#Blessed Are The Peacekeepers Champions of the Just

[rainbowmagicmarker]

hey has anyone pulled Solas' Dread Wolf model from the game or have some really clear screenshots of it?

[rainbowmagicmarker]

#this is so big brain of him#a classic smart boy move from my man solas#although the fact that it also immediately backfires to cause terrible consequences to himself#is also a classic solas move

Don't hide this in the tags ur right and you should say it

here’s something to think about:

solas says he was going to transfer elgar’nan and ghila’nain to the regret prison. we know the only way to get out is to accept the regrets and move past them, to let them go. so why would solas put two egotistical maniac gods inside a regret prison? they don’t seem to have regrets. everything they did, from slavery to horrible experimentation, elgar’nan and ghilan’nain take these as accomplishments in stride.

but solas. this fucking guy. he knows the evanuris. all of them are basically family to one another in some form or fashion. solas saw their rise to power and who they were before becoming who we know them as now.

solas knows they have regrets. and why does he use the regret prison to hold them??? because solas in his own twisted, silly way, thinks that maybe just maybe, his old friends are STILL in there. that maybe they can go back to who they were as spirits before they took on their bodies.

if they would just accept what they have done as horrible, inhumane, downright evil. if they would come to regret what they did, and let go of their desires to be gods, to just be. and there’s another side of this!

if elgar’nan and ghilan’nain never get over this regret, like solas cannot get over his no matter how hard he tries, they’ll be stuck there forever. it’s literally genius. he is so fucking smart.

the evanuris can either let go of their mad desire to take over thedas and move on, or stay locked in prison for eternity. it’s a win either way. holy fuck.

[crows-of-buckets]

And what if I did a comic for my Surana based on part of the chant of light. What then hm

[knightsquire]

Ik the da chantry is just fantasy catholicism but the writers did go hard with some of the chants and hymns

[hwashitape]

god remember how DAI had like the best main quest titles ever in history /lh how will they top it like… does Tevinter have their own heretic Chant

[tiredassmage]

Blessed are those who stand before The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just

Benedictions 4:10

The Old Gods will call to you From their Ancient Prisons they will sing Dragons with wicked eyes and wicked hearts On blacken'd wings does deceit take flight...

Canticle of Silence 3:6

The Chant of Light / Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest Titles & The Siege of Weisshaupt (Dragon Age: The Veilguard)

[xnikandrosx]

open starter location: Aventia, Borderreach notes: say a little prayer for you~ the Vanguard is recruiting too! This has a cap of 4.

Wherever there was darkness, Nikandros would stand. The Vanguard of the Light did not shrink at the sight of evil, they stood against it - shoulder to shoulder against the shadow.

Nikandros stood in the quiet courtyard of Aventia’s keep, away from the chaos and noise of the besieged walls. His white mantle draped over his shoulders, edged in gold, with the sunburst eye embroidered across it practically gleaming in the pale, clouded light from above. A silvered blade hung at his side, not meant for battle, but as a symbol of his devotion. Nikandros was not here to fight on the front lines—that was not his purpose. He was here to guide, to bless, and to steel the righteous against the waves of darkspawn at their gate

Before him, knelt a young warrior, her armor dented and worn from previous skirmishes, her hands trembling as she clasped them together in prayer. Her eyes, filled with fear and uncertainty, looked to Nikandros, seeking something—anything—that could offer her strength against the darkness that pressed against the gates.

Nikandros placed his hands lightly on her bowed head, his voice soft but steady, filled with the quiet authority of one who had seen many fall and many rise in the Light’s name.

"The corrupt and the wicked do not falter," he began, his words slow and deliberate, each one resonating in the stillness of the courtyard. The air became charged as light began to sift through narrow shafts from above, it wreathed the pair as Nik spoke with steadfast purpose. "But blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just."

The warrior’s breathing slowed, her grip on her sword tightening as Nikandros continued, his hands still resting gently on her head, as if to quiet the storm that bristled below the surface.

"Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood, the Creator's will is written." Warmth passed over the courtyard, and clouds covered the light once again as the paled dark fell over her shoulders once more. "Go with the Light, child, and know that you do not stand alone." There was no arcana to charge the air, the telltale metallic taste of witchcraft was entirely absent. Nikandros left the weight of his voice upon her and let pride bloom in her chest in place of uncertainty.

He lifted his hands, a sign of release, of sending her forward into battle, not with force but with faith. The fear in her eyes had not vanished, but it had dulled, replaced by something steadier. Hope.

Nikandros stepped back, watching her rise to her feet, her resolve hardening like tempered steel. He offered no grand gesture, no final call to arms—only the weight of his words, meant to linger in her heart. He tilted his head in a modest affirmation as she did the same before departing.

