Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She sits on a perch to one side of the Chantry’s dome, feet dangling in the air, reluctantly munching on some — no good, awful, disgusting, unacceptable — travel rations, and observes a peaceful commotion below.

Haven looks quite nice from up here. Like a rustic village preserved for some Medieval festival where the kids can make their own horseshoes or fight with practice swords while their parents pick between a calendar and a knight figurine at the gift shop. It’s all very… authentic. 

The Chantry doors creak. Cassandra appears within her field of view, a knight figurine with a very real sword and an objectively awesome braided pixie cut. She briskly walks towards the requisitions officer, waves about and asks the woman something, then her gaze follows a finger pointed upwards.

When two dark brown eyes settle on her topside position, she gives a little wave, and the Seeker’s face undergoes a rapid metamorphosis; from shocked to confused to annoyed. Like, Oh, I caught a weird one.  

Cassandra mumbles something unintelligible, then raises her voice, coming closer, “How did you even get up there?”

She shrugs but realises Cassandra can’t see it. She tosses the last bit of what passes here as food into her mouth, wipes the crumbs off her hands and gets up with a sigh.

These past twenty four hours were… stressful.

≈

As soon as she drifts off to sleep that night, everything feels wrong.

She’s been a vivid dreamer since early childhood, and an on and off lucid one — since her late teens. Sometimes she could only influence small, insignificant parts of her dreams, like the style of her clothes or swap one extra for another. But other times, very, very occasionally she was able to fully wake up in a dream, as if she was equal parts a director and a protagonist in a movie with a plot she could take wherever she wished. Make it ridiculous. Make it epic. Make it sexy. Anything.

Those were nights to cherish, to journal about and never forget. Each a chance to capture a few hours of wonder and awe from the grasp of normalcy. Not that she resents being normal. It’s just… sometimes it’s nice to escape. Perhaps that’s what got her into video games too.

This time she gets more than that. A lot more.

This dream is both like, and unlike those other ones. Just as palpable and strikingly rich, but with almost no sense of control. The word around her is soaked in bright green, and the fact that green is her favourite colour affords no relief. It feels heavy and foreign. Angry. Invasive.

A tall figure stands in the distance. Observing. Waiting. It notices her.

“Who are you?”

“What? Who are you ? What’s going on here?” Even her own voice sounds wrong.

But the bizarre exchange is cut short. Suddenly the green glow erupts like a supernova and she’s yanked from wherever she is into what feels like a leather suit that’s a few sizes too small. Something screams bloody murder into her ears, the sound reverberating within her scull like glass shards tossed about a snow globe, and she cries out as well, in pain the likes of which she’s never felt.

Next thing she knows, she’s climbing endless steps, trying to reach a circle of light, thinking, Is this that light at the end of the tunnel people talk about? But when her fingers touch it, the neon ring collapses around her, and the world is quiet again.

She barely remembers waking up to Cassandra’s interrogation. Leliana has that same cute accent she’d always liked. 

Who are you? What were you doing at the Conclave? Why did you kill the Divine?

I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know!

She’s in shock, but nobody seems to care. Cassandra explains the Conclave, the Breach, the mark. She keeps her mouth shut, save for the don’t-knows and don’t-remembers. What can she say? What will not make her sound utterly mad? And who says she isn’t? There is a distinct possibility, she thinks, that she is in fact standing in a padded room somewhere, wearing a straightjacket, banging her head against the wall screaming “Andraste’s tits” or something.

She doesn’t fight the demons they encounter on the way to forward camp. She doesn’t know how. Cassandra mutters useless as they ascend towards the first Rift. She hates it. Hates being this way.

And then she sees Solas. The sight of him there, with the wolf jawbone resting on his chest, makes it real. That, and the ache in her hand as she thrusts it towards the Rift, not waiting for him to grab it. 

It seems to startle him.

“How did you know to do this?”

“It’s the same colour.”

He chuckles. Not that long ago she’d have melted at the sound. But standing there in the muck and show, hurt and winded, it makes her mouth twitch.

She barely speaks on their way to the Breach.

“So you’re Dalish?” Nod.

“What were you doing at the Conclave?” Watching.

“How did you even survive that explosion?” Shrug.

“Hey, cheer up, Sunshine, it’s only the end of the world!”

Oh, but you see, Varric, it is. Her world. It ended this very night. 

She doesn’t look at Solas. If this is real, if it is truly happening, it would be gratifying to at least have someone else to blame. What magical mishap transported her to the world she’d only ever seen on the screen, she does not know, but the rest — that’s his doing. 

The effort to close the Breach almost kills her, the electric pain spreading from her hand over every nerve ending until she all but prays.

Maybe that’s it.

Maybe if I die, I’ll go back.

That would’ve been too easy though.

≈

She picks up a thick wool cloak she’s been sitting on — There’s no antibiotics here; if I catch a UTI, I’ll have to kill myself, — and starts climbing down.

The Chantry wasn’t made with bouldering in mind, but there’s enough ledges and holes between stones to make for good handholds and pockets for her toes. The shoes she’s wearing aren’t right for that sort of activity and she has no chalk, but experience can compensate for that to an extent.

Climbing’s been the way she’d let out steam, and ever since arriving into this pre-indoor plumbing sweaty armpit of a world she’s been itching to climb anything just to have a sense of home back. Her new body is smaller and thinner, but with enough lean muscle to suggest prior training. That makes climbing easier, if nothing else.

Cassandra watches her intently as she makes her way, carefully, deliberately, from ledge to ledge.

“Do the Dalish teach children to climb from a young age?” the Seeker wonders.

“It’s good exercise.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t teach you how to use a knife or a bow,” Cassandra states.

“Not everyone has to be a fighter,” she says as she jumps from the last beam to stand in front of the Seeker.

“What were you then? In your clan.” It seems like Cassandra is fishing for a particular answer, eyes slightly narrowed.

“Whatever was required of me.”

The woman shakes her head in exasperation. “This will not work,” the woman says. “We cannot hope to remedy this catastrophe if you lie to me on such important matters.”

It is her turn to glare. “And am I lying about, according to you?”

“Solas told me you're a mage. He felt it when he examined the mark on your hand.” An accusation. 

Well, shit.

She vaguely remembers Solas saying something to that effect after closing the first rift, but if he did the same this time, she must have been too out of it to respond.

“Then he felt the mark because I’ve never cast a spell in my life,” she asserts, and it feels nice to say something that is absolutely true for a change.

She has no idea how Solas does it. Lying is exhausting.

Cassandra peers at her, searching for any hint of falsehood. Seconds tick by. She knows what the other woman is seeing. Someone lost, cold and dejected, because that’s how she feels. That’s how she’s felt ever since the green glow took over her life.

Am I stuck here?

What if I die? What if I don’t?

What if the Breach is the way back?

Please wake up please wake up please…

True to her title, Cassandra seems satisfied and her expression softens a bit.

“I believe you. Surprisingly. But if you are indeed a latent mage, you should speak to Solas, so he can teach you to control your abilities.” She phrases it as a suggestion, but it probably isn’t. “Until the Breach is closed for good, your survival is essential. If you turn into an abomination, all hope will be lost.”

The implication being, after the Breach is closed she may go fuck herself. Oh well.

“Fair enough,” she replies, and starts moving in the direction of the alchemist’s house. 

“One more thing,” Cassandra adds.

“There’s always one more thing,” she notes, turning around.

“The requisitions officer said you mapped the area for her, places for logging and such like?”

She nods. “I explored a bit after I awoke.”

“And the alchemist tells me the notes of his predecessor were laying on his desk when he came back from the morning meal.” Cassandra raises an eyebrow, question implied.

“I came across them during my walk,” she explains.

“Right,” Cassandra says, looking like a detective who knows something dodgy is afoot, but can’t quite put a finger on it. “I appreciate you trying to help out.”

“Nobody likes being useless, Cassandra.”

The Seeker lets out a laugh. “You’ve obviously never been to Orlays,” she says. “I should not have said that back there. You are right, not everyone has to fight. But everyone has to contribute. And you have.”

You ain’t seen nothing yet.

Hearing a dozen variations of Maker be with you and Herald of Andraste gets tired by the time she reaches Solas. He stands outside, obnoxiously barefoot, looking at the Breach, no doubt contemplating the indescribable depths of his latest fuck up.

“The Chosen of Andraste, a blessed hero sent to save us all,” he declares, and that would be a dozen plus one.

The urge to roll her eyes is potent, but she resists. 

“The Chosen of Andraste has been made aware that she might be a late bloomer of a mage, and requires your tutelage lest she turns into a brain eating monstrosity,” she replies, and yes, she rehearsed this line on the way here.

“You were unaware of your potential? Truly? That is very odd, given your age.”

“Could my newfound connection to the Fade have unlocked it somehow?” she wonders.

When in doubt, ask about the Fade.

“Perhaps,” he allows and gestures to his cottage. “Come inside. It is getting colder, and we will be at it for a while. We shall begin with a simple barrier.”

They settle into a routine; training in the early morning, then breakfast. She takes the afternoons to read up on magic, explore and converse with Haven’s inhabitants, then trains a bit more before retiring.

In her, Solas finds a grateful student, inquisitive — hah! — and eager to experiment. She takes to magic well, but withholds from crediting it to herself. One must assume that the body she inhabits did in fact belong to a magic wielder, a First most likely, and has inherited some psychic reflexes required in spellcasting.

She keeps that insight close to chest, as well as her thoughts of the woman she’s forced, if unwittingly, out of her body, which eat at her constantly. Another unnecessary tragedy. Was it Lavellan screaming back in the green dream? Is she dead, or still in the Fade somewhere? Would it be better to let the clan know? How does one even begin that confession?

Nighttime is where she finds respite from it all: the work, the talk, Solas and her constant rumination.The only silver lining in her forced magical relocation.

She called herself a lucid dreamer before, but the moment she drifts off after the first gruelling day of Magic 101 it is clear that she was merely skimming the surface of a bottomless ocean.

Miss climbing, girl? He’s your chalk, your shoes, all the equipment in the world at your feet, free of charge. Oh, and here’s one of the easier routes at Yosemite you dreamt of sending ever since you watched that documentary. You wanted it? Here it is, literally a dream come true.

She laughs, sings, cries and screams like a madwoman when it happens, uninhibited in her joy. This is what lucid dreaming really is. Such intoxicating freedom, even if it’s just here, in the Fade. She climbs hard, making sure to not go easy on herself, trying to make it feel as real as possible. She lets herself fall, feels the harness yank her, wakes up with a start sometimes, then gets back at it. Try, try again. It is exhilarating.

After arduous days in an inhospitable place, deprived of her usual creature comforts and the people she loves, it is in those moments of triumph and failure in the Dreaming she feels almost happy. Someone, call Alanis Morisette , she thinks with a grin, waking up after an unfortunate slip. I’ve found escapism from my escapism.

It all makes Solas a bit easier to empathise with. Love of the Fade — yeah, she gets it. But that’s where the kinship ends.

She keeps their lessons strictly professional and academic. No personal questions, no flirting, none of that ‘however I had to ’ nonsense. She asks about magic, the Veil and the Fade. He obliges with gusto, as she knew he would. 

Flesh-and-blood Solas moves gracefully and with purpose, which she appreciates, and possesses a natural charisma that makes it difficult to actively resent him, but she never lets the reality of their situation escape her. Him, an ancient being, reduced in power, on a mission to sacrifice Thedas on the altar of the past he wants resurrected. Her, a mortal casualty of his miscalculations.

If she never sees her family again, she’ll have him to thank.

It takes her five days to produce a barrier worthy of the name, which is a lightning pace according to the resident Fade expert. It feels like five weeks for her, though. As diverting as her dreams are, anything remotely important for her at this stage happens in Redcliffe. Dorian will be in Redcliffe. Once there, she can really do something, make something out of this mess. The rest is just going through the motions.

Thankfully, as soon as Cassandra is informed that the Herald of Andraste is somewhat less likely to become a pin cushion, they venture forth. 

Perhaps it’s the fact that her rift cherry was popped days ago while she was in a much more rattled state, but closing the rifts they encounter on the outskirts of the Hinterlands feels remarkably anticlimactic. There are only three demons at the first one, and her companions tie them in combat one to one while she makes quick work of the green tear in the fabric of reality, thank you and you’re welcome. The second one is much the same. 

Cassandra suggests they explore the outskirts a bit before proceeding to the Crossroads and the meeting with Mother Gisele, to get the lay of the land and allow their newly minted mage to get her bearings.

There are hints here and there that the war is in full swing nearby. A couple of farms are abandoned completely, others not so, but their owners vanish inside as soon as their ragtag band of adventurers approaches. 

She spies a few corpses floating in a shallow river, and sounds of distant fighting off to the south-west, but it looks like the real war has either not reached or already passed this particular patch of farmland. Their scout marks a nearby settlement on their map. Apparently there’s a nice inn there, yet untouched by the conflict, where they might sleep in an actual bed before venturing deeper into the region.

It’s almost evening when they approach the marker. She thought she saw smoke coming up from that spot an hour or so before, but it’s gone now.

“Do you see anything, Birdie?”

She glances down at Varric from the edge of a boulder arrangement she’s just sent.

“I thought I was Sunshine?” she asks.

“You’re a work in progress,” the dwarf quips.

“You’ve no idea,” she mutters, then continues louder. “If there’s a village, it’s just down the curve of that slope. Don’t see much beyond it. Why don’t you go down the path, and I’ll follow as a lookout.”

“Out of the question!” Cassandra yells, accompanied by some dramatic hand waving. “I’ve tolerated your vertical… proclivities, but I refuse to let the Herald of Andraste fall to her death in the middle of a crisis because she refuses to walk on solid ground with the rest of us, mortals.”

“The rock is solid ground. There’s a mountain path right to the…”

The Seeker doesn’t let her finish. “Down. Now. Or I will put you back in shackles,” the woman says in a tone that suggests arguing the point will be about as useful as asking a bear for directions.

During their short foray she’s taken every opportunity to walk along any raised surface they came across, be it a mountainside, remnants of a wall or a particularly sturdy fence. Just for fun at first, then to troll Cassandra specifically. Apparently the latter worked a little too well.

With a sigh of cosmic despair she descends.

“Careful with the threats, Cassandra,” she warns. “What if I’m into that sort of thing.”

The woman looks profoundly unimpressed with the jest. “Your intimate proclivities interest me even less.” She glances down the path, pondering. “Did you see that smoke earlier? It could be that we’re too late, and if there are marauders, we must be ready. I walk first, then Varric, then you and Solas at the rear. Everybody agrees? Good.”

“Yes, mother,” Varric whispers, expressing their collective sentiment.

Cassandra is proven right in short order. As soon as they reach the outskirts of the village, they are jumped by four ragtag bandits. They are human, and that’s all she has the time to notice as things erupt into chaos. 

First put the mask on yourself, then on your armed and armoured killing machine, she thinks, focusing on the shape of her body, as well as the mark, drawing on the Fade to power her intention. Pale green glow tingles all over her skin, sealing it in a barrier. In the meantime, Cassandra is fending off two melee combatants, while Varric and Solas take one archer each. She stays where she is between the more capable fighters, trying to wrap the Seeker in the same layer of protective magic. It’s an easy enough task for her at this point when practicing in Solas’s cottage, but she didn’t anticipate how distracting all the shouting and clashing of weapons will be.

By the time she finally manages a second barrier, only one of the assailants is still moving. She stands there like a dummy, hands still up in the air after spellcasting, realising how skewed her perception of real fighting had been. It happened fast .

She watches Cassandra walk up to Varric’s archer who’s keeling over with a bolt in his thigh, scrambling to knock an arrow. He is cut down with frightening precision.

“Well done,” the Seeker tells her, wiping her sword on the archer’s cloak.

“I didn’t do anything,” she replies, wiping her hands on her things, trying not to sound as rattled as she feels.

“You cast your first spell in a skirmish. A respectable effort,” Solas notes.

“Don’t beat yourself up, Birdie,” Varric adds. “It gets easier.”

The sentiment unnerves her as she beholds the four bandits that were breathing, moving and yelling a minute ago thrown about in a macabre arrangement of limbs, discarded weapons and blood pooling out from under them. It looks almost black in the day’s dying light. The man Solas was fighting is covered in hoarfrost, lips open in a silent moan. She shakes her head at the surreal display.

Cassandra gestures to keep moving, and she asks, “Are we going to just leave them here?”

“What do you suggest?” the Seeker asks. “There will be more bandits the further we go. We can’t bury them all.”

“Can’t we at least take them off the path and…” she fumbles, “I don’t know, lay them together?”

She feels everyone’s eyes on her, arriving at god knows what conclusions about her level of grit and the strength of her stomach. She doesn’t feel sick though, oddly enough, it’s just… rationally she understands that this is war in what is effectively the Dark Ages shitcake with magical sprinkles, but the casual ease with which those men were killed and abandoned to rot feels profoundly wrong to her tender European twenty-first century sensibilities.

People of her time almost never see war up close. A mixed blessing. Perhaps if they did, there might be fewer of them, she thinks, gazing at the archer Cassandra slashed across the chest. He can’t have been more than eighteen. 

After a moment of looking around the Seeker nods, and they team up in twos, men and women, to carry their attackers and arrange them side by side under some trees nearby. Closing their eyes, she focuses on the men’s faces, trying to memorise them as if that would make any difference. Then, on a hunch, she starts looking through their things.

“I doubt they have much to steal,” Varric suggests, a little surprised.

“I’m looking for letters,” she explains, and finds one shortly in that same young archer’s pocket. An unfinished letter to his mother, she realises skimming the text, which of course makes her think of her own mother.

Where is she now? What was the last thing they said to each other? With a wash of terror she realises that she doesn’t remember. Is her own body still where her dreaming mind left it, in a nice queen bed with an expensive memory foam mattress, her two remaining cats snuggled on either side, not realising that no one will be there to feed them in the morning? Is she in a coma? Is she dead? Who came to her funeral? What did they say?

Such senseless tragedy, all of this, everything that happened since the Breach. Fucking Breach. Fucking Solas. Death everywhere. Mommy, I need you , she thinks, almost says it, borderline delirious, and then her stomach starts to turn.

She gets up from her kneeling position, fighting the dizziness, takes a few wobbly steps to lean against a tree, closes her eyes and breathes rapidly, trying to stave of a wave of sick bubbling up.

It is Varric that comes to talk her down.

“You’ve led a pretty sheltered life, huh, Birdie?” he asks with a softness usually reserved for the sick and dying. She just nods, not trusting herself to open her mouth. “Never seen dead bodies?”

She shakes her head and pants, “It’s not that,” handing him the letter. “He was trying to provide for his sick mother.” That’s not precisely what rattled her so, but it’s close enough.

Varric reads it and sighs. “Yeah, well, that’s what war and poverty do, Herald. People end up evil, desperate or dead. We save who we can, but we gotta save ourselves too,” the dwarf says, awkwardly patting her arm.

“I know, Varric, I know, I’m not stupid. It's just… I hate it,” she finally says, taking one more uneasy breath before peeling herself from the tree, trying not to meet Solas’s eyes.

She looks at Cassandra instead, who seems sad and older all of a sudden. 

“Don’t we all.”

If there was any hope that the rest of the day might provide some respite, it gets promptly squashed as soon as they enter what’s left of the village. The odour of burning flesh — it takes her a moment to realise that’s what it is — overpowers all other senses. Even the Seeker looks a bit queasy. 

Some buildings must have been burning for an hour or more, charred interiors and misshapen piles of something visible from the holes in the walls. Oh , she thinks, trying to breathe through her mouth, this is what mass murder looks like . And the largest one must be the inn. Damn.

One or two houses survived on account of being far enough away from the fire. Or maybe whoever did this got bored and moved on. They look inside just to be sure, but there are no people, and all the chests and cupboards are picked clean.

Cassandra suggests they make camp far enough away, rest and soldier on tomorrow. Revered Mothers to talk to, Demons to kill, rifts to close and all that. Cass and Varric are studying their somewhat outdated map of the Hinterlands when she hears a cough. Or thinks she hears it.

Rounding the corner of a relatively intact cottage, she sees a man. He is still, slumped against the wall with some flowers painted on it. The man is badly burned. Very badly burned. 

“I heard it too,” Solas says from behind her back. 

They exchange a look and approach the man. The sight of him up close makes the idea that he’s alive seem a bit ludicrous. What percentage of body surface burns is fatal again? Less than what this poor soul has suffered, that’s for sure.

Of course, just as the morbid thought occurs to her, the man opens his eyes and coughs again. Startled at first, she gathers herself and kneels next to him. It’s not even the sight of his wounds that gets to her the most, but the look on the man’s face. He’s not in pain, she realises. All the nerves that are exposed and could be hurting him are dead already, but because there’s no pain he doesn’t understand that it will be all over in a minute or two.

A hot, flaky hand grabs hers. The man’s eyes are blue, a gorgeous baby blue. It is hard to tell now, but he must have been quite the ladies man in his youth.

“Are you…?” he wheezes. His throat is probably charred. He looks over her vallaslin and pointy ears, as well as her companions who are now gathered behind her. Then his gaze drifts to her left palm, the mark glowing very faintly against the skin. “Are you her? Are you the Herald?”

“Yes,” she says, swallowing a piece of coal that somehow got lodged in her throat. “What is you name?”

“Willem,” he says. “What’s gonna happen to me?”

Solas steps closer, whispers some incantation, and she looks at him, a plea in her eyes. The mage just shakes his head. Nothing he can do. Figures.

“You’re…” She swallows again, turning back to the man. It is very hard to talk. “You’re going to die.”

He starts crying, whiny and soft, almost childlike.

Oh God.

“Me daughter and wife went to Redcliffe. I promised—” A violent cough cuts him off, and each contraction of his diaphragm threatens to break the man in half. Solas hands her a water skin and she helps the man take a sip. That seems to help, and for a moment he breathes almost normally.

“What are their names?” she asks.

“Lena, and me girl’s Alta. She has beautiful red hair, like her mother,” he says wistfully. Her eyes drift to the painted flowers for a moment.

“They both sound lovely,” she whispers.

“I don’t wanna die!”

A shuddering breath escapes her, as well as tears. She can’t help it. Why, why, why, she thinks, This is insane. He didn’t do anything. Did those bandits burn it? No, it happened before. Who then? The mages? Fuck, I hate war. I hate violence. I hate…

But, “I know,” is all she manages to utter.

“Pray for me, Herald,” the man begs.

Cradling his hand in hers, tears rolling down her face, she thanks whatever gods may be for her obsessive reading of the lore and recites the only Andrastian prayer to the departed she knows by heart.

“Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky.” The man’s eyes close… “Rest at the Maker's right hand, and be forgiven.” Never to open again.

The new camp they set up is two hours away from both the burnt village and the Crossroads. Everyone seems weary and content to eat their supper in silence, gathered around the campsite. This was just the first day.

At least the food is better than what was served at Haven, she concludes, filling her spoon with nug stew. Nug meat tastes like a hybrid of chicken and rabbit. Weird, but not bad at all. She gives the cook at Haven a D- and makes a mental note to find a new position for Our Lady of the Inedible. Ronald, their field cook, gets a C+ with potential for a strong B if she explains seasoning to him and recites the Gospel of Butter.

Maybe she should cook for the camp in the morning, she muses, finishing her stew. Give Ronald a break, and a masterclass. There’s so many mushrooms here, and she always loved making things with them. Many of their Theodosian names are still unknown to her, but during the day when she pointed at the scattered caps to Solas with Those are edible, correct? or This must be poisoned, she turned out to be right on the money almost every time. Which means the trappings of what is safe to eat are similar here at least.

Cooking is the only hobby she hasn't practised since arriving in Thedas, for one simple reason; she only cooks for friends and family, and she has none here. But something changed today. It’s probably the fighting, the stress, all the horrible things they saw and went through together. Is the slapdash camaraderie such things foster the same as friendships forged over decades of shared history? Is the Inquisition her ersatz family now? Probably not.

But for the first time looking at her companions eating around the campfire she thinks They could be. Someday. Cooking is an act of care for her, and she wants to take care of these people. Make things better for them. Maybe it will be healing for her too. Speaking of…

“I want to learn healing magic,” she declares abruptly, looking at Solas. “Can you teach me?”

“Your interest is commendable, and I would be happy to share such knowledge with you,” he tells her, briefly glancing at Cassandra.

Oh, of course, they must have discussed her studies. Solas likely brings daily reports in triplicate.

“But perhaps,” he continues cautiously, “we might do that after you master one or two offensive spells.”

She expects that suggestion and vehemently shakes her head. “I will not use magic to kill. Certainly not people, even the,” she makes air quotes, “evil ones, whatever that means. The thought of spending hours each day learning to burn people alive makes me sick. No offence.”

“None taken,” Solas replies musingly.

“You can freeze them,” Varric suggests, and when she smirks, says, “Huh, I wasn't sure you’d like that one.”

“I didn’t,” she assures him wryly. “There’s just this poem, about how ice and fire are both… You know what, never mind. Point is, I’m all for defensive magic, healing magic, and if there’s a spell that helps with personal hygiene in any way I’ll pull ten all-nighters to learn that.” She turns back to Solas. “Is there? Not just for cleanliness, but…”

“Utilitarian magic?” he guesses. “There is indeed. According to my studies, it was a staple of most households in Elvhenan; laundering spells and such like. Magical housekeeping of the noble mansions and keeps was quite elaborate, and could last centuries without needing to be recast.”

“I’ll take the peasant version. Anything to keep the lice out of my hair.”

“As entertaining as your banter is, let me make an injection of painful, yet necessary truth.” Cassandra declares, setting her bowl aside, and all eyes turn to her. “I do not begrudge your lack of fighting skills personally, but we all saw how dreadful the situation is here, and it will be just as bad elsewhere across Ferelden and Orlays. One day your barrier will fail, and I will not be there to stand between you and an enemy, Herald. You do not wish to burn, or freeze, or strike with lightning? Fine, learn to stab or shoot. Even if just to defend yourself.”

“Deal,” she replies. It’s not worth fighting over; the Seeker is obviously right. “I’d rather go for daggers or some other lighter weapon. I’m not built for bulky stuff, but I’m in good shape and I can be quick.”

Cassandra seems taken aback by how easily she complied. “Agreed. I will find you a suitable instructor.”

“Just remember, Birdie,” Varric chimes in, “knowing how to swing a dagger, and sinking it into someone, watching their last breath escape them right in front of you… Not the same thing.”

She looks at him, but doesn’t see him. A memory descends on her like a hungry dragon, cloaking the sun with his massive leathery wings.

She’s at the vet clinic. Her hands are shaking. Stage four colon cancer. Nothing more they can do. From what you’re saying, doctor, the most humane thing is euthanasia? Today? Now? Yes. Then this is what she must do. They lay Bunny down, so light and thin, but still fluffy. It will take a minute. Say all the things you need to say. She does, drowning in tears, voice breaking, everything breaking. Fifteen years with Bunny by her side. Fifteen years of love and comfort. She's a perfect cat, a perfect friend. My sweet Bunny, by most beloved, you are so good, such a good kitty, I will never forget you, I will never… She purrs, purrs as she lays dying. Do you hear, doctor? She purrs. A nod. She can feel it with her hand as she pets her fur, soft as a feather. The vet checks her pulse and gently closes her eyes. It’s over. Your kitty’s on the rainbow. She hangs her head, clutching at her dead friend, still warm, and weeps.

“Birdie?” Varric says, and she jolts up.

“Sorry, I’m…tired,” she says briskly, trying to get to the tent before it all spills out. “Good night everyone.”

She pretends to be asleep when Cassandra joins her in the tent, but it takes another hour of slow breathing and meditation for her to finally drift off.

Thank God Cassandra doesn’t snore.

The dream begins normally, outside in the wilderness. It’s midday, the birds are singing and the air is warm. Perfect. With a sigh of relief she does some stretching and joint mobility exercises and then focuses on making a small wall to get started.

It’s a deliberately easy climb, but she doesn’t feel like challenging herself too much today. As she approaches the top, not even remotely tired, she decides to try and make herself a proper bouldering gym. She never tried to conjure an artificial environment in the Dreaming yet, but why the hell not, right? This place is her creative outlet, and the sky’s the limit.

Thinking of its layout, she sends the wall, looks up and her heart stops.

Bunny sits on the stone, three steps in front of her, gorgeous, plums and fluffy, looking as healthy as can be.

She stares.

Bunny chirps and rolls around, asking for a belly rub.

She stares, paralysed. Does she have the heart to take back control of the Dream and banish this phantom? No, she does not. Not after the day she had.

Giving in, she kneels and gives Bunny all the belly rubs. Some of the teardrops land on the stone, others – on Bunny’s fur. But who cares. She sits and Bunny climbs into her lap and purrs so loudly responding to her pets, looking at her so fondly.

How can this be?

“It’s all your fault, you know.”

She inhales sharply, and her hands still. The voice is female and gentle, but nondescript. Bunny looks at her. The purring stops.

“If you weren’t so busy playing that game and fawning over that character, you might have noticed it sooner,” the voice says, soft and loving, and the jarring dissonance between the tone and the cruelty of its words makes everything worse. “I might have lived longer. I loved you so much, and you neglected me. You let me down.”

“I…” she pants. This is exactly what she thought about getting back home with an empty pet carrier and a note to pick up the urn with Bunny’s remains in a few days. She should’ve done more. Should’ve noticed sooner. Bunny was losing weight, but switching to softer foods seemed to help. Her teeth were fine, and she had her normal appetite. If I had…

Her gaze, blurry with tears, spots a movement to the right. A pair of feet, wrapped around from the heel up, drift into focus. She blinks away the tears and looks at him. He looks at her. Both equally stunned, it seems.

“You,” she says, and in the Fade it sounds like a gavel coming down, pronouncing someone fit for immediate execution. 

“Herald…” Solas begins.

“Get out.”

She stands, the feline body, now limp and lifeless, instantly turning to dust in her hands. As she moves towards him, the mark on her hand pulses and flares. She feels green acidic poison dripping from her lips and sizzling like oil on a skillet. Her teeth turn sharp and her face predatory.

Solas hesitates, and her rage boils in response.

“Get out, get out, get out!” she screams at the top of her lungs, like thunder, bending over, hands clutching empty air, unable to contain the energy pouring out.

