Chapter Text
The Justice in Surrender
Prologue: Living Shadows
The shadows are attacking.
This was very much what it felt like to ten-year-old Schuyler Trevelyan on the night his world ended.
It was a peaceful night at home in the Trevelyan manor. It was a special occasion – his father’s name-day – and thus all of the siblings were home. Siblings Schuyler hadn’t seen in years were in the house, filling it with pleasant chatter. Sisters, brothers, and his parents.
Sarabeth was the closest sibling to his age, nearly two years older than him. As much fun as he had with her, and the trouble they got into, it was nice to have the house full again. They spent the evening laughing, joking, and playing hide-and-seek like always. This time the eldest siblings even joined in as well, though they weren’t very good at hiding.
Schuyler was not only the youngest, but the smallest. He would always be small, he heard his mother say when he continued to complain. He was the runt of the litter, so to speak. Born early, born small, and it took him forever to grow. At age ten he looked as though he were six, too small to be taken seriously.
As much as he hated being small, it did allow him the best of hiding places.
He could maneuver his body and fit into tight places no one would expect anyone to be, and he was a hell of a climber, choosing tough to reach, small places to hide.
And maybe that’s why he survived.
From his position atop the tallest counter, in the shadows of the barely-lit room, far above prying eyes, he watched the shadows come to life.
He watched blood spatter the air.
He heard his siblings cry in pain.
He watched as Sarabeth was grabbed, a blade rammed through her belly. He wanted to climb down, help her, do something, but in the end he was frozen with his terror, and she caught his eye.
She always knew where he was.
She always knew.
Just like now.
With the barest shake of her head she told him to stay put.
And stay put he did.
He stayed where he was while he listened and watched his family die around him. He heard the faint sounds of battle, his parents and elder siblings attempting to fight back, but the attack was quick and sudden, the shadows coming to life, and there was little they could do with simple dinner knives.
One by one they fell.
And then the house was silent. He remained where he was for a long time, late into the night, too scared to move, hoping – praying – for someone to speak, to move, to do something so he knew he wasn’t completely alone.
He froze, listening intently, the sound nearly drowned out by the racing of his heart as it hammered away in his chest.
The footsteps grew closer. He watched as a figure entered the dark room, the candles long since burned out. Since he’d been here so long, though, his eyes were well adjusted to the dark. He watched the figure, not a shadow, but a person. A person with light-colored hair and a stony expression, from what Schuyler could make out, and he was tall. A giant. Built like Schuyler’s oldest brother, Maxwell. Strong and sturdy, a brick amongst men.
“It is done,” the person said mostly to themselves, a deep, bass voice. “You are certain they are all dead?”
“Yes,” came another voice. This person stood just out of view. His voice was more rough and nasally. “Seven bodies.”
Seven bodies.
“The whole family,” the second voice continued.
Seven bodies.
Schuyler tried to understand what this meant. His entire family was dead – except for him. He had four older siblings, and his parents. Including him, that was seven. Except he wasn’t dead, so who was the seventh body?
His eldest brother brought a lady friend over for dinner tonight. They had been together for months, both of them Templars. Lord Bann Trevelyan, their father, had been rather pleased with her.
And now she was dead.
She took my place…
And Schuyler just didn’t know what to do or think about that.
He attempted to scoot back a little more, feeling uneasy. Something twisted in his gut, more so than it had since the earlier screams had stopped.
“Then there is no one left to stop him,” the first person spoke again. “You have done well. Sadly, your services are no longer needed.”
“My serv-?”
The second person was cut off by this strangled, choking sound. Schuyler peeked over the edge to see the first person with their hand outstretched, magic thrumming through the air.
Schuyler had never been around magic before.
It was this odd and strange feeling, something off-putting yet enticing, powerful. It slipped through the room like a soft echo, silently doing something unspeakable to the man he couldn’t see. The choking sounds continued, until they, too, broke off, leaving only this unbearable silence.
The silence of the dead.
Then the remaining man walked away.
Schuyler remained hidden in the darkness for a long time.
Someone wanted him dead. Someone wanted his entire family dead.
And they thought they succeeded.
They might come back.
They would come back come morning, when the servants returned after their night off, and realized everyone was dead. They would find Schuyler and reveal to the world that he was alive.
As soon as anyone who knew his family appeared, they would know he was alive.
And the killer would return.
Why? Why did his family have to die?
Tears pricked at his eyes. Throughout everything he didn’t cry, just stared in abject terror and horror as everything happened, but now… now the tears fell freely.
There was no escape.
The man would return. He would come for him to finish the job. As soon as someone entered the house, they would see everyone was dead except him…
Then I have to be a body, too.
It was the only explanation.
He remembered hours upon hours of history his father spoonfed him, histories of battles, plans, the chantry, Templars and mages… Unlike his other siblings, history interested Schuyler. It was something he and his father bonded over. Books of any kind, knowledge, everything.
All those stolen moments together now bombarded him and the tears came faster, blinding him. His breaths, already shaky, now trembled with soft pants as he released them.
You know what you must do, said a voice in his mind, sounding oddly reminiscent of his father.
Yes, Father. I know what I have to do.
It wasn’t something he wanted to do, but he knew what needed to be done.
If he ever wanted justice for his family… justice for this night when the shadows came to life…
He was going to have to find the person who ordered this. The person who did this. The man with the fair hair and deep, baritone voice.
The only way he could do this was if all of Thedas thought him dead.
The only way to do this was to turn one of those bodies into him.
Or, at the very least, leave room for doubt. Doubt of the identity of any of the bodies. In that case the only logical conclusion would be for them to assume he was dead. This would mean doing terrible things to a dead body, an act he’d been warned against. The dead were dead, but they deserved respect.
And the thought of getting that close to a dead family member… to see what had been done to them…
He could see Sarabeth’s blank stare from here. Even in the darkness he knew where she was, and he could not get the image out of his head.
Pack. He would pack first. Then flee after he did this unthinkable thing.
He climbed down and began to collect what few belongings he would be able to carry, trying to ignore the tears streaming down his face. He wiped them away angrily; now wasn’t the time for tears. Right now he needed to think, and quickly.
That man could return at any moment.
It was then he smelled it.
Smoke. Hot and heavy in the air.
Then he heard it.
The crackling.
Fire.
There was a fire.
He spun in place to find the flames licking at the back wall, already covering half the manor. With a gasp he stuffed his belongings quickly into the knapsack and ran for the nearest window. It took some maneuvering, but he managed to finally open it and jumped out as air rushed into the room from the chilly snowfall outside, and the fire grew even more.
By the time his feet hit the ground his clothes were charred and his skin was moist, damp with sweat.
The only upside was that he could leave now. There was no need for him to do anything to a body. The fire would do that for him.
The man must have started a fire to cover up any trace of what happened. Everyone would think it was an accident.
Except Schuyler.
He was the only one who would ever really know what happened.
He turned his back on what was once his life, and ran.