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Chapter Text

As always, the day ended at the Hanged Man. Fenris wasn’t quite sure when the tradition had started, or when it’d shifted from a simple let’s get something to drink to an actual tradition, even amongst the non-drinkers in their group, but it was nice to have something to look forward to. He drank, of course, but never too heavily - he did not want to lose himself in a crowd like this, after all, but the ale was cheap here, affordable even when he had lost the last several hands of Wicked Grace.

Varric was winning tonight. Typical, really, although usually he could hold his own and sometimes Isabela took the pot. Anders rarely won and over time the bets drifted lower, the game becoming friendly rather than competitive. Sometimes the mage couldn’t spare the coin and didn’t play at all, but none of them begrudged him that - he had the clinic to attend to, after all. Surely there were costs associated with that.

He rather suspected that Varric spent a considerable amount of his winnings supporting the clinic, but he never could confirm as much. Nor, he thought, could Anders, which was likely the point. An anonymous donation to the clinic or new supplies suddenly showing up felt different than being handed coin by a friend, and the former was far more difficult to turn down.

Over time, a new tradition had risen from this one, although it was not a group activity. Fenris stretched and excused himself, clapping Hawke on the shoulder as he passed and waving off Varric’s idle protestations. The dwarf just wanted him to lose again. Merrill waved goodbye to him before Isabela claimed her attention by leaning heavily into her and he hid a grin by turning away from them. He may not approve of the blood mage, but he couldn’t help but be a little touched by her insistent generosity, her gentle nature seemingly at odds with her manner of fighting. A contradiction he had once found suspicious and had eventually grown to accept, for all of them had their contradictions. This new tradition was one of them.

He took a deep breath as he left the pub - the city didn’t always smell the cleanest, but it was certainly fresher than the cramped, humid air inside the Hanged Man. He slowly worked his way back towards the mansion he’d come to occupy, although halfway there he ducked instead into a narrow alleyway and waited. It did not take particularly long. “Were they suspicious?” He asked as the other man slotted into the alley beside him, their arms brushing as they stood side by side.

“I doubt it. Played my last hand and it was miserable.” Anders laughed quietly and Fenris smiled to himself, turning to face the mage - then shifting so that he was bracketing him against the wall, his laughter fading into a soft gasp. Fenris glanced from his eyes to his lips, watching Anders’ tongue dart out to wet them before he pushed forward.

They kissed hard, with a fierce demand, hands seeking out points of contact to draw them closer together. Fenris bit Anders’ lip to feel the shudder of his moan between their mouths.

An argument had brought them close together, a tension building that Fenris hadn’t been able to identify until Anders drew near him before turning away sharply. Realizing what he had been letting slip away, he’d grabbed the mage and kissed him. That one experience had led into this happening several times a week, and Fenris idly wondered when he’d stop having them meet outside the mansion.

For now, this was enough. He pulled back to see Anders’ eyes dark and wide, searching his for a time before a small, wry smile crept across his lips. “Next time, then?” Fenris nodded before kissing him a final time, then stepping back.

“The alley closer to the docks,” Fenris said. “You leave first next time.” He watched as Anders nodded, pulling away from the wall and straightening his robes.

“I’ll be there,” he said, grinning before making his way clear of the alley and back to his clinic.

Chapter Text

They were on the Wounded Coast, where far too many things seemed to happen. Hawke had brought Merrill and Anders along with Fenris, who felt somewhat out of place amongst the rogue and mages. Not that things were anywhere near as strained as they had been early on.

Time had softened his mistrust of the mages Hawke surrounded herself with. Battling beside them and realizing he had grown to trust that their magic would not strike him had been a profound, almost unsettling realization. It was as if a core part of him had suddenly gone missing, and he felt raw and vulnerable for its absence, although he did not regret it being gone.

Merrill and Hawke entered their shared tent and Fenris rolled his eyes, although in truth he was happy for them: they seemed well-suited to each other. He just wished they could be a little quieter about how well-suited they were, sometimes. The giggling could be distracting.

Anders sat next to him, sharing a knowing grin. “We could always retire to our tent, make enough noise to keep them up half the night,” the mage offered blithely, Fenris snorting. Over time, suspicion had eased into trust; then trust, into a faint affection. From there, slowly and with the weight of something inevitable, this.

Anders leaning against him, shoulder-to-shoulder as they stared out at the sea. These shared touches, this tender intimacy that was so profoundly unfamiliar.

Not unwelcome, though. It should be, but it wasn’t.

He had tried to reason it through, at times. He had been a slave; Anders had been locked away in one of the Circles. Neither of them had known the truth of freedom for so long. He thought he could recognize the same caged-animal look in Anders’ eyes that he had felt so often in his; too, he could recognize the simple wonder at freedom that sometimes infused the mage, like when he turned his face up towards rainfall while the rest of them huddled under their cloaks.

Fenris had felt the rain, following Danarius. But he understood the thirst for things others took for granted. He recognized it in the other man, and assumed Anders recognized it in him. They still argued, certainly, but even those arguments had slowly taken on a different tone. He supposed by now they were more debates, a fast-paced and exacting expression of ideas. It honed both of them.

He usually noticed Anders writing notes to himself after their longer debates, he assumed for his manifesto. Sometimes he wanted to offer to read it, but he wasn’t sure he could - Hawke was still teaching him, after all - nor was he sure that it would be good to. He was worried it would dredge up old anxiety and fears, seeing Anders push for the same absolute freedom that mages had in Tevinter, although he knew the other man didn’t seek that same route exactly.

Regardless, he had not offered, and Anders had not suggested. Perhaps they were both afraid of this delicate balance being lost.

“Well, I’m going for a swim,” Anders announced abruptly, Fenris staring askance at him. But the mage just shot him a bright grin. “Look, the sea is calm, we have a good fire going, and I feel filthy after fighting bandits all day.” He rose and shrugged off his jacket, leaving Fenris to stare at him. Really? Swimming now, this late at night, in such cold water?

“Mage,” he said as he rose, grabbing Anders’ arm, “don’t be a fool.” But Anders just pulled out of his grip.

“I’m not. I won’t be long, I know it’s cold.” He wanted to protest but Anders was already striding forward, pulling his tunic off over his head before he set to work on his breeches.

It took Fenris a moment to understand what he was seeing, frowning at Anders’ back before flushing as the mage’s ass was suddenly exposed to him. Anders turned and winked before wading into the water with a visible shiver. “Andraste’s tits, this really is cold,” he said sharply, Fenris sighing. He sat back down as the mage stuck to his word, pushing forward just far enough that he could submerge himself fully for a moment before rising quickly, shaking his hair. “Shit! Okay, okay,” Fenris averted his eyes as Anders came back, now facing forward.

Seeing his ass had been distracting enough, he didn’t need to see the other man’s cock. At least, not in this context. Anders ducked down to grab his overcoat and shrugged it on before settling very close to the fire, his blonde hair dripping as he shivered.

“Fool mage,” Fenris muttered under his breath as he approached, wrapping an arm around the other man. Despite his frustration, he couldn’t entirely stop thinking about what he’d seen.

“I was expecting a lecture,” Anders quipped from beside him, sounding smug despite his trembling. Fenris didn’t respond immediately, considering.

“Your scars,” he said after a moment. Anders froze in his grip, not even breathing for a moment. Then he let out a shaky sigh, pulling the coat tighter as if that would protect him.

“You’re the worst voyeur,” he muttered. “Focusing on all the wrong things.”

“If you don’t want to talk about it…” he felt the roll of Anders’ shoulders as he shrugged.

“It doesn’t matter.” He stared into the fire, looking quite distant. “I was never exactly good at being cooped up. And Templars… some of them were worse than others.” He smiled ruefully. “And that’s saying something.”

“You were whipped?” He asked it as gently as he could, Anders sighing before nodding once.

“It wasn’t that unusual.” Fenris winced at that. He’d known, vaguely, about the abuses that mages suffered in the Circles, but to see it… “It’s not that big of a deal.” He sounded frustrated now, clearly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was going. For him to fight so doggedly against the Templars and the Chantry, it clearly was a big deal - this, and everything else. But Fenris could understand his unwillingness to talk about it.

“I have the same marks,” he said after a moment, looking stoically into the fire. He felt Anders turn to face him, but wasn’t willing to meet his eyes just now. “It is… awful. And it is done.” He shrugged slightly. “I do not mean to bring you back to that place. I apologize.”

“No, no, I-” Anders cut himself off with a sigh. “I don’t know what to say.”

He let the silence sit. It lay heavy between them, but he kept his arm around the mage while he dried.

It was something.

Chapter Text

It had started as a casual suggestion; let’s take a walk. Simple enough. Dorian had to admit that sitting in that library so often was beginning to wear on him - the literature in Skyhold was limited, with most new additions either going downstairs to Solas’ desk or new works that Varric shelved personally. The problem was, Dorian had already read all of them, working through the newest as soon as it was brought up. They weren’t really to his taste, but it was better than reading through yet another book on the southern Chantry.

So he’d started taking trips down to the Herald’s Rest most evenings. Often he drank, but sometimes he just wasted time around people instead. Sometimes he talked with Sera when she was in the mood, and increasingly Bull had invited him to sit with the Chargers, although Dorian always felt woefully out of place there. So a few nights ago Bull had changed tact, asking Dorian if he wanted to take a walk.

There was hardly anything else to do, so he’d agreed. He had regretted that first walk, the wind cutting through his clothing ruthlessly, and even though he realized halfway through that Bull kept trying to carefully - and subtly, all things considered - position himself between Dorian and the wind, it was a useless endeavor. They were too high up and the wind came from everywhere. So when the Inquisitor brought him to Redcliffe, he had spent a fair amount of his own coin on a thick fur coat. Not exactly up to his standard style, but even he would sacrifice comfort to prevent frostbite.

Now they were standing on the battlements, watching the sun go down over the mountains. Dorian was comfortably ensconced in the thick fur, while Bull leaned on the stone beside him. During these walks Dorian had come to appreciate the care with which Bull conducted himself - he’d never once had to dodge those great horns, even when Bull was bent over like now. Were it anyone else, he might have seen the self-awareness as stemming from some anxiety, but with the Qunari it was clearly not an anxious reaction. He was cognizant of who he was, of what he was, and took care with it - without making himself smaller or other than himself.

Dorian admired that. He admired that a lot, actually.

“Never figured you’d get so quiet,” Bull pointed out as the sun finally drifted below the horizon, Dorian laughing. It puffed out in a great white cloud - Maker, but it was chilly up here, especially during the night. He drew the coat up tighter around his neck.

“And here I thought I was sparing you my incessant posturing,” he teased. Bull snorted and gently bumped against Dorian.

“The posturing is nice. Might prefer posing, though.” Dorian felt himself flush and couldn’t entirely bring himself to mind. If nothing else, it made at least one part of his face warm. Besides, this… wasn’t exactly new. He was still figuring it out, still trying to see what Bull wanted from him, but the other man had been patient. More than anything else, that freaked Dorian out. Being desired, being bedded, and nothing afterwards… it was the way it happened in Tevinter. And if he had held out this long with someone back home, they would have gotten tired of him and moved on.

But here they were. Together. Quietly. Gently. “You know,” he said after a beat, “I’m still kind of chilly.”

“Want to go in?” He smiled to hear the sincerity in the question.

“Not really.” Instead he took a step closer, listening to the little huff that escaped the Qunari before a heavy arm settled around him. “Much better.”

