petrichor

a-

It's not the manner in which your eyes pass over me that I find exasperating. It's the after: when recognition junctions to your mind and the curve of your shoulders visibly constrict beneath your robes, stiff contours. The light reflects differently upon your eyes when you see a Templar; instinctual as it may be, your distrust is so plainly visible that even if I had not been assigned to stand guard near your quarters I would have remembered you.

But with truth: I believed I was beyond caring what mages think of me. I have not been broken in this life, but I have been made to bend, weighed to an ugly crookedness by memories of the Feralden Circle and the Blight. Mages may be similar enough to us outwardly, but our demons stay inside us. The distrust you harbor for me, I would be justified to return multiple.

Yet inexplicably, you still manage to bother me. The way you nug about in my vicinity, docile and pathetic, is upsetting. Perhaps it's because I've seen your true character before, a glimpse at the thunderclap behind your eyes, when you're focused on a task. You're still young but there is more life in you than many of the others; what it can become, an unkempt good or beautiful destructiveness, I do not know. I don't think you're beautiful, at least not in a manner that commands my attention. Yet nightly, an image of you slinks gently into my mind's covers; in wakefulness, my gaze falls upon you unconsciously. It is not a comfortable feeling, to be interested in a mage again. What's more, there is no connection because us: you do not give and I am reluctant to ponder what I would take. Unsure whether to see you as a mage, or as you are. The Blight left me fractured in that regard.

I happen upon you on my way to a Harrowing. It's to be my first at the Ostwick Circle and as with all Harrowings, an uncomfortable liveliness stirs within me. Nothing is certain in the Fade. Though I'm distracted and we are plotted in opposite directions, and I meet your eyes early enough that even if you were planning to duck into another room, a neglected greeting would come across as rude.

I force myself to nod curtly in acknowledgment, versed to our awkward interactions. To my surprise, you speak as soon as I'm within earshot.

"You look rather severe."

I bite back a wry smile. That you would decide to greet me at this time is unexpected. "Does it show so clearly?"

"It's noticeable," you say, not slowing in your gait. We have exchanged more pleasantries than I can remember, but your intention to avoid an extended chat is bare, offensively so. My steps halt and I let the smile stretch my face, remembering my mother saying a conversation, like any good dancing pair, needs a leader to guide it.

"I'm preparing for a task I'm not looking forward to. I would welcome a distraction."

"I won't keep you," you reply quickly, accompanying this with a lower of the head to avoid my eyes. A twinge of annoyance passes through me. I am not so unlearned; your awareness of proper conversation is not wanting to such an extent. Before you can wholly evade the matter I purposefully step into your path of flight. It's enough for you to pause and look up at me, for what may as well be the first time.

"Am I so fearsome?" I ask, matching discourtesy.

Merely addressing the matter stifles the air. We stare at one another for a moment too long, and in the end you quietly brush past me, leaving me to suffocate in our unanswered tension. I'm again stranded, witnessing your retreat. Uncertain still, how to treat you.

The Harrowing is a failure.

I had seen the mage before. Lane, his name was. He had been near your age: a young, studious, and cheerful lad that freely offered his trust to the Templars. He had proudly reminisced about his first mage staff when we had met ("blessed by the First Enchantress herself" he had claimed). The staff had been left near his side for luck. It's also the first thing that is destroyed, cracked by a wayward gust of magic when its owner loses all self.

The guard assigned to slay Lane, scarcely younger than I, is unable to make the kill. It's likely the guard's first time witnessing an Abomination, and the unholy metamorphosis is enough to paralyze him. I could sympathize; though I had seen a number of those Abominations at Feralden, when Lane deforms- unbleeding gore-flesh bubbling monstrously from the caverns of his insides until the mage is a lurid, writhing creature- my own conviction wavers, replaced with a renewed mixture of disgust and debilitating awe.

