Chapter Text

Preface

Time travel! No matter who you ask, it seems we humans long for a different time. Few and far between are those born in the right place, at the right time, never reaching to the future or longing for the past. Luckily, by my time we know how to rectify this issue, all in the name of science, naturally. 

Not just anyone is allowed to travel through time, of course, and not everyone is able. It requires skill, a subcutaneous device called a calendarium , and some research funds, and approval of plans. It’s still risky, and it’s easy to make fatal mistakes. You need a passport, of sorts, and there are some places, events and times that are off limits, forever. No, you cannot visit the Titanic, nor Obama’s inauguration; you cannot ride on the Mayflower or march with Gandhi. Don’t eat a dodo and don’t poke a panda. Make no promises and no commitments, take no lives and make no friends. 

Instead, enjoy the small moments in places that are no more. Take a walk in Barcelona or Philadelphia before their destruction, or an ancient city like Abarsal, or Numantia before the siege. Drink a cup of cocoa in secret with a pre-columbian Zapotec woman, or munch down on a croissant in late 20th century rural France. Watch the waves crash on forgotten shores and the sun rise over long-eroded cliffs.

See stars that have shifted, the rivers that we’ve bent; lands that have drifted, and the dreams that we’ve dreamt.

Thus, in many ways, the possibilities and charm of the Fade, as Solas described it to me, was intimately familiar far before I found myself in the place, and time, known as Thedas in the Dragon Age, but now I’m getting ahead of myself.

Chapter Text

Chapter 1:

No Longer in Stockholm

Confusion, coughing, pain.

I jolt upright.  My head is spinning.

“Rest, child. You have been asleep for two days. How do you feel?”

The low voice carries through the thick haze in my brain. My head is about to split, and there’s a buzzing in my chest like electricity. I blink, dark spots dancing before my eyes, still not quite able to parse through when or where I am. Everything looks blurry, out of focus. 

“My heart … I feel like,” I cough, and force myself to concentrate enough to piece together sentences word by word, “like I just ran up a hill, my brain’s been replaced by goo, and my arm’s burning up.” On instinct I fumble around for my spectacles with the hand that doesn’t seem as if it’s on fire. “You know, just that feeling when you’re about to go but then you’ve forgotten this particular data strand and the continuity just barely lets you pass through deflux... And so, I guess you end up feeling, like, like the cheese melting on a reheated pizza. But times a hundred. You know, like every molecule in your body is screaming in frustration at you over being reassembled just a little off. Oh fuck,” A wave of nausea and pain passes through me. “I’m sorry, you’re a medic. Here I’m rambling about technicalities, with zero filter at that. I guess I should be happy I’m not inside out or spliced or anything…”  I answer, and accept a hot metal cup of liquid with shaking hands and a grateful sigh. “Thank you. I really must have miscalced some… Something, something bad this time, to end up back here. Was it a timecode thing? Two days, you said?”

The man hums, as if in agreement. 

“Well, there goes my plan to document hand-building techniques and drip glazes for a few months in the nineteen-seventies... Oh, this tastes nice and herb-y. Is that mint? And... Fennel seed?”

“Elfroot, mostly,” the man says, and I nod, leaning back.

“Well, it’s very nice. It works wonders to counteract how my mouth tasted. It was pretty bad, like, soapy? Or, like, baking soda?”

I frown. Time travel makes my mouth taste like ozone, usually. Usually. There was that one time my mouth tasted like artificial raspberry when I overshot due to a one-digit-error in the timecode and ended up stranded in a prehistoric German forest for a week.

Sounds are muffled. There’s a sensation in my ear, like water is lodged in it after a swim. I shake my head to dislodge it, but it’s quite stuck. My mind, in its limited capacity, again, is still stuck on the taste of the inside of my mouth. I note, with a lazy kind of acceptance, that the room around me, though dark, looks nothing like either Amsterdam circa 1978 if this trip went right, nor the sterile university hospital wing in Stockholm I’d expect if it went wrong. I’m half lying, half sitting on a cot that barely passes for a bed.

My gaze falls on the calendarium on my arm. My eyes must be playing a trick on me, because the mark with its copper coil seems to be swirling on my skin.

“Your injuries were quite grave when we found you... Ah, Seeker Pentaghast.”

“Solas. Who is she, and what does she know?”

I turn my head toward the noise of the woman who has entered the dim room, but everything is moving in slow motion, and the woman’s words sound as if they come from another room, muffled and drawn out. My heart speeds up, pumping in my clogged ears. The dark splotches in front of my eyes multiply, spread like ink in water. The splitting headache returns tenfold, accompanied by the soothing, familiar smell and taste of ozone. The tin cup slips from my grip, and I fall unconscious.

“You do not carry the blood writing. Yet, your skin is marked. Curious.”

I’m floating, just a few inches above my body, when I come to. There’s a crackling sound, like an open fire, and warmth to accompany it, to my left. Sounds of people and animals carry from outside. No sounds of traffic, I note. Rural area, small town or village?

I open my eyes. The world around me is still blurry, but less so than the first time I woke up in this strange place; my head is still spinning, and the house around me is still decidedly not a hospital ward. There’s a dull ache in my left hand and wrist. To my relief, I seem to still be wearing my travelling clothes sans my trusted shoulder shawl, but where am I? And, more importantly, when am I?

“Marked?”

My voice is hoarse. I blink, and all of a sudden, the world comes into focus again as I recall my training. 

Step 1. Observe your surroundings.

I am in a rather small cabin, made from hewn tree planks. Pinewood? It sure smells like it, forest-like. That would place me in a boreal area. There’s a healthy-sized fire crackling in a fireplace next to my bed. Winter, cold season, then?

I can see some vegetables in a small kitchenette-like corner; tomatoes, gourds, herbs, maize. Maize? New World, or post Columbian exchange, pre-2060’s extinction but likely far earlier. And sure enough, as I let my eyes drift through the room, most items I see make sense for a small pioneer settlement in North America. Fishing gear. Pelts. Hewn plank walls, untreated wooden furniture and barrels. Pewter, glass bottles, candles. Unglazed windows. Paintings. Paintings? That’s rather lavish.

Early seventeenth to late eighteenth century? Not great news for someone with my skin tone, I realize, and my heart sinks. But, since I am allowed indoors, and there’s a white man tending to me, perhaps there’s hope.

That leaves one more thing for inspection: the man in question. He’s sitting on a low wooden stool, right next to my bed. For a moment I’m confused, because this man looks familiar — but I suppose he bears a passing resemblance to one of the ceramicists I was hoping to visit. Regardless, he’s tall, pale and bald, clad in a sun-bleached green tunic and tight trousers, and carries a calm and focused air about him. His glow is subdued but distinct, a subtle shade of green pulsating at the edge of my perception. 

I inspect his face as he pours something into another small metal cup; the dark auburn eyebrows angled in concentration, the high cheekbones, the long nose that looks like it’s perhaps been broken ages ago. Light red freckles mix with fine lines of age around his eyes, and there’s a little dent in the skin of his forehead. There’s no way to tell quite how old he is, not that I’ve ever been great at aging mortals, but I assume he’s in his forties, like me when I stopped aging. While he’s not what I’d consider quite handsome, he’s definitely distinct.

As if able to sense my examination, he stills his hands. I close my mouth. 

“My apologies, you are awake. The marking, on your arm. Sister Leliana assumed it Rivaini in design,” he says and resumes his mixing.

I look down on my left arm. There’s an old ache in the wrist and a collection of mostly-healed scratches, and the sickly yellow of an old bruise that stretches down the arm, all of which makes me wonder how long I was out. My gaze travels down. Sure enough, there’s the calendarium , shimmering in copper against the lighter skin of my inner forearm. The state of the calendarium is absolute nonsense, and I rip my gaze away from it, itching to give it a closer inspection once I’m left alone.

“This old thing? It doesn’t really mean much,” I reply to bide some time, trying to match his formal speech. The language is uncomfortable on my tongue, and the calendarium doesn’t clue me in on what Rivaini implies, but I’m fairly certain ‘ the interface of subdermal nanotechnology’ is not quite it. 

Step 2. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Don’t stand out. 

“You are not Dalish, then?”

Another indirect question, and another word I’m not sure of the significance of, to add to my list. Dalish. From Dale? A group of settlers from southern Sweden? Or a city, perhaps? And does it relate to the mentioned practice of blood writing, somehow? 

Step 3. Don’t lie; don’t spin your yarn against the fiber; use their assumptions to your advantage.

“That would seem the case, wouldn’t it,” I say, trying to keep my tone light, plausibly failing.

Step 4.  Make no promises, no commitments. Form no attachments. Keep your head down, and don’t look them in the eyes-

The man looks up at me. His eyes are a stormy, almost purple shade of blue, the blue of deep water, the purple steel of gathering snow clouds. 

I’m bare under his scrutiny, like I forgot to put on underwear. I can’t help the heat rising to my cheeks. 

“I seem to have completely forgotten who you are, if we were introduced,” I say and look down, swallowing my shaky breath. 

“Ah. By all means. My name is Solas, if we are to exchange names.”

Oh no, I need to give him a name. Any name.

“You can call me Melina,” I reply after a while. It’s my fake identity for Amsterdam, and the demure and kind character I’ve built around it is a worn and familiar, if somewhat itchy, sweater by now.

The man’s lips twist into a smirk at my words, however, as if I’ve said something funny.

“For what be names, but cloaks to shed, come dawn, ” he muses, cradling his chin in his hand. 

He looks up, sees the confusion written plainly on my face, and continues: 

“Your name reminded me of an old saying. Of course, not many speak the language of our people anymore.”

The language of… My confusion gives way to realization. The calendarium , of course. Its translator isn’t great at handling bilingual speech, and this man apparently switches between two languages without second thought like most bilingual people. Unless I concentrate hard to discern the individual phonemes of the words, it translates whatever is said around me whether I want it or not, just like it translates what I’m about to say. My supervisor said there’s an update to address that. I guess I should have had it installed, but I’ve always been rubbish at navigating the menus of the calendarium. 

But apparently he assumes we share this second language, and one that might be dead at that, although it didn’t sound like greek or latin. I look down, and I’m still wearing my travel clothing. The wraparound skirt is modest and sort of agelessly appropriate, if plain, the cotton peasant shirt with the crochet lace might be seen as a shift, and the waist-length jean jacket with huge plastic buttons is, well, a little anachronistic, but none of them contribute much to a scholarly or clerical impression. I hardly think I’ve spoken enough yet to make it clear quite how nerdy I am, either.

But why on Earth would he assume us similar enough to share anything? We could not look more different if we tried; my golden brown skin versus his pale, my short and chubby figure compared to his tall and lean, his bald head, and my barely contained bird’s nest of salt and pepper curls.

I push some stray hair behind my ear, which lacks the clip-on earrings, but instead— 

Oh, that’s interesting. The pointy ear tips I got for the 100th jubilee of the Legend of Zelda seem to be back. Maybe there was an encoding issue with my transporter? Could it—

I look back at him. And sure enough, his ears are similar in shape. Could that be why he assumes kinship with me? Perhaps it’s a common scarification practice, or a genetic trait in this time?

“Is it common everywhere to make assumptions based on the shape of one's ears?” I ask, and immediately regret it, because Solas seems quite taken aback by the comment. He regains his composure with remarkable haste. 

“Forgive me, Melina, but do you not consider yourself one of the people?” he asks, more than a little challenge in his voice.

There’s a sharpness there that could cut through my façade, if he pressed just so. And the fact of the matter is, delving deeper into this conversation without knowing when or where I am would be both an incredibly dangerous and a losing game. 

“I… forgive me. I don’t know what to consider myself anymore,” I say. “And I… don’t seem to remember how I got here, but I want to thank you for this care, all the same,” I finish with an apologetic smile 

He clears his throat. My eyes go to his hands. He’s still cradling the small metal cup in his hands, and holds it out to me at an awkward angle. I accept the drink and give it a whiff. There’s a vague familiarity to its smell, a combination of mint, fennel and licorice, with hints of caraway. It reminds me of my mother’s night time tea, or perhaps cough syrup. 

“What is this?”

“Elfroot, mostly. You had the same potion yesterday. Do you not remember?”

“Not really,” I say.

“I expect sister Leliana will want a word with you. Yesterday you fell asleep before she had the opportunity to speak with you.”

“Right. Right. And who is sister Leliana, again? And where am I?”

“You are in Haven.”

That tells me absolutely nothing.

“Under which rule?” I try.

“Ferelden, though... you are with the Inquisition.”

I nod, and do my best to hide my racing mind. Ferelden? And an Inquisition? As in an ancient Christian religious organization? I open my mouth to ask who the leader of this Inquisition is, but the man holds up a hand.

“I believe Leliana will be better suited to explain the politics of the situation. Now, rest,” he says. 

I nod again, and take a cautious sip of the beverage, fairly certain that the calendarium will keep me safe if it’s poisonous. There’s a hint of sweetness to it, perhaps from honey, which is almost enough to mask the bitterness of the steeped herbs. It leaves a strange, tingling sensation in my mouth, akin to mouthwash.

A staccato knock on the door breaks the silence, and a split second later a handsome man with determination in his eyes bursts in. He seems to be wearing, mostly, leather belts, and sports a well-maintained moustache and a small goatee. His skin and hair are almost as dark as mine. Without anyone saying so, I can tell this man is used to a certain level of comfort in life, and yet he looks more like a rock star, or possibly a pirate, than a nobleman, in his newly shaven undercut and asymmetrical leather getup. 

“Solas? Are you in? Lavellan thinks I need to-” he speaks, with the trained cadence of a charismatic politician. “Oh! You have company!”

“Ser Pavus, how may I help you?” the man known as Solas replies.

“Well, you may inspect me for red lyrium. The Herald believes I scratched my shoulder on a shard of it in Redcliffe and has been nagging me about it ever since.”

“It must be serious for you to abide by her wishes and seek out the elven apostate for healing.”

“Har, har.”

Ser Pavus sighs and waltzes into the room. I look from one man to the other, and cough to hide a chuckle. Having no actual idea of who either this new man, Ser Pavus, or who Solas is, I can already tell there’s some tension between them. 

My cough draws his attention. His eyes dart over to me and his lips turn into a lopsided smirk.

“Solas, have you been assigned to watch over all pretty ladies who fall out of holes in the sky, or is this development a voluntary undertaking of yours?”

I can’t help but chuckle at the egregious flattery.

“Oh, here I thought I was special. Who else fell through one?”

“I like this one! Why, the Herald of Andraste, our very own Ellana of clan Lavellan, of course. Have you been living under a rock for the past few months?”

“I might as well have,” I answer, as he goes on:

“Well, I am Dorian Pavus, formerly of Minrathous, now one in the line of mages allied with the Inquisition.”

“You have decided to stay, then?” asks Solas.

Ser Pavus gives even a gentle sigh dramatic weight.

“Yes. Yes, I have. I believe I can do more good for Tevinter here than back there. Besides, there’s that old Breach in the sky to heal, Venatori cultists roaming Thedas, a crazed magister to kibosh, the usual business. I could hardly leave all that for you southerners to deal with, could I?”

Ser Solas hums in agreement as Ser Pavus takes a seat on the cot next to mine. He then unclasps one of the buckles of the intricate clothing to reveal a nasty red mark. I clear my throat.

“I’m sorry, you keep mentioning holes in the sky. Could you elaborate on that?”

“I wasn’t here for either occasion”, Ser Pavus says with a vince as Solas prods the skin around the wound, “Solas? I assume you have a theory. After all, the Fade is involved.”

Solas’s brow furrows.

“We have been waiting for you to wake up to hear your side of the story, though we do not expect you to know much. According to Mother Giselle and Chancellor Roderick, you fell onto the Chantry steps out of a mirror in the air, crackling with lightning, at noon two days ago.”

“Gave the poor woman quite the fright,” ser Pavus cuts in. “What must she have thought, another elven Herald of Andraste?”

“You were carried into the infirmary with haste, badly hurt and scorched,” Solas continues. “I had you moved here, to search the Fade for answers without leaving your side.”

“Not at all to keep an eye on me in case I do something suspicious?”

“Shit , that stung! You should thank him, you know. If Seeker Cassandra had her way, you’d probably be up in shackles by now.”

I glance Solas’s way, and there’s the tiniest hint of a smile at his lips.

“Who is Seeker Cassandra?”

Ser Pavus sighs and waves his hand impatiently. 

“Cassandra Pentaghast? Handsome woman, fierce warrior? Nevarran accent, all ‘faith this’ and ‘Maker that’? Right hand to the, now regrettably former, Divine Justinia of the Sunburst Throne? Ring any bells? No?”

I shake my head. He scoffs, then breaks into a smile.

“She’s a Seeker of Truth, or was. I hardly know her myself, to be honest. Or she hardly knows me , now that I think of it. What’s your name?”

“You can call me Melina.”

“Of…?”

“Just- Just Melina,” I say, deciding to leave out the ‘Albers’ of my Dutch alias. 

“Oh, you’re an elf .”

Elf? I glance at the healer who is now laying down a green paste on the other man’s shoulder, but he doesn’t seem to mind the word, be it title or jab, so I shrug. My mind riffles through images of tiny multi-coloured minions of Father Christmas and ethereal Tolkienesque people, all the way to World of Warcraft and tabletop character races, and to the harmful racial stereotypes in fantasy overall. Perhaps- Maybe this group is the source of that mythology?  

Something shifts; at first it’s a small pang of pain, like a period cramp or a migraine flash, but instead, it’s a sense of pressure. My heart trembles like it’s about to shatter, my ears start ringing. Everything slows down around me. I draw a breath, but the very air is thick like liquid.

“Solas, Sera, and now Melina- So what exaaactly iiis the deaaaaal wiiiiith -”

Ser Pavus’s voice comes to me as through earplugs, the foamy yellow kind, every word drawn out longer than the last. I draw another breath, but the air is like treacle. I drop the cup and watch as it slowly, slowly starts its descent towards the straw-strewn floor. I’m sure I’m about to pass out-

And then, just as suddenly, the moment of temporal aberration passes. The cup clatters on the floorboards. I blink, breathing heavy. I’m left with a pounding headache, like the main phase of a migraine that’s been brewing for days.

I open my eyes and find the two men staring at me. It’s Dorian who speaks first, with barely contained excitement in his voice.

“Did you just experience the flow of time at a different rate than us? Fascinating! We observed similar phenomena close to Redcliffe! Could the effects have spread this wide?  But we thought- Alexius’s amulet was destroyed when we returned from that cursed future. How can this still be happening?”

“Wait... You can tell this is… time… related?”

I stare from one man to the other.

“Yes, it seems only logical! Solas, mother Giselle said noon, did she not? That would coincide with when the Herald and I  travelled to, and returned from, our little descent into that less-than-desirable future. Perhaps some of the unbound energy of the rift affected Melina as well?”

I’m unable to stop myself.

“Hold up, you went into the future, saw what happens, and then came back to change that future? That’s not how…” I catch myself as my calendarium gives a warning shock, “How is time travel even possible?”

“Are you intricately familiar with thaumaturgical theory, mistress Melina?”

“No,” I say. Sixteenth century mathematics was never my strong suit.

“Then I doubt we could explain it in a way you’d understand,” Dorian says in a dismissive tone. “Especially since I, who helped develop the technique Alexius used, barely understand it myself. But if mistress Melina was affected by Alexius’s spell, why hasn’t the effect worn off by now?”

“We may still find out,” Solas says, astonishingly calm, and lays down the last of the bandage. “No sign of infection, from red lyrium or otherwise.”

“Good. Good,” ser Pavus says, tapping his cheekbone. “There was something else, now... Yes! Lavellan also requests your help in closing the Breach, Solas.”

“Will it happen today, then?”

“Yes. She was held up by the Commander and Enchanter Fiona to discuss the plan, otherwise she would have come for you herself.”

“Then we best not keep her waiting.”

The men move to leave. I close my mouth, mind racing. If these people have a method for time travel, then everything we understand about the advent of temporal technology is wrong. Or... does this mean I am not in the past, but in the future?

I wet my lips.

“Before you leave. I... was wondering. What day is it?”

“Is that of importance? It is... Friday?”

“And what… Date?”

“Why? What date do you expect it to be,” Solas asks sharply.

“Spring… First day of, to be precise,” I say, which is true enough for the Stockholm I left behind on March first.

The men exchange a glance.

“It is the twenty-eighth of Harvestmere,” Solas says after a while.

Harvestmere ? What month could that be? August? Or perhaps, later in the autumn? 

I brace myself for a zap from the calendarium , and ask the question that I assume any sane person would.

“Have I been transported through time?”

I’m not sure which reaction I’m expecting, but an exasperated sigh is not it. Ser Pavus stretches his arm to test the fastening of the bandage, and Solas cleans off tools by the table.

“Well. It’s hardly the strangest thing that’s happened in recent days, is it? Oh, here she comes - the Herald of Andraste herself, Ellana Lavellan.”

A cold breeze draws up the hairs at the back of my neck as the door is opened wide, and the last thing I remember is how the sun itself makes a sarcastic remark about religious titles as she steps into the room.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: The ABCs of Haven

Finally alone, I let out a deep sigh, and sit up in bed to stare at the device interface on my arm. Now, I guess it would have made for a better story to say that I stayed unconscious for hours as the strange people I had met so far — Dorian Pavus, Solas and the Herald — went about their business, but no. Ellana Lavellan’s glow was so strong that it blinded my temporal sense completely and hit me with an instant headache and a nosebleed, but the blackout lasted only a few seconds and left me feeling mainly hungover and miserable. I reassured them I was in no danger (although, to be fair, I'm not sure that's completely true), and when they left, a scared-looking young girl helped me use the chamberpot on my wobbly legs and then fetched me stew from a tavern. 

It’s not the first time I’ve had a less-than-ideal reaction to time travel, but nothing has been quite this drastic. The good news is that the calendarium seems to be working as it’s supposed to, more or less. The bad news is that a person with a calendarium is not supposed to come within a ten-mile radius of the kind of situation I am starting to suspect I have landed ass-first in. 

Still, there are two things in particular that make no sense to me. One, a single inner circle - only one trip left. Two, the coiling on the outer circle is way too tight. I’ve never willingly set it over ninety, but I count to two hundred, then lose my place in the dim light of the fireplace.

Does this mean I’m stuck here for… nine months? After all, for each crest and trough there’s another day left before the tech will activate and hurl me back to my time. And then there's that lone inner circle. I never let it fall under three, just in case there’s a malfunction, or I need to change my travel plans. In fact, I distinctly remember setting the outer to sixty-five, and sitting at the charging station at uni for hours, waiting for the inner circles to reach four. Or, well, not that distinctly. But that’s… normal, a week or so of disconnect from my memories at home.

I stare into the fireplace, chewing my lip, wondering if I postponed that calendarium update just one time too many. It’s not like it stopped working; the temporal aberration is evidence enough it's running, but I'm more worried that it might glitch out. The device itself comes with some pretty essential features for time travelers, like the aforementioned translation. It can even be used for mass spectrometry, carbon dating and genetics testing, but I never had the patience to learn enough physics or chemistry to perform those. Regardless, the basic healing seems to be working based on how quickly the bruise and scratches have faded, and I'm pretty confident the anti-aging and anti-toxin agents continue to be generated and released into my bloodstream when I sleep, which means I can ward off pretty much any disease, background radiation or disturbance in my microbial balance. There’s also a memory erasing command, but I can’t remember ever using that.

Oh right. There’s two more, rather important features, which I guess are pretty strongly related to why I have a rather bad feeling about my current predicament. First, the zap ; the calendarium will adjust me back in time in case of imminent danger to me, or the timeline. And second, the glow ; the aura that the calendarium displays when a bumbling traveler gets too close to people of historical importance who might upset said timeline.

It helps us avoid the people who stir the pot, the movers and shakers and shapers of the world. It’s a warning mechanism of the device, but since I make damn sure to not travel in times of great schisms and plots, I’ve kept the settings quite sensitive. In practice, for most people I meet, it’s like a subtle glow, passing just over the edge of perception at a barely perceptible wavelength of light.

Perhaps ironically, it's not because of ethics. The past cannot be changed, after all. No, it's all economics. In the early days, perfectly good calendariums were lost to rogue researchers that spawned divergent timelines and paradoxes, and then weren't able to, or willing to, return to our home timeline with their findings.

And then the sun walks into the room.

This strong a reaction can only mean one thing; I’ve stumbled into a period of huge, history-altering events. And to make matters worse, I’ve managed to bump into, and attract the attention of, the people at the very center of it all. Mind full of questions, I drift into sleep. 

A is for Adan, the Apothecary

After an amorphous amount of alone-time, I wake to find a pot of cold stew on the stool next to my bed. Chewing down on mysterious beets and leaving chunks of possibly bovine meat, washing it down with a mug of light if stale beer, I sit on the not-quite-bed and watch the embers of the fireplace. I am fairly certain I’m able to walk on my own, now that I’ve eaten and rested. But the question is, where to?

I slowly push the rough woven blanket off me, letting my bare feet land on the raw planks of the floor. Strangely, the cold floor doesn’t bother me at all, but rather, the feeling is… comforting. I flex my toes, looking around for my boots, but no dice. I spot my shawl on another bed like mine, across the room, and just as I’ve gathered enough courage to stand up, the door is opened and a man backs into the room, carrying a large cask. 

“You’re up and about then.”

The man looks vaguely familiar with his beard and balding head. He’s dressed in detailed robes with leather pauldrons that look bizarrely military. He puts down the cask on the table, pushing the vegetables to the side with a grunt. 

“So far, so good,” I say and take a wobbly step toward my shawl, “I’m Melina. Are you another... physician?”

“Adan’s the name. I make potions, alchemy. I’m not a healer. Don’t have the, what’s it called, personality for it. I’m the apothecary around these parts.”

“Oh, alright,” I say, a little confused.

He nods, and taps a tap onto the cask. He then reaches for a metal cup with a whistle.

“You want the first drink?”

“What’s the occasion?”

“The Breach has been sealed! The Bull’s Chargers are opening up the casks of their best stuff so I have to show them an alchemist has better fire water than what some backwater mercenaries can cook up. Celebration’s about to start. You should come. I’ve been told there’ll be dancing.”

I could definitely use a drink, but I have a suspicion whatever is called fire water is a little on the stronger side for staying undercover.

“Another night, but thank you Master Adan. But, I would love to go for a walk with you?” 

He stills his hands and gives a bark of a laugh, then turns his voice low.

“A walk, you say?”

“I mean, I would like to… stretch my legs,” I correct myself, a little flustered by the flirtier implications of my request.

“Of course, mistress Melina, don’t fret. Unfortunately, I have to take this one to the commons, they’re setting up. Can’t be outdone by the Qunari, see. I’ll walk by the tavern, I could ask Flissa if there’s someone there with time on their hands? Or, uh, I could… return. Once I’ve delivered this one.”

Adan picks up the cask and makes to leave.

“Is it close?”

“Sure. The Singing Maiden’s only a few houses over.”

“I think... I think I could manage that. Thank you all the same, Master Adan. I truly appreciate it.”

I can swear there’s a small blush at the apples of his cheeks as the Apothecary removes himself from the cabin. A while I sit, considering my options.

I take a wobbly step, then a third, a fourth. I stumble two steps forward and reach the other bed. My shawl, the one I wove together with mom during her cancer, and kept with me ever since, is singed at the fringe. It smells a bit like toast, but the fabric is intact. I let my fingers run over the smooth olive-and-heather twill weave, my grandmother’s variation on a traditional Samí pattern, then wrap it around my shoulders, and draw my hair back.

The jean jacket is luckily under it, and I pull it on, immediately a little less bared. No sign of my boots. Will it be too cold without them?

My hand rests gently on the door. The grain of the wood is worn by weather and time. I hesitate a moment, and then, I push the door open and take a step out into the town of Haven.

B is for Blackwall

The first impression is white, white everywhere. It’s evening, but even so, the snow and the last remains of sunlight after the gloom of the room is a blinding combination. The breeze is fresh, the smell of snow and burning fireplaces is on the air. I close my eyes, draw a deep breath, leaning on the doorway. There’s sounds of people, of laughing, celebration, children playing. No machinery, no cars, no wind turbines, but there’s the hammering of a hammer on an anvil somewhere in the distance. Music drifts on the wind to me. A melting snowflake tickles my nose, and I slowly open my eyes again. I’m, thankfully, alone.

There’s more than a dozen large, covered red clay pots right in front of me. I wonder what’s in them? I walk past them, but dare not look into them more. The other items around me look typical enough for a frontier settlement.

There’s two more houses here at the corner of the village, like the one I woke up in. They are of a strange design, and remind me of... I’m not entirely sure what. Norwegian traditional, vernacular architecture?  

My eyes drift to a high wooden fence — a palisade , my old art history professor condescendingly declares in my mind — that surrounds, it seems, the whole village. It’s probably to keep animals away, like bears, or wolves. Or, well, it could also be against bandits, outlaws or indigenous people. 

I frown. Palisading as fencing was common up until the late nineteenth century if I remember that one lecture correctly, so it doesn’t really help me in dating the village, but palisading seems to be the building technique for walls as well — and my memory is that it leads to rot, and was phased out in the late medieval age. Considering these people seem quite skilled carpenters, judging from the carved dog statues that seem to guard every house, it’s peculiar. 

The gabled roofs are high-pitched, almost gothic, perhaps to withstand a heavy layer of snow, and held in place with beams. It all looks as if it was built in the last twenty years or so, with somewhat weathered unpainted wooden timber, perhaps pine and ore-pine as the main materials, but nothing growing on the roofs yet. 

There are no blockhouses on the palisade, so I assume this isn’t a military fortress — although , Dorian did mention this Cassandra-person who was a warrior, so who knows. Warrior , not soldier, though. Strange word to use.  

I let my eyes wander beyond my immediate surroundings in the direction of the sound of people and music. Up on the hill, surrounded by mountains and palisade, stands a large building, with stone foundations and a beautiful, high dome. I blink. It looks like a church, a cathedral, if not an illustrious one.

Stone steps lead down from its arched doorway, and there’s a bustle of people there, around a fire; the promised celebration, complete with string music and kegs and ample amounts of alcohol, if Adan’s dancing is to judge from. I find myself smiling. The snow, and frozen ground, curiously, doesn’t feel cold against my feet as I walk on.

A little ways away from where I’m standing, down steps hewn into the bare cliff, there’s another building. It’s large, if quite a bit smaller than the one on the hill. I first mistake it for another church, but then I see the barrels and the hewn wooden sign, and make the connection. The Singing Maiden, Haven’s tavern. Most probably the best location to start gathering intel on when and where I am. 

My steps are weak, and I have to will myself to take each on as I slowly make my way to one of its doors. 

There’s not much sound from inside. I note the carved dog statues and push the wooden door open.

“ ‘scuse me,” says a man holding a hammer. He’s wearing an irritated scowl and… knickerbocker trousers? 

“I’m sorry,” I reply automatically and take in the tavern. A wheel chandelier shines a soft light over the cross-shaped space. There aren't many patrons in; two men that seem deep into drink based on their less-than-focused gazes and slurred speech sit at the longest table debating over what looks like a piece of cheese, and a lone man with a bushy beard, clad in black, is poking at a plate of food at a table by the wall.

The man in the weird shorts waves away my apology and addresses a tall woman with dark red hair and rosy cheeks. 

“Fixed the door just like you asked, Flissa.”

She’s also dressed in a somewhat strange combination; an off-shoulder blouse and stays over it. She’s carrying a basket of plates.

“Oh Maker, bless you. Can I get you something for your trouble?” Flissa’s voice is bright and melodic.

“Harritt told me to return straight away,” the man excuses himself. He nods at me on the way out.

Flissa seems to notice me, and breaks into a smile. “Oh, hello! Can I get you anything before we go to the celebration?”

“I wouldn’t say no to a mug of ale?”

She nods and I follow her to the counter, past tables with upholstered red chairs. She leans down to a massive barrel and fills a copper mug.

“You’re not the one that dropped onto the Chantry steps from a ball of lightning, are you?” 

“I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t particularly conscious.”

“Ah. There’s been some talk about you,” she says, and hands me the beer. “Here you go, Haven’s finest.”

“I... I don’t have anything to pay you with,” I realise.

“Oh it’s quite alright, you can work it off in dishes. I jest, of course,” she adds as I open my mouth, “You are a guest of the Inquisition. Besides, with all the soldiers, and now the mages, I have more coin than I now what to do with.” 

I nod thankfully and take a sip. It’s a good, creamy, light ale, not too hoppy and definitely both better in taste, and stronger, than the stale mug I had with my stew. 

“So, you run this tavern then?”

“Oh yes. I used to run one in Denerim, but Leliana asked if I was interested to come here and start my own. So I came here. We’re still getting settled, that door’s been creaking something awful for weeks, so it’s good to have it sorted out.”

“Oh? Any grand plans for the place?”

She laughs, wiping off one of the plates from the basket.

“Oh, plenty. More tables, for one. Proper kitchen wouldn’t harm either, I run up to Adan’s to cook and the Chantry to bake. Something for Maryden, our minstrel, to stand on when she performs, wouldn’t be bad either.”

“You mentioned you’re from Denerim? What’s it like there?”

She smiles.

“Very Fereldan, even more so than here. We were hit pretty bad during the Blight, but we’ve recovered - well, mother Boann said perhaps not in the Alienage,” she adds after a while.

“What is the Alienage?”

She gives me a disbelieving glance.

“Where the elves live. Even villages like Redcliffe and Gwaren have them. So you are not a city elf?”

“No, I’m... I’m from elsewhere. Is there an alienage in Haven too?”

Flissa laughs at that too.

“No. Well . Until Solas showed up we didn’t have enough elves here to even consider needing one.”

“So why are elves and,” I actually don’t know what non-elves call themselves,  “...Others... Kept apart?”

“You truly don’t know, do you? Elves are not the same in the eyes of the Maker. They’re not in the Chant of Light, you see.”

Maker? That’s another word for god. I flinch. Of course religion is used to keep people apart. Flissa doesn’t seem to notice and continues:

“Well, now with the Herald of Andraste being elven, that does make it… Who can say. So if you’re not a city elf, are you one of those Dalish, then, like her?”

I arch an eyebrow at the mention of the Herald. So she is one of the mysterious Dalish? I still have no idea what the Dalish entail, however, and I did tell Solas I am not one of them.

“I do pottery. I’ve never been much concerned with the rest,” I settle for.

To my surprise, she lights up at that, and leans forward on the counter.

“Oh! Wonderful! A potter you say! We have a terrible shortage of mugs, bowls, jars, pitchers! I actually sent word for a potter, a few months back, but no one ever came. Wait, are you the potter from Gwaren? Master Caulwell? I thought you’d be… Taller?”

I can’t lie outright, since the calendarium would translate the duplicitous intention. But I can do my best to use this assumption to my benefit, I decide, and down the last of the ale. 

“You can call me Melina. I wander around, find work where I can. When I woke up I couldn’t remember, but it would explain why I’d be here, of all places.”

“They say you fell out of a mirror in the air onto the Chantry steps!”

I chuckle. Damnit, rumor travels fast.

“I don’t understand it myself,” I add with a small smile, “But Dorian Pavus and Solas seem convinced I fell through time.”

Flissa’s eyes go wide in disbelief.

“... through time?”

So it’s not common then. I clear my throat.

"I just woke up, with no memory of how I got here, and now, but I’m glad to know I can be of help to the Inquisition."

Judging from the hard glint in her eyes, the red-headed barkeeper doesn’t buy the whole story, but she still smiles at the end.

“Oh, it’ll be beyond good to not have to use the same dozen mugs and plates over and over,” she says with a wink. “Can you even imagine? I was only slightly jesting about the dishes. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I have to get these good men out so we can all finally go join the celebration. Warden Blackwall,” she says and addresses the man at the table by the wall, “are you finished?”

“I am. Tasty as always, miss Flissa,” he replies, drawing out his vowels.

“Glad to hear it,” she says and clasps her hands, turning to the drunken men by the table in the middle of the room. “Now, Allen, Theo, let’s get you up and about, that’s more like it...”

The man Blackwall also stands up and turns my way, as if he’s just noticed I’m there. There’s something about him that puts me on edge. It’s in his eyes, or perhaps it’s in the way he carries himself as if he wishes to become one with the shadows of the room. His glow has a vague threat to it as well, subdued and cool. I avert my gaze, but not fast enough. He gets up and walks to greet me.

“M'lady, I don’t believe we’ve met,” he says in a gruff voice, “Name’s Warden Blackwall.”

“I’m… potter Melina,” I reply after a slightly longer pause than necessary.

“Right,” he answers a little later than what is comfortable.

“You both will join the celebration outside, I hope,” Flissa says pointing between me and Blackwall as she pushes the door closed on the two inebriated patrons. He looks about as uncomfortable as I am, but we both heed the redhead’s orders and follow her out into the snowy evening.

C is for Cassandra Pentaghast

Flissa closes and locks the door behind us and continues chatting idly about the pottery as we walk up the stone steps to the commons in front of the huge building at the top of the hill.  She’s wielding a large uncorked glass bottle in her left hand. The catchy music of a string instrument grows stronger and there’s a hint of a smile even on Blackwall’s surly face. It isn’t a big crowd - perhaps twenty, twenty-five people strewn around a nice big fire, but there’s a sense of relief to the festivities that twists my lips into a smile.

The townsfolk greet Flissa with a roar and Adan lights up with a big smile when he sees me.

“I knew you were on your feet!” he says and addresses the gathered crowd, “This here’s mistress Melina!”

I smile weakly and wave at the few who actually pay me any attention. Flissa skips over to embrace a woman with... Shiny metal pauldrons and a plumed hat? Really ? 

I note that quite a few of the women wear long red-and-white robes and hoods, and I assume they are the nuns of the monastery. There’s also quite a few dressed like Adan, in colorful and flashy calf-length robes, both men and women. 

These people look strange , and my fashion history dating checklist that usually helps me land within a decade and a 50-kilometer-radius region does absolutely nothing to help. The eclectic way they dress, both in style and materials, reminds me of larpers, or historical reenactors that couldn’t agree on a period, and then raided the costumery of an opera house. They're vaguely medieval, vaguely renaissance, and vaguely early modern. Perhaps they are a religious sect of some sort, I wonder and accept a mug of steaming, spicy-smelling wine from one of the nuns with a grateful smile, warming my fingers on the hot metal.

“I was there, you know, when you fell out of that… thing… in the sky. Helped carry you to the infirmary. I’m glad to see you’re alright,” says a man on my left, keeping his bright voice low and down. I turn around to look at him, but he shifts his gaze away with a flush on his cheeks. He’s a little taller than me, with cropped dark hair and… he’s also wearing metal pauldrons. Strange people indeed.

“Thank you, kindly. Melina,” I say with a small smile. “And what name does my knight in shining armor bear?”

“Cremisius Aclassi. I’m with the Bull’s Chargers mercenary company.”

“Ah, a freelancer, then,” I say, smirking at my own joke.

“Right... Chief wants a word with you, once you’re up for it.”

I blink, a little bewildered. 

“Chief as in…?”

  Aclassi notices the confusion written in bold font over my face and laughs.

“The Iron Bull. The Qunari camped outside the gates. Well, right now he’s the Qunari chasing Sera down the smithy, but you get the gist. Come see us in the morning,” he says and gives my shoulder an awkward nudge.

I nod slowly, wondering what this Chief — perhaps the Qunari are an American Indian Nation lost to time — wants with me, as Aclassi walks away. 

“You!”

I turn in the direction of the accusatory voice. It belongs to a fearsome looking woman whose short, dark, cropped hair frames her face like a halo as she walks down the steps from the church two at the time. She walks right up to me with determination in her gaze and eyebrows turned down.

I swallow. There’s no escape, or so I think—

“Good evening, Lady Seeker,” Blackwall grunts. The woman’s eyes dart to the bearded man. One of her pointed eyebrows arches and some of the suspicion melts off her handsome face, replaced by… respect?

“Warden Blackwall,” she greets him with a courteous nod of her head.

“ You’re Cassandra Pentaghast,” I say in realisation.

“I... yes. You’ve heard of me?”

“I was told you... Would want to speak to me,” I opt for, coming to the conclusion that I don’t want to remind her of the idea of shackling me.

“Yes. I do.”

“Surely it can wait until tomorrow,” Blackwall says, uncrossing his arms.

“I suppose it’s… not that urgent. Maker be with you,” she tells him in way of parting. He nods in return, and she walks off to a few tents overlooking the rest of the village. I let out the breath I’ve been holding.

“Thank you,” I whisper, and I could almost swear there’s a smile under the beard.

I could go on, of course, as I look out over the gathered people. 

D is for Dorian Pavus, who saunters into the celebration fashionably late. He has a young woman clad in red in tow who looks like she’s either just returned from a run, or had a laugh, or perhaps both, judging from the state of her short straw-coloured hair and wide grin on her face. Pavus nods at me with a smile of recognition and gives a theatrical bow.  

E, of course, is for Ellana Lavellan herself, who moments later comes running, like a sun in the night. People around me turn to look at her, and it’s hard not to. 

Solas breaks the alphabetic order, following close behind her, holding a walking staff with a round head, of all things. It’s almost as if there’s electricity coming off of it—

And then all hell breaks loose; the alarm is sounded, and a man like a lion roars his call to arms. 

Haven is under attack.

I freeze, unable to move and—

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: The Second Fall of Haven

I wake with a gasp to find a pot of cold stew on the stool next to my bed. 

I stare at it in disbelief, then down at my calendarium which is glowing ever so faintly. There’s a taste of ozone in my mouth that not even the stale mug of beer I down in one go seems able to get rid of. 

A vague memory of dancing, drinking, dallying around town, then a shout. The positively blinding Ellana Lavellan running. Something must have happened that rendered me unconscious again. My brows furrow on their own and my mind races just as the door is opened and a familiar man backs into the room, carrying a large cask. 

“You’re awake then,” Haven’s alchemist apothecary grunts as he sets down a cask on the table by the wall, pushing vegetables to the side. “Adan’s the name. I make potions, alchemy. I’m the apothecary around these parts.”

“Yes...” I say, a little confused. “... what’s going on here?”

“The Breach has been sealed! The Bull’s Chargers are opening up the casks of their best stuff so I have to show them an alchemist has better fire water than what some backwater mercenaries can cook up. Celebration’s about to start. You should come. I’ve been told there’ll be dancing.”

My jaw drops.

Groundhogged, my supervisor used to joke. 

The zap. I’ve gotten hurt badly enough to trigger it only once before, when I accidentally poisoned myself, and I now know better than to eat mushrooms. Some other travellers I’ve heard would rather redo a day than get a papercut. Me? The ache in my still broken wrist says enough. But this time, this most basic feature of the calendarium — one I’ve been able to avoid going off this dramatically until now — was triggered by... Triggered by my imminent death, I realize.

My smile at seeing him fades as I realize I’m seeing this same scene play out again, up until there will be, what? An attack? A fire? I actually have no idea what is going to happen, except that it’s bad. How long until it? Half an hour? An hour? I swallow.

“Yes, I,” I say and realize that Adan has no recollection of who I am, “Call me Melina,” I add, a little late. “May I thank you for my care so far?”

“Hah! Ser Solas is the one you should address that to. I’m not a healer. Don’t have the, what’s it called — personality for it.”

“But I still want to thank you, as well.”

He gruffs, but there’s a hint of a smile on his face. A wave of deja vu washes over me as he taps a tap onto the cask and reaches for a metal cup with a whistle.

 “You want the first drink?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t,” I say. “Thank you for the offer though, master Adan." I rack my brain for something to give as a reason. "It could... interfere with my medication. Um, could you perhaps tell me more about Haven instead?” 

Perhaps if I understand where I am, I will connect the dots and even fire up a memory of the historic desolation of a small town. Unlikely, but possible.

He stills his hands and gives a bark of a laugh.

“A village like Haven, what’s there to tell? I suppose it was built for pilgrims to stop and fill the Chantry coffers on the way to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, but that blasted to dust during that explosion, at the Conclave. Instead, we have the Inquisition. Soldiers, mages, stray Templars and Chantry sisters running amok, Maker knows who else. They keep bringing on new bumbling idiot recruits to fight their war, fresh off their Hinterlands farms, no matter whether we can actually house them, feed them, or have anyone to heal them when they inevitably get themselves hurt.”

“I’m sorry. Is it all bad?”

Adan’s furrowed brows smoothen out. There’s a hint of a smile, and it grows wider as he downs the content of his cup.

“It’s not all bad. Flissa’s ale's getting better. Lavellan's gotten us a good supply line of herbs. And now with that green atrocity gone from the skies, we might even have fewer demons knocking at the gates. Imagine that.”

Green atrocity in the sky? Demons? Is that the... people who attack? I clear my throat.

“Demons at the gates? Should I worry?”

“Oh, don’t bother your pretty head, Rutherford’s soldiers are enough to keep them at bay.”

I beg to differ, but don’t want to argue with the man, so I nod.

“Flissa, where can I find her?” After all, there’s a new cover story to foster.

“At the Singing Maiden, just next door, save she’s already rolled her brandy uphill. You’ll be alright on your own now?”

“I will. Thank you, master Adan,” I say and swallow my anxiety as I walk to the door on wobbly legs. “Oh, and one more thing… Have you seen my shoes?”

“Shoes, milady? Can’t say I have,” he says with a scratch of his beard, “But if I see any lying around, I’ll let you know.”

“Much obliged,” I reply with a curtsy and give the doorframe a quick knock before I walk out into the darkening afternoon.

Waltzing around the man who's fixed the door, I enter the Singing Maiden. There’s an eeriness to meeting Flissa again for the first time. I give Warden Blackwall a quick if polite introduction as well, then head to see what else the village has to offer. My bare feet are still surprisingly unaffected by the snow, but my late ‘70s city chic autumn wardrobe isn’t quite enough to counteract the freezing winter breeze since this round, I hurried out from Adan’s apothecary without the shawl.

I head past the Singing Maiden and come across a small fire between some tents. A short man with a rather prominent nose, dressed in a red brocade shirt, warms his hands on the hot air. He nods, and keeps a close eye on me as I join him across the fire, but blessedly he doesn’t speak. 

I gently stretch out the cold-stiffened fingers of my right hand, careful with the aching wrist. I think longingly of my duffel coat at home, and my missing boots, and sigh.

“Not to pry, but you look like someone with something heavy on their heart,” says the man after a while.

I chuckle, and give my thumb a final soft squeeze.

“Oh, it’s a long and tall tale...” I say with an eye roll.

“The best kind,” he comments with a bark of a laughter.

“... full of mystery and wonder…”

“ I’ll get my quill.”

“... but right now, I’m miffed about the weather. My boots have gone missing.”

“Stolen?”

I give the man a conspiratorial wink.

“Intriguing development.”

“Oh indeed. Aren’t you cold yourself,” I ask, gesturing in the direction of his rather open shirt.

“I’m alright.”

“Alright then. You can call me Melina.”

“Varric Tethras.”

“Pleased to meet you, master Tethras.”

He looks at me expectantly, as if waiting for me to say something. I give a nervous chuckle.

“So... the weather... Is it usually this cold here, this time of year?”

“You tell me, Shivers.”

Shivers? I’m not sure about the pet name, but nod at master Tethras as I leave the warmth of the fire, taking in the rest of the village. I walk down massive stone stairs, hewn into the mountainside, leaning on the wall scaffolding for support. I look up to see the stone statues of dogs guarding the village. More palisading, and a robust stone gate, beyond which massive mountains are lost in the clouds. I swallow as I realize there’s no way to sneak past that gate, and as my eyes trail along the palisading, there’s no back door. I am trapped, unless I can talk my way out of the village. 

There’s a man selling wares laid out on a table and cart, shouting out his prices at passers-by. I steer clear of him. 

There’s houses like the one I woke up in to my right, and there are the villagers I saw at the celebration, passing me on their way up the stone steps to the clearing in front of the stone church. There’s music, and I nod at Dorian who walks past me with the young, winded girl in tow. 

I watch with a strange fascination as Flissa and Warden Blackwall walk the steps up from the Singing Maiden. Cassandra Pentaghast opens the church doors, and is soon joined by Ellana Lavellan — or what I assume is her, since she’s still too bright to look at—

And I swallow, as I realize the loop is almost at its end. 

The lion-like man shouts his call to arms, but I barely hear him. From where I’m standing I can see over the palisade, and the sea of torches of the approaching forces. It looks like an endless dark swarm, as it moves down the mountainside, appearing as if from nowhere. There’s no escape.

I’m hit by a wave of time fluctuation, and suddenly it’s as if time stands still around me. I watch as Ellana Lavellan comes running, like in slow-motion, Cassandra Pentaghast, Varric Tethras and Solas right behind her. I have to commend the woman on her courage as she runs headfirst at danger. 

Then suddenly, I’m the one frozen in time, as the Inquisition gathers it’s forces and pushes beyond the gates, sped up like I’ve pressed fast-forward. The time fluctuation leaves me gasping for air, suddenly alone at the remains of the bonfire, as people and soldiers alike shout and move around me as if I’ve become invisible. 

Technically, I am immortal. I could help. But I am also extremely disoriented because it’s as if I’m living two moments at once whenever I go too close to the burning pyre that is Ellana Lavellan, and I am cradling a broken wrist, and I don’t even have shoes, and there’s a million good reasons not to get involved— 

All of those good reasons melt away when I hear the sound of someone in distress, and I run toward the burning building.

I wake with a gasp to find a pot of cold stew on the stool next to my bed. 

The message is loud and clear; don’t be a hero , don’t be stupid . I, however, don’t listen to it and arm myself with a knife from the kitchenette and scout myself a good vantage point up on a crate. This third time, I make it a little longer, and zap as a gang of screaming soldiers with red crystals on them charge at me.

The fourth time, I decide to stay in the pharmacy for a nap. I have no idea what killed me… That is, until the fifth time, when I actually live through the initial fighting to see the fire that suddenly engulfs the pharmacy. I run toward it as Adan’s flammable chemicals explode in a ball of fire, I can hear his screams and—

The eleventh time I’ve decided to stop fighting it. I can’t see a way out. Well, I could try to run off, away from the village, but where to?

The sight of the stew makes me sick to my stomach, and I flinch as Adan offers me a drink, all too aware of his impending death. He doesn’t seem to notice, and why would he — he doesn’t know me, after all. None of these people do. The celebration seems grotesque to me, now that I know what lies in store. 

I seek solace inside the one building I haven’t explored yet; the stone building up on the hill, the Haven Chantry. It’s a strange building for such a small village, almost triangular in shape, and it rises as if from the mountainous ground itself. While the foundation looks ancient, the roof looks newer. Perhaps there was a fire; it wouldn’t be unheard of.

To my chagrin, there’s no lack of ominous quasi-Christian religious symbolism which feeds my theory these people are some type of cultists, or sect. There’s the thrice repeated relief of the sun rising behind ragged mountaintops, sunbeams reaching out like tentacles of an octopus. Four red banners adorn the roof, an eye bursting fire at the center. 

“Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker’s will is written.”

I try my best not to stare at the man in the red tunic, with the strangely adorned leather hat on his cowl. I can’t help but hear him declare:

“My creator judge me whole. Find me well within your grace. Touch me with fire for I may be cleansed. Tell me I have sung to your approval.”

I swallow, and approach the building’s doors solemnly, schooling my expression to not show any of my extreme discomfort at the imagery and what sure sounded like scripture quoted at me. There’s a sun pattern across the doors, and I slowly trace the cool, corrugated metal. I draw the shawl close to me and cradle my broken, aching wrist softly, before I push the magnificent, heavy doors open. 

The doors close softly behind me, and the bustle of the village dies away, replaced by the soft crackling of torches and candles that light the hall. My steps are muffled by a soft dark rug on the floor, as I walk between the rows of columns, each complete with a gargoyle of a dog on top. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the soft light of the  torches, and I start to see the pews and planks that litter the floor.

A voice full of longing drifts through the hall, preceded by a deep sigh. 

“With passioned breath does the darkness creep... It is the whisper, in the night, the lie upon your sleep…”

I lean on the nearest pillar, lift the lid of a basket. It’s full of dried mushrooms, bluish in tone, from what I can tell. They have a sharp and citric smell.

“Well, this isn’t an ominous place at all,” I mutter under my breath. Or so I think. A lilting voice, ripe with amused condescension, greets me from behind the pillar.

“You’re new here, aren’t you, my dear,” speaks the woman, “don’t be shy, do come closer,” she adds with a tone of command that goes straight into my legs. I find myself walking up to her, into the light of her desk. She’s tall, black and strikingly beautiful. The woman glances me over, taking note of my tattered clothing and unruly hair. Her own is cropped short along her scalp. She’s magnificent, her regal features in a cool expression full of poise. Her fine clothing rather scandalously accentuates her waist and legs, but it’s also reminiscent of an 18th century soldier’s coat and breeches. The thigh-high boots are dark and heeled. The materials look expensive in an understated way, from the metal brocade silk of the vest to the thick golden bracelets and belt buckle, to the velvet of the sleeves. Once again I see way too many periods and none in particular. I’m not sure what to make of her.

She, however, seems to have come to a conclusion about me, and lets her gaze drift on.

“I am Vivienne, First Enchanter of Montsimmard and Enchantress to the Imperial Court of Orlais,” she introduces herself. Titles that tell me nothing, in essence, although ‘enchanting’ certainly is a word that describes her. Montsimmard and  Orlais sound… french. Is she… Canadian? I do my best to keep the confusion off my face and give a small curtsy.

“You are right, I recently arrived. You can call me Melina. This is the Chantry, is it not? It is such a beautiful building, I wanted to see what was inside.”

“Yes, dear, that it is,” she says, and some of the ice melts from her gaze. “By the grace of Andraste, run along now,” she ends the conversation and picks up a book off the desk. 

There’s a door on my right. I wait until no one seems to be watching before I push it open. It opens with a creak to reveal a small dark room, and I quickly close it behind me. It’s darker than in the Chantry hall, but I can still see and smell the dust that floats around the moist room that seems to be used mainly for storing crates and barrels.

I must be pretty close to the end of the loop, but my curiosity gets the best of me. The footsteps of my bare feet echo as I descend a staircase into the Chantry dungeons. I almost hit my head on a low-hanging lamp that smells of incense and lamp oil.

Water drips from the ceiling, and dust floats in the air. The floor is littered with aged straw and rubble, old broken pots and barrels and containers. Strange sounds echo through the vaulted corridor, and I roll my shoulders to rid myself the feeling of being watched. 

I should have realized this cult is something more ominous than fanatic Christians as I pass the statues of skeletons holding swords, or pass by the locked library, but it’s only when I arrive at the end of the corridor and find the actual dungeons, and the pillories and chains littering the wall, that it truly sinks in. 

An Inquisition. These people are militant, armed, and religious. That the pillories are here, not out in the open, perhaps suggests they are punishment devices of old, but- The same symbol of the sun is inscribed on the floor, in the middle of the room, and the torches are lit. While the cells are empty, I doubt they are only remnants of a dark past. 

What does it all mean? Should I fear these people? How the hell can I make it through this time?

The alarm is sounded. Its sound carries, muffled through the walls, and first I consider staying where I am. Fight, flight or freeze. Decision time . You can always return next loop.

There’s a soft sound on my left, like a soothing whisper, but when I open my eyes, there’s no one there. The thought, and my alarm fades, like a half-remembered dream come morning. 

Slowly, I rise. I’m already running when I reach the stairs, and I push the door open, adrenaline pumping in my ears, only to be greeted by— 

A completely empty hall. Gone are the cultists, and the lady from earlier. No screaming soldiers, no rabbid attackers. I hesitate with my back against the dungeon door. There’s still a chance to hide. Maybe a way to get into the library. Books usually help date things. Then again, books don’t make great weapons. 

My eyes dart across the room. There are three more doors. 

The doors on both sides of the hall look like the one leading down to the dungeon, and I dismiss them as storage rooms, or sleeping quarters for the nuns. Perhaps one is the kitchens that Flissa uses. 

Above the middle one hangs a rather official-looking red banner with that same golden sun on it. There are no indications what this room might be for, but on both sides of the door stand massive veiled statues, swords across the draped knees. I approach it slowly, keeping an eye open in case anyone would enter the Chantry, but it stays eerily quiet.

The heavy door isn’t locked. I push it open and step inside.

Some kind of… office? There’s a bookshelf, some chairs, a shield on the wall. It’s not a very large room, but it does contain a very large table.

I draw a shaking breath, my eyes fly wide. On the table lies a map. There are small whittled figures on it, like chess pieces, but I disregard them as I leap to smooth my hands over the browned parchment surface, tracing the cryptic ink markings in the dim light. The handwriting is sprawling, and the names foreign.

Frostback Mountains. Ferelden. Crestwood. Caer Ostwin. Jader. Kirkwall. The Waking Sea? Denerim.

I pause. Denerim, that one I’ve definitely heard of… Flissa’s former home town, yes. Then Gwaren — where is Gwaren? I trace my fingers down the coast of the Ama- Amaranthine Ocean. Brecilian Forest. 

Is that pronounced Brekilian or Bresilian? Focus, Lika!  

Whitecliffe. And there, Gwaren. I let out a breath of relief.

The Emerald Graves. Val Royeaux. Verchiel. Val Firmin. Montsimmard. Cumberland. The Western Approach. The Anderfels. 

I scan the map, but… The geography doesn’t look one bit familiar either. The scale of it all makes no sense. 

Perhaps I assumed wrong, and I’m not in the Americas after all, perhaps it wasn’t a potato, and maize that I saw, maybe I—  

“Who are you, and what are you doing in the War Room?”

I spin around at the voice. It has a soft accent to it, but the eyes that look back at me from under the hood are sharp as daggers.

I must have said the wrong thing, because I wake up once again in Adan’s infirmary. If nothing else, I now know Leliana, the Inquisition’s Nightingale, is another person to keep at a distance, if possible.

The twelfth time, I live to see the dragon. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Fuel to the Flames

I wake with a gasp and ignore the pot of cold stew on the stool next to my bed, forcing myself up, up, out of the bed, just to crash down on the floor as my feet refuse to comply with my plan despite the panic burning in my muscles. 

The fall is not painful per se, but it catches me by surprise and I chuckle in exasperation as I fumble to drag myself back up on the bed. 

Another chuckle rumbles through my exhausted body. I was worried how I’d be able to spend nine months in this place? Well, turns out getting through one day is impossible! One damn fine pottery research stay this has turned into! This will be such great material for my dissertation. Truly, A+ use of that hard-earned funding!

By the time the door is opened and a familiar man backs into the room, carrying a large cask, I’m straight-up laughing.

“What- You’re awake?”

I nod and swallow another chuckle.

“What’s so funny then?”

“No- nothing in particular.” 

Don’t forget, you still have absolutely no idea where or when you are! So the same forty-five-ish minutes, over, and over, and over, again, in who knows when, who knows where, until who knows when your messed-up calendarium is out of charge!

Adan gives me a sidelong glance.

“It’s a long story,” I say, finally gaining a semblance of control over myself. “I wanted to, to thank you. For your care.”

“Hah! Ser Solas is the one you should address that to. Name’s Adan, I’m the apothecary around these parts. I’m not a healer. Don’t have the, what’s it called — personality for it.”

“Does personality heal the ill, set the bones and brew the draughts? I’ll take a grumpy alchemist who knows his craft, rather than the opposite, anyday. And,” I add, “If you are going to open that keg, I wouldn’t say no to a drink.”

“You flatter me, mistress…?”

There’s a hint of a smile on his face as he taps a tap onto the cask and reaches for a metal cup with a whistle. He fills it to the brim with the dark liquor and reaches for a second glass for himself.

“Melina. But it’s the truth. I am much obliged,” I say gratefully, accepting the cup, careful not to spill. I lift my drink. “To the sealed Breach?”

“To the Inquisition,”He clinks his cup to mine, leaning back on the counter. “So you heard?”

I take a draught of the brandy. My eyes water and I do my best to keep the cough small, but that same smile dances at Adan’s lips. The liquor is a little on the smoky side and burns like turpentine in my dry throat.

“Oh, I was... drifting in and out of sleep,” I say, which is technically true. “Tell me, is there a woman here who wears a cloak over her head? Red short hair, sharp eyes? Gloves? Accent?”

The man chuckles, and gives his beard a scratch

“That sounds right about like sister Leliana.”

I’m fairly certain my eyes go wide when I make the connection between the earlier mentions of the woman, and the last person I saw before waking up this time.  

“She’ll want to speak with you, I expect. Uh, I’m happy to see you’re doing better, mistress Melina. We were worried for you, that first night. Hardly breathing, you were. And that arm marking of yours was having a life of its own. I’m not one to poke my nose where it doesn’t belong,” he adds as I pale, “but the elf was mighty curious. Now, the celebration’s about to start. You should come, if you’re up to it. I’ve been told there’ll be dancing.”

“You go ahead, master Adan, I’ll come by once I’ve... talked to sister Leliana. Do you know where I may find her?”

He laughs, a bark of a sound, downs his drink and picks up the cask.

