Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was an easy job. A starting point for a series of events that were destined to happen.

At least that’s what Sa’lyn kept telling herself.

She straightened her bowtie in the mirror of the bathroom, eyes darting to her face void of vallaslin. It was bizarre to not see the tattoos, but so was seeing brown eyes where she didn’t have them, and dyed brown hair where she knew it would fade.

Yet it was only for the evening.

There was a moment where she breathed in and closed her eyes, letting any parts of her nervousness flow out. She brushed a stray lock of hair that had floated out of her excruciatingly styled - yet messy - head of hair.

Tonight was a political dinner that had been in the works for months, thanks to Orlais’ finest in Parliament in the city of Val Royeaux. They were discussing something or another about some law that needed petitioning - she didn’t care. There was one target she had in mind, and she was to play the part well enough to get her way.

She picked out the earbud from her apron pocket and slipped it into her ear, inspecting it closely to see that it wasn’t noticeable. Perhaps it would be mistaken for a wireless headset to the kitchen - that would be the intention.

“Testing - do you copy?” She picked a piece of lint off of her white shirt. “I don’t have all evening you know.”

“Always the charmer, Dirthamen.”

Sa’lyn had a wry grin. “Of course. Service with a smile.”

“Aha - there we go,” Zevran laughed through the static. “All ready?”

“Just freshening up.”

“Armed?”

The weight of her gun was pressed against her ankle, residing in its’ holster.

“Always.”

He hummed over the earpiece. “Party starts in five minutes.”

Someone stepped into the women’s bathroom, and Sa’lyn made her way to the exit in turn. There was no passing glance from the woman dolled up in diamonds and pearls - and it was intentional. She was supposed to blend in, appearing to be a mere servant at such a prestigious event.

The doors to the kitchen were a stone’s throw away from the bathrooms themselves, but they were shielded away from the main dining hall. While politicians were whittling at each other's appeals, the hornet’s nest of a kitchen would be at its peak. Even now she could hear the hiss of oil on pots and pans, the heat rolling out in waves.

She would be attending to the drinks. That was her job - not asking someone if they wanted more wine. They would always want more, and that much was obvious.

She dipped into the kitchen to join the lineup of other servers, standing next to a lanky boy barely out of his teens and a dwarf with enough beard to choke a man. The head server stalked the line with the hostess of the event, and she stood with her head high and shoulders back. Like the rest.

“No talking. No laughing. No gossiping, comments - keep them to yourself,” the hostess’ thick Orlesian accent boomed. “These people are not here for you.”

Of course they weren’t. Sa’lyn held her tongue, keeping her eyes dead ahead of her. They were only here for themselves.

“Do I make myself clear?”

“Oui, m'dame!” The line sounded like a military squadron.

“Dismissed.”

They scattered, and Sa’lyn took off with the rest of the servers with their wine carts. It had to be served before everyone sat down; any later and the head server would blow a gasket.

She took to her section with care, laying the server act on thick. It didn’t matter how she acted until the first guest entered the room, but she needed to be in character. When the deed was done - damn the rest.

Place cards had been set out carefully, detailing where every last person would sit for the duration of the dinner. She was assigned to five tables out of the dozens, all of which had been done according to plan. She tipped the bottle of wine carefully to each glass, filling it two thirds of the way. As instructed.

There was a moment where she glanced over the namecards.

Lord Galoys Moitessier - sat next to his wife, Lady Auicia Moitessier.

It took some semblance of control to move on to the next glass, emptying the bottle and moving to uncork another of the make.

Galoys was the target. His wife was collateral - she wasn’t involved into politics moreso that she was just a homemaker.

He deserved his inevitable death. Sa’lyn held the bottle rigidly.

He was the most staunch supporter of cutting back on Elvhen rights - stating that those people are in no way equal to humans. Enforcing a new wage gap not so subtly. Cutting back on beneficial programs as well as going so far as to downright repealing them.

Had she the leniency, Sa’lyn would have just put a bullet through his thick skull and called it a night. But this required tact; he was the only target that night, but not the last on the list.

He was the warning sign.

Static buzzed in her ear, drawing her from topping off the glasses. “Target sighted.”

Everything was going according to plan so far. She just needed to keep it on track.

Sa’lyn stepped away from her section briefly, wheeling away her empty bottles and stuffing her half-filled one into the ice bucket. There was a soft chatter in the distance as people gathered just outside of the room, greeting one another in the way Orlesians were notorious for - falsely, and with regards to the Grand Game.

She dismissed the flare of annoyance that rose to the thought of it. Murder was traditional in the spirit of the Game. The likelihood of someone taking credit for her own kill was apparent, but not too high given her target.

She went through the kitchen doors into the alleyway behind the building and dumped the glasses straight into the trash, scooting back out to her cart.

People steadily streamed into the room, trickling at a pace where it seemed as if it would be hours before the event realistically concluded.

Creators knew these people loved to hear themselves talk about nothing more than that - themselves.

All of the bright lights dimmed to set the scene. A formal political dinner - nothing more than that.

The would expect nothing less, but she had her own plans.

She watched the faces filter into the room. She recognized most of them, although it was apparent that several of the attendants brought a plus one or two.

Then she caught sight of the weathered face of Galoys. There was not a spec of fear on his face - he had no idea what was expected of him that evening. He was simply enjoying the attentions of his wife who was latched onto his arm like a magnet.

As more people came into the dining room, the noise followed. She watched the Moitessiers make their way around political allies and friends alike, laughing and gawking at one another’s outfits.

She kept her chin held high, and her eyes forward. She could feel her gun heavy against her leg, and it was tempting to utilize it.

Not now. A last resort.

Her hand slipped into her slacks’ pocket, feeling for the small metal case.

A slow acting poison - Zevran had helped her decide on the specifics. They needed one that wouldn’t immediately cause him to seize up, but would work fast enough to where he would die before the dinner ended.

She let a pleasant smile slip, not that anyone noticed. She wouldn’t be here to enjoy the full show, but long enough to know that she was his downfall.

An elf. But not just anyone with a grudge against him.

They sat at their places like actors in a play. The glasses she had so meticulously filled clinked against one another while the gossiping resumed.

She took to her cart once more, lifting the bottle of wine to resume serving.

Not that anyone noticed. She was just a convenient shadow, filling glasses while the merry making was made.

Most of their gossip was either trivial or the subject of current news. The political speak wouldn’t start at least until two glasses down - or the first speaker got up to kick off the evening.

Not as if there was anything of major significance in the Parliament's legislature right now. No pressing bills caught her eye; none concerned her directly - she wasn’t even a legal citizen of Orlais, not that they knew any better.

Forged permits were always the best way around bureaucracy, and they were far more effective than the real deal.

A sharp dinging caught the attention of her and everyone else around her, their heads lifting to look up towards the most lit part of the room.

It was a small stage with a podium that had many of the spotlights shining on it. The hostess had taken the stage, all aggression from the kitchen pep-talk earlier discarded for the facade of being a very, very pleasant woman.

It was a lie, of course.

“Good evening my Lords and Ladies - I am honored to welcome you tonight to this year’s dinner supporting the Academie des Chevaliers.”

She lifted her glass, and the attendants copied her.

Static cut into her ear. Zevran was on the line again, speaking carefully over the hostess. “Optimal window is within the next fifteen, projected time for the event is still on schedule.”

Perfect.

A sharp glance to the wine bottle noted she was low. Poisoning the contents of this one would allow for her to refill the glass and open another one with no one the wiser.

She went to the ice bucket, pulling out yet another and settling it in to chill. Her hand slipped into her pocket and took out the metal tin. Her nail ran under the edge, flipping it open and grabbing one of the capsules.

It wouldn’t kill her if she touched it - worst case scenario she had the antidote if she accidently consumed it.

Within seconds she had punched her nail into the thin plastic, bleeding the liquid of the capsule into the bottle. A few drops would do the job, but the truth was that he deserved the shame of a violent and ugly death.

She put the remnants of the capsule back in her pocket, wiping off her thumb on her apron. The next bottle had been opened and set into the ice.

There was no discoloration to the wine as she swirled it in the bottle. It was as expected, and she moved back to the table with the card in tote. The hostess had since ceased droning on, and the first speaker had come up. Her eyebrows shot up in surprise to see Grand Duke Gaspard, but she shut it down. It made sense - he was a Chevalier after all.

“It fills me with unbridled joy to the support you all have continued to show the Academy--”

She approached Galoys’ table, bottle in hand. Each step felt like a tick to a clock with a method to it.

“--Allowing us to continue to train the finest military Orlais has to offer--”

His wine glass was left near his empty plate, and she tipped the bottle to empty it fully into this glass. There was enough to fill it slightly above the standard.

“--Your patronage will surely not be forgotten.”

Sa’lyn let a smile slip. Not forgotten - of course not.

She switched out the empty bottle and filled the rest of her section’s glasses, taking great care and caution to appear as small as possible.

There was a round of applause as the Grand Duke made another comment about their charity, but she had since tuned it out. His words were like a mumbled thunder in the dining room, and Sa’lyn merely kept her eyes tracked to Galoys’ glass to make sure he drank.

It was like clockwork with how Gaspard lifted his own drink, prompting the crowds to do the same.

Time was still as Galoys picked up his glass. Sa’lyn hardly dared to breathe.

He tipped it back. Two swallows by the looks of it.

Her job was done. He’d be dead before the dessert wine came out.

She set the wine bottle on her cart and moved it to the corner of her area. She had no reason to stay. The poisoned bottle was on the bottom, and she picked it up with the illusion of discarding it.

The walk to the kitchen was casual - her face cool and unreadable. For all intents and purposes, she was doing her job.

The cooks were finishing plating the first course of the evening while the dinner servers readied the several carts for the hall. She caught the eye of another wine server who was rushing back to the dining room with more bottles than he could carry.

She slipped out of the doors towards the alley, letting a sigh rush through her lungs.

“Target in neutrality. Heading out.”

“See you soon.” She smiled at the truthfully pleasant voice.

There was no point in keeping it casual any longer. She took off around the corner of the alleyway, walking away from what would be a crime scene soon enough. There would be no sign or trace of the woman that was posted for the section - because she never existed in the first place.

She held the neck of the bottle loosely, throwing it into one of the dumpsters a few streets down in her steady walk.

A jet black two door slowed down next to her on the street, and she glanced at the black tinted windows. She stopped, and so did the car.

There was the click of the doors, and she opened to slide in.

Zevran wasn’t driving - of course, he would send Eyehna to pick her up. Her own trainee that he treated a bit like a secretary.

She had a soft face that made her trusting - a natural trait that she liked.

“Was tonight successful, Dirthamen?”

“We’ll see,” Sa’lyn murmured. “I’ll have my target - one way or another.”

Because Sa’lyn Istmaethoriel was a very, very good assassin who hated the ones that got away.

-

Cullen Rutherford loved his girlfriend very much - she was smart and quirky, and he’d be lying if he said she wasn’t attractive.

He loved her enough to where he would tolerate being taken all across the ends of Thedas for her mother’s charity balls and political dinners. Her mother would pay for the trip for both of them, so it wasn’t as if he was forced to go out of the way.

He was sat at a round table with Solona, her mother, father, and several Orlesian politicians he had only vaguely heard about on the news, talking about something other than politics - themselves and the lives of the rich and famous.

“--And then, Dervon fell straight off of the dock into the ocean.” The woman across from him chortled, and there was a soft titter of laughter from the others around him. “He was fine, but refused to step onto the yacht the whole week.”

“I can imagine!” Solona giggled from beside him, reaching for her refilled wine glass once more.

Cullen hadn’t indulged as prominently as she had - she was easily on her fourth glass while he sipped on his second. But he wouldn’t point it out.

“And you--” The woman snapped her fingers at him like a dog. “What did you say you did?”

He straightened up. “I’m an investiga--”

She squinted. “Solona said you were a Templar.”

“Not anymo--”

“He’s taking a break.” Solona cut him off, giving him a look he knew all too well. Stop talking. “Cully and I are sight-seeing - we’re just in Ferelden for a while.”

He shut his mouth, looking down at his plate of untouched food. The other woman seemed satisfied with that answer, turning her head away to ask someone else a critical question.

These sort of events were beyond him. The formalities, the politicking - he preferred honesty. Not the white lies these people paraded around.

He reached for Solona’s hand on the table, and she regarded him with some sort of surprise. However, she didn’t snap at him for once and let him squeeze her hand - a reassuring security in a room of unknowns.

Clapping rose from around him, and he wasn’t sure what the cause was. He twisted around to look up at the stage, letting go of Solona’s hand, where it looked like another person had risen to speak.

He didn’t recognize the person as he squinted to get a look at them. The man had greying hair and a white mustache centered on his face. Maybe it was the heat of the lighting in stage, but he looked to be sweating through his suit.

He dabbed briefly at his face before clearing his throat, adjusting the microphone to be at the right height.

“Lords and Ladies gathered tonight--” He sounded awfully Tevine for an Orlesian. “I would like to share a few words with you, in honoring our Chevaliers.”

Everyone at the table raised their glasses - and Cullen rushed to do his as well.

The man raised his own, giving a brief smile. “These men and women honor us with their service and courage. Their bravery and skill. And as such, we thank them.”

The dining crowd murmured in agreement, and Cullen nodded absently. He hadn’t known any Chevaliers personally, but he knew well that they were regarded a lot higher than others in the Orlesian military.

The man pulled at his collar briefly, raising his voice in a slight cheer. “Pour toujours être honoré sous les lions!”

A few of the crowd echoed his sentiment, and many people - including the man - tipped back their drinks. There was more clapping, and Cullen brought his hands together formally.

“Lord Moitessier always wanted to be a Chevalier,” a whisper came from the table. “I heard he’s one of the biggest sponsors.”

“Of course he is,” someone scoffed.

“It’s true!”

Lord Moitessier looked woozy as he backed away from the podium.

Cullen leaned over to Solona, whispering, “I think he may have had too much--”

When he collapsed, there was a rip of laughter from the room with a shatter from his glass. Solona laughed as well, giving him a knowing look. “Probably.”

Then the laughter turned to screams.

He whipped his head to the stage to see him seizing up and spasming, several attendants rushing up to help him. His limbs were twisted at odd angles as he twitched.

He was foaming blood at the mouth - Cullen stood up to see better, as many others were doing the same.

“Appelez les ambulanciers paramédicaux!” The hostess was pushing through the crowd, pointing a severe finger to some of the servers. “Fais le maintenant!”

“Maker have mercy.”

It was gruesome. He pushed through to get a better look, headed to the stage. Many people had turned their heads away while others stared with an odd fascination.

As suddenly as he dropped, he grew still. His hands and fingers were twisted unnaturally with his eyes rolled back. Blood was dribbling from his nose and ears, limbs locked in some sort of torturous fashion.

This was--

He swallowed hard. Murder? Assassination?

A wail broke over the quiet room, a woman rushing up to the stage.

“Galoys! Galoys - mon chéri! Maker, merci,” she begged. That had to be his wife.

She was a sobbing mess, and he felt sorry for her. She was smearing her own husband’s blood on her in her hysterical attempt to get to him. The people who rushed to him initially backed off as it was clear he was no longer alive.

He backed away to the table, seeking Solona and her family. They had gone pale at the sight.

“He was no master at the Game, but--” Her mother - Revka Amell - kept her voice low. “Who would dare - here? Tonight?”

The wailing sirens drowned out Lady Moitessier’s own cries, and paramedics rushed into the dining hall.

It felt like a dream to Cullen. He had experience with murder scenes given his job history as a Templar and an investigator - but now he was a witness.

Solona grabbed his hand, and he flinched briefly at the suddenness. She was staring out at the scene unfurled before them, eyes wide with shock.

“I want to go back home - tonight.”

She looked up at him, sharply.

“Pack our things when we get to the hotel.”

Her mother interjected. “What about the Masquerade--”

“I’m going home tonight - I refuse to stay here with a murderer on the loose,” she had fire in her eyes, rearing her head back to him. “Cully.”

Her tone was more of a demand than a request.

“I-...” He sighed, looking back to the stage. It was bad, and he wanted to be back home, but he was caught in the crosshairs of his girlfriend’s mother. “Alright.”

They weren’t the only ones with a similar plan. Several people had made a dash for the doors, only to be stopped by the Val Royeaux Police Force at the doors.

“No one is leaving until we have collected statements and ID,” one of them said over a megaphone. “From everyone.”

Cullen looked to Solona, and she was red in the face from fury. He looked out at the sea of faces, some of which were drunkenly grasping for their IDs or phones to call lawyers.

It would be a long night before the party ended.

Chapter Text

There was a uproar as the dart landed squarely between the eyes of the picture of Galoys Moitessier.

“Heard the party was tacky anyways.”

Sa’lyn tipped her head to the Iron Bull, a knowing smile on her face. “You’d be right about that. But still - no one seems to want to shut up about it.”

It had been a few days since her successful assassination, and she was resting on her laurels temporarily until the press had their fill with speculations.

For now.

His horns barely scraped the low ceiling with his laugh.

She, Iron Bull, and a few others of her kith were in her safe house - the basement of an empty warehouse on the edge of town back in Ferelden. The outside was rickety and looked like it was to collapse any day, but she made due.

The basement was the most welcoming part of it. It wasn’t a luxury club by any means, but it served as a place for her to keep touch with her Ferelden agents and hold her servers for her more incriminating documents.

As if she would leave them unencrypted in the first place.

Zevran plucked the dart from the board, lining up another shot to one of the several faces tacked onto the board.

All of her targets, and she was only aiming for her first one.

“Planning on stepping me up, Zev?”

He threw the dart the left eye of the photo. His laugh was a bit dark at that.

“My dear, dear Sa’lyn--” He lifted his drink almost as if he was toasting, abet sarcastically. “As if I would try and outshine you.”

“Oh, you would,” she laughed. “When we got the trafficker - back in Antiva - I really do recall you wanting to string him up like a puppet.”

He hummed, giving her a smug look. She wasn’t wrong.

“Who is your next target?”

Sa’lyn turned to regard the softer voice. Leliana was at the edge of the gathering, her eyes glinting in the low light.

“There’s a woman in Nevarra - elven trafficking politician. She’s next.”

It was odd - having so many people like her. Assassins, spies, underworldly people.

She considered them all of her friends. Associates maybe, but they knew enough about each other’s real identities to have a failsafe within each other. They were all independent people, not working under anyone except themselves. They had partnered up with other organizations before, but they were still their own.

“What’s your plan with her?”

Sa’lyn shrugged, tipping back her drink. The scotch burned at her throat, but it was a pleasant enough sensation.

“Distance.”

“That’s a little…” Leliana had a mystified look on her face. “Underwhelming, given your last one.”

“What would you do then?”

“Lock her in a crypt.” She had an odd cheer about that. “Leave a note to be found after she’s dead.”

Her eyes widened slightly at that. It wasn’t a bad idea, but--

“Bit morbid, Red.”

She scoffed at that. “As if you had any better ideas.”

“I mean,” Bull raised an eyebrow. “Dismemberment works too.”

“I’m not trying to make it take all night.” Sa’lyn waved her hand. “I need her docs.”

There was a mulling silence over the group - as if they were all thinking of a specific way that they would kill her.

“Why not send someone to do it for you? Fancy Dirthamen has to have some sort of goodie two-shoes who wants to suck up to the boss.”

“It’s not that-” Sa’lyn moved back to the dart board, removing it and thumbing the flight of it. “I need to do this. By myself, for the most part.”

“Well - let us know how that works out for you,” Bull threw back his drink entirely, belching shortly after. “Or we’ll see you on the news after you’re caught.”

She couldn’t help the laugh after. “Of course.”

The small ‘party’ died off after that, those in attendance saying their goodbyes and leaving Sa’lyn alone in the silence of her safe house.

She made her way to the server room - sitting down at the computer that was the master key to every piece of information that she had come across from targets and allies alike, as well as the constant stream of information she received from her agents and bugged sources.

It helped to have a large database. Between old schedules from clients to their most recent emails - it was hard to think of something she didn’t know if she looked.

She spun slightly in the chair, reaching over the desk to a bowl for a piece of hard candy. She needed to think and plan her next assassination.

Johia Caluphra.

Sa’lyn unwrapped the candy, popping it into her mouth and putting her fingers to the keyboard.

She hadn’t bugged her at all. She had one of her agents shadowing her for the past few weeks as a meek intern, feeding her information as time ran on.

They were a very good agent - a Dalish boy she had taken under her wing a few years ago after being turned away one too many times by humans, simply for his pointed ears and vallaslin. Detailed reports about her time table and meetings were spot on, and what she didn’t get from them, she could usually fill the gaps for.

She turned the candy over with her tongue, sucking on it.

She honestly had it coming. Maybe she didn’t get the warning with the Antivan trafficker being killed a year ago for a similar offence. Maybe she took his death as an opportunity to expand.

Regardless - she had made a stupid mistake.

A few clicks led her to the information she had been supplied, and her eyes flew to the dates and times that overlapped consecutively, along with ones planned for the future.

Meetings, trade deals, travel. Unwavering, political bullshit.

She crushed the candy between her teeth.

Next thursday would be ideal. She had a record for staying late at the office on those evenings. Given the scandal of Galoys’ death, she might step up security - that’d be a question for her agent.

Especially if it made it harder to get to her.

Her phone buzzed in her back pocket, and she flipped it out. The jingle let her know it was a text, rather than someone calling her.

She unlocked it casually, resting her head on her propped up hand.

Farilis had texted her - of course she had.

- Farilis --- 2:09AM -
Are you coming home tonight?

It was an innocent enough question. She hadn’t stopped by the apartment since she got back from Orlais.

--- 2:10AM -
Yea. At the office right now.

- Farilis --- 2:11AM -
Okay. Dareth shiral.

