Chapter Text
“For the moment, it is stable.”
“Meaning what exactly, Solas?”
“Meaning he yet lives for the night. As the Breach’s power grows, this mark responds, but I do not believe this man responsible. He has no mark of magic besides this and the wounds he sustained in the Fade.”
“You think him innocent?”
“I think him powerless, which is an entirely different scenario. This mark is consuming him, like a parasite, but it is not at all like possession by a demon. While the mark is stable I will return up towards the battle camps and see if I cannot render a similar effect on the rifts through the path. Our time runs remarkably short. If he awakens, bring him through the pass. I might be able to teach him to control it, if he is willing.”
“That is a lot to weigh on faith, Solas.”
“Was it not you that. hours ago, comforted the pilgrims of Haven with such similar words? ‘Faith is all we have.’ I hope you’ll hold some for a little longer. I will see you on the mountainside.”
“Andraste protect us all...”
It was the ache in his back and knees that woke him. Propped into a kneeling position, hands chained in front of him, it wasn’t the throbbing headache or the pain in his hand that brought him conscious but the cold ache of limbs gone numb. He grunted, and Aedhin shook his head to try and hold back the panic that sputtered up in his stomach.
This was a prison cell. Five armed Chantry soldiers stood around him with swords drawn, not more than eight inches away from him. He sucked in a slow breath, and shuddered. What did I do? How did I get here? This must be a mistake...
Aedhin swallowed but his tongue felt like sandpaper. He looked around, but the soldiers wore thick helms that covered their eyes. They did not move as he tried to find an answer in the walls around him, an explanation, anything, in the dark.
The last thing he remembered...a fight with Rodhain in the courtyard after being pulled back to Ostwick. They weren’t mad about the relief effort, or even the enormous cost of building the library, but he was furious that Aedhin helped a group of mages secure passage out to Ferelden. Yelling, threatening, how could you be caught disgracing the family like this...should have convinced father to send you to the Templars! Rodhain, face etched in stress and anger, the very picture of their father before he retired from the family estate years ago. Aedhin, wistful and charming, possessed by wanderlust, a pariah among the family and yet mother’s favourite. It always came down to that. You think you can do anything because you were mother’s favourite! ...and then a long journey through northern Ferelden? He wracked his mind for the answers.
Sure, he’d pushed the boundaries plenty of times, picked a few bar scuffles and gambled here and there, and maybe he had looked the other way when the mages needed to slip out of Kirkwall, but he’d never technically broken the law, certainly not to warrant this, especially not from the Chantry...why had he left for Ferelden? The south barely held charm for a Marcher to begin with, cold and isolated and lacking the kind of debauchery and fun only a city could provide. And especially with the Templars and Apostates at war, no one wanted to travel there. If he was looking for new horizons it made more sense to travel west to Orlais, or even north to Antiva...
“The conclave...?” Aedhin’s green eyes darted around the cell, pupils blown wide in a panic. “I needed to get to Haven, for the Conclave!”
As if by invocation, his left hand lit up the room suddenly in a bright, sallow light, and pain exploded up his arm and behind his eyes in bright stars and he doubled over the shackles. “What happened to me?” he wheezed, but not a single soldier moved or spoke. The door to the cell swung open then as his hand crackled and glowed, and light from the torches outside filled the room. Two figures strode in and as his eyes adjusted he realized they were two women. More soldiers stood at the ready beyond the door.
“Why shouldn’t we kill you now?” Armed with a sword and voice thick with a Nevarran accent, the first woman circled around him.
“Kill me?!” Aedhin snapped his head up to the speaker, who he realized immediately was the Right Hand of Divine Justinia. He’d seen her once before, at a distance, in Kirkwall. “Why would you kill me?” He glanced quickly to the other woman. He didn’t recognize her but if this was the Right, she might be the Left. Aedhin couldn’t believe this was all for letting a bunch of child-mages out of the city on a caravan, what a load of--
He doubled over as the hand let off another spike of magical energy. Through the pain he glared up through his bangs at the Seeker. “What the fuck did you do to me? What is this?” he demanded, “Do you have any idea who I am?"
Before anyone could stop her she had him by the collar against one of the walls. “Divine Justinia is dead. No one in the Conclave survived the explosion. Except for you, and your magic.” She brought her face closer to his and lowered her voice. “Do you think you can deceive us into thinking you have no idea what is going on?”
“Dead? What are you...” Aedhin’s shoulders dropped as he processed her words. “W-wait, everyone? All those mages, and templars, and nobles? All of them are dead? H-how?” He stared at her, slack-jawed, but all he could remember was seeing the snow-capped mountains in the distance and thinking he should have defied Rodhain and gone north instead...