“Oh, the Nightingale will find you, don’t you worry. Good evening to you, then.”

The moment Adan closes the door behind him I stand up and start pacing the floor. Thirty-five-ish minutes left. This time, that is. Time ...

I bite my lip and sit down on the bed opposite mine, burying my fingers in my shawl. What the hell did I even see in that room with the map? And who are these people, really ? And how am I supposed to break this time loop?

Swallowing another sip of the dark drink, my eyes fall on the copper lines of the calendarium. The threads shimmer, slightly raised from the rest of my skin. I set down the cup and trace the design.

The coiling is so tight that once again I lose my place simply trying to count the crests, but estimate it’s somewhere around 250. I swallow, lean back on the cot, gripping the shawl in my hand tighter. So if each day I spend here uses up one coil, simplifying the pattern, then by the time the coils have all been smoothed out to form a single circle, the calendarium activates and hurls me back to my time. At least, that’s how it usually works, but stuck in a time loop… There’s no telling if it even is breakable. 

Option one. I flee this Haven. Sell some of the emergency gems in my boot heels, should I be able to ever find my boots. Find a little cabin? A bigger settlement? Or a port, board a ship and sail off to… wherever is less strange. In Italy, or Greece, I might even be able to blend in, save for the weird ear thing. I set up shop and do pottery in peace until the calendarium runs out. 

A hissing breath escapes my lips. It’s a pretty picture, but I have no idea where to go to set this plan in motion; it’s winter, and the town is surrounded by wilderness, freezing mountains and angry attackers, and the gates are guarded and I don’t even have my boots to plunder for gems.

And then there’s... Option two. I find a way to survive this night to break the loop, and tag along this Inquisition and see what happens. As long as it makes sense. Because, there’s strength in numbers, and I’m useless on my own, and they’re fascinating, and apart from “quite probably murdered by the Nightingale” , the Inquisition has actually treated me fairly. 

I let my gaze drift back to the closed window, and close my eyes. The faces of the people I’ve met so far flash before me; Ser Pavus, Adan, Flissa, Blackwall, Seeker Pentaghast, even the lofty Vivienne. Aclassi. Master Tethras. And of course, that bald guy with pointy ears and a strange speech pattern.

I open my eyes when I realize I’ve already made the decision. I want to stay with these people. Even the murderous Leliana.

A sudden knock on the doorframe wakes me from my thoughts. The redhead in question walks into the room with a shy smile on her  face. It’s barely been two minutes since Adan left, and already she’s been informed. I have to give it to her, she’s extremely good at her job. 

“Sister Leliana,” I say, returning her smile, bracing myself for whatever comes next.

“Lady Melina,” she says, “You are awake at last. I hope you are feeling stronger.”

What should I tell her? Whatever I did tell her before wasn’t convincing enough, of course not with this open book of a face. I don’t doubt my past self’s ability to spin a good story, but it wasn’t enough. 

“By the hour,” I say, and draw a breath. “I am no lady of rank, you may call me Melina. I am glad you took the time to come to my bedside.”

“You are?”

I nod, slowly.

“I want to be honest with you.”

“Let’s hear it then,” the woman’s eyes narrow, as if she’s picking up on the emphasis on want to .

“I will tell you as much as I can. I don’t know who I can trust, but I want to trust you. Your Inquisition has been nothing but kind to me,” I start, here goes nothing, “I don’t know where , or... More importantly, when I am. I was on my way to offer my services as a potter, to set up a kiln and wheel,” still no actual lies, since my plan for the seventies was remarkably similar. I force myself to meet her eyes. “And then suddenly I woke up in a cabin and it's winter. Solas and Dorian Pavus believe I’ve been transported through time.”

“How do you mean, through time?”

Her eyes search mine, and I focus on that which I know to be true. I did travel through time, and back in Stockholm it was spring. I look down on my hands.

“Last I remember, it was early spring, and I was hopeful. But I’ve been told it’s now Harvestmir, a war is raging because of... circles, the Temple of Ash was destroyed… and there was a green atrocious break in the sky that’s been healed? And that the Inquisition has been founded to... keep the peace, headed by a Herald of Anders, Ella Lavellan,” I list off, trying to recall everything.

“Ser Pavus told me of this theory,” Leliana says, looking a little amused.

I shake my head. My sigh is completely genuine.

“I’m not sure what to believe. It’s... it’s as if I’ve been thrown into a completely different world.”

“Where were you traveling to?”

I think back on the few snippets of conversation I’ve picked up on, and decide on something that I heard enough of.

“Denerim?”

“Why?”

“Well, it seems like as good an idea as any,” I say, which is true. “Denerim was hit badly by blight, but I’m hoping there will be work for me there. In the… Alienage.”

“What is your line of work?”

“I’m trained as a potter. I can make crockery, pots, urns, tankards and tableware, things of those sorts. Need something to store pickles? A new butter churn?” I take a sip of the drink. “I was hoping... If it’s not too much to ask, that I would be allowed to stay. I know other crafts as well. I’m so grateful you’ve taken me in, nursed me back to health, and I’d like to help you. Set up a workshop here, make things for the Inquisition. You already have smiths and alchemists, and I know you’re a military organization, but every growing army needs boots. And ale mugs. And chamber pots,” I add with a small smile.

Leliana’s eyes light up, though there’s still a hint of suspicion there. I hold my breath.

“That would cut down considerably on costs. Our quartermaster Threnn will surely be thrilled. Your offer of help comes at a good time, now that we have recruited the rebel mages of Redcliffe, but the decision is not mine alone. I will discuss this with the Herald, lady Montilyet and commander Rutherford,” she concludes.

At the door, she turns, however, with an unreadable expression on her face. Like Flissa, she may not completely believe me, but hopefully she didn’t catch me in any outright lies. I swallow, and give her another small smile, readying myself for the attack on Haven that will start in twenty-nine minutes.

Empowered by surviving my talk with Leliana, I set out into Haven for my routine round of introductions. I exchange a few words with Flissa, leading with my talk with Leliana this time, and introduce myself to Blackwall almost verbatim the way I’ve done four times now. He’s still a man of few words and lots of hair, but I give him a shy smile as thanks for how his alternate self saved me from a furious Cassandra Pentaghast, before I head out to prepare for the attack.

The moment I exit the Singing Maiden that familiar freezing wind pushes in under my thin clothes and shawl, and the ache in my wrist flares up once again. Varric Tethras stands at the campfire and I nod at him, gently stretching out the cold-stiffened fingers of my right hand, careful with the aching wrist. Despite the pain I smile in anticipation of the blond man’s prying questions. It’s strange how quickly you grow fond of someone.

“Not to pry, but you look like someone with something of interest on their mind,” he says after a while.

I chuckle. 

“Oh, it’s a long and tall tale...” I say and narrow my eyes.

“The best kind,” he comments with a bark of laughter.

“... full of mystery and wonder…”

He crosses his arms.

“ I’ll get my quill.”

“... but right now, I’m irked by the weather. My boots are still missing.”

“Stolen?”

I give the man my best conspiratorial wink. 

“Intriguing development.”

“Oh indeed. Aren’t you cold yourself, master Tethras,” I ask, gesturing in the direction of his rather open shirt. Perhaps once I’m up in loop thirty or so, I’ll pick his brain on something more interesting than the weather.

“I’m alright. You got a name?”

“Oh. Um, Melina. The potter... who fell through time.”

“Sounds like there’s another story there.”

I chortle.

“Again, a long and tall tale, but, for now… Let’s say I got sucked up into some quirk of time travel, and finally showed up three days ago,” I conclude.

“Intriguing indeed,” he says, eyebrow raised. “You want something signed, I suppose?”

“Signed?”

He gives me that exasperated look again, as if he’s expecting me to say something, but I shake my head. 

“See you around, then, Tardy.” 

I draw the shawl closer against the cold and skip through the festivities with small nods at Blackwall and Ser Pavus, catch a drink that I’ve watched topple over too many times, and hand it to the perplexed blacksmith, before I push the Chantry doors open, determined to this time head for that dungeon library and figure out, for real, where I am.

My plan gets hindered by Madame de Fer who seemingly cannot resist an unfamiliar face. She steps out of the shadows, boot heels clicking on the stone floor.

“You’re new here, aren’t you, my dear, don’t be shy, do come closer,” she lists, and I comply. She glances me over, as if weighing me for slaughter. I have to admit, she has style, and the gold of her bangles glitters in the candlelight of her desk when she introduces herself with a flourish.

“I am Vivienne, First Enchanter of Montsimmard and Enchantress to the Imperial Court of Orlais." 

The titles still tell me nothing, but Montsimmard… that name was on the Nightingale’s map. 

“Montsimmard? How far is that?”

She looks a little surprised at the question. 

“Montsimmard lies a week’s journey from the border along the Imperial Highway in the Heartlands. In this frightful weather, I suppose it’s even further.”

“Do you miss it?”

She huffs, but there's a wistful tilt to her eyebrows when she speaks.

“Every day in Ferelden is grating, but my sacrifice of comfort is a small price to pay. The Chantry, the Empire, and the Inquisition need me here. Speaking of which, I am needed elsewhere, dear,” Madame de Fer tells me and heads for the Chantry doors.

I am about to push open the dungeon door when the alarm is sounded this time, the bells echoing hauntingly through the empty Chantry halls. I pause, tapping my fingers on the aged wooden door frame as my heart starts pounding faster in my chest, reminding me of the seconds ticking by. Would it be possible for me to have a few moments alone with that strange map in the, what was it Leliana called it — War Room — now that I have a scale, the map might make more sense?

 Or was she waiting for me in the shadows all along? And if so, why would she wait for me in the War Room in the first place?

The bells still ring. My heart still beats.

My feet seem to find a mind of their own and carry me through the abandoned Chantry hall. I pause and gaze up at the massive statues lining the door. Then, in a moment of clarity, I raise my hand and knock.

I hold my breath, count to five, ten, twenty, and then —

The door is opened by none other than the Nightingale herself. She pulls her arms behind her back and angles her head, not unlike a bird, as she takes in the sight of me.

“Potter Melina,” she asks without asking, narrowing her eyes.

“Forgive me, Sister Leliana, I... There is an attack. A force has been spotted, coming down the mountains.”

“I have been made aware.”

That was extraordinarily fast. Never underestimate this woman.

“And I was wondering… where we are,” I say, unable to come up with anything better. 

“This is the War Room.”

“I heard there’s a map, here, in the Chantry. And while I know we are in Haven, I...”

Are those daggers, hinting right under the flowy fabric of her clothing? I swallow my questions.

“I understand,” I say instead with a bow of my head, and turn to leave. The woman steps out of the War Room and closes the door behind her.

“There is no way out of Haven,” she says solemnly as if reading my mind, “but we will not give up without a fight. Do you stand with the Inquisition?”

I look up at her. Her eyes are steady. My voice is not.

“I… Yes? I do.”

“What is your weapon of choice?”

“I... I don’t have any. I don’t know how to fight,” I answer, too perplexed to lie. 

She seems to hesitate, just for a moment, then produces a blade out of nowhere. For a second I’m sure she will stab me, and the blood leaves my face preemptively — but with a nimble turn of her gloved fingers, she holds the hilt of the knife out to me.

“A woman should not walk unarmed. Take this, in case.”

“Are you… sure? Are you not...”

“Not afraid you will turn this knife on me? No.”

She holds my gaze. I swallow and slowly grasp the knife.

“Thank you,” I say quietly, and fall into step with the Nightingale as she leads us out of the Chantry. 

“You now know the truth. Help. Make yourself useful. You carry my knife, in case. May it strike true, and Andraste guide us all.”

But how exactly does one make oneself useful in a fight without any weapon-handling skills?  I stand on the Chantry steps and watch as Leliana and a woman in fancy clothes hurry down to the gates, and my gaze drifts beyond the village to the seemingly endless row of torches of the force coming down the mountain. The sounds are eerily similar to war movies of old, to video games and virtual reality experiences, and a part of me cannot believe this is really happening. 

To my left a Chantry sister comforts a hysteric brethren, and to my right, an Inquisition soldier is fastening the buckles of a comrade’s pauldrons, face ashen. He looks barely old enough to drink coffee in my time, but here, he’s ready to lay down her life. His comrade strokes his chin, gently. 

I avert my eyes. How many will die? Come morning, will the young soldier, or his tender beau, count among the fallen? The heroes? The captured? The deserters? The survivors? The slaughtered? 

I look up to the dark sky and blink away tears. There’s a blizzard in the makings, yet black slivers of uncovered night sky remain. There’s a light tint of green to the black sky, much like the glow around Solas. But where I usually find calm in gazing at the stars, a comfort in searching out my familiar constellations and Messier objects regardless of what time I’ve found myself in, now I’m filled with dread, like the sensation of falling right before falling asleep. My eyes flick between the pale distant lights, finding nothing I recognize, until the clouds obscure it all. A shiver runs along my spine.

I’ve never been one for religion, and I never will be, but in that moment I understand the full burden of the terrifying loneliness of existential dread, of being a stranded stranger in a strange time. I catch a glimpse of what the elders mean by the isolation of immortality, of that I am the one who lives on. And while I’m still blissfully unaware, for just a few more hours, of just how far from home I am, it’s in that moment I miss calling a place home the most.

Screams and shouts and the clatter of weapons drift through my reveries, and then a gentle hand on my shoulder pulls me back to ground. Flissa looks me in the eyes as she repeats whatever she was saying:

“Help us gather all the food into the Chantry.”

I nod, and follow.

Somehow I had not noticed it the many times I was there, but there’s a little cold cellar below the Singing Maiden’s floor. A narrow staircase leads down into the shoulder-height cavity, in which Flissa stands knee-deep in root vegetables. She hands me basket upon basket of potatoes to heave up into the huge wooden vat that we’ll pull to a cart once full. Outside, a young woman, who introduced herself as Minaeve, aids Adan in loading anything flammable from the apothecary onto another cart.

“How’s your hand holding up,” Flissa asks as she hands me a particularly heavy load. 

“It’s been better,” I press through gritted teeth, “but at least I’m not cold,” I add as I empty the basket. Potatoes roll down into the vat as beads of sweat roll down my back.

Flissa laughs and accepts the empty basket.

“So, you’ve met So—” she starts, but whatever she is about to say is cut off as the sounds of fighting suddenly grow louder than before. We can both tell the enemy has broken through the last gates, and some of the screams sound eerily familiar. 

“We need to get this onto the cart, now,” I say, remembering what comes next. 

“Agreed,” Flissa huffs and makes to climb up from the crawlspace as the angry shouts suddenly grow much stronger. The main door rattles and bangs, but doesn’t open. Flissa’s terrified eyes meet mine as we hold our breaths, then we both turn to watch the unlocked second door.

“Burn it down. Burn it all down,” a growl of a voice commands, and within seconds, as if by magic, the roof is on fire. There’s a clicking sound, one that’s rhythmic and not quite unlike crackling fire wood, as the fire spreads.

From the speed at which the flames lick across the ceiling I believe I’m struck by another fluctuation, but no. The fire simply devours the roof at an alarming, almost unnatural speed. Another tug at my arm. 

“Melina”, Flissa urges me, and I grab one end of the vat and half drag, half carry it through the tavern that is quickly filling up with thick smoke. We emerge onto the little clearing between the tavern, the infirmary and the apothecary. I lean on the vat, coughing and eyes watering from the smoke.

“My shawl,” I say as I realize the dear piece of fabric is left on the tavern floor.

“I will get it,” Flissa decides, and turns back to the burning house.

“No, Flissa,” I shout and run after her, “no you can’t—” 

I run into the house, breathing through the sleeve of my shirt, crouching to stay in the cooler air closer to the dirt floor.

The fire is everywhere, and its roar drowns out every other sound in the world. It’s red and white and its light pushes out all other colors and renders the remaining husk of the tavern in black-and-white, strange shadows and flames dancing at the edges of my perception. Immediately I forget what is left and right, what is up and down.

 I remember watching a terrifying informational video with my peers in grade school about a fire eating a living room in three minutes flat. There isn’t much to burn in the tavern, but what there is, is on fire.

I spot my trusted shawl right next to the crawlspace hatch. It’s steaming, and I pick it up, trying to find Flissa, the hot air heavy in my lungs — not hot like a kiln yet, but more like a midsummer sauna. I cough, wrap the shawl around my mouth to not breathe the ashes. The wool is soft against my mouth. 

The red flames billow like smoke and stroke the charred beams of the ceiling. 

“Flissa,” I shout, trying not to cough.

“Melina!” comes a voice.

I spin around.

Standing by the bar disk, there’s Flissa, her red hair lit into a halo by the orange flames. There’s something in her arms that I can’t quite make out in the orange gloom—

“NO!”

The roof collapses, just as something pulls at me. 

Seconds after we emerge from the burning building, Cassandra Pentaghast kicks down the other door, but Lavellan’s troupe is too late to save Flissa. I force myself up, about to head for the apothecary, as a pair of arms close around me.

“Let me go,” I press out between coughs, but the arms are strong, and I watch in horror as Adan’s cartful of flammables explode in a ball of fire. 

Master Tethras kicks a smoldering barrel with a frustrated grunt, and Lavellan falls to her knees in despair. The arms let me go, and I turn to stare at the man that restrained me, struggling to catch my breath.

“Why? Why did you stop me?!” I demand of Solas, shaking with anger, the damned shawl clutched into a ball in my cramping hands. 

“Melina, go to the Chantry,” he tells me curtly.

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I have to save them,” I press out between coughs.

“Go to the chantry, child, ” Solas repeats, and the condescending wording in combination with the man’s soft tone fuels a rage inside me. 

Something snaps in me.

“ Fine ! Let’s all starve or burn alive together in the Chantry! Flissa dies — for nothing. Adan dies — for nothing. Even, even Minaeve— It’s all pointless anyways because any second now I’ll...”

Whatever I’m about to reveal is drowned by a sound like metal doors being dragged behind a plane taking off. I turn around slowly.

It’s a dragon.

The following minutes pass in a haze.

Any second now , as I run toward the Chantry, dagger held in my shaking hand.

Any moment now , as I hold a crying child, slowly stroking his head, deep inside the Chantry with the other civilians.

Just say when, as the word to evacuate is given.

Just a heartbeat away, as we hastily load the carts, and I push with all the strength I can to get it moving in the snow that’s piling up.

But this can’t be the one , as I look down on the pillars of smoke. An arrow is fired, and the village of Haven and its attackers are buried in a layer of snow, erased from history.

Breaking the loop was possible. And as the longest evening of my life ended, the longest night began.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: The Long Night

Snow.

Snow, that pushes under my clothing, curls around my toes. Snow in my nostrils, snow in my hair. Snow that melts and runs down my neck. Snow that piles under the wheels of the cart, snow that piles on top of the cart. 

I brush it off my shoulders but I am already wet under the wool of shawl and my shirt and jacket, down to my underwear. I am warm from the exertion and shivering from the cold at once.

For a while, my thighs are painful with cold, then they’re filled with needles, and then they go numb. For a while, my fingers are painful with cold. And then they go numb as well. The dagger slips out of my grip. 

I close my eyes. I am so tired.

Snow.

Snow, that obscures our view. Further up, that’s the only way forward. They all follow Commander Rutherford — the man who looks like a lion — and Cassandra Pentaghast. All of the tired and battle-worn, the scared and the wounded, what remains of the people of Haven. And I am among them, just another villager among many. 

In the darkness I can only see his stormlight, far ahead, and the general shape of those closest by. In the howling wind, I can only hear the man next to me swear as the cart of silent children and grains creaks on, pulled by a single old mare. There are horses, and what I assume are huge oxes or buffalo, but they pull the wounded, the supplies and the scarce supply of food, far ahead.

The corpses, we leave behind.

For a while, my thighs are painful with cold, then they’re filled with needles, and then they go numb. For a while, my fingers are painful with cold. And then they go numb as well. The dagger slips out of my grip. 

I close my eyes. I have to stay awake. I am so tired.

Snow.

Snow, that pours from the heavens. There’s nothing dainty and magical to it; it’s not a powder, or crystalline flakes that twirl around like in a snowglobe like holo confetti, no, it's heavy and wet, thrown in my face like buckets of nails, as I walk on the snowcrust which is thick enough to support my weight. It’s pre-climate change snow, or  post-gulfstream snow, a blizzard of historic proportions. It’s the snowstorm my father spoke of as the one that froze up Sweden for a week when he was twelve. The cold that I wore leggings under my jeans against on cold February mornings, the cold that cracked mountains and let us drive our car over the Torne river when we went over the Finnish border that one winter. The cold that forced me to stay drunk at her place that damned night, rather than risk falling asleep in the snowpacks.

I can’t feel my feet, but I lift them, one after the other. The man next to me lets out his litany of curses, again. 

Far ahead the light flickers, goes out. The dagger slips out of my grip. 

I close my eyes, but I have to stay awake. I am so tired.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: Snow, white

The fact that I’m falling forwards inches into my awareness right about when my knees hit the wet and cold snow, hard, and I let out a gasp of pain and surprise. I force my eyes open, vaguely aware that I've lost something important. Fighting the exhaustion that whispers sweet lullabies in my ear, I fumble around in the dark with frigid fingers. I’ve lost most sensation from them, and when I hit a harder bit I can only hope it’s the dagger. My fingers close around it gently, careful not to cut myself. 

My exhale burns my lips in the small wind still I’ve created by hunching over. It’s a welcome pain, a sign I’m still alive, despite the howling wind and my frozen limbs. It’s as if the night will never end, as if I’ve walked for endless hours, and I almost wish I’d get zapped back in time just long enough to warm myself up, or even just find a coat or boots of some sort. 

The man pushing on the cart next to me seems to notice I’ve stopped and gives a gruff sigh. He bends down, puts his hand on my shoulder as I try to get up, but I can’t. My legs simply will not obey my weak commands. 

“Are you alright there, ma’am?”

His beard and voice remind me of Adan’s, and I break. I want to say that I’m alright, and that it doesn’t matter if I’m not. I want to tell these people to keep their kindness, stop wasting it on me, an immortal stranger from an unknown future, and that if I don’t make it, I’ll just get another chance. Hell, a part of me wants to shove the dagger inside me, just to do it again, set it all right. Just wake up in a hovel in Haven one more time, with a pot of stale stew by my bedside. Just one more chance to stop Flissa from getting trapped in a burning building, another chance to convince Adan to leave his flammable chemicals be.

But it’s well past midnight; were I to zap, I'd just get to relive hours of walking through the snowstorm. The window has closed, and the fact that I didn’t take the chance hits me like shards of glass in my lungs.

I didn’t take it, because I was lazy, and afraid. I didn't take it, and now they're dead, and I'm alive.
I hesitantly reply through chapped lips:

“No.”

 The man grunts impatiently.

“I need to have a word with Rutherford… I will be right back, miss.”

The hand leaves my shoulder. I concentrate on breathing; for how long, I have no idea, as a camp for the remaining hours of the night rises around me.

I don’t quite wake up, but rather I simply find myself resting on something akin to a camping mattress, lightly wrapped under a stained moth-eaten blanket in a low and gloomy tent that smells of death, wet wool and blood, and the herb I’ve come to know as elfroot. A single lantern lights a makeshift desk. There are notes, bandages and tinctures strewn across it. I must have slept longer than I thought, because through the crack in the fabric doors I can see a pale sun high in the sky. There’s a shuffle about camp as if it’s already getting packed up for the day.

There’s a dull ache in my arms and legs, and a sharper pain in my half-healed wrist, and a sensation akin to ants running under the skin of my toes and fingers. I hesitantly pull back the blanket to inspect the damage.

To my surprise my fingers are red and pale, a little swollen, but unharmed. There’s a neat linen wrap around my aching wrist that also covers the calendarium. My feet have been encased in a pair of strange green leather wrappings that cover my calves as well. They are a bit on the large side, yet leave my toes bare — but the toes look alright as well. My calendarium must have healed me at record speed, I muse, and wiggle the toes. Sleep really does seem to work wonders to recharge it.

My toenails need clipping. I don’t even have any idea how nails are cut in this age, I realize with a frown. Usually I don’t stay long enough that it’s a concern. For this trip I vaguely remember I did pack a bag of essentials, but it must have gotten lost in this weird time travel fluke along with my boots and earrings.

I guess it’s either ironic or fitting that this is the moment, this afternoon after a blizzard when I’m fascinated by my own toes; this is that moment when I start to understand that this age makes no sense. I can’t say there’s any particular detail that tips my suspension of historical disbelief over. If I were a little more observant, I guess the dragon might have been the thing.

 But, what instead happens is that I hear the familiar voice of one Cremisius Aclassi, and then the man known as the Iron Bull walks into the infirmary tent. 

Oh, he’s tall, is my first thought, and then when I realize his horns are not a headdress such as is the case with madame de Fer, that thought specifies into impossibly tall and then, processing that I seem to be quite awake, finally settles on inhumanly tall. 

Not to speak of the muscles. And the aforementioned horns. And grey skin. 

Until he opens his mouth and speaks I can tell myself it’s just another strange creature forgotten to time. An anomaly. But then, none other than Solas the elf walks in, staff in hand. A buzz of relief awakens in my stomach at the sight of him, but it quickly churns into panic when Solas’ hands light up green, with power that is decidedly not just his aura. 

The three exchange words that wash over me untranslated as my brain rushes through the hints towards a veritable train wreck of a conclusion. 

The obvious, screaming in my face kind of evidence:

The map that makes zero sense.

The dragon.

The clothing and technology that fits no particular period of time. 

That the calendarium is going haywire.

The talk of spirits, demons, and mythical creatures of the imagination. 

Heck, even that my ears are pointed.

This strange tall man with the horns is just the latest bullshit that makes no sense, for any age. 

Did I mention... the dragon?

Any age on Earth, that is. But I’m not in Stockholm anymore, am I? 

In retrospect, despite all my book smarts I’m dumb as a boot.

I press my eyes shut and hope to whatever deity deigns to listen that none of the three noticed I was awake. 

Of course I heard the stories; in my line of work, there's no shortage of urban legends around time travel gone wrong. There was the post doc researcher from Wisconsin who claimed she had spent just a few hours in a peaceful forest with reflective ponds, watching guinea pigs graze, when she was supposed to have spent a week observing stockbrokers in Singapore in 1987. Then there was an elderly professor who claimed he grew a pastel-turquoise fur and an antenna, and spent most of what he assumed was 1998 in a mound in the ground, in a landscape covered in green lawn, looking up at a smiling, laughing sun, repeating mindless tasks with other barely vocal creatures like himself. According to the story, he was quite happy with his experience, as opposed to this one Irish person who found themself stuck for weeks in a cramped-up space the size of a walk-in closet. They reported a constant sound like hundreds of little feet running, a seemingly endless supply of cucumber-and-cheese sandwiches and clean socks, and their calendarium prickling like a tattoo artist in training the whole time. And then, without warning, they had been flung out into a rainy city, onto hard cobblestones, and swore they saw a chest run off in the opposite direction before the calendarium took hold and warped them back to Kilkenny.

There were stories of researchers returning much older than they should, wearing clothing of unknown origin. But they were just that, stories. I read the papers that disproved the conspiracy theories, watched the helpful YouTube-videos that explained in-depth how time travel is not going to fling me through space willy-nilly or split me in two or push me into fictional realms. Sure, there were other ethical issues with getting redistributed in the past, but I remember all of the work, because my mother didn’t let me get the device before she was convinced, and even so she never approved. Though it’s been decades, almost a century since she went into the long sleep, I can just picture her, eyes like mine full of fierce protectiveness. I guess she was right to question the technology of the calendarium , after all. I draw a shaking breath.

When I open my eyes I let out a sigh of relief; I’m alone. There’s a small wooden bowl of stale porridge on the frozen ground next to me, and the gesture scorches at my heart but I’m not hungry enough to try to thaw it. Next to it the dagger rests. 

Somehow I need to make it in this world, until the calendarium winds down. Despite the bleeding wound of guilt in my gut, the first step is survival.

I wrap the shawl around my head to form a hood against the wind, and fashion the threadbare and dirty blanket into a cape, fastening it with the small dagger, ripping the fabric in the process. I look at the exposed blade of the makeshift clasp on my shoulder. Not great, but warmer.

I step out of the tent. In the strange toeless boots and the improvised cape I’m indeed less cold than the evening before. The blizzard has calmed and the sun is high in the sky, but it offers no warmth, pale and cold behind a haze of clouds. The carts have been packed and in the light of day I notice that those are definitely not oxen that are breathing puffs of white. More like… rhinos, or dinosaurs. Nobody else is staring, though, and I don’t want to draw attention through asking the wrong questions. I need to fit in, but stay out of the spotlight.

And so the walk continues. I count a hundred and fifty survivors. I don’t know how many Haven lost during the evening and night, but the people are tired, lost and quiet as we walk on, ever up the mountains that I’m told are, aptly, called the Frostbacks. Through snippets of subdued conversation I pick up that Lavellan — the Herald of Andraste, they call her — sacrificed herself during the evening’s fighting. I add her death to my pile of guilt, but to be completely honest I’m also relieved to no longer need to avoid her. My head is clearer than it’s been since my arrival, despite the thinning mountain air, and I peek curiously at the people around me.

At the front, the leaders of the Inquisition walk, followed by the most essential supplies. Behind them, there’s the soldiers, then the craftsmen, the Chantry sisters, and the other civilians. At the back, there are two more carts; one carrying the injured, and one carrying the children, and guarding them are the Bull’s Chargers, and the healer Solas. 

He’s barefoot, I realize as my eyes drift his way on their own. Perhaps elves don’t need shoes in this strange world, considering my toes are alright on the snow as well. His face is set in harsh lines, as if he’s deep in thought.

A Chantry mother — a kind of high priestess, I suppose — of the name Giselle rides with the injured, and her meek, soft words of prayer float my way downwind. I turn away.

Keeping my distance, I focus on survival and observation. Darkness starts falling mid-afternoon and the wind picks up. We build the camp at the next mountainside, hoping the mountain ridge will keep the worst gusts at bay.

As I help pitch tents my wrist starts aching again, but I keep it to myself. I help build the fires with what wood we can spare, and stare openly as one of the robe-clad people that call themselves mages conjures a flame. I sit down on a fallen tree by one of the cooking fires at the edge of the camp as not to draw attention, inspecting the people around camp under the guise of melting snow into water for the dinner dishes. To my dismay the headache is brewing again.

I pick up a few names without further introductions. There’s the quartermaster Threnn, who grudgingly gives me a belt with a simple holster for the knife, and the ambassador Montilyet. The two women are currently arguing over supplies, over by the carts. In addition to Cassandra Pentaghast and commander Rutherford there are a few other soldiers of rank that I learn are known as templars, and then there’s Warden Blackwall. They’re all gathered around the map from the Haven War Room together with Leliana. There’s the leader of the mages, Fiona, but also lady Vivienne, and Dorian Pavus, pacing the perimeter of the camp to set up what I can only assume are wards.

And then there’s Solas, who walks around and heals those who need it. I wash my hands in the lukewarm water, and then watch him work for a while. Every time his hands get that strange healing green glow around them I hold my breath. My brain hasn’t quite accepted magic being real. 

The water is steaming. Time to help set up dinner.

The wind and the intensifying aches of my wrist and head have worn me thin and irritable. For dinner there’s a quickly cooling porridge served with a slice of dried, salted meat. As a somewhat devout vegetarian I give my slice to Blackwall, who shrugs in thanks, and then I sit down on the fallen spruce by the fire. I balance the bowl on my lap, and a wooden cup of lukewarm mild tea, in my hand.

The smell of food draws the villagers from their tasks and seven kids, along with the Chantry mother, whose task it seems to be to guard them, all join me around the campfire. She looks more grim than before, and I notice the dark stains on her habit as she takes a seat next to me on the fallen tree. 

“Mother Giselle,” I greet her with a nod of my head.

“I don’t believe we’ve talked, child, but I am happy to see you are recovering. Maker’s blessing,” she replies.
I find it hard to estimate her age – despite my training it’s still hard for me – but from what I can tell, she’s a contender for the position as the second oldest member of the Inquisition, somewhere in the late 70’s. Which would make her around half my age.

“Eh, thank you. You… Were you there? When I arrived?”

“I was there.”

“Did you see what happened?”

She sighs, and shakes her head.

“Unfortunately, no. I was talking to Roderick, with my back turned, when it happened. But he described it to me in detail. It was truly… unsettling. He thinks you fell from a height of three fathoms. Your injuries were grave. So close to the Breach, we did not know what to believe. One moment you were there, when the previous you were not.”

“What do your people make of it?”

“It was believed you were an Abomination, crossed from the Fade. But the templars found no traces of demons, or traces of any magic, before you were carried away for healing...”

I nod in agreement even though most of what she says makes no sense, and make a note to try to ask this Roderick if I get the chance. It’s a fairly strange sight even if you’re used to it, to watch reality fold in on itself to form a person, and I can’t really blame these people for assuming demonic possession.

“Well, that’s good,” I take a guess, and look out over the gathered townsfolk. The children are returning with their bowls of porridge, walking past the open healer’s tent.

“He took quite an interest in you, that one.”

I snap my gaze back to the old woman.

“Aclassi?”

She shakes her head, wrinkles turning into a wry smile.

“The elf. But be careful of him. Apostates cannot be trusted.”

I chortle at the irony, shaking my head, and let my gaze rest on the man in question. Apostates untrustworthy? You’re talking to an atheist with Muslim roots, old woman. I’ve had the word thrown at me enough times not to be fazed by it anymore. I try my best to not sound confrontational but there's definitely ice in my voice.

“Don’t worry. He treats me with the utmost propriety, like I was just any other mortal caught up in these strange times.”

“Are you not?”

Oh, crud. I need to be more careful. I force a smile, despite the twinge of pain radiating up and down my arm from the calendarium like an electric shock.

“A figure of speech, mother Giselle. You have been looking after the children in this time of need,” I say to change the subject, “how are they holding up?”

The old woman sighs.

“They are too young to have seen the horrors of the fall of Haven. They mourn their mothers, fathers, siblings. They mourn the Herald of Andraste. It is a dark time for us all, and darker it is yet to fall, I fear.”

“Mmm. It… must seem hopeless.”

“Not all is lost. Although the Maker has taken the Herald to his side, her sacrifice will perhaps still bring us the support we need from across all of Thedas, to rise against Corypheus.”

It’s the first I’ve heard mention of a name for this opposing force and I do my best to memorize it for later. I give the old woman a glance. Either she’s a very skilled politician, beneath those Chantry robes and gentle words, or then she’s practical to an almost ruthless degree. Or perhaps she didn’t like Ellana Lavellan much. 

Mother Giselle waits for me to say anything, but I stay quiet and watch the children.

“The children need to feel safe again. They need to be reminded that they are children, despite everything that has happened. Do you know of any stories, mistress Melina?”

“Oh, I’m not much of a storyteller,” I evade.

It’s true. There have been no children in my life to tell stories to. It doesn’t help that I’m rubbish at telling lies, and that writing has never been my strongest suit. 

The Chantry mother ignores my opposition.

“Children, come closer. Mistress Melina will tell you a story.” She then turns to me and whispers, “I need a moment to address the leaders of the Inquisition. Keep an eye on them. Thank you, mistress Melina.” 

I nod in resignation, keeping a little smile at bay, and look out over my gathered audience. They’re seven, all in all, and I have no idea of their ages. Children are so rare in my time, and I don't quite know how to deal with them. They’re thankfully dressed for the weather, and all-in-all look far less miserable than I feel, but there’s something in their eyes that I would not wish on any child. The one I held in the Chantry during the attack is standing behind an older girl, eyeing me suspiciously, but the others simply observe, ready to be disappointed. I sigh.

“Well, do sit down around the fire, I won’t bite. I’m potter Melina, and I will tell you the story of… Snow White and the seven dwarves,” I decide, hoping it has the least offensive ingredients, although, to be honest, I can’t really remember the plot at this point.

The tallest boy crosses his arms.

“Like master Varric?”

“Is master Tethras a dwarf?”

The children laugh at that. “Silly!” the formerly suspicious child exclaims. I can’t help but smile, and shrug.

“Well, y-yes, like master Tethras!”

“You called, Tardy?”

Of course the man in question would be standing right behind me. I raise my hand in resignation.

“Tardy? What’s that one for?” I ask, secretly glad he doesn’t remember calling me Shivers during one of the loops.

“Little bird told me you were supposed to arrive in the spring.”

“Oh, well, fashionably late, I suppose,” I reply loftily, and slowly recall him using the pet name during that last loop. “Name’s Melina. If you should choose to ever use it.”

“You sound just a bit like Chuckles when you take that tone,” Varric says with an incline of his head and stands himself across from the  fire. Now that it’s been pointed out to me, I do see that he’s quite a bit shorter than most of the people gathered, around my height.

“So… In this story, the dwarves are miners,” I say and keep an eye out for his reaction.

“What a surprise, dwarves in mines,” he mutters and crosses his arms.

“In some tellings of the story, they sing?”

Master Tethras laughs.

“Now that sounds more like a fairy tale.”

I shrug, and take another sip of the mild tea. Snow White… and the seven dwarves. I’m fairly certain that’s the title. Now, if memory serves me it also has a plucky protagonist, and nothing too modern, Earth-specific. I think. To be honest, I’m not sure about the details. I draw a breath, close my eyes, and picture it.

And so I go on telling the story of Snow White. It’s not a version I’ve ever heard before. It has the same ingredients, with mirrors, and helpful dwarves, and apples that cause sleeping, but I suspect they’re in the wrong order. Still, the children do not stop me, and neither does Varric Tethras, nor Harrit the blacksmith, or some of the mercenaries called the Bull’s Chargers who idle about just in range of hearing. My voice is hoarse from talking when I reach the end.

“The king approaches them, seething with rage, throws the queen aside. He corners the huntress, blade in hand. And so the queen breaks her precious scrying glass, and slits his throat with one of the shards.” There’s an audible gasp from my audience. 

“They silently run through the castle, as to not alarm the guards, and come across the crystal coffin in which Snow White is kept. The huntress tells the queen to hurry, but she cannot leave the young girl without goodbye. The queen kneels beside her sleeping step-daughter, and presses her lips softly to her temple. And at once, her lips grow red again, her milky eyes open.” The formerly suspicious boy gives a sigh of relief. “And so the three flee the castle in the last hour of night, taking the forest path. The huntress has secured them passage on a ship, but the girl shakes her head once they reach the edge of the forest.”

I wet my lips, wondering how the story ends.

“And so they leave Snow White in the forest where she was born, dark hair sparkling with dew in the golden light of dawn, milky skin and eyes white. Red, red lips drawn into a soft smile over sharp teeth. And just like that, with but one more rustle of brown dead leaves, one stroke of green ferns, one tremble through red blood maple leaves, she is gone.”

The gathered children stare at me for a while. Mother Giselle looks deep in thought. There’s no applause, no exclamations and no big thank you. I let out a breath of relief.  

“Not much of a storyteller, indeed,” Varric Tethras muses and gives me a nod before he gets up to walk away.

My eyes fall on the healer’s tent as the crowd clears, and I realize that Solas has been folding the same dressings this whole time, back toward me. 

He’s a healer. He uses his magical powers for good, which makes him almost annoyingly beyond reproach. Yet if the opinion of this head priestess weighs any, he’s an outcast, he’s called an apostate, simply for not following their god, for opposing a religion that doesn't even accept his kind. I bite my lip. What is it about him that makes me so frustrated, that simply the sight of that bald head is aggravating? Oh that's right, he called me a child.

He was also the first person I remember seeing as I woke up. Did he use that magic to heal me, as well, when I arrived in this world? My hand instinctively goes to the calendarium and the aching wrist. Could he have noticed anything... dangerous?

And so, despite the fact that he called me a child during the attack on Haven, I swallow my resentment for the man. I tell myself it’s simply because he’d make too useful an ally, and too dangerous an enemy, to continue ignoring him. 

Adjusting the scarf on my shoulders, I draw a steadying breath. It’s time I talked to him.

“A word.”

The man stills his hands.

“Melina,” he says in greeting, voice low. 

“Alone. Please, ” I add, eyeing the shallow breathing of an injured soldier sleeping next to the healer’s table. A Chantry sister is gently cleaning the wounds of one of the mages.

“As you wish,” Solas replies and follows me outside camp.

The loose snow muffles our steps. A cold wind is picking up again and the sun has just set behind the jagged mountain ridge. We walk in silence side by side, but before long I am following him, until we’re well out of earshot from camp. With a soft turn of his hand Solas lights a torch with a blue-white flame. Effortless, magic.

The flame crackles with a strange dissonance, like cartoon voices chattering. Listening to the sound of it fires up my headache again.

“You wished to speak with me,” he says.

“Yes,” I reply slowly, and rip my gaze from the torch to meet his eyes for a moment. “Yes, Solas.”

He cocks his eyebrow just a hint. The flames of the torch draw me in once more. 

I weigh my words carefully. 

“I have made the decision to stay with the Inquisition for now. I was hoping you could refrain from telling them whatever I said when I first woke up. As a favor.”

His eyes narrow.

“You are asking me to lie to the Inquisition on your behalf.”

“A lie by omission only,” I defend myself, but his contemptuous glare burns me. It has me backing down immediately, and I add in a whisper, “but yes, you are right, it is still a lie.”

He turns his face away from me, looking north beyond the mountains.

He will refuse, I’m sure of it. I would refuse to lie on behalf of a stranger, a suspicious one at that. My only option will be to claim insanity, or run away. Or fight him here and now. On their own, my trembling fingers close around the hilt of the knife, safely shrouded under the makeshift cape.

“And what would you do in return?”

His voice is low, rational. Relief fills me. I take a step closer to the torch.

“I… need someone I can trust, but I’d imagine, so do you. You would get my friendship,” I say, looking at him with a slight smile.

“A friendship founded on a lie,” he says quietly, eyes on the flame.

I clear my throat, racking my brain for something else to offer.

“… another option is a favor for a favor,” I suggest after a while.

“And what need do I have for your favors, child?” His tone is insufferably mild.

I bite my lip. What indeed, when I’m just a bumbling kid in his eyes? Resigned to my fate, I nod, swallowing down the resentment and the panic in my throat.

“I understand. Please then give me warning, if you decide to set sister Leliana or Seeker Pentaghast on my tail,” I say, and turn up the hood of my makeshift cloak to leave.

Yet, before I can take a step, fingers close around my wrist. My eyes snap up to meet his. 

“Three favors. And you will tell me who you really are.”

His voice is low, his lips close enough to my ear that I feel the puff of warm breath on my cheek as he speaks. It sends a shiver of something like fear down my spine. At least I tell myself it’s fear. I swallow, staring back into those sharp grey eyes.

“Agreed,” I hiss, before I realize he’s told me his conditions in his strange old language, and that I’ve replied in kind. 

His eyes go as wide as mine, and something turns and burns in the calendarium. Panic surges through my veins at what I’ve just done. I yank my hand back, break our eye contact and leave him staring at my back as I run back to camp, dread in my heart. 

Leaving the elven man and snow-covered trees behind I run back to camp, shaking my hand to rid the sensation of his fingers on my wrist, yet it lingers. The calendarium itches and prickles like a nettle burn.

Don’t make promises, that’s the first rule, time travel 101, and I’ve just broken it. Retrospectively, perhaps it’s good I had no idea then what repercussions this particular mistake would come to have.

As if slipping up and promising this strange man three unnamed favours wasn’t enough to keep me awake, that night my headache grows stronger, and I sit up in frustration once I realize there won’t be any sleep. The snoring of the other women certainly doesn’t help. Wrapping my shawl and the minging blanket around me I step out and look around the dark camp. 

“There! It’s her,” a voice calls out.

I’ll be damned.

The darkness and snow erases everything except that blinding light of Ellana Lavellan, dancing right at the edge of my perception.

I can’t well run off into the Frostbacks at night, although at this moment it’s tempting indeed. As Ellana Lavellan is carried into the healer’s tent I take refuge in one of the carts at the other end of camp. 

The guard has fallen asleep by the fire, but the cart is empty save for one tarpaulin left over from pitching the tents. I brush away the layer of snow from the hay at the bottom of the cart with my bare hands. Grinding my teeth at the pain in my head I clamber into the cart and cover myself in the oily fabric. It’s freezing compared to the crowded tent, but not cold enough to be dangerous.

I doze off for what seems like a few minutes at the time despite the ringing in my ears and the pounding pain in my head and wrist, but at some point I’m sure I hear singing. At first light I wake, both frozen to the bone and stiff in my limbs. My neck is wonky from sleeping on a leaning surface, similar to having fallen asleep on the sofa at home, albeit a very hard sofa indeed. Finally I shudder completely awake when what sounds like one of the rhino creatures passes by the cart.

The slow walk through the Frostback Mountains continues in lifted spirits that day and the next. The story of the miraculous return of Ellana Lavellan passes through camp like the mountain breeze, rattling the other refugees awake with excitement. There’s a religious Holiday of sorts going on as well, and the Chantry people lead the refugees in prayer. 

Definitely not one for organized religion, I walk off to sit on a fallen tree. It’s only in this light of day that I’m able to take another look at the calendarium. The skin around it is irritated, warm, and slightly raised. I assume it really does not like my proximity to Ellana Lavellan —  the headache being only one of the symptoms. But there is something else as well, I realize as I trace the coiling. The three topmost of the coils extend just a little further than the others. I make nothing of it —  the device has been acting strange, after all.

There’s a rumour that the pursuing army of demons and crystal-covered soldiers has lost the trail, and the wind stays soft during the days. The Herald scouts to the north, which gives me some respite. Quartermaster Threnn shrugs in bewildered agreement at my request to sleep in the cart outside camp for the remainder of the journey, and I find a strange kind of peace in walking with the Inquisition. 

Higher, ever higher north, that’s all I’m told. It’s a slow walk, but the cold and exertion keeps my cheeks rosy and mind clear as the air thins.  Apart from helping prepare meals I keep to myself.

I’m helping with the dishes again when it’s told once more; she was buried in the snow, but resurrected by Andraste herself, nay, the Maker himself, and then she fought off hordes upon hordes, dozens if not hundreds, demons, and abominations, on her own, as she made her way through the storm—

I listen politely until I make the mistake of asking the Chantry sister who this Andraste was, and why she would choose an elf as her Herald. Behind her confident explanations of mystical forces beyond our understanding I can tell she’s both confused and angry.

Honestly, I don’t know what to believe about Ellana Lavellan. While I can see — and feel —it plain as day that she’s important, the talk of divine guidance, religious worship and the mythological aspects to her are still too much, even in a world where magic is real, considering she pees crouched down like the rest of us. And regardless, staying in her vicinity is painful.

On the third day the sun peeks out around teatime. It has passed its peak by the time when Herald Lavellan’s raven — this world’s most instant communication system — returns. I watch as lady Montilyet, over at the chest that serves as war table, eyes the bird warily and exchanges the short missive for a piece of dried fish. 

It’s not that I’m snooping, but rather, the meeting takes place right next to where I just happen to sit cutting potatoes into bite-sized lumps for the midday meal. 

“We can’t keep the refugees marching for days on end, where is she leading us? There is nothing here, ” Commander Rutherford exclaims and puts down his fist on the map. The soldiers closest to him take a step back.

“We have to have faith,” the Revered Mother Giselle soothes him.

“I will write to our allies, though they are few,” Lady Montilyet adds.

“Did Roderick mention where the summer pilgrimage leads?” sister Leliana asks.

I turn my head a smidge, just in time to see the woman shake her head. The blade of my little knife tugs against the grain of the wood of my makeshift cutting board and threatens to topple it. I instinctively reach down with my aching hand to steady the piece of board and clench my teeth at the pain. I do my best to shuffle another heap of potato chunks into the pot next to me, then slowly shake out the cramp.

“He was the only one who knew, but we have to have faith,” Mother Giselle pleads.

The next afternoon, we reach Skyhold.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: The Place Where the Sky Was Held Back

The serpentine path leads the Inquisition up yet another mountain, this one steep. Ellana Lavellan leads us, the tired refugees, and Solas the mage stays close on her heel, followed by the group that is jokingly called the inner circle amongst the rest of us. I walk at the back like usual, next to the carts of children and injured, and it’s the strangest thing really — we round one more turn along the mountain path, and then it’s just there , imposing and ancient in the distance, a ragged grey stone silhouette against the blue morning sky and white snow. Skyhold.

Though it stands in ruins, patches of roof missing, the fortress is truly magnificent. It’s jarringly large; by far the largest man-made thing I’ve seen in this world. It’s the kind of building that begs the question, how could these people not know it was here, just a few hours off from last night’s camp? How does a place like this go forgotten?

During my studies and research stays, I have seen some amount of castles and fortresses. Well, mostly pictures or models of them. In my time, we don’t have many left, and the ones we have close to where I live look nothing like this place. Yet still, just looking at it, I’m struck with a feeling of belonging, of home. Skyhold looks vaguely familiar, though from where, I’m not sure. Perhaps there’s something slightly Scottish about it. 

Not that I know much about fortress construction, but this one looks ridiculously defensible, I ponder as my feet sink into the loose snow. For a moat there’s something like a hundred and fifty meter drop, which I imagine gives pause to most intruders. The impressive footbridge connecting to the mountaintop on which the fortress stands seems the only way in.  

For the life of me I cannot figure out how it would have been kept supplied. Perhaps, once upon a time, the climate was milder. Or maybe magic is involved, to replenish food or in the form of some teleportation device? There are so many things I am clueless about in this world, and when it comes to magic, I have no idea what is common knowledge and what is considered arcane secrets.

How was all this stone hauled here? Who built it? For what force? Yellowed banners, still flowing in the wind. And... is that in the bailey a tree that’s still got its leaves? 

A soft hum to my side wakes me from my thoughts. I’ve fallen behind.  I close my mouth and look to the source of the sound, and to my dismay it’s Solas.

I let my eyes flicker back to that stupid face. The morning sun glitters golden in his eyes and gives his pale skin an otherworldly glow. Way to wax poetic . I clear my throat.

“This place, what is it? How old is it? And how did she know it was here?”

He doesn’t reply, but the furrow in his brow deepens, as if... 

“You didn’t think you’d come back here,” my voice comes out lower and slower than intended. It’s the first time I’ve spoken to anyone in days, really. 

He gives me a quick glance.

“This was the place where the sky was held back,” he says, turning back to look out upon the fortress with an expression not unlike longing in his face, “In the common tongue, they call it Skyhold. As to the second query, I cannot say. And third, when one walks in the Fade, any fortress that has seen enough battle shines as a beacon for spirits drawn to death and struggle, even after centuries of disuse.”

I leave Solas standing as I follow the Inquisition down into the valley.

I turn the mage’s cryptic words over in my mind as we trek down the mountainside during the remainder of the day, but by the time we set up camp on the side of the frozen river that runs through the valley I’ve got new things to think about. It turns out there’s a path, hidden in the cliffside, that leads up to the first gatehouse on the bridge.  There is some debate over whether it’s worth making the way up, and across the bridge, but it’s apparently too much of a risk in the darkness.

The sense of relief is still palpable among the Haven refugees, and a woman with a lute, Maryden Halewell, a bard of sorts, performs songs at the fire after dinner. A cask of brandy appears, and a toast to the fallen is called out. The sound  of it all carries along the frozen river as I’m mending a stained gambeson, sitting on my cart at the foot of an ancient watchtower, guilt gnawing at my gut more than hunger.

The next morning the tarpaulin that I use as a makeshift tent is frozen stiff, and a patch of frosty white marks the spot my breath has condensed on. The cart’s sides obscure my view, so I crawl a little closer to check that the coast is clear. 

The sun looms low in the sky, pale and hazy behind a layer of uncomfortable clouds. To my surprise it seems that some tents are already getting torn down, and breakfast is being served. Steam rises white from the porridge cauldrons. Hunger churns my stomach. Even though I know I technically don’t need to eat to stay alive — sleep is enough to recharge the calendarium — nobody so far has been successful in telling my body. 

A group of Inquisition soldiers pass by with their steaming cups of tea without paying me any attention. Motivated by the prospect of breakfast I push the tarpaulin all the way off and get up, rolling my shoulders. 

“Euugh, they’re at it again!”

The sharp voice grates at my sleep-deprived brain. I swallow a blob of cold porridge and turn to look at the frowning young woman standing next to me. She looks vaguely familiar from Haven, with her short blonde hair and red tunic. She also has the pointy ears of an elf, although hers are smaller than mine, easy to hide under the short bob.

“Pardon?”

“Her worshipfulness and old baldy droopy ears! All huddled together, like.”

It takes me a while to parse what she’s saying. 

“Oh. You mean they’re a couple?”

I lift my gaze and look out over the camp, following the young woman’s line of sight, even though I don’t need to. The handily directional headache would be quite enough to tell me the whereabouts of her worshipfulness the Herald of Andraste, without visual input. And sure enough, she’s standing at the treeline, speaking to Solas. 

Their glows... interlock, resonate, reflect off of each other. I hate the word fate, but that, right there, is what it looks like. One day, maybe I’ll find myself in a connection like that, deep enough that the threads of history recognise it. Then again, it’s not like I’m staying in this world, so, you know, maybe I’d be happy to find something short and sweet. Speaking of —

“Uugh, icky! Get that outta my head! No, like they’re... No . You don’t reckon they, like, like each other?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe it’s good to take a little happiness wherever you find it.” I smile politely despite the small lurch in my stomach. 

“No but that’s all wrong. He’s old, and so elfy. Eugh. Just my luck, elf takes the elf, keeping the bloodlines all pure like, yawn, predictable, boring.”

It’s as if there’s something she’s leaving out of her rant. I give the strange young woman a sideways glance.

“What, you want to be the elf to take the elf?”

“Oi, that’s not,” she shoves my shoulder, “That’s not what I meant! You know he’s all Fade this and spirits that, yeah? Ancient dreams and Elvhen magic, and the Veil is thin here , and, and arse.”

“Who?”

“Solas! It all gives me the willies. Mages, and demons. She’s not much better. That hole in her hand, unnatural, wrong, all glowy. And all of her glows.”

I clear my throat. She can’t well be speaking of the kind of glow I see around the woman in question, can she? And what the dickens is Fade that everyone keeps talking about? I take a sip of tea.

“I take it you don’t approve of magic, or things being ‘elfy’?”

“I believe in the Maker. And there can’t well be both Creators and the Maker,” she looks confident with her argument. “Don’t tell me you believe in those dusty old Dalish lies, and stuff? You don’t look Dalish.”

“No, I’m a potter.”

“A whatnow?”

“I make pots, and stuff,” I reply.

That takes the frown off her face.

“I make things too. Like, from fabric and such.”

“You mean clothes?”

“Yeah, stuff like that. And knitting. It’s awesome, like… stabby sewing, yeah? I’m Sera.”

I laugh and lift my teacup in greeting.

“Stabby sewing, that’s a good one. Pleased to meet you, Sera. Call me Ma- Melina.”

Crossing that drawbridge into the fortress for the first time, I didn’t consider Skyhold could become my home for most of my time in Thedas, and so I don’t remember how it made me feel. But I do remember studying the excitement of the people around me, the thirty strong vanguard sent to scout this new location, as the majority of the Inquisition’s forces stays behind at the river camp. There’s of course the leaders, then the inner circle, a few soldiers and mages for safety, and then the surviving crafters and townspeople  like me who, I guess, are expected to make this ruin fit for the Inquisition and then keep the rest of the Inquisition warm, fed and clean. On my back I am carrying as much firewood as I could cram into a basket, and the other survivors carry tents and kitchen supplies.

At the front, Ellana Lavellan, and her advisors. There the magnificent Vivienne de Fer, walking in heels on the uneven stone surface with that cool grace in her steps, awe in her eyes. There the fierce Cassandra Pentaghast, hand on the hilt of her sword as if expecting an attack any moment. Over here the smith, Harritt, nodding every few steps, gripping the handle of the hammer at his belt. And there Lysette, one of the templars, murmuring in a low voice to one of the scouts. In other words, the Inquisition.

As a new home for the Inquisition, Skyhold is not without its share of problems. The first trouble is raising the portcullis, since whichever force inhibited the fortress in the past didn’t leave the door open. Magic is what ends up lifting the corroded metal gate. 

In awe we step into the ancient fortress.  The darkness of the massive gatehouse reminds me of the Royal Armoury museum at the Stockholm Palace, and I expect the air inside to have that same musty damp smell to it, but as we walk into the sunny yard, the air turns warm. The ground is free from snow, and we’re met with green grass and flowers. Yellow and red fall leaves are still left on the trees and the ivy that climbs up the keep wall. To the right, beyond a crumbled walkbridge to the ramparts, we can see the husk of stables, and to the left, a staircase leads up to another level. 

The castle proper, the keep, grows out of the mountain peak itself. It’s beautiful in its simplicity,  simultaneously exceptionally well preserved in the dry mountain air, yet whole sections have crumbled as if through an earthquake. Up close, the stone wall seems less regular than at a distance, as if the fortress has been built and rebuilt multiple times over. Who can say, in a world where magic exists. 

Once it’s been established no hidden demons lurk beyond the portcullis, sister Leliana, commander Cullen and the Herald send off small units of the Inquisition to scout out the fortress and surrounding area of the Frostback mountains. I volunteer for kitchen duty once more to stay out of the way, and start by building a campfire to make dinner for the vanguard. 

There’s a whole lot of logistics to consider, and quartermaster Threnn starts setting up a plan together with lady Montilyet. How the lady’s golden taffeta shirt looks impeccable after a week of walking is beyond me. She’s carrying a clipboard with an old candle stub on it as she circles the yard with Threnn in tow. 

“We shall set up camp for treating the injured here, right by the gate. This way, should more injured refugees from around Thedas arrive, a surgeon can receive them at once.”

“Good luck with that. We have no pickled eggs, and no surgeon,” Threnn says, frustration clear in her voice.

“Pickled eggs? We will send for them! We will send for a surgeon. Now, for barracks, we will pitch tents over...”

“Why of course, yes, we have this empty lost fortress just standing here, but the soldiers will sleep in the muck!”

“The keep must be prepared for entertaining visiting dignitaries and to house the leaders of our organisation. Once the Inquisition has rebuilt Skyhold, we will make adjustments where needed, of course.”

“Adjustments? Rebuild Skyhold? Who will do it? With what money?”

Threnn takes a step closer to Montilyet. She takes a step back.

“Well, while we are regrouping, idle hands will surely—”

“Surely lay the roof? Paint the pavements? Scrape the shrubberies? Pitch tents in these puddles?”

“That... I…”

“... you haven’t thought of, have you? Loghain never treated us like this,” she scoffs.

Threnn storms off, leaving lady Montilyet sputtering with her jaw open. It strikes me that she can’t be older than thirty, if even that, and a small wave of sympathy washes over me as I look at this woman who is trying her very best. It reminds me of all that impostor syndrome, all those nights of staying up late worrying about what others think. I give the porridge a stir but remain quiet.

Once the first group of scouts return, we get confirmation that the keep is relatively intact. The towers are the most damaged, and according to Mattrin, there are some holes in the fortress wall as well, though not in tactically important areas. As I’m handing out the bean-and-potato hash to the scouts in the yard, the Inquisition leaders make their round. Plans are drawn up for what will be where; stables, tavern, kitchens, larder, market, wine cellar, dungeons and throne room, I’m told those are the most important to get up and running. The key members of the Inquisition are to take up residence in the fortress keep, while the refugees and some of the soldiers can use the lofts of the dilapidated houses around the bailey. 

After dinner, moving in continues. Tents are pitched to work and sleep in for now. I carry supplies to the rooms chosen to become larder and kitchens with some others, keeping my head down and trying not to marvel at the engineering of the fortress gatehouse each time I pass through it.

At the end of the night, most of the Inquisition heads to the space that is designated to become the tavern. There’s already talk to name the pub for the Herald in some way, and more alcohol appears as if by magic. 

Instead of joining the others I grab a lantern and head from the kitchen into the castle proper for the first time. Once I close the kitchen door behind me, the sounds of the people die away and I breathe out a sigh of relief. It’s not that I don’t enjoy their company, though the cultural difference and secrecy probably is part of the reason I want to avoid them, if I’m being honest, but mostly, following non-commitment protocol is proving harder and harder for each day. Also, I just want to see what the fortress is like. 

And so I walk around, letting my fingers run over the strong, hewn stone walls, listening to the quiet and my own footfalls, long into the night. My little lantern spills its light into a small puddle of soft yellow around me, illuminating little more than the dust in the air and the rubble.  

There are plants and planks on the floor in places where the roof has fallen in. But despite the state of the old castle, there’s a comfort, a safety, in knowing I’m alone and further away from Ellana Lavellan. I pull open door upon door, peeking into room upon room. Here an old barrel, there an old chair, an ancient and threadbare rug, cobwebs — fortunately, few spiders.  

I walk up and down stone staircases, along winding corridors and open halls, into old cellars and pass windows without glass. I’m absolutely lost, yet it’s hard to describe why, but I feel completely safe.