It’s like an explosion at the Conclave in miniature. A bubble of emerald light with her at the centre bursts, sweeping Solas back into the amorphous dreaming, and she feels like she’s burning alive.

Her left arm goes first, turning to ash, then the other one, shoulder to the tips of her fingers, and before long she can’t scream anymore, because she has no mouth to do it with. The last thing she hears before waking up is a deep, rich, ancient voice that she recognises with the same primal intuition that lets a newborn know its mother.

“Until we meet again, Wanderer.”

Fear.

By some divine intervention she does not scream as she wakes. Just a sharp inhale, followed by pain in her nails, apparently from trying to claw her way out of the tent and into the ground below.

Cassandra is dead asleep beside her, peaceful as if cradled by Andraste herself.

For a minute she contemplates changing — her clothes are soaked through and clings uncomfortably to the cold skin — but decides it isn’t worth it. 

After her heart stops trying to jump out of her chest, she settles back on her makeshift pillow, closes her eyes and starts breathing just like her therapist had taught her once upon a time.

There is a rustling of fabric and tentative footsteps outside. She waits and breathes.

Maybe he’ll go away.

“Herald? May we speak?” His voice sounds strained.

“Fuck,” she mouths, standing up on wobbly legs.

When she emerges, Solas is waiting, hands behind his back; his demeanour is nondescript. Her eyes dart around the camp. It is quiet, the sentries are standing watch by the torches off in the distance. The campfire is left abandoned to fizzle out on its own. The moon is large and bright, making the war torn Hinterlands look like a magical fairy grove.

Cassandra mutters something in her sleep, roused by the movement, and she gestures to Solas towards the flickering fire. After they settle down on the logs and a minute passes in rigid silence, he clears his throat.

“Forgive the unbidden intrusion. Boundaries of the Dreaming are fluid, and sometimes one stumbles…”

Oh, that is it .

“Stop!” she interrupts, hissing, fury coming back in full force. “Just… stop. Do you take me for a complete imbecile? Do you expect me to believe that someone of your skill just stumbled upon my dream with no intention of finding it? You had no busin–”

The corners of her eyes sting, and she has to turn away. After a few shaky breaths and quiet curses she steels herself and lowers her voice to a whisper. Her eyes settle on his chest instead of his face. 

“You. Had. No. Business,” she attempts again, slower, chopping each word. “I don’t go poking around in your dreamscape, so would you kindly stay the hell out of mine.”

She knows she’s about to start sobbing and moves to stand up but a hand on her shoulder stops her gently. Which of course makes her want to cry even more.

“Wait.”

Tears are now rolling down her cheeks, again, and she angrily flicks them off, making herself face him. Solas looks… she doesn’t know what that look is.

“You are right.”

She bites down the urge to retort with something mean. There’s no energy to spare for petty word games.

Please, just let this day end.

“You are right,” he repeats. “I was… curious about you, I suppose. And more often than not the Fade rewards my curiosity.”

It feels like there’s more to be said, but he pauses, and that alone is enough to clue her in, the realisation at once startling and absurdly obvious.

“It’s not the first time you peeked,” she states rather than asks with a sad smile. “Just the first time I noticed.”

There is some satisfaction to be had in the fact that Solas actually looks guilty, but only for a moment. She quickly remembers that the toxic, unresolved guilt he carries is low key what leads him to commit genocide. There’s just no winning with this man.

“I suspect, now that you’re better informed, you’ll find a way to do it without me ever knowing,” she concludes.

“That will not happen,” he vows gravely. “I give you my word, Herald. I will only enter your dreams by your express invitation. And, if it is any consolation, I have not observed anything of a more personal nature before tonight.”

She peers at the ancient elf like she’s trying to drill a hole in his skull.

“It is my past, my pain. It might seem small to you, and perhaps it is, but it’s mine . It’s not there for you to know, judge or dissect.”

He looks stricken. “No,” he breathes, and that one word sounds so unbelievably sad it makes her chest tighten and her fingers twitch. “No, it is not.”

She closes her eyes and lets out a long, painful breath. 

“I watched you climb,” he suddenly admits, making her look at him again.

“Why?”

“That is precisely what I wished to ask as I observed. You struggle and exhaust yourself, even though the Dreaming makes no such demands. You fall, a lot, and you do not cut the fall short, waking up with pain and shock still lingering. Why do it?” he wonders, as if the perceived conundrum pleases him somehow. “I have never met someone with such a peculiar passion.”

“You haven’t met people with obsessive niche hobbies? I should think you see one whenever you look in the mirror,” she quips, earning her a smirk.

“I roam the Fade in search of dreams arcane and memories of ages long since past,” he muses. “But with this search my magic grows as well. What treasures do you find in scaling lifeless rock?”

She grins in spite of herself. Bastard.

“It is hardly lifeless. Patient, certainly. Sturdy. And lethal to the anxious,” she replies, and ponders a moment before continuing. “Tell me, what did I look like to you? On the wall.”

“Focused,” he replies immediately. “Single-mindedly so, almost as a spirit.”

“Nothing but the climb,” she says.

Solas tastes the words.

“Nothing but the climb.”

She nods. “There’s your answer. The focus is no mere side benefit.”

“That honour is relegated to the muscles, then. Presumably,” he supposes.

Funny how differently this conversation played out. And yet how similar in certain ways.

“Such training will serve you well as a Dreamer then,” he assures her. “We are a rare breed in this age, and given our unique allure to demons, learning to withstand possession must become part of our lessons from now on.”

She catches the emphasis on that word, confirming her suspicion, and he seems to catch her thoughts.

“You did know you were a Dreamer, correct?”

“I was an occasional lucid dreamer before the Breach, but never to this extent,” she admits, seeing no point in hiding what will become obvious to him anyway.

“Fascinating,” he says. “But you took control of your dreams before?”

She gives a so-so handwave. “Maybe a few dozen times that I can recall, and even then I couldn’t conjure myself a perfect wall to climb for hours on end. I’ve always wanted to though. There’s not enough time in a day.”

“It appears that the Breach granted you a lot more than the mark,” he gathers, bemused and puzzled. “Did it change you in any other way? Did it affect your mind, your morals? Your… spirit?”

“This entire experience affected me. How could it not?”

His question clearly has a different meaning, but she wilfully refuses to parrot the lines from that scene. She’s always resented Solas’s presumption that if Lavellan says or does something worthwhile, then it must be because of the fucking mark.

“And your aversion to violence?” he presses.

“That’s just how I was raised.”

“Is it that simple?” Solas wonders with a hint of disapproval. “Perhaps you don’t give yourself enough credit.”

She arches an eyebrow at him. “Oh, did you wake up one day and decide to enjoy the Fade? You said there was little else to interest a boy with your gift in a humble village, but you chose neither the place of your birth, nor the gift of Dreaming. So tell me again, how much credit should I take for my own preferences?” she challenges, and he narrows his eyes at the metaphorical glove being thrown.

“So we make nothing of ourselves, Herald of Andraste ? Our choices are not truly our own?”

“Some of them are,” she concedes calmly, then adds after a brief pause, “I chose to come out of the tent.”

He regards her a moment, gaze softening.

“I am glad you did,” he tells her.

“As am I.”

This is an opportune moment, she thinks, all things considered. She can have a real conversation with him now, here, with the moonlight casting such a lovely glow over the campsite. The hour is late, and they both need more rest than they got, but she enjoys talking to him in spite of all the baggage, and he seems to enjoy it too. So why not indulge?

They could continue the free will debate — a topic that always fascinated her. Or something safer, perhaps? She could ask about his wanderings in the Fade and the marvels he’d seen. Should she listen, wide-eyed, as he explains how the Dalish are wrong about everything, actually ? Let him wax nostalgic about Elvhenan? So many questions to ask, prompts to offer, opinions to exchange.

And afterwards, if the mood is right and his expression inviting, she could share her many worries. Admit she’s completely out of her depths. She could tell him of her losses — no details, of course, — and Solas might imply that he’d lost someone too. Many someones. They might bond over their tragic backstories, his grand and world-changing, hers small and mundane in some ways, bizarre and dramatic in others.

Solas would no doubt attempt to reassure her. He might even complement her in his special, patronising way. Tell her she’s doing well. Better than he would’ve expected. Good pet. Clever little thing. Look, it climbs. Look, it’s having feelings. Look what pretty green sparks it makes.

We are not even people to you?

Not at first.

“Lethallan?”

Torn out of her reverie, she realises she’s been staring at the fire, transfixed by the cognitive dissonance, memories of the fictional Solas mixing in with… this. Blinking several times to banish the glare out of her vision, she faces him.

He contemplates her with what seems like genuine concern, shoulders stiff and jaw tight. Quite fetching, even now.

“I think too much,” she concludes, shaking her head. “Good night, Solas.”

“Sleep well.”

He’s never called her that before, she thinks as she settles back on the bedroll.

Lethallan .

Ridiculous. She’s not even an elf.

Besides, he doesn’t mean it. He can’t. Not really. 

And it shouldn’t comfort her as much as it does.

Chapter Text

They do end up clearing the Crossroads from all of its remaining threats and talking to mother Giselle. After that encounter, Cassandra practically bounces on the balls of her feet, eager to get back to Haven and prepare for a trip to Val Royeaux.

She understands the Seeker’s desire to return to the fold, but knowing what she knows, her only interest in going to the capital of Orlais, apart from buying every personal hygiene product she can carry, lays in recruiting Sera and Vivienne, and they will keep, especially now that Redcliffe is so close.

Even if Dorian isn’t there yet, Fiona should be, and perhaps she can find a way to convince the rebel leader to join the Inquisition, bypassing her meeting with Alexius and his deus ex machina altogether. 

Weeks pass as these thoughts brew in her mind and the Inquisition establishes its presence in the region. People and commerce return slowly, but they do return, and their merry band of local celebrities is given accommodations in one of the abandoned houses on the outskirts of the village.

As Cassandra’s impatience grows, it becomes clear that unless something dramatically changes, and soon, she will have to relent and get with the program. It’s not like she can tell Cass, “Hey, the Chantry will give us the finger. How do I know this? Andraste told me.”

She does entertain the idea of making a solo run for Redcliffe, just for a sneak peek, but only briefly. After all, she still has only a single sad spell under her belt, and even though the fighting has subsided significantly, one can’t swing a stick in the Hinterlands without hitting a bear on a mission.

At least she can take a bath here, get some fresh clothes, and there’s a real bed – or what passes for it here – to sleep in.

After an uneventful night of dreaming she wakes up at the crack of dawn and finds the house mostly quiet save for Varric who’s tending to Bianca downstairs, humming softly in dwarven.

“An early Birdie, I see,” he greets her. “Peaceful dreams?”

“It was alright” she tells him, washing her face in a basin, and attempts to brush her teeth with a finger.

“I’m only asking because Solas mentioned you had a nightmare after that burning village, although from the looks of it, so did he,” the dwarf explains. “He woke me up when he left for your little powwow.”

“We saw each other in the Fade. It didn’t go too well,” she admits, wiping the dust off her feet before putting her boots on.

Varric sets Bianca down, observing her actions with more attention than they should presumably deserve.

“Even the concept of dreams is weird to me,” he admits. “How is it rest when you gotta do stuff. Speaking of weird, where did you get those shoes?”

“Wh…” She turns them over in her hands. What’s wrong with the damn shoes? “Leliana lent them to me, why?”

“Well, most Dalish I’ve met don’t wear them, is all.”

Oh. Right.

“That’s probably why fungal infections are so rampant in our camps,” she muses.

“Seriously?” he asks, making a face, and she laughs.

“No idea, but it sounds like a thing, doesn’t it?”

“You’re not really Dalish, Birdie, are you?” Varric says, tilting his head slightly.

“Nothing escapes you, inspector Tethras.”

She takes a minute to braid her hair which goes down to the middle of her back. Back home she wore it in a bob. Should she cut it? Or would that be somehow… disrespectful?

“I’ll go get some mushrooms for breakfast,” she declares when she’s done, picks up a pair of satchels she set aside yesterday and heads for the door. “If Cassandra wakes up, tell her I have the shits and will come back as soon as I’m able.”

“I will be sure to tell her exactly that,” Varric promises. “But don’t think I will let the Dalish thing go.”

She throws him a parting glance over her shoulder.

“Truth is ever so dull, my artistic friend. Don’t cut the wings of your imagination!”

The grove begins as soon as the village ends, and she lets the mushroom caps sticking here and there out of the grass guide her path. It’s no surprise that Varric noticed how obviously un-Dalish she is in pretty much everything, starting from her speech and down to her wardrobe choices. No doubt Solas and Cass have also made mental notes.

But all this really means is that she needs to prepare a story, and follow the same guideline that parents do when telling their kids of what happens when mommy and daddy love each other very much – answer the questions they explicitly ask, and say only as much as is necessary.

Solas the Humble Apostate never revealed what village he’s from; no one knows what Varric’s life was like before he came to the surface; Cassandra is all business. Why should she be any different?

She loses track of time, sunk in by her reverie and the meditative flow of the mushroom hunt. Before long one satchel is full, the other very nearly so and it’s time to go back, but she can’t bring herself to turn around yet. She misses being by herself engaged in some rote activity, unfettered by pivotal obligations.

Spotting a nice fallen log, she’s about to steal another ten minutes to sit down and sort her haul when she hears hoofbeats getting near. She hastily follows the sound and almost dives head first into a winding pathway, but manages to catch herself and hide behind a tree before the riders come over the crook. They flicker in and out of the view through the foliage, but there’s definitely two men, they seem human and one of them talks. A lot.

“Backwards… coniferous hellscape…” The closer they get the more she hears, and the corners of her mouth start their inevitable ascend. “Caked in mud… freezing… arse hair… smells like… barbaric cretins, if you ask me.”

By arse hair she’s grinning like a teenage girl about to see her boyband heartthrob come up on stage. Utterly unable to contain her excitement, she dashes from her hiding place and into the pathway just behind two riders, the Tevene with, one must assume, his faithful Sancho Pansa , whatever the man's real name is.

“Hey!” she yells. “Dorian!”

The talking stops as the human men hold their horses and turn to face the crazy elf lady with two bags of mushrooms. Dorian is even more dashing than she’d pictured; tall, dark, handsome, polished and snatched from his purple goatskin boots to the upturned tips of his moustaches. She’s so happy to see him she could scream.

And just in the nick of time.

“Do we know each other?” he inquires, intrigued, unlike his servant who looks ready to soil his breeches. Did they encounter many bandits on the way here? They look no worse for wear, but maybe Dorian always rolls a twenty on grooming.

“Well, you see, I am…” she says, or rather attempts to, because the absurdity of everything that’s happened, is happening and is about to happen hits her all at once, and she starts to giggle uncontrollably. “I am… the Herald… I’m sorry, give me a second,” she pants.

“By all means, take your time,” he allows graciously.

She takes a calming breath and finally says, still smiling, “I am the Herald of Andraste.” She raises her left hand, pushing a smidge of magic into it. “You are Dorian of House Pavus. You have no idea how long I’ve waited to see you, you magnificent bastard.”

Sancho’s eye take over half his face, and Dorian looks at the glowing mark with a strong blend of wariness and fascination.

“Have you now?” he wonders. “Does my reputation precedes me so? It usually does, but perhaps not in this instance. You see, I have not yet informed the Inquisition of my arrival, so I’m sure you can understand why I may find your declaration suspicious.”

“Oh, but you see , I didn’t need to be informed,” she tells him. “I already knew you were coming to Redcliffe. If you dismount and talk to me with your…” Slave? Servant? “… employee out of earshot, I will tell you exactly how I know you and where we can tell Alexius to shove it.”

He leans back a bit at the mention of his mentor, expression more serious and thoughtful. After some fidgeting and hesitation he says a few words to the man beside him, who proceeds to get a crossbow from the side of his saddle.

While he arms it, not pointing it at her, but also not not pointing it at her, Dorian comes closer to stand in such a way that gives Sancho an unobstructed view of the crazy elf lady with a glowing hand.

Well.

It’s good he’s careful.

“I’m listening,” Dorian says.

“What I’m about to tell you will sound strange, but listen to the end before you dismiss it. I have proof.”

He narrows his eyes but says nothing.

“I’m not from Thedas. Not anywhere near it. I come from a completely different place that connects to Thedas through the Fade. This body,” she gestures to herself, “is not my body. I was plunged into it by the Breach. But this isn’t the crazy part.”

“I shudder to imagine.”

“The crazy part is that these events – from the Breach and beyond, are known to me through a work of… let’s say interactive storytelling. This is how I know of you, Alexius, the Venatori, and a number of other things. But even more importantly, in my version of the story you and I become friends.” She smiles a bit sheepishly. “Hopefully, it might happen again. Unlike, say, Alexius sending us a year into the future.”

Dorian’s eyes widen and he’s probably about to say how his mentor’s time travel research is pure theory.

“Yeah, ever since the Breach it’s Fade extravaganza over here,” she explains, preempting his objections. “His experimental time magic is no longer experimental.”

He still doesn’t seem convinced.

“You mentioned proof,” the mage reminds her. “Something you know about me that only a friend would, I presume?”

“Right, let me think,” she says, running through all the dialogue and party banter of his in her head. “You are estranged from your father because… No, wait. The whole of Minrathous probably knows that.”

Dorian nods.

“Hmm. You were supposed to marry a woman named Livia?” she offers.

“Same,” he dismisses with an air of theatrical boredom.

“You’ve never spoken to an elf that isn’t a slave.”

He shakes his head.

“Until now I haven’t. But that could be said about most of my countrymen.”

She belatedly and somewhat embarrassingly realises that game friendships are, well, not quite the genuine article. If one of her actual friends – the same ones she’ll likely never see again – was standing in Dorian’s place, she could rattle secrets like an assault rifle spits bullets. With a sigh she promises herself to make this relationship as real as possible if she gets the chance.

Resolved, she tries again.

“You’ve camped for two weeks by yourself after arriving here,” she recites, ticking attempts off with her fingers. “When did you find that anxious fellow, by the way? Ah, no matter. You wanted a wooden duckie when you were a kid. You fancy Fereldan beer. You greatest fe–”

“Kaffas!” Dorian exclaims with a start. “So it’s true?”

“Really?” she asks in disbelief. “The beer did it?”

“ No one knows this,” he tells her, as serious as someone this flamboyant can be.

She gives him her most trustworthy smile.

“Except me. Bestie.” 

“Herald! Are you finished… relieving yourself?” Cassandra’s voice echoes through the grove, hardly audible, but still too close.

“Shit!” she exclaims, somewhat appropriately. 

“Your charming companions?” Dorian wonders, arching one immaculate brow.

If she takes a Tevene mage, a Magister’s son, to the Crossroads and just lets things play out, it would look extremely suspicious, and not just to the Seeker of Truth currently looking for her crouched in the bushes somewhere. There’s an elvhen trickster god to contend with. And it’s not like Varric is a simpleton either.

God, she needs to get some dummies into the Inquisition pronto.

Well. Let’s hope Dorian has a good memory.

“They can’t see us together!” she whisper-yells to the mage. “You need to stumble upon us yourself.”

“Wh–”

“No time for whys. Listen to me. Here’s what you need to know.”

≈

Cassandra is still pissed at her unscheduled detour half an hour later, so there’s a lot of pressure riding on that nug and mushroom julienne she’s whipping up. They get the flour, eggs, cream and butter from a farm nearby; one of the scouts finds cheese and bread at her request, somewhere; the village has the rest.

It starts off as a dull affair, cleaning mushrooms, cutting up meat and all that, but before long all her companions are gathered to observe the historic event of new food being born, and even volunteer to help.

Cass is on chopping duty, obviously; Varric stirs the sauce; Solas being Solas observes and makes comments, although he does promise to bake the cheese into everyone’s bowls with magic later, which is fair enough.

“What is this called again?” Cassandra asks.

“Julienne.”

“Is it Orlesian?”

“If it isn’t, it should be,” she reasons.

“How did you learn this sort of cooking?”

“Oh, I have a theory about that,” Varric interjects.

“Did I ask you, dwarf?” Cassandra retorts, trying not to cry from all the onions she’s cutting.

“You, Birdie, were born by an elven mother who worked as a cook for a wealthy household in Halamshiral,” Varric continues, unimpeded, talking with his one free hand. “The family was kind to you, and you even became friends with their children, who taught you to read and write in Common.”

“And I must have taught them to climb trees and scale the neighbour’s walls to spy on what the adults were doing,” she muses.

“Exactly.”

Well, that certainly sounds more exciting than, I learned to cook from the internet .

Out loud she wonders, “How did I end up with the Dalish if things were as peachy as that?”

“Version number one,” Varric says without skipping a beat. “You had a forbidden affair with the family’s youngest son, and were scheduled for execution, but your mother begged for your life, so you were banished from the city and joined clan Lavellan that was wandering through the Dales at the time.”

She quite likes that, she must admit. Dramatic, tragic, plausible. But leave it to Cassandra to get invested in a love story.

“Wouldn’t he be looking for her, then?” she asks Varric, her previous disposition completely abandoned. “And would her mother not write to her, now that she lives in Haven?”

“Perhaps,” Varric concedes. “Is anyone looking for you, Birdie?”

“What’s version number two?” she asks in a doomed attempt to change the subject.

In spite of herself she steals a glance at Solas, who seems very interested in a scout brushing down his horse just outside their window.

“No way,” Varric says, smiling. “I have you trapped here between the three of us and this julienne of yours. You have to give us something.”

She signs. “No one is looking for me, as far as I know.”

“But you were raised among humans, correct?” Cassandra asks. “I have not knows many elves, but none of them, Dalish or city, were as easy with us as you seem to be.”

Alright, she decides, time to feed the beast.

“I was raised among humans, who never treated me as inferior by the way. I had many friends, and my circumstances were mostly… comfortable.”

“Hah, knew it!” Varric declares.

“Honestly, I don’t know why you all expect me to be forthcoming about my past all of a sudden,” she wonders. “None of you are.”

“Fair enough,” Solas abruptly cuts in, “although you, ostensibly, are the hope of all Thedas. I should think your history has a bit more bearing on all our futures.”

Oh, you’re one to talk.

Before she can come up with an appropriate response, Cass takes over again.

“For instance, if you were not long with the Dalish, why send you to the Conclave?”

“You’d fare better asking Keeper Deshanna,” she reasons. “But if I had to guess, I’d say that it’s easier to blend in with humans if the word shem is largely absent from one’s vernacular.”

Being busy with cooking actually helps her keep a straight face. 

She shouldn’t have let them gang up on her like this.

“You know, I never cared for that word,” Varric muses, and she nods in agreement. “How long were you with the Dalish?”

“Long enough,” she replies, guardedly.

“How did you find it?” Solas wonders, looking at anything but her.

She has to think on it for a moment.

Do it like he does. 

“It’s a different sort of life,” she finally admits. “But I respect what they are trying to do.”

“And what is that?” he asks, turning to face her.

 Her brows furrow involuntarily.

“Preserve what remains of elven culture.”

“What precious little remains would be a better way of putting it,” he declares. “I am surprised they let you join them at all, given your entrenched regard for humans.”

“That’s uncalled for,” she snaps, cooking abandoned. “I am not blind to human depravity.”

“Do you begrudge them enslaving your people? Keeping them in walled cages? Occupying your land?” Solas demands curtly, and she meets his cutting gaze straight on.

Your people.

Careful, wolf , she thinks, your mask is slipping.

His questions are clearly not earnest. This whole exchange is bullshit.

He is baiting her, that smug asshole.

“Do you?” she retorts.

“I do not recall holding a lease to the Dales with my name on it,” Solas muses.

“Nor I. And who’s them , might I ask?” she inquires. “Orlais? Tevinter? Who am I supposed to hate on this fine day?”

“I suppose I am accustomed to the Dalish being a certain way about things.”

“Except she’s not really Dalish,” Varric corrects.

“That’s not the point,” she says, riled up.

“What is the point, Herald? Enlighten us,” Solas says, wearing his best haughty expression. Which means he’s either pissed, or hurt, or both.

She’d about to accuse him of being just as biased and narrow-minded as the Dalish he so enjoys mocking. Almost takes the bait.

There are endless ways to say someone isn’t worth listening to. 

Over time, it grinds away at you.

That’s why he’s provoking her. He’d rather prove his worst suspicions right and rest easy, knowing the world makes sense, rather than face the uncertainty of alternatives. That is… strangely relatable.

“If your encounters with the Dalish went poorly, I am sorry and I hope you can give th…” she pauses and amends, “give us another chance. But I’ve seen enough to know that what humans have done is about power, and not their inherent nature.”

For a moment everyone is silent, save for Varric still stirring the sauce, which begins boiling. She signals him to stop and take it off the fire.

“You have seen much of our ancient history in the Fade,” she says, mixing the ingredients. “The history that you begrudge the Dalish forgetting. Tell me, were the ancient elves pacifists or conquerors?”

Solas’ posture loosens a bit, but his gaze stays reserved.

“Why give an answer if you have already drawn your conclusion, Herald?”

“But is it the right conclusion?” she asks with a conciliatory smile.

“It is,” he admits after a beat, tension subsiding even more. 

“There will always be terrible people,” she concludes with a light shrug. “Hating them will just make more of the same.”

“Do you credit that belief to your upbringing as well?”

He just won’t let that one go, will he.

“I was lucky in many ways,” she simply replies.

“Do you know where your mother is now?” Varric suddenly asks. “Is she alive?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

“Sorry, Birdie.”

“Look, I get the curiosity,” she says, looking to lay the subject of her past to rest. The meal is almost ready, the day is just beginning, and she’s already exhausted. “Truth is, my life before the Breach was… Put it this way.” She looks at Varric. “You’d have to invent more than a torrid romance to make it a compelling read. It was a good life, but mostly…” she waves the spoon in the air, looking for a word, “inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.”

She starts filling the bowls their people left at the kitchen station. They’d have to go outside or find a tavern to eat; the house can’t possibly seat them all.

“My life has never been harder, but it has also never mattered more,” she tells them. “I’d much rather focus on that. And the future we can build together.”

“Well said,” Cassandra declares, getting up. “I will help our people pack up. Call me when the food is ready. We move to Haven after breakfast.”

Varric leaves as well, but Solas stays and keeps looking at her, though the smell of cooking does steal his attention a little bit. Wordlessly she hands him a knife and a block of cheese. He complies, mimicking her attempts to grate cheese with no grater.

After a while she has to admit that millennia of practice made him much better at dishing out silent treatment than she is.

“You are easy to disappoint, aren’t you,” she says.

That earns her a chuckle.

“I suppose I am.”

“Having high standards is…good, I guess,” she offers.

“I am glad you approve,” he responds, tone coloured in light humour. “You have not disappointed me, Herald, if that is what you are implying. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“Oh?”

“You remind me of myself in certain ways. That is perhaps why I like to challenge you.”

“We are not alike!” she declares with a laugh.

“You are deeply private, as am I,” Solas muses. “Careful with what you reveal, and what you do not. You love knowledge, abhor bigotry and needless violence. You have a, what did you call it, an obsessive niche hobby?”

“Alright, alright, enough. Sweet talker.” If she has to use someone else’s line, let it be that one. “So what you’re saying is, you’re no harsher to me than you are to yourself?”

Solas gives her a strange look, like she said something simultaneously painful and wonderful.

“That is an astute observation.”

“Fine, we can be friends again,” she consents. “So long as you don’t ruin my julienne with you Fade cooking magic.”

“I will do my sincere best.”

His best turns out to be predictably amazing. Watching with satisfaction how ravenously the Inquisition members devour their food, she makes a mental note to learn the spell later. That cheese crust is picture perfect.

“It’s so…” Cassandra says, barely pausing between spoonfuls. “I don’t even know what to call it.”

“It’s really good,” scout Ritts says, and everyone nods enthusiastically, gathered in a makeshift seating arrangement outside amidst their horses, backpacks and folded tents.

“You like this?” she says. “Just you wait till we get to Val Royeaux and I buy some proper ingredients. I’m gonna make your heads spin.”

“I am just in time for breakfast. How delightful!”

She practically dives into her bowl to hide a wayward smile.

Of course.

Dorian has to make an entrance.

≈

Their departure is predictably delayed. It is not every day that a dashing Mortalitasi noble from Tevinter saunters in and offers to solve all your problems in style.

If Cassandra’s gaze gets any sharper, she worries Dorian might get spontaneously beheaded. But the Seeker listens, as does everyone else, while the mage lays out a creative retelling of her frantic instructions.

“This all sounds like pure conjecture!” Cassandra finally declares. “Time magic? Ludicrous. I thought Tevenes were better liars than that.”

“Oh, I assure you, we are,” he says confidently. “I would not make up something as extravagant as this, but life, it appears, has more imagination than us.”

“But you’re sure this Alexius is already allied with the rebel mages?” Varric asks.

“I know he plans to use time magic to get to them before the Inquisition, and that he left Minrathous before I did. Two plus two,” Dorian explains. “Originally he wished to get to the Conclave pre-Breach, as it were, to prevent your illustrious Herald from getting that glowing plot twist in the first place, but–”

“But it’s a no-go, because the Breach is what makes his magic possible,” she finishes, arms folded on her chest, going for tense and appropriately alarmed .

“Precisely,” Dorian confirms, apparently pleased at speaking to people with their basic logical faculties intact.

Solas stays strangely quiet for the conversation, she notes. Does he suspect something? Or is he simply having a nerdgasm at the sheer concept of functional time magic? Who can say, really.

“So what is it exactly that you propose?” Cassandra wonders. 

“I thought you’d never ask,” Dorian announces theatrically. “Simple. We sneak up on Alexius, hit him over the head, steal that time amulet I spoke of, and while the Magister’s resting you make a deal of your own with the mages. Then we go back to Haven with Alexius in chains, I get drunk, you,” he points at her, “close the Breach and everybody launches into a brilliant time-travelling-disaster-averted victory dance.”

Everyone seems a bit shell shocked by Dorian’s performance. Which was precisely the point, she supposes.

“I like the dancing bit,” she muses. “There’s not enough dancing in the Inquisition.”

“Which is why it was included, Herald,” Dorian says with a serious nod. “I care.”

Cassandra shakes her head for what feels like a hundredth time.

“It could easily be a trap.”

Dorian shrugs, unfazed by the accusation. “Then it is a very silly one, since I come here bearing valuable intelligence, by my lonesome and completely at your mercy. I am that much of an altruist, you see,” he laments. “My father would be very disappointed. Again.”

