Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Hinterlands are burning up, as the hostilities between Mages and Templars went from a weak attempt at diplomacy, to taunting the others, to open acts of guerrilla and nocturnal sabotages to the other party, to a full on armed conflict that devastated the countryside in its wake. When the little Inquisition party leaves the Crossroads and enters in the flat valley where Fort Connor lied, they all but found not the rolling hills and pleasant pathways amidst fields and farms, shaded by oak and firs, but a flaming swamp, dilapidated barracks and destroyed fences, littered in corpses. Fallen or burnt are the firs, a lonely oak is still standing, very worn down for use, but stubbornly refusing to yield.

For Aisling Lavellan it’s like stepping into a foreign planet, and yet that foreign planet is holding to her some sort of respite, compared to the preceding couple of weeks. Not that the life in Haven could remotely be considered worse than the scene that opened in front of her green eyes, of course, but now she can welcome having a clear task ahead, a problem to solve that is far more approachable than “Fix the giant hole in the Sky somehow, you’re the only one who can”. She has never been much for making things up as you go, and adapting to a new culture and to half a village worshipping her as the Herald of Andraste -a goddess she doesn’t know nor believe in-, the other half staring at her with mistrust and suspicion, only added to the stress. So, the tasks assigned by Scout Harding and the clear-cut instructions of Cassandra in battle, instructing their mismatched party on how to behave with each other, felt slightly better, even if in a much grimmer situation.

Roam the countryside, clear rogue Templars and Mages alike that attacked them on sight, either identifying herself and Solas as Apostates or rebel mages to stop, either mistrusting a Dalish mage and a Seeker to come to parlay. Close Fade Rifts. Mind the bears. Easy and direct, those she can manage, one step at a time. After a couple of days there, the four of them has also found a balance in combat, falling into rhythm the more they fight together and learn how to move around each other. Cassandra’s matter-of-fact attitude and clear perch for command helped a lot, giving clear instructions and correcting them after each skirmish. She is starting to think that the Seeker isn’t so judgemental -as Varric kept on blaming her for-, but too used to being listened to by people so disciplined as to obey without questions, and brash to a fault. She could admit she’s still wary of her after she imprisoned her and dragged her up a mountain -particularly because she couldn’t be sure she actually wasn’t responsible for the death of the Divine-, but she was coming to appreciate fighting along her, Varric and Solas.

The company wasn’t a problem -even if she felt in her guts that Solas didn’t like her but was too polite to act upon it, Varric’s easygoing enough to glue brash Cassandra, aloof Solas and shy her together. The damned boots were a problem.

They made it almost to the now ruined fort, when five Templars runs out of it and charge them. As usual, seeing two elves wielding staffs and attacking on sight. She huffs, ignoring all her better instinct telling her to flee, and falls into position smoothly, watching the others to wait for her clue. Cassandra charges back, swords drawn and shield raised, and engages the warriors easily. Thunder fills now the air, the smell of ozone from her conjuring electricity and the sparkling of mana rolling around her and Solas, who’s summoning ice shards and blocking the enemies as Varric’s bolts fly around them and plant in throats and weak points in the armours. In three, they manages to keep the enemies at bay for some minutes. But the Templars are too many for them, a couple more running out of the fort and slipping past Cassandra’s line and too far for Solas to freeze them over. She hits one straight in the neck with a lightning, but concentrating on one means that the second manages to charge in and engage the smallest, appearently weaker of the group from far too close: Mages usually aren’t trained for close-combat.

To her advantage, the Templars -or this one in particular, she can keep her questions for friendlier Templars in Haven- are trained to face mages trained in Circles, not Dalish ones. And so she takes the advantage: she spars the sword with the body of her staff easily, raising the other end of her weapon to hit his shield with it, as strongly as she can. He falls back just a step, and is too able to give her an opening for the surprise of seeing a Mage keeping up in close combat. But she’s no Circle Mage, she can keep her own and her training wasn’t so by the book as she noticed Rebel Mages’ was.

Not that she has much expertise both with fighting Templars or with melee fighting: as the hostilities reached the clan in the Free Marches, Keeper Deshanna had strongly ordered all the clan, and to her and Pavyn particularly as her First and Second apprentices -and mages-, not to engage with the Templars if it wasn’t strictly necessary, after an ambush had killed poor old Mylena and her husband for the severe crime of picking mushrooms in the wrong place at the wrong time. But ten years with Ydun, Ydun who fought like Andruil herself and liked to spar and correct her posture and moves as foreplay, had paid off a little. It’s no tall, elegant elf huntress with long black hair and love in her eyes that she’s facing, but she knows that she needed an opening and a distraction to use magic, if she doesn’t want to get purged and lose her main skillset, or stabbed before she can cast a full spell. So, she keeps close and tries to gain some ground.
It would be much easier if she wasn’t so uncomfortable on her feet: if she’s got a little used to walk with closed, soled shoes, combat footing and fighting are a whole other level. Half-healed blisters are itching and scraping against the rough wool of the socks, proving extra distraction she really doesn’t need.

As on clue, she slips on a wet patch of grass and the warrior lunges with his blade. Instinctively, she bends her knees and drops back in a move Ydun has insisted on her to learn, balancing herself by pointing her staff behind her. Except, half the move consists in keeping her balance by grabbing slightly the ground with her toes to have some leverage. Something which she can’t do with those damned boots and their smooth soles. Her toes grabs instinctively some ground that isn’t there, and her footing gets instantly off, leaving her just falling back with no control. A curse leaves her lips, and she scrapes at her magic desperately and with no focus, electricity sparkling wildly around her, Ydun’s rich voice coming to her mind and lecturing about how footwork is half the fighter’s weapon. The next thing she thinks, is that she’s going to die very stupidly, and that she probably deserves it. She at least wanted to reach Master Dennet and see the horses.

Except, she doesn’t die: the blade attached on the bottom of the staff is sharp enough to pierce the ground and plant itself securely in place. She notices it and puts her whole weight on it, desperately. She somehow holds on, her hands and abs burning in discomfort, but she’s stable enough to kick up with one foot and hitting the Templar’s crotch from below. Hard. It’s tentative and out of pure instincts, but luckily for her, this Templar has also been so inconsiderate as not to wear much armour on his lower body. So she hits, and he yelps in pain and surprise.

He leaves her an opening, so she has time to scramble back up again, snap the blade out of the dirt and quickly move the staff in a wide diagonal from up to down, conjuring lightnings to fall directly on the soldier in front of her and randomly on his peers. With the thunder roaring and booming on the battlefield, her opponent is instantly electrocuted from the close proximity with her, the metal armour not doing anything but amplifying the electricity that runs into his body. He screams, and then he stops, falling faceward in the mud. She quickly assesses her surroundings and notices the other Templars were less severely hit, but enough to prove a distraction and have her companions finish them off.

She lowers her staff, panting heavily and taking a mental note to thank Harritt as soon as she’s back to Haven, for insisting so much in having her keep the damn blade. As she catches her breath and scowl grumpily at her shoes, Cassandra is on her side, eyeing her with what could be suspicion or worry, she cannot say. Whatever the sentiment, the elf raises her eyes to notice a perfectly trimmed eyebrow raise up at her.

“So that’s why you insisted for a leather only armour, uh?”

“Uh- Yeah, metal’s not good if you deal with electricity. Also, I’m already out of balance enough with these.” She grumbled, raising one foot in a silent indication to the boots.

“You should switch to leg wraps, da’len, I have a pair to spare if nobody can get you some.”

It’s Solas this time, conceding patiently to her. Having another elf around which shares part of her culture has put her instantly at ease with him, and he was the one she ultimately had sought the company of the most for that reason, since the Conclave. That didn’t mean she was the biggest fan of his condescending tone. Or of his constant calling her a child. And she’s pretty sure he thinks she’s stupid or simply doesn’t like her, which hasn’t been enough until now to keep her away from asking him questions and seeking him out when she’s feeling particularly lonely and wants to chat with someone that doesn’t treat her like she was actually sent by a Mage burnt at the stake and now worshipped. Beside, she hates quarrelling, and for all she knows, the elf isn’t like that with the sole purpose to irritate her. She can deal with it, she’ll show him that she’s not a child. And child don’t complain about the wrong type of shoes.

“Thank you, but there’s no need to trouble anyone. I can get used to the boots, it’s not the end of the world…” She affirms politely, smiling and shaking her head.

Solas doesn’t reply, but gives her a look that suggests he disagrees with her. Varric too tries to insist on the fact that she doesn’t need to be uncomfortable, it’s just feet, but she just smiles and shakes her head, stubbornly minimising the issue and telling everyone not to worry about her. Not that they’re wrong, but she just doesn’t want to add being barefoot to all the little things that makes her so foreign to everyone else, and avulse from their culture. She already has tattoos on her face she can’t and doesn’t want to hide, she can get used to shoes. Blisters heal up.

After a quick check for injuries -none, luckily-, they go on, heading west. The sun is rolling down in its track west, the light turning warmer and golden and bringing up the browns and reds and yellows of the leaves in the trees and the Embrium flowers in bloom. As they make their way out of the valley, the destruction leaves space to what they can all suppose is the natural state of the Hinterland, a gentle woodland intertwined with rocks and the first mountains. There’s a river in a gorge, which they have to cross somehow, since the bridge was destroyed, and after that, they can be all relieved to find a small clusters of farms and fields still intact, untouched by the war. The distant neighing of horses can be heard, Aisling perking up instantly at the sound and Varric lightly teasing her for it. The light is fully golden when Cassandra finally stops and decides it’s a good spot to camp, and they can all slip down their gear and get to work. If the dwarf complains long and loud about it, as scouts slowly reaches them to help, for Aisling it’s something familiar, she’s slow in her work -slower than usual- just because her feet are starting to hurt again, and she has to move carefully while raising tends and securing knots.

