Pitiless Games, Chapter 14: The Tiger's Roar

[aithne]

Chapter Fourteen has an argument with the Chantry and then breaks everyone's hearts, and goes by The Tiger's Roar(and on AO3. Full text also below the cut.) Chapter is SFW; story overall is rated M.

Title: Old Roads: Pitiless Games
Rating: M (for the sexytimez, and for occasional graphic violence)
PC: Amell
Word Count: ~127k, ~9k this chapter
Spoilers: At this point, it's not so much spoilers as it might not make any sense if you haven't played through Origins/Awakening...
Summary: Amaranthine is destroyed, and Warden Amell travels to Vigil’s Keep to take command. But one either must play the game of politics or be used as a pawn, and like it or not, every last one of Kathil’s demons are about to come home to roost... Amell/Zevran/Cullen, post-Awakening, multiple viewpoints, Part 5 of Old Roads.

Author's Note: This chapter is one of the more heartwrenching things I've written lately.

Fourteen: The Tiger's Roar

The moment that those created creatures touched the mortal world,
they were lost—for the Old Gods sang in a voice too like our Elpis,
for they were her creatures and hers alone, her comfort in hours lonely.

And the Listeners were made Twisted by the mortal world,
by the mad song of the favorites of Hope, her dragons, her lovers.
Bound to their call, to their song, they cannot hear her!
They find her creatures, but not their Voice!

Our grief is a great bell tolling, mortals,
for the pure arrows of the Unwilling
have become tainted, and twist all they touch:

For when Despair speaks, all mortals listen.

—from the Canticle of Demons, stanza five: of the Twisted

---

Kathil:

She walked slowly towards the Grand Cleric, measuring every footfall, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. Murmurs rippled through the gathered forces as she crossed bloodstained and scorched earth. Armor creaked and scraped softly.

She knew how she looked, in her armor, her sword hung at her hip, wisps of hair that had escaped her braid ruffled by a cold, freshening breeze. Her mouth was so dry.

Kathil paused about twenty feet away from the Grand Cleric, and drew her sword slowly. The Templars nearest her laid their hands on their sword hilts, but did not attack. "I bury the sword and would speak to you plain," she said, using a phrase that had been used in Ferelden since its founding, making sure her voice was pitched to carry. She turned Spellweaver's tip towards the earth and then struck downward. The blade's tip slipped between cobblestones and sunk in half a thumb's length. It was enough to satisfy custom, and enough to reassure the Grand Cleric that she would have a few moments' warning if Kathil tried to attack her.

Elemena came forward, still on the arm of that mousy sister with the astonishing voice. "I am glad you have decided to be reasonable," the Grand Cleric said. Her own voice was soft and creaky. "This is Sister Orphea. She is my scribe and my voice."

Kathil inclined her head in acknowledgement. "You may wish to keep your opinions of my reasonableness in reserve until you hear what I have to say," she said. "So. What is it that you want, Your Grace? Your notes were not what I would call clear, precisely."

"The Chantry has a difficult task in these dark days," Elemena said. Her gaze was fixed on Kathil with a steady brightness. "We cannot afford a schism, and that is precisely what you have been fostering. We seek to demonstrate to the faithful that Ferelden is indeed united under Andraste and the Maker. To that end, we are willing to make some…concessions."

"Such as?" Kathil asked.

"Allow the Chantry entrance into Vigil's Keep. We will allow you to keep your daughter until after she is weaned. Templars will monitor the situation within the keep, with leave to act should things get out of hand. You have far too many mages within your walls, and no guidance for them." She was so calm, was the terrible thing. She was proposing turning the Vigil into another Kinloch Hold, asking that Kathil acknowledge that the Chantry was placed above even the Wardens in power.

I frighten her. The thought was unbidden but inescapable. This was Elemena's last chance to force the Grey Wardens to acknowledge the primacy of the Chantry. The fervor of goodwill for the Grey after the Blight's defeat had died down, and the Wardens themselves were at their weakest since the Archdemon's fall. If the Grand Cleric did not force them to bend the knee now, it was likely they never would.

Which would be all to the good.

"And Anora?" Kathil asked, keeping her voice steady. "The question of the former Queen is a purely secular matter, is it not?"

"No matter is beneath the attention of the Maker," Elemena replied. "Thus there is no such thing as a secular matter. These forces—" her gesture encompassed the mercenaries who stood and watched—"have a vested interest in her safe return. We will not have her free. She influences too many wags and layabouts to speak against the Crown." She smiled, just a little. "We wish a peaceful, united Ferelden. This country has suffered too many blows to be able to afford dissent."

