((Again, I don't usually post shipping screenshots here, but I really think I popped off with this one.))

Wondering the Drifting Road: Amayian I

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Rated: Mature

Summary: During the beginning of Inquisition, Leliana is reunited with an old friend from the Fifth Blight, the Chosen of Andraste, Amayian Trevelyan.

Timeline Note:

So, this starts during the beginning of Inquisition; however, Leliana and Amayian had already an established relationship with one another during the Fifth Blight, due to Amayian's escape from the Ostwick Circle of Magi a few months prior of the start of Origins and him subsequently joing the Warden on his quest to defeat the Blight. Amayian is around twenty-seven during the beginning of Inquisition, and sixteen to seventeen in Origins. I imagine Leliana is around thirty-six to thirty-nine during the beginning of Inquisition, making her about twenty-six to twenty-nine in Origins. The main divergence is that Amayian was a former companion of the Hero of Ferelden, along side Leliana, Morrigan, and the others.

TW: Mentions/Flashbacks of child abuse, survivor guilt, PTSD, and suicide

                                                        Amayian I

Somewhere off over the mountains, a wolf howled a song of mourning. Rolling through Haven like a summer rain storm.

Amayian Trevelyan ignored it; though he did admit that a wolf's hollow reminded well too much of the Blight and the darkspawn, but he knew that it was just his imagination taking a toll. Most of the darkspawn had been driven off back into the Deep Roads, and they wouldn't come again unless they find the next archdemon. He hoped he would not be alive for that one. The Fifth was terrible enough, and that had only stroked one nation and had lasted well over a year. He could not dare imagine what the First Blight might have been like, lasting through centuries. He had a sudden appreciation and respect to those poor souls who long since been forgotten in the pages of history.

He sealed his journal with a small gesture of his hand, and placed his pen to the side of it. It wouldn't be long now, he thought. I'll be going to the Hinterlands shortly, and maybe Lavellan, Adaar, and Cadash could be here by the time I return. He had sent letters to them, and he hoped that the ravens were able to arrive to them. If not, I suppose I must survive this with strangers.

He rose from his chair, legs stiff and sore. He stretched his arms over his head, hearing a few cracks and pops as they returned back into life, and reached over the wooden table and snatched his staff in his right hand. His left hand burned, flaring a green light for a moment or two, reminding of him of the sudden new burden that he cared. There is enough burdens in this world for everyone to share, Maker. It would be quite nice if you had the decency of relieving me of some. He hand ran a finger over the leather-bound cover of his journal, worn and torn from his many years of travel. Amayian Trevelyan had long forgotten what it was like to stay in a single place. It must be eleven years since I escaped. Maybe only ten, he thought as he fastened his black fur cloak over his right shoulder with a golden horse-shaped button.

Outside, Amayian was greeted by a slash of brittle wind that passed through the Frostbacks, and he began to make his way through Haven. A small speck that was overshadowed by the grey mountains of the Frostbacks, it had came to a surprise when the Hero and himself found the village densely populated by zealous followers, claiming to worship an reincarnated Andraste in dragon form. That was a decade ago, back when he fought through the Blight with the elven man who ended the Blight with the cost of his life. Same had said that he died from a wound, others claim that he was killed when Urthemiel had swallowed him whole, and it was King Alistair that slayed the beast that killed their friend. Amayian himself did not know the truth for he had already abandoned Finderial's party a little before arriving at Denerim. Either way, his friend had died there, up in the tower of Fort Drakon. If I was there, could I have saved him? It was a questioned that plagued his mind after he had received the news in a tavern. I could have saved him. Forgive me, old friend.

The village that once was filled with zealous followers that worshiped a dragon in the form of Andraste was now filled with zealous followers that worshiped the Chantry version of Andraste. A significant change, Amayian thought dryly. He believed in the Maker, and he believed in Andraste, but that does not mean had to believe in the Chantry.

Amayian walked off with long strides, stabbing the ground with the butt of his staff with every stepped. There was a sense warmth in the air, despite the frosty conditions. He watched as children walked by, some playing with swords, others giggling behind their small hands and others playing Kill the Archdemon. A strange little game that required one sorry child, likely the largest one in the group, to be Urthemiel, and two other children to be King Alistair and Finderial. Most wanted to be Alistair, but Amayian disliked that obsession with the bastard of King Maric. If it had not been for Finderial, we would not be here. He knew it was an unfair characterization of his friend, but Alistair could never had won over Morrigan, Sten, and Zevran, even with his boyish charms. Finderial was one of the rare breeds: charming and handsome, with a good heart and graced with the wits of an Orlesian bard. No small wonder why she fell for him. He walked passed the children and up a few stairs that led nearer to the chantry. It was modest in appearance, yet wholesome with a touch of Ferelden's beauty in it. It was nothing extravagant like some chantrys in Val Royeaux and Ostwick, but it served its purpose, perhaps even better than their grandiose brethren. The stone bricked were stacked over one another, some weathered by the wind. The door was made of bronze, opening with a great screech when pressed upon, but it was strong, and it had survived through many years, going unnoticed by the rest of the world.