She snorted. Her dear sister knew very well she was never safe with her profession, regardless of whether or not she was out on a job or not.

But that was a concern she wouldn’t worry her about. The less she knew, the better, but she wasn’t going to leave her completely in the dark.

What a mistake that would be - leaving someone with identical features and DNA in mystery and shadows. She kept her out of that life entirely, but she told her things.

Secrets. Plans. Intentions.

But Farilis knew the reasoning for secrecy. She turned a blind eye to it all, and Sa’lyn had to be thankful for her willingness. Even in dragging her halfway across Thedas for her ventures, she complied.

Sa’lyn tried to do the best by her. Putting funds towards school, letting her have freedom they knew she wouldn’t be afforded if she stayed training as a First for the rest of her life for Clan Lavellan.

Farilis was her only soft spot, and Creators have no mercy on whoever crossed her; if Sa’lyn didn’t get to them first, there were plenty of people who would be more than willing to act on her behalf.

Her hand found another candy from the bowl, throwing the trash onto the desk with the other papers as she threw it into her mouth.

She had ample time to find a weapons contractor to smuggle her tools into Nevarra for cheap. Everyone always wanted something, and she could always find the right price for what she needed.

She cracked her knuckles, and bore down onto her keyboard for the long run.

-

Cullen stared at his email for a long time, rolling a pen against the length of the table.

It wouldn’t be the first time he had been denied a case.

Back when he was a Templar, they were plentiful enough. Investigations on inmates and your own coworkers had been common occurrences - looking for corruption inside and out between the paranoid breaks in lyrium useage.

Now, as a contracted investigator, there wasn’t as strong of a demand, but a case would take months rather than days or weeks.

At least he had a bureau to call home. He’d transferred too frequently in between too many for some to even acknowledge him.

Alistair managed to spring him some help - even after all that had happened in Kirkwall. He knew it had been too long since they talked, but since they were coworkers now they had time to catch up. He had even offered to take him out to lunch several times, but something had always come up. Namely - someone.

He clicked through the following email chains. Spam, advertisements, and simply catching up with bridges he once thought to have burned when he was a Templar.

There was one thread between himself and Solona’s mother, on the prospect of potentially proposing to her within the coming weeks. She certainly encouraged it, and he loved her enough to go along with it.

The door to the apartment slammed, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“I know!” It was Solona - on the phone again. “One second he’s blathering on about chevaliers, the next he’s dead! It was so morbid, like a horror movie!”

Cullen tabbed out of his email, going back to the browser he had up before he got distracted. Right - he had been ordering pizza, per the fact that neither of them wanted to cook after coming home from Orlais a week early.

Solona dropped her keys into the dish in the kitchen, and the sound of her heels clacking on the wood caused his attention to wane. He clicked through the tabs to their recent orders - she’d want their usual, that’s why it was saved as a favorite.

He was reaching for his wallet when his phone buzzed on the table, and he scooped it up to respond. Then a second time. And a third.

There was a sense of knowing who it was even before he flipped open the screen.

- Alistair T. --- 5:23 -
Hey there Cullen Schmullen!
Dinner @ 7?
It’s dollar pints at Bull’s tonight.

There was a sense of conflict within him. He wanted to go out, but it was a matter if Solona would let him.

“Solona?”

Her blonde head poked through the kitchen doorway, giving him a questioning look and mouthing, ‘what?’.

“I’m going to order the pizza, but Alistair and I are going out for beers later.”

She gave him a sharp look. Her eyebrows furrowed, and her lips turned downwards into a frown. She was thinking, but the voice from the phone sounded like incessant squawking.

“I’ll be home before 11.” He tried to reason lightly, and she waved him off.

He took it as an agreement, placing order for the pizza and putting his wallet away into his pants pocket as he got up. Solona had dipped back further into the kitchen, back to talking with one of her several ‘girlfriends’.

“Mom says that they don’t think it was a player of the Game though,” her voice was hushed for no reason other than for gossip, and Cullen resisted shaking his head. “It’s super scary - who’s next right? Maker I hope they go after someone that actually is a pain in the ass.”

He avoided giving her a judgemental look. The fact she would - and could - justify a murderer only if it benefited her family was sickening, but it was how her mother prospered in the world. She was a businesswoman, and Solona would say that death was just another part of making a deal.

‘It was done way back when - ages ago, but people still do it!’ Was one of her defences. It was an excuse and a coverup, but he wouldn’t verbalize it.

“I don’t think it was a Red Jenny or anything like that. Aren’t they Free Marches? Or Ferelden?” She looked at Cullen, almost expecting him to answer for her.

For a woman who didn’t approve of his change in career choice, she seemed inclined to at least take advantage of his knowledge of various unsavory groups.

“I think they work everywhere. Including Orlais.”

She relayed the message back to her harpy of a friend, and the conversation dissolved into irrelevance once more.

Solona’s pizza arrived after twenty minutes of wrapping up emails and listening half-heartedly to his girlfriend drone on about this, that, or the other with no end in sight. She probably had even just seen this friend at one of her own little social events, but felt the need to continue on with whatever they were talking about.

She absconded with the pizza and a mouthing of ‘thank you!’, and he shook his head with a smile.

He had his doubts like any human, but he didn’t doubt too much in proposing to her.

It was a quarter till seven when Alistair showed up at the apartment. He didn’t let him in, moreso grabbing his keys and wallet and scooting out as fast as possible before Solona could interject with inviting herself.

He couldn’t seem to get out of Alistair’s amused look as he rushed out of the apartment, however.

“There a fire or something?”

“No, I’m just--” He shoved his keys in his pocket. “Ready to go, is all.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow at him, and he felt annoyed at his look. He wasn’t running or anything like that, nor was he an overeager man ready to go party.

And yet he shrugged, that simple grin apparent in his face as they walked out of the complex and down the street.

“Pretty sure it’s going to be packed at Bull’s. He doesn’t go lightly on advertising-”

Cullen nodded his head slightly, more keen on watching the cracks in the pavement. He’d only been to the bar once, another time that was also at the insistence of Alistair Theirin himself.

He was a very charismatic person, or Cullen was simply easily convinced to go out.

“- which, of course, means that everyone and the Empress of Orlais is going to be there -”

He snorted, “I doubt that.”

“You say that, but I’ve seen a bit of everyone in there.” There’s a knowing in his face, as if daring Cullen to say otherwise. “And for cheap beer? Double that, for sure.”

He shook his head. He probably was right, and there would be no sense in disproving it until they got there in the first place. Considering he was mostly cooped up at home with trying to get his life in some semblance of order, Alistair had probably hit the nail on the head all things considered.

When he had to shoulder himself through the masses to even get a spot at the bar, he decided to not give his friend the satisfaction of being right. The talking was loud, the televisions were a dull, thudding echo that flickered on the edge of his vision. Even for a bar the smell of alcohol was strong, along with the bitter edge of hops and barley.

Alistair laughed next to him. “You look like you’ve been sore of interaction, Cullen.”

“It’s no Orlesian banquet, at least.” His voice was low as his hand shot to his forehead at the oncoming headache. “You managed to predict the bar, but please, no Empress. Maker - I can’t handle that tonight.”

There was a hearty slap on the back from his friend, and he leaned in close. “I’ll let you know if I see her, and you can take off running.”

“Thanks.”

Alistair flagged down the barman - a bright-eyed man with an undercut and sharp jaw. How Alistair managed to get the order across was unknown to him, but the beer was deposited swiftly before him without a second thought.

He tipped his drink at him, and their glasses clinked sharp against the dull roar of people. He threw his own back, letting the taste flood his senses. No point spending his thoughts mulling over his disappointment when he could lose himself in the burn of alcohol.

“Cully Wully, is that you?”

Cullen choked, shrinking his head down to cough for air. Alistair pat his back, a look of confusion as he gripped his glass that much tighter.

Maker, no.

A new weight slung themselves over his shoulder, and he wanted to be smote off of his barstool and out of Ferelden entirely.

“It is you! Damn - here I thought Varric was shitting me.”

“Hello, Hawke.”

“Is that any way to talk to your future cousin-in-law?” She cooed, pinching his cheek. “Unless you dumped that cunt, in which good riddance.”

He swatted her away, shrugging her arm off of his shoulder. “Don’t patronize me.”

“Aww- I’m on your side!” She took a spot next to him, leaning over into his very personal space. “I had to dig Uncle Gamlen for details on you two - Maker knows he tolerates me at best - and he said you were going to get married--”

He glanced to Alistair for help, but all he had was a surprised look.

“Married? You’re going to propose-- or wait, have you already?”

“-- no, no, he hasn’t proposed yet, but he’s been planning --”

Cullen groaned and held his face in his hands, the gossiping between Alistair and Hawke flowing freely between his ears as he was sat squarely between them.

It was a planned thing to do, and he wanted to keep it a secret for a reason.

“-- anyways - what was I saying - oh right,” she snapped her fingers. “It’s a bad idea, but I’m coming to the wedding.”

“There’s a legal order against us being in contact with each other.” He glared at her. “Which you’re violating.”

“Which we are violating, my dear Templar friend.” She winked at him, and he wanted to slam his head into the bar top. “Besides, it expires next year because I’m a good little Andrastian that has the Divine on her side, and the Divine has a lovely legal team riding some Templar asses.”

She flagged the barman back over, slapping Cullen hard on the back with a smirk.

“Krem - I want you to fuck my friend up.”

“Hawke, no. I refuse to--”

“Oh, can it you big baby.” She pursed her lips with a smile. “Letting loose isn’t going to kill you.

He looked to Alistair for help, but he had his attentions in grinning like an idiot. “It can’t hurt.”

"I hate you."

Chapter Text

“You know I’m not an idiot right?”

“Of course you’re not.”

Farilis cocked an eyebrow at her, and felt that critical stare bore into her. For being her identical twin, they had enough differences to fill the Waking Sea.

“Just - Nevarra? Really?”

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. It’s just an offer.”

Sa’lyn leaned into the palm of her hand, watching her sister swirl her drink with a bent straw. She looked out at the restaurant, searching for the face of the waitress that had taken their order about ten or so minutes ago.

She bobbled in between tables, her blonde hair looking about ready to pop free of her messy bun. Tired, but alert. As well as lacking food.

Like clockwork, she looked back to Farilis right as she sighed.

“It’s a long flight from here to there.”

“No more than from here to home.”

“We don’t speak Nevarran.”

“Just tell me you don’t want to go, and you don’t have to.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to go,” Farilis protested softly. “But what am I supposed to do in a city alone while you’re out… working?”

There it was. Sa’lyn searched her sister’s face for the flicker of worry that would pass over it, unconcealed. She could see her vallaslin crinkle as she gave a look she knew all too well from when she invited her to every place work took her.

From the heart of Orlais to the outskirts of Tevinter, she wanted to take Farilis everywhere. Their clan was nestled between Free Marcher states - sedentary and unassuming - but it also meant that exposure to the rest of Thedas was limited.

Leaving the reservation wasn’t easy on Farilis, but - in Sa’lyn’s humble opinion - a necessity before she ever committed herself fully to being a Keeper.

“You could go to museums.” There was a light tip of her coffee mug, bringing it to her lips to sip. “They have the Grand Necropolis, dozens of dragon hunting exhibits…”

There was a mystified look about her as she considered it. She kept her fingers bolted to her cup, and it was as if she could see the potential of things to do run through her head on repeat.

“We’ll spend a whole day just browsing a crypt, if you want.” Sa’lyn reached out for her sister’s hand. “Completely up to you--”

Her phone buzzed from her pocket, accompanied by the sickeningly cheerful jingle of an email.

Her eyes flicked up to Farilis’ face, and the thoughtful look fell to one of annoyance.

“You promised to turn off your phone.”

“It’s work.” Sa’lyn gripped the phone tighter in her lap, running a thumb over the lit screen.

“Work can wait - I haven’t seen you in almost a week and you want to go off playing god again.”

Her phone buzzed again. It was an insistent, nagging sound, threatening to consume her attentions entirely.

“Farilis--”

Her twin waved her hand a little too sharply, the harsh look on her face scalding. “Answer your damn email.”

There was a brief feeling of being on thin ice as she swiped up on the lock screen, not bothering to sigh and tut at her sister. Farilis benefited from her secrets and her temporary disapproval was only that. Temporary.

The email icon bounced briefly on the screen, and with a swift tap it unfurled into a security screen that demanded her authority.

Precaution.

Her ID and password were entered in casually, and her inbox opened up with the two unread emails on top. Both looked to be from Eyenha - with a few attachments on the two of them.

She selected the first one, and Sa’lyn had been right in her guess.

Her ‘assistant’, as Zevran so liked to call her, had gotten in contact with her Dalish spy in Caluphra’s network, and in turn he had provided her with the completely new security detail that was being actively rolled out.

Four new armed guards, a day shift and night shift. A requisition for new cameras. Work order to upgrade computer security beyond what it had been.

Her eyebrows furrowed. She had expected the guards, but not the cameras. Neither was the software upgrade - it could be broken, but the potential for danger had increased three-fold.

“Here you go.”

Her eyes flicked to the table to see her plate of crepes had been set in front of her, and she looked up to the waitress as she set down a tall plate of pancakes in front of Farilis.

She was nice looking enough, and Sa’lyn was never picky when it came to people’s looks. Personalities were debatable, but if they didn’t speak she wouldn’t judge.

Farilis gave her a curt nod and a soft ‘thank you’, but Sa’lyn winked to her.

With the way she flushed and backed off of the table, she let herself feel smug.

“You’re doing it again.” Farilis’ tone was low, but annoyed. The scraping of cutlery on the glass plate drowned out their dialogue.

She shrugged, pocketing her phone to speak directly with her once more. “I don’t know what you could possibly be talking about.”

“Always - always with trying to seduce your way into… disaster.”

"Ma'lin*,” she started with a grin. “I am the disaster.”

Farilis snorted into her pancakes, more amused by her self-proclaimed title. “Of course.”

“Besides, someone has to be.” She waggled her fork at her. “Not all of us can be studious Firsts, drafting up research papers about the ‘true need for the Emerald Knights in the time period of the Dales’.”

Her twin squinted at her, a level of accusation in her stare as she paused her brunch slaughter.

“That wasn’t sarcasm.”

“I know. Because that was my best report.”

“Mhm.”

“It got published twice, and Mamae wants a revised copy for Arlathvhen this year--” Her smile faltered briefly, and Farilis noted it with her pause. She cleared her throat and resumed her defence.

“-- And I’ve had other professors asking my interpretation on newer studies of the history of the Dales, too. They say I have potential.”

“The Keeper can wait on your report for a while yet - Arlathvhen isn’t for months.”

“I know, but…” She sighed. “It means a lot. We both left her without saying goodbye - I know you and Mamae aren’t on good terms, but she does love you.”

Sa’lyn moved her gaze from her sister to back into the restaurant, looking for the eyecandy of a waitress again. Family discussions were always a poor topic, especially if it involved their mother, and she could use the distraction of a pretty woman in her vision.

“Yes, because I need to be treated like a child at twenty-eight.”

She scowled. “That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s what she does, though. ‘Sa’lyn, why are you out late?’, ‘Da’len, where have you been for the past few days?’” She traced the edge of her fork on the pattern of the plate. “What I do… You know I don’t want her involved. I don't need her involved.”

“I just… think you two could get along better.”

There was a moment of silence as she felt those damning eyes burn into her skull. She would always disagree with Deshanna - regardless of the fact that she was her mother. She never approved of anything she did, and refused to cease comparing her to Farilis at every waking moment. She was the favored twin, whereas Sa’lyn was the one who got everything wrong, was always in trouble, and never could do anything right.

“When she leaves me alone, we’ll be as thick as thieves.”

The irony wasn’t lost on Farilis, who raised an accusing brow. “Sa’lyn.”

“Don’t ‘Sa’lyn’ me.” She tried not to sound defensive, but it was inevitable. “When we go back home, I’ll be all smiles and pleasantries. But for now? Here? I can be who I am.”

She could see her younger twin contemplate her food with a focused look, mulling over her words. It was true - she could be who she wanted off of the Lavellan reservation, but back home she would have to pretend as if she weren’t who she had made herself into.

At home, she was Sa’lyn Istmaethoriel - the Keeper’s eldest daughter. The one who spirited away their First with tales of grandeur. The troublemaker, the selfish one who never seemed to want the responsibilities of living in a clan and preserving what was lost to them.

But in the world - she was more.

She was changing political discourse, stopping those who would have her enslaved once more like how her people had been. She was clever and calculating, as opposed to brashly jumping into the fray and killing like a mindless animal. She fought in a war that would go largely unseen by her kin, but it was all for them.

Every sacrifice was made to further them, every moment where she had seen the look of terror in her victims’ eyes. Every person she killed with a family to go home to, a bright-eyed child that would wait at the door for them to tuck them into bed at night. A friend seeing the news on their death, and the political turmoil in the fallout.

Sa’lyn would do anything to further her people, and the fact that her own sacrifices and burdens would go unacknowledged was something she had accepted long ago.

She looked at the soft, thoughtful face of Farilis. She was unmarred from the chaos and betrayal, all because Sa’lyn had shielded her from it. She was living proof of what she as Dirthamen would do to protect and ensure the survival and growth of their people, far beyond the history of their once roaming clans and enslaved people.

Farilis met her look, curious but silent. Sa’lyn waved her hand to dispel the thoughts that would consume her if she spent too long thinking on them.

“Let’s finish eating and head home, okay?”

Her sister didn’t reply, shoveling another bite of pancake into her mouth as a form of agreement.

She sighed partially out of her nose, her appetite having abandoned her following the stew of her emotions and thoughts.

The waitress returned once more with the bill in hand, but the desire to get a rise out of her had also fallen into obscurity. She set it beside her coffee cup, her hand hesitating as if to reach for her plate.

“Are you done, ma’am?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Her plate was swept up and away, and she thumbed open the checkbook to gaze over their costs - cheap for brunch and well worth it regardless. She fished out a twenty, nicking the pen and hesitating just under the signature line.

She jotted down her number, not able to help the sly grin as she folded it all up and set it on the side that it had been put down in the first place.

Farilis finished her own brunch hurriedly and they took out into the streets with linked arms.

Despite the bustle of the city, they kept to themselves and were focused with the destination of returning home to their tiny, cosy apartment that was nestled between two equally quiet neighbours. The rent was low, and they were unbothered by most solicitors as compared to some of the other tenants. The only issues they had were that sometimes the water ran a little cold and their mail would be switched up with someone else’s.

Farilis called it idyllic. Sa’lyn often agreed, but mostly to humor her.

In reality, the landlord was given a few favors from Sa’lyn in return for cheaper rent and a nice block between people who were often away from home several weeks at a time. They also turned a blind eye at the security that she had set up past the standard door bolt; there were several silent alarms for different areas of the house, all of which would let her know if they had been triggered either by her phone or her system in her safe house.

It was a carefully maintained slice of security that could be afforded elsewhere, but for now it was home away from home.

Sa’lyn pushed the key into the lock, twisting it just the way that it wouldn’t cause the alarm to trip, and pushing it open. Farilis flicked on the lights, and the warm, comforting glow of home warmed up the space. It smelled like elfroot and incense - a byproduct of simply being Dalish, but it was homely.

“Plans for the rest of the day?”

Sa’lyn put her keys on the counter, opting to give her a questioning look.

“Plans?”

“Are you going anywhere, or are you going to stay home?” There was a small nod of her head, inquiring her further. “Or is there anyone that intends to come around here that you don’t want me to know about?”

Farilis was not one for subtlety.

“You know I don’t involve business at home.”

“I saw you write your number down for that waitress.”

She resorted with a flat look. “Ma’lin.”

“I just don't want to encounter any of your…” She squinted, making quoting fingers. “‘Indulgences’ in the house. Wait until I’m gone.”

“Of course, Keeper Farilis. Anything you ask.”

There was a small shake of her head as Sa’lyn bowed dramatically, and Farilis turned to leave her sister alone in the living room.

She loved her sister dearly, even though their differences and separate tastes - their relationship was well beyond the understanding of anyone who hadn’t known them their whole lives. Even then, their clan mates struggled to put their finger on how their connection worked.

It was simply a part of being an identical twin.

Sa’lyn whipped out her phone and stalked to her bedroom, flicking through her contacts. She would do some work from home, but it wasn’t as if she was going to drag weapons dealers into her kitchen and offer them tea.

The name of one of her closer contacts popped up on the screen, and she pressed the call button.

She brought it to her ear and closed her bedroom door. Between the buzzing, she noted the pile of clothes tossed haphazardly in the corner. She hadn’t done laundry since she got back, but she had to before she left for Nevarra. Especially if Farilis came with her.

The line buzzed once, twice, then it clicked.

“Sa’lyn?”

“Hey - Mahariel.” She grinned, despite the fact her face couldn’t be seen. “Long time no talk.”

“Mm.”

“I could use a favor, and seeing as how you’re my favorite Warden--”

“--I’m not a Warden anymore, you know that--”

“I need help getting ‘contraband’ into Nevarra by next Thursday.”

The line grew quiet, and she gripped her phone that much tighter.

Naelis Mahariel was a stalwart, former Grey Warden - a secretive Black Ops organization that took a little from each nation to benefit them all. Be it from overthrowing corrupt leaders to crushing terrorist groups, they were equipped to handle it all and more.

She became acquainted with Naelis through Zevran, who in turn had been spared by her. According to him, his original assassin guild had put a price on her squads’ heads for a mission that involved the Prime Minister’s father attempting a coup.

But she was a woman to not be trifled with, even after the fact she was no longer involved with the Grey Wardens.

“Is this related to what I’ve seen on the news?” Naelis’ tone was wary, careful. “About the politician?”

