Work Text:
Inquisitor,
In light of the information you gave us regarding the truth of the events at Red Crossing, we would like to offer a sign of mourning to the village. Since both sides played a part in this tragedy, honoring the village with one of our halla seems appropriate. If it could be kept there, it might remind both sides of the fragile beauty of things that journey to places where they are strangers.
I understand that the villagers of Red Crossing do not trust the Dalish, given our history. If you could convince them to accept this tribute in good faith, it would be greatly appreciated.
Keeper Hawen
A note was scrawled at the bottom of the letter, from a different hand:
Tess, if it's this important we can march the blasted halla in with some troops to guard it. — Cullen
“For once,” said Inquisitor Theresa Trevelyan, a wry smile aimed at her advisers, “that might actually be a good idea, Commander.”
Josephine had dressed Theresa in whites and grays for this diplomatic trip to Red Crossing. They were colors of peace, diplomacy… and they matched the halla, and the Dalish banners, that Theresa was meant to accompany. It would be clear to anyone watching that Theresa stood with the clan and that they had her protection.
Cullen, on the other hand, matched the red sails of the aravels. He had insisted on overseeing this mission personally, which Theresa suspected might have had more to do with her than the halla. Despite his own disinterest, the stately white deer had immediately taken a liking to him and his crimson cloak, of which there was now a conspicuous chunk missing.
It was a small price to pay for peace—and peace they had achieved, it seemed. The approach had been tense, and the villagers had been reluctant, but eventually the halla’s lead had changed hands and assurances were given for its safe-keeping. Keeper Hawen, as icy and austere as he tended to come across, had been rather eloquent, even moving, and seemed to defrost some of the villagers’ hearts. It had been centuries of mistrust and blame, but Theresa was feeling confident that at last some progress had been made.
They had accompanied the Dalish back toward Elgar’nan’s Bastion, where some of their clan had been killed by Red Templars many months ago, but Theresa and Cullen split off from the clan to give them privacy to mourn. Now, they wandered through the peaceful groves, between monumental trees marking the graves of countless elves, and basked in their success.
The halla had been given, it would be safe, the Dalish were safe, and the Red Templars had been firmly ousted from the territory. By all rights, they deserved a moment of peace for themselves.
“Seems like there’s a clearing ahead,” Cullen noted, his hands clasped behind his back. “Perhaps we can sit a while.”
“Tired already?” Theresa teased. “You really didn’t have to wear your entire kit for this.”
Cullen turned his smile into his shoulder. “It’s lighter than it looks, I assure you.”
The trees indeed grew thinner, then opened up to grant them a beautiful vista. They had found their way up a subtle slope and found themselves approaching a cliff, and from this vantage point, they could see the rolling hills beneath the sea of trees around them. The blue and white roofs of villas dotted the world of green, but it felt as though the Emerald Graves extended in every direction forever.
Theresa wondered what the landscape would have looked like, had the Dales grown strong and independent. Would they have built castles, and villas, of their own? Had they?
The cliff was not completely bare, after all. Traces of ancient structures littered the clearing, made of the same stone that Elgar’nan’s Bastion had used. Large stones were scattered across the ground like children’s playthings, leaving no hints as to what had the Dalish once built.
Theresa wandered among the stones, the remnants of walls barely taller than she was, and consoled herself that these wounds had finally begun to heal.
Cullen stood near the edge of the cliff, hands on his hips as he breathed in the crisp forest air.
“It doesn’t smell quite like Ferelden,” he said wryly.
Theresa laughed. “Come on. Admit it! Orlais has its merits.”
“I don’t know about that, but I’d certainly take this over Halamshiral any day,” Cullen said.
“It’s gorgeous.” Theresa joined him, twining her arm with his and resting her head against his pauldron. They were silent for a while, letting the breeze whisper between them without words. Theresa’s curls fell across her brow, and Cullen brushed them back behind her ear, washing her in the comforting smell of his leather gloves.
“Erm, excuse me?!”
They startled, and as they turned to face the newcomer they instinctively fell into careful positions: Theresa gave Cullen enough room to draw his sword, and Cullen stood a half-pace back from Theresa, to allow her to cast if need be.
A small figure stood at the other end of the clearing, near the treeline. They wore a fine set of blue armor with gold filigree, and a splash of orange on their head, but it was difficult to discern any other details at such a distance.
They were waving emphatically.
“You know this is a dragon’s roost, right?!”
