#ziskfic: symbiotes

[volkoss]

Fic: Dissonance (Ch. 1 - Upbringing)

A series of non-linear vignettes exploring the life of Meredith Stannard. Written for @14dayscirclemages.

CHAPTER 1: UPBRINGING | MEREDITH & AMELIA | WORDS: 700 | RATED: T Notes: takes place in the same continuity as the rest of Symbiotes, but prior knowledge is not required for this chapter. 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 (AO3 LINK)

Sometimes, Meredith dreams about her childhood. Dreams about her sister, before she had become the Thing.

It had been a simpler time, before everything had gone to shit. A time before the Kirkwall docks where her father once worked had become shrouded in the shadow of the Gallows, even though logic dictated the ancient Tevinter fortress had stood for centuries, and would stand for ages more.

No. In the old dreams, Meredith can only remember the sun. The perfect summer days. The deceptively still surface of the Waking Sea reflecting the cloudless blue skies above their heads. Hers, and Amelia’s. Bare legs dangling into the water to keep cool in the heat. Amelia, jerking into Meredith’s side swearing an eel had slithered past. Meredith, clutching at her big sister’s side to keep her steady. 

It was only seaweed. Only ever seaweed.

On a good day, they’d have coppers enough to split a whole fish between them for lunch, a big juicy fat one at that. They’d cook it on a stick over one of the communal firepits, Amelia glancing around nervously worried the neighbourhood boys would pick a fight with them again and Meredith focused on her task, confident in the knowledge they wouldn’t.

Meredith had known, once upon a time, that their father had been disappointed their mother had borne him a second daughter. But it didn’t matter so much these days, not now she’d proven to him she could do everything a boy could, could do it even better.

She still remembers the first time she’d come home bloodied and bedraggled after breaking a bully’s nose for making fun of her sister. She’d expected to get a hiding but Dad had only laughed, ruffling her matted hair.

Maker’s breath, he’d said, I’ve created a monster. And yet upon noticing her swollen thumb, he’d still taught her how to throw a proper punch. For next time. It had been in that moment Meredith had been convinced of her purpose in life, her reason for being: she had been brought into this world to protect her sister, and she would never ever give up, so long as she lived.

And it had all been going so swimmingly, until Amelia’s magic had manifested. Until the already shy and reticent Amelia withdrew so deep inside her shell she had turned herself inside out instead—

—her dreaming mind refuses to dwell on what had happened after, tonight. Tonight, it still has hope. A false belief there is a chance. Something, anything, that she can do to change what actually happened.

She is chasing her sister through the winding streets of Lowtown, bare feet kicking up clouds of dust as she runs. Amelia is out of sight, but only just. Like Meredith will turn the corner and see her standing there, close enough to jab a finger in the dimple of her smile.

Meredith is not sure any of this ever actually happened.

However, what she is certain of is this: that Amelia has always been just out of her grasp. That the templars always reached her sister first. That every day, she wakes up into a nightmare.

She is sticking to her nightclothes, her sheets, perspiration rolling off her in waves. It’s summer in Kirkwall, but she is no longer eight years old, but forty-two. It’s early still, sun yet to break the sky, but she can make out the shape of the objects in her bedchamber in the red glow of her greatsword, never too far from hand.

Do you still believe you can change things? Orsino had once asked her many moons ago, and back then, she had demurred. Had told him she didn’t know. But now, as she pushes herself upright and hums the red lyrium’s haunting song under her breath, she feels it in her bones.

Certainty.

As good a name for a sword as any.

The Thing watches her out of the corner of her eye. You promised, it says. Once upon a time, Meredith had been adamant that the Thing was not her sister. These days, she sees little utility in such arbitrarily drawn lines. 

Yes, she whispers into the empty room. I did.

[volkoss]

Fic: Dissonance (Ch. 2 - Arrival)

A series of non-linear vignettes exploring the life of Meredith Stannard. Written for @14dayscirclemages. CHAPTER 2: ARRIVAL | MEREDITH & WENTWORTH | WORDS: ~700 | RATED: M 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 (AO3 LINK)

Most nights, Meredith dreams about how everything can change in an instant.