The state of Aventia was unfortunate. Desperate. But Nikandros was not deterred, there were still innocents here being evacuated and warriors were arriving from across Lysara - more and more by the hour. By way of mounts, air, ship, and steam. In grand, flourishes of magic, Olympians arrived from the Tower.

"Whatever our differences, there is only one war that matters." The war between good and evil, the light and the dark. Nikandros offered his hand toward the stranger, "The Light offers you protection in this hour of need."

[kinlochs]

a kiss to the forehead, meant to soothe. / I’m shameless

He thought he would find her here. Amongst all of the towering statues of Andraste's open embrace, the warm candlelight, the scent of parchment and incense. These things were a comfort to her, he understood. It was the same manner that he sought out the solitude of a library, or even the ghostly apparition of the Crossroads.

Cassian kneels in front of Evelyn. It's just enough room between her bowed head and the first step of the pulpit to fit. He is lucky to be here. Lucky to be alive. She had chosen him to resurface from the fade, and not Hawke. His heart ached for his cousin, his family, but he could not fathom being the one to make such a heavy decision.

He is reluctant to break the invisible barrier that separates them, but the Inquisitor is so lonely on the other side. Undoubtedly, she meditates on her actions. He reaches out and cups her cheek, inhaling slowly. What could someone say in this moment? What comfort could he, one of her strongest adversaries and staunchest allies, provide?

He knew.

Cassian falls forward until his chapped lips meet the worried skin between Evelyn's brows in a tender kiss. He replaces it with his own forehead, pressing them together.

He begins, "Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just ... "

A heretic mage's recitation of the Chant of Light thus echoes through the Chantry to no one's ears but their own.

[daitranscripts]

Cullen Cutscene: What Pride Had Wrought

A Prayer For You

Cullen Masterpost Related Quest: What Pride Had Wrought

The PC finds Cullen praying in the small Chantry near the garden in Skyhold.

Choice dependent dialogue:

Continued taking lyrium [1]

Did not continue taking lyrium [2]

1 - Continued taking lyrium

Cullen: In this the truth is found. Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.

PC: A prayer for you?

Cullen: I hardly know.

Dialogue options:

General: I don’t mean to pry. [3]

General: Then why pray? [4]

General: Explain that. [5]

3 - General: I don’t mean to pry. PC: If you’d rather not say—I didn’t mean to pry.

4 - General: Then why pray? PC: Then why that prayer? Cullen: It used to mean something. I thought it might still.

5 - General: Explain that. PC: What do you mean?

6 - Scene continues.

Cullen: “Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.” I swore to myself that I would be free of the Order, free of lyrium. I prayed to Andraste for the strength to endure it. What have I done, if not faltered?

Choice dependent dialogue:

Continued taking lyrium [7]

Taking lyrium temporarily [8]

7 - Dialogue options:

General: You’ve accomplished so much. [9]

General: You followed orders. [10]

General: Does quitting lyrium matter? [11]

9 - General: You’ve accomplished so much. PC: You’ve helped make the Inquisition what it is today–and it’s something to be proud of. Cullen: I could not have done that without–No, you’re right. I sword to put the Inquisitor first. I will see it through to the end.

10 - General: You followed orders. PC: You have given the Inquisition what it needs and done what was asked of you. Cullen: Then I kept my word. There is peace in that.

11 - General: Does quitting lyrium matter? PC: You left the Order—isn’t that enough? Cullen: I hoped to regain some control over my life. I’m not sure I have.

12 - Scene continues.

Cullen: Forgive me. I swore to serve the Inquisition. I should not question what that entails. Inquisitor.

He leaves.

Scene ends.

8 - Dialogue options:

General: This is temporary. [13]

General: You’ve raised an army. [14]

General: It’s all in your head. [15]

13 - General: This is temporary. PC: You put the needs of the Inquisition above your own. When this is over, you will keep your promise. Cullen: Corypheus will retaliate. It’s only a matter of time. [22]

14 - General: You’ve raised an army. PC: You’ve built an army that helps protect half of Thedas. Cullen: Corypheus will retaliate. It’s only a matter of time. [22]

15 - General: It’s all in your head. PC: Quitting lyrium wouldn’t make you a better person. You must do that on your own. Cullen: Then I must see Corypheus ended. Our success at Mythal will force his hand. [22]

2 - Did not continue taking lyrium

Cullen: Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. For there is no darkness in the Maker’s light and nothing He has wrought shall be lost.

PC: A prayer for you?

Cullen: For those we have lost. And those I am afraid to lose.

