Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Amatus,

The strangest series of events befell me the other day. I was in Dock Town with an acquaintance trying to find clues about who led the most recent slave riot—to recruit, of course. To nobody’s surprise, the leader seems to be dead or well hidden, and no one seems to be willing to indicate which.

On a side note, you will be happy to hear that your friend Fenris and his Hawke made quite a commotion in multiple cities here on their way to the Anderfels, cutting down slavers and inciting riots and the like. I haven’t heard of them since but I’m sure they’ll bring just as much chaos on the way back.

Anyway, we’d given up for the day and my acquaintance insisted on buying some fish from an old elf who may have been around since the founding of the Imperium. I understand he’s something of a fixture there and a generous one when he can be, but life for the soporati and liberati is a difficult one, especially in these parts where riots are being quelled at one end of the dock and slavers are selling replacements at the other.

You know this and you don’t need me to remind you anymore than I already have. 

Despite the hardening of my appetite from all that Southern food, I was not prepared to partake in such a location. Luckily or perhaps otherwise, the decision was literally taken out of my hand by a wily stray cat who took off with it. I must admit, I was quite enamoured to find that it looked just like you back in the day—long unkempt black fur, a little roughed up, and such bright eyes. It was uncanny and it made me miss you even more terribly than usual.

I was hoping to get a better look at the creature, but it disappeared down some alleyway before anyone could stop it.

So imagine my surprise when I returned home and found a stowaway in my carriage. He sauntered into the house like he owned the place and immediately tried to shred my curtains. It took the servants hours to catch and bathe him. I don’t think this house has ever been so lively. 

The cat comes and goes as he pleases but seems content to call this place his home.

So I have a cat now, or rather, a cat has deigned to live here for the time being.

I’ve decided to name him Lord Inquisitor.

When I hear the staff chasing him around the house, it almost feels like Skyhold again.

Your Dorian

--

Inquisitor Mahanon,

You can start with some pleasantries like I hope you have been well. Is that too detached? I don’t know. My head still hurts from the last meeting. Were our meetings at Skyhold this tedious for him? Maker forgive me, what did we put him through? But at least those meetings had resolutions. These just go around in circles. Ugh.

Right. Please write something to reassure him. I know he worries. Maybe start with good news. The red lyrium clean up seems promising with Dagna’s help. Don’t tell him that progress is slow for everything else. Say it’s progressing. No, progress is progressing? Say it’s moving along. It’s not as fast as I was hoping but there has been less pushback lately, which I am taking as a positive sign. 

Unless it means someone’s scheming. 

I should write to Leliana after this. Please remind me. And also Ellana. I must thank her for sending me that serial and her thoughts on it. It was the only thing that kept me sane this month. I’ve heard that someone’s writing a story based on the Inquisitor’s romance. I should ask Dorian about it. Or would that be too awkward? Let’s not.

Wait, whoever that writer is must have been with the Inquisition or how else would they know? Unless it was all the rumours about his mistress in Val Royeaux? Another thing to ask Leliana. You can add that to the list.

What? No, I thought that meeting was pushed back to tomorrow. What do you mean this is the other meeting about the Circles and Templars? Andraste preserve me, if one more Grand Cleric calls me ‘dear’ today…I need to punch something before this meeting.

Oh, uh, just finish the letter with well wishes. 

With the Grace and Benediction of the Maker,

Divine Victoria

--

Dear Varric,

Hello from Skyhold! I hope you’re doing well! Thank you for writing to me and for taking care of my home while I’m away, that was very kind of you. I hope the plants won’t give you too much trouble!

The people here are very nice. Well, most of them. I suppose it’s the same everywhere. The good news is, I haven’t offended anyone yet, I don’t think. I was a little afraid this castle would be fancy with extra knives and forks but most people seem to eat at the tavern where everything is served with a single spoon. No accidental stabbings with those!

Mahanon is always on the go, isn’t he? Oh no, should I be calling him by his title? The Inquisitor? Is it rude if I don’t? I don’t think he minds but is it a Chantry thing like the Divine? Should I have been calling Hawke the Champion of Kirkwall this whole time? I’ll have to apologize to him later.

I admit, I was a little hesitant about the Inquisitor when you introduced us and I’m still very embarrassed about the way I cried in front of him. It’s just been so long since I’ve spoken to another Dalish. And in Elven! His Elven is very good, isn’t it? I feel awfully out of practice. I remember meeting Clan Lavellan in the Free Marches before back, well, back before everything. I don’t think I ever met him though? Sometimes Josephine asks me about what gifts to send to them. Isn’t that lovely of her?

At this point, I think the Inquisitor and I have agreed to disagree about some things. He’s nicer about it than Fenris or Anders but not as nice as you or Hawke or Isabela. Maybe it comes with practice. He does see the importance of the mirror though! Or, maybe it’s the voices in his head? I’m not sure if he can tell the difference sometimes. Either way, I’m so glad I kept it! I’ve learned so much about it from him! 

A doorway! 

Varric, it’s a doorway! My people used to walk through mirrors into a place of many paths! I hope I get to see it someday!

The voices in the Inquisitor’s head told him there was lyrium involved (I was right!) so I’ve been working with Dagna. She’s also very nice! And very good with lyrium! I really hope I don’t let them down.

Your friend,

Merrill

--

Amatus,

Your cat is a menace and a thief. He stole half the carvings you sent and hid them around the house. I found two under my pillow just last night.

You will be pleased, however, to hear that the Lord Inquisitor is a bit of a do-gooder. I was told he followed Sanna on her rounds and brought her to see a few more patients. He sat there and howled like a demon until she followed him to see the strays. 

A feline full of promise, yes? 

If this cat had access to spies and an army and Ambassador Montilyet, I wager Tevinter would have already abolished slavery and the Black Divine would be advocating for animal rights.

Sanna sends her regards, by the way.

As I’m sure you know—

(The letter is cut short by an inky paw print and a large blotch of spilled ink)

A menace!

Running late—write more next time.

Dorian

--

Freckles,

Glad to hear Daisy’s settling in. Are you still at Skyhold or have you resumed running around Thedas? I could ask one of my guys but it’s more fun guessing. Honestly, I don’t know where you get all that energy from. Either way, hope you’re doing well. Last I heard, your clan’s been moving northwest along the borders of the Plains, but you probably already heard from Nightingale.

When you get the chance, can you tell Sparkler and Ruffles to lay off the real estate war for a bit? It’s romantic and all, buying property to meet with you and Keeper (you know I’m a sucker for that shit), but it’s drawing a lot of attention. People are starting to ask me if they’re preparing to get married or divorced and I can only be asked so many times before I’m obligated to make something up.

Besides, while I appreciate the renewal of interest in the Free Marches’ real estate by foreign nobility, we’ve been so busy clearing out Meredith and the red lyrium from the Gallows that we haven’t had too much time to build new villas for the rich tourists in Kirkwall yet.

Don’t worry though. Ruffles may have won the fight for that villa Sparkler was eyeing but I’ve got you covered here in our lovely Kirkwall. Hell, I have a few options for you to choose from. There’s a nice mansion in High Town right by Hawke’s if you wanted to be neighbours. There’s also a manor just outside of town that’s available that might be more to your liking. It might be haunted if the flying paintings are anything to go by but I think that adds to the charm.

There’s also talk of a development project happening out on the Wounded Coast if you’re looking to invest in some wounded and coastal scenery. I’m pretty sure most of the qunari and bandit bodies have been cleared away.

Let me know which appeals to you and I can get it sorted with Sparkler. I’ll throw in security and cleaning details too to sweeten the deal. Viscounts can do that, can’t they?

Your friend, biographer, and realtor,

Varric

--

Dooorian,

Nonquisitor asked me to write to you with all the stuff he wanted to say. Misses you lots. Wish you were here. Something about an Inquisitor cat he never met? Mewha (scratched out) Meow-non!

(Drawing of cat with a glowing paw)

Wanted to say more but he’s asleep now.

- Been Rough.

- Found a little butt of a city? town? on the way back down from Antiva. 

- Dog’s arse middle of nowhere not on the map.

- Rift was in the alienage.

- It was very bad.

- Too many demons. Piss!

- Stupid people went and did stupid things like closing the gate. No warning!

- Nonquisitor and us to the rescue! Not many left to save (scratched out)

- Stupid piss arse nobs can get off.

- Chargers agree.

(Drawing of Mahanon breathing fire or yelling at fancy-looking people while closing a rift. There are dead demons everywhere. Sera is standing on top of a dead Pride demon and flipping the people off.)

- Some survivors going to Skyhold. Others staying, why?

- Promised to be nice to them, duh.

- Chargers are best. Found this tavern on the road.

(Doodle of a quaint looking tavern.)

- Creepy tried adding honey to his wine.

- Didn’t help.

- You or Ell would know how.

- Nonquisitor can sleep it off.

You should send him something nice.

(Doodle of Mahanon asleep on a table and Bull passed out on the floor.)

--

My Dearest Ellana,

I hope this letter finds you in fine spirit and health. I am told that Inquisitor Mahanon is currently on his way back to Skyhold after resolving an unfortunate incident involving a rift in an alienage. 

It makes my hands shake with anger to think about how coldly the decision was made to throw away so many lives. I will not get into detail as it is quite upsetting and I’m sure you can imagine what happened. Our soldiers are currently escorting the survivors back to Skyhold. We have offered them temporary shelter and jobs here until they can be relocated to safer places. I’m glad we are able to do at least this much for them. 

The strangest thing happened when our reinforcements returned to apprehend those responsible. They have gone missing as have the rest of the elves. What remains of the alienage now stands empty. Perhaps they simply moved onto other places. I hope that is the case. Leliana is looking into this as I write. It is most worrying given the timing, but I’m sure we will find answers soon.

In the meantime, please send my regards to Keeper Deshanna and young Linea and the others. I have asked the messenger to pick up some supplies for you on the way. It’s nothing extravagant but I hope you find it helpful.

My darling, I know you were worried that distance would cool our passions but I find myself catching glimpses of you in every corner of Skyhold. My gallant Emerald Knight. My Lady Ellana. I will stop before Leliana starts teasing me again.

While we still have a moment of calm, I would love to come see you again soon. For a week, maybe? It shouldn’t be too hard to get away. The difficult part will be trying to get Inquisitor Mahanon to rest for a week. It would do him good to see his clan in these trying times and I’m sure you’re anxious to see him. I will do my best to convince him.

Love,

Josephine

PS – I’m glad you found that article speculating about Lord Pavus and my illicit affair as amusing as we all did. Have you had a chance to look through the proposal we sent you? You have far more experience than either of us along those routes. Any feedback is always appreciated but of course, feel free to decline. We are merely considering different possibilities at this stage.

--

Mahanon,

I heard about what happened. Calling it a travesty and a crime doesn’t do it justice. Amatus, I cannot stress enough how the fault lies in those who gave the orders and not you.

How I wish I could be there with you right now to tell you those words in person but we have yet to come up with any non-lethal teleportation magic. Perhaps that will be a new pet project for me to consider but that doesn’t solve the problem of being apart now.

Futile as it may be, allow me to share some good news in an attempt to lift your spirit. Maevaris and I have started the Lucerni, a little faction in the Magisterium who are deeply passionate about curbing the rot that festers in Tevinter and utterly inept at politics. You would not believe how many times “fire” has been the proposed solution to ingrained societal problems. 

I don’t know if it’s a bigger challenge keeping them safe from themselves or from the rest of the Magisterium. At least professional assassination attempts are somewhat predictable and well-coordinated. But this is a start. It’s more than I expected, to be honest. Given a few years and several miracles, they may become passable politicians yet.