“It might be.”

“Lethallan, you’re playing a dangerous game.”

“So is going and stopping the destruction of Ferelden’s parliament, but you had no problem stopping that.” She waved her hand in dismissal. “Listen, I can be lectured by my mother. Will you help me?”

She had grown quiet again, but Sa’lyn was patient.

“I can get a duffle bag through for you, but that’s it.”

It was more than she had hoped for.

“When do you want it?”

“I don’t want it,” she retorted bluntly. “But I’ll accept it this week and no later. Drop it by my house after 10.”

“Have I ever told you that you could make the Dread Wolf blush?” She moved towards the window of her room, watching the empty fire escape through the glass.

“This is the third favor you’ve asked of me, Sa’lyn.”

“Oh - I’ll pay you back. I always do.”

There was a weary sigh from the speaker. She could imagine Naelis - the small but intimidating woman shaking her head at the little white lie.

“I hope you know what you’re doing with this,” Naelis warned. “If you’re reckless, you’ll do damage to more than just yourself.”

“I’m well aware of the consequences.”

“You risk yourself, your friends, your sister…”

The brief image of being pointed at with several guns flashed in her mind. A possibility, however far fetched it seemed.

“I’m not going to stand around and wait for the world to change,” she couldn’t help the irritation that crept into her tone. “I have to do it. I have to be the change, or else people will keep getting hurt, or killed, or something far worse.”

The silence was thick, but the tension was thicker.

“You know what it’s like.”

“I do. And that’s why I left that life.”

She focused on her reflection staring back at her through the midday lighting on the glass while the seconds ticked on in thoughtful silence.

There would be no point in correcting her that they never truly left that life. No amount of deals or info trading would keep you safe after you submitted yourself to the espionage and secrecy of the underworld. Contacts would still surface, and enemies would come looking for you in the dark.

“I’ll have the stuff over at your place by noon tomorrow.”

“Good.” Her voice was back to the serious tone Sa’lyn was used to. “We can discuss the details then.”

“Of course.”

The line beeped as Naelis ended the call, and Sa’lyn pocketed her phone only to stare at her reflection further.

Her hair dye had been scrubbed out, along with the makeup that had covered her face back in Orlais. Even her contacts had been taken out and put away for a later date. She was herself; in pure form, she was the Dalish woman with a roguish look that had once rivaled her father’s.

It was only a matter of time until her turn to change fates came knocking, and that face would fade into obscurity once more.

Chapter Text

Solona was going to kill him, be it for his lateness or his inability to walk in a straight line.

It wasn't his fault he had been accosted by Hawke in a packed bar with cheap alcohol, nor was it his fault that Alistair lacked the realization that he was most certainly not interested in arriving home any later than 11 o'clock.

And yet, here he was: drunk and fumbling for his keys at half past one in the dark.

He had half the mind to tell Alistair where he could shove his next idea that involved going out and drinking, but his phone died after Hawke had gotten on the bar and started raving about Kirkwall, and all of the supposed ‘badassery’ on her side that occurred.

Cullen dropped his keys, and he hunched over with a huff to pick them up.

He didn’t want to think about Kirkwall.

It had all been a mess. Maybe a misunderstanding, if his hindsight was 20/20.

Hawke said it was all the Templars’ fault. That everything could have been avoided - the bombing, the occupation, everything. The people huddled in the streets as the dust settled, having to search the rubble for familiar faces that would be broken and bloodied.

He thought she was right after everything started to come to light in the aftermath. Through the fog of addiction he had started to put the pieces together. His former boss was wrong, crazy, insane.

He slipped the key into the lock and twisted it.

Commander Meredith was a murderer. And as her former Captain, he felt as if some of that blood was on his hands.

He could have stopped her earlier on, before she started pointing fingers and arresting innocent people. He shouldn’t have turned a blind eye to those that had new bruises, a busted lip, a hatred about them. Once, he had even believed her - that all of the people they apprehended, all of the other templars they cut off were evil. That the arrested were wrong, and they were in the right.

Black and white. Never grey.

The Chantry did nothing, and now it seemed as if they wanted to make their amends by taking the Champion of Kirkwall and turning her into a saint.

He blinked as he opened the door into the harsh light of the kitchen. Solona had left the light on for him it seemed, but he still struggled to see anything past the shadow of the living room. The world wobbled briefly, and he had to steady himself against the doorway.

Hawke was no saint, but neither was he.

People looked up to her though. A refugee of political chaos who transformed a rebellion. Someone who brought attentions to the injustices of it all.

And here he was, late to the party.

As always.

He closed the door behind him, gently as to avoid making excessive noise. He hadn’t passed many people awake in the apartment complex, and he simply assumed that Solona was asleep like their neighbors.

He rubbed his face with a sweaty hand, sinking into a chair at the table.

Kirkwall wasn’t what he wanted to think about, but it always came back around. Even with Kinloch, the nightmares had gone away for the most part.

But he drank too much, and they threatened to consume him entirely.

Between the screaming and sirens, he honestly thought it had been the end of the world. Meredith had descended into madness, and no one could find Orsino among the wreckage of the explosion. His Commander screamed at him and the others to apprehend the prisoners, her eyes bloodshot from the dust and more than that.

Rage. Hatred.

His knee bounced under the table, running his hand through his hair.

He had his regrets - he prayed to the Maker to forgive him for his wrong doings like a good Andrastian. He didn’t go to the Chantry as often as the Sisters liked, but he believed.

Yet it seemed that faith would not be enough to save a broken man.

After at that he survived, he didn’t consider himself to have gotten away unscathed. He hadn’t been as marred like some of his former friends, but he had the anxiety and panic attacks to prove it.

Alcohol and being alone in his thoughts always managed to make it worse. He had hoped maybe at least Solona was awake to talk him to bed, but it seemed even she had abandoned him to his thoughts.

He didn’t want to move from his spot at the table, rather wanting for the darkness to swallow him whole - let the numbness creep into him and take away the edges he seemed to guard himself with. Maybe he would end up like Solona’s father, with a distant stare and even more distant mind.

At least he looked at peace, even if Cullen knew it was years of drugs and trauma catching up on him.

Part of him even wondered if he would ever be back to normal. When he would be back to a time where he didn’t picture crushed bodies and muffled screams, violence in the streets and trying to find his place against it all.

His shoulders shook, and he mouthed a breathless prayer. Maker, take it away.

“It’s late.”

His attentions snapped up to a bleary-eyed Solona, standing at the edge of the kitchen.

“I…”, he swallowed, averting her tired look. “Yea. It’s late.”

He could barely hear her pad over to him through the sound of white noise in his head. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, resting her head against his with a soft sigh.

“You’re just tired.”

“Yea, I’m… tired.”

His voice sounded like a pathetic echo, and he lowered his head. She hadn’t seen Kirkwall. She hadn’t seen Kinloch. She saw the news, but it was vastly different than experiencing it, living it and reliving it over and over again on nights like these.

It was almost as if the air was being crushed from his lungs, but he could do nothing but suffer in his lover’s comfort for her sake.

Solona kissed his cheek, unaware of his internal struggle. He wanted to yell to the world of his fears and beg for the memories to be taken away, but it would fall on deaf ears. No one cared to listen to the plight of a former templar like they had to Hawke or people of her kith.

“Get some sleep, ‘kay?” Her sleepy voice tickled his ear, and she pulled from him with dragging limbs to go to their bedroom once more.

He wanted to follow her into the sweet embrace of sleep, but it was clear he would have to ride out his nerves before he was given such a luxury. He would try to count his breaths like he had been advised to, but it would only be a matter of time before the thoughts ticked into his brain once more. It would continue until the adrenaline wore off and he was exhausted with fighting a war against himself in his own head.

He wouldn’t be able to save face at work tomorrow either - there were enough people who had their own ghosts to know what it was like to be tormented by them, but they didn’t seem to let it bother them.

He breathed a shaky sigh, resting his forehead on the table.

He could simply wish for the Void and hope that it was good enough, but it was all too apparent that he was not that lucky with the way his legs still trembled and the numbers in his breathing exercises came out half hearted.

In for three. Hold for five. Out for seven.

Repeat.

Thinking about literally anything else helped before his mind tried to loop back once more. Work tomorrow morning; he had a meeting with his new boss that had hired him on after Kirkwall, and he had intentions to do his best to show her his improvements.

Breathe.

He kept his eyes closed, and the rhythm soothed him. It was mind numbingly merciful as it took him away from the constant sense of impending doom, letting him slip further away from anxiety and into a sombering stillness.

He just needed sleep, and it took him soon enough.

It was a finite blackness that kept him pacified in sleep. He never much got too much reprieve after Kirkwall - often he would wake in a cold sweat, reliving those moments throughout his time there, bits that stuck with him, feeling the blame on those who had died. Feeling like a man who ran on limited time.

It scratched and bit at him like a rabid animal, but it was also the one in the shadows - waiting for him to grow weak from exhaustion and take its’ moment to strike.

But for the night, he was safe from the hunters that lived in his head and in his heart. He could drift in silence before the morning would come all too soon, and he would be thrust back into the fray once more.

And the morning did come, sooner than he expected.

One moment he was drifting in the void, the next he was forcing himself into waking, his internal clock beckoning him half-heartedly to wake and face the day. His eyes were sore and there was a throbbing both inside and outside of his skull. It shook at him - an annoying reminder that he should never accept drinks from people he was legally not supposed to communicate with and that he should probably disavow his friend.

And given that Alistair would try and get a rise out of him that day at work - it was probably for the best.

He felt more akin to a dead man walking by the time he was out the door and managing to drag himself to work, a half-charged phone in his pocket and a seemingly vacant mind. He felt numb, particularly drained from the night before. He had the hope that today, the cards would be in his favor; he would go to work, put as much effort as he could into the meeting with his boss, and go home to his girlfriend and a nice hot shower.

Being sober helped push Kirkwall and Kinloch from his mind, and the light of day banished them entirely - as if he had shed that mantle temporarily and it was a mere blip in the past.

The investigative bureau that he had been recruited into was housed in a small, cosy building with enough foot traffic to rival that of a small army - headed by a Nevarran woman named Cassandra Pentaghast.

She was stern but not cold, looking as if she had a permanent crease etched into her brow.

Part of him wondered if she ever smiled.

He was greeted with a series of nods as he stepped into the door, people already hustling about to tackle their own cases or scour out new ones. There were a few doe-eyed people sitting and awaiting consultation, but he paid them no mind.

He wove between the masses, making his way to Cassandra’s office. The door was cracked already with the sound of keys on the rampage, and he let himself in.

Cassandra had her trademarked brow furrowed as she bore into her keyboard. He couldn’t tell if she was typing up a case or simply sending out emails to their patrons - but she regarded him when he stepped into the door.

“Cullen.”

“Cassandra - sorry I’m late.”

She waved it off, stepping out from her seat. “You are here now - I have something for you.”

He let his surprise slip through. “What is it?”

Cassandra waved at him to follow her, and she exited her own office with him trailing after her.

She brought him to an empty room, used primarily for sorting and storing their information from investigative cases that somehow seemingly overlapped - either by chance or actuality.

“You were in Orlais when Moitessier was assassinated?”

The question caught him off guard. “I was there, actually.”

She turned to face him, and he could see her dark eyes studying him. He knew she knew he was in Orlais - he had requested some time off specifically for it.

Even if he had no cases to be present for.

“Did you see who may have killed him?”

That was moreso a question for his experience as a Templar, and he could feel the question she was on the edge of asking.

“If the Val Royeaux Police couldn’t find them, what makes you think I might know? I didn’t expect someone to die at some useless political dinner.” He couldn’t help the irritation in his voice, crossing his arms.

She rummaged through one of the cabinets, her entire body language intense. She ripped out a file with a sense of distaste, brandishing the manilla folder like a blade.

“It’s been outsourced to us--”

“Why outsource to Ferelden for a single political murder in Orlais?

“Rutherford--”

“If it’s a one time thing, what’s the point?”

“It’s not a ‘one time thing’.” She snapped the folder at him, a glare apparent. “It has happened before - someone is targeting politicians and leaving cryptic messages in their wake.”

That surprised him. He took the light folder from Cassandra, and she folded her arms over her chest as he cracked it open.

It was disappointingly barren for the most part. There were only a few sheets of paper, mostly about the death of some no-name Antivan politician a year ago that barely even rung a bell.

He was particularly desensitized to the crime scene photos paper clipped to the case file as an offhand reference. Their bedroom looked exceedingly well kept - a very stark difference to the bloody body bound by ropes and a gun placed carefully next to their head.

He closed the folder, trying to understand why she was giving him this. This murder wasn’t a simple, closed case. If it had been a dead end before he came here, why was it being reopened now?

“Who in their right mind is targeting them - and how aren’t they in police custody as we speak?”

“They…” He saw her sigh through her nose, weary eyes coming through her previously burning intensity. “We are not sure. Not yet.”

“Not sure, or do we not know?”

“Both. They leave messages, as well as incriminating evidence about the victim.” She tapped the folder in his hands. “They were a part of a human and elf trafficking ring - all of their information publicized by the murderer after their body was found.”

“The murderer sounds like a vigilante - but what did Moitessier do?”

“Here.”

Cassandra started to move out, and he followed her in suit. He hadn’t seen anything on the news implicating the Orlesian politician in anything so brash as selling and buying humans and elves in a black market - if anything, he was moreso surprised that these had been linked to one another in the first place.

She led him back to her office, going around to her computer where an email was left open neatly and at the top.

“I don’t speak Orlesian.” He did not refrain from stating the obvious.

“An intern translated it-” her voice was incredibly low, with a hint of irritation with the way she shook her head. “The Val Royeaux Police that outsourced to us said that the assassin targeted him ‘because of elven rights’.”

He furrowed his brows. Orlesian politics were never his specialty - he paid only half a mind if Solona started to chat about it and never paid any attention if her mother weighed in with her own commentary.

“Was he pro or anti?”

“Against. The assassin has made it clear that this is only the beginning.”

She tabbed to a photo attached in the email. It was a photo of a plain website, all of which was in Orlesian. Her pointed look said that this was the proof of such a claim.

Cullen rubbed the stubble on his chin, staring off into the space of her computer screen. With the Antivan it seemed just like a simple - although extreme - form of justice. But committing politicide was an entire step up.

“Why have me investigate this assassin instead of letting the government handle it?” Or Templars. He added silently.

“They are not sure on the reach of this person.” She clicked out of the email, defaulting to her home screen. “If they have outsourced to Ferelden, it must be either that they fear this assassin slipping away or that they will strike again.”

“Surely they have a name.”

“They go by Dirthamen - at least, that is how they are addressing themselves in the documents.” She sniffed at that. “They act just as a politician does with flowery, meaningless words.”

“Cassandra, it’s clear they mean it if they’re willing to kill.”

The Nevarran glared at him, and if looks could kill he would be headed to the Chantry for cremation just as he stood.

“I will send you what we have, but for now this should be your primary focus. The commission from this will have us going so long as we make some breakthroughs.”

That didn’t make him hopeful, but he nodded regardless. “Alright.”

She nodded as a form of acknowledgement on his word, releasing him from his place. He promptly turned on his heel and walked out of her office, making the beeline straight for his own shared office with Alistair.

Despite the macabre background of it all, it gave him a faint spring in his step to finally be with a case and a sort of meaning in work instead of ceaselessly petitioning Cassandra for one case of another.

He dropped the folder open on his desk, letting his shoulders slack at the truth that this would be no simple or easy task - finding someone who seemed just as inclined to work from the shadows as he worked to seek them out.

The clacking of keys stopped right as he had a moment to think.

“Someone looks gl-um.”

He had half the mind to wad up the gory photos and throw them at his partner’s head across the small room.

“Don’t talk to me unless you’re apologizing for dragging me out last night.”

“I dunno, you enjoyed a lot of it. With the drinking and maybe not the Hawke part, but the drinking for sure.”

Cullen sighed, giving an annoyed look to the smirking redhead just out of throttling distance.

“Don’t you have work to do?”

“Cul - I always have work to do. But I have plenty of time for you too.”

He sat down at his desk, and straight across from him was the cheeky and annoyingly optimistic Alistair Theirin, propping his head on his hands.

“What did Cas want?”

“She gave me a case - the Orlesian that got assassinated is a lot bigger than expected.”

“Ooh, fancy--”

“Theirin.” His voice was flat as he gave him a look.

“I can only imagine.” His friend backed off at that, resuming his typing. Yet there was a knowing look in his face when he glanced at him just briefly.

It seemed that there would be no rest for the wicked for some time yet.

Chapter Text

Stepping off the plane and onto the solid ground of Nevarra City, Sa’lyn breathed in the crisp, dry air that reminded her so staunchly of home. Ferelden may have a unique and rustic charm, but it was no match for the lands north of the Waking Sea.

“Be sure to get your head out of the clouds before we leave, ma’lin.”

She snorted and turned to face her sister, their travel bags slung over each of her shoulders. Sa’lyn could see the amusement in her look, clearly light hearted in comparison for what their journey would entail.

“Just enjoying the city while we’re here. Maybe you should do the same.”

Farilis raised an eyebrow at that, stepping down to her level from the plane as more people trickled out and onto the tarmac. She handed Sa’lyn’s own bag off to her, and she took it with a smile.

“Remember when we were here last? With Babae?”

“You got us both into trouble.” She could see Farilis trying to suppress a smile. “Having to sit and be lectured by Mamae in the hotel before we could see the crypt was the highlight of the trip.”

“Yea, well - what can I say?” She grinned. “I can’t help it.”

They wandered off of the landing pad and into the airport, weaving their way in between touristy kiosks and the tourists themselves.

Sa’lyn was no tourist - she was a seasoned traveler with one intention. Find her target, and deal with them by any means necessary.

Farilis on the other hand was definitely a tourist, but the kind that wanted to actually know the history of a place instead of snapping gimmicky photos. She would go knee deep into a crypt if it meant looking at history dead in the face - literally, considering they were in Nevarra.

She wasn’t a lawbreaker, however. That was Sa’lyn’s job.

The streets were busy when they exited the airport. Cars zipped on the street with no acknowledgement of the speed limits, and Sa’lyn stared at the flashing colors and lights.

Her breadth of contacts was rather light in Nevarra. Her weapons had been smuggled in by a contact of Naelis’ and she still had her own agent shadowing her target, but transportation would be another matter.

She flagged down a taxi, and they screeched to a halt. Sa’lyn opened the door for Farilis to climb in first, and she followed suit with her travel bag being plopped on her lap.

“Can you drop us off on the corner of Second and Aurelian?” She smiled sheepishly to the driver, his eyes flicking back to her ears, her eyes, her vallaslin, and the road.

He tapped on the mileage counter on his dashboard showing his pay rate, and Sa’lyn brandished her wallet, flashing it to him with a less than friendly look. The message was clear, and he nodded.

She was no tourist. But she was honest.

He turned the car back into traffic, and she settled back into her seat to look at her sister. Farilis had her face plastered to the glass, staring up at the skyscrapers as they passed each block. Statues and relics were on every corner, and it was apparent how much her sister admired them.

‘Civilizations built on civilizations’ was how their father had explained Nevarra City when they were children. He had told them that deep below their feet, crypts expanded all over, and that the dead were buried upon each other. Whether or not he was telling the truth was a matter of debate, yet it still seemed to spurn curiosity all these years later.

Sa’lyn whipped out her phone, turning on the screen and thumbing through her new messages. Agents reporting in through encoded channels, the latest news on who was suspected of killing Galoys - it was interesting to read their perspective, but it also served as a warning if they got too close.

She skimmed the agent reports. The one she had shadowing Caluphra had yet to respond, which was unusual considering that she had sent word she was moving in on the target that Thursday. It was entirely possible that they had either been compromised, or simply unable to respond thus far.

She closed out of the messages, watching the colors of cars flash by.

It didn’t matter if he responded, she would still end up with what she came for. But having his recent intel would prove invaluable - especially considering she still had no idea if Caluphra thought herself to be as large of a target that she truly was.

It was a risk. Everything about this was a risk - even showing her face in the broad of daylight was a factor. To her knowledge, no one knew who she was other than a traveling Dalish woman - be it for clan business or striking out on her own. They did their double takes, they all did, but the point was that she was not an ordinary human that blended in.

She stood out in her plain form. Whether she liked it or not, it was a part of who she was. She looked dangerous and standoffish. An unfortunate predicament, but if she kept her head low and unassuming--

“Sa’lyn?”

She whipped her head to look at Farilis, who had since looked back at her with curious but excited eyes.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Sorry - Zoned out,” she offered her a friendly smile, cocking her head. “What was it?”

“I asked if we could go to the Grand Necropolis today or tomorrow. It’s the first thing I want to see, considering it’s the central and most important place for the Mortalitasi in Nevarran history--” Farilis looked in awe and slightly breathless, her intelligence blatantly clear. “Ma’lin, do you think they would give tours of the crypts themselves?”

She regarded her sister with an amused look, holding off on her response. The absolute look of adoration on her sister’s face was well worth the consideration that perhaps she find the loophole that would permit such an expedition.

It wasn’t as if she would spend the entire trip chasing after corrupt politicians.

“How about tomorrow? And who knows,” Sa’lyn winked, nudging her sister with her shoulder. “Maybe they’re giving tours, it doesn’t hurt to ask, right?”

The taxi came to a screeching halt at the corner of Second and Aurelian as she requested. Farilis got out of the car with no hesitations, gripping her own travel bag with a look of wonder.

Sa’lyn softened at the look. Maybe she fit the stereotype for overprotective twin sister too well, but it was the honest truth. And it was all too apparent Farilis had warmed up to the idea of visiting Nevarra after all.

The driver cleared his throat, and she whipped her head to regard him with narrowed eyes. His look at her was even, the incessant finger tapping on the mileage counter on his dash.