“Damn mage,” Bull muttered, Dorian grinning to hear the obvious fondness in his voice.

Chapter Text

After he had drawn the Veil, he had been exhausted - the magical expenditure was massive, far beyond anything he had anticipated, and he had very nearly collapsed right there. Had he not been with some of his followers, he suspected he would not have made it.

As it was, he was slipping in and out of consciousness as they brought him to a structure built by the Durgen’len before they were forced underground, unaffected by the Veil, undamaged. Unlike Arlathan. Unlike Elvhenan. Unlike the Elvhen themselves, lost, their screams piercing as they fell to their deaths-

He was so tired and the building seemed to appear in bits and pieces. One moment, he was outside it; the next, he was within, the interior dimly lit by torchlight. He blinked and then he was being laid across a thin cot, the lighting having changed. Blearily, he wondered how his followers were moving him so fast.

When he woke, truly woke, he was still exhausted but cognizant. He was aware enough to feel the horrible weight of his grief, his regret and guilt, his horror at what he had wrought. He tried to counsel himself - there had been no other way. He destroyed Elvhenan to preserve the entire world. But the price was astronomical and appalling.

He rose. He tried to lead his people, but he was lost, trying desperately to find his footing in a world without magic. Without real magic. In privacy he conjured fire and ice, feeling how weak and ephemeral it was, a simple memory instead of the lush reality he had known. He no longer felt his followers, no longer sensed their emotion, and he knew that they were not all keeping it within themselves. No, it was simply that it was no longer possible to feel, it was that unguarded emotion no longer seeped out and wove into the magic that was ever-present.

He felt himself lost. Unmoored. Useless.

It was cowardly, but he slept. Not a simple sleep, no - he let himself slip into uthenera, let himself be lost to time. Forgotten. He did not want to wake, did not want to exist, and there was no longer a need for him to lead his people. They were free, for whatever that was worth in this sundered world. Their future was up to them, not him.

