One must keep in mind the state of Thedas prior to the Chantry's creation: a world where the only source of order - the Tevinter Imperium - had fallen apart. People blamed magic for the death of Andraste, the Blight, the terror they saw every day - and not without reason. Abominations and demons rampaged the countryside. No one was safe. Disparate groups of men and women initially

Max reached for the steaming hot mug of tea beside him, taking several sips. The warmth was welcome against the cold of the mountains; he wiggled his toes, and continued to read, oblivious to the world around him.

Evidence suggests they were as vigilant in their protection of mages as they were of regular people. When they intervened, they convened an ad hoc trial to determine the guilty party. This even application of justice led to their poor reputation; the Seekers came down against every group at one time or another, their "Inquisition" gaining notoriety for being on no one's side but their own.

They considered themselves good people, however - followers of the Maker's true commandments. This was never more evident than when they laid down their banner in support of the fledgling Chantry. They believed with all their heart that the Templar Order was the answer a desperate Thedas needed in a terrible time.

Ultimately, the Inquisition was composed of independent idealists, not Chantry zealots; that is the truth.

He marked the page and shut the book. Ferdinand Genitivi was one author Max followed closely despite his strong Andrastian beliefs; Genitivi's In Pursuit of Knowledge series was a treasure trove of information, introduced to him by Hahren Aravel, who could find no fault with the Chantry man's meticulous notes on everything under the sun. Someone at the Haven Chantry had a copy of the series' entry on the first Inquisition, and Max had requested to borrow it for a few hours, while he waited for Sister Leliana's friend to arrive from Orlais; Max heard that she was a diplomat of some sort.

It had been two days since Cassandra declared the Inquisition reborn. In just two short days, the number of soldiers camped outside Haven have doubled, reinforcements from the foot of the Frostbacks, all of them simply waiting for the signal to regroup. And in these two short days, Max watched quietly from a corner, inconspicuous in his worn leather armor, giving most who saw him an impression of yet another mercenary who'd signed up. Oh yes, besides Ferelden regulars and Orlesian troops who were tired of the civil war, mercenaries of every stripe had been showing up. Max remembered seeing several qunari, their towering figures imposing, even the female ones, toting giant swords or warhammers across their already-broad shoulders.

But Commander Cullen was the one who handled the Inquisition's forces, so Max didn't pay much heed to them. Cassandra had shrugged when he asked what he could do to help; it made his position in the Inquisition somewhat shaky, since he had no idea where he fitted into the order, besides being 'the one who has the mark on his hand, the only person who could close the Breach.'

A mouthful.

Cassandra had introduced him to the commander just the previous day. Here he came, striding out of his tent, his adjutants already waiting with reports in their hands, his golden hair positively shining in the weak morning light, his face obscured by the thick fur shawl that made him stand out amongst everybody else.

Max had thought, on first glance, that the commander was hefting some dead creature around his neck.

"May I present Commander Cullen, leader of the Inquisition's forces."

The handsome former Templar bowed slightly. He was clad in Templar plate armor - the same armor that Max would have worn had he kept his mouth shut and continued his training - his sword hanging from his hip. The commander's voice was deep and rich, but tinged with a weariness that Max had heard before, in soldiers who've seen and fought enough to tire of killing, a man who'd signed too many letters of condolences. "Such as they are. We lost many soldiers in the valley, and I fear many more before this is through."

Max watched the proceedings in Haven, only his eyes moving, hidden in the shadow of the Chantry, Lyara sidling over occasionally to replenish his tea, the one thing she was insistent on doing for him after his treatment of her, smiling shyly and catching herself whenever she was about to address him as a lord.

Sister Leliana had been busy; she'd been receiving endless reports daily, if not hourly, from ravens, an odd sight this far up the mountains. She'd break the wax seal on the reports, reading their contents with a frown, before answering with a small roll of parchment of her own, scribbling a reply, sometimes asking Cassandra something in a low tone, before tying her replies to the ravens' left legs and sending them off into the cold sky.