Dialogue options:

Flirt: Afraid to lose? [16]

General (Met Flemythal): I’ve seen a real god. [17]

General (non-Andrastian PC): Prayers don’t fix anything. [18]

General: How can you have faith? [19]

General: You haven’t lost your faith. [20]

16 - Flirt: Afraid to lose? PC: You’re afraid? Cullen: Of course I am! Corypheus possessed that Grey Warden at Mythal. What more is he capable of? It is only a matter of time before he retaliates. [21]

17 - General: I’ve seen a real god. PC: I’ve seen a god. Or so she claimed. Cullen: Perhaps you did. I cannot say for certain. Does that make what I believe any less real? I’ve questioned it at times, but I have found comfort in faith when life offered little. Corypheus will retaliate. It’s only a matter of time. [21]

18 - General: Prayers don’t fix anything. PC: You think talking to the Maker will help? Cullen: I found comfort in faith when life offered little. Perhaps you find comfort elsewhere. Corypheus will retaliate. It’s only a matter of time. [21]

19 - General: How can you have faith? PC: How can you still have faith? Cullen: I’ve questioned it at times, but I have found comfort in faith when life offered little. Corypheus will retaliate. It’s only a matter of time. [21]

20 - General: You haven’t lost your faith. PC: I’m glad you haven’t lost your faith. Cullen: I’ve questioned it at times, but I have found comfort in faith when life offered little. Corypheus will retaliate. It’s only a matter of time. [21]

21 - Scene continues.

Cullen: We must draw strength wherever we can.

22 - Choice dependent dialogue

Non-romance [23]

Romance [24]

23 - Non-romance

Dialogue options:

General (temporarily taking lyrium): We will win. [25]

General (quit lyrium): From peace of mind, maybe? [26]

General: It never ends, does it? [27]

General: We must be prepared. [28]

25 - General: We will win. PC: It’s only a matter of time. We will see this done, Cullen. Cullen: That I have never doubted. I should return to my duties. There’s more to be done. Scene ends.

26 - General: From peace of mind, maybe? PC: From moments like this, perhaps? Cullen: There are fewer of those lately. PC: There’s time now. Scene ends.

27 - General: It never ends, does it? PC: Unless he gets bored and surrenders. Any chance of that? Cullen: (Laughs.) I doubt it. Scene ends.

28 - General: We must be prepared. PC: Are we prepared? Cullen: We will be. I should return to my duties. There’s more to be done. Scene ends.

24 - Romance

Cullen: When the time comes, you will be thrown into his path again. Andraste preserve me, I must send you to him.

Dialogue options:

Special (took coin): I have good luck. [29]

Pleased (did not take coin): We’re going to win. [31]

Angry: I hate this whole situation. [31]

Anxious: What if I don’t make it? [32]

Stoic: Corypheus must be stopped. [33]

29 - Special: I have good luck. PC: There’s nothing to worry about. I have luck on my side, remember? Cullen: (Laughs.) That’s less comforting than I’d hoped. [34]

30 - Pleased: We’re going to win. PC: Look at everything we’ve accomplished. I’m ready for this. We all are. Cullen: We would not be here without you. [34]

31 - Angry: I hate this whole situation. PC: I don’t like this either, but what else can we do? Cullen: You can show him it doesn’t matter. That he will fall. [34]

32 - Anxious: What if I don’t make it? PC: What if I can’t… Cullen, if I don’t… Cullen: Maker, no. [34]

33 - Stoic: Corypheus must be stopped. PC: If it must be done, so be it. Cullen: (Sighs.) I know. [34]

34 - Scene continues.

They hug.

Cullen: Whatever happens, you will come back.

Dialogue options:

General: You’re still worried. [35]

General: Is that so? [36]

General: Yes, I will. [37]

34 - General: You’re still worried. PC: Cullen, you don’t have to— Cullen: Allow me this. To believe anything else would… I can’t. Scene ends.

35 - General: Is that so? PC: Is that an order, Commander? Cullen: No. But as one of your advisors, I strongly recommend it. Inquisitor: (Laughs.) If you say so. Scene ends.

36 - General: Yes, I will. PC: I certainly hope so. Cullen: The thought of losing you… I can’t. Scene ends.

[crisdoesart]

Blessed are they who stand before

The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.

Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.

Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.

In their blood the Maker's will is written.

—Canticle of Benedictions 4:10-11

decided to redraw/remix an old drawing of aelym after he defeated the archdemon.

by the way, to those wondering in my last post, he’s a surana <3 maybe i’ll talk more about him in the future

[dragon-age-codex-entries]

Codex entry: Champions of the Just

Blessed are they who stand before The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.

Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written.

—Canticle of Benedictions 4:10-11

"When Andraste preached these verses, she offered her followers a path of virtue. "In their blood the Maker's will is written" is usually interpreted to mean sacrificing one's life for a righteous cause, but like most of the Chant, deeper meaning hides beneath the surface. "In their blood" can be understood as a reference to continuity, an unbroken line of humble behavior required to please the Maker.

Rather than a physical fight against demon or apostate, Andraste meant this verse as a warning that her faithful should judge their heart's intentions, questioning those who would lead them astray. Champions of the Just are those with the courage to admit their wrongdoing, while letting none continue in their sight.