He was no longer necessary, and he could not tolerate the world, so he abandoned it.

~~~

When he woke, at first he had thought it from sleep. The vestiges of murky dreams clinging to his mind, eyes opening in darkness. It wasn’t until his body began to reassert its many untended needs that his memory came flooding back.

He’d destroyed the world. He’d entered uthenera. He’d woken.

Now, in a way that felt truly ridiculous against the onslaught of his remembered grief, he was hungry. Desperately hungry. And thirsty, and sore, and needing to relieve himself, and many other things besides.

He sat up, feeling dizzy - as he went to stand he fell back to the floor, and would have called out had his throat not been so achingly tight and dry. It took him time to lever himself upright once again, hand braced against the wall as his legs remembered how to bear his own weight, and he moved forward uneasily.

He remembered torchlight, but there was none. He remembered the voices of the elves who had brought him here, but now this place was silent. He found no one and nothing, finally emerging outside and throwing a hand over his eyes at the harsh light of the sun. Even through his lidded eyes and his palm he could still see the light, so harsh after the encompassing darkness that he’d been in… well, he didn’t know how long.

He kept his eyes scrunched shut as he slowly lowered his hand, waiting unsteadily for his body to begin to adjust. He reached back for the doorframe and guided himself to the wall beside it, letting his weight sag against the worked stone.

At last he felt able to open his eyes, although the light still made them swim with tears. He wanted to curse at the waste of fluids when he was so thirsty, but he didn’t think he could speak. He needed to find food and water before anything else.

So he started walking. When he found a long, straight stick he grabbed it, using it as a crutch instead of a staff, although he supposed it would function well enough for that purpose. He had lost his old staff at some point, probably abandoned in his exhaustion after creating the Veil. However, he still wore the armor that he had worn throughout Arlathan, the armor that had shielded him from death many times during the war he waged against the Evanuris, the military victory he sought before realizing he could not stand against their might with martial force.

After some time he heard the rush of water and hastened towards what turned out to be a small river, dropping to his knees at its shore and letting the stick clatter to the side, cupping his hands in the cold water before drawing mouthfuls up.

In his foolish haste, he drank too much and had to scramble to the side as he retched. Shaking with a new exhaustion, he forced himself to drink slowly, tentatively. Some time later he felt able to relieve himself, some of his strength returning to him. He stayed by that river for some time, and between he searched for plants he recognized as edible, although much of the plant-life here was entirely unfamiliar to him.

Over the course of nearly a week he managed to build his strength and stamina back up, eating whatever he could find, no matter how unpalatable. The first time he’d eaten an insect, he’d nearly laughed - to think, he’d been part of the court of Arlathan! The height of the Elvhen empire! Now here he was, scrounging for soft-bodied grubs under rocks and drinking handfuls of water straight from a river, hoping it wouldn’t make him sick.

But he survived. Stubbornly clinging to a life he wasn’t sure he wanted but still fought for, clawing his way ever-forward. And for what? An empty world, all things thin and hollow? The grass beneath him had no resonance, the trees around him were nothing more than wood, there was no memory, no feeling, no truth anywhere.

Except in his dreams.

He did not understand them at first. He had dreamed before, in Arlathan, his mind conjuring images while he slept. That these did not feel the same he at first attributed to the world being different, or to him being different. But as he started to witness things that he thought he would never be able to imagine, he began to suspect that it was something else entirely.

Over time, he gained a measure of control in these dreams. He found spirits in this place, his heart soaring with a strange, bitter relief, grateful that they still existed somewhere even if it was all wrong. They explained to him that this was the Fade. Some seemed to know it had once been different; most did not.

Finally, one could give him a timeframe. He did not believe them. When he woke, he still did not believe them, even as he looked around the unfamiliar world. Surely it had not been millennia that he’d slept…

In the Fade, he had seen the edges of new civilizations. He had seen elves he did not recognize, although he did recognize the markings they wore on their faces. He did not understand why they did and hoped that it was a mistake, memories flowing into one another, conflating the faces of the ancient past with the present. But he realized that he had to see for himself.

Every night, he explored what had come to be called the Fade. Every day, he journeyed, hoping to find some group to observe. As time went on, he became more capable in his exploration of the Fade, he learned its twists and curves, befriended spirits, and dug constantly into the memories contained within, trying to piece together some idea of what had transpired over so much time.

Finally, he had come across a group of elves. He did not recognize them as elves at first, for they were so far removed from any he had known in Arlathan - humble in their dress, apparently nomadic in their manner of living, and, yes, all but the youngest marked with the Vallaslin. He observed them for some time but saw no sign of any mastery within the group, no obedience to one. There was a clear leader, but she did not appear to be a master and she, too, wore the Vallaslin.

It wasn’t until he saw her curing one of the hunters that he realized none of the others had used magic.

He had left them, then. He could not stay, could not bring himself to observe more. He saw now what he had taken from them, knew the truth of it as a fact instead of something that might have been distorted in the Fade. He kept moving.

During the night, he sometimes encountered others who were not spirits. Elves and humans, the latter beings he only barely recognized, although they seemed to have gained tremendous power over the ages. At first he avoided them, wary and overcautious, but as time went on he began to approach them. To question them, gently and with subtlety. Some were aware they were dreaming - those were far more resistant, and a number of times he was accused of being a demon, something which puzzled him. Others moved and spoke as if through a haze, and they answered his questions about the world far more readily.

He had wondered if any of the elves he had freed could still be alive, but as he asked questions about elves he learned that they had lost their immortality. He wondered if any of the elves he had freed might still survive, if those of Arlathan, like himself, retained their immortality… or if all elves had lost that. He had no real way of knowing.

But he did find ripples of discontent within the Fade. He watched with mounting horror the ways elves were treated in the modern age. He witnessed the alienages, the way elves were oppressed by humans, the way those who lived outside of human cities - the Dalish, he learned they were called - were still so often attacked by humans. No elf was safe, none were truly free, and it was horrific to see the people who had once ruled the world now brought so low.

Not that Arlathan had been much better, unless one was lucky enough to be born into the nobility.

During the day, he sometimes girded himself enough to approach the Dalish. He spoke to them and tried to tell them of their own history, uncertain how to convey the enormity of what was lost, but for the most part they spurned his reasoning and decried him as foolish or insane. Some few were curious, but their conviction and loyalty to their clans was stronger than their willingness to follow him when he was asked to leave - or sometimes threatened, depending on the nature of the given clan.

So it was that in the Fade he approached some of the discontented. He spoke to them openly and honestly. Without entirely realizing what he was doing at first, he began to build a new network, contacts who were strewn across the world, connected to him through the vagaries of the Fade.

He had woken with his orb at his side. Had carried it with him even through the haze of exhaustion and malnourishment. It had never occurred to him to abandon its weight, not even after he had realized he was too weak to access its power. It was him. It would be like choosing to remove his own arm.

But as he built his knowledge back up, he began to consider ways he might access the power of his orb once more. The longer he existed within this shallow, halved world, the more obvious his actions seemed: he must destroy the Veil that he had created. But he would need all of his strength in order to do so.

He rather imagined the exertion would kill him, but found he did not mind. All he wanted to do was bring the world back the way it should be. To complete that… it would be a life well-spent. First, however, he needed access to his orb. As his network grew he began to monitor potential opportunities through them.

At last, nearly a year after waking up in that abandoned structure, he thought he had found the answer. He was hesitant to hand over his orb, but knew it was necessary. He had found the man who would open it - and die in the doing. The world would not miss his cruelty, and Solas would finally be able to tear down the Veil.

Now, he just needed to figure out how to kill the Evanuris at the same time.

Chapter Text

“So, Chuckles, what prompted all the Fade-walking you do?”

“Hm? Ah, well. There was little of interest for a mage in the small village I was in.”

“Really? I mean, I’m no expert on mages, but they seem more than able to find a purpose wherever they are.”

“Pleased to surprise, Master Tethras.”

“I’m sure.”

-

“Varric, you knew the rebel mage, Anders?”

“Blondie? Yeah, I knew him.”

“Your book, Tales of the Champion, is purposefully vague on what became of him.”

“Well, it made for a better narrative than ‘I have no clue where Anders is.’”

“Hm.”

-

“Okay, I know, dreaming and Fade-walking and all. But seriously, how do you know so much about the ancient elves?”

“I have traveled deep into the Fade. Deeper than most Dreamers dare go.”

“Fortunate for us, I guess.”

“So it seems.”

-

“I find it strange that you’ve named your crossbow, Varric.”

“What’s so strange about it?”

“It is a weapon. I’ve not named my staff. Bull has not, as far as I know, named his greataxe. Is the crossbow named for its inventor?”

“If it was, I wouldn’t tell you. No offense, Chuckles, but we’ve talked about this - I’m not keen on this type of weapon ending up in the wrong hands.”

“An understandable precaution.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“However, it seems… unwise, to possibly name your weapon after it’s creator.”

“Ah, but you don’t know that I did, do you?”

“Will the uncertainty stop people from seeking this ‘Bianca’?”

“Chuckles, you can’t swing a nug in Orzammar without hitting a ‘Bianca’.”

“Ah.”

-

“You seem awful confident about what Corypheus is planning.”

“It is not confidence so much as it is observation.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’ve seen his like in the Fade, right? But isn’t he a little different?”

“A tyrant is a tyrant, Varric.”

“Sure, but he’s not just a tyrant, he’s apparently a Magister. Or a darkspawn. Or both. Oh, and I helped kill him. And he’s maybe immortal? Don’t you think that sets him apart? How can you predict someone like that?”

“He is not the first to seek supremacy over other beings. His nature seems less important than his motivations, and how he will seek to achieve them.”

“Sure, Chuckles. You keep telling yourself that.”

-

“So, Varric.”

“Yes?”

“I noticed you speaking with another dwarf yesterday.”

“Yeah, and?”

“You called her Bianca.”

“Well, that’s her name.”

“Is she the Bianca? The one you’ve named your crossbow after?”

“I told you before, Chuckles-”

“I know, I know. Can’t swing a nug. Not sure why one would try, but that is beside the point.”

“Not my fault that Orzammar isn’t very clever about names.”

“Hm.”

—

“So, Chuckles, you still haven’t unpacked.”

“I told you, I haven’t committed to staying here.”

“Right… yeah, you did tell me that. Two months ago.”

“Your point?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. What’s mine is yours, after all.”

Chapter Text

Solas entered the main hall, planning to go to the garden, when Varric waved him over instead. After a brief hesitation he joined the dwarf at the table in front of the hearth. “I keep telling everyone that I’m going to beat you one of these days, Chuckles, and you wouldn’t want to make a liar of me, would you?” Varric pushed the parchment he’d been working on aside and pulled out a deck of cards while Solas smirked.

“One cannot make you other than what you are, Master Tethras,” he countered smoothly, watching as Varric dealt out the hand. “If you wish to stop being a liar, there is a simple solution.” Varric paused to hold a hand against his chest in mock injury.

“I am wounded. I never knew you thought so lowly of me.” He grinned as he returned his attention to the cards, Solas picking his up to examine his hand.

“I do not believe acknowledging the reality is the same as thinking ‘lowly’ of you.” He made the first move and Varric frowned at the play. Or perhaps the words.

“A storyteller and a liar are not the same thing, y’know.” Varric sounded distracted now as he focused on his hand before making his own play with a smirk. Solas hummed quietly in approval and Varric’s smirk grew.

“Certainly not,” he agreed, noting the arch of Varric’s brow. “A storyteller is a far more loquacious liar than most.” Now the dwarf snorted and Solas played the next move.

“You’re calling me loquacious? I’m sorry, am I forgetting who waxes poetic about the Fade?” Varric barely considered before making his move, but Solas wasn’t buying it. He always had a good strategy planned.

“I don’t wax poetic,” he pointed out sourly. “I answer questions and explain things in the depth required for understanding.” Varric rolled his eyes and Solas grinned. As always, the rapport was a pleasant distraction. And when he made the next move Varric’s face fell and Solas’ grin widened.

“Shit. Okay.” Varric focused on his hand for a few moments while Solas made a point of settling into the chair, eyes lidded as he watched Varric. “Anyway,” he began as he made his move, Solas frowning as he saw the other man’s play beginning to come to fruition, “I have never in my life heard someone talk about the Fade as much as you do. Much less the way you do. Most men would save that sort of language to describe a lover.”

“Hm,” he managed as he glanced between the table and his hand. “At least I save my poetic descriptions for a place worthy of them. You talk about your crossbow the way most men would talk about a lover.” He made his next move, but he was beginning to think Varric might take this game.

“Bianca? Well, she’s worth it. She likes being flattered.” He laid down his final card and Solas sighed, setting down his hand. “And see? I’m no liar.” Solas flapped a hand at him, although they were both smiling.

“Spare me your crowing, Varric. You won this time, but you won’t always be so lucky.” He got up as Varric began gathering the cards, nodding at the other man before making his way to the garden.

He supposed they’d keep dancing around each other like this.

Chapter Text

“The sky is torn open!” The Seeker snapped, her frustration reaching a breaking point. “And we need a leader!”

“What am I supposed to do about that?” He asked, voice deliberately casual. He bit back his smirk as she growled—he enjoyed her frustration, but he also wanted to keep his head in place.

“You need to tell me where Hawke is! I know you know!” He made a show of sighing, shaking his head.

“I already told you, Seeker—Hawke left after the Chantry. We all split up. I don’t know where the Champion is, now,” he lied.

They wouldn’t have Hawke, not if Varric could help it.

—

