An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 80/100
Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Characters: Female Warden (Dragon Age), Duncan (Dragon Age), Alistair (Dragon Age), Daveth (Dragon Age), Ser Jory (Dragon Age), Loghain Mac Tir, Cailan Theirin, Morrigan (Dragon Age), Mabari (Dragon Age), Leliana (Dragon Age), Sten (Dragon Age)
Additional Tags: Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Assault, Canon-Typical Violence, Minor Character Death, Canonical Character Death, Animal Death
Series: Part 1 of Origins
Summary:
Inara Panthin, a young human girl living on the streets in Denerim, has a very bad day, and meets a Grey Warden.
The recruitment story for Inara on her path to becoming the Hero of Ferelden.
Inara remembered the cold, the quiet that came with the only sound coming from the howling of the wind as the snow picked up. She remembered being left on the bed for a time, the room spinning as she laid curled on her side. She remembered wanting another drink. She remembered Alistair building a fire, watching his back and his shoulders as he worked. She remembered Alistair pulling her armor off her, making sure that she could move and breathe easily. She remembered Zevran brining her water, giving Alistair some roots for her to chew in the morning to ease her headache. She remembered Alistair’s hands on her skin, cool on her cheek, moving her hair from her face. Soft, gentle words, kisses on her cheek and forehead and assurances that she would be safe, that she should lie down.
But oh, her head spun. She could not lie down. So she sat, and he sat beside her. Held her.
They were shut up in a room all their own, with a small fireplace that burned. They had found a small group of homes all joined together by certain walls in their search, devoid of blood or bones or corpses, and they’d settled there. Inara and Alistair took one bedroom of this small house, Zevran in the other. He came a few times, to check on her, to offer help. He told Alistair many times he had not intended for her to drink so much, and Alistair said only that Inara had made her own choices, and that he had no fault.
“I am sad,” she said, her forehead pressed against Alistair’s shoulder.
“You are drunk,” Alistair corrected gently. “You drank a whole bottle of Antivan brandy. You are very drunk.”
“Because I’m sad,” Inara insisted with a pout.
“I know,” he told her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Zevran told me what you spoke of. Oh, Inara. If I could make you happy, I would.”
“You do make me happy,” she insisted.
His arm was warm around her. He rubbed her back, nice and slow, and it helped to still the spinning world. She tried to concentrate on breathing, as Zevran had advised.
“Everyone is going to be disappointed,” Inara mourned.
“We told the others that you’re sick,” Alistair told her then. “Wynne wanted to come tend to you, but Leliana convinced her it was womanly problems and nothing more.”
Inara made a small noise, not words. For a moment, she and Alistair sat in silence. Then he slid his hand over hers, enveloped her fingers in his.
“I felt the same way, you know. In the Chantry,” Alistair said gently. “Leliana asks me if I found peace in the cloister, professes how it changed her but… I never did. I felt…” He took a breath. “Like there was something wrong with me that I could not understand. I wondered why I did not feel moved by the sermons. Why I could not focus on the Chant, why the silence drove me mad. I wondered what was wrong with me. Why I wanted to climb the walls. Why couldn’t I feel whatever made people sit there for hours, just… honoring the Maker. I wondered why that couldn’t be me. Why I just wanted to… scream. Over and over.”
Inara rested her chin on his shoulder, stared up at him intently. Alistair stroked her cheek, softly, pushed a strand of hair back behind her ear with great care.
“The Ashes are just ashes, Inara,” Alistair told her. “The earthly remnants of a Woman who was Holy. The Temple was beautiful. But so are you. And I feel more when I look into your eyes than I felt standing before a statue, staring up at a vase. I believe in the Maker well enough, but… there are things in this world that matter more than the idea of being found agreeable by a god who remains so silent, in the face of everything. Defeating the Blight matters. Protecting people matters. Falling in love… falling in love matters.”
“You don’t think that the Maker has to favor us for us to win? That we don’t require the help of Andraste?” Inara asked. “You don’t think that I need to—”
He shook his head, slightly. “The favor of the Maker is assessed once the deed is done, Inara. The stories and songs are written long after, by eyes from the outside. They make those statues and say those things once everyone who was there was dead. There is nothing that could be done now to assure that we will win. If we do, they’ll say the Maker was with us. If we don’t, whoever fells the beast will get that glory. The Maker is gone, Inara. Nothing you do can bring Him back. And nothing about His absence is your fault.”
Inara’s head swam as she rested against Alistair, her body heavier against him as he spoke his words, her body trusting his more and more as the words flowed from him. Somehow, it was so comforting to hear him say these things, these blasphemies. Somehow, it was wonderful.
“We are not in a storybook, Inara,” Alistair said softly, his breath warm on her skin. “If the Maker was going to come end the Blights and save us all, it would have happened already. If we win, it will be because of our worldly actions. If the Ashes help… that’s wonderful. But it isn’t all there is. Besides, the Archdemon can eat someone just as easily if the light of the Maker shines on them. It might see them easier, actually.”
“Are you angry with me?” she asked him. “For being drunk?”
“I could never be angry with you, dear lady,” Alistair chuckled, lifting her hand to kiss the back of it as he cradled her hand in his. “I am not angry, Inara. Or upset. I promise you. I am only concerned. Antivan brandy is… even for a Warden, that’s going to hurt.”
His head rested against hers.
“Still, I wasn’t keen on hearing Wynne’s opinion. Lucky that she did not come along with us,” Alistair smiled. “Can you imagine? She’d have finger-wagged you to sobriety.”
“Is there a magic cure for drunk?” Inara asked him.
“I don’t think so. You know, I once drank a whole bottle of—” Alistair’s story was cut off, however, as Inara jerked abruptly, making an odd noise in the back of her throat.
In a flash, Alistair was on his feet, taking her by the arms and leading her to the bin they’d cleared out earlier so that she could be sick there. He held her, stroked her back, gathered her hair in his hands so that it would not fall in the way. He fetched her water from the counter nearby, and cared for her as her sickness ran its course. He cradled her in his arms, and whispered sweet things in her ear as her body burned and her head swam. When it was over, he guided her back into bed, and tucked the blankets tight around her, before laying on top of them himself, his arm draped over her hip.
“Tell me if you feel sick again,” he said softly. “Wake me, if you must. I will help you.”
“I am a lucky woman,” she murmured. “Why do you love me?”
“Because you hear me when I speak,” Alistair answered gently. “No one has heard me. No one has listened. No one but you, Inara. Not since Duncan. Not even before. You care about me. For me.”
“I wish you cared as much about what you want for yourself as I do,” Inara breathed as her eyes fluttered shut. “I wish that you—”
“What does that mean? What do you mean?” Alistair asked her.
Inara made noises, but they were not words. Alistair asked her once more what she meant, but though her lips moved, she could not make words any longer, exhaustion mixing with the drink to keep the use of her tongue locked away behind her teeth.
She fell asleep, folded up against him, and he kept watch over her until he, too, slipped away into dreams.
Back down the mountain in Haven, everyone began to prepare for spending the evening in the village. The sky above them had filled with storm as they walked down, the air changing, swelling with the energy of impending doom. Thus, they decided to stay for the night, not wanting to get caught in the storm in only tents, and finding only a few aggressive villagers remaining in the dwellings below. While the other companions went to find a dwelling without bodies or bloody altars in it to sleep in, Inara and Zevran made their way to the village store to search for supplies.
