Burn (a Dragon Age fanfiction)

Repurpose

He wasn't Alistair. Leliana had tried to prepare herself for that, she'd thought she was ready, but the crushing disappointment of this bearded stranger where she had expected the open face and ready smile of ... someone else entirely struck her like a punch to the stomach.

"So," she began, trying to stay casual so that this Blackwall wouldn't suspect anything more than the Inquisition's spymaster doing her job, "you've been in Ferelden since the Blight?"

"Yes. Recruiting. Largely on my own."

"And you—you did not join up with the other Wardens to fight the Archdemon?" That, too, was difficult to swallow. If he had ... if he only had ... then so many things would be different. She refused to think of that night, the choice Alistair had made, the consequences that may have come from it.

Blackwall shook his head. "By the time I could have gotten there, it would have been all over."

Well, that was a lie, and Leliana knew it. None better. How many months had they dragged themselves across Ferelden in search of someone, anyone, who could have helped? Blackwall could have helped. But there was more to it than that, she realized, looking at him closely. Whatever the truth was, he wasn't telling it to her. Not entirely. "And your fellow Wardens? What do you know of their whereabouts?"

"Nothing. The first I'd heard of their disappearance was when your agent told me about it." He shrugged. "The Blight is over, after all. We don't need an organized force. And the orders haven't changed much in a thousand years. Find darkspawn, kill them, repeat as necessary."

That, at least, was the truth, Leliana could see. It was all he knew. She made a mental note to find out more about this Blackwall, and left him to brood over his wine in the tavern, unable to get the most important question out of her head: If Blackwall wasn't Alistair, then where was Alistair?

*****

"Lady Trevelyan!"

Josephine had called out to her several times before it occurred to Rosalind that she might be Lady Trevelyan. "Yes?" she asked at last, turning to let the ambassador catch up to her.

"Oh, my. It is awfully chilly out here, isn't it?" Josephine said cheerfully, trying to catch her breath. "Shall we?" She gestured at Rosalind's cabin.

"Yes, of course," Rosalind said dutifully. It didn't feel like hers, really, anyway. Nothing did here. For that matter, nothing ever had. Not since she was immured in the circle. She gestured for Josephine to enter and followed her inside.

"I don't mean to disturb you, but I don't want this to wait any longer than it must. I wish to send a courier asking House Trevelyan to align themselves with us. What are your thoughts? Should we approach your family for their formal support of the Inquisition?"

Rosalind started guiltily. She hadn't even thought about contacting her family, all this time. Which was unfair, given that they had always been stalwart in their support of her. Of course, she hadn't laid eyes on a single one of them, parents or siblings, in nearly a decade. Maybe longer. So perhaps she could be forgiven if she thought of them only as shadowy figures on the other end of a letter. Still, Josephine was right—they could and probably would help, if approached. "My parents are on a first-name basis with most priests in Ostwick, and I have a dozen cousins in the Chantry. My younger brother Lysander is a Templar." Possibly the youngest, Oberon, might be as well by now. He'd been promised to the Order long ago. "When they hear I've been 'touched by Andraste', you'll have to stop them from giving you money."

Josephine smiled at that. She loved money. And there was no question but that they needed it, with more refugees joining the camp every day. "Lovely. I will write to them directly. Possibly you could as well?"

"Possibly." Rosalind wasn't sure what she would say, but she probably should put in the effort. "I have to say, it surprises me that people accept me as part of the Inquisition. After all, I am a mage."

"You are not an unfamilar sight. Mages from noble families are often given more leeway." Josephine shrugged. "Besides, Ostwick's circle had a reputation for being rather sedate."

"Only if you weren't the one always being watched. It's good to be able to move without people constantly a step behind me, waiting to see what I'll destroy. Templars in Ostwick's circle were as discreet as they were well-paid," Rosalind said, trying to keep the bitterness from her voice. One thing she had learned in this period of relative freedom was that no one really wanted to know what life was like in a circle.

"Mm," Josephine agreed vaguely, proving Rosalind's point. She ducked out, already composing the letter to Rosalind's parents in her head, no doubt.

*****

It didn't surprise the Iron Bull at all to find Rosalind in the midst of the Chargers' camp outside the walls. He'd expected it. Maybe a little sooner than this, actually. What did surprise him was the surge of excitement he felt at the sight of her. That was not of the Qun, he reminded himself, sauntering over to where she and Krem were uncorking a bottle of wine.

"Iron Bull," she said coolly in acknowledgement, but he could feel the fire in her, just underneath the façade.

"The Iron Bull, actually," he corrected. "I like having an article in the front. Makes me seem like I'm not even a person, just a mindless weapon. An implement of destruction. That really works for me."

"Did your parents name you that?"

Krem nearly spit out his wine laughing at that one.

"No, our names under the Qun are just ... job descriptions, I guess. When I came to Orlais, I picked the Iron Bull for myself."

"Why that name specifically?"

"This might come as a surprise to you, but I really like hitting things." He didn't miss the way her eyes moved over his muscular upper arms. He wanted to dare her to touch, but they hadn't gotten to that part yet.

"I've noticed," she said dryly. "We're going to Redcliffe soon, to talk to the mages. You going to be okay with that?"

"Mages don't bother me." They did, a little, but not enough to keep him from her side. Orders, he reminded himself. That was why. "You miss that, being surrounded by your people?"

"You, too?"

"What do you mean?" They had drawn away from the others, walking side by side.

"You think we're all the same, just because we have magic."

"People think we're all the same, just because we have horns."

"And you're not, are you?"

They had stopped, looking at each other, and there was something between them—a connection, an understanding conveyed in the softness of her voice and the way her eyes held his—that should have freaked him right out. And it didn't, which should have freaked him out even more. "Not even a little bit."

"It's the same for us. A lot of my fellow mages liked the circle. They felt safe there. Protected." She sighed. "All I ever felt was trapped."

"I know what you mean. I was stationed in Seheron, and ... well, there's a good fight, and then there's finding out who put rat poison in the bread and killed a bunch of children." He could still feel the tightness in his chest, the sorrow and rage, from that day. "One day I woke up and couldn't think of a single damned reason to keep doing my job. I thought about letting some rebel kill me, but I wasn't about to give any of those bastards the satisfaction. So I turned myself in to the reeducators."

"Reeducators?" Rosalind asked.

"Yeah. They ... chip away at what's there, like a sculptor. Repurpose you."

"Kind of like surviving a big explosion and being left with a fancy glowing hand." She held hers up, smiling a little.

"Yeah. Kind of like that."

"Well, for what it's worth, I'm glad you're here, Bull."

"Me, too," he said softly. He wanted to kiss her, to feel those lips against his. He was using that feeling, he reminded himself, not letting it use him. But he wasn't entirely sure that was true.