Kathil took a long breath, and rested her hand on Spellweaver's pommel. The sword was vibrating faintly. Almost time, old friend. "The Grey Wardens have always been an order apart from the laws of the lands it finds itself in, empowered to do what it must to protect the land and people from darkspawn. As Warden-Commander, I cannot afford to allow the Chantry to dictate what the Grey does in Ferelden." She raised her voice, knowing it would carry above the sound of the wind and the restless army. "Also, Your Grace, you may not have my daughter. Not now. Not ever."

The Grand Cleric's eyes narrowed, and she gestured. A Templar behind her made a familiar motion, and Kathil winced as the cleansing made her stomach attempt to turn it inside out once more. She really is taking no chances, is she? Elemena had lost her kindly little smile, and the steel beneath the velvet glove was showing through. "You have no way to resist a siege for more than a week or two, and that shield over the gate arch will not last forever. There are more forces coming, Warden-Commander. They will have catapults and siege equipment. Would it not be better to preserve the lives of those in your care, rather than wasting them in pointless battle?"

"You make the mistake of thinking us helpless," Kathil said. "Let me tell you a few things, Your Grace." She looked around at the gathered forces, Templars shifting uneasily, mercenaries with their arms crossed. "There is not one but three Circles of Magi in Ferelden right now. There is the Tower Circle. There is the Circle of the Grey. And there is the Circle in Stone, in Orzammar. Only one of those Circles is under Chantry control. This is not something you can change. Word is spreading that Orzammar provides shelter and useful employment to mages. Families whose children show signs of the talent flee to the Vigil in hope that their children will not be taken by the Templars. We take them in, teach them. When they are of age, they may choose to go to Orzammar, or to the Circle Tower, or join the Grey. But we will not turn those children over to you. This has already escaped your control, Your Grace. Do not think you can erase the idea that there are alternatives to the three fates of a mage."

Elemena's expression had been growing darker and darker. "Do not presume to dictate to me what is and what will be," she said. "The Chantry will bring you to heel, Commander Amell. If it takes a siege, we are prepared."

Unexpectedly, laughter bubbled up in Kathil's throat. She swallowed it down after a single chuckle escaped. "I am no Mabari," she said. "Nor wolf either." She tightened her hand on Spellweaver's pommel, felt the sword's power stir. "The Chantry has no sovereignty over the Grey Wardens. The Chantry has no sovereignty over me." She took a deep breath.

It is time, old friend.

Her magic was trickling back after the last cleansing, so very slowly. But it took only the thinnest thread of power to touch what lived within Spellweaver. One tiny pebble for the mountainside to begin to shift.

The power in the sword woke, and the sparks dancing along the blade coalesced into a cold flame that crawled along the edge, sending power out and away from itself. The Grand Cleric shied away, and the Templars, alarmed, released the cleansing. So many of them—she was almost blind with it, her power gone, locked away, held hostage to another's will—

The sword continued to brighten, and the air took on a subtle shimmer. No one had ever taught these Templars how to shut down a magic done not by a mortal mind but by an object. That was something only taught to mages who hunted their own kind—and the Chantry had brought none with them. And fifteen heartbeats after she had told the sword to begin, it was finished, and Kathil's power came rushing back to her. The waters of the Fade eddied silently around her ankles.

She was now standing on an old road.

It had been so obvious, in hindsight. Arcane warriors were meant to fight not only mortal threats but those things that lived on the old roads, things that lurked where the Veil was thin. They would need some way to choose their battlegrounds.

And now—

"I name you Memory and call you Vigilance," she said, lacing every word with power, focusing her will downwards, into the earth. "And by your bindings I call you, defender of the mountain!"

It was a gamble. A desperate, stupid gamble. If Memory did not answer, she was dead. If the creature under the mountain proved greater than its bindings, they were all dead.

Facing down the Archdemon was a stupid gamble, too.

One moment the air next to her was empty. The next, Ser Bran stood there, his eyes wide, looking exactly as he had the moment before he had vanished beneath the vigil. "Commander—"

But that moment of humanity lasted only a breath, and Bran's expression went cold and inhumanly still. This rabble? It is barely an army. Only scarcely a mob. Memory's avalanche of a voice was disdainful. Would you have it destroyed?

"No." All around her, arrows were nocked, swords were coming out of their sheaths, the din of battle beginning to wash over her—she had so little time—

Be calm.

"I want them to remember," she said. "I want them to remember what I remember. I want them to know what it is to be a mage."

Memory closed Bran's eyes in assent.

Then she felt herself wrapped in power as if by a huge hand, squeezed and squeezed. Her ribs creaked.

She did not have even enough breath left to scream.

The rat attacking her in the tunnel, the pain in her leg and the panic, and the power bursting forth from her, freezing it solid. The excitement of knowing I did that, of knowing that she could do something amazing, something she'd never seen done. Bafflement when Shesen had seen her and started crying, when her father had gone grave and silent. Why weren't they happy for her? Why don't you love me any more?