“Is anyone out there?” he called, as green smoke swirled around his feet. The sky, red and black and brown, seemed to know no end. “Anyone?” There was only silence and the echo of his voice. Should he stay? Should he move? Aedhin rubbed his temples, which throbbed, and began walking straight ahead.
He glanced back some hours later to the sound of a child’s giggle and a series of small screeches. Three spiders, large, impossibly so...the size of a carriage!...approached him. Razor-like claws clicked against the broken stone of the ground. More red eyes filled the space behind them.
Aedhin ran.
A hand up the pile of debris ahead, beckoned him, he grabbed on, begging her not to let go--
“What happened?” he asked, interrupting the second woman as she tried to pry the Seeker away from him, “The last thing I remember...” Both stopped, stared at him. The woman in the hood raised a delicate, thin eyebrow. Aedhin dropped to his knees.
“The last thing I remember were monsters pursuing me and a woman pulling me out of the debris. I swear. That’s the last thing I remember after crossing Lake Calenhad...” His voice cracked as he trailed off. Why couldn’t he remember? Why couldn’t he remember?!
“A woman?” As if this somehow made sense, the red-haired woman nodded. “We should calm down, Cassandra,” she said, the very picture of calm herself. “Solas believes he can help. We will use him. The truth will come soon enough.”
Cassandra turned back to Aedhin with a sneer. “On your feet, prisoner. I will show you, and that will have to suffice.” She stormed out, a hand placed casually near her sword. “I will meet you at the forward camp, Leliana. Gather who you can.”
The guards took away the heavy steel shackles, but bound his wrists together with a thick, damp rope. Their kindness mirrored Cassandra’s as they shoved him out of the prison cells, up the stairs and out of the Chantry into the grey light of the day. He looked to the sky and his breath caught in his throat. A wound in the sky itself, impossibly huge, bled over the mountains in bright green light. In the distance, he heard shouts, screaming, explosions. The smell of fresh snow and burning flesh permeated the air, even here to the Chantry, and he stumbled back against the door.
“Maker,” he cursed, “What in the hells is that?”
“That,” Cassandra began, as she turned back to him with her furious, accusing stare, “Is the Breach. After the explosion, it shone through the smoke, a tunnel into the Fade. It has spit and sputtered demons upon us ever since.” As though on cue, the Breach flashed brightly as streaks of green shot out from it. Aedhin’s left hand pulsed back and he fell to his knees, breathless. “As the Breach grows in strength, so too does your mark. It is killing you. It almost has already.”
“I’m dying?!”
“Perhaps,” she replied, so matter-of-factly that for a moment Aedhin almost forgot the pain and the bindings and wondered if he could kick her down the side of the mountain.
“So that’s it. I got fucked up with this and it’s my fault there’s a fade-hole in the sky?”
“Leliana is correct, we do not know the whole truth.” Cassandra hauled him up. “But there is a possibility this strange mark can affect the Breach as the Breach affects you. We may be able to stop this."
“After that charming introduction?” Aedhin laughed, a sour sound that echoed across the settlement. “Sure. Why not. What do I have to lose?” Was it the stress? Hunger? The cold? Whatever it was, this felt like a joke, a nightmare. Maybe he had to reach the end to wake up at home where none of this could ever happen.
“What?” She seemed shocked at his willingness.
He shrugged her off of him, and looked up toward the Breach. “Tell me the way, oh great Seeker Cassandra.”
She regarded him carefully at first, and gestured for him to walk ahead of her through the village and toward the gate. Some of the civilians threw more than sneers and dirty looks his way; some threw debris and kicked snow after him as he passed. They all thought he did this. For a moment, Aedhin’s heart sank - what if he did? But he pushed the thought away. He was a good person. Reckless maybe, just a little, but he was not a murderer. And he was Andrastian! He’d never take arms against the Divine.
As they climbed the mountain path out of Haven, Aedhin realized these soldiers did not belong to the Chantry. He’d seen the Inquisition symbol once or twice in Kirkwall before his brother called him home, soldiers searching for answers in the aftermath of the explosion at the Chantry and the mage revolt under Garrett Hawke. He assumed they were a branch of the Chantry looking for mage refugees, or the Champion himself, to answer for the damage. He never thought twice of it when he left the broken city for home.