Upon opening one of the chests in the front of the store, Inara found a pile of leather boots inside. According to the inscription on the top of the chest, it was a shipment of Antivan leather boots. Eagerly, she called Zevran over.
“Hmm, that smell! This is Antivan leather, isn’t it? I would know that anywhere!” Zevran gasped in delight.
“What are you waiting for? Try them on. Find a pair that fits!” Inara encouraged.
“But I’m not finished admiring them yet! Can you smell that? Like rotting flesh. Just like back in Antiva City. Now if only you could find me a prostitute or two, a bowl of fish chowder, and a corrupt politician, I’d really feel like I was home!” Zevran laughed, before fishing through the pile of boots until he found a pair and, casting his old, tattered boots off, tried them on. “And they fit! Marvelous!”
“Well, I’ve been paid for sex before, and I think we can find a corrupt politician in Denerim,” Inara grinned in response. “We’ll make you feel like you’re right at home on this mad quest yet. Hopefully before we all get eaten by the Archdemon.”
Zevran tittered a bit longer, stretching his legs out one-by-one to admire the boots on his feet, while Inara moved to search through the shop shelves, finding herself suddenly consumed with a desire to find the sweet little bottled cherries that the Chantry used to give them on holy days. It was a long-shot, perhaps, thinking Haven’s tiny mercantile would hold such a thing, but she still pushed around all the jars on the shelf, searching. When she glanced over her shoulder, she saw Zevran watching her with great interest.
“Do you stare at everyone like that?” she asked him.
“Not everyone. But a beautiful woman like yourself? Why not? I am sure you draw many stares, from men and even other women,” Zevran asserted, and Inara’s cheeks filled with a deep blush as she shook her head and denied the assertion quietly. “Does this bother you?”
“Not really,” Inara answered. “I was just curious.”
“But you would prefer I desisted, perhaps? It would be difficult, traveling as we do in close proximity, but I am nothing if not a gentleman,” Zevran offered.
“A gentleman? How disappointing,” Inara teased.
“Oh? Now this is intriguing. I shall have to redouble my efforts immediately. There was a young elven dancer in Antiva City once, and I believe I actually managed to stare off all seven of her skirts. It’s a trick worth retrying. Now that that is out of the way, perhaps we should move on. With you in front, of course,” Zevran grinned.
Inara returned to her search, and, when another shelf came up devoid of cherries, she—emotion overwhelmed her, and she hung her head, lifting her hands up quickly to press against her face and muffle her breath as she sobbed. For a moment, she hoped that she was being quiet enough that Zevran wouldn’t notice.
“I—did not mean to offend you, I only—,” he said a few moments later, shattering that illusion.
“It’s not you,” Inara managed, struggling to control her breathing, to reign in her tears as she lifted her head from her hands and turned to glance at the mortified-looking assassin. “I’m… I think I’m having an… existential crisis.”
“I know just the thing,” Zevran said quickly, lifting his arm up from behind the counter and setting a bottle on the hardwood surface.
When Inara came closer, she could see that it was a bottle of spirits. Zevran popped the cork out of the bottle with a clever twist of a thin blade in his hand, and offered the bottle to her, and she took it and took a long drink despite the way the liquid filled and burned her mouth and throat, swallowing thickly as she grimaced. Zevran whistled appreciatively.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Antivan brandy,” Zevran answered with an easy smile. “Apple, I believe. Perhaps I could find some glasses, or—”
Before Zevran could take the bottle for a drink for himself, or find glasses to pour the liquid in for them both, Inara picked it back up, and sucked down more of it. Taking her intention with an impressed raising of his eyebrows, Zevran pulled another bottle from the counter for himself, and popped it open, partaking with a half-smile at her.
“I haven’t been drunk in a long time,” Inara told him.
“What better time than now?” Zevran replied.
“Is there more of this back there?” she asked him.
“Easy,” Zevran cautioned. “Antivan brandy is not ale, my dear Warden.”
“Duly noted,” answered the Warden.
She moved with him to the shelves, and they spent their time piling canned goods into the supply crates they’d slid out from back behind the counter, alternating between sipping on the brandy and working diligently to fill their crate with food that looked useful and travel-hardy. When they were finished, Inara sank to the floor at the shop counter with a heavy sigh, her back against the shop counter. With a chuckle, Zevran hopped up on the counter, and sat with his legs hanging off the edge, looking down at her, the bottle he drank from set beside him as she cradled hers between her legs. She pressed her head back against the counter, enjoying the way it stretched the muscles in her neck, and looked up at him.
“What seems to be the trouble?” Zevran asked her. “What is your crisis, my dear?”
“I thought it would be… better,” Inara said.
“I don’t want to assume—”
“The Temple. The Ashes. I thought…” Inara heaved another sigh, and took another drink. She grimaced, coughing a little as she wiped the liquor off her lips with the back of her hand as if it would help the burning in her throat. “I don’t know. I thought that I’d feel…”
“Special?” Zevran asked.
“Forgiven,” Inara said. She thought a moment. “And… yeah. I guess. Special. Chosen.”
“Mm. I overheard part of what you said to our qunari friend,” Zevran admitted.
Inara stared hard down at the bottle in her hands, turning it around slowly to watch the light glint off the brown glass. Whatever label the bottle had once held, time had worn away. Inara marveled faintly that Zevran could recognize it, even so worn with age. She was quiet for a few moments, considering her words, how they’d sound.
“We proved ourselves worthy to find Andraste. We passed through the flames,” Inara said then, softly. “Shouldn’t that… I mean. Shouldn’t we…?”
“Hm. Do you think perhaps that passing through those flames should have burned away my desire to kill others for money? Made me a wholesome elf, wanting only to spend my day singing the Chant and toiling away scrubbing some noble’s floors? Because it did not. I remain unchanged, desiring to finish this business with you and perhaps return to the business of killing after. I do not weep, do not think on the words that Wynne has said with my heart wounded. I do not cry over my past wrongdoings, nor do I wish to stop doing wrong in the future, so long as it pays. Do you believe that this should be different, that the flames should have changed me?” Zevran asked.
“I can’t see you scrubbing floors in any version of reality, for what it’s worth,” Inara told him. She took another drink. Smaller, this time. Wasn’t alcohol supposed to burn less with time? “Did you doubt that you would survive the fire?”
“For a moment,” Zevran answered.
“So did I,” Inara said, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t even know why I stepped through.”
“But you did. And you lived,” Zevran told her. “As did Sten, and Shale, and Morrigan, and we know that they are not believers in any manner of the word.”
Inara’s brow furrowed, slightly. “And my father was there. He didn’t believe in Andraste. If he even knew that she existed. I never heard anything about the Chantry or the Maker from him. It was always the Avvar gods, always the old ways. All the tales and all the reasons for everything that happened.”
“So what do you make of the Temple?” Zevran asked.
“I don’t know,” Inara answered.
She took another drink, and her cheeks began to tingle. She could feel her ears, in the strangest sense.
“What do you make of it?”
“There are two distinct possibilities that come to my mind,” Zevran said. “One, the temple is, as Shale suggested, the product of lyrium running in the walls, strong and pure and close to the surface, making us all hallucinate, and see whatever we wished to see that would convince us that we had found Andraste. Or two, for whatever reason, the Maker and his Bride favor us, and allowed us to pass through this Temple and take Andraste’s Ashes. If it is the former, then we have convinced ourselves of a fable, and it means nothing. If it is the latter, what right have we to object to the Maker’s decision? In my mind, no. We have no choice but to accept that the Maker and Andraste have found us worthy, just as we are.”