When the night finally falls and dinner has been consumed, the camp gets overly quiet, everyone eager to retire in their tends and gets some sleep in private. Chats and words get even fewer than the polite ones that were exchanged before. If in battle and work the expedition found a rhythm, in the off time that cohesion shatters, they all remembers they’re a mismatched company with little in common. Aisling tried to offer stories, but the proposition went into nothing, as she’s left on her own in front of the fire, sighing and left to brood on herself, sitting on a log that became a makeshift bench. She hates being broody, but she misses the clan, her friends, she even misses Pavyn and his snarky remarks at everything she does. She misses Keeper Deshanna the most, as her adoptive mother and confident, and the person she could always talk to. She broods for a couple of minutes, considering what would she tell her, and how, and trying to remember how her hug felt. But, Deshanna’s not here, there’s just her, some scouts who are getting ready to bed, a Seeker whom she’s too intimidated to talk to, an elf who already thinks she’s a child, and a dwarf that she doesn’t know enough to treat as a confident, and has problems of his own.

There’s nothing much she can do about that. Instead, she decides to concentrate on something she can solve, as her blisters under the accursed boots and socks. She can feel at least a new one acutely hurting on the top of a finger, and the old ones begging for her attention. So, she starts by making out of her shoes, unbuckling here and untying there, and quickly slipping off first the right, then the left, and leaving everything on the side, socks securely tucked into her boots. A problem for later. A couple of scouts stops in their activities to stare at her curiously, watching the oh-so-aloof Herald of Andraste curling on herself and bringing her own feet closer to her face, to examine a remarkable collection of blisters in various stages of healing. Not that this is enough to even vaguely stops her, moving carefully fingers and grimacing when she notices that there’s another blister on her heel, and this one is pretty big. It’s not elegant, it’s not even gracious, but it’s something so human that there’s a crack in the image of the holy figure and of the foreign mage who can zap your but with a wave of her fingers if you’re not careful enough with her. So, one of the scouts that was watching her raises up as soon as she uncurls herself and raises up, watching the potion table they set up with instruments and pots of the herbs they brought and the ones that she herself collected during the day.

“What do you need, Herald? Let me…”

“Oh, please, don’t bother…”

“It’s nothing! Blisters are a nightmare, I was crying when I arrived in Haven, I never walked so long and my feet were killing me.”

She smiles, shily, and as the scout gets to the table and smiles at her encouragingly, she’s convinced enough to sit down on the log, staying just on the border and ready to raise up.

“Thank you…”

“Ellie, your worship!”

“Thank you, Ellie! I’d just need the mortar and the pestle, a jug of water and some of the elfroot I picked… Do you know which one is it?”

“Yes, milady, my mama used to brew tea for us when we were sick. This one?”

“Exactly! What a good mama…”

Ellie makes quick work and brings out everything, carefully handling her the mortar with the elfroot insite, and placing the jug on the dirt by her feet, not so close to invade her space, but not so far to make it impossible for her to reach.

“There, your worship! There’s anything else you need?”

“No, thank you, go and get some sleep… Oh, wait.”

“Yes?”

“Please, call me Aisling, there’s nothing to worship in me, really.”

“I-“

“Please, Ellie.”

There’s some begging in her voice, and even if Ellie’s not looking fully sold on it, she nods and bids goodbye to Aisling, not to the Herald, even if a little stiffly. The elf sighs a little, imagining the battle’s won but not the war. Anyway, she gets to work.

She sits down on the dirt to have some flat surface to work, and then starts to pick the leaves from the stem and pestling them into a paste with her right, slowly adding water with the left. It’s something she has done a thousand and one times, and it doesn’t take her more than five minutes and half a brain in concentration. When she’s satisfied with the result -she suspects the Elfroot here is of a different kind, the colour is more muted than she’s used to back North, the smell less prominent, but the consistency is thankfully the same- she rises up and walks right into the creek, submerging her feet and sighing in pleasure from the chillness. She wiggles her toes in the soft mud just because she can, enjoying the feeling of it after that long, long day. It’s peaceful, the night is already chilly and crispy, promising a longer and harsher winter than she’s used to in the Marches, far Norther than there. She breathes for two minutes, just existing and regaining peace of mind and enjoying just being there, listening to a couple of frogs croaking in the distance and to the rushing of water over the rocks.

When her toes start to freeze, she turns back and returns to her spot beside the fire, placing the mortar beside her hip and watching left and right before cleaning and drying her feet with a tid-bit of magic. Satisfied with her now-clean feet, she starts with the paste, applying it on the blisters and also using it to massage the feet. She’s making a mess and she’s really not elegant with hands and feet rapidly turning green, but she doesn’t care. The night is so starry and the camp is so peaceful that she starts humming under her breath an old song from home. Her fingers rubbing her plants and muscles in practiced ways, with no hurry to get to sleep.

She hears the steps before seeing the Seeker approaching her from her tent, asking a brisk “Can I sit here?” with her thick accent. She’s a little taken aback and fears there’ll be something wrong with what she’s doing or has done, but she nods anyway, moving a little to the left to leave her more space closer to the fire. The woman places herself on the log, legs widely spread and looking at her with a slight frown Aisling tries her best to ignore and not letting reach her nerves.

“Are you all right?” Cassandra asks, the rash tone colliding with the question. Aisling stops her fingers to look at the other woman, a question on her face.

“What do you mean?”

“Your feet. Elfroot is used as a painkiller, right?”

“Oh! I’m fine, just blisters and soreness. Elfroot is good for sore muscles too, as well as many, many other things if you know how to treat and use it properly. I’m sorry I spent so much time in picking it… But it’s inexpensive, and I thought it may turn useful for more than just me.” She explains, resuming her work on her feet while she talks. She has spent quite some time picking elfroot up, surprised and happy to see so much in the undergrowth. She heard Cassandra complaining impatiently when she did.

Cassandra that just hums in affirmation and keep silently watching her. Aisling’s not so socially awkward -she has been very socially awkward, as a teen, but those times are over luckily-, but the Seeker always has her on pins and needles. It’s not that she doesn’t believe the Nevarran is sorry for having imprisoned her, it’s that she’s still not sure herself that she actually has NOT killed Divine Justinia and made a cathedral explode, and she foolishly wants to be accepted by the people she must work with. And the judgement of Cassandra she feels is hardly gained, and for that all the most precious. Harder still, when you need to adapt to so many things and even walking is weird. Add to the equation that she’s come to admire the Seeker for her strength and resolution, and she thinks her very pretty... So, Aisling does what she does best, what her education and role taught her to do. Share.

She decides she has treated her feet enough, and so turns towards the Seeker, and ask.

“Uhm, there’s some paste left, if you want it…” She hates how shy she sounds, even to herself. She feels like she’s fifteen again and Ydun just winked at her to see if she blabbers. Which she always did.

“No, thank you, I’m used to boots.” Cassandra replies. It’s matter-of-factly, but it still stings to be found lacking in such a basic skill.

“I- yeah, I guess you are. Sorry. I just- You can use it for other- Urgh, nevermind, sorry.” She blabbers -there, officially fifteen again- lowering her gaze and returning to watch into the fire, hugging her legs and resting her chin on the knees.

Two minutes of complete silence pass, and Aisling can swear she feels the other woman watching her, before the Nevarran speaks again.

“You don’t have to wear them if you feel uncomfortable, you know it?”

That takes Aisling aback. The tone is also softer than before.

“I- I don’t want to be a problem.”

“You are a problem if you can’t fight. You almost fell with those Templar today, and I suspect it wasn’t for lack of skill.”

“I’m a mage, I’m not a warrior.” She replies, protectively. Somehow, having her compassion feels even worse than just her silent judgement.

“That’s evident. But I saw you and you knew what to do from up close, you parred easily. The footwork was off, tho, and I can see why, now. Why keeping the boots?”

She can feel heat raising on her cheeks and ears. She feels under scrutiny and ashamed, all the reason she’s insisting to keep the damned boots suddenly feels very stupid. She doesn’t reply, but just embraces her being back to awkward fifteen-years-old, and presses her forehead against her knees, tight, and groans. That earns a quiet chuckle: it’s low and muttered, probably behind a hand, but the evening is so quiet she can hear it anyway.

“I’m sorry if I cornered you. I’m saying this just because I think you’re a good fighter and you don’t need to struggle more than necessary.”

Oh.

She shily turns her head, a green eye poking from her knees and looking at the Seeker.

“You really think so?”

“I’m not exactly the type to pamper people.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

They look at each other for a minute, and then they start laughing at the same time. It’s a relief, honestly, both for her own mental image of Cassandra who’s suddenly not a stone statue who’s judging her particularly anymore, both for her mood. It was really too much since she laughed, she considers, and that makes her enjoy it all the more. And has some sadness prick at her heart uncomfortably, remembering that the last time she laughed she was back home, but there’s no point in dwelling on that. Not now. Luckily, Cassandra’s there to save her from a bad train of thought, speaking again.