“They’re still unconscious,” Leliana said flatly, Cassandra pinching the bridge of her nose. Solas hovered at the edge of their little circle, maybe trying to make himself appear unthreatening. “Solas,” she said sharply, everyone’s attention turning to the elf. “What have you been able to achieve?”

“Little enough,” he admitted slowly. Varric felt for him—being interrogated by the Nightingale was not a pleasant experience. “I have been able to stabilize the mark, but the fact that she remains alive is shocking. I do not know how much more I will be able to do.”

“She’s our last chance for answers,” Cassandra pointed out, Leliana nodding. Then she looked at Varric with a frown and he shrugged.

“What do you want me to do about that, Seeker? I’m a dwarf, in case you forgot—no connection to the Fade. None.”

Cassandra sighed and turned away, and Varric pretended that he didn’t know what she was really asking for. He would not reveal Hawke.

—

“Shit,” he groaned as they came across the red lyrium. He had really been hoping it was just back in the temple—that was bad enough. But here, in the Hinterlands?

“Varric, how do we destroy this?” The Herald asked. Her survival was miraculous, but it didn’t mean she was a miracle worker herself—just an ordinary woman, from what he could see. As ordinary as an elf with a glowing hand that could seal rifts could be, anyway. He shrugged.

“No idea, but do it carefully.” Cassandra scoffed and he bristled a little, half expecting another round of interrogations to begin, but she did not respond. “I don’t know what you expect me to do about this,” he said with a hint of frustration.

Even though this was his fault. His mistake. Him and his brother and their damned venture into the Deep Roads. But even so, he didn’t know how to fix it.

Chapter Text

Hawke had come to the Inquisition, and had brought one of her friends. Varric had been excited to see the young Dalish, called her “Daisy.” Solas had thought that was her actual name for a time, only learning differently when Hawke had introduced her as Merrill. Although their Inquisitor was Dalish as well, he was on edge around the other elf, although he was intrigued by her staff. A mage, then…? Why would a Dalish mage be traveling with the Hero of Ferelden, coming out to Skyhold?

Hawke had arrived because she had apparently dealt with Corypheus before, along with Varric. This was news to Solas and he was frustrated by the lack of forewarning, although he supposed he couldn’t exactly blame his agents - Corypheus was not a known name, and they had apparently encountered him in some strange Grey Warden prison. And killed him, for whatever good it seemed to do.

Solas wished he had heard this story before he’d seen fit to provide Corypheus access to his orb, but there was little use mourning the past. For now he was accompanying the Inquisitor, Hawke, Merrill, and Varric to a cave in Crestwood, to meet with a Grey Warden. Things had seemed fairly typical until they came across a small group of bandits.

As he was settling into position and withdrawing his staff, he saw Merrill cut open her palm, her blood coiling around her staff before it shaped itself into thin, crimson projectiles, plunging straight through armor and skin alike. A blood mage.

He was not inherently opposed to blood magic of this nature, the use of one’s own blood, but he had not expected it from the delicate-looking young woman. During the battle his attention remained more on her than on their enemies and at one point he let someone get in too close, cursing under his breath as he tried to move away and give himself space to cast before hitting the stone wall. They were in a relatively narrow passageway that the bandits had clearly chose for just this reason.

He had drawn his staff protectively in front of his body, looking for an opening, when he heard Merrill call out and plunge the blade of her staff under the man’s raised arm, twisting as he cried out and fell, a spray of blood between them. But what struck Solas more than her capability and the violence was her battle-cry: “may the Dread Wolf take you!”

It made him feel horribly off-balance. Didn’t most Dalish call out to their “Creators”? Why would she call his name?

She frowned at him and he frowned back, wondering if he looked as uncomfortable as he felt, but then she rushed forward. “Solas, are you okay?”

Was he okay? What did she mean-

She placed her hand against his upper arm and he flinched, glancing down to see blood coursing freely down his arm and wicking into his sleeve. He stared at it for a moment, uncomprehending, before dropping his head back against the stone wall with a snarl. The bandit must’ve caught his arm as he fell. Shit.

“Solas is wounded!” She called out over her shoulder, grabbing his waist and opposite arm to encourage him to slide down the wall into a seated position. “It’s bleeding a lot. I don’t know if there are any potions left…” He noticed that she gnawed on her lower lip as she let her pack drop free, rummaging through it as everyone else approached. She gathered a roll of bandaging before drawing her knife. The blood on the handle reminded him that she was bleeding, too.

“Take care of yourself,” he said weakly and she huffed, glaring up at him for a moment before her expression softened.

“I am fine. You are losing too much blood.”

“Then use blood magic,” he shot back, teasing. But she tensed briefly, staring at the material of his shirt before lifting it to cut it away. He sighed - he’d have to replace that, and it was a comfortable tunic. Oh well.

“That’s not how it works,” she told him quietly and he winced, hearing the discomfort in her voice. He hadn’t meant to be cruel.

“It’s fine, Merrill,” he said, letting his eyes slip shut as she worked on bandaging his wound. “I was only teasing.” He once again felt her hands still on him and opened his eyes to find her staring up at him, wide-eyed and disbelieving. “Truly. I don’t mind. Just… make sure you bandage yourself soon, too.”

“I… yes. I will.” She resumed wrapping his arm. “Um… thank you.”

“Hm?”

“No one has ever been ‘fine’ with it. My magic.”

“Misunderstood…” he mused absently, still feeling a little weak from the blood loss. But the wound barely hurt - the blade must have been razor-sharp. “Is that why you call upon the Dread Wolf?” This time her pause was brief - apparently she was becoming accustomed to him. Or at least less surprised. The Inquisitor, Hawke, and Varric had been watching for some time but had drifted back to scouting out the area after Merrill made it obvious that she had this covered, so their conversation was as close to private as it could get out here.

“Fen’Harel? I…” She frowned, seemingly at a loss. “Perhaps so. Our legends tell of a trickster, a betrayer…” She shook her head, her expression tight with a deep pain. “But sometimes, people don’t recognize the truth. I am not sure what his truth is. Only that I have called upon him, and so far he has seen fit to spare me.” She tied off the bandaging and hummed to herself, apparently satisfied, before standing.

He rose a moment later and held out his hand. She glanced down at it, frowned, then met his eyes. “Give me the bandaging and your hand,” he said. She sighed, handing over the wrap, but clearly hesitant to offer her hand. He grinned, amused by her reserve here after having treated him. “Give me your hand, it won’t kill you.” She huffed but he noticed the edge of a smile pulling at her mouth as she placed her wounded hand in his.

He carefully wrapped it and tied it off. She pulled away to stare at the bandaging, then looked up at him, something curious and assessing in her gaze. After a moment she nodded to herself, seemingly satisfied. “Thank you, Solas.”

“And thank you, Merrill,” he said in turn, gesturing to his wrapped arm. She smiled in truth now, gathering her pack and slinging it back on before they caught up with the others.

He decided he’d want to speak with her more, when they were all back at Skyhold.

Chapter Text

The newcomer was named Merrill, a Dalish elf who had come with Hawke and apparently chosen to linger in Skyhold. She seemed curious and courteous, but did not try to ingratiate herself with anyone. She spoke to Varric mostly and otherwise kept to herself, sometimes reading.

-

Merrill was a mage. He only realized the first time she accompanied them and he’d seen her with a staff slung across her back.

He was not one to wish for combat, but when they returned from an outing that had been peaceful he felt a tinge of disappointment. He’d been curious about her magic.

-

During their next outing, he’d gotten his answer. It was a surprising one.

He’d been keeping an eye on her while they were engaged in battle. He really wanted to see the magic she employed, shocked when she’d drawn a knife and slashed across her left arm.

A blood mage.

She’d used the power to slay two of their enemies in short order, looking determined even as her arm continued to bleed. He’d approached and offered a touch of healing—it was not his area of expertise, but he could close the wound at least. She hesitated before holding her arm out, watching him seal the cut.

-

Later and she opened the wound again in another battle. When he approached she started apologizing and he shook his head. “You helped all of us,” he said firmly as he drew his fingertips down the cut. “This is the least I can do.”

He felt her stare as he finished sealing the cut a second time, glancing up to meet her eyes. She nodded at him, although it looked like she was puzzling over something. “Thank you,” was all she said and he nodded in turn, leaving her to her thoughts.

-

A few days later she entered the rotunda, waiting just in the doorway until he looked up and gestured her in, rising and coming to the other side of the table. “Greetings,” he said simply, surprised by her visitation.

“Hello,” was all she said in turn, tilting her head as she considered him. He let the silence grow. Eventually she shook her head just slightly, the faintest frown tugging at her lips. “I have a question, if you don’t mind?”

“By all means.”

“Why haven’t you said anything about it?” His confusion must have shown on his face, for she clarified: “my magic, I mean. Blood magic. Everyone else said something. Everyone always says something…” she trailed off, glancing away. Then she squared her shoulders and met his eyes once more, demanding an explanation.

“I see,” was all he said for a moment, considering how best to proceed. “I suppose many people fear it. I never have. It is simply a type of power, no more evil than using fire magic, no more evil than a warrior’s blade. Like all powerful things, the way it is used is what matters.” She frowned at him, a pinch between her brows—she doubted him. Or perhaps simply couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You use your own blood to save others. In my eyes, it is no different than Cassandra spilling her blood to save us—while I would rather neither of you were hurt, I will not dismiss your choices and what you do to aid us. I admire Cassandra’s persistence, bravery, and willpower… just as I admire your courage, control, and wisdom.”

“I…” she seemed so taken aback, eventually shaking her head. “Well! Thank you. That is– I’m happy. That you see me that way. No one has… I mean…” she huffed and shook her head. “I’m babbling. I appreciate your answer.” She seemed to recover herself slightly, smiling brightly and without reserve. “Thank you, Solas.”

She left quickly after that, before he could tell her that he didn’t think she was babbling at all. Or that he’d like to discuss this with her more. Or anything else that was suddenly on his mind.

-

After that, she changed. Suddenly when they were traveling together she was talking frequently. She spoke with him the most, but also with everyone else. She pointed out plants that they passed that she knew the names of, or admired birds she didn’t recognize.

When she was wounded after battle she approached him and smiled after he healed her, never speaking a word of criticism. He may not like seeing the wounds on her skin, but he understood—and the value of having someone accept this part of her couldn’t be clearer.

She laughed now, where before at most she would smile. She pressed playfully against his side, where before she walked behind all of them. She called out their names, where before she’d just battled that much more fiercely.

She’d gone from being helpful but nearly a stranger to being an integrated, familiar part of their group.

-

Sometimes they sat up talking around the campfire.

And when one night she’d reached for his hand, he wasn’t surprised. His heart beat faster in his chest as he returned her little squeeze.

Chapter Text

Ever since she’d arrived with the other mages - all of them now, remarkably, free under the Inquisition’s banner - she’d watched the few templars. In particular, she’d watched Cullen.

She’d spent years in Kinloch Hold, and eventually many of the templars she’d once trained alongside had come to serve in the very Circle she had been imprisoned in. It was… always different. They saw her, knew her, but refused to see past her magic. She never knew if it was guilt, shame, or fear that drove their distance, but the distance was no less real for her uncertainty of its origin.

The other templars were easier to bear, in a way. Most of them knew there was a partially-trained templar among the mages, but not all of them knew her face, and to many she was just another of their charges. Some of the templars were abusive, some were almost kind, and many were passive, staring past and through the mages as if they weren’t even people.

She looked in their eyes sometimes and saw herself.

She’d known of Cullen, in the way that the mages always knew of the various templars - knew which of them to avoid, which of them to soothe, and which of them could be approached about genuine problems. Cullen was one of the latter, although she had quickly realized that it was wisest for the mages to take care of their own problems… and to take care of their own, a group she still struggled to identify with.

Realizing he was in charge of the Inquisition’s army had immediately elicited her suspicion. But there was something strange about him, something she hadn’t been able to put her finger on until two days ago.

She’d been approaching the tavern, more to hear Maryden sing than to drink, and had passed the commander going the opposite direction. He’d smiled at her, distracted and weary, and that would have been all if she hadn’t noticed that he didn’t smell right. As they passed one another she’d stopped and turned, frowning at his retreating form as she puzzled over the obvious change.

Templars smelled of lyrium. Mages could, too, although they didn’t have to use it in the same manner as templars. When she’d been younger she had thought everyone could smell it, but it wasn’t until she’d been in the Circle for some time that she heard other apprentices mention it and the realization of her nature began to truly make itself known.

But the templar commander didn’t smell right. The lyrium… it was like a memory against his skin.

The Inquisition had allied itself with the rebel mages. They must have access to lyrium. There was no reason for their commander to do without, not unless they were rationing the lyrium, which didn’t seem to be the case.

She turned away from the tavern to follow him.

After a while it became clear that he was doing a patrol and she sighed to herself; this might take some time. It was strange to watch him in this context, always keeping a fair distance behind him - she was no tracker, but she didn’t need to be, not when he was wearing that big fur mantle and the crowd tended to open up around him. He left a trail of disturbance in his wake and she wondered if he even noticed.

When it became obvious that he was at the start of his rounds she sighed and decided to change tact, turning and going up the stairs to the battlements and from there boldly striding into his office. She might get in trouble if she was found here, but she wasn’t too worried about that. It had become very clear very quickly that punishment at the hands of the Inquisition was far less than punishment at the hands of the Circle, and she knew she could weather anything they did.

Luckily, it ended up being a non-issue. She’d been idly flipping through one of the books on his shelf when she heard approaching footsteps and quickly put it away, positioning herself in front of his desk with her hands clasped in front of her.

Templars always kept an eye on a mage’s hands.