Inara thought on it a moment, and frowned deeply. She reached down, then, and pulled the dagger that Ulrich had given to her in the Temple, turning it over in her hands. She offered it up to Zevran, and he took it, examining it with some awe, even whistling in appreciation when he pulled the blade from its white leather sheath and admired the way that the black of the blade glittered dangerously.
“How did a spirit recreate such a thing?” Inara asked.
“I cannot answer that,” Zevran told her. He handed the blade back.
Inara pouted some more, and tucked the blade away, before thumping her head back against the counter once more. “I don’t want to think about it anymore. Talk to me about something else. Tell me about your adventures.”
“My adventures?” Zevran chuckled. “I’m hardly an old man just returned from across the ocean, am I? Should I shake my fist at nearby children while I talk about the good ole days?”
“If you’d prefer not to talk, that’s fine,” Inara said.
“Now. I didn’t say that, did I? Old men love to talk, after all. Will I get a kiss afterwards?” Zevran purred.
“You want me to kiss you?” Inara asked, looking back up at him in shock.
“You seem so surprised. You are a lovely woman. I am a lovely man. Sound familiar?” Zevran smiled.
“I have to pass. Alistair and I are—”
“My apologies,” Zevran cut in. “I did not realize that you were… official, as it were. Though everyone in camp can see that you share a certain… fondness.”
“We do,” Inara replied with a gentle smile, though it fell from her lips some when she thought of the way that he could not answer her when she asked if he felt that they were meant to be together. “You can always dream about it.”
“Oh! Good idea. I’ll have to keep that in mind for tonight,” Zevran chuckled. “Hmm. Let’s see. My second mission ever for the Crows was a bit intriguing. I was sent to kill a mage who had been meddling in politics.”
“Meddling how?” Inara asked.
“How should I know? I got the impression it involved sex… but then I get that impression about most everything. Odd, really. As it turned out, the mage in question was a delightful young woman. Long, divine legs as I recall. I caught her in a carriage on her way to escape to the provinces. After I killed her guard, she got down on her hands and knees and begged for her life… rather aptly, I might add. So I joined her in the carriage for the night and left the next morning,” Zevran said.
“And she didn’t try to kill you? To protect herself?” Inara scoffed.
“Well, yes. Twice, actually. Then she decided to try and use me, instead. The woman had actually convinced me to speak to the Crows on her behalf,” Zevran only shrugged when Inara’s eyebrows furrowed a bit. “What can I say? I was young and foolish at the time. Then, as I was kissing her good-bye to return to Antiva City, she slipped on the threshold and fell backwards out of the carriage. Broke her neck. Shame, really, but at least it happened quickly.”
“She died? Just like that? Were you upset?”
“At first, yes. Well, not upset… surprised is really a better word. Then I found out that she had told the driver to take her to Genellan instead. She had planned to lose me in the provinces. I would have looked very foolish to the Crows. As it was, my master was very impressed that I had done such a fine job of making it look like an accident. The Circle of Magi was unaware of foul play and everyone was happier all around,” Zevran chirped.
“Except the mage, of course,” Inara frowned, and took another drink of the brandy.
“It was after that I learned that one needn’t let a pretty face go to your head. Professionalism was key. That’s my moral of the day, you see,” Zevran told her.
“So you never mix business with pleasure?” Inara asked.
“Oh, I might be convinced. I think that it would take being captured and tied up by a beautiful woman, at the very least,” Zevran purred.
“Well that’s already been done,” Inara smiled.
“And here the Crows told me that getting captured in the line of duty was the worst thing possible. What do they know?” Zevran grinned.
“Also, to be clear: your idea of a story that would entice me to kiss you was of you killing someone during a good-bye kiss?” Inara asked, one of her eyebrows cocked slightly as she looked up to him.
“Hmm. Now that I think about it, perhaps not the best choice,” Zevran ceded.
“Perhaps not,” Inara smiled. They sat in silence a while longer, then she said, “Tell me more about your Crow adventures.”
“Another? So soon? Well, now… what might interest you, I wonder? Shall I describe the stages involved in lanthrax poisoning? I watched a man go through all seven, once,” Zevran teased.
“Sure. Sounds fun,” Inara responded, lifting her bottle to him as she took another gulp, her head beginning to fill with fuzz and pleasant buzzing.
“Aha. You have rather macabre tastes. I like that. Let’s see. How about the largest battle I ever took part in? That would have been the slaughter of Prince Azrin. Did you hear of that down in these parts?” Zevran inquired.
“You killed a prince?” Inara returned.
“Me? Not personally. But I did take part in the attack. Prince Azrin was fourth in line to the throne, you see. He started off as eleventh, but worked his way up the old-fashioned method, by inheriting control of an entire Crow cell from his grandfather. After assassinating his way through the royal family, the King hired three other cells to take down Prince Azrin once and for all. I was in one of those cells,” Zevran explained.
“Is that sort of thing common in Antiva?” Inara asked him.
“Antivan royalty is very much bound up in the Crows. You wouldn’t want it run by a bunch of commoners, after all, would you? And this means they get involved in politics quite often. This particular fight nearly bankrupted the nation, I understand. It almost ended up putting a Crow on the throne, a commoner… but that’s a whole different story. I played a very small part,” Zevran assured her.
“What did you do?”
“My part in the entire battle was taken up trying to reach Princess Ferenna, who had thrown in with her brother. I killed about eleven of her guards personally before I got knocked out of a window. I landed in the river and nearly drowned. I was fished out by some urchins who robbed me blind. Made off with my boots, too. At least they didn’t cut my throat. And that was my part in history,” Zevran said proudly.
Inara laughed. “Wow. You are a very lucky man.”
“It’s true! I live a charmed life. One of the prostitutes that raised me was a fortune teller. Said I wouldn’t die young. She was rather startled by that. But there you go. Tale told. Let’s quit before I tell more embarrassing stories, hm?” Zevran tittered.
“You don’t have any others?” Inara asked, sounding sour just before she took another long chug of the brandy, grunting and shivering when it was done.
“Why don’t you tell me a story?” Zevran asked. “Surely you have some good ones, no? How did you come to be a Warden, anyway? I am certain that is a worthy tale, no?”
“I lived on the streets in Denerim,” Inara told him. “Well. I had a… crack in the wall. I didn’t live on the streets, exactly. I had hay… a little pillow. Somewhere warm. My best friend was named Ellis. An elven boy from the Alienage. One day we… we found some elves um… being attacked by guards in an alley. Ellis’ sister was one of the elves. She was a child.”
Zevran’s eyes darkened, some.
“We killed the guards. Well. A couple of them. But one got away. Got others. We shouldn’t have done, maybe. But… the girl. Ellis… Duncan told me he got him out of the city, but when we were in Denerim… the Alienage was all closed off and I couldn’t…” Inara frowned hard, and took another drink, sputtered after and hissed in a breath. “I don’t know what happened to him. I was a bad friend.”
“I’m sorry,” Zevran said. “I didn’t mean to…”
“I was looking for cherries,” Inara said.
“What?”
“On the shelves. I wanted cherries,” she explained, as a tear slipped down her cheek. “The Chantry gave us cherries on holy days. Little cherries in a glass. Red. They were good. I just wanted some.”