“Is it common for Dalish mages to know hand-to-hand combat? I never had the chance to meet many of you.”

“Well, not necessarily. We’re not specifically trained for it, but everything is done in a group, so… Nobody’s stopping Firsts or Seconds who wishes to join in the Hunter’s training in their spare time.”

“And you obviously wished.”

“Eh, actually I didn’t. I helped with the hallas when I could.”

“Oh? How did you learn, then, if I’m not prying.”

Aisling doesn’t reply right away, but stops to consider, going back to look in the fire, her gaze turning distant. Is it prying? What the worst it could happen? She’s not still so sure to talk about her clan so openly. She doesn’t want to attract attention unnecessarily on her clan. Elves and attention aren’t two things that ever got along well together, and she’s still the First of her Keeper. Her priority is her clan. On the other hand… She would be giving up a name. No locations or details. She casts a glance at Cassandra, studying her for any hint of ill intentions, but finds nothing if polite curiosity. So…

“I sparred with Ydun. She insisted in having me learning some basic moves to fend off anyone who gets too close and regain some ground. She was right, in the end.” She tells, trying to sound detached but not managing much. She sighs, the dull ache of an old hurt showing up and remembering that hey, we’re still not completely over this.

“A wise thought, indeed.”

“Yeah, you probably would like her. She’s great, in combat.”

“In combat?”

“…”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I don’t want to intrude.”

“No, it’s…” she pauses, thinking about what exactly it was. She was too old to be ashamed of her feelings and preferences. And yet-

“You don’t trust me.” -and yet, Cassandra makes it to the point. She must have a wild talent for getting to the point of the situation with the delicacy of a ram charging. And still Aisling is weirdly grateful she’s not the one that has to tell it.

“I don’t know you enough.”

“More like I gave you no reasons to trust me.”

“I wouldn’t say that, you saved me up in battle more than once, already.”

“And get you caught in some political issues you have no ties whatsoever to.”

“I am tied to this situation, remember?” She waves her left hand at her, wiggling her fingers to highlight the Mark in her palm sparkling green. “And for all you know, I could still be guilty. You had reasons to suspect me and I don’t blame you for it. If the sky itself is open, there’s really nowhere to run, it would be crazily egotistical of me to just turn my back.”

There’s maybe a little too emphasis in her words, but she believes in what she’s saying. She couldn’t possibly return to her clan knowing she has the key to fix the world and yet chose to do nothing. Cassandra tho looks at her with a smile, nodding with what could even be approval.

“You’re a kind person.”

“I- what?”

“You’re kind. You take responsibility for your actions, for actions you may not have committed, and you didn’t let me take the blame for something that’s clearly upsetting you.”

“I’m not upset.”

“You are on your own most of the time and have a faraway look. I may don’t know much about the Dalish, but I know enough to know that a lone Dalish is a rare sight, it must be difficult for you.”

“I don’t want to be a problem, you don’t need to worry about me, Lady Seeker.”

That stops Cassandra, and they’re silent for a couple of minutes. Aisling still fixes her gaze on the fire, admiring the flames dancing and crackling in ever different shapes. When she thinks the conversation is over and that she will get rid of the elfroot paste in the privacy of her tent, tho, the Seeker shifts and sits down beside her, on the ground on her right, huffing grumpily.

“You really think I am disappointed in you, don’t you?”

“I don’t see why you should approve me. I really don’t want to be a problem or dead weight.”

“You’re not. I didn’t expect you to be able to fight, and yet you do. I know I can sound… Harsh and judging-“ There’s a snort coming from behind them, and they turn suddenly to look at whomever it was overhearing. Nothing is there, but Varric’s tent has the fold open, and there’s light inside. Cassandra frowns at it and if looks could set things on fire, Varric would have to make a run for the creek. “I was saying. I’m sorry for my brash methods. We started with the wrong foot and I’m to blame for it. I wish we could start again, it would be beneficial if we’re to fight together, don’t you think?”

Aisling considered. Yes, it would be beneficial. But she can’t piece together the Cassandra who dragged her around a mountain and yelled at her because she took a random staff and defended the pair of them in a fight, the Cassandra who barks orders and makes disgusted noises when things don’t go her way, and this person who is literally offering her a helping hand to shake in friendship, beside comprehension and camaraderie. She wants to trust her, tho, and she at least agrees with her on the good relationship between colleagues. They have to work together, they aren’t a clan, but there’s no need in staying enemies.

“I’d shake your hand but…” She finally replies, sheepishly, while she raises her palm, showing off how green with elfroot paste it is. Cassandra all but raises an eyebrow and reaches out for her hand, shaking it anyway, without holding too tight and leaving her way to retreat it, until Aisling squeezes back and replies to the gesture. It’s slippery and it’s moist, but it doesn’t fail to bring a smile on both women.

“Some elfroot never killed anyone.”

“Well, actually-“

“Uuuurgh!” This particular disgusted noise is only half-harted, tho, the corners of the mouth twitching up nevertheless.

They make presentations all over again, chats a little over this and that, shoos off an aghast Varric that popped out of his tend just to express his extreme puzzlement at how the Lady Seeker could have been brought to none else than laughter and smiles. Aisling laughs and teases here and there, not really putting herself between the pair of them when they start bickering, and by the time the waxing moon has all but fallen under the hilltops, the atmosphere of the camp is more relaxed, the souls lighter. When Aisling finally retires in her tend, it doesn’t exactly feel like sleeping in an aravel, with a comfy bed tucked close in between cupboards and storage, but sleep finds her anyway, and in far better spirit than the night before.

Cassandra doesn’t hate her and isn’t all that looming, stoney figure she thought, as much as she’s not the Herald of Andraste. It’s a comforting thought to lull you to sleep feeling like tomorrow will be better. She’ll maybe even ask Solas for that spare pair of leg wraps, after all.

Chapter Text

Varric knew that seeing Seeker Pentaghast actually laugh couldn’t but be a bad, bad omen. Not that he’s been unhappy that she showed some humanity, even if at times he wonders why Lavellan seems more wary of Solas than of the Nevarran who actually imprisoned her, but he just knows in his bones that occurrances like that happens rarely, and they don’t bring anything good with them. Like seeing Anders happy and serene, what has it brought?

And to add to the ominousness of the fact, Cassandra has been in such a good mood, after they cleared out the Rebel Mages camp in Witch Wood and got rid of the worst of the hostilities the day before, that she has graciously conceded their party a small, unprompted break for lunch. And without even Aisling stopping them on their track to run in the woods and pick some more Elfroot and weird plant for the zillionth time. Oh no, Cassandra had just stopped, pondered at the sun at the zenith, and announced they could stop in a small, nice clearing south west of Lake Luthias to have a lunch break. Was it any other person, he would have thought she has chosen the perfect spot for a pic nic, a lush meadow speckled in flowers, the dirt and grass dried by basking in the sun all morning. The motion was met with unanimous approval, without anyone finding anything to remark or oppose. The Seeker was apparently content for once of where they were, not pushing them to reach anything or to stay on track; Lavellan smiled and happily curled her fingers in the soft grass, enjoying the new-found freedom of movement and seemingly minding much, much less the way-too-long and big leg wraps she borrowed from Solas than the boots that were made on her measurements; even Solas seemed less cold than usual, he even replied to his sarcasm in tune and made conversation without explaining something.

It has been idyllic.

It has been weird.

And now, a hour or so later, Cassandra spots a bear walking in the trees just outside the camp, unsheating her sword and urging her companions to their feet, Solas casts a barrier right after, which luckily convinces the plantigrade that they were too much effort for a snack… And Aisling is nowhere to be found.

“Has someone seen where she went?” Cassandra asks, exasperated.

“She may have spotted some Elfroot or who knows which plant to pick, she’d be in the woods.” He replies.

“We’re surrounded by woods!”

“It’s not my fault, Seeker!”

“Uuurgh!” There goes her good mood, she’s back with the face of someone who wants murder, and Varric takes that as his clue to take a step back. Just in case.

“Should we split up and look for her? She can’t be far.” Solas proposes, all so politely and unaffected, and probably avoiding the other two to murder each other for real.

In the lack of anything better, and deciding it would be wiser to find the elf sooner than later, later being looking at her together, they split, choosing each a direction, weapons unsheated and with the accord to get back in the clearing in a hour time.

The woods are peaceful, as if slumbering in the midday sun and in the last heath of summer lingering through, even if autumn has started. It would have been a good year for farms, were it not for the war. It surely is a good year for Elfroot, if the Herald was brought so far away from camp and could pick it for so much time, Varric considers, holding Bianca tight and carefully looking around in search of either a blond elf or a bear. He hopes for the first, as he makes his way amidst the trees towards the Lake, careful to be as quiet as he can with his steps. Which isn’t so quiet, truth to be told, but he hopes with the limited and theoretical knowledge he has as a person who was born into a city and never did that much camping, that it was quiet enough not to attract the attention of any big furry carnivore in the surroundings. Without Hawke to attract troubles as honey does with flies, he has a meagre hope to make it unharmed.