Now, I’m sure you thought about your dear cousin at the mention of fire—in fact, I wager some of these Juniors may be on par in terms of skill and eloquence with Ellana when she was a child and that would be a compliment. You will be amused to know that her serial is currently on hiatus because the author fell off a roof and injured themself while attempting to do research on the difficulties of fighting on rooftops.

Another interesting thing of note to distract you: I have sent one of my servants to the prestigious Minrathous Academy for the Arts—one of the Alexius’ kitchen boys. The one you held hostage when we first met, in fact. Simpler times, yes?

Your cat was looking particularly regal and I had the urge to memorialize the moment. Unfortunately, painters take time to commission and even more time to travel so I asked if any of the staff had any skill in art and this boy came recommended by the others. Needless to say, I was quite impressed. 

I have included the piece with this letter. Tell me, does he not look just like you? Or am I simply going mad from your prolonged absence?

Your Dorian

(On a separate tag attached to the string tied around the letter) Note to the scout reading this: You. Yes, you. Kindly go buy some candied dates or dried Orlesian peaches for the Inquisitor with the coin included here.

(The second parchment contains a sketch of a fluffy black cat with long fur, a crooked tail, and a regal mane looking deeply unimpressed.)

--

Inquisitor,

As you have no doubt heard, our beloved Empress is no longer with us and the nation is in mourning. We can expect great changes in Orlais as Emperor Gaspard takes the throne and the Marquise stands behind it. For the time being, my duties in the Imperial Court will remain as they were for the foreseeable future—a wise move on the to-be Emperor’s part.

As you can imagine, the Orlesian Court is in an uproar and dear Duke Cyril sends his sincerest apologies again for having to cancel the luncheon he invited you to on account of the late Empress’ funeral.

Through the turmoil, the colleges and fraternities of enchanters remain steadfast in their insistence that yet another round of elections must be held. My dear, the debates you avoided in Skyhold cannot hold a candle to the month-long passive-aggressive arguments the Aequitarians and the Lucrosians get into. I will spare you the details but know that the intricacies and nuances of drawing magic circles are infinitely more interesting than the parchment quality of voting cards.

Cordially,

Vivienne

--

Dearest Cousin,

How many rifts can there be left in the world? And why do they only ever get reported when you’re trying to rest? 

I know why you’re anxious to close them but you left so quickly I didn’t have time to tell you about how your nug is being coveted by our beloved healer. Apparently he has a natural talent for sniffing out useful roots so you don’t have to worry about us losing him any time soon.

I also didn’t get the chance to tell you that I spotted Blackwall? Rainier? This was a while back when we were near Markham. He was with some other Grey Wardens doing whatever Grey Wardens do in the Free Marches. I don’t think he noticed me, but he seemed well. Very purposeful. The beard still makes him look very sad though.

In any case, I’m glad you stopped by even if it was only for a little while. It’s always a relief to see you safe and whole. Grandmother’s still laughing at the cat portrait Dorian sent. I think she might ask him for another. Nea sends her love and her displeasure. Were we like that at her age?

Come back home soon.

–E

(Dalish trail marker for safety and hospitality)

--

Mahanon of Clan Lavellan,

Have you run out of rifts to close and problems to fix on the surface? What do you mean you’re taking a trip to the Deep Roads? They’re everything you hate: cold, dark, damp, cramped, and utterly full of darkspawn.

Maker, by the time this letter gets there you’ll already be down there, won’t you? We really need a better way of communicating. Send word to me as soon as you’re out. Please.

I’ll be here pacing.

Dorian

--

Inquisitor,

Here’s a fun one for you. A certain Comte de Bayard recently returned to Val Royeaux singing your praise. He claims that during his stay here, you shook his hand and cured him of a chronic ailment that once plagued him. This seems to have reignited an age-old feud, and now Comtesse Elodie is telling people she was given a lock of your hair and it not only keeps her night terrors away but gives her skin a lovely glow.

How would you like us to address this issue?

Josephine strongly advises against escalation and our valiant Commander has pre-emptively declined to participate.

–Leliana

--

Inquisitor Mahanon,

You’re not going to write down every word I say again, are you? This is meant to be a letter not a transcript. I should start with an apology for not writing sooner. Tell him that the recent upheaval in Orlais has destroyed my will to—no, stop, that was a joke. Tell him it’s kept me busy.

I suppose they did only promise to uphold the truce until Corypheus was dealt with. I still don’t know if Gaspard’s push for more rights for elves is a blessing or a curse for us. It aligns with what we’re trying to do but I can see how agitated the people are becoming, and it’s not hard to see who’s behind the push. Also don’t tell him that.

When I said I wanted to respect traditions, I meant values, not the way we treat—stop, you better not be writing that down. Ugh! Why is this so hard? There’s trouble brewing and I just want to tell him I’m worried but also reassure him that whatever happens, he will have me at his back. 

Actually, that’s pretty good. Keep that part. Tell him that he has weathered everything so far and I have no doubt that he will also come out of this triumphant. Yes, that’s good.

Also ask if he’s seen Dorian’s cat. Of course he has but ask anyway. It’s small talk.

Sign it off as Cassandra, not the usual one you use. 

With the Grace and Benediction of the Maker,

Divine Victoria

--

Amatus,

I saw three Inquisitor impersonators on the streets today. One was a human with two perfectly normal hands who was shouting about Andraste’s lovely bosom. One was an elf who dipped their hand in green paint and was telling people that the end of all things is imprisoned on Satina. And one was a dwarven woman, also shouting about Andraste’s ample bosom. 

I think you would’ve found them quite amusing.

Less amusing is that I was on my way to meet with my father again since he happened to be in town. It went well, all things considered, but he did find out about us, which means he got the satisfaction of being right —which then makes you wonder if it was a haphazard guess on his part or if he noticed something back in Jader. 

He didn’t comment on it. He merely asked if I was happy, to which I said yes, obviously (I would be happier in your company but we are neither here nor there). And he said “good, I’m glad” and that was it. We had dinner, discussed magic and politics, and he went on his merry way.

Good.

He was glad.

Mahanon, even as I write this, I wonder if I’m going to wake up and realize it was all a fever dream. That wouldn’t be such a bad thing though, waking up next to you in Skyhold. These days, I often wake up to your cat trying to suffocate me with his stomach. A vast improvement, however, coming from the beast who used to hiss at me if I so much as looked at him wrong.

Also, what’s this I’m hearing about talks with the Inquisition? I hope it’s nothing more than idle gossip. You’d think with the unrest in Orlais, they’d have more pressing things to worry about.

I’ll have to find an excuse to come down south soon. I wonder how the Lord Inquisitor feels about travelling out of Minrathous? Perhaps I will take him to meet my mother in Ventus and see how he fares.

Also, you still have to tell me what you found down in the Deep Roads. “Lyrium stuff” and “nug royalty” are not valid explanations for anything no matter what Sera says.

Your Dorian

Chapter Text

There’s a sharp crackle and pain shoots up his arm, causing him to sit up with a gasp. Holding his arm close, Mahanon brushes the hair out of his face and looks down to see the angry glow of the Anchor grinding and pulsing, the intensity of the magic lighting up old scars down his wrists.

He’d noticed the glow slowly spreading down his arm a few months ago and renewed his efforts to seal the few rifts that remain. Although the Vir’abelasan has put a stop to his nightmares, the recent memories of the devastation the new rifts have caused haunt him during his waking hours.

The throbbing pain eases into a dull ache and he exhales, unclenching his fist. 

This is it then, Mahanon thinks with grim acceptance.

It’s time to go home.

Not wanting to give himself time to dwell on this, he rolls out of bed and goes about his usual routine. Changing and brushing his hair, he does his best to keep his mind too cluttered to be morose about his hand or how much larger his bed feels when waking up in it alone.

Slapping his face lightly and pushing the thoughts away, Mahanon goes downstairs to find Josephine.

It’s nearly been two years since the Breach and Corypheus and the Inquisition is a shell of its former self, with most of its followers returning home after the crisis was averted and the skies restored. In this time, he spent most of his time running around, dealing with the remaining rifts while the scouts and the ambassador continued working away behind the scenes to clear obstacles from his path.

He enters the same ambassador’s office to see her reading a letter with a dreamy smile and stifles a smile of his own before clearing his throat lightly. “Good morning.”

Josephine sits up with a start. “Inquisitor Mahanon, good morning!” Quickly gathering herself, she says, “This is good timing, actually. I hope you weren’t on your way back out. I have urgent news. Let’s gather at the war table.”

Mahanon frowns and nods, holding his marked hand slightly behind him. “Lead the way.”

His own announcement will have to wait.

“As you know, there have been rumours circulating about formal talks with the Inquisition now that the Breach has been closed,” Josephine tells them in the war room. “News on this front went quiet after the death of Empress Celene but started up again recently. And now, under new leadership, it’s confirmed.”

Leliana nods. “Orlais and Ferelden are both pressuring Divine Victoria to hold an Exalted Council, much to her displeasure.”

The word ‘exalted’ is enough to drain the blood from his face.

Josephine quickly reassures him, “The council will be held to decide the future of the Inquisition. Nothing beyond that. It will also be overseen by Divine Victoria so we have very little to worry about, in theory.”

Cullen runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “I suppose not even the Divine can shield us from politics forever. What are their stances? I assume they either want to leash us or disband us.”

“That’s more or less it, yes,” the ambassador tells him grimly. “Ferelden has been pushing for this since the Breach was closed but Orlais has only recently joined in.”

Mahanon purses his lips. “Briala wants us leashed, then?”

Josephine nods. “That is a safe assumption. They have proposed to hold this council in a month’s time at, I’m sorry, Halamshiral.”

He leans against the war table and stares at the Dales on the map, now worn and the ink faded from countless strategy meetings. “Again? It’s not a very original way to send the message. Or are they just doing it to spite me?”

“Could be both given your run-in with Briala during the peace talks,” Leliana suggests with a shrug. “We all know Emperor Gaspard isn’t prone to such theatrics.”

“Inquisitor Mahanon, if you want, we can delay this until you’re ready. Divine Victoria has agreed not to proceed until we give the word,” the ambassador offers.

Mahanon rubs his arm restlessly, feeling the dull ache under his glove. Although he’s resolutely been trying to ignore it, the urgency to return to his clan silently continues to gnaw at him, drowning everything else out. “How long will this council last?”

“Typically, no longer than a week,” Josephine tells him. “I suspect most of the proceedings will be the representatives disagreeing with each other out of a sense of patriotism.”

“Let’s just get it over with. The longer we drag things out the more they’ll hound us,” he says wearily. “...it’s not like we’ve done anything wrong, have we?”

Cullen sighs and massages his temples. “I hate to say it, but I’m sure they’ll find something to throw at us. They’re politicians. We’re far from perfect and any perceived slight or weakness is fair game. From the sounds of it, you should prepare for the longest and most frustrating week of your life, Inquisitor. We all should.”

Smiling slightly, Leliana adds, “And you can’t even use a double this time. I’ll contact the tailor to have a uniform made for you. I’ve already sent scouts out. We should know who the representatives are by the end of the week.” Glancing over at him and Cullen, she adds, “You may want to brush up on your court etiquette. I’m sure every noble in Orlais will be in attendance.”

The Commander grimaces. “Maker, I’m not looking forward to this.”

As they leave the war room, Josephine asks him quietly, “Are you alright? You seem anxious and for good reason, of course. This council is, well, it’s serious, but Divine Victoria will have the final say over what becomes of the Inquisition. We are technically still under the banner of the Chantry, after all.”