Finally, I emerge into a round and high room, lit by a single blue torch. At the wall of the room, someone has placed a bedroll, right below the light source. It’s such a small detail, but it makes it clear this space has been claimed. By someone who keeps their bedroll exceptionally neat, at that. 

The sight of the makeshift bed reminds me how tired I am as I walk on, and step into the main hall — the designated throne room — for the first time. 

I blink and stare up at the broken roof, high above. Through the hole in it I can see the scepter of the moon, huge and high in the sky. It washes the room in black-and-white; milky light and deep dark shadows. I step over planks and take note of the chandelier on the floor. I let my hands run along the crumbling and moth-bitten velvet drapery that might have been used to separate the room into sections in the past. 

In the corner of the hall, right by the massive doors, there’s an ancient fireplace in which a small fire crackles. I’m drawn to it like a moth.

Finally I sit down in front of the flames, drawing an animal pelt over me that someone has left on a chair. The warmth and crackling of the fire lulls me to sleep in my new home.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: Melina, Tanner to the Inquisition

Rest is easy, effortless and dreamless this first night at Skyhold. The castle remains quiet and restful in the hours before dawn, as if it’s aware of the arduous journey of its new inhabitants and wants us to sleep soundly. Perhaps I’m reading too much into the shape of its stone walls and vaulted doorways, but I think this fortress was built not only for defense, but also as a safe haven.

It’s far earlier than I would have hoped when I wake, and I feel a groggy kind of nausea. There’s a kink in my neck from sleeping on the stone floor, but it’s a welcome feeling, familiar from camping trips or sleeping over at the lab back on Earth. It beats waking up from a zap, or with the exhaustion and pain of sleeping too close to Ellana Lavellan. 

Only embers remain in the fireplace. The first light of dawn filters down on the floor of the throne room from those holes in the roof high above, reminding me of the less-than-waterproof  treehouse I used to play in as a child at the cottage, complete with similar old furniture carpentered out of leftover timber from terracing. I smile, just a little, at the memory.

The animal pelt turns out to be quite disgusting, now that there’s light enough to see. It’s grey, and coarse, like the fur of a rescue mutt, and smells like one as well, but I wrap it around me regardless. There’s something comforting about becoming a blanket burrito, and a satisfied yawn escapes me. 

Rolling my shoulders and neck, I wonder where I should go. Eventually a place to sleep, with a bed, and a door, would be ideal — sleep being the thing that keeps me alive, I’d rather make sure to get enough of it. In the meanwhile, more distance to the lady Herald. Her presence presses on my brain, but distant, vaguely to the left of me. Also, above me? Perhaps she’s being kept in one of the towers?

The massive doors to the keep are pushed open. The sunlight blinds me, and a few blinks later lady Montilyet’s silhouette stands out against the dawn. She’s carrying her clipboard, and chewing on a loose strand of hair as she walks into the room.

I watch her make notes. Quiet observation is, after all, the main method of the travelling historian, and I neatly am one with the surroundings, wrapped up in this fur the color of the floor. 

Lady Montilyet stops at the fallen chandelier. She makes another note, then suppresses a yawn and stretches her arms, humming something cheerful to herself. 

I clear my throat. She looks around with wild embarrassment in her eyes.

“It’s just me, Melina,” I say with another yawn, and free myself from the pelt.

“Oh! Lady Melina. Did you sleep on the floor?”

“I did, yeah.”

She seems taken aback.

“Why were you sleeping on the floor? Did the other refugees...”

“Oh, no, not at all,” I interrupt her, “I was merely walking around Skyhold late into the night. I did not want to wake anyone by going to the, the, um, lofts,” I explain, “Did you know there’s a wine cellar here? There are even old bottles left in it. Not all of them empty.”

“Is that so? Regardless, well, you will need a place to sleep. Let me see,`` Lady Montilyet says and shuffles the papers on her clipboard around, “there is an empty room still, on the… East? No, forgive me, west side of the, ah...” lady Montilyet riffles through the papers.

A room to myself would mean less worrying about my anachronisms and alien habits. It’s a very tempting offer. On the other hand, the impression I’ve had is that craftspeople do not have a very high status in this world, based on the discussion I overheard in the bailey yesterday. Taking up a room would draw too much attention to me.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly take a room all for myself,” I interrupt her search, “It would be unfair, and ill considered, while so many sleep in tents.”

“Of course,” she says, with a smile, one which doesn’t fade as she continues, “forgive me, mistress Melina. Your name doesn’t seem to be on the roster.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t be, I came to Haven only days before the attack.”

She nods encouragingly and smooths down a piece of parchment and dips a pen in the inkwell sitting at the top of the clipboard. “And what is it that you do for the Inquisition?”

My lips turn up in a smile. How many times have I answered this same question?

“I’m a potter,” I say. “I make ceramics; pots, tankards, cups and tableware, decorative things too. I know other crafts as well. Sewing, embroidery, weaving, knitwork, cobbling.”

“Remarkable!” 

“Flissa asked me to supply the Singing Maiden with more tankards and plates,” I add.

“Were you close with Flissa?”

Lady Montilyet asks the question with gut-wrenching kindness. I draw a breath before I reply.

“I barely knew her, or Adan, or any of the others you lost. But I know they were good people. They were kind to me,” I say with my eyes turned down.

“We lost... so many on that day. But we can’t turn back time. We must take care of those who remain.”

I flinch, the guilt hitting me like a wave. The guilt of knowing I could have literally turned back time and saved them. I press my nails into my palms.

We stay quiet for a while. Lady Montilyet clears her throat.

“We do have plans for a tavern here at Skyhold. As a potter, what would you require to make the tankards and plates that you mentioned?”

“Clay, but the first step would be to build a kiln. I can make do with a firing pit, but the results will be less predictable. So, I will need clay, firewood and... fire clay, for the kiln. And some wood, and iron beams, to build a wheel,” I add.

Lady Montilyet makes a note.

“Where would those be found?”

“I’m not sure. Clay can be lifted in most soil, but I don’t think we’ll find any near this fortress, to be honest, the sand isn’t ground fine enough.”

She nods, and makes another note.

“We will inquire with our merchant contacts. I will also ask the Herald’s party to keep an eye open, for… clay.”

My eyebrows lift. 

“Oh? They are leaving, so soon?”

“I’m afraid yes. We are short on funds, and steadfast allies, and the Rifts around Thedas remain. We have received word all the way to the Western Approach, of demons.” 

Thedas. Is that the continent, or the whole world? Lady Josephine looks up at me.

“We will do our utmost to supply the needed tools, but there is much else that requires our attention… and that pulls on our pursestrings, I’m afraid,” she adds with a sigh.

“Indeed. These are, of course, not urgent requisitions,” I add, “in the meanwhile, I am happy to help in whichever way I can?”

She looks at me as if she’s put two-and-two together.

“ You mentioned… sewing. Do you know leatherworking, as well?”

“Not much. I’ve seen vid…” I correct myself, “read about  some techniques, I guess?” I reply. 

“Well. We have an assortment of skins from the Hinterlands. Ram, bear, wolf.”

There’s a hint of expectation in her tone. I nod, trying to understand why she’s telling me this. 

“That’s… lovely,” I reply, and then catch her drift. “And you need a... tanner.”  

“Yes. I was hoping you could take on starting a tannery, here at Skyhold. Procuring leathers from merchants is quite costly, after all. The skins I mentioned have been cured with salt, but they’re not quite… Workable yet, according to our weaponsmaster. He will guide you, of course, should you need it.”

Leather has been synthetic for ethical reasons for most of my life. The footwraps I’m wearing is the first actual contact I’ve had with the material, but I’ve read enough descriptions of the rather disgusting practices of tanning to have an idea of what the production process entails.

It’s a lot to consider. It’s not a craft I would choose for myself. The thing I know about tanning is that it’s a very smelly process that involves a lot of hard work and oftentimes poor work safety in order to create clothing or armor materials out of animal skin. Then again, starting a tanning operation would be an opportunity to study these people since keeping my distance should be easier once people are actively avoiding me. And if I refuse, will the Inquisition show me the door? 

“Where can I find the weaponmaster?”

“The Undercroft. The door, from next to the throne, then down the corridor. Although, he will probably not be there yet,” she adds, “It is still very early in the morning, and yesterday proved, ah, raucous for some of our fellow members of the Inquisition.”

Perhaps the dark circles under her eyes aren’t only from a lack of sleep. I nod again.

“Right. Thank you, lady Montilyet,” I bid her farewell and head to help prepare the morning meal.

The Skyhold kitchen is a dark space on the lower floor with its own entrance, mainly chosen for this purpose for its ancient yet workable chimneys, and it’s as hot as a sauna from the day’s bread baking when I enter. The newly appointed requisitions master, who is to replace Threnn, a young and nervous if enthusiastic man, helps the equally newly appointed chef, Donatien take stock. Assisting with breakfast preparations in the kitchens is hectic this morning since the rest of the refugees are to come up to the fortress from the camp by the river for the meal. Still, to my hands it feels calming and familiar, a known set of steps to follow. 

I walk off for the Undercroft once I’ve had my share of porridge and doughy, poorly-risen kettle bread with plum preserve, feeling ready for a nap already. Mainly I blame the lack of caffeine. Crossing through the throne room, I nod at Master Tethras who is talking to warden Blackwall by the fireside.

It takes a while to reach my destination. The dark tunnel takes me down, past closed doors that will remain mysteries for me for now. The stone floor grows colder under my bare toes the further I descend. Then there’s light again, foggy at first, but it grows in strength, until I emerge into the Undercroft. 

There’s no one here yet. I look around in the vaulted room that looks hewn into the mountain itself, the underbelly of the fortress. 

The space is covered in soft, lush sunlight, but it’s also quite a view that I take in as I hop down the small staircase. The light floods in from an eye-shaped opening in the fortress wall. The river that runs below fills the room with a rumble and a fog, lit white by the morning sun. The air smells of the mountains, of snow. Frost and melting icicles taller than I glitter close to the opening, and snow covers some of the floor. The mild climate of Skyhold doesn’t extend this far.

Weirdly, there’s... sand, as well, around the old barrels left to rot against the walls. My mind instantly starts racing. Perhaps this hold was once at water level, and this was a port, of sorts? Then again, that would make no sense. Well, neither does this clearly planned opening in the wall. Perhaps the sand is for smithy use, for molding metals… or for glass-blowing? Or, perhaps there’s some mode of transport that involves flying? Another option is that ancient cultures in this world enjoyed access to a good view, and there was glass in the window ages ago.

In the middle of the room there’s a grid in the floor, and when I nonchalantly peek down I see an old bedroll below. What was this used for? Some all-important prisoner of war? Drainage? Storage? Hard to say. It seems welded shut by age. My fingernail comes up greenish blue when I scratch at a spot in the metal grate.

The stone floor is damp against my toes closer to the opening in the wall. Beyond it the Frostbacks stretch out as far as the eye can see. It’s breathtaking, just like the long drop down, a low rail the only guard against it. There’s a few broken barrels where the waterfall crashes down, rainbows dancing on the water droplets suspended in the air. 

Heights always give me a feeling of weightlessness, like I’m about to fly, or fall. I swallow and lean back against the wall. Looking back up at the dark Undercroft, it’s a nice space, though not a smithy. Not yet, at least. 

There’s a small makeshift table right here, strewn with quick charcoal sketches on parchment of plans for expanding and reconstructing Skyhold. I smooth the topmost out against the table, trace the notes scribbled on in an unknown hand with notes like catwalk and oriel window and chapel . I’m still not quite used to how the calendarium translates for me.

“Hung in there did you? Thought we lost you in the Frostbacks. You must be Melina, lady Josephine said you’d be ‘round. I’m Harritt. I’m supposed to teach you about tanning.”

The man sounds and looks vaguely familiar. His handshake is very firm, but he’s smiling behind the red handlebar mustache. 

“That’s me,” I whimper. In his green shorts he reminds me of my great uncle Rollo. I half expect him to start talking about muscle cars, or the Ohio Bluegrass Winter Weekend any second.

“Now, the pelts are on salt, the cart’s on its way up from Riverside today. You’ll want to take a look and get them on ash lye water to loosen the hairs. In the meanwhile you’ll need to build a tannery.” 

“Can I set it up here?”

He laughs. It’s a short, dry sound.
“No.  Smell’s already gone bad, ‘bout to get worse. Start by finding somewhere secluded, access to water. You’ll need room to work. Not squeamish are you?”

“I’ll manage,” I reply with a shrug.

“Done tanning before, have you?”

I shake my head. Master Harritt crosses his arms and sighs.

“You’ll get the hang of it. Now, find a space first. I’ll get my people to make you some fleshing knife blades. I’ll be here, if you need anything.”

The raw hides turn out to be exactly as revolting as I was warned. The smell greets me from several meters away as I approach the darned cart in the fortress yard. I steel myself and pull off the oilcloth tarpaulin. The decomposing skins of various animals, strewn with rough chunks of rock salt for preservation, are starting to thaw after the days of walking through the frozen mountains. 

The pelts are layered with chunks of fat and viscera. The hairs are left on, caked with blood. But apart from that they seem fine, I tell myself once I’m done heaving my breakfast into an innocent shrub.

Following Harritt’s recommendations, the first order of business is to find a place to set up shop. I start to look for a space outside the actual fortress walls, but I could swear the temperature sinks by over ten degrees as soon as I cross the drawbridge. While the cold and wind would be good to keep the smell at bay, the process requires the hides not to freeze, and I return from my walk with rosy cheeks and numb fingers but none the wiser as of where to build a tannery. 

In my normal life I can’t call myself much of a morning person, and I’m still yawning from the lack of caffeine when I get back inside close to midday. Frustrated and wringing life back into my wrists as I sit down in front of the fire inside the main hall with a sigh, basking in the heat like a cat in the sun. There’s still no proper bed for me for the night, but sitting down on the fur I slept on feels blissfully good despite the uneasy post-vomit feeling of acid at the back of my throat.

“Long day, Tardy?” asks the deep voice of Varric Tethras. 

“I’ve had worse, but the day’s still young. You?” I turn and give him a shrug.

He makes a grimace, then crosses his arms. He palms it with a nonchalant sleight of hand, but not before I notice the small letter he was holding. 

“Anything I could lend a hand with?”

“Hmm,” I muse. “Well, if you happen to have a place I could start a tannery, I’m all ears.”

“Weren’t you a potter just a few days back?”

“Oh, I still am. But, uh, I’m also to become a tanner. For now,” I add.

He chuckles. “I’m all for versatility. Just don’t go wearing yourself too thin, or tearing yourself apart.”

“No plans of doing… that. Do you speak from experience?”

He sighs and makes a noncommittal wave.

“Anyways… You might want to check the dungeons.”

“Dungeons? Wouldn’t that just make me marinate in the juices and gases?”

“Inquisition’s only got one prisoner so far, and while I’m against torture in general I don’t think it’s going to be an issue,” he replies with a chuckle.

It takes a while to find my way, but the laugh that escapes me when I see the state of the Skyhold dungeons is worth the inconvenience of getting lost. 

The drop into the foaming water of the coursing river rivals that of the drawbridge. Where I thought the Undercroft had good ventilation, the dungeons are more ventilation than room. 

The space is broken, that can’t be denied. It’s as if part of the fortress was ripped apart, sundered by an earthquake. Either that, or this part was deliberately cracked wide open, in a prison break. I poke at the rubble on the floor with the tip of my toes.

Regardless, I can tell, as I stare out across the broken stone floor, the long since abandoned cells and the mountains beyond: This will do. This is home.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: Seeking Hides

The smelly, dark pelt that I’ve slept on is slightly moist to my cheek. The sun peeks in through the hole in the dungeon wall when I wake up for the first time in the broken, ancient prison cell that I’ve decided is to become my sleeping quarters. I stretch out some of the tension in my neck, and gently massage my wrist. The ache is dull, but flares up when I pull my hand into a fist, then straight again. I shake it out and look around the tannery as I dress.

I’ve never been that attached to my sense of smell in the first place, and losing it right about now would actually be quite practical, at least if Harritt’s quick run-through of the process of tanning in a pre-industrial setting is to be trusted. It’s certainly a process that speaks of the ingenuity of people, but also a revolting mixture of putrefying hides, lye water, tannin, animal brain matter, feces and ammonia. He also told me the bodily fluids are usually collected from chamber pots, stables, or the poor animal in question. “Secluded” was putting it mildly; the odour is intense enough that tanning usually takes place outside city walls. But, hopefully this place will do quite well, I decide as I get up. My head is spinning with names of process steps as I walk the steps back up to the Keep. 

The air in lady Josephine’s office smells faintly of her rosewater perfume, a scent I’m sure means sophistication here but reminds me of stationary, as I step into the dark room. While there isn’t a lot of furniture in the room yet, I can already picture the desk that will be strewn with parchment and missives for the Inquisition. For now, however, those scraps and notes litter the floor, and lady Josephine herself sits in the middle of the storm of paper. A fire crackles heartily in the fireplace in the corner of the room.

She barely shifts at the knock I make on the doorframe.

“Lady Montilyet,” I ask, but get a horrible feeling I’m imposing when another nervous woman stumbles into the room and drops off another roll of parchment on top of the already teetering pile. I’m fairly certain her name is Lovise, and that she’s Seggritt’s assistant. She scurries off without meeting my eyes.

“Back so soon, crafter Melina?”

“I’m... I will come by, another time. You are clearly busy.”

She waves the apology away.

“It is no bother. Go ahead.”

“Alright. I... well. The dungeons.”

She looks confused.

“What about the dungeons?”

“I was wondering if I could have them for the tannery?”

She pauses.

“The dungeons?”

“Yes.”

“For the tannery?”

“Yes.”

“Have you seen the current state of the dungeons?” she asks, with polite caution in her voice.

“A little, airy perhaps.”

“Truly.”

“But that makes them ideal.”

“Well, since the Inquisition has but few prisoners awaiting judgment, I don’t see why not. However, I advise caution. We are bringing a buildmaster from Orzammar here, in...” she grabs at a grey missive covered in neat black writing, “... two days, to make the judgment whether it can be rebuilt or not.”

“So the Inquisition expects to keep many prisoners?”

She blinks.

“I surely hope not! However should the need surface, we must be prepared for all eventualities. The Inquisition has been reformed, after all, to achieve peace, and defend Thedas against the threat of Corypheus.”

My eyebrows rise on their own.

“Reformed? What was its original purpose?”

“Formed anew, would perhaps be a more… accurate term. The Inquisition of old was formed, in the Ancient Age, to protect against the tyranny of magic. It ended in the early years Divine when the Nevarran Accord was signed, and from what I’ve heard, the last Inquisitor, Ameridan, went missing.”

That’s a bunch of new information. I blink.

“How long ago was this?”

Lady Josephine stills her hands. 

“Let me count. It is still 41 Dragon, so... Around 820 years. That is how long the Nevarran Accord stood, until the Lord Seeker broke it, of course,” she adds, a little quieter, but my mind is exhilarated at the mention of a year. 41, Dragon. 

“Are there people still around from that time?” I ask, thoughtlessly. 

The dark-haired woman covers her mouth to hide a snicker. She regains her composure with admirable speed.

“I’m afraid not. The scholars at the University of Orlais have established some of the history, but the Chantry and Circles of Magi pride themselves on their diligent keeping of records as well. There are also treatises on these events of Chantry history. It is a… bit of a dry read, but brother Genitivi’s writings may prove informative to you if you wish to pursue more than general knowledge on the subject,” she apologises and lifts her gaze. But, instead of meeting my eyes, hers fall on the door behind me. 

“Good afternoon, Ser Solas. I received your request for books on magic and the Fade,” she greets the man, “I’m afraid it may take some time before it can be filled.”

I feel the color fade from my cheeks.

“Thank you for your time lady Josephine but I really must be going now,” I press out in one breath with a shaky smile and escape the room.

The next few days I spend in the Dungeons. My expectation is that it’s going to take a while to set up the Inquisition’s underground tannery, but I’m proven wrong. On the whole, these people are way more efficient than I, the twenty-second century scholar of Earth for whom the process of acquiring a new induction kettle for the faculty kitchen took weeks, ever could have wished for. 

Looking back, overall, the sheer amount of things the Inquisition was able to accomplish in general, during my time in Thedas, was baffling. The historian in me finds it weird to tribute it all to its leader, Ellana Lavellan, so I'll just say this: organisations that run unhindered by sprawling email chains run, simply, better.

I know the ceremony to make Ellana Lavellan Inquisitor is going to happen, and make sure to stay away as well as I can. It takes place on an afternoon when I am on water duty, carrying buckets between the well and the kitchens. The newly arrived dwarves led by master Gatsi are rebuilding the aqueducts, but starting at the baths and privies at the other end of the fortress, so for now, there’s rote work shifts.

The previous day, Gatsi — a rather more traditional dwarf than master Tethras I’m told, with a magnificent beard — makes his round. He’s accompanied by Lady Montilyet, Ser Morris the requisitions master, and Warden Blackwall of all people. The verdict is that the structural damage to the dungeons is irreversible, but grudgingly the workers agree to my plan of building a system of ropes and pulleys, and a platform below the main level, to make it possible to wash pelts in the coursing water of the river. 

It turns out the reason Warden Blackwall has come along is that he’s fairly good at carpentry. He stays behind the others, quiet and awkward in the doorway until I show him the sketches Harritt and I made for the equipment I need. There’s the vats and barrels — for washing, lye water and tanning baths, the beam — a log to scrape off hairs and follicles against — and then various edged tools to prepare the skins; most importantly, the fleshing knives. 

The gruff man scratches under his chin when I explain how the handles should be attached to the fleshing knife until I realise I’ve drawn them at a completely impractical angle and apologise.

“I’m so sorry, Warden Blackwall. I’ll make a new sketch immediately.”

“T’s alright, I get the gist of it. I’ll be at the stables if you need me,” he says with a slightest bit of a smile.

In the evening I’m given a few empty barrels that smell of ale from the Inquisition’s tavern. Finally, I will need the wood ash to get the dehairing process started. Donatien is cutting up root vegetables and squash as I step into the hot and dark kitchen. 

“Could you keep the ashes from tomorrow’s baking onward?”

He looks up at me.

“I’ve had stranger requests. Where should I send them?”

“The tannery. I mean, the Dungeons,”  I add at his empty expression, “Take the door across the gardens, down the stairs.”

“I’ll see if I can spare someone,” he grunts.

“Thank you.”

The cut-up carrots and squash rain down into a colander as he sweeps his large hand across the cutting board.

“You’re going to be working in the tannery then, eh? Shame to see a natural polenta cook gone.”

“I’ll teach my tricks to whoever replaces me. It’s only temporary,” I sure hope, “I’m also a potter, but it’ll be a while until there’s a kiln.”

“Oh good. The darndest thing, you know. No one thought to pack tableware. And with the harvests coming in, we don't have enough jars to make preserves.”

“Ah. Once I have the kiln setup, and clay to work with, I’ll come ask for specifications,” and can’t help but add, “to get you out of that pickle.”

“Looking forward to it,” he replies, ignoring the pun.

The morning following her ascension, the Inquisitor’s party leaves for some place or other. I watch them as I’m carrying the bucket of cooling ash and coals from the kitchens. Laughing, joking about the new quiver of arrows for her bow, bright as the sun light itself, is Lavellan. I watch and feel the faded memory of a sting in my stomach as she casually straightens the collar of Solas’ tunic. The warrior Iron Bull is riding with them, enormous on his horse, as well as Sera, tiny in comparison, madam Vivienne, elegant with impeccable posture, and Seeker Pentaghast, watchful and regal.

I expect the castle will be emptier without the Inquisitor’s companions, but the only difference is that the tension in my neck and arm lifts for the two weeks they are gone. Besides, during those two weeks, there is work to do. One of Gatsi’s men, a mason named Gannon, comes by and puts up a simple pulley under Harritt’s supervision. I hoist up bucket upon bucket of water, to rinse the dried guck and salt off the hides before mixing the wood ash with water into a thick dehairing solution and putting the skins in. Finally I seal off the barrels and pull off the thick leather gloves I’ve been given. My eyes are watering at the smell that feels ingrained into the inside of my nostrils at this point. It haunts me through the nights as I sleep in my cell, curled under the old pelt.

A few days later when I walk into the comparatively fresh air of the stables, the gruff and serious facade of Warden Blackwall cracks the slightest bit. He is carving a wooden toy. I watch him work in silence for a while. There’s still an awkwardness between us, like those first times I met him in the Singing Maiden, but it’s clear he’s at ease here, woodworking in the stables, and when I greet him, he smiles behind the bushy beard.

We pick out an oak log for the beam together, and he helps me crush its bark — for the tannin — in the sunlight of the yard before we haul it down to the dungeons with the assistance of two smithy assistants. Not more than a handful of words are exchanged.

Blackwall puts a bushel of bark down on the floor.

“That’s the last of them. Thank you, truly, Blackwall.”

I check on the hides in the lye water, and my eyes water at the smell. The skins are a sickly, pale color. Some of the hairs have come off and float around in the dark water. 

“Are you queasy, milady?”

“I wouldn’t be much of a tanner if I couldn’t handle the smell, would I now,” I reply, but feel more than a little green. I firmly close the lid on the skins.

He clears his throat.

“Would you want to come to the Tavern for a hand of Diamondback?”

“What’s a Diamondback?”

The bearded man laughs.

“A game of cards. There’s another game tonight.”

“Sure, why not. You’ll have to teach me how to play, though,” I reply and pour out water to wash my hands in a wooden basin.

“I’m sure you’ll be a natural.”

If there’s one thing to be said about the Thedosian people, it’s this: they appreciate their drinks. Despite the state of the Skyhold fortress, despite the looming threat of attack from Corypheus, war, famine and disease, the Herald’s Rest is fully operational within the week from us discovering Skyhold. It’s much larger than I had expected, with a half-timber frame to support a second floor. The wooden dormers and the beautiful oriel window are new additions. The tavern’s leadlight windows give off an inviting yellow glow. And it is loud, with music and voices, as Blackwall and I cross the darkening yard.

The newly carved sign above the door gives me pause. On it the figure of a woman with gold-leaf hair and blades bursting from her head carries a shrouded figure in her arms. Despite the ominous iconography, I stomp the dust off my foot wraps, mostly out of old habit, and give my shawl a whiff before following Blackwall into the wooden building. Miss Halewell takes a bow by the fireplace as we enter. In the corner, I can see the Chargers’ healer arm wrestle one of Leliana’s scouts across a barrel. Another dwarf, with fascinating facial tattoos, tends the bar.

“The usual, Blackwall?” he greets.

The Warden inclines his head. “And sweet wine, for the lady,” he replies.

A cheer breaks out behind us. Leliana’s scout flexes, a victorious grin across her face. The Chargers’ archer rolls her shoulders and takes the healer’s place.

“Thank you. What’s the usual like?” I ask as I accept my glass of golden wine.

“Willful,” the dwarf replies and draws a tankard for Blackwall, who accepts the drink and slides a coin across the table.

“So,” I take a swig of wine, “this is the Herald’s Rest.” I follow Blackwall and we take our seats at a table by a window, close to the door.

“That it is,” he replies and pulls his tankard close.

“It’s lovely.”

Another cheer breaks out at the other side of the tavern. Apparently the scout has won again, but the red-haired dwarf’s smile fades quickly as the two Chargers cross their arms.

Blackwall doesn’t offer up any conversation, so I take another mouthful of the wine. It’s sweeter than anything I would normally have, and the taste is unfamiliar but a little reminiscent of overripe apples. 

“So,” I begin anew after a while, “you mentioned this is another game? Did you play a lot of cards in Haven?”

“Every Friday,” he says with a nod, “Not all games are Diamondback, mind you, but it’s the easiest. Lady Josephine started teaching the kids Wicked Grace, Varric won’t pass a round of Dead Man’s Tricks, and I hear the Templars all play chess. There’s the old saying; you can learn all you need of a man from how he holds his drink, and when he folds his cards.”

“So is inviting me here a roundabout way of saying you want to know more about me?”

Blackwall looks down into his tankard and gives a grunt.

“Uh… We were short one player.”

“Right. So who’s the third?” 

“You called for me, Tardy?”

My lips pull into a smile at Varric’s familiar low voice. The man pulls out a chair and sits down across from me, next to Blackwall, and sets down his bottle and goblet. He draws a hand across his blonde hair.

“Nice to see you too, Varric.”

He answers my smile, dark eyebrows drawing together, as he pulls a deck of cards from within his coat and drags off his gloves. The cards are large, like a deck for tarot readings, and look block printed. His fingers start shuffling on their own with commendable dexterity. His voice is airy when he speaks.

“Say, you haven’t happened to come across a wolf pelt? Last seen around the fireplace in the Throne Hall?”

“Wolf, you say? Can’t say I have,” I reply with an innocent smile.

Varric laughs.

“You’ll have to bluff better than that. So, this is Diamondback…”

I’m asked to draw a card from the deck to determine who gets to be dealer first, and draw a card with what I’m told is a Legionnaire. Blackwall draws the Paragon, the highest card in the deck.

“Now, the points are a little tricky to remember, especially if you don’t have firsthand experience of Orzammar politics, which trust me, you don’t want,” Varric explains and lays down one of each type of card in the deck on the sticky table, “but the most important one, that’s the…”

“... paragon?”

“Good, good. You’re learning. Now, next we have the Shaperate,” the man explains and taps a card with a woman holding a book of stone, “writers of history, we could call them. Then,” he pushes two cards forward, “Queens and Kings. The Queen is higher with the Paragon than the King, but the King is higher than the Queen with a Shaper, but we’ll get to the hands in a bit. Lastly we have the Legionnaires.”

The card depicts a heavily armed figure, and a symbol of a war hammer.

“For the Legion of the Dead,” Blackwall interjects.

“Right, Legionnaires, dead,” I reply and take a sip of ale. At some point of the explanation my wine glass ran out a second time, and was replaced by this far better pint of beer.

“You find one of them on your hand, it’s not going to be over forty. But, since only nine cards are taken out of the deck at once, it might not all have gone to shit just yet. Particularly now that Blackwall’s pulled the Paragon out,” Varric continues, “And that brings us to the hands.”

There turn out to be fourteen of them to remember, which is around eleven too many. Varric explains calmly in his low voice, going off on anecdotes about kings and queens and shapers of the past. I give up on trying to follow along, but that voice I could listen to all night.

“... and there you have it. Diamondback.”

“So, let me get this straight, if I have the Paramour on hand—”

“Paragon,” Varric corrects me.

“... then it’s good. And if I have a pair of anything else than Shapes—”

“Shapers,” Blackwall mutters.

“Then it’s not... great. And then there’s Kings and Queens but they’re… kind of eh.”

“You’ll get the hang of it,” Varric says with a bark of a laugh, and Blackwall deals the cards. 

I take another sip of beer and peek at my hand. Legionnaire and King. Twenty? Thirty? Forty? Or was this one ten? I brave a glance at my opponents. Blackwall’s looking at his cards with raised eyebrows, as if weighing his options. Varric’s rolling a silver coin across his knuckles, eyes on Blackwall.

“This is the point where the dealer raises the stakes.”

Stakes ? Oh, he means... money. 

“I didn’t realise—”

“Now, our Chantry friends don't look kindly on gambling, but it’s not really gambling when it's only a copper or two,” Varric says with a wink.

A shadow passes in front of the light, and a familiar scent, like sandalwood, washes over me before I can turn around.

“Are you trying to morally corrupt our poor potter, Varric?”

Dorian Pavus flutters into view and sits down on the table next to our game, wine bottle in hand. 

I suppress a giggle. 

“But moral corruption is so much fun?”

“Look at that! Alright, I’ll admit it was my idea to invite you here. We couldn’t leave you to rot in the Dungeons, could we?”

“I appreciate the concern,” I reply and clink my tankard to his bottle.

“Ante’s at two coppers,” Blackwall announces, “accept or fold,” he clarifies and pushes two small coins to the middle of the table. My fingers itch to lift them up and take a look. We don’t use currencies in my time. 

“I don’t have any money,” I excuse myself.

Varric cocks an eyebrow and stills the silver coin between his thumb and index finger.

“Hmm. You could fold… Or stake something of equal value.”

I lean forward.

“Such as?”

“There’s options,” Varric nods his head at Ser Pavus, “Sparkler here usually bets his shirt.”

“Never lost it once,” the man in question replies, “of course, it helps not to wear one in the first place.”

“Blackwall once bet a boot,” Varric continues.

“Sera never told me where she put it. Traitor,” the Warden laments.

“You get the idea. Friend of mine in Kirkwall used to stake kisses. Solas once staked a secret. Took the table, though. Shame.”

“Never play against that elf. Lost my other boot to him,” Blackwall adds.

I chew my lip. Losing my clothing isn’t really an option when I don’t have another set. Kisses, well- My eyes flit over my opponents and drift to Varric’s smug smile for just long enough that something flitters in my belly. Damn the sweet wine. I clear my throat and take another swig of my beer, feeling hot around the cheeks.

“Alright, I’ll bite. Secret, two coppers’ worth.”

The dwarf nods and pushes his two coins to the middle of the table. The game is on.

I’m not entirely sure what happens next since I genuinely forgot the value of my hand. At the first card reveal I turn up the King. Varric turns a Queen, Blackwall another King. Then Blackwall folds, and gets up to another drink. Varric eyes me with suspicion, then raises by two coppers.

“So if I fold now, I lose my stake,” I ask.

“Yes,” he replies slowly. His blonde hair glitters in the firelight, almost as brightly as the thick gold chain around his neck.

“Alas... I fold.”

Varric’s smug smile widens as he picks up the coins.

“You’ll do better next time, dear,” Dorian says and lifts my empty tankard, “but now let’s drown our sorrows in drink. Wine, Melina?”

“Why not. As long as it’s not sweet?”

“ Finally someone with taste,” he replies with a content sigh and hoists himself off the table.

I stare after the strange mage and shake my head. The buzz is stronger, but it’s strangely liberating.

“So.”

I turn my head back to Varric with a polite smile.

“I’d like to collect that secret.”

“Shoot.”

“What’s that?”

Oh, yes, that’s a fairly Earthen expression. A giggle escapes me. 

“I mean, ask away. Open book,” I add, lower. 

Varric leans in over the table and drags a thumb across the scruff of his wide chin. Up close his light eyes feel strangely piercing.

“Is Melina your real name?”

I chuckle. Of course the writer would be the most observant of the lot. How do I put this one? I look out the window.

“That’s hardly a two coin secret, is it?” I tap my fingers on the table, then continue at the vindictive glint in his eyes, “Since I give my name for free to those who ask.”

“Fair enough,” he doesn’t sound convinced, “Then... Where are you from?”

“Stockholm,” I reply before I can stop myself. Heat rises to my cheeks and ears as my stomach drops and my calendarium burns like it’s on fire.

“Stockholm? Isn’t that in the Anderfels?”

I don’t correct him, concentrating on not screaming in pain. Anderfels ? I’ll take it. The pain subsides and I let out a hissing breath that I try my best to turn into a laugh.

Varric is about to say something when Dorian swoops down with another bottle of wine and a goblet for me. His dark eyes flit between me and Varric as he pours two generous glasses of the dark red liquid.

“So, what did I miss?”

“Tardy here’s ander, apparently.”

“S hit on my tongue! I thought you were Rivaini, a fellow soul of passion, culture, scant clothing. And drinking.”

“Hey?! You can’t go around telling just anyone what you’re told in confidence!” I object.

“And now I’m just anyone to you,” Dorian complains and hands me one of the glasses.

Varric crosses his arms and laughs. Blackwall sits down at the table again.

“Alright, alright, fair’s fair. Here, two bronze. Your next game’s on me,” the dwarf concedes and drops two coins on the table in front of me.

We’re joined by others, in the following hours. Lace Harding, the reigning arm wrestling champion, sits down at the table and discusses some kind of sport — later I find out it’s jousting — with Blackwall. Harritt the smith comes by and scoffs at my excited smile, and the Inquisition’s newly arrived surgeon tells horrifying, distracting tales of amputating gangrenous toes during the Blight as she fleeces the table. Closer to midnight Commander Rutherford skulks through the tavern and exchanges some words with Blackwall about the ramparts.

Past midnight, the tavern grows louder, and several hands of Diamondback later I find myself somehow seven bronze richer. I pick up the coins and inspect them in the light of the table’s dwindling candle. There’s a profile of a man with a long nose on one side. I clear my throat and address the remaining company at the table.

“This has been a delight. Blackwall, Dorian, thank you for inviting me here, and for the company. And,” I blink to let a wave of vertigo pass, “the most excellent beverages.”

“Melina, always a pleasure,” Blackwall greets me.

“No. Leaving so soon?” Dorian sets down our third bottle of wine. 

“Some of us have work in the mornings. Skins won’t dehair themselves.”

“I’ll walk you out,” he decides, and I nod. 

The cold night air is sobering, but my head feels comfortably cushioned by drink and my cheeks are hot to the touch. I already know that I will feel excruciatingly terrible once I wake up in the morning. Where do I sleep again? No recollection. I lean back against the tavern wall and laugh. My head is spinning.

“Unless I’m completely mistaken, you seemed to enjoy yourself in there.”

Dorian’s eyes are slightly glazed over, but other than that he holds his liquor surprisingly well.

“You know what? I really did. I’m glad you orchestrated this.”

“Despite what I said, I had little hand in this. I may have put forth the idea,” he concedes.

“So was it Blackwall? Why?”

Dorian gives me a sidelong glance and raises one of those perfectly kempt eyebrows.

“Nevermind, Dorian.  I’m glad whoever did, did it.”

“You know, I couldn’t help notice you’ve made eyes at a certain other eligible bachelor.”

My face flushes red, I can feel it. So he noticed me checking out Varric? A nervous giggle escapes me.

“Oh, that was definitely just the wine. I wasn’t seriously considering Varric...”

“No, not that . Although I don’t blame you, our dwarven friend carries a certain charismatic charm. Solas ,” he says, gentler.

I can’t stop the flash of stormy eyes, the hint of a smile, a flick of a wrist, from passing through my mind, fading with a strange twist in my stomach.

“I do not make eyes at him,” I protest meekly, “And even if I did look into his deep blue eyes, he’s arrogant and insufferable. He called me a child. That's a… a terrible slight where I come from! And he’s tall! And regardless, Lavellan has his eyes set on him.”

Dorian gives me another sidelong glance.

“And that’s— That’s all I will say on this subject.”

“Alright, Melina.”

We stand in silence for a while. I can smell Dorian’s sandalwood perfume, and glance at his well-combed hair.

“How about you? Anyone you haven’t made eyes at?”

He laughs, a sad sound, shaking his head.

“No,” he answers quietly, turning his gaze to the other patrons stumbling loudly out of the Herald’s Rest. “I— I prefer the company of men.”

“And I like men, women and others. So really, no men of the Inquisition tickle your fancy?” 

I blink at another wave of vertigo, leaning my hands against the wall. The cold stones are soothing, grounding. His expression changes, becomes less bleak. A thought hits me. 

“Wait. Are same-sex relations frowned upon here?”

I know homophobia is common in some eras on Earth, but I hadn’t considered it could be the case here. Dorian laughs again.

“Here, as in on the border between Ferelden and Orlais? No, and yes. I think the Orlesians see it as a mere ‘quirk of character’. But in Tevinter, my father has a delightful ripe noble girl plucked out and set aside for me.”

“Haven’t you told him?” I ask, oblivious to the, in retrospect obvious, acid in his tone.

He doesn’t reply, but instead he gives me another sidelong glance before staring out at the Skyhold courtyard.

“Have you had any more time events since Haven?”

I suppress a burp. Time events , I guess that’s a good enough description for the calendarium’s capricious whims.

“Not since Haven, I think.” I give the tech a suspicious glare, hoping it won’t lash out at me again. It’s still sore from mentioning Stockholm. “And now the Inquisitor’s out of town, that’s another huge headache less.”

It’s a wonderful, cleansing sound, the laugh that Dorian lets out.

Somehow I take a wrong turn on the short walk across the yard to my dungeon door. By the time I realize I’m lost, my feet feel comfortably round and my mind is elated, and there’s that wonderful sense of quiet safety, that peace, that Skyhold cradles me in. In a large round room I lay myself down for a few hours on a beautiful divan, a few coins in my pocket and a smile on my lips, as night turns into dawn.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: Bristles and Breeches

Tanning really stinks. While I slowly become immune to the smell, not the same can be said for the people around me. It’s during the third week that I notice that people treat me differently because of my smell. At first it’s subtle; leaving a seat between at the Herald’s Rest, Harritt asking to walk outside with me rather than meet in the smithy, but as the days pass, and I work on dehairing and washing the first dozen hides, the paths around me grow more convex. I reek. The smell lingers on me, follows me around Skyhold; it’s stuck to my hair and clothes. Little by little, I start avoiding people in return, and spend most of my time in the Dungeons with only the odd Inquisition prisoner for company.

Friday night’s card game is cancelled due to Varric riding out to greet a friend, and secretly I’m a little relieved — no need to come up with an excuse, or stink up the tavern; instead I spend the evening alone, and likewise I find myself alone on Saturday night in the bath house after everyone else has bathed in turns. I sit and soak my aching legs in the lukewarm leftover water of the low wooden bathtub. 

It’s a little strange but wonderful to have the whole bath house to myself, and I hum on one of my mother’s old favorite songs until I catch myself. It’s so late in the night that I watch stray stars of unfamiliar constellations through the ragged hole in the ceiling. Gatsi’s men did very good work at the aqueducts, directing water from the mountain stream directly to the stone vats of the communal bath house and the privy, but an intact roof isn’t deemed essential. 

Every splash of water echoes in the dark and blissfully quiet space, and when I close my eyes it’s as if I can see the rushing of the river, hear the phantom rumbling running below the dungeons in my ears. I let out a slow sigh, and run my fingers along my wet curls of hair. 

I have high hope for the particularly potent almond and dawn lotus oil, recommended by lady Josephine for the frizzled ends. The blue bottle the size of a thimble cost me close to all of my wages, but, upon uncorking, the bottle releases a sweet and rich fragrance of moringa that reawakens my dulled sense of smell that seems almost worth it on its own. I set it down on the damp linen towel on the floor next to my bath. 

Leaning back I slowly start to rinse out the tallow soap from my hair with a ladleful of water. The soapy water flows down my face and back leaving goosebumps in its wake. 

The next morning I wake up and decide it’s time to do laundry. My braids are still damp to the touch from bathing, but my Thedosian shift and cotton smalls that I washed at the bath house have dried during the night, and I pull them on. They smell faintly of the Inquisition issue tallow soap, and they’ve stiffened from the wash. 

My trusted shawl has been missing for some time and despite turning my footlocker upside down I can’t find it, so frustrated I throw the rest of my clothing — my wraparound skirt, my underpants and bra, my jean jacket, and my blouse — down on my elevator platform, and jump in. Then I loosen the rope to lower myself down to the little wooden platform. It’s right at the level of the river, and Gatsi’s men only begrudgingly agreed to build it, muttering about workplace safety. Perhaps they’re right, since so far I’ve already zapped once, from some unfortunately positioned soap. 

The wooden terrace is wet under my bare feet like the deck of a sailboat, as I cross it to the front, trying not to look at the dark water of the Skyhold river runs through. The platform isn’t large — perhaps two meters on one side and one-and-a-half on the other — but the contraption makes it far easier to wash the hides than hoisting buckets up to the floor would be. 

I scrub my overskirt in the stream of the waterfall with an old brush from the stables, crouching, staring out over the mountains. The first days the sight made my knees buckle, but now it’s merely breathtaking how the sun strokes the snow on the mountaintops, how birds of prey sway in the currents of the wind far above on the sky. How the Inquisition scouts patrol the area, shrunk smaller than ants by the distance, mere pinpoints on the horizon.

There’s stains on the green-grey fabric, from tanning, hairs of unknown origin, the aforementioned porridge. Blood? I pause. 

Mine? Possible. Does it matter? Not really. I sigh, longing for the simple luxuries of home. Well, specifically — a washing machine. Clean hair, shampoo. Scottish breakfast tea, chocolate biscuits. Having a thin slice of mozzarella while cooking. Salad lunches, but also french fries. Lounging on my bed. Riding the underground to work. Wearing sweatpants. Wearing a t-shirt and jeans. Listening to a good playlist of Queen, Janelle Monáe, and Cleverminds. Watching a movie with— 

The soap slips in my grip. My fingers are shaking from the icy water. The ache in my left hand and wrist seems to be worse again now that the Inquisitor’s party has returned.  To top it all off, the pain from revealing my home city’s name hasn’t faded completely, but rather itches like a day-old mosquito bite, like a burn half healed. The fingers cramp. I shake the hand to rid the numbness and alleviate the pain. 

I draw back my sleeve. The coil on the calendarium has barely shifted during my weeks in Thedas, and today’s tally is… 227. Can I survive like this for another… seven months? And how much time will have passed when I return? I close my eyes, sit down from my crouch, and draw a shaking breath.

Brows furrowed, I dip the skirt in the river again. 

Obviously, it’s strictly against the rules of time travel to reveal any information of a future, or imply a future origin to people of the past, or risk the timeline through creating something like a grandfather paradox. But I’m not in the past, so why does this device still react? What timeline is there a risk of fucking up — I’m living in my present here, am I not? It all feels so very unfair. 

“You’re not making this any easier,” I accuse the marking. It doesn’t reply.

I wish I could just be honest with someone, but revealing something as simple as the word ‘Stockholm’ was apparently too much for this timeline. It would feel so good to just talk to anyone — even these mortal children — without fear of directives, calendarium or retribution. Because while the pain in the calendarium was bad, I know it was just a warning of what would happen if I let them get too close to me. 

“Master Melina! A missive!”

I spin around at the sound, lose my footing, stumble, and… drop the skirt. The messenger and I stare as it goes flying down the waterfall, running further and further with the water. 

And still, I can’t help but laugh as I turn to the messenger, unceremoniously wiping my hands off on my shift. 

The poor man’s eyes fling wide with surprise and embarrassment.

“Perfect timing,” I shout back at him. 

“I’m... I’m terribly, terribly sorry! I...” but the rest of what the young man is stuttering is drowned by the rushing of the river. 

Once back on dry land a piece of yellow plaid becomes a makeshift loincloth, and I strap on my belt as I dismiss the messenger. My left hand fingers protest as I unroll the tiny scroll.

 The missive, crumpled by the messenger’s sweaty hands, is short and written in quartermaster Ser Morris’ sprawling hand. 

“Ser Solas requests, ” it starts.

Dark blue eyes flash before me. Drops of cold sweat creep up my neck, and I draw a breath, and count to ten before I read on. 

“Ser Solas requests a selection of brushes for use with fresh cows .” 

My eyebrows rise. While I have no interest in helping this particular man with anything, this could be a way to cross off at least one of the favours I owe him. But brushes for cows? I splay the note out on my desk, considering the implications if I do have to adopt the craft of brushmaking. Would I be binding brushes for the stables next? What do I even have for bristles? Druffalo hair?

I rummage through my selection of materials, but come up with nothing, until I pause with the wolf pelt in hand. My eyes narrow.

Fresh cows ? That doesn’t sound quite like the Solas I’ve come to know of. I massage my temples and think of ways to avoid asking him in person. I’ve been putting it off for as long as I can, finding subtle and not so subtle ways to avoid him as well as Inquisitor Lavellan since their return. At least they’ve spent most of that time together, if the calendarium can be trusted. 

It’s not that I dislike him, but being close to him is… I scoff, staring out over the mountains. Even looking at the man is a reminder of my blunder. There’s no reason to care, but I feel like an idiot when I speak to him, and it’s far too dangerous to want to impress someone.

Still, a chance to settle one of the three favours? If I get them done early, perhaps my infraction won’t have any consequence. There’s also the matter of the worsening effects of the calendarium . With another frustrated scoff I grab the missive and head to the fort in search of the man in question.

A soft chant drifts on the wind with the voices of the devout. I pass by the chapel of Andraste on my way through the Skyhold fort in search of the man who I owe three favors. 

The rotunda is cast in the soft golden morning light of the windows on the third floor. As I step through its doors, my ears burn with embarrassment when I recognize the space. Drunk as a skunk, I slept in this room, unaware it was Solas’s workspace. I spot him by the wall, and as I watch him I forget my indignation. 

Despite the early hour and his habit of sleeping in, the mage Solas is up and about, quite literally. He’s precariously balancing atop wooden scaffolding, wielding a crayon in one hand and a large sheet of thin parchment strewn with notes and sketches in the other.

I walk into the room quietly and watch him work. He moves with determination, as if he’s practiced every stroke of the sanguine beforehand, as if they’re steps in an intricate dance. He’s dressed in that sun-bleached green undershirt again, and there are faint smudges of the terracotta chalk along his thighs. No, I correct myself, feeling heat rise to my ears, I’m most definitely not staring at his thighs.

I clear my throat, and clutch my hands behind my back to keep from touching the glowing rock on his desk. 

“Ser Solas. I got the message that you want me to make brushes for… fresh cows.”

“Melina,” he greets me coolly without turning, and draws another decisive line on the limewashed wall. “The request was not addressed to you by name. The Inquisition finds new uses for you by the hour, it would seem,” he adds.

“Hmm. It seems we all have our hidden depths,” I reply, and walk over to the wall, next to the wooden scaffolding. “Is this going to be a mural?”

“Indeed,” he replies, eyebrows furrowing over his sketch. I clear my throat again.

“So, what fibers would you prefer? I’ve never made brushes for fresh cows before.”

“For the brushes? I trust your professional opinion.”

My professional opinion? I shoot him a curious glance, but the man doesn’t seem to heed me any mind. His full lips move, ever so slightly, as if he’s talking to himself, immersed in his work. 

I need to do some detective work, then. My eyes fall on the divan that he keeps in the room. There’s an assortment of ancient and dusty glass jars on it. Next to them, my shawl, which I must have left when I slept here. I press it into a ball in my hands, then clear my throat and turn to inspect the jars.

“Are these the pigments for your painting?”

“Minerals, finely ground.”

I squat to look more closely at the colorful powders. Some look earthly and familiar, like umber and ochre, but there’s blues and greens that look lifted straight out of medieval manuscripts, and a wonderful turquoise that looks positively glowing. I carefully pick up the jar, and watch the powdered pigment dust sparkle as it whiffs around the jar.

“What are you using for binder?”

“Water.”

I’m an idiot. Paint brushes. For frescoes.

“A fresco!” I exclaim, taking in the lime plaster of the walls, before I catch myself. The soft scratching against the wall ceases. 

“Yes. You are familiar with the technique, then?”

A degree in art history, and a trip to the Renaissance in Milan, but that I can’t say. I school my face into a small smile, and meet the man’s gaze for the first time. There’s a smudge of charcoal on the side of his nose. I cover my mouth to hide my chuckle. 

“In passing,” I say, looking back at the pigments, hoping my knowledge doesn’t make me seem too suspicious. “I didn’t realize there were... contemporary practitioners,” I finish the sentence.

“Not many, if... any,” he replies.

“Is it an ancient technique?”

Solas resumes his sketching, straightening his back ever so slightly.

“One can learn of many forgotten arts in the Fade,” he replies.

The Fade , there’s that word again. His eyes meet mine as he says it, as if in challenge.  I wet my lips, and bite.

“The Fade. I’ve heard talk of it before, but I must admit, I know very little of it. It sounds remarkable. And a little dangerous.”

“It truly is both. But, with the right precautions, the Fade is no more a danger to you than the world of the living. Spirits mean us no harm, but rather, reflect our feelings. There is much we can learn from them, if we are simply willing to listen.”

“Another forgotten art,” I say.

“Truly,” he replies, eyes sparkling with something I can’t quite place. Curiosity? I have the strangest feeling that I’ve just been evaluated and found worthy. Of what, I can’t say. I clear my throat.

“I hope you will tell me more one day. When you have the time, of course. And I hope you will tell me more about the fresco, as well, but, in the meantime… could these brushes be one of the favors?” I add the last part in little more than a whisper.

“Perhaps,” he counters, and returns to his work.

I bite my lip, steel myself.

“I might need... another favor from you. To be able to complete this one, so perhaps, we could consider it a trade?”

His hand stills, crayon against the wall. A moment passes. 

“Relating to the pain in your arm,” he says, voice softer than I would have expected.

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Your fingers are showing, ah, signs of tension.”

Are they? I look down at my hand, but it looks no different. My eyes flit back to him as he gracefully swings down from the scaffolding, crossing the floor to where I’m standing. 

He’s not that much taller than I, but I feel quite small as he takes my hand into his. He turns the palm up. His tone is very gentle, much like his pale hands.

“Is it very painful?”

Words are hard to find in my blank mind.

“Not… at the moment,” I manage.

“May I?”

I hesitate. There’s a real possibility that the device decides his inspection is enough to warrant another shock of pain, but as he looks into my eyes I find myself nodding. He pushes my sleeve up to my elbow, and his fingers graze against my skin. The gentle touch sends a shiver down my spine. I swallow, watch as his eyes scan the calendarium . 

He traces over the marking with his index finger. There’s a strange tingle, a slight green shimmer around his hand. Tendrils of green light wrap around my wrist, like the feelers on an insect. A sharp and familiar smell of ozone fills the air as he works his spell. 

And while magic is fascinating, I secretly study his face. The concentration is palpable. He seems as if he’s deep in thought. I hold my breath.

“The pattern is different,” he finally says.

“How could it be,” I whisper.

He doesn’t push it.

“It is not of magical origin, yet it gives off an aura similar to that of Magister Alexius’s amulet,” he says and leans closer. 

I draw a sharp breath, and pull my hand back to myself.

“ For me to treat the issue, I have to understand how it works. What does it do?” he asks, switching to his ancient language.

I pause. Can I tell him? 

His expression is open, earnest. Despite my dislike for the man, there’s something in the calm way he addresses me that makes me want to trust him. I want to be honest to him; tell him that it’s alien technology. I can’t. I can’t breach the directive. But perhaps the functionality that’s literally giving me headaches isn’t completely unheard of to these people. 

He gives me the smallest hint of a smile. I swallow, tempted.

“It… Does a few things,” I admit after a while, turning my eyes away, adding in his language, “But the most troublesome one is that it enhances the aura of people around me.”

I brace myself. The calendarium doesn’t burn; the zap doesn’t happen. 

Auras are apparently everyday phenomena to these people.

“All people?” Solas asks sharply.

“Not... all people,” I reply after a while.

“Who, then, if I may ask?”

“Those… who make things happen. The movers and shakers,” I find myself saying.

“Fascinating. How does it work?” he asks and cradles his chin.

Well. That’s one of the questions I was dreading.

“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully.

“You don’t know?” He looks as if he doesn’t believe me, but I nod. “There are others like you?”

“I doubt you’ll ever find another,” I say and shrug.

“How did you come to have it?”

“I… I asked for it to be made. I decided early on in my life that I want to observe and study,” I answer after a while. “I watch the world from the sidelines. To do so, I need to keep off the path of those who need to stay on theirs.”

His eyebrows furrow. His sharp eyes meet mine.

“Why would you choose that?”

“I am here... to aid, to support, to observe, but not to change, not to force my will. We cannot change the past,” I say.

He stares back at me.

“I hope that sates your curiosity,” I finish. 

“It’s a start,” he replies after a while. “What is it you require help with?”

I chuckle.

“Make it… stop?”

He raises an eyebrow. 

“Not completely, but it’s… Inquisitor Lavellan. Whenever she’s near, I get a headache. I can tell from here how far away she is, in which direction. When she’s near it’s like there’s a... a sun in the room,” I say, choosing not to mention the fact that Solas’s glow is just as intense, if better contained.

His lips turn into that hint of a smile, and he takes my hand into his again. I draw a breath, and continue, switching to Elvhen:

“I know not to distract her from her duties, to keep away, out of her path. I know not to interfere; I know her mission is important. But this” , I say, nostrils flaring as I draw a shallow breath and fist my fingers against the pain that blooms up again, “does not trust me. The reminders are not gentle. At Haven, I passed out when she entered the room. I’ve been able to avoid her for now, but you might agree with me that it makes me seem a little… suspicious,” I manage, as the pain subsides.

He nods, with a hum of agreement.

“I don’t know if your magic is enough to help me, but… my only other option is to leave the Inquisition, and I have nowhere in this world to go , ”  I say, keeping my gaze steadily on his.

Solas’s blue eyes reveal nothing, as he looks back at me, before he looks to his hands. His lips purse ever so slightly, as if he’s considering his words carefully. 

“ This is unknown magic, even to me, and thus I cannot guarantee a good outcome. It would be of considerable help if you were more forthcoming about by whom, where and when it was created,” he says, finally.

“Even so,” I reply.

“Take a seat, then,” he says, gesturing at the divan.

Still hesitant, I do as he says, and he takes his seat next to me, leaving some blessed distance between us. Even then, he’s close enough that I can hear his slow and even breath. 

He extends a hand, leaning in, and I give him my left. His fingers move slowly on my bare skin, pausing at the calendarium, and I close my eyes, concentrating on anything except the way his fingers feel on me.

It’s subtle, the way he smells, but there; the pine trees of the outdoors, elfroot, oak apple of the ink on his desk. A faint remnant of spices, like cloves, or cinnamon. A light layer of sweat. And then, well, him.

I blink my eyes open. There’s a glow around his fingers, light green, and it extends out in cord-like tendrils around my wrist where it rests gently in his other hand. The green light travels slowly down my arm toward the calendarium . 

“This is… a spell of containment,” Solas explains, and moves his fingers as if he were writing in the air. I wet my lips. 

The light grows brighter. At first, it glows warm, gentle, but as it inches closer to the copper threads of the subdermal implant it’s as if the calendarium combusts. His brows furrow. 

I gasp in pain. His grip grows harder.  In the bright light of his spell it’s almost as if the coils glow like wolfram threads in a lightbulb.

“It is… resisting. I... Should I proceed?”

I nod, blinking away tears.

There’s a pressure in my head, and my heart beats slow down as a time aberration washes over me, dousing me with nausea. Reality feels horribly dislocated, as if I’m seeing double. Then, just as I’m sure I will zap, and almost taste that ozone at the back of my throat, Solas makes a sudden, mesmerizing, aggressive flick of his wrist. 

The green light explodes with a chiming sound, washes over us, and then, it’s gone. The flash leaves us both short of breath.

Slowed down by the time aberration, I raise my gaze to meet his eyes as my breathing evens out. There’s something unreadable in his expression. Gone is the judgment, the annoyance, replaced by, I don’t know quite what. Recognition? Sympathy? The moment stretches.

And then time flows again, snapping back into place like a rubber band, leaving me gasping for air once again. The glow in the calendarium subsides. There’s an unfamiliar feeling to it, like a pull on the tendons, but it isn’t painful.

Solas looks as if he’s about to say something just as I feel a sense of pressure on my brain, but it is different than before; there’s a coolness to it. The light is still bright, but there’s no pain attached to it when Ellana Lavellan herself walks into the rotunda. 

It’s the first time I’m able to actually look at the leader of the Inquisition. Her steps are light, springy even, and her shoulder-length platinum blonde hair bounces happily around her oval face. She's really, really white; her skin even paler than Solas's. 

For the first time, I see her face; and she’s young, so very young. Her forehead is covered in a beautiful dark tattoo of a tree. 

Even in her simple blue jacket and tan trousers she exudes charisma, accentuated by her calm aura. She looks to us, then to him, with wide, sparklingly green eyes, a beautiful smile spreading across her rosy lips.  She’s gut-punchingly pretty, but in a mundane and very much mortal way. There's no malice, no air of entitlement around her.

And while I wanted to pity her, or hate her, I don't. I can't.

“Thank you, mistress Melina,” Solas says, voice cool and low.

“Likewise, ser Solas,” I reply, and get up.

I nod my head at the leader of the Inquisition to excuse myself, mind racing and heart sinking as I head back to hide in the darkness and solitude of my dungeon to sew trousers and bind brushes.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11:  Head over Heels

The Undercroft is uncharacteristically full of life when I back my way into the space, precariously stepping down the steps, seven tanned hides stacked in my arms. There’s a flurry of people in charge of the Skyhold remodelling, all of which crowd around the dwarven arcanist Dagna, the latest addition to the Inquisition. 

In the month that the Inquisition has inhabited the old fortress, it has gone through quite a transformation. Just last week there were beautiful leadwork windows getting installed, and new banners with the Inquisition’s sunburst sword to replace the moth-bitten yellow velvet around the fortress.

Harritt stands by the wall, poring over a roll of schematics with his signature keep-away-wrinkle between his bushy brows. He won’t fool me, however.

“Harritt?”

“Busy,” he gruffs, without looking up.

“Uh-huh. Important scout hats to design, noted... Not the least bit curious to see how the first tan turned out?”

He looks up, recognition raising his eyebrows.

“Oh, it’s you. Let’s see it, then.”

I set the heavy pile down on a barrel. The red-haired man crosses his arms as I roll out the first of the hides, a side of ram leather. He shakes his head just a little bit. I sigh. This one was one of the better ones, but the surface is kind of uneven in thickness. There’s a hole, right in the middle, from where I pressed too hard during the dehairing. 