Max was intrigued by the Sister. From what he'd seen so far, she was the straightforward sort, not one to mince words or beat around the bush, in contrast to Cassandra, who waxed poetic sometimes, though not intentionally. What worried him, though, was that Leliana knew exactly who he was, despite his best efforts to hide the fact he was a Trevelyan of Ostwick in the eight years since he'd left home; even Lana didn't know, much less the other Misfits, so how did this enigmatic Chantry Sister know? And the way Leliana had spoken to that chancellor, her icy glare sending chills down Max's spine, was enough for Max to make one conclusion: Sister Leliana was a person not to be fucked with. Ever. He could still feel that unspoken promise of pain and death that assailed Roderick.

And Cassandra's blunt, one-word description of Leliana explained it all, justifying the unease he felt, the thing that he couldn't quite place his finger on.

"What is it you do here, Sister Leliana? In the Inquisition, I mean."

She looked him in the eye, the intensity of her gaze unnerving even through the loose bangs of flaming red hair that fell from under her ashen hood, giving her a youngish, rebellious look. Her delicate red lips parted as she blinked, trying to find the words to explain her role.

"Well... my position here involves a degree of -"

"She's our spymaster."

Leliana's lips twisted as she turned her head slightly to glance at Cassandra beside her, who was oblivious to the Sister's gaze as she perused reports, her voice becoming frosty.

"Yes. Tactfully put, Cassandra."

A spymaster. A bard. If there was one thing that Max found intriguing about Val Royeaux, it was the tales, the legends of the bards. Assassins in the crowd, smiling and laughing with you up till the knife in your heart. Or in your back. All part of the grandeur and decadence that was The Game. But other than that, his view of the 'center of culture of Thedas' was rather dim.

He was glad that Leliana was on their side, but he couldn't help but throw a glance or two behind his back every once in a while, though he hadn't done anything to earn the Sister's wrath. As far as he could tell, anyway.

Cassandra herself was out there with the men, supervising their training alongside Cullen, keeping a close eye on the few mages that had survived and had sought refuge with the Inquisition. Max would have joined them - he hadn't picked up a sword for quite a while now - had it not been for the one phrase on everyone's lips that he was already sick of hearing, even after just two days.

"Something troubles you, Maxwell?"

Max looked down the length of his long knife, drawing the whetstone carefully across its edge. "Indeed, Cassandra. The 'Herald of Andraste.'"

"What - oh. I... see."

He could sense disapproval radiating off her, sitting next to him. "Peace, Seeker. While I am certain you are aware of my... dissatisfaction with the Chantry, I do not intend to blaspheme. That being said, what's this about a 'Herald?'"

Cassandra sighed. "You need to remember, Maxwell, while you do not share my beliefs, people saw what you did at the Temple, how you stopped the Breach from growing. They have also heard about the woman seen in the rift when we first found you; they believe that was Andraste."

"Well, we know that that was Divine Justinia, right? Why not tell everyone that?"

Cassandra shifted uncomfortably. "Only the few of us there knew it was Justinia. And to be frank, the thought of you walking out of that rift, caused by that explosion that killed so many, with Andraste watching over you... people tend to lean towards the more... idealized version of the story. Something that aligns with their faith."

Max snorted at that. "That's absurd."

"To them, it isn't. If I hadn't been there myself, I would have believed it was Andraste, too," said Cassandra, a little stiffly.

"And you and Sister Leliana are doing nothing to stop these rumors?"

Cassandra sighed again, long and hard. "No. And not out of disrespect to you, Maxwell. The people need hope, now more than ever. The mage-templar conflict, as it is, has sown incredible chaos all over southern Thedas. Orlais is embroiled in a civil war of its own. Ferelden is still recovering from the Blight. And now the Conclave is utterly destroyed, the Divine dead." Cassandra choked on the last word, raising a hand to her face. "People need hope, Maxwell. They need something to believe in, that peace will eventually return. We've seen too much conflict these past few years."

