Fic: Dissonance (Ch. 6 - Enemies)
CHAPTER 6: ENEMIES | MEREDITH & GUYLIAN | WORDS: 531 | RATED: M
A series of non-linear vignettes exploring the life of Meredith Stannard. Written for @14dayscirclemages. 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 (AO3 LINK)
On rare occasions, Meredith will dream about what had happened when her knight-commander had been hanged. Mercenaries acting on behalf of the tyrant, or so the official story claimed, but Meredith knows better. In the first two weeks after Threnhold’s arrest she’d spent most of her waking hours standing guard outside his cell. Even back then she could recognise a man being tortured when she heard it. The pleas, the wails. The crunching of cartilage, the breaking of bone.
The sobs, the silence.
The sounds of a man realising he was all alone in the world. No allies, no friends. Not a single living soul would ever care that he had all but disappeared and nobody would be coming to save him.
By all accounts, Threnhold had been a despot deposed by his own hubris. The former viscount had risked igniting an Orlesian invasion and the Order had provided a ready response to the threat to Kirkwall’s sovereignty. It would be an impressive tale, if one did not understand the basic tenets of the templars; or, to be more precise, one did not understand the functioning of the Kirkwall Order under Knight-Commander Guylian’s leadership. Guylian had been the kind of knight-commander depicted in children’s storybooks: steadfast in his duty and apolitical to a fault. He’d confided in Meredith that the Chantry had requested the templars pressure the viscount into reopening the harbour. But most importantly: he’d told her how he’d refused them.
And now, he was dead. Hanged in his own stronghold, no less!
Meredith had once aspired to the same neutrality she had been taught by Knight-Commander Guylian and Ser Wentworth before him, but she was no idiot. That dream was dead now. Dead, like her mentor. Dead, like the knight-commander.
Dead, like she would be if she did not comply. She could already feel the noose around her neck, rough rope threatening to choke her.
The long arm of the Chantry, ready to pull the lever.
It was tempting to let them. It would be a small price to pay for freedom: fall, fall, fall, snap. But she had seen executions go wrong too many times before. Besides, if she were dead, she could not perform her duty: she had sworn to save the people of Kirkwall, just as she had once promised to protect her sister. She might have failed Amelia, but Meredith would not, could not, fail this city.
Why else would the Maker have rescued her that night if not for this purpose? If He truly had no plan for her, would it not have been better, kinder, to have left her there to die?
Instead, she had suffered, but the suffering had strengthened her. And it would continue to strengthen her, empowering her to do what needed to be done.
She could endure a thinly-veiled threat. She had endured so much already.
When Elthina finally dismissed Meredith from her post, the post outside the cell of a man whose worst crimes had been a terrible temper and refusing to bend the knee to Orlais, it had been with little more than a soft, steely smile and the words I’ll see you soon, Knight-Commander. Meredith had known better than to question the new title, relieved to finally be released back to the relative safety of the Gallows.
The Gallows, where her knight-commander had been hanged.









