Miriam took slow, deliberate steps, the biting cold wind stinging her reddened face. For the past three grueling days, the journey through the Frostback Mountains has been nothing short of an unrelenting trial of endurance. Successive storms had battered them mercilessly, slowing their progress to a crawl and making whatever little provisions the barren, lifeless mountains had to offer even harder to come by.
With each weary step, the mage's thoughts turned to the future. By tomorrow, they hoped to have reached the ancient elven fortress, a place where the Inquisition could rebuild and grow. The Breach had been closed, a monumental achievement, but even though the Fade no longer bled into their world, two other threats to Thedas remained. First, the Elder One, a malevolent force that sought to bend the Templar to its will and that had successfully corrupted the mages, was plotting to assassinate the Empress. Secondly, the tainted dragon, a creature of unimaginable power manipulated by the darkspawn magister, was most likely alive and well enough to strike again. The Inquisition's work was far from over. It was becoming increasingly clear that the trials and tribulations they had faced so far were only a prelude to the challenges that lay ahead.
The clanking of armor interrupted the mage's contemplative thoughts. She turned to regard Lysette and the other soldiers dutifully following in her wake, and a pang of guilt coursed through her. The Inquisition council had determined that she would lead the people to their longed-for destination, believing it would boost morale and align with her role as the Harald of Andraste. In her heart, Miriam grappled with a truth she couldn’t admit to her people—it was Solas who truly guided them. Following the elf's lead while pretending that she was the one receiving divine dreams of their sanctuary weighed heavily on her conscience. It felt wrong, almost abhorrent, to claim this role when she knew the truth. Yet, she clenched her teeth and continued to play along, for she reluctantly understood that it was, regrettably, the most pragmatic decision. Not the righteous one, she admitted to herself, but the reasonable choice given the circumstances.
The mage's brow furrowed, the familiar bitterness rising to the surface once again. She couldn't fathom why the unbeliever had been the one to discover the fortress's location in the Fade. Why hadn't the Lady shown it to her instead? What was Andraste trying to convey, if anything at all? She sighed, watching for a moment as her breath formed a small cloud in the air, and then she set her sights straight ahead once again. She knew that the Bride, much like the Maker, worked in mysterious ways, but she couldn't help but wish that they were a little more straightforward.
Another gust of bone-chilling wind assaulted Miriam's lithe frame, its icy tendrils seeping through the layers of clothes. She rubbed her gloved hands together to generate warmth, the sensation of friction providing a temporary respite from the relentless cold. Her gaze drifted to the thick leather gloves, concealing the emerald glow emanating from her veins and the mark etched upon her skin.
While the wind howled and the snow swirled around her, she closed her eyes and allowed herself, if only for a moment, to revel in the thrum of power within her, dormant yet ever-present. It was intoxicating and inviting, and the desire to reach for it was always there at the fringes of her consciousness, but she was smarter now; the might bestowed by Andraste shouldn't be trifled with. It had crushed her will the last time she had used it, leaving her with haunting memories of her loss of control. Only Cullen and Lysette had witnessed that moment of vulnerability—her lapse in command over her abilities. If Maker forbid, word of this spreads further than the Inquisition council, people might fear her even more, and she couldn't afford that, not with so many already avoiding her company.
It pained her to see the once hopeful gazes of the faithful now clouded with fear. She was still the same person, still the same Miriam, and it frustrated her that they couldn't see beyond the changes in her appearance. Yet she knew she shouldn't complain. She was fortunate to have comrades who understood and saw her transformation as a necessary sacrifice, a price to be paid for being able to use the power the Lady had given her more effectively. As long as she had her faith and the support of her friends, she should be able to weather any storm and conquer any obstacle.
The mage took a deep breath, her lungs aching from the icy air, and opened her eyes. Once again, she grounded herself in their mission. She had a duty to fulfill, a destiny to follow, and she couldn't afford to be distracted by her inner struggles. Focused, she moved forward, her mind on the path ahead as they made their way through the unforgiving terrain of the Frostback Mountains.
The white peaks loomed in the fading light as the army, weary from a day's march through the wild landscape, halted for a much-needed night's rest. Snow-covered crests stretched out in every direction, their dark silhouettes contrasting starkly against the waning twilight. In the heart of the camp, a tent stood out among the rows of military encampments. It was a sturdy shelter, its fabric reinforced to protect against the elements. Inside, Miriam was fully immersed in her task. A small magical orb of light cast a soft glow over the compact space. Huddled over a makeshift table, she meticulously arranged an array of glass vials filled with various liquids and aromatic herbs. Her fingers moved with precision, deftly mixing ingredients to create potions that would work in tandem with a healing spell designed to improve blood circulation. As the mage worked her craft, her thoughts inevitably drifted to Cullen. He was meant to arrive for his first session of magical healing any minute now. Despite his attempts to appear enthusiastic when she'd informed him of the plan, she couldn't help but notice the anxiety that had etched lines across his face. This endeavor wouldn't be an easy one.