She took out the rounded up amount, thrusting it forward for him to take. She didn’t break eye contact from him, her voice quiet. “Keep the change.”

There was a nod as he grasped the money, and she exited the cab on her own. Farilis had moved to the sidewalk, every fidget and twitch from the fact she was standing in the center of a historical city filled with undiscovered potential for her. It was rather endearing.

Sa’lyn looked up the building nestled on the corner - a skyscraper of a hotel stood out in glass and adornments of gold. Expensive to even look at for ordinary people, but Sa’lyn was anything but ordinary.

It clearly caught Farilis by surprise, her wide eyes going even wider.

“How expensive is this trip, ma’lin?”

Sa’lyn didn’t reply, opting to grin and simply walk into the hotel through the revolving doors. She had spared no expense on their hotel; assassinations were stressful and had to be planned with the utmost care. If she didn’t sleep well enough, it would throw her out of her focus. If she couldn’t think in the critical hours before making her move, it could result in serious consequences. She had seen it - and done it before.

She had earned the luxury of sleeping on a king sized bed for once.

A short pitstop by the front desk had earned her keys and room number. Farilis was practically chatting her ear off with a bounce in her step, gushing at every moment’s notice.

“We can also go see if they have any demonstrations of embalming-- oh, that would be incredible to witness. I wonder if they even practice it anymore--”, Farilis gestured her excitement, tugging on her sister’s shirt as she used to as a child to get her attention. “When you’re done working, we have to go see the National Museum. Maybe, maybe they’ll have an actually embalmed corpse on display! Ma’lin, surely we’ll have time?”

She could see the pleading look in her sister’s eyes, and it made her feel soft.

“We’ll have time.” Sa’lyn smiled, but it was half-hearted. After taking out her target, it would be a matter of time before they released the hounds chasing after every suspect in the city. If they went out in disguise, it would very well buy them more time.

But she would always be concerned for her sister before anything else.

When they got to the room, Sa’lyn slid the keycard in the door lock and it flashed her a green light. She turned the doorknob and stepped in, flicking on the lights.

It was incredibly spacious with two sizeable beds, a small kitchen, closet, and bathroom. She had seen bigger and better, but this was the perfect size for her and Farilis - especially considering it was only for their short time in the city. They had no plans to stay any longer than they intended. If they had to - there were smaller places off the radar they could go to as well.

Farilis stepped past her and dropped her bag on the bed closest to the window, throwing open the window blinds to let in the sunlight. The Grand Necropolis was in their grand view, and Sa’lyn had to admit it looked pretty neat. She was never one for history like Farilis was, but she could appreciate a sight.

Sa’lyn put her own baggage on the bed, whipping out her phone and clicking into her text messages to text the one and only Naelis Mahariel that she was ready to receive her tools by texting her a short and simple greeting. Then it was only a matter of time before she pulled through, and some shady figure would knock on the door and pass off a dufflebag full of very, very illegal weapons.

She shot her the address, and she received no response - not unusual considering Naelis was the type of person to leave others on ‘read’.

Sa’lyn closed out of the texting app and opened up her encrypted channels again. It wasn’t wrong to be anxious over an agent. While she was an assassin with a thin network spread out over most of Modern Thedas, she genuinely cared for her people. They worked for her with unwavering loyalty, and their abilities were commendable. If they died while on a job, she would do everything in her power to avenge them and provide some sort of solace for their family - anonymously of course.

And to think that the Dalish boy she had entrusted with such a task to be compromised - or worse, to have betrayed her--

She dispelled the thoughts by shaking her head. It would do her no good to dwell on such things.

She shot another message to him, prompting him for a response. It would be done.

Farilis was engrossed with the sights of Nevarra with the way she stared out at the city, snapping pictures and typing away at her own phone - be it texting clanmates or friends about the sights, she wasn’t sure, but there was an innocence to her curiosity.

It seemed like close to an hour before there was a sharp knocking on the door, and she could almost hear Farilis jump from being surprised. She leapt off the bed and strode to the door, tucking away her phone and preparing to either greet or send away the visitor.

She cracked it, and a glance through the way noted a rather inconspicuous man. His thin hair was pulled back into a bun with a few strands hanging over his ears. He was dressed plainly, and Sa’lyn furrowed her eyebrows in trying to judge who this was.

“I didn’t order room service.”

“Our ‘mutual friend’ sent me.” He looked annoyed by the insinuation, and she saw the bag down by his side. It clicked, and she opened the door to let him in.

The man stepped inside in such away Sa’lyn thought he would promptly turn around and walk away, but he watched her carefully.

“My bag, please.” She extended her hand, offering a courteous smile. “Mister…?”

“Nathaniel. I know who you are already.” He looked over her face and glanced across the room to Farilis who was staring at them just as intensely. “Naelis told me what I needed to know.”

“And that is?”

“To give you your bag and act as if I didn’t see anything.”

“Naelis was always a smart one.” She laughed briefly, and the weight of the bag fell into her hand as Nathaniel passed it over to her.

“I owe her my life, and if it means running menial errands for a former Warden-Commander - so be it.” There was a satisfied look on his face as if he was reassuring himself of his mission statement. Grey Wardens abided by a somewhat skewed sense of honor; Sa’lyn assumed it was from their trial-by-fire ways of life. “I’ll let her know that I’ve delivered your ‘package’, if you would be so kind as to do the same.”

“Of course.” There was an honesty about him that let her feel relaxed, but it was just as much of a facade as anything else. He was a Grey Warden with his own agenda, just as a parallel to her own.

He nodded, and Sa’lyn showed him out without another word. No shaking of hands, no other greetings - he seemed nice, and she had no doubt that wouldn’t be the last time she saw him despite their obviously differing plans.

At least - so long as Naelis Mahariel continued to exist.

She locked the door and brought her duffle to the bed, patting down the duvet to count and make sure that all that she had packed survived the journey.

Farilis had gone quiet from her own side of the room when Nathaniel had entered, but she spoke up and moved closer to inspect the ‘package’.

“You’re getting ready now?”

She couldn’t help the brief flash of annoyance that rose up. It wasn’t intentional - it was more so an acceptance of what was bound to happen. Farilis would be left alone in the hotel room for hours with no contact from Sa’lyn. She would be left entirely in the dark while her sister’s fate was in a toss up of being caught, killed, or successful.

“I just want to make sure I’m ready for tonight, that’s all.” She unzipped the duffle, avoiding her sister’s look. “I want to see that I won’t have problems.”

There was no response. She resisted a sigh, turning her face up to look at Farilis’ increasingly worried look.

“Ma’lin, it will be fine.” She moved to squeeze her twin’s shoulder. “I’ll be home in enough time to get some sleep and then we can go to the Grand Necropolis - just how you want!”

She seemed unconvinced, but sighed with a small hang of her head. If Sa’lyn hadn’t budged before, there was no point now. “Alright.”

Sa’lyn let her hand run down her shoulder, giving her elbow a similar touch before moving back to the bag.

All of her ‘tools’ were there - three pistols and a much bigger scoped rifle. All magazines had been accounted for, as well as the very plain and simple clothes that would permit her to sneak in without drawing suspicion. Following that, was the lightweight but effective bulletproof chest piece she had received as a gift from a dwarf with an inkling for what she did.

She was well aware that she wouldn't be able to walk in and demand they hand over their boss. If they had stepped up security, it would take nothing short of a miracle to make sure that she slipped in and out, all the while trying not to get herself killed or her identity found out.

The light on the matte finish of her scoped gun grew hazy as she stared off into space. Before venturing out and completing her task, it wasn’t unusual for her to question ‘why’. Was it truly worth it to kill someone that would eventually die?

Then her thoughts would move to her sister, her clan, and all of the people shunned and done wrong by her targets. Would they give mercy to her? It was unlikely, and in the long run it would be better for her to strike first.

These people - these murderers, thieves, and betrayers would much rather have her dead than to sit down and accept her as an equal.

Sa’lyn cocked the gun with a fierce grip and a hard brow, noting the now loaded chamber with a brief glance down the sights. They deserved nothing other than a painful death, just as how Galoys did. Just like all of the others on the list - the ones who deserved to die.

Farilis flinched out of the corner of her eye at the sound, and a small inkling of regret fell on Sa’lyn. The pistol was set down, and she moved to embrace her sister with such ferocity as to convey her apology. Her twin held her just as tight, and there was an unsaid request about her.

“It’ll be over soon. I promise.”

Chapter Text

Recon without a second set of eyes was proving to be difficult, all things considered.

Sa’lyn stared at the camera feed that was playing back on the screens in the security hub of Calpuria’s building. It had been the same ordeal for the past hour and a half: people were standing rigid in front of her office, without a single patrol moving out on the floor. No one had gone in, and no one had gone out.

Her agent hadn’t contacted her at all. She left Farilis with a hopeful promise of being safe, despite the ever growing fear that the odds were against her.

She tapped her chin with her gloved hand, shifting her weight between both feet. Security guards lay dead in their chairs and on the floor as a necessity. If they were knocked out, it was a possibility that they could wake up before she was ready, and that was a mistake that wouldn’t be repeated twice.

No movement. No agent. She had limited time before someone would come wandering in, and if she bolted the door then the alarms would be raised.

She threw up her hood, sliding her face mask up to where the only thing unconcealed were her eyes for visibility. Other than that, she was particularly hard to identify.

A small twinkling noise from her phone caused her to jump, but she took it out and silenced it immediately.

It was from her agent. Finally, considering she needed all of the help she could get at this point. She clicked open the encrypted message without a second thought.

[ MA’HARA ABELAS DIRTHAMEN ]

Her heart sank. He was apologizing - but for his betrayal? What had he done? Was he warning her?

A short glance noted that no one moved from the room still. A chill ran up her spine as she tried to cycle through the cameras to see inside Calpuria’s room. It showed her long halls and empty corridors, but not a sight on the inside of the office.

Sa’lyn slammed her fist on the camera controls, gritting her teeth in frustration. There would never be a second chance for this - to get the job done without her knowing, and now it seemed that her target had the upper hand.

She stowed away her phone to take one of her guns from her thigh holster, cocking it and steeling herself. If she had to kill her agent to protect her secrets - so be it. But she had faith that he would hold his tongue yet, and let him only be captured. If she had mentored him well, he would die before he revealed his secrets - his loyalty would have him resist torture, for Dirthamen truly knew his life. Every little secret he would rather have hidden away was owned by her.

Another quick flick through the feeds showed that her only main opposition lay in front of the door to her office.

Too easy. And given her agent’s cryptic warning - a trap.

Her jaw clenched as she moved to the door. She was not foolish enough to walk in without a plan.

Calpuria had no idea that she was making her move tonight - that wasn’t even shared with her agent. The only soul that knew an attempted assassination on a political criminal was Farilis and she had no one to tell. That gave her the element of surprise, but even that could be countered if there were enough distractions.

Her target could escape, she could kill Sa’lyn, or do both. It was tricky, frustrating, and she wanted to do nothing more than go in with her guns blazing.

Yet, she reminded herself with a roll of her shoulders, she was Dirthamen. Not a senseless murderer.

She kept her head level as she exited the room, closing the door with every caution to minimize her noise. There was a click, but it wouldn’t be audible by guards near the office.

The second she let go of the door handle she raced down the hallways of the building. She forced herself to memorize the bare minimum of the building’s layout. It was mostly offices and hallways, but they wound up being a maze after she stared at them for too long.

Uncertainty caused her heart to race under her armor. Her thoughts cycled themselves; life, death, fight, kill, survive. Every damnable moment spent here brought her closer to either her own death or her target’s.

And at this moment, it looked closer to be her own. The odds would continue to be stacked against her unless she stopped wallowing in her paranoia and stepped into action.

Sa’lyn halted just before the corner that would have her rounding onto the straight way with the office at the end. She pressed herself against the wall, confiding in the small space for solace. Preparing herself for the worst to come.

Her prayer was wordless. Dirthamen, God of Secrets. Keep mine hidden from sight. Falon’din, God of Dead. Allow me to return home. Elgar’nan, God of Vengeance. Let them feel my wrath.

With an exhale, she flipped the safety off of her pistol and stepped from behind the wall. She kept her finger light on the trigger, knowing good and well that anything at the end of the barrel was worthy of death.

The guards regarded her with raising their own, indistinct shouts from their direction. Whether they were speaking plainly in the king’s tongue or Nevarran - she couldn’t tell. But they had spotted here and were now intent on stopping her.

They even seemed surprised.

She fired at the one on the left before they open on her first. Shy of a shot to the head, she hit him square in the chest.

The noise was sickening.

The sound of someone dying was never easily forgotten, but every time felt like the first time. Time slowed as she saw the impact settle on the man. His body crumpled. Whether or not the bullet went through him was another question entirely, but blood splattered the wall to the side from entry alone. The gun he had drawn clattered on the ground, and his friend turned to Sa’lyn in fury.

She held strong. He fired at her, finger on the trigger and spraying in her general direction.

She ducked and fired back at him, feeling a cold chill race up her spine at feeling the bullets zip by her at a speed faster than one she could react to.

None of her shots hit, and she raced towards him, closing the gap between them.

He hit her in the chest, and she felt the wind rush from her lungs at the impact into her protective cover. Adrenaline kept her from buckling, and she forced the butt of the gun into his face with a harsh crack. It felt like hours as they wrestled for some sort of control, the other pummeling and punching for victory and out of resistance. She could feel his fist slam into her side, and she shoved and fought her gun into the space between them with a hiss. Then she pulled the trigger.

The kick from her gun put distance between them. The man clutched the now-gaping wound in his side. His eyes were wide as he muttered something unintelligible, and he stumbled into the wall and fell to the floor with a dull thud.

Sa’lyn stood over the man. She could feel her nerves on fire, blood coursing through her veins with the wildfire of fight. She crushed her boot into his wound, watching the man squirm in agony. She leaned down, close to his face where she could see his pupils dilating. He was not long for this world.

“Has Calpuria a Dalish boy in her custody?” She kept her gun close to his head, voice soft as she witnessed his eyes darting back and forth. “Tell me, and I will spare you the agony of a slow death.”

Blood pooled at the man’s lips as his breath faltered. “M-M…”

“Nod if you have to.”

The man shrugged, tilting his head up slightly.

“Is she with him in the next room?”

Another attempted nod. She hardened her brow slightly.

“I see.”

She stood back up. Without waiting another moment, she pointed the gun to the man’s head and fired. Flecks of blood splattered the area, and she wiped her gun clean on her pant leg.

She was a woman of her own word.

There was a moment of stillness as she stared at the door. They would know she was here, that much was obvious. Whether or not they would come charging through the door with the intent to kill her was a question that loomed in the air, and was one that she had no intentions of dwelling on.

She unloaded the magazine from her pistol, giving it a quick once-over. However many people were in the next room, she had more than enough bullets to at least finish off Calpuria - and her agent if need be.

Sa’lyn rolled her shoulders back, doing her best to ignore the burning ache in her chest from the bullet’s impact into her protective plating. She was breathing hard but not as hard as she could be, every ounce of devotion to completing her job pulsing in her veins in time with her hammering heart.

The door loomed before her. Her time for prayers had come and gone, and it was up to her to complete the plans set before her.

With a deft hand she reloaded her pistol and pushed forwards, opening the door with one hand as the other gripped her pistol for dear life. She led with the gun, and kept her finger light on the trigger.

She wasn’t surprised to see the sneer of the Nevarran woman in the room. Her eyes were like small, ugly jewels that flashed in the cameras of news outlets, but in the light of her office Sa’lyn could see them for what they really were.

Calpuria was accompanied by two guards - both very much armed - with one of the two standing just off of her side. Her eyes darted between them, lingering on the one that stood away.

In his grasp was her agent. If he had cried, there was no sign of it from his thousand yard stare into the floor. He looked physically unharmed, but Sa’lyn knew it would only be skin deep. And whether or not he had divulged her secrets would be something to figure out, but not if she was killed first.

“So. The infamous ’Dirthamen’.” The name seemed to leave a sour taste in Calpuria’s mouth with the way her face contorted into a sneer. “I can only assume why you’ve come here, uninvited. Or was another lackey sent to ‘scout’ me?”

She took a deep breath. An insult, but not one to take personally. In, and out. Her eyes trained themselves on her guards, trying to calculate how to get herself out unscathed.

“My arrival must not come as a surprise to you.” She finished coming into the room, still brandishing her gun as an obvious threat. “You see what happens to those who do what you do.”

“Making a profit by any means necessary is the way the world works, you must know that by now,” her voice was riddled with contempt, every word laced with poison. “Or did I miss the memo that Dirthamen was above such things, and only kills people like the evil Moitesser with differing views on elves?”

“He deserved to die, just as you do.”

“So bold. So fearless.” The sarcasm was not lost on Sa’lyn. Her eyes were trained on her concealed face, and she didn’t shy away from her stare. “You’re a foolhardy enough to play games, but those are for children.”

She braced herself for any actions against her, but it was for naught. Calpuria signaled the guard holding her agent, and in a flash he had pointed a cocked gun to the temple of his head. It shook the Dalish back into the world of the living, and in his face she could see panic and fear as he looked to her.

“Make your choice.”

She met the look of her agent. Afraid, but she didn’t exactly blame him.

She was the one that put him in this position. She ordered him to shadow Calpuria, watching her every step.

Yet he did her bidding willingly - and all of her pawns knew what the worst would entail. It was the warning before she welcomed the destitute and desperate into the fold - that they would receive protection on themselves and loved ones, in return for their servitude.

“Release him, and I might spare you.”

She laughed - cold, cruel, and uncaring. It was a mistake. “Spare me? You’re lucky I’m considering sparing you.”

It was a gesture, and there was a dreaded click from her bodyguard. Her heart skipped a beat at the implication. Yet she held strong, chin high and hand steady.

“Last chance.”

She locked eyes with Calpuria, looking to catch her bluff. When neither of them forfeited, Calpuria raised her hand and flicked it just briefly in permission.

It was an echoing crack, and Sa’lyn could feel the blood splatter onto her cheek. What was a skipped beat of her heart turned into a thud that jumped into her throat - from both disgust and rage.

Sa’lyn had few thoughts. Her priorities dropped down one. She killed him. Calpuria killed her agent. It narrowed down her escape route and prolonged her losses.

Her emotions controlled her hand. She fired straight at Calpuria - resulting in a confirming screech that she was hit. Her guards responded without order, firing directly at Sa’lyn. She could feel the impact of a bullet hitting her chest, but she responded without a second thought. She charged at the closest one - the one that had killed her own agent - tackling him into the chest and knocking him off balance. It would cause the other guard to hesitate for fear of hitting his own ally.

She smashed the butt of her pistol repeatedly, not stopping as the blood splattered onto her face and armoring. She couldn’t see for the blind rage, and she fired a bullet into his skull with the intent on inflicting more pain on the others.

She whipped around to see the other guard advancing on her, and she felled him with a third bullet from her gun. He caught himself on Calpuria’s desk, dropping his pistol and stumbling from the impact.

There was no doubt in her mind that she looked exactly how humans pictured Dalish back when they still roamed Thedas. Bloodied, cruel, and murderous.

But she was not without her reason.

She armed herself once more, standing from the body of the guard and stalking over to where she last heard Calpuria. The woman was crawling on the ground, clutching an open wound that was pouring blood and staining the carpet red.

“You’re a bitch.” Blood dribbled from her mouth, and her hazy eyes focused in on her face. “A knife-ear that’ll… lose more than your agents…”

There was no mercy in her heart - it had since been gone long ago. She kicked at Calpuria’s head, feeling the satisfying crunch of her skull into her boot. She relished in the idea of prolonging this woman’s pain, but stopped short from satisfying her vengeance.

She crouched down to her and grabbed a fistful of her hair, raising her mangled face up.

“I may be a bitch,” her voice was soft. “But I’m the bitch that killed you.”

Sa’lyn dropped her. She put a bullet into the back of her skull.

She didn’t notice she was shaking at first. Her endeavors were never this close-combative, but there was a reason she trained for situations like these.

She wanted to go to her agent’s body as one of the people; apologize to his shell of a self and beg for forgiveness, pray to the gods to receive him with open arms, and ask that he be delivered as a hero and not as a deceiver.

But it would be futile, and she would mourn him when she herself was free - after she had collected her information and moved on and away from this crime scene.

Calpuria’s desk was tidy compared to the rest of the room - papers covered the desk and the screen was surrounded by sticky notes, quite the contrast from the normally tidy and punctual woman she had been described as. Sa’lyn jumped into her seat and shook the mouse to turn it on - every second spent here wasting time was a second closer to her discovery, and she had spent too much time fighting.

Everything she needed to know about this woman was right here. Simply scrolling through the various documents had trading profiles - both legal and illegal. Places she had been. People she had talked to. People she had traded in her traffic rings.

Connections. Secrets.

She looked to her agent’s body. It had been worth it.

She plugged in a USB device and immediately started copying all of the ones she could. She scrolled through a few to get an idea of what she was looking at - most were second rate politicians, which didn’t come as a surprise to her.

But what did surprise her was Moitesser’s name in a memo dating back several months ago, far before she herself had made any plans to assassinate him. It didn’t surprise her that they knew each other - everyone knew one another somehow - but listed under his name was the term ‘Venatori’.

Venatori. That didn’t sound familiar - nothing like anything south of the Free Marches.

Her brow hardened. What did he have to do with anything other than being an enemy of her’s?

Sa’lyn made a mental note to ask Iron Bull later. That Qunari was a book of secrets within himself, and he ought to have heard of this supposed ‘Venatori’.

Seconds ticked by. They wore on her nerves as she watched every single document copy over to her own storage device one by one. Her eyes darted to the window, and she watched the city lights flicker on and on.