Max grunted, seeing the Seeker's point, relenting. "Aye. That we can agree upon, Cassandra. But I hope you do understand it will take me a while to get used to being a symbol of hope. I've never been a hero before, unlike you. I'm just... me. A rebellious noble kid, who just wanted to see the world."

Cassandra looked long and hard at him, her eyes seemingly piercing into his soul. She nodded, her lips pressed together.

"Ana!"

Leliana looked up at the familiar voice, her lips already curling into a big smile. She rushed forward, reports forgotten, at her old friend, already grinning herself, arms open for a hug. "Josie! When did you arrive? I didn't hear anything from my lookouts!"

"Wanted to surprise you. I actually pushed off a day early, and your troops have already cleared the way through the Frostbacks, so it was a rather uneventful and pleasant trip."

"So, shall we begin?" Leliana asked, a challenge, her eye twinkling, squeezing the shoulder of her oldest and dearest friend, in this world where true friends were so hard to come by.

"Let's." Josephine Montilyet smiled in return, shuffling the papers on the ledger in her arm, her pen already poised to make notes. "For starters, how about you tell me about the Herald? I've been hearing stories."

Apparently, him being the Herald of Andraste was the big news throughout Thedas right now. And besides the soldiers who've been summoned, pilgrims have been flooding into Haven to pay their last respects to the Divine - and to catch a glimpse of the Herald himself. Max managed to stay hidden in plain sight so far, but he knew that wouldn't last, once people start to poke about like an over-inquisitive next-door neighbor. Already the soldiers could recognize him, saluting him whenever he headed to the Chantry from his tent out in the field...

"Your Worship?"

Max blinked, and groaned. It wasn't Lyara's voice. Female. Eager. Too quickly, he lamented. He'd just been thinking about it, and now people are already coming up to him? He took a deep breath and looked left, and up.

And lowered his head, his eyebrow rising. "Err."

The dwarf smiled brightly. "Don't worry, Your Worship. I get that a lot."

She looked familiar, this dwarf. Red hair tied back into a messy bun. Freckled, rounded face. Inquisitive hazel-green eyes. It struck Max - the scouting party, up on the mountain path. The cute maiden, in his own words. He felt heat creeping up his neck, and coughed to hide his discomfort. "The scouting party, yeah? You're their leader."

"And you're the Herald." The dwarf stuck her hand out. Though his hand enveloped hers, her grip was surprisingly strong. "Inquisition Scout Harding, at your service. It's an honor to meet you once more, my lord." She bowed slightly, eyes on him, a faint smile on her lips.

"Maxwell. I prefer to be called my name instead of a title. Doesn't sit right."

She regarded him with bright eyes. "You got it. So... I've heard the stories; everyone has. The Breach..." Her eyes darted for a moment to Max's hand, a quick flick, but he caught it nonetheless.

Max shrugged wearily. At least Harding wasn't worshiping the ground he was on, unlike quite a few others who practically fell to their knees at the sight of him. "Yeah. Don't know much about magic, though, so if you're going to ask me how I did it, you're out of luck, Scout Harding."

"Don't worry, Your Worship. I wasn't going to."

"It's Maxwell, please, Harding."

"Maxwell, right. I see. Well, in any case, Maxwell, Sister Leliana sent me to get you. Ambassador Montilyet has arrived from Val Royeaux." Harding gestured with a hand at the Chantry. "They're in the back room."

"Thanks. You're heading out?"

Harding tilted her head to a side. "Afraid so. Sister Leliana has me scouring the Temple, see what we could find."

"Stay safe, Scout Harding." Max held a hand out. "Thanks for the heads-up."

"No problem, Maxwell." Harding grinned and shook his hand once more.