Lysette stood nearby, her gaze fixed on the entrance of the tent. She had offered to stay inside for the session, concerned about any unforeseen events during the Commander's exposure to arcane, but Miriam had reassured her that everything would be perfectly fine. She wouldn't tap into the powers of her mark to heal, and she was determined to be fully prepared in case Cullen reacted poorly to her magic. That’s why the Templar was to wait outside, as usual. Her guard didn't seem entirely convinced that it was the right course of action, but she held her silence, respecting the Herald's decision.
The mournful wail of the wind outside was momentarily interrupted by the soft taps on the tent's fabric. "Lady Miriam, may I enter?" Cullen's voice called from outside.
"Please, come in, Commander, I was expecting you," she replied, her voice striving to sound as reassuring as possible.
The man stepped inside completely covered by the clinging snowflakes. The wintry storm desperately tried to accompany him into the sanctuary of the tent. Lysette, who had been standing guard, saluted the Commander as he entered. She then turned to face Miriam. "I'll be nearby, Herald," she assured the mage before closing the flap behind herself, leaving the two of them alone.
Cullen took a painstakingly long moment to brush the accumulated snow from his armor and shake it from his hair. The muffled sounds of the blizzard outside only served to underscore the awkward silence that hung within the tent. Sensing the need to break the tension, Miriam spoke up, her voice steady, "I am well aware that this is no simple endeavor for you. Are you ready to begin or do you need a moment to prepare?”
"I'm as ready as I'll ever be," he answered, his expression resolute but weary.
The mage motioned for him to sit on a makeshift bunk in the corner, and he obliged, perching on the edge with a heavy sigh. She retrieved a small flask from the table and began to explain, "This potion is meant to complement a healing spell. It will enhance blood supply to your brain, aiding in the recovery of areas damaged by lyrium. Once you've taken it, I will proceed to cast a spell."
The Commander listened intently as she spoke, his eyes locked onto the elixir. He took a deep breath, accepted the flask, and brought it to his lips, swallowing a gulp of the healing mixture in a single, determined swig.
Handing her an empty flask with a solemn countenance, Cullen uttered, "Commence, if you will."
Miriam, her fingers trembling ever so slightly, extended her hand above the Commander's head. A soft, silvery glow enveloped her palm as she summoned her magic. As soon as the first arcane waves brushed against the man, his jaw clenched, and his entire frame tensed. He looked straight ahead, avoiding her gaze, his lips pressed together in a thin line.
When the enchantment enveloped Cullen entirely, beads of sweat formed on his forehead, tracing a meandering path down his pained countenance. As his breathing quickened, coming in ragged, shallow gasps, his fingers clawed at the frame of the wooden cot.
Miriam, noticing these signs of distress, tried to reassure him. "I am nearly finished, it shall not be much longer," she murmured in a soothing tone, but he remained oblivious to her words, his chest heaving erratically as his eyes darted frantically around the tent. Every muscle in his body remained rigid, and his grip on the frame tightened to the point where the wood began to creak under the pressure.
"Stop it!" His voice, strangled and filled with anguish, escaped his lips. And then, in a sudden, jolting motion, he sprang up from the bunk, his hand making a desperate grasp for Miriam's wrist. The enchantment broke in a shimmering cascade of light, but before he could seize her hand, the mage was already enveloped in a protective barrier. Cullen immediately retracted his arm, his face etched with mortification and guilt. He stepped back, his chest heaving, unable to meet Miriam's eyes. His apology came out in a rush, "I am deeply sorry. Forgive me. I simply couldn’t bear it any longer.”
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The woman withdrew her ward and stepped back, giving the man space he needed. Her voice was soft as she replied, "It's all right, Commander."
"No, it's not," he mumbled in a tone tinged with defeat, sinking back onto the cot and burying his face in his hands.
"Please, don't be so hard on yourself. To be honest, you handled it much better than I expected," the mage tried to console him.
He raised his face, the disheveled strands of hair clinging to his pale, sweat-slicked brow, and locked eyes with her. "Am I to be comforted by your low expectations of me?”