Out of the following few sides, Harritt only accepts one for the weaponry. The canine leathers are immediately relegated to civilian use, or, as Harritt puts it: “Bags, boots, chew toys for Mabari.” 

Then, once we get to the buckskins, his eyes light up. When the man inspects the sides he twirls his handlebar mustache approvingly. Small victories.

“These are better. Get them to the smithy. There’s a new pile for you, on salt. Cart’s by the gatehouse. Was sent ahead of the Inquisitor’s party.”

I nod tired but proud, and make a mental note to prepare the ash lye water.

“Any small, furry animals?”

“There’s them little fennecs? Hinterlands are lousy with them. Get caught in friendly fire, from what I was told. Planning a little fur trim?”

I shake my head.

“I had an order for paintbrushes a couple weeks back. But thank you. I’ll keep my eyes open for the… fennecs,” I add with a smile.

Once the bear skins have been unloaded in the smithy, I carry the remaining tanned leathers back down to the dungeons. It stings a little to be told they’re not good enough, but when making armor, I imagine you don’t really want leather as unevenly thick as the pockmarked material I’m left with. I set the leathers down on my table and sit down to work.

My fingers file through the new requests I’ve been sent from requisitions and Ser Morris’s office. Belt for carrying ‘multiple containers of buzzing insects’. Saddle straps for Dennett. Jugs for the tavern. A request for a leather satchel, with place for an inkhorn, and a detailed description of sections and secret pockets, for one Varric Tethras. Dice bag, for Blackwall, and, there’s also a request for boots in his hand, which reminds me—

I fetch the footwraps from next to my bedroll. I haven’t been wearing them since we arrived since they’re too large, but perhaps I could make a pair in my size?

It’s a simple enough construction, a little similar to ancient Roman or Greek buskins but more covering. The clever part of the design is how the fastenings are hidden, creating the illusion of the leather being simply wrapped around the foot haphazardly, while it actually both supports the heel and ankle, and I imagine, protects the balls of the feet and heels on long journeys in hazardous or rocky terrain where grip is essential. 

It took me a while to figure out how to wrap and unwrap them, I remember as I trace the main piece, the one that wraps around the leg, on one of the pieces of subpar canine leather. For the sole reinforcements at the heel I pick out a small piece of the sturdier ram hide.

I’m three-quarters done cutting out the heel when it happens. My knife slips and the blade hits me at the side of my thumb.

“Oh,” is the futile little sound I make when the blood starts welling out. “Oh no. No, no. Fuck,” I cry out when the initial adrenaline fades to reveal a, a pain that...

The pain of the cut is sharp, like the coldness of ice, but burns at the same time. I’m convinced I’ve never felt this way before, but no, this is how it used to feel, before the implants, before the calendarium. 

It’s nothing like the pumping low tension of a headache. Nothing like the shooting pulse of a cramp; no, this is the direct kind of pain that was deemed important and visceral enough — it affects men as well as women, that is — that calendariums were designed to block it. 

All the while, the blood drips out, flooding down my hand onto the dark grey leather.

“Fuck,” I cry out for emphasis, realizing the cut isn’t healing over on its own either.

Gripping my hand I head to the surgeon’s rooms.

And this is how I found out that Solas’s containment spell has quite an obvious downside. I no longer have the instant healing and pain relief of the calendarium.

I burst into the surgery, throwing the door open with my shoulder. I look around the dark space with wild eyes, gripping my bleeding hand, my right hand fingers pressed firmly against the wound. There’s a cold numbness in the wrist and arm that I attribute to the blood I’ve lost.

“I need healing! It’s...”

Is it urgent? I can’t tell. On the bedroll next to me lies a man with an open, festering wound in his shoulder the size of my palm. He groans but doesn’t open his eyes. My wound? 

“... it’s really inconvenient,” I finish weakly. 

The surgeon calmly gets up from tending to a jar of leeches and gives me a once over, reaching for a pile of bandages.

“Sit down, will you.”

My ass hits a bed roll. She hunches down next to me and slowly pries my fingers open.

“Clean cut on clean hands. Good for you,” she says and wipes off some of the blood with a less-than clean rag. “You’re the tanner, aren’t you?”

“That’s me,” I reply, and wince as she lays down a layer of green paste that stings even worse on the skin than in my nose. She pauses with a roll of fabric strips in her hands.

“I need slings,” she says and points behind her, “ones I have are too threadbare to do any good.”

“Alright,” I reply.

“Quality leather ones. Adjustable.”

“Alright, alright.”

“Not straight away. You shouldn’t use your hands for a week or so.”

“Of course,” I say, and watch as blood starts pooling at the wound, again, accompanied by a searing pain.

“And make them sturdy. Those warriors won’t stop flailing their arms around to save a life. The bones won’t set, and then Rutherford comes for my hide.”

I nod fervently. She gives me a slap on my back.

“Good. Let’s patch you up.”

A week off from working on leathers. I sit down on the grass outside the surgery and kick a brick next to me in frustration, staring at the bandaged hand. What is there to do?

Harritt is busy looking busy, and Dagna is actually busy, although simply watching her work would be absolutely fascinating except that I’d be dodging questions like hail in a summer storm. Half the inner circle is still out with the Inquisitor, including Blackwall, and Tethras, so there won’t be a Diamondback game to distract tomorrow. Who’s she left behind this time?

I spot the Iron Bull, sharpening his huge meat cleaver of a sword on the whetstone of the supply tent. He’s very nonchalant about it, like usual, but I get the feeling he’s been keeping an eye on me for a few weeks at this point. I let my gaze wander further. There’s Cassandra Pentaghast, who’s been giving the training dummy a very hard time lately. According to Cabot the barkeep, she almost had Varric gutted about some bird he’d kept hidden on the ramparts. Right now she’s sitting in the shade, sipping from a waterskin. 

Some Chantry sisters pass by, murmuring their chant. 

“ For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's Light,” a snippet carries on the wind to where I’m sitting. I shake my head at the irony and head into the fortress keep.

On the other hand, I reflect as I walk up the stairs, perhaps a week off from leathers gives me an opportunity to spend some time in the Skyhold library without raising suspicions. The first mezzanine of the rotunda is the workspace of the accountants and creature researchers, and I do my best to stay quiet as I walk into the space. 

Half the dark wooden shelves still gape empty. With shaking hands I lift a particularly old and frail-looking tome from the shelf, turning it over. There’s no title printed on the leatherbound cover. I turn the first few pages, and hold my breath. I am greeted with…

Annals of the Boyet merchant company in the Orlesian coastal city of Jader. Page up and page down, sprawling notes on shipments of grain, metal ore, produce, and gambling debts settled through means of, mainly, wine.

With an amused sigh I set the book aside, and look through the shelves for something more useful, until a rather more interesting volume sticks out. 

Cracking the book open on the title page, my eyebrows rise. Tale of the Champion by Varric Tethras. My lips turn into a grin. Granted, I would have killed for a copy of Thedas For Dummies, but, as I skim the first few pages, this semi-autobiographical novel looks quite promising.

I tuck the book under my arm, and continue my exploration; pulling out a book here on herbal medicinal drinks, a collection of letters from a Circle mage there, until I reach a more decorated spoke of the library and hear a strange sound. 

Peeking around the shelf I spot one napping Dorian. The mage has fallen asleep with a book over his head. He’s snoring lightly. I suppress a chuckle and head downstairs.

The sketch is beautiful, and I have no doubt that the fresco will be a sight to behold despite that I have no idea what it will depict. The charcoal strokes Solas has drawn are precise and measured, and still so lively. 

It’s a little infuriating that the man apparently is a skilled artist, in addition to a healer and the Inquisitor’s beau. I bite my lip and sit down on his divan in protest, tucking my dirty feet under me. The plush velvet is smooth, and the upholstered piece of furniture is sinfully comfortable, as I let Varric’s words transport me into the end of the Fifth Blight.

“Melina. Are you here about the brushes again?”

I jump at the sudden voice, and my eyes fly up from the book to meet a blue pair. 

“Solas! Aren’t you out in the, with… the Inquisitor…?”

“Inquisitor Lavellan believed my research here is more important than my company. Thus, I have returned early.”

“Oh.”

He’s carrying a thick pile of books. There’s a smudge of ink on his right hand. “It would seem we share an interest in reading,” he says, looking at me with a curious expression.

“Anything to take my mind off this,” I say with a sidled smile and hold up my bandaged hand.

His eyes dart to my arm. Concern furrows his brows.

“Let me heal that,” he says, and sets down his pile of books next to me on the divan.

“No,” I say, “I… It was my carelessness. I need to learn from this lesson. Besides, I wouldn’t want to owe you yet another favor,” I say and meet his gaze. “But thank you for the offer.”

“I feel partially responsible...” he says, and my heart skips a beat, wondering how he knows it actually is his fault, before he finishes: “... you were hurt working on the brush request for me.”

“Oh. No. I was making footwraps. I was given a pair in the Frostbacks, but they weren’t my size. Ingenious design though,” I say.

Solas nods. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then hesitates. 

“Was there anything else?” I ask, keeping my voice light.

He looks around, as if to make sure we’re alone. Then he addresses me, expression conflicted.

“I… wish to apologize, Melina.”

My eyebrows rise.

“Really? What for?”

He shifts his hands behind his back. His voice is gentle, as are his eyes, when he speaks.

“It was ill considered of me to request anything of you in return for basic kindness. We are allies in this fight, and… you should not need to consider yourself beholden to me, nor hesitate to ask for healing.” 

My mouth opens on its own, and I study his face. Why this sudden change of heart? I meet the man’s uncertain gaze. I wet my lips.
All I wanted was to find a way to circumvent the favors I owe this man. But now that I can, suddenly, sticking to my word is a choice. Retrospectively, so much pain could have been avoided had I just taken the offered olive branch.

“I keep my promises,” I say, voice and gaze steady. “Perhaps it can be the beginning of our... friendship?”

“ As you wish ,” he says with a nod. “Please excuse me,” he adds, jaw tense. Puzzled, I stare after the man as he heads for the Throne Hall. 

Did I make the right decision? Mind filled with questions, I’m about to leave and take the kitchen exit out when something hits me in the back, knocking me further off balance.

“What the everloving -?” I exclaim.

“Shit” , comes a familiar voice as Dorian leans over the railing, the Tevene expletive slipping from his lips. There’s abject horror in his face, but at the sight of my annoyance he straightens up in mock indignance. “Well, if it isn’t my friend Melina sneaking off without so much as a greeting. And to think we shared wine yesternight.”

I stare and try to look menacing. It obviously backfires.

“ Fine , since you insist, I will come down,” the mage says. His steps echo demonstratively as he walks down the staircase. “Apologies for the literary projectile. It wasn’t aimed at you,” the mage explains as he swoops down to sit on the desk.

“Hmm, so it just went flying of its own accord?” I pick up the book, and walk up to him. “Or were you hoping to hit Solas?”

“Ha! This poor old tome can’t help it’s so belligerently outdated that it floats away like dust in the air,” he says and takes the book from my hands. “But again, I am sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” I chuckle, crossing my arms. “Just don’t chuck more books in my general direction, hmm? So, what’s up with you?”

“Well…” He gives the stone block on the table next to him a poke. “... these shards are fascinating , don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” I say. 

Dorian picks up one of the bottles of pigment. The finely ground green dust swirls around in the dusty glass. “And what are these, anyway? Some type of refined mineral? Poison?”

“They’re pigments.” I patiently take the bottle from his hand, and put it back on the table.

“Come again?”

“They’re for his mural.”

“Oh. Really? Well. I suppose you’d know if Solas was planning to spruce up this place?”

Dorian winks at me, and I can feel my ears heat up.

“I… actually came to read?” I say, and hold up the copy of Tale of the Champion as protection. 

“Your first Tethras? I’m fairly certain I saw Varric himself place that copy in the library,” Dorian says.

“Really? It has some fun scribbles in the margins, actually,” I say, passing the book to Dorian. 

His eyes light up as he looks at the pages. 

“Oh indeed! ‘That’s laying it heavy, Tethras ’, ‘ I did not lose a pint of blood. Lost two. Small blessings having Anders around ’... Oh my, my favorite scene with Fenris, annotated! Are these by the Champion himself? Let me read you something, as a little teaser.”

I let my gaze drift around the rotunda and lean back against the desk, as I listen to Dorian read his favourite passage. It’s surprisingly tame.

“That was lovely,” I thank him when he’s done.

He closes the book, and when I glance at the man, he’s smiling to himself. 

“So. To make up for flinging that book at me, you could tell me who it is that put such a becoming smile on your cheeks,” I say, somehow managing to switch to Tevene for those few words. 

Dorian positively blushes.

“Ah, see, in Tevene we use that word for cheek to refer to...”

“Oh, I am aware,” I say with a grin. It’s a phrase I heard him use one particularly wine-cushioned evening, when Dorian regaled us with an epic poem about a rather lovesick magister. 

“You would certainly be a revelation at the tea houses of Minrathous.” 

I detect a hint of uncharacteristic caution in the man’s words. He suddenly seems intent on inspecting his own nails. I study his face and cross my arms.

“Spill it, Altus.”

“Well. I was wondering about your history with the Imperium, is all. I hope you don’t mind me asking.”

“I don’t… have one. Never been. Why?”

Dorian breathes out a small sigh of relief, but still avoids my gaze. There’s regret in his voice when he speaks.

“You are an elf, and your name, Melina, means honey. It’s a common... endearment, of sort, in Tevene.”

“Oh,” I say. “So?”

“In Tevinter, elves are held as slaves.”

My heart sinks as I realize the implications. I had hoped this world would be free of a legacy of supremacy and colonialism. At home, on Earth, it has touched every single nation, colored history with blood and poverty and injustice. Even Sweden had a colony with plantation slaves, in the eighteenth century. 

“Is it common?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Is that why the people of Southern Thedas can’t stand Tevinter?”

The mage laughs.

“Oh no, dear, nothing quite so noble lies at the heart of that conflict, and nothing I can even begin to explain. But I imagine the main reason is that Tevinter is ruled by the Magisterium. By mages. These southerners believe mages need to be kept locked up and guarded, which is nonsense. We also have a different view on the Maker, and Andraste. We have our own Divine. Would you like a full lecture?” he adds, but he sounds more rattled than sarcastic.

“Do you own slaves, Dorian?”

He sighs.

“My family does,” he admits, eyes turned down.

“I see,” I say, heart sinking. 

Here’s a man who I almost consider a friend, who has confided in me, and comforted me, and shared wine with me, and this man’s status was wrought on slave labour. On the other hand, it now makes even more sense to me he would be reluctant to return. I clear my throat.

“I... think I will go read now,” I say, avoiding his eyes.

I end up spending most of the following five days reading, and learn some of the history of Ferelden cheese, and the practice of keeping mages at Circles, but I stay out of Dorian’s way. The Inquisition’s creature researcher, a woman called Helisma, calmly answers some of my questions concerning demons, brought on by me reading a particularly disturbing account of possession.

In the evenings, I treat myself to weak tea in the kitchens, and listen to the kitchen staff — all elves — gossip about the Inquisition’s noble guests based on their experiences working in Orlais, the Free Marches and Ferelden. Perhaps one day the snippets about life in the Verchiel and Redcliffe and Kirkwall alienages might come in handy, but the poverty, the racism, the lack of opportunities, and the injustice these people face gnaws at my conscience in the nights. I can’t help but wonder who I’d be if I had been born in Thedas instead of on Earth. But I also am starting to see some eerie parallels between this world and mine. 

It doesn’t hurt, but the wound takes time to heal; it’s as if my body has forgotten how. When I return to the surgery for the third time in five days for a change of bandages, the surgeon looks at my hand with a concerned wrinkle between her brows as she unwraps the fabric. I can’t watch.

“We might have to amputate,” she says, face all serious.

I feel the blood drain from my face.

“I am jesting,” she calms me, and grabs some moss to clean the spindleweed paste from my skin. “It’s healed over nicely, hasn’t festered. You’ll only have a scar to remember it by,” she says and points out the slightly raised patch of pink skin, roughly shaped like a comma.

It’s my first scar. I gently stretch the skin around it, marvelling at what my body has done, mostly on its own.

Next morning I check on the new batch of skins, the ones which Harritt sent some of his apprentices to put in lye once he heard of my injury. They’re looking good — apart from the poor fennecs. Someone threw them in the mix, and I fish them up with a stick and send them down the river. 

A missive calls me to Lady Josephine’s office at midday. I clean off my hands, put on my cleaner pair of trousers and a tan tunic that the Skyhold laundry mistakenly delivered to me instead of a shirt. I strap on my belt, and pull my hair up into a bun.

“Melina! I have been able to locate clay for you.”

The lady Ambassador’s smile is radiant as she greets me. 

“How wonderful,” I reply, returning the smile. 

She gestures me to her private fireplace. I follow, and perplexed, I sit down in the plush chair she points me to. It’s even softer than Solas’s divan, and feels nigh divine to recline on something so soft. 

“I heard the news of your injury. Are you well?”

“Oh. Yes. I’m back at work.”

“I am happy to hear that,” she says and hands me a tiny cup of something dark and hot. My eyebrows lift as the smell hits my nose. My eyes go wide when I recognise it.

“Is this…”

“Antivan coffee. A speciality.”

Reverently I lift the cup to my lips and take a first sip of the beverage. It’s a frothy, strong brew, with notes of plum and chocolate, spiced with cardamom. I close my eyes and let the taste rest on my tongue. Lady Josephine makes a girly giggle at my obscene expression.

“I take it you appreciate the coffee?”

“You have no idea. Thank you,” I say.

“It is but a little token of the Inquisition’s gratitude for your work for us. However, there is a… more pressing matter, for us to discuss.”

“Oh?”

She sits down and takes a sip of her coffee.

“The Inquisition has been invited to a Grand Ball, a masquerade, at the Orlesian Winter Palace in Halamshiral. It is a big honor for such a young organisation as the Inquisition, but… We do not have an appropriate wardrobe.”

“I see. I take it you need help on that front, unless the Orlesians decided to invite me as well?”

“Sadly, no,” she laughs. “Indeed, we would like your help.”

“When will the Grand Ball take place?”

“In three weeks, in the new year. I have decided on a uniform, to present a united front. I had the design prepared,” she says, wringing her hands, then fetches a small sketch from her desk.

It’s a military-style dress uniform, with leather reinforcements at the shoulders, and leather greaves. A sash has been drawn from shoulder to hip, and there’s a belt as well. Simple to the eye, but complex construction.

“I’m not this good at sewing,” I say.

The ambassador nods.

“Since the schedule is tight, the uniforms will not be bespoke. We have my clothier, from Val Royeaux, who will bring the uniforms for tailoring. You would assist her.”

“I… can I postpone my work at the tannery?”

Lady Josephine nods. I set the sketch aside.

“Alright. Who will the lady Inquisitor bring along to this Palace?” 

“Myself. Leliana. Cullen. Cassandra. Sera. Solas. And, well, there is also the matter of… footwear.”

I nod, adding shoes to my mental list of things I did not expect to have to learn to make.

“But,” she hesitates, “I believe it is only the Inquisitor herself, and Solas, who require shoes made. Solas agreed to wear a pair of shoes my clothier will bring, but, lady Ellana… As you may know, the Orlesians are… Unappreciative of elves as it is. I was hoping, as an elven woman of merit, you could talk to her.”

“I have never spoken to the lady Inquisitor directly, and I’ve never in my life been to Orlais.”

“And yet you carry yourself with a... social grace that she could learn from.”

I stare at lady Montilyet in disbelief. Granted, I’ve been careful, but social grace?. Lady Montilyet diplomatically yields first.

“It’s... Well, the Orlesians call it the Great Game. And lady Ellana refuses to play. She believes the Inquisition should not intervene in Orlesian affairs, but rather, let the warring parties exhaust each other,” the woman admits, with some level of reluctance. I study her face. 

“So you accepted the invitation on her behalf,” I say slowly.

She makes a face.

“Well, not quite…”

“... against her wishes? Why?”

“It is an opportunity the Inquisition simply cannot-”

“No, I mean... Why doesn’t she want to take part? Forgive me for interrupting,” I add.

“Oh. It is… complicated. The political situation in the empire is... dangerously unstable, and there has been a threat to empress Celene’s life. We believe the guise of the Great Ball is the perfect moment for an assassin to strike.”

I nod her to continue.

“However, lady Ellana has no love for empress Celene due to her treatment of elves in Orlais, nor for the contender for the throne, Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons, because of his chevalier background. I think her precise wording was, how did she put it, ‘Dread Wolf take the Blighted lot of them for what they’ve done to the Plains clans and the elves of Halamshiral’.”

 “I see,” I reply, but feel more confused than ever.

Lady Josephine sighs and hands me a plate of biscuits. I accept one hesitantly.

“All I ask is you talk to her, please.”

The last notes of ginger from the biscuits linger in my mouth as I bid Lady Josephine farewell. A heap of questions about this world, and the Inquisition’s role in it, bounce around my brain, but I’ve barely stepped outside the main doors of Skyhold keep when a hand on my shoulder stops me.

I spin around to look straight into the eyes of one Sera.

“Hey, Pottypants! Why didn’t you come greet us?” she accuses and gives my shoulder a shove for good measure.

“You’re back already? I thought...” 

“Wha’? Well, yeah?! We came last night? Right big party in the Herald’s Rest, Varric’s treat 'n all.”

“I was… reading…” 

The girl crinkles her nose.

“Ugh, boring! And you smell like nug shit. What you smell like nug shit for?”

“That’s what tanners smell like?” I say as I start heading across the yard toward my tannery.

“What. You make leathers now?”

She falls into step with me.

“But you said you was a potter?”

I sigh, and massage my neck as we descend the stairs. Now that I know she’s close, I can indeed sense Lavellan, somewhere on the ramparts. I glance at Sera.

“I am, but the Inquisition required porridge. Then leather. And paintbrushes. And slings. And bags. And shoes? So now I’m a cordwainer in training, as well.” I turn to her. “So, what have you been up to for the past month or so?”

It turns out Sera has been up to a lot. She’s apparently part of a shadowy grass-roots organisation called the Red Jennies, and has been orchestrating supply drops and distributing annoyances to nobles around the surrounding countries, in addition to assisting Inquisitor Lavellan in the field. She’s halfway through a captivating tale about the Inquisitor’s party’s encounter with a group of Tevinter mage cultists called Venatori, when we enter the tannery proper.

“... and Bull flings me flying, and I fire off five arrows, schlew, schlew-schlew schlew-schlew, before I land ass-first in the... Eugh, what is that smell?”

“The… tanning process?”

“It reeks.”

“Yup. That it does,” I agree.

In the corner of my eye I can see the young girl pick up my dagger off my workbench.

“Sera?”

She turns her head and smiles innocently at me. I pick up work on my footwraps, measuring out cord for the seam around the ankle reinforcement. She sits down on the table, humming on a happy tune. I clear my throat.
“Do you need anything made? You’re an archer, so… Like a bracer?”

“Already got one.”

“Oh all right. Well, if you need a bracer one day... Or if you need one for another archer, you know where to find me.”

Sera makes a strange whimper of a sound and colors a bright pink. My eyebrow arches.

“You know, for the other Jennies. You have more archers, right?”

“Yeah... the other Jennies. Right. Uh, I got to go. Eh, Jenny business,” she says and scatters. I stare after her, then get back to work. 

The moment she presses her hand to the dungeon door, I can tell. I pause my work on Varric’s satchel, set down my charcoal, adjust the scarf on my shoulders. I look out over the mountains, swallow the bundle of nerves and expectations. Moments later, Ellana Lavellan walks into the tannery like she owns it - which I guess she technically does, after all. 

I watch her watch me and my home. Her aura is not the blinding supernova like in Haven, but rather like the soft sunlight that trickles into the room from the hole in the wall, pure and warm and gentle. Her eyes sweep across the broken foundations, taking in the abandoned cells along the walls, the way the wall has crumbled on the right. The pulleys and the elevator platform. The barrels, the vats that are currently drying against the wall. 

And finally, her eyes land on me as she walks up to my worktable. She sets down her bow and quiver right on my sketches.

“What is that smell ?” she greets me, and flashes a confused smile.

The tension dissipates from the air between us, and I laugh.

“You too? This is the tannery. Strange smells are born here.”

“A tannery? I thought this part of the dungeon was deemed too unstable—”

“Oh it sure is. That there,” I point at a patch of sky, “a week ago I kept my dyeing kettle there. Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I add.

“It’s quite alright. I don’t think I’ve been here before. Have you been with us long?”

She gives my equipment another look.

“Forgive me, lady Inquisitor. I arrived right before the Breach was sealed. Call me Melina.”

“You’re the other one who fell from the sky! The one Varric calls, what was it now…”

“...Tardy.”

“Tardy! I’ve heard about you.”

I push a strand of hair behind my ear. She clears her throat.

“Well, what can you make me, lethallan ?”

Except that last word doesn’t sound like “ lethallan ”; rather, it sounds like kinswoman. Or both, at once. I blink. 

“I... I make those hides you bring from your travels into leather for the armory. And then, well, right now I’m working on some leatherworks as well.”

“You’re the one who suggested we wash them before adding the salt?”

“Guilty as charged. It makes them putrefy less. Slightly less stinky.”

“It only makes sense. I used to hunt for my clan, so I’m the one who skins the beasts.”

“Really? But you’re… the Inquisitor….”

“Sure. But when we’re out in the Hinterlands, or the Fallow Mire, or wherever, I pick herbs like everyone else, pitch tents like everyone else, dig latrine pits like everyone else. I do what needs doing.”

I laugh in recognition.

“Oh, I know the feeling. I’m actually more of a potter, but, Lady Montilyet believed there was a need for a tanner, so here we are. Once we’re a little more stable I might get to build a kiln, though.”

“A potter as well? June’s gifted you indeed,” she says, peeking at my sketches.

“June?”

She looks up at me, with surprise in her eyes.

“It’s a compliment, is what I meant. June’s the god of craft. But I guess you city elves don’t even know the names of our Creators anymore,” she says, the last part a little sharp.

“You don’t believe in the Maker?”

“Humans can keep their lonely god,” she says, voice steady.

“You’re one of the Dalish,” I say.

“I am,” she says with a hint of challenge in her voice, and more than a hint of challenge in her glare. I wet my lips.

“Is that why you carry the, the, blood writing?”

“Blood writing? Oh, you mean... I guess that’s how you’d say it in common. Yes, I carry Andruil’s vallaslin. It’s one of our traditions to honor a god of our choosing.” 

“Let me guess,” I see and take a closer look at her facial tattoo. Up close, I see I was wrong to assume it was a tree. Or perhaps it is, but there’s more to it than the gnarly branches and thorns on her forehead. There are lines that run along her cheekbones, and one across her brows. Right at her forehead is the diamond-shaped head of an arrow. “You’re an archer, and the blood writing , it’s of  a bow... So, Andruil, are they the god of archery?”

“Among other things. Goddess of the hunt, we usually say.” 

“How many gods are there in your pantheon?”

“You mean the Creators? Well, there’s eight. Mythal, the all-mother, Elgar’nan, Dirthamen, Falon’Din, Andruil, Ghilan'nain — Andruil’s lover, and I actually would have chosen her, but my Keeper thought it unsuited given my skill with the bow. Sylaise, goddess of the hearth, and June, of craft. Eight. Nine, if you count Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf and traitor,” she adds.

“I see. And Dalish don’t wear shoes, usually?” I say, as I remember the other cultural expression I’ve noticed.

“We wear footwraps. Shem boots are uncomfortable, clumsy and slippery.”

“Oh, I agree. I was given my first footwraps on the walk through the Frostbacks, and I don’t think I’ll go back to shoes. Look, I just finished a pair more my size”, I say and swing my foot up on the table for her to see.

“Right?” 

We look at each other. She turns to face the hole in the wall.

“Mine are all worn out,” she says with a sigh, “and I can’t get new ones from the merchants, and Sera just won’t stop mocking me for...”

“Take these. They’re yours, if you want them.”

“Oh I couldn’t,” she says.

“Sure you can. Hell, I’m fine barefoot.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I am. If you’re going to a pompous human party in Halamshiral, you’ll need to feel like yourself for as much of it as you can.”

She nods, but stays silent. We sit in that silence a while.

“So you’ve heard about Halamshiral.”

“I…” I hesitate. Her big green eyes search mine. I lower my voice. “Yes. Lady Josephine asked me to speak to you about it.”

She doesn’t say anything, but instead, she turns to look out over the mountains. She sighs.

“What will you tell her?”

“I didn’t actually agree to her suggestion,” I say after a while. “I figure it isn’t my place to convince anyone of anything.”

Lavellan chuckles.

“I don’t know you very well, Melina, but, please… How did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Avoid the attention. I’m getting thrown around Thedas, shown around like a mythical beast, look , there goes the girl who fell from the Fade, all hail the Herald of Andraste! How did you avoid that?”

“I don’t have a fancy magical mark on my hand that heals the sky. That helps.”

As I say it, I instinctively cover the calendarium with my palm, but not quickly enough.

“So what is that thing then?”

I bite my lip.

“It’s just… something to remind me of the passing of time. Like, like the rings on a tree.”

“Like the vhenadahl ?” 

I open my mouth, but she continues, “I know very little of the world for someone raised so high, but I know that much about flat-ea... city elves. My Keeper told me. She also told me about Halamshiral, about the Orlesians. I… will go to the Winter Palace, like Josie wants. But it’s against everything I believe in, and… I’m afraid I’ll make it worse.”

I watch her as she rubs the skin around the glowing green mark on her hand. And in that moment, I once again catch a glimpse of just how young she is. 

“How old are you?” I ask.

“I’m nineteen. Almost twenty.”

My heart aches as I look at her, at the sharp, fresh lines of her vallaslin. She’s barely more than a child, but somehow she’s been thrown into this responsibility.

“The people here expect an unjust, unfair, impossible amount from you. You will let them down. You will make mistakes. But they will get over it. The world’s not going to end if you take a wrong step on the dancefloor, or if you call a Marquis a Duke or vice versa. You are doing well enough. And when it comes to the opinion of others, uh, what’s the expression… Dread Wolf take them? Now let’s figure out a way to trick the shem you’re wearing shoes.”

We come up with a design that is footwraps in disguise — barely more than a leather sock under the ball of her foot but with heavy embroidery on top, and a small heel to let her turn on the dance floor, and still soft enough that she’ll walk unnoticed if need be. 

“Great for stealth attacks,” she says, with a dangerous glint in her eyes. 

Lavellan lets me take her foot measurements; top and side. I’ll use them to carve wooden lasts later. When we’re done, and I’m writing some final notes on the design, she lingers at my desk.

“Was there anything else you need, Inquisitor?”

She grabs her bow, but doesn’t lift it off the table.

“Well. This feels more than a little embarrassing, but... I was wondering if you know corsetry.”

“Do you require a corset for the ball at Halamshiral?”

She blushes, all the way to the tips of her pointed ears, and drags a hand through her light hair.

“No, it’s just, that... We elves are, traditionally, quite slim. Since I joined the Inquisition, I’ve had more to eat. I’ve gained weight. My old breast bands are… not supportive enough for running or riding. Much to Sera’s delight,” she adds, with a chuckle.

“Oh.” I look her over, but to someone my size she and her breasts look quite small. “Let’s take a look then. Perhaps, perhaps some more privacy is in order,” I say and gesture toward my cell. 

I grab my measuring tape, a piece of coal and a piece of chammy to scribble notes on, and we walk over to my cell. 

She looks around the little space in which I sleep. I have made it more my own, draping the old yellow banners over the floor in lieu of a rug, and I had Blackwall build a narrow, simple bedframe for my bedroll. There’s a footlocker for my belongings, and a candle. Tale of the Champion rests on the bed. I lift it aside and gesture her to sit down.

“Is this where you sleep?” she asks and starts unbuttoning her jacket. I smile at how unhindered she seems.

“It is.”

Her fingers pause.

“You must feel trapped,” she says, her eyes fixed on the thick bars of the front wall.

“How do you mean?”

“It took me weeks to get used to just, well, sleeping in a bed, with a roof above my head, in Haven. And now I have a tower, all to myself, but it’s all indoor. Maybe you city elves have an easier time getting used to this.” 

Her fingers grab onto the coarse wool of my blanket.

“Where do Dalish sleep then?”

“We wander,” she replies, “We build our aravels to last for days, or weeks, not years, or centuries. We stay on our feet.”

“And you do not wear shoes.”

“We don’t wear shoes,” she agrees with a shake of her head, but there’s a little smile to counteract the sadness in her voice.

“Do you miss it? Home?”

“Well...  I miss my clan, my Keeper, my family.”

“Yet?”

She shakes her head, then looks me right in the eyes.

“I don’t miss fearing shemlen. I don’t miss wandering for days, weeks, to find only ruined land and barren trees. I don’t miss sending children to sleep without food in their bellies. I still feel shame some days for being here, raised so high by those who despise our kind, with all this… wealth around me. I hoped me being part of the Inquisition would put an end to that, but… It’s everywhere. It’s in all of their eyes. Bribes from nobles who hunt elves for sport. Closing my eyes to how all the Skyhold servants seem to be elves.  It’s in how even we elves bicker among ourselves, how even Sera and Solas can’t get along, how you city elves and us Dalish...”

She sighs.

“Still, I can’t think all hope is lost for this world. We have to fight for the little guys, like Sera says,” she says with a wistful little smile. “And the Inquisition can unite us. You must think me childish, naïve even.”

I take a seat next to her on my bed and give her hand a squeeze.

“No, not at all. I’m sorry I asked you prejudiced questions. I think we all need something to believe in.”

“What do you believe in, Melina?”

“Me?” Nothing, Lika. You believe in nothing, that nihilistic voice inside me says, but under Lavellan’s upright gaze the words flee me. “I believe... in seeking to understand. I believe in... making myself useful where I can. I’m only here for a while, but if I can learn, and help those who remain stay alive, and live happier lives, then my time was not wasted.”

Her eyebrows rise.

“Are you leaving?”

I laugh, to cover up the slip up.

“It’s simply a figure of speech, but, in the end, nothing lasts forever. Now, if I’m to make you a new breastband, I unfortunately need you to take off the jacket.”

“Oh. Of course.”

Her hands hesitate, then continue undoing the buttons of the top. She shakes off the garment, and I get up to take her measurements.

Her tattoos continue down her torso, over her shoulders onto her hips, the dark red color of port-wine stain. I pry my gaze away from them to the thin leather top, much like a sports bra, fastened at the front. It’s doing a decent job of pushing her breasts up and in, but more like a poorly sized binder. It looks quite painful.

“May I?” I ask with a soft smile.

She nods. I undo the strap and help her lift the garment off. Angry red marks that are not part of the vallaslin run along the revealed skin. I take the measures and write down the numbers.

“So, we’ll want to construct something with a bit more support over here,” I say, softly pressing my fingers to the side of her breast. “Have you worn anything with boning before?”

“No,” she admits.

“Well, I don’t know what the fashions are, I admit, but we have two options here. We can make something that flattens and binds your chest, or we can make something that supports it, lifts it and well, amplifies it. You could think of it in terms of, are you hoping to display your bosom, or cleavage, soon?”

Her ears heat up at that. She wets her lips, looking around to make sure we’re alone.

“I don’t... Do you think Solas would like that?” she whispers.

I cover my surprised laugh with a cough.

“Well. He has an eye for beauty, that one, but no, I would imagine he values your comfort higher,” I say with a smile. “I take it you are lovers then,” I ask, ignoring the small sting of jealousy.

Her smile fades.

“He kissed me.”

Of course he did. I swallow, and smile despite the sinking lump in my stomach.

“That sounds promising.”

“Or, I… kissed him. It was...  in a dream, of sorts, but real. He told me... I change everything. But then, well.  He needs time to, to think things over. He said that there are ‘considerations’,” she rubs her eyebrows. “But I don’t… What should I do, elder ?”

I look at her. She looks back at me. So damned pretty, so damned young, so damned vulnerable, so eager to do right by everyone. It’s a potentially dangerous combination, my own feelings be damned. And so I sit down next to her again, and take her hands in mine.

“Tell me, Ellana. What do you appreciate most in him?”

“I guess… There’s an elegance about him, in how he moves, how he speaks, how he casts his spells. He’s the voice of reason that I need, the guidance. He helps me see things clearly, and he has patience for all my questions and misconceptions. I’ve learned so much listening to him.”

“And it helps that he’s an elf in a world of humans.”

She sighs.

“That too. And he’s… quite easy on the eyes. Well, his ears are droopy, and his sense of fashion is, as Dorian put it, abhorrent, but... He carries himself with such pride, like he knows who he is, and that there’s nothing in this world that can ever measure up to his exacting standards. Sometimes when I talk to him I just feel completely outmatched, it’s as if he speaks in riddles... yet he’s always truthful. He’s so calm, like the eye of a storm. Unlike me and Sera, the agents of chaos. He’s seen so much in the Fade. He’s wise.”

I nod.

“But,” she continues with a sigh, “what would he even see in me? I’m just a curious Dalish girl, and he’s made it quite clear what he thinks of my kind; of my beliefs, my customs, my Gods even. When he looked at me in the Fade, it felt as if he thought I carried the key to changing the world, but since he’s been... as if nothing happened. I’m afraid that one day he’ll just... shift his interest to something else, and up and leave,” she says with a sad chuckle. 

I sigh, close my eyes, thinking back on the few interactions I’ve had with the man. 

Should I be honest with her, and tell her what I really think; that this man she adores might just be vying for more influence in the Inquisition? That he almost certainly has his own secrets, since he has not outed me to Leliana? That he’s too old for her, and that I think he should leave her and, instead...

I don’t let myself complete that thought. 

“I’ll try to have these made before you leave for Halamshiral,” I say instead and give Lavellan’s hands a gentle squeeze, which she gratefully returns.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: The First Favor

“I’m so, so sorry!”

“Don’t fret, I barely felt that one,” Commander Rutherford whispers with a smile lighting up his amber eyes, as I adjust the pins on the side of his snug uniform jacket, “I’ve had much...”

Whatever he’s had is drowned out as the bickering of the Inquisitor and the rest of her advisors reaches new heights.

“Andruil’s tits! You can’t be serious, Josephine! Me, dancing? With, what, Orlesian nobles? No!”

“It is expected of you. You cannot gain political favor in Orlais without playing the Great Game!”

“We simply must look over your footwear again, Inquisitor. A wrongly adorned slipper could cost you your reputation for years to come,” sister Leliana explains.

“To the Void with their expectations and… and... slippers!”

“We will have one more rehearsal, tonight, after dinner, to prepare for tomorrow. The Grand Duke has been kind enough to offer us his foyer, in addition to these rooms, despite joining us only at the Winter Palace,” Josephine pleads.

“Cullen, Cassandra, you must take my side?” Lavellan counters, reluctantly extending her arms to let the seamstress, Gabrielle, attach a blue silk belt to match the sash on her shoulder.

The commander in question stiffens under my hands.

“Ugh. It’s preposterous,” Seeker Pentaghast declares with gusto, straightening her garments.

A knock on the door sends all the high-ranking members of the Inquisition jumping. I cover my mouth to conceal the smile, when a finely dressed servant opens the door and bows deep.

“Supper is served downstairs, lady Inquisitor. Lady Pentaghast. Ser Rutherford. Lady Montilyet. Sister Leliana.” 

I assume he addresses the guests of the Grand Duke in descending order of rank.

“Thank you, Jodoc,” Leliana coolly replies for the party.

Once the man has left, she looks out over the room. She’s in her undershirt, as her uniform is getting pressed by the seamstress’ assistant.

“We need to present a united front tomorrow. If Orlais descends into chaos, Corypheus is sure to strike. Josephine, Inquisitor Lavellan is our leader, and as such, she has final say. Ellana, Josephine means well. If you are able to gain influence over the court, your political goals may well be achieved before the night is over. We will all be there to aid you, but your role is the most important to play.”

“Well then,” she says with a forced smile, “I will be your prancing pony. Now let’s go eat.”

The door has barely closed behind the Inquisitor’s party, and the poor seamstress and her apprentice, when a pile of scrap fabric shakes ominously. A blonde head pops up.

“They’re gone?”
“What the actual— Sera?!”

“Took ‘em long enough,” the young archer says, and stretches like a cat. “It’s all ruddy nonsense! What Red there said about ‘political goals’, it’s all shite. Piss in the wind. Won’t help. Orlesian nobles don’t change coats unless there’s more money in the new pockets. Pricks.”

“I think history tends to agree with your astute observation there,” I say and thread a needle to finish up the side seam on Cullen’s jacket’s lining. Sera sits down on the table and hugs her thighs.

“You don’t reckon she’ll be dancing with all of them?”

“Hmm,” I reply, pins between my lips.

“They should keep their shrivelled fingers to themselves. Twats. No one should touch my Lana.”

I spit the pins into my palm.

“ Your Lana?”

“ Our Lana. What did I say?”

I raise my eyebrows at the younger woman.

“Fine, you got me. I like her, but it’s not like, I like her. Right? Because she’s… Lana, and incredible. She wouldn’ like me back, anyways.”

“She did ask you to come along,” I suggest diplomatically.

“Yeah, but, like, she’s all… glowy. And she’s real pretty. And... short.”

“Short?”

“Not like, dwarf short, but like… Teen. Like you,” Sera says with a bubbly laugh. “I just want to scrunch her all up. Punch that perfect face of hers.”

“You have it bad, huh?”

“You’re one to talk! I’ve seen the way you look at him!”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” I defend myself but feel the heat of the obvious lie on my ears. Is it that obvious?

“Oh cheer up, Tardy .”

“Wait, not you too? You think I like… Varric?” I can’t stop the chuckle from escaping. “I mean,” I continue, flustered, “I wouldn’t write it off, but, doesn’t he have like a really weird exclusive relationship with his armb- crossbow?”

“Bianca? It’s weird, right, but Varric’s fun.”

“And Ellana’s fun?”

“Yeah, she’s real…” Sera trails off, then scoffs. Her face turns sour.

“Why Solas ? Makes no sense. Hate elves, and mages, the Orlesians. Why would she bring him here?” she adds, “Can you imagine sitting stuck with old droopy and Blondie Rutherpants for, for hours on end?”

“I imagine you came up with some scheme to pass the time on the way here,” I say innocently.

“Um, yeah. One word: earthworms. No, that’s two words... Or is it? Anyway, earthworms. In his hat.”

“Hat?”

She bursts into a bubbly laugh. “You’ll see.”

It is later, and I can hear Leliana play the lute downstairs. I imagine the Inquisitor reluctantly practices her dance steps, Lady Montilyet anxious, Sera laughing. In candlelight, I continue my sewing. The seamstress and her assistants have gone for dinner, so I have a blessed moment alone. But only for a little while.

His footfall is very silent.  I close my eyes, listen to his breath, and slowly breathe out, as he walks into the room. 

Solas pauses next to me. His pale bare feet are a stark contrast to the polished dark purple tiles of the floor. 

“A word?”

His voice is strained. It’s as if the very air is sucked out of the space by the tension. I nod, and silently set down the belt I am working on. Keeping my distance I follow him out of the room.

Grand Duke Gaspard’s residence is a castle, but one very unlike Skyhold. All walls have been rendered smooth, plaster moulded and painted, and the vaults of the windows are round. Every wall, window, gilded floor tile, and chair follows a geometric precision that I imagine reflects its owner. 

Solas walks quickly, with determination, never looking back to check if I’m still following, until he abruptly stops in a space I assume is Gaspard’s hunting trophy room. The dusty eyes of the heads of taxidermied slender horned creatures, wolves and what I assume is a wyvern stare down at us. 

Solas’s eyes meet mine for a brief moment as he scans the room, then he pushes a section of wall to reveal a simple wooden staircase. 

A single fresh pair of steps in the dust reveal someone has been here recently before us; perhaps him, perhaps someone else. I swallow the sense of foreboding, then follow him up the stairs.

The dusty planks of the floor creak as we step into a dark and cold storage space. Covered chairs, cupboards and tables, of a dainty but perhaps outdated design, litter the floor. A headless statue of a lion stands close to the wall. Piles of paintings. A tall mirror, covered in fabric. Locked chests. Judging from the cobwebs, this space hasn’t been used in recent years.

I can’t lie and say I’m not nervous. Solas lights an aged lamp with that strange green flame known as veilfire, back to me. He turns, his silhouette drawn bright green by the ghastly light of the lamp. I swallow, and wonder if my quick pulse can be heard in the silent space.

“Melina, how is your hand?”

I blink in surprise.

“My hand? I... Well, better. Thanks to you.”

“May I inspect it?”

Solas sits down on a covered sofa, and extends his hand to me. The floor creaks under my steps as I cross it. I take his hand and sit down beside him, keeping my eyes on his. To my surprise he makes no effort to inspect the calendarium . Instead he opts to slowly stroke his thumb across my palm. A shiver runs down my spine at the intimate touch. 

“Look at me, Melina,” he whispers, in Elvhen.  

I swallow, but can’t seem to meet his eyes. Solas’s fingers reach out, trace my jawline, cradle my chin. My eyes fly up to meet his gaze, breath stuck in my throat. For some reason, his aura raises the hairs at the back of my neck. He’s close enough that I can feel his breath on my face, close enough that I could just lean in and... My eyes flick back up to his eyes. In the darkness they seem to glow.

“Even here, they are watching us. It is better, if they believe we are here simply for a tryst, than raise their suspicions.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, breathless, and try to look around, but see only the shadows of the room. 

He leans in close to my ear as he whispers. I wet my lips, trying my best to concentrate on his words.

“A message needs to be delivered tomorrow night, outside the prying eyes of the Inquisition. I wish to ask this for the first favor you owe me. It will be dangerous; these events are permeated by danger, power, intrigue and…” he swallows, “therefore I must ask, are you willing?”

“Why me?” I breathe.

“ There are many factions vying for influence over the negotiations. Too much is at stake should this delivery be intercepted. I need, ” he pauses, “someone I can trust.” the last part he whispers in Elvhen. And while I’m starting to feel like this strange language perhaps completely lacks unambiguous words, and is solely a language of intention, the intention behind the word shivas’ara’falon is the most layered I’ve heard so far.

His eyes search mine. Once again, I feel bared under his gaze. These are unknown, dangerous waters, and there is something completely new in those wells of blue. 

“Vindirthem?”
Though his wording is cold, the intention is not. A plea.

“Yes ,” I answer.

“Garments await you at your place of rest. Instructions, in the language of our people , on the inside of the sack. You do know how to read?”

“ Yes ,” I answer after a while.

“Burn them, once read.”

Solas leans in, lips once more close to my ear. My eyes flutter closed.

“Be careful, Melina. Please.”

His hand leaves my jaw as he releases me from the unknown spell that held my breath.  He moves to leave when something like sympathy flashes through his eyes. Far less smoothly than before, his fingers reach up to brush my cheek, as if I were a child he hopes will sleep without nightmares. I turn my face away. At that, he leaves me sitting alone in Duke Gaspard’s secret storage room.

My fingers won’t stop shaking. I nervously tap the sore digits against the smooth marble of the little statue in my lap, trying to steady my nervous heart that feels as if it’s about to burst. The wine glass the Maître pushed into my hand after lashing my fingers twice (earned; for clumsiness) sits on a barrel next to me, untouched, in this little storage space I’ve taken refuge in. My disguise smells strange; lavender, verbena; scents that are altogether too clean and laundered. Despite the high collar, I feel strangely naked with my shoulders bare. I adjust the lace mask, pull down my sleeves, smooth down the sides of my hair. The updo still holds. Good, good. Calm down. You haven’t been discovered. Yet . The instructions itch at the back of my mind. For fuck’s sake. Calm, now. But none of my usual tricks for calming down seem to work, so instead I gulp down the cheap red wine.

Over the bustling clatter of the kitchens next door the string music builds up into a crescendo, and then, abruptly stops. Shrieks. Silence. Not long, and shouts, and the sound of fighting, drift down from upstairs. 

Is this the distraction? I draw a shaking breath, smooth down the leather corset and the pleated pants. The corridor is empty outside the blue-doored storage room. I walk quickly, head down, up to the vestibule. Out through the massive golden doors. I take a left, as per instruction.

I dare lift my head to take a quick look around the moonlit gardens. Mist has rolled in from the surrounding mountains, and, weren’t my mind set on my mission, I would stop to admire the view; the Winter Palace’s famous fountain, the white spire towers, the tors beyond the castle grounds. Empty. I let out a relieved sigh. No guests in sight, but I still keep my head down and walk as quickly as I can, as I head for the east storage room. My footsteps are almost completely silent against the smooth stone tiles of the garden floor in these stolen footwraps.

And then I see the door in question, with that same typically Orlesian ogee arch, but with a decoration of horns. I clutch the little statue of the deer-like creature. What’s it supposed to do? There’s no apparent lock on the door, and it doesn’t budge as I give it a shove. The instructions said the statue is the key. 

Well, not exactly, I correct myself, but rather, that the key would be in the location I picked up the statue, in a specific shelf of the bookcase of the library. Did I miss it? For a moment I consider smashing the statue, in hope of finding the key inside it, but it’s solid marble.

What else is there? I look around the wall, and my eyes fall on the ten niches around the door, five on each side. Nine of them are filled with decorative knick knacks — these folks are big on ornamentation in general — but the lowermost on the left is empty. I can’t stop the laugh at the silly idea that hits me. No way is this going to work. It would be way too much like a gimmicky escape room puzzle, I think as I kneel and push the statue into the empty niche.

The effect is immediate. A glowing blue circle appears, strewn with glyphs that fade too quick to read, then it is replaced by another, and a third, then a fourth — and the door swings open with a soft squeal.

I step inside and push the door closed behind me. The air is musky, like in a cellar. Three very large wine barrels take up most of the floor. My potter senses go all tingly when I spot some large planting pots with soil, but I don’t have time to inspect them. I don’t know what I expected, but the revealed room is perfectly ordinary, which begs the question why it would be locked with such an intricate system. There are a few chests and footlockers, some coins strewn about, but I can feel the alarm rise through my feet.  

I have no idea what to do next, and have only a series of inane numbers; 21, 6, 18. I count the pots, eleven. Three barrels. Five chests, all in all. Nope. I rest my forehead on my hands. Think. This looks just like a puzzle. Sure, your life and probably the lives of others are at stake if you mess this up. But you still need to solve it. Use all those years of playing video games. What’s that Nintendo design method? Setup. Expectation. Twist. Re-evaluate. New theory. Test. Confirmation. Learning.

I look around the room again. Re-evaluate. 

At first glance I take it for a table, the low cupboard by the door, and dismiss it. But then I see the clock-like mechanism on the front. A dial. 

I kneel in front of the strange piece of furniture, but the dial won’t turn from where it’s currently at; roughly at eleven o’clock. Around it there are notches, the topmost raised, the other indented, twenty-four in total, and outside the notches, there are small symbols. I take them for animals first, local versions of horoscopes, an astrological chart of some kind. There’s antlers. A bow. A tree. A circle with a dot in it. A sun half blackened. A wolf. A raven. A flame. A hammer. Nine in total.

Nine like the Inquisitor’s companions? No, that makes no sense. Nine like the… Well, the daughters of the Jader merchant’s rival makes even less sense. A canticle? No, but perhaps… 

I frown, but my eyes fall on that small brass symbol of a wolf’s head. Wolf . Fen . Eight, and Fen’Harel as the ninth? 

My frown deepens. 

“Here goes nothing, Rebel Wolf ,” I sigh and press my finger to the little emblem. 

The tiniest clicking sound, but no visible change. With bated breath I touch the dial, and to my surprise, it turns. There’s resistance in it, and when I let it go, to my surprise, it returns to its position. Interesting .

I turn the dial almost a full circle and keep it in place over the twenty-first notch. A second passes, two. A faint click. I turn it around, to the sixth notch, wait for the click. Then on to the eighteenth.

I wait a second, two, and nothing seems to happen, and then a loud creak sounds through the room; and the whole side, mechanism and all, swings open to reveal a manhole and ladder. The opening is claustrophobic at best. With a final look at the storage room, I climb down.

The floor is covered in small things that crunch under my feet as I make haste through the long, dark corridor, hands stretched to the walls around me. I count under my breath, seventy steps or so. The corridor turns and twists. At one point it’s so narrow that I’m afraid I will be stuck, my bones trapped and forgotten in this catacomb forever. 

As I press myself through yet another narrow passage I’m fully aware that the Inquisition believes I’m still at Gaspard’s mansion, tending to a headache. Or perhaps that I’m here at the palace, to help with wardrobe. Solas’s instructions did not specify my way back to Skyhold, or where Lavellan thinks I am, only that I was to arrive at the palace kitchens at sunrise. If Solas wanted to be rid of me… I push the thought aside, and do my best to ignore the sensation under my foot, similar to having stepped on a snail.

After rounding the next corner, and climbing a ladder, my hands hit a door. I push it open, and step into a dimly lit room. It’s almost empty save for a high mirror, flecked with age, and I startle at the sight of the masked, cloaked figure in front of it. It turns to face me. 

I reach for the small missive tucked into the secret pocket at the top of my sleeve, and, without a word, hold it out. A gloved hand extends out and grabs it, and hands a small silver amulet on a twine, and a piece of parchment in return. I turn them in my hand. Both are blank.

“What are these?” I can’t help but ask.

“I can’t risk writing it down. She’ll know it was me,” the voice says, rather defensively. It belongs to a woman, and it has a strange accent, but that’s all I can tell. Her glow is subdued, but I get the feeling it isn’t strong to begin with.

“Do you have a message I can carry instead?”

She hesitates. At least, that’s the feeling I get — she might just be sizing me up. 

“ Dread Wolf’s blessing, ” she finally says. 

I nod, fairly certain I got it both in common and the original Elvhen.

“Leave now,” she says, and I am happy to oblige. 

342 Orlesian nobles, thirty-five hired Fereldan mercenaries, a dozen of Briala’s agents and the Inquisition’s party of seven, five Orzammar dwarves, empress Celene’s three ladies-in-waiting, and her arcane advisor, the few surviving Inquisition soldiers who were not taken out by the Harlequins, plus the handful of spies Leliana placed within the servants; all of these people would probably be better bets to explain to you what happened on the evening of the Great Ball. But I will try. 

One Grand Duchess Florianne, cousin to the Empress and the Usurper Gaspard, turned out to be working with Corypheus, and orchestrated a failed assassination attempt. Gaspard claimed to know nothing of it, but the evidence was plainly laid out by Inquisitor Lavellan, and the man would have been executed then and there for his involvement had Lavellan not intervened.
Now, had I known what was waiting in the gardens when I returned from the storage room, I might have stayed just a while longer. But somehow the rushing in my ears from a mission so far successful made me unobservant, and this is how it so happened I walked out of the eastern storage room, slamming the door straight into a Harlequin assassin. 

An arrow hits the door where I stood a fraction of a second earlier. I stare at it for about a second, unable to process what is happening around me, until I look down at the man, somehow knocked down by the force of me opening the door. Except he’s not down. He’s falling. 

Another arrow slowly floats towards me, aimed at my chest, and I swerve left, out of its trajectory, knocking the man’s dagger at knee-height in the air. That’s when it dawns on me. Time aberration, but this time, the calendarium is not warning me about it.

My eyes go wide as I look down over the moonlit palace gardens. Up on the fountain stands an archer with a vicious-looking compound crossbow in her arms; aimed straight at where I stood just a moment earlier. A coil of electricity inches closer to her, and my breath catches in my throat as my eyes trace the coil back to Solas, staff mid-twirl above his head. Lavellan and Sera stand bows at the ready, back-to-back, above the steps, perhaps twenty meters from me. Cassandra, sword drawn, mid-leap, ready to rain down on another Venatori zealot. 

The gates into the palace are closed. I suspect I cannot push them open as long as time isn’t running. I reach down for Leliana’s silverite dagger, strapped to my shin, and look down on the enemy assassin on the floor. I know, that once time starts running, he will aim for me. I should strike him now, when I have time on my side. My hand hesitates. Another heartbeat passes. 

Time suddenly janks into motion again.

Solas’s shot of lightning hits her dead in the face, and a split second later a barrage of arrows, courtesy of Sera and Lavellan, hit the enraged Grand Duchess. There’s no time for me to celebrate, however, as the man I knocked over the head charges at me, another dagger in hand.  I stumble backwards, raise Leliana’s knife in a futile attempt to protect myself.

His sword hits down, but never reaches me. I open my eyes, and the world is painted in a faint blue shimmer, as he lunges again, and... 

Out of seemingly nowhere, an arrow protrudes from the assassin’s chest. 

“Go!” Lavellan shouts, and I run, this time for the shadowy pillars on the west side of the palace. Taking refuge behind the relative safety of a potted plant, I watch as the Inquisition takes down enemy after enemy.

I don’t give a rat’s arse about who sees me as I make my way through the servant’s corridors to the room in the servant’s quarters where I was supposed to have been all along, had I travelled with the Inquisition as planned. My hands won’t stop shaking, and I fumble with the door’s handle, fighting back tears of exhaustion, relief, fear, and other assorted emotions I’m too tired to identify. On the third try the door opens and I stumble inside. 

I throw the mask into the little crackling fire, watch the gilded paper and lace shrivel and burn as I loosen the collar of the borrowed shirt and release my hair from the bun. I have no idea how, but my footlocker of belongings stands by one of the three narrow beds. The other two cots have not been touched. I throw myself down on the nearest one, and pull on my shawl, ready to embrace a night of dreamless sleep.

“Melina?”

Lavellan has the mind to knock as she opens the door, just a hair. Lightheaded I swing myself into a seat. I clear my throat, still a little winded from running.

“Inquisitor Lavellan. I’m glad to see you’re unharmed. Relatively unharmed,” I correct myself when my eyes spot the blood-edged slash on her sleeve.

The young elf looks down in surprise.

“Oh, this? It’s nothing. You should see Grand Duchess Florianne. Well, what remains of her, anyways. How was your evening?”

I attempt a smile.

“You know me.”

“You stayed here reading the latest chapter of Swords and Shields ? Good choice, Melina.”

She picks up a book from the bedside table. Next to it stands half a chalice of dark wine. Solas thought of everything, apparently. I clear my throat.

“Was your night a success? Did you twirl around the dance floor with the right nobles?”

“Only time will tell,” she sighs. “We stopped the assassination, and the murderous lady working for Corypheus, so there’s that. Oh and, the civil war won’t be a problem to the clans in the Exalted Plains anymore. And we reunited two lovers, for the good of the realm.”

My heart sinks. I reach for the wine, and down it in one go.

“So you and Solas talked it out?”

“What?” She stifles a laugh. “No. Not at all. No, I meant, empress Celene and Briala, her spymaster. Why would I reunite with Solas ?”

“Not four weeks ago you sat on my bed, and—”

“Well, yes, but…” She gets up and starts pacing the room, coming to a stop in front of the fire. “He needed time to consider things and I, well. After I talked to you, it got me thinking. Those aren’t the words of someone eager to be with you, are they? I deal with enough cryptic forces to need someone who’s open with what he or she feels. Besides, he’s way too old for me — I know you didn’t say it, but you were thinking it. And like Sera says, his ears are droopy,” she adds with a little chuckle.

I shake my head, but don’t fail to notice her voice lowers on the archer’s name.

“The heart wants what the heart wants,” I reply after a while, a strange lightness in my exhausted heart. “Did anyone else catch your eye out there, then? Someone you danced with, or?”

She doesn’t quite blush, but the little smile that tugs at the corners of her mouth is as adorable.

I get up and give her shoulder a little push.

“So did she tell you, or you tell her?”

“You mean, you mean she likes me back?” Lavellan sounds terrified.

“Well, this morning Sera said you’re, and I quote, incredible, glowy, and pretty.” I leave out small.

“She said that? Really?” This time, she blushes and looks at me, eyes wide.

“Go! Go to her!”

Leaning on the doorframe, I stare after the young Inquisitor as she skips off. I smile for her glee, then close my eyes and inhale when a familiar presence makes itself known. Solas steps out of  the shadows, and comes to stand next to me. A silly little fez hat sits atop his bald head. I pick out the simple silver amulet from within the secret pocket with as much subtlety as I can manage, keeping it hidden in my hand.

“I assume you heard all of that,” I comment, failing to keep my voice steady. “Solas, I’m so sorry.”

“She should thank you.”

“Thank me? For what?”

“You spared her pain,” he says quietly. “It was kinder, in the long run, this way.”

My free hand takes his. And for a moment, just one moment, I want to hold that hand and never let it go. I want to pull him to me, and tell him, who I am, tell him, that he is allowed to feel sad, allowed to mourn, allowed to feel— 

But it has to be the wine suggesting things. And so I put my other hand on top of our hands, slipping the amulet into his palm. His eyebrows rise by just a centimeter.

“Two more favors, Solas,” I whisper, and leave him standing in the Winter Palace corridor.