She was garbed in a dress of gold silk and velvet, the most well-dressed of them all. Her skin was chocolate brown, several shades darker than his own, or the other three in the room, all of them looking up as he pushed the door open. But that did not subtract from her beauty, though; on the contrary, she seemed... lovelier. Her raven-black hair was tied back into a tight bun, her ensemble completed with an ornate collar that adorned her neck, a single blood-red ruby, glittering in the torchlight, at its center. She was holding a ledger in her left arm, on which a candle balanced precariously on its top edge, flame sputtering as Max brought a draft in with him into the room.

She smiled as he looked at her, her eyes brightening. Max lowered his gaze in embarrassment. The ambassador was very pretty.

"Maxwell? This is Lady Josephine Montilyet. She's our ambassador and chief diplomat."

Max raised his eyes, and bowed, as was taught by Mother. "My Lady."

To complete an already-lovely appearance, the ambassador spoke, liltingly. Max immediately recognized her accent as Antivan; he'd spent some time chatting with an Antivan barmaid once. Still as hypnotizing now, as it was then, musical, very much unlike the rough Fereldan accent, or the overly-stiff and 'refined' Orlesian one.

"I've heard much, Lord Trevelyan. It's a pleasure to meet you at last."

"Nay. The pleasure is mine, Lady Montilyet."

Cullen chuckled; Leliana smiled. "Huh. You never bowed that low to me, Ser!" exclaimed Cullen at the effect the ambassador had on the Herald. Max felt his ears burn. Cassandra stepped forward before the jesting could gain momentum, cutting it off. "Now that Lady Montilyet is here..." she looked at Max, jerking her chin at his hand. "Does it trouble you?"

Max wondered at the steel in Cassandra's voice. But he held his hand up, tugging the glove off. "No, Seeker. Not since closing that rift." Cullen and Lady Montilyet peered with fascination at his hand, the slash on his palm glowing slightly. "I wish I can be rid of it, though. But I suppose that's not an option, this sort of magic."

"We have need of it yet, Maxwell. Do not be too hasty."

"So you have mentioned, Cassandra."

The Seeker adjusted a small chess piece on the map, a small wooden soldier bearing a shield and sword. "What's important is that it's now stable, as is the Breach. What we've got is time, thanks to your efforts. It's something we all desperately need right now. And Solas believes a second attempt might succeed."

"If this thing," Max waved his hand. "Had more power. I've spoken to him; it's one of the basic laws of magic. It's impossible for this thing to close that Breach, unless... we have a whole lot more power. The same amount needed to open the Breach in the first place."

Cassandra nodded, her face a mask of seriousness. "We have a plan for that."

Leliana stepped forward. "We must approach the rebel mages for help."

Cullen interjected before Max could comprehend Leliana's statement, crossing his arms. "And I still disagree. The templars could serve just as well."

Cassandra sighed in frustration. "We need power, Commander. Enough magic poured into that mark -"

"Might destroy us all! Think, Cassandra! Templars could suppress the Breach, weaken it, so -"

"Pure speculation," said Leliana harshly.

Cullen tapped his chestpiece, his voice low. "I was a templar. I know what they're capable of."

Max had a feeling this was a discussion they've have had in the past few days, most likely when he was unconscious. Lady Montilyet raised her pen, her words stilling them. "Unfortunately, neither group will even speak to us yet. The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition, and you," she looked at Max. "Specifically."

"Why am I not surprised?" Max shook his head. Cullen turned his frown on the ambassador. "Shouldn't they be busy arguing over who's going to become Divine?"

"Indeed, Commander, but they have a more... pressing issue at present." She turned back to Max. "Some are calling you the 'Herald of Andraste,' and that frightens the Chantry. The remaining clerics have declared it blasphemy, and we," she pointed at each of them in turn, "Heretics. For harboring you."

Cassandra made a sound of disgust. "Chancellor Roderick's doing, no doubt."

"With the Chantry openly opposing us, our options are... limited. Hence, approaching the mages or the templars for help is currently out of the question."