Her parents, alive, dead. Home, burned to ashes. Screams, silence. Her sister, the Thing.

“Maker’s breath,” Knight-Captain Wentworth had sworn upon discovering her hidden in the rubble, shivering and snivelling. “A survivor.”

His face, still so clear in her mind now, reaching out to her with concerned, compassionate eyes. He'd pulled her from the wreckage, screaming at the knights under his command. “You fucking morons! I told you to cover the bodies!” Meredith had looked. How could she not? Her mother and father still lay side by side in the kitchen, faces pale, rigid, unmoving. Her gaze travelled downwards, unwilling but unstoppable.

The demon’s talons had torn them apart. “Child,” Wentworth had started once she’d finished retching, a hand at her shoulder turning her away from full view of the scene, “what is your name?”

She’d wanted to yell at him, had wanted to pound at his chest with her fists, ask why it even mattered now nothing would be the same again. Instead, she’d clung to the templar, fingers finding grooves in his armour, desperately holding on. “Meredith, Meredith,” she’d chanted, her name her only other anchor in this strange new world. The knight-captain bent a knee so they were face to face. “Meredith,” he repeated. “Do you have any other family? In wake of…” This tragedy, she knows he’d wanted to say now, but even then he had been unable to bring himself to say the words. She’d shaken her head. “No.” There were no siblings, no cousins, no aunties or uncles. She was alone in the world. Except for the knight-captain with the kind eyes. “You’re a templar.” “Yes,” the knight-captain answered. “What do you know of the Templar Order?” They were walking now, away from the smoke, away from the fire. The templars—what remained of them—reassuring the neighbours everything was under control. That the situation had been dealt with.

The situation. Her sister. The Thing. There is no sight of it now. She is safe here, under the wing of the knight-captain. She’d swallowed hard, struggling to reconcile the past words of her parents with everything that had happened after. “Templars keep everyone safe,” she answers. Anxiety crawls up her throat, threatens to suffocate.

“I’m sorry,” she continues. Smoke and regret prick at the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry we hid her. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, Meredith.” The knight-captain has a handkerchief. He hands it to her to wipe away her tears. Soot and grime come away with them as she rubs it against her face.  “It’s not your fault.” Then why does it feel like it is? 

But the words went unsaid. They always do.

“Where are you taking me?” she’d asked instead.

“The Chantry,” the knight-captain had answered. “It is their responsibility to take care of children in your situation.” Meredith had frozen in place. The knight-captain looked back in surprise. “Meredith?” “No,” she’d insisted. “Take me home with you.” “What?” “I want to become a templar. Like you.” The dream blurs then. It always does. She doesn’t remember the first time she’d passed through the Gallows’ gates; it almost feels like she’s lived here her whole life. Would, if it weren’t for the good dreams, the ones of the happier times. Before everything had gone to shit.

She remembers sitting in the infirmary, still smelling of vomit and smoke and slime, Ser Wentworth never leaving her side, a mage healing her injuries but being too tired to flinch away from the arcane unnatural energy.

The knight-commander’s scowl, more confused than angry as he’d peered closer. “Wentworth,” he’d said, “why in the world have you brought this child to the Gallows? She’s not a mage.”

Wentworth, turning his attention from Meredith to his commander, but his hands never leaving hers. “Guylian.” No title, an intimate address. “The girl—” Meredith interrupts. “I wish to become a templar.” It is her destiny. She knows this now. The knight-commander’s face, softening. “And so you shall, child. And so you shall.”

[volkoss]

Fic: Dissonance (Ch. 3 - Phylactery)

CHAPTER 3: PHYLACTERY | MERESINO | WORDS: 736 | RATED: M A series of non-linear vignettes exploring the life of Meredith Stannard. Written for @14dayscirclemages.