“Alexius has a retinue, right? Those Venatori,” she wonders. “Are they stationed in his bedroom as well?”

“I do not suppose so,” Dorian muses, “although us Tevenes are known for our secret vices, so I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Venatory or no, his chambers would likely be warded,” Cassandra says dryly. Is she actually considering this?

“I am afraid in order to gauge his defences precisely we would need to make contact with my inside man in Redcliffe,” Dorian informs them.

“Felix, right?” Varric says. “The son?”

“Indeed,” Dorian confirms. “Good lad. Doesn’t want the world to end, go figure.”

Cassandra levels another look of profound suspicion at the Tevene, then turns to her with an unspoken request, to which she nods.

“We need a moment to discuss this between ourselves,” she says.

Dorian lets out a gusty sigh.

“Of course. I’ll just wait here,” he says. “In the mud.”

The four of them gather in a circle a dozen steps away.

Let the debate commence.

“You have to admit,” she tells Cassandra, “if this is a trap, it’s a very weird one.”

“All this shit is weird,” Varric says, helpfully.

Cassandra levels his with an annoyed look.

“Perhaps he simply counts on us being bleeding heart simpletons who would not hurt him without provocation,” the Seeker reasons. “Then he lures us into Redcliffe with the mages already allied to his mentor, and they pounce on us before we can scream Tevinter .”

“We can always send scouts ahead, see what the place is up to,” Varric suggests.

“If Fiona and her people are there, and Alexius hasn’t spoken to them, all the better,” she argues. “We talk to her, offer a good deal, get back to Heaven and close the damn Breach. Boom, done. But if he has conscripted them before we even arrive…”

“That would be very strange, certainly, but time magic? I’m sorry, that is just too preposterous to believe.”

“I would be inclined to agree, ” Solas muses, “but Mortalitasi is right about one thing. The Breach changed the rules.”

“It will warrant an investigation at the very least,” she adds.

Cassandra seems to waver a tiny bit.

“I still think we need to get to Val Royeaux before making any alliances,” the Seeker tells them. “Remember what Josephine said? Without the Chantry’s support we are effectively heretics in Thedas. Upstarts.”

“Not to the people here, or that man in the burning village,” Solas points out, likely to everyone’s surprise. “Nor to all those who stopped and gave us thanks for closing rifts or taking care of bandits ravaging their farms.”

“The mages do not know that,” Cassandra counters.

“Perhaps, but they do know the Herald stopped the Breach from growing without an ounce of support from the clerics,” Solas reminds her. “Your church is headless and in disarray, Seeker, which is precisely why you restored the Inquisition in the first place. As it stands, The Chantry might not hold as much sway, or be as amenable to the Herald as mother Giselle believes.”

His face looks calm, but a glint in his eyes confirms her earlier suspicion. Solas is positively bursting at the seams at the prospect of studying time magic.

Cassandra frowns, considering his words, so she presses their collective advantage.

“I know you want the Chantry’s support, for all sorts of reasons; I get it, I respect it. But consider this as well. How much stronger our position at Val Royeaux will be if we rid the world of this threat?”

“Or they might decide that without the Breach they don’t need us anymore,” Cassandra objects, but her resolve is clearly cracking under the weight of their reasoning.

Just one extra push.

“A week to Haven, another to regroup, two more to get to the capital,” she lists. “And Redcliffe is… Varric?”

“Two days,” the dwarf replies. “One, if we go without rest.”

Nothing quite beats the promise of quick gratification.

“Ugh, fine,” Cassandra says, throwing her hands in the air. “The three of you are thick as thieves, and way too eager to trust this Dorian person.”

“Did someone say my name?” Dorian wonders, his head sticking out from behind a row of Inquisition scouts like whac-a-mole. “Wait, don’t tell me.” He raises his arms, wrists pressing together. “Put him in chains?”

≈

Things don’t go exactly as planned. Because of course they don’t.

When Leliana’s people report from Redcliffe that Alexius is in fact in town with a company of mages and warriors, a heated discussion ensues. She is absolutely adamant that neither she, nor any of their people should face the Magister while the amulet is on his person. The amulet which, according to a note passed on from Felix to Dorian, is usually kept inside a magical safe in Alexius’ chambers, also known as the Chantry’s attic.

All this leads to a plan not unlike the one proposed by Dorian – courtesy of their meeting in the woods – with one exception: they steal the amulet first, along with any valuable documents, and help Alexius take a nap afterwards. 

At first things go swimmingly. Varric and Cassandra create a diversion, while she puts her otherwise useless climbing skills to task, gets up on the roof of the Chantry – she does have experience, after all – and throws a rope for the wardbreaking, safecracking dream team consisting of Solas and Dorian.

As she leans over the last ledge and steps onto a sloped roof, illuminated only by the moon and a wisp of magical light Solas conjured for her, her heart is pounding, and not just from fear. This all has a very Mission Impossible: Now in Thedas vibe to it, and she feels like a queen of thieves moving up the roof to a dark double window.

Carefully probing it open, she uses a divider to secure the rope she’s tied to at Cassandra’s insistence. She then takes another one out of her pack, adds it to the first with a well practised knot and throws the end of it over the ledge. The length should be just enough to reach the ground.

The rope almost immediately tightens under the weight of whomever the first climber turns out to be. So far so good , she thinks, and per Murphy's law that is when shit goes sideways.

Light flickers outside the chamber door, and with a hiss she waves off the light wisp and crouches under the windowsill, thanking all the spirit that Cassandra talked her into strapping in.

“This has to be the Inquisition’s doing,” the Magister’s somewhat familiar voice declares, as two sets of feet stomp into the room. “Find those two, whoever they are, and bring them to me.” There’s a rustle of paper. “And send a raven with this to the Magisterium.”

“Yes, Magister,” a male voice replies, and the supposed Venatory tap-tap-taps out of the chamber.

So Varric and Cass are okay. Good.

As she makes a mental note to intercept that letter if they get the chance, magic suddenly cracks near the window. Anxiously she sneaks a peek inside just in time to see Alexius open an ornate metal box and take out the amulet that immediately starts glowing no so much in his hand, rather than floating over it.

There’s no time to think.

One. She casts a barrier, and the mark flares up when she draws on the Fade to imbue her magic with raw power like never before.

Two. She swings into the window, one hand gripping the frame for leverage while the other snatches the amulet right from under the stunned Magister’s nose.

Three. The wards go off.

If someone were to ask What does it feel like when a grenade blows in your face? she’d reply, Oh, it’s like that one time when I set off a security curse.

She is blasted backwards, in an instant almost blind and completely deaf, and her makeshift harness catches her so violently she thinks her hip bones may have shattered. The curse sizzles and crawls all over her exposed face, neck and hands persistently, like acid. It tries to burn through her barrier, and even though the latter still holds, the sheer force of magical friction heats up her skin and boils start to form everywhere it seeps through.

Alexius pops out of the window. She can’t hear him scream an incantation, but watches in slow motion as a ball of fire forms in his hands.

Her gaze darts to the rope still tethering her to the window, black and ragged by the curse.

With her one free hand she grabs a knife, the same one she used to cut mushrooms what feels like ages ago, and slashes the rope.

A second – she drops off the ledge.

Another – and a strong hand grabs her.

She clings to it – to him, to Solas – who by some miracle gets a hold of her vest as she falls. The rest is a dizzying blur. While Dorian battles Alexius on the roof Solas slides down with her, no doubt burning his hands, gently lays her on the cold damp ground and starts casting one healing spell after another. 

She feels delirious from pain, one hand still grasping the fabric of Solas’ tunic, afraid to let go, while his fingers flutter across her blistered skin, soothing and cool. He whispers something, closing his eyes as he traces the edges of her ears, and just like that she can hear again.

The sounds of fighting near and inside the Chantry start to die down. Before long, Cassandra and Varric are back to help Dorian drag a pale and unconscious Alexius outside and into the Inquisition agents’ hands.

Solas gets up from his kneeling position and offers her a hand, which she promptly accepts.

“Thank you,” she says as her vision clears and legs stop wobbling. He takes his hand away. “Solas, I–”

She doesn’t get to finish that sentence.

“What were you thinking?!” he growls. “You… you are fearless, Herald, and not in a good way. Do you realise how close to dying you were just now? Do you comprehend what would happen if you did?”

She’s never seen him so furious, not in this world at least; hands balled into fists, knuckles white, eyes almost crackling with lightning.

She opens her mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

What was she thinking?

The simple answer, she supposes, is she wasn’t . A sneaking suspicion enters her addled brain that maybe somewhere deep down in her subconsciousness there is still a belief that this is just a game. That death is a drag and a reason to change tactics, or leave the area to level up, nothing more.

Solas grabs her marked hand so hard it’s almost bruising and holds it between them.

“We lose this, we lose everything,” he says, no longer yelling, but still brimming with tension. “You did not even know what those wards were. But I do. I can feel the remnants of his spell from here. You should have perished setting it off.”

“I powered my barrier through the mark,” she explains, voice shaking. She cannot cry in front of him again. No way. She drags her hand out of his; it is too painful, in more ways than one.

Solas shakes his head, running a hand down the side of his face.

“You are resourceful, da’len. You are brave and cunning,” Solas tells her, softer still. His eyes no longer look like a storm about to engulf her. Rather, they remind her of a northern byronic sea, its waves crashing over and over against a lonely mountainside.

“But?” she asks in a tentative whisper. 

“But you are still a fledgling mage,” he tells her, “and you confronted a Magister of the Imperium. I cannot begin to describe how foolish that was.”

Yes. She was very foolish. But she manages not to cry. Hurrah.

“You’re right,” she says, nodding, and repeats after a beat, just like he did in that dream of hers, “You’re right, Solas. Completely. It was foolish and irresponsible. I will be more careful from now on.”

His brows knit in response.

“I will, on my word,” she vows.

He expels a long deep sigh.

“I suppose that is all I can ask for.”

No one from the Inquisition sleeps for the rest of that night.

She gives the amulet to Dorian with a promise to let Solas study it later as well. He doesn’t tell Cassandra about her near-death blunder, to her mild surprise, and the Seeker accepts that the state of her clothes is due to some pesky spell that was more annoying than dangerous.

As things settle down, the villagers roused from sleep are pacified and a raven is sent to Arl Teagan with an invitation to reclaim his seat, it is nearly dawn.

She has just enough time to clean up and change before Cassandra informs her that Fiona sent word. They are to meet at the inn; just the leaders of both groups. The rest are stationed outside wherever there is room.

Before they enter the building Varric hands her a scroll.

“We took his things,” he explains. “And whatever his Venatory had on them. Riveting stuff.”

The scroll, he realises, is the one Alexius addressed to the Magisterium; it details his arrangement with Fiona. The unabridged version.

“Bless you and your quick hands, Varric Tethras,” she says with a smile of gratitude.

“I live to serve the Inquisition, and so on and so forth,” he declares with a bow, and they all go inside.

Fiona looks quite elfy , as Sera would probably put it, all sharp angles, doe eyes and an air of otherness. She is accompanied by two human associates, and they all look incredibly ill at ease.

“I was looking forward to meeting you face to face, Herald,” Fiona says by way of greeting. “I even considered an alliance between our two groups.”

She nods to all gathered and decides to skip the small talk. She’s had quite enough of the Hinterlands to last a lifetime, thank you very much.

“Shame you thought that conscripting your people into ten years of servitude in the Tevene army was preferable to joining the Inquisition.”

“You should employ better spies,” Fiona says mockingly. “Our deal with Tevinter has better terms than that. We will become valued citizens.” 

Without a word she hands Fiona the scroll, which the former First Enchantress grudgingly accepts and skims first, then reads more carefully.

“This could be a forgery,” she declares, handing the letter back.

“Be that as it may, your deal with the Magisterium is off,” she states as a matter of fact. “A Tevene official had no right to turn free people of Ferelden and Orlais into virtual slaves of the Imperium. Certainly not while on foreign soil. Even if the leader of said people is desperate enough to allow it.”

Fiona looks back at her companions, who all appear anxious at where this conversation might end, and where it will leave them.

“Where is Magister Alexius?”

“Outside with our agents,” Cassandra replies. “In chains.”

After a sharp intake of breath, Fiona swallows and asks her, “What do you want?”

“A partner.”

“What?”

“I want mages to be part of the solution again, Fiona,” she says. “Don’t you?”

Boom.

She’s not ashamed to admit, she came up with that line in advance.

While the former First Enchantress ponders her words, Cassandra leans over and whispers, “Herald, are you sure? They are dangerous, and have nowhere else to turn.”

She nods, understanding the Seeker’s implication.

“I don’t need prisoners or wards, Cassandra,” she says loud enough for the mages to hear. “If that’s what they are, then we are responsible for each of them, indefinitely.” She tilts her head, eyeing Fiona. “Is that what you want? To be treated like children playing with knives?”

“Of course not.”

She holds out her hand.

“Help us close the Breach, and I will make sure all of Thedas knows that you did so.”

≈

It’s a bit funny and a bit sad how ill-equipped the mages turn out to be for a long journey on foot. Having spent most of their lives in Circles, their meals prepared, their clothes given to them, venturing outside only occasionally, they look spooked like house cats who accidentally got out of the house only to find themselves completely lost and besieged by the unfamiliar.

It is much the same in Haven, and she bears witness to a conversation between an entitled – but really just scared shitless – mage and a told-you-so Cassandra, which plays out exactly as she expects.

Deal. With. It.

God, what a perfect line for Cass.

Preparations for the summit to what remains of the Temple of Sacred Ashes take over the village for the next few weeks. Mages have to get settled, centre themselves, get acquainted with her and the magic in her hand. Cullen’s people do their best to keep a watchful eye on the newcomers.

There is a strange sort of comfort in how busy everyone is. Perhaps it’s the anticipation in seeing the Breached closed; people need a win, and are willing to work harder than ever to get there.

Her own routine gets back on track with an addition of weapons training, which is actually quite fun, if a bit taxing.

Lesson with Solas resume as before. Sometimes she catches him looking at her with a newfound… something. Warmth, perhaps? But it would be too easy to mistake nothing for something – or something for something else – with this man, so she tries not to. He does seem a bit more cordial on the outside, at least, so she returns that, as is appropriate. 

Courtesy for courtesy.

Nothing more.

Besides, now that Dorian is here there is another magical exercise to look forward to. One she'd wanted to perform before ever setting foot in Thedas. 

≈

“Ambassador, before we leave for the Hinterlands I have a favour to ask.”

“Of course, Herald,” Josephine chirps, raising her perfectly styled head from her tablet. “How may I help?”

Cassandra, Varric and Solas should be waiting for her at the gates, and she needs to do this quickly, but not at the expense of secrecy. She beckons the gold-clad woman to come into the office and closes the door behind them.

No one can hear this. Especially not those ubiquitous elven servants.

“There is an item I wish to procure called an Amulet of the Unbound,” she says. “As the name suggests, it is used to protect spirits from binding. It is rare, but less so in Rivain with its seers. I think they might be persuaded into parting with one.”

Josephine’s brows rise at the eccentric request, but ever the diplomat she quickly retreats back into a vision of polite interest.

“How do you intend to use it, if I may ask?”

She recites her answer easily.

“There is a spirit I wish to learn from, and I’d like to offer it this amulet in exchange. Bindings are easier now thanks to the Breach, and with many desperate mages on the loose I’d hate for such a marvellous creature to be lost due to someone’s careless meddling.”

Wow, almost all of that is true, she thinks, mentally patting herself on the back.

“This sounds…” Josephine hesitates. “How did you come to meet this spirit?”

I haven’t yet.

“I am a Dreamer, like Solas,” she replies.

“Oh, well, that explains it,” the Ambassador says. “I shall make the necessary inquiries.”

“I would be grateful if we could keep this between us,” she adds. “And if there are no records of the amulet in our archives.”

That gives Josephine another pause, but she does her best to soothe any concerns.

“My opinion of Sister Leliana and her people could not be higher, but if someone in the Chantry somehow finds out that the Herald on Andraste befriends ‘demons’ and tries to protect them…”

“Of course! I did not consider that,” Josephine admits with a laugh. “This will be done with utmost discretion.”

“Thank you, Ambassador, truly.”

“You may call me Josephine, you know.”

Well, isn’t she just lovely.

“Josephine.”

≈

It takes some doing to drag Dorian for a walk around Haven.

“What am I doing here again?”

“We are connecting to nature, Dorian,” she replies. “Just look at all those… trees.”

“Ah-huh. Could we perhaps connect to it by way of a botanical album while sipping wine?” he proposes. “ Inside .”

“You’re also going to summon a spirit for me,” she declares. “I would rather spare the good people of Haven yet another frightening magical display.”

Now he looks intrigued.

“Should I feed you grapes and rub your feet while I’m at it?” Dorian muses with a smirk.

“I wouldn’t say no to grapes. Actually, you know what? I wouldn’t say no to either of those. In that precise order, mind you.”

“Hilarious,” he teases. “But really, why go to such trouble? Just find it in the Fade. You are a member of the exclusive Somniari club, after all. I do envy that terribly, by the way.

“And I am immensely flattered by your envy,” she says with a playful bow.

She produces an amulet out of her pocket. It’s a thin chain with a pendant, an elongated pearl with one of its tips encased in bronze. The pearl is rather large and gorgeous, in spite, or perhaps because of its imperfect shape. Looks almost like a tiny iridescent dagger.

The amulet is warm to the touch, and produces a slightly eerie, though not unpleasant feeling of being watched.

“I want to give it this.”

Dorian immediately reaches for the amulet and she hands it over.

“Is this what I think it is?” he wonders. “I’ve seen one on a Riviani seer that visited my father on business back in the day.”

They approach a small clearing in the woods that looks fit for purpose. She stops and looks around while Dorian examines the amulet.

“Can you put a cloaking ward around us?” she requests. 

Dorian snorts.

“Now that just borders on paranoid.”

“Please,” she asks seriously. “No one in Haven can know we did this.”

 “Well, since you asked so nicely…”

“It is a spirit of Wisdom that will be summoned by travelling mages at some point in the future,” she explains, while Dorian lays the wards in a circle around them. “I thought I’d provide a safeguard ahead of time.”

“Oh, another one of your premonitions,” he reasons. “I am still having trouble wrapping my mind around that.”

“You and me both.”

“May I observe your interaction?”

“Of course.”

The ritual looks quite involved. She takes a seat on a stub and watches how Dorian draws elaborate shapes with the tip of his staff on the ground that start glowing faintly with purple as he pushes his power into them. A substitute for proper summoning stones, he explains.

It takes about an hour, and Dorian never once complains about the cold. Goes to show that behind a pampered facade lies a consummate mind of a master magician.

“Come stand beside me and take my hand,” Dorian instructs once everything is ready.

She does. His hand is very warm, almost like he’s running a fever.

“Do you need my intention to summon the right spirit?” she wonders.

“Precisely. Now close your eyes and think of Wisdom. Do you know what it looks like?” She nods, eyes already closed. “Good. Picture it in your mind, imagine how it moves, what it sounds like, and what your goal is in summoning it.” 

A scene plays out in her mind.

All new, faded for her.

A feminine figure with eyes like emeralds illuminated from within.

I am me again.

Solas makes a subtle gesture with his hands.

Dareth shiral.

This cannot happen. It is Wisdom. It is rare and precious. And he loves it.

I want to save you.

Please, let me.

“En'an'sal'en,” a gentle voice says.

She opens her eyes, a smile already blossoming on her face.

Wisdom faces her and Dorian, who bows to the spirit and disengaged from her, taking two steps back.

The spirit nods to him in acknowledgement, apparently unbothered in the slightest by the summoning. Its eyes are radiant lanterns of green, not unlike the mark on her hand, as she only now realises. Black tendrils circle and dance around the upper half of Wisdom’s face.

In the game, she recalls, she felt it looked a bit threatening and odd on such a benevolent creature. Seeing things up close and in a way that no ultra high definition display can convey, Wisdom’s eyes crowned in living shadows make her think of misteries and secrets, puzzles hidden beneath the skin of all things.

“Blessings upon you, Wisdom,” she greets. “Forgive me, I do not know if you speak Common.”

The spirit nods, smiling back, friendly and inviting.

Duh.

“Hah… Of course,” she says, stammering slightly.

Why is it more unnerving to meet this spirit than even Solas?

“Is this for me?” Wisdom asks.

“Oh, yes, here.” She hands the amulet over. “Please accept this gift with my best wishes for your safety and well-being.”

The spirit takes it and puts it on right away. The pearl glows then, a pulse of magic that gives it a sheen it didn’t have before. It looks like it belongs there on Wisdom’s neck, like it’s always been there.

That, she supposes, is pretty much what she was going for.

“What would you like in return?” Wisdom asks.

“Nothing,” she replies. “Like I said, it’s a gift.”

“Generosity is a virtue,” the spirit tells her, offering its hands, palms up. An invitation. “I should like to be generous as well.”

She doesn’t need to be asked twice.

When she takes the spirit’s hands – they feel like touching an impossibly thick, cool, corporal cloud – a startled gasp escapes her.

All of a sudden she sees things. So many amazing, wonderful, and dreadful things.

She sees the age of Wisdom, an impossibly long age of this marvellous creature, like rings in a tree stump, concealed under the green and the black. In the back of her mind there’s whispers; petitioners, mages asking endless questions, looking to capture just a glimpse of what Wisdom is. They think it’s Certainty. It’s not. It is Truth.

Time is an illusion. Everything happened. Everything will happen.

It is happening right now.

Turning to look at Dorian, she notices every crease of his face, even the ones that aren’t there yet. This one is his father telling him to study harder. That one – his mother turning away when he cries. Loves lost and never found. A smile after Bull brushes his stupid massive hand over his hair for the first time. Ugh, you’ll ruin it. She smiles too, and then, as if a hundred years passed in a blink, the corners of her eyes sting. Dorian Pavus. He loved deeply, and was loved in return. Many, many people weep as the crypt doors are sealed shut.

This is all temporary. Dorian, she, Solas, elves and humans. This place. Every place. Every person. Even Wisdom, amulet or no, someday, inevitably will be gone too, and something else might emerge where it was, is, will be.

Everything changes.

It is natural. It is right. Beautiful even.

It shouldn’t feel sad to know this.

But sometimes it just is. So beautifully fucking sad.

“In much knowledge, much grief,” Wisdom says. “And you have both in abundance already. But a crucial piece is missing. One that may grant you solace, in the end. There is solace in truth.”

She stares at the spirit.

In much knowledge, much grief.

How. The Hell. Does Wisdom know words from the Bible? Or is it just one of those ideas that is so universal it finds its footing in any world, any time?

She swallows, tightening her hold on the spirit’s hands. 

“What crucial piece?” she asks, voice rough.

Wisdom shows her. Mist swirls around them, swallowing the forest clearing, and shapes begin to form, vague at first, but growing clearer, more solid.

She watches herself stumble, disoriented in the haze of Dreaming; not fully lucid; human as the day she was born. The Green calls to her. A voice somehow familiar. She wants it. It pulls, and she lets it. It feels dangerous, foreign. Wrong . But it is so different than anything else in her life, she can’t help but crave it. 

Yes.

Please.

Anywhere but here.

“It this true?” she sobs.

“It is,” Wisdom confirms. “I saw it happen.”

“What does this mean?”

“His power was drawn to you; and you were drawn to it in turn,” the spirit tells her. “You were pulled, yes, but you did not push back.”

Her eyes close as if her eyelashes are made of lead; blood turns into ice. She can barely breathe.

All this time, all this time she cursed Solas for dragging her here, perhaps unwittingly, but still. His orb, his impatience, his pride, his mistake! He did this to her!

Only not .

She was grieving that night, before the green dream. She went to bed crying, forlorn, lonely and lost. Confronted with the death of someone she loved for the first time. So painful, yet only a taste of what’s to come.

Friends move away or drift apart; mom is not getting younger. No love. No children. Someday she will lose everyone. She will be completely alone. Why? Why does it have to be like this?

She lay in bed, drifting off, thinking, wishing…

“I wanted an escape,” she whispers.

“And escape you did.”

“It was... I didn’t... It was just for a moment.”

“A moment is all it takes, sometimes.”

She lets go of Wisdom’s hands and the ethereal mist enveloping them dissipates in an instant, revealing the clearing, the trees and a very concerned Dorian.

A layer of wet snow covers her shoulders and head, and she can’t feel her toes anymore.

“I need to get back,” she pants. “People will grieve me . They’re all still out there. I can’t just… I have to–”

“People need you here, now,” Wisdom tells her in a tone that, while gentle, warrants no discussion. “The things you know, the power you took; it all needs to be put to purpose, given back, bit by bit. Such is the price of your escape.”

Nothing’s free.

Every decision costs something, and not just to us.

Sometimes the price is paid by others as well. 

Perhaps Solas was right , she thinks with a melancholy smile as a pair of teardrops gathers at the tip of her chin. Perhaps they are not that different after all.

“This game demands to be played to its finish,” Wisdom tells her and seems perfectly aware of the irony in that statement. “After, you can go. If you still want to.”

“But I can go?” she asks, and if she’s completely honest with herself, she isn’t sure which answer she'd rather hear.

“Of course, lethallan,” Wisdom replies, and her shoulders drop.

Solace in truth, you say?

"Oh."

“Do not fear, child. The Fade will wait for you.”

Chapter Text

What is the greatest benefit of leadership?

Delegating.

Vivian, Sera and Blackwall are recruited by Dorian, Varric and Cassandra respectively, each accompanied by a sizable company of soldiers, mages and scouts. And thanks to Krem’s timely visit, the Iron Bull and his Chargers clear the Storm Coast of its more mundane threats before she ever ventures there to pop out the rifts and politely inform the remaining demonic guests of the new ‘no free lunches’ policy.

Her magical repertoire expands, although – true to her earlier vow – it remains limited to defensive, nonlethal and ‘household’ spells. She doesn’t master any of them yet; most prove a far greater challenge to learn than the barrier has been, to Solas’ disappointment and her own relief.

If it’s hard, she reasons, that just means the spell is well and truly hers.

She does cut her hair with only a tiny pinch of shame, but the closer her inevitable confrontation with Corypheus looms, the less time or energy there is to spare on pointless self-flagellation. No amount of it would bring Lavellan back from the dead.

Besides, she spends a few hours each day near a textbook example of perpetual guilt and its pitfalls. Solas has a lot to teach, but that particular lesson she’d much rather ditch in favour of her weapons trainer kicking the living crap out of her, or something equally as diverting.

She finds herself knocking on Solas’ door after a vicious session. He opens it while she’s still knocking and stares at her face, where a bruise the size of an orange has started to darken already.

“You should see the other guy.”

The other guy is fine and has informed her that she is, in fact, “…pathetic. You completely lose your left when you riposte. Again!” but Solas doesn’t need to know that.

“How did that happen?”

He beckons her to come in.

“I’m learning to fight shielded opponents. The shield and I got well acquainted.”

She slumps into a chair she often sat in during their lessons.

His cabin is spartan; a narrow bed, two chairs and a small table. A wooden box doubles as a nightstand. On top, there’s a misshapen amalgamation of half-burnt candles, which Solas uses for ambience; the bottom hosts his current reading, three or four volumes at a time.

The only other item of note is a deceptively spacious apothecary chest of drawers full of herbs and other, more esoteric ingredients. It’s the colour of mahogany, gracefully aged, with tiny pebble-shaped asymmetric handles painted in deep auburn gold. The chests full of potions produce a lovely chiming harmony when opened. Very ASMR .

He sits opposite her, urges her to turn the bruised side of her face toward him and begins casting.

“Any other injuries?”

“Just bruises and scrapes.”

“Would you like me to heal them?”

“Thank you, it’s alright,” she replies. “Even this is more for the people’s benefit. Everyone’s on edge as it is. If I am to fix this mess, I can’t look a mess myself.”

He lowers his hands, traces of magic still glimmering on his fingers. She does a few exploratory dabs of her cheek and smiles at him. He inclined his head.

“Of course. Such posturing is necessary for one in your position. I am pleased you do not shun it.”

“That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? For them.”

“The reverse is also true,” Solas notes. “I observed your interactions with our recruits. Many now call you Herald, even those who initially took umbrage with how you hatched this alliance.”

Except Solas spends most of his time in or around his cottage or in the Chantry library. Which means he already has spies at Haven that report to him on what she does, who she talks to and the words they exchange.

“Partners,” she corrects out loud. “Josephine made every effort to help them feel safe here. She even made Cullen take his anti-Abomination patrols down a notch. That was no easy feat, believe me.”

“Our Ambassador is competent, to be sure. But you have their trust.”

“You told me it will help channel their magic properly. I made an effort. Besides, I have an unfair advantage here.”

Solas raises an eyebrow.

“Which is?”

“I had few interactions with any groups gathered here. Easy to withhold judgment when you don't have any,” she says. “I do not claim divinity. The rebels are better magicians, so I act like they can teach me things. People are drawn to that.” She takes a beat to smirk. “You should know.”

A spirit of profound indignation must be forming in the Fade somewhere, given the twist of his mouth.

“Excuse me?”

“You like it when people ask you things. To be the one in the know .”

“Why do you make the pursuit of eradicating ignorance sound like an exercise in egotism? Most people act with so little understanding of the world.”

“But not you.”

“I do not claim all the answers.”

“Just an awful lot of them.”

Impressive how Solas can roll his eyes with nothing but the tone of his voice.

“Why are you trying to aggravate me, lethallan?”

She shrugs.

“Maybe I like to challenge you too. Maybe I like the faces you make when I do.”

“Now you sound like Sera,” Solas says with a long-suffering sigh. “Not the wisest choice of a tutor.”

“Speaking of, I plan to study theoretical magic with Dorian wh…”

She almost says, When we get to Skyhold .

Careful.

“…when we close the Breach,” she finishes.

“You seem rather familiar with the Tevene, given how little you know each other.”

“The Tevene has a name, and I like him. You might reconsider your attitude if…”

“If?”

If what?

Is she actually about to encourage a friendship between Solas and the only person – scratch that, the only human person – in Thedas who knows who she is?

There’s no putting a lid on the font of spontaneous confessions that is Cole, but he’s not here yet. Besides, revealing her true identity at this stage will cause all sorts of trouble – something Compassion will likely understand on instinct – so she’s content to lay that potential ticking time bomb aside for now.