“Perhaps you should give me the bottle,” Zevran suggested.
Inara thought on it a moment, feeling the way her cheeks were burning and her tongue was tingling and her head swam with swirls and dips. She tried to lift it up to him, forgot what she was doing, and took another drink, even as Zevran caught the bottom of the bottle, tried to gently pry it away from her, lying sideways on the counter so that he could try to tilt the bottom down and away from her lips. He managed to pull it away, and Inara’s hand dropped down into her lap as her head rested against the warm wood, her eyes suddenly quite heavy.
“Oh dear,” she heard Zevran gasp as he examined the bottle. “Oh, no.”
“My tongue feels warm,” she said.
“I am certain that it does,” Zevran assured her.
He hopped off the counter and knelt at her side, his eyes wide with concern, and she smiled at him, and lifted her fingers up to touch the markings on his face. She was a bit surprised that they did not feel any different than the rest of his skin, and pushed at them, just to make sure, before he pulled her hand down, away from his face.
“You are going to be very sick,” Zevran warned her. “Sit here a moment. I am going to find some water. Maybe bread.”
Inara sat, and started singing slowly, a tune that her father used to sing to her, the tale of Tyrdda Bright-Axe, Avvar Mother. After some time, and a couple stanzas of the song, Inara heard a great clinking, and when she opened her eyes she saw Alistair standing upside down—no, just before her as she laid on the floor. She wondered when she’d laid down, but the worry soon passed. The floor was nice.
“What happened?” Alistair asked, face full of concern above her as she lay there on the ground. “It’s starting to snow, and it’s going to be bad. We need to go.”
“I am drunk!” Inara informed him with a grin, both hands spread out wide above her. “Because I’m sad! Do you love me?”
“There was an… accident,” she heard Zevran say.
“Oh, you smell like a brewery,” Alistair recoiled slightly, grimacing as he knelt by Inara’s side. “Here, let’s get you up.”
Inara groaned some as Alistair pulled at her, but eventually the former templar was able to pull her up onto her feet, and when that didn’t take, he heaved her up into his arms, making her gasp softly as he held her. She squirmed, and he grunted.
“I did not mean for her to drink the whole bottle,” she heard Zevran telling Alistair, as if it were far away.
“You smell good,” Inara told Alistair, and she heard him give a frustrated huff as her hands found his hair. It felt good beneath her fingers.
“Inara—you have to quit—I can’t see when you’re doing that!” she heard him object.
“When I’m doing what?” she asked.
“Weren’t you supposed to be gathering food?” Leliana’s voice was soft, like rain.
“We did!” Zevran sounded affronted.
Inara wondered if he was mad at her. She felt cold, suddenly, and then everything got very quiet.
I’m going to post this section of fic here bc it’s important to my canon I think.
You can also find it starting here on AO3 if that format is better for you.
Kolgrim led them up, out of the cultist-filled cavern and out to the side of a mountain, where the wind blew so harshly Inara feared that she might fall and be blown right off the side of the pathway. At first, Inara simply leaned into Alistair as he wrapped his arm around her, and focused on moving forward as quickly as possible to get out of the harshly blowing winds. But, as they walked forward, they heard a peculiar noise, and then one that was worse – the reverberating echo of a screech, rattling the rocks all around them.
Inara looked up, and saw the body of a massive dragon zipping by them with considerable speed in the air above, and she felt her jaw drop open, but for a few, long moments she did not have the presence of mind to do anything about it. Instead, she gawked at the beast, purple-red in color with a white-grey belly, as it bathed them in its shadow, before coming to rest with the rattling of the whole mountaintop and the crunch of rocks beneath its claws as it landed hard on a outcropping of rocks across the expanse of walkway that stretched out before them between the cavern they’d come from and the door before them in the mountainside that they were headed for.
The dragon called out again, before coming to rest, curling up upon the rocks very much like a cat. Kolgrim beckoned for them to follow him, and Inara was certain that the way she looked at him spoke volumes on her bewilderment.
“They say music soothes the savage beast, but I’m not going to test that theory,” Leliana said softly from behind her.
With no other real options, they moved forward. Inara refused to take her eyes off the beast for even a moment, and so it was Alistair’s job to guide her, to warn her with soft murmurs when there were particularly large rocks in the way of their feet. They made it all away across the expanse, down to beneath where the dragon laid, Inara staring up at its tail hanging over the side of the rocks as they walked beneath it, before it moved.
Inara jumped as the tail slid out of view, her breath catching in her throat before the dragon came down, screeching once more, landing in the little rocky valley there before them, between them and the door. As it roared, Kolgrim stepped towards the beast.
“Great Andraste! I pray You: stay Your wrath! I bring before You Your champion,“ Kolgrim called up to the beast, which in turn brought its head down, jaws open, dripping as it puffed its breath around his face, and Inara nearly hid her face, thinking the man about to get eaten, “who will fall upon Your enemies as a cleansing flame, paving the way for Your glory!”
The dragon reared. It sprayed fire into the air before swiveling its neck back around down to regard Kolgrim.
“O, beloved Andraste! O, holy Andraste! We praise Your Name!” Kolgrim bellowed. The dragon gave one last call, and flapped hard, rising into the air and returning to its rocky perch above them, pebbles raining down on Inara and her companions as Kolgrim turned to them, arms spread out wide. “I have spoken to the Beloved Andraste. She will let you pass.”
“Thank you,” Inara said, because her brain was completely devoid of other words.
“We await your triumphant return. Go! Show yourself to be Andraste’s true champion,” Kolgrim demanded, motioning with his arm outstretched towards the door.
Without taking her eyes off the dragon even for a moment, Inara moved, tucked under Alistair’s arm to the door with the rest of her companions. Once they stepped inside the massive stone entrance, she helped Shale slam the door shut behind them, breathing heavily.
“There’s a goddamn dragon outside,” Inara told Alistair.
“I know, love,” Alistair said, gently patting her back. “Come on. There’s someone at the next door, waiting.”
Oh. The very idea of speaking to another living person was enough to make Inara reel with exhaustion. Her leg hurt. Her chest and sides burned. Her fingers were shaking. She wanted to collapse, to sleep, to move no further. Knowing that there was someone to turn around and speak to almost made the Warden cry. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes.
“We… we must be close. This is holy ground. I can feel it,” Leliana said.
Inara opened her eyes. One more deep breath, and she pushed herself away from the door, still on Alistair’s arm as she limped forward. A quick glance down showed her bandages around her leg soaked in red. But before them stood… a man. He looked almost normal from a distance, but as they drew closer, they could see that a sort of light was emanating from him, from his armor, polished white steel. And his eyes, they swirled as a mages did when casting a spell, flickering ice-blue light constant inside them. Inara wondered if this was truly a man, or a spirit.
“I bid you welcome, pilgrim,” said the figure, and his voice echoed as a spirit’s did in the air around them.
“You must be the Guardian,” Inara said as she came to stand before him.
“Yes. I am the Guardian of the Ashes. I have waited years for this,” the being greeted.
“Years? Why so long?” Inara asked him.
“It has been my duty, my life, to protect the Urn and prepare the way for the faithful who come to revere Andraste. For years beyond counting I have been here, and I shall remain until my task is done and the Imperium has crumbled into the sea,” the Guardian answered.
“The Imperium is no longer as powerful as it once was,” Inara told him.