The remaining Templars promptly step in to slay the atrocity before it becomes fully aware. Though the assigned guard had dallied for no more than a moment, Lane's possession is advanced enough that the Abomination wildly jerks its head towards the Templar's approach, absorbing snippets of its surroundings and the danger in its periphery. I see its maddened gaze glaze over my own, wide and unrecognizing. A fleeting, terrifying moment passes. There is enough of Lane in the creature that a distant part of me, a part I had once thought broken, stills my sword-arm for a critical breath, halting my intentions to join my Templar brothers. Just when a primordial, wicked intelligence alights in the Abomination's eyes, a nearby senior guard strikes the demon strongly with his blade. The blow awakens all of us, and in the next second another guard's blade joins the first and buries into the beast. Soon there is only the wet, smacking sound of metal to flesh. It's not a quick death.

"Maker," Lane's assigned guard whimpers once it's over, terrified from what he has witnessed. His sword remains unused at his side. The unpleasantness could have been avoided. I only observe in grim silence, appropriate words of any kind outside of my grasp.

There's the heavy clank of armored footsteps. I turn to see the Knight-Commander- a stern fellow I had only briefly spoken with- push his way to the front. His own weapon is drawn. Without warning, he raises his blade and strikes me heavily in the chest with the pommel. I stumble backwards clumsily, unprepared for the punishment. Seconds later there's a pained yelp to my side, and I know he's done the same to the other young guard.

"Both of you," the Knight-Commander growls, "bring shame to the Order." He reaches for the greenhorn's exposed neck, gripping it violently like he had caught a troublesome stray. "Perhaps I should send you lot to the Chantry. A title of 'Sister' is more becoming."

The Knight-Commander glares at me, motioning with his sword. "You should know better, Cullen. Lived through the Blight, didn't you? Hesitation is a neglected killer."

"It was not because..." I end the thought before it can be made known. However, the Knight-Commander presses the issue.

"Not because what? We must study the root of your mistakes, otherwise we cannot correct them."

I ponder the matter only briefly. The Maker knows my sins. Best not to lie and extend that list. "I was familiar with the mage. Merely in passing. But it was enough to... to make me hesitate, as you said. I hesitated when I thought of his good nature."

"Ah. Cowardice of a different kind." The Knight-Commander nods in understanding. Contrary to my expectations, his eyes soften at the edges and there's a distant memory reflected there, one close enough to my words.

He shoves the younger guard away. I catch a glimpse of the livid, ruby mark left on the poor lad's neck before the Knight-Commander takes me roughly by the shoulder and guides me to the mage's remains. I force myself not to turn away.

"Tell me. Do you see any of the mage's good nature before you?"

I stare at the body of the Abomination, a raked slab. My silence is answer enough.

"It is our duty to protect. These mages must be made to control themselves. For the benefit of all of us. For all of Thedas," the Knight-Commander asserts, and the way his voice projects... he's no longer speaking just to me. Rather, I'm being made an example. "You should not see them for what they are. Rather, what they could become. There are demons that dwell in all of them. Even the best mages can succumb. I've seen it time and again."

His last words echo as empty boasts, though they are not without truth. This lesson he's trying to convey, I know heavily. The memories of Feralden's Circle are to haunt me for all my living nights. I have witnessed the monsters hidden behind every mage, witnessed them tugged from the Fade into our own world. A young, idealistic part of me had refused to view the mages as different. Naive.

Strangely, it is you that comes to my mind at such a time. But not the you that delicately wanders my mind at the peak of slumber: a you that would slither at the edge of consciousness, a nightmare brought to life.

The Knight-Commander continues his sermon. "Can I trust you all to act without hesitation in the future? For the good of all?"

Each of his words are stones, goaded atop the Blight's events already bowing my form. My remaining principles give, and in its place some emotion crystallizes in me, in the recesses of my chest. A hardening that is far too quick, leaving behind only something cracked and imperfect.

"These mages," I begin, and the voice is filled with such abhorrence I can hardly imagine it being my own, "need a keeper. I have not been vigilant enough. Keepers do not have to be understood, if their intentions are benevolent. Hatred is a light payment for safety."

I have spoken well. There's a murmur of agreement from the Templars in the room, though the senior mages are grimly silent by the events. The vice of the Knight-Commander's hand upon my shoulder turns to a commanding, encouraging thump. He leaves without further comment, the recruits at his back. The senior mages slink away after them, unable to muster words of defense for what had occurred.