Miriam shook her head. "My expectations weren't low, they're just realistic. You're not the first patient I've treated with a ‘complicated’ relationship with magic. I've seen all kinds of reactions, and I can assure you that yours was not the most extreme."
Cullen managed a self-deprecating smirk. "I suppose I'll find solace in the thought that it could have been worse."
The mage's face softened. "I would rather you take comfort in the notion that you will get better."
"At times... at times it doesn't feel like it,” he confessed, his voice laced with vulnerability.
"I am not alone. Even as I stumble on the path with my eyes closed, yet I see the Light is here,” she intoned reverently.
A feeble yet genuine smile graced Cullen's lips. "Canticle of Trials, first chapter, verse fifteen," he quoted. After a brief pause, he added, “Prayers for the despairing have always struck the deepest chord within me."
"Shall we recite them together?" Her tone alight with conviction, she continued, "I am certain that the Maker will hear our pleas and grant you the strength you seek."
There lingered a moment of hesitation in Cullen's bearing, but it swiftly yielded to a nod. Slowly, he descended from the bunk to kneel on the cold floor. The mage joined him in this solemn posture, her hands folded in reverence as she started to recite the Canticle. The Commander began to chant as well, and much to Miriam's relief, she soon caught the change in his demeanor. His eyes were now closed, his frame relaxed, and the lines of worry on his face appeared to soften as if the words of faith had eased, if only temporarily, the burdens that had weighed upon him.
The next day, they reached their destination, the imposing edifice of the ancient fortress emerging from the snow-shrouded landscape. Skyhold, as Solas had come to call it, stood tall and proud, a relic of a bygone age, its weathered stone walls standing defiantly against the elements. Eroded by time, cracks and crevices marred the otherwise solid facade, yet its grandeur was undeniable. Miriam's breath caught in her throat as she gazed upon the massive stone towers and crenelated walls that seemed to defy gravity as they clung to the cliffs. There was much work to be done—repairing the damaged walls, restoring the crumbling interiors, and securing the perimeter—but the sight of the fortress standing tall filled her with relief. Here, it would be safe to start anew.
After a few days of helping to make the space habitable once again, Miriam turned her attention to the fortress's infirmary. With her sleeves rolled up, she oversaw the cleaning of the room, ensuring that it would soon be a place of respite and healing for her injured comrades. The clinking of glass vials and the familiar scent of medicinal herbs put her at ease as she moved about the chamber. Amidst the organized chaos, a knock at the entrance caught the mage's attention. The door creaked open to reveal one of Leliana's agents, a figure shrouded in dark robes. With a deep, respectful nod, the man informed her that the Inquisition council was expecting her presence in the Throne Room. Lysette threw Miriam a questioning look, and in response, she offered a puzzled expression and a shrug of her shoulders. Instructing her guard to continue their work in the infirmary, she followed the agent through the dimly lit corridors in silence, the distant sounds of the fortress coming to life serving as a backdrop to her thoughts.
They eventually entered the Throne Room, a vast expanse with vaulted ceilings and walls adorned with intricate, though timeworn, tapestries. The mage's eyes swept across the hall, taking in the long wooden tables and a large stone hearth. Several soldiers were gathered here, sitting on rough-hewn benches as a fire crackled, casting a comforting glow over the space.
At the head of the hall, next to an improvised throne made of old stone blocks, stood all the members of the Inquisition council, except Hawke, who was probably helping Brother Sebastian convert one of the rooms next to the garden into a small Chantry. They all gazed at her in silence as she approached, instilling an unexpected sense of unease. Once she reached the group, she turned to thank the agent, but he had already vanished.
"Herald," Cassandra began, her tone grave, "we have summoned you here to discuss your role within the Inquisition."
Miriam looked at her with a quizzical expression, not anticipating this conversation. As the one bearing the Lady's mark, she was a part of the council and a beacon of hope for the faithful. She wondered what more there was to discuss.
Leliana stepped forward, her face as impassive as ever. "With the Breach sealed, the Inquisition's legitimacy is no longer in question. We can now fully engage in the Game and navigate the treacherous waters of nobility on equal footing. To do this effectively, it's in our best interest to have an official leader, someone to champion our interests."
Miriam nodded in agreement, her countenance thoughtful. "That sounds like a prudent decision, but I'm not quite sure how it relates to my role in the organization."
"After much reflection, we have decided that you will take this position," Cassandra replied.
"Me!?" Miriam exclaimed in bewilderment. "But I lack experience in leadership. Surely, there must be someone more qualified for such a task."