Unsurprisingly, the Fourth Stanza is popular among militant branches of the Chantry, such as the knights-enchanter and the Templar Order."

—Notes on the Chant of Light, by Mother Bezoria of the Grand Cathedral, 9:39 Dragon

[rainbowmagicmarker]

Solas has taken the first steps on the path to atonement, and Lavellan has made the choice to step with him. She is angry, but she loves him. Though he does not understand it, and does not deserve it, he is still grateful. But there is an entire Fade yet between them and the Eternal City, and only the company of each other. And the myriad of wounds that must be healed before they can hope to soothe the wounds of the Blight.

I've considered that I don't think Solas and Lavellan would return to the regret prison, there's no more need for it. Solas can't atone from inside of a prison, and he swore to soothe the Blight.

Lavellan certainly isn't letting him go anywhere alone ever again, so they will go together. But you cannot let Blight inside of an open wound, some things must be healed before you can find the strength to consider the pains of others.

(Also smut, eventually. They gotta work through some things first.)

[flyingwide]

I am way too Dragon Age brained. I went by my mom's house and she was watching something about the Huguenots and someone said "Blessed are the peacekeepers" and my brain immediately went "Champions of the just"

[call-me-honkie]

Never Meet Your Mentors

Irving held up a hand. The Warden’s mouth snapped shut, but ire flickered through them. At first, it had relieved them how quickly they were sliding back into the roles of mentor and apprentice. But, suddenly, they weren’t sure that’s what they wanted to be to Irving. They had passed their Harrowing, among many other ordeals.

The Mage Warden comes to some realizations about Irving as they talk about the Circle. Takes place after the Broken Circle quest.

Also on AO3!

Their party had an extra member, First Enchanter Irving, that evening. The Warden had been put on watch duty first at Wynne’s suggestion.

“At least one Grey Warden should be on watch duty at all times, if we can help it,” she’d said, in that gentle yet firm voice of hers. It was a voice the Warden was all too familiar with: one of a higher-ranking enchanter who was used to herding around apprentices. “That way, we minimize the risk of a darkspawn attack while we’re caught off-guard.”

Now that the night was still, though, they wondered if she had known they wouldn’t even try to sleep after the day they had. First Enchanter Irving had volunteered to keep watch along with them. Wynne objected at first, since he out of all of them needed the rest the most, but she relented when he insisted that her healing spells had done a fine job on driving the brunt of the pain away. Still, he walked with a visible limp.

The Warden dared a glance at their former mentor, who was staring into the fire. The firelight made his deep worry lines seem even deeper, and his unkempt beard couldn’t hide his frown. Yet he hadn’t said a word to his former apprentice. It was his lost-in-thought look; the Warden knew it all too well when they used to walk into his office in the seconds before they cleared their throat to get his attention. They wondered if he volunteered for watch duty because he knew he would not be able to sleep, either, after what happened in the Tower.

The Warden turned their gaze into the fire. The Tower they left mere weeks ago did not feel like the Tower they had returned to. They had not expected a warm welcome—one of the first things Greagoir did was glare coldly at them and remind them they were still a maleficar’s accomplice. But they had not expected to return to…

The Warden felt their eyes glaze. The flames danced in front of them, bright and hypnotic, springing up from the embers, glowing red as blood.

Blood trailed up the stairs into the Harrowing Chamber, the stains messy and disjointed. Whoever’s blood it was, they had put up a fight. The Warden’s stomach turned—not at the gore, but at not knowing what was happening through the door.

From his translucent cage, Cullen fell to his knees. He buried his head in his hands, clutched together in prayer. “Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.”

A scream ripped through the fourth floor just as the Warden’s hand touched the Harrowing Chamber’s door. The air prickled with electricity and mana, as if the Tower itself raised its hackles at whatever was happening upstairs. The Warden flinched.

Cullen’s head was bowed so low it nearly touched the ground. “Oh, Maker,” he whimpered. “Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood, the Maker's will is written.”

The Warden’s feet were frozen. When the great doors had shut behind them (it felt like an eternity ago, but it could have only been an hour at most), the first thing they did was step over the body of a familiar woman. Not a friend. But she had been kind, and had congratulated them on their successful Harrowing, and—

The Warden couldn’t do this. They couldn’t do this. If the First Enchanter was dead, or if he was an abomination—

“The First Enchanter’s sharp as a whip, and just as dangerous, too. Personally, I don’t believe for a second that there’s no hope,” Alistair said from right behind them. To their companions, it must have sounded like a simple observation to no one in particular, but there was a softness to his voice; he was reassuring them.

The Warden nodded mutely. He was right. They couldn’t afford to get choked up now. They were a mage. Their willpower was their strongest weapon.

They pushed the door open.