Being handed over to the Templars, treated with indifferent cruelty all the way there, cuffed when she tried to talk. Arriving and having her memories taken; settling into new routines, dull and tired and compliant. Discovering what place there was for her, guided in the use of her power by grown mages who taught her to know her power and her limits. Endless lectures about demons, their duty to the Chantry, the danger they posed to normal people.

Making friends, and friends dying under Templar swords, other friends killing themselves. The Tower cat possessed by a demon. Every moment watched over by merciless men with swords. Secret friendships, a connection made with a young Templar, the friendship both innocent and excitingly forbidden. Standing on the shore of the Tower's island with Jowan, and declaring that free water felt different.

Falling in love with Sati's smile and then the rest of her, two years when life in the Tower did not seem so bad after all. I wish I could remember my parents. Then Sati vanishing, leaving nothing behind but a cold bunk and questions that could not be answered. Secret coteries, secret powers, quiet abuses behind closed doors. Kneeling in the Chapel at the feet of the statue of Andraste, praying give me the strength to end this, give me the courage to join my love. Prayers going unanswered. So many prayers, and all unanswered.

Betrayal, and freedom—of a sort. But never freedom from her power, from how people looked at her. No freedom from the fear of the whispering shadows, of what waited to consume her should she falter. A man with Templar powers offering her a rose, and learning that the cleansing could be a gentle thing, kind as a lover's touch.

Losing her Templar, killing an Archdemon, releasing the soul of the Old God to death. Then the years of hunger and want, of madness and an incessant hunt for something—anything—that could set what was wrong with her right. Her friends gone except for her dog, her heart shattered along with her mind. Feverish days and nights healing from wounds that nearly killed her. The decision to return to the Tower, to return to a familiar cage.

Then things changing once more, a hidden love opening up to accept her in. Standing before a court martial and declaring Cullen is my Templar. Everything that had gone wrong after that; everything that had gone right.

Holding her daughter for the first time and deciding that Cerys would not grow up in captivity. That her soul would not be stunted by struggling to come into adulthood in a cage where no mage was allowed to be an adult. The gentle knowledge of Cullen's presence. The many times he had saved her: from demons, from mortals, from herself.

Freedom was worth any price she could think to pay.

"You have lost," she said. Though she spoke quietly, her voice was amplified thousands of times, sent straight into the minds of the thousand men and woman who stood at the gates. "This place is protected by forces beyond your control, and the idea that not all mages must be confined is spreading like wildfire. The Grey Wardens have no interest in being anything other than a neutral party in Ferelden. Go, and harass us no longer."

The feeling of Memory's power wrapped around her receded a little, enough for her vision to return to the present. The Grand Cleric was staring at her, her mouth open. As was, it seemed, everyone on this side of the gates.

Around Kathil and the image of Bran, there was a scattered half-circle of arrows. Evidently she had been fired on, and Memory had protected her. She hadn't even noticed.

Elemena said something to the sister whose arm she leaned on. The sister nodded, and raised her voice. "Templars! We go. We will continue this discussion at a later time."

The reaction among the knights was almost comically swift. Swords were sheathed and men and women in armor turned almost as one away from Vigil's Keep. A burly Templar strode forward to bodily pick up the Grand Cleric, cradling her against his mailed chest as if she were a child and weighed no more than a sack of wheat. Within moments, the Templars were in full retreat.

I wonder if I will regret not killing them all, some day.

The mercenaries stayed behind, looking at each other with acute unease written on every face. "You can go, tell your employers that Anora is protected in the Vigil, and live another day," she told them. "Or you can stay, and die to the last. It makes no difference to me."

Be reasonable. Please.

If it came down to it, she did not know how the bindings on Memory worked, only knew that it was her affinity to the Vigil that allowed her to call it, and the old road that extended its range outside of the walls. If she gave the order to the being to kill the mercenaries, she had no idea if those bindings would hold. Those bindings were held with the blood of countless ancient sacrifices, and it was a possibility that taking the lives of an army would allow it to break free.

She breathed out, and back in. She glanced at Bran next to her and saw something like eagerness in his expression. One of the mercenaries, a woman wearing silverite instead of leather or red steel, barked an order.

It was astonishing, how quickly five hundred people could walk away when there was a creature waiting to eat their lives behind them.

It was over. Kathil realized that her hand was still clenched around Spellweaver's hilt. "Thank you," she said to Memory. "You may return." She tried not to think about Bran, about that moment he had been himself when he had first arrived. She could have those nightmares later, thinking about one of her people still somehow alive in the depths of the mountain.

Memory bowed Bran's head. "'Ware," it said, like distant thunder. "'Ware what comes, Commander, for she is hungry and you are foolish."

Then the being was gone as if it had never been there, and Kathil realized what the overwhelming feeling of presence had been blocking from her senses.

Demons.

