Chapter Text
Velari
She awoke in utter darkness. The song in her head had grown louder. The corruption in her veins was an ache she could no longer soothe with elfroot. And still, Velari Surana wanted to live. Her Calling was well underway and she did not want it.
It had begun in Val Royeaux. Last month, she had lain in bed with her beloved, Leliana—otherwise known as Divine Victoria, the most important holy woman in the reformed southern Chantry. Velari had shielded her eyes from the morning sunlight and cursed the scurrying little feet of a dozen nugs that had broken loose from their nighttime enclosure.
"Clip their toenails! That's all I'm saying."
Leliana had laughed, but made no promises. She loved her bothersome pets, and when they flinched from a nail trim, she would always let them be.
"The chirping also," Velari added. "Maybe talk to them about keeping it down before lunch."
Again, Leliana had laughed. But this time, Velari could hear something else in the background, like the softest riff from a broken tune.
Ever since that morning, the Blighted song had been with her, getting louder and clearer each day. And now, all the best parts of her life were finished. There would be no more sunshine, no more laughter, and the taste of Leliana's lips was only a memory now. Velari was alone in the cavernous underground. The walls around her glistened with corruption. They looked wet, but felt cold and dry. If she got too close and brushed against the surface, the Blight flaked off to leave a foul-smelling powder on her clothes and skin.
She hated the Deep Roads.
At first there were natural lights. Patches of sunlight broke through from above. Then, she reached a dwarven road, more recently maintained. It was lit and heated. Lava channels had been engineered to run alongside the walkway. But eventually the good roads were behind her. The paved areas grew rougher and harder to find within a branching network of cold, dark tunnels. At that point, she lit the way with a soft blue light from the focusing crystal atop her staff.
And then, Velari lost track of everything.
She didn't know how far she had walked. She still had plenty of food in her pack, and she'd started with two weeks of rations, but that didn't make counting the days much easier. At some point in her journey, she had stopped experiencing hunger entirely. When she needed to drink, she followed the sounds of dripping water. There were ancient sluiceways and natural streams that flowed in the dark. It didn't matter if they were tainted by the Blight. She was tainted also.
She had cut herself once, when the path had sloped away and she'd missed her footing. She had caught herself on a sharp-edged rock, and her hand had started bleeding, torn open as badly as if she'd grabbed the wrong end of a knife. But her blood was thick and moved slowly. Before she could find the elfroot poultice in her bag, the bleeding had stopped and her flesh had begun to knit itself back together. It formed a rigid, ugly scar. That was when Velari understood what she had become.
The Blight had transformed her.
An honorable Warden would have taken their own life at this point. But Velari had never been considered one of those. She'd survived despite delivering the killing blow to an archdemon, and she'd never been willing to explain that to anyone. No, she wasn't honorable. She simply wanted to live.
"You win, after all," she whispered to herself, alone in the darkness. "And all you had to do was lose everything."
The glow of her crystal had flickered out some time ago. But she didn't need it any longer. A Blighted ghoul could see in the dark.
She abandoned her staff in a cavern. Why did she need it—this old stick? She couldn't recall.
All she remembered was the final mission she'd set for herself. She needed to find the Architect. He had acolytes, a handful of Blighted people who would still accept her, even like this. She didn't care about most of them. The only person she wanted to find was the one she had loved like a sister. Years ago, her fellow Warden had disappeared. If only Velari could find her again, then everything broken would be all right. It would have to be, wouldn't it?
It was hard to think clearly.
"Tainted brain," she whispered. "What a strain."
Velari giggled.
And then something moved in the unrelenting dark. Even with Blighted eyes, she struggled to see it. But once she caught a glimpse, she could feel its presence. A darkspawn.
"Hello?" She called to it. "Are you awakened? Are you one of His?"
Its voice was like gravel at the start of a landslide—a soft, unnerving rumble.
"Don't follow us, Warden. We do not want you here."
Velari lifted her hands, palms forward to show she bore no weapons.