Cullen’s voice guttered and grew distant as they ascended the stairs. “Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and wicked and do not falter…”

Irving’s voice cut through their thoughts: “I do not believe I had the chance to thank you for what you did today.” His voice was gravelly, heavy, and tired.

The Warden shivered, as if their body was shaking off the memory. “You already did. In the Tower.”

Their former mentor paused, then chuckled quietly enough that the Warden wondered if they had misheard it until he said, “Yes. Yes, you are correct. I truly am getting too old for this, aren’t I?”

The Warden smiled weakly. Irving did the same. The invisible, stony barrier between them, erected the day they were conscripted into the Grey Wardens, felt like it had begun to crumble, like they were one step closer to returning to what they had been: mentor and apprentice.

Their chest ached for that stability again. The Circle was constricting with its many rules and the Chantry breathing down the mages’ necks, and there were certain dangers, like the Harrowing, but it was stable. There were hot meals, beds, peers, mentors, and the opportunity to hone one’s skills and knowledge. It was a home.

Or it had been, until Greagoir shut those massive doors closed and locked the mages inside. Then it was a slaughterhouse.

Irving stroked his beard passively. “It will take a long time for this wound to close. For everyone.” He looked at the Warden, and they looked away. He always seemed to sense their thoughts. “Even Greagoir.”

The Warden clenched their jaw, fiddling with a strap on their boot. “He didn’t seem that upset about trapping everyone inside to fend for themselves.”

“If you are to blame anyone, blame Uldred and his pride. Blame the Chantry’s distrust of mages that obliged Greagoir to seal the doors.” Irving’s voice was quiet yet sharp, and it stung. To an outsider, they were conversing civilly, but the Warden knew he was scolding them. It was the genius of Irving’s diplomatic skills. “Greagoir, as the knight-commander, did what he could, given the circumstances. He is—”

“‘A reasonable man,’” the Warden finished curtly. “I know.”

Irving and Greagoir’s strange friendship was common knowledge in the Tower. They, a mage and a templar of all things, were childhood friends somehow. And although they argued at least half a dozen times a day, there was a familiarity in their bickering, as if they knew what the other would say before he said it. As a result, Irving never tolerated the Warden’s disdain for Greagoir and the templars; a phantom cramp pulsed in their palm as they remembered all the sentences Irving made them write for mouthing off to Greagoir in their teenage years.

“Unfortunately, I believe recent events were…” Irving shook his head. “A long time coming. There were many factors in this collision course. Greagoir sealing the doors was the least of them all.”

“I know,” the Warden insisted. “I just…” They grappled for the words. They couldn’t get the sight of those great doors out of their head—how easily the mages, who could spout jets of fire and ice from their hands, were trapped like animals. How easily it could have been them stuck in there, too. Would they have turned into an abomination? Or could they have helped Wynne protect the children? Saved that girl who had congratulated them on their Harrowing? Freed Cullen?

“I am glad you became a Grey Warden,” Irving said as a way of answer. They looked at him, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “You came exactly when we needed you most. It was as if the Maker Himself had sent you.”

The Warden looked away again to hide their stinging eyes, the twist of a smile. “You already said that as well.”

Irving put up his hands in defeat. “Maker, child, you must excuse this old man’s failing memory.”

The Warden laughed, and the act felt as though it dusted cobwebs off their heart. Irving continued, “You will always have a home in the Circle. Perhaps, when the Blight has ended, we will gladly welcome you home again.”

“Even after what happened?” they blurted. “With Jowan and Lily?”

“Jowan’s escape and Lily’s fate are unfortunate. However, like Uldred’s takeover, I fear what happened was also an inevitability, influenced by many factors.” Irving stroked his beard contemplatively. “Perhaps even the same factors.”

The Warden furrowed their brows. “So you were going to make Jowan Tranquil.”

The First Enchanter nodded once. “He was maleficar. You know the consequences.”

“You know he couldn’t have meant anything malicious by it,” the Warden said quickly, eyes wide and pleading. “Jowan, he—he never thinks things through. He was insecure, that’s all. He thought blood magic would—”

Irving held up a hand. The Warden’s mouth snapped shut, but ire flickered through them. At first, it had relieved them how quickly they were sliding back into the roles of mentor and apprentice. But, suddenly, they weren’t sure that’s what they wanted to be to Irving. They had passed their Harrowing, among many other ordeals.

“I am aware that a sense of competition in the Circle—whether real or perceived—breeds such temptations as to seek out forbidden magics.” Irving waved his hand over the campfire, and the Warden swore it burned just a bit brighter. “I know Jowan felt as though he were… a disappointment. I am certain his actions were that of an insecure, jealous boy, not a cruel-spirited maleficar. Envy is powerful.” Irving looked at them with that piercing look like he was about to continue that thought, hesitated, then sighed. “But the Chantry does not care one whit whether Jowan acted out of malice or insecurity. He had proven himself dangerous even before his escape. He would have been made Tranquil, regardless.” Irving shook his head grimly. “Perhaps, if things were different…”

The Warden fiddled with the ring on their middle finger, the one they were given after their Harrowing. “I… understand.” Yet knowing that there was little they could have done was almost worse.