It is only back in the safety of my room that I realize two things; firstly, one of the three irregular coils of the calendarium has smoothed out, and secondly, Solas’ glow was in no way diminished despite Lavellan choosing Sera over him; in fact, it might have been even stronger than before.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: Consequences

Freshly baked layered pastries and rolls in baskets lined with blood-red silk. Whipped golden butter, weeping from sea salt. Milky tea, with honey and flower petals. Sausages, and venison, dried ham sliced thin enough to see through. Vats of dove-blue and speckled eggs. Soft cheeses, and hard, with dried apricots and figs, and sprigs of parsley. A fruit-garnished sponge cake, large enough to feed a battalion. Trays of bite-sized frilly delicacies. Cat tongue biscuits, financier cakes, and wafers encrusted in sugar and syrup. Tartelettes of glistening purple jam and wobbling custard. Elven servant, upon elven servant, heads down and faces calm, step into the Emerald parlor to lay down dish upon lavish dish of the Inquisition’s breakfast, truly fit for the saviour of the empress of Orlais. Citruses pressed into juice before our eyes. And, blessedly, steaming hot antivan coffee.

I catch Lavellan’s eyes across the room as I sit down at the large, oval table made from beautifully varnished mahogany, across from Commander Rutherford, currently carefully peeling a tiny boiled egg. Leliana shifts a slice of pear on her plate. Seeker Pentaghast pushes a cake the size of a thimble with disdain. Lady Josephine passes me the pot of coffee and I accept it with gratitude, trying not to think of how simultaneously similar and different this display of wealth is to a chic Saturday brunch buffet back on Earth. 

Lavellan clears her throat.

“So, what’s the verdict? Were we successful in our goals?”

I take a sip of coffee, and realize that I forgot to eat during the previous night’s business. I can’t help but notice the way the Inquisitor’s advisors eye me. It doesn’t escape Lavellan’s notice either.

“You can speak freely with crafter Melina present. Now, last night was a political mess. Why were these peace talks actually held? Anyone?”

Leliana is the one to speak.

“From the notes and letters you were able to gather, it would seem the peace talks were a guise for both Gaspard and Celene to vie for Briala’s support. We believe she is in possession of some kind of weapon strong enough to have shifted the war. But, now that she has reunited with Celene, we hope it will never be used, whatever it is.” 

“Your solution to the evening was elegant, for the most part,” Josephine continues. “But by insisting on letting Gaspard live awaiting trial, you may have upset not only his enemies, but also his loyalists. It sits poorly with the Chevalier code. And while empress Celene expressed her gratitude for reuniting with Marquis Briala, I regret it was… a gauche move, in the Game. Accounting also for the Chantry’s stance on you, it would seem that unfortunately, most nobility in Orlais have a reason to dislike you, Inquisitor.”

“You will be safe back at Skyhold, but on the way, we are vulnerable to attack. We must guarantee your safety,” says Commander Rutherford, who seems much more at ease in his simple garb than the dress uniform.

“We believe the best strategy to be misdirection,” Leliana specifies. “A set of decoys, taking different roads.”

“We will travel in pairs,” Commander Rutherford continues. “Leliana and I will take the Inquisition’s carriage, and ride the horses hard, to reach Skyhold first. You will travel on horseback with Cassandra, through the woods of the Dales, disguised as soldiers, and take the mountain pass for Skyhold. Josephine and Sera will take the Inquisition’s second carriage, on the Imperial Highway, with two of our soldiers for guard. And, last,” he pauses, “Melina and Solas, you will be taking the backroads along the coast in a rented carriage.” He looks me directly in the eyes, and I realize I am to be the main decoy. 

I nod slowly, taking in the plan, the acid of the coffee burning in my stomach.

Lavellan scoffs. 

“Wouldn’t this put you all at risk, for me? I can’t ask you to do this.”

“It’s a risk we’re all willing to take.” My voice is steady. I look her in the eyes. “And, none of us are alone. Sera told me Solas makes for simply delightful company,” I add with a smile to lighten the mood despite the small lurch in the pit of my stomach. In the corner of my eye I can see the man in question sit up straight.

Lavellan isn’t completely convinced, and her eyes search out Sera’s across the table. Sera gives a bubbly laugh.

“Cheer up, we’ve all had worse, yeah? You remember when Varric fell into that swamp in the Fallow Mire? We’ll all be back farting about Skyhold in no time, and then you’ll come see me at the Herald’s Rest for a real party,” she adds with a wink. 

“Fan anamma!”

I swear loudly as I drop another stitch when the wheel of the cart snags on yet another pothole in the winter-muddied road. I push the knitting needles aside. The rainy leafless forest outside does nothing to raise my mood.

“Excuse me?”

I did not just swear in Swedish. My eyes go wide, and terrified I look up at Solas, sitting across from me in the carriage. He opens his eyes, just a smidgeon. 

“Quite a vulgar reaction,” he says, eyebrow cocked. “I haven’t heard that particular euphemism in what feels like a lifetime.”

There’s a hint of sleep left in his smooth freckled skin, a drowsy undertone to his voice. He’s dressed in his usual clothing; sun-bleached tan tunic, worn leather trousers, and that jawbone of a long-dead animal that hangs above his heart. I can’t help but feel envy, stuffed as I am into a borrowed Orlesian dress and corset. Solas’s tall mage’s staff leans casually against the carriage wall, on the diagonal to fit. It’s covered in a canvas bag, though that probably won’t fool any templars. 

He wets his lips. 

“Fan’an’ama,” he whispers with a hint of a smile. “Tell me, how did you come to learn such an expression?”

Oh. Literally,place to keep a precious thing, but figuratively… Deliciously filthy. My eyes narrow.

“Well, tell you me, Solas, is Elvhen inherently riddled with double meanings, or is it that way only when coming from your lips?”

He tilts his head with a hum.

“It does not ‘come from my lips’ alone. Though I suspect you might,” he pauses for just a bit too long, “believe the old saying, the heart’s song is not spoken by lips, nor heard by ears , alone ” he lilts with a playful glint in his eyes, switching to Elvhen mid sentence. “The language of our people is spoken through intention. You’ll find it hard to speak lies.”

“And equally hard to speak directly,” I scoff, intently studying his face for a reaction, feeling quite flushed.

“Indeed. Of course, it depends heavily on the speaker’s motives,” he says, setting into his lecturing voice. “Be they genuine, or duplicitous. But, generally, yes.”

He closes his eyes again, and those lines around his eyes smooth out. He looks almost as if he’s meditating, swaying softly with the movements of the cart. How he’s able to stay so calm despite the rattling of the wheels and the clatter of hooves on rocky ground, I have no idea.

“So how did you learn it?” I ask, feeling strangely bold.

“The meaning of the word?”

“Yes. I don’t imagine your mother taught you that.”

He chuckles in surprise before replying.

“No, I don’t suppose it’s a word you’ll find in lullabies.”

“In the Fade then? Is that what you’ve been up to this morning? Learning how to talk dirty in Elvhen?”

“No.” His face becomes serious, and he looks out the tiny, grimy window at the rainy Orlesian forest. “I’ve been searching for a friend.”

“Oh.”

Solas settles back in his seat. I pick up my knitting again, trying to remember the pattern. There’s another dropped stitch, right in the intricate gather of the lace. I clear my throat.

“So, is this friend of yours real, or in your head?”

“It dwells in the Fade,” he replies, as if it’s the most natural of things.

“And you visit it, there?”

“In a manner of speaking. Not in the flesh. The Veil separates us.”

I chew my lip, wondering how much I can ask before it becomes suspicious.

“Is it a common ability to be able to enter the Fade?”

“The Fade is my specialization in magic, but all peoples but the children of the stone dream in the Fade. Do you not?” He asks sharply.

I blink, thinking back. 

“I haven’t… Not since I got here. With the Inquisition, I mean. My sleep has been dreamless,” I realize. 

“I could consult my friend,” Solas suggest. “She may know what ails you.”

“Thank you, but I like it this way. I don’t miss dreaming.”

My dreams have always been strange, to say the least, with faces and voices and places from my past and present mixing. And, though I try not to think of it, my future. A side-effect of the calendarium is a near-constant feeling of deja vu.

He looks a little taken aback. I hurry to explain:

“With all this talk of spirits, demons, the veil being thin here and there. Mages and powers I don’t understand, and possession, and the wide, vast Fade reflecting the world, well. I guess I feel safer knowing I don’t share my dreams with anyone. Who knows what dreadful thing might come knocking during the night otherwise?” I add with a nervous laughter.

He looks at me funny. 

“Please be quiet now.”

The rain pats down in a steady stream on the roof of our carriage, and the windows fog as day turns into evening around us. I consider waking Solas to tell him of the message from the mysterious hooded woman, but there’s an intense concentration to his aura, and while I trust our driver, Solas might not. He doesn’t wake up even as we stop to eat our packed lunch, and so I entertain myself with knitting until I doze off myself as well. 

When we rattle into the fishing village an hour outside the port town of Jader, the driver of our hired carriage, an elderly human man named Barth, leans back and knocks on the roof to let us know we'll be stopping for the night. I stir and wipe away the condensed water from the window. 

The village isn’t much more than a small gathering of houses, painted yellow and terracotta, most low. The fishing boats are all docked for the night, sails down to dry. The shutters are closed save for on the building I assume is the tavern, a two-storey house across from a sandstone basilica. On the wall a beautiful carving of Andraste overlooks the town. 

Barth goes to take the horses to the stables. I put my hood up, and adjust the pompous clothing Leliana conjured up for me. I am, after all, the decoy. Solas opens his eyes only as I open the door. I grab my footlocker and head to the inn through the silent village.

Solas pays the surly innkeeper, a woman with a ruddy face and redder nose, for her silence, our upkeep and the driver’s dinner. Her expression turns from envy to confusion as her eyes trail from my clothing to my ears and fake vallaslin, and finally settles on contempt at the sight of Solas’ poorly disguised staff. 

She runs a small establishment, but the panelled walls are newly painted, and the floor is clean, and a smell of baking potatoes and garlic lingers in the air, and we need this to run smoothly, so I swallow my anger and give her a smile despite her prejudiced reaction.  

Our rooms turn out to be just the one room, and a cot in the hayloft for Barth. A bouquet of bulrush and hellebores stands in the window. I look around and note the lone, if wide, bed, a starry quilt draped neatly over it. From the corner of my eye I can see Solas tense up next to me, ears coloring in indignation.

Though the bed is large enough for the both of us, with room to spare, and though I trust Solas, I feel heat rise to my cheeks at the thought of sharing it.

“I... will ask the innkeeper for an extra bedroll in the hayloft,” I suggest. 

“No,” he says hotly and grabs my arm. I look up at him in surprise. “Allow me. Someone of your rank would not sleep on the floor,” he concludes, and heads back down the creaking staircase.

It’s a small room. In addition to the bed that takes up most of the space, and the wash stand, there is a writing desk, and a chest for storing valuables. A simple woven rug covers the floor.

I change into my regular clothes, happy for my usual underwear — the front-closed cross bra is quite a bit more comfortable than the slightly too snug corset — and soft trousers. My hands sink into the pockets and for a moment I can imagine I’m back in my own room in a Stockholm suburb, waiting for my roommate to finish showering so that we can watch Star Trek together. 

When I open my eyes, I am still in Thedas, and my roommate in this case is… Solas. A treacherous little smile spreads on my lips. I need to focus.
I shrug and turn to the basin by the wall. I wash my hands and face in the lukewarm water, happy to be rid of the fake vallaslin which feels all kinds of wrong to wear, and dry off on a lavender-scented linen towel. 

I light the little oil lamp on the table, then sit down on the bed to wait for Solas to return. There’s something about the man that has me... nervous, and something about the inn that has me on edge. With a frustrated sigh I belt on my dagger, then head outside to clear my mind, careful not to be seen on the way out.

The last remnants of sun linger like molten copper on the waves, drifting in and out of sight until they are no more. The seashore stretches from east to west; wide, open, dangerous and inviting. The briny spray is cool on my skin, and the humid wind presses in under the layers of wool blend and worn denim of my clothes. I pass a rowing boat, drawn up high on land and turned upside-down for the night. 

The beach sand catches on the high-heeled Orlesian shem boots as I walk down to the water. I sit down on a rock and pick at the spindleweed and tang, picking up shells and smooth stones, and watch as the waves almost kiss my toes until I drag the boots off and sink my toes into the freezing water and pull my shawl closer.

The fabric still smells faintly of smoke, despite washing, and for a moment, I’m home, by the Baltic sea, decades ago. 

It’s a dark evening in October, and I’m fuming with anger at my lover who’s sitting next to me and has just told me he’s going to sleep through the rest of the decade, possibly the next as well. I don’t say anything. He looks out over the water and his mouth turns tense in that way it does when he’s about to lie, so I shake my head, and his dark eyes close. We walk back to his family cottage along the dark forest path without exchanging another word. At the door he reaches for my shoulder but I shy away.

I suppose mortals sometimes also reflect on the places and people that have been but are no more, but to the traveling researcher it’s… A little complicated. My home, for example, exists in all of the moments it has gone through at once, and in none of them, since I moved in fourteen years ago. Before that, there was another house, and another; all the way back to the one in Luleå where I lived with my father, and all the way back to Stockholm, when mom still lived with us. And if I found clearances and a technician willing to send me, I could go there; I could walk those floors and meet the people who raised me.

I could even meet myself. It’s inadvisable, but not unheard of.
But a town like Haven? Covered in an avalanche after getting bombarded with dragon fire? Sure, it can be rebuilt. And perhaps these people will rebuild it; perhaps it will be better than before, but no one will see how it was. It’s lost to time; and any attempt to reminisce is going to only be history, no matter how vivid the memory.

Except… 

These people also do have time travel. Somehow, despite being mortal, despite using wood to warm their houses, despite fighting with swords, and despite the lack of general sanitation, these people have time travel; a dangerous variant, but directed, non-spontaneous travel all the same. All fuelled by, if I’ve understood correctly, the Fade, in which times lost are preserved and recalled in dreams.

I lift my gaze and look out at the steel grey sky. The first few stars are lighting up, and to the east, the lesser of this planet’s two moons is making an appearance. And everywhere I look into the darkness, there’s the faintest iridescent green shimmer. I feel as if I’m falling when I concentrate on it. I close my eyes and focus on the sensation, until all that exists is my ragged breathing, the beating of the Shining Sea, and the glow of the Fade, just beyond reach. It’s not only in the skies, but also around me, and...

I open my eyes, and the sea is silent, completely still. Too still. The beach is empty. The moon hangs heavy in the sky, a sickly radioactive green. It’s as if the world has inverted its colors. 

I open my eyes again, blinking away the remnants of sleep, and the salty spray hits my cheeks. A deep breath sets me coughing.

Truly, I meant what I told Solas; I don’t miss dreaming. But it seems that to the people of this world dreaming means something entirely different than to this dislocated Swede, which makes me happier still I do not walk the Fade at night.

The innkeeper has turned in for the night, but she’s left a lantern at the front desk. I pull aside the curtain and take the creaking stairs upstairs. 

Our door is left open, just enough for me to watch him, seated at the desk by the window. His mind seems lost deep in a book, a scroll of parchment laid out for notes, inkwell and quill at the ready. In the flickering lamp light the darkness deepens around his eyes, and his shadow dances along the wall. I pause, memorizing the picture it frames. Why, I couldn’t say.

He lifts a cup of steaming liquid to his full lips. I cough to cover my laugh at his expression of disgust at the drink, and try to hide my amusement when I walk into the room with my arms crossed. The fireplace crackles invitingly.

“What are we drinking?”

“It is tea. I detest the stuff,” he replies and takes another sip, keeping his eyes on the book.

“Why drink it then?”

He gives me a glare that has barely any must to it, then pauses, fingers tense on the book. 

“It can’t be that bad?” I take the cup out of his hand, and give it a whiff. There’s definitely a strange smell to it. “Is that… Chicory? There’s something bitter in here as well. Is this what the Orlesians call tea?”

I cast him a glance. He’s barely able to keep his eyes open, and my chest clenches at the sight of him this dishevelled.

“Solas, maybe you should turn in for the night? I’ll take the floor, it’s no bother,” I suggest, keeping my voice soft.

He shakes his head.

“No, not tired, I...”

He lifts an eyebrow in surprise, struggling to focus his eyes.

“Magebane. How foolish of me,” he whispers.

“Magebane?”

The lamp goes out. I blink at the sudden darkness, then see the faint glow of his eyes.

“We’re not alone,” Solas whispers hoarsely. “ Run .”

My throat constricts with panic, and I back instinctively. The backs of my legs hit a chair. I stumble out of the way, and just then, the horrific sound of a steel blade catching on floor planks reveals the assassin, close enough now that I can hear his heavy breathing and smell the old wine on his breath.

“I thought it would never take hold,” comes a raspy voice through the darkness. It’s ladled with a thick, buttery Orlesian accent. “Too bad you’re not her, just a little bitch of a chambermaid. But... her apostate lover isn’t a bad catch.”

He lashes out at me a second time, and I whimper as I back further. Three more steps.

My back hits the wall. I close my eyes. The man lashes a third time— 

Steel clashes against steel. Solas forces the staff blade up with astonishing strength for his lean frame, and the assassin staggers back. With a roar of fury, the attacker recoils, casts the dagger aside, and draws his sword instead. I hear it scratch against the rug on the floor as he strifes, ready to strike. I fumble for my knife.

Solas dances through the darkness, raining blow upon blow on the black mass of the assassin. One moment, his staff is a spear, the next it’s a sword, and he wields it with a trained precision I’ve never seen before, even among the Inquisition soldiers. His steps are elegant, his face concentrated, and there is no question that he would be able to take on the dark-clad assassin weren’t he poisoned. As it is, for each step, his breathing grows more labored, and for each parry, his arms grow heavier.

“Get out,” Solas barks at me, “ please .”

But I can’t. My feet won’t move. I hold my breath.

One time, two times, three times more Solas parries the man’s lashes, each move slower than the last. But on the fourth, his staff clatters onto the floor as he crumples, and the assassin's blade sinks into Solas’ shoulder. The assassin laughs, a dark, terrifying sound made infinitely worse by the darkness.

“This is for Felassan. Briala sends her regards,” he says, accent gone.  He lifts his sword once more.

But Leliana’s dagger is in my hand, and I fly across the floor. If time has slowed down, I don’t notice it.
My dagger sinks into the assassin’s neck with a gurgling, guttural bubbling, as steel slices through his windpipe, almost drowned in my scream of rage.

Taking a life is easier than cutting a hide.
A teacher once told me that all acts of destruction are easier than acts of creation, and I guess he was right. It’s a lesson I had hoped to never apply in real life, I reflect calmly as the assassin collapses when I retract the blade, but as he falls face down in an expanding pool of his own blood I only have one man on my mind, only one name on my lips.

“Solas,” I breathe. 

He lies on the floor, too still. My arms reach for him, and at the back of my mind I’m nauseated at the sight of his blood, bereaved at how pale he looks, terrified of how I’ve definitely broken a dozen regulations most important of which one is I killed a man , but I don’t hesitate as I pull Solas to me. And thankfully, he coughs, wheezes at the pain from the wound in his arm.

It’s a deep gash, from the top of his shoulder down the back of his right arm. The blood, it wells out from the wound, and I reach for the closest thing I can find to a bandage to still the bleeding.

“Is that you, my heart ?” he croaks in Elvhen, voice tainted by sleep, mistaking me for Lavellan.

“Rest, Solas,” I whisper softly as I wrap my shawl into a tight bandage around the wound. I close it with a hairpin through the wool fabric. It won’t be enough, but it’s better than nothing and stops the bleeding for now, until I can take him to a doctor. Fuck. Healer, in this world. 

“We can’t stay here,” Solas murmurs, voice hoarse and weak, mouth close to my ear.

I nod my head, and pull him up to a seat. 

Don’t get involved , a voice in my head hisses at me, but I tell it to fuck off kindly, and reach to pick up my bloody knife off the rug.

The hayloft above the stables is empty save the conspicuous lump of Barth the driver.

“Bridle the horses,” I growl at him and give him a shove.

“Mistress… Oleanna?” The man’s voice is confused and sleepy. Over the smells of horses and dusty hay I get a whiff of stale ale.

“Bridle the horses, Barth,” I repeat, holding the knife out at him accompanied by my most intimidating stare.

“Alright, alright, no need to shout, elf. Or point blades at me.” He finally looks up at my face, and his annoyed expression melts into worry. “What’s happened? Where’s Lévrier?”

My façade bristles. If the man is faking it, he’s a good liar, sticking to our cover names even now. And with dread in my heart I recount the occurrences of the last fifteen minutes.

We leave before first light, on the guise of the sea breeze that has picked up speed during the night. This time, when Solas stirs, he looks up at me and nods, weakly, before falling back asleep. 

I hold my dagger close as he rests through the ride, head on my shoulder. And I don’t mind watching over him, not one bit, as we roll into Ferelden and the sun slowly rises over the horizon.

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: Antidotes

My throat constricts when I spot the familiar shape of Skyhold’s first watchtower among the moonlit snowy mountain slopes. When the carriage comes to a stop on the road, it’s more than an hour before dawn, judging by the pitch dark cloudy skies above. We’re still half an hour’s walk from Riverside camp. My legs sink down to my knees in the loose snow as I throw myself out to greet the confused Inquisition scout. Barth looks after our exhausted, steaming horses.

“Wh... Melina?” 

The voice coming from up on the tower is familiar.

“Scout... Lace, Lace Harding? Is that you?”

The dwarf lights a lantern and climbs down from the stone structure.

“Hi! We, we weren’t expecting you for another four days.”

“Solas is hurt. I’ll explain... later. Horses?”

“Oh. Oh, yes. Prince and Lucerno should be at camp. But, I don’t think you’ll be getting the portcullis lifted this time of night. Uh, you’re the first to arrive,” she replies, bewildered.

“Is the surgeon in camp?”

“Either her or Stitches, they take turns. You go ahead now,” the woman says sternly, “I’ll fly the signal so that they’ll know to expect you.” 

The freezing mountain breeze rattles the fabric walls and blows a gust of powdery snow into our faces. The two newly awakened soldiers gently set down the stretcher on the table in the middle of the tent.  Solas doesn’t move, lying on his side, face ashen, one foot hanging limply off the table, and my pumping heart constricts painfully in my chest at the sight.

It’s clean in the tent, by Inquisition standards, and compared to the Skyhold surgery, the air is positively fresh, warmed by the pot-bellied log burner in the corner, but I still shiver from exhaustion and the freezing mountain air.

“Hand me the shears,” the surgeon commands, holding out a hand, and I pick up the dull steel scissors, with blades longer than my hands, hands trembling.

She turns up the lamp that hangs on a chain from the roof. Her face is all harsh lines.

“You did these bandages?”

“I did,” I reply quickly.

“Could be worse,” she says matter-of-factly and cuts through them in three neat strokes. “What happened? Wasn’t expecting to see Ser Solas on my table.”

I hesitate, so she continues as she works.  

“If the patient was any other man I’d suggest amputation right about now. But I saw what got did to the Inquisitor’s hand, how he healed your frostbite. Watched him set his own fracture once. Heard he’s a mean battlemage in the field, at that. I think he’d have my hide if I took his arm,” she says with a scoff. 

“We were ambushed,” I concede, “and he was poisoned, with something, mage...”

“Magebane?”

The surgeon gives a low whistle, tapping her temple knowingly.

“See, it’s not much use now, that almighty connection to the Fade, is it? How long ago? Has he woken up?”

I shake my head.

“Around... It must have been Sunday, an hour or two past sundown.”

The surgeon pauses, setting aside a bloody cotton rag, and pulls back Solas’ lower lip.

“As I thought, a dash of deathroot and a sprinkle of corrupted lyrium. Nasty mixture. See, he’s not completely asleep, nor in the Fade, nor awake. Silent Death, they call it.” She looks at me with a serious expression. “The lethal dose is less than a thimble. Since he’s still breathing… You must have gotten very lucky.  Sturdier than he looks, this one. He’ll live. Onto the antidote, then... the jar with an orange powder, mix a dram of it in a wineglassful of brandy and drain it through a cloth. Once it’s done, put one of the amrita seed pods in some sweet wine.”

“A dram?”

“Three scruples. The small coin weights, next to the scales,” she clarifies, “and don’t touch the powder, it’s rashvine,” she adds.

Nodding despite my confusion I set to work. A wineglassful, it turns out, is a precise measure. I do my best not to spill as I operate the delicate brass scales and measure out the liquids. The amrita is a dried seed pod, similar to that of a lupinus. Quickly I mix the potions into two small beakers, then turn to deliver them.

“I guess you’re used to seeing blood, seeing as you’re the tanner, but you might not want to watch this next part, ” the surgeon’s voice comes, followed by a soft squelching sound.

I end up pacing the ground outside the tent. Someone’s shoveled all but this last night’s snow, and I look up at the endless sea of stars above the camp and river. Only two nights earlier, I was on an Orlesian beach, and I sense that pull of the abyss above once more, like vertigo.

A little light spills out from the tent behind me, grounding me. The surgeon steps out, hands steaming from a wash.

“You look like you haven’t slept, Melina.”

“I’m fine,” I lie, and pull the borrowed blanket tighter around me, feeling bare without my shawl,“and it doesn’t matter. I... I owe him.”

“You’ve done plenty for your man. He’ll be fine. Here, have some wine,” the surgeon says and passes me a steaming goblet that I accept gingerly. It’s warm in my hands. I take a sip, and it's spiced in a way that reminds me of that last night in Haven. 

“He’s not my man,” I protest meekly, downing some more wine.

The surgeon chuckles.

“How are those slings I ordered coming along?”

I shake my head and yawn.

“I’m so sorry, I... I guess he’ll be needing one as well.”

“He’ll be fine, don’t fret. Your hand’s been alright?”

“Oh... Oh yeah. I’m sorry. I suddenly feel very tired,” I mutter, “I should go back in, I need to watch over…”

“That would be the amrita working,” is the last thing I remember the surgeon saying.

There’s an urgency gnawing at the back of my padded mind, but sleep pulls at my limbs with the inviting warmth of a steaming bath, calls to me like a siren at sea — but as I’m reaching for it, it runs off at blinding speed, like the tide turning. With a frustrated grunt I open my eyes. Above me is the canvas ceiling of the Riverside surgery tent, bulging and weighed down by snow. It’s not cold, not per se, but a little draft of the mountain breeze has stuffed my nose. I sit up, basking in a moment’s peace, and then the events of the past three days come crashing back into my mind, all at once. The Great Ball. Solas. The favor. Lavellan. The beach. Solas. The assassin. The ride back. Solas... Where is Solas? 

The sun has just set beyond the Frostbacks, and the soldiers have gathered around the campfires scattered along both sides of the riverbed. I find the surgeon’s assistant, a young black woman with braided hair, outside the tent drinking tea.

“Where is he?” 

I don’t intend for my voice to sound threatening, but the woman takes a step back. I step into the cold snow, blanket wrapped around my shoulders.

“You’re awake,” she greets me, voice cautious. “We transferred ser Solas to Skyhold this morning. Surgeon said you really should rest,” she adds as I throw the blanket aside and reach for the remainder of my cloak.

I push past the bewildered guards at the guardhouse, images of shady assassins with long blades dancing behind my eyes as I slip through the sleet in my stocking feet onto the evergreen lawn of Skyhold. Could they be here at Skyhold as well, ready to strike any second?

I run across the yard, breath burning in my lungs. I shake my head at an equally confused Blackwall who falls on his ass, downed by his sparring partner Rutherford, but there’s no time to explain.

The door rattles as I slam it ajar and enter the surgery.

“Solas?”

I can’t seem to catch my breath. My eyes sweep across the space. Soldiers, a Chantry sister, and finally my eyes fall on a cloth-covered shape, close to the door. The surgeon stands up from her seat at the bedside, straightening her apron.

“He’s no longer with us,” she says solemnly.

Time stops. My heart skips a beat, then sinks, deep below the floorboards, below the Undercroft, frozen. For just that second, all meaning drains from the world.

“I mean, they already left,” the surgeon crucially specifies. “Inquisitor Lavellan arrived in the afternoon, and they rode off after supper.”

“You… Let him leave,” I manage.

“Let him?” The surgeon laughs. “When you find a way to stop that man from doing or speaking his mind, call the Chantry, for the Maker’s surely found his match.”

They already left. 

The words replay in my mind, numbing in their simplicity. The Iron Bull gives me a curious gaze as I drag my numb feet across the yard, still winded from running up the mountain path and across the drawbridge. I make it halfway down into the tannery when the exhaustion and outrage strikes me. There’s no trace of the gathered, diplomatic, cautious Melina in the scream that wheezes out of me as I sink to my knees on the stone stairs.

I scream until I’m out of breath, until the fire is out of air. I let the tears run down my face, watching myself from the back of my mind, refusing to give those voices hold.

It’s alright , a soft, unfamiliar voice whispers, but gets immediately drowned out.

Malika, this is not a sensible reaction , the memory of my father’s almost faded baritone reprimands, this man owes you nothing , through the low rumble of the waterfall ahead. Malika, this is hardly like you .

Holmén, get a grip , my supervisor scolds, using only one of my surnames like usual, think of your career. Do not let yourself get carried away. Think of how this will reflect on your team, carried on the breeze from the hole to the mountainside.

Lika, do you really feel this way about... a mortal ? my own voice whispers, barely audible among the other voices. I have no answer, so I scream again, a primal sound that reverberates down the stone corridor, bent over double.

He’s very quiet for someone so big.

“Hey, little elf,” comes the soft bass of his voice from higher up on the stairs. “Everything’s not alright here, is it?”

I lift my head and look up into the face of the Iron Bull. I’ve never seen him up close before, and he’s a strange sight. His pale eye is mild, but my eyes are drawn to his horns, longer than my arms. He’s crouched down as if I were a hurt animal that might strike at him for offering help. I wipe at my running nose, cursing internally.

“If... If I said I’ve just had a very long week, would you believe me?”

He offers me a hand, and I take it. It’s a very large hand, and his dark nails are sharp, like talons.

“You can talk to me about it. I heard you went with the Boss to Halamshiral.” His voice is kind and smooth, but it has a sharpness to it, like a shard of glass wrapped in velvet.

“Yes, perhaps,” I say, a tad too quickly, apparently, as he pulls me standing.

“I’ve seen you around, but we’ve never gotten talking. So, Melina ,” he says and places one of his huge hands at my back, leading me up the stairs, “who do you work for?”

“Oh. We really haven’t been introduced, have we? I run the tannery. Harritt’s been showing me the ropes, and Josephine’s been kind enough to get me everything I need,” I say and swallow, attempting a smile, as I step back out onto the Skyhold yard, “So you could say I work for the Inquisition.”

“And?”

His tone stops me. It’s definitely more of a dagger than velvet. Heart beating faster I turn to look at him, trying and failing to keep my voice light. “N-no one. Why do you ask?”

He crosses his arms, stepping out of the doorway.

“You’re a spy,” he says calmly.

“I’m not.”

“Mmm. And that’s not completely true,” he says, stepping around me.

“I’m not… a spy ,” I insist, my fingers closing around the hilt of my dagger.

“There’s no shame in what we do,” he says, stretching his arms, and too late I realize he’s got me cornered against the wall. I couldn’t make a run for it even if I tried. Sneaky.

Something in what he said registers.

“ You’re a spy?”

“Yes. The Chargers work for the Inquisition, and I report back to my people. Ben-Hassrath,” he adds, but the term rings no bells despite the calendarium’s translation of ‘heart of the many. 

“Ellana knows?”

“Boss knows. Red knows. She reads the reports.”

“That sounds… like an interesting arrangement,” I shake my head.

“Works for all parties. Which brings us back to yours,” he adds, leaning a little closer.

What can I tell? I don’t really want to end up stabbed again, but can I try to circle around the truth? I close my eyes, and prepare for a zap.

“Look, Bull. With this face, I’d make the worst spy ever. Agreed? Anyone can tell when I’m telling the truth. So,” I draw a breath, “Truths. I’m not a spy. I pose absolutely no threat to the Inquisition. I don’t work for or report back to anyone in this world outside the Inquisition.” The calendarium prickles in warning. “Anything else you wanted to know? You got me... in a sharing mood.”

“You’re not from the Anderfels,” he states with narrowed eye. 

Was he present that night at the Herald’s Rest, when I said too much to Varric? He might have been. I swallow.

“A little further away. I’m from a remote settlement called Stockholm,” I admit, accepting the pain. “But it’s a place of such little consequence that I don’t think a single map-maker in Thedas worth their salt would think to include it. Am I lying?”

“No,” he says after a while, lowering his arm. I let my breath out through my toothy smile.

“Anything else?”

“Your tattoo, what is it?”

“It’s pretty, no?” He nods, but is not buying it, so I continue, “I use it to count da—,” the pain is like an electric shock, “And... similar things. Not magic, if that’s what you were asking,” I add through gritted teeth as the aftershocks of the sharp pang of pain run up and down my arm, “Anything else?”

His expression is unreadable, even though I imagine I wasn’t very good at covering up the pain.

“You and the hedge mage. What’s he to you? The way you ran to the surgery. Your anger at not finding him there. There’s, uh, a history there. You want him dead?”

“Solas? I definitely don’t want him dead! For gods sake, I stabbed an assassin in the throat to keep him safe, I, I bandaged his wounds, I watched over him for three days and nights straight to get him back here safely, no, I, I’m furious at him, for leaving, while he’s still wounded! I don’t want him dead , I, I, want him to...”

“You want him to bed you. I see.”

Now would be the perfect time for the Skyhold green to swallow me whole. But it doesn’t, so I fumble for meek words of protest as my cheeks and ears color a deep red. I keep my eyes fixed at the Iron Bull’s bare abs.

“I don’t… want…” I whimper.

“Hey, you said it yourself. Terrible liar. Good for you. God for him. Good talk, Melina,” the Iron Bull says with a leer, all threat gone from his voice and body language. 

“ Fuck you, Bull,” I say with gravitas, but the lug of a Qunari laughs it off as he heads off to the Herald’s Rest.

Chapter Text

Chapter 15: A Place for Fire

I return to the tannery, nodding at the puzzled guard on the way down, cheeks burning, and head spinning in… relief? Embarrassment? Frustration? Anger? Shaking my massively confused head I sit down on my workbench and fumble to light my oil lamp. 

The adrenaline from surviving Bull’s questioning shook the last of my exhaustion. I take a deep breath to calm myself, then look around. My workspace is much like I left it; smelly, messy and home. I absent-mindedly gather some last threads and shreds of the red and blue silks of the Inquisition’s Great Ball uniforms, sprinkling them into the tin jug under the table, the one in which I keep scraps to make toys for the refugee children from. 

The latest batch of hides are in bark water barrels, and I get up to check on them. When I make a small crosscut on one of the ram sides, it seems there’s still a few weeks to go. I seal the lid once more, and hoist up a bucket of ice cold water from the river below to wash my hands.

Among the missives I find a neatly bunched pile of waterlogged requisition notices for boots. Apparently the Inquisition’s venture into a particularly swampy and corpse-infested corner of Ferelden called the Fallow Mire has spawned a need for clothing, since the old ones literally rot in the humidity of the near-constant rain and murky acidic water of the swampland. The ink has run on one of the missives, and there’s a sour smell as well. I set them aside for later.

Another missive, written in Ser Morris’s smooth cursive, informs me that Cabot, the dwarf that runs the Inquisition’s tavern, requests me to come by in the coming days to discuss tableware and drinking vessels. I smile, feeling the first spark of a creative itch run through my fingers. 

It’s already been three months, this strangest journey through time I’ve ever been on. There’s still over a hundred and fifty coils left on the calendarium though, I realize after counting them in the light of my little oil lamp. Not for the first time, I’m not quite sure how I feel about it. 

On the one hand, I did not sign up for a journey this long. But on the other, I’m not sure what I actually did sign up for. Why is there only one inner coil? Why did I end up here, in Thedas? What happened to my boots and the rest of my gear?

It’s alright , a soft voice whispers in my mind, and-

I open my eyes and stare out over the darkening mountains, listening to the soothing and familiar rumble of the waterfall, and whatever anguish was on my mind has melted away like the last wisps of a nightmare.  Eyes on the Frostback mountains, I pick up a piece of charcoal to sketch. My fingers shake as I start to draw.

I will finally get to do pottery, and I feel strangely excited at the prospect. What will I make? Even though my pottery skills are average at best, even though I have no idea how pottery will work in this world — it’s something I have missed. 

While I don’t really understand the whole deal with Corypheus, with the mage-templar war, with the Chantry, the Fade or the Orlesian empress, I sure am curious to see how it all pans out for Lavellan and her Inquisition. And, strangely similarly, I admit to myself, I don’t understand this whole thing about Solas either. But despite my anger at the man, which has me glaring at the half-finished brushes I am making for him, I can’t deny I’m… thinking about him. Which reminds me...

I lift the jawbone necklace out from its hiding place in my jacket, and stare at the browned ancient bone. What type of animal did it belong to? Was it prey, friend, or foe? And what did Solas do before he joined the Inquisition? What, or who, is Felassan? How is Solas connected to Briala?

Why is he annoying me so much?

And why do I feel...

Like he’s somehow familiar?

I look down at the parchment. There’s a rough profile there that my hand has drawn, unbidden, of the elf in question. A few moments later the sketch flies down the waterfall, and I reach for another piece of reed paper with a deep sigh.

There’s something there, something that demands to be felt, but the undercurrent of anger and complex emotions threatens to pull me under if I continue treading these unknown waters, so instead I throw myself a lifeline by devoting myself to my work. For now. Josephine has, after all, been able to locate clay — and so it’s time to finally build a pottery. I set a course for her office, a sketch for a kiln in hand.

I find the Inquisition’s ambassador sitting in one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace, a semi-circle of parchment rolls spread around the floor. Her quill scratches away furiously at the clipboard.

“Lady Josephine. I came to discuss the kiln.”

“ Wait, ” she says in her native Antivan, then looks up, “Melina! Andaran atishan ,” she says in what I assume is her best Elvhen, so I nod politely. “I will make some time for you. And,” she adds with a mischievous smile, “for coffee.”

“How you decided to spoil a mere artisan like me I will never understand, lady Josephine, but forever cherish,” I say with a smile, suppressing a yawn.

As she prepares the ground coffee and water in the copper cezve, Josephine explains what she’s working on. There are some visiting dignitaries about to arrive at Skyhold the following morning, along with empress Celene’s arcane advisor who Ellana invited to join the Inquisition. Apparently sister Leliana knows the mage from before, and mentioning her makes Josephine’s diplomatic smile fray a little, I note, as I sip the coffee. 

“Oh, here I once again am blithering away about the going-ons,” she catches herself. “But I owe you an apology, for what happened on the road back from the Winter Palace.”

“No apology needed,” I say quickly.

“Solas told us what happened. To think Florianne had the Harlequin follow you, it is truly... I am so sorry. It is unacceptable. A civilian like yourself should not end up in...”

My eyebrows rise. A Harlequin? Like Florianne’s lackeys during the fight in the Winter Palace gardens? But why would Solas lie about the type of assassin? Perhaps he misremembers.

“I was the decoy,” I interrupt, keeping my voice measured, “and I would gladly have taken a dagger aimed at Ellana.”

“But we are all very glad Solas and you made it back alive. I am sure the lady Inquisitor herself would offer her personal apologies, but she left for the Exalted Plains already. Since the truce was formed, the civil war is completely unnecessary, but word has not reached the forces in the Plains. There was also a matter of some urgency that prompted an earlier departure.” 

“I heard she took Solas with her.”

“He was the one who brought up the matter of some urgency. A friend of his, in need of assistance, but I unfortunately do not know more about it. However,” she says at my expression, “I am sure of their swift return. In fact, we are planning a Wintersend celebration for the week of their return.”

“Wintersend? I’m not familiar.”

She beams at me, clearly excited to speak of the topic.

“Yes, Wintersend! It’s the first day of spring, and the day of the Maker. We didn’t have the means to celebrate Satinalia,” she draws a breath, “which in Antiva, my home country, we celebrate for a week. We were still not ready for a celebration at the New Year Day, so, instead, we are making a big celebration for Wintersend. There will be dancing, a market, flowers and a banquet. It would be in five days, and last five days… However, we will delay. Hopefully, our lady Inquisitor will join us for the last days of the celebration, when the Sing-quisition will treat us to a short theatre play and we will hold a ball of our own afterwards.”

“It will be a sight to see,” I say. Some of the songs the small but tenacious choir keep in their repertoire are rather raunchy.

“I… have agreed to play a part in their play, as well,” she says, looking into her cup. “It is traditional for the leaders to become fools for a day during Wintersend. I will play the noble boy.”

“You will be very dashing, I’m sure.”

She turns her face coyly to the fireplace at the compliment.

“The first dawn of spring is a time for blessings and prayer. Then, during the evening of the first day, new leaf and egg pasties are traditional, and crisp oil-fried biscuits and games for the children.”

I nod.

“On the second day, the handing of flower favors, for the ball. The courtship of three nights, we call it. It is a… time for lovers, and not unheard of that Wintersend results in many proposals. And then, on the third day, the grand market. On the fourth, the proceedings and the banquet. And on the fifth, the theater play, followed by dancing.”

“It all sounds quite delightful.”

“You think so? I hope it will be a time to… celebrate how far we’ve come, as an organization. We are a force to be reckoned with, and there have been more voices of support since Halamshiral. Despite my initial fears the outcomes of the Inquisitor’s decisions seem to fall in our favor.”

“Indeed,” I say.

“Which reminds me... She asked me to ask you, if you would make something, for the banquet? It is a Chantry holiday, but we acknowledge… not all members of the Inquisition believe in the Maker. We’re hoping to make everyone feel included.”

“Oh. I... I suppose I could. My family never celebrated Wintersend, but…” My mind goes to the myriad of Easter traditions my grandmothers did their best to upkeep late into my twenties. “I will think of something.”

“You are a remarkable woman, Melina. Oh, let’s talk about the pottery!”

Since Blackwall, my go-to man to bother for carpentry, is part of Lavellan’s party, lady Montilyet makes a rather unexpected suggestion of who I should enlist to help me transform the four tonnes of brick from Orzammar into a kiln, and this is how I find myself staring down the Iron Bull a second time during the same day.

He’s splayed out on his usual chair in the Herald’s Rest, casually talking to one of Cabot’s rather handsome bartenders, one hand stroking lazy circles on the red headed elf’s thigh, but his eyes are on me the moment I push open the door. I cross the tavern floor and traipse around the staircase, then pause, leaning onto one of the wooden beams.

“Hey there, Bull,” I say with my most winning smile.

“Melina,” he replies, and breaks eye contact long enough to nod at his companion. The man shakes his head at me with an eye roll, then he grabs Bull’s empty tankard and heads to the back room.

“So,” the qunari crosses his arms, “what can I do for you, ma’am?”

The days slowly grow longer, and Wintermarch turns into Guardian as we build Skyhold’s very own kiln. The corner of the yard, next to the entrance to the dungeons, turns out to be the perfect spot, and the Iron Bull turns out to be an excellent substitute for Blackwall or a hydraulic excavator. 

The morning after speaking to Josephine I find him sitting on a bench, crouched over my plans, balancing a brick on his knuckles. The massive pile of red brick has teleported from outside the gatehouse, the only evidence it wasn’t by magic how Bull’s bare wide chest glistens with beads of sweat in the morning light. It’s not a bad sight, at all. I set down the covered pitcher of ale and the mugs on the bench next to him and unload the wheelbarrow which contains the masonry tools Gatsi’s folk left after rebuilding one of the towers.

“You’re up early,” I comment, handing him one of the mugs.

“And you’re late,” he booms, but accepts the drink with a nod. “I took a look at the plans. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I sure hope so too,” I say, looking closer at the plan.

I have built a kiln before, but never this type, and never alone. On my previous research trips I’ve infiltrated existing potteries or ceramics studios. Designing and building my own kiln has been one of my dreams, BUT Engineering has never been my strongest suit.

My plan is for something that is a bit of a hybrid model, combining features of anagama as well as train kilns. I plan to make it wide and high enough to fire 200 to 300 crocks at once. It will be fired with wood, and the ash will fly freely through it, which will be slow and give some unpredictability to the glazes. What has me nervous is the slight climb in the ware chamber to let me reach high temperatures, and the fact that the chimney will be taller than I’d initially planned, to prevent the smoke from floating straight into the gardens above, but to be honest I have no idea what else the tall chimney will affect.

We start by measuring out the whole of it on the ground. The kiln will stand a little off the wall, and around it we’ll build a shed — a workspace to create the pottery in — and we decide to place the firebox facing out rather than into the castle wall. It’s a bit of a precaution; just in case heat builds up, we wouldn’t want the bedrock to shatter. 

“It’s bigger than I expected,” I mutter and pull at my hair, looking down the string that marks the length from firebox to chimney. It measures closer to six metres.

“Your words, not mine,” Bull adds with a not-at-all suggestive twang to his voice.

“Well, the size she’ll be, she’ll sure be able to take a good load,” I counter, which earns me a rumbling belly laugh of approval.

Harritt has been able to procure some firebrick, so we start construction by building the floor on which the wares will stand, creating an incline for each shelf. The widest point will be somewhere around a metre in width, and the door — which will be masoned shut during the firing — is a good sixty-five centimetres wide. If my calculations are somewhat correct I’ll be able to sit inside while loading the kiln without hitting my head. All things considered, a very decently-sized kiln.

A bit of engineering is still needed to build the kiln. Despite my love for the subtle ingenuity of a good catenary arch, I have no way to cut the bricks with precision, so I decide as long as it’s standing at the end of the week, it will do. By the end of the evening we’ve laid down the foundation and made the centres, with wood splints for laggings, upon which the arch of the kiln will rest until it’s dry. The Iron Bull proves to have a fairly good sense for the spatial geometry, and gets the hang of how to size the centres surprisingly fast.

I pick away some mortar that’s inexplicably found its way into my eyebrows as we take our places around the table at the Herald’s Rest for some dinner and drinks.

“So,” I ask, as I’m digging into my plate of beans and beets, “have you done this type of work before?”

The Qunari shakes his head.

“No,” he says in his deep voice, sipping at his bucket-sized tankard, “Under the Qun, everyone has their place. Purpose. The Tamassrans decide for us.”

“Oh,” I say, not sure of how much of what he’s telling me is considered common knowledge.

“There would be a place for someone like you, as well. There are other crafters, and elves, under the Qun.”

“Hmm. I’m happy here,” I say, tasting my own ale. It’s still not as good as Flissa’s. Perhaps the Iron Bull sees the twinge of guilt pass through my eyes, because he lowers his voice and asks:

“Are you?”

I shrug.

“For now. And I will be far happier still by the end of the week, when the kiln is drying and the Inquisitor’s party returns.”

“Fair enough. I’ll help you out tomorrow afternoon. Have to run some drills with the Chargers in the morning.”

“Sounds good.”

We eat in silence for a while. It’s right between the usual supper time and evening, and the Herald’s Rest is resting. Over by the fireplace, Maryden is tuning her lute. I drink some more ale to wet my throat.

“I promised to help prepare the Wintersend celebrations. Do you celebrate it in… where you’re from?”

“In Par Vollen? No.”

“I was asked if I’d cook something for the banquet. Will you?”

The Qunari laughs.

“Funny thing, no one asked me to cook anything. What will you make?”

“I was thinking of baking, something my grandmothers made for early spring when I was a young girl.” He waves at me to continue, so I do. “It’s…  it’s a type of bun, with cream and jam. I would make it with almond paste but I don’t know if we have any. It will be small, and sweet, and a little frivolous. Do you think So- some of them will like that?”

“Oh the elf will like that,” Bull says smoothly with a slow nod. “Little bird told me your man has a sweet tooth. One look at you, shouldn’t surprise anyone,” he adds, voice all honey.

“Come on, he’s not my man,” I say, laughing at the obvious flattery.

“If you say so,” he counters.

During the following days, to my surprise, even commander Cullen and enchanter Dagna lay down some bricks to build the kiln, and slowly it rises from the ground. Mother Giselle stops by with the children and orphans. Thankfully, this time, she doesn’t ask for another fairytale, but I agree to show any willing children how to make a coiled pot, once everything is up and running.

We get our first shipment of clay from Redcliffe from some rather confused farmers. I inspect it in the shade of a corner of the stables. Iron-rich, red, and full of organic matter, it’s not ideal, perhaps, but it will make nice earthenware jugs, mugs and bowls. Josephine also has a contact in the Emerald Graves, an area that sounds promising for kaolin-rich white clay, possibly porcelain, based on her scout’s report of the soil. But for now, I’m hopeful and quite happy with what I have.

The first dawn of spring I wake early to the distant sounds of the Chant of Light, which echoes louder from the Chapel across all of Skyhold than ever before. My eyes feel dry, and I’m nurturing a tiny headache from just one too many celebratory ales in the tavern. The memories of the previous night are a little hazy, but I’m fairly certain the Iron Bull lifted me on top of the finished kiln, at some point.

Of course the kiln still needs to dry before the final layers of mortar and the first test-firing, and we still need to build the rest of my pottery shed, I remind myself, but that will have to wait until after the Inquisition’s Wintersend celebration. 

The dungeon guard nods at me as I head out of the tannery to the tavern for morning porridge. Cabot hands me a steaming cup of tea without a word. It’s better than normal. I raise an eyebrow at the usually fairly stern dwarf.

“I heard you finished the kiln last night.”

I nod, and swallow the porridge.

“So I was thinking. I'm told you might be able to make cups. Plates. Bowls. That sort of thing.”

“Yes! I’m so sorry I didn’t come by to speak to you earlier,” I say, thinking of the earlier request, “But indeed, I should be able to start throwing as soon as I get a wheel made.”

“The earlier the better,” Cabot says with a shrug. “I usually get our tablewares from Orzammar, and those small cups come with the Warden steeds, but now the Wardens have all gone and disappeared, and instead of tableware, we’ve had whispers from Orzammar about trouble brewing in the Deep Roads.”

“Noted. With some luck, I’ll have a first firing in a few weeks.”

I turn the empty teacup in my hand, looking closer at the red clay cup. Footed, straight, handleless, salt-glazed judging from the stripes and irregularities. Around two or so decilitres, or half a pint in these parts. Definitely thrown.

“Tolerable,” he says in his usual glib tone. “Now excuse me, Inquisitor’s party is returning tomorrow eve and lady Montilyet made some requests.” 

The next day, the spray of water offsets some of the heat of the furnace in the Undercroft as I enter. The loud clinking that I could hear faintly all the way up in the throne room ceases as Harritt glares at me with a particularly deep ‘keep-away’ wrinkle between his eyes. I ignore him and spot the Undercroft’s second craftsmaster. The auburn-haired short woman stands leaned over one of her workbenches, close to an eerie-looking measuring device.

“Arcanist Dagna?” I ask.

“Oh hi! You’re back, Melina! Do you need something? Or, ooh, can I take another look at your marking?”

The enthusiastic dwarf skips over to greet me. Her usually shiny copper apron, or perhaps I should say armor, is covered in a dark layer of soot.

I tuck my arm behind my back and take a step back toward the door on instinct.

“Hey there Dagna.” There’s something about her unbridled curiosity towards anything magical that puts me on edge. “I actually do have something I hope you can help with. It’s, eh, more of an engineering question, and it might be a bit, uh, boring to an arcanist as yourself,  but Harritt seems rather busy,” I shout in his general direction, and the man waves his hammer at me. “Which he has every right to be,” I add.

Dagna laughs, and it’s a lovely sound. I hand over my sketch for a kick-wheel.

“I was born a smith. This is going to be metal, yes? I’ll help you out. If I can take a look at that coil of yours,” she says, then looks thoughtful as she takes in the plan,”Wait, no. I’ll help regardless, this looks interesting. Explain these parts. This down here will carry a lot of momentum, right?”

I hesitate, wondering whether explaining a rolling-element bearing will alter the course of history. I’m not entirely sure when they were invented on Earth, but something tells me they might not be a thing yet in Thedas. And I’m not even sure I’ll be able to explain them. The dwarf looks at me expectantly. 

The calendarium will let me know if it’s too anachronistic, anyways, right? I give in and nod.

“That’s the idea. It’s... a weird idea. Um. Let’s see if I can...”

My eyes fall on the table with plans and materials that I know are used by Lavellan to plan Skyhold’s interior design. I walk up to it and snatch a bunch of crude pencils, and spread them out in a row on the table. Then I pick up one of the loose stones off the floor.

“Let’s say this stone is a massive boulder? If you were to transport it by dragging them alone, you’d have to push pretty hard.” I place the stone on the floor and give it a soft push. “But, with the help of some logs...” I slide the stone across the pencils with ease, “you can lower that resistance, friction we can call it, and make do with far less force?”

“Mmm-hm. Go on,” Dagna says with an amused grin.

“So, looking at what makes it possible is... Well, you see how the stone is actually touching a lot of pencils at once, but each only on this very very thin surface?”

“Still following.”

“The downside is we have to run around and add these logs,” I pick up a pencil, “to the other side of the stone, to keep it moving.”

“So we’d need a way to build the logs on a giant wheel around the stone,” Dagna says thoughtfully.

I nod, but continue before she gets attached to the idea:

“What if, instead of a... stone, we had something spinning around its axle?”

“Like in this design,” she says and spreads the sketch over the table. “For a pottery wheel, you’d have the heavy kick wheel here...”

“And on this part,” I pick out a smaller sketch, one for the bearing itself. “It’s, at its core, races? And small balls.”

“... that move…! Oh I see,” Dagna muses. “I can make this. The wooden parts... Not really my thing. But I’ve seen you have some other helpers for carpentry?”

I laugh.

“I guess I’ll bother them. But thank you, Dagna.”

“My pleasure.”

“Let me know if you need something in return,” I say, a wide grin spreading across my face.

A loud clattering sound echoes through the Undercroft. 

“My apologies! Master Harritt? I am terribly sorry for, for this,” comes a familiar voice laced with an Antivan accent.

Another clatter, and a sound of glass breaking. I open my eyes to see the Inquisition’s ambassador. She looks horrified with herself.

“It’s... It’s nothing, lady Montilyet,” Harritt replies, weariness thick in his voice.

“The crown for the play is coming along nicely,” she replies to smooth things over, then seems to notice us. Her face instantly lightens. “Melina! I was looking for you! Will you join me for the evening’s feast of flowers?”

I blink.

“Oh, s-sure?” I reply. “I would love to,” I add once I’ve shaken off most of the surprise. “Let... let me go change first?”

The Skyhold river rushes exceptionally strong with meltwater from the snow. I wash my face and hands, and card through my hair with a simple wooden comb, then add a smidge of oil to the ends before I braid it and pin it back. My jacket has dried overnight, and the mortar stains are as good as gone, but there are a bunch of others that I suspect no amount of scrubbing would get rid of. The replacement for my shawl still isn’t finished, and I feel bare without it. The knitted lace that I started on the way to Halamshiral still sits on my little dresser, waiting for a slow evening, but I do know it’s not going to be the same.

Once done I sit down on my table. When I concentrate really hard and press my fingers to my calendarium , but ignore the green allure of the Fade, I can just about sense her, right at the edge of there. It’s hard to explain; like the awareness of a space once you close your eyes. She’s close. Once she’s back, that also means… I open my eyes.

He’ll be back too.

My eyes fall on the cognac leather case I’ve been meaning to deliver, and I poke it open. The brushes look just as hand-made as I remember, with their beech handles and the waxed linen thread around the ferrule. I pick one up and test the springiness against my palm. Not… too many hairs fall off. 

Not the greatest gift. Well. It’s not a gift, at all, not really. 

But they would go really well with a porcelain palette. He would like that , a soft voice whispers to me, but I brush it aside. What he’d like doesn’t matter, because it’s not a gift. Besides, I can use the ones that I felt weren’t good enough for him for pottery. 

There isn’t really a hurry to deliver them, but, then again, if I don’t deliver them now, I might run into him when I do. I sigh. That is indeed enough motivation to get up, and I tuck the case into my sling bag where his jawbone necklace already sits.

Wintersend has Skyhold bustling with people, despite the highly anticipated missing figures. Varric Tethras nods at me from his place by the fireplace, and I nod back at him, then hurry through the throne room which is clad in beautiful spring greens and yellows, flowers replacing fires in the vats along the hall. I try not to stare at the nobles crowding the room who have traded their dark finery for airy dresses and flowing knee-length pants in shades of light green and pale yellow, and masks for lace half-veils and fringes. 

The plan is to make my detour to the rotunda as quick as possible, but once again the space takes the air out of my steps with its serenity. Far above me, the faint calls of Leliana’s crows. From the mezzanine, the soft echo of the measured steps of the researchers and accountants. 

And right in front of me, Solas’s desk. His research on the Fade, famously cryptic, spread out for us all to see. I cross the cool floor in a reverent silence and pick up the brush case out of my bag, then quickly tuck it under one of the open books. 

My lips pull into a wry smile. Two months, that’s how long it took me to deliver something this simple, something that, in the end, took me a few days to make but simply wasn’t a priority. To these people that must seem… an eternity. Yet Solas has not complained, nor asked about the brushes. Granted, he has been out in the field with Lavellan most of that time, but his patience is commendable. 

Or perhaps it makes him a little suspicious. Well, in addition to the considerably suspicious, based on the assassin, and that favour I did for him in Halamshiral, including the strange message I still haven’t delivered. And speaking of things for Solas I still haven’t delivered...

My fingers close around the jawbone necklace in my bag. 

“Researcher Helisma?”

“That is me,” the woman replies calmly, looking up from the sample laid out on the desk in front of her. It looks like some kind of fang or claw, but from what creature, I can’t tell. It’s about as long as my hand, so I don’t particularly hope to find out, either.

“Call me Melina. Your advice on preparing bronto hides was invaluable, and I was wondering if… you might tell me what creature this came from?”

I hesitantly place down the darkened jawbone, careful not to topple any of Helisma’s jars. 

The woman gives the item a glance.

“I might,” she says, and continues her reading. “But it is not my task, and that belongs to master Solas.”

She doesn’t press me for how I came into possession of it.  She doesn’t say anything more. It’s not quite her way. My eyes are drawn to the sunburst mark on her forehead, half-hidden behind the fringe. I’ve heard the former Circle mages speak of the Tranquil, and it makes me wonder what her life must be like. From the outside, she seems calm. I wet my lips.

“It does,” I concede, lowering my voice. “I was curious, and, well, I’ve never seen bone darken this way. What would cause this discoloration? Master Solas is out with Lavellan, so I can’t ask him,” I explain.

“I understand. Time might do it. Heat as well,” Helisma says in her monotone. “I see similarities between this and finds from ancient elvhen archeological sites.” 

Ancient elves? My eyebrows rise a smidge as I pick up the jawbone by the leather strings and tuck it back into the bag. I will need to do some research of my own. 

“Thank you, then, researcher,” I say. I’m about to head out to the Wintersend festivities when Helisma speaks again.

“The creature was canine. Dog, or, young wolf, more likely.”

“Wolf?”

“It is hard to know, since that bone is ancient. Many ancient cultures appreciated wolves, and even Mabari were bred from them. The Alamarri worshipped the wolf, and the Emerald Knights were said to keep wolves as companions, in the time before and during the Exalted Marches.”

“Thank you,” I say again, adding yet a few words to my list of unknowns.

The feast of flowers is starting in the Skyhold gardens, which have been decorated with scarves and painted paper garlands. I draw a breath of floral-scented air and look around as I step through the doors.

Nobles and commoners alike enjoy the music from Maryden and an Orlesian minstrel, this one playing a fiddle. Luckily, the Chantry people seem to be mostly holed up in their chapel. Lady Josephine beams at me from where she’s standing with visiting dignitaries from the Free Marches, and even Leliana is smiling mischievously at whatever the Iron Bull is telling her, sipping at a goblet of wine. 

The people of Skyhold are all dressed in light colours and fabrics to greet the spring. The feast itself is a beautiful ordeal, but my attention keeps leaning from the explosion of spring crocuses and lilies and pale pink tulips, and countless flowers of unknown names on display at the tables, to the awareness of Lavellan’s proximity. 

A bit off to the side, leaning on the rail, stands a dark-haired woman with a sneer on her face. Her golden eyes meet mine for the briefest moment, and I feel the hairs at the back of my neck rise. Better stay out of her way, I decide, and make a beeline for the table by the trees, the one with wine. The wine, served in pitchers, is a floral rosé, with dried cornflower petals.

“Tardy.”

“Hardly, master Tethras, the party’s just starting,” I say with a smile as I fill my goblet. Varric lifts his own in salute. The dwarf looks happier than usual, and someone’s braided his strawberry blonde hair. Are those apple blossoms? He looks my way.

“I hear you finished your construction project?”

“Mmm, finally. Not that I mind tanning, but pottery is just… what I love. I finished work on your satchel,” I add, taking a first sip of the wine.

“Appreciated. From what I hear, the Inquisitor wants me along for her next adventure.”

I chuckle, then sigh. Varric raises an eyebrow.

“You want to come with as well?”