Mahanon nods. “I’m fine. If it was anyone other than Cassandra, I would be more worried.” He pauses and looks at the woman who gave so much of her time and care to the Inquisition, and without whom everything would’ve collapsed long ago. “Josephine, have you ever thought about what you’d do if the Inquisition came to an end?”

The ambassador blinks. “Well, now that I don’t have to worry about assassins anymore, I suppose I would focus on building up my family’s business—perhaps try my hand at logistics. I have already discussed potential partnerships with Master Tethras and Lord Pavus, with help from Ellana. It will be a most exciting endeavour. However, so long as I’m needed here, you can rest assured that I will give my all to the Inquisition. We still have plenty to do to prepare for this council.”

He chuckles. “There’s no need to stand on formality. You’re practically family, Josephine. I’m glad to hear you’ll still be in our lives.”

Josephine smiles kindly at him. “Of course. I look forward to working more closely with Clan Lavellan in the future.”

“Yes, I’m sure Ell’s looking forward to it too,” he teases lightly before leaving the room to head into the gardens. Going into the side room where Morrigan once kept her eluvian, he finds Merrill with her broken one. “Aneth ara.”

Sitting to the side with a pile of thick tomes, Merrill looks up from her book with a start. “Oh, good morning! I was just doing research on lyrium infusions! You have so many books here and so many on magic. Our clan only ever had a few. I suppose they’re quite unwieldy and all written by humans, so that’s no good.”

Mahanon tilts his head to read some of the titles. “It’s the same in my clan, although our First has a collection she hides away. You can thank Dorian and Vivienne for most of these, I think. I wonder if they want any of these back.”

Another thing to write to them about.

Walking over to the eluvian that cost so many Dalish lives, he touches the frame lightly, the voices in his head pondering its method of activation. It takes him a moment to pull away. Shaking his head, he tells her, “Merrill, there’s going to be an Exalted Council held in a month.” When he sees her react much in the same way he did, he quickly explains the situation to her. “I don’t know if you’ll be able to continue your research like this after it’s over.”

Merrill studies him for a moment and he’s suddenly reminded again that she was once a First, trained to be a leader and a guide for their people. “You don’t think there’s going to be an after,” she says quietly in Elven.

“There will always be an after,” Mahanon replies easily. “I just don’t think it’ll look like this anymore.”

She nods, looking unperturbed. He supposes with everything she’s gone through, this must feel like nothing more than a holiday cut short. “I guess that just means I’ll have to work even harder for the next month. We’re on the verge of something, I can feel it!”

“There’s one more thing,” he tells her. “Do you know any remedies to ease pain for long periods of time?”

Merrill cocks her head with a concerned frown. “Oh dear, is someone unwell? I know plenty of recipes but I’d have to take a look at what’s causing the pain first to know what best to use.”

He hesitates. “Promise me you won’t tell Varric about it—or anyone else for that matter.”

In another moment of sharpness, large green eyes look him over and land on his marked hand. “Would it be bad for Varric or the others to know?”

Mahanon runs a hand through his hair, making a noise when his fingers get caught on a particularly stubborn knot. “They’ll worry and they’ll all tell Dorian. Or Ell. Or both and then they’ll tell each other and my grandmother. And probably Cassandra too. And then we’ll have the Divine kicking down our door. I’m fine. It’s still fine. I just wanted something on hand for the future. In case.”

Merrill gives him a patient look like one would to a stubborn child. “Can I take a look?”

He glances at the door and gives a slight start when Charter suddenly appears. She nods politely at him before closing it and presumably standing guard. “How long have you been watching me?”

“Today?” Charter asks from outside.

“Ah, never mind. I don’t know if you’ve gotten better or if I’ve gotten too used to people following me around these last few years. I’d say keep this to yourself but I imagine Leliana already knows,” Mahanon mutters before taking off his glove and holding out his hand for Merrill.

“Oh dear,” the other elf murmurs to herself at the sight of the mark. “A month isn’t very much time to study something like this.”

“You don’t have to,” he says quietly. “Focus on the eluvian. That matters more. All I need to do is get through the council.”

Merrill frowns and looks up. “Mahanon, is that your head talking or your heart?”

He pauses and blinks. “They’re one and the same?”

That only deepens the other elf’s frown as she takes his hand and mutters, “I don’t know if that’s better or worse.”

--

After some poking and prodding and a series of questions that he couldn’t fully answer, Mahanon is released with the promise of potions in the future and what privacy he can keep for the moment.

He stops by the tavern to let the others know about the council. Failing to find Cole there, he returns to his room to organize his thoughts around everything.

“You’ve become brighter again.”

Mahanon jumps back in surprise, bracing against his desk. “Elgar’nan! Cole! I didn’t see you in the tavern.”

The boy blinks. “That’s because I wasn’t there.”

He blinks back, dumbfounded. “I—yes, well, I can’t argue against that. What do you mean I’ve become brighter?”

Although he’s become more human in some ways, Cole simply continues being Cole in all other ways. “Your hand. The light is consuming you. I can barely see the knots now. It’s all too bright.”

Swallowing hard, he nods. “So that’s how it looks to you. Can you tell how fast the light is growing? We have that Exalted Council in a month.”

Those large, piercing blue eyes move up to his face. A pause. “You’re afraid you don’t have enough time.”

Mahanon rubs his wrist uncomfortably. “I made a promise to Ell. I need to get home.”

“You don’t want to be alone,” Cole says quietly. Then, to his surprise, the boy gently takes his hand and nods to himself. “I will be here with you while you wait. Like I was for Cole. Maybe it will help. I can help—I want to help. You will not be alone.”

Exhaling, Mahanon smiles and reaches up to fix the boy’s hat for him. “Ma serannas. You don’t have to if it gets too much, like with Cole, but I would like that. You have to promise me you won’t tell Maryden though. I don’t want her singing about it.”

At this, Cole hesitates. “But her singing is nice.”

“It’s nice and it’s public,” he says patiently. “I don’t want anyone knowing about this for as long as possible. Cole, will you promise to keep this a secret?”

Surprisingly human-like, the boy lets out a sigh. “I promise.”

After that, Cole comes and sits with him every night, recalling quiet memories of the original Cole. And when those run out, the boy seems pleasantly surprised to be able to share his own memories of more recent times.

--

A month passes by quickly and Mahanon watches the unnatural green creep farther up his arm. More and more often, he finds his sleep interrupted by pain and starts making use of Merrill’s potions.

Too caught up in preparations and unable to find the correct words, he fails to send his weekly letter to Dorian and can’t help but worry when his lover also fails to send any his way.

Finally, on the day before departure, Mahanon hastily writes down,

Dorian,

Are you alright? I’m leaving for the exalted council soon. If you have time can you come down for a visit after? I want to see you. I’ll be home.

I love you.

Mahanon

“That’s going to upset our esteemed Lord Pavus, I think.”

He gives a slight start to see Leliana on his balcony instead of Charter. “I think he’d be even more upset not to receive anything.” Looking down at the letter, he admits, “…I don’t know how to spare his heart.”

Eyes softening with distant memories, Leliana tells him, “Despite all I’ve seen and heard, I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for that beyond faith in the Maker’s guiding hand. Perhaps that is the answer but not the one for you.” Stepping inside, the spymaster asks, “How are you feeling? Will you be alright to travel?”

Mahanon nods, slowly trying to secure a knot around the parchment with clumsy fingers. Suddenly, his left hand seizes up and he grits his teeth to wait for it to pass before starting on the knot again. To his relief, Leliana merely watches and doesn’t offer to step in. “Merrill’s potions are working well for the pain. I should thank you for finding the materials she asked for.”

“Of course,” she says easily. “We need you in the best shape possible to get through this. This is also the least I can do after everything you’ve done for us.”

Tucking the parchment into the tube attached to the bird’s leg and watching the bird fly north, he quietly exhales and starts packing his things. “We’re saying our goodbyes then?”

Leliana shakes her head, gaze also fixed on the bird disappearing into the distance. “No, I’ll be there with you and the others to see this through. One way or another. We may not be fast friends but we are allies and you our leader.”

“It doesn’t feel like I did a lot of leading,” he says quietly.

“You made decisions when they needed to be made and did what needed to be done. The goal was the Breach and Corypheus and those are gone now. I don’t recall Kallian being so doubtful after the Blight,” Leliana says idly, watching him gather up everything.

Despite having been there for nearly three years, he hasn’t accumulated very many personal items beyond the letters and trinkets sent to him over the last two years.

Mahanon raises his eyebrows, remembering his brief encounter with the Hero of Ferelden. “I can’t imagine her being doubtful in any situation. Will you join her if the Inquisition comes to an end?”

The woman shrugs. “If she asked me to, yes, but I don’t think that’s where I’ll be needed. What happened in that alienage still needs answers.”

He stills his hands, remembering the gruesome sight they were met with—the blood and bodies strewn about and the indifference of those who allowed it to happen. “They still haven’t been found?”

Leliana shakes her head grimly. “Our leads have led nowhere, and now we’ve gotten reports of missing elves from other alienages as well. There were no signs of struggles or violence. Something is afoot, Inquisitor, and it is worrying. I was hoping to have it dealt with before the council but answers continue to elude us.”

“I doubt anyone on the council except Cassandra will care about this,” Mahanon says. “We’ll just have to see how it goes. Either way, if you find any more rifts, especially if they’re near people, let me know and I’ll deal with it before I go home.”

“Noted. Our scouts have been instructed to immediately report back if they spot any rifts. Or Solas,” she tells him.

He arches a brow at the mention of their Fade expert, who has all but disappeared from the world since the Breach was closed. “I have a feeling he won’t be found unless he wants to be, but thank you.”

A nod. “Of course. I’ll leave you to it then. …may the Maker watch over you.”

Looking around his room, now emptied of what few personal effects he had, he feels a strange sense of finality emanating from the keep itself as if it somehow senses their imminent departure. 

Mahanon runs a hand lightly over the desk, committing the varnished wood to memory. Unlike before, the drawers are now properly stocked with fine parchment and ink and there are even faint black stains on the wood from his clumsy letter writing.

This desk and this room will never be his again, he realizes. He didn’t expect to grow so attached to a place he spent so much time away from, but maybe this is the natural progression of having a place and a building to return to. Maybe this is how the Dalish and Ameridan once felt returning to their homes in Halamshiral, knowing their beds and their ink-stained desk were all there, he think idly.

Exhaling, he leaves his room and wanders through the largely empty keep. All the lingering nobles have hurried off to prepare for the council as if they’re the ones on trial, and many of the soldiers have left for good.

Left completely alone for once, Mahanon walks over to the tower and takes a long moment to study Solas’ frescos, quietly running a hand over the incomplete section. 

There’s a crackle and he jerks his hand back, afraid to damage the art. Frowning, he steps back and walks up the stairs to the library. He can’t help but smile when he’s greeted with the sight of Dorian’s nook.

Some of the books are missing from the shelves, either taken by Dorian or borrowed by Merrill. Curling up on the chair, Mahanon exhales and looks out the window. With Fiona and the mages gone, all he hears are Leliana’s crows, still coming and going in droves, and the occasional scout reporting back in.

He doesn’t know when he falls asleep but he’s jolted awake when he senses someone hovering over him. Jerking back, he nearly tumbles off the chair while Sera leaps back with a scream. “Sera! What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you, duh! It’s time to eat, yeah?” the girl exclaims. “Didn’t expect you to be all up in your feelings here.”