Leliana's annoyance was evident as she responded, "Of course, there are better candidates. Both Cassandra and I have extensive experience in demanding positions. Were it not for the fact that we are also candidates to become the next Divine, one of us would have assumed the mantle of Inquisitor. However, taking the title of Inquisitor while competing for the role of the Most Holy would be seen as a power grab, and we'd face some serious complications. Josephine lacks field experience. Cullen is already stretched thin managing our forces, and Hawke, well, Hawke is Hawke. That leaves you as our sole practical option."
The mage listened carefully to the Spymaster's words, her brow furrowing as the implications of the situation became clearer. She took a moment to collect her thoughts before responding. “If…If it is the consensus of the council that I take on this role, I will do so to the best of my abilities."
As she finished speaking, the Commander stepped closer, his gaze steady and reassuring. "Herald, you may be the official leader, but you won't be making the difficult decisions alone. We will continue to provide our wisdom, just as we've always done. This burden is not yours to bear by yourself. We are a team, and we will guide the Inquisition together."
"Thank you, Com..,” Miriam blushed slightly. “I mean, all of you," she added hastily, casting a glance at the assembled council members.
Josephine beamed with enthusiasm. "That's settled then, my lady. I'll begin making preparations for the ceremony. If all proceeds as planned, we should be ready in a few weeks. There's much work to be done—invitations to send, repairs to be made, and supply lines to establish. Oh, Maker, I'd better get started!" She curtsied and hurried off to her office.
Cassandra gave her a brief shoulder pat and an encouraging "I have high hopes for you" before heading in her own direction. The Spymaster, on the other hand, left with a cold stare and a cryptic "Let us witness how fate unfolds."
As the others departed, Miriam turned her attention to the Commander. "It's certainly an unexpected turn of events," she mused.
Cullen's posture straightened. "Leliana’s words may have given you the impression that you were chosen simply because there weren't any better candidates available, but this is not the case. Our people see you as the Herald of Andraste, the one who sealed the Breach and provided us with a chance to escape the enemy's army safely. They would be eager to follow you."
Miriam felt her face flush with warmth, basking in the praise for her deeds. "Thank you for your kind words, but it's all by Our Lady's grace and strength that I've been able to achieve what I have."
Cullen crossed his arms. "Don't underestimate your efforts."
Suddenly, the power within the mage stirred, as if awakened by the boost to her ego. Alarmed by the unexpected rush of energy, she quickly pushed it down, burying it beneath layers of restraint. Her fingers gripped the folds of her robe as she sought to regain control. She cleared her throat and shifted uncomfortably, keen to leave before her struggle became evident. "I will consider your words, Commander," Miriam replied, mustering a strained smile. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I would like to return to my duties at the infirmary."
At her sudden change of demeanor, Cullen's expression became one of perplexity. "Yes…Yes, of course, Herald."
The mage hurried out of the Throne Room, the tantalizing echoes ringing in her ears, growing louder and more intense with each step. The emerald glow of her veins intensified, her garments no longer able to conceal the radiant light. Panic gripped her, she couldn't let others witness her in this state. In desperation, she dashed into the first abandoned chamber she stumbled upon and slammed the door behind her. Leaning against it, she slowly slid to the floor, her breaths ragged and heavy. In the calm and darkness of the cold room, she marshaled every ounce of her willpower to resist the magic of the mark. After a grueling while, its insistent call finally began to subside. The viridescent light that enveloped her gradually faded, leaving her in blessed obscurity.
"Why did this happen?" she whispered to the stillness of the chamber, her voice filled with frustration and a touch of despair. Just as she was entrusted with the role of Inquisitor, just as it seemed Cullen was finally starting to open up to her, she had to grapple with this distressing outburst. The timing couldn't have been worse. Miriam let out a weary sigh and allowed her head to fall back against the door. Her hand instinctively reached for the amulet hanging from her neck. She should inform the council about what happened, but…. perhaps it wasn't necessary. She did manage to regain control after all. Besides, Lysette was about to become a Templar, if the mark’s power got truly volatile, she could rely on her to help suppress it. For a moment, Solas' ominous words replayed in her mind: The Orb was not meant for humans. Neither your body nor your mind have the strength to wield it. She scowled in indignation. Heretical nonsense. Andraste would never give her a burden she couldn't bear. Determined, she rose from the ground. She would not jeopardize all she had achieved with unnecessary concerns. Dusting off her robes, she forced a smile onto her face and opened the door.