They were crowded behind the Veil. The too-thin Veil, this place where the two worlds were held artificially close to one another. Tingling swept over her, head to toes, and she couldn't move. Cullen—

He was not here. She had told him to stay back.

I am a bridge, she had told Leliana. And some day, one or more of the presences are likely going to decide to cross over. Blood, hair, sweat, tears—she had given bits of herself to so many presences. Made so many bargains, in return for knowledge she could get nowhere else.

And now the debt had come due. All of it at once. She gritted her teeth, blanked her mind, tried every trick to bolstering her will that she had learned. But there were so many of them. So many of them, and they all had a claim on her.

If I fall, they will come through.

She pulled Spellweaver from between the cobblestones, tried to dismiss the power that had created the old road. It faded, but slowly. Too slowly. And too late, she saw that it was not the thinness of the Veil that had called them. No matter how thick the Veil was—she was the weak point. The doorway. The bridge. Her scars felt as if they were aflame, and she knew she must be shedding that white light.

The memory of Despair's quiet voice threaded through her soul, the answer to the question of how she avoided becoming one of the Unwilling. If you do not wish to become one of them, you must stay in your own world. You walk the line between worlds, thrice-bound. Do not think it will be so easy to stay on your own side.

She had known.

Kathil's will was rapidly eroding, her body wracked with pain as the demons pressed down on her. If she allowed them through—her people would die. Her family would die.

And I will prove the Chantry right.

She took a deep breath, then another, then turned to look at the gap where the Vigil gates had once been. The shield was gone and people were pouring through, Cullen and Zevran at the lead, nearly running towards her. No. Stay back. Stay away! But she could not make her mouth move. Could not speak a word.

I am sorry.

She met Cullen's eyes, then Zevran's. Both men slowed as if they saw something on her face that alarmed them, and Cullen held up a hand to slow those behind him.

Her hand tightened on Spellweaver's hilt. Once more, old friend, and then you can rest. This is what I need—

The awareness within the sword howled silently as it poured power out of itself and Kathil slashed at the air—behind the blade, darkness opened—the sword went abruptly silent and fell from her nerveless hand—

Kathil pitched forward into the Fade, and around her opened her dream-body, the dragon, the Archdemon, the Old God.

Then all was silence.

---

Cullen:

For a moment, it appeared as though they had won.

Standing still while dozens of arrows were loosed at Kathil was one of the more difficult things he had done in his life. But the arrows had bounced off some invisible surface, and she hadn't even flinched. A thousand men and women had stood as if spellbound. Some of them wept, others bent and vomited. He had no idea what she was doing to them, or even what power she was using to do it with. The hazy form next to Kathil had looked around with burning eyes, and after a few moments, the Templars retreated. Then, the mercenaries.

He hadn't believed her when she'd said a bloodless victory was possible. But, for a little while, it seemed as if she had been right.

Amity took the shield down and they all hurried through the gates as the hazy figure vanished. It was over. They had won.

Except then Kathil's scars had started glowing, and she bowed her head.

He was too far away from her to close the Veil, and as she turned with Spellweaver naked in her hand he saw her eyes, and his stride faltered. There was no iris in them, no pupil. Just the waters of the Fade rushing, shedding light where no light should be.

No.

Spellweaver flared and she slashed with it left to right, and he felt the sickening sensation as of the Veil sundering completely, the Fade and the mortal world touching.

Kathil fell into that darkness, and was gone. A heartbeat later, so was the tear.

He and Zevran somehow made it to the place where she had vanished. Cullen was unaware of crossing the distance, just of arriving and knowing that the tear had repaired itself as if it had never been, and the old road that had been here was merely an echo, a memory, and fading swiftly.

Spellweaver lay shattered on the cobblestones. The pieces were twisted and melted, as if whatever last spell Kathil had cast had used enough power to not just break the sword but destroy it entirely.

Zevran was looking at him, a wild hope in his eyes. "Can you—"

He had pulled her back once before, in the Harrowing Chamber. But there was no tear. Nothing to reach into. "No," he said, and hated himself for it as he watched the hope die in the assassin's eyes. "The tear is gone. So is she."

"Why?" The word was vicious, bursting from Zevran as if he had tried to hold it back and failed. His hazel eyes had gone flat and cold. "Why would she do this? The Chantry had retreated. There was no reason."

Leliana was next to them, and her voice was trembling with unshed tears. "She told me she had made—bargains." The bard bent to pick up one of Spellweaver's pieces. "She said that she had made herself into a bridge between the mortal world and certain entities, and was hoping that the debts would come due only after she was safely dead." Leliana was staring down at the piece of twisted metal that lay in her palm. She swallowed, and struggled to speak. "I…I think she may have been protecting us."

They both stared at Leliana. So many little things made sense—strange and fell powers that Cullen had never heard of before, comments she had made that, in retrospect, he had completely misinterpreted. Zevran was shaking his head. "She told me of that, but told me that she had made no compacts with demons. Only spirits."