“Ah, is it not? Then perhaps this is the beginning of the end…” the Guardian marveled, seeming happy with the news.
“I wanted to tell you before we—I was given this,” Inara said, pulling the vial of dragon’s blood from the pocket she’d stuck it in in her belt and holding it up, showing it to the Guardian. “Dragon’s blood. To taint the Ashes. I wanted—I only took it because we’re all injured. And we couldn’t survive another fight. I don’t intend—I would never—The dragon isn’t really Andraste, is it?”
As soon as the Guardian’s eyes fell upon the vial, his face soured. But as Inara spoke, he shook his head gently. “No. Our Andraste has gone to the Maker’s side. She will not return. The dragon is a fearsome creature, and they must have seen her as an alternative to the absent Maker and His silent Andraste. A true believer would not require audacious displays of power.”
“They said you knew of them, of their attempts. But how did those men gain control of the rest of the temple?” Inara asked. “Where did they come from?”
“When my brethren and I carried Andraste from Tevinter to this sanctuary, we vowed to forever revere Her memory, and guard Her. I have watched generations of my brethren take up the mantle of their fathers. For centuries they did this, unwavering, joyful in their appointed task. But now they have lost their way. They have forgotten Andraste, and their promise,” the Guardian answered, his face full of pain.
“And what about you? Who are you?” Inara asked.
“I am all that remains of the first disciples. I swore I would protect the Urn as long as I lived, and I have lived a very long time,” the Guardian said, looking tired indeed.
“I—” Inara sighed then, suddenly overtaken by her exhaustion once more, like a swift kick between the ribs. She winced, pain shooting up her leg and into her stomach, and Alistair gripped her arm harder, tried to hold her upright. “We are… we need rest. And—healing. Would you mind horribly if we—if we stopped here, for a moment? And… if we just…”
“Rest,” bid the Guardian with a sharp bow of his head. “The doors have not opened in centuries. As long as the failed disciples believe you are here, doing their work… you have time to rest.”
“But we’re so close!” Leliana urged. “The Urn can heal, we could—”
“I can’t make it,” Inara told her honestly, her voice filled with pain, verging on a cry, grunting a bit in pain as Alistair helped her down to the floor next to one of the fancily carved pillars in the room. Having the weight off her leg was a blessing, the Warden peeling her pack off with a heavy groan. “I just can’t. I can’t go any further.”
“Some rest and some time for poultices to work would do us all some good,” Wynne said as she knelt at Inara’s side, making quick work of unwrapping the bandage on her leg, finding that the wound beneath it was still gushing blood.
Their movements had done her no kindness. As Inara laid back against the pillar, struggling to breathe full breaths as pain rattled her body, Wynne tried to stop the bleeding properly, the singing of her magic on the ends of Inara’s broken skin making her cry out. Alistair knelt at her side, gripping her hand hard with his wounded hands, but Inara could see the grimace on his face as her grip caused him pain, and she urged him to let her go, to tend to himself until Wynne could help him. Sharply, almost demandingly, Morrigan told Wynne to cater to Alistair and Zevran, that she would help Inara.
The Guardian watched them. His eyes, his face, his concern were the last thing Inara saw before she lost consciousness.
When she woke, the pain had gone. Even the new pain she’d expected, from sleeping against a stone column, her neck bent quite oddly, did not plague her. Her body felt crisp, refreshed. She stretched her legs, flexed her fingers, and found no lingering soreness, no bruises beneath the bandages, no scratches or traces of any of the injuries that had plagued her. She found Alistair lying beside her on the stone floor, and she gently took his hand, turned it over. There, too, his palm was smooth, free of bruises or even lingering traces of blood that had once been.
“You are feeling better?” the Guardian asked then, his voice ringing out against the stone.
“It would appear that its leaking has stopped for now,” Shale commented.
“I feel amazing,” Inara said with a relieved breath as she sat up, moving onto her knees. She inspected the expanse of her leg that had been bloodied and ragged when she fell asleep, and wondered if it was all Morrigan and Wynne’s doing, how refreshed she felt, how little pain lingered.
“The temple is meant to be a place of healing, of faith,” the Guardian said.
Shale snorted. “The lyrium veins in these walls are rich and pure. This likely accounts for any mystical properties found within.”
Inara stood then, moving and stretching her body just to see how much movement she could attain without pain and finding herself completely free. It was more than she could say since the beginning of this journey in its entirety, from the moment she left Denerim with Duncan. She rotated her hips, flexed her ankles and toes inside her boots. For the first time in a long time, her legs did not burn. She thought of making breakfast, of preparing food before the others woke, but there was no vent in the room for the smoke, and she was not about to open the door to the outside, where the dragon slumbered and Kolgrim waited.
“You said you carried Andraste here. Were you—did you live all this time? From back when Andraste lived? Did you… know Andraste?” Inara asked.
“Did anyone really know Her, save the Maker? She would sometimes spend weeks alone in meditation, often without food or water,” the Guardian answered with a soft smile.
Inara glanced to Leliana, saw the former Sister was awake and sitting up now, her face in awe, the redhead completely enraptured by the words the Guardian spoke. Wynne, too, was sitting up, and the others were stirring as well, everyone rising from their place of slumber and examining their former wounds.
“You—that’s amazing. Really. What else can you share?” Inara asked.
“I cannot express in words my love for Andraste. You must seek Her out for yourself. Everyone must,” the Guardian told her then.
“I mean—it’s been centuries. How have you lived so long?” Inara wondered.
“I made a vow to Andraste and to the Maker. My life is tied to the Ashes. As long as they remain, so will I,” the Guardian answered solemnly.
“If—I don’t mean to be disrespectful, or to pester you. But… if you remain here, how come none of the other guardians did? Why do they worship the dragon instead? How did the belief spread to the other disciples?” Inara asked.
“It began with an ancestor of the one known as Kolgrim. He saw himself as a new prophet, preaching the rebirth. Some disagreed with him. I heard their cries of pain and loss, which were quickly silenced,” the Guardian said, brow furrowed in concern.
“Should we… do you want us to kill them?” Inara asked.
“The Maker will sit in judgement of them, when the time comes,” the Guardian answered with a shake of his head.
Inara glanced around. All of her companions had risen, and were standing there behind her expectantly.
“I… I think that we’re all ready. We would like to go to the Urn,” she said to the Guardian.
“You have come to honor Andraste, and you shall, if you prove yourself worthy,” the Guardian told her.
“Okay. What do we do? Is there a test?” Inara asked.
“It is not my place to decide your worthiness. The Gauntlet does that. If you are found worthy, you will see the Urn and be allowed to take a small pinch of the Ashes for yourself. If not…” the Guardian’s voice trailed off, and Inara took his meaning, her body tingling a bit with the awareness that danger lay before them even now, in a holy space.
“I… understand. Alright. Let’s do it then,” Inara agreed.
“Before you go, there is something I must ask. I see that the path that led you here was not easy. There is suffering in your past – your suffering, and the suffering of others. You watched your father murdered, turned your back on your brothers, fled your home, abandoned your clan. Do you think you failed your father?” the Guardian asked.
Inara stared a moment, her voice and breath caught in her throat. She wondered how he could know such a thing, how he could—she wondered if he and her companions had spoken after she’d fallen asleep, but it didn’t seem like—
“Yes. I do,” she answered, the answer almost foreign, her voice surprising herself.
Her cheeks burned with shame, and she stared hard at the floor, the question turning over in her mind.