“Jowan knew the consequences of practicing blood magic,” Irving said with a sense of finality, “even if there is injustice to be found in Kinloch Hold.”

The Warden sighed. “I feel sorry for that initiate, Lily. She had no idea he was a blood mage, yet she paid the heaviest price.”

“Their relationship was forbidden as much as blood magic is.”

“I know,” the Warden said, “but Aeonar? The mage prison?” If the Warden hadn’t known him for years, they would mistake his convinced attitude for a laissez-faire one. “You can’t justify that. Even Greagoir could tell she wasn’t Jowan’s thrall.”

Irving shook his head with something that was not quite sadness, but not dismissive of Lily’s plight, either. “No. But, collateral though she was, she proved to be valuable.”

The Warden’s stomach sank at his wording. Valuable? They scrutinized Irving’s face, but it was unreadable.

“What do you mean, ‘valuable collateral?’” they asked slowly.

“There is little that goes on in the Tower that I do not know about.” The Warden raised a brow and thought, Was Uldred part of that “little” you didn’t know about? But Irving gestured to them, continuing, “Tell me, how did Lily discover that Jowan would undergo the Rite of Tranquility?”

The Warden tilted their head toward the sky in thought. “She said she had found the signed papers. She saw them on Greagoir’s—”

Terrible realization struck them. Their eyes snapped to him, mouth parted.

“You.” They fought the urge to point at him. “You planted the documents on Greagoir’s desk for her to find.”

“Astute as always,” Irving praised sincerely, but the Warden’s eyes were wide and incredulous.

“You led them into a trap.”

“As I said before, both were already engaging in forbidden acts. But had I simply reported them, the Chantry would have defended Lily, claiming she was a thrall and absolving her of any consequences. She needed to be caught red-handed.” Irving’s eyes were bright, fiery. “I do not take pleasure in the outcome, but if one of my mages is to be doomed to Tranquility or worse, then one of the Chantry’s priestesses must face the consequences of her own misconduct. I refuse to let the Chantry pretend their disciples are above suspicion while regarding my mages with distrust for their Maker-given gifts.”

Irving was fiercely intelligent, politically minded, and right. They knew he was right, and yet… They looked back down at their ring, remembering Lily’s kind earnestness. They hadn’t known her for long, yet she had thanked them for their help before Jowan did. She didn’t seem to care that he was a mage, either, despite the Chantry’s teachings. Their relationship had been forbidden and borne of infatuation, but it was not worthy of Aeonar, whether she was a maleficar’s accomplice or not. And Jowan—foolish, foolish Jowan, who could barely light a candle with his magic…

The Warden didn’t know what to think.

“I know it is a lot to take in.” Irving rested his hand on their shoulder. It felt cold, even through their armor. “Jowan was your friend, and you were trying to help a friend in need. I do not hold it against you.” He smiled a little. “A ‘bleeding heart,’ as it were, is an admirable thing to possess.”

The Warden nodded absently. Their mind was still whirling.

Irving stroked his beard again. “While I wish you would have come to me when you discovered Jowan and Lily’s plan, it took a great deal of compassion and strength to help them. I know that is what Duncan saw in you, even if you had broken a novel’s worth of the Circle’s rules in the process.” Irving laughed. “I told him you had a rebellious streak, and I’m not sure he believed me when you first greeted him, all politeness and hospitality.”

The Warden swallowed, shoving back their racing thoughts. They would sort through it another time. They mustered their most collected voice: “When you introduced us, I wondered what you’d said about me to him. I’m glad to hear they were good things… assuming a ‘rebellious streak’ and a ‘bleeding heart’ are good things to have.”

Irving nodded sagely. “A rebellious nature can be a double-edged blade. Challenging the status quo too much hardens those around you to change, but never challenging it breeds stagnation. It is a difficult balance to strike.”

The Warden wondered how Jowan’s escape and Uldred’s takeover would affect the status quo in the Circle. Would the Circle finally have meaningful discussions about the treatment of mages, or would they clamp down even further? The Warden gestured to Irving. “You have personal experience, I take it.”

Irving laughed. “Child, that is what it means to be First Enchanter.”

They allowed themself to smile a bit. “Were you a rebellious apprentice?”

He looked into the fire affectionately. “I got into my share of trouble. Weaseling in and out of mischief; seeing what I could get away with; pestering the harsh templars and befriending the more reasonable ones, like Greagoir… Not unlike yourself.” 