Lane's staff lies broken and useless, a lump of fragmented iron. Despite myself, despite my newfound convictions, I fetch it and set the remains upon the owner. There's enough scattered shards from the staff that they gleam from what little light shines in the barren room, unregarded sympathy flowers for a soul I'm not meant to pray for.

I had dealt with mages with a light firmness, tensile enough to bend and not harm. No longer.

Previous "insignificant" offenses no longer exist. Any crack in the rules must be punished, and with swiftness. I monitor the locations and daily activities of the mages in my care more than ever before. Temptations of any sort are quenched early. If found, removed; if indulged, punished. I track the mages fiendishly, out of their direct sight but assuring that my presence is nearby. I overhear their discontented mutterings to each other that it is already stifling enough that they are caged in the Circle, that being trailed at all hours is nearly possession. But it is a far better thing to be possessed by a Templar than a demon, surely. I patrol the halls at all hours, napping only when I must and when I've verified other Templars can hold my shift for the pittance of minutes I doze. Sleep cannot substitute for vigilance. I hold to this design for weeks.

If I'm to be considered with grace, the night when I lay wrathful hands upon you was a product of exhaustion. But I know better. A part of me, an inky drop of darkness, deems my actions justifiable even now.

I had been making my nightly patrol when I happened upon you, hours after curfew. Our interactions were rare after the unhappy situation with Lane; my watching over the other mages has consumed my hours. Strangely, even with your physical absence you occupy a portion of my mind, and in the grains of sleep I collect you appear time and again. So when I grab you roughly and feel you startle under my hands, there is a sickly satisfaction, knowing you're real... and knowing you are capable of fearing me.

"Where have you been off to?" I ask, tugging at your shoulder to face me. It occurs to me, for the first time, that there are shadows that cause even mages to whimper.

"What a fright," you breathe in commentary. Your muscles slacken upon identifying that is someone you recognize. "I didn't notice you. I'm just returning from summons." You brush my hand away dismissively, once more cool and unknowable. "It is well after curfew, I know, but Enchanter Williamson kept me longer to assist in updating the records for those tomes we received a few days ago."

Nothing. Nothing to incriminate you. Your tone is collected, sure. A juvenile frustration burns in me, like a squire given his first sword and learning he cannot indiscriminately wield it.

"And if I were to check with Enchanter Williamson tomorrow? She would confirm this?"

Genuine confusion nudges your brow, enough to remove the lingering eagerness I would uncover something untruthful. "Yes. Of course."

My hand slips from your shoulder. I motion you to continue on your way and turn back to my post, disinterested. However, your footsteps match my own, and I turn to see that you cloaked in my shadow. On a better day I might have been surprised, even pleased, for your company. But now it's an annoyance. Unnecessary.

You pause, plotting out your words with care, unknowing of the thoughts twisting within me. "This may not be my place to say... you've been terribly short with everyone lately. Are you... is everything all right?"

I take a weary breath. I'm aware enough to recognize that brushing you aside, as you had done to me so many times before, would be a childish endeavor.

"Yes. Better than I've been in some time." And it's true, as tired as I am; things make sense now. They're less complicated. Just treat the mages like the beasts they are (children, not beasts, I correct myself silently) and their transgressions are no longer complex matters. It's not difficult to judge others when you separate the circumstances from the crime.

"I'm glad to hear that." Your tone is unconvinced. "Still, you look tired."

"I'm fine."

"You may feel so, but from my vantage I wouldn't say the same. I won't mother you, but rest would do you well." You hesitate, then place your hand on my shoulder. A light touch, considerate. "I'll be off."

Rest. Why? There could be more of your kind flitting about after curfew, needing to be corralled. Why would I rest when only you wait for me there, to trouble what sleep I can take?

A queer logic snaps my disjointed mind into place, and my hand seizes yours before you can withdraw. The metal gauntlets dig cold and harsh into your skin.

"What sort of magic have you been delving into, mage?"