"The Herald of Andraste..." Cullen mused, his frown dissolving as he glanced at Max. "How do you feel about that?"

"Honestly, Commander? I'm no Herald of anything, Andraste in particular. It's unsettling, people automatically foisting a title I don't approve of onto me."

"Heh. That's something you and the Chantry finally have in common, I suppose, being uncomfortable with the whole thing," said Cullen dryly. "Cassandra told me about your... disagreements with the Chantry."

Max groaned aloud. Why was details of his personal life being spilled all over the place? "Why isn't anyone more concerned about the Breach? The real threat?" he managed to ask, the familiar frustration bubbling to the surface once more.

"Oh, they do know it's a threat. They just don't think we can stop it," replied Cullen, the mirth gone from his eyes, his voice turning bitter.

"The Chantry is telling everyone you'll make it worse," added Lady Montilyet.

Max pinched the bridge of his nose. Damned Chantry. He opened his eyes when Leliana spoke, her voice soft, as if in thought. "There is something we can do. A Chantry cleric by the name of Mother Giselle has asked to speak to you in person."

"And why would I want to speak to her, Leliana? After what Lady Montilyet had just said about the Chantry? Me, a heretic?"

"I understand she's the reasonable sort," replied Leliana calmly, clasping her hands behind her back. "Perhaps she does not agree with her Sisters. In addition, she is not far, and knows those involved far better than I. Her assistance could be invaluable."

"Where is this Mother Giselle, Leliana?" queried Cassandra. She sounded relieved.

"She is tending to the wounded in the Hinterlands, near Redcliffe," Leliana pointed at a spot on the map, tracing a path with her finger.

Max studied the map. "Hm. Better than sitting around doing nothing, I suppose, not with the mages and the templars out of reach at the moment."

"While you're there, Lord Trevelyan, look for opportunities to expand the Inquisition's influence. I know, I know," he said, raising his mailed hands up. "But to have the Herald himself spreading the word of the Inquisition..."

"Commander Cullen's words ring true, My Lord," agreed Lady Montilyet. "We need agents to extend our reach beyond this valley, and you're better suited than anyone to recruit them."

Once again, Max felt that tug, that feeling of being pulled into an abyss. Once again, he was being pulled in a direction he did not want to go. But he'd promised that he would help close that damned Breach. And the Inquisition needed his help in becoming more powerful, so that it can help him do just that.

He sighed. He was here now, whether he liked it or not.

"Alright. I'll do it."

"In the meantime, let's think of other options. I won't leave this all to the Herald," said Cassandra, dipping her head at Max. Max felt a sudden surge of gratitude towards the Seeker. Days ago, she wanted to kill him; now, she was helping to ease his the burden of his unwanted title; any animosity he had towards Cassandra evaporated at that announcement. "Thank you, Seeker."

She smiled crookedly at him. "Well, let's get started, shall we? Leliana, send word to this... Mother Giselle. We're on our way."

She sat at the base of her favorite tree, slanted sunlight and the shadows of leaves playing across the open book in her lap, her fair skin, her jet-black hair, which tumbled untidily over her shoulders, untied, as she always did when she came to read in the garden. He knew her habits, the way she bit her lip when she came to a particularly intriguing part in the story; the way she lay back against the trunk, eyes unfocused as she imagined the scene in her mind; the way she flicked a finger irritably at an inquisitive fly who seemed to wonder who this lovely lady in this beautiful garden was.

She was a mage. A formidable one, at the tender age of nineteen, three years older than he was. She was smothered by her parents, as any noble parents would on their firstborn, the heir to their House, their legacy. She was an oddity amongst the mages in her local Circle in that she wholeheartedly embraced the restrictions imposed upon them, cooperating well with the local templars, which made her more approachable than most people on either side of the mage-templar divide.

That was why she was given special leave to return to the Trevelyan household during the weekends.

