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Chapter Text

News travels fast in a small village like Haven, and news about the Inquisition travels fastest of all.

Lysette walks quickly out of the gates and past her usual spot, briefly glancing in the direction of the soldiers at the training ground. The clinking of swords had stopped, Haven's best and bravest are huddled together, exchanging looks of worry instead. One of them, another former templar – Mattrin – catches her eye, inviting her to join in.

But Lysette walks on, past the camp, past the path along the defence wall and into the grove. The snow crackles under her foot as she continues past the herbalist's cabin, the iron deposits and everything else. She only stops when she reaches the top of the hill overlooking it all - the Frostbacks, the empty forests, the frozen lake - and Haven, nestled in a steep valley amidst all this stillness.

There's no shortage of dissent in the village of Haven. Ever since the Inquisition's formation, camps were divided. The mourning pilgrims and the curious faces brought about by news of the Conclave on one side, the handful of clerics rallied by Chancellor Roderick as the Chantry's last line of defence on another. The loyal, the misguided, the opportunistic alike.

And then there were the rest. The wood shavings at the sawmill, those not important enough to die. Myself, Lysette noted, with a touch of grief and a touch of relief.

Among all the disjointed loyalties, there's never a shortage of mutterings about whatever the Inquisition is up to - sending soldiers to get captured in the Fallow Mire, use troops to antagonize nobles in Ferelden. Everyone's a critic. But the news this morning has the special virtue of getting everyone, every single soul in Haven muttering under their breaths. The one piece of news as contentious as it was inevitable.

The Herald will soon ride out to Redcliffe, to meet with her fellow mages and discuss an alliance.

'Unthinkable heresy'. If Lysette listens closely, she thinks she can still hear Roderick's outraged cry.

And I should be right there with him. I should be waiting by the door of the chantry to get the ear of Seeker Cassandra, Commander Cullen, the Herald herself and demand the pursuit of the templars instead.

And yet.

The wind blows coldly from the mountainside this morning, and dark clouds are hunching over the peaks, promising heavy snowfall later today. She shivers in her armour, and watches the green clouds of the Breach spin and spin.

Nothing was ever simple, and faith never spoke clearly to Lysette.

She had once put her faith in the templar order. The protection of mages from themselves was the Templar Order's holy calling, and Lysette strived to be one of the voices that brought the warring sides together once again. But she was wrong, was she not? For the Maker let the templars die in the explosion at the Conclave, along with their former charges. And then, when given the chance to try again, both sides only made things worse. The mages entrenched themselves in Redcliffe and allied themselves with Tevinter. The templars entrenched themselves at Therinfal Redoubt and turned into the personal mage hunter army of one delirious, grandstanding man. Which one was worse, she truly, honestly couldn't say. So how could she possibly brandish her sword in defence of all this madness?

What does my faith say now?

She glances again towards Haven, now muted by the sound of the winds picking up speed.

Her hair rises on her back as she hears footsteps approach, but not with wariness and fear. The faint and somewhat familiar presence of magic seeps into the air like perfume.

"Herald of Andraste," Lysette turns and greets with a nod.

"The soldiers told me they saw you walk this way. I worried you might be on your way to Therinfal to knock some sense into their heads yourself," the Herald smiled.

Lysette looked away and returned the smile, "Were it so easy, I would have." They had only spoken less than a handful of times, and every time Lysette did not know what to expect from the Herald. Her easy-going nature was foreign to her when comparing her to all the recent mages she's encountered. It made Lysette feel a little lost, and very curious.  Eventually her ears caught up with her train of thought, "You were looking for me? Whatever for?" A gust of wind swept the hill, and Lysette shivered again.

Lady Trevelyan took notice. "Follow me," she said, as she led them to the herbalist's cabin. With a flick of the wrist and a gentle wave, the hearth was set alight with magical fire.

They both brought their chairs close to the warmth as the wind howled through the wooden boards. When they settled, the Herald spoke.

"I'm looking for your help," she started, and again Lysette was taken aback by her earnestness. "I'm aware there's a lot of opposition to my meeting with the mages, let alone my intention to recruit them to our cause. I've been through it all in my head, all the possible repercussions, how many people might abandon the Inquisition, how we might face a true, armed retribution from the Chantry," she explained, as she watched the fire eat away at the damp pieces of firewood with a loud crack. "I've been through it all, and I believe this is the right thing to do. But that's not why I am here." The Herald of Andraste then shifts towards Lysette, her tone genuine and pleading, "I know some of your fellow former templars look up to you. Some of them are more inclined to listen to you than they are to listen to Commander Cullen, on occasion. Especially after Val Royeaux. And so, I need your help with making sure that no matter what happens in Redcliffe, the Inquisition can count on the remaining templars. No matter their loyalties, there will be plenty of demons to fight once we close the Breach, and we will need everyone's help. Your help," she adds at the end. 

Lysette furrows her brows and struggles to find the words to speak. With the templar leadership decimated or running off into the mountains, she is technically one of the more senior ex-templars after Commander Cullen, however -

"I'm just a recruit," is what comes out in the end. Just a recruit, and the Herald of Andraste would entrust this to her?