“Hell no. I just wish there was some way for me to keep up with what’s happening, is all,” I lament.

“You mean you don’t have a network of informants sending you ravens?”

“There’s the bulletin, I guess, rumors in the tavern. Sometimes the Chargers talk, sometimes Sera spills her beans, but… I hate not knowing what goes on as it happens, where you go, who you fight. Who leaves, and who… returns.”

Varric hums. When he speaks his words are soft.

“Lavellan’s been doing good so far. I know you two are close, but what she needs from you is trust, not worry. So don’t worry.”

“Easier said than done,” I sigh. 

The dwarf chuckles.

“Ain’t it ever. But, if it’s any consolation, there’s this whole Inquisition? You heard of them? Well we’re trying our darndest to keep her alive. She’ll be fine,” he says, but there’s a hair of hesitation before the last word.

I nod without meeting his eyes, and tip my goblet back as I look out over the festivities. Lady Montilyet shines an enthusiastic smile my way, beckoning to me. Putting my empty goblet down I give Varric a wry smile. 

“I will come by to ask you what the deal with Corypheus is. There’s this rumour that you’ve met him before... but I must bid you farewell for now, my sweet scribe, for the lady ambassador beckons to me.”

“I’ll be here,” he replies with a nod of his head.

“Melina, there you are! It is most wonderful to see you. I believe you will like this,” Josephine adds and takes me by the elbow. I can’t help the small chuckle that escapes me at her enthusiasm.

She leads me to the table of flowers where hundreds upon hundreds of colorful cuttings lie. A tall Orlesian lady dressed in an exquisite pink silk gown threaded with silver greets us with a bow of the head. Josephine exchanges a few words with her as I take a closer look at the botanical buffet.

Petals in shades of reds, and yellows, oranges, purples and pinks, and white, ranging to almost glowing blues and greens. Some of the flowers I recognize, but most are alien. 

Not all of them are flowers, per se. In a tall vase stand twigs from trees, new leaves freshly sprouted. We used to call them mouse ears, when I was young, I remember with a smile, touching the almost transparent birch and beech leaves. There are other things as well;  ribbons and buttons and clasps, and small doilies crocheted in intricate patterns.

“What’s all this?” I ask, twirling a piece of soft velvet ribbon between my thumb and index finger.

“Well,” Josephine says close to my ear, “the feast of flowers is the first night in the three nights of Wintersend courtship. It is customary to express your intentions… Through the language of flowers. A flower favor — to be worn on the wrist of your friend at the Wintersend ball.”
She picks up a beautiful yellow crocus, and a sprig of leaves, then holds them to my wrist.

I swallow at the sight of the makeshift corsage.

“Is this... Are, are you asking to court me?” 

Josephine startles, then laughs as she sees my expression, shaking her head. A few strands break loose from her updo.

“No, I... It is merely a token of friendship. Cloth-of-gold, for good cheer, and ivy, for camaraderie,” she explains with a soft smile. 

I smile back and thread the yellow crocus into her hair.

“I’m afraid I don’t speak flower. Perhaps you can teach me?”

“Certainly! Flowers can express… Any number of things.”

She looks out over the sea of flowers.

“Let’s start with… Something simple.” She stops at a delicate white flower. “This is a snowdrop. The first flower to pierce the veil of snow. For consolation. And,” she picks up a leafy herb, “balm, for sympathy. Appropriate for someone in grieving.” 

I take the balm leaves and lift it to my nose, smelling the herb. Melissa . A piece of home.

“I think I understand. And,” I point to a splendidly red flower, similar to an amaryllis, “how about this one?”

She inclines her head.

“The Sarnia lily. It is not... a compliment. Haughtiness, or pride. It is considered a rather self-righteous flower, following an incident with a chevalier. But, there are those who see Andraste’s pyre in the golden flecks embedded in its petals. Let’s see,” she says, pointing out the flowers, “Tansy, for resistance, harebell, for submission. The lunaria — for honesty. The lancer’s lily — for chivalry, and the poet’s daffodil — for self-absorption,” she says, pointing at a narcissus. “Perhaps for unwanted suitors.”

I chuckle. She continues:

“In the Game, you cannot be too direct, and when it comes to courtship, there is nuance. The most famous token of love is the rose, of course, but it is not in season yet,” she says with a small smile, then corrects herself: “Save the yellow rose, which is for hatred. Tulips…  a classic declaration of young love. Or for a more delicate touch, the lilac — the first stirrings of affection, as evidenced by its delicate nature. And,” she adds conspiratorially, touching the herb to her cheek, “for the subtlest hint of them all, simple elfroot, which shows no flower at all.”

“What a strange kind of poetry,” I say.

“It truly is. It serves a double function, in the warm months,” she lifts a sprig of lilac to her nose, “when the odors are particularly strong.”

“I see.”

“The sword lily,” she picks up a blue flower, not in bloom yet. “A message. And here, a dandelion — the oracle — a question posed, or decision made.” She adds the sun-yellow flower to the blue. “Enchanter’s nightshade, for fascination. When combined...”

“A message of a fascinating decision?”

She smiles.

“Perhaps. Or, a most modest request for a bold proposition, following an intriguing meeting. Decoding the missive is the most amusing part,” she says.

Not everything is in bloom yet, which gives me an idea for applied pottery. The Orlesian merchant happily sells me a few parcels of seeds. 

Next Josephine tries to explain the confusing and contradictory meanings of carnations, but I simply decide against ever trying to convey anything through any of them. The history and beliefs behind each plant make little sense to me, but I nod along, giving a polite chuckle once in a while. 

“Juniper, for protection”, she says when we get to the tree branches, “And arbor blessing — Blessed by the vine in spring, I shall not fear the winter's sting ,” she quotes, “for abundance. Evergreen arbor — for immortality.”

Do Thedosians have a concept of immortality? My eyebrows climb on their own.

“Something that is never dying,” she explains, assuming I don’t understand the word. “It is usually paired with a token of affection.”

“So not a symbol of actual immortality?”

“Oh,” she says.“I don’t believe so, no. There were... Some magisters and Dalish myths of the ancient elves, but I am not an authority on magic,” she says with an apologetic smile.

“Of course. I was merely curious.” And secretly hoping I wasn’t alone , I don’t say.

My eyes fall on a bouquet of familiar delicate white flowers. Lady Josephine seems to notice, and says softly:

“Ah, the most classic flower favor of them all. Wintersend bells. The return of happiness.”

“We call them lily of the valley,” I say with a wry smile, picking one of the green-stemmed flowers up, looking at the little white bells.

“It will look lovely in your hair,” Josephine muses.

I wave the notion away, but she laughs and goes ahead with her plan, threading four of the flowers into my braids.

“So, do you know what you will need for your flower favor?”

“Oh, I don’t... I don’t have anyone, I, well. Would expect to court,” I sputter, furiously twirling the lily of the valley between my fingers. She nods, but there’s a bit of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“Thank you all the same, lady Josephine, for teaching me.”

“You are a delightful student. I was hoping... You might teach lady Ellana, in return?”

Of course. She looks at me expectantly.

“Of course,” I say with a grimace of a smile. 

Another goblet of wine later I find myself pushed into dance with the other Skyhold craftspeople. I mouth the word traitor at Varric who laughs, clapping the beat, and turn to grab hands with Harritt. Despite not knowing the steps, despite not knowing where the music is taking us, I laugh with glee as I turn, turn, and twirl. Dagna, the Surgeon, Lysette, chef Donatien, the surgeon, and then back to Harritt. Ser Morris makes a bow which I return, trying and failing to catch my breath.

It’s no wonder I don’t notice, and I’m just as startled as everyone else, when the Inquisition scout Farrow walks into the gardens and announces:

“It’s her! They’re back!”

I want to run to look, but I pace myself and keep my eyes on the ground as I follow the cheering Skyhold people to the stables to greet the arriving party of the Inquisitor. I watch as Dorian, and Sera, and Lavellan herself dismount their horses, getting showered in flower petals. There’s Vivienne, and Cassandra, and some boy in a large hat, and soldiers from Riverside, and...

My heart clenches as I watch the last member of the party ride through the gates. But the tall elf who pushes back his cowl to reveal a thick mane of honey-colored hair… is Loranil.

Chapter Text

Chapter 16: E. Lavellan, and Missing a Linear Fool

“Where’s Solas?”

Despite my best effort, the panic is apparent in my voice and my fingers crush the flower in my hand. 

“Don’t ask me,” Blackwall mutters, throwing his gloved hands in the air. Vivienne ignores me, handing the reins of her horse over to Dennett before sauntering off. I look between the Inquisitor, Sera — whose arm is in a sling — and Dorian, who gives his horse a soothing pat, before turning to me.

“Hello Dorian, good to see you Dorian, I am so delighted to see you’re back in one piece, Dorian,” the mage says with an exasperated sigh. “The short answer — We don’t know. It’s... Ah, here’s my best friend to fume it over you in detail.”

Lavellan sighs, shaking her head. If the dark circles around her eyes aren’t enough, the bone-deep exhaustion is apparent in how she leans on the horse as she helps the uncharacteristically silent Sera down from her horse. 

“He’s left us. I think. His ‘friend’ did that to Sera.” 

“Solas... left? Why? What did you do?”

“What did we do?” Lavellan scowls.

She looks at Dorian reproachfully.

“Fine, fine, I will regale you with the tale!” the Tevinter rolls his eyes. “Well. We arrive in the Exalted Plains — quite dusty out there, did you know? And our hedge mage friend declares that a pride demon, barely contained in a summoning circle, is his dear old friend from the Fade.”

“Oh.”

“Apparently these poor charlatans from the Kirkwall circle had summoned a demon to ward off bandits. They got rather more than they bargained for. Can you imagine? True idiocy knows no limit. We were going to break the circle, and then the purple behemoth started lashing out at us with it’s electricity whip, so…”

I swallow in horror.

“You killed her?”

Dorian gives me a sharp look.

“Oh, you know this particular demon? No, of course we didn’t. We broke the summoning circle, but the demon- spirit... it, well. Expired. And, as Ella here already implied, Sera got a nasty lash across her shoulder.”

“I imagine he was...”

“No. No, no,” Lavellan interrupts me, anger rising in her hoarse voice, “Do you know what that insufferable Felasil did when we spared it like he asked? He decided he needed to avenge the thing by killing the idiot mages that summoned the demon — instead of healing Sera!  And then he had the nerve to get angry when I told him to snap out of it! I thought Solas was a man of reason, and now he’s left us? Over a demon? I have never seen this side of him before.”

“Called it,” Sera mutters.

“Well there you have it. This is Loranil, by the way,” Dorian clarifies, gesturing at the newest addition to the party.

“ Andaran atishan, hahren, ” the boy says. He gives me an uncertain smile. I look at the strange young elf with the long hair and the face markings. There’s excitement in those eyes, but a heap of confusion as well. He’s wary. I’m making him wary, I realize. I am being too emotional. Malika, get a grip. You need to keep it together.

“Welcome to Skyhold,” I reply, trying to return his smile. “There’s, well. We are celebrating Wintersend in the gardens. I’m,” I swallow the lump at the back of my throat and start walking toward the festivities, “told there will be a banquet. Some theatre, as well. I...”

“How did you know it — the spirit — was a her?” Lavellan interrupts me.

“Solas... mentioned her.”

She turns to face me, pale eyes full of fire.

“You knew and you didn’t tell me?”

“I... It was on the ride back from the Winter Palace,” I clarify, my voice breaking. “I would have told you, but he was hurt and then, then you had left by the time I woke up and I...”

I draw a shaking breath, and suddenly Lavellan’s arms are around me.

“... I’m so sorry,” I whisper between sobs.

“Hey, hey, Melina, it’s... You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m sorry,” she says, “I didn’t realize. He’s... Solas is alright . He knows how to take care of himself.”

I nod against her shoulder and let go. Ellana looks me straight into my eyes.

“Does he mean this much to you?” Her voice is barely more than a whisper. I bite my lip but don’t reply, but it must be obvious. 

She smiles, adjusting one of the flowers in my hair.

“Well… you’re kind of the same age, both reclusive, speak strangely, and you’re way too particular in your knowledge. Easy on the eyes, like we established earlier. Elf takes the elf, as Sera would say.”

I award her wit with a cross between a hiccough and a sob, wiping at my eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” I say again, “I don’t… usually…”

“It’s going to be alright,” Lavellan repeats.

Varric, who’s joined the welcoming party, barks a laugh.

“I’ll bet anyone a mug of beer he’ll be back. That elf’s the most obsessed with the Fade I’ve seen, and I’ve seen more than my share of Fade-obsessed mages. He won’t be able to resist coming back to you,” he adds and gives Lavellan a nod.

I try to smile, but it doesn’t really work. Varric gives my shoulder a pat.

“What if... he doesn’t return?”

“Then he doesn’t,” Lavellan replies with a shrug. “It’s not like the Inquisition hinges on him.”

“And what…  if he returns?”

Lavellan crosses her arms.

“Tell you what, Melina. You deal with him when he returns, if he returns. Now, let’s get Sera to a healer. Dorian, Varric, a glass later?”

“I thought you’d never ask! Will you join us, Melina?”

Dorian looks at me with something soft in his blue eyes. I shake my head.

“Another time,” I excuse myself. 

I’m about to head down to the tannery when there’s a familiar whisper of a soothing voice I can’t quite place behind me, and I expect the person to say something more. But when I turn around, I’m alone in the soft afternoon sun.

Slowly melting mountain snow paints dark and rippling brooks along the Frostback slopes. My hair lashes against my face in the wind as I climb up the watchtower. I’m told the banquet was a success despite a lack of stuffed buns, that the theatre play was declared the performance of the year 42 Dragon, and I’m sure that the ball was magical, but I’m happy to have spent the time outside the fortress walls, filling in for the Inquisition scouts to let them enjoy the remainder of the festivities. 

Lace Harding herself explained the signals. I adjust the torch.

The Inquisition issue leather armor feels unfamiliar on my body, like poorly sized padding for ice skating we used in elementary school gym class. I pick out the book from my satchel and sit down on the low stool, settling in for another evening of reading The Tale of the Champion with one eye on the darkening horizon.

It’s Friday Guardian tenth, and my coils are at 152, when Skyhold has recovered from the hangover of the year. Lavellan is having some armor modification work done with Harritt, and so we are able to resume work as normal for a few days on the pottery with warden Blackwall and the Iron Bull, before they ride off for their next mission. The two seem to get along well enough.

While the Iron Bull saws planks as per Blackwall’s instructions, and I’m sifting clay, Dorian Pavus makes an appearance, squinting at the sun. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him leave the library for anything else than the tavern, and he looks somewhat uncomfortable as he stands outside the Herald’s Rest watching us work. I wave the mage over.

“Fascinating. Wouldn’t it be far easier to use magic to fire these... ceramics?” he asks once I’ve explained the kiln to him. 

“Oh, it would,” I say, trying not to smile, “and it will be a great help when you come give us a fireball that lasts at full strength, I don’t know, eighteen hours or so?”

“You don’t say,” he replies loftily, eyes drifted over to the woodworking Qunari. 

In the evening there’s a game of Wicked Grace, and I impolitely decline Bull’s invitation by saying I’m not in the mood to lose my shirt in a game I’ve never played. The Qunari laughs it off. And so it happens I’m sitting in the tannery alone late at night making boots in candle light, when there’s a sound behind me.

My fingers close tighter around the handle of the skiving knife, and I feel the adrenaline swell up.

“ Hahren ,” comes an uncertain voice behind me, and I turn. 

I chuckle and set down my makeshift weapon. 

“Lorin, was it?”

“Loranil,” the young man says, but the way he pronounces it and bows his head it sounds almost like an apology.

“You’re new to the Inquisition, aren’t you?”

The elf nods, wringing his hands. He’s dressed in a simple sleeveless tunic and dark grey breeches, but his leather footwraps are intricately patterned, and his face is adorned by matching blood writing in a moss green hue. Although, in the darkness it’s a little hard to tell.

“Yes. The Inquisitor was able to convince keeper Hawen that the Inquisition is not subservient to the Chantry. Commander Rutherford will find me a posting. I hope I can be useful. The Elder One threatens us all.”

I nod.

“I’m glad you’re finding your feet. Let me know if I can help you with anything,” I dismiss him, and am about to turn back to my work when he raises his voice.

“I heard you also make pottery.”

“Tanner and potter, two for the price of one,” I say with a chuckle.

“Ala’holmelan i seithe’seilan, raj’ajuelan tel’melina,” he says, the elvhen rolling off his tongue slowly, as if he’s reminding himself of the words. Earth sculptor and leather cutter, unnamed master crafter, my calendarium translates.

“Melina will do,” I say slowly. He looks at me with a confused frown between his eyebrows.

“ To name ?” the calendarium translates my name spoken by him, and for a moment I’m just as confused as he is. 

“Yes... Melina. I’ve picked up a little elvhen here and there. It’s not something you hear… every day, where I’m from. I didn’t have a word for potter. Ala’holmelan . Thank you, Loranil,” I quickly explain, but that gives me an even more confused stare.

“You’re welcome. You were raised among humans? ”

“I was,” I say, after a while, realizing too late that I’ve misspoken. 

“Ir abelas, forgive me for prying. I’m an orphan too,” the young man says. “May you meet in the long sleep.”

I blink. 

“ The long sleep ?” I repeat the strange word, breath hitching. Is that a euphemism for death? Or...

“You city elves really don’t know the tales, do you?” Loranil gives me a sidled smile. “Keeper Hawen used to tell us that in the ancient days of Arlathan, elves did not age in body or mind; the elders only grew weary of spirit. And when the burden of memory grew too heavy, they would slumber in the waking sleep, guarded by their descendants, ready to wake in a time of need.”

“ Uthenera ,” I repeat the word, then clear my throat. Just like my family , I realize. Just like me, once I go home and accept my life isn’t getting less lonely. I turn my face away from the young elf, blinking away the tears. “In Dalish legend, ancient elves were immortal?”

“Yes... but after the fall of Arlathan, we started aging. We call it the quickening, I think? There was something else, but… Keeper Hawen tells it better,” the man apologises, scratching his red hair. “There was another. Well, matter I came to talk about,” he starts again, turning his hands up. “I spoke to Inquisitor Lavellan, and we were wondering if you could help us make the vessels for a shrine.”

“A shrine?”

“It’s... It’s where we make offerings, for the Creators. Our gods. The Andrastians have their chapel. We only need the stone table and the vessels,” he adds.

“Of course, if you give me the specifications.”

He agrees to come by the pottery with some specifications. When he leaves, I feel both more and a little less alone.

The steel feels cool against my hand. I trace the smooth edge of the circle with my fingertips. The dwarf gives me an excited squeal.

“Good work, right? Told you I’d get it done. Try out the wheel next.”

“It’s remarkable, Dagna,” I breathe, “You too, Blackwall. This, it’s amazing,” I say as I sit down at my kick wheel for the first time. 

Blackwall grunts in acknowledgement. We’re gathered in my shed, my helpers standing in a semi-circle around my workspace. The Iron Bull leans onto the chimney with a leer and Harritt inspects my tools with an approving nod.

It’s a good shed, if you can call it that — a timber truss roof, and simple tarpaulin walls to make sure it’s easy to let in enough air during firings. My back is to the kiln, and I have a view out over the yard through an opening in the cloth. In front of the window stands my workbench; a sturdy table of Fereldan make that used to clutter the kitchens. The door stands ajar, and next to it there are shelves, ready for wares to dry. I pick up my kneaded ball of clay from the bucket by my feet and slam it down.

“Wish me luck,” I say, as I kick off the wheel and start centering the clay.

Working with clay is a revelation, a soothing familiarity in an unfamiliar world. Don’t get me wrong — I am no master potter, and I throw poorly in the best of circumstances. Still, the wheel is smooth, far better balanced than I would have expected possible in this preindustrial setting. Like all kickwheels it’s still hard work to keep it moving. The clay is unevenly moist, and there’s still sand in it despite the sifting, and despite working in the tannery, my hands aren’t used to the roughness. Slowly, carefully, I pull the topmost clay into a small cup — supporting and centering with my left hand, pushing in with my right. Finally, I cut it off with a sinew cord, letting the wheel slow down to a stop.

“What… is it?” Dagna looks at the measly thing.

“I don’t know. Egg cup?” I suggest, eyeing the diameter. “For… quail eggs?”

“Have to start somewhere,” Harritt laughs, and I laugh with him.

By dinnertime my reject bucket is filled with lopsided cups and vessels, and two small, uneven bowls stand on the shelves covered in damp cloth to leather-harden overnight. I wash my hands off in a vat and switch out my apron for my knitted shoulder shawl, hanging the dirtied leather on a hook by the door. I look around the space, with its dirt floor, and feel so proud I could burst. 

It will take some time, sure, before I can fill Loranil’s request, or make pots for the flowers I’m planning on growing from the seeds I got during Wintersend. And sure, the clay is uneven, and it might all explode in the kiln for all I know, and I don’t know what I’ll do for glazes other than salt, and the Inquisition might not need my pottery once I’ve filled the requests for Cabot and the kitchens. It’s not… perfect, not by any means, but the potential of five more months of pottery? Hell, I’ll take it.

I push the door open, squinting at the first warm evening sun, feeling the soft tickle of freshly sprouted grass between my toes. The breath that fills my lungs invigorates me, and I sigh it out, happier than I’ve been in a while. Inviting music floods out from the windows of the Herald’s Rest.

Not only music, I realize. There’s a loud giggle, and my eyes rise to the oriel windows above the door before shutting my eyes at the sight. Oh.

“Take it off,” I hear Lavellan tell Sera in a brusque voice I barely recognise. 

"At once, yer worshipfulness," the blonde elf replies, mockery lost somewhere halfway.

I fish around in my pocket, and come across one of the seashells I picked up on the beach a few weeks back. I open my eyes just enough to aim for Sera’s bare back, then throw.

It hits.

“What in the... Oh!” comes a soft exclamation, before the leaded window is shut with a clang. I can’t help but laugh despite my burning cheeks as I head for the tavern.

The short respite is followed by hard work as news of spring, and of new trouble, arrives from across the continent. Seeker Pentaghast, madame de Fer, Lavellan, Sera, and the Iron Bull head out for a place called Crestwood, with what Ellana calls “a laundry list of things to do that only makes sense at a war table, but can’t be helped” . 

In the following days, the remaining members of her inner circle go about their business as usual. Dorian Pavus stays holed up in the library whenever he’s not sharing a bottle of wine with Varric and I. Varric, by the fireplace, or skulking around Skyhold “ waiting for inspiration to creep up ”. Blackwall — well, I actually don’t know what Blackwall gets up to, since I don’t much like hanging around the stables. I don’t actually see him around in the following weeks, now that I think of it. 

As for the other members of the Inquisition, sister Leliana continues doing the dirty laundry of the organization, Josephine Montilyet entertains nobles and dignitaries, and the Commander keeps the ever-growing forces busy with incessant training. 

I could be wrong about Rutherford, but there’s a tension in the man some days, as if he’s walking around with a hefty migraine. But it’s not my place to pry. Regardless of what’s causing those headaches, he finds a station for Loranil, who I’m glad to report was pleased with my designs for vessels for the Dalish shrine. Harritt has his hands full with outfitting the new recruits, and Dagna is working on a project relating to a substance called red lyrium, which seems highly corrosive — perhaps radioactive — and connected to Corypheus.
And when it comes to me, everything feels about as normal as it can for a secret alien, stranded alone in a strange world. In the following weeks I set into a routine of working in the pottery from Monday to Wednesday, and in the tannery Thursdays and Fridays, to make the most out of my Saturdaily baths. It is calm, if a little lonely, but I try not to dwell on the particulars of the longing. My shelves slowly fill up with thrown bowls and cups for Cabot, and the coiled pots and vessels for the Dalish shrine. 

I’m able to salvage another bedroll from one of the towers on the bannisters, and suddenly I find myself sleeping in the pottery most nights. The night air smells fresh, of clay and soil, and compared to the rushing of the river and the steady litany of complaints from Magister Alexius, Skyhold’s first prisoner, it is positively quiet. Most of the night, that is.

The tall grass of the meadow has taken over the path to the boathouse. My fingers thread through the straws, and absent-mindedly I push aside nettles with my rubber boots as I make my way down to the water. 

The water is calm, almost too still, as I row across to the little island. As I drag the rowing boat up on sand, and tie the rope around the rowan tree that overlooks the water, I look up to the sky.

There’s a bit of a green shimmer to the heavy clouds. It wakes some faint suspicion at the back of my mind, but a first drop of rain hits me right below my eye, and I head up the rickety stairs to Paju’s and Kerstin’s fishing cottage.

We used to do the dishes out here on the terrace, and the enamel vat leans against the red-painted wooden wall. I pull the creaking and lopsided door open.

My grandmothers never electrified the island beyond the solar panel for the old LCD-tv and the stereo. I kick off my rubber boots and let my fingers run along the macrame curtain, and it catches in my hair as I step into the space where all the furniture is low, even for someone as short as me.

It’s all the same, yet everything is different, and I set down my bag on the bench by the turquoise tiled stove. That photo of Kerstin, Paju and my father dressed to the nines for his graduation party, taken sometime in the late 2020s, has been thumbtacked to the wall next to that sun-faded video game poster with an ink-dripping dragon that Kerstin always comments Paju should take down.

There’s a photo of me and my mother as well, from our trip to Kerala, smiling with ammumma Amrita. And one from me visiting my mother at the hospital, a few years later. I pick up one of her favorite old britpop CD’s that I remember still kind of works, and press to skip the first song, then turn up the volume on the stereo. 

I walk up to the bookshelf, and let my fingers run along the late 20th and early 21st century media that my grandmothers adore. Browned and tattered paperbacks, in triple rows. The DVD box sets they refuse to let go of, even when they got too scratched to play; Star Trek, Babylon 5, Torchwood, Black Mirror, Red Dwarf, Boston Legal, Gilmore Girls, Vintergatan. The films we watched on rainy summer nights, eating kettle popcorn — Ronia the Robber’s Daughter, How to train your Dragon, Tales of Werenne, Pom Poko.

My eyes land on an old coffee cup from the 1990s, painted in orange flowers, with a half moon of dried coffee at the bottom of it, and a stain of Paju’s purple lipstick on the brim. I pick it up, humming along to the sad pop song, a smile rising to my lips at the memory of that time I almost burnt down the house when I warmed cocoa in the microwave in a cup just like this one, all because of those silver tendrils between the flowers.

On the gas stove, I warm water to make a cup of tea. The blue flames lick the old kettle as I shake the match out, and I reach for the Little My jar in which I know there’s ancient rosehip tea. With my steaming teacup in hand I head outside to sit on the porch.

On the step next to me there’s Kerstin’s cracked ashtray, the one I made in art class when I was still a child. My third-grade teacher really didn’t like it, tobacco was a public health hazard after all, but I kept it. And somehow it took me a hundred years to return to pottery. 

The CD catches as the song switches, and ironically Sally of the song has to wait even longer as I stand up to go skip the song, but something stops me. 

A scrunched up cigarette rests against the blue-painted edge of the ashtray, and next to it stands... a cup of instant aircook noodles. I stare at it. I never had cup noodles here. It’s the wrong make, from the wrong year, the wrong decade. Out of place. The sky above me cracks ominously, and I look up to see it has a faint shimmer of green. There’s a soft huff behind me, and I turn just in time to see a massive, dark creature with too many eyes and —

It can’t be much past dawn when the clatter of the training grounds carries through the thin cloth walls. I’ve taken to sleeping at the pottery, and if nothing else, I have a far shorter trip to the privy, I congratulate myself as I rub the remnants of a dream from my eyes, reaching for the jug of water by my bedside before I pause. Was I dreaming of making… Curry-flavor cup noodles? 

Shaking my aching head I button the poppers of my bra and pull on my shirt and jacket. My teeth feel hairy and my purse feels light, and I feel a moderate craving for instant ramen at the back of my tongue. Hazy memories of a missing Paragon, and two bottles of wine shared with Dorian Pavus and some returned members of Lavellan’s party float around in my queasy stomach.

That’s when I notice the shift. 

The wind howls around my ears, carrying the promise of rain from the west. The steel grey skies have cracked just a smidgeon, where the sun peeks out above the Frostback mountains of my home. My eyes water, and I push back my unruly hair. Still, I hold my head as straight as I can as I run through the gates, and walk out on the drawbridge. I swear my feet are moving, but it feels as if I’m floating.

The pack on his back weighs him down, and the sludge and mud of the road has stained his tunic and his green leather coat, but it’s him. He leans on that staff of his, as he comes to a standstill.

Solas’s eyes meet mine. By the Dread Wolf, I’ve missed this linear fool.

Chapter Text

Chapter 17: The Second Favor

“Melina.”

“Solas.”

In this moment, as we stand on the bridge, mere steps apart, nothing else exists but my thumping heart, and him, and the sound of his voice. It’s as if the world has no air, but if that were the case, what would the wind lashing at my face be? It’s as if the world has no ground, nothing to keep me from falling, plummeting down into the abyss, as I rest my watering eyes on him.

Solas seems so real, his figure framed by the jagged teeth of the Frostback mountains beyond the drawbridge. That unreadable expression, that mask of calm wisdom veils his face, and he’s clad in those same travel clothes as usual. He’s here, and he looks no different than before, yet there’s a weariness in the corners of his eyes, a strained angle in his jaw. That same staff in his hands, but his grip is forced, as if from nerves or exhaustion, or grief. 

Perhaps I’m only imagining it, I think, as my eyes sample his features to restore my fragmented memory of his face. The slight indent in his forehead, the curve of his nostrils. The pale freckles of his cheekbones. The darkness under his eyes.

When the first drops of rain hit my skin I become aware that time is running, and I’m staring, and he’s looking back at me. Blinking, I struggle for words. I have so many questions but can’t think of a single one to ask. There’s a faint memory I’m supposed to be angry, but I’m a simple woman who can’t handle more than one emotion at the time, and the relief at seeing Solas alive takes precedence.

“You’re back,” I finally manage to tell my feet, uncertain if he’s heard me. “You were missed,” I add, a little louder, trying out a fleeting impression of a smile.

Solas hums and pulls back his cowl despite the rain. My eyes linger on his just a moment longer before I avert my gaze. He falls into step next to me as we head into Skyhold together. 

“Is she angry?”

“It’s mostly water under the bridge,” I answer after a while, keeping my eyes down. “But, she... was worried. You left without... It might take some time for her to trust you again, is what I mean,” I draw a deep breath. “I have to ask. Are you staying, this time?”

“My place is with the Inquisition. I could hardly leave now,” he says softly, and I get an impulse to take his hand but restrain myself, as we come to a stop in the shade by the wall of the Guardhouse. He sets down his bag and staff, gently as always, and folds his coat on top. I wet my lips, and look out over the yard. Rain never falls here during daylight, it would seem, another quirk of unknown and ancient magic. My voice is level when I speak.

“It’s not really my place, but, Lavellan told me what happened in the Plains, or at least what she made of it. About your friend, about the Kirkwall mages, and the summoning circle. I… If you want my advice, be humble when you speak to her. I think she really values your counsel, but she was beyond worried for Sera.”

“As she should be,” he says, inclining his head in agreement. “ Dareth - ”

“Again, it’s not my place, but,” I interrupt his goodbye, “if you need someone to talk to, I’ll be around. You don’t have to mourn your friend on your own.”

With those words I leave him to face Lavellan alone, and walk back into the rain.

The door creaks when I push it open, fairly certain I’m in the right place. The office of the requisition master is dusty and dark, the lowest floor of what’s essentially a storage building. The stepping board creaks loudly under my feet. Ser Morris looks up from the giant ledger sprawled out on the table in front of him, and scrambles to sit up straight. I get the impression he might have been dozing off.

“Oh hello!” His voice is cheerful, if nervous.  “Anda… Andranntish- Anda… shan?”

I give the young man a reassuring smile.

“Savhalla. Ame Melina, ala’holmelan i seithe’seilan,” I introduce myself with a quick bow of my head. “But I do speak common. Call me Melina,” I add. 

“Good afternoon craftmaster Melina,” he says, laughing in relief. “What can I do for you?”

“I came to return these. They’ve been cleaned.”

I lift the footwraps out of my bag and place them down on a patch of table.

“Oh. Yes. These, these… What do you call them?”

“ Shosvilathe,” I reply, somehow falling back into Elvhen before I catch and explain myself.  “Sorry, footwraps. Elven kind.”

Ser Morris nods, looking even more confused. 

“They saved my feet on the walk across the Frostbacks. They’re very comfortable, but the wrong size,” I specify, turning to leave.

“Well. Thank you for returning them, I… wonder...”

I turn in time to see Ser Morris sort through his notes. Then he grabs a tattered piece of parchment. It’s stained dark brown at the edge.

“Could these be ‘elven foot things?’ I think this is Threnn’s handwriting…” he mutters.

“Possibly?”

“I could ask her but she...”

“Mmm-hmm,” I nod in agreement. The Fereldan has been somewhat prickly since losing her job because of her political beliefs, and some strange notion of Orlesian sensibilities, and some twisted idea of cost efficiency. To be honest, I would be too. “I could take a look...”

“Oh, no, it’s… Quite alright.”

I nod. I consider how to word my request to move from the tannery into the pottery. 

“So, Melina. Melina,” the nervous bureaucrat says, “You’ve been with the Inquisition longer than I have, Melina. And, uh, I hate to bring this up but…”

“How so?”

“The Inquisition’s recent dealings with the Dalish… Well, we were able to reach a mutually beneficial arrangement that will supply us with cuir articles…” His voice trails away under my gaze. “The thing is,” he whimpers, “we made a very good deal that renders your tannery obsolete.”

“I see,” I say.

“I have a… memorandum with some ideas for placement for your assistants and, my sincere hope is you will continue your work in the new pottery, however…”

“It... won’t be necessary, I work alone, Ser Morris.”

“Oh. Then… your inefficiency is understandable. I seem to have made a hasty decision. It still stands,” he says with a grimace.

“Well. That’s kind of where I’ve been living,”  say.

“In the dungeons?

I nod.

“I mean, I get your notices for requisitions delivered to my cell some days.”

“You live in a cell?” 

“Yes.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Alas, I do?”

“It’s a liability. Too risky.”

I laugh, looking back at that time a part of the wall just plain fell off.

“Trust me, I know.”

“If you hurt yourself we’ll have to reimburse your family, and it’s a whole ordeal...”

“Ah, lucky for you, I don’t have any family either.”

“The paperwork alone...”

I laugh.

“Whose orders?”

“Look, there are no orders other than mine, and…”

“It’s Josie, isn’t it?” I cross my arms.

“I assure you, lady Montilyet had...”

“Who then, falon ?”

I stare him down, which is a feat in and of itself, considering I’m about a foot shorter than the man.

“Inquisitor Lavellan herself,” he caves.

“That traitor! I am jesting with you, Ser Morris. I am quite alright with moving out from the dungeon but… on one condition.

“Name it,” he says, relieved.

“Could I have a bed in my new quarters?”

A little triumphant smile dances on my lips as I head down to the tannery to move the rest of my belongings into my new quarters. 

I hoist myself down on the platform one more time. My fingers go to the calendarium , as I stare at the rushing water of the Skyhold river. I will miss the backdrop of the snow-capped Frostbacks, but, to my surprise, not the solitude.

It takes a week before Solas visits me in the pottery late in the afternoon. Finished with the day’s task of decorating bowls headed for the kitchens, I’m in the process of attaching a spout to a round teapot when he enters.

His steps are quiet. A small smile dances on my lips as I pretend not to notice the shift in the air, the way his aura dances right at the edge of my perception.

Finally, like the first drop of rain breaks the surface tension on a calm lake, he breaks the silence.

“I found the brushes.”

“Hm. Was there a problem with them?”

My eyes stay on my work, and I add the slip to the scored seam.

“They are too fine for my line of work.”

“Well. I’m sorry. I can make larger ones,” I say, pressing the spout to the teapot. The clay around it caves in, just a little, from the pressure.

I’m vaguely aware that the man takes a few steps closer as I start smoothing the seam out.

“No, that... is not what I meant, nor what I wish. What I meant was simply, that the craftsmanship is far finer than I would have expected.”

“Ah. I suppose I should be happy to hear that my work surpasses expectations.”

“Are you a painter yourself?”

I wipe off the wooden knife and gently turn the teapot in my hands.

“Clay is the medium I prefer,” I reply, gently turning the vessel upside down to clean up the seam’s underside.

“What is this going to be?”

“Teapot,” I say, checking that the inside of the spout is clean.

“I see,” he says, right behind me. “And this is where you work?”

“Welcome to the pottery,” I mutter, poking at the bump I’ve just made below the handle.

“I must apologize. I seem to have caught you at an inopportune moment.”

At that I laugh, set down the teapot, and wipe off my hands. I take a steadying breath and turn on my chair to meet his gaze.

“I’m here for you. What do you need, Solas?”

He opens his mouth, then seems to reconsider. His voice is soft, but his gaze is sharp when he speaks.

“I would like to request some of your time. As a favor.”

I hang my apron on its hook, grab my bag off my bed, and nod at him.

We step into the rotunda. The high space is serene and quiet for this time of day. The backdrop of the cawing of ravens, and soft steps of the creature researchers and Leliana’s agents, seem to fade away when I spot the fresco.

It stretches metres tall, across half the circumference of the cylindrical room. The colors of the rich pigments seem to almost emit a light of their own. The decisive geometric lines from which the motif is built let the panels of the fresco flow into each other. The bleeding sky. The sword of the Inquisition’s sigil. The pack of wolves, howling. The ominous figure, and the fortress. The woman clad in blue, and an assassin.

My feet move on their own. I can almost feel the man’s smirk at my back as I press my face up close to the wall to look at the nigh luminescent blue surface of the fresco. It smells of lime and damp up close.

“This is breathtaking,” I whisper, looking back at Solas. He’s leaning on his table. The candles are lit once again, and the books have been piled neatly. “The determination, and years of practice and hard work it must have taken you to master this skill… You made this in under a week? You’re annoyingly impressive, aren’t you.”

That shadow of a smile flitters across his lips, but he regains control, and his voice is level when he speaks, despite the pink at his ears. 

“You flatter me.”

“Hmm. No. Flattery is deceitful, and this face can’t hide a lie, remember. Speaking of remembering...” I say and walk back to him and dig through my bag, “... I believe this is yours.”

Solas looks at the jawbone necklace in my hands, blinking.

“I believed it lost,” he whispers after a while.

“It seemed important to you, so I… kept it safe. Was it a friend or a foe?”

“A friend”, he mumbles as I reach my hands up to loop the leather bands over his head. My fingers rest, just a second, at his shoulders. Our eyes meet, and this time I don’t look away. Still, the words are hard to form.

“The Spirit of Wisdom, your friend. She meant a lot to you.”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to tell me about her?”

He looks off into the distance, shaking his head. I sit down on the table next to him. 

“Lavellan came to me to speak about the Plains,” I say, looking down at my own hands. “She said you told her spirits do not really die, that something of your friend’s essence still lingers in the Fade, that one day might wake into something all new. Faded. For her, time passes in sleep. But to you, it is still irrevocable loss,” I add, softly, looking up at him.

“ And now I must endure ,” he says. The grief sits heavy on his face. “Thank you, shivas’ara’falon .”

That word again . I sigh. My voice lowers down to barely more than a breath. 

“About… trust. I thought you were going to die, and then you left me.”

“I know.”

“Halam’shiral, the assassin, the journey back, waking up to find you gone, I… I was…” I draw a breath. Before I realize it I’m pacing the floor again. The words well up, along with tears.  “... I was terrified, Solas. Distraught. Lost. I know that there are things you aren’t telling me, and you don’t have to, I’m not asking you to, just like there are things, things I haven’t, can’t... But the thought of losing you, it… What I’m trying to say, is this. We missed you,” I say, coming to a stop next to the scaffolding. “ I missed you,” I admit.

The blue light of the veilfire lantern cuts across his face as Solas comes to stand next to me. He’s very close, towering over me, but where he felt imposing earlier, now there’s comfort in his nearness. His eyes are filled with something I can’t quite describe but it shoots straight through my guts; fragile, scorching, precious, sweet and painful all at once.

He wets his lips.

“You are too kind.”

“I really am not,” I say and shake my head.

“But you are. I have done nothing to deserve such kindness and compassion. Which begs the question whether you extend this kindness to everyone around you, or…”

My breath catches at the back of my throat.

“Or?”

His mouth moves to shape the words, but for the first time since I’ve known him, Solas isn’t able to find them. The urge to hug him, wrap my arms around him, is impossible to resist.

And so I don't resist it. I step forward and press my head close against his chest, next to where the jawbone rests against his heart. He’s warm, and so very real in my arms. His tunic smells of old paper, like a library, and of forests and of elfroot, and of him. It’s a subtle, yet wholly distinct smell, one which I breathe in as my hands grip his stiff back through the fabric. 

The heavy loneliness of weeks, months, years, since I held another person lifts as we stand there, thawing like icy ground in spring. I wish I could hold on to him forever; but it’s not fair of me. He’s mortal, and we’re friends, nothing more.

“You looked like you needed a hug,” I mumble in apology, stepping back, letting my hands fall to my sides.

I draw a shaking breath, readying myself to meet his gaze, when his hands cradle my face, tilting it up.

Our eyes meet, and he leans in, ever so slowly, and my eyes flutter shut.

Solas’s lips brush against mine. The kiss is soft, hesitant, tentative; the lightest of questions against my mouth. A question that burns like fire, it’s heavy and it’s happy, and it speaks of stars and feels like falling, and like laughing, all at once, as he kisses me. His lips are warm on mine, his fingers tremble along my jaw.

It's a surprise, yet one I’ve unknowingly ached and waited and dreamed of for — weeks, months, years, a lifetime — how long, I can’t tell. 

The kiss is brief, all too brief. When Solas pulls back, his blue eyes are full of bewilderment, as if he’s as surprised and awestruck as I am. My hands reach out for his neck on their own,  pulling his face back to mine, and—

Chapter Text

Chapter 18: Confirmation

I wake up with a gasp to the familiar clatter of Commander Rutherford’s crack of dawn drills outside the pottery and sit up straight on my bed, grasping the wolf pelt tightly. The memory of a kiss tingles on my lips, and my fingers rise on their own as if to confirm no evidence save my smile remains.

A wave of vertigo washes over me as my brain grapples to grasp what’s happened.

Did I just… get kissed by Solas? 

And... that made me zap? For fuck’s sake.

The worn fabric that separates my sleeping nook from the rest of the pottery has no answers for me. I let out a frustrated grunt, unsure of the meaning of this all.

My clothes are wrinkled, and there’s that same crick in my neck from sleeping in a bad position. I blame the Friday night game — last night’s game, that is — and the bag that I dig out from under my back. 

I kissed Solas.

I swing my legs off the bed, get up on wobbly feet and head to wash my face.

The cooling water soaks my tired limbs in the empty bath house. My surprisingly clean hair gets a wash; then I braid it, and rebraid it twice more.

The previous time I zapped — probably when I slipped and fell down the waterfall in the tannery — I simply ended up retracing my steps. But technically, there’s no requirement to do so; it’s actually a misconception about my job that I’ve drunkenly explained at conference dinners a few too many times to count.

Next up on my itinerary would be a hasty breakfast in the kitchens while I talk to the chef, followed by making colanders and mixing bowls in the pottery. A short break for lunch, probably dried fruit, broth, and bread, taken in the grass next to the stables, while chatting with Blackwall about jousting. Well, I wouldn’t want to repeat that conversation, to be honest; hearing about the tournaments was wildly dull the first time. Then I would take a quick detour by the tannery, to check on my last batch of hides — finally, spend the rest of the day making a teapot. Until, well. Solas. The kiss.

“ Inget tvingar dig att göra det igen. Inget tvingar dig att prata med honom, ” I whisper, watching water glitter on my arm . “Inget förutom… att jag vill.”

The threads of the calendarium shimmer in the morning light . At the top, one of the two higher coils has disappeared. Puzzled, I complete my bath, trying my best to ignore the heat that’s risen to my cheeks. 

Varric Tethras lifts his mug at me when I set down my steaming teacup at his table by the window. Scrap parchment pieces lie in a messy pile in front of the dwarf, along with an untouched plate of cheese and cured meats.

“Tardy,” he lilts, taking a sip of what I assume is wine. “Didn’t see you at dinner last night.”

“Morning Varric. I guess I got carried away with the pottery,” I say with a shrug.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“So what’s the word out there?”

“Eh, the usual.”I try to peek at the letters, but Varric gathers them with that remarkable dexterity. “Inquisitor’s having a big important meeting in the War Room. Rumor has it we’re riding out for the Western Approach tomorrow.”

“Oh. What’s in the Western Approach?”

“Sand, apparently,” the dwarf replies, brushing away grains with his gloved hand, “And… Hawke has a bad hunch about the Wardens. He’s usually right, hence we’re going.”

“Wardens like Blackwall?”

“Yeah. They’ve, uh, been gathering. The theory is that Corypheus is manipulating them... somehow.” The dwarf sighs. “If I hadn’t seen him at Haven myself, I wouldn’t believe that overdone nugshit’s behind all this. Looked very dead to me when we killed him last time.”

“When was that?”

“Kirkwall years,” Varric replies, taking a swig from his mug.

“That wasn’t in Tale of the Champion ,” I remark.

“Oh but it was there, see. The Vengeful Woes of Vimmark . Had to change a few names, poetic license.”

Something else registers as well.

“Wait, you said... Hawke? As in, Garrett Hawke ? Handsome Champion of Kirkwall, wooer of broody elves?”

Varric’s nonchalant expression falters, but he recovers quickly.

“Uh-huh. Worked it out just now?”

“Hey! I haven’t actually met the man, and, I am really underinformed, as has already been established,” I laugh. There’s a faint old memory that the name wakes from its slumber, something relating to… cup noodles? No, that can’t be it. It slips away, just as it’s in my grasp. “So, you’re leaving tomorrow?”

“All hands on deck for this one, is the word. Hence the need to get my affairs in order,” he explains and gets back to work.

I nod and focus on finishing my breakfast.

It’s around lunchtime when I head back to the pottery to start on the kitchenware. I grab the apron off its hook, and am about to tie the cords around my waist when the sight of my work table halts me. On the table, shrouded in a piece of cloth, stands the teapot.

Confused, I approach the table slowly, as if the teapot might lunge at me. Carefully, I lift the leather dry clay, trace the seam of the spout.

Wait. No.

I set the teapot down with shaking hands, and stare at the calendarium , trying to decipher what’s going on. 122 coils of copper. Except… There should be 124, and two of them should be oversized ones, whereas there’s only one of those left.

Does that mean… These coils on the calendarium reflect the favors I owe? And does this state in turn mean… There’s only one left?

The teapot holds no answers. I cast one more glance at it, and steel myself.

I step into the rotunda but stop right by the door when I see the distinctly bare walls. My wide eyes go to Solas, who looks back at me with an unreadable expression. I approach his desk slowly, and he continues packing the rucksack on his chair.

“What can I do for you, Melina?”

“Are you leaving?”

“We ride for the Western Approach tomorrow morning.”

“So soon. It must be serious, then.”

“Indeed it is.”

I study his face, but I’m not able to tell anything. His expression is neutral, infuriatingly calm.

“You have that look about you,” he says, as he grabs a book, weighing it in his hands.

“What look?”

“Like you have a question on your mind,” he says with a small smirk.

Curse my easy to read face.

“You’re not... wrong,” I say, weighing my options.

“All you need do is ask.” Something about his tone makes it sound like a challenge.

What I want to ask is, there is no fresco. Does that mean… the discussion never happened? But that is way too direct, in case what did happen was just an inexplicable blip of my calendarium . A more subtle approach is needed. I clear my throat and put on an innocent smile.

“How are you finding the paintbrushes?”

“These paintbrushes?”

The question sounds so genuine that I relax, but then he continues:

“I believe I gave you my compliments yesterday.”

I step up to his table.

“So... it did happen, then? You came to talk to me?”

“Ah,” he says, pausing his hands. “It is natural you should find it a little bewildering, seeing as your connection to the Fade is unstable.”

“The Fade? Do you mean... That our meeting yesterday happened in a dream?”

“In a sense. You woke up before I could tell you.”

“Did you carry me?”

“Excuse me?”

“You must be stronger than you look. I woke up in my bed, so… Unless I fell asleep as I was taking my bag?”

I cross my arms, not done with the implications of this piece of news. “Did you magically put me asleep, without asking me, just to take a walk with me and... talk about feelings?”

“I did ask for some of your time,” he says, gaze steady.

“You are quite peculiar, Solas.”

“The same could be said for you. You don’t seem upset.”

I incline my head.

“I’m not. I’m just... confused. I appreciate seeing what I assume are your plans for the fresco, but… Why shanghai me into the Fade?”

“Things... have always been easier for me in the Fade,” Solas says, but he sends a meaningful glance in the direction of the upper floors. I catch his drift, and follow him out of the rotunda.

We turn, and end up walking downstairs into the lower hall. I expect Solas to lead me to the kitchens, or perhaps to the more secluded wine cellar, but we take a turn, and then another, and then he pushes a door open, revealing a dimly lit small room. 

“What is this space?”

“An archive,” he replies, lighting the candle holders with a flick of his wrist. “Safely kept outside the prying eyes of the Chantry. Books on magic, records of history, both ancient and more recent, and works the Andrastians consider disreputable, are kept here.”

No wonder I wasn’t able to find anything useful in the rotunda library. 

“The good stuff, hmm? I didn’t know they were here all this time,” I say, tracing my hand along the leatherbound volumes, itching to dig into their contents, as Solas leads me into the heart of the cobwebbed space. 

“Few do,” Solas says, quietly. “And I’m intent on it remaining that way. I trust you will keep its location secret?”

A giant grimoire is splayed open on an ancient reading desk, and a high chair that looks positively medieval stands next to it. I already mentioned the cobwebs, but they are quite fetching, lit an eerie blue by the magical veilfire.

“You can depend on me to refrain from mentioning its whereabouts,” I say solemnly.

Solas nods, and looks at me, hands tucked safely behind his back. Not for the first time, I wish I was better at reading his expressions. 

The air is dry, and smells of paper. There’s a static in it as well, from the veilfire I suspect, but the creeping tension at the back of my neck derives wholly from the unspoken words between us.

“Well,” we both say at the same time. 

I chuckle, leaning on the bookshelf next to me with feigned nonchalance.

“Anything in particular worth reading, in here?” I ask to break the silence, “What would you recommend if I happened to need a refresher on the past, say, five millennia of Thedosian history and thaumaturgical theory?”

Solas’s lips pull into a wry smile, but he doesn’t reply. It’s almost as if he’s a little proud of himself, and that’s when the memory of his rather long orders sent to Lady Josephine hit me.

“ Why did you compile this collection?” I ask.

“Perhaps I needed a, how did you put it, ‘refresher on the past five millennia of Thedosian history and thaumaturgical theory’?”

“Only five millennia? Did something happen here five thousand years ago?”

A ripple passes through the blue pools of his eyes, gone in a blink, replaced by a playful glint.

“This world is full of mysteries and secrets spanning countless years. The accounts here provide illumination. May you learn , Melina.”

“Now why does that sound like an insult?” I ask and cross my arms, but can’t keep the smile off my face.

Solas actually laughs. It’s a completely disarming sound, without malice, and it smooths out the almost constant furrow in his brow. 

“Oh, speaking of things ancient and forgotten,” I say and dig through my bag. “I should give this back to you, for real this time.” 

I hold the jawbone necklace out to him, but Solas makes no move to pick it up. Instead he bows his head. 

“What animal was your friend?”

“A... wolf,” Solas says slowly. 

Hesitantly I lift my hands and loop it on him, careful not to, though tempted to, touch him. I retract my hands.

“Like the companions of the Emerald Knights?”

He nods. The double leather cords hang strangely, and without thinking I adjust them on his shoulders.

“Is it magical?”

“Merely a memento, a remnant of the distant daring days of foolish youth,” he muses, and places a hand on mine on his shoulder. 

“Imagine you acting foolish,” I whisper, but my breath hitches at the back of my throat as our eyes meet. I can’t bear the intensity, and draw a quick breath. I pull my hands behind my back and look down.

“Can I speak freely here?” I whisper, daring a quick glance at his face, despite my heart pounding in my ears. 

Solas nods. 

“We... kissed.”

The words hang between us.

“The Fade can lower inhibitions,” he finally says quietly.

“Yes, but, I... don’t regret it,” I say, my voice coming out as merely a whisper. “Do you?”

The seconds tick away, but he doesn’t reply.

I swallow, and my heart sinks and my eyes burn when I see it. 

This situation, eerily familiar to a scene that played out a few months ago at the end of Haring. One that a young girl filled with all that insufferable optimism of a fresh infatuation told me about.

I look up at Solas.

“Oh. You will say... you need time to consider. Of course.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d assume the look he gives me is one of confusion. 

I chew my lip, and then continue. “Lavellan told me, about… Haven. The Fade. Look. You can be perfectly candid with me. I’m not a child. One would think you wouldn’t make the same mistake twice, and in such a blatant manner, but,” I draw another gulp of air. “Just tell me, what did you hope to gain from toying with me?”

His expression reveals close to nothing, except there’s that tension in his jaw again, as if a plan has foiled.

“I have fourteen silver to my name. You already have my word, and I still owe you a favor. If it’s knowledge, I don’t understand this thing on my arm myself. My influence on Lavellan is minimal. Please. Why do you do this to me?”

I don’t quite understand why, but there’s something raw in his eyes that pulls and aches in my bones. But I’m not done. I close my eyes and push the dagger deeper into my own chest.

“And tell me. Were you just vying for influence, or did you really have feelings for Lavellan?”

The question hangs in the air. The archive is silent, and I expect him to deflect, refuse to give me an answer. 

He sighs, and as he does, he closes his eyes.

His voice is soft with defeat when he speaks.

“No. Not the ones she hoped for,” he says. He opens his eyes and looks at me. “My own position in the Inquisition is precarious, of which you undoubtedly are aware. The Chantry and the Templars declare me apostate, and my close ties to spirits and the Fade have branded me a risk in their eyes.” He pauses, daring me to ask for more, and so I nod. He continues. “I did not initiate it, nor encourage it. Lavellan is a young and vivacious leader who possesses an indomitable spirit, but she is in dire need of guidance lest her youthful hotheadedness doom us all. Still, her declaration of affection took me by surprise. While I take no pride in it, I am not above such arrangements, and yet... it could not have lasted. I would not have lain with her under false pretences. Her duty to the world is of much greater import than any dalliance with, or comfort found in an old fool, such as I. In another world… With more time… Yet in this one, no.” His voice is barely more than a whisper. “Hearts that long for others are hard to sway. Even were the world’s fate to lie at stake.” He looks down at his hands. “As to the matter of making the same mistake twice, I don’t…” He swallows. “I hope I have not. I am certain.” 

And still, I’ve never heard him sound so uncertain. I search his face.

“And do you?” he asks after a while. 

“Do I…?”

“Do you need time to consider?” 

My heart skips a beat.

“We’re not in the Fade now, are we?” I whisper.

“No,” he says, brow twisting in confusion.

“I needed to make sure. One can apparently never know with a trickster like you,” I whisper, smiling, and stand up on my tiptoes to pull his face to mine to give my reply. 

His lips are warm and soft as they meet mine, and I would kiss him longer, but I pull back and look at him to gauge his reaction. Despite everything, I still don’t know what to make of it. He looks at me as if he can’t believe what’s happening. He shakes his head, then gets a dangerous glint in his eyes. They flick down to my lips. 

The intensity of his kiss still takes me by surprise, and I sigh in relief, in longing and want as his lips meet mine. Solas presses me against the bookshelf, hands at my waist. As his tongue brushes against my lips, insistent, I melt. My body reacts for me. I open my mouth eagerly, tasting the sweetbread and mint on his tongue. His hand strokes down my side, and my own hands pull him closer still, dragging on his collar. The fabric of his worn tunic is soft. My hands stray across his chest, taking in his lean and strong shape that is warm to the touch. 

If the kiss in the Fade was a spark, this one is the flame. It drains me of oxygen, and once we come up for air we’re both breathless. Solas’ thick lips are bothered a dark red, and his eyes are hazed over as if he were drunk on sweet wine. His breath is hot upon my cheek, his hands tracing up my back over my jacket remind me I’m not dreaming.

He tilts his face, and I close my eyes as he places soft kisses on my forehead, my eyelids, and temples. As he lays down kisses, trailing down my neck, a thrill of pleasure runs down my spine, until I grab his face to kiss his mouth once more. This time his lips are soft on mine, languid and teasing, and the contrast to before is maddeningly sweet.  Whatever time is, it doesn’t matter; this is where I want to be. 

His hand traces the shape of my jaw, and I pull him close, but Solas presses closer still, his leg pushes between mine, and I sigh as his hands drag down to my thighs, my back against the bookshelf.

“Solas,” I whisper against his ear and kiss it gently. He swallows audibly. I look up into his stormy eyes, breathless and alight. 

His pupils are blown wide, and the thought of having him here and now, in this secret archive below the Inquisition’s headquarters, crosses my mind, exhilarating, enticing, and entirely impossible all at once. Vying for more control, I spin us around, but my foot catches on something. 

The candle-holder knocks over and I along with it tumble onto the dusty library floor with a crash. Out of breath, I sit up on my elbows.

“Are you alright,” Solas asks, eyes searching mine, kneeling by my side immediately. 

“Oh no, the fire, the books...”

“It’s only veilfire,” he says with a small smile. “It illuminates, but it doesn’t burn.”

“Oh. Really?” 

He nods.

“It also protects us from being overheard. Your instinct to protect the knowledge held herein is endearing, however,” he says with a hint of mirth that would be more convincing did he not sound as out of breath as I feel.

“Still patronising me, young one ?”

“I’m older than I look,” he teases, pressing his lips to my forehead in a soft peck.

“That makes two of us,” I whisper, trying to match his cavalier tone, and pull his head level to mine.

He hums in agreement. We share one long, unhurried kiss that makes me feel all warm and like I'm floating, sitting right there on the floor. My hands trace along his bare scalp, and his fingers entwine in my hair. 

The kiss threatens to pull me all the way under, and I reluctantly shift my weight from his lap when our lips part for air.

“I for one think you wear your years well, old wolf ,” I joke, giving his nose a poke, but I can’t deny it’s true. He is rather handsome, wrinkles and freckles and all. He tucks back a strand of my hair that’s come undone, serious once more.

“I really must prepare for the journey to the Western Approach,” he apologizes.

“Of course. I… Come see me before you leave,” I whisper into his ear as I get up, leaving him sitting on the floor; feeling brave and cowardly all at once.

Chapter Text

Chapter 19: Guide into the night*

My head is spinning. My lips are sore and tingling, and I’m grinning like a fool as I drop down on my bed and let my breathing even out. I am, to put it bluntly, very much turned on. I stare up into the ceiling. 

“Solas.”

Just whispering his name… I laugh. 

There’s no denying that the cloth walls offer little in terms of privacy, and it becomes embarrassingly obvious when none other than Lavellan lifts the fabric and pops her head up right next to the bed.

“I like this new place!” Her voice is chipper. “Is this a bad time?

“Not at all, Inquisitor,” I lie, eartips burning as I sit up.

“Breezy. Less stairs as well,” Lavellan comments as she clambers up on my bed. “How’s it served you so far, hahren ?”

“Well, well,” I reply and push away the thoughts of Solas. “Um, what can I do for you?” 

Lavellan looks at me, and nods.

“I’m glad. I came by earlier, but you weren’t here, and I saw your pottery for our shrine drying on the shelf. It really means a lot to the Dalish of the Inquisition, you know.”

“I’m happy to help. And… pottery is what I know and love, so it’s a win-win if I get to be useful,” I say with a smile.

“I hope you’ll teach me how to make things, once we’ve stopped... Well, if we are able to stop, Corypheus,” she says, picking at the wolf pelt. 

The deep dark circles around her eyes make me wonder, not for the first time, how she’s able to hold up under all this pressure.

“If I’m still standing and the kiln doesn’t explode before then. And you will,” I say, giving her shoulder a friendly shove, “put an end to Corypheus. I have faith in you. Not in the religious sense,” I add.

Her expression grows distant.

“Thank you,” she mumbles. “But that faith won’t…”

“I know,” I say, and pull her into a hug. “But you’re doing what you can. And… he’s just one evil magister with an oversized flying lizard, right?”

“You have no idea what’s going on with Corypheus, do you?” she sighs.

“None at all. But you’re still alive, Skyhold still stands, there’s food to feed all mouths and there’s ale enough to drown an elephant,” I say. “You have a force of thousands behind you, and so many by your side. Fereldans, Antivan, Nevarran, Tevinter, Orlesian, Free Marchers and Dalish; human, dwarven, elven and even qunari. Mages, and warriors, and templars, and diplomats, and… whatever Sera is, and fortress staff, and merchants and visiting nobles. And a potter. Some of whom love you. All of whom trust you. We all have faith in you , but more importantly, in the cause. In the Inquisition. And you as its leader.”