"Wait," she said, and took a step closer.
But as she did so, the ground trembled and something intangible shifted. It was as though a piece of the Fade had been stretched nearly to the breaking point before snapping back, like a painful blow to the back of her mind. She cried out and fell to her knees.
And then she covered her ears. A sharp and agonized screaming assaulted her from across the cavern. The darkness was suddenly lit by a pulsing red glow.
Had an underground magma chamber erupted? That was all she could fathom. But when she looked up, it wasn't fire and sulphur that writhed up from below to overwhelm the hurlock. It was a living mass of tainted flesh that moved like vines or tentacles. It sprouted from the walls and lit the cavern blood red as it reached for the screaming creature and dragged it to the ground.
Velari watched in horror as the awakened hurlock bulged and grew, its flesh changing from mottled gray to a sickly pale pink. Its body broke open as darker threads of tainted bone sprouted up like horns from its back and shoulders. When at last the screaming stopped, the transformed creature glared at her with glowing eyes, its features contorted by an unthinking rage. It leapt to its feet with an earsplitting roar, and it charged right at her.
Galen
Galen Trevelyan would have preferred a field mission. Instead, he was stuck at a desk in a small rented room in Val Royeaux. This afternoon, he was busy writing letters to the lords and ladies of several dozen minor noble houses scattered across Orlais. His job was neither difficult nor intellectually taxing. It was simply an annoyance.
Every letter was the same, scripted and formulaic:
"Please consider supporting the College of Enchanters this year with a generous financial gift. I, myself, Andraste's chosen Herald and former leader of the Inquisition, am a member of the College, and I fully support Divine Victoria's goals in expanding the reach of our educational system for young mages. With your gracious assistance, we can achieve these goals together.
"While Madam Vivienne's Circles provide a discipline-based training system for politically well-connected mages, our Colleges serve the entire community..."
The letter continued for several more paragraphs, politely emphasizing the importance of the cause, gently critiquing the opposition, and vigorously stroking the ego of the person to whom it was addressed. Apparently, it mattered a great deal that each identical letter was handwritten by the former Inquisitor himself.
Charter had given him this assignment, and though he hated it, Galen did understand the necessity. The political situation in Orlais was a challenge, to put it mildly. And in a way, the empire's current problems were Galen's fault. A decade ago, as a younger and more idealistic man, he had helped negotiate a three-way truce between Celene, Gaspard, and Briala. While this truce had somehow held steady, the signs were clear. It was starting to crumble.
Celene continued to rule from the imperial throne. But the great noble houses, whose support she needed, had begun to bristle at Divine Victoria's more equitable vision for the Chantry. To court the favor of her wealthiest subjects, Celene had aligned herself instead with Madam Vivienne's Circle of Magi.
On the other hand, Briala had benefited from a close alliance with Divine Victoria's reformation Chantry. As a champion for the elven underclass, Briala had been working to improve conditions in the alienages. The new Chantry agreed with her aims, and monetary assets from the disbanded Inquisition had helped to fund several of her initiatives.
Gaspard, meanwhile, was amassing an army of well-trained chevaliers. To keep his troops fed, he was seizing food and supplies from the farming villages of the Dales. Empress Celene, despite her own training as a bard assassin, struggled to shake off her effete image in the public eye. Her efforts to recruit new guards and maintain an army were falling short. If she wasn't careful, Gaspard's military power would soon eclipse her own.
The Orlesian situation would likely deteriorate, but as Charter, Leliana, and Briala had all insisted, more donations couldn't hurt. And who better to beg the lesser nobles for money than someone like former Inquisitor Galen Trevelyan? After all, everyone seemed to love a handsome, middle-aged man from a highborn lineage.
Galen completed six more letters before boredom and hunger got the better of him. It was suppertime, and today he was craving a hearty Fereldan stew. Meat. Potatoes. Perhaps a slice of apple pie for dessert.