“All up in my—” he looks around and realizes where he is. Outside, he can see the sky starting to grow orange and pink. “Right. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

Sera pulls him to his feet. “Alright, oldie. It’s our last night here, yeah? Then we’re off to the council so you can tell those uppity nobs what’s what. So we gotta drink! You can even let your creepy elfy elf friend come as long as she keeps her demony shite and blood out of the drinks.”

Mahanon arches a brow, amused. “How generous of you.”

She rolls her eyes. “Look. I like you. And Ell’s good fun, yeah? Let’s not ruin it.”

“Dagna doesn’t seem to mind Merrill,” he points out. 

“Yeah, she’s good like that. What about it? C’mon, everyone’s waiting!” Sera narrows her eyes. “Why are you smiling at me like that? Stop it!”

He doesn’t bother trying to hide his grin. “Nothing. Just thinking about how much you’ve grown in the last few years.”

Sera cocks her head and starts pushing him towards the stairs. “What, like taller? Or do you mean emotionality-ness or whatever? Because either way, whatever, Nonquisitor. What were you doing here anyway?”

“I thought I’d take a walk around Skyhold but I guess I didn’t get very far,” he tells her, letting her steer him away.

“How far is there to walk around here? Still haven’t seen enough of it? C’mon, you weirdy, we can just walk around and stuff after a couple drinks, yeah?” the other elf suggests.

Mahanon chuckles. “Sera, we both know you’ll start and end your night in the tavern.”

--

It’s a mercy that he’s not too hungover in the morning. Downing one of Merrill’s potions and meeting the remaining Inquisition in the courtyard, he spots the other elf near the back and approaches her to ask, “Are you sure you want to come? Dagna will be staying here.”

Merrill whirls around with her pack in her arms. “Oh, yes, I’ve always wanted to see Halamshiral! Besides, someone needs to look after you—not that you need looking after—except your hand. That’s pretty bad. I think everyone’s noticed by now. I mean, just ignore me.” She withers a little and lowers her voice. “The eluvian is important but...I just want the chance to take care of my own again, you know?”

Mahanon hesitates but then thinks back to the way her eyes brimmed with tears and overflowed with longing the first time they had a conversation in Elven. Although he doesn’t know if he can ever fully condone what she did, having talked to her and having seen and done the things he has, he can at least understand her drive and the desperation. And even now, he can see the love she holds for the People.

“I know it well and I’m happy to have you tag along, lethallan. Don’t expect too much from Halamshiral but maybe you’ll find more comfort in it than I did.” He looks down at his hand and asks, “Do you have anything stronger for pain?”

The other elf nods eagerly, gesturing at her pack. “Your friend the spymaster came by the other day with more materials! I’ve never seen so much Royal Elfroot in my life! I’ll have something better for you before you know it!”

He nods and thanks her before finding Cullen at the front, readying their remaining soldiers for the march. “This is it then? To Halamshiral?”

The Commander lets out a weary sigh. “This is it. Into the mouth of the beast, Inquisitor. Or, many beasts. Many, many perfumed Orlesian beasts. May the Maker have mercy on us all.”

Chapter Text

The journey to the Winter Palace is simultaneously sombre and lighthearted. Although the call of the Exalted Council has sparked a mix of anxiety and determination in some, many more seem happy to treat it as a minor inconvenience and nothing more.

They stop and spend a day outside Halamshiral to prepare themselves for the council. Uniforms are donned and orders are passed through the ranks.

Seeing him in the Inquisition’s formal wear, Merrill offers to pleat braids into his hair while Sera bursts into laughter when she sees him unceremoniously kick the boots off and loosen the sash with a look of disdain. Without missing a beat, Krem takes the boots and promises to hide them from away from all the scouts and then proceeds to put one on each of the Iron Bull’s horns before declaring the operation a great success.

Bull laughs along and then promptly throws his second into a bush.

No one in the Inquisition comments on his lack of footwear.

When they arrive in the city, the idle chattering stops. The soldiers straighten their backs and square their shoulders and march down the streets in unnerving silence.

Riding at the front of the procession, Mahanon watches the familiar sight of the Winter Palace come into view and exhales.

One week.

One more week and then maybe he can go home.

Palace servants quickly come out to greet them and help them settle into their side of the courtyard. Their soldiers become little more than glorified guards in this place without battle, but their stances relax slightly after being tucked away out of sight from the mingling nobles and dignitaries. Although a few adventurous and rebellious sorts end up wandering over, the Winter Palace seems to be divided in half by their presence, both in space and in conversation.

Mahanon doesn’t understand why there are shops and a tavern in a palace courtyard but Sera and the Chargers quickly make themselves comfortable inside. “I’m sure you’ll do great out there, Boss,” Bull tells him with a drink already in hand.

“I don’t suppose I could convince you to follow me around to stop people from approaching?” he asks.

The qunari laughs. “If anything, that’s guaranteed to send them all running at you.” Leaning over a little, he says, “Looks like your ambassador’s asking for you. Say hi to Cassandra for me if you see her. I suppose it’d be frowned upon to ask the Divine to spar.”

Pursing his lips, Mahanon turns to see Josephine outside, waving for him. Reluctantly, he leaves the cheer of the tavern and follows her to a quieter alcove where she straightens his uniform for him. “Inquisitor Mahanon, I know you don’t enjoy these events but we cannot afford to offend all the nobles in attendance. While they cannot dictate the outcome of this council, many of them still have considerable influence.”

He raises his eyebrows and frowns. “Why are they already upset? We just got here and I haven’t even done anything yet.”

The woman sighs and fixes his sash, and he wonders if it’s her anxiety getting the better of her or if he somehow dressed himself wrong. “Some expect you to mingle at your earliest convenience, which is never soon enough. But it would be prudent to not keep them waiting much longer. You don’t have to stay for long, but long enough to be seen and remembered.”

If he runs in screaming, that’d instantly get both jobs done, Mahanon thinks.

“You should make sure to speak with Duke Cyril de Montfort and Arl Teagan Guerrin. Try to avoid antagonizing them. They will be members of the council, after all. Remember, if you don’t know what to say, you can always respond with ‘thank you for your candour’ or ‘I will take that into consideration’ or ‘I will have our ambassador get in touch with you’,” Josephine says quietly to him.

“And if they mistake me for a servant or call me rabbit? Or ask for some magic healing hair?” Mahanon asks half-heartedly.

The ambassador smiles winningly and straightens his collar. “Then you tell me and we’ll see if they ever show themselves in public again.”

He arches a brow, amused. “Ambassador Montilyet, I see you’re picking up all sorts of bad habits from Ell.”

She chuckles, her eyes warm. “I kid but do let me know if anyone gives you a hard time. Like you said, we’re practically family. Now, I believe there are people here who are most anxious to see you, Inquisitor Mahanon.”

Ushered away and dashing his last bit of hope of hiding away in the Inquisition portion of the courtyard, Mahanon rubs his wrist anxiously and wanders into the other half of the gardens. The atmosphere is distinctly different here, filled with soft music and hushed conversations.

There are instantly eyes on him and whispered observations. He stills his hands and straightens his back, not wanting to give away his discomfort. Several servants try to offer him slices of sad ham and he politely declines them all.

Eventually, the more eager guests begin approaching him, some showering him with praise, some looking for insight into the proceedings, and some chastising him for any number of things, from the weather at Skyhold to the absence of his nug at this event to the presence of Dalish on their land.

Too many people ask to hold his hand.

Feeling very much like an animal on display, he shields himself with the phrases Josephine equipped him with. No one seems to notice or care, all too happy to talk at him until they’re distracted or pulled away elsewhere.

To his relief, he finds his way to Duke Cyril in relatively short order. He finds that all the talking points Varric wrote to him about are rendered moot because the man speaks enough for a crowd of five. So he suffers through the flattery and small talk until the man tells him, “You may be interested to hear, Inquisitor, that Emperor Gaspard has personally told me how much he admires your military prowess.”

Mahanon slowly nods. “You may be interested in speaking to our Commander, then,” he says, sending out a silent apology to Cullen, who is already drowning in attention.

The duke continues, “I certainly will. Unlike some, our emperor has no intention of asking the Inquisition to step down or relinquish the power you worked so hard to gain, and I echo that sentiment. In fact, as a show of appreciation, Orlais would be happy to work with the Inquisition in an official capacity.”

He studies the man, smiling as if he wasn’t holding out a collar and waiting for them to take it and put it on themselves. The thought of contributing in any way to the Orlesian army, especially here in Halamshiral, makes him sick to his stomach. “Thank you, I will take that into consideration.”

“That’s all I can ask of you, Inquisitor,” Duke Cyril says with a sympathetic smile. “I understand you must be under a lot of stress because of this council, but know that Orlais stands behind the Inquisition and all you have done for Thedas. Please, enjoy the amenities and refreshments the Winter Palace can offer you. I personally recommend the ham.”

Mahanon continues to avoid the ham but does give in and takes a glass of wine before finding a small entourage of unhappy Fereldans and who he assumes to be Arl Teagan. Upon seeing him, the human immediately gives him a disdainful look as if he’s to blame for everything here. “Enjoying the wine, Inquisitor?”

“Not particularly,” he replies honestly.

“Well, at least you have some taste,” the man says. Evidently, his distaste is expansive and extends to the rest of the party if not country. “Look, neither of us want to be here. I won’t ply you with needless flattery or try to cajole you into some sort of deal. Orlesians will talk circles around you without ever telling you what they want all in the name of some banal game of theirs.”

He takes a sip of wine. “And what does Ferelden want?”

Arl Teagan arches a brow. “I assume you already know what we are seeking. I will not dispute that the Inquisition played an important part in restoring order, but the world is no longer in crisis and we have no need for an army of zealots running around. You have played your role and it is now time to step down.”

An interesting demand from a country with a Grey Warden as king, Mahanon doesn’t remark. He’s pretty sure that would fall under ‘antagonizing’.

While he agrees with the assessment, the man rubs him the wrong way. In this person, he doesn’t see the person Leliana described. He doesn’t see a heroic figure who stood as a defender of the helpless, helping turn the tides to save his town. In fact, he didn’t see him in Redcliffe at all—any of the Redcliffes.

“Thank you for your candour,” Mahanon recites.

The arl nods. “Of course. It would be an insult to the both of us to waste our time dancing around it.”

As he walks away, Mahanon stifles a sigh and looks longingly towards the palace gates they entered from, already dreading the long week ahead.

He winces as pain suddenly shoots up his arm.

The draught he took this morning must be wearing off. Mahanon looks around for somewhere to hide out of sight to drink his potion, but before he can leave, another noble approaches him. He immediately pivots and holds his hands behind his back to keep them out of view.

Mahanon’s still thinking of a way to leave the conversation when yet another person joins in and then another. The pain has subsided for the moment but he can’t afford to have the Anchor flare up here of all places.

“My darling Inquisitor, there you are. Goodness, you can be hard to find.”

The nobles immediately step aside, their heads slightly bowed in respect as Vivienne approaches with her usual poise.

He feels relief flood him at the sight of the woman. “Vivienne.”

Vivienne spares him a smile, exchanging kisses on each cheek. “Don’t tell me you forgot about our appointment. Come along, my dear. We mustn’t be late. Openings are so hard to come by.” With the wave of her hand, the nobles around him disperse and he can’t help but wish his hand could do something useful like that instead of bringing people to their knees in prayer.

Mahanon doesn’t know if she’s lying or not about the appointment but hurriedly follows after her. “Thank you for that. I probably would’ve been stuck there for the rest of the day if you didn’t come along.”