Which leaves Dorian, who is nothing but discreet.

Still, best if he and Solas interact as little as possible.

“Nothing. I was out of line.” She clears her throat and looks down. “You’re you, Solas, and I quite like that too.”

As soon as her mouth closes, she mentally kicks herself in the shins.

Why.

The fuck.

Did she say that?

He’s not jealous of Dorian, you dumbass.

He simply despises everything Tevinter.

“So, um, what are we studying today?” she asks hastily. “I think I still have a good hour in me.”

Mercifully, Solas completely ignores her admission. She might as well have commented on the weather.

“I thought we could take your learning to the Fade tonight. You are tired and should fall asleep easily,” he says. “There is no further academic knowledge on resisting possession I can impart. A practical exercise is the next logical step.”

It takes her a moment to fully grasp his meaning, and her eyes widen.

“You want to let a demon possess me?”

He chuckles.

“Not quite.” He doesn’t call her da’len , but it seems implied. “I want it to try and fail. Because you will stop it. And I shall be there the whole time to assist if need be.”

“If you think I’m ready…”

“I believe so.”

Then he stands up and points to the bed. His bed. The bed for one.

“Um, where will you sleep?”

“On the floor.”

“I can just go to my cottage, you know,” she suggests like it isn’t obvious.

In response, he picks up his bedroll from under the table, spreads it next to the bedframe and lies down, completely unbothered.

Well, if he insists.

She lies down as well. His bed smells of dust, herbs, and its owner. It is uncommonly warm.

“Did I wake you up by coming here?”

But that can’t be it. It would’ve cooled off already.

She hears, rather than sees, his smile, and it dawns on her.

A heating charm.

“Show off,” she says, and Solas responds with a huff. “Generally, falling asleep is easier in a cool environment.”

“I prefer this. Shall I cool it down for you?”

“No. It’s quite nice, actually.”

The heat soothes her aching muscles, and she barely notices falling asleep to the sound of their breathing.

When she wakes up again, Solas is already waiting for her by the door of his cottage, which looks far newer and richer than the real thing, with beautiful furniture that looks as if it grew into its final shape by itself, not a seam in sight. Soft white light streams through a small window, casting an eerie ambience over the room. It would make a nice place for a seance.

“Let us find you a demon,” Solas says, walking outside.

As they traverse the Dreaming version of Haven, they encounter many spectral shapes that, after a while, she identifies as the rebel mages, dreaming as well. Some notice them, and a few even wave in greeting, but none come up to talk.

“Which demon would you pick?” she asks Solas.

“Despair may be suitable. They are ubiquitous and most are relatively small, born of individual tragedies.”

The idea makes her uneasy.

“Resisting possession is harder when you’re prone to the emotion the demon represents, correct?”

He nods, looking at her expectantly, and she fidgets with the ties of her tunic.

“Maybe we should choose something else, then.”

She’s been depressed many times and barely crawled with her life out of the last one. That demon, no matter how small, would eat her alive.

Solas glances sideways at her with interest but doesn’t pry.

“Which emotion would you choose?”

She pauses, running a list in her head.

Fear? Solas called her fearless in Redcliffe, although, truth be told, she was just being reckless and dumb. Besides, a genuine Fear demon would likely be massive. What’s a fraction of fear?

“I’m not an anxious person. Generally.”

“I have not encountered an Anxiety demon in a long time,” Solas says. “It is too complex an emotion, and in this crude age its manifestations have been compressed to their most basic form. Doubt, perhaps?”

“Close enough,” she accepts with a shrug.

It takes some time to find what they need, but in the Fade time is relative, so it’s probably just her nerves being reflected back at her. Eventually though they spy a mage, human, male, staff in hand, who stands a bit too still, too stiff, with a faint gray something hugging him from behind.

Solas points to it, but the mists of Dreaming make it difficult to discern the demon’s shape. Assuming it has any. Maybe Doubt is supposed to be undecided on what to look like.

Solas leans closer. His breath tickles her ear.

“Doubt. It is addicted to questioning its victims, the world, itself. It makes people interrogate themselves on a loop. Eventually, they start to crave certainty at any cost, an escape from endless rumination and disquiet, and make errors in judgment. As soon as certainty is achieved, Doubt moves on to the next victim and new worries to chew over.”

Doubt spots them and leans away from the mage. A few soft wispy grey tendrils are reaching toward them, probing at them from a distance.

“What sort of spirit do you think it was?” Solas asks her, coming closer to the demon. She follows a bit behind.

“Curiosity?”

He nods.

Doubt is apparently unable to decide whether to abandon its victim and make an attempt at a larger prize or not. Solas steps away from her and tips the scales.

“A novice mage for you, Doubt! Although I am not certain you can even take her. Can you?”

Whatever Doubt has done to its former target makes the poor man slump forward with a pained, disoriented expression and moan. Neither Solas nor the demon pay him any mind, the latter fixing its attention on her.

It is a nebulous mass of grayish tendrils that constantly swirl, merge into one another, disconnect, then connect once more. Every few seconds or so a larger shape – its head, probably – emerges from the cloud of its form, sneaking a look around and pops back down into a nest of tendrils.

Doubt doesn’t glide to her in a soft curve like she expects it to. Its movements are disjointed, uncertain, zig-zaggy and lacking any sort of clear pattern.

It’s fast though, shockingly so.

It promptly nestles behind her, hugging her shoulders in an almost tender fashion. Like it cares. A soft warm tendril slides across her cheek, and if this was a person, she would consider the gesture prelude to a kiss.

“Does he trust you? Does he like you?” a whisper drifts through her mind, no different from when she asks herself these very questions. It feels natural to want to know such things. She’s not a machine, after all.

“Is it just the Anchor? Or something more?”

It could be both, she supposes, but quickly dismisses the thought. One has to be stronger, right? There might be reasons, but there’s always the reason.

“Come closer. Look at him.”

She looks. And why not? He’s here. There’s no harm in lo…

“No, look away! He might see.”

Fuck.  

Solas regards her, and she turns away. Isn’t he even a little bit worried?

“What if Cole tells him? Did he see the amulet on Wisdom? Does he know?”

Well, he definitely suspects something . And the more they talk, the more puzzle pieces he will put together. 

“You almost said Skyhold back there. Did he notice?”

A perfectly reasonable question.

“He doesn’t trust us. We hide things from him.”

We do , she agrees, we hide things .

But we have to. We have to. Otherwise…

“If we tell him, he might let us in,” a voice says. “Let us close. Very close.”

No, no, no, no .

We can’t…

She shuts her eyes and swallows, only now realizing what Doubt really does. It needn’t invent any worries. They are all there, in her head, rising to the surface like corpses in the Fallow Mire.

I am going to lose , she thinks, closing her eyes.

“Oh, it’s all right,” her alter ego assures her. “At least you’ll know.”

She hears Solas take two swift steps forward, and her eyes land on his face again.

Yes. He is definitely worried.

“What is it saying?”

“That you don’t trust me…”

“Do you believe it?”

Another step.

She vigorously shakes her head.

“I don’t want to.”

Another.

“Do you believe it?” he repeats.

Does she?

“I don’t know!”

Her knees start to shake, and a few tendrils around her torso climb up to circle her neck. It’s not painful or unpleasant in any way, which somehow unnerves her even more.

Solas is only arm-length away, hands balled into fists.

“Do you believe it?!”

“Maybe.”

Doubt sighs with delight.

“Why?”

“Because I keep secrets.”

Solas smiles softly.

“I like secrets.”

“Why do you…”

“Why do I what?”

Why does he spend time with her?

Why is she of interest?

Why is she special all of a sudden?

Doubt clings even tighter, quivering in anticipation. She’s almost there.

Say it.

Then you’ll know.

“Is it just…”

Her whole body is shaking with an impossible effort to keep the words in. It feels like trying not to vomit or to hold in a breath for much longer than is healthy or sane.

It’s torture; there’s just no other word for it.

She wants to know so, so badly.

Is it just because of the Anchor?

It’s on the tip of her tongue. A restless bird ready to take wing.

“Just…”

Are his eyes glowing, or is she delirious?

“Why… Why are you doing this?”

Solas tilts his head.

“You’re helping it!”

A shadowy hand gently caresses her cheek, and she winces.

 Solas takes his good sweet time pondering her accusation.

“Should I make it easy for you then?”

Insufferable ass.

The anger clears her head for a spell, and she immediately seizes the advantage. This might be her only chance.

“Ahhhh!”

She clutches with both hands at a gray mass of tentacles nested cosily around her shoulders, like the proverbial devil whispering temptations in her ear.

She said earlier that she’s here for them .

For the people of Haven. Of Thedas.

Was that posturing too? Is she really that selfless person? Or is she a mess after all? A lonely, desperate mess looking for someone to save her. Kiss her. Love her.

Perhaps. Perhaps she is that.

But that's not all she is.

People need you here, now.

Wisdom told her that. 

What would it say of her if she puts personal concerns over that sacred duty? No matter how clever and charming the concern is. No matter how much she wants to lean into his care and attention, Anchor or no.

But what if…

No. There is a purpose to the magic in her hand, and that purpose is not a man.

Especially not this one.

“Go away, sorry creature.” Her voice is loud and clear. Certain. “You’re of no use to me.”

Doubt shrieks and disengages, gagging and withering violently on the ground. For a moment, she sees a pair of eyes, questioning, searching.

Solas stands beside her and regards the creature of shadows, pathetic in its defeat.

“It suffers,” Solas says. “End it.”

She raises her daggers which appear out of nowhere in her hands, lays them crisscrossed against one another, one blade on each of Doubt’s shoulders – or whatever passes for them on that amorphous lump of shadows – and slices its top half clean off.

“Well done.”

The gray mass evaporates into nothing. No more questions for this one.

“It almost got me.”

Her breathing is heavy and ragged.

That was very, very close.

“But it did not.”

“You helped, in the end.”

Sort of. By pissing her off.

“Only a little,” Solas offers. “I can refrain next time.”

A sharp laugh escapes her.

“There will be no next time.”

She sinks her daggers into the ground and wakes.

Sitting up, she straightens her clothes and reflexively pats her shoulders. There’s nothing there, just a tunic damp with sweat.

“I am sorry, that was rude of me,” she says, not looking at Solas, who sits on the floor. “What I meant was, I don’t think we should train in the Fade again. Not for a while.”

He nods, but his lips are pursed.

“That is unfortunate. Its versatility is unparalleled.”

That’s not what she meant; surely he must realize that.

“It is, but I can’t lose control like that.”

“The point of this exercise was to regain control. Which you did.”

“Barely, but that’s not all.” Frustration creeps back into her voice. “I felt uninhibited, and I am somewhat… attached to my inhibitions.”

That draws a breathy snort out of him.

“What’s so funny?” she asks, folding her arms.

“I can easily picture myself saying these exact words,” Solas says. “As you wish, lethallan, but do let me know if you reconsider. For now, your inhibitions are perfectly safe.”

Not when you’re around , she reasons, walking to her own cottage through the snow with the intention to dream-climb the most punishing route she can imagine for the rest of the night, until all thoughts of Solas are wiped from her stupid uninhibited head.

≈

The next day, Fiona informs the Inner Circle that her mages are as ready as they will ever be. Cullen concurs, and preparations for the summit kick into high gear, providing her a bulletproof excuse to pause her lessons with Solas.

In addition to ‘managing morale’, which effectively means parading herself conspicuously across Haven with a confident stride and an expression of moronic serenity, she tasks herself with somehow convincing the Inquisition’s stakeholders, as well as hundreds of their charges, to get the hell outta Dodge before the Elder One makes an appearance.

She expects a great deal of resistance, but all it takes is a good old hypothetical.

“Put yourself in our enemy’s place,” she suggests to a full war table at the end of a billion years long meeting about the idiosyncrasies of medieval logistics.

It’s a bit unnerving to have so many pairs of discerning eyes looking at her, expecting her to say something worth listening to.

She picks up a chess piece representing their enemy and twirls it in her fingers.

“Some uppity riffraff, one of whom stole your mark and your mages from under you, are about to put your magnum opus to the torch. They reside in a village with low walls, two trebuchets, a modest force – no offense, Commander – and a mountain obstructing the view of whatever might be coming their way. What would you do?”

The Elder One lands neatly just down the curve of the Frostbacks that Haven sits behind. After a long, pregnant pause Cullen runs a hand down the side of his face.

“We are exposed.”

Like Bull’s giant nipples.

The table erupts in a fervent discussion. After Leliana admits that one too many of her spies failed to report in a timely manner, it is decided that an emergency evacuation drill is due, although, per Cullen’s somewhat obvious prognosis, no one is especially happy about this.

As a small town’s worth of disgruntled people gather their things, tents and children to go drive some obligatory bears out of their natural habitat and spend the day and night in the cold wilderness, Dorian finds her in her cottage.

“Spill,” he whispers, coming in. “What do you know?”

Perpetually paranoid about Solas’ agents and surveillance spells she has no safeguards against, she beckons him to come closer.

“Corypheus will attack with an army of Templars and a dragon sometime around the Breach being closed,” she says in a voice so low she almost kisses his ear when he leans in.

Dorian’s mouth makes an oh .

Yes.

Oh.

“The good news is, we’ll bring an avalanche down on their asses.”

“And the bad?”

“Hello? Dragon.”

Dorian laughs through his nose, but his eyes remain focused.

“Anything I can do?”

She opens a pouch attached to her belt.

“Fill this with potions,” she says. “Also, don’t die.”

≈

That was good advice.

She would do well to take it too.

With that in mind, after they get back from closing the Breach – an event which proves as uncomplicated as anything she’s done since stepping out of the Fade – she orders the trebuchets be aimed at the snowiest slopes of the mountain.

Varric supplies some bombs with long fuses to be placed strategically on the trebuchets as failsafes; if no one’s there to pull a lever, magic can light them up from a distance.

Fuck Corypheus.

Fuck the Anchor upgrade.

That ugly bastard will not touch her today.

At least that’s the plan.

Cole shows up while she stands at the gates with the sentries and Cullen, and she approaches her favorite be-hatted weirdo to exchange a few quiet words before anyone else sees him.

“Hey, kid,” she says with a smile.

“You shouldn’t be here!”

Well, nice to see you too.

“Err…”

“No!” he exclaims. “It’s good! They don’t see you coming.”

“Okay, first of all, shhhhh!” she whispers. “No one can know this. Second, go to the Chantry and do your thing with Chancellor Roderick…” That came out wrong. “Tell them I said to start moving as soon as the first avalanche begins.”

As she explains to a slightly alarmed Cullen how Cole is actually a very strange, but also very nice local boy – don’t mind the daggers – who definitely should be allowed to join the others in the Chantry, the bells start ringing.

“Dammit! Just let him in!” Cullen yells to the guards, then narrows his eyes at tiny lights that flicker over the curve of the mountain path. “By the Maker, you were right.”

“Sadly.”

Where’s that flying menace?

“We should wait until more of his forces show up before launching the trebuchets,” the Commander says. “Perhaps you could join our people inside, Herald, we’ll manage here.”

“The Elder One only cares about the mark,” she replies, no longer caring if it sounds suspicious or not. Her heart is beating like a war drum and eyes remain peeled to the moonless sky. “Wherever I am, that’s where he’ll go.”

A scream echoes across Haven from above, and the not-Archdemon flies across the village, lighting everything in its path on fire.

There you are.

She kicks the lever of the first trebuchet, one aimed farther, and yells, “Everyone, move! To the Chantry! I’ll hold them off!”

She runs past the gates as the Inquisition soldiers and Cullen disappear behind them, and past the second trebuchet to a horse that’s anxiously pacing near a signpost waiting for its rider.

Here’s a thing.

No one digs themselves out of an avalanche. No one. It is common knowledge among mountaineers, so that lovely plot twist is a no go.

Also, no person, no matter how fast, even with a minute’s warning, can outrun an avalanche in an open field. The damn thing comes down like a ton of bricks at the speed of a race car.

But a rider? Moving sideways to the snow slide? With a thick forest and some elevation to slow it down a notch?

Maybe.

Possibly.

If she’s lucky.

The horse’s name is Chance, and Chance is, quite frankly, a bit of an ass. He bites and he’s temperamental, but he runs like the wind. She mounts him, snaps her fingers, lighting all the fuses on the second cluster of bombs with a pinch of magic, and bolts away from both the mountain of snow about to bury Haven and the Inquisition members escaping through a tunnel underneath.

She doesn’t look back as she rides, hunched down, cheek almost peeled to the horse's neck. All the winding wooden paths around Haven are known to her; she walks them almost every day, and she picks the easiest one that leads deep into the Frostbacks.

With a wash of relief and dread in equal measure she hears a low rumble of the second avalanche coming down. The bombs worked; Corypheus’ army is not more. With any luck, the Vint himself might be buried as well. It won’t kill him, unlike his Templars, who for all their red lyric powers still need to breathe, but at least it’ll slow the fucker down.

That’s what she thinks, breathing in the harsh cold air through her nose and squeezing her thighs tighter around the horse’s sides.

Then she hears another sound.

No, not the rolling thunder of the avalanche, but a rhythmic rustle of massive wings.

She stirs Chance roughly to the side, but it’s too late.

“Motherfuaaaaaa!” she yells at no one in particular as the dragon grabs her with its claws, lifts her from the saddle like she did a chess piece a few hours prior and immediately takes off.

She has only a few terrifying moments to marvel at a field of snow that is now Haven before they land smack in the middle of it.

The dragon casts her away like a used tissue, and while she staggers onto her feet, spitting out snow, Corypheus and Samson disembark from their giant mount’s back with remarkable ease.

She didn’t see them there, but in her defense her attention was somewhat preoccupied.

Standing up straight, she takes a deep breath.

“Motherfucker!” she says, voice echoing clearly over the newly settled terrain.

Ahhh.

Gestalt closed.

Samsom hits her across the face with a metal glove, and she sees stars, falling on the ground again with a yelp.

The man packs a punch, I’ll give him that.

Blood drips from a cut across her cheek and it takes a long minute for her head to stop spinning.

Slowly rolling onto her back, she looks at Corypheus, towering over both her and his lieutenant. He regards her in turn in much the same way that Vivian would look at a fly floating in her Chardonnay.

“Such a crude creature you are. Unworthy of the gifts my power bestows.”

It goes on.

And on.

And on .

She doesn’t listen the Vint opine and bloviate to his tainted heart’s content; she digs in her heels and grasps at the ground when he reaches for the Anchor and a pain rips through it like a white hot poker dipped in sulphuric acid; she doesn’t turn around as the dragon circles her like those raptors in Jurassic Park, making noises that make her skin crawl.

Unworthy or no, there is a delicious irony in the fact that by trying to take the power away, Corypheus only gives her more of it.

Alright, asshole.

If you insist.

Level me up.

She keeps her eyes on the darkspawn, waiting, and after a few more agonizing moments he gives up.

“The mark is perman–”

He will not touch her.

Pushing the entirety of her will into the mark, she thinks, Let me in, and reality complies.

A rift opens directly under her and she plummets through.

A dragon’s hand reaches after her into the shimmering tear, and she has just enough presence of mind to close it, but not enough to control her fall or keep the now severed hand from landing on top of her when she hits the ground.

She forgets how to breathe for a moment. 

It hurts , and the hope that it hurts the dragon more is a poor consolation prize.

She’s in the Fade. Physically. Alone.

When her head finally stops spinning, she dislodges the unintended trophy almost the size of her own body to the side. A claw catches on her knee, sinking into the joint, and she cries out in pain, jerking away. She crawls a few paces away and immediately barfs out the stew she ate that evening. There’s a small pool of red where her head landed; blood trickles down her neck at a frightening pace.

A concussion, at least.

When she stands and doesn’t fall – it takes a few offensively clumsy attempts – it quickly sinks in that she will not get far in this state. She moves like a drunk trying to pass a coordination test and failing miserably, and the apocalyptic landscape of the Fade triples every time she moves her head, which is pounding like mad.

Where’s a pack of Ibuprofen when you need one?

Her eyes widen and she almost falls again, aghast at her own idiocy.

Of course! Dorian gave her potions.

She blames brain damage for losing sight of the greatest convenience this world has to offer. Her belt pouch is sturdy enough that three tiny flasks survive the fall and she downs all of them right away.

They don’t stitch her wounds together completely, but the warm drip down her neck slows considerably, and her vision clears enough to take in the scene.

And what a scene it is.

Even Ultra High Definition can never do the physical Fade justice.

Those gravity defying floating slabs of rock would make any pro climber swoon. There are streams that move upwards. Birds that turn into insects that turn into puffs of smoke mid flight. The chartreuse glow of a strange starless sky is more VanGogh on crack than a serene Monet, made weirder still by that unfortunate ink splotch that is the Black City.

All this shit is weird, indeed.

Still, being here is a bona-fide miracle.

Shame there’s all those demons popping out like roaches when the lights are out in the kitchen, looking for crumbs to dine on.

And she is the crumbiest of them all.

Two demons of Despair are circling her on either side, and she can already hear Rage screaming bloody murder nearby.

Staying in one place and waiting until Coryphus leaves with his remaining minions isn’t an option: she’s no fighter and if the Fade locals gang up on her, a barrier won’t save her for long.

So, run? Run where? Somewhere north of Haven, presumably, but where is north in this Kafkaesque nightmare is anyone’s guess. Besides, she has absolutely no idea which direction she was facing before falling through the rift.

If only Solas was here.

Well, he isn’t, and there is no way he’s sleeping right now. How does she…

Wait. 

Wait, wait, wait.

Solas. Fen’Harel. The mark.

His mark.

Could she locate him through it? She never tried before. It never even occurred to her.

Her musings have to be paused when with a low growl Rage emerges from a blood-filled pond behind her, and both Despairs whirl to where she stands as if on cue.

Let’s multitask, she thinks and bolts for the second time that day.

It’s basically hardcore trail running meets Hunger Games. She’s faster than most demons – Despair gives up easily, Rage is too bulky to sustain a long chase, – but as she loses some, more join the pursuit, varieties of demons she’s never seen before.

At some point she will run out of breath, and then it’s over.

Solas.

Solas.

Think of Solas.

This is one of those times when thinking about him is actually a good thing, she reminds herself, and it’s hella confusing, because thinking about Solas too much is dangerous, but please…

Please, just let me find him.

The mark throbs and her hand is yanked off to the left by some unseen force, and with a joyous yelp she changes directions, keeping the Dread Wolf firmly in her thoughts as she navigates the bizarre labyrinth of the Fade.

This labyrinth becomes her downfall in the end.

There’s no cutting straight through all the Fade rocks and bloody lakes and giant trees with grabby branches to where the mark is taking her. She has to constantly stray from course, taking paths that are available.

Eventually, she hits a dead end.

The mark is out of control at that point, and as she turns around her hand keeps pointing backwards, into the impenetrable stone that’s blocking her path.

Rage followed her. One of them anyway.

When it sees that its victim is trapped it grows even bigger and lunges towards her so swiftly she doesn’t even have the chance to feel properly scared.

This is no video game.

She closes her eyes…

And opens them again.

Rage wails – a shockingly ill-fitting sound for such an angry beast. It's in a fight for its life with a spirit, and somehow it’s losing.

The spirit is also red, but a different shade; blood, not fire. It’s spectral form is humanoid and only half the demon’s size, but every time it sinks its hands straight into Rage’s body, the demon writhes and shrinks until the spirit all but rips it in half, and the rest of it scatters into sparks, dancing away into the ether.

Without skipping a beat, her savior turns to face her. Its features solidify slightly, but are still more light than flesh.

“Found you,” the spirit says hoarsely, its voice vaguely familiar.

“Who are you?” she asks. “Why did you help me?”

The spirit roars in response and lunges at her, like a jackhammer hitting every body part at once, taking the wind out of her. Her already battered back collides with the rock, and she cries out in pain.

“Begone, thief!” the spirit bellows, its voice crawling into every pore, making everything bigger, sharper, more . Bloody appendages slither out of its mouth and crawl through the air towards her own mouth, and as soon as the first crimson drop enters her body images slash in her mind's eye. 

A Dalish camp.

Half-empty aravels.

The Keeper trusts her with this.

You are my First, so it must be you, lethallan.

So many shem at the temple.

A profane ritual. A monster with a glowing orb. What’s going on here?

Green light swallows her whole. No! Stop!

Possessed! I’m being possessed!

Mythal save me!

Realization hits her with the force of a hundred avalanches.

Lavellan. The spirit is Lavellan.

She doesn’t even know the woman’s first name.

Her mouth hangs open in shock, and hot blood rushes in, smothering her. It feels like she’s melting from the inside, as if the spirit – scratch that; demon – wants to scoop her liquified ethereal body out of its stolen vessel.

It grabs at the strands of remorse inside of her and pulls, and she whines, overcome with guilt so profound it makes her want to reach for something, anything with an edge and slice her own throat.

Part of her always wanted to give the body back, to make this right, put things where they belong, and the demon feasts on that, slithering deeper into the form that fits the elf – the only real elf among them – so perfectly it makes resistance feel almost criminal. 

It is a demon, and this is what they do.

Whatever it tells her, whatever strings it pulls, it’s a perversion of reality.

Solas taught her that.

She tries to listen to that small voice inside her, muffled, as if coming from behind a theater stage through rows upon rows of thick velvet drapes, but the guilt is so overwhelming, her rational mind feels too impotent to be taken seriously. What is mere reason in the face of such powerful Truths?

An injustice was wrought against an innocent woman, torn unceremoniously from everything she’s ever known; her home, her loved ones, even her own body.

That has to be remedied, no matter the cost.

Now wait just a fucking minute! she thinks, logic momentarily taking over.

Doesn’t that apply to her too?

No!

This mark was supposed to be Lavellan’s. No one asked her to be here; she should’ve stayed in her world, where she belongs.

But Wisdom said…

Wisdom was being kind. Why would the wolf’s power call to her? Who does she think she is, the Chosen One? Pathetic dreams of the mediocre.

The title of Herald is not hers to claim. She is an impostor, an impostor, an impos…

Irrelevant! a tiny voice says, growing a bit louder, a bit stronger. This is your fight now, and you must live to win it. You must…

But maybe she will go back. If she dies. Maybe she can see mom again.

She freezes, and the demon screams in impotent rage.

No, no, no!

Stop thinking. Just. Let. Go!

A tiny voice whispers in response.

Save yourself.

It’s what mom said the last time she got depressed. It was her third rendezvous with that insidious disease and by far the worst one. She’d been hiding it from everyone, trying to tough it out, still under the delusion that medication is for the weak.

On one of those Groundhog days of perpetual misery she found herself standing on a sidewalk at a busy junction, and seriously considered stepping in front of a moving car. 

Then, on an impulse, she did something she thought she’d never do: called her mother and confessed everything.

She stood crying in the middle of the street, phone in hand, with people passing by giving her funny looks.

This illness that tells you your life is a waste; it is a parasite. Doing whatever is necessary to rid yourself of it is not weakness, it is kindness. You have been unkind to yourself, baby, and it breaks my heart. I will do whatever I can, but you have to save yourself. I cannot choose to live for you.

She went and got a prescription the next day, and a mere six months after that she couldn’t believe that at one point death genuinely seemed like the only option.

Nothing is solved by letting the demon take over.

Nothing.

Perhaps she has no right to be here, it might not be fair – what the hell is these days? – but she is here. Even if she is destined to die in this strange world, it will not be at the behest of a vengeful spirit taking her on a guilt trip. What a terrific gift to Corypheus would that make!

Yes, good.

Get pissed.

It worked with Doubt well enough.

Maybe some injustices can never be fixed. Maybe sometimes all you can do is accept and move on.

Shallow the bitter pill.

Save yourself.

She tightens her stomach muscles and expels the blood invading her mouth. The demon staggers at first, then growls and locks her in its arms so hard it threatens to break her in half.

But the blood is gone and her mind is clear.

Possession failed.

“I will squeeze you out!” Lavellan shrieks.

Struggling against her captor’s crushing embrace, she slides a dagger from its sheath on her hip, twists her wrist and sinks it into the demon’s guts as deep as she can.

You can dish it out.

Can you take it?

I know I can.

No pain is unbearable. This pain is not unbearable.

Because she is bearing it right now.

When the dagger is buried to the hilt, the demon finally relents, easing its grip on her.

Now or never.

She leans harder against the stone at her back, lifts up one leg up to her chest and kicks the hilt of her weapon sticking out. It disappears completely inside Lavellan, who doubles over with a deafening howl.

She remembers neither climbing the Fade rock, nor opening a rift when her marked hand jerks downwards on its own.

As she steps through Lavellan still wails somewhere far behind her, and over it she can faintly hear Cullen’s command.

“Knock!”

And Dorian’s right after, “Do not shoot!”

She whooshes onto the snow covered ground in a flux of blinding light, like so many demons they saw in the recent weeks. As disoriented as she is, closing rifts is a reflex at this point, and she reaches back, linking the Anchor to it.

When the rift collapses with a satisfying Pow! she turns to face the crowd of shocked onlookers.

“I’m alright,” she tries to say. “See.”

Blinking away dozens of annoying specs blocking her vision, she takes in the scene. Cullen, Cassandra and a group of archers in the front, arrow knocked but not drawn. Leliana off to the right, Dorian and Solas to the left.

All with the same horrified look on their faces.

Come on, they’re just flesh wounds, right?

She looks down and oh, oh God.

What used to be a smattering of cuts from the fall and confrontation with Samson is now a panoply of open wounds, like dozens of angry red mouths spitting out blood all at once everywhere on her body. The snow around her is painted red in under a second.

She has seen her own blood before, but never like this, and it’s quite surreal, like watching a cutscene. The thought makes her chuckle, and it comes out with a sickening gurgle instead.

She feels oddly warm and lightheaded. No pain anywhere at all. 

Cullen catches her when she falls and she is carried off somewhere, voices shouting, praying, arguing.

Dorian appears above her.

When did they lay her down?

“Don’t talk,” he says, making passes over her head and it tickles when magic starts flowing in. “Just hold on, you’re too pretty to die. Not as pretty as me, of course…”

She laughs. Or intends to.

“Can someone kindly put her out?” Vivian demands. “I am fusing a knee together out of skin rags here, and the screaming is so dreadfully distracting.”

Dorian holds a purple vial to her lips. The contents smell of myrtle, mint and something she can only describe as a putrid mummy juice.