No sirens. But the first responders could be on their way.

It jingled at completion, and she wasted no time ripping it from her computer and making a beeline for the exit, stuffing the USB into a side pocket at her side. She avoided the bodies for fear of leaving bloodied footprints; it was imperative she leave no trail, especially considering Farilis was the one waiting for her at the hotel.

She found the roof hatch, climbing upwards and forcing the lock. It was chilly out with a soft breeze - but not anything like Ferelden.

Wailing was at the edge of her hearing, and growing closer.

She moved to the end of the building’s roof to peer over, several flights below. There were a few cars with their lights turned off parked on the street, and people milling around at the bottom. Police, no doubt, but she couldn’t hear their voices through the night.

Sa’lyn backed up, looking at any of the neighbouring buildings for release. There was one within jumping distance, and she readied herself with a deep breath to push out the aching of the evening. She had no fear of heights, for she feared much more than falling.

Without a doubt of hesitation she took off, leaping across the gap and catching her footing on the other side. She couldn’t help a glance back to the other roof - empty, and with no sign she had been there.

She looked to the next roof and then on, watching the life of the city live and breathe on without the realization that she had done anything. For all they knew, she was another face in the crowd after tonight. Not a wanted woman, an assassin.

Sa’lyn edged towards the roof of the second building, leaping over to a third and fourth. By the fifth, she was far enough away to where she found the fire escape and shot off into the night, returning to the safe harbour of the hotel and her sister’s worrying stature with the intent on living another day.

Chapter Text

Cullen wasn’t in his office when the news came in about Calpuria. He was barely asleep in his bed, tucked in with Solona when his phone flared to life with an angry buzzing.

He had grabbed it with letting the caller know that the hours they were trying to reach him at would have to be when the sun was up, but as soon as he opened his mouth to let them know of their rude manners, he heard Cassandra’s voice.

“Dirthamen again.”

It woke him up faster than being dunked into a bucket of ice water.

“Cassandra, what in the--”

“They just called it in - from Nevarra.”

He rubbed his eyes and Solona shifted away as a means to escape the noise and light of his phone.

“You’re not serious.”

“There is proof, Cullen.”

“Couldn’t this have waited until,” he broke off into a half yawn,” -I was in the office?”

“It’s more complicated than that.” He could almost envision her tight brow and even tighter posture.

“... How complicated?”

“Several dead. Five humans, one elf. We...”, she sighed, the static over the phone harsh. “It is evidence you have to read over - it does us no good to simply talk about it.”

He mulled over the implication through his sleepy haze. From what he had read previously about Dirthamen, the assassinations were very singular with no other victims - let alone an elf.

It was a distinct trait of them. No witnesses, and no elves. But now there was a deviation.

“We can talk about it at the office tomorrow.” He ran a hand through his wildly curly hair, trying to avoid overthinking what was now another piece to the puzzle. “With photos, I hope?”

“Yes.” She didn’t sound offended, but the annoyance of another death was palpable. “I will have them first thing in the morning.”

“Till then.”

She hung up without another word, and Cullen couldn't help but fall back into the pillows of the shared bed. A short glance to Solona confirmed that she was back to sleep facing away from him, and he stared at her shadowed figure.

Another one dead. He was used to the implication by now between his years as a Templar and the unfortunate dinner party, but it always had a distinctly unsettling feeling. The fact that someone was murdering people for a political reason wasn’t outlandish, but this ‘Dirthamen’ was obviously out for some sort of reckoning.

The dossier that had been pieced together came to mind. Even with the Kirkwall “incident”, it was a different breed of crazy compared to outright politicide. It wasn’t a fully concealed incident, especially with the Chantry audits and eventual intervention. But this assassin, this “Dirthamen” acted in secret and seemed to strike with a consistent theme - destroy those that hindered elves.

Considering Galoys and the Antivan had done something to instigate the wrath of this assassin, it was a matter of time until whatever they had done came to light - it was entirely possible it was already bleeding out onto the internet and set to be the first thing on the newsreels in the morning.

Solona twisted against him, burying herself into his side with a long arm draping across his chest. It was a fluttering feeling as he watched her face like a childish crush that bled into love.

He did love her though. Enough to deal with his future mother-in-law’s badgering about how the ring looked, what size gems it would have in it, which ones Solona liked. She was a woman tolerated in small doses, and it was very clear that she was related to his girlfriend.

Cullen set his phone on the nightstand and settled in with her, pushing away the challenge of work to be with her. It would come soon enough in a tide of light and alarms.

When he got to his office the next morning, it was a buzz of phone calls and Cassandra barking orders left and right. It was as if an inquisition had come and taken the place of their small, hole in the wall investigation bureau overnight.

“Cassandra - what’s going on?” He had to press himself against the wall with all the people moving to and from. Her dark eyes focused in on him, and he was dragged into her office with no hesitations.

“Remember the ‘complicated’ I mentioned?” Her voice sounded strained, moving over to her computer in a hurry. She looked ragged from a lack of sleep.

“Yes, barely.”

He followed to the side of her desk. Dozens of webpages were open - hotlines, emails, and biographies were minimized, with one video feed left on it.

“Maker’s Breath,” felt like an understatement.

“All these people.” She jabbed at the screen. “Look at them, who did this?”

He didn’t want to look, but he couldn’t stop. On her computer was a very pixelated video of several dozens of people - humans, elves, dwarves, and qunari - restrained. Their faces looked haunted, eyes glinting off of a light from the camera. Some looked like they had only just been captured, others looking to have spent a lifetime in that place. There were beatings. If there was audio, he could only imagine the screaming.

Like Kinloch. His breath rushed from his lungs and his stomach twisted like a rope that was knotted and pulled taut. It cracked at the edge of his mind, of memories he had done so much to repress. Screaming, crying, and praying to the Maker to end the torture and pain.

The video looped over, and Cassandra paused it when the beatings were to start again. Now he knew why she stressed the urgency.

“Where did you find this?” His voice was quiet as he looked elsewhere in the room, away from the video staring at him. The fact it existed had his nerves on edge.

“It was recovered from Johia Calpuria’s computer - “ he had heard of her, a Nevarran politician. “We’re searching for the people now. But we don’t know who they are, how old the video is-”

“If they’re still alive.”

Her silence was a reply enough.

“Is it Dirthamen’s video? Or Calpuria’s?”

“I don’t know. She was the believed target of the six.”

Someone knocked on the door and opened it in the same moment, the noise of the office flooding in. Alistair made his way through, followed closely by a redheaded woman. As the door closed, the dull roar was silenced. The milling around and chaos was a world away from his mind, but he sucked in a tight breath from gritted teeth.

“Cassandra - sorry the lateness,” Alistair’s voice was serious, but he dipped his head in an apology. “We got pulled for a few questions--”

“You understand, no?” Her Orlesian accent was enough to have caught him off guard, if she hadn’t already.

“Leliana.” Cassandra’s tension seemed to fade at the sight of the woman. “I am glad you are here now.”

There was a dip of her head, and her bright blue eyes regarded Cullen with several questions.

“You must be Investigator Rutherford.”

“Please, Cullen is fine.” He extended a hand, and she took it with a firm grasp. “And you are…?”

“Leliana. You seem very familiar.”

He silently willed her curiosity would die off, but it was wishful thinking.

“I recruited Cullen after Kirkwall.”

“Ah, that’s it!”

He grit his teeth, the images from the video resurfacing in his mind. It was idle chatter. Unnecessary.

His change in posture seemed to be detected by Leliana with the way she snapped her attentions to Cassandra.

“Where’s the video?”

“Here.”

They crowded around the computer again, Cullen hanging off towards the edge. He didn’t want to see it again, but for whatever reason it seemed that they had to play over the abuses of people. He felt like he was going to vomit.

Leliana honed in on it, pausing the video several times to look at the faces of the people as if she was looking for one in particular.

“Well?” Cassandra seemed to want immediate answers.

“It looks like…” She paused and unpaused the video, leaning in close. “A crypt? Possibly used by smugglers.” She pointed to some extraneous detail that was lost on them.

“Does that say where they are?”

“It gives me an idea.” She stood up, pulling out her phone and shooting off texts rapidly. “Justinia has crisis teams on the standby for support.”

“... Divine Justinia?”

Leliana gave him a simple look, but he was more dumbfounded by her.

“Of course - she cares we find these poor souls just as much as we do.”

He shut his mouth as she moved to leave the room. He should have been surprised, but wasn’t. Whoever this woman was, she seemed to be running her own show from her phone. It was entirely possible that the crowds in their small offices was her and the Divine’s doing.

Leliana looked at them once more when she was halfway out the door with a courteous smile.

“I’ll be in touch, Cassandra.”

She disappeared, and the door closed with a click.

“Gotta love Leliana.” Alistair shrugged slightly. “She hasn’t changed - much.”

“You know her?” It was a tentative question.

“Yea, back when I was a Warden.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “We were closer then, but she’s always had a foot in with the Chantry.”

“As it would seem -” Cassandra seemed intent on reeling the conversation back in. “Divine Justinia is intending to have a press conference today about this incident.”

That caused Cullen to pause.

“What about the investigation? Is an assassin suddenly off the hook for killing a human trafficker?”

There was a wary look about her, as if her exhaustion was causing her to gauge an answer carefully.

“There were no heroics last night except for the responders.” She pulled the documents back up from where they had been minimized. “Whether or not this was Dirthamen’s video, they have still killed and may very well kill again.”

A few clicks on the screen brought up a still from the security cameras by the ultimate lack of quality. A hooded, shady figure was hovering over two guards in front of a door, surrounded by blood and armed with a gun - pistol based off of its’ smaller size.

“Is that--”

“This is the only camera that got them. There was no camera in Calpuria’s office.”

Cullen took in the picture. He couldn’t see much of the master assassin from behind, and it was hard to gauge their size next to bodies laying on the ground. They were cloaked in black, and it seemed they had additional weapons strung on their back. A long rifle, and another pistol if he squinted hard enough.

“They say Dirthamen’s a Dalish god,” Alistair piped up out of nowhere. “Supposedly he’s the god of secrets, master of fear and deceit.”

Cullen and Cassandra both regarded him with a bewildered stare at his trivia, and the man’s face blushed slightly.

“My fiancee’s Dalish.”

“I didn’t know you were engaged,” Cullen smiled a bit, the tone of the room shifting slightly. “Congratulations.”

“We’ve been engaged for years, I wouldn’t worry about it.” He grinned a bit at the mention. “Always putting it off for work.”

Cullen blanked. He knew Alistair wasn’t single, but he had never grilled his friend with his personal life. It was simply work, home, sleep. The fact he had been engaged was news enough - after catching up with him post-Kirkwall it was a matter of what should he ask, considering they had years to catch up on with Alistair with the Wardens and he himself with the Templars.

“Dirthamen picked a fitting name.” Cassandra nodded with the change in subject. “Rutherford, I’ll forward the photos and videos to you. See if we missed anything.”

He gave a returning nod, resisting the militaristic urge to salute at such a command. Cullen and Alistair left Cassandra in the silence of her office, and the two of them made a beeline for their shared office.

“Since when did you get engaged?”

“Oh, after I left the Wardens.” There was a casual shrug from Alistair, but the topic seemed to put a spring in his step. “She insisted before either of us got killed, and we left-” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”

He seemed to contemplate the answer as he stopped at his desk, taking out a pad of paper and a pen. “And she’s Dalish?”

“To the very end.” Alistair kicked back in his chair, propping his feet up on his desk as he pointed a well chewed pencil to his partner. “You two are a lot alike. Always frowning, ‘til I tell you to smile.”

Cullen scowled, and the knowingly smug look from Alistair seemed to confirm it.

“So, Dirthamen is a Dalish god.”

“Yep.”

He wrote the detail down on his pad, feeling his phone vibrate angrily in his pocket. He took it out, clicking on the email that had been forwarded to him by the ever hasty Cassandra.

He wanted to whistle at the sheer amount, but he was held in stunned silence. Hundreds of photos - far more than Galoys’ murder - were listed on his screen. Bullet casings, dead bodies, and blood. This was the brutality of death, as he had seen it before. Dirthamen seemed to breathe it.

“Cullen?”

He snapped his eyes away from his phone, looking at his friend evenly.

“You okay?”

He didn’t say anything, moving over to him instead to hand him his phone. Alistair took it without any questions.

“Damn.”

Cullen couldn’t help but grunt at Alistair’s accurate observation of the photos. He could see the man’s expression change with each image, but he seemed to steel himself towards them.

His phone buzzed in Alistair’s hands, and he passed back his phone with no protest. “I hope you like long and drawn out cases.”

He couldn’t help a snort as he opened up the second email, fully expecting it to be a follow up from Cassandra. He didn’t bother to look at the sender, but his heart seemed to jump to his chest when his eyes darted through the words.

No word-...-thought you were dead again-...-worried sick…

The email was from a ‘mia.rutherford’, and his stomach clenched.

He had meant to write to her about him moving back to Ferelden, but it was apparent that he was not timely enough. Now she was chewing him out, and would continue to do so if he didn’t respond.

He starred the email and clicked away. He would respond tonight.

Alistair’s voice interrupted his train of thought. “Hey Rutherford, wanna go out for lunch? You’ve got a mobile device - that means you can get away from here.”

He couldn’t blame him for wanting to get out of the office, although food wasn’t the first thing on his mind.

“Sure.”

He let his partner lead the way, himself following half-heartedly. Between his sister’s mildly accusatory email and the rather traumatic video, he wondered how on Thedas he was going to begin finding Dirthamen. Whoever they were - man, woman, elf, human - it was exceedingly difficult to get a read on someone who was completely cloaked and inconspicuous. If the forensics labs turned up anything out of the way, it was possible they could have a lead on finding out the physical makeup of this assassin, but it was a longshot.

Alistair, however, was in all sorts of bright spirits.

“You’re still not mad about the other night, right?” He laughed a bit to himself. “Maker - you about fell out of your chair when Iron Bull started to dig in with the jokes.”

“I don’t remember that.” Cullen furrowed his brows. “Who’s Iron Bull?”

“Possibly the biggest Qunari I’ve ever seen - and I’ve seen Qunari.” He made a horn gesture with his fingers. “Can’t miss him. Usually gets caught on doorways.”

“Ah. I vaguely remember him then.”

“See?” Alistair nudged him with his elbow, and Cullen rolled his eyes. He couldn’t help a small smile. “You liked Bull’s place! I swear it.”

“Yes, well, unless you can predict when Hawke is going to be there - I’ll pass for a while.”

His partner snorted, and they continued down the street at their own pace. It wasn’t overly crowded, but cars still packed the roads and they came shoulder to shoulder with several people.

“Where are we going for lunch anyways?” He furrowed his eyebrows. It was too early to drink, and getting absolutely wasted with him trying to piece parts of this case would be both a mistake and an embarrassment.

“My place - I’ve got plenty of food and forgot some stuff this morning.”

That made sense - although Cullen wanted to sigh a bit at his lack of organization skills.

He had never seen his friend’s apartment. Alistair’s was only a few blocks away from the investigations bureau - far closer than is own was. He hated to think how much the rent was, considering it was right in the middle of the city and it looked roomy from the outside.

They went up two flights of stairs when Alistair took a left and stopped right at one of the doors. He messed with his keys, pulling free a silver one with a decorative rubber grip at the top. He couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at it, but Alistair seemed to not notice.

His partner went in first to his own apartment, himself following close behind.

“I think Naelis is still here. Hm.”

He could only assume that was his fiancée. There was the sound of claws scraping on the wood flooring of the apartment, and he had half the mind to take cover when a well lathered Mabari came racing around a corner.

“Barkspawn!”

Alistair was pushed onto the ground by the soaking dog, his laughter being drowned out by the panting and barking from him.

Someone yelled through the apartment, and the sound of feet stomping rang out on the floors behind the dog. “Alistair, I swear on all the Creators and Forgotten Ones, if that is you out there--”

The Mabari - Barkspawn - leapt off of Alistair and hid with its’ nub of a tail tucked behind the couch. They were always ferociously smart, and it seemed that this was the call sign for bathtime.

From one of the hallways came a woman. She was short for an elf, and she looked incredibly soaked from what was probably the Mabari’s great bathtub escape.

She noticed Cullen first, and he had to admit her brow had a permanent crease in it. When Alistair stood up, it was still there, but her frown had softened.

“You brought someone?”

“Yea, for lunch. Although I didn’t mean to interrupt bath time.”

“No, no - it’s okay. You know how he is.” The woman - Naelis he assumed - came forward and extended a hand. “Naelis Mahariel. Former Warden-Commander. Current Mabari Bather.”

That surprised him. She was the fabled and honored Hero of Ferelden - someone he did not expect to be getting married to Alistair any time soon. He shook her hand. “It’s… an honor. Cullen Rutherford, I work with Alistair.”

She stared at him hard, as if gauging him and looking for any doubts to his truth.

“Have we met before?”

“Possibly. I knew Alistair before I began to train as a Templar.”

She said nothing more than an awkward nod, stalking after the Mabari who had since tried to go into one of the bedrooms.

Alistair beckoned him to the kitchen, and he followed. His friend was breaking out a few beers, followed by some chips. “Here, I’m gonna get a towel real quick and help her get him.”

He sat down at the table with his beer and a bag, pulling out his phone and flicking through the images of the assassin once more. The stills were rather low quality, but how hard would it be to look through the other cameras to see if another image of them had been gotten? He couldn’t even tell if their face was covered up and masked, but he could only assume so.

It was a short while before Alistair and Naelis returned to the kitchen with a dry Barkspawn in tow. The Mabari sniffed Cullen before putting his head on his lap, and he scratched the dog behind his ears. He set his phone down on the table and went behind both of them carefully.

“He likes you.”

“I should hope so.” The dog’s pink tongue rolled out of his mouth in a pant. “I’d like a mabari, but Solona detests dogs.”

Naelis sat at the table across from Cullen, seeming to watch him closely. The dog chuffed and went to sit beside Alistair, who had begun to make sandwiches by the lunch meat and bread.

He saw her eyes flick to his phone screen, and her mouth turned into a frown once more.

“Who is that?” Her question was simple, but it was almost invasive given the sensitive nature of the case.

“That’s--” He tried to figure out how to word it properly. “An assassin. Goes by Dirthamen.”

“Dirthamen is the Elven god of Secrets,” she responded automatically. “He vyed to go to his brother in the Beyond, and bode Fear and Deceit to take him there. Now he resides with Falon’din.”

“So I was right!” Alistair did a triumphant jig, nearly losing a piece of bread to Barkspawn.

“Why would an assassin call themselves that?” He leaned into the table, sliding his phone forwards.

Naelis shrugged slightly. “Dunno. Could be a human trying to imitate us - it’s happened before. Could be a Dalish who aspires to be like Dirthamen himself. I don’t deal with assassins.”

“Well…”

“That was years ago, ma’arlath*.”

“Do Dalish even have assassins?”

Naelis looked slightly offended at the question, but her look disappeared as quickly as it appeared. “Yes, although we used to call them the ones who walked Vir’Banalras - the way of shadows. It’s supposedly a path of vengeance and retribution.”

She shrugged, continuing. “It’s a legend though.”

He leaned back into his chair. “That’s more help than I’ve gotten in weeks since I got this case.”

She nodded slightly, seeming to regard what he said.

Alistair placed the sandwiches on the spots in front of them, a grin at the ready. “Who’s hungry?”

Chapter Text

“So that’s a no then.”

“I didn’t say it was a no, Boss,” Iron Bull eyed Sa’lyn, who was sitting at his empty bar. “Just why?”

She spun the bar stool, taking out her phone. “Let me show you.”

Iron Bull was her typical go-to for information outside of the south. Zevran was a close second, but she mostly called upon him if she needed assistance with a kill or reconnaissance.

“The documents I got from Calpuria, Galoys - said he was a part of something called ‘Venatori’.”

She pulled up one of the documents for Bull to read, placing the device on his bar top.

His bar was still closed. His team of “Chargers” was setting up for later in the evening, with the Qunari at the head of the pack. Since she was both a friend and a partner of sorts, she was welcome in on the off hours to discuss real life and the life they shared in the underworld. His crew was out for an early lunch, leaving her and Bull alone.

He leaned in for a second to read over some words, pulling back shortly.

“Tevinter fanatics.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Really?”

“Yea.” He didn’t seem too pleased. “Want to control the South and bring back their batshit crazy with them. There’s nothing good about them, ‘Lyn.”

She had a lot of questions, but every one she seemed to start to ask split into another. She had no doubt she looked like a gaping fish before she shut her maw.

“I need a shot of something to wash that down.” She had a weak grin, but there was little humor in it.

Bull obliged her with a clean shot glass and something from the top shelf. She threw back the mystery alcohol with no hesitations. It burned her throat and rested warm in her stomach.

“Fenedhis.”

“You said it.”

“Have you had run-ins with them before? Who’s their leader?”

He shrugged. “Back in the Qun, yea. Who runs them? No clue. I think it’d be someone who’s crazy enough to try and control the South, but that’s a no shit answer.”

She swung her legs on the stool, trying to think. She didn’t want to piss off a collective of people in power who were somehow also working against their own governments to empower the Tevinter Imperium.

“Why Tevinter?”

Bull shrugged, sweeping away her shot glass to be rinsed off.

“I mean, there has to be an ulterior motive.”

“You’re the one killing people - maybe it’s in all those documents…?” He left the question open-ended for the obvious “ah ha” moment, but that simply annoyed her and caused herself to scowl.

“Lethallin. I’m not an idiot.”

“Hey, hey! Just suggesting.”

She shook her head, running her fingers along the grooves in the bartop and around her phone. “I’ve barely scratched the surface with this stuff. I think I get one piece understood and it sends me down another wyvern-hole. I only targeted her and Galoys because they just happened to have a similar agenda; I didn’t know they were on the same one.”