The woman smiles as she leads them back toward the Inquisition side of the courtyard. “I’m always happy to help you but at least you’re aware.” As they pass by a pool area, she lowers her voice and says, “It did not escape my attention that your hand appears to be acting up. Is this a recent development?”

Although he’d hoped to keep it hidden for the week, at least it was discovered by someone he trusts. “Recent enough,” he replies quietly. “I have something for the pain. Merrill’s been working on something stronger.”

Vivenne arches a brow. “Ah, Varric’s contact. I hope you will permit me to examine her concoction? I may have suggestions for increasing the potency.”

Mahanon nods. “Of course, if it’s no trouble.”

She waves him off his concerns and they take a detour to another alcove where they startle someone dressed a lot like the harlequin assassins from the peace talks. “Don’t mind them,” Vivienne say dismissively as they disappear in a hurry. “Idle people with idle hobbies.”

“As long as they’re not here to kill anyone and drag out the council, I suppose. Why are there so many places for assassins to hide here,” he mutters, handing over a bottle of draught before uncorking another and emptying it.

Vivienne methodically swirls the bottle and gives it a light sniff and nods to herself. “Good, I see your spymaster procured quality ingredients. The crystal grace is an interesting addition. Are you suffering from any side effects from this?”

He shakes his head. “It’s been working well but I don’t know of it’s wearing off faster or if the pain is getting worse.”

“It’s very likely a combination of both,” the woman tells him. “Solas was the only one who pretended to understand how that mark worked but I understand how to treat pain. Come, take me to see this Merrill. I need to see what she’s working with. Between the two of us, I’m certain we can come up with a version with rudimentary improvements in time for the council tomorrow. We need you at your best, my dear. Tell me more of your symptoms.”

Walking back to the gate connecting to their half of the courtyard, Mahanon explains how the mark has been slowly but surely creeping up his arm and the pain that accompanies it.

As they pass by the tavern, his ears perk up when he hears a loud commotion inside followed by, “Oh shit, get down! Freckles’ outside! Not everyone’s—shit, I think he heard me.”

Mahanon turns his head to see many familiar faces staring back owlishly at him from the tavern. “Varric? Is that Rainier? What are you two doing here?”

Varric shrugs sheepishly. “Trying to surprise you. Wait, we might still be able to salvage this. Tiny, that’s your cue.”

Iron Bull grins and steps aside, revealing yet another person, who clears their throat. “For the record, I told them this wouldn’t work.” A rueful smile. “Hello, Amatus. Nice sash.”

Without another word, he runs inside and pulls the man into a tight embrace.

There are cheers and whistles, and he hears Varric say, “And so our valiant Inquisitor and his good Magister are reunited.”

When Dorian doesn’t correct him, Mahanon looks up questioningly and sees how worn out the mage is. He whispers, “Vhenan?”

“Leave it to the dwarf to give away my secrets. I’ll tell you later. Let’s just try to enjoy ourselves first,” Dorian whispers back with a squeeze.

This would explain the month of silence, he thinks. The thought is immediately followed by a moment of panic as he remembers the letter he sent, and he wonders if he can get someone to destroy it before Dorian finds it.

Playing along, Mahanon steps back and gives him a once over. “I see this outfit’s got fewer buckles.”

Dorian chuckles and reaches over to give his hair a light tug. “I see your hair remains unburnt and your feet remain bare.”

He huffs. “Thank you for your candour, Lord Pavus.”

“Did Josephine teach you that one? I’ll have you know, I’m here as Ambassador Pavus, actually. Here as a most magnificent insult from the Imperium,” the mage tells him, preening.

Sera loudly boos them. “Less flirting, more drinking!”

As drinks are passed around, Rainier comes by and claps him cheerily on the shoulder. “We weren’t going to miss this for anything. We’ll be here if you need any support, though I don’t know how much help I’ll be in this kind of place.”

“I’d appreciate you getting the nobles off of me. I’m sure they’d be much more interested in talking to a Grey Warden,” Mahanon says lightly.

The Warden shakes his head, arlready exasperated. “Maker’s arse, I don’t need a repeat of the peace talks. Come to me if you need my sword.”

“I’m really hoping to avoid swords this time,” he says before wincing. “Did I jinx it?”

Rainier nods and passes him another drink. “You definitely did.”

To the side, Mahanon catches sight of Vivienne approaching Merrill and the two of them leaving through the side door after a brief discussion.

He thinks to go see if he can help but Varric comes up and sighs loudly. “You know, Freckles, I was really banking on those nobles to give you a harder time. I didn’t expect the Iron Lady to fish you out like that.”

“I thought they gave me a horrible time.” Cocking his head, he asks, “Was Vivienne not in on the plan?”

A shrug. “She was in on it and above it, as expected. But she thought it’d be a good opportunity to take you to some fancy spa here at the palace. Guess that didn’t pan out?”

Mahanon grimaces, realizing she must’ve changed her mind about the appointment after seeing his condition. “That might have been my fault.”

Dorian gives him a questioning look and he shakes his head, pushing the topic to their unscheduled ‘later’.

Varric gives him a good natured slap on the back. “All good. That just gives you more time with us. Have you met Seneschal Bran, by the way? He follows me around and tells me all the things I can’t do.”

“That’s not actually my job,” Bran says unhappily.

“Anyway, I have some gifts for you. Here’s the key and deed to that place next to Hawke’s. I know you said you didn’t need any of it and Sparkler got that other place, but just in case. It’s yours if you ever need a solo Kirkwall getaway,” Varric says, pulling a key and crumpled up scroll from his pocket.

Bran immediately protests. “Elves are not allowed to own property outside of the alienage, and alienage land is strictly the property of the state.”

The dwarf arches a brow. “So they can’t—who came up with that stupid rule? Never mind, I don’t care. What if the elf’s a comte? Because I’ve decided to make him one.”

The human throws his hands in the air in exasperation. “You can’t just do that! There’s a lengthy procedure to elevate a person’s status and an elf at that. We have no precedent for this.”

Varric throws his head back and laughs. “There’s precedent now! Honestly, what’s the point of being Viscount if you can’t even make someone a comte or give them the key to the docks,” he complains, handing over a large key.

Bran looks like he wants the ground to swallow him whole.

Mahanon stares at the items in his hands, bewildered. Next to him, Dorian arches a brow. “Comte, huh? You’re moving up the world in quick order. I barely got a handshake and I had to buy the land myself from this man.”

An easy grin. “It’s just business, Sparkler. You’d do the same if you were in my shoes.”

“Varric, I can’t accept any of this,” he tries to protest.

“You really can’t,” the seneschal agrees.

The dwarf gives an offhanded wave. “It’s fine. It’s not like the key does anything.”

“It controls the chains in the docks,” the human corrects him.

His ears twitch in interest despite himself.

“Oh. Well, shit.” Then, a shrug. “Try not to break anything when you use this thing, you two. And invite me along. I want to see if it still works.”

At this point, Bran shakes his head and walks away in defeat.

Mahanon looks down at himself then Dorian then back to Varric. “Other than Bull, we might be the worst people to incite chaos in Kirkwall.”

“You’ll be fine. Kirkwall’s always in chaos.” Varric sighs. “Look, we don’t know what’ll happen after this council, so just keep it for now. In case.”

“You’ve already sorted out a trade deal with Ell and Keeper Deshanna, that’s more than enough,” he points out. “I’ll be with my clan if anywhere.”

The dwarf arches a brow. “So you don’t want to try out the key to the docks?”

He huffs. “I didn’t say that.”

Varric chuckles. “You can return it after giving it a go, then. It’ll give me a little peace of mind, Freckles. Speaking of peace, I wonder where that last surprise went?”

Mahanon frowns and looks around. “How ominous. There’s more?”

Just then, the door bursts open and the Divine walks in cursing and slams the door behind her as if afraid to be followed. “Maker have mercy, they’ve gotten worse since the peace talks and I can’t even hide because of this hat!”

“And there she is, her Holiness, Divine Victoria herself,” Varric says with a grin. “Should’ve known she’d have an even harder time than you with those nobles.”

“This poor woman. That frock somehow gets more shapeless every time I see it,” Dorian mutters, shaking his head in pity.

Cassandra looks over and brightens up, approaching them with an excited smile on her face. “My friends, congratulations on this joyous occasion!”

He exchanges baffled looks with Dorian and then hears Varric mutter, “Oh shit, right. I better go.”

Upon seeing their confusion, Cassandra’s expression immediately darkens. “Not again. Where is that dwarf? I’m going to kill him!”

Sera lets out a whoop and raises her tankard. “Here comes the party! I’ve got five gold on the Divine!”

Bull shakes his head and nods at the Chargers to shutter the windows. “C’mon, Sera. It’s hardly a fair bet unless you give Varric a three-day head start.”

Laughing along, Rainier throws some coin onto the counter. “Make it 10 and I bet she’ll get him before the next song’s over!”

Dorian scoffs and slides over his own stack of gold. “Please, look how out of shape he is. I’m putting 15 on the White Divine mauling the dwarf before this song’s over.”

Mahanon arches a brow. “Should we be stopping her?”

The mage chuckles. “On this joyous occasion? Let them be. Who in here’s going to tell? Well, there’s the bard, but I’m sure your spymaster will deal with her. This is probably the most fun our dear Cassandra’s had in years. Think of it as enrichment for her.”

As they watch the chaos unfold, Cole suddenly appears at his side and says quietly, “They’re all here for you. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. They won’t leave you alone.”

Quickly getting over his surprise, Mahanon bumps the boy’s shoulders lightly. “I know. And you were here when they weren’t. That meant a lot, Cole. Thank you.”

The boy smiles and bumps him back. “And now you’re smiling. That’s good! You’re welcome.”

Chapter Text

Sometimes he marvels at how much he changed over the years and the places his life has brought him. Gone are the days of mid-day brothel visits and sneaking out of strangers’ beds in the middle of the night. Instead, here he is, sneaking around the gardens of the Winter Palace with someone he can’t imagine life without, trying to get to the fanciest sleeping quarters without alerting all the soldiers present.

The last two years went by simultaneously in a flash but also excruciatingly slow, filled with both days of accomplishment and days of loneliness as he settled into his new life in Tevinter.

There were days he regretted choosing to return home. When every letter seemed to say too little and took too long to arrive, and the everyday cruelties of his homeland seemed especially entrenched. But here and now, it feels as if he just left Skyhold yesterday, as if everything was still simpler.

There’s a familiar flush that runs from Mahanon’s neck up to his ears from their evening of revelry. Still a little tipsy, they turn a corner in the gardens and the elf leans against him chuckles, “I didn’t know Divines were allowed to be in taverns.”

Having been unable to tear his eyes away from this man since they reunited—much to their friends’ amusement and exasperation—and still unable to, Dorian smiles and reaches over to rub the reddened tips of those ears. He resolutely doesn’t think about how he watched a former schoolmate of his idly wandering the docks as if window shopping. When the woman made up her mind on a young human, she smiled and clipped ornaments designed to give ears an elvhen look onto her new slave. The slave didn’t resist and they didn’t resist when she led them away on a leash. He emptied a bottle of brandy that night and couldn’t bear to write about it.

“Her staff certainly didn’t let her stay for very long,” he manages with a chuckle. “I didn’t think she’d be that agile in that dress but I suppose Varric brings out the best in her.”

“I’m surprised she didn’t pull out her sword,” the elf laughs and he wishes he could capture this moment and that sound to revisit on Tevinter’s many rainy days.

He arches a brow. “Is she still hiding it under her dress? I thought they forced her to stop after she bumped into a vase and shattered it.”