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 Note: This chapter functions as Meredith's reflection on the events of Precipice, in which Meredith and Orsino sleep together for the first time in fourteen years. (AO3 LINK)

Sometimes, Meredith dreams about the first enchanter. Dreams not so much about the foolish dalliance of their youth, but the man Orsino had grown up to be.

By her own admission—by her own design—she had never expected anyone to replace Maceron after the elderly mage’s demise. It spoke to the state of the Gallows that it had taken his own senior enchanters several days to notice he was missing.

The smell truly had been something to behold.

But given the number of years that had passed since their ill-advised fling, Meredith had quite forgotten the extent of Orsino’s devotion. Forgotten, until Orsino had volunteered himself for Maceron’s now vacated position. Forgotten, until the now first enchanter had stormed across the corridor, flinging himself into her office like he owned the place, hands clinging tight to that ridiculous hand-me-down staff, demanding her attention.

She hated how time had treated him well, how he’d only grown more handsome in the intervening years. That the silver in his hair gave him a distinguished appearance. That those green eyes glittered shrewd and sympathetic in equal measure. His hands...

… It was better not to dwell upon his hands.

She hated how quickly he blew past the emotional walls she had so carefully constructed, using the history of their shared intimacy to lull her into a false sense of security. She hadn’t even known how easily her body would remember the steps of the old dance even after all this time, hadn’t even bothered to double-check that he’d locked the fucking door.

But what she hated most was how he’d completely unravelled her upon her desk then whispered those three words against her hair in her post-coital haze. Those three words that would have changed everything if only he’d told her fifteen years sooner. She could never have left everything behind for anything less than certainty. So, she had stayed. Thus, Orsino had stayed. Therefore, they would be trapped together in this nightmare forever. Truly, given everything that has happened since she’d been appointed Ser Wentworth’s successor, perhaps it would have been better to run away from it all. She’ll never give Orsino the satisfaction—the sorrow—of knowing he’d been right this whole time.  

She still remembers how hot and angry she had been in the wake of Orsino’s rude and abrupt intrusion back into her intimate life. Humiliation, rolling off her body in waves. Fourteen years of abstinence, yet one taste of him and she was back to craving him like lyrium. She had not known back then that the quick fuck on her desk shortly after his promotion would not be the last of it. Maker, she had desperately wanted it to be, could not allow herself to be pinned so expertly at the intersection of so many definitions of compromised.

The way she had felt when holding his phylactery in her hands should have been her first warning sign. It had glowed hot, hot, hot, but of course it had: Orsino was just across the hall. The fact she had stalled at all, marvelling at how she held his life in her hands, instead of simply sealing the damn thing as duty dictated and sending it off to Val Royeaux should have been the second. The third: that for a moment (the barest of moments, but still) she had considered how she could get away with not sending it at all.  But she had known then, just as well as she does now, that such a feat would have been impossible to pull off without a mage’s assistance. And there was no mage alive she trusted with such dangerous information. Not even Orsino. Especially not Orsino.

I would have helped, says Amelia.

Bile and panic race up Meredith’s throat. You’re not supposed to be here. 

But this is where I belong.

Meredith wakes suddenly, tangled in her sheets. As she so often does after these types of dreams, she reaches out at the space beside her, but it is empty. She hates how her linens still smell like him, even though months have passed since he’s graced her bedchamber. “The glow gives me a headache,” he’d complained, among various other unimportant things, and that had been the end of that. She doesn’t need him, anyway. She doesn’t fucking need him.

She’s used to being alone, waking up alone.

Alone, except for Certainty.

Alone, except for the Thing.

[volkoss]

FIC: DISSONANCE (CH. 8 - JOY) 

CHAPTER 8: JOY | MERESINO | WORDS: 618 | RATED: T

A series of non-linear vignettes exploring the life of Meredith Stannard. Written for @14dayscirclemages.  1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 (AO3 LINK)

Although Meredith usually considers herself to be a devout and faithful woman, sometimes she cannot help but wonder if the trials and tribulations the Maker puts her through are not simply mere mockery instead.

