but she’d been dispatched to Aeonar – was talking excitedly to two more sisters about a sign from the Maker in an Orlesian accent. If a mage in the Circle started talking about signs and portents, they’d be made Tranquil right quick, but in the Chantry they were just crazy.

She entered the Chantry and immediately spotted a tanned, dark-haired man in the silvered armour of a Knight-Captain. Taking a deep breath, she walked towards him, conscious of her ragged, filthy state and wondering what he would think of the fact she survived where others didn’t. His glance flicked over her, widening when he recognised the staff and ring on her finger, and she could feel the lyrium oozing from him. But his gaze was clear and focused enough.

“Mage Mara of Kinloch Hold reporting, ser,” she said breathlessly. “I was assigned to Ostagar and I don’t know if anyone else survived.”

“Ser Bryant. Maker’s breath, you look exhausted.” Bryant knuckled his eyes wearily. “I’ll talk to Revered Mother Mhuir about letting you stay for a night or two. We’re trying to keep order until the village can be safely evacuated.”

“Understood, ser,” Mara said deferentially, trying not to tear up at the rough kindness in his voice.

Bryant led her across to where the Revered Mother was holding court with some refugees. “Mother, we’ve got a mage survivor from Ostagar,” he told her. “Can she stay here for a night or two? I don’t think Danal would rent to a mage, even a Circle one.”

Mother Mhuir sighed, knuckling her eyes. “She can sleep on the floor like everyone else. We can’t spare a templar to take her back to the Circle, so she’ll have to go there on her own.”

“Very well,” Bryant agreed easily before turning to Mara. “Come on, I’ll have Sister Leliana show you where the bathhouse is and find you something that isn’t rags to wear. I don’t suppose you’re a healer? We’ve got a lot of sick and injured folks.”

Mara nodded. “I can heal and brew potions.”

“Good. Elder Miriam wants some elfroot potions for the refugees and old Barlin wants some poison for the ‘beasties’.” Bryant sighed and rubbed his eyes. “How did you get past the bandits at the village entrance? I haven’t been able to send two templars to deal with them yet.”

“I killed them,” Mara said flatly. “I can give the coin to the Chantry if you need it.”

“No, keep it. You’ll need it for the journey to Kinloch Hold. It’s a four-day walk.” Bryant gave her a thin smile. “Good job on those bandits. Lothering will be safer thanks to you.”

Sister Leliana was the redhead who was talking about the rose on the dead rosebush. She led Mara to a small bathhouse, where she was allowed to scrub herself with hot water and country soap until her skin was clean and her hair squeaked, then given a drab brown dress and sturdy shoes to wear. Feeling more herself, Mara returned to the Chantry, where she was handed ingredients and a list of potions to mix. That took until sunset, where Ser Bryant took all her potions and Leliana led her to the sisters’ table, where everyone else looked at her sideways while eating vegetable and barley soup with bread. After several days of scavenging what she could from bushes and abandoned houses, Mara was grateful for the food, and endured the scrutiny silently.

The next day, Leliana approached her as she was eating a breakfast of watery gruel. “We must speak to some people,” she said eagerly. “They’re at Dane’s Refuge.”

Dane’s Refuge was the local pub, chock-full of those trying to shelter from the refugees, and four Wardens, an apostate and a dog were being bailed up by soldiers who insisted that Loghain left them behind to arrest the “traitors” that betrayed King Cailan. Mara realised that the Wardens were Daylen, Neria, the templar Alistair and some rough-looking Chasind sort. So far as she knew, the Wardens hadn’t betrayed Cailan – Cailan’s stupidity got himself and everyone killed.

Instinctively, when the soldiers attacked, Mara cast Winter’s Grasp to freeze the leader solid just before Alistair smashed him to pieces with one shield bash. It wasn’t much of a battle between six ordinary soldiers and four mages, two warriors and… whatever Leliana was and soon blood drenched the floor of the pub as the crowd inched backwards in fear. What in the Void had just happened?