He huffs, as he turns around a big larch and finds himself in sight of the lake. There’s no blonde elf in sight, but just to be sure, he decides to walk a little along the shore. He saw her a couple of hours before eyeing at some black flowers growing in the water with too much curiosity for his liking, and he knows that curiosity on the face of an elf enough to know that it means troubles. He smiles at the memory, remembering pretty much the same expression on Daisy, back home. He thought, at first, that Aisling reminded him of Merrill, but he knew Merrill wouldn’t ever run away on her own like that, not without dragging someone with her in pure enthousiasm, and the rare times when Aisling spoke he couldn’t but think that she was far more practical and logical than she let on, as shy as she was. If he found her alive, he would have started to call her Runaway, or Escapist, he decides bitterly. Not without a touch of envy for having eluded not him -who wasn’t paying attention to her- nor Chuckles -whom he suspected lived in a world of his own-, but Cassandra Pentaghast, Lady Seeker of Truth, and the very embodiment of a siege ram. He saw the elf in battle, he knew she was skilled, but this? This is a superpower bigger than any magic or sparkly mark she may wield.

Some luck returns on his side, as he spots a couple of Inquisition scouts walking his way. They haven’t seen the Herald since they passed from the nearby camp, they tell him, which is bad news, but means that he can redirect his search elsewhere. The scouts are greeted, he gets the promise that word will be sent should Lavellan be found by them or return to the camp alone, the presence of bears gets signalled, and Varric returns toward the clearing where they stopped, taking a different path than the one he came from.

When he reaches the starting point, there’s no bear, luckily, and no Lavellan either. He huffs, leaning on a rock and placing Bianca on his shoulder to rest a little from the walk in the heath with his crossbow at the ready, waiting for anyone to return, at this point, or considering another direction to go. Let’s see, Cassandra went west, Solas south…

And then, someone sneezes.

It’s light and soft, and if he wasn’t alone and silent, he probably would have ignored it. But he’s alone and silent, the valley is quiet, and so he hears it, coming from his right. He looks and there seems to be just a slope of rocks, leading up to the steep side of the mountain surrounding the pass they were crossing. Looks like the perfect place to found anything but the occasional snake and moss, and yet…
Doubting there are many bears who likes rock climbing, he doesn’t point the crossbow forward, while reaching the northern, rocky side of the path and stepping up a small rock, up another, leveraging himself up a third one with his arms…

And finally finding Aisling Lavellan, shielded from view from the clearing by stone that’s currently higher than her, in full sunlight, curled on herself like a cat… And fast asleep in a little depression amidst rocks as if it was the comfiest of beds, her cheek carefully placed on a patch of moss that indeed looks soft, and lightly drooling from her open mouth. At maybe 20 metres from where they were sitting, in a raised position and with wards drawn around her with a chalky rock for a very careful, cautious nap.

Varric considers killing her on the spot for all the troubles, but instead he starts laughing. Hard and loud.

Aisling wakes up abruptly, jumping up while catching her breath and placing a hand on one of the wards, before realising it’s no enemy that woke her up. And blushing to the tips of her ears.

“Wh-what’s so funny?” She asks, pouting.

“You were seriously sleeping.” He manages to reply, having troubles catching his breath from laughing too much.

“…I slept little this night, we were on a break, I took a nap.” She explains, a little sheepishly, but as if it was perfectly normal.

“Amidst ROCKS!”

“…They’re not worse than the cots back at camp, come on.”

He starts laughing again at the joke, and she follows him after a little, covering her mouth with her hand. Still laughing, Varric offers her a hand to help her down the rock, which she takes with her thanks. As they make their way back to the centre of the clearing to retrieve their things, Varric tho has to tell her.

“Well, next time you want a nap, Lucky, just tell any of us where you go, we pictured you a nice elfroot-flavoured snack for a bear.”

“I’m sorry I worried you all, I thought you saw me going that way. Shall we look for the others? I don’t want them to become bear snacks.”

“Shoot some lightning, that will signal them.”

She nods and retrieves her staff, tossing it from one hand to the other as she takes a deep breath, concentrating for a little before slamming the back of the staff on the ground, conjuring a lightning a little before them, the thunder roaring loudly in the valley. A flock of birds takes flight from the treetops, cackling loudly in fear, and there’s noise of little paws scuttling in the undergrowth, as soon as the thunder subsides.

“There, that would do.” Aisling smiles, as if she has done nothing major at all and leaning on the staff. “But while we wait, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, Lucky, go on.”

Cassandra pops out of the wood, storming out and barking that the thunder was a stupid move and there were other ways and what were you thinking. Aisling ignores her and goes on with her question, tho.

“Why Lucky?” She smiles, and it’s not a complaint he hears, just curiosity.

“It’s short for Lucky Bastard.” He admits, cackling in a small laughter and patting her shoulder.

Her smile falters a little, as she nods at Cassandra, still lecturing the pair of them about the importance of stealth and of not ruining such a perfect meadow as Solas too walks out of the woods to reach them, nodding at his fellow elf. After some minutes of mutually checking the others for injuries, assuring nobody came even close to become a bear’s lunch and Varric telling them he already sent word back for the presence of bears, they get back on the road, venturing further west to what is noted in the map as Hafter’s Woods.

Not so long after, tho, Aisling reaches Varric again, eyeing him warily.

“Why Lucky Bastard?” She asks, and there’s some complaint, this time.

Varric looks at her, smiling reassuringly.

“Because I can accept your sneezing lightning out of your pretty nose, I can understand you surviving a fuck-ass explosion on your own, and the weird mark on your hand closing holes in the fabric of reality, sure. But being able to fall asleep wherever and whenever? Andraste’s holy buttocks, you’re a Lucky Bastard.”

He confesses, shaking his head affectionately. She lights up, understanding it’s just a joke, and pats his shoulder a couple of times, laughing softly.

“Thanks, Varric, I love it!”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, now do something useful and teach me your secret, won’t you.”

Chapter Text

It’s not that she’s desperate for companionship as to pursue the friendship of a person she feels doesn’t like her very much anyway. No, it’s just that as much as fighting bears and escaping a gruesome and very painful dead by huge feral fluff-ball ties people together like (she’s been told by a snickering Leliana, when she reported this, that Blights are even better, but the Spymaster refused to explain it any further), she just misses having someone who can fully understand how estranged she feels at time, someone she doesn’t need to explain stuff to. She is happy that she, Cassandra and Varric are now on more friendly speaking terms, and that she’s slowly getting to know more people at Haven. But sometimes, she would like someone familiar to her culture and uses, someone she can freely speak about Magic and the Fade without being looked warily as if she may accidentally summon a demon in the next ten seconds just because she’s freer with using her abilities than your average Chantry Mage.

She’s not desperate, she’s just alone and very, very homesick, and Solas may not be Dalish, but it’s pretty evident he shares the same culture and knows maybe more than he lets on. They’re both Apostates, technically, and moreover, there’s one particular thing she would like to discuss with him, that had triggered her curiosity even more than his stories of the Fade.

So, she carefully walks towards him, minding making the less noise as possible stepping on the freshly fallen snow that covers the ground but still sure he sees her before smiling and waving, careful for any signs of uneasiness as she approaches. As she would a halla, she notices, but that she can avoid telling him. They share some greetings, and she swallows down the mild irritation at him calling her da’len, remembering he is most likely older than her, and as much as she hasn’t asked him his age, he hasn’t with hers. And she’s been told she looks a little younger than she is. After the conversation over general health and weather has fallen into an uncomfortable silence, Aisling takes a deep breath and muster up her courage.

“Can I ask you something about what you said in the Hinterlands? I hope I don’t sound rude…”

“Go on, da’len, what is it?”

“Uhm… When we we met Mihris and found the artifact, you spoke of your people, and of how you could just sense the artifact. I was wondering why that wording, and why didn’t I sense it.”

She has played this question again and again in her head, in the former days, and so she hopes to be the less offensive possible. It has stung painfully, in the moment, to feel left out that way in something she was technically trained to study, as if she was a stranger with nothing to do with elves at all. She had asked if she was a dwarf, and it came out as a joke -Varric had laughed-, but a joke it was not. She knew Solas was no Dalish, but she wanted at least to understand where they stand. Back now, he frowns a little at her, bending his head on the side.

“I didn’t put too much thought into my wording and it came out wrong. On the sensing part, I just fear you need to train more, da’len.”

“…I will be the Keeper of my clan the next year, if I’ll make it back home in time, the Keeper wanted to retire and deemed me ready before I left. I am trained and I’m not a child.”

“I don’t know what Dalish Keepers teach, but evidently nothing that helped you with artifacts or such ancient lore.”

She does her best to ignore the slight note of spite in his tone. She does her best to dismiss it as just her own reading too much into things, and takes a deep breath, concentrating on the feeling how the cold prickling of gentle snowflakes on her nose, something she’s not used and finds delightful. Her mind doesn’t leave the nasty feeling of inadequacy that Solas has just brought, but it helps calming her down. She hates quarrelling, and it’s true that nothing she can remember ever taught her to deal with such ancient elven contraptions. She didn’t even know they could be found in the first place, if it wasn’t for Solas, she would have never noticed it. She waits some second, grounding herself and reasoning it down, so, replying in her usual serene tone and with a smile on her face that feels a little forced to the other elf, but is still a smile.

“Can you tell me more, then? I’d like to know your opinion on elven culture.”

“I thought you’d be more interested in sharing your opinion on elven culture. You are Dalish, are you not?” The sarcasm is now evident, taunting and impossible to ignore.

“…Yes, I am. The Dalish are the best hope at preserving what’s left of the culture of our people.”

“Our people.” He snorts. “You use that phrase so casually. It should mean more… But the Dalish have forgotten that. Among other things.”