Thirty-five years since her family died, and yet in all that time she’s only ever experienced joy, true joy, in the fleeting moments she’s stolen with Orsino. There had been the dalliance of their youth, of course, the sparks of friendship igniting into something more thanks to the fuel of mutual attraction.

Yet there are the intervening years to consider, too. The years between when they had first recommenced their relationship that fateful day Orsino had stormed into her office shortly after his appointment as first enchanter and now. Almost a whole decade. Like any couple—if they can be considered such—they’d had their ups and downs, periods of silent treatment interspersed with screaming matches, make-up sex followed by angry fucking.

But the joy is there. The joy has been real. The joy has made the rest of it worth it. Just like it had the first time. For a moment, it meant something. She believes it now just as earnestly as she had back then.

Even now, after everything, despite the worsening nightmares, she sleeps better with him by her side, her head nestled in the crook of his shoulder. She knows she should question it, why he’s crawling back into her bed after all these months of ignoring her, knows beyond doubt she should not be permitting this behaviour at all.  He's up to something. She can tell. But what does it matter? Let him plot and plan and fester in his own frustration. That is his duty, and she has hers. Their story had been doomed almost as soon as it had begun.  But only almost.

Meredith sometimes wonders if Ser Wentworth had known how much she would come to rely on Orsino when she had been handed down the order to ensure he survived his Harrowing. With the benefit of hindsight, she suspects this—her and Orsino, together—might have been his intention all along. He must have known his days were numbered.  Just like she does now.

It's a pity Wentworth had started to lose his mind more quickly than anyone had anticipated. If she’d had the chance to ask for his advice before the lyrium sickness had dug its claws into him, she can’t help but think he might have finally encouraged her to run.

Impossible, too, to ignore the plain truth of the matter: that if he had never gotten sick, she would never have needed to ask at all. She would have had more time with Orsino. He would’ve become brave enough to tell her the truth.

She would’ve been brave enough to follow.

But that is not the world they live in. In this world, there can be no happy endings. Not between templars and mages. In this world, their story can only end one way now: in unholy transformation, muscle and bone mutating, ashes and smoke, fire and blood.

It will be brutal.

But for now, the joy is still real. Safety wrapped in the pretence of intimacy. Where her bare skin touches Orsino’s, she doesn’t feel too hot for once but just warm enough.

And when Meredith drifts back to sleep, for once her dreams are not some hazily recollected nightmare, but instead pleasant possibilities, in another world, in another time.

A cabin in the woods, sun streaming in through a window with no bars. Orsino, sitting across from her at the kitchen table, methodically peeling an orange. Together by choice, instead of circumstance.

In this world, nothing will tear them apart.

[volkoss]

Fic: Dissonance (Ch. 7 - Lovers)

CHAPTER 7: LOVERS | MEREDITH & ELTHINA; MERESINO | WORDS: 884 | RATED: M

A series of non-linear vignettes exploring the life of Meredith Stannard. Written for @14dayscirclemages.  Chapter-specific CWs: graphic violence, hallucinations 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 (AO3 LINK)

With each passing day, Meredith becomes all the more convinced that what she had once accepted as her unfortunate reality is instead an inescapable, never-ending nightmare. 

It is the only plausible explanation for the Grand Cleric’s presence here in the Gallows—here, in Meredith’s office—asking her questions about her relationship with Orsino.

“Come now, Meredith. It would be remiss of me not to ask, given the rumours.” Elthina’s expression is placid. Demure. Like she’s not every bit as dangerous as Meredith when she wants to be.

Like she doesn’t already know the answer.   It has long been evident to Meredith that Elthina’s weapon of choice is other people. Used and used and used until discarded.

Meredith herself has been a tool in the Grand Cleric’s hands for far too many years. She’s had enough of it. Too many people are dying because Elthina can’t see reason. Because it doesn’t suit her ambitions. Because of motherfucking optics.

Politics still isn’t Meredith’s strong suit, but for a moment, she allows herself to consider the ‘optics’ of ramming her thumbs into the Grand Cleric’s eyeballs and smashing her head in against the wall.