“Think of it like us, ‘Lyn.” She looked up towards her friend, who was leaning against the bar. “You, me, Zev, Red - we do similar stuff, and it overlaps. The Vints are doing the same thing.”

“Yea, you’re right.”

“I try to be.”

She took her phone into her hand, flicking through the various news outlets that were reporting on the death. What mostly surprised her was the unexpected press release from Divine Justinia herself concerning one of the videos she had found on Calpuria’s computer. Nevarra City’s streets were flooded with support to stop the trafficking that had gone unnoticed by the people, meaning it was hard for she and Farilis to navigate the city for the remainder of the trip. She knew Leliana had something to do with it, based off of the mysterious “thank you” text she got.

She was never going to get a thank you from anyone else. No one thanked a killer, a murderer. It helped her to think that she wasn’t doing this to appease the masses, but to help those who had no voice.

Her eyes flicked to the time. 12:57PM.

“Fen’harel’s teeth!” She leapt from the barstool, nearly catching her feet on the metal foot-rest and stumbling. “Shit!”

“Did you forget something?” Bull seemed to be suppressing laughter.

“Time just slipped, okay?” Sa’lyn made sure she had her wallet and phone before making her way to the door. “Farilis knows it’s a one time thing.”

“Sure.” He waved to her, a grin breaking out. “See you two tonight!”

“Dareth shiral, thanks for listening.”

She pushed open the door and took off out into the street. It wasn’t as busy as she knew it could be, but the streets were still very much populated as she shouldered her way through the people.

Farilis had wanted to show her one of her newer projects she was working on with the University, at her insistence. She obliged her younger twin - it wasn’t unusual for her to appear passionate over her studies in Ancient Elves, but the way she worded her request meant that she had something physical to show her. Farilis could recite her papers and dissertations as the sun and moons rose, so it was nothing of that sort.

And - unfortunately - she was late.

That wasn’t her fault, of course. She had to seek out Bull for the information on the Venatori. The implications worried her - just how many were there that they wanted to topple their own governments and raise Tevinter, even with puppets at their head?

As she told Iron Bull earlier - she hadn’t gone in depth with all of the information she got from Calpuria. The trafficking she had known about for a while. Now it was talked about non-stop on radio shows and news reels. No one mentioned a killer, they just mentioned the horror of someone so cruel and heartless attempting to be “for the people”. No one blamed her.

Her phone buzzed briefly, and she readied it, expecting an inquiry from her sister. She wasn’t wrong, and she pulled up the screen to call her.

It was two buzzes and a click.

“Hey, I’m on my way. I got side-tracked.”

“I know you did.” Farilis did not sound pleased on the receiving end. “Bull just texted me.”

“Yea - I was working with him.” She watched the faces of those she passed as she hurried down the street. “It got… complicated. Not in that way but… Incredibly, Ma’lin.”

Farilis hummed over the speaker. It wasn’t in doubt, but speculation. Following the fact she never involved her sister in her work as Dirthamen, it was still critical she enlighten her sister if anything devastating happened. Considering she had accidently stumbled into a Tevinter plot she considered that mildly concerning at least.

“I’m almost at your Uni now though.”

“I’m in the C6 Lab.” Her tone changed dramatically. She seemed excited now, very different compared to her usually serious demeanor. “I’ve let security know you’re coming - say you’re here for me. They’ll let you in.”

“It must be important if you’re breaking the ID rules for me.”

“Hush.” There were other voices over the phone, and Sa’lyn strained to hear them. They sounded like they were asking her a question.

“Who’s that?”

Farilis seemed to have pulled the phone away from her, because her voice was distant and muddled. She turned the corner and onto the same side of the street as her twin’s university when she could hear her clearly again.

“Hello?”

“Who was that?” She repeated.

“Oh - that’s - they work with me in the lab.”

“I see.”

She pushed open the door to one of the wings of the university, making a line for the elevator. She had been in the building before - Farilis insisted on toting her around when possible. This wing required IDs however, one of which Sa’lyn did not have.

“Headed up to you.”

“See you in a minute.”

She hung up on Farilis, pocketing the phone as she punched the up button on the elevator. There was a harsh static from the speaker right above the ID scanner, and it took all of her willpower not to roll her eyes.

“Please scan your ID.”

“No ID, but Miss Istmaethoriel requested me to the C6 lab.” She tried not to sound irritated. “You can call her if you want.”

“That won’t be necessary, ma’am,” the doors to the elevator began to slide open. “Have a good day.”

She didn’t respond, walking straight into the elevator and pushing the button for the C floor. She had to give Farilis credit - she knew her way around academia like she herself did with going around and being a plight on politicians. Effectively, and almost scarily.

The doors dinged when she got to the level, and she stepped out and looked around. There were dozens of labs on this floor, but lucky for her she had a sister that thought ahead of time.

Sa’lyn turned down the side of even numbered labs, and was surprised to see it wasn’t just her and Farilis. There was something like a small crowd pressing towards the C6 lab all eager whispers and thoughtful tones. She strained to see her sister, but caught the sight of her copper hair by the door.

“Ma’lin!” She called, and she could see her sister’s head whip around in search for Sa’lyn.

Their eyes locked, and Farilis pushed through the people to get to Sa’lyn. She let herself get pulled by her sister through the people despite the vague protests. She flashed her ID to be let back into the lab, and they darted in. The door shut and locked behind them, much to Sa’lyn’s relief and annoyance of the crowd

“Who is this, Istmaethoriel?”

They both looked to the voice - despite her normally sharp situational awareness, she had no clue they weren’t alone.

She regarded the man. The most distinguishing feature of him had to be that he was bald with the way the fluorescent lights in the lab reflected off of his head. He was taller than she and her twin, but not tall enough to raise brows.

“Professor, this is my sister.” Farilis nudged her forward. “I wanted her to see it before the press did.”

The Professor stared at her, and she returned the look. He looked every bit the part of a professor - especially with the way he had glasses down the bridge of his nose.

She extended her hand, not backing down. “Sa’lyn Istmaethoriel, and you are?”

There was a pause before he tentatively took her hand and shook it. “Solas.”

“Just Solas?”

“Preferably, ‘professor’.”

She let go of his hand. He seemed to be gauging her, if she could possibly be reading him right in return. With the way he faced Farilis after, he was comparing the two of them. They were identical twins, save for their personalities and the little details that distinguished them such as hair cut, vallaslin, and natural wear from life. There was no doubt that Farilis was the prettier of the two based off of her lack of scarring, but Sa’lyn saw more action - literally. Farilis had never been interested in a partner, whereas she went through them like the changing of the seasons.

“You wanted to show her the Eluvian?”

Sa’lyn’s brows shot up. She had heard the legends of the mirrors that once showed the future to elves, but they were just that - legends.

It was rather telling when Farilis gave her wolfish grin. “Just for a minute. We won’t be long.”

Solas didn’t stop either one of them as Farilis led the way further into the lab. She followed close behind her, unable to help but look at all of the tools and parts that were in the lab. It was all beyond her - Farilis was the academic one. She was the First, and it showed in her work just how much it mattered to her.

Farilis stopped, and Sa’lyn peered from behind her.

The Eluvian was smaller than anticipated, but she still stood in awe. Thousands of pieces of glass were laid out to be categorized and labeled based off of the spacing. Sa’lyn had no doubt it would be an extreme puzzle to solve. There was no way they couldn’t restore it - she herself thought they were only legends, and to see one in the flesh?

“I get to write about it, but not restore it.” Farilis answer an unasked question, watching her twin. “The person who discovered it - she gets to. She’s another First, did you know? Well, former, but I’m not alone. You don’t know how many revisions I have to do already, we’ve learned so much just with it being here!”

Her rambling continued, and Sa’lyn could see the light in her eyes. “Imagine Arlathvhen! The Keeper is going to want to know everything about it, we haven’t seen anything like this in years.”

Sa’lyn slung her arm around her sister’s shoulders, feeling pride flare in her. It was the little things, these small moments that made every second out in the field worth it. Her sister would have never been afforded this opportunity if not for her, and it mattered.

“It’s time to start.”

They both looked back to Solas - it was apparent who he was addressing with the way he stared down Farilis. She couldn't help but feel annoyed at the man, but she let it slide. She broke away from her sister, giving her a dip of the head. “I’ll see you at home, okay?”

“I will, dareth shiral.”

Sa’lyn left Farilis in the lab, squeezing past the small army that was now being let into the room. She didn’t stay to watch, insteading heading directly towards the elevator and pulling out her phone. She humored her sister, but now it was time to resume her work.

Eyehna had been tasked by her earlier to go ahead and send an anonymous donation to her late agent’s family. It wouldn’t bring him back but it was the least she could possibly do considering she was a cause in his death. She had put him on the spot, and he paid the ultimate price. The least that she could do was ensure that who he left behind was taken care of.

In her emails was a confirmation that she had been successful. It lifted a slight burden from her, but not enough to matter considering the news from earlier.

She pressed the down button for the elevator and stepped in. She could see if Zevran had any information about the Venatori further - she hadn’t been too keen on seeing who were his targets, so it could be possible they were fighting a mutual enemy at this point.

She pulled up his information without a second thought and rang him.

It buzzed for a minute. Sa’lyn watched the numbers tick down as she went back to the first floor, almost in time with the dialing tone in her ear.

“Hello my finely feathered friend.”

“Isn’t that what you call your old Crow friends?”

She grinned at the deep laugh from the speaker. The doors dinged, and she stepped out into the lobby.

“I read somewhere that Dirthamen had something or another to do with birds, so I’m not too far off the mark.”

“Funny, I’ll tell you why you’re wrong later.” She opened the door to the outside, briefly glancing to see no one else was in the vicinity. She continued when the coast was clear. “Listen, I need a favor. I have some information about the Nevarran job and I need a second opinion.”

“Have you contacted our large not-so-feathered friend?”

“Bull knew a bit, I just wanted to see what you had to say on the stuff I found.”

Zevran hummed into the receiver, as if considering whether or not she was worth the trouble.

“C’mon. Bull’s having a rager tonight at his place. I’ll buy you a few shots.” She stopped where the footpath to the University met the sidewalk. “Are you at home? Or the shop?”

There was a sigh. “You know me well enough. Shop. I’ll be expensive.”

“When aren’t you?”

He laughed, and they confirmed their goodbyes and she put her phone away.

The shop that Zevran was in wasn’t his own, it was his husband’s - a supposedly incredibly bearded dwarf that went by the name of Py. Following his name was his shop’s: Pyromaniac Ink.

Zevran described him as capable of hanging the moons in the sky and standing a thousand feet tall, but she had never personally met the man due to lack of open scheduling on both of their parts. He had to know of Zevran’s activities, otherwise he wouldn’t be permitted to use his business for anything of the sort.

She was at the door of the parlor before she knew it, pushing open the tinted door to reveal a rather simply decorated place. The buzzing of a machine echoed in the room, broken up by the entryway bell.

“Be with you in a sec,” a voice called from further in, and she looked for the owner.

“Actually, I’m here for Zevran.”

“Zevran?”

Sa’lyn walked in, and laid eyes on the person speaking. Zevran wasn’t wrong on the description of Py - his beard was incredibly complex and secured with a medical mask for the sake of sanitation with regards to tattooing. He also sported fine glasses and a checkered scarf, with a faded tattoo on his own face.

He didn’t look up from the man he was tattooing on the arm. “You know Zev?”

“We work together. Sa’lyn.”

“Ginger with green Vallas?”

“Vallaslin.” She raised her eyebrows, hanging in the doorway. “But yea.”

The buzzing stopped, and Py wiped down the fresh ink on the man. “I’ll have to finish you up in another session - your skin’s getting irritated.”

“Next week, same time?”

“Sounds good, I’ll slot you in.”

The man traded a handshake with the Dwarf before getting up and walking out of the store entirely. Py then turned to face her.

“You’re taller than he described.”

She refrained from making a joke at his expense. “Does he talk about me?”

“He said you have mild daddy issues and remind him of himself, but if you know Zev…”

“Take it with a grain of salt, right.” She smiled briefly. She had half the mind to choke her Antivan friend, but refrained from the thought of it.

Py looked at her through his glasses. With them, she felt as of he was studying her.

“Is your Vallaslin recent?”

“No, the last time I had it redone was a few years ago.”

“You can tell around the lips.” He gestured to his face, mimicking the symbols. “It’s not as crisp as your cheeks.”

“I thought I heard talking.”

They both looked to Zevran who had just entered from the backroom. He sauntered up, a smirk very apparent on his face.

“I don’t have daddy issues, Zevran.” Sa’lyn scolded him briefly with a smile. “Is that how you describe me to everyone?”

“I say only nice things, my friend.” He slung an arm around his husband. “I’m hurt you think otherwise.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” She waved a hand in dismissal. “I need your help, considering what we talked about.”

He gestured to the backroom, abandoning Py to lead the way. “Don’t wait up for me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Zev.” Py nodded to the both of them. “Nice meeting you, Lyn.”

She returned the nod, following her friend and comrade through the door and into the darker backroom. It had a few computers and printers - possibly for Py’s work - but Zevran led her to a computer to the side, sitting down and typing in a password.

“Have you heard of a group called ‘Venatori’?”

She could see his brows furrowing in the reflection of the screen, but he didn’t face her. “Have you annoyed them by killing off their members?”

“Sort of, yes.” She shifted the weight on her feet. “I wanted to see if you knew any people that might be involved with them. Or anyone who knows something about them.”

“What did Iron Bull say?”

“Tevinter fanatics.”

Zevran leaned back into his chair, and the computer logged on. “Tevinter?”

“That’s what he said.” She opened her phone to pull up the evidence she had shown Bull earlier connecting Galoys and Calpuria. A few clicks and she passed the phone to Zevran, who had been holding his hand out expectantly. His eyes darted between the words, and she couldn’t help but feel a brief flare of satisfaction at his urgency.

He put her phone down on the desk next to the keyboard, clicking through the desktop in the search for something important. She leaned towards the screen, watching him scroll past hundreds of documents; for all she knew, they could be recipes for either cookies or poison.

He paused and hovered the mouse over an inconspicuous file, opening it up and using her phone as a cross reference.

“Have a hit?”

Zevran didn’t respond, opting to glance between the devices. She watched him note each name, and she wondered if he had killed any people on his list previously - purely coincidental, of course.

Her phone was handed back to her a few short minutes later. “A few match.”

She frowned slightly, staring off into the space of his screen. “I see.”

Zevran skimmed through a few pages of notes and photos on his computer, not that she paid it too much mind. “They all differ but still have the Venatori connection--”

“-- they’re basically sleeper agents --”

“-- and want to bring back Tevinter,” he finished her sentence for her. She didn’t glare at him, instead sighing.

“Exactly. And that’s a terrible idea.”

“Agreed.”

Sa’lyn opened her phone again with renewed vigor, readying her cloud storage as a reference. Zevran’s curious look prompted her, and she leaned shoulder-to-shoulder with him facing the desktop.

“Give me everything you know about the matches.”

Chapter Text

“You honestly take work a bit too seriously, Cully.”

Cullen couldn’t help a mildly annoyed look at Solona, who was paying all of her attention to her phone.

“I just think it’s odd that it was an entirely secured building, and there were only two cameras that recorded them.”

“Yea, well-” He could see her swiping indiscriminately on her phone. “Still. You’ve been on it for weeks. I can’t sit in the same room with you without you bringing it up again.”

He raised an eyebrow at her, but she didn’t notice. He had only brought it up twice in the span of him learning the information.

“It’s because it’s work. It doesn’t just go away.”

“Your murderer did though.”

The remark pissed him off a bit more than he wanted, and he could see her glance up from her phone.

“It’s true, isn’t it? That assassin just disappeared into thin air, and you’re stuck looking at the same footage over and over again hoping for something different to come up.” His brow twitched at the condescending tone. “They’re gone.”

“It just means they’re more likely to strike again,” he retorted. Solona rolled her eyes, and he stood up from the couch in their small living room to get some distance between them. She wasn’t wrong - Dirthamen had disappeared. There had been no sign of them for a few weeks, and it seemed as if the world had simply forgotten the fact that people had been killed by them.

Even with Calpuria, many people stayed concerned with the fact that the trafficking ring had been busted. It shook the faith in people with knowing that someone with enough sway was capturing and selling people like animals. There was hardly any attention drawn to the fact that she was carefully assassinated like Galoys had been. Calpuria could have been brought to justice if Dirthamen had simply cast their evidence forward, but instead they took matters into their own hands.

He moved into the kitchen, running a hand down his face and cupping his chin briefly in the process. Other than the footage, forensics had gotten back to him and shed a bit more light on what had happened. From the ballistics report, Dirthamen had been hit based off of the accounted for bullets in the varied weapons. Whether or not they bled was something else entirely; human blood had been matched up with Calpuria and her bodyguards, and the only elven blood that was accounted for was that of Calpuria’s Dalish assistant.

That led him to another series of questions - the evidence given to him from the report led him to believe that Dirthamen didn’t kill the Dalish. The bullet entry was from behind, and the actual bullet didn’t match any of the other ones that Dirthamen used. It was a completely different make and calibre, but it was the same as Calpuria’s people. The Dalish died around the same time as the others, however, so it wasn’t a body dump.

He let out a quiet sign. This implied that maybe, maybe the Dalish and Dirthamen were in on it together, but something went awry. There was no footage of them going in together - the Dalish and Calpuria entered her office hours earlier.

Now they were stuck with identifying the Dalish. He had a name badge, placard, and records, but with a quick search it became increasingly difficult to find the truth of who he was from government documents alone; going through Clan records could take weeks on top of it all. He had called in a favor with one of his acquaintances back in Kirkwall, but Aveline only had more questions for him in the following phone calls and emails.

He had asked her if their unidentified elf was real after a string of inquiries. She responded that he had been dead even before the assassination. A birth certificate and death certificate for the same person, yet their name was being worn by - at the time - a living person. It was clever forgery, but still a problem.

Aveline had offered to keep an eye out if anything turned up on her side of things, and he took her up on it. It was difficult enough to decipher and predict who would be the next person possibly assassinated - if she could keep a line open for him, it could possibly stop him from running aground and chasing ghosts.

Cullen stared into the sink. Of course he would let his work follow him home. It was as he always did, and he couldn’t be damned to break the habit in the first place.

Maybe Solona was right.

He moved through the kitchen, sweeping up his keys, wallet, and phone.

“I’m going out.”

Solona answered with the typical passive-aggression she had when she was mad at him.

“Where are you going?”

“Alistair’s.”

“When will you be back?”

“Soon.”

He could feel her eyes boring into his back.

“Late tonight, alright?”

She didn’t respond, and he took to the door and out of the apartment. He let his frustrations bleed from him as he walked down the hall and towards the exit, relaxing his shoulders and breathing. When he got to the street he went the opposite direction from Alistair’s apartment and into the city further.

It was a white lie - he was going to Alistair’s later. He and Naelis were out of Ferelden for vacation and he had ‘asked’ Cullen and a few others to check up on Barkspawn while he was away. He had no doubt that the mabari could tear his way through the house, but he had been told to simply check up in the evenings.

His feet carried him elsewhere, even if his mind stood in one place.

His annoyance and irritation flitted away as walking broke up his thoughts. Cars skirting the streets as he wove between people on the sidewalk. He was doing his best, regardless of what others thought. Cassandra didn’t hound him for results, but the pointed look on her face always had him scrambling to prove that he had found something new. Alistair had managed to wrangle two textbook cases with ease - and had agreed to move on to another following his return.

He liked to think that if this were Kirkwall, he could have it figured out already. But this wasn’t Kirkwall and it had never been as easy as he figured.

The streets bled into one another after a while. Cars and people rung in his ears, and he could only stare at the cracks in the sidewalk as he passed over them.

Maybe he was obsessing over Dirthamen. He had perfectly good reason to - they were set to kill someone again, and it would feel like a personal strike against him if he didn’t catch them.

It would be wrong.

A stray pebble found its way under his shoe. He kicked it, and it shot a few feet away. Since when was he a paragon of right or wrong - it was obvious that title was Hawke’s, and asking her opinion of the murders was not at the top of his list.

He shook his head to dislodge the thought of the abrasive, dark haired woman. He was obsessed if he was considering her for answers.

He stopped after the fourth intersection, eyeing the cozy looking restaurant in front of him before pushing the door open. A little greeting bell jingled, and a wave of dark roast hit him like a wall.

“Be out in a second!”

He didn’t say anything in response as a Dwarven woman shot out from a revolving door, standing up at the counter with a bright grin.

“How can I help you today?”

Part of him wanted to flinch at her explicit cheer, but he ignored it.

“A large black coffee, please.”

“Room for cream?”

“Ah- No, thank you.”

She gave him a firm nod, taking a paper cup and scribbling on it. “Name?”

“Rutherford.”

“Gotcha!” She put the cup on the counter, looking at him expectantly. “That’ll be three dollars.”

He drew out his wallet and paid her, putting an extra one in the decorated tip jar to the side of the register. She gave him a knowing look before handing off the coffee cup to a spry looking elf to her side, further down the bar.

“Sera - dark, no cream.”

The elf - Sera - spun around and grabbed the cup like a trophy. “No cream - it’s like drinkin’ straight dirt innit?”

He realised she was talking to him after she sized him up. “I prefer it that way.”

She snorted in response, making the coffee as ordered. “Got no taste buds.”

It was obvious she had no filter, but the woman who took his order paid no mind. She had moved on to continue taking orders with the now line that had formed.

Sera handed off his coffee to him with a “hot, don’t be stupid with it”, and he took it with him and out of the building. The warm atmosphere disappeared to the streets of the city, but he carried a small piece of the homeliness with him now.