And for Aisling, that’s it. That’s the limit to her patient and concession and diplomacy. She isn’t particularly proud of herself for how she reacts, but there’s not enough snow to keep her mind elsewhere and sweep negative feelings in a dark corner of her mind, to be dealt with later. So, she schools a frown on her own, and if she’s been a little sheepish speaking with Solas until now and in the preceding weeks, always walking on eggshells around him, now she straightens her back, instinctively, and snaps right back, coldly.

“Oh, but you know the truth, right?”

“While they pass on stories mangling details, I walked the Fade. I have seen things they have not.”

“Well, then, maybe teach us, if you know better.”

“No one would listen to me, da’len.”

“You’re right, I’m not here and I have not listened to you in the last weeks, not even once. Or I did, but I’m just a child and a stupid one, at that, so it doesn’t count, does it.” She throws her arms on her sides and takes a step back.

“I didn’t mean to-“

“I won’t bother you again, I am sorry if I did.”

Aisling Lavellan doesn’t raise her voice, nor does she stays just to quarrel. And as the other apostate elf of Haven looks at her taken aback, the cold and put together exterior cracking a little for the first time, she turns on herself and just leaves him to his own musings, walking briskly down the steps and past the tavern. Her hands raise up, the heels of them digging into her eye sockets. She refuses to cry because she is alone, after all, and if a child she has to be, she’s a child that really wants to go home. But she’s a prideful thing more than a child, too, and so she schools herself and just nods at Varric when she passes him, as usual sitting on a bench in front of a fire and writing. He raises an eyebrow at her, but says nothing, nor does she, fearing reversing her own bitterness over him. So, she stones herself a little better, nods at people that greet her politely, as Josephine has suggested her, sweeps all the negativity under a metaphorical carpet and just walks out of the main gate.

Was she home, with her clan, she would go to the halla paddock, and just help Kaya in tending the pack to clear her mind and calm down. Spending some time with Pansy -her favourite, the one she used to ride- would have helped her. But there are no hallas in Haven, there is no Pansy ready to look at her with round expressive eyes and snuggle at her hands with her wet nose, licking her palms for comfort. But physical work is physical work, whatever the four-legged animal you take, so she marches to the closest alternative.

“May I help you, sir?”

She asks Master Dennet, and maybe she impressed the old man for real in the Hinterlands, or maybe he can see she’s upset and he’s just a kind person, but he stops on his track anyway, lowering the rake he was bringing to the paddock on the ground, the spikes piercing snow an dirt, and takes her seriously. He looks at her up and down, considering.

“Lady Herald, what brought this on? Not to offend but-“ He nods at her, eloquently. “This is hard and dirty work.”

“I helped with the hallas, in my clan. I’m not afraid of getting dirty or to sweat. Please, I won’t be a bother, just tell me what to do. It would also be beneficial for my riding to get acquainted with my mount, I know I’m not used to horses.”

Dennet looks at her like she just grew a second head and laughs heartily, tossing his head behind and placing a hand on his belly. Aisling feels the looks that the gesture attracts on them and she seriously considers digging up a hole to bury herself in it. She knew she should have stayed in her bed, today.

“I’m sorry, Lady Herald, but you- Well, if your running so aptly on my daughter’s tracks was not being that used, be my guest.” He walks a couple of steps towards her, heavy boots crunching in the snow, and handles her the rake. “You can start by cleaning the paddock of your mount, let’s see how you do with those noodly arms.”

“They’re not noodly!”

She complains, without even bothering to fake offence, as a smile lights her face and her mood as well. The old man smiles back and shows her around: there’s a cart with fresh hay, another empty for the dirt one, which kinda explain themselves. He asks her what she knows about horses exactly before making a pair of recommendations of his own, and the next five minutes they go back and forth comparing horses and hallas, enough so that both of them agrees on instructions: she speaks and listens, and as soon as the horse master notice the elf shivering, he pats her shoulder and leave her to it, recommending to move around before she gets frozen. And with that, she’s soon at work, as the man exits the paddock and takes a pause to watch that she’s doing things right, just to be sure. Aisling doesn’t mind.

The Ferelden Fourier they’ve given her, and that now is standing in the fence with her, broad back covered by a red blanket, looks at her from the other side, ears perked up in curiosity. She smiles at him, nodding in greeting as she goes back and forth with the rake -it’s heavy and not comfortable, the handle too long for her, but she doesn’t mind, it forces her to mind her movements and concentrate completely on the task at hand. The animal too is a bit too tall for her, used to much smaller hallas, but he’s been a peaceful, placid companion during the mission in the Hinterlands, and she likes him well enough. He’s also curious, apparently, and after enough time for Dennet to be content enough in her work to leave her on her own, the horse carefully steps closer. She hears him approaching behind her back, his hoofs heavy and loud, but ignores him, trying not to spook him by making her movement a little slower than it would be needed. Dennet told her horses are easily spooked, and she doesn’t want the equine to get scared because she can’t quantify the “easily”. She can work slowly and take more time. It pays off: in some minutes, there’s hot breath huffing on her right ear, the earthy smell of the animal following suit.

“Hey there! Sorry, am I bothering you? I swear I won’t be long, but you do poop a lot, you know.”

She stops and turns to offer him a hand and nuzzle his soft nose with it, which the horse seems to appreciate by the way he flares his nostrils and nuzzle his big head into her palm. She loves horse noses, she decides instantly, they’re way better than halla’s wet ones and it’s just the right kind of fuzzy warmth she needs to forget the unpleasant conversation of before. The big brown horse doesn’t care if she has no elf sense that tingles beside elf artifacts, or that she is Dalish or not. She couldn’t care less if people can hear her talking to an animal, so she continues, rubbing the big head, noticing he seems to like when she scratches behind his ears.

“It’s good that you poop, tho, it means you eat well, and that you do, right? Is Master Dennet feeding you well?”

The horse looks at her with one chestnut eye and snorts. She gasps in mock horror, clutching at her chest.

“Don’t tell me he doesn’t give you enough apples!” The theatrics ends, and she continues normally, as she returns to work and scoops up rakefuls of hay to toss it in the designed cart. “Do you like apples? Pansy loved them, you know. But oh, don’t worry my friend, I’ll get you some, just see.”

The horse keeps looking at her, and following her around the paddock as she keeps up with her work. It’s not dissimilar to the way she’s seen dogs following people and children on her way to the Conclave, and it makes her giggle. It really isn’t so wildly different as to tending the hallas, and she always liked the physical work. It was just a lot more to do for one single animal, but she ponders that it’s pretty normal considered the difference in size.

“You’re not very talkative, are you?”

She asks, leaning on the rake and looking at him, pausing a little to rest her arms a little before starting with unloading the fresh, clean hay. The horse bends his head sideways, with a questioning look. She shrugs, reaching out to pat his big neck and pet him a little. He’s warm and soft and she lingers on that activity, taking a deep breath. The smell is pleasant as well, she thinks. Earthy and strong, but warm.

“That’s fine, buddy, I’m shy too. Take your time, I don’t mind. I still need to find a good name for you, don’t I? How would you like to be called...”

“His name is Walter, Herald!” Dennet pops in from outside the paddock, stopping by again and leaning on the fence with his arms bent on the topmost traverse. She turns to pout at him, feeling confident enough to go over formalities.

“Does he like it, tho?”

“He answers to it, that’s enough.”

“Eh, don’t listen to him, big boy, we’ll find you a better name than Walter.”

She returns to the horse, patting him again before getting back to work, minding not to walk behind him as Dennet has told her. She’s probably a little too cautious in avoiding his rear, Dennet snickers behind her, but makes no further motion nor says anything to correct her. So, she gets into the thick of it, uncharging fresh hay from the other cart -huffing, tersing sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, but never complaining- and carefully spreading it on the paddock. She has to get back to the cart quite some times, the dimensions and quantity still too foreign for her to eye the precise quantity in one go. Dennet just tells her “More!” every now and then, but lets her do as she pleases, and she’s very grateful for it. Not-Walter still follows her curiously around, very dog-like but more at ease and keeping closer to her, with the occasional playful nuzzle on her shoulder as she keeps on making conversation. Soon, some people joins In to watch her, laughing when the big equine decides to roll around the fresh hay so carefully spread, making the Herald pout again in mocking angerness and wave a finger at the offending creature with reproach.

“Bad horsey! Look at this paddock and look at you!! You’re such a Walter, you are!”

But she’s laughing and soon reaching out to pet the horse to her heart’s content, rubbing his neck and taking loose straws out of his mane as he neighs playfully. “You talk!! Good boy!” she exclaims at that, praising him with more ruffling of his mane. She also manages not to get kicked by flailing hoofs, as Walter gets back to rolling and she manages to retrieve the blanket and get back to the fence to clean it a little, before placing it back on the horse’s back. She shakes the blanket, humming by herself and decides to hang it on the fence to reach better to every little corner without it pooling again in the hay -she would do it in three seconds with magic, but she doesn’t exactly know Dennet’s opinion on it and she doesn’t want to risk it, not right now.

Dennet handles her a bucket full of various brushes and a comb in exchange for the rake, instructing her to brush the horse before she can go, and she’s happy to comply. Walter’s still not what she would call talkative, but lets her brush his coat carefully, taking straw away and munching at the hay lazily as she works, confirming Aisling’s opinion of very good boi. He’s just so big, and it takes her quite some time to finish her work and place the blanket on his broad back again, tying it in front of his neck, which earns her a playful bump of a big horse head on the back and makes her laugh.