“Thank you. That is all I wished to know,” the Guardian said with a bow of his head.
“You are too hard on yourself. No one’s perfect,” Alistair frowned at her.
“Is there any religion that does not thrive upon guilt like a glutton at his lunch? No? I thought not,” Morrigan scoffed.
“It seems that reflection of past mistakes is a constant preoccupation of the religious mind,” Shale agreed.
“Parshaara. Leave the past where it falls,” Sten said.
“And what of those that follow you?” the Guardian asked then, turning to look at Alistair as he stood beside Inara. Inara saw his body tense as the Guardian asked, “Alistair, knight and Warden… you wonder if things would have been different if you were with Duncan on the battlefield. You could have shielded him from the killing blow. You wonder, don’t you, if you should have died, and not him?”
“I… yes. If Duncan had been saved, and not me, everything would be better. If I’d just had the chance, maybe…”
Inara reached up, took Alistair’s hand, and he squeezed her fingers in his, looking to her with a look of pain on his face.
“Shale, the stone giant… there is so little I can draw from you. I feel the distant echo of a soul, dormant for so long, now awake…” the Guardian began
“Good for you,” Shale snorted.
“And with the awakening, the slow realization of all you have lost. Ah, Shale… your entire existence is a test of your will and courage. You have my respect,” the Guardian told Shale then, giving her a slight bow.
“Ask your question, Guardian. I am ready,” Wynne spoke up, moving to stand there on the other side of Inara.
“You are ever the advisor, ready with a word of wisdom. Do you wonder if you spout only platitudes, burned into your mind in the distant past? Perhaps you are only a tool used to spread the word of the Circle and the Chantry. Does doubt ever chip away at your truths?” the Guardian asked her.
“You frame the statement in the form of a question, yet you already know our answers. There is no sense in hiding, is there? Yes. I do doubt at times. Only the fool is completely certain of himself,” Wynne answered with a soft smile.
“And the Antivan elf,” the Guardian’s head turned the other direction, to where Zevran was standing, almost behind Shale.
“Oh, is it my turn now? Hurrah. I’m so excited,” Zevran spoke in a voice that was very clearly not excited.
“Many have died at your hand. But is there any you regret more than a woman by the name of—”
“How do you know about that?” Zevran cut in.
“I know much; it is allowed to me. The question stands, however. Do you regret—” the Guardian began.
“Yes. The answer is yes, if that’s what you wish to know. I do. Now move on,” Zevran said quickly, harshly, his face holding pain and darkness that Inara had not seen on him since the first day they’d met.
The Guardian turned to Leliana. “And you… why do you say the Maker speaks to you, when all know that the Maker has left? He spoke only to Andraste. Do you believe yourself Her equal?”
“I never said that! I—”
“In Orlais, you were someone. In Lothering, you feared you would lose yourself, become a drab Sister, and disappear. When your Brothers and Sisters of the cloister criticized you for what you professed, you were hurt, but you also reveled in it. It made you special. You enjoyed the attention, even if it was negative,” the Guardian said.
“You’re saying that I made it up for… for the attention? I did not! I know what I believe!” Leliana cried.
“Demand whatever answers you want, Spirit,” Sten said then, and Inara’s eyebrows raised at the fact that it almost seemed as if he were trying to draw the Guardian’s attention away from Leliana, to shield her.
“You came to this land as an observer, but you killed a family in blind rage. Have you failed your people, by allowing a qunari to be seen in that light?” the Guardian asked.
“I have never denied that I failed,” Sten answered firmly.
“And you, Morrigan, Flemeth’s daughter, what—” the Guardian started.
“Begone, Spirit. I will not play your games,” Morrigan hissed.
“I will respect your wishes. The way is open. Good luck, and may you find what you seek,” the Guardian bid, and stood off to the side as the door behind him opened with a glimmer of what seemed like magic.
“The real tests begin now, I assume,” Wynne said confidently.
Leliana did not speak at all. Her face was guarded, serene. Inara watched each of her companions pass her as they went into the next room, and she wondered if she should have said more as they were questioned.
Perhaps the time would come for that later.
With Alistair’s hand still clutching hers, she stepped forward, determined to face what lay ahead of them with grace, if she could.
============================================
They went through a small entryway, and came into the next room, a beautiful, large room with vaulted ceilings, three intricately carved archways topped with statues on each side of the room and round carving on the center of the floor. In between each archway stood a spectre, staring out into the center of the room, as if patiently waiting to be approached, each in a clear but see-through image of a person.
Inara went first to the image of a young woman, who stood to the right. She wore her hair in pigtails, and wore the simple clothes of a farm girl. As Inara and her companions approached, the spectre turned towards them, eyes keen.
“The smallest lark could carry it, while a strong man might not. Of what do I speak?” the figure asked.
“I’m sorry—can you repeat that?” Inara asked.
“The smallest lark could carry it, while a strong man might not. Of what do I speak?” the figure asked once more, almost mechanically. Inara got the feeling that this was not as complete a spirit as the Guardian.
“My father used to say this all the time,” Inara said as she glanced to Alistair, looking for approval. He nodded at her expectantly, and she turned to the spectre to answer, “A tune.”
“Yes. I was Andraste’s dearest friend in childhood, and always we would sing. She celebrated the beauty of life, and all who heard Her would be filled with joy. They say the Maker himself was moved by Andraste’s song, and then She sang no more of simple things,” the spectre said, and then glimmered and disappeared, turning into a light that shined brightly before them and then raced across the room to the door, which made a dull clicking noise.
“So… we have to answer the riddles to unlock the next door?” Wynne wondered.
Inara shrugged. “Seems as good a theory as any. Whoever knows the answer, just speak up.”
“I wonder what happens if we get one wrong,” Alistair said.
“Do not answer, and we may not need to find out,” Morrigan replied.
Alistair grumbled something under his breath as Inara moved up in the room, to a woman with striking red hair in what appeared to be Tevinter robes. Inara had seen people from Tevinter come and go on the docks in Denerim – the grand robes covered in feathers and jewels seemed to be their fashion, and this woman was draped in lavish garments to be sure.
“An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. The debt of blood must be paid in full. Of what do I speak?” the spectre asked when they stepped to her.
“Vengeance,” Sten answered.
“Yes. My husband, Hessarian, would have chosen a quick death for Andraste. I made him swear She would die publicly, with Her war leaders, that all would know the Imperium’s strength. I am justice. I am vengeance. Blood can only be repaid in blood,” said the spectre. As the last, it shimmered and faded then, zipping as a burst of light to the door, which clicked again.
The next was the spectre of a man in crude-looking, perhaps ancient Chantry robes. “The bones of the world stretch towards the sky’s embrace. Veiled in white, like a bride greeting her groom. Of what do I speak?”
“Mountains!” Inara answered eagerly.
“Yes. I carried Andraste’s ashes out of Tevinter into the mountains to the east where She could gaze ever into Her Maker’s sky. No more fitting a tomb than this could we find,” said the man, before he disappeared like the others.
The last spectre on the left, a man in armor, asked, “No man has seen it, but all men know it. Lighter than air, sharper than any sword. Comes from nothing, but will fell the strongest armies. Of what do I speak?”
“Hunger,” Zevran said sharply.