The Warden fought a grin, but—“Befriending templars? I’m afraid we differ there.” The Warden tried to sound confused.

Did he know about…? Would Cullen get in trouble if…?

“Oh?” Irving combed his fingers through his beard. “I was under the impression that a certain young templar was quite fond of you. Oh, what was his name…?” He looked with a knowing smile at them, waiting for them to give it up.

Annoyed, they said, “So you knew.”

“As I said, child: there is little that goes on in the Tower that I do not know about.”

“Fraternization between templars and mages is forbidden,” they shot back, “so why didn’t you tell Greagoir?”

“There are problems in the Tower bigger than a budding friendship between a mage and a templar,” Irving waved a hand flippantly, “namely blood mages, as you know.” Yet he was looking at them with a pointed look in his eyes—the same pointed look as when he justified throwing Lily to the blight wolves.

“The Tower could be packed to the Harrowing Chamber with blood mages and templars would still find time to scold us for taking a little too long in the latrines.” The Warden crossed their arms. “Templars need to be ready at a moment’s notice to cut us down if we are possessed. There can’t be room for hesitation. Cut the horseshit.”

Irving blinked. “Watch your tongue,” he said, but he sounded surprised, as if he’d scolded their foul language on instinct. He stayed silent for a moment as he collected his words, opened his mouth, then sighed.

“You are correct,” Irving started, “that mage-templar friendships can be risky, due to the inherent dangers of being a mage. I assure you, however, the risk was calculated: I knew you would not fail your Harrowing, just as I knew that Cullen was—is—one of the most devoted and earnest templars in Kinloch Hold—”

The Warden cut across him, “A ‘calculated risk?’ What do you—”

Again, Irving held up a hand; again, their mouth snapped shut.

He continued, “As I was saying, I looked the other way because I believe some kinship between mages and templars can benefit the culture of the Tower.”

“We’re one mage and one templar,” the Warden said dryly.

Amusement twinkled in Irving’s eye. “And there is not a single apprentice in the Tower who has not heard rumors about Cullen’s hopeless infatuation with you.”

The Warden’s face went hot. “Rumors. Like you said.”

Irving laughed brightly at the obviousness of the lie. The Warden cleared their throat and continued, “Anyhow, I fail to see how that ‘benefits the culture of the Tower.’ Unless you think gossip boosts morale.”

Irving was chuckling again as he said, “Maker, no. Gossip already crosses one side of the Tower to the other in minutes.” He shook his head, sobering. “No. The truth is, Kinloch Hold would be a much more oppressive place had it not been fortunate enough to have a knight-commander at the masthead who is least somewhat sensitive to mages’ needs, thanks to his long-standing friendship with the First Enchanter.”

The Warden’s stomach fell inch by inch as they parsed his meaning. One part of them could have cried out of joy; the other part was thrown off-kilter. Unsettled.

 They swallowed past the dryness in their mouth. “You wanted me to be First Enchanter and Cullen to be Knight-Commander one day.”

And look how you botched his plans, sneered a small voice in the darkest corner of their mind.

Irving nodded. “I believed you and Cullen at the head of the Circle would be a secure future for the mages in Ferelden. I see much of myself in you.” He looked at them again with fondness and warmth. The Warden’s heart clenched painfully as they knew what he’d say next: “And I have come to see you as my own.”

The Warden knew the bonds between mentors and apprentices often became familial, but they still blushed, moved, despite the growing sick feeling. “I’m honored.” They paused, then added quietly, “And you are the closest thing to a father I have ever had.”

Irving blew out a breath. “My condolences, child.”

They both laughed quietly. A stick snapped in the fire, sending a flurry of sparks upward into the night sky. The Warden watched them float up, a thick knot in their chest loosening for the first time in weeks.

But not completely.

The smile that lingered on the Warden’s face faltered when they thought about Jowan and Lily again. Maker, they should just accept that Irving was right—he was always right—but they couldn’t get the way Lily’s face paled when Greagoir sentenced her to Aeonar out of their head. Irving may have been a surrogate father to them, but Jowan was their brother and friend.

Most of their fondest memories in the Tower were with Jowan. Their earliest memory with him was how he had given them an excited piggyback ride after they had cast their first minor spell. They had mastered basic healing spells far sooner than their peers because of how often he would injure himself while doing magic; they’d tut and shake their head while he complained about how much it stung. And they snickered every time they recalled how Jowan once fired a spitball on a dare and struck a particularly stuffy templar right between the eyes, as if there’d been a bull’s eye there. They had tried to sweet talk the templar down from furious yelling to spare Jowan of punishment, but all it did was ensure that they got punished, too. They scoured pots with Jowan for a whole week. Jowan still preened when they brought it up. “And I did that without magic!” he would say, chest puffed.