His short interaction with the barista and his newfound caffeine had distanced the thought of Dirthamen, even for a moment. Maybe he had been too rash with Solona, but the fact stood he had to visit Alistair’s before offering an apology to her for his harsh behavior earlier.

Returning the way he came, he headed down the streets as he had done before with his friend, tracing the sidewalks that led him to the upscaled apartment. No one greeted him or asked for his name as he buzzed his way through the first gate. It was unsettling until he got to the floor of Alistair’s apartment, where he could hear the sniffing coming from the front door.

It stopped when he got to the door, followed by an insistent whining from Barkspawn. He scratched at the door as Cullen fumbled with the keys. As soon as he opened the door, Barkspawn hurled himself at the man. His coffee was held high and precariously as the dog assaulted him with licks and happy whines.

Cullen managed to slip in past the door and into the living room, sitting on the couch with one leg propped up as the mabari brought him a well worn tennis ball. It didn’t take much to get that he wanted to play, and so he indulged him.

It felt like his problems were worlds away in Alistair’s apartment. It felt simple and homely instead of the feeling he was constantly walking on glass with Solona. Part of it was his fault - he wasn’t there to talk with her due to the late nights at the office and falling asleep as soon as he got home. After he caught Dirthamen, it would change. He would get down on one knee and ask her to marry him. They could get a nice house with a fence and maybe even have a kid or two.

He leaned back into the couch and put his coffee down on the table next to it. The dog’s lumbering to and fro was mesmerizing in the way he seemed to get pure joy from a ball.

There was no mabari in that plan. The side of his mouth twitched into a frown. It was petty, but all relationships had to compromise at some point.

He pulled out his phone, flicking open the lock.

‘No New Messages.’

The screen stared at him for several moments. Barkspawn put his head on his lap, and he moved a free hand down to rub his ears. His other hand acted on its’ own, swiping to contacts and staring at the few numbers he had. Alistair and Cassandra were starred, as was Solona. Other than those few, there was the number for a takeout place he frequented and a pizzeria.

And Mia.

It was stupid with the way his heart jumped into his throat. He never responded to her email she sent him, or the countless texts before that. Maybe it was out if his shame for Kirkwall, or the fear of telling her the truth about Kinloch.

He missed her, however. Missed her and Rosalie and Branson. They were his only family, after all.

He punched the call button without thinking, a result of his thoughts going awry. He brought it up to his ear before the panic and doubt settled in, and he rushed to end the call before she picked up.

“Cullen?”

Shit.

“Mia.”

“Cullen Stanton Rutherford--,” she was going to tear him a new one. “I have been trying to contact you for months and you think it’s alright to just disappear after the news about Kirkwall and call me out of the blue with no warning? No heads up? No notice?”

His throat was dry without a response.

“We were worried sick thinking the worst - I was worried sick. Would it have killed you to send one text? ‘Mia. Not dead. Love, Cul.’? Honestly?”

“I was… busy. With work. I’m sorry.”

Her sigh was static on the line. He could imagine her shaking her head like when they were younger and she had to bail him out of trouble.

“Maker please tell me you're safe at least.”

“I am. I’ve been good, I’m not with the Templars anymore.”

“Really?” The surprise in her tone replaced the anger. “I suppose not, after Kirkwall.”

“It was… Bracing.”

“You okay?”

“As I said, I’m doing better.” He gave an affirming nod as he continued to rub Barkspawn’s velvet ears.

“I’m glad then, I guess. Is your new job better?”

“It’s work - I can’t say I enjoy it.” He couldn’t help a small smirk at his own joke. “But I’m helping people - more than I had been, I feel.”

“You sound… happier.” Her words were unsure with her pause. “The last time we spoke, you were a mess frankly.”

Those were dark memories she spoke of. Kinloch was a void he dared not think back on - for years he had suppressed what happened in that cold prison, only having come to light with the help of the Grey Wardens during a covert ops mission. There he had met Alistair, but his friend could do nothing to relieve him of the trauma that lurked with the mention of it.

“I am.” His tone was short as he shook off the memories. “I do PI work now.”

“You always liked your puzzles.”

It was good to know she could easily forgive him and remember him before the dark parts that clouded his past.

“How’re Bran and Rosie?”

“They’re great actually - Bran’s got a little one on the way and Rosie’s getting her degree soon in Engineering. They’d love to hear from you again.”

“I… should say something, shouldn’t I?”

“You should.”

“Fine.”

Time passed as they talked on the phone, minutes ticking by as they shared the most recent and distant events. Who had what happening in their life, what who did to who - it was refreshingly cosmopolitan compared to the usual gloom and doom he had grown accustomed to with his line of work. She had just breached the topic of relationships when it was vaporized instantly.

“Are you with anyone, Cul?”

His breath caught in a bid to answer. He was not embarrassed, the fact simply stood he believed them to be private affairs and that his sister would hound him for details regardless.

“I… yes. I am.”

The static of the line echoed her gasp. “Cul! Who are they?”

“A homegrown Ferelden woman,as a matter of fact. Not that it’s any of your business."

“I’m your sister! I have a right to be curious--”

“-- my relationships are not for prying --”

“--my brother has a girlfriend and can’t be bothered to tell me--”

“Mia.” Cullen huffed. She stopped her protests with a laugh.

“I missed teasing you.”

“That much is apparent.”

“Do you love her though?” Her tone dropped from joking to dead serious. “Does she make you happy?”

All things considered, he did love Solona. She had her moments, but he still did enjoy her company and her humor and her natural air about her.

“I want to marry her.”

“Bring her to me before you propose thought, okay? She needs to know a few embarrassing stories from when you were a kid.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I gotta run Cul, kids are home from school. Stay safe okay? And please, please call me soon.”

“I will.”

The line clicked without another word, and the room felt all the more empty. Barkspawn had jumped onto an armchair and had fallen asleep sometime during the conversation, not that he could quite remember when.

He looked a this watch. He had been on the phone with Mia for hours, and at this rate it was more than time for him to head home.

He took his cold coffee with him, giving Barkspawn a farewell scratch behind the ears as he left. Cullen locked the doors and headed back into the concrete jungle to go home.

Part of his soul felt lighter - the fact that Mia was out there and had forgiven him for not remaining in contact with her was a lifted burden. It was a rein bringing him back towards his family when he thought it was lost. Grounding him.

The sun was setting by the time he got back to his apartment. The door was unlocked, but none of the lights were on except for the tv playing in an empty kitchen. A quick glance to the bowl where he and Solona kept their keys noted that her’s were in there too.

He tossed his own in the bowl, calling out into the apartment. “Sol?”

Nothing. He strained to hear. He turned the television off, calling once more.

“Solona? Are you home?”

A resounding noise from the bedroom would have been a comfort had it not been multiple voices. He tried to reason that she may have invited one of her friends over to complain about him, but with each step he took to the room he began to doubt himself more and more.

He didn’t bother knocking on the door. He had the burden of confirmation with his half clothed girlfriend and a man with his boxers around his waist.

He wanted his vision to go red - maybe beat the shit out of the guy and yell at the top of his lungs at him to get the fuck out of his house.

However, in the impasse of infidelity, he felt more disappointment than anger. They looked at him like deer in headlights - all the more surprised he had interrupted them and caught them. The long nights at the office had benefited someone, and it wasn’t him.

Cullen didn’t say a thing as he slammed the door to the bedroom, turning back on his heel and making a beeline for his keys again. It felt like he was suffocating and it was all his own fault - right? He drove her to this but she was a grown woman who he thought loved him but apparently it was another lie like what the Templars repeats to him over and over again. Solona called for him to stop. He was half tempted to, but he had seen enough.

With his keys and nothing to lose he escaped out the front door and back into the streets, leaving her behind.

Chapter Text

The thing that woke Cullen from his near-comatose state was the skull-splitting headache.

He could barely open his eyes. The sun burned and caused his head to hurt more, even if he did turn his face into the ground. Or pillow. He wasn’t sure - the vertigo had him reeling and begging for some sort of stability.

It felt like he was spinning downwards, seconds turning into minutes into hours. He felt like shit.

He rolled over, pulling the thick blankets over him and over his head. He willed that Solona would turn out the lights, nevermind begging the Maker he keep his own self together. The constant turning was making him sick.

Everything was a blur, and thinking was hard. The chaos of an upset stomach and foggy brain was to be his end, apparently.

He breathed deep, hoping to calm his stuffy head.

Home smelled different, maybe Solona had gotten some candles from her mother. It smelt vaguely of burning wood - comforting in a way. With the warm blankets, maybe he could find the strength to sleep out this hangover.

Another wave of nausea washed over him. A groan slipped from him as he struggled to get up and to the bathroom. Solona would kill him if he threw up in the bed.

He slowly opened his eyes. This was not his bedroom. These walls were a soft green with two doors in the wrong place and a window across from him. It was messy in an organized way, homely whereas his apartment was without a speck of dust.

He furrowed his brow and was met with a hard pound to his skull. He sat up fully, clutching his head in his hands.

Where in Andraste’s name was he? He didn’t even know what time it was - maybe he made a friend at the bar when he was out drinking and he crashed in their guest bedroom. That was a logical explanation.

Everything was foggy and unsteady. Cullen eased himself up before catching himself on the edge of a wardrobe. The door wobbled in his vision as he reached for it. It took all of his balance to reach for it and open it while he gripped the wall for dear life.

Mysterious halls of an apartment stared back at him. It opened into a cozy living space that he would have admired if not for the burning in his throat.

He stumbled haphazardly through it all, catching the sight of the bathroom and stumbling onto the tile as his evening came back to greet him.

Solona was going to kill him - this was reckless behavior, even for him. Even when Alistair took him drinking he at least wound up at home. He couldn’t even remember why he went drinking. He was at Alistair’s - that much he remembered - but everything after that turned into a blur.

Cullen shut his eyes, holding onto the wall as he sunk to the floor.

Solona and another man in his own bed. Now he remembered why he was a hungover mess in someone else’s house. His throat throbbed as his world spiralled around him. This was a nightmare.

The bathroom door opened further, not that he paid any mind. Chances are whoever’s hospitality he had borrowed would be turning him out onto the street within the hour.

A sharp tisk and huff had whoever opened the door storming back into the living space with a shout.

“Sa’lyn! Get your shem out of the bathroom!”

He flinched at the echo, rolling his head against the cold tile. All he could afford in response was a groan.

In what felt like an eternity of laying on the floor, warm hands began lifting him up. He struggled to look up at the person moving him, but ended up flailing further. He managed to get a hand on the sink and to get a grip, leaning on whoever had come to his rescue.

“Easy does it,” the other person coaxed. He managed to squint and see the sight of a kitchen before shutting his eyes once more, completely at the mercy of the other.

He was eased down onto a chair at some point, and his elbow bumped the edge of a table or counter or something. He put his hand onto the surface to brace himself as he sat down, putting his head against his arm. The dizziness still had him reeling, but the comfort of a chair was better than a tiled floor.

There was a brief sound of water running, followed what sounded like a glass being put dead in front of him and some rummaging in the kitchen. Cabinet doors closing made him flinch, and he let out a small groan.

“Sorry, sorry - I’m trying to find something to take the edge off.”

He grunted in response to his savior of sorts. His spare hand reached out for the water, and he opened an eye to get a better look at his situation.

The kitchen was bright and plastered with flowers and knick-knacks, some of them looking like statuettes from his seat at an equally bright table. The woman responsible for saving him was digging into a pantry when she turned to face him, waving a pill container in hand.

The first thing Cullen noticed about her were the face tattoos - those were rare. Then he saw the ears. She was Dalish then, surprisingly enough considering the bulk of Dalish lived on reservations far away from the city. They did live here though - and most worked for the University.

She approached the table, popping open the pill box for him and cutting out a few tabs.

“Here,” she said. She wore an apologetic smile. “I did expect this to be honest, you were like a fish.”

Cullen downed his water and medicine. It felt like sweet salvation - nothing ever tasted better. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he put the glass down.

“Yea.” His voice was scratchy. A cough managed to settle his throat but not his head. “Thought it was a fantastic idea at the time.”

The woman let out a barking laugh at that, taking his glass to refill it. “With what you were on about last night at Bull’s, I don’t blame you.”

He felt a chill shoot through him. How honest had he been with a total stranger? Especially about his life’s personal problems?

Enough to wake up in bed with her, apparently.

He avoided looking at her when she put the glass in front of him.

The awkward silence at his own realization was enough to fill a room. She broke it off.

“Sa’lyn, by the way,” she spoke nonchalantly, not as if he was her one night stand. “You’ve met Farilis. She’s not overly fond of people.”

“Cullen… not that I blame her.” He snorted. “If I woke up to a hungover man in my bathroom, we’d have words.”

Sa’lyn grinned at that, as if imagining the irony from a memory. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

He cocked an eyebrow as her grin turned into laughter. She was odd enough - casual enough to someone she had really only just met and not immediately turning him out onto the street first thing. It wasn’t as if he was going to do anything, but she was awfully hospitable to a random stranger.

She peered at him with brilliantly green eyes, laughter dissolving into a content smirk. “We didn’t do anything if that’s what you’re worried about. You mentioned a girlfriend.”

Part of him froze up at the mention of Solona, but he shook his head almost to get rid of the image of her and the man in his own bed. “Then why-” He gestured to the kitchen. “Did you bring me to your house?” Part of him briefly wondered if this was an elaborate scheme to have him kidnapped or murdered, but Sa’lyn waved her hand ambiently.

“You were drunk, someone tried to steal your wallet twice, and you asked ‘my place or yours’. So - my place.” She paused briefly, considering her words. “Then you mentioned you had a girlfriend and started crying on my bed, so after you passed out I let you be.”

Heat rose to his face at the information. He had honestly opened himself up to a complete and total stranger, acting like a drunk idiot in the process.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that,” Cullen said stiffly, gripping the glass. “It was improper - I shouldn’t have been drinking anyways…” He recalled the last time when he went drinking, and the panic attack that followed suit. Anxiety was already welling at the edges of his mind, not that he would dare voice that to the stranger in her own kitchen.

And yet, she shrugged. “You had fun, no harm in a little indulging so long as it’s controlled. You woke up in a safe bed - Bull would’ve made sure of that at least if I wasn’t there.”

He hesitated, trying to recall the bartender he had seen last time he went. “The Qunari?”

“Yea. Friend of mine. He has me keep tabs on the extra drunk ones for free drinks.”

“Oh.” The remark was so simple. It was fine, but he didn’t feel fine. His life was falling apart in a weird way. Work was a bust and dead-ending, Solona was cheating on him, and here he was resorting to waking up hungover in another woman’s house. He was out of his element and overwhelmed with the results.

He stood up, knee giving out briefly before he gripped the table. Blood rushed to his head at the sudden rise, and Cullen almost wished for the Maker to smite him out of mercy. He would feel Sa’lyn staring at him with newfound curiosity.

“You okay?”

“Yea - I think it’s time for me to leave,” his voice was tight. “I didn’t mean to- well, I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

She shrugged again. “You’re not bothering me.”

The indifference was staggering.

“Still, I gotta go. Have to solve… everything.” He pat his backside, groping for his wallet. Sa’lyn took note with a dip of her head and pointed towards her bedroom.

“Check the side table, towards the window.”

He tried to not make it seem like he was in a rush, but it was a failed attempt. He was tripping over his own feet as he opened the door to her room, and the light from the day blinded him briefly with a splitting bolt of pain. It staggered him as he blinked to adjust his eyes to the light.

Her room was an organized mess. Laundry was piled into a basket in the corner, looking to be one sock away from an avalanche. Her desk was covered in computer parts and laptops that were taken apart and surrounded by odd, tiny Elvhen effigies. There was a shaggy rug that seemed to tie it all together right next to the disheveled bed and side table.

On the bedside table was a picture of her and other Dalish, notably one that looked remarkably like her. His wallet was just to the side, but yet he couldn’t help but look at the picture. They were all so young. They were laughing. It was an achingly familiar feeling - something that was close but not there.

He grabbed his wallet from the table, glancing sideways to his own reflection in the mirror. He felt worse than he looked of course, but between the dark bags under his eyes and the state of his clothing he wondered if he had hit rock bottom. Cullen shook his head and turned from his reflection, closing the door to her room and running a hand through his hair.

Looking down the unfamiliar hallway, he turned back towards the kitchen to hopefully leave without another word to Sa’lyn. There was really no place he could go besides Alistair’s - and that was going to be awkward to explain. The front door was within sight when he heard her voice.

“If you see me at Bull’s, don’t be afraid to say ‘hi’,” he heard her say from the kitchen. “I don’t bite.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he replied back warily, and shot out the door to head to Alistair’s.

Chapter Text

"Uh-oh.” Sa’lyn watched from the living room lounge seat as Leliana walked in from the kitchen with a bottle of red, taking a seat just across from her. “That can’t be good.”

“Just because it’s from my personal selection doesn’t mean I have bad news,” she set the open bottle down on the table between them, along with two empty glasses. “Just news.”

“News can be good or bad depending on how you frame it, and frankly you’ve never been one for the good.”

Her cool look flit over her, and she offered a grin.

“Am I wrong?”

“We managed to save most of those people in the videos you recovered,” she ignored the comment, pouring a hearty amount into Sa’lyn’s glass compared to her own. “With help from the Chantry.”

“Should I be looking for a pardon in the mail? Maybe an olive branch from the Divine?”

“I wouldn’t be too expectant of that.” Sa’lyn watched as Leliana leaned back into her seat, glass in hand. “You’re still wanted.”

“Of course I am.” She sipped her wine, the rich tingle engulfing her senses. “Nevermind I uncovered a trafficking ring with the population of a small city.”

Blue eyes met green, contesting a set in stone opinion.

“Fine,” Sa’lyn elbowed a plushy pillow. “It’s not reasonable. I know. But being told ‘thank you’ wouldn’t hurt, you know? I did almost die.”

“Sa’lyn--” Her friend leaned in. “You saved people by killing her. You have the thanks of everyone who was sentenced to a life of death and servitude. Thank you.”

There was a brief, sheepish silence as they both sipped their wine. The oaken smell embraced her, let her guard down.

“I found nothing new on the Venatori.”

“There’s the bad news.”

“Not for a lack of trying,” Leliana poured herself some more wine. “Tevinter isn’t exactly an ideal place for Chantry spies and hasn't been for hundreds of years. It's enough Iron Bull knew enough to let me start looking."

"I guess." The alcohol felt off in her stomach now.

Days turned into weeks with nothing. No sign, no lead, no hope or chance for a connection. Just coincidences. Frustrations and lost opportunities. She had been barely out of town and the pressure was on. There was an invisible clock ticking at the back of her mind, egging her on and screaming at her that she was wasting precious seconds on nothing.

Sa'lyn honestly felt more like a shut-in than her own sister. She had barely even left the house for days except once to get groceries.

She saw Leliana lean towards her with the glass in both of her hands. She didn't meet her look.

"I'm trying, Sa'lyn. We want to know about them just as much as you do."

"There's just something going on and I'm afraid we're going to be severely underprepared for what happens," her thumb ran over the lip of the glass. "Invasion? A coup? You can't tell me they were planning on being friends with those prisoners."

They were silent again, taking in the potentials. While all of this began as a less than ethical attempt to curb political dissent towards elves, it was very clear it was unfolding into something more. Something worse.

Something dangerous.

"How's your family?"

The question spooked Sa'lyn, be it from the unsaid repercussions if the ever was warfare on a scale of nations. The facade of the current political climate was jarring enough.

"The clan's okay."

"Farilis?"

"You know how she is." There was a shy grin creeping over her face. "Always on about the Eluvian now. It's all she talks about when she sees me."

Leliana reflected her own smile. "I imagine she's trying to show her thanks to you."

"Well, at least she's thankful."

The conversation dissolved into idle chatter in Sa'lyn's living space; of Leliana's position now in the Chantry, whether or not it was worth it to travel to Orlais this winter, of life and not of their secrets that were kept in similar company. Of friendship, rather than business.

It felt like hours had passed when Leliana finally stood to bid her goodbyes. It was short, sweet, and with a word to the wise for Sa'lyn as she was shown the door.

"Don't do anything rash." Her eyes were hidden by chic sunglasses. "If I find anything, you'll be the first to know."

And - as she had come to terms with in recent times - she was alone, with no plan, and no means to further her situation.

She sunk back into the comforting swell of the lounge, staring off into space. While she would rather be off into the next country settings things right, she was trapped within the spiderweb she stumbled upon. Maybe if she had decided to be ignorant and not ambivalent about the Venatori and their unknowns, she would be none the wiser.

Yet her business was in secrets and survival. Not apathy that she had so weakly succumbed to wallow in like a distressed child. Even though she wanted to scream and yell her frustrations, it would be just as futile as if she were to go on an aimless killing spree.

Sa'lyn closed her eyes and breathed. Patient. She was patient. If she had learned anything within the past ten years, she was more than capable of achieving her goals so long as she didn't jump the gun. As tempting as the impulse was, it was dangerous. And she didn't survive this long being reckless.

She took her phone out and clicked the screen on, her thumb moving over the lack of notifications with a swipe. Restless, on top of frustrated. She needed out.

Without a second thought she stood up and took the empty glasses and bottle to the kitchen, taking care of them swiftly. Shoes were found, keys grabbed, and the front door locked as she took to the streets with a buzzed head. Leliana's selection of red was good, after all.

Dusk fell on the small city as Bull's place came into view, the odd couple or group flitting in and out with smiles plastered on their faces. If she hadn't been so jaded, she felt she'd be smiling along with them.

The bell dinged as she opened the door, the familiar warmth of the bar flooding her senses. It was a home away from her apartment, and the smiling faces of Bull's Chargers lifted her spirits.