"A demon and a spirit are differences of degree rather than kind," Cullen said. The world was altogether too bright, and he was so cold. "And it is possible that she lied."

"What—what will happen to her?" Leliana asked. "It's not supposed to be possible for people to go physically into the Fade…"

Cullen's throat closed briefly. "The Tevinter magisters managed it," he said quietly. "And they became…something else."

Greagoir was there, now. When had he arrived? Impossible to say. "As in the Harrowing Chamber," he said. "I thought—never mind what I thought."

He nodded, but could not reply. We don't even have a body to bury. He put a hand to his forehead, and abruptly he was on his knees. There was a hole inside of him, expanding swiftly. His mage was gone.

It was a sensation beyond mourning, beyond grief. Grief would come. Right now, it was simply the power that had been the other half of his own power snuffed out like a light, an incomprehensible loss. She is gone.

I am so cold.

Zevran's arm was around his shoulders, his body pressed into Cullen's side. They knelt over the fragments of a sword, silent.

A very long way away, Greagoir was muttering. "If you can help—if there's anything you can do—" Cullen glanced up, but the former Knight-Commander was not speaking to him. Or anyone, apparently.

Greagoir was staring into the middle distance. From one fist trailed what appeared to be a faded ribbon with frayed ends. Perhaps it had once been green.

Cullen could make no sense of it, and didn't even try. He was so cold, and the world was so very far away.

---

Wynne:

If there's anything you can do—

A scream split the Fade. The newest Unwilling stretched her wings, her lashing tail sending denizens of the Fade scurrying and flying away in disappointment. This place that had briefly been pinned to the mortal world was rapidly emptying out, the structures that had built themselves melting back into soulspires and vague bridges.

Wynne had been called here by a prayer, though she had no idea if there was anything she could do.

Moros arrived, trailing darkness like an inkstained cloak behind her. "My pet," she crooned as she came to a stop and surveyed the creature who had so recently been a Warden-mage. "I knew you would see reason eventually."

"Cruel, Moros," Wynne called. "You were the one who called in those debts. I thought you wanted to use her hands in the mortal world."

Moros turned towards Wynne and shrugged one shoulder. "Plans change. Besides, her daughter is still in the mortal world. So delicious, the potential of that one. A fitting vessel for my own daughter, when we find her." She turned her attention back to the Unwilling. "And you are a fine thing, are you not? Such power, unchained from the limitations of a mortal body. We will have such times together."

The dragon spat flame at Moros. It engulfed her for just a moment, then Moros emerged, entirely unsinged. "Feisty," she said. "Ah, all of the fight went out of my other pets long ago. It will be good to have a bit of a tussle on my hands." She sniffed. "I believe I will leave you alone for a bit and let your temper cool." She nodded to Wynne and strode away, vanishing as she passed one of the soulspires.

The Unwilling who had once been a student of Wynne's crouched down, wings drawn in, tail lashing. She reminded Wynne of nothing more than a cat after a bath. A cloud of something that had once been the souls of those mages who had failed their Harrowings crept into view. It appeared they were still haunting Moros; looking at them, Wynne wondered if they were the reason Despair had decided to depart. The cloud wrapped itself around a soulspire. Wynne had the impression it was looking at the dragon.

There was an idea tickling the back of Wynne's mind. The Unwilling was freshly arrived, and unlike its brethren who had likely long ago lost all hope of escape, it might cooperate if given reason. Aside from any affection she had for Kathil and sympathy for those she had left behind in the mortal world, there was the plain fact that the Unwilling were one of the reasons that Moros was such a very active power in the Fade. Once, her daughter Elpis had reined her in, but once Elpis had gone Moros had turned to the Unwilling, who were no match for her in power or will.

Giving Moros another pet to play with boded nothing but ill for the rest of the Fade.

Wynne made her decision, and began to call the other parts of herself to her.

We are small but many, she had told Greagoir, and it was something like the truth. Faith was that small candle in the darkness, a spark against the everlasting night. But it was also true that Faith, like Elpis and Moros, had once been one entity. She had divided herself into many pieces and hidden herself away rather than struggle with the other giants of the Fade. Moros remembered, and Moros resented. She always hated it when an opponent got away.

They arrived, one by one. They appeared as humans, elves, dwarves, qunari; male and female, all skin colors and nationalities. Some were shaped like Mabari, others like halla. All of the thinking peoples of Thedas were represented.

As they met, they touched hands to faces and melted into each other. A halla breathed on Wynne's cheek and she felt herself joined by it as it vanished. As they joined, they exchanged news, tales of journeys, memories. Ah, Faith found herself thinking. Now I see.

When the last of them arrived, Faith took Wynne's form. Kathil had known this mage. She had trusted her. Perhaps she would do so once more. It was strange to be together again; she was vast in power, rich in memory. She must do this quickly, before the ripples she created in the Fade reached Moros.