The work is done, and she knows she should probably get back to her barrack and get cleaned up before dinner, but as her mind is free from other things, the last conversation with Solas creeps back into her mind. She’s not angry anymore, and again she’s not desperate to beg for his friendship. Still, the way it went doesn’t sit right with her, and with a fresher mind, she can analyse better how it went, realise that so much spite must come from some old hurt, and that maybe, just maybe, it’s nothing personal. A shiver that runs on the whole length of her back reminds her that she’s sweaty and standing still in the middle of the mountains, and the snow is slightly heavier now. She huffs and rests her forehead against the warm neck of Walter.

“Can you help me a little more, Good Boi? I can be less shy if you back me up…” She asks, softly this time, and the horse snorts again. She takes it as a yes.

Five minutes later, she’s riding without a saddle on a ridiculously tall horse, plastering herself on his neck as she passes the main gates of Haven, Commander Cullen complaining loudly that she’s not supposed to and the rules, and this and that. She smiles sheepishly at him, shrugging and promising she’ll be in and out so quickly he won’t even notice, and both she and Good Boi -which is a better name than Walter- will be on their best behaviour. Convinced the fun police and woven at Varric who has assisted at the scene and is now laughing loudly, she gently kick the horses’ sides to pull him to a trot, clicking her tongue twice, hoofs making a smoother sound on earth and snow than the loud clacks they made against the stairs, pushing up and down the back, following the movements of the horse with ease. If you don’t mind the size and the height, it’s just like with a halla, and even easier.

She’s at the foot of the small stairway that brings to the apothecary and to Solas’ house in so little time she regrets the trot. But she’s there, and she can slip down from the horse, tell him to wait there and trot up the stairs herself to knock on the elf’s door thrice, taking a deep breath and readying herself for what’s to come. When he opens, she can see his expression shifting from slightly annoyed to surprised to see her. Or that’s what she makes out of it and hopes for, at least, he’s so controlled she always finds it difficult to interpret his expression and behaviour.

“Sorry, I need to bother you one last time. Is it a bad moment, or can we talk?” She tells in one breath, nervously, playing with her fingers. “I’ll disappear for good if you don’t want to, tho, I don’t want to impose.” She’s quick to add, lowering her eyes with a frown.

“…You’re not bothering me, da’len. Come in, it’s cold.” His voice is not spiteful anyway, at least. Aisling considers this a victory.

“Actually…”

“Yes?”

“Can you come with me? The Commander’s gonna kill me…”

She nods at her right, padding over to the stairs and using the raised steps to help herself jump on the back of Good-Boi-who-was-Walter. She’s not exactly elegant and fluid, but it’s effective. She turns on herself and offers him a hand, eloquently.

“We need to take Good Boi out, and I was planning on a walk, until there’s still light outside. Come with me?”

In the end, Cullen doesn’t kill her when she goes out of the main gates, as calmly as she entered -only, there’s two elves on horseback now-, and apologising. She deftly guides the horse to the right, keeping him on a slow pace -she doesn’t know how Solas deals with the “no saddle” part and she hopped on without thinking. It’s somewhat easier to talk if she’s not looking at him, the horse grounding her, and as soon as they are past the camp and she turns left towards the woods for some privacy, she starts.

“Listen, I know you don’t like me much. I acted annoying and clingy with you, we don’t know each other and I just insisted and insisted. Ir abelas, I didn’t mean to impose. I also wanted to ask you if the Dalish ever mistreated you or did you wrong, if you’d like to tell me.”

“Are you sure you want to talk about it? On a horse?”

“Yes, I’m sure, the horse is calming. I reacted the way I did because it’s a lot to take in, but… I would like to understand. Did you have bad experiences with some clan?”

She hears him sigh behind her, and she doesn’t press on, focusing on directing the horse by shifting her hips on his back to signal him the direction. As she would a halla, but Good Boi either is not so attuned to her as Pansy was, or horses are somewhat less sensible. So, she pulls on the reins, effectively turning the horse.

“Yes, you could say that I did.”

“I see. Ir abelas, harhen. If the Dalish has done you a disservice, I hope I can do that right. What course would you set for them that is better than what they know now?”

“You are right, of course. The fault is mine, for expecting what the Dalish could never truly accomplish. Ir abelas, da’len. If I can offer any understanding, you have got to ask.”

It’s soothing and it’s good, her soul lighter by the minute and relief flooding in. She turns on herself, enough to look at him in the face and smile, grateful.

“Same for you.”

He nods, and as she returns to look in front of her, in time to see the path slowly being covered in snow and Good Boi Walter heading straight into the fresh, untouched snow. She pull on the reins and turns the horse, clicking her tongue on her palate twice, in automatic. The horse snorts lightly, but true to the name she just gave him, listens and changes his course, turning back on the path and slowly returning to Haven. The silence is not as tense anymore, but still, Aisling has one question.

“So, it was nothing personal against me?”

“No, da’len, it wasn’t. I just acted a little on prejudice, that’s all.”

“Ok, that’s great to hear and don’t worry. I’m sorry if I reacted badly, it was just… It was a lot to take in, even if I can see why you’re bitter, now, and you’re right in saying I wasn’t fully prepared for such old artifacts. I don’t even have an elf sense that tingles…”

“… You don’t have what?” He asks back, disbelief cracking his perfect aloof façade.

“An elf sense that tingles. You know. The way you sensed the artifact…”

She raises her hands to wiggle her fingers eloquently to underline what she’s saying. There’s a minute of pause, before Solas starts to laugh. It’s more of a chuckle, true to the nickname Varric gave him, and when she snaps back to look at him, balancing herself with a hand on her thigh, he’s covering his mouth with his hand, politely,

“…What’s so funny?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just-“ He shakes his head, before continuing. “I don’t dislike you, da’len, I’m sorry I let you think that. You’re not clingy and I actually don’t mind you asking questions, I’m happy to share with another talented mage who indeed has been listening. I’m just… Out of practice with sociality.”

By the time they’re back in front of Haven -with a particularly grumpy Cullen patrolling the gates so not to let Aisling pass on horseback again, to whom she replies by sticking out her tongue at him and calling him a spoilsport- the sun has fallen behind the mountain peaks, leaving the valley that surrounds the lake in a blueish dusk, the sky still pink and lilac from the last rays of sun. Drills are over, even Cassandra has retired from the day, the forge is not busy, and Dennet is out of the paddock with his arms crossed, patting his right foot on the ground impatiently as Aisling stops the horse.

“I meant you could take the horse for a walk OUTSIDE the village, young miss.”

“And I did! We stopped by for what, five minutes?”

“His horseshoes are not meant for stepping on stone stairs, if he needs new one, you’re helping keeping his legs still.”

“What, with my noodly arms?!”

“But they’re not noodly and you want to work, right? I have two daughters, don’t give me that attitude.”

The old man scolds her, but still pats her shoulder with a heavy hand, as she slips down the horse after Solas who’s stepped back a little not to pry. The horsemaster takes the reins from the hands of the Dalish, urging her to leave it to him, stopping her insistences when she does and leaving the two elves.

They make their way back to the village in companionable silence, chatting here and there of nothing at all, from how weird it is to stay as apostates in a town controlled by an organisation that’s born out of the Chantry, to how Aisling came on horseback to have some support in a difficult conversation, to Solas suggesting her to slightly shift the heating spell she just devised for her barrack a little, to do it more efficiently. And sure, there’s still something in the tone and demeanour of the older elf that has just the ring of uneasiness, but Lavellan doesn’t seem to be more than carefully aware of it, more at ease than ever before, with him, after their conversation.

She leaves him at his barrack, just where she picked him up -there’s still some hoofprints in the snow in a corner under the stairs, she notices- and waves him goodnight. But before Solas can actually enters through his door, she calls him back once again.

“What is it, da’len?” He replies, raising an eyebrow.

“Seriously tho, are you gonna teach me?”

“… Tell me it’s not what I think it is.”

“Are you gonna teach me the secrets to your elf sense?”

She’s confident enough, she thinks, to smile widely at him, a glint in her eyes. Her tone is a little unsure still, but her thumbs were itching and not just for the green mark on her left. Solas groans and rolls his eyes, turning on his heels, replying without looking at her with a tired, tired voice.

“Good night, da’len.”

“All right, then, keep your secrets!”

She snickers, trotting back towards her own barrack with steps that much lighter than she ever had in quite a while. She does love difficult hallas and horses, after all.

Chapter Text

“Keep your arms closer! Tighten your grip or-“

And instead of telling it, the Seeker simply bats an end of her training staff on Aisling’s knuckles, guilty of a too loose grip on her own staff, making the elf yelp in surprise. She jumps back, releasing the wood and shaking the hit hand in the air. She scowls at the other, but doesn’t complain, catching her breath a little. She doesn’t consider herself that unfit, but the Nevarran woman seems made of granite for real, hardly breaking a sweat after half an hour of sparring. And it’s not remarkable because the day is pretty chilly, the sun not remotely warm enough to melt the snow, least of all keep you warm in just breeches and a loose tunic if you’re not constantly running and moving, oh no. Aisling has started to sweat as they proceded, and Cassandra has just lost her stern expression, and is looking almost amused, as she steps briskly towards her and moves her staff forward to engage again.