“Don’t swallow,” he says, emptying it into her mouth. “Just let it sit there.”

The liquid is so cold it burns, numbing everything it touches. She loses control of her hands; can’t even twitch a finger. It feels like dying. Her eyelids weigh a ton, but she resists closing them with stubborn ferocity.

What if she doesn’t wake up?

She’s not finished.

I can’t die after all this!

Another face hovers into view, and she whimpers. 

“Shh…” Cool fingers touch her cheek like a feather. “Do not resist, lethallan. I will not let you vanish.”

She looks at Solas, tears in her eyes, and trusts him.

≈

When she comes to, daylight is streaming through an opening in the tent. The scent of bitter herbs, alcohol and magic hangs heavy in the air and Solas is sitting on a bear skin by her cot, reading.

He sighs, raises his gaze and jumps a bit when their eyes meet.

She tries to say water , but her throat is too dry, and Solas needs no further hints anyway. He presses the skin to her lips with one hand, gently lifts her head with the other and waits as she drinks her fill.

She sighs with pleasure.

“I am born again.”

Solas slumps back and runs a hand over the back of his neck, squeezing his eyes for a moment.

“You are making a habit of it.”

“How long was I out?”

“Three and a half days.” He holds his fingers to her forehead and, apparently satisfied, looks her up and down. “Try slowly moving your limbs.”

She does.

Everything hurt, like she’s just ran – no, won – an ultramarathon with no rest, food or hydration. Which is more or less what happened, she supposes. But joints move and muscles respond, and that knowledge released the tension she didn’t know she was holding.

She’s alive and mobile.

That’s a whole lot more than nothing.

She also appears to be naked under a blanket, save her smalls. She steals an awkward glance at Solas and then lifts the blanket like a tent, trying to gauge the state of her body.

There are several scars, very fresh and pink, sore just like everything else, but not completely ugly. The worst one is on her left leg, the one Vivian was fixing, most likely. She can feel more on her back around her shoulder blades, if the pulling sensation when she raises her arms is any indication.

She traces the back of her head where it hit the ground, and sure enough, another scar beneath the hair.

She tucks the blanket around herself and smiles at Solas with deep appreciation, but he doesn’t smile back and reaches for something behind the bear skin. A mirror, smaller than her head, enclosed in a silver frame.

He must have borrowed it from Josephine or something.

She hitches herself up on one elbow, hissing at the tightness in her muscles and mindful of keeping herself covered, takes the mirror and looks.

There’s another scar running diagonally across the bottom of her left cheek, down through her lips and chin. A bit longer and thinner than Cassandra’s, still a bit inflamed around the cut.

A gift from Samson, no doubt.

She must remember to return it sometime.

“Could be worse,” she says, putting the mirror down.

“It is permanent, as are the others,” Solas says. “Ir abeles. We tried, but some of the cuts were so deep…”

“Tel’abelas, Solas!” She laughs, but stops when the scar tightens a little. “I owe you my life many times over. Besides, Cassandra doesn’t mind her scar, why should I?”

His shoulders relax.

“Quite right.”

Did he think she’d be self conscious about it?

Or perhaps scars were considered shameful in Arlathan, and only the unblemished could command the People. Their flawless Creators, at least on the outside.

Oh well.

“What possessed you to go through the Fade?” he asks, pulling her out of her thoughts.

“No pun intended, huh?”

His gaze turns into a sharp glare and he leans forward, brown knit.

“Is this a laughing matter to you? You gave me your word, Herald.”

“But–”

“Walking physically through the Fade once was ill-advised! To do so again–”

You’re preaching to the choir, buddy.

“I was surrounded, you ass! That fucking dragon plucked me off my horse just before the second avalanche hit!”

She’d laugh again if the scar wasn’t so fresh.

What a perfectly ordinary thing to say out loud.

Where is Chance, by the way? Still roaming the Frostbacks, wild and free, or forever at peace in some beast's belly? She’ll have to send a search party at some point; she owes that cranky twerp her life too, after all.

Solas keeps glaring, and she glares back. The man really has a problem with letting stuff go.

“I had to open a rift. There was no other way.”

His frown starts to threaten the structural integrity of his facial anatomy.

“I was not aware you were capable of that.”

“I wasn’t. Corypheus did something to the mark. It felt more powerful, so I thought I’d take it for a spin,” she says, then looks down at herself, prone on a cot, and up at him again. “I don’t understand. It really wasn’t as bad as all that. I drank three potions.”

Solas opens and closes his mouth several times, like he wants to stay mad at her but can’t quite reason himself into it.

“You fought a demon, correct? It tried to take you?”

After she nods, he continues.

“Some demons prefer to aggravate existing wounds instead of inflicting new ones. Some can even reopen injuries healed centuries ago,” he says, glancing at the scar on her face again. “I cannot take credit for saving you, lethallan. Your wounds refused to close until the Mortalitasi fed you that concoction.”

Sweet Dorian.

The list of people she is eternally indebted to just keeps on growing.

“I’ll be sure to thank him.”

“Do you know what kind of demon it was?”

Easy now.

“I’m not sure. It was humanoid, though; not like the others.”

Tell the truth, but not all the truth.

“Many demons may take human-like shapes. Deceit, Envy, Desire,” Solas muses, but she shakes her head.

“It wasn’t either of those. Guilt, maybe.”

His gaze turns distant.

“Guilt could simply be means to an end. The most expedient way to cause the most injury. What did it feel like?”

She shudders at the memory.

“Painful.”

Solas nods and his eyes gleam, as though her answer just solved a riddle for him.

“Sometimes spirits of Sorrow, when wronged in a particularly egregious way, turn through bitterness and righteous anger into demons of Pain,” he explains. “Sorrow can be beautiful, healing even; Pain, on other hand, when left untended, with no purpose to make it worthwhile, can only do one thing.”

Her smirk is entirely joyless.

“Grow.”

“Just so. Perhaps you reminded it of someone who caused it grave injury in the past.”

She doesn’t avert her gaze.

“Perhaps.” She shifts under the blanket.“So what happened after you fixed me up?”

The corners of his lips twitch slightly. 

“The camp was in uproar for hours. You missed some captivating singing.”

She tries not to grin too hard at the memory of something she’s supposed to have slept through. 

“Oh, well, tell them I asked for an encore if I almost die again.”

He doesn’t return her smile, looking to the side and twiddling his fingers.

“I would greatly appreciate it if you did not.”

The sight of his fidgeting just makes her smile harder.

It’s not about her, of course, as she keeps reminding herself ad nauseam. It’s the Anchor, the orb, all of it. Not to mention, reviving her must have exhausted not one but two powerful mages, and an elvhen deity to boot. But still, this is… nice.

He did save her.

Even if he doesn’t know it.

In the silence she starts picking up noises penetrating the tent walls. Cullen and Leliana argue over their destination. Someone yells at the children to please for Maker’s sake stop running. Our Lady of the Inedible calls for breakfast.

Solas looks at her, and she looks at him.

She gives up first, as usual.

“What?”

Her favorite question to him, it seems.

“You… puzzle me, Herald,” Solas admits.

“Hmm, don’t know if we can keep you as a resident know-it-all if something as simple as little ol’ me gives you pause.”

Mirth dances in her eyes, and he returns it to her absolute delight.

“I shall have to find another way to earn my keep then.”

“Do you have any other skills?”

“I have been known to paint.”

She pantomimes profound shock.

“Color me intrigued!”

He chuckles.

It is not the first time she hears him do it, but it is the first time she lets herself unreservedly love that sound. She’s happy to see him, which is not that much of a bombshell, really.

Still, the harshness with which she held his image in her mind, the hostility, the self-righteousness at being wronged and him having wronged her – it all dulled and thinned out with time, the words of Wisdom and simply him being him, although she never made a conscious decision to let things go.

So she does it now.

For all the dangers his presence brings, she enjoys him too much, and so far joy has come through a drip feed into this outlandish second life of hers. She’ll take it wherever she can; even in the company of a scholarly, pretentious rebel god who plots the death of millions.

She’ll hate him again after Adamant.

Yeah, right.

“Is there any clothes I could wear,” she asks, looking around the tent. “I will not feel like a person till I’m dressed and walking.”

“I shall ask Cassandra to bring you something.” After a moment of consideration, he nods to himself. “Before I go, there is something I must tell you.”

Her heart stops.

There is a place that waits for a force to hold it. 

At last. Skyhold.

Chapter Text

She makes a bit of a scene when they enter the fortress; of the ‘run around laughing like madwoman, screaming, Are you seeing this?’ variety, with the Inner Circle and assorted Inquisition members partaking in the joy of finding a new home – as well as their illustrious leader losing her shit – to the degree that their character permits.

With the obligatory exception of Vivian, whose quota on conspicuous happiness appears to be zero.

If this was her world, she’d suggest the Enchantress might have gone a bit overboard on the botox, my dear . Even so, Viv gets a chamber with enough space for all her gowns and elaborate headpieces. The woman saved her knee, after all.

The rest take up residence wherever best suits them, and no one wants for room.

Skyhold is enormous, and so are her new chambers; the ones with the fireplace, the bath, the views, and also the views . A definite improvement on the cottage at Haven is every conceivable dimension.

Dorian becomes her new magical tutor, as was the plan.

Contrary to the plan, though, she spends many of her vacant evening hours with Solas in the rotunda.

Sometimes they talk.

Other times she curls up on his couch with a book or reports under a warm blanket while he paints and does research, casting an occasional glance her way.

When she catches it and smiles, Solas usually smiles back.

“If you mind my being here, you must let me know,” she tells him one of those days.

“Why would I ever mind that?”

She gives him a look.

A straight answer, please.

“I will tell you if I mind,” he says, eyes lit up.

She doesn’t ask again.

It is so easy being quiet with him.

That quiet, disrupted only by the flicks of his brush, the rustle of paper and the murmurs of some late library visitors upstairs, becomes her shelter from the burdens of her daily duties.

Which are endless .

With no quest menu to tick things off or wiki to consult, she has to improvise for the sake of her own sanity. Thankfully, her job title used to have the word ‘manager’ in it.

Let’s Trello the shit out of this.

She sets up a cork board on one of the war room walls – damn thing costs an arm and a leg at Val Royeaux – and the can-do trio of Josephine, Leliana and herself spend many sleepless nights making index cards out of parchment and filling up columns with tasks to keep the Inquisition busy for the next decade or so.

To do.

Rifts in Emprise.

Rifts in the Exalted Plains.

Locate the missing Seekers. 

Contact the Hero of Ferelden. 

Stop the civil war.

Get Dorian the good wine.

Rifts in Crestwood. 

Rifts in the Fallow fucking Mire. 

Save cla…

“Inquisitor, could we refrain from using such language, perhaps? These are official Inquisition documents, after all. They need to be precise.”

“Have you been to the Fallow Mire, Josephine?”

“I cannot say that I have.”

“Well, let me tell you…”

She uses the wine to bribe Dorian into maintaining security wards on the room, so that no rank-and-file persons, mice or Solas’ agents ever get a panoramic view of the Inquisition’s activities.

She is insanely proud of the Board.

A few key pieces are missing, though.

Since the Redcliffe time travel debacle never happened, no one but her knows of Celine’s impending assassination and corruption brewing among the Wardens. Alexius kept no records of either, and in the absence of Photoshop she has no faith in her ability to make a convincing forgery for Leliana.

When she finally figures it out – after a late night chat with Solas on the nature of dreams – she has to literally slap her own forehead.

The answer is so obvious it's not even funny.

I saw it in the Fade!

A universal catch-all for spilling knowledge one has no business having.

She drops a few spicy hints – So, Leliana, I was dreaming the other night, and don’t you know… – and leaves Sister Nightingale with her murder of crows to discover the details on their own.

Days turn into weeks, which turn into months as Skyhold is restored and enhanced. Trade routes are established, dignitaries – received, and alliances – forged.

As the Inquisition’s influence grows and the title Your Worship stops chafing at her, she realises with a pinch of guilt that she hasn’t thought about her world in a long time.

Her second life becomes simply ‘her life’, and somehow she’s the last to notice.

Maybe that’s how it had to be, she thinks.

Maybe she belongs here after all.

Only in the boundless haze of Dreaming doubt rears its head again.

A half-empty aravel; a Dalish camp cloaked under the shade of lush sycamore trees; an unfamiliar voice calling her an unfamiliar name – memories that aren’t hers seep into her dreams, unbidden.

Lavellan. 

Her very own Shadow.

It is inside her now; every drop of the demon’s blood she couldn’t expel during their fight in the Fade carries a fragment of the other woman’s story, forever married with her own. 

Wisdom spoke of the price she’d have to pay to escape this place.

It is only fair, she supposes, that remaining here has a price as well.

≈

It’s morning when she enters the rotunda; Solas is already pouring over some sketches for a new section of the mural he’s working on. She waves at him and makes a beeline to the library looking for a certain moustachioed mage.

The Inquisition’s illustrious guests will soon arrive with their full retinues to attend the now traditional ‘family style’ dinner at the great hall; and she has an idea .

Honestly, all she wanted was an excuse to occupy Skyhold’s vast kitchens and feed some hungry people, but ever since she made pasta carbonara things got a bit out of control.

Menus are broadcasted in advance, ingredients get ordered in bulk and her kitchen staff of two turns into a baker’s dozen.

Josephine laments the terrible expense at first.

Then she tries macarons.

And then word gets back to Val Royeaux.

Before long, every Orlesian noble and their horse wants to know who the Inquisition’s famous elven chef is.

And soon they shall.

Dorian lounges at a windowsill frowning at some obscure tome on Necromancy in Tevene.

“Morning,” she says. “So I was thinking…”

He closes the book like it owes him money.

“This should be good.”

“Better than whatever you’re reading, apparently. Can you magically conceal my vallaslin for the day?”

She hears rather than sees Solas stop cold in the middle of a charcoal stroke.

Dorian takes a minute to ponder her request.

“There are a multitude of illusion and shapeshifting spells that affect appearance, though I confess it is not my forte,” he says. “Besides, the subtler the change, the harder it is to maintain. I could make all of your skin the colour of your vallaslin instead.”

She tries to picture what that might be like. Her Mythal tattoos are a fairly inconspicuous sandy shade a tad darker than her own skin.

“So I’d just be… tanned?”

“And more like me, which is always a plus.”

She smirks back at him.

“That will work.”

It’s no simple charm, she quickly discovers. More like a ritual that involves focus crystals, incense, long incantations and, at one point, a toad.

“What prompted this? Are we playing a game?” Dorian asks, sitting opposite her in a lotus position at the center of a circle painted in white chalk. They have to rearrange some of the furniture to make room; many of the mages that frequent the library during the day watch them from a distance.

“Celine’s and Gaspard’s ambassadors arrive today. Unofficially of course, but if things go well, we might get an invitation to the Grand Ball at Halamshiral.” She pauses while Dorian swipes a few gentle strokes of the ‘toad venom body paint’ over her face. “Neither of them know what I look like.”

He sets aside the bowl and picks up a yellow crystal from the prep table.

“Don’t tell me. You want to pose as an elven servant.”

“Aha.”

“To see how they treat you?”

“Yup.”

“Only to reveal yourself, and for them to go, ‘Maker’s breath! This woman is both gorgeous and cunning. I must befriend her, talk her up to my patron and help her end this ego war immediately!’”

“Pretty much.”

He gives her the crystal to hold firmly in both hands, and covers them with his own.

“It’s brilliant. It could also backfire tremendously.”

“It could,” she says with a shrug. “But I’ve nurtured this idea for weeks, and I’m too invested now.”

Dorian nods solemnly.

“I have been there.” He shifts a bit and takes a deep breath, squeezing her hands tighter. “Now, repeat after me and picture your new glorious golden tan, like you’ve just returned from summering at your private estate outside Mithranous.”

“Yeah, it should be more like, ‘toiled in the sweltering heat’ type of look.”

“Do you think those masked inbreds will know the difference?”

She huffs.

“Fair point.”

She tries her best to regurgitate unfamiliar words. Goosebumps rise all over her skin, and the sensation slowly intensifies until for one awful second it feels like her entire body is being dipped in a barrel of boiling oil. She stifles a cry, but it passes, and a cooling sensation of a healing spell follows.

“Thank you,” she says on exhale. “For a moment there I almost regretted asking.”

Mages who observe the spectacle murmur among themselves; Dorian looks her over, pleased.

“Beauty is pain. Now run along to the mirror and marvel at yourself. That always cheers me up.”

Down in the rotunda she is greeted with a sight of Solas sitting back in his armchair – an almost unprecedented event.

She jumps the last two steps and crosses the room to his desk.

“What do you think?” She twirls once, spreading her hands. “There’s no mirror in the library, I need your eyes.”

He stays silent and barely blinks. His hands are folded, fingers intertwined, on top of a pile of sketches scattered about the desk.

The stare might have been creepy if she didn’t remember the scene in Crestwood.

This must be… weird for him.

“You don’t like it?”

“I like it.”

She leans over the table and smirks.

“Tell your face.”

One corner of his mouth twitches.

Parchment whispers under her fingers when she moves, prompting her to take a closer look.

It is unfathomable how he finds anything in there: there’s a hundred disjointed notes, memos, a dozen versions of each part of his mural and a collection of unreadable scribbles, intermingling like a crowd at Val Royeaux’s central square on market day.

One item catches her eye, a corner of it sticking out coyly from behind the others. A pointed tip of someone's ear is the only part of the sketch that’s visible.

She reaches for it, and Solas reacts instantly, covering her hand with his, somehow both gentle and firm. His eyes are a bit wide; or maybe she’s just seeing things.

“Show me.”

He tilts his head to the side slightly.

“It is not finished.”

“And when it is?”

Now that’s a genuine smile.

“I will let you know.”

She has to subsist on anticipation alone then, because their distinguished guests arrive.

A giant table occupies the main hall decorated with festive Orlesian garlands and the Inquisition insignia on banners and shields. Her spiky chair – she refuses to call it a throne – is conspicuously empty, nobles seated on either side with a promise that the Inquisitor will join them shortly.

Marquise Cosinne de Montsimmard, Celine’s relation and representative, is an older woman with a delightfully thick Orlesian accent, chirps with Josephine and Leliana about the latest fashion trends and gossip, while her counterpart Duke Jean-Gaspard de Lydes, brother of the infamous Remache, attempts to talk shop with Cullen.

The Commander has many wonderful qualities, but his poker face leaves a lot to be desired. Unlike Remarche, once a ruthless ally to Celine’s brother, his heir presumptive is no great warrior, despite the bravado, and Cullen’s face does nothing to hide his opinion of that.

Most of her companions are present as well, thoughtfully seated by Josephine among their guests’ secretaries and squires to make for the most appropriate and diverting conversation. 

Even Sera is present at the far end of the table on the condition that if she belches or throws food, the Inquisition will purchase her a noble title.

The Seekers of Truth are mentioned at one point, and Cassandra makes a terse comment about ‘yet another order that Corypheus has razed’ and reveals her intention to rebuild it once the war is done.

“On a lighter note,” Marquise de Montsimmard says between bites, “I have heard the council of Wycome now includes an elf from the Inquisitor’s clan. Lavellan, is it?”

Josephine takes this one.

“As well as an elf from the city itself, yes. Our Inquisitor spared no effort to secure the wellbeing of her people.”

“What is next? An elf on the Orlesian throne?” the Duke says.

Even his mask looks disdainful.

“Maker, how dramatic you are, mon ami. I choose to be inspired. If our own leaders knew the value of cooperation, perhaps the Orlesian people could have been spared such bloodshed.”

Even if it’s just a platitude, she thinks while pouring the Marquise more red, as far as public positions go, this is as good as it gets in Val Royeaux.

Marquise 1 – Duke 0.

The Marquise tapes a sip and looks up at her.

“What is your name, girl?”

If she wasn’t in character, she might raise an eyebrow.

Ask a servant’s name.

Marquise 2 – Duke 0.

She lets the ‘girl’ slide.

“Nola.”

“Such a pretty name,” the Marquise declares politely, and points at her plate with a fork. “What is this?”

“It is called risotto; rice cooked in broth and wine, with truffles, portobello and white mushrooms, black pepper and hard Antivan cheese.”

“How quaint. Do you help in the kitchens, dear, or do all of Skyhold’s elven staff know such particulars?”

“I make it by business to know, madame.”

“How dutiful,” the Duke says. “Come over here, Nola, my glass is getting empty.”

He looks her up and down while she fills it.

“What do you think of the Inquisitor? Does she talk to you? You are both elves, no?”

She fixes her gaze at the bottleneck touching his glass.

“The Inquisitor is a very private person, monsieur.”

“Oh! And are you a private person?” He hugs her by the waist with his right hand and continues to talk with his left, looking at Solas for some reason. “You know, I have always held your people in high regard. Many believe you are illiterate savages, like those painted Dalish, or feeble and submissive, like our city elves, but I admire elven perseverance. You survived, despite it all! And no matter what the old hags at court might think,” he squeezes her hip, “some of your women are lovely!”

Solas listens to the entire tirade.

To anyone else he might appear calm.

She signals Dorian with her eyes.

Say something, or heads will roll.

“You are aware the Inquisitor is of the painted ones, yes?” Dorian asks the Duke.

The masked man scowls. 

“A most unfortunate happenstance. Is she beautiful at least? I would hate to have come all this way if she is not.”

Well, we gave him a chance.

Josephine sighs. Bull softly growls from his end of the table. Varric looks at her with pleading eyes. Cassandra appears to be sharpening a sword in her mind.

Solas gives her a look.

Just when I got into it…

With a sigh, she puts the bottle down, takes the yellow crystal – significantly smaller than it was – and puts it on the Duke’s empty plate.

Her skin becomes two shades lighter, the vallaslin clearly visible.

The real Nola, her first kitchen maid, approaches to help her out of the apron and into her formal doublet, brown leather with delicate stitching and small golden buttons. Sitting at the head of the table, she takes a small sip of wine and regards the long-suffering Duke.

“Well,” she says. “Am I?”

Mike drop.

Laughter erupts at the pro-Celine side of the table.

“What a delicious deception!” Marquise Cosinne de Montsimmard says with a clap. “Brava, my dear Inquisitor! I am sure the court will savor this juicy morsel for weeks.”

The Duke appears to feel sick.

“Yes. Very clever.” He coughs and downs his glass. “One can never have enough clever people around. If the Inquisition does not work out for you, madame, you can always find a place in my household.”

“I shall have to collect references from your servants,” she says. “I wonder what they might say.”

This brings a ghost of a smile to Leliana’s face.

“That explains how you know the menu by heart. Is it true, then, that you were a cook?” the Marquise asks. “Before Andraste chose you, that is.”

Thanks a lot, Varric.

“I was not, though I do enjoy cooking for others.”

The Duke scoffs.

“One either leads or serves. There is no in-between.”

She tilts her head slightly.

“Is leadership at its best not an act of service, monsieur?”

She darts a look at Josephine, who hides her smile behind a glass, but blinks at her once.

“If only our precious Chantry remembered that,” the Marquise says with a tragic sigh. “The people of Orlais are suffering as we speak, and instead of feeding and clothing them the clerics bicker about the next Divine. Long list, short list! Make up your mind already. Time is a luxury most of our citizens do not have.”

“Quite right, my dear,” Vivian says, leaning towards her acquaintance. “Can you perhaps now see why I joined the Inquisition? I seem to remember you were somewhat conflicted on the subject when we last spoke.”

“Oh, non, non, cherie ! You must have misunderstood my meaning, ” the older woman replies, adjusting her mask. “The Inquisition is clearly the best hope to restore order in our poor fractured country.” The Marquise turns to her. “A sentiment I am sure my friends at court will appreciate.”

She will vouch for her to Celine.

That’s it.

They take this round.

The rest of the evening is just going through the motions. There’s mingling and snacking; alarming rumours about the Wardens are discussed at length. Dorian is introduced officially to the Marquise as an honoured member of the Inquisition, fighting his own misguided countrymen to restore the world to sanity.

Solas quietly slips away from the hall after that.

Strange, she thinks, watching him disappear into the courtyard, I thought you adore the heady blend of power, intr…

Oh, never mind.

Maybe he has spies to update, or something.

≈

When the guests are gone, the excess food – of which there is a metric ton – is shared among the staff or put in storage, and the kitchen is clean again, she sends everyone away for some well-earned rest to enjoy the quiet space smelling faintly of soap by herself.

He finds her there an hour later.

She knows better than to ask where he was.

“Hungry?” she says, setting aside her notes on the next dinner’s menu.

Josephine insisted that they have another for Celine’s people as soon as possible, and she couldn’t sleep, anyway.

Solas takes in the now pristine counters and her, sitting at the island with a soft magical light hanging above.

“Five people told me about the cake you served while I was walking here…”

Suppressing a grin, she uses only her eyes to point at a plate covered with a pale blue dome of a cooling charm sitting on a shelf just to his left.

And up go his eyebrows.

“You saved me a piece?”

Solas rarely seeks obvious answers, which tells her just how touched he is by the gesture.

“Have you met me?”

With a tiny smirk he picks up a fork and digs in, sitting opposite her.

“Good?” she asks, and the look he gives her draws a happy little laugh out of her.

It’s such a treat to see him simply enjoy himself.

“Would you like some wine? It goes well with a dry white.”

He swallows a bite and wipes his mouth with a napkin.

“Only if you care to join me.”

“I almost never drink.”

“Perhaps you might almost have a glass with me then.”

Another hour flies by.

They’re still in the kitchen, talking.

His plate is long empty and so is his glass. Three, in fact, while she only had one. It is not her intention to get him drunk, but she honestly isn’t much for wine in general, nor does she need any extra help to bask in his company.

“Come.” Solas stands up rather abruptly. “There is something I would like you to see.”

Intrigued, she follows him into the rotunda where some sketches are laid out on the desk. Sketches of her, she realises, at different angles, some smiling, some not; pensive, happy, sad, annoyed. A character study in charcoal.

They are beautiful, of course, but she braces for the same note of alienation she gets sometimes when looking at herself in the mirror, even after ‘wearing’ this face for many months.

The feeling never comes though.

Somehow knowing that this is how Solas sees her too smoothes out the disconnect.

She is real.

“Those are exquisite,” she says. “Do you mind if I take one?

“Not at all. But that is not why I brought you here.”

He lifts a sheet off one of the storage boxes that turns out to be full of canvases stacked against one another. He lifts the one closest to them without showing her the picture itself.

“I was trying to determine some way to show you what you mean to me.”

Her heart stops.

He’s drunk, right?

That must be it.

Or she’s drunk.

Or maybe she’s actually been insane this whole time, and her schizophrenia has just entered its terminal stage.

She stares, trying to remember how words work. 

“I made several attempts to paint your portrait,” Solas says, glancing down at the painting. “This is by far the best one. But–” 

She finds her voice.

“Are you going to show it to me?”

When he flips the painting, confusion replaces her impatience.

It is executed in soft, rich oils and gleams slightly when it catches the light.

Her face is depicted at three quarters and tilted slightly downwards, with only the middle part illuminated by candlelight. The rest gradually fades into the darkness that surrounds her. Her forehead is bare; no vallaslin.

By all accounts it’s a gorgeous piece. Save one detail.

Her eyes aren’t painted at all. There is only a delicate charcoal outline of her iris in the middle of two white spots. It’s a bit creepy, if she’s being honest, which is probably why Solas looks so self-conscious.

“I was hoping to make it a surprise, but no matter how hard I tried, I could not capture your eyes.” He lifts his gaze. “Would you sit for me?”

She swallows, and after a few grounding breaths, nods.

He directs her to a chair, sets the light and takes his time posing her with delicate dabs of his fingers.

“Look at me.”

She feels raw and exposed like this, just sitting there in silence, eyes glued to his face while he works behind an easel. His darts a glance towards her every dozen seconds or so; blink, and you’ll miss it.

What can he see? 

What do her eyes reveal to him?

“What is on your mind?” he says, breaking the silence, and she jumps a little.

“Oh, nothing in particular.”

“You played the Game beautifully tonight.”

She smiles, wishing she took the jacket off while they were in the kitchen. The collar is chafing at her neck.

“It could’ve so easily gone the other way.”

“The court loves a good ruse, as well as a good mystery, and you have given them both. The latter being yourself, of course.” His gaze lingers on her a second longer than necessary. “In Halamshiral they will eat out of your hand.”

He falls silent again. For a while she can only hear her own breaths and the delicate swipes of his brush. The castle is oddly quiet.

Eventually Solas steps back from the easel. 

“Done.”

When she stands, stretching her neck, he turns it towards her, and she freezes. 

The colour is not the same, of course. Lavellan’s eyes are a lighter shade of green, while hers – in another life, at least – were hazel.

But those are her eyes. They look straight at the viewer with painful intensity, and her feet carry her closer to the woman in the painting on their own accord, pulled by the bewitching glow in them and the feeling her alter ego radiates.

“Thoughts?”

His voice triggers something in her brain.

Yearning .

That’s what this feeling is called.

Those are the eyes of a person falling hopelessly for another.

He saw it.

He sees her.

The equilibrium that settled between herself and Solas over the past few months, one that she felt so secure in, that appeared sound only yesterday, is crumbling before her eyes, eroded by the tide of emotion.

She was so good, for so long. They flirted, sure, but she didn’t fantasise about taking it further and accepted their friendship, grateful to have that level of closeness with him. It was enough. Or so she thought. But the painting strikes the first blow, and his expression takes care of the rest.

Solas looks at her the way she looks at the portrait.

Like she’s something precious.

He’s so close.

She licks her lips.

“I see you too.”

When we love, we act without thinking.

She reaches with her marked hand and touches Solas’s cheek. Only barely, but his eyes grow wider at the contact. He sucks in a breath, and the great battle begins. Solas frowns even as he tilts his head slightly, leaning into her touch; he warns her with a quiet, Lethallan , but it comes out more breath than word. She’s all but ready to lean into the pain, silence his objections and kiss him like she always wanted – she can admit that much to herself, at least – when she spots a foreign presence.

The woman from his painting stands behind him.

Her eyes are a pale shade of green.

Lavellan opens her mouth filled with knives for teeth, and it stretches past the point of what’s possible, turning into a gaping wolfish maw that will swallow Solas’ head whole.

With a gasp she stumbles back, pinches herself as hard as she can and cries, “Wake up!”

Fucking Fade.