“Yes. Hunger was the weapon used against the wicked men of the Tevinter Imperium. The Maker himself kindled the sun’s flame, scorching the land. Their crops failed, and their armies could not march. Then He opened the Heavens and bade the water flow, and washed away their filth. I am Cathaire, disciple of Andraste and commander of Her armies. I saw these things done, and I knew the Maker smiled on us.”
They went, then, to the last spectre on the right. He was also dressed in Tevinter-looking robes, and resembled very much the man that Wynne had named as the Archon Hessarian when they encountered one of the statues in the temple below.
“She wields the broken swords, and separates true kings from tyrants. Of what do I speak?”
“Mercy,” said Leliana.
“Yes. I could not bear the sight of Andraste’s suffering, and mercy bade me end Her life. I am the penitent sinner, who shows compassion as he hopes compassion will be shown to him,” the spectre nodded, before disappearing as the others.
“A poison of the soul; passion’s cruel counterpart; from love she grows, ‘til love lies slain. Of what do I speak?” asked the spectre of older man in Avvar armor, a helmet with horns like Ulrich’s, and his face painted. This must be Maferath, Inara assumed.
“Yes. Jealousy drove me to betrayal. I was the greatest general of the Alamarri, but beside Her I was nothing. Hundreds fell before Her on bended knee. They loved Her, as did the Maker. I loved Her too, but what man can compare with a god?” the spectre’s voice was full of sorrow before he disappeared.
“I’d neither a guest nor a trespasser be, in this place I belong, that belongs also to me. Of what do I speak?” a bald elf asked, his voice much more sing-songy than Maferath’s.
“The answer is home,” said Wynne.
“It was my dream for the People to have a home of their own, where we would have no masters but ourselves. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and thus we followed Andraste against the Imperium. But she was betrayed, and so were we,” the spectre answered, his face twisting with bitterness before he, too, glimmered and disappeared, and the door clicked once more.
“Echoes from a shadow realm, whispers of things yet to come. Thought’s strange sister dwells in night, is swept away by dawning light. Of what do I speak?” asked the last spectre, back near the door where they came in.
“Dreams,” Inara said confidently, and smiled as the spectre nodded.
“A dream came upon me, as my daughter slumbered beneath my heart. It told me of Her life, and of Her betrayal and death. I am sorrow and regret. I am a mother weeping bitter tears for a daughter she could not save.”
The door clicked one last time, and when Inara and the others went to it, they found the doorway opened. As they walked towards it, beyond the opened door they could see a split in the path, two doorways lit by flame, and one figure standing there in the path between, his back turned to them. Inara’s breath caught as they drew closer, and her feet refused to move forward. Alistair turned to look at her, concerned, as the other companions stopped around them.
“Father,” Inara choked as she stared ahead, recognizing the fur that hung over the man’s back, the patterns in the black and grey that she’d clutched tight to as a child following him like a shadow.
The figure turned, slowly. “My daughter,” he spoke as he faced her.
Inara could not believe what she saw. It was him. Her father, standing there in front of her. His helmet was off, the top of his head shiny and bald, the scraggly, wiry white hair coming off from around the bald spot pulled back into a messy bun at the back of his head. His beard, all white and grey like days-old snow, reached the center of his chest. His eyes glittered, dim blue flecked with spots of green, and his fur hung heavy off his shoulders, his simple garments with their loose seams barely containing his massive stature. At his hip was his horn, his dagger.
“I… I wish it were not so, but I know that you are gone,” Inara said, her voice and eyes full of tears as she stared at what had to be a spirit, masquerading as the man that she had failed so long ago.
The man stepped forward, put his massive hand on Inara’s cheek, and her tears streaked down her face. He wiped one away with his thumb, his skin rough, and he gave her a soft smile.
“You know that I am gone, and all your prayers and wishes will not bring me back,” he agreed with a gentle voice. “But no more must you grieve, my daughter. Take the pain and the guilt, acknowledge it, and let it go. It is time.”
Inara reached up, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she clutched the wrist of the man, pressed her face against his hand. “Father, I—”
“Dry your tears, girl,” the man urged, his other hand coming up to wipe gently at the tears on her other cheek. “You have such a long road ahead of you, my daughter, and you must be prepared. And so I leave this in your hands… I know you will do great things with it.”
He pulled his hand free of her grasp, then, and reached down to his belt. He took the dagger there from his waist, and offered it up to her. With shaking fingers, she took it, took a long, shaky breath as she cradled it in both hands. It was his prized possession, always at it his side, always the story he told at the fire when someone new came along. When he’d been murdered, her brother had taken it, stuck it in his own belt like he had earned it, and Inara had burned with rage and betrayal. It was the tooth of a dragon, sharpened and fired until it glistened black, the sheath made of pure white leather, the hilt embedded with gemstones that burned with a holy fire.
“Thank you, I—” but when Inara looked up, Ulrich was gone.
Tears still falling from her eyes, she looked back to Alistair, who stepped forward quickly to put his arm around her as she looked back down to the dagger in her hands.
“How can a spirit manifest such a thing?” she asked him with a faltering, tearful voice.
Her fingers moved over it. It felt just as she remembered, a gold impression of a lion there on the edge of the hilt. How could—
“Come on,” Alistair urged. “Let’s keep moving.”
They stepped through the next set of doors, half on one side, half on the other, and they were grateful to see that they had all ended up in the same spot. Then the doors behind them slid shut with a solid noise, and at the far end of the room, more spectres appeared, dark and glittering. It took a moment for Inara to notice what was happening, as the spectres rushed towards them, drawing their weapons.
“They’re us!” she realized out loud.
She scrambled to tuck the dagger her father had given her away safely and draw her own weapons as the spectres of herself and her companions crossed the floor. At first, each of them tried to battle the spectre of themselves, but after a few moments of struggle, they realized it would be easier to take on someone less evenly matched, less familiar with their own movements – Alistair against Wynne, Inara against Morrigan, Leliana against Zevran and Zevran against Leliana, Sten against Shale and Shale against Sten. It appeared that the spectres could not access templar abilities, and so the mages made quick work of Inara and Alistair’s images.
“Well, that was… shit,” Inara puffed once they were done, Sten the last spectre left standing when all was said and done.
“Enlightening, perhaps,” Morrigan said darkly, looking hard at Alistair, who ignored her.
“Let’s just go,” Inara encouraged.
In the next room, there was a door across a great gap in the floor, which swirled with a darkness that Inara did not want to guess at the contents of. Along each side of the gap, were interesting floor plates, five on each side. As the others walked across these strange stones in the floor while they explored, hazy images of a bridge appeared over the gaps. But, any time someone moved off the stones, the bridge would vanish again.
“How do you think it’s doing that?” Wynne wondered. “Mirrors? Magic?”
They took turns, standing on stones and off again. It seemed that a certain number of them had to stand on the stones for the bridge to solidify. If more than one of them was off the stones, it appeared, the bridge would falter, disappear. If anyone tried to stand on more than one stone, neither of the stones seemed to function.
“Do we have to move on the stones?” Alistair wondered. “Figure out how to get a few people across at a time?”
“What happens if we step on the wrong stone, and someone falls through?” Morrigan frowned.
“The Blight ravages the land, and here we are, playing with switches and stepping stones,” Sten harrumphed.
“I think… maybe we have to let just one of us pass,” Inara said, pointedly ignoring Sten. “I think we have to accept that we cannot all go, that we cannot all reach the Urn. Swallow our pride, stand on the stones and keep the bridge whole while one person crosses. I think that’s the test.”