He entered and stopped cold, frowning at her before very deliberately stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “Do you have need of me?” He asked carefully. Dimitra kept her expression neutral, but was intrigued by how he settled more into the position of a commander rather than a templar, now.

“I had a question for you,” she corrected, slightly frustrated by how polite her voice was. It was a difficult habit to break, though. He raised a brow as he came into the office entirely, although she noticed that he didn’t take a seat. Instead he stood on the opposite side of his desk, one hand casually braced on the pommel of his sword. A familiar stance.

“Then ask,” he said bluntly. Still, she could see his suspicion in the careful and quick way he examined her and the faint pinch between his brows.

“Commander,” she began, deciding to be equally blunt, “you don’t smell right.” *Maker*, his *face*. She bit her tongue so she wouldn’t laugh. He looked comically puzzled, then self-conscious, then a little angry. She decided to head off any questions. “Mages can smell lyrium. And you don’t smell right.”

“… ah.” All the disparate emotion fled him at her explanation and now he sounded wholly defeated. As she’d thought, it was bad. “I didn’t realize.” She wasn’t surprised. It wasn’t as if templars and mages often spoke of such matters. Besides, it was usually irrelevant - templars smelled like templars, like lyrium, and there was never any difference. Until today.

And, she supposed, the day she had first been given over to the Circle.

“I’m not sure what you know of me,” she said, watching as he forced his attention back to her with a puzzled frown, “but my name is Dimitra.” Ah. His eyes widened slightly at that. As expected, her name was familiar to him, if not her face.

“You were at Kinloch,” he mused aloud, now searching her face. “I recognize you. You were the one…”

“The templar. Templar in training, that is. Yes.”

He kept frowning at her, looking as if he was mulling something over. Or perhaps many somethings. Nothing of her life had been as straightforward as she would have preferred, so she could sympathize with the puzzle she presented and gave him some time to work through it. Eventually he seemed to hit the same wall everyone did with her and sighed, running his hand through his hair. It seemed to be a nervous gesture. “Why are you here?” Straight to the point, then. That worked for her.

“I had been taking lyrium for about a year before my magic manifested,” she explained. It was a horribly familiar explanation. His frown deepened. “Obviously the Circle did not want to continue providing me with lyrium. A half-trained templar who ended up being a mage? They didn’t want to give me the power to stand against my prior comrade in arms.” Understanding dawned on his face. The rush of pity made her feel nauseous - she hated that.

“They cut you off?” She nodded once, sharply, and he inhaled slowly before letting it out in a rush. “So…”

“I know what you’re going through,” she finished for him. He narrowed his eyes and she shrugged. “I wasn’t addicted for as long as you were, but it wasn’t easy on me, either, commander.” He stared for a few moments more before sighing and sinking into his chair, gesturing vaguely at the seat on the other side of the desk. She sat down and watched him, willing to wait him out.

“How did you manage?” He asked at last, not meeting her eyes. There was something terribly raw about his voice, something that brought her right back to those horrible days. She clenched her hands so hard her nails bit into her palm, trying to bring herself back into the moment.

“I had no other choice,” was her simple, honest response. He scoffed. “It was awful. I thought I would die.” He glanced her way once more, meeting her eyes again. She held his gaze, even though part of her wanted to look down in false humility. She supposed she’d never be entirely free of those urges. “The shaking, the sickness, the weakness. For a while they gave me decreasing doses, but that didn’t make it much better. I still felt just as sick and when the lyrium began to leave my system, it was…” She hadn’t realized how much she’d been speaking or how she’d started hugging herself until Cullen leaned forward with a worried frown. “Sorry,” she whispered, forcing her hands back into her lap. He shook his head.

“You don’t need to apologize. I…” he shook his head again, as if that was all he could do. She supposed it was. “Thank you. For telling me this.” He settled back down, looking nervous instead of worried now. “I didn’t think there would be anyone who could understand.”

“You’re choosing it though, aren’t you?” Her question was sharper than she’d meant it to be and she winced, a small part of her expecting him to lash out - or to turn dangerously cold. That was always worse. Instead he just sighed. Then he laughed, weakly, yes, but still a laugh.

“I am. You must think me an absolute fool.”

“I think it’s remarkable,” she said before she could think better of it. He looked taken aback by it, though. “I was forced off. If I’d had a choice, I don’t think I could have gotten free of it. The fact that you’re sticking to this path, that you chose to do this… yeah. It’s remarkable.”

He opened his mouth to reply, closed it, opened it again, then just shook his head. “You sound like Cassandra,” was what he apparently settled on, and that was strange to hear. “Except, she doesn’t know how it is. The way it gets inside you. The way it becomes you. The strength, the confidence. She doesn’t know. But you do.”

“I do,” she agreed. He worried at his lower lip for a moment. “I know how bad it can get, too. And I… I mean, you don’t know me, I get that. But if you need someone to remind you that you can survive it, I’m around, yeah?” How she wished she’d had someone like that. Although she’d kept herself sealed away whenever the withdrawals hit - and the Circle had wanted it that way, wanted to be able to look away from her and not have to grapple with the reality of the templars’ addiction. It made them uncomfortable. It made her uncomfortable. And it certainly made the templars uncomfortable. It had been for the best that she was kept hidden as she’d been forced to struggle through.

Still. She wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

“I appreciate that,” he said stiffly, as if uncertain. Then his shoulders slumped and he rubbed his face before smiling at her. “Honestly. That is a very kind offer. Thank you, Dimitra.” She nodded at him before standing, and when he didn’t stop her she exited his office.

She did not want to think about that smile right now.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

“So, who’s going to tell our esteemed Inquisitor that this isn’t going to work?” Dorian asked her, leaning in conspiratorially. She snickered but shook her head.

“Nuh-uh, not me,” Sera said quickly, then giggled again as they both watched the Inquisitor stare at the mountainside before trying to ascend it at a slightly different angle. He sighed. The woman was quite deft, each movement centered, but it was still a very nearly vertical rockface. She made excellent use of the tiniest crevices and had gotten about halfway up twice now before sliding back down.

“Even if she makes it up, does she expect us to follow?” He asked, Sera shaking her head and shrugging.

“Then she’s gonna be real disappointed,” she said before grinning brightly. “Eh, least the view is good.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Do you have a sovereign on you?” She turned to stare at him, brow furrowed. “To toss.” It took a second, but then Sera was giggling again, shaking her head.

“You’re the rich tit, ain’t ya? What, you leave all your pretty coins back in the mountain?” He had, actually, but there was little reason to admit as much.

“Well, we’re going to be here all day at this rate. Do you have anything we could toss?”

“What for?”

“Loser has to tell the Inquisitor that this is not going to work.”

“Got nothin’. You’re a mage, yeah? Make something.” He frowned, puzzling over that as they watched her try to ascend the cliff-face yet again. Suddenly an idea struck him - a strange one, but it’d work. He held out his hand, Sera taking a step away from him as he summoned a narrow disc of ice. “I didn’t mean it,” she complained while he smirked, pleased with his solution. “Anyway, can’t read a sheet of ice, can you?”

“Just watch,” he announced smugly, waving his free hand over the disc. He didn’t usually do things like this so he kept it simple, one side with a circle and one side with a cross. “Choose.”

“Uhh, circle.” She sounded unconvinced but at least he had an answer. He flipped it and held out his hand to catch it, but it hit the edge of his hand and toppled to the ground, where it shattered spectacularly. “Huh,” Sera said simply as they both stared down at the ruined disc. “I think that means you lose.”

“In what way?”

“You made it and you broke it. Sounds like losing to me.”

“I did not lose.”

“Well you sure as shit didn’t win.”

“Hmm.” He contemplated the shattered disc. “Point taken.”

“So, who tells her?”

“Maybe we just wait her out? Surely she’ll tire after a while.”

“Uh-huh.” Sera smirked at him. “Well, like I said. Least the view is good.”

He sighed and leaned against a tree, crossing his arms as they watched the Inquisitor assess and attempt. “Next time I’m bringing a deck of cards,” he muttered under his breath and Sera snorted.

Chapter Text

Thunk. It wasn’t real. Thunk. Just some fucked-up Fade shit. Thunk, thunk. Not real.

Thunk.

“Not real,” she said aloud, drawing her bow before she sighed and let it relax, dropping it to the side and sinking into the pile of soft things she’d collected. “Not real. Unreal. Doesn’t exist. Make-believe. Fade shit. Fade piss.”

Of course it wasn’t real—it was nothing. How could that be real? The absence of– shit, her head hurt even beginning to think about it. But when she thought about it she felt like her throat would close up, and that was real, and what the fuck–

Suddenly she was moving, ignoring everyone’s glances and the sound of their voices, ignoring Maryden’s creepy singing, ignoring everything. Shit, she hated having to do this, hated it so much, but there was one person who might be able to make this make some kind of sense. Maybe. Assuming he didn’t just fuck it up in her head even more.

She pounded on the door to the rotunda. “Solas! We need to talk! Like, now.” She didn’t even wait for him to answer, pushing it open herself and walking right in. He was at the little desk in the center of the room, looking absolutely puzzled to see her, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Not even enough to be amused by finally making him look puzzled—the arse certainly deserved it, as often as he’d confused her. “You gotta explain this shit to me,” she said urgently, leaning her hands on his desk. “How did I see nothing and why was it so fucking scary and what does it mean–”

“Sera–”

“And how do I make it stop–”

“Sera!” She bit her tongue on the onslaught of words that still wanted to pour out, his voice surprising. It was firm but not angry, and his expression was really gentle. She shifted awkwardly in place, thinking she preferred him looking confused. This set her teeth on edge. “You’re clearly troubled,” he said as he stood and she snorted—fucking brilliant, yes, troubled–

But before she could protest he held up a hand, then gestured to the small couch. She frowned warily at him, feeling like she needed to move not sit still, but, well, she was here—might as well give it a shot. She sat on the edge of the couch, bouncing her leg. He glanced at it as he sat next to her but didn’t comment on it. “What the fuck, Solas?”

“We all saw our fears realized,” he said gently and she shook her head. Not denying it, just… that was too simple, wasn’t it? “You say you saw nothing?” She grimaced and nodded tightly. “And you don’t understand it.”

“I don’t understand any of this shite!” She shouted, rising to her feet to pace in front of him. He didn’t stop her, didn’t try to get her to sit down again, nothing. Just watched her. “Coryphe-shite, holes in the sky, the fucking Fade–” she snarled and quickened her pace, feeling like she was going to burst out of her skin if she didn’t do something.

“Sera.” She glanced at him, surprised again by how gentle his voice was. “Come here. Please.” She groaned but sat down again, leg bouncing again– “Give me your hand.” She frowned at him, but… well, he’d been a right freak since they’d met, but not in the bad way just the weird way. She could deal with weird. So she gave him her hand and he took it between his, his skin warm and a little rougher than she would’ve expected from a mage. “You feel this?” He asked, squeezing her hand.

“No shit,” she grumbled but he just arched a brow and she sighed, nodding. “Yeah, yeah, I feel it.”

“Focus on your body. Tell me everything you feel.” She frowned again but he kept staring expectantly at her. Eventually she sighed. “Your hands are warm,” she offered awkwardly and he nodded, but still looked expectant. She sighed again, squirming a little. “Your couch isn’t that comfy.” The hint of a smile tugged at his lips but he didn’t break his concentration. “I don’t know—it’s kinda cold in here?”

“What do you hear?” She frowned at him again, but he seemed serious…

“Uh, you talking? Sometimes. I…” She paused, closing her eyes to really listen. “I can hear Leliana’s birds. The wind. Voices.”

“Good. What do you smell?” She opened her eyes to stare at him, certain that he was pulling her leg now, but he still seemed sincere.

“Um…” She closed her eyes again, inhaling deeply then wrinkling her nose. “Your paints, I think? They smell kinda weird. Wet bird. Dust. Cold air.”

“Very good.” He squeezed her hand again. “Now—let us look at this fear of yours.” She opened her eyes and took a deep breath, nodding slowly. She did feel calmer, which was weird.

“It was nothing. Who’s afraid of nothing!” His smile was as gentle as the rest of his demeanor had been, but she didn’t distrust it quite as much now.

“Many people. Nothing is frightening. What can one do against nothingness? No body to fight, no fear to crush, no battle to win. Just absence.”

“Not helping,” she muttered and he squeezed her hand again.

“I only mean to say that it is an understandable fear. But it is just that—a fear.”

“So, what? It doesn’t matter?”

“On the contrary. Our fears tell us much about ourselves. Fear is not a cruel force in our lives—it is trying to help us, trying to save us. Your fear is telling you something.” She frowned, but she thought she was following. More or less. “Did you not say you shot an arrow into the Breach?” She shuddered to remember the fact that it didn’t come down, but nodded. “You want something to affect. You want to be able to change things. Thus, your fear is something that you fundamentally cannot affect, cannot change.”

“Still not helping,” she said, but she wasn’t quite as sure about it this time. At least she didn’t feel like she was going crazy anymore.

“Sometimes, we need to accept that we cannot control what happens. Giving up control—or the illusion of control—is a frightening prospect. But your fear is telling you that such a thing is your particular challenge. If you can learn to accept that you cannot control all that is around you, you will, in time, come to a place where you can be at peace with your core fears.” She didn’t say anything, frowning down at the floor. Was that it? Just accept that she can’t control it? And it’d fix this hollow feeling in her?

“That easy, huh?” She muttered and he squeezed her hand until she met his eyes, surprised by the obvious sadness in his gaze.

“It is not easy at all,” he told her plainly. “But it is something you can control, in time. It will be a challenge, but afterwards, you will have conquered something that most people refuse to even face.”

“And… you think I can do it?” She couldn’t hold his gaze, her voice terribly quiet. She didn’t sound like herself. Didn’t feel like herself.

“I know you can,” he said firmly and she took a deep breath. Another. Then she nodded. If Solas believed in her, then… well, shit, that had to count for something, didn’t it?

Chapter Text

Sera’s arms wrapped around her shoulders and she sighed, although both of them knew it didn’t mean anything—at this point, her irritation was just a formality. “Hello, Sera,” she said as she kept her eyes on the map, staying seated.

Sera moved in front of her and pointedly sat on her lap, grinning facetiously. “Seeker,” she whispered as she bent forward and nuzzled at Cassandra’s neck. “You’ve been in here too long.”