Faith did not know how one last contest between herself and Despair would end, and she was not eager to try even her new might against her old enemy.

She walked towards where the cloud of souls still clung to the soulspire. It was wispy and translucent, nearly formless. Vague shapes appeared and disappeared at its surface. The Harrowed were not dying; they had done that already. But they were vanishing, worn away by the waters of the Fade. They would never reach the Black City, never go where mortal souls usually ended up.

The Unwilling watched her, unblinking, and did not move.

"Children," she said, for children they had been when they had been forced into the Fade and a contest that was badly stacked against them. "I have a great favor to ask of you."

The cloud detached itself from the soulspire and flowed towards her. It came to a halt near her, and gave the impression that it was listening carefully.

Faith explained what she wished of them, and the consequences of it. She told them what was at stake, and what they might be preventing by doing as she asked. And she explained what she would give them in return. The cloud drew in on itself for a few moments, thinking.

Then it flowed towards her, crossing the gap between them. She put her hands out, and the Harrowed came into her grasp.

Myra. Richard. Eva. Lisel. Gertrude. Helene. Piotr. Jeramh. Dewydd. Ffraid. Euan. Cathal. Rhian. The names came in a swift tumble from the Harrowed. So many of them, and all they remembered about who they had been were their names. There were hundreds of them.

Faith committed each name to memory. Here in the Fade, their names would endure as they had not in the mortal world. For a while, they would live in the memory of each fragment of herself. It was all she could offer them, and that they had been eager to accept meant that they knew very well what was happening to them—knew, and were afraid.

"Good children," she said, and the Harrowed arched against her hands. They gave off only a faint impression of warmth. "Now. Let us see what we can do."

She walked towards the image of the dragon, the Harrowed following. She stopped a little way off, and considered the Unwilling. "Will you cooperate?" she asked.

The dragon scratched fitfully at the stone beneath her claws. There was no old road here for her. No place for her to claim. She lashed her tail, once; she was misplaced. She flared her nostrils, frustrated.

"You are, and the human within you still has a chance to live, if we work quickly." She extended a hand, slowly. "You are no friend of Moros, are you."

The Unwilling lifted her head and pinned back her wings in response. No.

"I didn't think so. Help me thwart her, because she's the one who pushed you to land in this mess." The foolish choices had been Kathil's, but Moros had cheated. Moros always cheated. Faith remembered that, now. "Now, here is what you must do—"

Soon enough, everything was set. Faith had no idea how long had passed in the mortal world, only that the spark of awareness within the dragon that was what remained of Kathil was dimming. There was only one thing left to do. She needed an anchor, a trace, to make sure she had the right place.

The answer came to her swiftly. Of course. Of course, foolish little Wynne. Your Templar keeps faith with you, still. A ribbon that had been a thoughtless gift, received as a knight might a favor from a lady. Worried and fretted over for decades. Of course.

Thought was action, and she reached for her ribbon. There. The Harrowed flowed to the point that she indicated, and made of themselves a blade, yearning for the mortal world they had once belonged to. The cloud contracted down to a point and began to flare as the souls within began to spend themselves recklessly. One by one, hundreds of souls gave themselves up to nothingness as everything left in them was spent against the Veil.

One mortal soul would not have been able to do it.

Hundreds did.

The Veil was open for a moment, a split second, and Faith gathered herself and pushed.

It was close, so close that at first she did not know if she was going to be able to do it. The dragon screamed as she shoved with her hands deep within its image at the frozen human form between.

It vanished. The Veil sealed itself.

Faith shattered once more and flowed away. A thousand thousand minds now remembered the names of the Harrowed, and the life of a human enchanter named Wynne. How she had lived, who she had loved, what she had done, and how she had died.

Remember me.

The fragment of Faith that was Wynne coalesced, exhausted. She could do no more. It was up to the mortals, now.

She turned her gaze towards home, and went.

---

Jowan:

A fortnight had passed since Kathil had gone into the Fade.

There was still a shocked silence in the Vigil. The Wardens, even those who had not particularly liked the commander, were still subdued and quiet. Nathaniel had taken over leadership, as Kathil had told him to. Anora and her people were still in the keep, and no one seemed to be able to get them to leave. What they were waiting for was anyone's guess.

Eamon had departed for Denerim, and good riddance. He was just going to regroup for another attempt to pry Anora out of the Vigil, but at least he was out of their hair for the moment. The rest of the nobility who had arrived for the celebration seemed to be content to wait. The Wardens had not told them that Kathil was dead. Not yet.

Zevran and Cullen were rarely seen. Cerys was well-supplied with goat milk from the keep's nanny herd—thank goodness this was late spring, not late fall—and her fathers kept her well out of public view. Lorn, when he was not with Cerys, haunted the place where Kathil had disappeared, pacing and whining in front of the gates that they were swiftly rebuilding.