She sits up at the kitchen table, stiff and sore from sleeping in a sitting position. A piece of parchment that served as her pillow clings to her cheek, damp with sweat. The candles have burnt out, and it’s dark save for the pale glow of a cooling charm still covering the plate with a slice of untouched cake intended for Solas.

It wasn’t real.

He didn’t come back that night.

Did they actually meet in the Fade? Could he have dreamt himself all the way to Skyhold from wherever he is now, just to keep her company?

Or did her touch-starved subconscious mind conjure a copy of him to sweep away the last remnants of her absurd denial?

She will deal with it once he comes back, she supposes.

Somehow.

What to do with the demon of Pain, who is apparently still alive, kicking and bent on vengeance, she doesn’t have the first clue.

When she emerges into the main hall the next morning, she feels reasonably ready to face whatever the day may throw her way.

Varric is talking casually to a certain tall elf by the fireplace, and on second thought, she might have some urgent business to discuss with Vivienne.

Nope.

No. 

Not ready.

“Hey, Birdie!” Varric calls after her. “Look who’s back.”

Caught, like a deserter fleeing a losing battle, she turns around.

Solas looks as he always looks, but a discerning eye catches a stiffness to the line of his mouth. He’s been so relaxed around her lately she’d almost forgotten what that looks like.

Yeah.

It was definitely him.

“Welcome back, Solas.”

If her tone was more casual, it might turn into denim.

“Thank you. I seem to have missed a lot of excitement.”

Varric clears his throat and says, “I’ll leave you two to catch up,” before disappearing into the rotunda.

She blinks at Solas a few times, but gathers herself and closes the distance between them.

“Let’s get this out of the way.”

Solas waits.

“Forgive me.” She coughs. “I made such a big deal of you staying out of my dreams way back, it never occurred to me I might be making the same error. I overstepped. It will not happen again.”

Technically, it was more of a shared dream, but this sounds better than ‘Sorry I couldn’t keep it in my pants, still friends though, right?’

He fixes her with a keen gaze and seems to think it over, which makes no sense.

They both know where he stands on this.

“It is I who must apologise,” he says eventually. “I assumed you were aware of your dreaming state. Obviously, I was wrong. In the Fade it is easy to get carried away.”

Take the out.

“I–” she begins, and it comes out higher pitched than normal .

Keep it together.

Shaking herself sane, she swallows hard and says, “Ma nuvenin.”

“Lethallan…”

He suddenly sounds so guilty; and she hates it.

She would rather die than have his pity.

“It was a moment.”

Smile.

Sweet and easy.

Like you mean it.

Like it doesn’t hurt.

She smiles. Sweet and easy. Dying on the inside.

“A moment in the Fade. No harm done.”

Solas nods, hands clasped tightly behind his back.

Go.

It’s over.

She turns, and walks; steady, measured, dignified. Back straight, head held high, she does not stop until she reaches her balcony and lets forth a silent scream.

≈

She and her gown make a respectably sized splash as she enters the ballroom at the Winter Palace. Solas is there, and contrary to Josephine’s advice, so are Bull and Dorian.

The Qunari – to gawk at and piss people off.

The Tevene – for emotional support.

And the Elvhen God – because why the fuck not .

He’s not leaving until both Corypheus and the orb get destroyed anyway, so she might as well inoculate herself to his presence now.

Normally she would try to ‘break the game’, as it were, and find a more creative – or less painful – way to achieve her goals at an event like this, but tonight she just can’t be bothered and takes the path of least resistance.

Celine on the throne with Briala at her side seems like the best set-up for the stability of Orlais, so that’s what she goes for with the fervour of a type-A productivity nut ticking items off a checklist.

Halla statues and lockets, secret doors and coded dances, masked assassins and naked men tied to bedposts – having completed this quest many times in the past, she barely has to turn her brain on as she roams the palace.

Solas stands in his little nook, glass in hand more often than not, and watches her intently every time she drifts by. She tries to look extremely busy and responds to his polite nods with her own, which is about as involved an interaction as she’s prepared to handle with him.

She’s on her way to the ballroom when he waves her over.

Deep breaths.

He’s leaning over a tall round table with a half-emptied plate of canapes and two glasses of wine sitting on top.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” she asks.

Looking at the plate makes her realise how hungry she is.

“I will once you eat something, and I don’t have to worry about the Inquisitor collapsing from exhaustion.”

He pushes the plate towards her.

Well, that's unexpected.

The exchange is actually… friendly.

“Oh, is it that obvious? Do I look pale?”

“A bit.”

She gives up and stuffs herself. Well, as much as one can with canapes.

“Do they meet your high standards?”

“I’m going to steal that smoked salmon puff recipe,” she says, trying and failing to not talk with her mouth full.

He chuckles.

“I am surprised a gourmand such as yourself did not partake until now.”

“Work first, pleasure later.”

She cleans up with a napkin Solas offers and washes it all down with some wine, significantly more at ease.

“The court offers many. Do you have any interest in dancing?”

He’s not gonna honestly ask her, is he?

She eyes him cautiously.

“Duchess Floriane is on my dance card.”

“For pleasure?” he asks, one eyebrow raised.

What the hell is happening?

“For the Game.” She brushes a piece of nonexistent lint from her sleeve, wracking her carb-addled brain for a good exit line. “But I will try to enjoy it.”

“It seems your dinner stunt was merely the beginning.”

“Huh?”

“You took to the Game well, lethallan.” Solas leans closer and lowers his voice. “They call the bait-and-switch you pulled at dinner the Lavellan , did you know?”

She resists the urge to lean back.

“I’ve always wanted to coin something. Or… be coined, I guess.”

“I have been watching you. Listening to what the courtiers say. You roam this place like you own it, Inquisitor. Like you’ve done it a thousand times before, and the masked men elevate you for it.”

“You’re just full of compliments today.”

There is a sneaking suspicion in the back of her mind. 

“And why not?” Solas moves even closer. “I am constantly surprised by your ability to connect with people whose circumstances are so far removed from your own.”

With no warning his hand moves to cup the side of her jaw, his face mere inches from hers. Close enough for his breath to brush her skin, catching it on fire both hot and cold.

No.

No, no, no, she thinks even as heat pools somewhere low in her belly.

This is the Winter Palace.

Everyone’s watching.

And this is Solas, for fuck’s sake.

He would never, ever make the first move.

His other arm is slowly circling her waist, guiding her towards him, like a snake lazily trapping her in its deadly coils. A hunger, dark and urgent, lingers in his eyes.

As her brain screams at her to run, her stupid legs take an involuntary step forward, and their clothes rustle against each other like lovers whispering heated promises in the dark of a deserted garden.

She feels dizzy, drunk on an exhilarating cocktail of desire and fear.

But mostly fear.

“A wolf in sheep’s clothing. Would that I had such a gift.”

His lips almost touch the corner of hers, but it’s his eyes that make her skin crawl.

In them she sees… everything.

Okay.

The jig is up.

She steps away and his arms drop back to his sides. Every trace of lust evaporates from Solas’s face, leaving it cold, calm, proud and perfect.

“How?” she whispers.

“How indeed?”

Oh, he is pissed .

Her entire body shivers.

“Not now.”

“When?”

“After I’m finished here. Meet me on the balcony, north side, by the blue parlor.”

He nods.

“I shall find you,” Solas says.

No.

Warns.

Do not let the Dread Wolf catch your scent.

Too late for that.

“I know what you’re capable of.”

Solas barks a short laugh.

“Do you believe I would harm you, Inquisitor?”

“Of course not,” she says. “We have people for that sort of thing.”

With that she flees, heart pounding, and the rest of the evening blends into a bizarre panorama of faces and events her brain barely registers.

She doesn’t dance with Florianne. Doesn’t expose her publicly.

No, thank you.

Not in the state she’s in.

She’ll just make a mess of it.

When she lets Cullen know what’s about to happen, he takes over; the Duchess is thwarted and dragged away, and she just stands there looking stern while Leliana and Josephine dress down Celine, Gaspard and Briala, laying out all the evidence she gathered against them.

The gavel strikes, and Gaspard is escorted to the dungeons.

Celine looks at Briala adoringly when she presents them with a locket she found. She tells them of second chances; of how precious love is, especially in the time of calamity; of the looks she saw the two women give each other.

She doesn’t believe a word of it.

By the time she gets to the balcony, she’s completely spent.

Solas arrives shortly as agreed. He leans against the railing, a respectable arm and a half distance away from her. He looks… calmer, relaxed almost, although knowing Solas that doesn’t mean very much. That mask, polished to a mirror shine over millennia, could conceal all sorts of sinister designs.

He waits, seemingly undisturbed by the chasm of silence between them and all the unspoken truths simmering somewhere at the bottom, waiting to be plucked and examined.

He regards the garden below; the sky above; his hands; her hands. 

She is in no hurry to break the impasse, profoundly uncertain of what follows it, but she’s tired, still hungry and sick of everything about this nest of vipers.

There’s no calories left in her to spare for more bullshit tonight.

“Someone needs to speak before my growling stomach ruins the mood,” she says, turning to face Solas, the Dread Wolf, the Destroyer of Worlds.

His face is a picture of poise and civility.

“I am pleased you are in high spirits, despite the day’s many trials.”

“The spirits could be considerably higher.”

“Surely you have earned a glass or two. Celine and Briala reconciled… To see their affection flourish once more is certainly something to celebrate. And this bodes well for the elves of Orlais. My congratulations.”

She shakes her head.

“Celine murdered Briala’s family, concealed it for twenty years, and massacred the elves of Halamshiral while they were still together. At the Divine’s behest, no less. You will forgive me not toasting to their newfound devotion. Those two are just… toxic.”

Not unlike us , she thinks ruefully.

“And when this falls apart,” she continues, “as it surely will, the innocent will bear the cost. Again. Gaspard might be an ignorant bully, but he was right about the Game. It stinks. There were no good options on the table today, only varying degrees of abominable.”

Solas tilts his head. 

“I can appreciate the frustration. Obviously.”

So, that’s small talk done with, then.

In a rush, are we?

Fine, just… fine .

“It is a relief, in a way, that you figured it out.”

“Oh?”

“All the secrets, the lies, the doublespeak. I don’t know how you do it, Solas, truly. Because I feel like… like it’s burning holes,” she says, her head low and voice even lower.

“Credit where it is due, you kept me guessing for a long while.”

“Well. I learned from the best.”

Their eyes meet and the world around them stills, like they’re in the Fade again. Different, yet similar. Liars and outcasts both, in an exile of their own making, who yearn for a world lost.

A world where, surely, they must have been much happier once.

That is so much better than this.

Solas turns away first, for once, clears his throat and fidgets with the sleeves of his jacket.

“I have underestimated my opponents before, but not like this.”

“Corypheus comes to mind,” she says, and the corners of his lips twitch slightly.

“Certainly. Although he is an ancient Magister, while you–”

He stops short, and she responds with a knowing smile, not even slightly offended at the implication. She was always keenly aware of where and who she was next to him.

“While I am not.”

Solas inclines his head and his shoulders slump.

“Forgive me. That was unworthy.”

But not wrong.

“So are we opponents then?”

“Are we not?”

She shrugs.

“I never considered us such.”

Solas narrows his eyes.

“Do you… know of my designs?”

“I do. In the broadest of strokes.”

The wording is not accidental. She knows his plan like a stranger would know of her deeds by looking at Solas’ frescoes.

He seems to catch her meaning and nods.

“Will you try to stop me?”

“No.”

He regards her with scepticism, but she meets his gaze with an ease that only comes from honesty.

After a moment of silence he shakes his head.

“You are adept at deception, Inquisitor. More so than I, and it is a hard thing for me to admit.”

“I’m not lying.”

“The price of my success is terrible. A woman of your morals would not stand for it.”

Precisely , she thinks. But stopping him means becoming his enemy. She cannot stand for that either. Which is why she has to extricate herself from the situation entirely.

Leaving Solas is painful.

Staying just to lose him – as well as her world – anyway is unbearable .

“The Inquisition might try to stop you, but I won’t,” she says, choosing her words extremely carefully. “I will neither assist, nor fight you with word or deed, and I will say nothing further on the subject.”

Silence descends again. For a long, long minute there is only the rustling of leaves in the garden below, and the faint echoes of talk and music coming from the far off ballroom.

Come, before the band stops playing, dance with me!

That will never happen; too much has changed, and it makes her want to fall on her knees and weep.

Then, before this moment of bleak apprehension erupts and buries them both, Solas steps forward and captures her hands in his, bringing her, pliant at the unexpected touch, to stand opposite him.

Her thoughts scatter like a flock of birds startled by a careless hunter, and she feels stupefied in the sweetest possible way as he runs one of his thumbs over the Anchor.

“The moment I laid eyes on you, I knew you were not what you seemed. The way you thought and spoke. Your aversion to violence and bigotry. There is not a drop of Dalish in her, I thought, the vallaslin notwithstanding. You confirmed some of my suspicions early and easily, yet evaded and withheld with others. A fascinating mystery, either way.” 

He speaks softly, eyes drifting between her face and their hands twined together.

“Your dreams offered further hints. Some things in them were… peculiar.”

She feels herself blush a little.

“Climbing equipment?”

He nods.

“Clothing. Environments. Some of your references made little sense. You mentioned books and people with bizarre names I have never heard of. On its own it would have meant next to nothing, but together painted rather a picture,” he says. “And then Fear called you Wanderer.”

“I wasn’t aware you heard that.”

“I considered telling you. I also held out the hope that you would come to me first, as we have built a rapport. Or so it seemed.”

Rapport.

That’s one word for it.

He was intrigued, and she was smitten, no matter how many defences she erected against it, and it would’ve been hilarious, if it wasn’t so absolutely, hopelessly tragic.

She attempts to move away, but he keeps holding her hands and tucks at her, gently but emphatically. Biting her lip, she stops.

Who cares if it’s just another game of his.

This could well be the last time they ever touch.

Giving in, she runs a cautious finger down the centre of his palm.

Was that a shiver?

“What gave up the rest of it?” she asks.

Please don’t say Dorian, please don’t say Dor…

“Cole.”

“That little shit!” she blurts, eyes wide and mouth open, and Solas laughs. He actually laughs, and she can’t help but join him.

She wants to hug him so badly she sways, and her hands reflexively squeeze his. Sensing this, perhaps, his voice grows even quieter.

“He was trying to help.”

“Oh, I’m sure! Compassion my ass. Months of meticulous word games down the goddamn drain.”

With another amused huff, and perhaps in response to her silent plea, his hands slip from hers, then move tentatively up her arms and around her shoulders, drawing her into an embrace so sweet she could cry.

There is no more tension, no pretence of resistance. She just wraps her arms around his back, pulling him closer, and even allows herself a shy stroke or two, tracing the velvety pattern of his jacket with her fingers.

A hug.

Their first, in or out of the Dreaming. 

She waited for so long, and it is every bit as good as she’d imagined.

He is solid and warm under her hands and cheek. His breath tickles at the skin on her forehead. She closes her eyes and just listens for his heartbeat for a while with her ear pressed to his chest, through all the layers of that absurdly expensive uniform.

He is real.

She is real.

Not enough.

Too much.

He swallows, and she can see his Adam’s apple bob, catching every detail of the sounds escaping him. She wants so badly to tilt her head and brush his chin with her lips. How easy would that be?

“Do you remember how you said that you see me? By the portrait,” Solas says softly into her hair.

He didn’t need to mention the portrait. She remembers that night like it’s tattooed on the back of her retina.

“Is that all it took?” she asks, genuinely amazed. “That could mean any number of things.”

“I thought so as well, but I was beseeched by the memory, and Cole must have sensed my distress.”

Well, at least she wasn’t the only one going crazy.

“What did he say?”

“He was uncharacteristically concise, adding only one word. All . ‘She sees all of you’, he told me.” Solas gently tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and she closes her eyes, lost in the feeling. “I simply could not wait any longer after that. But I knew if I confronted you directly, you would shut me down.”

A wolf in sheep’s clothing.

“You tricked me.”

“I tricked you.”

It comes out sad and tender at the same time.

“Well, I suppose that’s what Fen’Harel does.”

There.

It’s out.  

Seconds drag on, and the air is so thick with anticipation she can almost see it. Solas doesn’t let go, arms a bit stiff around her; the gentlest of prisons. He waits, keeping her close and conveniently unable to gauge his expression.

It is her turn now.

Here we go.

“I was dreaming when Corypheus opened the Breach. It must have reached me in the Fade, somehow. I…” she hesitates. “I am not of this world, but I knew of Thedas and Corypheus, and you. Everything that happened since the Conclave, or even before that — it is a story, where I come from. A story I knew well. One I lived through, after a fashion, like one of those memories you can conjure up and act out in the Fade, safe and entirely self-contained. Until the Breach.”

He listens and waits. Her lizard brain senses that his face changes with each utterance, but she doubts she’ll see anything other than his resting wolf face were she to pull away. 

He squeezes her shoulders slightly as if to say, Go on.

“Perhaps the mythos from your side of the cosmos seeped into the deepest layers of the Fade and landed in the dreaming mind of a storyteller in mine.”

Solas shifts and his lips brush her temple. When he speaks, his voice reverberates against her skin, raising it in goosebumps.

“The Fade is understood as an ethereal realm inextricably tied to Thedas,” he says. “However, while many elvhen scholars used Fade and Dreaming interchangeably, they are not necessarily the same. Perhaps the Fade is simply a conduit to a much thinner, more delicate magical medium. Or perhaps it is orders of magnitude more complex than even I realised.”

He sounds enthralled by the enigma of her origins, and she’s strangely glad that at least she could give him that. It won’t spare her, but there will always be a part of her that just wants to see him pleased.

“Circumstances of my arrival aside, I do know that, while the timeline is unreliable and they surely made narrative allowances, the events of the story are fairly accurate. That allowed me a degree of… prescience.”

He considers the implications for a moment.

“You changed the course of events.”

She nods.

He’s about to say something else, opens his mouth, closes it again, then pulls away enough to look at her face, and to let her clearly see his.

“Did you give Wisdom the amulet?”

Oh, that.

“One of my better ideas,” she says with a smile of unabashed pride.

She moves away then, and Solas lets her go with ease. She leans against the railing, and after brief hesitation he mirrors her, their shoulders brushing together.

“Wisdom was remarkably tight-lipped about it.”

“I did not ask for secrecy. Didn’t even need to explain the situation.”

“What was the situation?”

“Binding. Corruption. Death.”

Solas scowls like he just chugged a pint of Earl Grey.

“When was this to occur?”

“After we reach Skyhold, not sure when exactly. I made revisions straight after Redcliffe to mitigate the risk.”

“Not before?”

She shakes her head.

“I needed Dorian’s help with the summoning. I was only a wisp of a mage back then, as you might recall.”

Solas makes another face at the mention of his favorite Tevene, as well as the notion of Wisdom being summoned at all, but issues no remarks. 

“Then it was only a matter of procuring the amulet. Josephine took care of that for me.”

“How would Wisdom be corrupted?”

Her lips make a thin line as the memory reenacts itself in her mind.

“A group of mages would summon it on their way through the Exalted Plains to protect them from bandits, of all things.”

“And twist it into a Pride demon,” he concludes sharply.

She nods.

“We would’ve… dealt with the mages, and destroyed the binding stones. Too late to save your friend, though.”

Solas hangs his head with a heavy sigh.

“Ma serannas.”

“De’banal.”

“No.” His hand seizes hers. “No, it is not.”

He presses a chaste kiss of gratitude to her knuckles and does not let go, but keeps holding her palm, nesting it between both of his.

She makes no objections.

Naturally.

“What else did you prevent?”

“Many things. There was a version of the future where Corypheus wins by way of Alexius. Another where he ambushes Haven while everyone’s drunk. One where Celine dies. Oh! Leliana was going to house her ravens over the library.” She scrunches her nose. “So much bird shit, I mean…”

He smiles, brushing his lips against her knuckles again.

“Oh, you have been busy.”

Her hand rests so easy in his, fits there so well. She looks at him, at his lips, into the bottomless ocean of his eyes. It hurts how beautiful he is.

Let’s wrap this up , she thinks, before her strength abandons her and she attempts something untoward.

“No busier than you, I suspect.”

His smile falters. Silence enters the space between them again, and Solas seems to mull over how best to play this.

No, not Solas.

Fen’Harel.

Old, cunning, strategic.

With palpable effort, she takes her hand away, but keeps looking into his eyes.

Time to play.

“Your orb will be destroyed.”

Who needs preamble when you can drop a bomb like that?

Her confession lowers the temperature by a few thousand degrees. Gone is the soft wonder, gone is the fondness in his eyes. A tempest gathers behind them. His jaw is so tight and the gaze he fixes her with so sharp she could open rifts with them.

“And who would destroy it?”

“Me,” she says, quickly adding, “not on purpose.”

“Then you can prevent it.”

“I cannot.”

“You must try.”

Frustration slips into her tone.

“ I cannot . It is fate, Solas, and it was sealed the moment you surrendered the orb to that monster.”

“He was supposed to die unlocking it.”

Does he think if he says it enough times, it will magically come true?

She inhales through the nose and exhales slowly, counting to five.

It’s like talking to a child.

A headstrong child refusing to take no for an answer.

“You made a mistake in the prologue, Solas; many people paid for it dearly. Did you really expect to enjoy the grand finale from the luxury box without paying yourself?”

He scoffs.

“I would pay any price, but the People have paid enough!”

And whose fault is that?

That would be the obvious thing to say.

It would even be the correct thing.

But not the right one.

“I know. I’m sorry,” she says softly and reaches to cup his cheek.

He jerks away and takes a hasty step back.

“You prevented other things. You’re cunning. Find a way.”

His tone turns almost pleading.

Honestly, she preferred the entitled Solas to this.

This one is much harder to refuse.

“Some parts of the story are set in stone,” she says, folding her arms across her chest. “I could defeat Alexius in a hundred different ways, but could not keep him from coming to Redcliffe. I could not stop the Grey Wardens’ corruption. The orb is the same way.”

That makes him falter a moment, and she seizes it.

This is the Dread Wolf.

His goal always comes first, and his resolve wavered only briefly when he was in love. It would be the height of idiocy to expect him to give her any quarter just because he kind of likes her this time around.

She has to save herself.

Again.

And if this means lying to his face, so be it.

Sell it , she tells herself. Sell it with everything you’ve got.

“Corypheus will reopen the Breach,” she continues with every scrap of confidence she can muster. “Many things will happen between now and then, but we cannot kill him yet, and when we can, I will have to use the orb to seal the Breach for good. Corypheus dies, the orb shatters and you walk away. That’s how this story ends.”

The orb will shatter.

It is the truth.

She thinks of that, only that, not one step beyond, looking the ancient elf before her straight in the eyes, and she does not flinch.

Silence looms, unyielding.

Seconds tick by.

One.

Two.

Keep looking.

Three.

Do not look away.

Four.

You can do this.

Five.

Solas looks away.

“I will have to see it to believe it.”

It takes all of her will to keep a sigh of relief from escaping her lungs.

“I expected as much. You can meet us on our approach to the Temple. Or at Skyhold, when the Breach reappears.”

“Are you ordering me to leave, Inquisitor?”

She laughs. A short, painful sound.

“Was that not your intention?”

Why else have this conversation here, with an Eluvian close by? Unlocking it will take time, and one assumes he wishes to start sooner rather than later. His eyes dart away from hers for a moment by way of answering.

“Do you–?” He seems to be having a debate with himself on whether to ask or not. The ‘not’ loses. “Do you know what happens after the orb?”

She makes a vague gesture with her hand.

“Plan B will likely unfold in Tevinter. Beyond that, nothing.”

Idol? What idol?

He then nods curtly.

“There is much to do,” he says, again, more to himself than to her.

“For me as well.”

She takes a step towards the door.

“Inquisitor.”

“Hmm?”

“Did you genuinely suggest that I might send assassins after you?”

Frowning, she looks away for a moment and actually thinks about it.

“No more than you suggested that you’d hunt me down if I didn’t show up, I suppose.”

“It was–” His features twist for a fleeting moment. “I would not harm you.”

Not intentionally.

But she does not say that painful truth either.

There’s been quite enough of that.

“You will not even try to dissuade me?”

If this was anyone but Solas, she might call his voice insecure.

She moves her head almost imperceptibly from side to side.

There is one more question in his eyes.

Why?

She makes an effort, despite her exhaustion and general misery. It can’t come out disparaging, because it is not. She can’t say it with sadness or regret. That would be a disservice to the depth of her feelings for him.

Whatever he is or was; has done or will do; no matter how strongly they might disagree – she has always found him beautiful and worthy of love.

“We are who we are, Solas.”

She hopes her smile shows everything it needs to.

He closes his eyes and exhales.

“Just so.”

≈

Somehow Dorian finds her in one of the vacant chambers a few minutes later collapsed on the floor bawling her broken heart out.

He stops cold at the sight.

“What happened?”

Her sobs are at the hiccup phase. That makes talking difficult.

“I’m going to kill that bald bastard.”

Was she that obvious?

Probably.

With a sigh and half-hearted complaints about how this will ruin his outfit, Dorian joins her on the floor, takes her in his arms and bravely endures as she clings to him, soothing herself in his solid presence and the scent of sandalwood he wears.

When her breathing finally evens out, she doesn’t feel any better.

But at least she knows what to do.

“Set wards,” she whispers, using a velvet curtain to wipe the snot from her nose.

Once the familiar muted sensation envelops the room, she draws in a slow breath, and exhales just as slowly.

“I have to get outta here.”

This doesn’t give them much to go on, but she needs to say it out loud, even just to herself.

“You don’t mean the court, do you.”

She shoots Dorian a slightly apologetic look, but he smiles and brushes aside strands of hair that still cling to her damp cheeks.

“I thought you had settled. Even seemed to enjoy your life here.”

“I did. I do. It’s just–“

“I am aware that Thedas lacks certain conveniences you’re accustomed to. Although I still do not fully understand how that horse on demand service you’ve described works, and what precisely is so uber about it.”

She laughs; a slightly ragged, but not completely miserable sound.

Dorian taps her nose playfully.

“If he rejected you, he is a fool, I hope you know that.”

She shrugs.

“I suppose you miss your people, still.”

“I do.”

“But there’s more to it, yes?”

She sits up. Dorian’s gaze is very sharp on her.

“It’s a dangerous thing to know.”

I don’t want you to suffer for this.

“So it’s not just about you. It’s bigger, isn’t it?”

It seems he’s been suspecting this for a good while.

She nods.

“How big?”

She sighs, runs her hands over her face and meets his gaze.

“Apocalyptic.”

Chapter Text

The first few days are an ordeal.

In the absence of a sad playlist, or a device to play it on, she haunts the rotunda like a masochistic poltergeist, mostly at night to spare the library visitors the embarrassment of watching their leader coming undone at the sight of a mural that will never be finished.

Sleep provides no relief either; when she withdraws into a soothing embrace of the Fade, like so many times before, a moment’s peace quickly gives way to anxiety when she feels someone’s eyes on her at all times. They’re on her back when she climbs; off to the side, in the foliage or in the mist, when she runs through the surreal Dreaming-conjured landscapes.

Her Shadow waits, she knows.

Waits, and plots, and picks a perfect moment to strike.

She ends up asking Dorian for a herb that prevents dreaming entirely. Lavellan can’t get her that way. Survival, after all, is more important than comfort.

People ask her where Solas went. And why not; the two of them were so close . They stop after she barks at Dagna – Dagna, whom she adores – to go make herself useful.

She apologises later, of course.

Dagna understands and asks if she can help.

They all ask if they can help.

All except Cole, who, incidentally, is nowhere to be seen. Eventually, when her patience wears thin, and she goes deliberately searching for him, Skyhold’s denizens assure her they’ve spoken to him recently, which means he’s making himself ‘invisible’ just for her.

She knows she would never hurt him, which means he knows that too.

Maybe he’s not ready to answer her questions.

Or she’s not ready to hear what he has to say.

Well, she supposes, if she can step out of the way and respect Solas’ wish to lay waste to an entire world, respecting Cole’s privacy should be a piece of cake.

Dorian doesn’t let her wallow in it too much, anyway.

He finds her at the top of an unfinished tower on the westernmost side of the keep. The chamber has no roof and one wall opens into a chasm where on a cloudless summer day one can observe the Inquisition’s forces camped across the valley below.

The room has a single table, no chairs, and an assortment of construction material waiting to be put to use. She takes her meals there sometimes, away from all the concerned looks and how-are-you’s she has no polite answers for.

Dorian curses when he stumbles on one of the stone bricks laid haphazardly by the door. She sets aside her sandwich and levels him with her best kindly condescending gaze.

“I suspect you have questions,” she says and bursts out laughing.

“Have you gone completely mad? I have potions for that, you know.”

“Ah… No, no. My humour goes dark. It’s a coping mechanism. You do have questions though, right?”

“A few,” Dorian says after setting wards. She doesn’t need to ask anymore. “And some firm statements.”

“Start with those.”

“Let’s just kill him.”

She takes a relaxed sip from a waterskin, wipes her mouth thoughtfully and says, “Next.”

Dorian levels her with the ‘eat your vegetables’ look.

“I know how difficult that would be for you…”

“It’s not about my feelings. I would stand aside, if it was just that.”

She’d like to think that she would, at least. That her morals would prevail over romantic concerns, if it came to an obvious choice between the two. Nothing about this is obvious, though.

“What is it then? Explain to me how this will not solve all our problems?”

“ The first of my people do not die so easily. ”

“What?”

“That’s what he told me, in another life. Do you know who Mythal is?” She continues after Dorian nods. “She was killed by her kin thousands of years ago, and her soul now resides in Flemeth.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Witch of the Wilds,” she explains. “Morrigan’s mother.”

“I think I need a drink,” Dorian declares, leaning against the table next to her.

She pats him on the shoulder.

“It’s not like the idea never occurred to me. But we do not know if Solas can be killed, and what might happen if he is.”

“But–”

“What if his spirit goes to the Fade, more powerful without the constraints of a body? What if a demon consumes his essence and turns into a much angrier, much more dangerous god? Or any other millions of possibilities I lack the brainpower to fathom.”

Dorian crosses his arms in defiance.

“Or maybe he’ll just die. We don’t know.”

“Exactly,” she says, shifting atop the table to face him. “If you do this, you’d be making a sweeping, world-changing decision with no awareness of the consequences, simply because it looks expedient and you don’t know any better. Which is exactly what Solas did when he made the Veil.”