“What,” Cullen said flatly, and Theresa cursed.
“Not again,” she muttered. “Come on, Cullen—”
“Kaffas!” the stranger cried, and Theresa was inclined to agree. The air stirred with the dragon’s mighty wings as it returned, and it had surely spotted them, for the furious roar it gave was full of indignation at their trespass.
The temperature in the clearing dropped precipitously, and Theresa raised a hasty barrier. The deluge of ice shards hit them all at once, exploding on the ground and peppering them with shrapnel. Theresa couldn’t help the shout of surprise that escaped her.
“Tess, get for cover!” Cullen urged, and they bolted together for the nearest wall of stone. The stranger made the opposite choice and instead charged down the center of the clearing toward the dragon.
The dragon—a Greater Mistral, judging by the coloration and, well, the barrage of ice—crashed to the ground with enough force to make Theresa lose her footing. A druffalo carcass flew past them, discarded in favor of the battle ahead.
An invigorating battle cry rose in answer to the dragon’s roar. Theresa and Cullen shared a quick glance, then peered out from their hiding place to see the stranger weaving between the dragon’s legs, red light flaring along their blade as they cut into its ankles.
On unspoken agreement, they rushed in to join the fray.
The Veil was thin all throughout the Graves, which granted Theresa’s spells a fluidity and grace she seldom achieved elsewhere. To create a self-sustaining barrier around Cullen took little effort, and exhilaration shot through her as she sent him off with such a powerful spell of protection. No one could see it with their eye, and no one could feel it but him—and that was enough. He charged into battle confident in the resistance her barrier afforded him.
From her own mana, Theresa manifested the might she carried within. She drew her hands apart to form the large blade of spirit and energy, then took hold of its hilt in both hands. Instead of wasting her energies on protection, she thrust it all—all—into this. She would find protection more efficiently: turning the enemy’s strength back upon it, leeching power from its innate magic, and forming a cloak of protection made of the Veil itself.
Theresa lunged through the Fade to reach Cullen’s side, crossing yards of distance in the blink of an eye. She was already prepared to strike when she rematerialized and lashed out with her two-handed spirit blade, catching the dragon’s already-damaged ankle.
The creature cried out in pain and flailed the wounded limb in her direction. Cullen pushed her out of the way, arm raised to shield her—but he had not brought his shield.
“Cullen!”
It was not just her voice that called out his name.
A flash of blue and a crash of metal, and Cullen and the stranger landed in a heap at Theresa’s feet. Cullen had escaped the worst of the dragon’s claws, but the stranger had a long silver scratch down the side of her blue armor where it had caught her. She seemed winded, but not terribly injured, and hurried to her feet.
Theresa finally got a good look at the warrior: a Dalish elf wearing a crown of round, orange flowers and wielding a blade much like Theresa’s own. The greatsword clutched in the elf’s hands rippled with strange rainbow light, and the hilt was more ornate than anything Theresa had ever seen.
But the dragon-slaying runes were unmistakable.
The Dalish woman ran back toward the dragon before Theresa could see the symbol emblazoned on her chest.
Theresa helped Cullen stand, and with brief nods at one another, they followed the stranger into battle once more.
Ice magic was of little use against the Mistral, Theresa knew, but she commanded more storms than winter squalls alone. From beneath the dragon’s belly, she raised her sword high as a conduit—and sundered the air with a powerful stream of electricity.
“Now!” she cried to Cullen. “I’ve got it stunned!”
She didn’t see what happened next, but it was enough to thrust the dragon out of its paralysis. In a shower of icy blue blood, it reared back on its hind legs and began beating its wings in panic.
“GET LOW!” the stranger bellowed.
Theresa dropped to the ground. Cullen dropped over her, sheltering her from the onslaught of wind and rock and blood with his body.
The dragon took off, screaming in furious pain.
A small, gauntleted hand grabbed Cullen’s shoulder and pulled him upright, then reached for Theresa. She met Theresa’s gaze with fierce amber eyes, set in a face that bore the telltale disfigurement of a dragon hunter.
“Get to cover!” the Dalish woman ordered. “It’ll come around with its blast any second.”
Theresa wasted no time, folding the Veil once more to pull herself across the open field and to a pile of rubble. Cullen sprinted behind her, and she watched his progress, casting anticipatory glances at the sky.
Sure enough, the dragon was already wheeling back in their direction. For a moment it blotted out the very sun, but the world remained well-lit by an incoming blast of ice and magic.