If he were allowed to access the eluvian network and use it freely, he could have popped over to Redcliffe for a satisfying meal at the Gull and Lantern. He could even have invited his husband Dorian to abandon Minrathous for the rest of the day and join him. But no. Leliana and Charter warned that frequent ventures through the Crossroads would draw unwanted attention. Solas had been known to thwart his pursuers by rerouting mirrors, creating traps and labyrinths. The danger was real.
And so, Galen dined alone at the corner cafe near the market.
If the other patrons recognized him, they didn't show it and didn't seem to care. And why should they? He was no longer the leader of an army, ten thousand strong. Lately, the former Inquisitor was little more than an administrative aide, a man who assisted the Chantry with its fundraising.
Galen sighed. He had to admit he was feeling quite sorry for himself. He felt trapped by a job he hated in a city he didn't much care for. All he wanted was to go back to Minrathous, where he'd lived rather happily with Dorian until last year, when a Venatori resurgence had escalated the danger.
Since having returned alone to the South, everything about his life felt unsettled and unclear. He didn't even understand the organizational structure that paid his modest monthly stipend.
The Inquisition had been disbanded, but not entirely dismantled. Charter's formal title within the Chantry was Inquisition Spymaster. A dozen people reported to her directly. Dagna was still the Arcanist to the Inquisition. And Sutherland's company of heroes had recently been sent to Skyhold to investigate the disappearance of the caretaker. There, Sutherland's team had fought off a demon, retaking the fortress for the Inquisition. Since then, no one else could be convinced to serve as an unaffiliated caretaker, so of course Charter had populated the fortress with staff of her own.
After that, Leliana had called upon the Inquisition's current Caravan Master to move one of her eluvians back to Skyhold. It was yet another dormant mirror in the network that nobody was allowed to access, but it was there, ready and waiting to be activated should the desperate need arise.
So, yes, the Inquisition still existed, loosely absorbed into the offices of Leliana's Chantry. But Galen himself had no place within it. He was a man without a purpose. Even the job of tracking down Solas had fallen to others. Harding and Varric were out there somewhere, taking the lead and having all the adventures.
Fortunately, his bout of self pity didn't last long. Eating supper cheered him greatly. He had chosen wisely: a sharp gourmet cheese melted on toasted brioche and topped by a jaunty sprig of rosemary—grilled cheeses being all the rage this year in Val Royeaux. Dorian would have enjoyed it with a sparkling tonic and a side of red grapes. Galen washed it all down with a pint of blond ale, and then he sat for a time in the open air cafe, enjoying the sounds of early evening.
He walked back to his room after sunset, completed two more letters, and then got ready for bed. Before sleeping, he tapped the sending crystal and sent a message, but no answer came through. That in itself was no cause for worry. Dorian was often consumed by his work.
Galen worried nonetheless.
He fell into a fitful sleep and dreamed of Haven. A great rift in the Fade was consuming the sky. He walked through an avalanche and emerged at the gates of Skyhold. The portcullis refused to open, so he took an eluvian from his pocket and used it to enter the main hall. There, he stood in a pool of blood and peered through the doorway into the rotunda. The walls were empty. The frescoes were gone. But he saw something new. A pedestal sat in the center of the room. As he watched, the air was ripped open and a small glowing statue tumbled down to land on the pedestal and shatter. It hit with a sound like thunder.
Galen startled awake.
Hawke
Seneschal Bran Cavin was talking to her, but Marian Hawke didn't hear a word he was saying. She was sitting in the viscount's chair and writing in the viscount's ledger, but she was only pretending to take notes. Instead, she had written a list of supplies for the most inspired prank she had ever attempted.
Her dear friend Varric would never see it coming.
He would return from his current mission, unlock the door to his suite in the Hanged Man, and discover that every item he owned had been utterly destroyed: the spoons twisted, the knives blunted, the stone mugs cracked beyond repair. He'd find some of his books had been burned, while others were shredded into thousands of tiny pieces. The prank element, of course, would be that all his true belongings were safely stashed in the cellar at Hawke's estate. Her creative genius would be in replacing everything he owned with an identical copy, which she had personally damaged or obliterated as creatively as possible.