Sparring together has been Aisling’s idea, after they returned to the Hinterlands. It’s not like she’s supposed to engage in close combat, as a mage, but almost falling to her death when a Templar got a little to close has given her food for thought. And she decided that it would be better to be ready, next time. Also, she noticed two things.

First, that if she’s with Seeker Pentaghast, fewer people approach her to pay their homages to the Herald of Andraste. No matter how many times she tries to say that she’s not, thank you, stop worshipping me, PLEASE don’t pray me, I don’t know Andraste, we never met, nothing seems to work. And equally, there’s also considerably less people who dares to shot angry or suspicious glares at her -or spit in her direction, which has happened a couple of times- with the risk of having an angry Cassandra on their back. Definitely an advantage.

Second, Cassandra’s actually good company, when you’re not on her list of suspects, when you go past the harsh exterior and realise that she’s not so unmovable in her judgement. After a month, Aisling is sure it’s just a severe case of perennial scowl and naturally grumpy expression. And she’s more confident in asking help to her than she is with Cullen or the other Templars in town – particularly after her walk inside the village on horseback, the Commander has been eyeing her seeing her walk out the paddock with Good Boi, in the former days, and she really doesn’t want to try her luck. Or to exasperate him even more than she already does in the War Room.

So here she is, stepping back on a mix of dirt and half melted snow -that’s a terrible feeling and she understands suddenly why people likes closed shoes as her toes slosh in the greyish goo- maneuvring her staff up and down and diagonally quickly, clashing it with Cassandra’s and concentrating hard on keeping up with her and following the indication she’s being occasionally given. Her grab is firmer, her knuckles are white, elbows are kept in against her ribcage as she’s been instructed through another -painful- jab at her arm. Her muscles are starting to burn up with fatigue, tho, and she knows that if they keep up like that, she’s never going to outlast and expert warrior. A memory floods her mind, and it’s Ydun’s voice again. “Don’t work harder, vhenan, work smarter, use that clever head of yours.”. She grunts, not really wanting to think of her former girlfriend again, it still burns and gnaws at her how they left each other, but she knows she was right. On that, at least. So, she stops playing defence.

First thing people don’t expect a mage to do: attack physically. Aisling spars a hit and drops down bending her knees, as fast as she can. Her arms are tired with exhertion, but her legs are more trained from riding: as she falls down, she extends her leg to try and kick Cassandra’s shin on the side, hoping to surprise her enough to make her stumble. It’s not enough to make her fall, but the Seeker steps on her side, following the kick, and it’s enough for Aisling to try and lunge her staff upward, with a grunt, towards the throat. If she had magic, that would have been a lightning and she would have won: but it’s a wooden staff, the rule they had agreed on said that magic was out of the question, and Cassandra still has the upper hand.

The hit gets sparred at the last minute, and a booted feet is on her chest before she can jump up or away. Aisling grunts again, as her back and head hits the ground below and makes a sploshing noise -she tries her harder to concentrate on the pain and not on the cold and how dirty she remembers that trampled-upon snow being. She opens her eyes, panting heavily, to see Cassandra towering over her, one foot on each of her sides, and wooden staff pointed to her throat, hovering over it.

“Dead. It was clever, but not quick enough, so it left you defenseless.” Cassandra notes, but there’s no reproach in her voice, for once.

“A lightning bolt would have been quick enough.” Aisling retorts.

“Excuses.”

But Lavellan still has her staff in her hand, and she’s prideful enough to not lose like that. As the Seeker is busy snorting at her, she rolls on her side, raising her staff to hit the legs of the other woman. She hits the back of her legs, which actually takes Cassandra by surprise, doesn’t let her spar quickly enough, and makes the Seeker fall down. On Aisling. Who is only now realising the mistake she made. She’s not gonna lose in shame in a puddle on the ground, but she’s still losing trampled by a Seeker of Truth heavy with muscles. Still in the same puddle. So much for a pride slightly less wounded.

Cassandra’s reflexes, tho, are luckily quick enough for them both: Aisling is not trampled completely, as the Seeker slows down the fall by planting the training pole hard in the ground, just beside Aisling’s neck, and bending her knees. She still falls a little on Aisling’s stomach -making her release all her breath all at once- but the most of her weight is luckily elsewhere.

And as Aisling coughs and groans the pain away, thankful that at least she’s not feeling like throwing up, Cassandra’s ready enough to move her staff so it’s resting against her throat -again without really pressing- and catch her right wrist with the other hand, taking away any further possibility of using her weapon again and bending slightly over her torso.

“Better! But still dead.”

Aisling doesn’t fail to notice the fact that the woman is actually pleased, and her breath is a little quicker than before. There’s a moment of perfect clarity, then, when time seems to stop and the elf can assess their situation and focus on each and every sensation, all at once.

First, there’s the weight of Cassandra straddling her belly, her thighs against her sides and her grip on her bare wrist, pinning her down and blocking her where she is, heavy and solid. Second, her face is closer to hers than it ever has been, she can count three freckles on her nose and focus on the exact shape of her eyes. And think that they’re beautiful eyes, sharply cut upward as if to enhance how keen her glance is. Thinking of it better, she’s all pretty. And she’s directly above her.

Aisling is frozen in place, mouth tightly shut, and she needs to say something, before her mind can run amock and wander into the deepest pits of gay panic she can fathom, and make a complete fool of herself. She swallows and decides to concentrate closely on the wet goo on her back, drenching her white tunic and creeping to her skin in the most unpleasant way.

“I- Uh- Can you-?”

She manages to spit out some words, a little without breath, and she hopes she’s not blushing hard enough that it can be mistaken for anything else than her torso being partially weighted down and prevented to breathe deeply and the last remnant of physical exhertion reddening her cheeks. Cassandra thankfully doesn’t seem to notice, or if she does, she ignores it. She raises up helping herself with the staff, and offers a hand to the Dalish. Aisling holds the hand she’s been offered, and she’s hauled up easily, as if she weights nothing. She’s patted on her shoulder, as she recovers her balance and composture. As difficult as it is to regain some sort of dignity when your whole back is drenched in dirty snow and mud, and the rest of you is sweaty, she does her best. Luckily for her, between Cassandra’s aura and Cullen barking orders for attention three tends distant, at least no recruit has really the guts to do more than just look curiously at them, without commenting any further.

“There. It was good, don’t ever wear boots again. We can work on your technique, but you have some good basics. You just need-“ A nods towards her arms. “-more muscles.”

“Urgh, it’s gonna be long work. Fix the noodly arms, fix the missing elf sense, fix the hole in the sky…” She puts it as a joke, taking a step back -maybe she will stop hyperfixating on how sharp her eyes are cut- and snorting sarcastically.

“Well, I can help with the arms, at least.”

Aisling smiles, and she can concentrate on being grateful, more than everything else. She manages to say something on the line of going to change her soggy tunic, and they convene to spar again the next morning, before the elf can take the jacket she tossed on one of the hay dummies, the two practice staffs to put back in place -she insists in doing it herself-, before walking back through the camp and let the chill of the air and the cold of the mountain air and the snow under her feet clear her mind. It just isn’t the moment for a crush. Even if technically, she’s single and there wouldn’t be anything wrong with it. She needs time, tho, and she needs to think. Maybe it is a good time as any, most likely there are no good or wrong times to find someone attractive. But she has already too many things on her plate that she needs to just wing, and so she will think and ponder and evaluate this, she decides. Make a pro and con list. That would do. Normality, planning means normality and normality means she can pretend she still has some control over her life.

When she reaches the end of the camp and the clearing where the most of the soldiers are practicing, she’s shivering unpleasantly, and regretting having waited to wear her jacket. The wet back of her shirt isn’t helping at all, sticking freezingly on her skin. Creators, she misses the climate of the North, and the first fascination with snow she had when she arrived in the Frostbacks is dying a little more each passing day. She looks around and trots quickly to the Commander, realising she really has no idea where the equipment is stored. He seems to have seen her and understood what she wants, since he gestures with a nod to the tent on his left, reaching out with a hand to keep it open for her, remarking his indication with a “Here.”. She nods and thank him, and is quick to enter the tent, relishing in the blissful lack of nasty, freezing gale. The inside is well organised, and it’s pretty easy to locate the correct rack for training staffs, yet still she lingers inside some more moments than necessary, slipping quickly into her jacket and grimacing as buttoning it up squeezes the wet wool directly against her skin. At least she’ll be protected against the wind, but she can feel her love for snow dying a little more still.

As she finally exits from the equipment tent, she finds the Commander still looking at her with a frown on his brow. Which is not anything new, he’s never rude or mean with her, but he does frown a lot at her at every war council when she says something with half the informations she would need -and it’s most of the time, sadly. But if in the little room of the church she can exactly see the reason of his grumpiness being directed at her, right now she is utterly clueless of what she did wrong exactly. With such a lot of green recruits to pick from? And even looking thoroughly at her sides and behind her brings no further results: he’s turned fully towards her, arms crossed on his breastplate.

“…What have I done this time?” She asks, forlornly. “I swear I didn’t bring a horse inside the tent.”

At this point, she decides, she can as well be sarcastic about it.

“A horse-“ He seems to need a moment to recollect -way to go, Aisling, remind him-, but quickly gets back on track. “Maker’s Breath, if you manage to do it without anyone noticing, you’ll have to teach me how.”

“…” She needs a moment to recollect as well, and to allow a slow smile to spread on her face. Which in turns makes Cullen frown even more and clear his throat.