Cullen dove behind the wall just in time to avoid the worst of it.
“Maker,” he wheezed. “What a workout.”
“Feeling inspired? Will I see the new recruits leaping and rolling across the courtyard soon?” Theresa asked breathlessly. “Perhaps the mages could use them as target practice to hone their instincts.”
Cullen elbowed her lightly, laughing. “Depends. How many dragons do you think our soldiers will be facing in the coming days?”
“No more,” Theresa said, definitive.
A keening wail filled the air, interrupting them. Theresa clapped her hands over her ears and looked up to see the dragon approaching at a low angle—claws outstretched for a brutal landing; its wings tore the air like an arrow might, creating that high-pitched sound.
It did not come toward them but instead aimed for the center of the arena.
Where the stranger stood, seemingly unarmed.
Her body was tensed, feet planted firmly in the dirt, leaning forward slightly as if she planned to meet the dragon head-on. Her arms hung at her sides, fists clenching and unclenching rapidly.
As the dragon reached the earth once more, Theresa found herself coiling her muscles too, as if she might spring out to help the woman in the futile effort to stop the raging beast. But Cullen grabbed hold of her arms and kept her firmly in place as they watched what surely would be the woman’s death.
The world exploded all at once. Clods of earth, large rocks, and a cloud of dust filled the air, and the dragon’s roar never abated. Theresa’s heart sank to think that the woman had been crushed, or torn to shreds, beneath the dragon’s claws. No one should have been crazy enough to face a charging dragon head-on, let alone one diving at speed.
In the split second before the dust cleared, Theresa found herself disappointed that she wouldn’t be able to ask the woman where she had found her spirit blade.
But then—
An astonishing tableau appeared before them: the dragon and the woman were face-to-face, and their foreheads would have been pressed against each other if not for the flickering plane of light drawn between them. The Dalish woman had both arms outstretched to conjure it, and Theresa could feel how the Veil responded to her will.
That was no barrier.
It was a shield.
A shield that had stopped a dragon.
In the split-second that Theresa ogled the scene, Cullen had already spanned half the distance between them and the dragon. Before the dragon could rear back, he had reached it—and so had his sword.
The dragon shrieked as the blade entered its eye, then sank deeper. Cullen held strong despite its death-throes, clinging to his sword until finally, finally, the creature dropped its head to the ground and lay still.
The Dalish woman tilted forward, falling to her knees in front of the beast. She pressed her forehead against its snout as she tried to catch her breath.
“Everyone—ha—everyone alright?” she puffed.
“Yes, thank the Maker,” Cullen said, and turned. “Tess? You alright?”
“Just fine,” she assured him. “That was incredible!”
The Dalish woman tilted her head, still slumped over the dragon, to give Theresa a weary smile. “You’re not so bad yourself, Knight Enchanter,” she said.
Cullen offered her a hand, which the woman clasped tightly. When he pulled her to her feet, she clapped a hand against his shoulder with surprising camaraderie.
“Glad it all worked out,” she said. Her smile, now much wider, twisted the deep scars on her face into gruesome patterns that contorted her vallaslin as well. Nevertheless, it was easy to see that she was young, not yet thirty, and had a roundness in her cheeks that spoke to a comfortable life.
“Introductions are in order, I think,” Theresa said. “I’m Theresa.”
“Inquisitor Trevelyan, you mean,” Cullen said.
A strange tightness tugged at the Dalish woman’s smile, but she nodded at Theresa.
“I’m Cullen Rutherford, the Inquisition’s Commander.”
The woman nodded again. Her eyes flitted between the two of them quickly, and Theresa got the impression of a captain surveying a battlefield—she was drawing connections, planning something, in just a moment’s pause.
“Are you two…?” she asked, her smile widening again. She allowed them to splutter and demur a bit, then shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, I suppose. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” said Cullen. “But you haven’t introduced yourself. It’s not every day we meet a Dalish mage who fights like a Chevalier and faces down a dragon head-on.”
The woman ducked her head, smiling down at her hands as she began to take off her gauntlets. “A mage who fights like a Chevalier,” she repeated. “I mean… Yeah. That’s about right.” She shrugged and looked up again, fixing Theresa with those piercing amber eyes.
She held out her bare hand, which sparkled with familiar green light.
“I am Inquisitor Ixchel Lavellan,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Theresa.”