The Herald puffs out a laugh, "And I'm just a mage-turned-prisoner-turned-head-of-a-heretical-movement," she gives an encouraging smile. "You have a good head on your shoulders Lysette, and the soldiers can see that. It doesn't have to make sense to you, but it makes sense to me. And so," she sits down next to Lysette, watches her with a sincerity she should ill afford given their differences. it's completely disarming. "Can I count on you to help keep things together until I return?"

What does my faith tell me?

Lysette looks at the crackling wood in the fireplace for a moment, before saying clearly, "You can count on me. You have my word."

Chapter Text

Lysette could not have possibly imagined any of this the night she left Denerim.

No, indeed, her mind back then was used to a much simpler world - one of templars, mages and people to protect. That was reality for her, for everyone. Then, tragedy struck, everything got shuffled around, and the world stopped making any sense. 

But the Inquisition held things together, and now the world seems to be tethered back into place, and there is room for joy once again.

Lysette is sitting cross-legged on one of the hay bales around the bonfire they lit in celebration of their great victory, watching the merry dancers loop around it. From the corner of her eye, she watches as one of her fellow templars, an older man, tall and animated, points drunkenly at one of the new Inquisition recruits.

"I told you that the Herald will save us, didn't I? And you, Corrinne," he turned to a woman in mage robes who has just stood up to leave, "I told all of you, but non, why would you listen to little old me when you can lose your money instead, madames et monsieurs, I'll take that, thank you," he says quickly as he bends down to pick up a sovereign someone had tossed in the dirt, presumably to buy his silence. The man makes brief eye contact with Lysette, but immediately thinks better than to try and extort her for his silence and returns instead to boasting to his less-than-enthusiastic audience.

There had been whispers of the Inquisition long before it was officially declared, Lysette knew that much. Harold, the loud one currently making a fool of himself claimed he had been the very first to predict the Inquisition's success, and the first to declare his loyalty to the Herald of Andraste. Because he was, apparently, a dear friend of the late Divine Justinia, he knew that she was planning on the rebirth of the Inquisition as soon as the first whispers of blood mages from Kirkwall started reaching Val Royeaux. Empty boasting of a self-important man, Lysette thought with disdain and turned to look away. Harold was also among those who was here since the beginning, and whose life was saved by the Inquisition troops after the explosion. He bases his claims on the fact that he had been, indeed, formerly part of the Divine's own retinue. One of hundreds - lowest of hundreds, fit only to empty the Divine's chamber pot and polish the mud off her shoes. Otherwise, he'd be dead, wouldn't he? But no, that was certainly not worth mentioning, just as it wasn't worth mentioning that Lysette had spied him packing his things the night before the Herald and her troops went up to the Temple of Sacred Ashes to close the Breach for good. So much for trusting in the cause.

No one could have predicted the Inquisition. And even more so, no one could have predicted the Herald.

The Breach is closed. Demons litter the continent, but there's fewer each day. Lysette takes a moment to enjoy that as she looks around her at the celebrations. It was difficult to be here right after the Conclave, when she was asked to turn away from the Chantry's ancient teachings and remake her faith anew. But all this, the effort, the sacrifice, the victory - it feels right. It feels just as the Maker intended.

Lady Trevelyan - The Herald of Andraste, perhaps now worthy of the name - sits perched on the ledge above camp, watching the dancing below with a brilliant smile on her face and a drink in hand. Her beautiful long hair falls off her shoulder as she bends down to toast one of the drunken soldiers, and Lysette catches herself staring, and hurriedly turns her head away.

It isn't even the first time, either, she realises. Like many others, Lysette wasn't eager to adjust her faith right away after the Herald, first branded a traitor and imprisoned, was accepted as a new leader of the faith. And so she waited and watched, and she watched as the Herald grew into the inspiring leader she is today, and not realised how hard it would become to look away.

Her legs started moving before she could think better of it.

The Herald noticed her approach and lifted her tankard "And here's to you, Lysette! For a promise kept!," she declared excitedly, and Lysette tries to suppress the flutter in her stomach so she could come back with a reply. Maker's Breath. She could barely compose herself before the Herald pulls her down to sit next to her, "Wait, where's your drink?"

"Alas, no drink for me. I'd rather remember tonight as clearly as possible."

She didn't mean to look the Herald in the eyes as she says it. She didn't mean for her voice to sound so breathless. But the Herald is still holding on lightly to her hand, and somehow she never gets enough time to think before she speaks when she's present. The Herald herself seems just as surprised, her mouth open slightly, and her eyes fixed on Lysette, carrying a warm glint from the campfire...

Then alarm bells ring all through camp, shattering the gentle spell.

They both jump to their feet and run towards the gates. As the confusion lifts, Lysette watches in horror as her greatest fear unfolds. Templars, a massive force, bending the knee to an abomination, and marching to attack them - pilgrims and mages and survivors.