“I do have a job to do,” she pointed out, although her hands had settled on the slim elf’s hips. Sera squirmed in her lap, making it clear that they were both thinking about Cassandra’s hands.

“Well, we could always do it here–”

“Sera, no–”

“–make a proper mess of the war table–”

“Sera.”

“–what? It’d be fun!” She finally pulled away from Cassandra’s neck to grin at her, showing teeth. “We should make some good memories in here.”

“Not here,” she insisted even as she squeezed the woman’s hips. Maker, but her clothing was so thin that it did nothing to hide her curves and angles and–

“Not here,” she said again, a little more hoarsely, trying to convince herself as much as Sera. She made a show of pouting at Cassandra before sighing dramatically and nodding.

“Fine, fine. But–” she raised her hands to Cassandra’s face and kissed her. She felt the elf’s lips curved into a smile before it faded as she reciprocated the kiss. “–I get you when you’re done, yeah?”

Cassandra just nodded, head still swimming a little. Sera smirked and got off her lap, walking away with an entirely deliberate sway to her hips.

Chapter Text

“Should you really be messing around with this shite?” She asked, wrinkling her nose at one of the ‘experiments’ on the table.

“Don’t touch that!” Dagna called out to her, Sera turning to face her just to roll her eyes. “Okay, so I guess you weren’t going to. Sorry. Habit.” She shrugged a shoulder and grinned and Sera resisted the urge to walk over and kiss her. She was still busy, after all. “Anyway… maybe I shouldn’t but it helps. And it’s good to know how things work!”

“Yeah, but this? No one needs to know how this works.” Sera jerked her thumb over her shoulder, towards the eerie glow of the covered red lyrium. Dagna sighed.

“The Inquisitor does.” She moved past Sera to examine the shard, frowning. “And so do the people who are trying to remove it. How does it work? Will it get into their equipment? It’s a mineral, right, so-”

“You’re so lucky you’re cute,” Sera groused, Dagna turning to grin brightly at her.

“I am, aren’t I?” Dagna shot back, Sera snorting.

“Lucky, or cute?”

“Take your pick!”

“Uh-huh. Like I said, you’re lucky you’re so cute.” She crouched down so she was looking up at Dagna, who smiled much more sincerely and bent forward to kiss her. “Mm,” Sera began as the other woman pulled back. “And a good kisser.” She made a point of looking across Dagna’s body. “There are some other experiments we could try. I promise they’d be more fun than this.”

Dagna laughed, but it was a little uncomfortable. Not about the sex, Sera knew that much. They’d had it. It was good. It was really good. She just… always wanted to finish her work, and Sera was distracting her, and-

Well. She knew the drill.

She levered herself upright with a sigh, stretching. “Yeah, okay, I’ll see myself out. But it’s just…” She glanced back towards the glow with a frown. “Seriously, don’t touch that. I don’t care about knowledge, I care about you. I don’t want you getting all gunked up with red lyrium.” She grinned, although it felt a little shaky. “You’re cute as you are, but I don’t think awful shards stickin’ out of you would really do it for me.”

“Sera…” She shook her head, trying to cut off Dagna’s lecture before it started.

“It’s fine. I get it. I do. It’s important. But it’s scary, too, yeah? I mean… it gets into everything. Rocks. People! I don’t want it getting into you. Changing you, making you…” She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. What the Inquisitor and Dorian had told her about that fuck-off awful future, about the lyrium growing out of people. How would it start? Just a single tiny little flake making its way into you, and then what? Would they become strong and weird, all twisted up like the red templars? How much did it take? How long did it take? Would she have to start watching Dagna, make sure there wasn’t some red glow deep in her pretty eyes, that she wasn’t getting short-tempered and distant, that-

Fuck. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t bear to think of her getting all messed up on a tiny shard of lyrium. A flake. Hell, if that’s all it took, she might have it in herself already. She gripped her arms tighter, nails digging in, remembering the nothing she’d seen in the Fade. Was that why it was her fear? Because nothing was growing in her, because a tiny shard she’d inhaled once was taking her over, or-

Shit. Fucking shit.

She didn’t want to think about this. She didn’t want to reflect on how little it’d take to destroy her, to destroy Dagna, to destroy the whole world. “Just… be careful, yeah?” She muttered as she headed for the door out of the undercroft. She vaguely heard Dagna call out an affirmation as she let the door shut behind her, scrubbing at her face - then wiping her hands frantically against her shirt before scrubbing at her face again, worried she might’ve gotten some of the fucking lyrium on her.

Chapter Text

“Morrigan.” She bit back a sigh, straightening up from where she’d been tending to an herb bed to face Leliana. She had been expecting this.

“Leliana,” she replied simply. The other woman was… transformed. The lighthearted young bard Morrigan had traveled alongside, somehow bold and gentle at once, was now wary and analytical. The years had hardened her, an armor that had settled across her skin.

“What are you really doing here?” Wary, indeed. Though she supposed it was quite understandable.

“As you can see, I am tending to the garden.” She knew it was not the answer Leliana sought but was curious about her response to the deflection, eyes narrowing.

“That is not what I mean and you know it.” Her voice had a brittle quality to it now, where once she would have been fondly exasperated.

“No?” She tilted her head and blinked before smiling, done playing the part. “It appears not. Very well, I shall answer your questions, should you ask them plainly.”

“Why did you join the Inquisition?”

“If you will recall, I was handed over to the Inquisition,” Morrigan answered simply. Leliana scoffed, unconvinced.

“Naturally. And clearly you had to follow orders, could not have left of your own free will. In chains you were given to us, and in chains brought to Skyhold, is that it?”

She shrugged. “Where else should I have gone? Back to my mother? Or perhaps you imagined me building my own hut, raising my son in secrecy as she did? I was no longer welcome in the Orlesian court, nor would any other part of Orlais care to harbor an apostate.”

“All mages are apostates now,” Leliana pointed out flatly and Morrigan couldn’t help but laugh, earning a faint scowl from the spymaster.

“‘Tis true, but of those ‘apostates,’ how many still wear Circle robes, hold themselves to Circle values? No, I am an apostate in a way that will never be tolerated in polite company. The Inquisition is as much refuge as it is opportunity.”

“‘Opportunity’?”

“Indeed. Think what you will of me, of my reasons, but there is nothing to be gained by letting a would-be god claim dominion over our world.” She took a step nearer and Leliana did not back away. “There was a time when you trusted me to do what was right,” she said softly. 

“And then you left,” Leliana’s voice was quiet enough to not carry, but no less venomous for it.

“I did,” she admitted. “But… ‘twas you who left first.” For the first time, Leliana looked away. “Why come to my fire so many nights? Why ask me for tales, share your own, only to leave when I finally invited you to my tent?”

“I… could not join you.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“Ah, yes, more the fool I. Failing to understand that the ways of flesh would shift your Maker’s gaze from you.” Morrigan was surprised by the hurt in her own voice—she had thought this particular pain long since past. Leliana’s poise seemed to falter for a moment.

“I was naive,” she admitted softly, still not meeting Morrigan’s gaze. “And arrogant, believing myself to be His chosen. But He did not choose me. I have learned to accept that.”

“Pity ‘twas not in time,” she said acerbically, Leliana wincing. But a moment later she straightened, meeting Morrigan’s eyes pointedly.

“There is time yet,” she said. It was quite the unbelievable statement. “Should you still will it.”

“You are full of surprises, no? Is this your new way to spy on recent acquisitions?” Leliana smiled at the question, the bright, mischievous smile Morrigan recognized from years past.

“Only those who catch my eye,” she teased, voice low. “Have you time now?”

“Ah-”

“Take my hand,” she continued, “it won’t kill you.” Her smile remained the same, Morrigan swallowing before taking the offered hand.

Their fingers laced together and Leliana led her through the keep to a simple room. Morrigan glanced around the spartan decor, faintly surprised to be brought to the other woman’s chambers directly, although she supposed there was nowhere else fitting.

With the door shut and bolted behind them Leliana turned to face her, pulling her hood back to reveal the vivid shade of her hair, slightly mussed. They were still holding hands, Morrigan letting herself be pushed against the cold wall.

Then Leliana kissed her.

At first it was gentle, searching, curious—but it quickly became heated and demanding, her free hand slipping between them to stroke across Morrigan’s bare stomach. She pulled back just enough to speak: “do you want this?” The question made her laugh again.

“Only for years. You are late enough as it is, do not stop now.” She pressed into Leliana’s touch, watching as the woman smiled before kissing her again, her hand shifting up until it grazed the simple top Morrigan wore. It took no effort for her to slip under the scant fabric, holding her breast while her thumb dragged back and forth across her nipple. She shivered under the ministrations, gasping into the kiss as Leliana slotted their legs together.

They finally broke the kiss as they started to grind against each other, Morrigan pulling her hand free so she could use both to explore Leliana’s curves before settling on her ass, dragging her forward into every thrust. 

She didn’t think this would feel so good, although part of it may simply be that it’d been a very long time. But Leliana’s shaky moans and sighs were thrilling and Morrigan was already soaking wet, each thrust against the other woman’s leg driving her that much closer to the edge. Despite this, it was Leliana who came first, thrusting fast and hard before suddenly stilling, her hips stuttering forward a few times as she gasped. “Don’t you dare stop,” she growled, using her grip on Leliana’s ass to continue dragging her forward, rutting shamelessly against her leg.

After a few moments of that she sighed, frustrated, and pushed Leliana gently away. “Lay down on the ground.” The woman frowned before doing as she was bid, watching as Morrigan settled atop her. “Now raise your knee like—yes,” she gasped as Leliana’s tense thigh pressed against her groin, each thrust dragging her wet smallclothes across her cunt, a slick tension that just brought her that much closer. “Just like that,” she managed as she ground hard against the other woman, sometimes slipping down to press her clit against the clothed spur of Leliana’s hip.

After some time Leliana reached back and abruptly pulled Morrigan’s one leg higher up, grinding against it again. “Greedy little bard,” she teased, feeling Leliana shiver under her. A moment later she gasped as she was forced onto her side, both of them moving desperately against each other, until finally that sweet edge approached and Morrigan let herself fall, arching against Leliana as she rode through the orgasm, shivering as she slowly came down only to find Leliana still seeking her own finish. “That’s right,” she whispered, “show me how much you’ve wanted this. Spill against me again. I want to hear you cry out my name as you come.”

“Morrigan,” she barely managed, sounding utterly shocked and needy as she jerked hard against Morrigan’s thigh.

They laid tangled together while they slowly caught their breaths. Then Leliana rolled away with a giggle, Morrigan arching a brow. “Well. Maybe next time we’ll actually manage to get undressed first.” Now she smiled, too.

“That would be preferable, yes.”

Chapter Text

“My little nug,” Leliana crooned in her ear and she snorted, twisting away.

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come now. You’re blushing!”

“Because it’s humiliating. I am not a nug.”

“They’re cute,” she pointed out firmly, “and so are you.”

“Ugh.”

“Fine then. Maybe… my dragon?”

“Why do you insist on these strange monikers?”

“You can be a dragon!”

“If I wished, yes. I do not wish it right now.”

“My great dragon,” Leliana purred this time and Morrigan scoffed.

“Additional adjectives will not sway me, Leliana,” she retorted, pointedly using the other woman’s name.

“My pretty raven,” she offered and Morrigan just sighed.

“How charming. Shall you put me in a cage overnight, send me to carry messages to your little spies?”

“I could put you in a cage overnight, if you’d like—”

“You are a most foolhardy woman,” she interrupted.

“Oh, I am sure you can do better than ‘foolhardy woman,’” she said, looping an arm lazily around Morrigan’s waist.

“Pest, perhaps?” Leliana stuck her lip out in an exaggerated pout, although she didn’t manage to maintain it, a giggle slipping out. Morrigan couldn’t help the small smile that crept across her own face. “Miscreant,” was her next suggestion and this time Leliana didn’t even bother with the faux-pout, just giggling and leaning in to press a series of little kisses against Morrigan’s neck. “Rake,” she concluded even as she tilted her head to allow for better access.

“And you’re still my little nug,” she murmured against her skin, Morrigan groaning.

“Silence, bard,” she said without any heat, weaving a hand through Leliana’s hair.

Chapter Text

Leliana thought she was prepared. She knew that Morrigan would be here, at the Winter Palace. She knew that she had to set… old feelings aside, that she could not give herself over to the soft warmth of memories. She knew all of this.

Then she saw her.

Her breath caught and she barely covered the lapse, arching a brow imperiously before remarking to her conversation partner about the magical advisor. The man scoffed and shook his head, muttering something about witches in the imperial court, but Leliana was barely paying attention.

Why was she wearing that dress? It was just as Leliana had once pictured her in, had described to her. Then, the other woman had brushed it off, but now…? Those at the Winter Palace did not just so happen to be dressed a certain way—everything was painstakingly deliberate and planned out, with fittings and precisely tailored outfits that showed off exactly what the wearer wanted shown. Every single dress, every suit, every pair of shoes made a statement, and so did Morrigan’s.

But what game was she playing at? Was she hoping to prey on Leliana’s feelings? To set her off-guard so that she could make her move tonight? She was the spymaster for the Inquisition and had acted as the brutal left hand of the Divine. She was not the wayward young girl she had been when they’d met during the Blight, hopelessly infatuated with the world and with the beautiful, mysterious woman who had been traveling with the Warden.

Was the dress a peace offering or a weapon? Regardless, she could not heedlessly approach—Morrigan remained embroiled in the court, guarded by her position even with the obvious disdain she had netted from certain parties. Even that they were both part of the Warden’s group during the Blight would not give her the clearance to approach, for Halamshiral did not care about the Blight, about the horrors of it, not anymore. That potential disaster had passed and it was forgotten, replaced by the intricacies of courtly intrigues and the civil war. To engage with Morrigan publicly using the Blight as an excuse would only earn them both disdain and would reflect poorly upon the Inquisition.

No, she had to bide her time and make sure the Inquisitor knew what—knew who—they were up against.

She still felt a chill travel down her spine when Morrigan caught her eye, golden eyes sparking and the faintest smile curving her lips. Her expression was difficult to place—haughty, perhaps? Amused? It was enough that even when the other woman looked away she still felt pinned to the spot.

Prey recovering from a predator’s loss of interest.