You don't recoil. I'm not surprised. "Magic...? I don't understand."

"Come now." An ugly sneer claws across my face. "Calling for me to rest when you've never shown concern before. How noble your timing, that you would speak when I've begun my disciplining of you mages in earnest. It's starting to make sense, oh yes. How long have you been biding your time for this? What do you have planned?"

A cautious puzzlement strains at your brow. I take your silence as an admission of guilt.

"Shortly after we met, you inhabited my thoughts far more than any of the others. It's clear now, why I can sense your presence even at a distance. Magic that forces you into my head. It was so different than what I had dealt with at the Feralden Circle I hardly recognized it. I ask again: what are you planning?"

"Planning? I'm not... you were at the Feralden Circle? But you've been here only..." Your eyes widen. "The Blight? You witnessed the Blight?"

"Does that frighten you? I've endured far worse than your kind, mage." I yank at your arm, hard, and sense the joint nearly separating from its socket. There's a satisfaction that I've caused you pain. "Let's pay a visit with the First Enchanter, see what she will make of you."

"I don't know what you're speaking of," you say, apprehension plain. But you don't dare to protest as I lead you away, aware of a Templar's authority and the consequences of defiance. "Ser, you're hurting me."

"Could you be a dreamer? I've heard of this kind of magic. You... the First Enchanter would know, she must. Why was I not told?" I pause, the implications scrabbling fiendishly in my head, collecting into a dark thought. "The corruption here is deeper than I imagined. The First Enchanter is not the person to speak to. I must report this to the Knight-Commander."

With another forceful jerk at your arm I drag you in the opposite direction, ignoring your protests.

"I would know if I was entering the Fade at will, ser. I do not know magic of that sort." I distantly sense you still trying to tug your hand away from mine. "Your grip, please. Please."

I answer with silence. It is petty, but the ugly satisfaction that I am hurting you grows. I have defeated something today. The image of your anxious face, tense with uncertainty, is a victory.

There's a sudden howling crackle, accompanied with a penetrating cold that deadens the nerves of my hand that's clamped around yours. The sound had been the metal of my gauntlets twisting into shapes unintended by their creator, morphing into sheets of ice. A few moments more it would have been my own hand joining the alteration, if I had not the sense to release my hand from yours. Wisps of frost take to the space left between our limbs. Your own hand is unnaturally bright with magic, and the sight of it (maleficents demons abominations) overwhelms any lingering reason I possess. With my other hand I strike a harsh clap to the side of your head, eliciting a sharp cry from your lips. You stumble back and I fumble for my blade with frozen fingers, a terrified moan stuck in my throat. My heart is not prepared to kill again, to kill people I once cared for, to kill you.

My sword leaves its scabbard with a detached shimmer and I brace for a torrent of magic that doesn't come. There are no changes in your outward person, and the hazy nightmarish form I had imagined would greet me remains only in my mind. You're watching me with wild eyes, eyes that match the fear in my heart. Claret blood snakes down your face, and when I look to my gauntlets I see the barest tuft of discoloration, torn skin caught to the chrome. Your fear, your blood... you're human. You're you. And this elementary realization is enough to draw me from my foolishness.

"I... Maker, I didn't mean to..." I cannot still the horror quavering my voice, nor the blade from slipping from my hand, the weapon clattering at my feet. Vigilance, yes, but to mistreat mages under my care, as I've seen so many done before...

Your palm is tightly pressed to your temple. There is more blood than I could have imagined; your hand hides what is certainly a sizeable gash. That I've struck a woman's face... how low I am, how low I've become.

I reach forward. "Let's go see the healers, they'll-"

"Don't touch me." The ice in your voice settles coldly in the hollows of my chest. I take a breath.

"I know it's not a serious wound, but we still need to-"

"I am in control of myself. I have been this entire while," you say, and your words are so chilled the skin at the nape of my neck stiffens. "But if that condition is to change, I can assure you... you will be the first I direct my malice towards."

You leave. I make no effort to chase after you, to defend myself. I only need look at the blood where you stood to know I am not an innocent. That I truly was as fearsome as you had imagined, more fearsome than I would hope to be.