Mahanon shrugs. “It’s not that hard to hide weapons.”

Dorian gives the elf’s blue sash a light tug. “And how many are knives are you hiding in there?” He blinks and furrows his brows when he sees something else tucked away. “Is that a pastry? Mahanon, how hungry were you? How have you not been leaving a trail of crumbs everywhere?”

“It was Sera’s idea. I forgot I was saving for later.” Taking his hand and guiding them to his waist where the belt sits atop the sash, the Inquisitor says, “Two knives here, three up the jacket and in the sleeves. Not bad, right?”

Chuckling, he puts his other hand on the elf’s hip and shakes his head. “You never cease to amaze and bewilder though I suspect the council will object to all these concealed weapons. Please tell me you’re going to throw that pastry out.”

Wrinkling his nose, Mahanon tells him, “That’d be a waste. I’ll just eat it here.”

Maker save him, he loves this man.

“Have they been feeding you at Skyhold? Do I need to have a word with Ambassador Montilyet about your diet? You feel even bonier than before,” Dorian complains, pinching his waist.

Mahanon squirms away with a light squawk. “Lord Pavus, this is very inappropriate. Think of where we are.”

Stifling a laugh, he lets go. “Of course. Shame on me. Shall we continue in the privacy of your quarters?”

Without wasting any more time, they easily sneak into the wing assigned to the Inquisition. Then, after hopping across a few balconies, they wind up on the balcony of the Inquisitor’s quarters.

Pulling out a lock pick from one of his braids, Mahanon tells him, “All the guest wings here are basically the same. I’m pretty sure I took this exact route through the other wing when I was looking for the assassin at the peace talks.”

Dorian frowns. “That was horrendously easy. I suppose it’s my own fault for having expectations for Orlesian security.”

“This is the nicest place I’ve ever been in,” the Inquisitor tells him a little unhappily. “I wonder if I’m the first Dalish to be invited to stay overnight here since the March.”

There’s a click and the balcony door swings open. As they step inside the luxurious guest suite, the atmosphere changes as they’re finally truly alone for the first time in two years.

Silently, he watches Mahanon casually pull out knife after knife from his outfit and places them on the dresser. Despite having watched him all night, Dorian can feel his heart speed up with anticipation—with anxiety. Idly, he spins the ironbark ring on his finger, a habit he didn’t realize he picked up until Maevaris pointed it out to him months ago.

How many times had he fretted over the last two years over this moment? What if the connection is gone? What if it’s unbearably awkward? What if Mahanon’s changed? What if he has and not for the better? What if there’s someone else? At the very least, knowing Mahanon, the elf would be upfront about it.

There’s a hand on his, stopping his fidgeting. “Vhenan?”

And that’s all it takes to dispel his racing thoughts.

“Amatus,” he answers.

The elf huffs. “I hope you don’t call your cat that.”

Dorian lets out a surprised laugh. “Most of the time I call him ‘that beast’ though I’ve heard the staff calling him ‘your Worship’.”

Looking very pleased with himself, Mahanon gives him a smile. “Hey, Dorian?”

He feels himself break into an unbearably fond smile back. “Yes, Mahanon?”

“I missed you.”

Those three words somehow both sum up the entirety of his last two years and fail to grasp even a wisp of the depth of the longing he felt and the dread that haunted him during the last month of silence. Pulling the elf in for a kiss, he mutters, “And here I thought you were too busy to miss me considering the recent lack of letters.” Then upon second thought, he concedes, “But I suppose I’m just as guilty, aren’t I?”

Mahanon huffs. “And here I thought you’d replaced me with a cat.”

Reaching over and running a finger lightly over scar on his forehead, Dorian says fondly, “Amatus, you know very well there’s no replacing a menace like you.”

The elf cups his face and studies him closely for a moment. He doesn’t know what Mahanon sees—hopefully not wrinkles. “I suppose we should get the difficult things out of the way first,” Mahanon eventually says.

He leans into the touch and sighs. “If we must.”

Allowing himself to be led to the bed and sat down on the luxurious silk sheets, Dorian wraps his arms around the other’s man’s waist, smelling the lingering scent of spilled ale and Orlesian perfume on the fabric. Idly, he wonders why Mahanon hasn’t changed out of that horrible uniform yet.

Mahanon runs a soothing hand through his hair and Dorian can’t remember how many times he longed for this touch in the last two years. “So, Magister Pavus?”

He gives a slow nod. “It’s true. My father is…gone. Murdered. A perfectly respectable and typical death for a Magister, I suppose,” he says humourlessly. “I was told that shortly after his visit, he arranged this ambassadorship for me, probably to get me away from the mess. Mind you, I would’ve come anyway but this was easier. Sure, I had a feeling something was off but I didn’t truly understand it until I received a rather perverse letter on the road, jauntily congratulating me on my new seat in the Magisterium.”

Holding him close, Mahanon whispers, “Ma vhenan, I’m so sorry.”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Dorian continues, his voice strained, “He never said anything about keeping me as his heir. ‘Good, I’m glad.’ I still don’t know what he meant by that.”

Even after years apart, evidently his lover retained the ability to read his heart. “What if he meant just that?”

“Then I think that would break my heart even more.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head, trying to remember what expression his father had during that conversation. Was the quiet acceptance truly there or simply what he wanted to see? “We were back on speaking terms but it wasn’t like before. It couldn’t be. And now there’s no chance for anything more. That’s the thing with time, isn’t it? You always think you have more than you actually do.”

Why did they spend so much time speaking about trivial matters instead of the things that truly mattered? He could’ve asked his father so many things. Why the change of heart? Why choose love now? Why couldn’t it have been sooner? Was he still disappointed? Did he feel like he was settling? Did he regret having a son like him?

As loathe as he is to bare his heart like this, he thinks of the ironbark ring on his finger and admits quietly, “I don’t know how to get over this.”

Hands cup his face and he looks up at his lover’s face, all sympathy and warmth despite the vivid black tattoos that he once thought harsh and jagged. “You don’t get over it, ma vhenan. Not really. And it doesn’t get easier with practice. The sadness and the questions will linger, but you can find solace in those still around. Time will bring you distance like it does for all things.”

Savouring the feeling of fingers through his hair, Dorian inhales shakily. “There’s that Dalish wisdom I so missed. That’s it then? I just have to what? Deal with it then? But still, I suppose I can’t afford to sit around and wallow until I kill the people who killed him.”

There’s a slight smile in Mahanon’s voice. “I think you can wallow a little here with me. I’ll protect you.”

Dorian lets out a weak chuckle despite himself. “There’s my horrible, reckless, utterly ridiculous elf.” Taking a deep breath, he gathers himself and asks, “Before I get too deep into my self-pity, are you going to tell me why you’ve been hiding your hand all night or do I have to go back to the tavern and ask Sera? You know how much she likes to announce things when she’s drunk.”

The elf shifts and hesitates. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather tell me about your cat instead?”

That doesn’t bode well. He reaches back and pulls his lover’s hands down from his hair, making sure to keep his grip loose. “Mahanon, you know deflection’s only going to worry me more. And we both know Vivienne wouldn’t cancel a spa day for just any issue.”

Pursing his lips, Mahanon confesses, “There isn’t very much to say. The mark’s getting worse.”

It’s as he suspected but hearing it said out loud doesn’t bring him any sense of vindication. “How much worse? …can I see?”

A nod.

Mahanon takes a step back and wordlessly pulls off his gloves and uniform jacket. Already, Dorian can see how much brighter the anchor has gotten. Rolling up the sleeve of his tunic, the elf presents his arm. “It’s spreading slowly but sometimes it, I don’t know, flares up?”

Warily, he runs a hand over the mark, tracing the glow all the way down to the old scars down his lover’s wrist. He can feel the heat and intensity of the uncontained magic flowing through. “Does it hurt to touch?”

“No, only when it acts up. I’m fine for now.” Dorian gives him a pointed look and receives a helpless shrug in response. “I try not to think about it. Merrill gave me something for the pain but it’s not as effective as it used to be so Vivienne decided to lend a hand. I need to get through however long the council’s going to be.”

“And after the council? Will this Merrill continue tending to you?” Dorian asks.

“I was planning on getting through this and then going home. We have skilled healers and mages in our clan who could continue the work,” Mahanon explains. “…I haven’t told them yet.”

He raises his eyebrows and winces involuntarily at the thought of Clan Lavellan’s First finding out. “I’m not sure you’ll survive your cousin’s wrath long enough to receive healing. Just when your hair grew out again too.”

“Yes, I can’t imagine Ell taking this too well. Hopefully Josephine will be there to talk her and Nea down.” Unable to fidget with his hands being held, the Inquisitor chews anxiously on his lips instead. “Dorian, don’t think I—I wrote to you before I left Skyhold. I didn’t expect to see you here. Please don’t read it. Just throw it out when you get back.”

If he had elf ears they’d be flicking with curiosity. “You can’t expect me to listen after hearing you say something like that. Did you explain it that poorly in the letter?”

“Yes. Elgar’nan, I hope your cat chews it up,” Mahanon mutters, pulling his arms back to bury his face in his hands.

Amused, he reassures the other man, “Sadly, there’s a very reasonable chance of that happening. It’s hard to tell with the Lord Inquisitor’s temperament.” Exhaling, he wraps his arms around the elf’s waist and plops down onto the bed, dragging his lover with him, knocking the wind out of the both of them. “Amatus, I don’t know whether I’m relieved or not that you haven’t changed at all these last two years. And the Well in your head? No impending crisis there?”

Propping himself up and brushing the hair out of his face, Mahanon shakes his head. “Not that I’m aware.”

“That’s only mildly reassuring.” Dorian glances down at the marked hand. “You know, I still have the notes I exchanged with Ellana and what little she managed to pry from Solas. Between all the mages you surround yourself with, I’m sure we can unravel at least some of it.”

He wishes they thought to do that back when everyone was still at Skyhold.

Mahanon looks like he’s about to decline but then seems to think better of inciting the ire of some of the most powerful mages across Thedas. “Would you…stay with me? After this. Just for a little while.”

Pulling the elf down for a kiss, Dorian nods. “Of course. For as long as you’d like.”

“I’d like you to stay forever but don’t you have important Magister things to do now? Like dismantling Tevinter from the inside out?” the Inquisitor points out. “And a cat.”

He scoffs. “Please, that cat can take better care of himself than most people I know, yourself included. Mahanon, you are my dearest friend and the man I love. Who would I make time for if not you?”

Shoulders relaxing, Mahanon smiles and leans down for another kiss. “Thank you. To think, after so many years, a Magister finally got me.”

Dorian lets out a surprised laugh. For the first time since receiving that letter, he doesn’t equate the title with loss and new burdens. “Oh yes, now that I’m a full-fledged Magister, I’m contractually obligated to scheme, the more nefarious the better. I believe I’ll get full points for masterfully seducing the infamous Inquisitor and lesser known masked menace.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a thin chain and pendant. “Here, I got you something.”

Tilting his head curiously, the elf rolls off him and sits up to examine the necklace. “It’s beautiful. I assume it’s magical?”

“You assume correctly,” he says, pleased. “It’s a sending crystal. I can’t teleport to you but I can do this for now. A pair allows two people to communicate with each other no matter the distance. You just activate it with a word and voilà! Wondrous little thing, isn’t it? I also had the chain enchanted. It should be more durable than your typical chain link given your propensity for trouble.”

Mahanon looks at him, eyes bright with excitement. “Dorian, this is amazing! I didn’t know something like this existed. Does it really work? Can we try it?”