Unfortunately, Meredith does know at least enough to realise the optics thereof would be bad. More accusations of tyranny, etcetera etcetera. And there’s no need to give herself another headache today, not on top of the one she already has.

It’s too fucking hot in here. Again. Why does this keep happening to her? Rivulets of sweat stream down her body underneath her heavy plate, her gambeson, her underthings. Certainty pulses against her back. The song steadies her, centres her. She turns away from Elthina, seeking the breeze wafting in from the window. Presses her hot cheek against the cool bars. Tries not to feel like a prisoner.

“Rumours,” she scoffs, hoping for a level of disdain somewhere between complicit and murderous. “To be frank, I didn’t think a woman of your standing would put much stock in malicious gossip. Your Grace.”

If Elthina is perturbed by Meredith’s directness, it doesn’t show. Then again, Meredith’s not exactly looking. It tracks, though: while Elthina doesn’t care what they discuss together in the relative privacy of the Gallows, she does mind what Meredith says in public, especially in front of the nobility.

Especially in front of the Champion.

Elthina’s worried, then. Worried that one day, Meredith might just start singing, and she won’t be as easily disposed of as all the detractors that preceded her. Or at the very least: won’t be as easily forgotten.

When Meredith dies, she’ll go down swinging, diligent and dutiful until the very end. The Maker will reward her, embrace her; she will have completed the work she was brought into this world to do.

When Elthina dies, will she be able to say the same? Meredith is not so arrogant as to presume what the Maker has willed for others, but somehow, she doubts it. In any case, it will not be long now. For either of them. She can feel it in her bones.

Yet, here they are. In Meredith’s office. Talking about fucking Orsino, in multiple senses of the phrase.

“It ceases to be gossip when I have information from multiple reputable sources,” Elthina explains.

Meredith forces herself to turn from the window. She misses the cool breeze against her face almost immediately. Elthina’s expression has taken a turn for the constipated.

“Reputable source—” Meredith repeats, before her eyes dart to her office door. Or, more accurately, what lies beyond.

Oh, she’s going to fucking murder him. She’s prepared herself for this moment ever since she was assigned the killing blow at his Harrowing and finally, the time has come. It takes all of her self-control not to brush Elthina aside and kick Orsino’s door down. The fact that it had been a public altercation that had gotten her into this mess in the first place is the main thing that keeps her still. While Elthina could hardly challenge her authority in public, Meredith remembered what the Grand Cleric was capable of when less eyes were watching.

Bone, crunching. A noose, hanging. A body. Armour. Knight-Commander? Guylian? I’m so sorry. No—no longer a body, just a face. Long blonde hair. Her own? It hurts to breathe it hurts to breathe. The noose, tightening. Her hand, the pommel of the sword. Frantic. Cut her down! Amelia, Amelia, Amelia—the Thing is her sister. It/she smiles. Monsters mages monsters. Certainty. Talons on her armour. No, not talons. Human. Cullen? No. Where was she again? Her office. The knight-commander’s office. The year is 9:37 Dragon and she is Kirkwall’s knight-commander.

Elthina, by her side, brow furrowed in genuine concern. “Meredith, what’s wrong?” There is no way in this world that Meredith can tell the Grand Cleric the truth. Is this what it had been like for Wentworth, at the beginning of his end? And to think, not half an hour ago, Meredith’s main concern had been the potential humiliation of discussing her relationship with Orsino.

Orsino is not relevant, does not matter, has never mattered.

He has been doomed since his birth, just like every other mage. Just like Amelia. A long death, or a quick one? Suffering, or mercy?

Meredith had long been convinced of her answer. But she now possesses what she had lacked twenty years ago: the courage to act.