Jowan, for his part, made himself useful outdoors and tried not to call attention to himself.

He was helping re-thatch a roof, laying down bundles of straw as they were passed up to him. Siani, who was manning the ladder, handed him a bundle and said, "Time to break for a bit, I think. We've barley water if you want some."

"Obliged," he said. Siani averted her eyes and climbed down the ladder. Jowan put the latest bundle in place and tamped it down, making sure of the fit. Then he clambered to the edge of the roof and looked over, preparing to climb down.

Or maybe I'll wait for a bit.

Greagoir was passing by the house Jowan was working on, evidently on his way to the gates. He had a rolled scroll in one hand, so he was probably going towards the messenger post. The afternoon sun was bright and warm. It would be no hardship to wait until he had passed back by this way and was gone.

As he watched Greagoir, a strange sensation twisted his stomach. That was odd. It almost felt as if something was wrong with the Veil.

The former Knight-Commander stopped in his tracks.

Dizziness washed over Jowan, and he shook his head slightly, trying to clear it. What was—

—that?

A bright spark appeared by the Templar's left hand, and he recoiled. A moment later, something human-sized appeared and tumbled to the ground. Jowan stared, not sure he believed what he was seeing.

It was Kathil, curled in the fetal position, her skin quickly riming with frost.

Jowan climbed down the ladder, jumped down the last four rungs, and ran towards her. The outer ward was suddenly ablaze with murmurs and shouts as everyone turned to look. Greagoir was there when Jowan reached Kathil and dropped to his knees beside her. "Is she—" the Templar began.

Jowan shook his head and laid his hands on her body. Concentrate, concentrate—there! "She's alive. Sort of. I have to call her back." He glanced up at Greagoir. "If you want her among the living, don't kill me until after I'm done."

Then he sat back on his heels, and took a moment to think. The spark of Kathil's life was guttering and fading, and she was frozen clear through. He had to bring her back, remind her body how to be alive again. She had been in the cold of the Fade for two weeks. This was not going to be simple, or easy.

It will kill me if I get it wrong. It might kill me even if I get it right.

He found that he didn't care.

Jowan pulled his little knife from his belt and slashed deeply into his forearm. He heard but ignored Greagoir's shocked hiss of breath. "Get Cullen and Zevran," he said, not taking his eyes off Kathil. "And as many healing poultices and blankets as you can get your hands on."

Then he held his arm out so his blood fell on Kathil's shoulder and opened himself to the power. Be like me, he told her frozen form. Be warm. Be alive. Breathe, and move.

The depths of her cold encompassed him, and he began to work.

---

Kathil:

She was wading in Lake Calenhad, laughing.

Jowan splashed up beside her. "Look at it, Jowan. It's not tame at all." She kicked water at him with her bare foot. The cold of the lakewater was sending knives of ice up into her legs, but she didn't mind at all. It was worth it for this moment with the smell of snow on the air and the whole world stretched out in front of them.

But Jowan was frowning as his dark hair was whipped by the wind. "I think there's a storm coming," he said, and pointed. Black clouds were roiling towards them, and pellets of ice stung Kathil's face.

She stopped laughing, ebullience draining away. "Something's wrong. Something's gone wrong."

He took her cold hands in his as the wind shoved them, as the waves of the lake reached their knees. Their robes were sodden with water now, and wrapped around their legs. "Hold on to me," Jowan said. He glanced over his shoulder. "Hold on to me, Kathil, and in Andraste's name don't let go. No matter what."

She nodded, frightened now. Jowan pulled her into his arms, and she fisted her hands in the back of his robes.

Don't let go.

The waters were dark and strange things moved in their depths. It wasn't Lake Calenhad at all. Where are we? Jowan was holding onto her as if he thought she might run away. I'm so cold.

The wind shrieked a higher note. The cold was somehow coming from inside of her. It was making Jowan cold, too. The cold coming from her was eating him, eating his warmth. "It'll kill you," she said, and tried to pull away.

He wouldn't let her go. "No matter what," Jowan said. "You promised. No matter what."

Her tears were freezing on her cheeks, and she was too cold even to sob. One moment he was still warm against her. The next, his warmth was gone, submerged beneath the fury of the cold inside of her. His body was a block of ice.

"Jowan," she whispered. "Jowan, I dreamed I was a dragon."

Then they were falling, and the cold water claimed them both.

---

.

Time passed; how much she did not know.

.

---

The sky was blue.

Kathil stared at it mutely for what seemed like an eternity before she began to notice other things, like the weight pressing on her chest and stomach, the sounds all around her that she could make no sense of. Faces came into her view. She blinked up at them, waiting for them to resolve into some sort of sense.

Zevran. Cullen.