We do not speak again for many days. With each accidental meeting we step around each other, determined to direct our eyes to other places. My guilt is a somber weight, and when I'm finally called for a meeting with the Ostwick Knight-Commander I am grateful to accept punishment. It is only then that I seek you out.

I happen across you in the library, withdrawn and sullen. You continue to hold your gaze to your reading when I stand over your shoulder, and when I speak you frown rather than flinch at my voice.

"I've been reassigned."

Silence. Appropriate and expected. I'm only repeating a verdict that you requested, after all. You're from the very house that had called for my transfer, and if I had cared earlier- to remember that mages were not born from the Fade but from this world and had families and friends like any of us- I would not be standing before you.

No visible mark remains on your cheek. The healers had done good work.

My throat itches painfully. I swallow hard, and fortunately my voice is steady and strong to the end.

"Lady Trevalyan," I say, and speaking your name somehow makes you real to me, for the first time. "I wish that things had been different between us."

You finally grant me a look. It is different from any of the others settled upon me previous: not unreadable but indecipherable. What pity would be if not attached to sentiment, what hate would be if not born of passion.

"I shan't miss you," you announce quietly. I can discern no emotion from your words, and that is the most painful: that I was not worth even that much to you, in the end.

You turn back to your tome and I am again forgotten. My mouth opens, but nothing rises from mind or chest. With a defeated breath I slink away, my steps dull and heavy. It's only when I return to my quarters to pack my belongings that the pain rises double in me- that I had not said what I should have, that I now know the value you've assigned me is appropriate.

Though the Templar is finally gone, Trevelyan is not overcome with relief as she had imagined. She remains unmoving in her chair. The stillness surrounding her endures naturally, the hushed quiet of deep thought. She has not looked towards the tome pressed beneath her hands for nearly half an hour.

Cullen, her tormentor's name had been. A fine name. A handsome one, if he had worn it well.

When she finally turns her attention back to her tome, she sees the page she's on has a deep tear at the corner. Trevelyan eyes the divided letters, and wonders if such a thing could ever be repaired.

-part

I had never expected to meet you again. To forget you would be an impossibility, but I did not hold to any wishes of a reconnection. Your shadow had appeared in any number of things after my departure, often stretched as a vengeful maleficent, blackened ice reflecting my transgressions. I had feared what another meeting would have meant, and whether I had changed after I had left Ostwick. Kirkwall had been another test, and my actions during that tumultuous time... only the Maker could judge.

It is with such sentiment burdening me that we are rejoined. Fate is whimsical; the circumstances we stood upon hardly what I could have divined. It is because of this- and because the shadow I had reminisced upon was so different from who you are now- that I did not entirely recognize you amidst the frenzy in the mountains, when the tear had opened in the sky. Our convening had been too short, wild.

But when we return to Haven and rekindle the Inquisition, I can avoid the truth no longer when you're presented in the Chantry's council room. The "Herald" is you. You. You're not the dreadful darkness I had feared; you're something else entirely.

There's a flicker of familiarity upon your face when I'm introduced, but its underpinnings are inscrutable. A tangle persists in my guts throughout the proceedings, and we circle each other with our words, neither committing to an acknowledgement of the other. When our first formal meeting ends and your other newly appointed advisers depart, I linger behind. You do likewise, expectant.

I can only stare dumbly at you for a few moments. But I know it is I that must prompt this conversation, to bridge both the years and differences.

"I honestly... I can't believe it's you." I begin, and there's something in my voice that nearly sounds like relief. "I had... I had thought of you frequently. Before our recent meeting, I mean. When Cassandra first brought you around I was unsure, but..."

My words begin to separate. You allow the falters to stand, without input. It's customary between us, these one-sided dialogues.

"I hope there... you know I..." I start and stop, a babbling fool. I feel like a child. My thoughts inevitably drift and I take a breath, forcing my racing heart to calm. I cannot help but wonder how I appear to you now, if I have changed.