[volkoss]

Fic: Dissonance (Ch. 5 - Friends)

CHAPTER 5: FRIENDS | MEREDITH & CULLEN | WORDS: 727 | RATED: M A series of non-linear vignettes exploring the life of Meredith Stannard. Written for @14dayscirclemages. Chapter-specific CW: referenced suicide 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 (AO3 LINK)

Some nights, sleep proves elusive. On nights like these, Meredith finds herself seeking out the knight-captain’s company with increasing regularity. Now that Orsino’s no longer speaking to her, Cullen is the closest thing she has to a confidante in this whole wretched world. If her knight-captain is ever surprised by his knight-commander’s presence at his door, it never shows outwardly. If anything, the boy is dedicated to a fault, which is a large part of why Meredith had chosen him as her second-in-command. A templar like Cullen, who had survived such acute horror at Kinloch Hold, would hardly be shaken by the daily misery of life in Kirkwall. Perhaps this time, she would not lose a knight-captain to dishonourable discharge or desertion of duty. Fortunately, Cullen is incapable of getting pregnant and … well, she can only hope this doesn’t end with her having to cut him down from a tree one day.

The image flashes to the forefront of her mind before she can even begin to stop it. Her hands tremble, and she almost drops the bottle of wine she’s carrying.

The knight-captain notices, because how could he not?

“You’re drinking again,” he observes, carefully disguised disapproval only evident in his delayed amendment of her title. “Knight-Commander.”

She looks down at the bottle as though surprised to find it there. Truth be told, she is a bit surprised to find it there. It’s a struggle to recall why she had come here to bother Cullen at all, or why she had started drinking in the first place. Her memory flickers. Out of the corner of her eye she swears she can see it: the Thing.

The answer is out of her mouth as soon as it comes to her. “An anniversary.” She’s pleased with how crisp the words sound compared to the blurriness of her vision, her brain. A lance of pain shoots through her head from one temple.

“Ah. I understand.” Despite his disapproval, he stands aside in silent invitation—not that Meredith had considered the likelihood of any other outcome. Cullen is not the kind of man to defy his knight-commander, knows too well the consequences of a broken Circle.

Meredith strides in with confident footsteps. The knight-captain watches her every move. It strikes her then: what if her state of mind is only as well disguised as Cullen’s disapproval? The thought causes her to stumble. The Thing catches her, talons burning hot even through the steel of her armour. You’re not supposed to be here. This time, she’s not sure who has said the words. If they had been said aloud at all.

Knight-Captain Cullen is at her elbow. Steadying her. His gaze, focused on her face. Concern in his honey-brown eyes. “Knight-Commander?” Inquisitive. Deferent. She knows his unspoken question, is intimately familiar with his countenance, remembers too well all the times she had looked that way herself.

“I’m fine, Cullen,” she snaps, jerking away from his lightly-held grip.

Uncertainty wavers on her knight-captain’s face, but only for a moment. It is soon reschooled into its usual expression of constant passive exhaustion. The low light of the room accentuates the dark circles beneath his eyes. “Let’s sit down,” he says with a surprising amount of decisiveness.

He does not take her arm again, but he does lead her to his couch, and despite herself, she follows. You're not supposed to be here. The words ring through her head, but the Thing is nowhere to be seen.

She wonders where it went. Would it be waiting for her when she returned to her own quarters alone later? Would it be angry? After all, she had left it behind.   They sit down. There’d be space enough between them for the Thing to fit, if it was still here. Cullen rubs at his eyes with an ungloved hand. It’s only then that Meredith notices that he’s not wearing his plate mail. She must have interrupted him while he was getting ready for bed. “You don’t have your sword,” Cullen says as though the thought has just occurred to him.

“Well observed, Knight-Captain,” she answers drily. “But I have yours.” The sword that had been Wentworth’s, once.

Her gaze flickers to the doorway of Cullen’s bedroom, where she knows he keeps his equipment while off duty. He is just like her, in so many ways. Devoted. Enduring. Haunted.

[volkoss]

Fic: Dissonance (Ch. 4 - Templar)

CHAPTER 4: TEMPLAR | MEREDITH & WENTWORTH | WORDS: 765 | RATED: M A series of non-linear vignettes exploring the life of Meredith Stannard. Written for @14dayscirclemages.

