Burn (a Dragon Age fanfiction)

Penance

Rosalind awoke into cold. Cold everywhere, down to her fingers and toes. Would she never be warm again? Feebly, she reached for her magic, but she could barely manage a spark.

A familiar voice, melodic and cultured, spoke into the silence. "I wouldn't do that, if I were you. Setting the bedclothes on fire would be most inconvenient."

She blinked, and a face came into focus. A beautiful dark face with a narrow mustache and grey eyes that looked kindly down at her. "Are you ... the Maker? Is this the Golden City?"

He threw back his head and laughed heartily. "Hardly, my dear. Nothing around here is golden, to begin with."

Rosalind struggled to sit up, letting the memories flood in. "Dorian."

"The very same. And quite relieved to see you speaking. We had nearly despaired of you."

"Where—?" She tried to remember how she'd gotten here, wherever here was.

Dorian shrugged. "Who knows. The middle of nowhere. We escaped Haven, thanks to you, but haven't gotten much farther. Fortunately for you. Had we been able to move any faster, your rescuers might not have caught up with us."

"Rescuers?" She thought of the Iron Bull, her heart leaping. Had he survived? She'd been so worried about him. Him and Varric.

Dorian gave her a knowing smile. "Exactly who you're thinking. They wouldn't leave Haven without you. They took refuge in the Chantry, then dug through the snow until somehow you staggered out of a cave somewhere. The details have been rather fuzzy—neither of them was particularly forthcoming."

"Where are they?"

"Around here somewhere, being treated for frostbite. As you are," he cautioned. "I wouldn't try to move."

"What—what are we going to do next?"

"Our charming advisors have been arguing that point nonstop. They do not seem to be in the vicinity of an answer."

"Great."

Dorian shrugged. "Perhaps what they needed was you."

"Me?"

He leaned forward. "You. Have you considered what your position within the Inquisition will do for mages in general? You've given southern mages the license to be ... well, like the mages back home."

"Given the reputation Tevinter mages have, I'm not sure that's a good thing, on multiple levels."

"Possibly. Still ... if you were going to take on a stronger role in the Inquisition, now seems like the time."

Rosalind considered that. Did she want a stronger role? Up until yesterday, all she'd wanted was to get out. To get free. But that was before Corypheus attacked Haven. Before she'd seen it aflame.

"You were part of a Circle once, were you not? Locked away like a criminal ... at least, until you rebelled. Don't you want to change that for others?"

She smiled. "And give the Antivan Crows a chance to swim in all the gold they'll make from contracts on my life?"

"If a few birds are going to dissuade you ..."

"I thought you told me not to move. And here you are urging me to get up and go solve everyone's problems."

Dorian laughed. "You make a good point. Let me go get you some soup or something to warm you up."

Before he could exit the tent, she called to him. "Dorian? Do we know where Corypheus and his forces are?"

"We don't know where we are, so ... no. There's been no sign of him. Perhaps he's gone."

"No. He isn't. He'll be back for me. For this." She studied the mark on her hand. "It's what he wants. He tried to take it and he couldn't, but he won't let that stop him. He—he claimed to have stormed the Golden City."

"Did he? The Chant says a group of magisters did so, but that's—to think that might have been real ..." Dorian shook his head. "That's nearly unfathomable."

"He was real. A real threat." Suddenly, she couldn't lie still any longer. Corypheus had accused her of setting all this in motion. If that was true, if all of this was happening because of her, she had to get up and do ... something. Rosalind pushed herself to her feet, holding to the tent pole for a moment to steady herself, then joined Dorian outside the tent.

Nearby, someone gasped, and she looked to see a scout staring up at her with wide eyes. Other people came from their tents—she recognized all the advisors, and Cassandra, and her companions. The Iron Bull and Varric both hung back in shadow, their faces unreadable. As did Solas.

Somewhere in the back of the crowd, a single voice began to sing a song, an old one Rosalind dimly remembered from her childhood. And one by one, everyone began to join in—even Dorian, who moved from her side, leaving her standing alone before them all.

As one, they knelt to her. To her, Rosalind Trevelyan. The troublesome scion of a small branch of Marcher nobility. She wanted to reach out, to exhort them all to rise, but something stopped her. If this was her fault, then it was also her responsibility to fix it. And she could fix it only by being instrumental in guiding the Inquisition forward. Perhaps this—letting them kneel to her, accepting their admiration—was her penance, as well as the stance she would need to take in order to lead.

When the song had ended, when they started to rise, they all looked at her as if she might have something to say. What she could say, she didn't know, but ... it had to be something. Rosalind took a deep breath. "Inquisition! We have survived. We are damaged; we have lost friends and loved ones; we have left much behind. But we are here, and the Inquisition goes on. Go, now. Rest. In the morning, the advisors and I will have a plan. I promise you this."

The advisors frowned at this, whether from her pushing herself into their mix or the impossibility of coming up with a plan, she didn't know. But the others dispersed, talking amongst themselves, and the silent camp came to life again. It was as much as she could have asked for in this moment.