“Of course.” Activating the crystals, he watches his lover hurry out to the balcony, feeling a familiar fondness tugging at his heart. His mind races for the best thing to say at this moment.

You’re right there but I miss you already.

You continue to be the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I love you more than I ever thought I could love another person.

The thought of anything happening to you makes me want to resume my study of time magic, consequences and Redcliffe be damned.

Holding the crystal up, Dorian says quietly, “You look absolutely ravishing under the moonlight, my murderous little nug.”

He sees the elf pause and turn around to give him a fond exasperated look. Then he hears from the crystal, “Magister Dorian Pavus, you are the worst.”

Laughing, he responds, “It comes with the title. Now, come back inside and you can tell me how terrible I am in the comfort of this wyvern-down bed.”

--

He wakes to a knock on his door and Merrill stepping inside with a basket holding a new batch of potions. “Mahanon, good morning! Creators, what a lovely room! I hope you managed to sleep through the night. You have a big day ahead of you—”

Instinctively, Mahanon pulls the blanket up to his neck to hide his body from view while Dorian sits up and regards her blearily. The mage rubs the sleep from his eyes and says, “Hello, you must be Merrill.”

Recovering from the surprise at an admirable rate, Merrill smiles and nods. “And you must be Dorian! We didn’t get a chance to speak yesterday, but I’ve heard so much about you—all good things, I promise. Well, neutral to good, but nothing bad! I like your moustache, by the way, do you do it on purpose? Hawke always told me his scruff was on purpose.” Setting down the basket on a nearby table, she says, “Don’t mind me, I’ll just leave your draughts here. This batch turned out much stronger so they should last longer. Lady Vivienne helped me a lot yesterday! She’s very knowledgeable, isn’t she? She even added honey for you!”

Dorian gives him an amused look and Mahanon buries himself a little deeper in the blanket and mutters, “That was very thoughtful of her. Thank you, Merrill.”

“You’re very welcome.” Merrill gives a start of realization and quickly tries to reassure him, “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Don’t worry, I’ve seen far worse! There was that time I walked in on Hawke and Fenris and all those times with Isabella and the last clans meet was especially rowdy…that doesn’t help, does it? I’ll just go now. I’ll be breakfasting with Varric if you need me.”

“Quite the character, that one. I didn’t know the Dalish raised them so chipper,” Dorian says lightly. “Skyhold must’ve been all sunshine and rainbows with her around.”

Mahanon huffs and reaches over to pinch the man’s waist. “I think you made her nervous. She doesn’t normally talk this much.”

The mage swats his hand away. “Me? Surely it was a team effort. Give yourself some credit.”

Reluctantly crawling out of bed, he freshens up and puts his uniform back on. While he’s fighting with the buttons, he asks, “How are you feeling?”

The two of them had stayed up until the early morning catching each other up among other things. They discussed Dorian’s father, the Lucerni, the discoveries from the Deep Roads, and the growing number of missing elves, each topic feeling more concerning than the last.

Dorian arches a brow and looks over incredulously, his face half shaven. “You’re asking me how I’m feeling? Amatus, need I remind you that you’re the one who’ll have to put up with both Orlesians and Fereldans hurling backhanded compliments and insults at you today?”

Mahanon shrugs, unmoved at the idea. “Isn’t that just business as usual? If it’s anything like yesterday then I’ll be fine. Annoyed but fine.”

The mage sighs loudly. “Just because you’re used to it, that doesn’t make it any more pleasant. Come over here, let me tie your hair up so they can see you glaring at them properly. Also, you’ve done the sash wrong.”

Throwing his hands up in defeat, he walks over and spreads his arms to let the other man fix his outfit. “Creators, I hope Josephine lets me burn this uniform after we’re done here.”

--

They go their separate ways after breakfast when Josephine comes to collect him. “I hope you enjoyed yourself yesterday,” she tells him with a smile.

“I didn’t expect them all to be here,” he replies. “It was good to see them again.”

“You’ve made many friends and allies in the last few years. It will be good to remember that going into the Exalted Council,” Josephine says. “I suspect we will spend most of today listening to them debate the merits of keeping the Inquisition around. Try not to fall asleep, and on the off chance you’re asked to speak, do not be afraid to stand your ground.”

Mahanon grimaces at the thought of listening to Duke Cyril and Arl Teagan the entire day. “I suppose the ‘no antagonizing’ rule still stands?”

The Ambassador nods. “Think of it this way, we’ll all be in the same room for a week. It’s best not to draw their ire so early on.”

He stifles a sigh. “Understood.”

As they’re passing through the Inquisition side of the courtyard, Mahanon does a double take as a familiar shape catches his eye. Backtracking to one of the makeshift offices, he peers inside the door and sees a halla statuette on one of the desks.

Stepping inside, he picks it up and frowns, something about it nagging at him in the back of his mind. Although he can’t be certain he collected all of them during the peace talks, he doesn’t understand why one would be here. Taking the statuette, he goes to the back where their gear is kept. “Charter?”

The scout peers out from around a corner. “Yes, Inquisitor?”

“Any idea where this came from? They use these to open some doors around here but I found it in that building there,” he says, gesturing to the office.

Charter frowns, taking the statuette and studying it. “No, no one reported anything to me. Sister Nightingale and I will look into it.”

Behind him, Josephine exhales anxiously and mutters to the sky, “Maker, not now. Just one week. Please, just one more week without trouble.”

He smiles ruefully and tries to reassure her, “Maybe it’s nothing. I found them all over the place last time.” When neither women look convinced, he says instead, “Come on, we should get going. I don’t suppose ‘fashionably late’ applies to the council.”

Chapter Text

It may have been optimistic of him, perhaps even naïve, to think that they’d get through the week without a single world-shattering incident. Looking down at the dead qunari on the ground and the blood trail leading towards the palace, Mahanon can already feel a headache gnawing at his temples and anxiety coiling in his stomach.

Although he excused himself from the council as respectfully as he could, the exit was still abrupt and he can only imagine how unhappy the representatives must be and how much damage control has been hoisted onto Josephine’s plate.

Following the blood spatter, he finds himself standing in front of a barred doorway with a familiar empty slot next to it. Anxiety growing further still, he quietly asks one of the Inquisition soldiers to fetch Charter and the halla statuette he found this morning. Within minutes, the scout is by his side, looking equally disconcerted. “Here you are, Inquisitor. Apologies, we still don’t know where it came from.”

“Well, it seems someone may have intended for us to come this way, so maybe we’ll get more clues in here,” Mahanon mutters, placing the statuette on the shelf.

They watch the door slide open, revealing more drying pools of blood and a soft blue glow from the back of the storeroom. The voices from the Vir’abelasan immediately begin whispering excitedly to him to approach.

Wincing, Mahanon complies and finds himself standing in front of an activated eluvian and the end of the blood trail. “Fenedhis, why now of all times?” Turning to Charter, he says, “Get the others and my gear but be discreet. This is bad.”

While he paces the small room to stop himself from rushing ahead, one by one, the rest of the Inquisition gather in front of the eluvian. Although it takes a while, eventually, both Josephine and Cassandra also manage to join them. With a nod from Bull, the Chargers take their post at the doorway until they’re relieved by Cullen’s soldiers.

At the sight of the mirror, Merrill clutching Varric’s arm so hard, her knuckles go white. “Varric,” she whispers in disbelief, “it’s an eluvian! A real working eluvian!”

“And that’s a lot of blood,” the dwarf replies. “Freckles, what’s going on?”

Running a hand through his hair, Mahanon stifles a sigh. “Nothing good. A dead qunari was found and they left a trail of blood leading to the eluvian. Bull, did you have a chance to look at the body?”

“Yeah, Antaam,” the Iron Bull says grimly. “One of our warriors. I wasn’t aware of any operations involving Orlais. Shit, guess I really don’t know anything happening in the Qun anymore.”

“That doesn’t seem like such a bad thing given everything happening right now,” Mahanon tries. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, Bull. Sera, did you get anything from the servants since we got here?”

Sera makes an unhappy face at the question. “No! Weird shite’s weird. Last time we were here, all the servants were unhappy about one thing or another but now? Not a single bad word! Not even a fuck! Super shifty, yeah? Either someone’s threatening them all real good or they’re up to something.”

“Things just keep getting better. Alright—” Turning to the team, he pauses, realizing he has to take their new stations into account. Once again, he’s reminded that no matter how unwilling at first, this Inquisition is certainly not the one he got dragged into and settled into all those years ago. Rubbing his arm, he addresses to his advisors first. “Cullen, make sure no one can get in or out of this room. Keep extra guards in here out of sight, just in case. We don’t know where this eluvian leads or how many more people are behind it.

“Leliana, Charter, continue looking into this. The statuette, the dead qunari, they were placed to get our attention but not the council’s. If the servants are acting strange, we should find out why. Josephine, I’m sorry, we need to keep the council and the nobles calm. Tell them what you need to but the fewer people who know about this eluvian the better. Bull, Rainier, and Cole, you’re with me.”

There’s immediately an explosion of protests.

Mahanon holds his hands up to calm them. “Sera, I need you to help the scouts. You know this place better than most and if any servant’s willing to talk, they’re more likely to talk to you.”

Sera throws her hands in the air in defeat. “Fine!”

“Merrill, take this chance to study the eluvian. Try not to touch it? I don’t want to get trapped inside. Varric, keep an eye on her. If there are more qunari running around it could be dangerous.”

Merrill nods enthusiastically. “Of course! Oh, I should get some parchment to take notes!”

He glances at the rest of the group. “Cassandra, Vivienne, Dorian, please help Josephine with the nobles.”

“But of course, my dear,” Vivienne says graciously while Josephine shoots him a grateful look and the other two continue to protest.

“Cassandra, you’re the Divine now,” Mahanon says. “As much as I’d like to have you kicking down walls, if anything happened to you…”

The woman frowns. “But—”

Leliana nods. “The Inquisitor is right. Divine Victoria, think about what we went through to get this far and all you’ve worked for. You can’t charge into danger like you used to.”

Varric adds, “Besides, imagine if anything happens to yet another Divine while Freckles is around. They might start reconsidering that Herald of Andraste title into something more” he makes a cutting gesture at his throat.

Shoulders sagging, Cassandra nods reluctantly. “Very well. I understand and you are right, no matter how displeased I am about it. However, should you need it, I did bring my gear.”

A smile tugs at his lips despite himself. “Thank you. It may come to that yet.”

Before he can say anything else, Dorian frowns and shakes his head. “No.” They all turn to the mage, who continues, “You are not going through that eluvian without someone who knows magic. Me, more specifically.”

“Won’t it be a problem if the Tevinter ambassador goes missing?” Mahanon asks carefully.

Dorian arches a brow and answers easily, “Not at all. Please, they’ll probably assume I’ve gone back to my room to gloat or nap or engage in unimaginable debauchery, if they even notice.”

“In this case, Magister Pavus is not incorrect,” Vivienne says lightly, although the way she glances at the other mage suggests her support does not come freely. “It would be prudent to bring a mage along, my dear.”

Mahanon nods to his lover with a slight smile. “Well, I won’t say no to the company of a mighty Magister.”

Returning the smile, Dorian says, “I’m sure you’ll find my company most enjoyable. I’ve yet to receive a complaint. Although there was this one time with this one horrible elf…”

Sera interrupts them with a loud groan. “You two are so gross! Stop with the flirting already! There’s a mystery and murder and all that, yeah?”

He chuckles a little. “Well, you heard her. Come on then, let’s not keep whoever’s on the other side waiting. I suppose it wouldn’t be a proper reunion without a mystery and murder and all that.”

