He nearly resisted the magic out of pure instinct, his training warning him to ward off the spell aimed at him. He exhaled softly and let her do her work, all the conflict and indecision and turmoil falling away into a tiny hum of discord. The second smoothed out what remained, until his mind felt utterly still and at peace. He could feel alarm and fear just beneath the surface, but the layers of magic she applied, the strength of them, kept it all from overwhelming him. "Lana," he whispered softly, eyes half closed, and when she kissed him he pressed softly back. Ellion struggled to think, to respond to her invitation, but he felt too tired. All he could manage was to lift his hand and curl his fingers into her hair. His eyes slipped closed, and with a small noise he followed her lead.<br/><br/><i>The Chantry was small, one of only a handful of buildings in the town. He looked back at the Knight Commander, whose eyes narrowed, whose body turned into fire, whose entire self became an entity or pure burning rage. "You have been COMPROMISED, ser!" roared Greagoir, and Ellion turned to push the doors of the Chantry open. Lyrium veins laced the pillars, the pews, the statue of Andraste that loomed daunting above the altar. He looked up at the statue's face, but she was Lana, weeping as she reached for his hand. "They learned about us, Ellion. They're coming. What do we do?" He didn't know what to say. Greagoir, still covered head to toe in flame, seized his arm. "Kill the blood mage," he whispered. The statue of Lana moved and took his other arm. "What do we do?" "Kill her, Templar!" "Ellion!" "Templar!" "Ellion!" "Templar!" "Ellion! Templar! Ellion! Templar! Ellion, Templar!" He realized he was the only one there all at once. The chantry vanished, Greagoir vanished, Lana vanished.<br/>
<br/>
He stood on a flat plane within the Fade, looking up at a tremendous black gate. Behind him another stood ajar, and far away in the distance he could see the Black City wreathed in shadows. Between him and the closed gate stood a figure in a black robe, their back to him. He could feel it; this was no dream. The figure turned suddenly, as if only just sensing him, and he saw the shape of a chin barely showing beneath the dark, deep cowl. "Well, now," whispered the figure, "this is interesting. How did you even get here, little man?" One hand lifted, a hand glowing just above the skin with </i>something<i> else. Ellion couldn't speak. "Are you afraid? This place is not one meant for most mortals, after all. Come, now, speak to me, tell me who you are..."<br/>
</i><br/>His eyes opened abruptly, and Ellion's entire body jolted as he lurched awake. His breathing came fast and hard and for a moment he couldn't remember where he was, what had happened, what he was doing. He felt weight on his chest but had no idea what it was. Hair was in one hand, soft and long, and he looked down slowly at the top of a woman's head. She was... Lana. Lana, yes. The blood mage. No, not a blood mage, someone good, someone close. Andraste. His Andraste. Did that make him Maferath? He blinked away the confusion as best he could, her magic still working to soothe his mind from any great turmoil, and he carefully slid her from his chest and onto the bed so he could get up.<br/><br/>The ale in the pitcher was flat, but he still poured half a cup and downed it anyway before he sat to rub his face. The dream and whatever he had seen in the Fade were both dissipating, and awake he had even less awareness of how wrong it had gone. He scratched at his scalp, breathing slow and deep and measured. After a moment he slid from the chair to sit in on the floor instead, in front of the window and in the patch of fresh sunlight that was streaming in. His legs folded, and his eyes closed. Both hands rested on his knees, and he bowed his head as he began to meditate, to clear and organize his thoughts and memories of the previous day. He stayed there, unmoving, as the sun rose and warmed his body through.