"I wanted to... I've always wanted to apologize. For my behavior at the Circle. It was beneath me, the way I treated you. I've had years to carry that burden, and... what I did to all of the mages, you in particular, was unbecoming."

In the ensuing silence, the dim lights are soft around you. Mages oft have an aura about them, and in this quiet you appear transcendent. An old feeling of admiration stirs in me.

"A burden," you finally repeat, thoughtful. There's another measured pause. "You shall carry this burden longer, then."

Your answer is contrary to my expectations. You look pointedly at my face, no doubt conscious of my bewilderment.

"Trust is earned, Commander. You're familiar with that."

"Yes," I manage to reply.

"Forgiveness is the same."

You leave the council room without a word more. I stomp urgently after you, my hurried steps transforming to anxious echoes when we're in Chantry Hall.

"I- wait." I reach for your shoulder instinctively but stop myself short, curling my fingers into my palm. "At least- at least let us speak more. There's so much that I... I didn't say things correctly. I won't bother you, but you can just search for me when you wish to speak. I'll be just outside the stronghold, training our recruits. Please."

We stop before the double doors leading outside, my plea shamefully vulnerable. You press your hand gently against the wood, as if testing its surface before glancing over your shoulder.

"You said you'll be outside the stronghold?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. We can make introductions there," you say calmly.

My brow furrows, confused. "...introductions?"

"We should keep up appearances that it's our first time meeting, after all." You tilt your head, studying me from a different perspective. "I remember your last words to me, before we separated at Ostwick. I can't simply forget how I was treated... but yes, I believe we should start anew. As much as we can, in these times. I think this arrangement would be agreeable for us both."

I swallow with an audible click. My throat has gone dry. "Yes. Yes, I... I would like that."

"Of course you would," you dismiss, tone frigid and bitter. "I'll have to see whether I feel the same."

You push against the wood, hard. When the massive doors creak open you're bathed in light, and my breath catches in my throat. I oversee your departure with a prevailing thought: that Herald or not, you are magnificent. Not a shadow as I had long imagined, but jeweled lightning crackling against a bloated sun, a storm destined to stay.

Even after your miraculous escape from Haven and your insistence on a northern course, there is an unspoken doubt amongst the surviving populace. In spite of the turbulent events of the past few days my mind is distant, engrossed in reflection. It has been a good, long while since I had been forced into a march and my head feels clear, lucid. The mountains are cold and the frost leaves a ghostly, phantom pain in my hand, but it dulls the wanting pangs for lyrium.

The cold air is thin in the mountains, and not everyone is fit for the lengthy trek. We stop regularly at first, so that others may recover and adapt. I occupy my hands and body during those times, grasping for a semblance of routine and normalcy. Defeat takes a different toll when you are no longer a simple soldier; there are additional losses, the most unsettling being the loss of control, of waking with the knowledge that merely existing is now considered progress. I try to search for the minor things I still have control over; accounting for the remaining men, assisting with the wounded. Piecing together the names of those that were lost.

But there are only so many times I can ask for the same status updates before there are no more to be had. Since our retreat from Haven, Cassandra has settled into a frightful combination of brooding and edgy, making her a difficult conversation partner. Leliana speaks curtly, distracted; no doubt blaming herself, as I had done.

It is during one of these times of inactivity that my eye is drawn to you, detached from the main group. Your demeanor has changed since the meeting with Corypheus; it's as if you've become grander, filled into the title that the others have placed upon you. Though my interactions with you have been restricted to superficial pleasantries since our reunion at Haven, I find myself plodding through the snow to where you are.

You're at a cliff's edge, staring out into the pastel-white expanse. I make my steps loud so you will not be startled by my approach or voice.

"We're certain this is the path?" I call, conversational. You glance over your shoulder, confirming my presence. I join your side, expecting you to shrink away or voice displeasure. You do neither, instead returning your attention outwards at the mountains we've yet to traverse. I study your features from the corner of my vision. You are entrancing still, and I've come to know that it is not magic that draws me to you.

"Certainty is perhaps too wishful a word," you say quietly. "But it's a path I would like to trust in.

Silence envelops us. It is still an uncomfortable one, tenuous; but I know to stand alongside it now.