--

The other side of the eluvian is as beautiful as he remembers. Behind him, he hears Merrill gasp. “Lethallin, this is amazing! Does it look like this everywhere? How is everything in bloom?”

The rest of their companions turn to her, baffled. “Daisy, you seeing something I’m not?”

Dorian leans over and squints as if trying to see from his perspective. “Amatus, is that how you see it? Don’t tell me it’s an elf thing. Everything looks positively dreadful to me.”

Mahanon arches a brow and looks at the beautiful spring scenery before him. “Really? I see blue skies and trees covered in deep red leaves and flowers in bloom.”

“How lovely, if only we could see it. Perhaps one of you should paint it,” the mage says dryly. Then, perking up, he says, “However, we can ponder the magical implications of that later. Look there, if you can see through the foliage, our qunari friends seem to have made themselves quite at home here.”

Craning his neck, Mahanon frowns as he watches new paths form out of nowhere, suspended haphazardly in the air, while others disappear without warning. Nodding to his team, he mutters, “Varric, Merrill, stay alert and stay near this eluvian in case anything goes wrong. We’ll be back.”

--

He likes to think that he has a decent sense of direction outside of cities, but the eluvians leave him completely disoriented. He doesn’t know where the mirrors take them, but they continue entering them, finding battlements and ruins and strange places that may or may not exist on any map. There are more dead qunari, even move live ones in the distance, demons, and suddenly, they’re being stared down by Elvhen spirits.

Rainier scans the area nervously and readies his hand on his sword. “What now? They don’t seem to be attacking just yet.”

Dorian frowns and mutters, “I’ve seen how hard they hit with those mauls. If possible, it would be best not to anger them.”

The spirit in front speaks in a surprisingly subdued voice in Elven that Mahanon cannot understand. The cadence reminds him of the way Abelas and his men spoke, but the words sound different. While he understood nothing at the Vir’abelasan, he can pick out certain words here—but not enough to facilitate any sort of useful communication.

Despite most of the words escaping him, the Vir’abelasan whispers its purpose to him and the answer. The response come out of him without his consent. “Ar-melana dirthavaren. Revas vir-anaris.”

The spirit dips its head and greets him as a comrade, lowering the maul, much to their relief. Rainier warily keeps his hand by his sword, still watching the other spirits, who have now turned away to return to their posts. “So what was that all about? What did you say to them?”

Mahanon purses his lips. “It was a code to prove we weren’t spies or enemies.”

Eyebrow arching sharply, Dorian asks, “Unless you failed to write to me about something rather substantial, I am assuming the Well told you the passphrase, which begs the question, why does it know?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “The Vir’abelasan is made up of countless servants of Mythal, so I guess at least some were allies to these elves, whoever they are? So maybe this was back in the day of Arlathan like the temple was? But they don’t speak like the Ancients at the Vir’abelasan. I could understand some of what they were saying.”

“It could be a matter of dialect and location rather than chronology,” Dorian suggests, rubbing his chin in thought. “I’m sure Ellana will wring every detail from you to form a working hypothesis when she finds out.”

The mention of his cousin, Mahanon can’t help but smile a little. “Yes, I’m sure she’ll accidentally burn something down in excitement when I tell her about this.”

The mage glances around at the spirits. “There is one more notable difference between these elves and the ones at the Well. Quite frankly, I’m not even sure if these are spirits.”

Cole cocks his head to the side. “They’re like me but not, but I can’t hear as clearly as I used to now that I’m more Cole. They are very quiet but they are safe. They make this place safe.”

Iron Bull makes a face. “Great. More of this shit. Why are the Antaam here? They hate this kind of thing. To be clear, they’re not demons, right?”

“It’s a wonder how the qunari managed to muscle their way this far into the continent while startling at everything even remotely magical,” Dorian mutters.

“Not afraid. Appropriately cautious,” Bull retorts. “So? Demon or not?”

Rainier sighs loudly. “Maker, don’t tell me this is about that big stick again.”

While they bicker, Mahanon quietly tries to speak to the elves again but receives nothing further from them or the Vir’abelasan. Disappointed, he continues forward with Cole until they come across a mosaic. “These look a little like the ones from Mythal’s temple. I wonder if I was right about the timeline after all.”

As he raises a hand to examine the art, the Anchor flares. Mahanon reels back as images of elves, bruised and battered, flee from unseen oppressors. He watches them find their way here, some in groups, others alone, all equally desperate for refuge. He watches them be welcomed by others and kept safe by the vigilant guards. They tend each other’s wounds, the relief on their faces evident.

Seeing their Vallaslin, he half expects them to be Dalish, but the images feel far older. Trying to think of another era of oppression, he wonders if this is from the fall of Arlathan, but then there’s a sense of welcome, and the mosaic’s message is revealed to him, not through words but all his senses.

Fen’Harel bids you welcome.

Suddenly, he feels a barrier wrap around him, and when he looks up again, he sees the others gathered around him with worried frowns on their faces, earlier debate forgotten. “Mahanon, what happened just now? You were just standing there like you’d seen a ghost,” Dorian asks, checking him over for injuries.

Brows furrowing, Mahanon thinks back to the message and shakes his head. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Amatus, how about you try making sense first?” the mage returns lightly.

Cole studies him for a moment. “You saw them. Cowering, cringing, blinking in the light. Then cool hands, kind voices. Sleep now. You’re safe.”

“Did you see them too?” he asks.

“No,” the boy shakes his head, “but I could hear them through you.”

Mahanon scrubs his face and exhales, trying to piece what little he’s been given together. “I saw flashes of…something when I touched the mosaic. It felt like veilfire, almost, but I saw them for a moment. And there was a message. It said this was a refuge for slaves. Elvhen slaves.”

He doesn’t realize he’s rubbing his wrist until Dorian gently takes his hand. “From the Imperium?”

“No. Older. Far older,” Mahanon tells him. “It said this whole valley was created as a sanctuary by Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf. This means this happened during the time of Arlathan when the Creators still walked among them, long before its fall. But in our stories, Fen’Harel is a trickster, the great deceiver. He’s the one who tricked our gods and sealed them in the Beyond. I don’t understand why he would be the one to do this. Where did these slaves come from? Did the Ancients enslave their own?”

Dorian frowns and suggests carefully, “If this Dread Wolf is a known trickster, is it possible that what you’re being told is a lie?”

“I don’t know,” he says helplessly. “The Vir’abelasan’s gone quiet again, but I could see them. They found shelter and safety here. Is it possible for magic to create memories that feel so real?”

The human shrugs back just as helplessly. “It’s hard to say with ancient Elvhen magic. As far as we know, just about anything is possible, including tearing the sky apart and storing a well full of souls.”

Bull reaches over and gives him a firm clap on the shoulder. “C’mon, Boss, I don’t think you’ll get any more answers standing here. Maybe we’ll find out more around this place. If not, you can always write to Cousin Inquisitor about it. Beats standing here with those see-through guys over there.”

Creators, he wishes Ellana was here.

Mind still whirring with information, he nods and follows the others down the stairs only to be faced with more mosaics, each tearing apart the foundations of the truths he grew up with—that none of the gods he whispered prayers to were ever gods at all.

They were tyrants, slavers, liars, and exceptional mages. But behind the façade of godhood, they were nothing more than mere mortals who could bleed and die like any other, the mosaic proclaimed.

Mahanon doesn’t tell the others about the most recent vision, unable to find his voice through the dread, choosing to press forward into the next room instead.

The sudden pain from the Anchor reacting to one of the artifacts is almost a welcomed distraction. He can feel the magic claw its way up his arm and back down, and the resulting burst of power robs him of his balance and vision for a few moments before the eerie green glow colours his world again.

Panting, he empties one of Merrill’s potions and waits for the pain and nausea to subside.

“Maker’s ass. That’s definitely not good. We need to get you back to a healer,” Rainier says, pulling him up and trying to guide him back to the doorway.

“The hairy lummox is right,” Dorian adds. “Your hand distinctly should not be glowing like a torch like that.”

Mahanon shakes his head and pulls away, wanting nothing more than to get away from the mosaics and bombardment of revelations. The last thing he wants is to confront those visions again. “I’m fine. We keep moving. We still need to figure out what’s going on,” he says, ignoring the building pressure in his hand and the concerned stares of his companions.

Without looking back, he trudges forward.

--

This elf is going to be the death of himself.

And him.

Dorian is intimately familiar with that look of desperation on his lover’s face. It’s the need for distraction, the urge to shut everything down and not think. Although his preferred method typically involves alcohol rather than battle and throwing himself headfirst into unravelling nefarious plots, he supposes getting drunk wouldn’t be entirely appropriate in the current situation.

After fending off more spirits and qunari, they come across a fourth mosaic of a wolf-headed figure hovering above an elf and Mahanon goes pale, looking even worse than at the previous mosaic. They saw a similar depiction in the last building but the full meaning behind it escaped them then and Mahanon didn’t dare to speculate. Now, Dorian watches the elf reach up with an unsteady hand to touch his face. “Amatus?”

When Mahanon doesn’t respond, he looks to Cole, who frowns and shakes his head. “It’s all too bright and the hurt tangled. If I pull, I think that will make it worse. Cole, please don’t. Not now. Not this. But this hurts more than the mark.”

Stepping in front of the Inquisitor, Dorian throws a barrier around then and leans down to catch the elf’s eye. What he finds is eyes full of horror, confusion, and shame. Dread immediately washes over him and he wishes they’d tried harder to drag their valiant leader back to safety when his hand first started glowing. “Mahanon?” he asks softly.

Mahanon doesn’t meet his gaze. “I…can we move on? Let’s keep moving,” the elf pleads.

Dorian silently exchanges glances with the Iron Bull who nods and cracks his knuckles. “On it, Boss. I’ll take point. I think I heard some Antaam in need of ass-kicking nearby.”

There are, in fact, more qunari whose asses get thoroughly kicked. And luckily for them, one of the shock troopers was still carrying their orders and a crudely drawn map.

Using the map, they find a shorter path back to the crossroads with the floating pathways, mercifully allowing them to bypass all the Elvhen art and spirits. Returning to the original eluvian, they rejoin Varric and Merrill, who immediately notice the change in Mahanon’s demeanour. “Well, shit, what happened in there, Freckles?”

Mahanon shakes his head, avoiding eye contact with them. “We found all kinds of things, including qunari infiltration orders. I don’t understand why they want Halamshiral of all places. There must be more to this, but first, I need to let Leliana know—”

“How about you go find a healer for your hand, Boss,” Bull suggests calmly. “I’ll go report to Red and see what we can come up with.”

Tucking her notes away, Merrill steps forward with a concerned frown. “Oh no, did something happen to your hand? It does look an awful lot brighter. Does it hurt more than before? Here, let me take a look at it.”

“No!” Mahanon snaps, yanking his hand away. Then, letting out a gasp in realization, he stammers a string of Elven before glancing around and correcting himself and switching back to Common. “My apologies. I’ll find you later, Merrill. Bull, please give that report. I’m sorry, I just...I need a moment to clear my head.”

They watch in stunned silence as the Inquisitor disappears without another word through the eluvian back to the Winter Palace.

After a moment, Varric turns back to them and arches a brow, not unlike a disappointed parent. “Alright, will one of you tell me what the hell happened out there?”

Eyes still on the mirror, Dorian says distractedly, “Right. Yes, I’ll leave it to you lot. Please excuse me.”

Without waiting for confirmation, he follows after Mahanon through the eluvian.