And what they had with Cullen—a kind, earnest friendship, though still budding and awkward and tempered with infatuation on Cullen’s part… Irving saw it. He saw it, and began honing it to fit his political goals, well-intentioned though they were. He couldn’t let a precious thing be. He just had to make it about the good of the Maker-damned Circle.

Not that it mattered anymore. Judging by the wild look of disgust and fear that Cullen had given them as they departed, he would never speak to any mage again.

The Warden crossed their arms as if they were hugging themself. Every moment they had spent reveling in Irving’s flattery—in the realization that he saw them as his own, in his forgiveness for aiding Jowan and Lily—made the pit of their gut crawl with dark shame. It felt like their relief was betraying Jowan, wherever he was; disregarding Lily, who had to be well in Aeonar; and weaponizing their friendship with Cullen.

Maker, if Sten cleaved them in two with his greatsword, it still wouldn’t do justice to how torn they felt.

“One day,” Irving’s voice startled them; he was looking over his shoulder, in the direction of the Tower, “this open wound will close.” He nodded once with finality, and the Warden knew the conversation was over—sealed firmly shut, like he hoped the wound would be in time, and how they were unsure if it ever would be.

[natsora]

Chant

Trev followed Cassandra inside, doing her best to keep quiet. Judging by the half collapsed roof, exposed beams, jungle of vines and moss growing over the statue of Andraste, it’s been a long time since anyone visited this Chantry. Despite that, there held a sense of peace inside. 

Trev surpassed a shiver as her breath condensed against the cold air. Somehow, Cassandra could stand to knee down and place her bare hands on the stone pew. Head bowed, eyes closed, the Seeker sought to commune with the Maker. 

Trev was born an Andrastian, but she didn’t hold to the faith. She enjoyed the festivals and rituals, but believing in the Maker? That she wasn’t too sure about. Especially considering now she’s apparently the Herald. That made everything even more unbelievable. If the Maker existed, why would he pick her, of all people?

Cassandra’s breathing shifted, and she straightened. “Did you pray?” 

“No.” Trev looked at Andraste. “I don’t think I believe. I want to, but… I don’t know how.” 

Cassandra walked over and clasped Trev’s shoulder. “Faith doesn’t work like that. It’s not something you force into being. It’s something that comes from within. If you’d allow I would like to recite a particular verse. You do not have to believe. But I hope it can bring you comfort and strength.”

“I don’t mind. I won’t turn away anything or anyone that may help against—” Trev gestured at the rift visible through the broken roof. “—that.”

Cassandra chuckled. “I understand.” She bowed her head and started reciting. 

Blessed are they who stand before The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.

Trev listened. She didn’t know if she would ever believe. However, she took comfort in how Cassandra prayed for her. People were who Trev put her faith in. Especially Cassandra. 

Other prompts: Hart | Frilly Cakes

@14daysdalovers

[ustalav]

Little Gideon Drabble from the Archives

Gideon discovers his magic at age 11 after healing his little sister

“Did you do that?”

Her nails bite into his wrists, the grip like a vice as she kneels to look him in the eye. Gideon avoids the eye contact, lips shut tight. A pressure builds behind his eyes.

Mother shakes him. “Havard Gideon Trevelyan did you use magic on your sister?” Her voice is angry. Desperate. There are tears in her eyes too.

He’s still quiet.

“Answer me!” She screams and he finally looks. Her face is red, puffy, an anger he’s never seen directed at him. But she’s crying too. Gideon wants to fall into the floor, sink into the ground like a drop of rain.

“I-I don’t know-”

His tongue feels like it’s moving through sludge and she shakes him harder, jumbling his thoughts more. “Did you?”

“Yes?” His eyes are downcast. He still isn’t sure what happened really. Maybe it wasn’t magic.

It was it was it was. Gideon had felt it, a terrible presence that leaked from him before he could contain it. It had poured into Ophelia like so much poison. A demon given form.

“Yes?” Again, she shakes him.

The tears finally fall from his eyes. “Yes! Yes, I did.”

“You did? You did.” She practically flings him away from her, he stumbles back a few steps with the force, catching himself on the edge of a chair. Ophelia hides behind a leg of the table, her wide green eyes stare up at him, all that joy from before gone.

His eyes glue to the floor. This is a horrible nightmare. He’ll sink into the floor and wake up and all will be fine. He prays, anything to ward off this evil that’s corrupted him. The evil that’s put a monster in his mother’s eyes instead of her golden child.

Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.

His mother signals a servant into the room. “Get Lord Trevelyan.”

Blessed are the peacekeepers, champions of the just.

She’s regaining her composure now. Deep breaths, a slap at her cheeks. His eyes are on the floor but he still knows she doesn’t look at him.

Mother signals to another servant. “Watch him.” And then she leaves the room, pulling Ophelia with her by the wrist.

In their blood, the Maker’s will is written.