The first few templar attackers are already at the gates, and they feel more than see the presence of hundreds more, making their way through the trees.

 A templar knight charges towards her with a battle cry, and Lysette readies her blade. As she meets the blows of her opponent, she reels and struggles to regain her footing. The first few moments are a scramble for survival as Lysette realises that even though she's trained with the templars for years, knew everything about their technique, drills, weaknesses in armour, she cannot seem to keep up the pace. These men and women are attacking with a savagery in their movements Lysette has never seen before. Blow after blow, all she can do is parry while holding on to a sword that feels like it will shatter in two.

She's on the back foot when the templar knight trips her, but she manages to grab at him and bring them both down. Angered, the man stares down at her with a terrifying red glint in his eyes and rips off Lysette's helm, bringing his sword down. Lysette parries, pushing against the sharp metal with all her might, and for a moment they're so close she can smell the lyrium in his breath - a foul, bone-chilling smell, like scorched metal. This was nothing, absolutely nothing like fighting the rebel templar forces in the Hinterlands. This was like fighting demons from beyond the Veil! What in the Maker's name happened to these people?

A sword pierces through the side of the templar knight, unclear whose, but Lysette uses the respite to scramble back to her feet and take in her surroundings.

Their force is dishevelled - green soldiers, workers and farmers never trained to hold a weapon just about managing to overpower a cluster of crazed templars. It's not good being so scattered at a time like this.

Through the chaos, she hears the winded battle cry of the Herald, "Get ready! More are coming!" The hair on Lysette's arm rises as the Herald charges the air with electric magic. That and the fierce determination burning in her eyes is the wake-up call Lysette needs. She twists back, and shouts with battle fervour, "Mattrin! Grab the others, fall in on each side of the trebuchet. Archers on the hill!"

The next wave comes, and the feet of Haven's defenders are firmly planted on the ground as the templars hurl themselves at them. Lysette's soldiers gather their bearings and remember their drills, gaining confidence as their leader burns another foe to a crisp.

Everything else is a blur, her body moves on its own, her mind searches constantly for the presence of the Herald, thoughts a constant loop of 'We can win this!'

Until a dreadful roar descends from the dark air, and the Commander shouts.

"Fall back!"

It's been hours. Hard to say how many, when the first order of business has been trying not to freeze to death.

For the first time in what seems like an age, everything is quiet. Everyone is engrossed in their own thoughts, and their eyes wonder towards the hollow between two mountains, trying to look beyond into the valley. Taking toll of everything that was lost.

Lysette could barely tear her eyes away from it long enough to get rid of her armour and find some warmer clothes. The longer the horizon remains empty, the more likely for it to stay that way.

'Don't kid yourself', doubt whispered with the voice of healer Adan as soon as they made camp. 'No one could have survived that. The sooner we accept it, the quicker we can prepare for what comes next.'

The voice of doubt? Doubt of what, exactly? What point is there in denying reality? Her eyes turn back at the survivors surrounding her. The scent of blood and elfroot poultice is in the air as wounds are mended. Whimpers of agony go quiet one by one, as some of them cease their suffering for good. Mattrin barely escaped. The Commander, the Ambassador, the Herald's company barely escaped. That loud mouth, Harold, is dead, and so is the mage woman he was harassing.

But what does my faith tell me?

Her eyes sting as she glances at the horizon once more, and sees only the night, darkest it's ever been. What good is faith now, when they're tired and cold and hungry?

For the next hour or so, she finds the reserve of lyrium they managed to take with them from Haven's chantry and prepares small vials for the remaining templars. We didn't salvage a lot, but it should be enough for those who are left, she notices. It's as if the thought freezes her hands. Everything they went through, all they've amassed, sacrificed and overcome, all the hope she managed to scramble back together after her life fell apart at the Conclave - all for nothing. Her mind is filled with flashes of the Herald, swooping in and saving Lysette's life as she was overwhelmed by mad templars, right before getting buried under a mountain of snow. Her hands tremble as she puts down the lyrium vial, and she breaks down crying, alone in the snow.

Through the haze of sleep that followed, Lysette faintly hears the shouting of the earlier battle. This time though, there's no clinking swords, no cries of rage or pain, only the shock and the glint of hope laced in the whispers.

"Lysette! Wake up!", Mattrin shakes her awake violently.

"What's going on?", her mind is racing. Is this another attack? Will-

Time itself stops as she watches Seeker Cassandra and Commander Cullen help carry someone back to camp.

Impossible!

The Herald of Andraste - delivered by a divine hand back to her flock. People are gathering around her, and Lysette jumps to her feet to get closer. She can't believe her own eyes, but the faint whisper of the Herald's magic filling the air is unmistakable. This is no wishful dream.

She's alive.

As their twice-over saviour is corralled into the healing tent, she meets Lysette's eyes for just a moment. Too brief, but long enough for Lysette to recognise the emotion in the Herald's face that mirrors her own. Relief. You made it back.

Not much later, with a heart full of devotion and her faith restored, Lysette is among the first to drop onto her knees and sing.