~~~

She had been postponing this. Morrigan had been at Skyhold for several days now, making use of the gardens, and Leliana had thrown herself fully into catching up on correspondences and discussing what they had learned with the Inquisitor and the other advisors. But for the first time she had a free moment.

She could find a practical way to fill it, she knew. Could fine-tune her network that little bit more, could determine if she should have her spy move tomorrow or wait until early next week, see if he wasn’t able to overhear more in his current position, but… ultimately, there was nothing that commanded her immediate attention. And she felt the presence of the other woman like a physical force.

So she rolled her shoulders to try and work out the stubborn kinks and proceeded down to the garden, ignoring the startled looks she received on the way. Few were accustomed to seeing her going anywhere except the war-room or the aviary, but there surprise was not her interest right now. And the only surprise she was interested in was not given to her, Morrigan meeting her eyes with the same faint smile she’d worn at the Winter Palace.

Or was it different? Perhaps a touch more coy, now. Or sardonic. Or—Maker, why was the woman so hard to read? “Leliana,” she was greeted smoothly as she approached, nodding. “Or should I call you spymaster?”

“You may call me whatever you wish,” she said, voice a touch sharper than she’d intended. But Morrigan did not look defeated or off-put. If anything, more intrigued. “I have been meaning to speak with you,” she continued after a beat, and now Morrigan was the one nodding.

“Forgive that I do not feign surprise,” she retorted and Leliana had to bite back a sigh.

“I need to know that you have the Inquisitions interests at heart.”

“I am here, am I not?” Not a response, but not a deflection, either.

“This is not the first time you have allied yourself to a cause,” she pointed out. “Nor would it be the first time you have chosen your own.” Morrigan’s eyes narrowed but she did not look away, instead appearing to assess Leliana.

“You have changed,” she said at last.

“Have you?” She countered, although she was taken aback by Morrigan’s contemplative tone.

“Certainly.” The single-word answer was frank but not defensive or aggressive, which was itself a change. She was a mother now—that alone would have changed her, but Leliana had not been sure how. Time, too, had changed them both, time and myriad experience. “It is the nature of people to change,” she continued after a moment, mirroring Leliana’s thoughts.

“So it is,” she agreed. Not once through this exchange had they looked away from each other, but something shifted in Morrigan’s eyes. Once more she felt the weight of a predator’s gaze. This, too, was a change. “Have you been given a tour of Skyhold?” She asked abruptly, surprising herself. But Morrigan only arched a brow slightly, the hunger in her eyes not abating in the least.

“Not a sufficient one, no.”

“Then may I offer one?”

“Please.” The answer was polite but her tone was anything but, and those golden eyes remained fixed on Leliana’s even as she approached. The witch wove her arm through Leliana’s, the outfit she had worn during the Blight doing as little as ever to disguise her body, although Leliana could not forget the dress she’d worn at the ball.

She began the tour, although they both knew that it would end in Leliana’s room.

Chapter Text

The bard was persistent. Why she continued trying to ingratiate herself into Morrigan’s good graces was beyond her—she could not fathom what the other woman sought to gain. She was already aligned with their strange little group, both of them beholden to the Warden and his goals, albeit for very different reasons. Perhaps she was trying to err on the side of caution, wary of a mage at her back. Such concern would be practical, even wise, but Morrigan did not think Leliana’s dogged interest stemmed from concern.

No, she seemed quite sincere in her efforts. Why was the relevant question, the thing that she puzzled over as she stared into her own fire, a discreet distance from the rest. Their endless chatter wore on her, already overwhelmed by the witless prattle they employed throughout the day and unwilling to entertain more of the same while trying to settle down and compose herself.

Yet even in this, Leliana stole looks towards her. And when one night she approached Morrigan’s space, she was unsurprised and somewhat resigned. “Bard,” she greeted the woman cooly, watching as Leliana’s face twisted into a puzzled frown before she tried to regain her composure.

“Witch,” Leliana replied, a bright grin her way of softening it. But then, she was always bright, always sparking with a deep vitality, an earnest conviction that drove her ever forward. It was admirable, in its way, although Morrigan found her specific convictions to be woefully misguided.

She sighed and gestured at the opposite side of the fire, Leliana settling in with the grace that had become familiar. Her movements were fluid and eye-catching, nothing economical about them, always a faint flourish or accentuation that caused the eye to linger. Morrigan had wondered more than once whether the bard was aware of it, if her mannerisms were intentional, or if such was just a fundamental part of her. “You never join us,” she said into the silence that Morrigan was content with, tilting her head curiously. Morrigan was faintly reminded of a cat—the intrigued observation and fixed attention both. She supposed that would make her a mouse, which she found she did not care for.

Or perhaps a fox, something to be assessed for potential danger.

“You are quite loud enough without my voice added to the mix,” she said simply, feeling as if she won in some nebulous way when Leliana frowned. But the victory, if that’s what it was, was short-lived—her displeased frown shifted to a more analytical expression, one that made Morrigan want to squirm away. Instead she held herself still as stone, meeting Leliana’s eyes fixedly.

“Do you not get lonely?” The question was so absurd that Morrigan barked a laugh, startling them both—but, truly, lonely? Her?

“I have lived my entire life with none save my mother for company,” she responded icily. “Loneliness is not something I experience.” Not entirely true, but she did not want to admit as much to Leliana. Nor anyone else.

“I see,” the woman said doubtfully, her perfect face creased with a subtle frustration. She was achingly pretty, Morrigan thought, feeling a twinge of self-consciousness. Why was this woman of poise and precision and poetry sharing a dirty little witch’s fire?

“Rejoin your friends,” she said, glancing down at the fire once more. She was frustrated with the petty turn of her thoughts… what use had she for beauty? What did it matter if she was more at home with mud than jewels? Even out here, Leliana wore fine leathers, cared for until they appeared to gleam, while Morrigan wore the same, slightly ragged outfit she’d worn for years.

There was nothing of gilt and gold and glamor in her life. The mirror broken, her knees dirty.

Chapter Text

Today was special. Special days in the Winters Palace were never good—she sent Kieran away, told him to stay in her chambers, sealed both by lock and by magic. He was a smart lad, he would obey, even though she knew he wanted to participate in today’s events. She donned a dress she’d had designed just for this occasion, a terrible waste of material and labor, but the expectation in this court. One could not rewear a dress, not in Orlais.

The materials were light but it felt heavy on her, a burden not of the fabric but of the meaning behind it. She must be pristine today, elegant, yet… she must also be mobile, discreet, and powerful. It was obvious that there were plans in motion tonight, that Celene was in danger, and she did not know if there was anyone she would be able to trust. Certainly not Gaspard or Briala, each with their own goals for the night, and she knew little of Florianne but enough of those who played the Game to not trust her.

The Inquisition and its Inquisitor would be the strangest guest tonight. Either her best opportunity for collaboration or the greatest risk, and she would have barely any time at all to ascertain which of the two was true.

She fixed the dress a final time. Like armor. Then she entered the grand hall with a muted smile, another mask.

Chapter Text

“You cannot possibly be this incompetent,” Morrigan said from across the firepit. Leliana felt her face heat and hoped the darkness would hide the color.

“I’m not incompetent, the wood is wet. Besides, you’re a mage, why don’t you start the fire?”

“Because I used too much magic keeping the darkspawn off of you and we’re out of lyrium potions,” she said sharply, Leliana sighing. Yes, yes, it was a good reason, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.

“You’d think a mage of your skill could still summon a spark,” she muttered just to hear Morrigan snort, ducking her head as if busy with the wood to hide her smile.

“Shallow flattery will get you nowhere.”

“So I see,” she said lightly, striking the spark rocks together again and sighing as the sparks fizzled out on the damp wood. “Damn.”

“It will be a cold night, bard,” Morrigan announced distantly, as if careless, but it was obvious that both of them were concerned. There had been a number of sudden downpours throughout the day and their gear was as soaked as the wood. She sighed and dug around in her pack, retrieving her bedroll and some relatively dry clothing before settling down next to Morrigan. The witch only scowled when Leliana draped the materials over them both, dragging one of the damp logs under the cover with them.

Hopefully it could dry enough to catch before the night was through.

Chapter Text

Strange to be around the other woman again—and stranger still to avoid her, although it had not stopped either of them from trying. Morrigan had not intended to get caught up in Leliana’s gravity once again, but here she was, stroking through hair of fire as they kissed, lingering and deliberate in a way they’d never found traveling with the Warden. She hissed against the other woman’s lips when a strong thigh settled between her own and she started grinding, feeling Leliana’s satisfied smirk. “I love it when you come undone,” she pulled back just enough to whisper, her low voice sending a visceral thrill through Morrigan’s entire body.

“You’ll have to work harder, then,” she retorted sharply, biting her lip to stifle a moan as Leliana began moving in tandem. Blast, she was already so wet and could feel more slick leaking out of her as they moved together. Seeking to even the playing field somewhat, she stroked her hands up under the loose tunic Leliana was wearing, squeezing her sensitive breasts and rubbing her thumbs across stiffening nipples. She groaned, hands settling on Morrigan’s hips and pulling her into every movement.

If she didn’t get control over this soon she’d spill just like this… despite her protests, Leliana was skilled at making her come undone, with a honed awareness of every sensitive feature and preference. “Don’t stop,” she said softly, as if Morrigan had any intention of stopping now. They moved together with increasing urgency until at last Leliana lifted her up and started dragging her cunt across her thigh. Morrigan cried out, squeezing the other woman’s breasts hard as she came suddenly, slick gushing into her smalls and soaking through the layers until she was sure Leliana could feel it. “There you go,” she said in a too-sweet voice, bouncing Morrigan on her thigh a few times until she felt like she’d go mad. Then she shifted position until her legs were wrapped around Leliana’s waist and walked them that way to the bed, both of them falling to the soft covers. “Now you’re ready for me,” she breathed against Morrigan’s lips between kisses before pulling away to quickly undress.

She sat up to watch as Leliana’s toned, scarred body was revealed to her. She never tired of it. But the bard smirked as she crawled onto Morrigan’s lap, pressing her down before shifting up across her chest. Gathering her intent, she grabbed Leliana’s ass and pulled her forward, the thick smell of her cunt heady so close. The other woman settled on her face with a contented sigh, grinding her soaked cunt against Morrigan’s lips, and she opened her mouth.

Leliana rocked against her tongue with a contented sigh, gasping occasionally as Morrigan explored her in depth, parting her lips, sucking on her hard little clit, and pushing into her cunt in turn. The bard was soaking wet and as much as Morrigan tried to swallow her slick it still flowed slowly down her cheeks, a sticky stain and evidence of the woman’s desires. Leliana was excited, her gasps shifting to a steadier stream of moans, growing more ragged as Morrigan continued her work. She found that Leliana particularly liked her clit being toyed with, tonguing or sucking on the sensitive node, and when she just grazed her teeth across it Leliana froze up before jerking hard against her face, a new, hot rush of slick spilling across her bottom lip and chin. She shifted down to press her tongue in and taste it properly, her own cunt clenching around nothing while the other woman came hard in her mouth.