She chuckles, and lets me go, wiping at her nose.

“Thank you, hahren . You sound… Happy? Did you, um, have a chance to talk with Solas?”

The heat blossoms at my cheeks again.

“A chance for me to talk with him... about...”

“His return?”

“Oh. Yes. He’s intent on staying with the Inquisition.”

“Good. I know I came off a little protective regarding Sera, but...” she bites her lip, “It’s because she’s Sera .”

“She means a lot to you.”

“She does. Dread Wolf take me for saying it, but, I’d drink up the Amaranthine, give up my vallaslin, and perhaps even let her shoot my bow,” she jokes. A quirk of  a smile twists her lips as she gets up. “Melina?”

“Yes, Inqui- Ellana?”

“Speaking of people who matter to us. Cole told me you may have talked with our apostate friend… a little more.”

“Now why would I do that?” I try, wondering who Cole is and when he’s seen me with Solas, but Ellana laughs and winks at me.

But the moment of levity passes. 

“You know, I do feel a little bad taking him away from you, but we need everyone who can hold a staff. Which does not include you ,” she adds as if sensing what I’m about to ask. “No… offense intended.”

“None taken,” I snort, “I’m useless in a fight. But yes, he did tell me about leaving for the Western Approach,” I sigh.

“So you’ve seen him today, then,” she replies, smile widening.

The moth-bitten cloth walls are absolutely fascinating to me all of a sudden. I clear my throat.

“Is there anything else I can help you with, Inquisitor?”

“Oh, I know not to poke a sleeping bogfisher. I came to ask for your help, actually. In my clan, we would gather before a great prey hunt, and we would ask for Andruil’s blessing and Mythal’s protection through offerings, and then listen to the stories of our Keeper. We would dance, and sing and get drunk on halla limanhyn .”

Lavellan looks off into the distance. 

“This, this will be the biggest military operation the Inquisition has undertaken so far. We spent eleven hours in the war room, just accounting for all eventualities. It’s not the same as at home, but… I was thinking we should have a sendoff at the Herald’s Rest, tonight.”

I nod in agreement.

“And well, I remembered... Josie asked you to make something sweet for Wintersend, but... could you make them tonight instead?”

“For you? Of course,” I reply with a bow of the head, and Lavellan gets up.

At the door, the young elf reaches a hand into the pocket of her jacket. She throws a small familiar-looking seashell on the bed with a wink.

“Take a little happiness wherever you can find it. You suit each other, both a little mysterious, droopy-eared and wizened,” she shouts at me before running off.

“The one who waits for something good, never waits too long,” I snap at Sera as she reaches for one of the steaming buns in the basket. The kitchen is teeming with people preparing the night’s feast, and I give one of the cooks an apologetic smile.

“But’m hurt!” she wails as I hoist the baked goods out of reach. My wooden spoon taps the crown of her head.

“It’s been over a month. And, you’ll be more hurt if you try to steal one again!”

“But...”

“Besides,” I interrupt her with a smile, “they don’t taste like anything much before we stuff them with jam and cream.”

She grunts and blows a raspberry at me. I shake the wooden spoon and narrow my eyes.

“What are you doing in the kitchens anyways, Sera? Are you hiding from Ellana? Thank you Mary,” I address one of the Haven refugees who hands me a bowl to whip the cream in.

“No! Uh-uh. What, what reason would I have to hide from Lana?”

Her eyes shift to inspect a colander of brussel sprouts.

“Hmm,” I say, pouring the fresh cream over into a bowl. “A little bird told me you shared some kisses. Plural.”

“Wha’ bird?”

“One with horns and magnificent abdominal muscles described this morning’s hide-and-seek in the barn loft in a little too much detail. There was also the case of the wide open window a few weeks back, to back up the rumors. Now before you bugger off to pester Bull,” I say quickly, “tell me. What are your intentions with her?”

“It... We’re just having fun, yeah?” she says, without meeting my eyes. 

“Sera.”

“Bumping bits don’t have to mean anything!”

“Does she know you’re just having fun?”

“Yeah, I reckon? It’s not like courtship, we’re not trading secret flowers, and shite, y’know? I don’t...” she says with a confident smile but her eyes flick back to the brussel sprouts as she laughs, “No one looks at me and thinks, yeah, this one’s worth bouquets, and frilly cakes and sonnets. More like, there once was a maid of Denerim town...  You know?”

I look at the young archer, and draw a breath.

“Sera, this is definitely not the best place or time for this conversation, but you do know you deserve love, right? Everyone does. Don’t break her heart. Don’t break your own either. Talk to her.”

“Yeah right,” Sera mutters as she gets up. She blows another raspberry my way, and makes an impatient dart for the buns.

The crowd at the tavern is huge by the time I decided it was time to stop pacing the floor at the pottery. When I back into the Herald’s Rest carrying the covered basket I can’t quite tell whether there will be a fight, a heartfelt confession of unrequited love, or simply a giant headache come morning, but the sight of the Inquisition’s sendoff party puts a wide smile on my lips. The floorboards are already sticky, and I curse my decision to go barefoot when I step on a ceramic shard. Maryden is playing her lute doubled over in laughter, probably due to the fact that none other than a gently swaying Cremisius Aclassi supplies backing vocals.

The alcohol fumes alone would be enough to render someone as small and slender as the Inquisitor tipsy, at the very least. But, as evidenced by the teetering pile of empty chalices and pints on the hewn table in front of her, she’s had additional help in reaching her current state of inebriation.

There’s also a palpable resolution in the air surrounding the inner circle of the Inquisitor, a certain sense of determination, that has seeped into the Inquisition through wine and ale, and finally leaks out in the shape of the rapidly multiplying pile of coins at the middle of the card table overseen by Varric Tethras. 

Careful not to topple any of Cabot’s remaining mugs, I set down my splay of buns on the table.

“‘S arrived!” Sera belches out and lunges for the basket.

“ Sweet mother ,” Josephine exclaims, the horror at the sight of Sera pressing three buns into her mouth at once making her revert into her native Antivan.

“Melina!” The Inquisitor draws out the middle vowel. “These look delicious! Have a seat!”

“Deal you in, Tardy?” Varric asks as I sit down on the bench closest to the door, next to the dwarf.

“Ah, too many unknown players at the table, and for the life of me I can’t remember all the rules of Wicked Grace, I’m afraid,” I decline with a nod at Ser Rutherford and Seeker Pentaghast, both poring over their cards with what looks like absolutely no poker face. Blackwall guards a pint at the corner, already folded out. Next to him, Josephine Montilyet inspects her hand. Dagna and the Skyhold steward, whose name escapes me, both look suitably drunk.

“You and me both,” Lavellan laughs. “Good luck kiss?” She points at her cheek, winking at Sera.

The bun-munching elf next to her grunts. She swallows audibly, and then leans over, pulling Lavellan into a very intimate embrace, kissing her soundly on the lips to cheers from the rest of the table. I’m fairly sure the Iron Bull whistles. In addition to traces of raspberry jam, a soft blush settles on Lavellan’s cheeks when the lovers pull apart.

“How romantic,” Seeker Cassandra comments, in a way that if I weren’t terrified of the woman I would call swooning. 

“Such lewd displays of affection. In public, at that,” Dorian teases.

“I’ll show you lewd displays of affection in public,” the Iron Bull rumbles with an eyebrow wiggle.

Some time closer to midnight, and rather large amounts of alcohol later, the crowd has thinned considerably. I’ve had a somewhat loud discussion with Bull about ceramic dildos that I’m planning on forgetting through the means of more alcohol. I’m beginning to think Solas might have made the right decision by not showing up since Leliana, of all people, turned out to have some educated opinions to throw into the mix. I’m making my way to the bar over the gently rocking floor of the tavern, when I notice Varric sitting in a corner. The dwarf is thumbing a piece of parchment, back to me.

Cabot hands me my pint, and when I look back at Varric he’s getting up, smile all crooked charm again, letter nowhere in sight.

My eyes drift over the tavern. Most of the soldiers have gone to bed already, but a steadfast crew remains. I spot Loranil, doing something of a jig to an off-beat drum. At the Inquisitor’s table, the game has switched to Diamondback, and Commander Rutherford looks as if he’s losing.

At the Chargers’ table, Dagna is defending her armwrestling champion title against Dalish. Maryden also sits with the mercenaries, enjoying a well-deserved break. She’s being fed a cream bun by Krem. 

At the back of the tavern Morrigan, the arcane advisor the Inquisitor picked up at Halamshiral, sits at a table by a window. Her yellow eyes meet mine for a heartbeat, but we both look away as if stung. Observers who do not wish to be observed , I file away for later, and take a sip of my drink.

I’m about to head back to the table when he arrives. Once again his presence is not so much sensed as it is known. My eyes fall shut, and even before I open them I know it’s Solas who has opened the door, inviting the gust of fresh night air into the stuffy tavern. 

He hasn’t seen me yet, and I observe him from the obscurity behind the stairs. In my time at Skyhold I’ve never seen the elf in the tavern before, and from the way he’s staring at the display, nose crinkled in distaste, he seems less than impressed. It’s vaguely reminiscent of a hobbit coming home to find particularly obnoxious relatives have taken over Bag End. Another mouthful of ale covers my giggle at the mental image.

The disdain is fleeting, and Solas schools his face into that familiar neutral scholarly curiosity so fast I’m wondering if I imagined it after all.

A happy soldier passes between us, and when she’s gone, his eyes are on me.

For all I’ve come to know of the man, this single glance suggests his demure and humble appearance might be all lies. I’m shy, and emboldened by his presence at once. A bolt of heat shoots down my spine from the way he’s looking at me. 

Rather than cave under his steady gaze I enjoy my view in return, biting my lower lip, before I’m reminded I’m in public by a slap on the shoulder from behind, courtesy of Varric. It almost sends my drink across the floor.

“Look at that. Chuckles, out to play with us lesser mortals. Never thought I’d see the day,” the dwarf comments.

“Good evening Varric. Melina,” he greets us.

“Let’s hope these miracles follow the Inquisition into the Approach,” I reply with a breathy laugh and avoid Solas’s eyes as we move to take our places at the table.

The Paragon stares back at me, as if it’s equally confused about how it ended up in my hand of all hands. Its companion, a Queen, looks a little offended as well. At the center of the table lies the small pile of bronze and silver, and an assortment of various personal belongings of the night’s players. Blackwall fingers the edge of his cards, counting under his breath. One of his tells; he will most likely fold either now or after the reveal. Lavellan raises her voice.

“Is it my turn yet?”

“Not so fast,” Varric says, “We’re waiting on Tardy first.”

“I raise,” I decide with a wave of my hand, pushing in my last three silver, trying to remain nonchalant despite my good hand.

“Now, Varric? Finally! I’m out,” Lavellan declares on my side. “Good game. Games. Good ale. Ales. Good night. Come morn,” she pauses, “Coryphy… Phy… phius beware. Horns up!” she shouts.

There’s a belated echo from over at the Chargers’ table, and an even later one from a dark corner where I suspect Bull and Dorian can be found. Lavellan stumbles out towards the door, then looks around in confusion.

“Anyone seen Sera recently? She has my smalls.”

“Good night, lady Inquisitor,” Varric laughs.

My eyes fall on Solas, who sits across from me. He has remained quiet and courteous, cold almost, a mystery hand after hand, but he’s a masterful player. It’s only thanks to his insistence on not collecting his winnings that the game has kept going. 

“I raise,” he states calmly, pushing a handful of coin to the pile.

“We’ll all be maggot food eventually,” Blackwall gruffs and pushes his stake to the middle as well.

“I’m out,” commander Rutherford decides after a quick glance at the window where the last wisps of night wander. “Good night,” he adds, getting up.

“Three players, huh,” Varric says with a yawn. “Alright, let’s see some dwarven nobles.”

I turn up the Queen, hand shaking a little, then immediately drink up the last of my ale. Blackwall grunts, slamming down a King. All eyes turn to Solas. An embodiment of serenity, he reveals a Shaper.

Could he have another one? That would be the only combination to trump mine. I drew a Shaper during the high card draw, which means there were only three in the whole deck during play. Unlikely, very much unlikely. But, knowing my luck, that’s his hand. 

“Raise or fold, Melina?” Varric asks.

“I’m loath to inform you, but I’m fresh out of coin. I guess that means…” I say with a shrug.

“You could fold… Or stake something of equal value,” the dwarf suggests. His voice is tired and rounded by wine but more than a little intrigued.

From the corner of my eye I note Solas sitting up a little straighter. 

“So. What will it be this time, Tardy?” Varric asks again.

“This time?” Solas’s voice is dry. He hasn’t partaken in the idle conversation so far, and my eyes narrow.

“It’s hardly my first time gambling at a high-stakes table,” I say, keeping my gaze down. I stroke my chin as if I was considering my options.

“One could think otherwise,” he teases. But two can play at that game.

“A kiss,” I say without raising my gaze. “Is that amenable to you, mage?”

I look up at Solas, trying to keep my face neutral, plausibly failing, I search his face for clues, eyes resting on his lips for a moment longer than strictly necessary. Is that a hint of a smile? I bite my lip, trying to ignore the somersaults and warmth in my belly. 

“It was only at five silver, Tardy. Either you’re very affordable, or stake’s now at 50,” Varric comments.

“‘m out,” Blackwall mutters, and staggers off pint first.

Solas looks up from his cards, meeting my challenge, and while I feel like a rabbit caught between headlights I don’t look away.

“I…” he wets his lips, and my eyes flicker down. The way he slowly drags his fingers over the top of his card doesn’t escape my notice. “... fold,” he offers.

“Ha!” I exclaim, blowing a playful kiss at Solas who responds with a huff.

“And so the potter takes the pot,” Varric says with a wide smile, but his eyes dart between me and Solas.

“The Fade calls. Thank you for the game. Master Tethras. Crafter Melina,” Solas says, voice all business, and moves to get up.

“Stay put,” I say, voice all honey, “the next round’s on me. Victor’s treat. Varric, red wine I assume? And Solas,” I look at the man, “you look like a man who appreciates an aged Jader port.”

“Hold mine for when we’re back,” Varric says and pulls on his gloves, and gets up, rolling his shoulders. “It’s been a pleasure. Chuckles. Early morning, don’t stay up all night, kids,” he adds with a wink my way.

Crossing my arms in an act of childish defiance, I stick out my tongue at the dwarf, and I can hear his laugh until the door slams shut. Varric was the last of the Inquisitor’s inner circle to turn in for the night, and I suddenly become very aware that I’m left alone at the table with Solas.

“Drinks. Better get them,” I mumble without looking at the man. I make my way over to Cabot’s bar, feeling surprisingly sober. 

To my chagrin I realize the dwarf is nowhere in sight. Maryden passes behind me, on her way to pack away her lute I suspect. Later, I can’t quite tell what strange magic compels me to ask her.

“Minstrel. Could you play one more song?”

She laughs, voice hoarse.

“My voice is completely shot,” she excuses herself, “I don’t think...”

“It’s alright. Please. Just the lute then. I’ll pay. And you can have Krem’s vambraces from my winnings,” I plead with a smile.

“Dance with me, Solas.”

Despite the thinness of my voice, he seems to have heard over the first trembling notes of the lute.

“ As you wish, ” he replies, and gets up.

The floor stands empty, and the fire burns low in the hearth. Maryden nods at me in encouragement. I am so very aware of the fact that I’ve just asked Solas to dance. His arm brushes against mine, and the touch leaves me feeling warm and soft. I slowly take his right hand in my left.

“I don’t know what you’d call this dance around here,” I apologize. “But the steps are simple. Mirror me.”

“I will follow your lead,” he whispers, and I dare a glance up at his face. Wary, is perhaps the word that describes the tilt of his brow. Uncertain. But, also, gentle. 

The minstrel plucks the first notes of her song. Her voice is low, hoarse from the night’s revelries, and the tempo is slow.

I count us in, and we take our first steps, standing side by side. 

Dance never translated well to words, the ebb and flow, the subtle push and pull of a partner’s will. Holding hands, I step forward with my right foot, and gently swing my left diagonally forward, then step down. Right foot forward. A simple threestep. Next to me Solas attempts to mirror my moves, but he’s not very successful. I laugh as I realize how far behind the beat we’ve fallen, and I gently place my hands on his waist for the closed hold.

“Take my shoulders,” I whisper, and then we turn, turn and turn, before we repeat from the top. 

It’s not a romantic dance, the hambo, but the warmth of the wine and the late hour rushes through me, and just holding Solas’s hand makes me feel all fluttery. These are steps I’ve danced before, so many times, but the soft chuckles and hums of discovery that Solas gives makes it all new again. 

He’s very quick to pick up on the steps. 

“Have you... danced this before?” I ask.

“I have seen something similar in the Fade,” he replies, and we come to the turns again. “Do you trust me?”

His voice is serious.

“Perhaps,” I suggest.

A playful glint passes through his eyes. His hands dart from my shoulders to my waist, and then I’m flying. It’s a small lift, but my stomach makes a somersault, and I laugh. He sets me down, and I lean onto him for support, feeling my heart beat fast. 

The song comes to an end, but my hands stay on his shoulders, and his hands on my waist.

“You stole the lead. Abused my trust. Traitor ,” I whisper, but there’s no heat to my fighting words.

“Perhaps it was a welcome coup,” he counters, a smile haunting the corners of his eyes.

“Perhaps.”

It would be the easiest thing to reach up and kiss him. Somewhere to my right, I hear Dorian complain loudly about the Inquisition’s saddles. I wet my lips and look down, wishing we were somewhere private.

“Thank you, Solas,” I whisper with a courteous bow of my head, and step back, breaking the hold.

“Likewise. The Fade calls,” he bids me good night, a little louder, tucking his hands safely behind his back as he heads for the door, but there’s that glint in his eyes again.

The misty spring night air is a soothing balm on my warm face as I step out of the stuffy tavern, and the grass is wet from dew against my bare feet. 

I did find Cabot, and he agreed to distribute my winnings to their respective owners come breakfast, and I helped one piss drunk blonde archer find her room, instead of leaving her to sleep under the table. She tried to bite my ankle when I accidentally kicked her.

Judging by the pale yellow haze of the sky and the birds already out to sing, it’s close to dawn. So soon after returning, Solas will be gone again. Beyond the towers and battlements a handful of pale stars stare down at the stronghold of the Inquisition. I wipe at the wetness burning at my eyes.

There’s a soft sound on my left, and I turn, and see Solas. He leans against the tavern wall a little ways away, almost engulfed by the shadows of the night. He watches me, head askew. He makes no move to approach me.

“Solas?” I ask. The steel in his expression warns me not to say more. 

He doesn’t move when I take a step in his direction, but I wait, leave him a way out, before I slowly walk up to him. And perhaps if I’m honest, I’m leaving it for myself as well. 

I come to a stop close enough that I feel the heat radiate off his body, but still do not touch.

He swallows. His luminous and wary eyes meet mine, and I wonder whether I caught him in a moment of reflection, of doubt, or if he was waiting for me.

Without words exchanged, I take his hand, push my palm against his, entwine our fingers. He draws a shaking breath. His hand, calloused from wielding that staff for long days in the field, is warm. After a moment of hesitation, his fingers close over mine. 

“ Thank you, ” I whisper. “You came to see me.”

He hums, and lifts a hand to my cheek, brushing away something wet with his thumb. He leans his forehead against mine. 

“You asked,” he replies.

“Please be careful. Please come back to me ,” I mumble.

“ As you wish ,” he whispers.

His lips brush over mine, and my eyes fall shut. One kiss, that’s the plan, but his hands cradle my face, and I reach for his neck. The seconds tick away as I kiss him, slow, steady.  Cautious, controlled.

His tongue brushes hot and tempting against my lips, and I let go. With a sigh I open my mouth against his. 

With a rough need his tongue meets mine. I lean into him, yearning to sate the hunger that sears through me in response, but he’s more impatient still. His hands tangle in my hair to soften the impact as he crowds me against the wall. He pushes his body and mine up against the cool stone. 

Panting, we separate, just an arm’s length. 

The longing that I’ve pushed away washes over me full force, like a hot shower after a day outside in the cold. I bite my lip, but a giggle escapes me. 

Solas blinks, confused. It’s such an endearing expression on him I can’t help but let out another chuckle.

“Am I amusing to you?”

I wet my lips, and consider how I want to word what is on my mind. 

“I don’t... quite have a room I can take you back to,” I say, and feel shy all of a sudden at the weight of my proposition. His expression freezes. 

An apology is already on my lips when he leans in. His breath is hot against my ear.

“Can you keep quiet?” he asks, voice husky. 

Something crashes and shatters in the darkness of the pottery. Solas’s hands push my blouse over my head when my feet hit the bed, and I pull him onto me as I lean back. My bare back hits the coarse fur of the wolf pelt. 

He climbs onto me, straddling me, leaning on his arm, and looks me in the eyes. Hand entwining in my hair, he kisses me; languid, lazy, teasing and slow. A sigh escapes my lips. 

The last traces of thoughts float away from my mind as I feel his hardness against my mound, still separated by the fabric of our trousers. A need to feel more of him against me, touch him, taste him, have him inside me, rushes through me, and I pull his hips flush to mine. I revel at the husky guttural gasp he makes when I push myself up against the bulge of his erection, but one escapes my lips as well as he bucks back. 

My fingers dig into his tunic as our tongues brush against each other, but he stills my hands when I push at the hem to even our state of disrobement. 

“Solas?” I whisper. 

He shifts his weight back onto the floor, and for a moment I’m afraid he’s about to apologize, wish me goodnight, and leave, but the next his hands find the lining of my trousers. I swallow as his hands stroke my thigh. He pauses.

“Do you want this?” he whispers, voice low, holding my gaze.

“Yes,” I chuckle. “Do you?” I sit up to try to read his expression.

Solas doesn’t reply, but instead, he sits down next to me to kiss me. There’s a rising insistence to Solas’s mouth on mine that fuels the fire that grows in me, and his hand traces up my side. A shudder of pleasure runs down my spine as his thumb passes over my breast. He kisses me, moving in and out like the tide, an intoxicating, maddeningly slow and sure pace, as his nimble fingers find the fastening of my bra and pops it open. 

Starting from my lips, then down my neck, over my bare chest, shifting to kneel on the floor. My eyes flutter shut, and I bite down on my lip to muffle a mewl when his lips ghost over my nipples, then gasp as he gently sucks one, stroking the underside of my breast gently. 

He guides me with his hand; a wordless suggestion I lean back on the wolf pelt, and I abide. He rewards me with a trail of kisses down my stomach. As his mouth moves lower, the cool night air pinches at where his mouth leaves me tingling. Just as gently, his hand pushes on my thighs to open up for him. Slowly, I spread my legs. I swallow and look at him.

My mind sees white when his hand lightly brushes over my mound, over the drenched fabric of my trousers. Just as deftly as he freed me from my bra, he pulls the trousers and smalls off. I shiver as his fingers hit the ticklish spot under my knee. He hums, looks up, his blue eyes full of wonder but his smirk revealing he’s so very aware of my anticipation. 

My eyes fall shut when he touches my sex, gently pushing the hair aside . When he strokes two fingers along my folds, I swallow at the sound of how wet I am. His fingers flick over my clit , pressing down, and I shiver in pleasure, as he starts stroking a slow pattern. I hiss, biting my lip to stop myself from crying out. 

Solas leans in then. His breath is warm on my skin, as he places his lips on my inner thigh, and then slowly kisses his way up. His finger traces down to my opening, teasing and slow. Solas pauses until I meet his eyes. I nod, and let out a ragged breath. 

“ Please ,” I whisper.

I watch him open his mouth, giving me a wicked smile.

When his finger dips inside me, his lips touch my sex . I sigh in pleasure, my eyes flutter shut, mind blank. 

His tongue joins his lips, and his finger works its way in, sweetly and slowly stretching me, and is then joined by another. My breathing speeds up as he starts pumping a steady, slow rhythm, and my raw gasp cuts through the night air once more as he sucks on me. 

The pleasure that’s been a slow burn in my body all day, no, all week, since Halamshiral, perhaps since Haven even, flares through me, building up into an inferno. I start to tense up, I can feel the climax building, it’s close, so very close.

He presses his tongue flat against my folds, laving against me. The only sounds are my heavy breaths and the sinful, wet sounds of him working his fingers and mouth on my dripping sex. A first spasm runs through my legs, a warning that I’m almost there.

He adds a third finger inside me, and I’m flying. His name spills from my lips as the orgasm tips over me like a wave. I buck up against Solas’s mouth, but he pushes me down with his free hand, pushing his fingers deeper into me, sucking down on my clit.  

It pushes my climax further, and I cry out, coming hard and fast and sharp. My walls throb against his fingers. Through it all, his mouth never leaves me, his fingers never relent. The shivering aftermath of the orgasm tingles on my skin as my breathing evens out. His fingers still, and gently pull out. He presses a soft kiss to my thigh, looking up at me. He’s as flushed as I feel, my wetness glistening on his lips and the skin around his mouth. He smiles, sending that playful glint through his luminous eyes.

I laugh, feeling spent and sated, adored and wanted, toes and fingers tingling, and I sit up to greet him into my bed. He climbs up on me, and I can taste myself on his lips when I pull him in for a kiss. 

My bare chest feels amazing  against the harsh fabric of his tunic, and my hand snakes its way down to the front of his breeches where I can feel him hard and ready, but once more, he stops me. 

Perhaps another time , I think and kiss him softly, bringing my hands up to cradle his jaw instead.

“Stay, my wolf ?” I suggest.

“ Ma nuvenin , ma siuni ,” he whispers against my ear.

Chapter Text

Chapter 20: Adamant

The grey light of morning steals Solas from me. He kisses my temple softly, and pulls the blanket over me with gentle hands as he gets up. He’s very quiet, but not quiet enough to not wake me. I open my eyes just enough to watch him put on his tunic and necklace, convinced that speaking would break the spell. 

Despite his plan not to undress, the heat of my body apparently was too much for him. Or maybe he felt some of the same comfort that carried me off into the most peaceful sleep I’ve had in years. Regardless, he’s a beautiful man, lean and strong. I watch him dress with a smile dancing on my lips.

He pauses his hands mid-fastening the belt. Perhaps, as a Fade mage, he has a sense for when someone is awake.

“Solas. Please, be careful . Please come back to me , my wolf ,” I mumble.

He looks back at me with half a smile.

“ As you wish ,” he replies, and I fall asleep.

Skyhold feels hollow during these late spring weeks. I try my best to focus on my work, but it’s too quiet, and my mind drifts to Solas whenever I’m alone. 

He runs through my thoughts like the coursing river runs below Skyhold. The memory of his eyes linger as I close mine. In the silence I hear his heartbeat, and the wind carries his breath against my skin. 

Some days thinking about the man feels akin to sunlight on my face, and I catch myself smiling as I go through the motions of my work, heart swelling with an unfamiliar but not unwelcome joy; other days it feels like a fire burns through me, and I sigh my eyes closed to allow myself to imagine his lips on my neck; his hands on my body; his whisper in my ears. I find it even harder than usual to fall asleep during those nights, my own hands a poor substitute for his.

Only a skeleton crew consisting of Chantry sisters, servants, crafters and merchants keeps Skyhold operational. Enchanter Fiona’s mages, and Rutherford’s soldiers, the Inquisitor’s inner circle, the Bull’s Chargers — all gone at once for the first time. Both the Nightingale and lady Montilyet are away as well; where, I don’t know. Many of the merchants have taken the opportunity to travel now that spring has truly arrived, and the risk of avalanche in the narrow Frostback passes has subsided. Even Harritt, the Inquisition’s weapon smith, is out in the field. A single company headed by captain Darrow keeps guard at the Riverside camp, coming up to the fortress for meals. 

And then there’s Morrigan.

With Ellana Lavellan and most of the Inquisition gone from Skyhold, Morrigan’s more subtle aura has the chance to prickle at the back of my head, flashing purple and red, a constant reminder of her presence. It’s not painful, nor is it irritating; rather, it acts like a warning beacon not to get too close.

It’s on a calm and sunny Tuesday afternoon late in the month of Cloudreach, when I’m discussing planters and the flower seeds I acquired during Wintersend with Elan Ve’mal, the Inquisition’s herbalist, that I realize too late I’ve wandered off my path and into the witch’s territory. She stares at me, leaning on the garden wall. Her yellow eyes remind me of a cat’s, and her bold posture adds to that impression. When our eyes meet across the garden, her wine red lips purse together. She nods at me, and the hairs at the back of my neck rise. 

“... the Prophet’s Laurel, again, is one our most remarkable, effervescent herbs. It also gives the Skyhold barley wine its distinctive smell, which is why my Cabot…”

“I’m sorry, Elan,” I excuse myself, keeping an eye on Morrigan as she slowly turns back toward the castle. “I need to go. Thank you for the lesson,” I smile apologetically, “and for these as well,” I add, holding up the flammable and poisonous seed pod of a lotus.

“You’re welcome,” she says in her serious tone with a nod.

“I’ll… Get back to you with the… the, planter pots,” I explain, and head the direction Morrigan sauntered off.

It’s a dusty room, one of the ones no one bothered fixing, that is revealed behind the high, creaking doors. Covered-up furniture and old beams from the renovation stand along the walls. 

I pause, feet sinking into the red carpet that covers the floor.

Morrigan stands at the front of the room, back to me. In front of her stands a mirror. It is narrow, and has a beautiful equilateral arch to its bronze and carved wood frame, and it measures four or so metres tall.  

It is also identical to the mirror I saw in the underground sewers of the Winter Palace, except now I see what I missed before; these mirrors are no mirrors. Its surface is a rippling vortex of slowly simmering color and shapes, emitting a faint blue glow. The effect is beautiful, alien, and almost certainly caused by magic, unless Thedas has had advanced liquid crystal transportation technology hiding right under my eyes all along.

I approach slowly.

“This is an eluvian ,” the woman says softly, turning to face me. “An elvhen artifact, from a time long before your empire was lost to human greed. They are rare, and this one I restored at a great cost... but perhaps you have seen one before, during your travels in Thedas… or beyond.”

“I would certainly remember if I had,” I say, choosing my words, and manage to look away from the eluvian to her, pondering about the partial translation the calendarium supplied me with. “What does it... do?”

“A more appropriate question would be... where does it lead,” the witch says, lowering her voice dramatically. 

“Oh. So it is some kind of  portal? Does it lead just anywhere you wish, or is there a pair, or a navigation system, or… I meant to say,” I try my best to curb my enthusiasm. “That sounds… that shouldn’t be possible?” I try to gauge her reaction. “So, so very mystical. And magical…?”

“Yes,” she says, looking at me with curiosity in her eyes as I walk up to the eluvian. 

With a quick, quick question of a glance, I press my hand to its strange surface. It’s cool and smooth, and firm, but there’s a static to it, humming against my palm. Just like an LCTT interface, I realize, and wonder how I could ever have missed it at Halamshiral.

There’s something else as well. A kind of awareness in my calendarium, as if there was a string being pulled, ever so gently, toward the whirling glass. Shocked, I pull my hand back, and laugh to cover my surprise at the strange sensation.

“Ancient elvhen, you said? I know so little about the ancient elves, but what I’m told is… It’s remarkable. Empires come and go, but all these memories, they... It makes me wish I knew more, but... I feel this is, well, above my paygrade. I’m only the Inquisition’s potter,” I say.

She looks at me.

“Let’s have tea,” she says.

I pick at a patch of dried clay on the back of my hand. The hairs on my arm are still raised by the static electricity of the eluvian. Morrigan sits down across from me. We’re at the table closest to the wall, secluded — not that there are many patrons in the tavern in general. There’s Threnn who sits a bit away, slumbering in her seat, and a soldier with a sprained ankle, but other than that, we’re alone with Cabot’s barmaid and barmen. 

The witch sets down the scratched saucepan of steaming water in the middle of the table and I add tea leaves from my pouch, dreaming of the teapots and mugs awaiting firing on the shelf in the pottery.

She’s a strange one, for sure, this Morrigan, but as I pour myself a cup of tea, I also feel strangely calmed by her presence. Compared to the formality of coffee with lady Montilyet, the way Morrigan scratches at a scab behind her ear feels, well, like watching a cat get used to a stranger. The way her dark bangs fall onto her face, and that almost aggressively round shape of her ear paired with that pale skin reminds me of Dee. Come to think of it, I ponder as I stir in a little milk into my cup, Dee would also have suggested tea to catch up, then say absolutely nothing. I clear my throat, readying myself to carry a conversation.

“You can call me Melina,” I say, taking a sip of the tea. “I am a potter. Before that, I tanned. I have been with the Inquisition since the fall of Haven.”

“Yes. I heard of your... unusual arrival. I am Morrigan,” she says. “They call me the witch of the wilds.”

“Pleasure to meet you.” 

She doesn’t reply, but instead inclines her head, as if listening to something I can’t hear.

“Forgive me for being direct, but why did you show me… the mirror?”

“You were at Halamshiral.” She says and wets her lips. 

I swallow, and set down the cup. Fuck.

“You saw me.”

“Mmmyes,” she hums, “I never forget a face, masked or veiled. ‘Tis dangerous, in my line of work.”

“And what exactly is your line of work?”

She waits a while before replying.

“Knowledge,” she finally says.

“I see.”

“They tell me you know our young Inquisitor best.”

“And what knowledge of Lavellan is it that you think I possess?”

Morrigan purses her dark lips once more. She looks away, then draws a small shape on the table. With a flick of her wrist, the glyph is set alight, burning a bright teal. 

The effect is immediate, and feels akin to pulling on ear plugs. A small ripple passes through the air, forming a sheer bubble around our table.

“The eluvian is part of a... network. Stepping through, one finds oneself in what I call… the Crossroads. And from there, should one possess the key, one may emerge across Thedas. Or perhaps, beyond. ‘Tis the weapon Celene, Gaspard and Briala were fighting over. A weapon… Corypheus may seek.”

I let the words sink in, trying not to flinch at the mention of Briala.

“You brought the secret passage here for safekeeping.”

She inclines her head.

“And now you want to know that it is safe with the Inquisition.”

Morrigan doesn’t say anything, but instead drinks her tea. 

“Look. You can trust Lavellan. She’s young, yes, but she’s kind, and smart, and she has surrounded herself with counsel. And,” I take a sip of tea, “she actually listens to her advisors. If you tell her what you told me, openly and unprompted, she won’t ask to use it against your wishes.”

Morrigan’s eyes search mine. I lean my head on my hands.

“But you said Corypheus might seek it. What is it that Corypheus actually… wants?”

“He means to make himself a god.”

“Is that… possible?”

“It may or may not be. Corypheus has proven himself capable of committing terrible atrocities to achieve his goal, and I believe he is looking for a way to enter the Fade in the flesh, however outlandish it may sound. Weakening the veil threatens us all. Who knows what more than demons he will unleash through his assault upon the very heavens?”

“That’s… not good,” I splutter, struggling to process the information. 

Morrigan seems to pick up on the uncertainty. 

“That is one way to put it, I suppose,” she snides. “One would hope the Inquisitor takes such threats seriously.”

She gets up to leave, then turns as if to say goodbye.

“Do you have children, Melina?” she asks instead.

A pang of old guilt surges through me.

“No, I do not.”

“Then how could you truly understand what it is to dread for the fate of the world?”

And how could I dread? There is good news from the Approach; the Inquisition has taken a fort, which I’m told brings a great tactical advantage. The Skyhold yard is in full bloom, with dandelions and tiny yellow flowers sprinkled in the grass, the sun tickles my skin, and birds are singing almost mockingly chipper. The sky is clear, and the mountains smell fresh, and there’s a flutter in my chest. I close my eyes and see Solas in my mind, hear his sweet words in my ear, and when I press my fingers to the calendarium , I feel the faintest flicker of his presence, somewhere far off to the west. 

Weeks pass, and my heart remains light. 

In retrospect, my longing is a little too sweet. Then again, I’ve never been good at sensing the foreboding.

Early one Thursday morning my coils are at 90, and I’m finally loading the kiln for the first firing when a soft caw catches my attention. Far above me a raven sways on the wind. As I raise my hand against the sun, the bird dives, headed straight for me. I set down the log of pine wood as the bird comes to a seat on the kiln, eyeing me.

“Well, hello,” I say warily. 

It’s the first time I’ve received a raven. It holds out a leg at me. There’s a small holder, and a tube attached.

The bird caws impatiently. I blink, then hastily detach the message. The bird flies off as I unroll the tiny scroll.

Move at nightfall Thursday.

There’s no name, but I recognize the handwriting. It’s Varric’s, of all people. Staring after the shrinking raven in the sky, I wonder who this message was really intended for.

I’m still pondering the conundrum of the strange message when I head for Ser Morris’s office before lunch. The wood is stacked, the salt is ready, the kiln has been loaded; all is ready for the firing, except for one crucial detail.

I knock on the wall to draw the Orlesian nobleman’s attention from the thick ledgers splayed out on the table in front of him. He visibly startles, scrambling to get his bearings.

“Ser Morris. I require an assistant,” I state without going through the motions of being polite.

“Craftsmaster Melina. For what purpose?” he asks, swallowing.

“I am about to start my first firing. It takes three days and two nights, and I can’t stay up that long on my own. I was going to ask Morrigan, but she’s on the road to Redcliffe.”

He nods, dragging a hand through his hair.

“We’re stretched thin. Perhaps an orphan?”

“No. This is… not work suitable for children,” I say, for the first time realizing, to my horror, child labor is not an issue for these people.

“You’re certain? Well, would one of the Chanters suffice? I suppose they could… chant… by the kiln?”

I shake my head sharply. An incessant reciting of the creepy Canticle of Light in my general vicinity would result in a different pyre. Ser Morris sighs, smoothing out his ledger.

“I don’t believe I can spare anyone else. The field kitchen has taken most of Chef’s forces, the surgery has been scraped to the bone, the stables stand empty. Perhaps you might recruit one of the... merchants?”

“Well, if there’s anything I can do in return… Pottery, crafting...” I start vaguely, but judging from the slump in his shoulders, my half-assed attempt to entice him is not going to be enough to fix the understaffing. I sigh. “It could wait, I suppose, if it can’t be helped,” I say slowly. “Cabot won’t be happy about the delay, but, then again, he couldn’t spare anyone either.”

Ser Morris nods, then stills.

“Well, there’s always… Threnn,” he suggests.

“Yeah, right,” I snort.

“So, Cabot, seen Threnn around lately?”

It’s lunchtime, and I pick up a mouthful of boiled, buttered broad beans and rock-salted beets and gravy with the help of some flat barley bread. It’s considered peasant food by Inquisition standards, but it’s one of my favourite dishes. The bread reminds me of rieska , and of home.

“Putatively,” the dwarf muses without looking up from his dishes.

“She sleeps upstairs?”

Cabot grunts.

“And her drink’s… butterbile… Right?”

Cabot nods, and as I push the last scraps of my lunch into my mouth, he pushes a dark round glass bottle over the counter.

The wooden steps creak under my feet as I head upstairs into the dusty unknown parts of the tavern. Blinking in the gloom it takes a while for me to realize most of the space is more tables. Somehow I’ve always been able to find a seat on the ground floor and so I’ve never ventured to the other floors, but looking around, I get the feeling this part of the tavern might let me drink in solitude. There’s a small room in the corner where the oriel window would be, door closed. I blush as I realize it must be the space one elven archer entertained another a few weeks earlier. 

I’m about to head up one more flight of stairs, sleeve snagging on the rough wooden planks of the railing, when I notice the Fereldan sitting in the corner, seemingly fast asleep. An uncorked bottle much like the one I’m holding lies on its side in front of her on the table, next to it an untouched plate of breakfast scramble. 

Former quartermaster Threnn is a tall woman. Her signature hat sits on a chair next to her, and the mix of civilian and Inquisition military garb looks like it hasn’t been laundered in the past month. 

She gives a soft snore as I slowly approach her. I turn the bottle in my hands, considering how to wake her, when her voice grates through the silence like a dull knife through cold butter. 

“The answer’s no , whatever’t’s you’re about. Not. Interested,” she says. 

“There’s a bottle in it for you.”

“Not drinking today.”

“Well then,” I say, and sit down across from her. 

She cracks one bloodshot eye open.

“F’r real, elf.”

“Of course,” I state, and uncork my bottle, lifting it in salute.

“Good,” she says, leaning back.

“You won’t mind if I drink this?”

“Be my guest. Not drinking today,” she repeats, but her green eye follows my movements as I take a swig. 

It’s hard not to choke. Butterbile is… what you could describe as an acquired taste and texture; viscous, dark and thick like coagulating blood, with the bitterness, aggressive sweetness, and spice that reminds me of tar-flavored cough drops. It’s about as sure to put hair on your chest, as it’s probable it could be used to remove them. It’s not for nothing some of the soldiers jokingly call it darkspawn ichor.

I force a smile as I swallow the mouthful, trying to figure the Fereldan out. It was a long shot at best, but the disappointment burns about as much as the bile at the back of my throat. Maybe, if I stretch myself, I could stay awake alone for the whole three days of firing? I would probably collapse from fatigue, and it would stop the calendarium from recharging which, again, might.. Well, kill me. For real. Another annoying delay is surely not worth my life, is it?

 I take another drink for lack of better things to do, and immediately regret it.

“Good, innit?” Threnn comments.

The bottle doesn’t quite clink as much as squelch against the sticky table as I set it down.

“I’ve had worse,” I lie.  “Look, Threnn, what will it take for you to help me out? What do you want?”

She grunts, then opens both of her eyes. Peering at me over tented fingers, her lips purse to the right.

“Fight me for it.”

“ Fight you?”

“You and me, training grounds, right now. I win, I get the butterbile. You win, I help you out, and I get the butterbile.”

“With those terms… you end up with the butterbile either way.”

She taps her head, then shrugs. 

I narrow my eyes.

“Let’s go,” I press out between sticky teeth.

One would imagine the fact that Skyhold stands emptier than usual would also mean there’s no one on the training grounds outside the Herald’s Rest to witness our match, but alas, no such luck. The soldiers from Riverside on their lunch break gather in a semi-circle around us, as Threnn gives the training dummy a friendly whack in the chest. Her face is ashen, her hat is askew, and she squints at me in the afternoon sunlight. She doesn’t look particularly strong, and there’s a gentle sway to her steps.

“First to four tips takes it,” our referee, one of the Inquisition’s captains, calls out. “No weapons, no jabs, no stabs, no eye-gouging, no privates, no biting, no hair-pulling. I mean it, Threnn. No biting.”

“You keep on saying that, Darrow,” Threnn says and throws her hat aside, beckoning at me with her glove-clad hand.

I set down my bag, and shrug off my knitted shawl and jean jacket, roll my shoulders, and step into the pen.

“Hup!” captain Darrow bellows, and before my eyes Threnn seems to become a somehow sharper version of herself. She drops her center of gravity, hunkering down, and leaps at me.

The ground rises up to meet my back as the air flies out of me. Dust and bits of grass rain over my face.

“Point Threnn,” a voice calls out as I gasp to regain my breath, eighty or so kilos of Threnn slowly rolling off me.

Once I manage to wobble back onto my feet, she cricks her neck, a cheerful smile across her freckled face. She steps closer, and I step back. The smile grows wider.

“Yield?”

“No,” I wheeze, wondering when my lungs will stop feeling stepped upon.

“Excellent,” she hisses, and we’re wrestling again.

I try my best to keep her at arm’s length. This time I dodge one of her lunges, but I fall for her fint and she twists my thigh, sending me on my ass in under half a minute.

“C’mon, be a sport, put up just a bit of a show,” she mocks me, as I do my best to catch my breath, adrenaline pumping through my ears.  

Round three I’m more careful, circling the woman slowly. It’s as if she’s able to read my mind, because the moment I see the opening and think of attacking her, she dives under my arm, and brings me down on my back, arm on my neck.

A cloud of stars dance in front of my eyes. She releases the hold as soon as the point is called out, and I roll onto my side.

“Don’t think. Just go for it,” she says, this time with a happy gleam to her eyes. “Or yield.”

“No,” I whisper, and lunge.

We both tumble over, and Threnn laughs in surprise as I try to find my hands to get a grip, but she recovers quicker. She tries to pin me to the ground, but fuelled by pure instinct I wriggle out of her grip, down and to the left. Abandoning all thought, I close my arms around her waist, and push her down.

She laughs again, and Darrow calls the point for me.

“Not all hope is lost,” she says as we take our stances again. “Yield?”

“When it’s going so well? Never,” I hiss, shaking out my leg.

“Hup!” Darrow calls out.

We circle each other, my heart beating hard in my throat. When Threnn reaches out, I swat her hand away, dive, turn, reach for her shoulder-

And one last time the ground rises to catch me, as Threnn’s leg sweeps mine from under me. 

“HA!” she calls out. 

“Champion - Threnn!” Darrow calls out,  and I accept defeat, looking up at the bright blue sky with a grin to match Threnn’s across my face.

“Maker’s breath, that was some wrestling! Really makes you feel alive, doesn’t it... you even drew blood!”

Threnn looks down at me with a satisfied smile, dabbing a towel against her torn sleeve.
“Oh. Sorry,” I say. One of my front teeth feels alarmingly wiggly as my tongue brushes past it. I sit up on the grass just in time to see Threnn reach down by my things.

“I will be taking this. Spoils, victors, all that.” Threnn picks up the round bottle, and I wave my hand.

“So, now that I’m off the halberd, what was it you want my help with?”

“Oh. Kiln guard,” I say as I get up, patting myself down to figure out where bruises will form.

“What’s that?”

I look up at the woman.

“Well, I needed you to take a few shifts, to keep a fire stoked for three nights and two days in the pottery kiln.”

“Oh. Really?” Threnn looks at me as if I’m crazy. “You could’ve just asked.”

I poke another log in through the front stokehole, peering in at the fire. It’s two hours past the midnight bell, and dark and quiet in the Skyhold yard. The crackling roar of the kiln is the only sound, the red glow at the stokehole the only light left since the last torches on the gallery went out. Grey billows of smoke from the kiln chimney join with the light layer of clouds to hide the starry sky.

“You should take your words to Hightown market, Melina...” Threnn says, a yawn drawing out the last syllable.

Taking my foot off the pedal to close the lid I shrug, and move to the side of the steaming kiln. As I wiggle a brick loose, I can see the hints of the dark maroon glow of quartz inversion. 

“... the way you guard them, must fetch good coin,” Threnn finishes her jest.

The words slowly register.

“Oh. I'm sorry. If I seem quiet, I guess I'm growing a little tired,” I say with a laugh, and it’s true, if an understatement of a few orders of magnitude. 

There’s a strange kind of focus that can carry you through a firing. At home, in summer, I’d get up at dawn and go down with the sun eighteen hours later. But here, in Thedas, eight hours into what’s looking to be a very long firing, I’m starting to see sleep is inevitable. 

Eight hours to only 600 degrees I’d agree is verging on excessively cautious, but it’s the first firing of the kiln, and I’m hoping a single firing will do. Even if it leads to this long night.

You’d imagine sleep would be one of the first things humanity would learn to do without, but turns out you can’t press snooze on sleeping when your immortality depends on it. In fact, the Thedosian sitting on the stool next to mine would probably fare better without sleep than I. 

Considering the elvhen were able to build portals, and there’s time travel here, I wouldn’t be surprised if the ancient people figured out the key to effective immortality as well. Perhaps the ancient elves of this world also required sleep this way? From what I can tell, only Solas of the Inquisition’s elves needs as much sleep as I do.

I shake the thought of the man that somehow managed to sneak into my head, and yawn.  The pottery wall — if the curtain can be called a wall — has been rolled aside, and my bed looks strangely bare where it stands with only one piece of old woven fabric hanging from the shed’s ceiling to separate it from where we work.

Threnn looks at me.

“If you want to frolic in the Fade a few, I got this,” Threnn says, her voice no longer tired. “‘s why you let me throw you around the pen like a sack of hay, remember?”

“Oh, sleep,” I reply as my neurons finally connect. “I suppose you’re right, I should turn in for the night. It’s good, to have a friend. Thank you Threnn for doing this.” I smile, brushing off my hands.

“Yeah,” she says, looking at her hands, “a friend, huh.”

The wind blows a gust of cool night air our way.

“You know, I asked around about you,” Threnn says, voice low. “You’re the one that killed Flissa.”

I freeze. My mouth falls open as my stomach sinks, panic frying my brain. She couldn’ know. But it’s true , a nasty voice whispers in my brain.

“No one else will say it, so I have to. I’ve been watching you, and all this,” she gestures at the fortress, “And I see everything. They all say it wasn’t your fault. But I know better.”

I turn to watch the Fereldan. Her face is surprisingly neutral.

“You’re trouble. Strange elven fella who talks about the Fade shows up? Well lo and behold, the temple of Sacred Ashes is blown to bits and what’s this? Another strange elf pops up. First that apostate of yours, then the Herald, and then you, my friend , each and every one of you bringing calamity with you. I’m not saying it’s ‘cause you’re elves , but I’ve seen and heard there’s ancient elvhen shite, stirring this shit soup. But you,” she turns her green eyes up to meet my brown, “ you’re the one that showed up right before Corypheus killed the woman I love.”

I swallow, unable to look away from Threnn’s green eyes.

“She was the one who talked me into coming here, join the Inquisition. Well, we weren’t Inquisition then, when Leliana asked her to come, told her of the Divine’s own guard, Flissa thought… well, that it’d be safer, for me. A way out of Ferelden. We on Loghain’s side, we weren’t welcome in Denerim. So, Haven was our way to stay close to each other. A place to start a family. Had a spot for our own little cabin picked out, right outside Haven, and all.”

“I’m so, so sorry, Threnn,” I say finally, but I’m not sure Threnn is listening. 

“She’s dead now. Tethras told me, when we built camp in the Frostbacks. I didn’t believe him, at first. Went through all the tents, all the carts of injured. But Flissa, she was gone. I was going to, I don’t know what, and then... Something happened.”

“Something?”

“The pain never came,” she states, and steps on the pedal to open the stokehole. “I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t happy. It was just, all gone. What’s there left to feel... for? Flissa did all the feeling for the both of us,” Threnn huffs. “So I don’t envy you, Melina. A horse steps wrong. One stray arrow. A dagger in the night. And your apostate, he’s gone. It’s war, what we’re doing. People die.”

I try not to think of him, but the image of Solas on the floor, unmoving, the assassin ready to strike, and… My fingers go to my calendarium .

Threnn’s voice is eerily calm as she continues:

“I have nothing in this world to fear, because I already lost everything. My love is dead. She can’t die again. So, you go sleep now. Maybe you’ll dream of your man. I see Flissa in the Fade, sometimes.”

My fingers still on my wrist. There’s no flicker of Solas’s aura gently pulsating back. My heart sinks.

There’s no Solas.

Cold stone, slippery. Harsh and icy, against trembling feet. Tears burning, guilt boiling, panic clutching. 

Footsteps echo as I leave the warmth of the kiln behind and plunge myself into the dungeons, running down the stairs, gasping for air. 

He can’t be...

It’s as if I’m spinning, falling. The air feels too thick to pass into my lungs; my steps too fast and too slow all at once.

As I step into the tannery a cold blast of air hits me right in the chest, and I stagger, staring out across the dark mountains. The rush of the Skyhold river drowns out my scream, or what would be a scream if there was any air left in my lungs. I shove an empty barrel rolling towards the wall with a roar.

My knees hit the stone floor as I collapse, right up by the edge, and my fingers press against the calendarium. Nothing. No trace, no subtle heartbeat far, far away. Neither of Lavellan, nor of him.

This is what happens, Melina, when you get too close. They leave you. These mortals can’t help it , my own voice whispers inside my head.

My eyes fly wide as I remember Morrigan’s mirror portal. Maybe… I could reach him? 

“I have to try,” I whisper, and open my eyes to stare into the abyss of the dark water, a decision at the tip of my tongue. It should, it could, maybe...

I have to try to reach him, before, before it’s too late...

“They’re not dead,” a faintly familiar voice comes behind me and I almost step over the edge by accident.

“Who are you?”

“I am Cole. I know you, and you know me, but you don’t remember.”

I stare at the strange, mangled creature. Not that I can be certain, but I assume it’s a he, but that’s about as far as I get. A wide-brimmed hat obscures the face, and overgrown blond hair falls in shaggy tresses down his neck. He’s very thin, and had he not spoken I’d assume he were a half-decayed corpse from his pale and bony hands alone. On his back he carries two long daggers in a holster.

Could still be a corpse, I reckon. Like something that might rise out of a well in a horror flick. 

“Seven days, the image of the tree, burnt. Why did the horses drown?”

The boy turns his head, watery eyes meeting mine, and the panic I felt before dissipates. He looks in my general direction, in a gentle if awkward way, perched up on my tannery desk, like an overgrown bird of some sort. There’s an aura of pure white around him, unobtrusive and soft like down.

You’re Cole , I remember, as if I’ve always known.

“Yes,” he replies.

“They’re not dead? Then why can’t I feel...” I ask, a little confused as to why I didn’t recognize the spirit boy straight away.

“They’re in the Fade,” the rogue replies, face serious. “Separated, searching. The Veil he made still stands, torn, fraying. You see it too.”

“In… the Fade?” I repeat. The slight pull has never before disappeared just because Lavellan was asleep. But Cole would have said they were asleep if that was what he meant. “You mean in the Fade… in person?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Cole, why… didn’t I remember you?” I say, rubbing the tension out of my temples. “How did you… even get here? Weren’t you going with the others to Adamant? Why are you here?”

The boy looks out over the mountains.

“No Cole, do not tell me, her. It will only serve to alarm her if she knew what lengths I go to in order to keep her safe. I need to wake slowly,” he says.

That sounds suspiciously like Solas, and my thoughts go to the mage again.

“Falling, drowning, heart racing. His hands, on my...”

“Private thoughts, Cole, private thoughts,” I remind the boy, looking around to make sure we’re alone. Somehow Cole never once has breached the safety triggers of the calendarium , but it doesn’t make it less disorienting that he’s able to know my thoughts. Even the ones I keep close to heart. 

My fingers stroke the calendarium once more. Cole looks at me.

“I can help you forget again, the pain, it’s a memory, tethered to a different circle, but not felt, not yet,” he says, slowly.

“That… won’t be necessary, Cole. I don’t...”

I don’t need you to forget if need be , my mind continues. I know how to do it myself.

“But I can help,” he says. “I promised.”

I try not to dwell on the cryptic words. I lean back on the table, considering whether I should go tell Threnn everything is alright, or try to sleep. Except, everything isn’t alright. 

Because even if my friends are in the Fade, rather than dead, the fact still stands. These mortals around me are all going to die, one day, and I will be left alone, again. And even if it didn’t come to that, I only have three months left in Thedas. One way or the other, I’ll lose them all. Just like everyone else.

I look out over the mountains, tears burning at my eyes.

“An old pain, they sleep, while I’m awake. Fear, of standing alone, fear, of coiling time, fear of never saying the words. I am the one, who will live on,” Cole croons, “You should tell him,” the boy adds in an excited whisper, and I sigh. 

“Private thoughts, Cole,” I repeat, dread pooling in my stomach.

Chapter Text

Chapter 21: Feels Like Home

Mulch sprinkles over the sun-flecked stone flooring as I untangle the roots of the young sapling. Royal elfroot is always in high demand, and Elan Ve’mal nods in approval as I place the plant in the little hollow I’ve dug in the ceramic pot. 

“Your hands are gentle, craftmaster Melina,” the friendly elf comments. “Have you replanted herbs before?”

I chuckle, and shake my head. At home, I’ve never succeeded in keeping so much as a cactus alive. 

“All thanks to my excellent teacher, apothecary Ve’mal,” I say with a smile, shaking off my hands, and tuck my calendarium with its sixty-three coils safely under a fabric wrap again. I look around the Skyhold garden, which has been rebuilt during the Inquisitor’s absence to become a suitable place for meditation and quiet reflection. It’s calm, and quiet, and subdued; none of the weeds and dilapidated stone structures remain. The small Dalish shrine, I note, has been relegated to a corner behind a neatly trimmed bush. 

There’s Morrigan, sitting on one of the benches with a book, and Mother Giselle, exchanging hushed words with a handful of visiting Orlesian nobles. Another quiet afternoon in the Bloomingtide sun.

That is, until one of the soldiers on the battlements spots the signal, off in the mountain pass. A gentle tug at my calendarium confirms the news. The Inquisitor has returned.

Small, hesitant steps take me down to the gatehouse, in front of which the crowd has gathered, anxious to see their leaders back. I stop at the bottom of  the stairs, and watch as the Inquisition strides in. A mix of anticipation and apprehension pulls at my heart; the relief of the return of my friends, and the memory of the bitter disappointment at Solas’s absence, just two months prior, as well as the knowledge that I only have two months left in this world weigh heavily on me.

The image of the Inquisition returning from the Western Approach makes me wish I had even the slightest talent for painting. But, whatever will come of my time here in Thedas, this day and moment is one for coming ages. 

At the front there’s commander Cullen Rutherford and Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, the military might of the organisation, the high-ranking former templar, and the Seeker of Truth, now in Inquisition armor. Behind them walk Fiona, leader of the mages, leaning on her staff, looking relieved, and madam Vivienne, face unmarred by simple emotion, in regal gold and ivory leather adorned with pearls.

In comparison, Ellana Lavellan herself, looks rather mundane, though poised and collected, riding in on a beautiful black mare. By her side there’s Sera, on a rather fat but lively pony with long hair. 

The rest of the Inquisitor’s closest companions follow. Blackwall is talking to Varric, who looks… tired, tense, Bianca on his back. Dorian Pavus looks a little worn by the road as well, or perhaps from riding; the Iron Bull, next to him on a giant horse, catches my eyes for a blink, and nods. 

Behind the inner circle, the two hundred or so arriving members of the Inquisition; the soldiers, the scouts, the mages, the rogues. Some are on horses, and some walk. There’s a cart of injured as well, albeit carrying not as many as the hushed rumours from Adamant might have suggested. Some of my apprehension gives way to relief.

The Inquisitor jumps off her horse and hands its reins to Dennett. Rutherford grasps hands with Darrow, and Dagna gives Harritt a welcoming slap on the back. Lady Josephine rushes past me down the stairs, a wide smile across her face.

“Inquisitor!” the Antivan shouts, enthusiasm raising the corners of her lips further. “Welcome back!”

“Thank you, Josephine. It’s good to be home,” Lavellan replies with a dignified smile as she dismounts her horse, and goes on to greet Leliana and the Skyhold steward with such smooth authority I can’t believe I ever doubted her as a leader. Her aura softly illuminates those near her with its glow. 

The calendarium feels warm against my arm, and I raise my hand to see the sixty-three copper coils of time glitter in the sun. When I look back to the gatehouse, walking last but not least, it’s him. Solas. My heart swells.

He holds his head high, but his shoulders relaxed, staff at his back. He’s dressed in an enchanter’s coat that Harritt must have fashioned out of bear hide, and under it he wears a plush ring velvet tunic, reinforced with threads of copper.

As he walks into the crowded yard I can’t help but think it’s relief that crosses his face, as if he’s finally come home. But he’s also… so very handsome ; princely, even. I can’t deny he always is an elegant man, but the way the light touches his sun-kissed freckled cheekbones and sparkles in his deep blue eyes takes my breath away. 

The blades of grass softly brush against my feet, as if urging me to cross the yard and greet him into my arms, but I hesitate, suddenly very aware of my dirty working clothes, of the crowd around us, and of the years between us. That I only have two months left in this world. Despite it all, I let myself look at him, let my gut ache, just a few more giddy seconds, committing this image of him framed by early summer sun and happiness to my memory.

He looks up, and his eyes meet mine, and he smiles as he walks through the crowd. Suddenly, it’s as if no one else exists. Never once does he take his eyes off mine, and when Solas comes to stand a few feet from me, all that resolve I’ve been nurturing melts under his gaze like old snow in the sun. Up close, I see and smell the forest and road on him, the campfires and days between washing. I linger in this moment, grounded by my senses; I close my eyes, smiling, heart beating fast.

When I open my eyes and see the way Solas is looking at me, my heart skips a beat. I am standing at a precipice, I am about to take a step. I am looking into that Fade-ridden sky, ready to fall into its embrace. I am hungry, I am scared. I am thirsty, I am lost, I am begging for attention and I’m…  completely calm, under his gaze; I am warm and safe in his presence, here in the early summer sun in the Skyhold yard. All at once. 

He is mortal , a voice whispers in my mind. You cannot let this go on. You have to...

And gods be damned, as if sensing my guilt and temptation, he reaches his hand up to my face, gently, pressing just the pads of his fingers to my cheek. The lightest brush, as if he’s afraid I might shy away and push his hand aside. My eyes fall shut and the guilt I’ve kept at bay through keeping my hands busy snakes through my head; urging me to back down, now, before our public secret becomes public. Before a casual dalliance becomes courtship. Before my toying with his emotions becomes cruel. Before I...