"Hey there 'Lyn!"

She craned her head at the call, raising a hand in a half wave as she moved to take a seat where Krem was serving as the best of them.

"You're looking awfully stoic today," the Tevine commented, passing her a clean glass. "Any preference?"

"I thought it came with my job?" She offered him a wry grin. "Something to take my mind off things."

"Oh, so it's one of those nights."

"Don't worry about scraping me off the bar top, I'm not like that." Sa'lyn shook her head. "Just restless."

"I've offered to take you to my knitting club. Farilis likes it, when she shows up."

"And she's also nothing short of a genius. I bet you twenty bucks she needlessly talks about our entire clan history as if she's wrote it herself."

The look from him was enough of a tell as her glass was filled.

"Besides," she leaned in with her elbows on the counter. "That'll change soon. Hopefully."

"Well, I've got you in my thoughts."

"Thanks, Krem."

"Anytime."

Sa'lyn's eyes flicked down to the short glass in her hand. It felt strange to go this long without assuming her identity of Dirthamen, taking up the mantle once more for a reckoning--

She stiffened as she felt someone brush briefly against her shoulder, cutting to look at the violator as they had a seat beside her.

It was her most recent, half-hearted attempt of a one night stand; Cullen. His face was shadowed by dark bags under his eyes, accented by a 5 o'clock shadow. He didn't seem to notice her as he flagged down Krem and placed an order for one of the crowd favorite beers on tap, mulling over the foam in peace.

A shame how relatable he seemed.

"You know, I'd think you'd work here I see you so much," she commented idly. The man had a little start as he whipped his head to look at her. She couldn't help a rueful grin.

"You!"

"Yes, me. You ought to remember your hero from a few nights ago."

There was a moment as he focused on her, thick brows creating a ridge on his forehead as he focused. She could almost see the steam pouring from his ears.

"... Sa'lyn." It was obvious to her as he tried to play off his nervousness with a sip of his beer, leaning onto the counter with his arm. "Sa'lyn."

"Ding. Correct." She clinked her glass against his own. "Cheers, Cullen."

She downed her own - rum, from the sweetness of it - and put the glass a little way in front of her. "So, you come here often?"

"If you were looking to have a do over for our last meeting, I think it could be arranged."

"Well, I don't usually pick up drunk strangers in bars," she shrugged, running a thumb over the lip of her glass. "But why not? I'm Sa'lyn and this place is almost like my second job."

"What's your first?"

"Historical analysis at the University," she responded automatically. "You?"

He leaned in now with the other arm on the counter, pressing his weight forward. "Cullen. Private Investigator. My second job is being a dog sitter."

"... a dog sitter."

"Really it's a mabari."

"Uh-huh." She raised a brow at him. “And how does one exactly go from PI to dog sitter?”

“I’m not going to say no to pet-sitting for a friend.” He scoffed. “I can’t have dogs at my apartment, Solona said we--”

Sa’lyn raised an eyebrow at his cutoff and with the way his eyes fell back to his drink. “Your cheating girlfriend.”

“...yea.”

“I can guess you haven’t talked to her.”

“What can I say? ‘I was going to propose to you but I see you want to keep seeing other people’?" He shook his head. "Obviously it's easier in theory, but actually having that conversation…"

"Well-" Sa'lyn leaned back on her stool, "Personally I'd just kick her ass to the curb. Who's name is on the lease?"

"Her's."

"Easy. Grab your stuff when she's out of town and drop it off at a friend's. Maybe the one with the Mabari."

He seemed unconvinced, and Sa'lyn gave him a brisk pat on the shoulder. Doling out relationship advice wasn't her first topic when she spoke with people she had bed - or attempted to, considering the situation - but he seemed to be just as lost as she felt when it came to figuring out where the next step was in her plan.

Simply enough, the situation and coincidences were perplexing and amusing to her.

"She didn't use to be like this, you know." His voice was notably softer, and Sa'lyn strained to hear him over the sound of the bar. "I figured at first it was me. But I loved her and honestly thought she loved me."

"Some people don't deserve love - they deserve what's coming to them."

He cast her a sideways look, and she shrugged at him.

"Old Dalish saying."

"It's got some truth to it." He took a long sip from his beer. "I'm not going to go crawling back to her or anything - the thought of that…"

She watched Cullen shake his head and glanced at her, truly studying her. His brown eyes lingered over the scar over her own, curious and inquiring.

"How did you…?"

"I was in an accident as a kid." She turned her head and pointed to the one on the curve of her jaw. "Same for this one."

"Oh." He thumbed over his lip to where a light scar crossed the upper. "When I was a Templar, someone suckerpunched me and gave me this."

Sa'lyn couldn't help a small grin. "You were a Templar?"

"For several years. I left after… well, I imagine you heard about Kirkwall."

"That I have." Her eyes flicked to Krem expertly flitting to and fro behind the counter, and back to Cullen. "I'll be honest, I don't usually have casual conversations like these with people I just met."

"Well, we did meet prior. However, one of us blacked out and - according to you - was crying about their cheating girlfriend."

She contemplated this for a moment. It was silly to think of it so, but he was right. He certainly had been different from her usual pick of bedmates - most she would have simply brushed off and moved on from, but here he was in the same bar like they met prior. A little more sober perhaps.

"Maybe you'd like to have a happier ending this time." She smirked. "Or at least, waking up without a blistering headache."

"Ah-" The implication caused his cheeks to flush, much to her amusement. "Maybe, maybe not - no offense, it isn't you. Rather, I have to work in the morning and hopefully get my stuff from my apartment."

"Shame." She leaned back, brushing off the vague sting of rejection. "The offer's always on the table."

"Thank you," he looked away, a hand rubbing the back of his neck. "If you wanted to get coffee this week, I wouldn't mind that. I'm of a better mind without alcohol."

"... like a date?"

"It doesn't have to be that, I would just… like to know you better is all. You've already saved me once and I don't have many friends in this town." He paused briefly. "Most of them are from work."

"But don't you know me from you working here?" She teased him briefly. He was easy. "That's, what, three jobs? Bit of a workaholic there, Cullen."

"Don't joke - that's one of the issues Solona had with me I think."

"To answer your original question - sure." Sa'lyn took out her phone from her pocket and clicked it on, navigating to her contacts and presenting a blank one to him. "I'm free all this week, but if something comes up I'll let you know."

Cullen took the phone from her carefully, clicking in his name and number. "I'm available tomorrow after work, so long as everything works out."

He passed the phone back to her and she looked over his information. Was it wrong of her to want to look him up and read what information someone had inevitably collected on him? It would save her the small talk.

A message buzzed onto the screen - a text.

- Leliana --- 10:19 -
I have a Tevinter connection. Call me tomorrow. x

A smile danced across her lips. Was it hope for a plan put back into play, or coffee with a man she could engage with relatively freely?

"It's a date."

Chapter Text

      Cullen looked over his life packed into three cardboard boxes in the living room of his shared apartment with Solona. Alistair placed a small duffel beside the stack, and he could feel his partner grimace at the lack of contents.

      “Is this it then?”

      He could only nod his head. Alistair’s hand patted his shoulder, giving him a little squeeze.

      Solona was holed up in the bedroom, skirting away from the social ire of another person in the apartment. If he had come alone, she would have used every excuse for her behavior. He had refused to step foot back in the apartment since he had caught her in bed with another. Even their texts had been scarce; they started with her begging before transitioning to vile blame.

      He was only fortunate that Alistair and his fiancee were willing to house him until he could find another place to live.

      Cullen looked over the apartment again. This had been his home since meeting Solona after Kirkwall. His place of rest, to ground himself when the demons of Kinloch clawed at the door. 

      Now - it was an ache that repeated a betrayal over and over again. There were no photos of him on the fridge or hanging on the walls. Every piece of decoration was explicitly Solona’s and never his.  Her shoes remained in the threshold, her glasses in the cabinet, and her candle burning on the coffee table. Her key was hanging on the hook, and he left his hanging beside it for the last time.  

      He took two of the boxes as Alistair slung the duffle over his shoulder and grabbed the last box. 

      “If you packed any lighter I would think you were a Warden.” Ever Alistair to lighten the mood.

      “I didn’t think I had this little.” 

      “Thank the Maker - I think Naelis would kill me if we brought a moving truck-- No offense.”

      He let out a half-laugh at that. “I don’t want to impose on either one of you--”

      “Nonsense.” He waved his hand, nearly fumbling the box in his gesture. “We’re both glad to have you stay. Barkspawn thinks of you as a part of his pack now!”

      “Still. Thank you, Alistair. And I will have to thank Naelis too-- somehow.” He wasn’t sure how he could thank her - she was intimidating and he could count how many times he had seen her smile on a single hand. “Although I’m not sure how.”

      “We’ll think of something - even I have trouble reading her sometimes.” Alistair put the box on the trunk of his car, opening the door and filling it up in turn. “Here-- we’ll get something to eat on the way home and you buy. That’s a start.”

      Cullen put the other boxes into the cabin, topping it off with the duffle from Alistair. He closed the door, glancing up to the window of his apartment bedroom. The blinds were closed. 

      “... yeah.” He looked back to the car. “I can do that.”

      They climbed into the car and Cullen kept his eyes trained to the dash of the car. As much as he wanted to look to see if Solona was watching, he knew it would do nothing but bring him down further. And now, he needed to move on. He had a coffee date to look forward to.

      The coffee date. He felt a fluttering in his stomach. Being swept up in the prospect of moving his life, he had almost forgotten about his plan with Sa’lyn - the Dalish woman whose bed he had slept in. And continued to meet at the bar. He had no regrets turning down her advances considering she seemed just as pleased to accept his proposal for coffee. He had not texted her, but between work and preparing to move - he was sure that she would understand.

      “Cullen?”

      His attention snapped over to Alistair.

      “Yes-- what?”

      “You were miles away from here.”

      “I… have a lot on my mind.”

      Alistair gave him a noncommittal grunt, pulling into a fast food drive thru. “Hopefully it’ll be food.”

      The drive back to Alistair’s - and now his - apartment was swift after getting their food. Barkspawn was eager for their spoils, but the icy, firm stare from Naelis stopped him from sneaking any major pieces of food to the mabari. Alistair had been right that food would bring him into her better graces, although it was clear that she would not warm up to him very easily. She cleaned up after the two of them and had barely said goodnight before returning to her office.

      “Don’t be too offended,” Alistair waved his hand to Cullen. “The wedding planning’s been on her mind - and she’s still called to do things for the Wardens.” 

      “I was under the impression that the both of you had left.” He passed a cold fry to Barkspawn, the dog’s hot slobber going all over his fingers. He grimaced and bore the brunt of the grossness, wiping off the slobber onto his slacks.

      “We did, but the Wardens--” Cullen could see something else in his eyes. “It’s not something you walk away from easily.” 

      His thoughts turned to Kirkwall and Kinloch. “... I suppose I feel similar with the Templars.”

      “Yeah-- and with Kirkwall.” He watched Alistair get up to get a rawhide for Barkspawn, the mabari letting out a soft chuff before taking the treat and moving to the living room. “I know the Wardens weren’t sent there - not for anything related with the Knight-Commander and the explosion - but it’s strange how things just went so-- I don’t know, quiet?”

      Alistair was prompting him. He had refused to talk about Knight-Commander Meredith since he stepped foot back in Ferelden. Even when Cassandra recruited him, he felt like an automaton repeating what he saw, and what he knew with her spiral and the explosion, and the pieces of the Chantry that nearly destroyed Kirkwall, and the aftermath of trying to cobble together some semblance of organization to deliver aid to those affected by the destruction. By all accounts, it had been anything but quiet - but that was why Cassandra had come in, asking the questions for someone much higher than herself. He still didn’t know who wanted to know what happened, but whatever possessed Cassandra to find out was well beyond the Templars, and possibly the Chantry. 

      “Quiet, until Cassandra showed up.”

      “And Leliana - but you know we were only introduced relatively recently.”

      Alistair gave him a sheepish grin. “She’s good company.”

      “How well do you know her, really?”

      “She helped Naelis and me with the Fereldan situation. And a few others— Maker, I need to ask Zevran and Sten to come to the wedding, and they’re probably well abroad—“

      His friend’s wedding. He had forgotten about the notion, and his own intentions to propose to Solona before everything changed. 

      “…Yeah.”

      Their conversation stilled, and only the sound of Barkspawn chewing on his rawhide filled the room for a moment.

      “... you should probably get some rest. It was a long day - and if we mention her too much, Cassandra will probably show up at my door to drag us into work tomorrow.”

      He let out a half laugh, leaning on his hand to stand himself up from the table. “I’m inclined to believe she could hunt us across Thedas if she felt like it.”

      “Let’s not summon her.” 

      Alistair bid him a quiet goodnight before he joined his fiancee in bed. Cullen changed before making a suitable bed on the couch - not dissimilar from his days as a Templar. He stared at the ceiling as he heard Barkspawn’s nails tapping on the tile floor of the kitchen, eventually coming to a stop near the couch. There was a low whine as he put his head on Cullen’s chest, and he toyed with the mabari’s ears. 

      He was free. It was a strange, unfamiliar freedom. Uncomfortable, but that was expected when change comes suddenly. He rubbed the soft fur of Barkspawn’s ears between his fingers. His thoughts inevitably drifted to Solona and all the memories they had together. Even the ring was stuffed somewhere in one of the boxes - a now abandoned prospect that served as a paperweight. How long had she been cheating on him? Did she really regret it? 

      A bitter taste filled his mouth as he smoothed his hand over the dog’s head. Did she even care to fight for him, or was he blind to that too?

      Barkspawn nosed his hand, and he continued to pet him. There was no use worrying over it. As he knew, he was free - and Alistair was a saint for letting him stay on his couch to start from scratch. He had a roof over his head, a job, and a coffee date to look forward to.

      Perhaps things were looking up.

   
        “Red Templars?”

      “Yes.” Cassandra put a manila folder on the meeting table. “Red Templars.”

      “That sounds--”

      “Blasphemous?” Leliana cut eyes across the room. “The Chantry agrees.” 

      Cullen and Alistair sat across from Leliana and Cassandra, the Seeker standing with a scowl. He reached across the table to open the folder, thumbing the few pages it seemed to contain, not fully registering anything on the papers. This felt like a waste of time when he could be at his desk putting his mind at solving the Dirthamen mystery. 

      “Are we sure this isn’t some sort of, I don’t know…” He looked up to Cassandra before glancing to Alistair, then to Leliana. “Distraction? We have a serial killer on the loose.”

      “Multiple things can occur at the same time.” Leliana’s expression was unreadable, hands folded together. “This comes from Kirkwall.” 

      Kirkwall. He broke eye contact to really look at the papers in his hands. 

      There were clips of articles about Knight-Commander Meredith, some embossed with the Chantry and Templar Order symbols. His jaw tightened as he saw things he knew to be true scribbled in the margins by someone far beyond his rank and status. Unconfirmed . Unfounded . Unexplained . Things he knew all too well after the dust had managed to settle and Cassandra came to investigate the matter. He flipped to the next page.

      “Raleigh Samson.” His voice sounded miles away. 

      There were stills from a CCTV, printed on the paper in his own hands. He looked older despite the pixelation of the footage, but far from the man who was begging on the streets of a town turned to rubble. He looked lean, sickly, but his eyes were sharp and staring down the camera with a wide grin. Among the still of him were photos of red, bastardized symbols of the Templar order, sprinkled online and on posters like some call to action to reform - but the meaning was unclear; there was no mission statement in this strange recruitment call. There were, however, the reports of abuses, not dissimilar from the list he knew of with Kirkwall’s Templars after Meredith reached her paranoid state. And with the Chantry reports in hand - it seemed her delusion was just one symptom of many. And Samson did not seem the person to organize such a group over night. 

      He looked up to Cassandra, and she was staring at him. “How do you know him-- how do you know he’s involved with all of this?” He held out the paper to her. 

      Cassandra didn’t respond at first. Several beats passed before going to the meeting room’s door and opening it. “You can come in now.”

      Everyone stared at the threshold as one dwarf who was more chest hair than man waltzed in. 

      “Varric Tethras - at your service.” 

      Cassandra refused to acknowledge the grin before she closed the door quickly to finish ushering him in, resuming her spot at the table. “I could not find Hawke to question her. I was not given her information for witness protection.” There was a strange look she cast at Leliana - as if she were to blame for such a thing. But the woman did not look concerned by it. “But Varric has kindly volunteered his information to us.”

      “‘Kindly’ is a strong word, Seeker.” 

      Varric was inevitably familiar - even if he had done his best to press down the memories of Kirkwall, it was hard to forget someone who looked like him. He recalled how he and Hawke were inseparable, glued to the hip and shoulder respectively considering their differing heights. They both had run-ins with the law, more so on Hawke’s behalf with her strange cluster of friends that included the person who caused most of the destruction at Kirkwall within his last year of being in the city. 

      Cullen refrained from bringing up his complicated order with Hawke, as well as the fact she very well had been under Cassandra’s nose in town. 

      Varric’s eyes cut over the others in the room. A tip of the head to Alistair and Leliana and then a flash of recognition at himself.

      “Curly! This just keeps getting stranger and stranger.”

      “Varric.”

      “Any more folks popping out of the woodwork?”

      “You can start with explaining this to me--” Cullen waving his hand to cut to the chase. “What does Samson have to do with all of this? What are these Red Templars you allege? And what does this have to do with our current case?”

      Cassandra flashed him a warning look. “Rutherford--”

      “I don’t see the connection to Dirthamen - this seems like a wild chase away from what we were originally focusing on.”

      “We are having to consider all of our options.” She tapped on the manila folder he had set on the table. “Dirthamen has not acted recently, but the rising propaganda of these Red Templars is causing alarm.”

      “But what makes them different from the Templars? They are not under any direct order from the Chantry--”

      “Their absolution from the Chantry is what concerns the Divine.”

      Cullen and Cassanda both cut their eyes to Leliana. Varric leaned back in a chair, his boots on the conference table. 

      “Leliana.” 

      “Perhaps Cullen should know now.” She watched Cassandra, but her face was unreadable. Stony. “What we have been instructed to do.”

      Cassandra stared her down before letting out another sigh, raising both hands in the air and waving them. “Fine-- if you so insist.”

      “Cassandra?”

      She looked at Cullen with a great intensity. More akin to what he had seen when he was recruited by her in Kirkwall. “... Leliana and I have been instructed by the Divine as her Hands to understand the problem.”

      “Specifically,” Leliana was speaking now. “-- the problem that has been at hand since before Kirkwall. Before Alistair and I worked together.” She gestured to the former Warden. “Thedas has been dealing with a problem, and we are trying to understand how it is manifesting. The string of murders from Dirthamen is only a symptom of a greater problem. The Red Templars are another, and their threat is much greater than a single assassin.” 

      Cassandra rapped her knuckles on the table. “We have been given such liberties to find those responsible for this disruption of society and restore order. In the name of Divine Justinia.” 

      There was a long moment of silence. 

      This made too much sense. It explained Leliana’s strange appearances around the office and her vested interest in the Dirthamen situation. It explained Cassandra’s timely appearance at Kirkwall and how he was brought into the fold of trying to solve this problem - among many now, it seemed. 

      He glanced at Alistair. He was not looking at him, but he was tapping his pen on his note pad. He was clearly thinking, but how much did he know of all this? He was a Warden - former, by some account - but he had heard the rumors that they never truly left. Surely this was some secret, vested interest in the Order? 

      And now, there was Varric. And if he were a betting man, it would soon involve Hawke if Cassandra could manage to track that woman down. 

      He rubbed his forehead with his forefinger and thumb, putting down the documents of Samson, sliding them back into the manila envelope in front of Cassandra. “Maker-- this is…”

      “Maybe we need a break?” Now Alistair was talking. “It’s a lot for anyone to handle - I mean, it was a lot when I found out--”

      “Lunch.” Cassandra’s tone was firm. “I am not asking you to stop looking into Dirthamen. However, the threat of the Red Templars is too great to ignore. They draw in Templars - former ones like you - and use them to cause nothing but chaos.”

      He was still unconvinced of the matter, but he let his trepidations lie. The others filed out of the room to go take their respective lunches, and he sat there for a long moment still digesting all of it.

      Samson - the Samson he knew from Kirkwall - was now a part of some rouge, disordered band of Templars out doleing their own form of justice. Whatever form that may take, and one not sanctioned by the Divine considering that Divine Justinia had Cassandra and Leliana investigating it. Did this mean that the Divine wanted Dirthamen investigated, or was Dirthamen a case of convenience? 

      Cullen left the meeting room. He let his feet carry him out of the office and on a walk to get lunch as a means to clear his head. 

      Samson looked gaunt in the still that Cassandra had provided. A shell of the bright, healthy man he knew at Kirkwall. Even if he had been disbarred from the order - this didn’t seem like him. Possessed, perhaps. Swayed by something that seemed beyond his and the others’ grasp at the moment. 

      His phone buzzed in his pocket. He started to reach for it, putting his hand around it, but he stopped just before pulling it out. It could be anyone who texted him. A paranoid part of his mind even said it could be Samson. 

      Cullen pushed it down and turned on the screen. Not Samson, not Solona - Sa’lyn.

      His stomach fluttered again. A shy, little betrayal and distraction that he could afford.

      - Sa’lyn --- 11:31 -
      Don’t forget our coffee tomorrow. (: Meet @ 3?

      His thumbs tapped over the screen, deleting and retyping some scrambled sense of ‘yes, of course!’ while also wanting to reschedule to straighten out his own mind with a ‘raincheck, sorry’. He stopped himself to take a breath, centering himself, before hitting send. 

      ------- 11:40 -
      I wouldn’t miss it for the world.