Oh.

She tried to speak, say something like, I think I might be alive, but she could make no sound. The weight on her chest was cold. Someone—Cullen—bent down to pull it off of her.

It was Jowan, his skin pale as death.

I dreamed I was a dragon.

Don't let go. No matter what.

"Here," she croaked, raising one hand and making a grasping motion. "Give him here."

"He is dead, mi alma," Zevran said. "I am sorry."

She looked up at Zevran and contorted her face, grimacing. "Don't argue. Just give him here."

Cullen and Zevran exchanged a look, and then Cullen laid Jowan's body down next to Kathil. With a great effort, she managed to get one hand onto his chest. He was not breathing.

Sod you, bastard. You are not dying on me. Not like this.

The connection between them was still alive. He had used the same sort of healing on her as he had used on Leliana's knee—and this time, instead of just hurting him, it had just about killed him. Come here, Jowan. Come back.

She pulled.

She had so little strength, and this was not her magic. But slowly, so slowly, he returned. His heart began to beat, and he took a shuddering breath. She nearly fell unconscious again, but managed to stay awake. He breathed in twice more, gasping, and opened his eyes.

Their faces were close to one another, and he blinked. "Bastard," she said. "Don't get off that easy."

He coughed. "Ungrateful," he said, his voice rough.

Then the both of them were being pulled to a sitting position, wrapped in blankets, bodily picked up and carried into Vigil's Keep. Kathil fell asleep briefly, her head on Cullen's shoulder. When she woke, they were in the dining room of the Warden wing, on a chaise in front of a roaring fire. She was sandwiched between Zevran and Cullen, and the two of them were holding onto her as if they were never going to let her go. Lorn was pressed against her legs.

Zevran was holding a cup to her lips. "Drink," he said, and she obeyed. It was a weak, salty broth, easily the best thing she had ever tasted. When she had drained the cup to the dregs, Zev made the cup disappear.

"Cerys?" she asked. "Is she…"

"Fine and healthy," Cullen said. "Currently being looked after by Greagoir. Do you want her?"

She nodded, and let the expression on her face do her speaking for her. Cullen spoke to someone Kathil couldn't see briefly. Kathil rested her head on Zevran's shoulder.

She felt his lips on her hair as he kissed the top of her head. "Little bird," he said, keeping his voice low. "That is the very last time I watch you walk away to nearly certain doom. Next time, you will take me with you."

"I know," Kathil said. She reached for his hand and intertwined his fingers between his. That and the silence was all she needed, for the moment. There would be discussions, later. She was content to leave them until then.

A little while later Greagoir appeared, carrying Cerys. Cerys was awake, and when she saw Kathil she let out a loud squeal and reached out her hands towards her.

"You're bigger than the last time I saw you," she said to her daughter after Greagoir set her on Kathil's lap. "How long was I…"

"A fortnight." Zevran said. "We all thought…well. I am glad we were wrong." Greagoir looked at her and stepped back, questions he was not asking showing plainly on her face. She closed her eyes and put her head against Zevran's chest. Cerys was gnawing on her little finger. She and Greagoir were going to have to talk, but not today.

Soon, though.

There was one piece of business that could not wait, though. She lifted her head. "Jowan?"

"Over here." Cullen shifted so she could see him. Jowan was sitting nearby, having the cut on his forearm stitched by a scowling Rylock. Would happen to be the Warden with the chirurgeon skills is the woman who hates him. Bless Ilse for teaching her, though. "This is my reward for saving your life? Torture by former Templar?"

"I keep telling you, stay still," Rylock snapped. "This isn't like sewing cloth, you know." Jowan pulled a face, but stilled.

Kathil almost laughed. "Just wanted to tell you. As soon as you're fit to travel, I'm reassigning you to Soldier's Peak. Take a few people—Keili, if she wants to go—and a pair of Mabari. I know you were looking at Avernus's research. I want you to see what you can make of it."

He was very still, looking at her. "Are you certain?"

"I am." She looked down at Cerys, at her wispy blond hair that was growing out curly now. "Don't mistake me, it's not a milk posting. It's remote and wild, and eventually there will be more mages sent to staff the Tower there. And it comes with countless Drydens." Kathil grimaced slightly. "But we will need every advantage we can get, in the days to come."

Jowan looked at her for another long moment, as if he were trying to decide if he believed her. "If you trust me…"

"I trust you," she said softly. "Just be careful."

In his smile there was something of the young Jowan who had shown her the way out of the Tower, all those years ago. They were standing on the Tower's rocky shore once more, both of them young and untried. Broken hearts and broken lives were still in the future, and the world was open before them, full of possibility.

She relaxed against Zevran and fell asleep once more between her two loves, her daughter on her lap, her hound at her feet. She was safe, and finally warm, and with her family.

If there was trouble in the world, it would wait for her to wake.