“So who should go?” Wynne asked.
“Leliana. You,” Inara named, and Leliana’s face rippled in shock for a moment.
“No, I couldn’t—it should be you. It is because of you that we are here,” Leliana refused.
“You and Wynne are the two most devout among us,” Inara replied with a shake of her head. “If anyone goes, it should be one of you. If you want to decide between yourselves—”
“I agree, it should be Leliana,” Wynne said.
It was settled. Everyone spread out, took their place standing on the stones, and one by one, the pieces of the bridge appeared and solidified. Leliana looked pensive for a moment, glancing at Wynne, Inara, and Alistair almost apologetically, but then she stepped out, cautious at first, and then picked up her pace as she walked swiftly across the stones, as if she were afraid that perhaps the bridge would not last beneath her feet. But as soon as she crossed, reached the other side, there was a great noise, and a shaking, and the bridge became even more clear, and sharp. Even as Inara and the others stepped from the stones, the bridge stayed in place.
After a few long moments of consideration, everyone else crossed the bridge, and Leliana looked… almost disappointed, if Inara stared hard enough.
“It appears we only had to be willing to sacrifice our chance to be worthy of it,” Wynne commented.
They moved forward, all together. They passed through a hallway, through the next doorway. There was a massive room with a huge, vaulted ceiling that rose high above them all. Cutting off any view of the room, however, was a wall of fire, the only thing visible beyond the ceiling and the very top of a statue which appeared to be of Andraste. Before the massive wall of flames sat a stone pedestal, which had a carving in its face.
“Cast off the trappings of worldly life and cloak yourself in the goodness of spirit. King and slave, lord and beggar; be born anew in the Maker’s sight,” Wynne read off of it.
“What does that mean?” Inara wondered. “Are we supposed to—how do we cloak ourselves against the fire?”
“Cast off the trappings of worldly life? That sounds like getting naked to me,” Zevran practically purred.
Wynne frowned heavily. “I hate to say it, but… I agree with Zevran,” she said.
“Why would Andraste want us to get naked?” Alistair asked.
“Only one way to find out, I guess,” Inara said, beginning to undo the straps of her armor.
“You can’t be serious,” Alistair gawked.
Inara shrugged. “Only one way to know. I’m sure if I get burned horribly Wynne will save me.”
“Unless it is special, holy fire, and there is no way to stop the flames,” Morrigan commented unhelpfully.
Inara sighed at her words, and continued undressing. She saw Alistair move, like he was trying to block the view of her from Zevran, but the elf simply moved around to continue staring. Inara shivered as she removed the last few layers of her clothes, carefully keeping her back to the others and attempting to shield full view of her breasts and the front of her groin from the others, removing the clothes quickly. She even pulled the ties out of her hair, just to be safe. She glanced back at Alistair, tried not to look directly at anyone else, and gave him a weak smile.
Leaving her things there in a pile behind her, she walked carefully to the wall of flames, the heat scorching her skin. She took a breath, closed her eyes, and stepped forward, her heart beating hard in her chest.
On the other side, she found herself standing, unharmed by the flames, the scrapes and wounds she’d suffered in the battle against their spectres vanished.
“I’m okay!” she called, and she wondered if her companions could even hear her.
One by one, though, they came after her, all walking naked through the fire. She averted her eyes, so much as she could, and her breath caught in her throat as before her she saw a massive, intricately carved staircase that led up to the statue of Andraste she had seen through the flames. In Andraste’s hand, an eternal flame burned, and below the statue, at her feet, sat an Urn, illuminated by a beautiful light.
“You have been through the trials of the Gauntlet; you have walked the path of Andraste, and like Her, you have been cleansed. You have proven yourself worthy, pilgrim. Approach the Sacred Ashes,” they heard the Guardian’s voice, and when they saw him pass through the flames, a great light shone, and when it faded, they were all clothed in simple, pure-white garments that hung loosely over their shoulders.
Slowly, after glancing around at all of her companions and seeing them nod at her, urge her forward, Inara climbed the steps to where the Urn sat, and they all followed. At the top of the stairs, she stopped, and stared a moment.
“I didn’t think anyone could succeed in finding Andraste’s final resting place… but here… here She is,” she heard Alistair breathe, just behind her.
Carefully, reverently, Inara stepped forward, her fingers shaking as she removed the lid from the Urn, carefully. The Guardian appeared beside the Urn, and offered her a small, velvet pouch. She took it, and took a pinch from the urn, fingers trembling terribly, and sprinkled the pinch of ashes down inside the pouch. She stepped back then, bowing deeply to the Guardian, and he smiled at her, before looking to Alistair, beckoning him forward.
“I-it’s enough to be here,” Alistair choked out, stepping off to the side with Inara, and the Guardian looked to Leliana.
“I never dreamed I would ever lay my eyes on the Urn of Sacred Ashes…. I… I have no words to express…” Leliana struggled as she stepped forward. The Guardian granted her a pouch, and she took a pinch of the Ashes, before joining Inara and Alistair off to the side on the platform.
“I could not have asked for a greater honor than to be here. I will never forget this feeling,” Wynne breathed when it was her turn to step forward up the last of the steps and stand before the Urn. She, too, took a pinch of the Ashes for herself, before moving beside Leliana.
“I stand in awe. Really,” Morrigan said when she stepped forward.
Inara honestly could not tell if she meant it. Her voice did not hold her usual venom when she was mocking Alistair, but she did not raise her eyes to look at the Urn fully. Instead, she simply stepped off to the side.
“What an odd thing to do with the honored dead… to store it in a pot. Bizarre,” Shale commented, standing away.
“Congratulations. You found a waste bin,” Sten snorted, and stepped out of the way as well.
“Nice vase. I should get one for my house,” was Zevran’s comment.
“Are you sure you don’t want to—” Inara began to ask Alistair, and he just shook his head rapidly, staring at the Guardian with wide eyes, like he was afraid.
“What do we do now?” Inara asked then, looking to the Guardian expectantly. “Do we… pray?”
“Do whatever it is you wish,” the Guardian answered. “When you are ready, I will take you back to the entrance.”
Leliana went and knelt before the Urn, and bowed her head to pray, and Wynne joined her. After Inara looked up at Alistair questioningly, the two of them joined as well, kneeling there before the statue of Andraste to pray. Inara took Alistair’s hand, and he squeezed hers hard. Their hearts beat together, and Inara prayed that Andraste and the Maker would look on their love and smile. She wondered if Alistair prayed for the same.
When they were finished, Inara climbed back to her feet, and looked below, where her other companions were combing through the shelves around the bottom of the staircase. She saw their equipment and packs there across the floor, no longer obscured by fire, and she smoothed her hands over the garment that had appeared on her, admiring how soft and how beautifully white it was.
“Are we ready to dress and go?” she asked her companions as she and Alistair reached the bottom of the stairs.
“We’d best be ready for a fight,” Zevran cautioned. “I don’t think Kolgrim will be happy that we have not completed his task.”
“At least we’ll be able to face him renewed and refreshed,” Inara shrugged.
“I just hope we don’t have to fight the dragon,” Alistair grimaced.
“Me too,” Inara frowned.
“You are ready?” the Guardian asked.
“We are,” Inara answered, and prayed that she was right.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
I kinda forgot about this fic I started where the Inquisitor fails at Adamant. But then someone commented on the prologue today, and now I’m working on it again.