But I don’t back down, because it’s already too late, and so instead, I step into his warm arms and lean my head onto his shoulder. I drink in the scent of sleeping in tents, and days on the dirt roads, and him, and it feels like home. The leather of his coat is smooth and smells recently oiled. My hands come to rest on his shoulders, absent-mindedly playing with the buckled sash of his armor, the copper coils embroidered between.

Slowly, Solas closes his arms around me, and breathes in the smell of my unwashed hair. His chuckle rumbles against me. 

“That bad, huh?” I murmur against his shoulder.

“Hmm,” he muses.

I look up at his face, so close to mine that I could count every freckle, trace every wrinkle. There’s that familiar dent in his forehead, the glistening sun in his blue eyes. Still, it’s his smile that my eyes get stuck on. 

Not everyone would call that slight curve at the corners of his lips a smile. I’ve seen him smile for others, for gain and show, and this isn’t that. It’s as if he isn’t aware of it. His hands tighten around me, and I lean onto him.

“I missed you,” he says, incredulous, as if he can’t believe his own words either.

“You did?” I mumble against his shoulder.

“Immensely. Ceaselessly. Vastly,” he whispers. 

“Hmm,” I hum.

I let go to look up at him, but he takes my face into his hands. His hands are warm on my cheeks, and his eyes are wide with wonder.

“Let me kiss you,” he mumbles.

“ Yes ,” I whisper. “ Please .”

My eyes flutter closed once more as he inclines his head to kiss me. His lips press on mine; chaste, quick, but my hands go to his waist, and I rise up on my tiptoes to kiss him. A soft sound of contentment escapes his throat when I brush my tongue against his sun-chapped lips. His fingers push into my loose updo as our kiss deepens.

The warmth that flows through me is only partially from the sun. I am vaguely aware there are voices around us, and when we part what feels like way too soon, there’s a low whistle from someone I assume is the Iron Bull.

“I guess there’s... no more hiding,” I say, aiming for levity, but suddenly so out of breath, cheeks burning, that anyone with eyes or ears could tell I’m more than a little affected.

“No more hiding,” he agrees, his hands coming to rest at my waist as I lean my head against his shoulder once more. 

“Why this sudden change of heart?”

“ Because I’m yours, ” Solas whispers against my ear.

My breath catches deep in my lungs at the raspy gravel in his voice. 

He is mortal. You are leaving.

Does it matter?

Solas kisses me again, and it feels like home.

The platter of pints lands precariously in the middle of the table, right before the Iron Bull bends double in laughter. Sera grins, pleased with the reaction to her story. 

“... that showed ‘em right! Right?”

“What did Solas call them? Minor manifestations of fear, I believe it was,” Dorian Pavus supplies, casually  adding a flame to his brandy with a snap of his fingers. Lady Josephine twitches in surprise. 

Lavellan shudders, reaching for another pint.

“Well I thought they were spiders. And the gravestones, with what, our greatest fears? Demons know too much,” she finishes. Sera gives her shoulder a shove.

As is usually the case when celebrating the return of the Inquisition from a successful venture, the Herald’s Rest is filled to the brim. Harritt is deep in conversation with Rutherford, and even Lady Vivienne sits in one corner, entertaining a group of nobles, as well as Bonny Sims, the leader of the Skyhold merchants. Morsels of cold cuts and cheese and bread remain in plates on the tables that have been pushed together, and heaps of the new, but now empty, ceramic mugs litter every surface. 

I reach for one of the fresh pints, and lift it to my lips, nodding thoughtfully, not quite sure how much prodding about what happened at Adamant is appropriate. The fact that the Inquisitor’s party — at least her, Solas, and Sera — entered the Fade in physical form, hasn’t been said in so many words. Well, in general, there’s been few words. Instead, dancing, singing and drinking. It’s the way of these people, and to be honest, I’m not complaining. I take a sip of my ale, and look around the room.

“Where’s Varric?” I ask, noticing the writer isn’t anywhere in sight. “And Warden Blackwall?”

Lavellan opens her mouth, then closes it, eyebrows furrowing.

“Varric… well, Hawke…” her voice trails off, and she turns to look at me, pale eyes welling up with drunken emotion. She blinks it away, but lowers her voice, leaning over the table to make herself heard to me. “Hawke offered to… and then Stroud, I don’t...” she says, struggling to focus her eyes. “I think you should… Varric likes to walk the ramparts when he needs a… moment. But Blackwall. Where is Blackwall?”

“Feels weird he’s no’ skulkin’ around in the shadows,” Sera says.

“He was with us when we rode into Skyhold,” Seeker Pentaghast adds to the conversation.

“Perhaps he felt weary from the travel?” lady Josephine suggests with a hopeful little smile.

“Perhaps,” the Iron Bull says, handing out the rest of the drinks.

The moon stands high above the Riverside camp as I take the last three of the stone stairs and step out on the ramparts. Among the sharp and blue shadows, it takes a moment for me to spot the dwarf. 

Varric doesn’t move as I lean onto the wall next to him, staring out over the mountainous landscape, and the river upon which the moon has painted a sallow bridge. His aura always struck me as strange; a low, orange flame, the most stable I’ve ever seen. Except for tonight, when there’s a syncopated pulse to it. 

“Tardy,” he says in acknowledgment of my presence after a while.

“Varric,” I reply, and offer him the bottle of wine in my hand. 

He chuckles, but shakes his head.

“Let me guess. Lavellan told you,” he says.

I take a mouthful of the wine. 

“Our Lana? Not in any shape to explain, I’m afraid. No, I thought I’d go right to the source,” I say. When Varric doesn’t say anything, I add: “She mentioned... Hawke.”

“Mmmh,” Varric grunts, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

I pull my knitted shawl closer on my shoulders.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Want to? No.”

The stone is cracked, split, jagged. The hawk would have been safe if it had stayed, but that isn't what hawks do , the soft voice of Cole whispers in my head. A cold settles into my stomach as my brain makes the connection.

“Hawke, he didn’t…”

“... nah, we didn’t leave him behind. Lavellan chose Stroud,” Varric stops me, voice soft.

I breathe out a sigh of relief at the news that Hawke is still alive. Despite never meeting the man, I can tell he's important to Varric.

He turns to face me, an his voice cracks as he speaks. “But that son of a nug offered to stay.”

In the moonlight it’s perhaps not as apparent as it would be in the day, but to me it looks as if he’s been crying. He looks very tired, as well. There’s something else there too, a shadow of the same fear I’ve grown familiar with, that has haunted my sleep since the siege of Adamant.

The fear that comes with caring for someone who would offer to lay down his life. Someone who would sacrifice himself.

“If he'd had his way... You would have lost him,” I mumble.

“Yeah.”

I offer him the wine again, and this time he accepts with a nod of his head.

“I take it you haven’t told him how you feel,” I don’t quite ask.

He huffs and takes a swig. 

“Have you told your apostate?”

I take the bottle.

“Live long enough, and time makes fools of the best of us,” Varric concludes.

Chapter Text

Chapter 22: The Dread Wolf and the Bone

When I finally swirl into a wine-enhanced sleep at my pottery, there’s something about the name Hawke, gnawing at the back of my wine-padded brain. But when I wake up, the image that fades from my mind is of that same creature with too many eyes that has been haunting my sleep. I half expect it will be staring back at me from the grey shadows of the pottery, yet I’m alone, with nothing but my panting breath and the sounds of night to soothe my haunted mind.

Like I said, I never liked dreams.

Days turn into weeks. Every midnight I sit alone and watch as another coil on my calendarium smoothes out. I teach children pottery, I fire my clay and watch the ashes fly against the sky, all the while wishing there was a way for me to delay my departure. But just as surely as I can’t stop the sun from rising, once the coils have all been used, the calendarium will carry me home. And as usual, I make myself useful, pushing off telling them. Telling him.

Despite the guilt, I steal glances and quick kisses in shadowy corners between missions. Solas’s hands and lips and sweet nothings in elvhen leave me breathless and shaking every time, burning with longing, but I don’t give in like that night weeks earlier. He never pushes me; in fact, he seems relieved that our dates are always in the day, and that there are always excuses to call upon to cut them short. And still, we can’t seem to stay apart.

“How could I work when you run through my mind? Let me taste you, my sweet. ”

The surprise sends my brush swerving into a jittery stroke across the side of the jug. It shouldn’t really have come as a surprise that he’d silently step into the pottery this afternoon just as I’m finishing up the decorations on a pitcher, but Solas’s low voice, this close to my ear, and his hand on my shoulder...

“Solas,” I warn and bite my lip. I want to tell him it’s not a good time, but there’s also already heat pooling in my belly.

I turn on the chair, to find him look absolutely ashamed, eyes fixed on the bisque ware in front of me.

“ My apologies ,” he says, “How inconsiderate of me to…”

“It’s alright,” I say, turning back to my workbench. “Look…” 

Carefully, I pick up the jug and wet the brush, picking up more ground iron oxide.

“One time, it’s a mistake. Two times,” I make a decisive stroke next to the accidental one, “A coincidence. But three times,” I add one short stroke under the two, “and it’s a pattern,” I finish and set down the pitcher. 

Solas hums, his hand moving up my arm to my shoulder. 

“And if I were to apply that same theory...”

He leans in, and presses his lips to my neck. A shiver runs down my spine, and I swallow.

“A mistake,” I breathe, a smile forming on my lips despite how wrong it feels.

He chuckles, and his lips move up my neck.

“A coincidence,” I whisper, as his teeth graze my skin, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make a mark. He lightly brushes his tongue on the bite, and his hand moves up my side to cradle my breast.

His mouth moves higher up, to the divot under my ear, and I sigh my eyes closed.

“Yes?” he whispers.

“Well… It wouldn’t hold water scientifically, but with a few more data points to judge from...”

“You are a tease,” he whispers, and takes my face into his hands, leaning in to kiss me.

And just at that moment a chipper voice calls out:

“Melina? Are you ready with the shrine ware?”

Solas and I fly apart with such force that it sends the jug on my workbench wobbling. As Lavellan walks into the pottery, I cover the kiss mark on my neck with one hand and still the pitcher with the other.

“Oh, hi Solas. You’re here too. Did I interrupt... something?”

“No, nope. Not at all,” I lie, and get up, walk over to the shelf with the urns containers. “I was just about to come find you and Loranil.”

“I must… Continue my research,” Solas apologizes.

We walk across Skyhold to the gardens. It feels as if my cheeks still burn bright red when we reach the corner set out for the Dalish shrine where Loranil greets us with a smile. 

“Well, Melina…” Lavellan starts.

“Solas was only consulting me on minerals. He seeks to,” I fumble for thoughts, “find how something he saw in the Fade could be built. Some ancient, uh, elvhen thing.”

“Of course,” Lavellan doesn’t quite wink at me as I follow her out, but it’s not far from it. “By the way, thanks for talking with Varric. I don’t exactly know what you said, but he opened up to me. Told me the truth about Hawke, and Kirkwall, and Fenris and…”

Lavellan’s words fade as I finally make the connection. It’s been right there, all along; between the name Hawke, that poster at my grandmothers’ house, and the current age in Thedas, and my conclusion is just ridiculous enough that I gasp, hands shaking. Loranil turns, surprised, flat stone in hand.

“What’s that, hahren ?”

“Oh, nothing, I…” I consider how I would even begin to explain the probably-not-just-a-coincidence that my world has a videogame series — albeit one from which only fan works and video capture survived to my time — with the same name as the age in which I find myself.  “Just remembered something a little... funny. Pottery humor.”

“Sera would approve,” Lavellan laughs, and accepts the stone from Loranil.

“Not the same as potty humor.”

Lavellan gives me a curious look.

“Melina? Is everything alright?”

“Mmm?”

“You’re looking…”

“Just the sun,” not at all me feeling a little strange about realizing I’m, perhaps, trapped in a fictional realm, nothing to worry about, nope, nope , my mind races. Because well, on one hand, this changes nothing. But then on the other, it changes everything. If this world isn’t even real, then… How can I be here? How did I get here? Am I really here? 

And if this world is fictional, does it mean that Solas… 

Panic rises in me, rushing in my ears, and the world seems to slow down.

It’s too soon , a soft, familiar voice whispers in my head. Let me ...

No, stop it Cole, don’t take away th...

I smile, a little confused at Lavellan’s worried wrinkle.

“It sure gets warm here, doesn’t it?” I say, with a chuckle.

“Hmm,” Lavellan doesn’t sound convinced, but then she gets a sneaky glint to her eyes. “So it’s you and Solas now?”

I smile, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear with trembling fingers. 

“I... ” I start, but change the subject from my paramour. “So this shrine, it’s for the elvhen gods? To leave offerings?”

Loranil nods as he sets down the last of the stones, and I hand him one of the white urns.

“Yes. Well, you’ve seen me offer thanks and ask for blessings,” the man adds, “Offerings depend on who you’re calling on.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well… This urn,” Lavellan picks up the shallower vessel I made, the one with wing-like handles. “It’s for Falon’Din .”

“The friend of the dead,” I translate with some confidence. “Your god of death?”

“Not just the friend of the dead. We’ll ask for safe journeys, safe sleep, guidance. There’s a song, ancient one really,” she looks out over the gardens, “one my mother used to sing. I think.” She places the vessel on the shrine. “And for offerings, we’d burn feathers in the vessel. Falon’Din’s symbol is the owl.”

“In my clan, we’d offer reeds from the river,” Loranil says matter-of-factly. “Same shape, less smelly to burn. Lethanavir doesn’t mind.”

“Most of us also honor the god we chose our vallaslin for. I make my offerings to Andruil on hunting trips, or before them. Don’t… tell the chantry, but blood is involved,” Lavellan says quietly. 

“For Ghilan’nain, the mother of Halla, we usually offer halla milk. Eh, here at Skyhold it’s been goat’s milk, for the most part.” The young man sounds a little embarrassed. 

I nod slowly, looking at the markings on Loranil’s face, and wet my lips.

“How about Fen’Harel? What’s the blood writing and offering for them?”

Lavellan exchanges a quick look with Loranil.

“We don’t make offerings to the Dread Wolf,” Lavellan says slowly.

“Why not?”

“The Dread Wolf betrayed the Creators, and locked them deep beyond the Fade. In the stories, he’s the reason why Arlathan fell. He’s why elves… quickened. We use the Dread Wolf’s name to scare unruly children.”

“So he has no... disciples?”

“No,” Lavellan says sternly.

“Well...” Loranil starts at the same time, and both I and Lavellan turn to look at him. He swallows before he continues:

“In the Plains clans we do leave offerings... of tea leaves... but only to keep Fen’Harel off our scent.”

“Yes, but… That’s not the same as followers, is it?” Lavellan presses. 

Loranil looks a little uncomfortable under her gaze. His eyes flicker to his hands.

“Well, I’d hate to spread hearsay, but… I heard something said. They say, upon tricking the Creators, the Dread Wolf walked the world from one end to the other, and then the Fade, from one end to the other, all the while laughing to himself. And so what I heard, is, well. That his followers never disappeared, just grew used to the shadows.” Loranil lowers his voice. “Some of the city elves, they say the followers and friends of the Dread Wolf decided the outcome of the Orlesian civil war.”

“Oh, and here I thought I could take credit for that one,” Lavellan jests, but there’s a small wrinkle of concern in her forehead, one which I probably mirror. Speaking of mirrors...

The phrase the woman with the Halamshiral eluvian passed on to me floats to my mind. I sigh, feeling as if there’s a connection right in front of me that I’m simply not seeing through the fog of the strange workings of this world. That, and the fog of, well, infatuation. I clear my throat.

“Are there any stories about the Dread Wolf, then?”

“Oh there are stories,” Lavellan says, “There’s the one about how Andruil trapped him in her bed for a year? 

 Then… the slow arrow, the story about the greyhounds… My Keeper used to tell them late at night, when the youngest children were asleep.”

“I have one,” Loranil says slowly.

“Let’s hear it?” Lavellan asks. “We’re ready with the shrine, anyways. We Dalish don’t need any big rites to consecrate it like those shem ,” she says with a nod toward the other end of the gardens where the Chantry mother stands, “but it’s been long since anyone told me of the Creators.”

“As you wish, kinsfolk ,” Loranil gestures us all to sit down. 

He spreads his hands. 

“This is the story, as told by Keeper Hawen, of the Dread Wolf and the Bone,” Loranil starts. “In the days when the Creators walked this world, the Dread Wolf once got a bone stuck in his throat, and he came across a young elf. He begged her to reach down into his throat and pull it out, but she was shy, and scared. ‘I’ll make it worth your while,’ he added. And the elf, who understood the worth of such favors, did as she was asked and got the bone out quite easily. The Dread Wolf thanked her, and was just turning away, when she cried, impatiently, ‘What about that fee of mine?’. ‘Well, what of it?’ warned the Dread Wolf, baring his teeth as he spoke,” Loranil shows his teeth, and lowers his voice, “‘You get to boast that you once put your hand in the Dread Wolf’s mouth, and didn’t get it bitten off. What more could you want?’”

“That’s a new one to me.” Lavellan sounds surprised, but nods thoughtfully.

“What’s the lesson?” I ask, reflecting on the story.

“I… don’t know,” Loranil admits, just as there’s a bustle from below as the third bell rings out. “Forgive me, Inquisitor, Ala’holmelan Melina. Duty calls,” Loranil bids us farewell.

“Best not keep Cullen waiting. Man’s been on edge lately,” Lavellan nods. She looks after the young elf, before she continues. “With good reason, I suppose,” she sighs. She looks at me. “Walk with me?”

I’m about to ask if we can take a break from walking up stairs, when Lavellan pushes a door open. Sunlight floods down the granite steps. 

“Welcome to my humble quarters,” she says, more than an ounce of sarcasm lining her voice, as we take the last flight of stairs, and emerge into the tower room. My jaw drops as I do my best to catch my breath.

A huge bed sits in the middle of the room, covered in a throw of gold-embroidered prussian blue silk. The largest Inquisition banner I’ve seen yet hangs on the wall. To the side, there’s a divan. A forgotten book splayed open rests on it.

Along the walls, stained-glass windows filter the sunlight into a sparkling spectrum of color. Double doors let in the soft and cool breeze from the balcony, beyond which the Frostbacks spread out, miles upon miles. The afternoon sun glitters on the snow-capped mountain slopes and the streams of the hills, and molten gold floats like oil on the river that stretches on to the horizon.

But, just in case the breathtaking view wasn’t enough, the Inquisitor’s quarters have been furnished with all the riches the Inquisition has been able to scrape together. Soft, intricately woven rugs cover most of the floor, a stark contrast to the cold floors of the rest of the castle. We pass the fireplace, and the shelves of books and keepsakes along the walls. 

Lavellan pushes empty bottles, and carved wooden gift boxes, and abandoned chalices to the side of the desk. A pile of missives that rivals that of Lady Montilyet’s office teeters ominously as she sits down on the table.

“Sorry, I… work...” she waves at the mess. “Thank you for coming up here with me.”

“Of course,” I say, and sit down on the rug, biding my time as Lavellan shuffles through the pile of reed paper and parchment rolls.

“Any reason in particular?”

Lavellan sighs, and stills her hands.

“Oh, you know. We’re going to ride out to beyond the Emerald Graves, soon. There’s a, a... piece of furniture we need to keep from falling into Corypheus’ hands there. Morrigan, you’ve met her, right? She showed me… something this morning, something that maybe… changes everything? So there’s that. And no one’s seen Blackwall, and then there was trouble with, um, Cullen’s old buddy, Corypheus’s underling, Samson… The red lyrium, don’t even get me started… Deep Roads… Wyverns… Missing parsnips… The trouble in Crestwood, ” she lists off, but her eyes won’t meet mine.

“... but it’s not the save-the-world-business that’s got you down,” I conclude.

Lavellan sighs, and stands up.

“Well, you know,” she evades, walking down the room, and I get on my feet to follow her. She looks like she’s about to brush it off, say that it will be alright. I nod in encouragement, and she sits down on the bed.

“Creators, who am I kidding. You’re right. It’s Sera,” Lavellan says with a deep sigh that lets her fall back on the bed.

“Mmm,” I agree.

The Inquisitor grunts, covering her eyes with her knuckles.

“I knew she doesn’t like magic, demons, and all that, and neither do I, but...” she sighs. “ Fenedhis , Sera’s really scared of it, you know?”
I snort at the mental image of the expletive and look down on the young elf next to me on the bed.

“Have you asked her why she doesn’t like magic?”

“Well…! Not…  in as many words,” she admits.

“You did get out of the Fade, didn’t you? So she must have found a way to deal with it,” I reason.

“I guess that’s one way of seeing it.” She looks at me and sighs. “So Solas told you about our adventure in the Fade?”

I make a noncommittal sound. 

“It really makes you think, don’t it? About the… If this mark, if it can open a gateway to enter the Fade — in the flesh — and that’s what Corypheus has been searching for this whole time… He has a blighted dragon, and plans to assault the Black City. What chance do I stand?”

The silence in the Inquisitor’s quarters feels threateningly thick, just like the undercurrent of despair in her voice. 

I wet my lips, and lie down next to the desolate girl, and look up at the ceiling far above.

“Well…” I whisper, “what if Corypheus’s plan is shit?” 

“What?”

“From what I’ve been able to tell, which isn’t much,” I admit and look over at the girl, “the Fade really isn’t a nice place to visit for creatures of flesh and blood. You barely were able to escape, right? And this Corypheus guy plans to just… take it over? What, the same Corypheus that wasn’t able to kill you at Haven, nor at Adamant? Please . He can’t win.”

Lavellan chuckles, wiping at her eyes.

“Thank you,” she mumbles.

“Look, you’re made of sturdier stuff than you think. As is Sera,” I add. “She’ll be alright. She seemed alright at the tavern the other night.”

Lavellan laughs.“Mmm.”

She reaches her hand into mine, and I give it a reassuring squeeze. We stay still, there on the Inquisitor’s massive bed, for a while. 

I wet my lips, and clear my throat.

“How did Solas take it? In the Fade, I mean?”

“Oh, he was fascinated. His usual self. Kept talking about the horrors and demons like we were just… touring Val Royeaux for the first time. ‘The Black City, close enough to touch’, that kind of stuff. But it was also, well, a little weird with him. We… saw some scary things, and a demon, it said some strange things… Did you know his greatest fear is dying alone?”

It’s my time to laugh.

“That sounds nothing like Solas.”

Lavellan sits up and smiles.

“I guess you’re right, but maybe…”

“What?”

“The way he looks at you.”

“Look, I... “

“The way he kissed you at the gate.”

“You saw that.”

“Everyone did, hahren ,” Lavellan says with a laugh. “And even if I hadn’t, you two haven’t been exactly subtle. Like earlier today. And everyone... We’re all happy for you two. Even Sera.”

“About that, I…” I start, but the words don’t want to form. I take a deep breath, and try again. “How would you feel, if the person you were... involved with turned out to be… much older than you?”

Lavellan’s shoulders rise in a shrug.

“Age is… just a number of birthdays, isn’t it?”

“What if it was, like…” I try to think of an example, and the perfect one lands in my mind. “Let’s say, you find out they’re... ancient. Like… one of the elvhen, immortal.”

She snickers.

“Solas isn’t that old,” she laughs, “although, that would explain everything, wouldn’t it?” she jokes.

“No, not Solas, he’s not-,” I say, feeling a sharp sting in the calendarium , “Nevermind. I just…”

“Oh Melina. I’m sure he doesn’t think you’re too old,” Lavellan says and takes my hand in hers.

“How can you be?”

“Because he asked me something similar mere days ago,” she says. “Look. I spoke to him, the other day, about once this is all over. With Corypheus, and everything.”

“Is he leaving?”

Lavellan shrugs, looking at me with a peculiar expression.
“He didn’t say it, but… I don’t think he ever really planned on staying this long. And I think… no, I know you both keep to yourselves, but you could stick with him, once this is all over. Keep him company. You’re good for each other, aren’t you?”

Damn her, if she only knew how I wish I could stay. How I wish there were no secrets between us. I look at her and feel the guilt burn in my guts, but Lavellan nods reassuringly. Then she gets a strange glint in her eyes.

“You know, Varric invited us to a game of Wicked Grace, tonight. But Solas, he claimed he’ll be busy with his paintings until sundown, so...”

“What?” My eyes narrow.

“You know, I kind of hate this tower, and I’ve seen how you sleep. I’ve also seen Solas’s room on the gallery. If, say, you don’t want to join the game,” she gestures around the room. “You could… Spend some time here. I bunk with Sera at the Herald’s Rest anyways . We haven’t slept in this monster of a bed for weeks.”

“What exactly are you suggesting?” I ask, crossing my arms.

Lavellan shrugs, smoothing out the silk cover of the bed with her marked hand. Green light glitters on the gold of the brocade.

“Well… All I’m saying is, it would be a shame for all the hard work put into keeping this room clean and in good wine, for it all to go to waste, wouldn’t it?”

Chapter Text

Chapter 23: Sunrise*

The very last strokes of sunlight paint the battlements orange and red, and the shadows grow blue, as I enter the fortress through the kitchens. After exchanging a few words, and a few coins, with head chef Donatien, I walk to the rotunda with a basket on my arm and a decision on my mind. It’s quiet in the castle, unsurprisingly so. From my vantage point at the pottery shed I could see the Inquisitor’s inner circle head to the Herald’s Rest for a final evening of normalcy before riding out to war. And in a sense, this is the last evening for me as well. 

There’s justified dread, at what I must do, and ridiculous longing for the impossible in my heart in equal measures. I hesitate, leaning onto the wall next to the door to the rotunda. 

The muffled cawing and flutter of wings from far above, the dissonant chatter of the veilfire lantern, and the soft sound of Solas’ paintbrush. The lime paint of his fresco has a specific smell to it, damp and dusty at the same time. The mold, and husky scent of leather and dust of old books, and parchment, the faintest whiff of guano from the birds. All the familiar sounds and smells make me smile already before I open the door and see him.

Solas is painting.

But, furthermore, Solas is humming to himself. It’s a soft and sad tune, one that sounds vaguely familiar, but from where, I couldn’t tell.

The fresco has spread over the wall, an exact replica of the design I saw in the Fade. I watch Solas work.

Large, sure, strokes, he moves as if in a trance, in a dance. His brush — one of the brushes I made him — leaves splendid blue in its wake, as he adds another layer to empress Celene’s silhouette.

He doesn’t notice me, as I cross the floor and sit down on his desk, setting the basket down next to me. But, I find, though I very much would like to greet him, watching him work is like watching a force of nature, and I can’t take my eyes off him, even if I wanted to. The concentration radiating off him spreads out like a halo, lighting up his aura like northern lights, in shimmery greens and purples, painting his features with an iridescent shimmer. He’s dressed in his usual simple tunic and tan trousers, that old wolf bone necklace around his neck — ever the humble servant to the Inquisition, yet he carries himself with the dignity of a master of his craft. His soft humming ebbs and flows, as if he’s not even aware of it himself. The sound grips at my heart, and I hold my breath so as not to break the spell.

My eyes drift unbidden down his figure, taking in the fleck of paint on his hip, right above his belt. My chuckle echoes.

Solas tenses up.

“It’s... just me,” I say, keeping my voice low. “What was that song?”

The tension seems to leave his shoulders as he turns, and the flicker of a smile passes over his lips.

“An old tune,” he says, “One I heard in…”

“... in the Fade? What’s it called?”

He wets his lips, and turns back to his work, painting the final strokes of the fresco.

“You could call it Wishing Stone ,” he says, “although, the lyrics and the meanings held therein may be lost to time.”

“Mmm,” I concur, turning the words etha’Onhar over in my mind for alternative translations. “I… came to speak with you.”

He nods, and turns to wash his brush in a basin.

I reach into my basket.

“But first, I wanted to give you… this.”

I lift out my gift, and watch for his reaction. Truth be told, I’m not entirely sure what reaction I’m hoping for, why I brought it in the first place. 

Perhaps it’s my apology, meant to soften the blow. Maybe it’s a keepsake, to remember me by once I’m gone.
Regardless, Solas’s eyebrows rise as he recognizes the teapot. He wets his lips.

“I appreciate the sentiment, but I detest tea,” he says, matching my light tone.

“Ah yes, I... remember. But… I also heard a rumour you... enjoy sweets.” With half a nervous smile I lift the lid to reveal the assortment of frilly cakes from the kitchens. 

Solas makes a surprised sound. He leans down as if to inspect the wares, but at the last moment he turns, and steals a kiss. The spontaneous mischief takes me by surprise, and, unless I’m mistaken, him as well. My eyes flutter closed, and warmth spreads through me, warmth I didn’t realize I was missing. It’s the warmth of a last day of summer, the golden glow of sunset. I set down the lid of the teapot, and lose myself in the kiss. His lips are insistent against mine, full of promise, and his hands rise to cradle my chin, ever gentle. 

“I... do need to work,” he apologizes, pulling back, and back into his shell, way too soon, and way too late. A part of me is relieved, and a part of me wants nothing but him; just one more night, of pretending everything is alright. But it never was, was it? I look down, lest I give away the conflict.

“Of course,” I say.

“But, now that you are here, I… did have a gift of my own. A small token of my gratitude,” he says after a while. 

“You do?”

He hums, and casually shifts his hand from my thigh as he picks up a parcel wrapped in burlap, one I mistook for laundry.

I pull at the string that keeps the gift wrapped. I gasp.

“ Were I a man of means, I would drape you in the finest silks to shame the sun. In silver and pearls I would adorn you to wake the moon’s jealousy. ” Solas mumbles, the Elvhen spilling softly from his lips. 

It’s... my shawl. The simple square of woven wool, in greens and heather. My fingers thread through the fringe, unmarred.

I look up at him, blinking away tears.

“This... How? How did you… know?”

“We both carry memories of that which is forever lost. Your willingness to brave a burning building to recover it suggested it held value to you,” he says, slowly, holding my gaze. “The bandages you used to save me were enough for a weaver to recreate the pattern. I cannot thank you enough,” he says, softly.

And I’m kissing him. My hands grip at his ears, pulling him close, and my lips coax his open. Heat shoots through me, and he grunts impatiently against my mouth.

Dark stairs, ragged breaths cutting through the silence. He pushes me up against the wall, I meet his lips eagerly, push back, drag him further up. We back up the steps, shedding clothing in our path up to the Inquisitor’s tower. His desire is contagious, his insistent hands and lips stoke the pyre in me.

As we stumble our way into Lavellan’s candlelit room, he stops to look at me. My short breath stops, and for a moment, I’m convinced time has slowed down, as I meet his hazy blue gaze. 

For the life of me, I will never understand what this man sees in me, but there’s no mistaking the want in his eyes, and the rush of want that runs through my body. With deft hands, he pulls his tunic off, discarding it on the floor, and I take in the sight of his lean and strong body, the way the candle light licks his abs, the freckles on his shoulders.

He takes me by the hand, and leads me to the bed. With gentle hands he guides my hips to sit, and I lean back on my arms as he kisses me deeply. My jacket discarded long since, his hands trace over the cotton fabric of my blouse, leaving goosebumps in their wake like ripples on a lake. Searching, careful, his hands find the lining of the blouse, then push the shirt up and over my head.

With shaking hands he undoes the poppers of my bra, one by one. My hands dig into the silk of the bed cover when his hand cups my bared breast, and I let out a whimper of a sound in pleasure against his mouth. He pulls back.

Solas’ lips are thick from kisses, and his cheeks and ears have flushed a bright pink. His eyes meet mine, luminous and large, drunk on desire.

“ My sweet ,” he mumbles softly. His fingers trail gently over my breast. “If this is a trick of the Fade, it exceeds in cruelty the most vicious torture,” he mumbles, as his forehead touches mine.

I wet my lips, suddenly nervous. 

“No trick,” I laugh, but the sound falters at the end. “But there is… something I need to tell you.”

He lifts his hand to my cheek. I look up to find him watching me, eyes heavy with emotion.

“Melina… are you here in bed with me because of the favor you owe me?”

“No! ” The word comes out with more force than intended. I lean forwards, close enough to kiss the tip of his nose. “But… I would appreciate you naming that third favor, soon,” I half joke, then turn more serious again. “I am here, because I…”

His blue eyes seem to pierce through my very soul, and not for the first time, I find myself drowning. There are words, words I know to be true, but words I can’t bring myself to confess. And so I smile, and lower my voice, lean in close to his ear.

“... I would very much like to find out whose name I wail, now that there’s no need to stay quiet,” I finish the sentence.

“Are you certain?” he asks, voice husky.

“Yes,” I splutter. I pull him onto me, falling backwards onto the soft bed, and...

I’m falling backwards for too long, and then suddenly, not at all. 

I open my eyes slowly, letting the world come to me by inches, as if I were waking from a pleasant dream. And in a sense, it feels like beautiful symmetry, because this time I know I’m in the Fade from the moment Solas brings me. 

Above me a painted ceiling strewn with twinkling stars, ones I’ve come to know and love, moving ever so slowly. Under me, a low and firm bed, larger than Skyhold’s war table, covered in sheets of deep gold satin, soft and smooth and cool under my hands as I sit up.

There’s a familiarity to the space. The walls are painted in a fresco of mountains and leaves and wolves, with rich reds and leaf gold. The shape of the high stained-glass windows and balconies reveal we’re in the same space - yet beyond them, there’s only a soft, green-tinted sky instead of the Frostback mountains. Skyhold, but different. Skyhold, but when?

There’s a soft silence in the air, and an equally soft light from a sea of floating drops of veilfire, reflected in water.

Water? I frown.

“Is something not to your liking?”

I turn my head to look at Solas, who looks back at me with a peculiar expression, seated cross-legged on the other side of the bed. He’s dressed in a white tunic of a simple cut, one that leaves his forearms bare, but the raw silk brocade is inlaid with strands of silver. Understated, but lavish. Instead of his usual breeches he’s wearing dark leggings. I bite my lip as my eyes take in the shape of him.

“Isn’t it a bit impractical to get your feet wet every time you go to bed? Why would you design it this way?”

He chuckles, leaning back on his arms. 

“Who claims I designed it?” 

The light, scattered by the water, dances across his lightly freckled cheeks, drawing soft shadows across his face. There’s something about his features that is smoother, more relaxed. He looks stronger, better fed. Younger, perhaps. Completely and disarmingly at ease. I let out a hissing breath, fully aware of just how turned on I am, and this vision of Solas certainly doesn’t help.

I look around the space to fill in the rest of the details of the dreamscape. My eyes fall on the fresco.

“Oh, I don’t know. This artist has very familiar-looking brushwork though, don’t you agree, my wolf ?”

“Perhaps this is where I draw inspiration,” he suggests. His tone is altogether too innocent. 

“Perhaps,” I concede with a wink, and stretch my hands up. Billowy sleeves of a sheer and soft golden yellow fabric fall down my arms, bunching at my elbows, and the silver rings and chains that adorn my fingers and wrists chime. I can feel and hear but not see the jewelry in my hair, feel the cool metal around my ankles. “And all this fine garb, it just... happened to be here.”

“Is it not to your liking, then?” He wets his lips, and my gaze lingers on his lips until I look back up into his eyes.

“I might just never take it off,” I whisper and trace my hands down the front of the robe, keeping our eyes locked.

“You tease me.”

“I have a history of doing that,” I admit, still not wavering my gaze, opening my legs an inch.

“My patience knows no bounds,” he warns, voice low and gravelly.

“And I am in no hurry,” I counter, lifting my hands to my hair, still not breaking eye contact, but noting his nostrils flare, just a tad. “But, if it makes you more comfortable...” I close my eyes, and untie the bow that keeps the robe closed at the front. “... I really want you,” I confess.

I feel the bed shift, and then Solas pulls me onto his lap. His lips are on mine, hungry and wild, and with a greed that surprises me, I drink his kisses. I lean into his embrace, tilt my head for better access, and lift my hands to his face as I open my mouth. His hands grip at my hips, my ass, pull me close. My tongue brushes against his. My fingers take in the angle of his jaw, his cheekbones, the brow above his eye, his bald scalp, his ears, desperate to understand the shape of this man. My hands stray lower, to his neck. Over coarse silk, down his sides. I trail kisses along his jaw as my hands find the lining of his tunic. His smooth skin is warm against my fingers, and I pull the silk shirt up as I bite down on his plump lower lip. He groans against my mouth as my fingers splay over his chest. 

We come up for air, and I pull the shirt over his head, and toss it into the darkness. He pauses a moment to let me take in his bare torso, then meets my gaze. Without breaking eye contact, he moves to sit behind me. The back of his hand traces up my arm, finding the top of the sleeve, as he tilts my head to his. His breath is quick and warm against my cheek, and then he seeks out my lips. Encouraged, he swipes his tongue softly against my lips, and I open my mouth, tasting sweet cakes, wine, mint; tasting him. As his kiss grows deeper his fingers gently push at my robe. The delicate fabric gathers and falls to my elbows, leaving me almost bare. Solas’s hand slowly trails lower across my skin. Down my belly. Lower. I hiss in pleasure as his deft fingers reach between my legs, and I groan against his mouth as he strokes me.

His lips leave mine, trailing to my collarbone, as he pulls the gown fully off my shoulders and lets it fall onto the bed. His hands still, pull back to my hips.

“Melina,” he mumbles, “you deserve… the truth.”

His eyes search mine, blown wide. His breath is fast, but despite the urgency of his tone, he makes no attempt to continue. 

I swallow, dread and foolish hope pooling in my stomach once more, and wet my lips, meeting his wild gaze.

“I… You’re important to me, Solas. In all of Thedas, I never expected to find someone who would be able to mean this much to me, but... I can’t demand any promises or truths from you. You can tell me anything… but there’s nothing you could tell me that would change how I feel,” I say.

“Likewise,” he replies, after a while, voice thin. “But what I-”

“Solas,” I whisper. He shakes his head, but I take his hand, and lift it to my heart. “I mean it. Nothing you could tell me. Time is too short. But, tell me later, if you must. And I... will tell you, what I... must. But not tonight… my heart .”

With shaking hands, I lift my hands to his head to pull his forehead to mine. I close the distance between us, and give him a hesitant kiss. 

Solas sighs.

“ As you wish ,” he whispers, and buries his fingers in my hair to kiss me, but the fervour takes me by surprise. Our tongues brush against each other, and my hands roam across his chest. He leans back, pulling me with him, until he lies on the bed, and his cock brushes up against me through his leggings as I grind my hips down against his. A shudder passes through him, and I smile against his lips.

His chuckle fails to sound as nonchalant as I imagine he’d intended it, but my mischievous smile smooths out in surprise as he turns us over, reversing our positions. The silk of the bedsheets is smooth against my bare back, and leaning on his arm, Solas reaches a hand between us. Ever so slowly he trails kisses down my chest as his hand caresses me, moving ever lower, until it reaches my sex, finding me wet and ready. A gasp of pure pleasure escapes me as his finger draws circles against my clit.

I dare crack my eyes open just enough to see him take my hardened nipple into his mouth, just as his finger trails to my opening, pushes inside me, slowly. He kisses my breast, and then that sinful mouth of his trails lower, all too slowly, marking a path down, over my stomach, to my hips, my thigh. Delicious. All too slow. My eyes roll closed, and it’s my time to grunt impatiently. 

He spreads my legs, leans in. His breath is hot against my mound. Eagerly, he presses his mouth to my slit. I sigh in pleasure as his tongue drags from my opening to my clit. 

“Solas, I want you inside me,” I growl in something between a command and a plea when his lips gently suck on my clit. “Now.”

He pauses, looking up at me with mischief and desire in his eyes, his ears a deep pink with arousal, his mouth glistening in the light of the strange floating lights. He licks his lips, holding back a smile.

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” I hiss. “ By the Dread Wolf, fuck me ,” I demand, slipping into elvhen, sitting up just enough to scowl at him.

“ As you wish ,” he obliges. He moves up to his knees to unlace his leggings and push them down below his ass, and I watch, mesmerized. My eyes go to his cock. It twitches, like erect cocks do, and a breathless chuckle escapes my lips at the absurdity of the situation. Solas’s eyebrows rise. I pull at his hips, urging him closer, and he leans in to kiss my jaw, right below my ear. A wave of pleasure rolls over me at the feel of his bare skin against mine.

“May I?” he asks.

“Yes, please ,” I hiss, and he drags his cock along my slit, which pulls another groan of pleasure from my lips. Then he lines it up to my entrance. 

It’s been years since I had a man inside me, and I can’t help but gasp at the initial stretch. His eyes seek out mine, and I nod. He pushes inside me, slowly, as if he’s afraid he’ll break me. I kiss him, taste myself on his lips.

Our pace is slow and sweet; his thrusts are gentle, shallow. It’s not enough, and I grab his ass and pull his hips to mine, wordlessly urging him to go deeper. But Solas has another idea. He pulls out, then grabs me by the hips to turn me over, urging me onto my knees. Pulling my ass flush to his hips, he leans over to kiss my shoulder. I arch my back and lean onto my arms, readying myself, as he lines himself up. I feel his cock against me.

He pushes inside me, and I moan an embarrassingly loud sigh of pleasure as he picks up the pace, hits the right angle. It’s fast, and it’s hard, and it’s exactly what I need. His fingers dig into my hips, and I push back against him, biting my lip, meeting his thrusts, feeling the start of my orgasm build up. He reaches around to grab my breast with one hand, and stroke me with the other, but I rise up onto my knees, lean back onto him, my breaths coming fast and ragged. His hands roam my body, holding me up against him as his thrusts become erratic. 

His breath quickens, and with a throaty moan Solas comes, his face smoothes out in bliss, and we collapse on the bed. His breath is heavy in my ears. 

After a while he pulls out, and I turn and welcome him into my arms, rolling over on the side. Solas looks at me with clouded eyes, then kisses me deeply. His hands trail down my body; softly kneading my nipple, dragging over my sides. Grabbing my ass he pulls me flush to his body. I feel his soft cock between us, his cum on my thighs, and listen to his breathing even out. I pull his face to mine, and kiss him softly on the nose with sensitive lips.

“Mine,” I whisper, and meet his eyes.

Just as I’m ready to wish him good night, his fingers brush against my wet and swollen sex. A very nice shudder passes through me, and I chuckle against his lips.

“May I finish what I started, my sweet ?”, he whispers, and I nod in reply as my eyes roll closed in pleasure and anticipation, and I lean back on the bed. With nimble skill his thumb rubs at my clit, as a finger slips inside me. There’s a slight soreness, soon overtaken by pleasure, and I sigh as his fingers work at me. Another digit pushes inside me, and he picks up the pace. I can feel myself starting to tense up, a throb of pleasure building in my core. He adds a third finger inside me, and… 

“Solas,” I breathe, so close to climax that I see stars. 

He kisses me quiet, all the while stroking me, and then his lips leave mine, and I moan in protest as his fingers slip out, and he shifts his weight on the bed. When I open my eyes, he’s sitting next to my legs. The glint in his eye sends another surge of want right down to my core, and then he spreads my legs, leaning in.

He fucks me with his tongue, then with his fingers. He sucks on me, he laps at me, he presses his tongue flat against my folds as he presses two fingers inside me, fingerfucking me hard. As two of his fingers press into me and his tongue laps at me, a third finger slowly and gently pushes into my asshole. The sweet fullness of double penetration is more than I can take. My back arches in pleasure and I cry out, my orgasm building up fast. His fingers curl inside me, hitting against my wall, and the suction on my clit is exquisite. But Solas is not done yet.

Just as the orgasm washes over me, a shock of electric magic passes over my skin, lighting up the dark room, pulling the pleasure into a sharp crescendo. A surge of heat pulls through me, and with ragged breath I wail his name into the darkness as I come.

“You know how to control the Fade.” I whisper my realisation as it lands in my mind. “But you’re not... doing it here.”

“You are correct,” Solas replies after a while, and the shimmering lights slow down around us. His voice rumbles against my ear through his chest, and I turn enough to kiss him right there, right above his heart.

It’s later, and a sated ache has set into my bones, but the sweat hasn’t dried on our skins yet. Solas languidly traces circles on my bare shoulder with his finger, reminding me of circles he traced elsewhere in the hours leading up to now.

Just the thought of his tongue and magic on me is enough to make the heat pool between my legs once more. I bite my lip to resist the urge to straddle him a fourth time, and concentrate on those grounding words, on the room around us. On the floor around the bed lie the evidence of our explorations. I untie the last silk restraint from around his wrist, chewing my lip at the thought of letting him tie me up in return.

“What is your theory, my sweet?  Your thoughts float close to the surface, ” Solas asks, and I chuckle.

“Well. This is Skyhold, but in the past. Ancient times. From a time… before the Fade was separated,” I guess.

His hand stills in my back, and for a while only his chest rises and falls. For a moment I wonder if he’s fallen asleep.

“Yes,” he replies, quieter this time.

“So… you come here to study the ancient elves, and to practice your painting. Your ability lets you travel through time.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

 “I’ve always thought the times we’ve lost held a kind of beauty,” I say, looking up at the stars of the enchanted ceiling. “Thank you for bringing me here,” I mumble. “You seem… at ease here.”

“Things have always been easier for me in the Fade,” he mumbles.

“I guess it takes a rare kind of spirit to have a power with endless possibilities in the palm of your hand, and choose to use it to... make art.”

He chuckles, then looks at me .

“It truly does,” he muses, and lifts my hand to his lips. The unease I’ve been carrying all week hits me like a wall as he looks at the calendarium , the evidence of what lies between us plain for us both to see. 

Thirty-two shimmering coils remain, one higher at the top. Solas traces a finger along it, and a shiver passes through me, like a second heartbeat. He wets his lips. 

“It is unwinding, is it not? What happens when it has wound down completely?”

I can feel the tears burn at my eyes at how sincere, how without blame his question is.

The words hang between us, and I wait for the zap. I hope for it; I want to believe I would be honest and tell him everything. But the reaction never comes. And so, finally, I break the silence with another half-truth.

“I couldn’t say,” I reply, trying to keep my tone light.  “I guess I’ll be left with a circle?”

He looks at me, and I sigh.

“I think... it will mean it’s time for me to go home.” 

“And where... is home?”

My heart skips a beat. I wet my lips.

“I could ask you the same, Solas.”

“Hmm. My home is where my heart is , Melina. ”

I concentrate on the words, and at the Elvhen word play that tugs at my heart. 

We remain like that for a while, his hand drawing shapes on my bare back. I lean in and kiss him on the nose. 

“I felt it, when you came here… to the Fade, but physically, at Adamant. I can’t even imagine...”

And yet I can. To walk, to catch a glimpse of a familiar landscape, but one which is forever separated, forever lost. Watch the waves crash on forgotten shores and the sun rise over long-eroded cliffs. See stars that have shifted, the rivers that we’ve bent; lands that have drifted, and the dreams that we’ve dreamt.

Solas hums. 

“Lavellan said that you were pretty much at home. How could you tell the difference from this?”

Genuine surprise passes over his face. He opens his mouth, then closes it.

“It was… different, yet the same. The area was overseen by a Nightmare demon, upon whose land we were trespassing. The Fade reflects the feelings and fear of those who dwell in it, and Adamant has seen many battles, pain and loss.”

“You said something similar about Skyhold,” I realize. “But… there doesn’t seem to be too many demons here? No possessions or rifts. Maybe they’re scared of us.”

Solas chuckles.

“Lavellan also told me about your... fear.”

Solas tenses under me, then sighs, softly.

“It should not surprise me that you talk of these things. She and you are very close, after all. She speaks highly, and fondly, of you.”

“Does she?”

“Your bond seems… familial, almost.”

“I suppose... She reminds me of what could have been, had I led a different life,” I say, and lean over to kiss him on the cheek. He catches me, and kisses me gently. 

“Do you regret it?”

I sigh, and look up at the ceiling. 

“I think… I think… I wish my younger self had been… brave. Made decisions. Changed the world. But I was raised to watch from the sidelines. I was raised to never belong,” I say slowly, thinking back to my life on Earth. To growing up, always feeling like an outsider; rootless in the country I was born in, in-between during my years in Amsterdam, a tourist visiting my mother’s family after her passing. “And she… What I’m saying is, I’m happy to have helped Ellana take the space. To support her. I wish someone had done that for me.” I sigh. “How about you? Do you regret the actions of your youth?”

He chuckles, and kisses my head.

“Of course,” he mumbles. 

And I so wish that I would tell him, everything, in that moment. But I know I don’t. I can’t. My cowardice burns and aches in my heart, and so I settle for something small. 

After all, I promised him this much, all that time ago, and I keep my word.

“Malika. I… My name is Malika.” I whisper. “But you can still call me Melina, if you prefer.”

“Malika, my sweet, ” Solas mumbles, sleepy and soft, placing a kiss on my forehead before he falls asleep.

As I wake, I expect the Inquisitor’s wide bed to be empty, but Solas lies there next to me, breathing softly. His features are smoothed out by sleep, bathed golden by the summer sunrise. 

I watch as his chest gently rises and falls with held breath, allowing myself a moment, just one moment, of imagining staying by his side to face the dawning day — yet my heart grows heavy as I gather my clothes and leave him sleeping.

Chapter Text

Chapter 24: Before the storm

In the days following my failed attempt to tell Solas the truth, the early summer bliss of Bloomingtide turns into the heavy heat of Justinian. The Inquisition rides out for Val Royeaux after some troubling news reach Skyhold about Corypheus’s movements deep in Orlais. 

I watch from the ramparts with the rest of the Skyhold staff as Lavellan and her nearest leave. As usual, my eyes linger on my elven mage until I can no longer discern him on the drawbridge, and even then, my fingers go to the calendarium. As they brush over the twenty-nine coils, I sense his presence. 

I try not to think that this is likely the last time I will ever see him. There was no farewell between us since I left our bed without a word, and I can only hope that one day he will forgive me. And maybe with time, I will as well.

I return to the pottery and sit down at my wheel, giving it a kick. There’s a strange comfort in that the Inquisition will be out when I leave for my own world and time, at least if the map Lavellan showed me in the War Room makes any sense. And, if they somehow were to make it back before I return to my old life on Earth, they will hardly be paying attention to me. They all have more pressing matters on their minds.

As I’m centering the clay for a bowl, my eyes fog over. With my sleeve I wipe at the tears. 

No goodbyes. Leave no trace. Follow praxis. Well, I will leave my pottery behind, but once the crocks shatter, the potshards will be forgotten, as if I was never here.

Maybe some, like the Iron Bull, will have theories, and believe I was a spy all along. Others may think I simply left, ran off to someplace less likely to get attacked by the crazed magister and his crew. Perhaps some will think me dead; that I went for a walk and perished in the Frostbacks. Had my heart ripped out by a wolf. Fell off the drawbridge. 

Lavellan, what would she believe? She usually assumes the best of people. Maybe she will think I’ve gone to fetch the last piece of the puzzle; that I’ll return, one day, with a weapon that will defeat the Inquisition’s enemies. 

But perhaps, just perhaps, one of them will guess at the truth, or part of it. Perhaps it’s Dorian Pavus, who knows time travel, or another of the mages. My fingers slip, and the clay starts to wobble, as I think of Solas, left to wonder, left to wander. Will he search the Fade for me, in hope I’ll seek him out in the realm of spirits he knows so well? Will he think I left him for another lover? Or will he believe the Orlesian assassins after him caught up with me? Will he think he’s responsible?

I tell myself it is better than any attempt at explaining, or any half-truth; a clean disappearance is what I was taught, and a clean disappearance I shall make. But, as I look around the pottery, with its scavenged furniture and the pots I taught the Skyhold orphans how to make, a hollow nostalgia gnaws at me. 

It’s not only the people I need to leave. It’s also Skyhold, the fortress itself, which in the past few months has become a safety I never realized I was longing for.

Follow praxis. The bowl in my hands has become uneven, and I do my best to salvage it. There will be new places to call home, new places for pottery. One day, my months here in Thedas will seem like nothing but a long dream, another research stay in a line of many, and more to come. These mortals, like so many others, will seem like minor figures, pawns, non-player characters in a game. I am not like them, am I?

Twenty-eight days, and one favor, and I will be gone. Twenty-eight days, and I will be back to hot showers and instant noodles, and movies. Sneakers, and coffee, and elevators. Tooth paste, and q-tips. Cereal, and feta cheese, and the induction kettle. Walking the thoroughfares of Gamla Stan late in November. Fantasy novels, and gaming, and chatting with my online friends and offline cousins. Esports and emails and ecommerce and erealities. Staying up late reading before a submission deadline, and dozing off on Tunnelbanan on my way to work. Waiting for time to pass, and… 

My crummy shared apartment. The numbness of year, upon year, of waiting for chances for professional advancement that are never given me; until I grow restless again, and start anew. Another faculty. Another company. Another nonprofit, another passion, another project, another field. I’ll travel, again, to another city, another country. So few I care for are awake; so many are sleepers, so many at the cemetery.  Another love, another companion. Perhaps it’s time to save up and rejuvenate, finally give in to the pressure, and sleep away a decade or two as my body grows young and trendy, and when I wake up I’ll have forgotten all about this place. 

Follow praxis. Twenty-eight more days.

It will be at midnight, probably. The exact moment is usually hard to pinpoint, but travel is simple. I will just close my eyes and press my fingers to the device, and it will carry me home to the exact moment when I made my previous trip. And everything will be as before. 

I let go of the now crumpled piece of clay between my hands. The kick wheel slows down. 

I will never be any good at lying, even to myself.

Twenty-eight coils. I walk the ramparts, memorizing the ragged skyline of the Frostback mountains, the sun in my open hair, and watch the raven take off.

Twenty-seven. Chef Donatien hands me a bowl of reheated leftover mushroom stew, and I give him a grateful smile before heading outside. For hours I sit in the dew-foggy grass, watching the light veil of clouds pass in front of the stars until the dawn colors the sky purple. 

Twenty-five. Surgeon drops in around lunchtime at the pottery, and I mend the knee support that Bull has worn out as Surgeon talks about poultices and amputation.

Twenty-two. The water of the Skyhold river drops below the Dungeon, and I watch the rainbow of color reflect in the spray against the mountains as I finish the last batch of hides.

Twenty. Cross-legged, I sit in the hayloft, sewing the hem of a skirt of a fabric that is a very close match to the 70’s muslin wraparound skirt I wore as I arrived, just in case someone remembers what I wore as I left. As someone calls my name I look up, and I set down my sewing to join Harritt and Dagna for dinner.

A week and a half after the Inquisitor leaves, a party of Inquisition soldiers arrive at Skyhold. At first I believe it’s another case of transporting someone to the dungeon to sit the weekend for disorderly behaviour, but when I spot Blackwall’s dark hair I drop the laundry basket I’m carrying.

The Warden is in shackles, head bowed low. He makes no effort against the restraints, and the soldiers look visibly uncomfortable at my question.

“Blackwall? What’s going on, Darrow?”  

I follow the party to the dungeon door.

“Not Blackwall. His name’s Thom Rainier, craftsmaster Melina, and he’s a criminal and an impostor,” Darrow says, voice tired. “He’s requested to not have any visitors, until Inquisitor Lavellan returns.”

“Blackwall? Is this true?”

The man turns his head away from me.

That Friday night at the Herald’s Rest, the rumors of Blackwall’s past fly wild. While most of Lavellan’s party has headed deep into Orlais, Madame de Fer and Cassandra Pentaghast have returned early. Not the most eager bar patrons, it takes Scout Harding a while to work out the story out of them.

To be completely honest, I’m not very surprised, that it turns out the man isn’t what he said he was, nor that the Inquisition’s response to it is to throw him in a cell. But I guess it cements my decision not to tell.

Eighteen. I’m walking along the river down to the camp, on the guise of handing out the basket of steaming cinnamon buns, but in truth, I simply want to see the fortress from far away once more. As I look up at its towers and the banners turning slowly in the mountain breeze, I can’t help the grip at my heart.

Fifteen. Maryden’s song dies out with the last embers of the fireplace. I down the remaining drops of ale, thanking Threnn and Stitches for the game of dice that I lost on purpose.

Fourteen. The bath house is calm and empty and warm, and the unheated water feels nice and soothing on my skin. I massage some of the fragrant oil into my hair, no longer missing shampoo. There’s enough left for one more bath.

Ten. The apple tree in the yard stands in full bloom. I tuck the white flowers into the braid in an orphan boy’s hair, as Elan Ve’mal teaches them about rashvine and embrium.

Eight. I am tending to the pot of pansies I’ve placed in the rotunda when it happens. 

A pulse passes through my calendarium , as if a worm crawled under my skin. Startled, I drop the pewter jug of water, and it clatters loudly, sending water across the stone floor below the fresco. 

I turn my hand and stare at the slightest glow in the device. It’s so similar to that of the tug when the calendarium activates for travel that I first believe it’s time to go, but no; there’s still eight coils - seven ordinary and one oversized - surrounding the single circle in the middle. 

All the while, there’s an uncomfortable awareness pressing on my mind. It’s not that Lavellan’s presence is strong, it’s that… It is as if she surrounds me, from every direction at once. There’s a ringing in my ears, and I stare at the toppled over pitcher on the floor as the sensation grows stronger in the calendarium ; as if a string was pulling on it. 

Then it hits me; I’ve felt this before, however briefly; and I’m running, jug forgotten on the floor; out of the Rotunda, I cross the Great Hall, I push open the door, leaving Gatsi and a flock of Orlesian nobles staring. I emerge into the gardens, and just as I push open the door to the storage room, the Eluvian flashes with blinding light.

Before my eyes, the mirror shivers, shimmering bright, and Dorian Pavus stumbles out, followed by the Iron Bull. Close on his heel there’s Sera, who leaps out bow still aimed at something behind them, then Morrigan, who lands on her feet like a cat, arms ready with a spell, then Varric rolls onto the floor with a heavy thud, and Solas jump out, and finally Lavellan falls out of the mirror. And for a moment I believe the spells Solas laid on my calendarium all those months ago have deactivated, because Lavellan shines with bright, white light, but then I realize the it coruscates off the walls as well - until the it glimmers out like the fallout of a firework.

Morrigan snaps the Eluvian closed with a flick of her wrist. Panting, the Inquisitor and her party groan.

“Was that- Was that Mythal?” Lavellan coughs. “I thought I saw, like, a figure rising from the Well?”

“Demons. Demons the lot of them,” Sera says shrilly, throwing aside the bow to lean down by Lavellan. “You’re hurt!”

Lavellan’s hand rises to the blood at her temple.

“Huh. Yeah,” she comments. “Good thing I have you to look after me.”

“Ass,” Sera says, but with an affectionate quiver to her voice as her hands rise to cradle Lavellan’s face.

There’s a tension to the room, reflected off the faces of the inner circle. Lavellan clears her throat.

“Cassandra, Solas, Morrigan; I want you in the war room,” she says, looking around the space. The tumult has drawn the attention of the people in the gardens, and lady Pentaghast is one of the people who help the Inquisitor up.

“Certainly,” the witch of the Wilds agrees, as she finishes her incantation on the eluvian .

As Lavellan is carried off for healing by Sera and the Iron Bull, and the crowd disperses, I walk up to the remaining elf in the room. 

There’s blood and soot on his armor, but it’s the same coat he wore as he rode out of Skyhold weeks earlier. His stance is tense. Surprise and concern, and something darker, like grief, or anger, dance on his face, as, unless I’m mistaken, Solas covertly inspects the now inactive eluvian . For lack of a better word, I’d say he looks rattled. 

I clear my throat, and he looks my way.  A range of emotions swirl through his eyes, turning them dark, then cool, and then his expression melts.

“Ghosts in the mirror?” I ask.

He shakes his head with a sad smile, but then, all of a sudden he hugs me close, simply holding me. He presses his lips to my forehead.

“Solas, are you alright?” I mumble.

He leans in to kiss me on the lips in reassurance, and for that fleeting last moment, I'm floating, soaring and tingling. My hands go to his neck, and his entwine in my hair.

All too soon, he sighs against my lips and pulls back.

“I… forgive me, Malika,” he says, voice thick, and adds, "I must consult my books," in that tone of his that suggests those are his final words on the matter.

“Of course,” I reply, fingers rising to my lips, as I look after him as he hurries off across the gardens.

There’s an air of urgency in the air, and the Inquisition crowds the Great Hall, waiting for the war room council to settle on a battle plan. It’s an interstitial meeting — commander Rutherford is still in the Emerald Graves. As ravens fly off, the Inquisitor storms out. Her eyes land on me, where I stand close to Varric, and she nods at me with a tense smile, but addresses the dwarf.

“We’re riding out, at nightfall, with Morrigan and Solas. We could use you and your Bianca.”

“Here I thought I’d get a hearty hot meal and a long warm bath after that blasted Temple. Any reason you can’t take Buttercup?”

“We’re doing more ‘elfy shite’.”

“Fair enough,” Varric sighs. “Alright. Dinner first?”

“Sure, have dinner, but I’ll go talk to Sera. Let her know I’m alright,” Lavellan says, pointing at the neatly healed scar at her temple. “And you can teach me pottery once I’m back, Melina,” she says, turning to me. “Well, unless Cory and his cronies catch up with us on the way back. Or, perhaps you’d like to join us?”