She leaves the, Look how well that worked out , part implied.

“Maybe,” Dorian says, brows knit. “Or maybe you’re rationalising. That’s what smart people do, you know. They make up intelligent reasons to justify stupid choices made by their genitals.”

She snorts in spite of herself.

“Good thing you’re here, then. You don’t care for Solas, as you’ve made abundantly clear. Considering what I told you, do you still want to kill him?”

“Yes. Very much.” She waits, and eventually he sighs. “But I see your point. In any case, you run this show. Once you’re gone–” There’s a barely noticeable crack to his voice, but he quickly irons it out. “Once you’re gone, I can’t make any promises.”

She clears her throat.

“That’s… fair.”

“I am assuming you’re going to use the orb for that. Pierce the Fade all the way home?”

“Seems like the thing to do, given what Wisdom told me.”

“But you also said the orb will shatter when you use it. How would that work?”

“You still have Alexius’ amulet, right?”

Dorian’s eyes turn into narrow slits.

“I do.”

“Can you… recalibrate it to go back instead of forward?”

“How far?”

“A few seconds.”

“Probably,” he muses, twirling his moustache, halfway between apprehensive and intrigued.

“Good. I need to do something else first, though, or that part of the plan is moot, anyway.”

“Am I ever going to hear that mysterious plan of yours in its entirety?”

The stare he levels her with makes her inadvertently lower her gaze. His posture is stiff, voice sharp; he spoke to his father that way when they met the man together in Redcliffe.

It is possible that maybe, just maybe she hurt his feelings.

“I’m sorry,” she says, twisting her fingers into the hem of her shirt. “I didn’t mean to reduce our friendship to this. You’re not my… magical appendage, Dorian.”

“Lately it feels that I am.” He softens somewhat and gently lifts her chin up. “I wish to help. Maker knows, you helped me enough, and I’m not just referring to my familial quarrels. You’ve made sure I am accepted here, don’t think it escaped my notice.”

“But?”

“But with this Plan,” he makes a dramatic gesture, as if underlining the word, “it’s like I’m not there anymore. Instead of helping you strategize, you’re just giving me tasks. Do you not trust me?”

“Of course I do,” she says, brow knit.

“Why then?”

“Because if it all goes belly up, then that’s on me. No need to put that mess on someone else’s shoulders.”

He ponders that for a moment, and a small knowing smile twists his lips.

“I think I am beginning to understand your affinity with Solas.”

“Huh?”

“That’s how you both think. Judging by what you told me of him, I mean,” Dorian says, nodding to himself. “That it’s all on you . You see the big picture.”

“I– Well– I’m not sure that–”

“Oh, that is precious!” Dorian laughs, slapping his thigh. “Two control freaks in love.”

“Haha.” She makes a face, choosing to ignore the ‘love’ bit. “Thank you for that astute diagnosis, doctor Pavus. Except I only seek to control your own destiny, while he–”

“Oh, please, how many times have you altered fate this year alone? It didn’t end with Redcliffe; if anything, Redcliffe was your practice run.” He takes her hand in his and squeezes it lightly. “I’m not judging, trust me. If I had that knowledge… I can’t even imagine. Just don’t fool yourself, amica . What you’re doing is not that different from what your beau is planning. Or even Corypheus. You’re all using your power to change the world.”

“I–”

She closes her mouth, frowning aggressively.

This is, admittedly, a new way of thinking about this.

“Say nothing yet. Just think about it,” Dorian says, patting her on the back. “A deception of the self is the most dangerous kind. Now…” He claps once. “What else can your supremely talented, generous and gracious friend do to further your grand plan? Other than turning back time, that is.”

“And beautiful,” she says, smiling sheepishly. “He’s also very beautiful.”

He waves his hand.

“Goes without saying. So, what do you need?”

She sighs.

“I need to die.”

≈

She leaves Dorian to his unpleasant work and descends the tower to find a certain witch and her offspring in the gardens.

They’re easy enough to spot, sitting on a bench facing one another playing a version of tic-tac-toe, so lighthearted and careless it makes her stop in her tracks and just watch, taken by the normalcy of the scene.

Morrigan looks… happy. Her laugh is not sharp or mysterious or arrogant, but full of joy, same as Kieran’s, whenever one of them makes a mistake and they have to start over. 

She envies them, she realises.

They have each other.

They will always have each other.

This can wait , she thinks, turning away, but the witch’s voice stops her.

“Inquisitor!”

Morrigan kisses her son's forehead before approaching.

“We never got a chance to talk at the Winter Palace, but I trust your Ambassador has informed you of who I am?”

She gathers herself.

Let’s get this over with.

“You are Morrigan, and that,” she says, gesturing at the boy, “is your son Kieran.”

He smiles timidly at the sound of his name and hops over to them.

“You have a weird hand!” Kieran says with that charming bluntness kids possess.

“Hush, little man,” Morrigan says softly and strokes his hair. “I was assured that I could bring him here. Wherever I go, he goes as well.”

“Certainly,” she says and bends her knees a little to bring her face level with the boy’s. “Hey, kid. How’s that Old God passenger treating you?”

Truth be told, she has no idea if Morrigan’s son has the soul or not – world states and all that. But she needs to make an impression, and if she’s wrong, oh well. ‘Crazy Inquisitor lady saying crazy things’ shocks no one at Skyhold at this point.

Her doubts prove short-lived, however, because the witch’s golden eyes go wide.

“It’s alright. I just have weird dreams,” Kieran says, while his mother takes a step back and puts both of her gloved hands on the boy’s shoulders.

“What do you want with my son?” Morrigan asks in a sharp, accusatory tone.

Hello, mama bear.

“We can discuss that here where any manner of spies can overhear us, or go to the Crossroads. Your pick.”

Morrigan’s eyes dart around the garden, then to her face, and back to Kieran, like she can’t decide whether to go alone, take him, or just slice the Inquisitor’s head clean off out of an abundance of caution.

“Let’s all go,” she offers to break an impasse. “I am no danger to your son, and like you said, he is safest when he’s with you.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

She just inclines her head towards the tower where Morrigan keeps her Eluvian and takes the lead, only pausing at the mirror for the witch to unlock it. 

The second they enter the Crossroads, a dagger is pressed to her throat from behind.

“What do you want?”

“Careful. If you kill me in the Fade, I’ll probably become a spirit, and it won’t be a spirit of love and friendship,” she says, raising her hands and keeping her breaths even.

Morrigan tilts the blade, and right away there’s a trickle of blood sliding down into her tunic. She barely felt it. That thing must be sharp.

“What. Do. You. Want?”

“To strike a bargain with you and your son.”

“On what terms?”

“You give me the Old God soul. I give you the knowledge of who your mother really is, and even throw in a literal font of ancient wisdom as a bonus. Or at least the means of getting to it.”

The words ‘mother’ and ‘ancient wisdom’ have a predictably dramatic effect on Morrigan. The blade disappears, and she casts a quick healing spell – a simple enough thing at this point for her – before turning to face the witch again.

Anger and caution in the woman’s strange golden eyes are swept away, leaving curiosity and anticipation in their place.

“You promise much,” Morrigan says. “How would we go about this exchange?”

“A two-sided geas? If you can manage that.”

Morrigan scoffs.

“Of course I can. But ‘tis a dangerous game to play, Inquisitor. The consequences of an error in fulfilling the geas, even unconsciously committed, would be dire.”

“Then you better not err,” she replies with a shrug.

Something wails in the distance, and she braces internally, but quickly recalls that the Crossroads is not in the Fade proper. It is a world inside a world. No way Lavellan could follow her here.

“Expecting someone?”

The witch’s astute gaze doesn’t miss a thing.

“Never you mind that,” she says a bit tersely. “Consider this instead. If you don’t give the soul to me, Flemeth will kidnap Kieran and take it for herself.”

Morrigan blinks.

“You cannot know this.”

“I can and I do.”

Taken aback by her adamant confidence, the witch gives her another careful once-over.

“Who are you?”

“A passenger. Of sorts.”

“From Elvhenan of old, perhaps?”

Oh, that’s hilarious.

“No more freebies. Yes or no?”

Morrigan takes Kieran aside then for a long quiet conversation; and afterwards they take another hour to find the wording of a geas they can all live with. 

She belatedly thinks she should’ve warned Dorian, or Varric, or someone of where she was going and why. Ask for advice, maybe, or backup. So many things could go wrong here; foresight does not guarantee safety.

This is how, she supposes, powerful people start entertaining ideas of godhood. Of changing the world, just like Dorian said.

How they think it’s okay to make sweeping decisions that reshape reality.

And how they fall, in the end.

Something – a magical talent, a happy accident, circumstances of their birth – gives them an advantage over others. They come to rely on that advantage, and it compounds. Luck draws luck. Power begets power.

They start thinking it’s about them ; they are special; they have the right.

They deserve it.

Why not take credit?

Why check with someone else?

Why question yourself?

You’ve succeeded so far…

“Are you ready?”

The look she gives Morrigan likely betrays some of her unease; the witch tilts her head slightly and says, “’Tis not too late to turn back.”

It is, though.

She needs that power.

Going to Vir Dathara to sift through records looking for alternatives could take weeks or months. Corypheus will not wait that long.

She shakes her head.

“Do it.”

With a nod Morrigan takes her hand, asks Kieran to do the same, and casts the geas with very little fanfare. There’s no brightly coloured sparks, no sound effects or puffs of smoke. They simply say the required words in Common; Morrigan’s eyes glow like ambers at the end – the only signal that something out of the ordinary is afoot.

“Do you swear on your life?”

“I swear on my life.”

“As do I,” the witch says.

“As do I,” the boy echoes.

Magic envelops them like a weighted blanket; too heavy, too restricting. Her throat constricts, and she finds it hard to breathe or think of anything other than the oath she just made, and what it would take to be free of it.

When they let go of her hands, impressions linger on her palms like fresh burns.

She lets out a heavy sigh and looks in Morrigan’s eyes.

They no longer glow.

Not in the magical scene, at least.

“Your mother carries the soul of Mythal, an elvhen goddess of Justice who was betrayed and slain by her evanuris kin,” she begins, and each word uttered lifts a fraction of the weight. She continues with more energy. “Given Flemeth’s history, the two are quite a match. As far as I know, Flemeth intends to pass on Mythal’s soul onto you when she dies, which will probably happen soon.”

“How will she perish?”

“Someone will take her and Mythal’s power, but not the soul, to the best of my knowledge.”

“You know what my next question is.”

“I cannot answer it.”

No way Morrigan will leave Solas be if she knows.

“You have to, or the geas–”

Nice try.

“The geas will do nothing,” she snaps. “I am not compelled to reveal the identity of your mother’s killer, only that she will die.”

Morrigan huffs, but accepts her assertion with a curt nod.

“How will Flemeth pass on the soul to me?”

“Technically, I believe Mythal herself will offer to be your passenger. Flemeth mentioned that souls are not imposed on the unwilling.”

She realises she’s been hunched over this whole time, but that last admission finally allows her to stand upright, and she can breathe almost normally.

“Flemeth lies, Inquisitor, ’tis second nature to her.”

“Maybe,” she says with a shrug. “But I don’t think she was lying.”

The witch chews on it all for a bit, and her face reflects exactly what thoughts of her mother must taste like.

“And the second part?” Morrigan asks.

She explains what the Well of Sorrows is, how best to obtain it and the steep price of its ownership; emphasises at length the benefits of working with Abelas instead of fighting him.

Follow the petitioner's path.

Be respectful.

Be patient.

He can be moved, she knows, even if it doesn’t seem so at first.

The witch must convince the sentinel to surrender the Well, or let it be destroyed.

Bottom line is – Corypheus cannot have it.

With all the questions asked and answered, Morrigan stands there, deep in thought, by the most well-behaved child in the universe; Kieran doesn’t make a peep during their entire back-and-forth.

The witch’s gaze is distant, like she’s in the Arbor Wilds already.

“Will you not accompany us, Inquisitor?” Morrigan asks absent-mindedly.

“Us?” she repeats. “You’re taking Kieran with you? I assumed you’d just fly there.”

The witch takes her son’s hand firmly in hers.

“If what you told me about Flemeth is true, I am not letting him out of my sight.”

“Fair enough. But you don’t need me for this.”

“Will this Abelas not be more amenable with one of his own present at the negotiations?”

A bitter laugh escapes her.

“I am as shem to him as you are. Maybe even more so.”

She rubs her face vigorously.

In much knowledge, much sorrow.

There were many things and places she looked forward to seeing once she settled in Thedas. Skyhold, Halamshiral, the Emerald Graves.

Arbor Wilds.

She wanted to go there.

Walk the petitioner's path.

Meet Abelas.

With Solas.

For the first time since landing in Thedas, she curses her foresight.

When one knows too much, one is compelled to use the excess. You cease to live, cease to take reality as it comes. You no longer exist in the moment, with all the joys and pains it may bring. Instead, you plan and scheme; you don’t talk to people; you play them; always one foot in the future that hasn’t arrived yet.

It is… It is horrible.

It is a hell of her own making.

She finds it hard to remember the happiness she felt only a week ago sitting in the rotunda with a book, under warm furs, watching Solas paint. It’s like a dream that never gains lucidity and fades into the morning mist, as if it never was.

But why?

What made that time so blissful?

And why does it feel so unreal now?

Because she forgot.

That’s what made it possible.

She forgot who she is. Where she comes from.

Wisdom said that once her debt is paid, she could stay.

Not a lie, precisely.

She could stay. Forget the plotting. Her foresight will soon run out anyway.

She could just live again, if she wanted.

But staying means leaving her past behind, forever; irreplaceable people; a history that will never not be hers.

And unless some powerful magic gets involved, it will haunt her, like the memory of Solas haunts her every time she enters the rotunda. Whatever happiness she finds, won’t last. 

Which means there is no choice after all.

“Tell him–” She swallows as she holds back the unexpected tears. “Tell Abelas that I hope he finds a new name. If he frees himself, that is, which I also hope he does. And that he is welcome at Skyhold anytime.”

The witch nods seriously.

“So, what’s the verdict?” she asks, eager to bring the matter to a close and escape to her chamber for a few hours of silence. “Was our bargain well-struck?”

Morrigan strokes her son’t hair gently and leads him closer.

“Kieran, please take the Inquisitor’s hands.”

When she picks up his small, cool hands and looks into the boy's eyes, so trusting yet so unnaturally wise, her breath hitches.

She feels it – the soul – like it’s pressing on his skin from the inside.

The weight of power.

The burden of it.

One he’s been carrying since birth.

“Perhaps ‘tis for the best,” Morrigan says, tucking an invisible lock of hair behind Kieran’s ear. Her eyes are adoring. “I was long weary of the harm my machinations would bring you, my darling boy. With this, Gods be willing, such fears might never come to pass.”

Her eyes water again, and she somewhat belatedly asks, “Are you even alright with this, kid? The soul is yours.”

“Is it?” Kieran says.

Morrigan smiles at him with pride.

The boy squeezes her hands, and nothing else needs to be said.

The weight shifts, and as some invisible tether is let loose, and rushes into her. Not gradually, but all at once.

She remembers the feeling of trying to squeeze into a suit two sizes too small when she was thrust into Lavellan’s body.

Now, she is that suit.

It hurts in a way words cannot describe; an ache that is not physical, but a deeper, existential wound to the soul that time alone cannot heal. Uthemiel has been a god of Beauty, once, but then the darkspawn found it beneath the Deep Roads and twisted its nature. Polluted its mind and veiled its gaze with a sheen of corruption. Now all it sees is ugliness and wretched decay.

That’s what called it to begin the Fifth Blight.

The ugliness of the world, its peoples, its crude mockery of magic and a desecration of all it once deemed worthy and good.

It needed to end. It still needs to end.

Solas would hate him, she thinks.

They have too much in common.

“Inquisitor?”

She blinks and finds Morrigan peering at her with genuine worry, hiding Kieran behind her back.

Did she say something?

How long did she stand there?

“I’m alright,” she says, clearing her throat. “My compliments to you, kid. Holding that thing could not have been easy.”

“Are you hearing voices?” the witch asks, still wary.

“No. No voices. Just a sense of profound disappointment. I think I understand S… Abelas better now,” she says, quickly shifting gears. “This world leaves a lot to be desired.”

“It should not take an Old God soul to see that,” Morrigan says, her usual snark returning. “Any world-ending designs roaming your mind, Inquisitor?”

She just shakes her head in wry amusement.

You’re asking the wrong elf.

“Remember to stress that Corypheus will take the Well if we don’t. And that will be the end of everything.” She looks around the Crossroads. The beauty of that place – one she should supposedly see in full colour – barely registers. Then she glimpses a familiar frame and points to it. “See that Eluvian? It leads to an abandoned Chateau in the Emerald Graves. It will save you both a couple of weeks on horseback. Come, I will unlock it for you.”

As the puzzled witch and her son vanish into the Eluvian in question, she sinks to the ground and puts a hand on her chest.

Utemiel is curled somewhere in there cosily.

It knows it won’t stay for long.

≈

If there’s one thing gaining the soul affords her, it is perspective.

It snaps her right out of her brokenhearted stupor, and back into the somewhat frantic, but familiar functional workaholic mode she spent the past few months in, to the delight of the entire Inner Circle who are slogging away preparing for the march on Adamant.

Leliana’s birds send progressively more alarming reports of enemy forces gathering at the ancient keep. Cullen drills his people dawn to dusk. Josephine pulls siege equipment out of this air. In the meantime, she confers with Marian Hawke and the wickedly cute Warden Alistair, trying to appear simultaneously shocked at the state of affairs they describe – A Calling? Across Orlais? You don’t say! – and secretly figure out a way to keep them both out of the Nightmare’s reach.

What’s that Vint’s name again?

Erimond. Right.

How does it go again? Erimond pontificates; Clarel wavers; he calls the dragon; they run to that walkway thing, and that’s when things go shitshaped.

Easy, then, she thinks, don’t let Erimond call the dragon.

Then again, the dragon isn’t an actual puppet, and Corypheus won’t be there, which means killing the beast at that point would yield them less than nothing.

So… distracts it?

There might be a newly minted dragon lady on her way to Skyhold, for all she knows.

That would certainly prove useful.

And then they let Fear manifest and obliterate its perfectly physical form with the entire Inquisition’s might.

No Fade entry required.

Sound plan.

What could possibly go wrong, eh?

Just as she wonders if Morrigan succeeded or not, the witch finds her on the battlements only a few days after their little exchange.

“You seem to have a spring in your step,” she tells the golden-eyed woman, leaving Cullen to his work. Then she notices an absence of a certain boy. “Is Kieran all right?”

Morrigan smiles, as pleased as she’s ever seen her.

“He is safe, yes. Flemeth and I arrived at an understanding.”

She can’t keep her eyebrows from meeting her hairline.

“Indeed?”

Morrigan laughs.

“‘Tis good to know I can still surprise you, Inquisitor. But yes. Inspired by your proactive approach, I met Flemeth before venturing into the Temple of Mythal. It seems that our goals are aligned for the moment, and trust me, no one is more shocked by that than I.”

“Impressive. Did she say anything about the Inquisition?”

“About you, you mean?” Morrigan asks with a lingering smirk. “She said that savage things are at their most vicious when released from their cage.”

Does she mean Uthemiel? Or Fear? Or…

Why do these old witches and deities have to be so damn cryptic?

“That’s… interesting, I guess. And the Well?”

“Mine,” Morrigan simply says. “Flemeth provided insight that allowed me safe passage inside the Temple, while your guidance helped convince Abelas to release the Well into my care.”

“And then?”

“He and his people left; where, I cannot say.”

She nods.

This is, she supposes, the best possible outcome one could hope for.

“How would you feel about stretching your wings then?” she asks. “There’s a dragon at Adamant you could dance with.”

Morrigan responds with the most conspiratorial of smiles.

They sell it to Cullen under the ‘but what if the dragon shows up again’ pretext. We don’t want the situation at Haven to repeat itself, Commander, do we? No, we do not.

It takes another week of gathering supplies and armaments, and then it’s a painful slog across Orlais that comprises riding, eating, sleeping and not much else, really.

Bandits and other undesirables give them a wide berth, and there’s little entertainment other than the occasional match of Wicked Grace with Varric and Cassandra. Morrigan rarely leaves her tent, with the Well’s denizens likely keeping her good company. Blackwall is there too, providing a grateful ear to Hawke and Alistair with their endless tales of adventure. Sera joins as well; she and the strange potty-mouthed elf never struck a genuine friendship, but the girl is one hell of a shot, and they will need a lot of those at Adamant to control the battle.

The rest of her companions and the Circle, minus Cullen, stay at Skyhold.

With the Fade and its many diversions unavailable, she pays more attention to the world around her and remembers the joys of crossing the wilderness. She used to do that all the time back home, with a backpack, a tent, some walking sticks and just enough food to spend a handful of nights under an open sky.

Every few days the landscape transforms: from the snowy Frostbacks to the verdant Dales, to the arid dunes of the Abyssal Reach. A shockingly rapid shift of climate, colour, sound and mood.

Thedas is quite stunning, she realises, once she relaxes enough to appreciate its full splendour. It is probably that serenity – one she has somewhat forgotten she’s even capable of – that allows her to finally see Cole going on a leisurely stroll about the camp.

Cole, who’s supposed to be in Skyhold.

Skyhold, that’s now three weeks away on horseback.

“Shit!”

She tosses the book she’s been reading on the tent’s floor behind her and descends on him like a small tornado.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I came to help.”

Honestly.

What did you expect him to say?

“Get on a horse and go back to Skyhold. I’ll send soldiers with you,” she says, grabbing him by the arm a bit too roughly and dragging him to the edge of the camp, where most of the Inquisition’s mounts are stationed.

He follows with no resistance.

“But you need me. I can help.”

“We can talk once I’m back,” she says, not looking at him. “I have power now, Cole, more than ever before. You–”

She glances back at his face, so awkward and open and kind, with that ridiculous hat and ill-fitting clothes that make him appear even younger.

Like a boy on a cusp of adolescence eager to grow up, trying on his dad’s things.

Except, for all she knows, he could be a thousand years old.

With a sigh, she loosens her grip on Cole from ‘bruising’ to ‘firm’, but continues to lead him towards the horses grazing peacefully by Dennet’s tent.

“I don’t want you anywhere near Adamant. Please, just do as I say, for once.”

“If you make me leave, I will make you forget and come anyway,” he says in his usual sober way.

Her stride breaks, and she just stares at him.

Cole stops too, turns around and puts both his hands on her shoulders, pushing her back a bit, gentle but resolute.

Like she is the unruly child, and he – the frustrated parent.

“There is someone there who needs my help,” Cole tells her, pleading and raw. “I waited a really long time. Please don’t be upset.”

She shakes her head, not to deny, just confused.

“I thought you need to be nearby to sense when someone’s suffering.”

“Yes!” he says with an enthusiastic nod.

“I don’t get it.”

“It’s alright. I will help them. I will help you too. It will all be better.”

Her eyes narrow.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“You don’t need to worry,” he says, clumsily patting her arm. “About me, about you, or about Solas. You worry a lot.”

Her shoulders sag, and she slowly takes his hands away.

“Why did you tell him, then?”

“I was trying to–”

“Yes, yes, I know what you were trying to d–” She closes her eyes for a moment and exhales slowly, then continues a tad calmer. “Just explain to me how . How did it help? I get that being vague is your thing, but please, Cole, I am at my wit’s end here.”

“If you never told him, you would have regretted it.”

She blinks at him several times.

You have to be shitting me.

“W-what?”

Expelling a puff of air, she runs a hand through her hair, damp from a day of riding and running around the camp in the desert heat.

When she speaks again, it is in a cool, clipped manner, which is all she can muster to avoid letting the entire camp know exactly how she feels about Cole’s reasoning.

“And you took it upon yourself to shield me from that mistake, is that it?”

Cole seems completely oblivious to her simmering anger.

Or maybe he doesn’t care.

Or thinks it irrelevant.

“Sleeping, seeking, seething. He is in pain. I try to help, but I can’t.”

“Neither can I, Cole, no one can!”

So much for not yelling.

Then a thought occurs to her, and she frowns at the spirit.

“Wait, you lost me again. Were you trying to help me, or Solas?”

“Yes!”

She loves Cole, she reminds herself while painfully clenching her fists.

Cole is good. 

Cole is kind.

She does not want to twist his stupid head with his stupid hat off his goddamn shoulders.

Cole takes a small step closer to her.

“You can help him.”

He sounds so convinced it makes her wince.

Cole loves Solas too; more than she does, most likely; loves him till the end.

He will probably still love Solas as the latter strips the Veil, and all the spirits caught in the crosshairs die in agony or turn into abominations from shock.

Solas doesn't want to hurt people!

He’s not that kind of wolf.

“He doesn’t want to change, Cole,” she says, quiet now, entirely depleted. 

“Not change. Help. Make it better. Make it hurt less.” Cole leans further in, whispering. “It is what you do. What you are. Helping, healing. Hoping. You always try, even when it hurts, but not with him. Why?”

“I–” Her expression cracks. “I don’t know how. And even if I did, I don’t think he wants that. He’s married to his pain, Cole. Without it…”

She exhales, shaking her head. She doesn’t want to finish that sentence.

“So much to say, sooth, savour. So much to give. Why hoard it? You cannot take it with you.”

Her heart clenches.

“I know.”

“Do not waste time, kitten, do not let a good thing slip by just because it will end.”

Mother’s words , she thinks with a small smile.

It no longer surprises her when Cole says such things, but this time hearing it just makes her miserable.

“He left, though.”

“He is left. Left behind. The rest are gone, yet he remains, alone. Left hand, right hand. Will she hold me again? ”

“Inquisitor.”

No way.

She turns on her heels and gapes at Solas. He must have just arrived; one of the scouts is leading his horse away to the watering trough.

He looks a bit tired, both from riding and a lack of sleep, but otherwise the same. Same ‘hobo’ tunic, breeches and leg wraps, same jawbone on his chest and a staff with curving branches at the top.

Same smile.

One he keeps for her, mostly.

For when he catches her watching him paint instead of reading chapter ten of “The Shape of the Fade” by Enchanter Ephineas Aserathan that Dorian assigned to her.

They regard one another in silence for a long stretch.

What does she say?

Hi? What a nightmare.

Ask where he was? Out of the question.

Something about the weather? Might as well drown herself in a cauldron of soup Nola promised for dinner tonight.

“You’re back.”

Genius.

“I am.”

“I thought you’d return for the grand finale.”

“For a while so did I.”

For a moment she just stands there, opening and closing her mouth like one of those stupid bobbing toys people put underneath their windshields. Solas approaches her; she does not know if Cole is still behind them. Probably not, the sneaky bastard.

“Did you ride through the night?” she asks. Unable to find better use for her hands, she twines her fingers together. “You didn’t need to. We’re really slow, with all the troops and things.”

And things.

God.

“You are right,” he says. “Silly of me.”

“I– You must be hungry.”

She makes a vague gesture toward the dining tent, and Solas nods.

His eyes on her are warm, open and somewhat surprised.

Like he’s seeing her for the first time after years apart.

“Nola is our field cook now. Remember her? My first kitchen maid, from the bait-and-switch. Yeah, she’s fantastic. She makes this, um, creamy fish and potato soup. You should definitely try it.”

His smile widens.

It’s beautiful.

He’s beautiful.

For Heaven’s sake.

Stop talking.

She stops talking.

Solas’ height and uncommonly broad stature keep him from toppling over when she hugs him.

Pounces him, really.

For a few long moments they just stand here, as close as two people can be with their clothes on. One of his hands circles her waist and holds her flush to him; the other strokes her hair, while she nuzzles at his neck, fingers pressing into his back, feeling his muscles tighten underneath the soft cotton of his tunic.

Her lips are almost brushing his skin; it would take so little to make it a proper kiss.

Not yet.

“You’re back,” she repeats instead, a heated breath into the crook of his shoulder.

“I am.”

She laughs a loud, merry laugh.

Solas holds her closer, if that’s possible, and pushes his long fingers into her hair, making her shiver.

For a minute everything fades into the background, chased away by the warmth of his skin and the shelter of his arms around her. The camp, the fight ahead, the Breach, her goals and his, even the shadow of Fear looming on the horizon – all of it vanishes.

She can be with him; be there for him.

Even if it’s only for a short while.

Even if she’ll never be first in his mind.

She has a mission too, after all – one that doesn’t include him.

It’s not perfect.

It’s not a story of love.

But there is love in it.

Why hoard it?

They are real, both of them.

And, for now, that’s good enough.

“Well, well, well. Isn’t that the famous Fade expert returning to the fold? You got us worried there for a hot minute, Chuckles.”

She disengages from Solas to glare at Varric who stands there, grinning from ear to pierced ear, bowl and spoon in hand.

“I am pleased to be welcomed back,” Solas says from behind her, keeping one hand on the small of her back. She feels terribly pleased by that fact.

“It’s no Winter Palace, of course,” Varric says, swallowing another mouthful. “Uff, that’s good… But camp life has its rustic charms, wouldn’t you say? Have you tried the magic soup yet?”

“We were just on our way,” she says, dragging Solas by the arm, guided by the smell of cooking.

There’s not much time to catch up – once the meal is done, they pack up the camp, and before long the Inquisition is on the move again. Only a few hours till they reach the fortress.

She and Solas ride side by side.

“I apologise for having been away so long,” he says after a few minutes of easy silence.

“It’s alright.”

“I needed some time to think.”

“It was a lot to take in.”

She feels rather than sees his smile of gratitude for her lack of prying into what exactly he was up to while away, thinking .

For all his love of questions, some he’s just not ready to answer, nor does she need him to.

“I thought I felt something just then, when you were… close.” His sideways glance lingers on her chest, and not precisely the reason she wants. “Did you gain a new piece?”

Her hand flies up to where her heart is. There is no second heartbeat there or anything equally uncanny. Just a feeling of weight, of power tucked away deep inside. Not sentient, but not entirely dormant either.

“It’s… insurance.”

“Against whom, might I ask?” Solas asks, pensive, but not cold.

“Nightmare, Corypheus, his dragon. Take your pick.”

She’s a bit surprised at how easily the half-truth slips off her tongue.

He’s still keeping secrets.

And so is she.

It’s only fair.