It would be perfect payback for the day that Bethany had hosted an open house event at the Hawke estate. Sometime in the wee hours of the preceding morning, Varric had hired a stealthy infiltration team to replace every single book in Hawke's extensive library with a copy of The Tale of the Champion. No one had noticed until the first nosy guest to peruse the library had asked why all the books were biographies of Marian. The level of public embarrassment would have been extreme, except that Bethany had spoken up quickly and saved the day.
"Why, don't be silly, Lady de Launcet, of course this is not our normal library. The author, Varric Tethras, has donated enough free copies for all of our guests. Please, won't you take one?"
So, the prank had been disarmed and smoothed over, but Hawke had still promised to deliver her own retribution. At last, she had a worthy idea.
If it made Varric sad, it didn't matter. Once Hawke revealed the truth, all would be forgiven. Varric would curse her, of course, as his worst best friend. But she loved that, too. She wouldn't trade a friend like him for all the viscount seats in Kirkwall. There was only one of those seats, of course, and it still belonged to Varric. Hawke just had to suffer through the misfortune of having been designated provisional viscount during her dear friend's extended absence.
Standing by the window, Bran was still talking, saying something about shipping lanes and seaweed in the harbor. And then he was glaring impatiently as though waiting for her to offer an opinion or make a decision.
Hawke looked down at her list. It was as complete as it could be from memory alone. To finish the job she'd need to visit Varric's suite, rifle through his things, and take a proper inventory.
Hawke sighed.
"I don't know, Bran," she said. "Maybe we're done for the day."
He looked annoyed, but that was his typical expression, so Hawke didn't bother to apologize. She did her best to discreetly tear her list from the ledger and stuff the page in her pocket. And then she left.
The walk to Lowtown involved an awful lot of stairs, and by the time Hawke had reached the market stalls, she was starting to get hungry. But there'd been outbreaks of food poisoning lately, and the viscount's office hadn't yet tracked down the source. So she decided not to risk it, despite the enticing aroma of kebabs and pasties sold by the vendors.
She went straight to the Hanged Man, waved hello to Corff at the bar, and went upstairs to unlock Varric's suite. This was not unusual behavior, so Corff didn't pay her any mind. Varric had been away for several months, and sometimes Hawke missed him so fiercely that she visited his room just to sit for a while, or to curl up on the blankets and take a long nap.
But she didn't usually search his desk and dressers to account for all his possessions. So this time, Hawke shut the door behind her and got to work.
The furniture would be difficult. It was heavy and dwarven, made of solid stone. Perhaps, instead of hiring someone to move it and build an expensive replica, she could simply paint the originals in garish colors. Not all paints were permanent. She'd have to choose something easy to wash away.
Logistics and planning was not her favorite. She was a big ideas sort of person, not well suited to figuring out the step by step. Thus, Hawke decided to deal with the furniture later. Clothing would be a much better place to start. Dwarven fabric was thankfully lighter than stone. And fortunately, Hawke knew a good seamstress who enjoyed a clever prank.
She started by opening dresser drawers, sorting socks and tunics and small clothes and trousers, then counting each pile. Later, she'd stuff them all in a bag and carry them off to her seamstress friend.
The task was going well. But then, as she reached for a shirt at the back of the lowest drawer, her fingers brushed a thick piece of paper. Unable to see what she'd found, Hawke drew it forth and stood up for better light. She held a sealed envelope with writing on the outside in Varric's hand.
"To Hawke," it said. "(Don't open unless I'm dead)"
And that made her stop, overwhelmed by a wave of sadness.
Varric was away on a dangerous mission. He'd left Kirkwall without her. But of course he wouldn't die. Because that wasn't possible. It simply wasn't. What would she do without her dearest friend?