He knew her well. Very. It was during times like these, when she was home, that he would perch himself in a tree in the garden, and watch her from afar, a smile on his face. She was still safe, still sane, after her Harrowing; that was enough reason for him to smile. Evelyn was a strong girl, a strong woman, a quality that elevated her above all the other foppish, limp-wristed nobles in Ostwick, made even more remarkable in that she was a mage. And boy, she did not take shit from anyone; he'd seen more people frozen solid because they'd criticized mages in front of her, to her face, than apples on the trees in the summer.

He moved silently, the grass soft beneath his feet.

He remembered when she was a child. Young, naive, in the ways of the world. Huge blue eyes that blazed with a curiosity that only grew with the years, the extensive Trevelyan library feeding her mind. He'd never seen her anywhere without a thick tome tucked under her arm, or in her deceptively delicate fingers, her eyes moving with a speed that only experienced readers had, dancing across the page, drinking in the flowing script. Many a time he found himself marveling at Evelyn's voracity for knowledge, to be in the know, to randomly pull facts and quotes from famous figure past out of the air, lending weight to whatever topic she was speaking about at the moment.

He made himself comfortable in the branch above her. She hadn't heard him, turning the page. She still wore that scent he'd bought for her, a gift for her sixteenth birthday. He was glad she still thought of him, writing letters to him, missing him, even as everyone else seemed to want to maintain a very respectable distance from him. She was the one true friend he had growing up, his only confidante in the cruel world of nobility, his pillar of strength, the only one in the world who did not judge his actions. And she leaned on him too, the past few years, every bit as tired as he was of the game, but keeping the charade up; it was the way of things in this world. But where he had the freedom to rebel, she did not, as heir of House Trevelyan; one thing he hated, seeing her going through the motions without a choice in the matter.

He turned the acorn over in his fingers, skin rough from handling a sword and bow daily for three years. He aimed carefully and dropped it, the tiny cone landing neatly in between the pages of the book.

She gasped and looked up. "Max?" Her face broke into a big smile as he gave her a slight wave. "Hey, Eve."

She made to get up, but he motioned her to sit. "I'm only here for a while, Eve. Just wanted to say goodbye."

Her brow furrowed at his words. "What do you mean, Max? Have you... aren't you supposed to be training?"

He shook his head. "Got kicked out this morning. And I might have done something to a prick who deserved it, but the powers-that-be won't see it that way."

She knew him to be less diplomatic than she was, and was prone to bursts of anger at injustices. But his cryptic line only deepened her frown as she settled back against the trunk, eyes on the distant Trevelyan manor as she spoke. "Max, did you do something you'll regret?"

"No. Don't worry, Eve, I didn't kill anyone, if you're wondering. I just taught someone a lesson he would never forget for a while. But uh... let's just say his family might seek... retribution against certain individuals who are gifted in the arcane arts."

She sighed audibly. "You got kicked out because you beat up Arroughs, didn't you?"

"Nope." The branch he was on creaked as he shifted, dropping silently to her side. "My dismissal papers were signed yesterday. I just left him a parting gift for all the pain he'd inflicted on everyone else."

She took his hand in hers gently, inspecting the glorious bruises that adorned his knuckles. She passed a hand above them, magic dancing between her fingers; the bruises began to fade. "You know, Max, one day that temper of yours is going to get you into trouble."

He shrugged. "Better me than anyone else who didn't deserve it."

She looked into his eyes, blue that matched her own. "I suppose they're sending templars over to the house now, aren't they? Along with some guardsmen?"

"It's a safe bet. I'm leaving Ostwick today. Now. Tell Mother I'm sorry I couldn't see her before I left."

"But where would you go?"

"I've got a contact in the templars; he set me up with some friends of his, a roving band of adventurers. Not mercenaries," he added hurriedly, noting that Evelyn was about to protest.

Eve's features softened. "Well, if you have it all figured out, then..." She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close. "Take care of yourself, baby brother," she whispered into his ear. "Don't worry, I won't tell them anything."

"I know you wouldn't, sis."