"The Blight..."

I startle at the sound of your voice. You do not face me, instead still seeking something out in the distance.

"When we were attacked in Haven, you acted swiftly and decisively. I... through that, I was again reminded that you witnessed the Blight. Would you trust me enough to go further into detail about that time?"

It is a vague question, yet difficult all the same. I search within me: not for words, but the broken images of that time, the ones I have kept in the darkest shadows. I'm uncertain what I am willing to bring into the light again. It is painful to recall even the most benign of those memories, more than I could have imagined.

"More details about the Blight. Yes. There were... a great many difficulties," I begin slowly, allowing the reflections to leak at their own pace from my lips. "I have told you about the Templar life. With it comes a need for... discipline. Before the Blight occurred, I grew close to some of the mages when I was in the Feralden Circle. Even... even fond of a few. But it's folly to be so unguarded. Within each mage is potential, a terrible potential. And to forget that... it would be as if one would fall into a flame, trusting its warmth but uncaring of its capacity to burn. It is a balance I could not understand; did not have the full opportunity to understand because of the Blight."

I rest my hand against the hilt of my sword, seeking out the familiar, hard contours of its material. I take a breath.

"After I left Ostwick... the events in Kirkwall forced me to reconsider that balance. I do not know yet of an appropriate manner in which to treat all mages. All I know to seek is order. Rightfulness... that is a matter I may struggle with for the rest of my days. But it's a worthwhile goal, one I wish to stand by. I believe I can find it here, with the Inquisition."

I close my eyes momentarily. The visions are there, still. A jumble of flame and blood, dotted with rare quiet and peace. My course has not been smooth. Yet in those reflections, the calm I sought- so many had been with comrades, Templars and mages alike. Mages such as you.

My eyes open and I release a breath. My free hand is quivering involuntarily from a cold I cannot place. Lyrium withdrawal.

"Maker. I treated you that way... all of you that way because I was afraid. How often I've been ruled by fear... how much longer will I...?"

There's a familiar weight upon my shoulder, warm and transient. I stiffen and glance sidelong in your direction. At some point during my musings you had turned to face me. Both your arms are loose at your sides, and I wonder if the ghostly touch had been yours, from hands I had always thought were made of frost.

"You are more than that," you say, resolute. Before I can respond you trudge away, having decided that the group's rest has been lengthy enough.

I watch you depart. The world, my world, seems to be at your pace now. The fierce memory of your words draws a weak, crooked smile to my face.

"We shall see," I answer softly, my breaths coming as a mist, like old ghosts leaving my being.

After we reach Skyhold, the Inquisition becomes a beast of its own, growing and expanding to match the other monster that is Corypheus. I'm one of its tamers, forced to adapt to its hectic rate of development. I'm glad to throw myself into this endeavor, both to occupy myself from the intensifying symptoms of lyrium withdrawal and to contribute to what I believe is a force of rightfulness.

It is rare that I take time to myself, and rarer still that I can speak to you privately. And yet one day we do just that, over chess no less. The words that we exchange are few; yet during the match I sense us growing closer, something approaching trust beginning to form between our careful movements.

"This may be the longest we've gone without discussing the Inquisition, or related matters," I finally say, breaking our silence. The realization is a surprising one to me, as is my comfort with our tranquility. I cannot even recall what it was that had unsettled me so about it; a feeling of distance, perhaps. A distance I no longer fear. "To be honest, I appreciate the distraction."

You hardly glance up from the board. "We should spend more time together."

An emotion swells within me, one I cannot identify. It is the easiness of your suggestion that touches me: as if the idea is natural, despite all the misunderstandings we've shared. "I would like that."

"Me too."

An ancient, hardened crystal close to my heart fractures, breaks, crumbles to nothing.

"You said that," I say, nearly to myself. I am not certain I have won your forgiveness; but I know I can yet win your trust. And the sensation in my chest is young, a familiar kindling. It's as if a tear in me has been sewn, and the thread that binds my heart together is you, and only you.

-End-

Author's Note: Prompt from a kind anon at the kink.