Chapter Text

“You’re so beautiful,” he told her and she smiled in that way that he liked so well, her lips curled and her eyes crinkling even as she scoffed and turned away. But that just made the firelight line her face and throw her features into sharp relief.

He didn’t want to return to Orzammar, to Dust Town, to places that would see him destroyed, but he thought she’d be beautiful there, too. He smiled to think of the way the lyrium and lava would light her skin, the way the deep shadows would line her hair, the bright glint of her eyes in the underground lights.

Of course it wouldn’t work for about a hundred reasons but sod it all, a man could dream—even if he literally couldn’t. And the thought of her magic in those low corridors, the way the upper castes would see her and fear what she could do, an uncertainty in their perfect little world, a distortion they just had to tolerate… well, it was a nice mental image.

“I think you could rule the world,” he said later when she was atop him and she laughed and it was bright and sweet and bold. And maybe he was damned lost in her eyes and the sinuous way she moved and the curl of magic that lay just beneath her skin and how heady it all was, but then, he’d been lost ever since he’d come to the surface. This was a good kind of being lost.

She’d arrived in his life with magic and curiosity and contempt. He’d been scared of her power, at first, but then he saw her use it, saw her control it, and something had changed in that moment. She was nothing like he’d thought a mage would be, all bristling potential ready to burst—she was controlled chaos, thrumming with a hidden power, a subtle grandeur that captivated him. If he was bewitched by her it was his own damn doing.

Chapter Text

She smiled at Kieran as he rushed past her, shaking her head fondly. He was quite the energetic lad. Even now. But as he left the room her expression fell.

She had been beyond sense, utterly terrified for her child. To find him with her mother of all people… had the Inquisitor not been there, she was uncertain what she would have done, what cruel things she might have said. Flemeth deserved no less, but she would not have her son see her that way, would not have him see her as a monster.

She looked down at her hands, her nails painted in the manner that had been popular within Orlais. Underneath such pretty decor lay her skin, her blood, her bone - her mother’s. She was part of Morrigan, true, just as Kieran held part of her, but it was more than that. This skin might have belonged to her mother. This body that she inhabited might have been host to her mother - and to the Elvhen goddess she apparently carried, to some aspect of Mythal.

Flemeth - or was it Mythal? - had proved that Morrigan was now bound to her: she had been unable to attack. It was no kindness given, certainly, but she was grateful in a way that her son had not seen her resort to violence.

And yet… was she truly so different? She had bred Kieran for a purpose, as if combining ingredients for some great spell. She had imbued him with the soul of the Archdemon, power and history alike preserved in his small form. What kind of monster would do that to a child, unborn and unknowing?

He was not harmed by it, not physically, but there had been dreams. Perhaps even a presence, she had never been certain. She was wary of questioning him too deeply on such matters, knowing the undue influence a mother could exert upon her child and fearful of the answers both.

Perhaps Flemeth had done them both some strange kindness, in her acquisition of the soul. Morrigan’s goals were satisfied - the soul was preserved, history and magic with it, even that it was outside her grasp. But as Kieran had grown, as she had nursed her child, as she had sheltered him, her desire for power had shifted.

It was no less, but the reason for it had changed. She must be strong enough to protect him. And if she could not stand against her mother and win, then she would sacrifice herself to save him. She had offered as much already, and would again, if need be.

She did not believe her mother had done anything out of the kindness of her heart. But perhaps there was a hidden value in this, or a value which could be nurtured. That Kieran might grow up to be an ordinary child soothed something in her.

If she was like her mother, if she was made in her image, then so be it: but she need not make the same choices as her mother.

Chapter Text

“The Inquisitor keeps interesting company,” she remarked, crossing her arms as she observed the young man.

“What is it,” he intoned and she narrowed her eyes. “A threat or an ally? I am not your enemy, Morrigan.”

“That remains to be seen,” she said.

“My mother is wonderful. She has done so much for me, protected me, saved me—”

“Do not take my child’s voice, spirit,” she snapped, stepping away from the wall and closing the distance between them in quick strides. “Leave him alone.”

“I only try to help.”

“Help? Help? What need have I of a spirit? I know myself. My son knows himself, as much as any child might. We do not need your help.”

“Always seek knowledge, that is the only true power. Know more than your enemy and you shall always be victorious. She made you think everyone was your enemy.” He paused, as if considering. “They are. Do you really believe that?”

“Experience has not demonstrated otherwise.”

“His hands are rough but his eyes are soft. I bend down to kiss him and he laughs and says I’m as tall as the sky and twice as bright.” She pursed her lips, a hot ache flaring to life in her chest. “He is far, but he still thinks of you. And Leliana. She knows you. Sees you. They are not your enemies.”

“No?” She retorted sharply. “Neither are they are my allies, not anymore.”

The spirit tilted his head, the wide brim of his hat obscuring his features. “Had to protect him. Save the magic, gain the power, but then—his eyes. His small hand. You were the one who left them. They would have helped you. He would have taken care of his child.”

“I could not ask them to do that.” She knew the spirit would see the truth of it, but there was little to be done, and even less use dwelling on the past. She had made mistakes. But all her decisions had led her here. They had brought Kieran into her life. She would not regret the course of her life, that it gave her this.

“You hold yourself apart. In control. But what is control?” She arched a brow—surely he was not really asking? “I am. I do not understand it. What is the purpose?”

“Control is power,” she explained simply. “It is the power over oneself.”

“Strip away the need, the desire, leave the strength, the will. It seems lonely.” She scoffed, but sobered a moment later, approaching and sitting beside him.

“It is,” she admitted. An unnecessary admittance, but it helped to say. “But it is my choice.”

“My first choice. My last choice. The one that has shaped everything I am. I understand. Without it, you fear you will be… other. Not-yourself. Wrong.”

She did not respond. She did not need to. And the spirit let them sit in silence, watching over the occupants of Skyhold.

Chapter Text

He rocked his hips down with a short gasp as he stared at Krem beneath him. Usually it was the other way around and he was more than happy with that—the man had stamina in spades—but today Krem had laid down with a flourish and a grin, shaking his hips and the lovely little piece he wore, and Dorian had no intention to resist that kind of offer.

“You look good like this,” Krem pointed out, voice a little rough. Hm. Unsatisfactory. He wanted Krem’s voice to be torn and raw, panting as he came hard, muscles tensing under him—

Maker, he had to be careful.

The harness sat across Krem’s hips, dark leather straps that contrasted nicely with his skin. Dorian shifted down a little bit, teasing the harness just a bit lower, just a little more— ah, there. Krem’s expression tightened as the edge of the strap-on caught against his clit. Now each time Dorian rocked down he was subtly grinding the material against Krem just the way he liked it. He wanted to touch himself while he watched Krem’s expression twist just slightly at each movement he made, but he resisted the urge, wanting to drag this out and make sure they both finished. He was already most of the way there but Krem still looked a bit too controlled.

Well. Perhaps he had to put on a bit of a show. He was certainly up to the task.

He tilted his head back, looking down at Krem through hooded eyes, smirking at the sudden bob of his throat as he swallowed. He rode him with smooth motions, his weight on his knees so his hips could move freely, each thrust teasing the other man’s clit. After a moment he leaned back, hands behind him and braced on Krem’s muscled thighs, his body stretched and taut. He was sweating a bit, adding an interesting gloss to his body that caught the light as he moved, and Krem just couldn’t decide where to look. His eyes darted between Dorian’s face, his chest, his stomach, and his proud cock, while his hands were just as exploratory—squeezing at his thighs or caressing up across his stomach.

He let his head drop back with a deep moan, feeling Krem’s hand spasm against his thighs before gripping harder, and felt the weight of the man’s gaze traveling down his body. Now Krem’s hips were moving, too, his breath coming a little faster, shorter. He was getting close.

Time to drag him over the edge.

He shifted so he could wrap his hand around his cock, mouth dropping open on a shaky exhale as he started moving, his thrusts becoming erratic. Krem’s hands trailed up until they held his hips, pulling him down into every thrust as he bucked up into him, the air between them heating as their pace escalated. He let every gasp, moan, and shaky breath out freely, knowing they’d bring Krem that much closer—and when Krem’s moan finally ripped free, his hands digging into Dorian’s hips, he stopped holding back.

He fisted across his cock hard and fast as Krem shivered through his own orgasm, both of them gasping as Dorian came across his powerfully toned chest and stomach, his movements slowing but not stopping as he pulled himself through his own finish.

His legs felt weak as he levered himself up and off of Krem’s piece with a soft grunt, dropping beside him on their bed as they both caught their breath. “You really look good like that,” Krem announced after a few moments, Dorian laughing as he curled against the man.

“I always look good, darling,” he murmured against his shoulder, earning a snort—but no protest.

Chapter Text

In Haven, she’d been nothing but busy. Adjusting to the mark on her hand, trying to seal rifts, working towards sealing the Breach, and juggling politics besides—none of which were familiar things for her. After a while the walls seemed oppressive and her little cabin, although of a good size for an individual, began to feel cramped.

But then Corypheus had struck and Haven had been buried. That she had survived was a near-impossibility she did not care to dwell upon, and the subsequent journey to Skyhold had been taxing in the extreme, every step worrying about her people—and wondering when, exactly, they had become her people. Everything was wide open on that journey but it did not comfort her, not in this context, not with all their eyes still upon her.

Then she had to dedicate herself to establishing Skyhold as an effective base of operations. It had to be able to withstand another assault from Corypheus, although she did not believe he would strike so soon after his most recent… well, defeat was a strong word when he had laid waste to Haven. Calling it a stalemate might be more accurate.

Her room in Skyhold was disturbingly luxurious, particularly with their soldiers camped out in the valley below. She felt guilty about it, but could not deny that the wide-open vistas set her at ease. Often when she had given up on sleep for a night she would layer in furs and blankets and sit out on one of the balconies, watching the stars above and staring at the peaks of mountains.

It took a long time until she could sneak away for a day. She had told Josephine that she wanted to check the path up the mountain, to make sure it was still clear for anyone who sought the journey to Skyhold. The ambassador had been insistent that she take someone along, that she not go alone, but she’d been equally insistent—everyone was busy and she needed a bit of space to clear her head. Eventually Josie had acquiesced, although with obvious hesitation, but they had named her Inquisitor: they could not very well deny her now, could they?

She had gone out with a pack and her staff, and when she was far enough away to be out of sight of the guards she settled all in the hollow of an old tree, quickly stripping and storing her clothing there as well. The air was brutal against her bare skin, but it would not be skin for long.

She closed her eyes and transformed. At long last. She usually took the form of a halla, that being her preference, but they were about as ill-suited to this environment as she was—instead she became a ram, sure-footed and with a thick coat to protect her. It did not matter that other rams would have avoided her, for there were none here. It did not matter that her subjects might be terrified of her power, for they were safe in Skyhold.

She was free and she ran. She scaled the mountains with an ease that her ‘real’ flesh never would have afforded her, stood at the top of peaks she had stared at from her balcony. She did not bother with trying to act like a ram, exploring as she would in her own skin, nosing through the few hardy shrubs that grew this high up and admiring the lichens growing on trees in the sheltered valleys between peaks.

She also kept an eye on the sun, and when she had been gone for more than two hours she begrudgingly returned to her gear, transformed once more, quickly donned her clothing and her pack, grabbed her staff, and began to walk back to Skyhold feeling more at peace in her body than she had for a long time.