After some time, Cassandra walked next to him instead of behind him. At first, he flinched, expecting some reprise or forceful action like she’d taken down in the prison cell. Her gaze remained ahead of them though, strides long, confident, and even; her hand resting calmly on the pommel of her longsword as a steady reminder that she was, firstly, a well-trained warrior, and secondly, most definitely in charge. Although he recognized her face from watching her march into Kirkwall two years ago looking for answers, Aedhin realized then she did not look nearly as battle hardened as her reputation preceded, baring only the most minute of scars on her face and a small nick behind her left ear. The armour had seen some wear but the quality was impeccable and she walked as if it weighed nothing at all. She very nearly matched him in height, and he held no illusion that she could best him even at her worst. Fearsome, but not frightening, Aedhin imagined that in other circumstances he’d probably have invited her home. No doubt, with her rigid expression and piercing gaze she’d certainly turn him away, but, he laughed in his mind, that never stopped him from doing stupid things before.
Twice more, the power of the Breach roared through the magic mark on his hand, and both times he collapsed under the pressure and pain, vision doubling, barely breathing. Cassandra was markedly less rough during both pulses, helping him to his feet, even putting a hand on his shoulder to encourage him to keep moving.
Hungry, and shaken with pain throughout his body, Aedhin did not ask Cassandra for clarification on the Inquisition’s presence as they approached the first bridge. As his hand pulsed in time with the Breach’s onslaught of demons, Aedhin wished he’d fled to Rivain as a teenager when he’d had the chance. How many people were supposed to be at the Conclave? Thousands? His breath hitched as one face came to mind. She was supposed to be at the Conclave, representing Ostwick’s Circle. The tranquil left behind to clean the mess said she’d be here, with the First Enchanter. He tried to swallow the wave of grief. Eyes forward, feet moving.
“Was I really the only one who survived?” he murmured, slowing to a stop near the gate of the bridge.
“Yes,” she said, voice much calmer, and she crossed her hand over her chest in acknowledgement of her faith. “Some are saying that Andraste herself pulled you from the Fade and dropped you in front of the Inquisition soldiers.”
“Andraste’s a bitch,” he muttered, and turned away from Cassandra. “Better people than me deserved that chance.” Aedhin cleared his throat and didn’t give her any room to reply as they began across the bridge. As the Breach pulsed again, demons screamed to life in a tear beneath them.
The bridge exploded in the middle.
Ears ringing, body aching, and for what felt like the hundredth time that day-- Aedhin was on his knees gasping for breath in the snow. But his hands were free, somehow. The singed ropes fell from his wrists.
“Stay behind me!” Cassandra ran sword first at the monster ahead of them, a ghastly thing shrouded in moulding fabric and wisps of dark, hazy energy. He could see no eyes, but oh, could he see teeth.
Between them, the ice hiccuped green and for a moment he saw a reflection in the Fade, another demon...and then the demon was there, reaching...!
Scrambling backwards, his fingers brushed against metal, the hilt of a dagger, two daggers...
With the blood pumping in his ears Aedhin jumped to his feet and dove under the clawed hand, striking forward with three slashes where the arm joined the body. As the arm fell away he rolled around it and drove both blades in a single strike into the creature’s back. It screeched - that same, awful screech from the memory! - but as the bile bubbled in the back of his throat the demon dissipated into smoke and was gone. Aedhin turned to the other fight, where the other demon, much larger than the one he’d just killed, struggled against Cassandra’s attacks.
“Cassandra!” Aedhin flipped the dagger in his hand, counted her footfalls: one, one, one-two, thr... And threw the dagger straight through the gap in the demon’s hood, at the same moment Cassandra slashed diagonally across its body. As it too faded into smoke, leaving behind a wisp of rotten fabric, Aedhin skidded across the ice and reclaimed the blade.
“Well that was exciting--“ he began.
“Drop your weapon. Now.” In that moment Cassandra had put several feet between them, and turned her sword at him.
“...are you actually, seriously...”
The moment stretched for what felt like forever, her cold and dark gaze challenging him to defy her orders. “Fine,” he said, turning the handles toward her and gently easing to the ground. “We’ll do it your way. I’ve always dreamed of the day a tall, dark, and handsome woman would protect me from certain peril.”
With an agitated sound, almost as if she contemplated a curse word, Cassandra sheathed her sword. “No, you are correct. You came here without argument and have been forthright thus far. I cannot expect you to approach demons with no weapons when I cannot promise to protect you.”
“The dream waits on,” he fake-sighed, flipping the daggers into his belt. “So...up the river to my doom, then?”