Amayian walked near it, but was taken by a familiar voice that had all but haunted his dreams so long ago. "Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just." He turned his head, before his feet followed the sound of the soft prayer without his consent. "Blessed are the righteous, the lights in their blood the Maker's will is written." Amayianed leaned on the wooden pole that held open the tent's flaps. He watched the familiar figure, dressed in heavy chainmail armor, and a face that was cloaked and concealed with a purple hood that seemed thick to the touch. Her leather, elbow-length gloves flared widely at her elbows. It was far from the woman that he recalled back during the Blight. She wore leather armor instead of chainmail. She allowed her face to be freely seen, while now she hid behind a hood far thicker than was necessary. "Is that what You want from us? Blood? To die so that Your will is done? Is death Your only blessing?" Her head rose from her knelt position, and her hands fell to her sides. She turned and faced him, and he had to stop his breath from catching. She was still as beautiful as he recalled. The same flaming red hair that was cut short to her jaw. The same blue-grey eyes that seemed almost more blue-green in certain lights, and the same lightly freckled pale skin that was blessed with a light blush. Even her slightly long nose only seemed to enhanced her beauty than deprived her of it. There only a slight few changes. There were small wrinkles at her eyes and her mouth, and she looked more tired, less joyful and hopeful. She must have missed him greatly, he thought. Did she miss me, I wonder? "You speak for Andraste, no? What does the Maker's prophet have to say about all of this, Amayian? What's His game?"

Her eyes were softer than back in the dungeons. He recalled the flash of rage in her eyes when she first saw him, and he knew he deserved it when she did not intervene to save him from a strike from Cassandra. Still, even the softness was veiled with a harden, dark look in her eyes. He pondered if this was Leliana at all. She seemed more similar to a ghost. A shadow of the woman that once was. "You know well by now that the Maker has a strange, twisted humor, Sister." His voice was cool, far from the softness and tenderness that he used back during the Blight. We have both change, Leliana, he thought. For the better or for the worse, we have both changed. "For His supposed 'game,' I know not. I can not grant you any solace." I have tried once, and you pushed me away for him. Do not expect the same affection that I once held for you to still remain.

"Then I supposed we must guess on what He wants." She rose from her kneeling position, anger flashing in her eyes. "You know well what the Chantry has taught us. The Maker demands repentance for our sins. He demands it all. Our lives, our deaths. Justinia had given Him everything she had and everything that He could have wanted, and he rewarded her with death." She had moved to stand beside him, and Amayian stepped a little away from her.

Amayian stared at her for a few moments, the slashing of the wind made his face go numb. "I do not know what you want me to tell you, Sister." Her eyes flashed once more. "However, I know how greatly you cared for her. You may have my condolences, if that means anything to you, but nothing more."

Her voice softened and her eyes fell to the ground, sad and broken. He had once hated seeing her like that, and he often played for her to return her to spirits, but he had not picked up a harp or lyre in quite a long time. He did not know how he felt seeing her like this. A feeling, warm and sympathetic rose to comfort her, to reach for her, but he smashed it back into submission. "She was our heart…" Her voice seemed for a moment to tremble. "She was the Chantry. Everything wonderful about it, she embodied, Amayian. She was the follower and the guider and the leader." Leliana turned to stare up at the Chantry that they once had both walked into a decade ago with cruel contempt. "If the Maker does not intervene to save the best of His servants, what good is he? I thought I was fulfilling His purpose for me. Working with the Divine, helping people. But know she is gone. It was all for nothing. Serving the Maker meant nothing."

Amayian raised an eyebrow. He did not know how to approach this. If he offer solace it meant that he became soft toward her, and such she would most like believe that he might be walked over, again. By offering little care, he might lose a valuable asset to any future endeavors that he desired, and Leliana was valuable. A brilliant spymaster, perhaps, but he knew her, and that might prove just as fatal. Trust no one but yourself, and nothing may hurt you, but you will be left wandering the drifting road alone. Trust only a few and they would come and cling and pull you down with them. Trust everyone, and you are the fool. Those were one of his tutor's words, back when he was just a child. He had not listened to him till after he abandoned the Hero of Ferelden and his company during the Blight. He was a foolish child back than. He decided on the latter course of action. "You might have a new purpose, most people often do," he said. "It is up to you to decide if you will follow it."

Leliana stared at him for a few moments, searching. "I must return to my work. And you must ready yourself for your journey to the Hinterlands," she said, turning on her heel to walk to her desk before leaning over it. "I will speak to you later, Amayian."

Amayian nodded. We have both changed. The thought did not sit well with him. He watched her for a few moments, staring at the way her shoulders tensed and her jaw was clenched. For better or for worse, old friend. We have both changed.

He turned on his heel, gazing up at the chantry. He tugged at his cloak with one hand before making his way to the bronze doors, cursing the Maker for the brittle wind and this uncouth Ferelden cold.