Chapter-specific CWs: dementia, institutional neglect Note: This vignette makes reference to the last chapter of Crescendo with regard to the breakdown of Meredith and Orsino's relationship (for the curious).

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 (AO3 LINK)

Sometimes, Meredith dreams about Ser Wentworth. Not the tall, proud templar he had been when they had first met, he who had pulled her from the rubble of her family’s former home with his kind eyes and a sympathetic smile, but the man he had become, deteriorating in the Chantry sickhouse.

She hates visiting him here, hates how the stench of the elderly and infirm reminds her of the night her parents died, even if the scents are not quite the same.

But the reality check is welcome, too. This fate awaits all retired templars in the end, those who live long enough to do so, those who lack the family or resources to provide for their own care. 

She, too, is one of these templars: that simple fact has never been lost to Meredith. Ever since the age of eight, she has wondered: what is better? A long death, or a quick one? Suffering, or mercy?

Before her promotion, Meredith had made the mistake of asking the Grand Cleric this question, leading to more lecturing and less open-minded debate than she had hoped for, and assigned recitations of sections of the Chant she’d not read since her time as an initiate. “If your intention truly is to succeed the knight-captain,” Elthina had said, “then you must develop your moral fortitude.”

But despite doing the readings, Meredith cannot help but come up with the same answer she always does, the same answer found on the templar insignia: Andraste had suffered on the pyre, and Hessarian had delivered her mercy.

Seeing what has become of her mentor, Meredith is now certain of her answer. She only hopes now that when her own time comes, that those around her possess the courage she does not: that they put her out of her misery. 

She’s dreamt about it, sometimes—poisoning Wentworth’s lyrium. End his pain, once and for all. But the risks are far too great; there are eyes on her now, and not just anyone’s eyes, but the Grand Cleric’s. The knight-commander has warned Meredith about defying the Grand Cleric after she'd made her frustrations known. Perhaps not with that particular phrasing, but in his usual gentle, collegial way: choose your words carefully, Knight-Captain.

Hands tied from doing anything useful, Meredith can only do her best to bring her dying mentor comfort instead. It does not come to her naturally, this. One does not think of Knight-Captain Meredith and conjure images of warmth.

But for Ser Wentworth, she’ll try. For Ser Wentworth, she’ll do anything. She could never leave her mentor behind, not for anything, not for anyone, not even for Orsino, who doesn't understand, who has made it clear he has no recollection of the meaning of family, he who does not understand loyalty nor love.

The sickhouse is under-resourced like many other arms of the Chantry, every other part except for the physical Chantry itself, the Grand Cleric ensconcing herself in sycophants and opulence while the rest of Kirkwall suffers. It is not uncommon for Meredith to arrive at Ser Wentworth’s bedside to find him unwashed and in danger of developing bedsores. She takes it upon herself to bathe him, the ease with which she can move him either testament to her strength or his deterioration or both.

And in response, he calls her Amelia, and Meredith can only nod and smile and do her desperate best to choke back her burgeoning tears.

She has never asked her mentor what happened to her—Amelia, his Amelia—but she’s seen glimpses of his past in the things he hadn't said over the years (the locket around his neck, a miniature portrait that bears more of a striking resemblance to Meredith than it ever did Amelia Stannard) and also the things he does, now that he’s losing his mind.

The daughter I never deserved, he’d called her that day in front of the entire Chantry during the ceremony where she’d officially been appointed knight-captain. 

He'd even gifted her his sword. It had been surreal, knowing he would not need it any more. Nonetheless, Meredith had sworn she would protect it with her life. 

Apart from the shock declaration, that day had been one of Wentworth’s good ones. Eyes bright. Speech unslurred. 

And he’d remembered her name was Meredith. 

She wakes slowly this morning, the sun already streaming through her bedroom window. The heat is stifling. 

Her face is wet.

She turns. The Thing embraces her, strokes her hair. It’s okay, it’s okay, it soothes. I’m still here. I’ll always be here. 

We keep our promises. Don’t we?

[volkoss]

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.