“You must have been deeply concerned to make such a move,” he says, holding his horse’s bridle tighter. “What happens at Adamant?”

“Did you have time to speak with Hawke or Alistair?” she asks, and Solas nods. “The Calling the Wardens have been feeling is false, created by the Nightmare, an ancient Fear demon working with Corypheus and his Venatory.”

“The same Fear that was stalking your Dreams?”

She inclines her head towards him, eyebrow raised.

“Stalking is too strong a word, no? I only heard him once.”

“Even once is too much with such a being.”

Ain’t that the truth.

“The plan is to avoid going into his lair. I’d much rather shower it with flaming arrows than play mind games and rely on Justinia’s spirit for aid.”

After some further explanation of what precisely may occur if they enter the Fade at Adamant, Solas’ unease intensifies. She only omits the ‘greatest fear’ graveyard, out of politeness more than anything else. Like if she'd accidentally taken a peek at someone’s Internet search history.

“What the Wardens have done is unconscionable,” he concludes, moving his mouth like he tastes something foul. “Is their corruption among the things you could not prevent?”

There’s no accusation in his tone, just curiosity. 

“It started before the Breach,” she says. “Leliana and I sent word about the false Calling, but Clarel seemed dead set on making a mess of things, and her authority prevailed.”

The corners of his mouth lift.

“We are who we are.”

“Hmm. Sounds profound. Who told you that?”

“Someone wiser than I,” Solas says without a hint of irony.

He then reaches out and brushes her cheek with his knuckles. She almost jerks away at the unexpected movement, but stops herself and just stares at him. His smile widens, and he slowly takes his hand away.

“You’re too kind,” she says, pretending to adjust a buckle of her saddle on the opposite side of him to conceal the colour creeping up her face.

“I considered your words a great deal while I was away. All of your words. The things you have done. You have righted many wrongs, small and large, and sought no credit. Wisdom lives. Do you know how old it is?”

An abbreviated timeline of Thedas’ history flashes in her mind’s eye.

“Eight thousand, give or take?”

“Older. It predates Elvhenan.”

“Wow.”

Not the most eloquent response, but in her defence, the heat that a mere brush of his fingers ignited in her still preoccupies her thoughts. 

“I wondered, had I met you in my time, and… befriended you, or someone like you, might things have turned out differently.”

She considers it for a moment.

“You knew Wisdom then, I assume. Did that change anything?”

Solas narrows his eyes slightly.

“I– No. A fair point, if a bit harsh.”

“Sorry.”

On an impulse, she leans toward him in turn, takes his hand and shifts her posture to look more directly at him.

“You are not Wisdom,” she says. “You are Pride.”

He entwines their fingers; eagerly, immediately. Their horses almost brush sides as they walk closer, prompted by the pull of their riders’ hands.

“Someday I may learn to accept that.”

Her gut twists at his tone.

“I already do. If that’s any help.”

There is a long silence. And his quiet voice.

“It is.”

≈

“Perhaps we could test the truth of these charges,” Clares says, narrowing her eyes at Erimond.

“Or perhaps I should br–”

The Magister's head pops like an overripe watermelon, courtesy of Sera’s enchanted arrow.

“Yap, yap, yap, plop!”

She pats Sera on the back, grateful to not witness the grotesque display up close.

“I couldn’t have put it better.”

As she and her companions near the pedestal that the now dead Tevene and Clarel occupy, the mages who've already begun summoning Fear look anxiously among themselves and upwards towards their Commander.

The rift – of sorts – at the centre of the mages’ circle pulses green, and a faint image of the monstrous spider-like figure ripples inside, growing clearer every second.

She ignores them for now and follows their gaze up to the woman who led them all into this shitstorm.

“Clarel! How many Wardens have died already for this madness? Your Calling was false, the work of the demon your mages are summoning as we speak.” She gestures at the rift, and the Warden Commander’s eyes widen. “With Erimond’s death we can save them. We can save all the remaining Wardens, including yourself, if you just wait for a moment and think !”

“When have you ever known a Tevinter magister doing something out of the goodness of his heart?” Cassandra echoes. “He was working for Corypheus the whole time. He made the Wardens desperate and prayed on that desperation!”

Clarel wavers, but as Blackwall is about to press the point home, a glass shattering shriek drowns the sounds of battle raging all around Adamant, making everyone in the vicinity grimace.

“Scatter!” she yells, drops a barrier on their group and bolts behind the nearest pillar, not waiting to see if her people follow the command. In the last few months, they’ve fought plenty of dragons together and know the drill.

A massive ball of bright red flame hits the courtyard a moment before the black dragon emerges from the shadows over the fortress. A small group of Wardens who didn’t spread out fast enough to get charred immediately.

The beast lands on one of the lower surrounding towers and growls, glaring at the scene below like a territorial predator who’s missed one meal too many.

A smirk of satisfaction twists her lips when she peeks from behind cover to note how awkwardly the dragon claws at its perch – it is missing a front limb.

Three more to go.

“Morrigan, your cue,” she tells the witch, who crouches a few steps to the left. “Buy us time.”

Golden eyes flash; then the light inside them spreads and intensifies quickly, making her squint. Then there’s a bizarre shift in air pressure as a gargantuan figure replaces a relatively small one. When the light fades, she watches in genuine awe as Morrigan, now a gorgeous purple dragon with two sets of long twisting horns, spreads her wings and takes flight with a shuddering roar.

She wished so bad she could just watch those two fight it out. As it is, though, the Warden-mages, no longer under Erimond’s control, who scrambled when Corypheus’ pet appeared, need to be brought to their senses, or the plan falls apart.

Clarel runs from the upper platform, staggering briefly as she gazes at the dragons trying to tear each other out of the sky. In fairness, everyone just stares for a moment. A dragon duel is not something you see every day.

Shaking herself, Clarel yells, “Wardens, stand down! Break the circle!”

She rounds her pillar, quickly takes stock of her people – all alive – and runs to the woman.

“No! Finish the ritual! Give that fucker form, and we’ll rain fire on it.”

She feels someone’s hand gently touch her elbow and turns.

“Lethallan, are you sure?” Solas says. “They already know the Calling is false.”

Shaking her head, she puts her hand on top of his.

“When has knowing things ever stopped people from acting the fools?”

His lips twitch a bit, more weary than amused.

Clarel approaches them, her lieutenants in tow.

“The Inquisitor is rig–”

They all reflexively duck when two giant winged forms crash into the tower Corypheus’ beast landed on earlier. They are entwined like lovers, and Morrigan is tearing at her opponent’s throats, while it claws at her exposed belly with its remaining limbs.

Morrigan looks wicked and powerful, still at nearly full strength, but a stream of ink-like blood is gushing out from a large split in her scales.

“Just do it,” she tells Clarel.

As the woman nods and gathers her men, she turns to her own Commander. 

“Cullen, we need to protect our archers. Fear has long limbs.”

He nods and bellows, “Archers, formation five! Mages, set barriers around them! Warriors, shield wall!”

Months of gruelling training paid off. She watches in rapture as groups of fighters spread across the courtyard and surrounding battlements in a well-rehearsed, perfectly orchestrated ballet. Barriers of various colours and shapes light up in brilliant glowing patchwork domes all around, and the Warden-mages resume their casting.

Morrigan wrestles herself away from her enemy and is chasing it across the fortress’ airspace, wings flapping and sending powerful gushes of air that make her hair blow.

The plan is working.

They have time.

All the sacrifice, the hard work, her foresight combined with the immense dedication of all the Inquisition's people, from the Inner Circle, to her companions, to the unseasoned soldier-trainees – it all led to this moment.

Her eyes sting as a fierce sense of pride for what they’ve all accomplished overcomes her, and she turns to Solas standing by her side.

In a strange moment of stillness in the middle of a gathering storm, he leans in and presses his forehead to hers. His arms settle on her waist, nearly weightless.

“You should be proud,” he whispers. “And I am proud of you.”

“Shhh. You’ll jinx it.”

He chuckles, and his fingers tighten around her.

I can’t take it anymore.

She swallows as her own hands get a mind of their own, tracing his shoulders, marvelling at his intake of breath and his muscles hardening underneath her fingertips that are inching closer to his face.

His beautiful face.

With the most kissable lips in any world, anywhere.

“Solas…”

WHAM!

Her head whips around forcefully in time to witness all the summoning stones shatter at once. The resulting shockwave sends the Warned-mages flying with such force she’d be surprised to find any of them still alive after they win. 

If they win.

It is hard to tell where the rift ends, and Nightmare begins.

Some small, childlike part of her psyche pushes an inadvertent whimper out of her mouth, and she squeezes Solas’s shoulders in a vice, beholding the spider.

It is big, sure. But that’s not what makes it so impressive. Again, they’d fought dragons, and some were objectively larger.

It’s hard to describe where it stems from, but the moment she lays her eyes on the colossal arachnid, a sense of icy dread sinks into her stomach like a ball of lead, making her legs quiver and her breath catch.

Lethallan.

She recognizes the feeling instantly. It was there when the vet said Bunny needs to be put to sleep right now . When she entered a razed village, almost a year ago, and looked into the baby blue eyes of a man with burns all over his body. When Pain backed her into a corner in the Fade. When Dorian fed her that vile purple substance trying to stop her from bleeding to death after her narrow escape.

It’s an acute, visceral sense of inevitability.

Da’len.

Not of death necessarily, perhaps not her death even, but of something… horrible.

It’s a bizarre reversal of sorts – going from thinking this is all a game, to accepting reality, and back again. Like watching a cutscene; one she had no hand in writing; with a limited set of choices and predetermined outcomes, each spelling disaster she can never hope to escape.

And that’s just from looking at it.

“Inquisitor!”

With a smack that makes her ears ring and momentarily drowns out the chaos of a raging battle and Fear’s conditioning both, her head whips to the side, and she blinks a few times, mouth hanging open in a startled ‘aaah’.

Both she and Solas are on their knees opposite one another, exactly where they were before, in the outer ring of the courtyard. His left hand clutches painfully at her shoulder, while the fingers on his right curl and uncurl once. Solas stares at her, expression rife with alarm.

“Did you just fucking slap me?” she says, wide-eyed, cheek burning.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he pushes out a long, ragged exhale.

“You can thank me later.”

His right hand covers hers as she rubs her face where it hurts.

Fear got her good. So good, in fact, that when she comes to and surveys her surroundings, the battle is already past its peak. 

Nightmare looks like a grotesque hedgehog, arrows sticking out of its chitinous body in a pattern so dense that only its long legs are clearly visible. At least the ones that are left; only two still move, from what she can tell at that angle. Spells shower the demon from all directions – fire, ice and Knight-Enchanter projectiles, lightning bolts and rift rocks, even a few Mortalitasi curses all combine in a near-blinding kaleidoscope of colour and force that appears to shrink Fear’s mangled body before her eyes. The demon is at half of its original size.

Corpses of soldiers, archers, Inquisition and Warden-mages alike punctuate the courtyard here and there, pierced by claws or half-liquified by acid.

It’s a lot of death; horrible, brutal death, but less than one might expect from a full-on assault on the most primordial demon in existence. 

Quantity has a quality all its own, indeed.

Solas helps her stand and they finally join the fight with him on the offensive, adding to the barrage. She elbows her way towards the thick of things, where melee fighters are battling in close quarters.

Cassandra and Blackwall are defending passageways leading to the courtyard against smaller demons drifting towards them from elsewhere in the fortress. As the Seeker slices up a Terror in half, two Despair demons descend on her from opposing sides – their favourite tactic, it seems. Just as Cassandra raises her shield with one hand and wipes the sweat, blood and grime with the forearm of the other, bracing for attack, an arrow and a bolt pierce both demons and they whirl backwards with twin shrieks.

“Back with us, Birdie?” Varric yells from atop a fallen pillar nearby, reloading Bianca giddily.

“Soiled ye breeches, ‘av ya?” Sera echoes from the other side. “Almost did too! Maker, that thing is a shite ball on sticks. But I added more sticks and felt better!”

She chuckles, happy she never had to take the archer into the Fade.

This is good.

It’s fine.

They’re winning.

“Have you seen Cole?”

Her gaze follows where Varric’s chin points. Climbing on a pillar next to him easily, she instantly spots him.

Cole is dancing around one of Fears’s remaining legs which appears to have lost some of its agility, trying and failing to catch the rogue spirit as he lands slash after slash with his long curved blades.

A few more blows, and the leg spasms uselessly, no longer in control of itself.

What’s a giant body, if it can’t move?

With the last lovingly precise swing of Cole’s blades the leg – the literal last leg – of Fear gives, and with a low, defeated growl the demon succumbs to the floor, making the ground tremble a little as it lands, in an undignified heap of bleeding flesh.

Inquisition’s forces and remaining Warden reflexively back away, but quickly recover and with a chorus of battle cries attack their all but helpless enemy with fresh zeal.

Over the next minute the demon’s immobile withering mass, legless, almost eyeless, riddled with arrows like an overgrown porcupine, dies an ignoble death under a barrage of projectiles magical and mundane.

Witnessing the mighty demon's imminent defeat, she thinks…

It’s wrong to think it, though. There are losses. Many. People are dead, here, in the courtyard, and all over the fortress. But as triumphant cries erupt everywhere around her, as Varric and Sera pump chests, Cassandra shakes Blackwalls shoulder, smiling, and Solas emerges from the crowd of mages to join her next to Cole, the thought persists, unbidden.

This was too easy.

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Morrigan stumbling – human, weakened and injured – down from the battlements. Corypheus’ pet is nowhere to be seen; must have flown off to report the defeat to its master, assuming the thing can communicate somehow.

As victory cheers die down, some – mostly Warden-mages – gather to examine Fear’s cadaver; others heal the wounded, carry and mourn the dead. Judging by the abated sounds coming from outside the courtyard’s perimeter, things are petering out all across Adamant. 

“Are you alright?”

Solas’s voice sounds eerily distant coming from behind her. His hand is steady on her shoulder. She could turn around or lean back into him. She can do that now; they’re in that place.

It’s over. Adamant is over.

She should celebrate and sort through the aftermath with the rest; she should be relieved and overjoyed.

But she can’t.

She’s forgetting something.

She keeps watching Fear.

“What is it?” Solas turns her towards him gently.

“Wait.”

It’s coming; she can feel it.

With no warning Fear’s remains plummet to the ground, instantly liquified, and splash against the stone in a fountain of sticky black oil-like substance. Her hands fly up, one to cover her own face, the other – to shield Solas. Startled screams follow; people in the front are drenched in it, scrambling to their feet, spitting and trying to get it out of their eyes.

An air of panic sets in instantly; no one knows how to react.

There’s nothing to fight.

Yet.

Then, in response to an unspoken question, a figure rises from the black pool – a humanoid with exposed ribs, no face and spider legs sticking out of its back. A rift over it that began fizzling out when the greater Fear stopped moving springs to life again, bright and strong, its green gleam reflected in the oily puddle below.

Aspect of the Nightmare wastes no time. It doesn’t speak, or hiss, or divulge its evil plans to the assembled masses. Instead, black tendrils, reminiscent of Doubt she fought long months past, shoot out of it with lightning speed, touching the faces of those marred by Fear’s liquified remains.

Then several things happen. 

She snaps out of her stupor, casting a barrier on Solas and herself; a fresh wave of projectiles bombard the demonic figure, much smaller now, much quicker and harder to hit; then cries of pain and surprise echo across the courtyard as Fear-touched Wardens and Inquisition soldiers alike begin slaughtering their comrades where they stand. 

“Demon!” someone yells behind her, and she whips around.

A Grey Warden is right next to Cole, his face fully concealed by black grime; his long blade is already in the air, swinging wide.

There’s not enough time. 

Cole turns his stupid head with his stupid hat, looking wide-eyed at the delirious Warden.

“I can hel–”

His head is sliced off his shoulders and tumbles to the ground, with his body – his human body – still upright, and blood gushes upwards in several tiny fountains out of his neck.

Solas gasps next to her.

She screams.

Without thinking, paying no mind to the surrounding mayhem, she erases the space between the bewitched Warden and herself, nearly flowing toward him on a wave of searing hate.

And he is bewitched. Taken by Fear.

It’s not his fault. He wasn’t himself. He saw phantoms. She knows that. She doesn’t care.

She doesn’t care.

So it is her hand that slashes a dagger, fast as a snake's tongue, across his throat.

The first life she takes, on her own conscience.

Solas is saying something. She doesn’t listen, just stares.

Next to them a spirit stands, glowing bright white, pure as driven snow, emanating warmth and goodness among a sea of misery. A dead body and a severed head lay under the figure’s feet; discarded skin, too roomy, too old, redundant.

The spirit has no facial features she can identify, save for the eyes.

Same as they always were.

“...Cole?”

But before he can respond a black tendril that has snuck around the spirit’s torso, insidiously concealed by its bright aura, yanks the light away as if triggered by their gazes interlocking. Like it’s been waiting for that spark of recognition, only to whisk her friend away to be trapped and devoured. 

Her eyes trace the tendrils path like a car wreck unfolding right in front of her, and her feet move, following, pursuing, as the Nightmare vanishes into the rift, dragging Cole with it.

“Give him back!” she screams, running up a fallen pillar Varric stood on a few minutes ago, and launches herself into the air in a wild downward curve.

She hears, faintly, like coming from behind a thick stone wall, shouts of Lethallan! and Inquisitor! and Stop her! But a familiar feeling of passing through a rift already envelops her, and as she collapses in the middle of the Nightmare’s lair, dagger marred by innocent blood still in hand, the rift – not her own, but called by the Warden’s ritual – closes behind her with a crack.

Suddenly, everything is silent.

She’s about to scream Cole’s name but the sight around her turns the word into a hard rock that lodges itself in her throat.

It’s a graveyard. No, not the one she remembers from back in another life – a modest place of grim self-reflection tucked away in a secluded corner of the Nightmare’s domain. Even the Arlington cemetery she saw in a photograph once upon a time cannot compare.

This graveyard stretches from one horizon to the other, rows upon innumerable rows of gravestones small and large, plain and lavish. It feels like if she were to run to the edge of her vision, it would continue still, forever, until she dies too of wounds, exhaustion or old age. And when she does, there will be a hole in the ground waiting for her.

Unless…

Her body moves on instinct, gaze flitting between shapes and names etched upon them. The sick greenish sky above watches her, and the air around is so heavy she can hardly breathe. Like if she inhales too much in one go, it will suffocate her.

Fear is nowhere to be seen, and yet it is all around her. 

It wants her to find it.

Her gravestone.

It’s as she predicted – an open hole in the ground. Her eyes land on the words, carved with unsteady hands on a small square tombstone looking rather unkempt and sad, with no plants or decorations of any kind. 

Inquisitor

She takes a shallow breath.

Having no one

Yes, well.

If Fear wanted to unsettle her further, it’s in for a disappointment.

Her heart doesn’t sink at the sight so much as sighs. A kind of sigh one makes looking at their best friend suffering from an addiction, who fell off the wagon yet again; pathetic, covered in vomit, crawling on the floor, begging for more money.

And you know, looking at them, they’re a former best friend now, because you just don’t have it in you anymore.

She’s that best friend.

Introverted; and perpetually lonely.

Strong, independent; yet easily smitten.

Afraid to settle. Afraid not to.

Afraid of rejection and acceptance both.

She chokes out a hoarse chuckle, just about done with herself. 

“One down…” Fear says.

Other sounds penetrate her consciousness now, sharp digs of shovels into the hard, unyielding ground, and she obligingly raises her gaze to the surrounding graves.

Her mother; dead. Strangulation. She hung herself. She doesn’t look at her as she digs.

Her old friends, sad and rotting, watching her with the barest hints of recognition.

New friends. Dead fighting Solas.

Solas, who walks the Dinan’Shiral .

None of this phases her. She’s seen too much, done too much. She’s about to start slashing through the dead phantoms, looking for Fear among them, when an inkling nags at the back of her mind.

Who’s missing?

She turns her head in time to catch sight of a bloody figure pouncing on her with a vicious snarl.

Pain.

Shit.

As she’s hurled violently to the ground between tombstones, her arms fly up defensively to protect her face from claws rending her like fan blades, and Fear cackles.

“Sorrow found me after you killed her,” the demon says, pleased. “It is a talented student.”

By the time she finally rallies enough brain cells to throw a barrier, kick Pain in the stomach – or at least in that general area – and crawl frantically backwards, the skin of her forearms is in shreds, bleeding profusely. She knows she has to counterattack quickly for any hope of victory, but the bloody bitch is too strong, and she takes a knee, breathless, moaning in pain.

“Cole!”

She throws a dagger at Pain, who’s found its feet again, not a dozen steps away. The demon howls as the blade buries itself in its thigh, despite the quiver in her hands.

All those melee lessons did not go to waste.

She reaches for the second dagger, ready to go on the offensive.

“Cole! Where are you?”

Aspect of the Nightmare, the good demon that it is, materialises just behind Pain who, against any common sense, presses on the dagger lodged in its leg, sinking it deeper. A sound bubbles out of its crimson body, halfway between a moan and a cry.

Oh.

“I think she likes it. Don’t you, pet?” Nightmare says, voice almost tender.

Its spidery legs rearrange themselves to reveal the white figure of Cole, notably dimmer than it was, dangling off one of them like a piece of cured meat on a butcher’s hook. “I doubt your little friend will share in the pleasure.”

Something stirs in her at the sight.

Not fear, or pain, or anger. 

Her attention turns to her passenger, forgotten in the chaos of pain, fear and rapidly shifting circumstance. There’s an almost tickling sensation in her chest, as if the power inside her were a cat, stretching its legs and brushing its tail over her insides.

Let me out, it purrs, I want to play.

Not that she terribly minds – it’s not like she’s swimming in a pool of options here – and Morrigan explained that while the Old Soul retains some of its original traits, it is not sentient per se .

Probably.

It is simply energy. Ancient, somewhat opinionated, but dormant energy, waiting to be unleashed. To take space. To move and interact with the world again.

To take space.

That’s it.

She needs to make space for it.

Drawing on the raw Fade around her, just like at Redcliffe, she surrounds herself with a barrier as thick as she can – not a mere cloak, but a bubble of light with her at the centre – watching Cole’s limp form all the while to channel the right intention. To help, just like he does. To protect her own.

Doing her best to ignore Pain’s impotent thrashing and frustrated growls over the bubble’s surface, she casts a numbing spell – something all healer-mages learn way before they seal their first cut. The pain from her shredded forearms falls away, and so does everything else; she doesn’t feel hot or cold, can’t identify clothes brushing against her skin or a belt tight around her waist. It’s like her whole body fades away into the background, and the presence inside her yawns and swells in response, expanding into the emptiness left by her numbed sensations.

The rest happens as naturally as breathing. Her diaphragm contracts, her chest expands, but instead of shifting into an exhale at the top it goes on.

And on.

And on .

Her line-of-sight shifts; Fear is a mere chess piece on the War Table below her, with an equally small figure of Compassion wiggling on its hook. Pain is nowhere to be seen.

The numbing spell cracks and dissipates under the weight of magic heaving around and inside her, and she can feel her body again, completely intact, yet so much bigger.

It is the most uncanny thing she has ever experienced, yet all movements feel natural.

She takes a step forward.

Fear takes a step back. 

Interesting.

Swarms of little spiders crowd beneath her, biting her legs, trying to pierce her scales – a gorgeous mix of viridian, indigo and black – and it tickles.

Little Fear spins, throwing Cole from its hook like a dog shaking off water after a bath, and dashes away.

She leans down – her neck is impossibly long – grabs the demon in her jaws and tears it in half. It is so absurdly easy she wants to laugh, but lets forth a mighty roar instead. 

There is a dark spot hovering above ground where Fear’s new set of remains lie. Its larger form, she realises, is reshaping itself, with foul smelling mist condensing and clinging together, like a black hole dragging everything around it into its event horizon. Rocks, debris and what passes for flora in this cursed corner of the Fade all drift slowly toward Fear’s new body, affording it bulk and shape. 

She watches and feels nothing. No pull, physical or emotional. No hallucinations or phantoms plague her subconscious. She merely thinks, Ah, what an ugly creature , and immediately recognises the thought as not her own. 

Then a different, smaller thought strikes her.

How do I turn back?

The presence inside her licks its lips.

How indeed.

Her head turns – she doesn’t do it – to the Black City looming above.

Home.

Giant wings flap, recalling their own strength, a breath away from taking flight, and whatever elation she might have felt at the prospect of that experience is shrouded in icy dread. She’s not in control anymore.

The mighty muscles of her limbs tense, ready to spring up, when something touches her. It is mad she can even feel it – a tiny hand somewhere below – over the urge to fly far, far away from this wretched world, but the kind warmth that minute contact delivers overpowers it.

Love is stronger than hate.

“Come back,” Compassion calls somewhere in the recesses of her mind.

“I can’t.”

“Remember!”

And she does. Somehow, miraculously, she does.

The battle on the other side. Her people. Her pride in them. Solas’ pride in her.

“You are who you are,” the spirit reminds her. “Always.”

She struggles against the fetters within pulling at her, and reaches down; closer to the earth, to the friendly spark of light at her feet. 

The presence within is not happy .

It had plans.

“This isn’t over.”

Uthemiel has a feminine voice. It lilts, like a melody in the form of speech.

“No,” she thinks. “I don’t suppose it is.”

When her eye level evens out, meeting Compassion’s gentle gaze, and she fills her wonderfully small lungs to speak, the spirit’s face twists, and it passes right through her to block Pain’s attack from behind.

It is unfathomable how this wispy human-shaped cloud can hold the advance of a blood-soaked, enraged demon, but it does. And makes it look easy.

“This has to end!” Pain screams, pushing against the spirit uselessly, like a mosquito caught in a net.

“Yes,” Compassion says, and its voice echoes eerily over the landscape, sounding both like and unlike the Cole that she remembers.

“Let go, or I will destroy you too!”

Compassion keeps one hand in the middle of Pain’s chest, white fingers sinking into the crimson mass, pushing it away. With the other it strokes the demon’s face, soft, like a lullaby.

“Scarred, but not scared. Solid, strong, self-reliant. A survivor. You lost your family, yet here you stand. You lost your body, yet here you stand.” Compassion drags its hand further into the demon's form, moving with it, until their bodies almost merge in a vortex of white and red. “Seasoned in Pain; Pain no longer. Shine, spirit!”

The burst of light that follows blinds her, and she yelps at the sudden surge of heat that knocks her off her feet. But it passes, and soon a gust of cool air soothes her aching skin, and she blinks furiously until some of her vision returns.

She knew it was coming, but a dead weight sinks into her stomach all the same.

Compassion is gone, and a new spirit stands in its place. It’s not wispy or transparent; if anything, it looks more solid than the Fade itself, a stout humanoid figure made of liquid platinum. It is a sedate, stoic cool; calm under pressure. Immovable. Unperturbed.

“What– What did he do?”

Words come out hoarse, like wind through a rusted pipe.

“Compassion gave of itself to show me what I can become,” the spirit says in a measured monotone voice. “It healed me. It wanted–”

“To help. That’s all he ever wanted,” she says, standing up. “So… who are you?”

“I am Endurance. And you… You are something else. But kindred.”

“What?”

“You were without a body for a time, no?” Endurance says as if that explains everything. “We should not linger. Fear is eternal.”

It’s right.

The mass of black smoke behind them looks almost solid now.

The spirit takes her hand unceremoniously and places in it a gleaming white shard.

“Here,” Endurance says. “Plant it. Not here.”

She beholds it silently for a moment. Another set of remains. When her fingers close around it, she can almost feel Cole’s hand squeezing hers in reassurance.

Almost.

Not quite.

Perhaps she only imagines it.

“I will.”

≈

Solas catches her the moment she falls out of a newly created rift, and she habitually seals it behind her.

Her third time in the raw Fade.

“Third time’s the charm,” she mutters. Her eyes are dry, oddly enough, but her throat feels constricted and both hands clutch at the priceless treasure inside like a drowning man holds a lifeline.

“What happened?” Solas asks, cupping both of her cheeks.

She surveys her surroundings, swallowing, trying to find her words again. Her other companions all huddle together with Cullen and Morrigan speaking in agitated whispers. Some breathe a sigh of relief when she emerges back in the land of mortals; others, like Sera, eye her cautiously.

Hawke steps away from Varric and approaches her with Alistair in toe, and after a moment’s hesitation the rest join them.

No one appears to be shocked as they were the last time she came out of the rift.

At least she’s unharmed, broken heart notwithstanding.

“This is all that’s left,” he tells Solas, opening her fingers just enough for him to glimpse what’s inside. The shard winks at them.

His expression matches hers, and they hug without another word.

“What about the demon?” Alistair asks from behind them.

Which one , she thinks, but shakes her head.

“Fear is gone, for now,” she says, reluctantly letting go of Solas. “But it will be back, eventually. This war keeps feeding it.”

Alistair smiles at her, that cute boyish smile he wears so well.

“Even so. If your friend helped you defeat it, then it was worth it.”

“Worth it?”

She shakes off Solas’ tentative hand, stepping forward to get into the Warden’s face.

“Worth it?!”

“Look, all I’m saying–”

“Give me a thousand cowards, traitors, killers and rapists, and I can make you, hmm, give or take, three hundred Grey Wardens.”

The sudden force and volume of her rebuke send several of the people gathered a step backwards, while Cassandra and Varric try to placate her with soothing hands or words of warning, but it’s no use.

She needs to scream.

To get it out.

“But take a thousand kings, Knight-Commanders, Heroes of Ferelden, Champions of Kirkwall, Seekers of Truth and Grand Enchanters, Old Gods and fucking Inquisitors, and I could not make you. One. Single. Cole!”

“Then you should not have brought him here,” Marian Hawke says, flatly, standing next to her friend. Not even a retort, just a statement of fact.

She blinks at Hawke.

At Alistair.

Both alive.

The Wardens have their leader.

Varric has his best friend.

Was it worth it?

Endurance replaced Pain. It’s what Cole wanted.

But what can replace Compassion?

So many bitter indictments on the tip of her tongue, lingering regrets waiting to fly off her cracked lips, blame to cast and accusations to make.

But in the end she simply says, “Yes.”

She tried to have it all.

To save everyone.

To cheat Fear.

Such unfathomable hubris.

Her own words uttered self-righteously on the balcony at the Winter Palace echo in her mind.

The innocent will bear the cost. Again.

And, again, they did.