“f*ck!” swore the Chasind, wiping off his daggers. “f*ckin’ Loghain left us to die!”

“He had to blame someone for his treason,” Daylen remarked grimly, dark eyes finding Mara at the edge of the crowd. “Glad to see you had the sense to run, Mara. Once Loghain withdrew, there wasn’t a hope for the army.”

“I am Leliana,” the sister greeted with a smile. “I was sent by the Maker to help you.”

Mara buried her face in her hands. Leliana was officially nuttier than a fruitcake, to quote Anders back at the Circle.

“Well, we’re ‘blessed’ with the company of a madwoman,” remarked the apostate, a black-haired Chasind woman clad in robes of leather and scavenged silk that showed considerable cleavage. “I wonder who next shall join our merry little band?”

“We’re getting the big Qunari out of that cage,” Daylen decided as several peasants gasped. “We’ll need all the muscle we can get.”

Alistair came over and rested a hand on Mara’s shoulder. “You alright?” he asked softly in that light tenor of his. “Glad you made it. We should have brought you with us into the Tower.”

Mara looked up and nodded. “I just need to make it back to the Circle.”

“Why on earth would you want to do such a thing?” the apostate asked incredulously.

“Because Mara’s a good little Loyalist,” Neria said bitterly. The elven mage still held a grudge over what Jowan had done and instead of taking responsibility for it, decided to blame Mara. “Or maybe she wants to get back to Cullen.”

“That’s enough,” Daylen said quietly. “Jowan was an idiot, Neria. Until we can muster some allies, we’ll need all the help we can get.”

The innkeeper approached them diffidently. “Uh, umm, can you please go somewhere else?” he asked plaintively. “I don’t believe the Grey Wardens are traitors but… we don’t need trouble here.”

They left the inn and Mara tilted her head backwards, looking at the cloudy sky. “How did you two escape?” she asked of Neria and Daylen. “I barely made it out alive and I don’t know if anyone else did.”

“We were rescued by Flemeth, the Witch of the Wilds,” Daylen said simply. “Her daughter Morrigan is our ally against the Blight.”

“Yeah. Bloody hell, can’t believe Loghain blamed us when Cailan was a f*ckin’ idiot,” observed the Chasind Warden. “Name’s Daveth. Guessin’ you already know Neria and Daylen and Alistair.”

“Mara,” she said, nodding to him and Morrigan. “I grew up in the Tower with Neria and Daylen, met Alistair at Ostagar.”

“I remember you’re a healer,” Alistair observed softly. “If you don’t mind a detour to Redcliffe, we’ll be going to the Tower after we inform Arl Eamon of what really happened at Ostagar.”

Leliana gave him an odd look. “You don’t know? Arl Eamon is sick and the Knights of Redcliffe are seeking out the Urn of Sacred Ashes to cure him.”

“Damn it,” Alistair cursed.

“One thing at a time,” Daylen decided. “Leliana, you’re welcome to come with us if you can persuade the Revered Mother to give us the key to Sten’s cage or pick the damned lock somehow. Mara, you were always the best of us at herbalism, so we’ll need you to find as much elfroot and make what you can from what’s available. Daveth, Morrigan, find out what work’s available at the Chantry. We’ll need coin.”

“What am I, a servant?” Morrigan asked haughtily.

“No, you’re an apostate who’s going to help us so we can save her mother from the Blight,” Daylen retorted. “Please don’t argue with me.”

“Fine,” Morrigan complained.

Mara found herself accompanied by Alistair as she gathered herbs for potions, killed several spiders for their toxins for Barlin’s poison, and brewed up toxins and potions as needed. She was comforted to have a templar beside her again, even if it wasn’t Cullen, and was relieved that he was content to let her work in peace. She hoped that Cullen was alright back at the Tower. By the time she returned… well, if he still loved her, it would be drummed into him, as it had been drummed into her, that it couldn’t be more than wishful thinking.

She hoped there was nothing wrong at the Tower. Because it would be a while before she returned from the sounds of it.