“There are more demons here, but there is another path to the forward camp,” Cassandra explained as they climbed the bank to the trail, “The fighting will get worse the closer we get.” She made no acknowledgement of his attempt to laugh off the situation.
“Who’s fighting?” he asked, slowing his gait.
“You’ll see when we arrive,” she answered cryptically, and Aedhin couldn’t decide if she sounded pleased or pissed off.
Hours later when they finally met with the fighting at the gate, he decided it must be the latter. Joining the fray was easy enough; he slipped in like a thought with the borrowed daggers glinting in what little light broke through the clouds. He barely paid a thought to those fighting around him until the elf he defended from behind grabbed him by the wrist and shoved his left hand toward to the tiny rift in the center. To Aedhin’s shock, as the mark forced the rift shut, it did not hurt as much as he expected. Rather, it didn’t hurt at all, and he stared at the apostate as if he were a prophet.
“How did you do that?” Aedhin asked, the first to break the silence of the group in the aftermath of the fight.
“I did nothing. The credit is yours, and the mark on your hand. All I did was test a theory.” The elf nodded toward him. “It’s remarkable that you even lived, let alone still have the strength to make it this far. I am Solas.”
Despite the seriousness around them, Aedhin cracked a large, sincere grin. “Well I can’t say I got here all on my own. I did have Lady Tall, Devout, and Imposing guarding my back.” Cassandra scoffed and the dwarf standing next to her burst out laughing.
“Here I thought for sure there’d be no reason to bring a pen and parchment up the mountain!”
“Don’t you dare,” she hissed back at him, “This is not the time for jokes, Varric!”
The dwarf walked past her and extended his hand to Aedhin, who took it in a firm handshake. “Varric Tethras. This is Bianca,” he said, gesturing to the crossbow on his back. “Now, shall we continue this little suicide pilgrimage up the mountain? I’m getting a little tired of being rained on by demons.”
“Suicide pilgrimage,” Aedhin repeated, “Sounds about right.” He glanced at the apostate, and down to the dwarf as Cassandra called out orders to the soldiers behind them. “My name is Aedhin.”
He walked away as Varric and Cassandra argued about who would continue up the mountain to the camp. The rift paused the pain, but only for a moment, and the burning, throbbing sensation came back full force once he caught his breath. He climbed over the broken bridge rail to the path below. Should he have introduced himself? Did it matter? Aedhin wondered, tuning out the conversation between Cassandra and Solas, debating the nature of the Breach. He locked eyes with it, looming over them, above where the Temple of Sacred Ashes used to be. Even if he sealed it, they said the mark was killing him. Who cared who he was? With a sinking feeling, Aedhin looked about the snow, the corpses, and the burning rubble.
At the forward camp, all they did was argue.
“But the prisoner must--“
Aedhin snapped back to the moment, eyes narrow. “Let’s get one thing straight, Chancellor,” he said, stepping forward, suddenly angry, inspired, “My name is Aedhin Trevelyan. Son of Bann Trevelyan. Of Ostwick. I’m neither killer nor traitor and if you want my help you’d best learn quickly.” He leaned forward, Marcher accent thick on every word, bright green eyes boring into the frightened ones of Chancellor Roderick. “You will absolutely address me by my name or by my title. Is that understood?”
Aedhin turned to Cassandra and the two men behind her, not waiting to hear the Chancellor’s response. If they were shocked by his sudden flare in temper, they did not show it. He held up his hand, sparking with energy.
“We’re taking the shortest, fastest path. Lead the way, and let’s get this over with.”
He squared his shoulders, exhaled, and walked past them across the bridge. By the time they met the soldiers, his breaths came laboured and shaking. His body ached, especially his left arm and shoulder, for it felt as if something were drilling through his wrist and up into his body. He said nothing to the light-haired commander who relayed his report to Cassandra, who wished them the best before helping an injured soldier back to the tents. Aedhin swayed on his feet, and as they approached the ledge down toward the temple Solas placed his hand on Aedhin’s back. There was the warm sensation of magic, restorative, soothing, and he felt the strength return, just a little, just enough to keep forward.
And then they were there, staring at the Breach, and the large rift that tethered it to the temple.
“I told you I don’t remember,” he muttered to Cassandra’s next round of accusations, as voices echoed from the Fade across the shambles of the temple. He never broke his eyes away from the rift.
All around, the red crystals jabbing from the earth and the temple walls hummed, begged for attention. Aedhin stumbled past them, until he was right underneath the rift.
Maker’s mercy, Aedhin thought, This can’t be it. I don’t want to die like this.
He extended his hand and the world went black.