“Anyway, you didn’t do anything. I just happen to have watched you spar with Seeker Pentaghast.” He grumbles.

Her peaked curiosity leaves place by a cold sense of dread. One thing is attraction for a colleague in the wrong moment, another thing is being caught in the act. And she has on her shoulders three painful years of pining in a close-knit community where everybody knew everything of everyone to say that she wouldn’t like to repeat the experience if she can help it. Her smile drops and eyes get bigger.

“… What did you see?” She asks, freezing in place and not entirely because a strong gust of wind just blew unpleasantly on her neck.

“What? Ah- I-“ He seems to notice her freezing over and stutters, lowering his gaze at his feet and quickly rubbing his neck with a hand. That makes it the second time Aisling’s taken aback in this conversation. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. You’re good, but- I mean, you could have won the spar. But you wasted a chance.”

She didn’t think she could be that bad at reading humans, and yet he’s proving her that she is. Or, he’s even shyer than she is, knows what to do with the other even less than she does and fumbles because he hadn’t noticed what she feared he did, and is misreading her reaction as well. Which is instantly so relatable to her that she would like to giggle and pat his shoulder. But she also knows for experience that giggles when you’re being self-conscious are terrible, so she bites the inner of her cheek and relaxes, opting for a kinder reply and bringing the topic back to the point.

“I’m not exactly a match for an expert warrior, without magic. I’m not strong nor physically fit, I’m comfortable with a staff, but in a whole different set of movements, I can defend myself for a short while, but that’s it.”

“That’s your mistake. You’re giving up before trying.” He frowns. Luckily, some normality is back on.

“I’m not, I just know my limits.” She retorts, shrugging it off.

He snorts and get back into the tent quickly, with a “Wait.” to her. Moments later, he’s back out with the training staffs again, tossing one to her. She catches it and look at him with a question on her face.

“That’s a good mindset for a mage. But you’re not trying to act like a mage, here. You need to focus on your adversary, not on how far you can go.”

“Ok. How?” She asks, interested as she skips into the starting position Cassandra taught her, slipping a foot behind the other so as to show just her side, her hands grabbing the staff firmly. Her knuckles are starting to bruise, and she doesn’t particularly wish to worsen the situation.

Cullen seems to hesitate, then, looking quickly around him with an expression she can’t quite begin to place. Uneasiness? About what?

“Is everything all right?” She asks, worried and lowering her staff. “I’m sorry if I misread the situation, I can go, I don’t want to steal your time. I’ll try to pay more attention tomorrow, thank you for telling me.”

“No! No, I’m sorry, it’s all right, it’s just… Ah!” He gestures at someone, waving his arm above him. Aisling turns to that direction, and there’s Cassandra approaching them, back in her breastplate and with her sword at her hip.

The Seeker is there again, looking at the pair of them raising an eyebrow and crossing her arms in front of the eye that decorates her armour.

“Taking extra lessons?” She asks to the elf, half a smile on her face, noticing she’s back at it.

“Apparently, I didn’t look at you close enough.” She smiles back, shrugging.

Cullen hands the second staff to Cassandra and steps back, casting one look to the woman and leaving the pair room for another round. The Seeker doesn’t need to be told anything more than that, falling elegantly into position in front of Lavellan, without an issue about having an armour or another weapon hanging on her hip. The recruits who are closer to them notice, and some slow their exercises to take a better look, others stops already with the excuse to catch their breaths. Cullen for once doesn’t bark them to just keep up with their own things, leaving them be and concentrating on the Dalish instead.

“So, tell me what you see.” It’s more a demand than a request, the man falling easily into Commander instructor mode again.

“We look like a swan and the ugly chick of a cuckoo.” She replies drily, making not one but both of the warriors roll their eyes.

“No bird comparisons. What can you tell me, what does she have than you don’t? Focus.” Cullen reproaches, and he has the tone he uses with the recruits.

“Uhm-“ Hair tidy? Nothing in disarray? Dry clothes? Probably not that. “Armour? A weapon on her hip? Closed shoes? A lot of muscles more?” She lists, looking briefly at Cullen for confirmation.

“Look at her, not at me. Eyes on the enemy, always. But you’re correct. What does that mean? Start.” He answers, nodding at Cassandra and urging her on.

The Seeker steps forward, lunging her staff against Aisling. She moves and spars, wood clacking upon wood above the Seeker telling her to keep her elbows in one more time. She huffs, and lunges back as the other retreats, clutching her elbows on her sides, but to no use.

“She has the physical strength to keep the heavy armour on, and enough training to last a whole fight with it. I don’t.” She tries.

“Yes, but no.” Cullen replies, without saying anything else.

Aisling spars again, this time the hit arrives from below, forcing her to take a step back. With the side of her eyes she notices there’s a ring of soldiers around, now looking at them with interest. She huffs, blushing a little and trying to attack in order not to fall back in the line of recruits at her back. Her attacks are weak and unconvinced, and no one really does much of anything. Without any further prompts from the Commander, tho, she tries again.

“She can keep fighting longer than me, I can’t beat her just with physical strength, so I have to play smarter?” She asks while trying to bluff, snapping the top of the staff forward to taunt Cassandra in thinking that she’s gonna hit from above, to instead quickly stop the top and move the bottom towards the shins of the other woman.

“Yes. And that move is never gonna work, she’s not blind.” He notes, and indeed Cassandra spars the bluff too, easily. As on clue, she spars with the bottom of her staff, pushing her own staff away and pirouetting around Aisling to create momentum and hit her on the back. Lavellan curses under her breath and scampers away without grace, running forward in quick steps and snapping back to face the Seeker again, quickly, back into position. Cassandra does the same, but much, much slower, still with half a smile at her.

“There. What did you do?” Cullen asks her, unimpressed but watching with attention at the two.

Aisling catches her breath, thinking. “Run away?”

“Yes. What does it tell you?”

“She’s being slower than me.” She replies, surer this time. “The armour makes her slower?”

“Exactly. That’s your advantage. She’s also slower on purpose, but it doesn’t matter. If your enemy has an armour yes, they’ll be stronger. It also mean they’ll be slower with all that weight on their body, and will get tired more easily, potentially. So, move, you have both feet, do you?” He concludes.

Cassandra lunges forward again, her staff descending in diagonal from left to right. Aisling this time doesn’t lose time to spar, ducking back and left. She doesn’t care if it’s not elegant, as long as she doesn’t get hit.

“So, don’t engage, let her tire?” She concludes, casting a quick glance at Cullen in time to see him nodding and smirking, and getting immediately back to the Seeker. Elbows in, hands firmly closed on the wood, ignore that your back is freezing and there’s more disgusting frozen goo between your toes. Cassandra attacks, she just ducks and evade.

“Precisely. She engages because she knows she’s stronger and will need just one good blow to make you fall. Don’t fall into her trap if you can: don’t fight like a swan, fight like the ugly chick cuckoo. But an alive one.”

She keeps on walking around the circle, letting Cassandra follow her around, changing direction and not bothering sparring. Oh, she knows that the Seeker is letting her lead on and is definitely going easy on her, she’s seen her fight in the Hinterlands enough to know she’s not that slow. But as she finds a rhythm and ducks more easily, she notices Cassandra attacks her more frequently, leaving her less and less time. A recruit whistles loudly when she ducks a particularly vicious hit at the last minute, jumping back and taking her calves away from the other’s reach. Cassandra’s hits are still slower than normal, but if she has understood Cullen right…

She decides it is enough, and that her arms are not tired as they were in the preceding spar, when she tried to meet Cassandra attack for attack. And she has been paying attention. So, she tries something. She casts another glance at Cullen, as if asking for permission. It’s stupid, and she knows, but she’s a First and is still reasoning like one: always asks the Hahren before doing something new. Cassandra doesn’t leave her the time to wait for any sort of reply, tho, she has to keep her eyes on the other. She’s on her own, and the worse it could happen is another bruise. So.

She slowers her pace for a while, not running all the way back but letting the Nevarran woman engage her even quicker, waiting for the right moment. As she sees a hit arriving from below, the bottom of the staff running forward and upward in a circle, she does what Cassandra did with her not so long ago: spars the blow, putting as much strength as she can -and considering she has barely used her arms until now, it’s going better than she thought- and piroettes against the other’s side, bringing her staff with her and moving it in a circle. It’s a lot like dancing, she thinks, as the momentum builds up and all she has left to do is stop her staff right before she hits the Seeker on the back of her neck.

“Dead!” She beams, with a little disbelief, as the crowd around her cheers and whistle.

Cassandra turns back, smiling at her, and nods. “Not bad, Lavellan.”

And oh, she’s happy and she also lets her heart does a double leap at the smile and the compliment, the exhertion and the cold will mask her blush. Truth is, she never won against Ydun. Not that she ever tried to win, or that winning was ever the point of their sparring. But yet, she’s happy now, and she doesn’t want to think of the past. She lowers her staff and offers a hand to the other woman, in a friendly conclusion to the duel, and when they grab each other’s forearm, she doesn’t even mind if the Anchor is constantly itching and annoying her, she’s there and she’s just a little less a stranger.

The moment passes, and as the two women are still holding their arms, Cullen decides it’s too much fun, and shouts at the recruits to stop idling around and get back to work. Everyone snaps back to attention, returning in couples and beginning again to spar, the air quickly filling back up with the loud clangs of swords and shields colliding against each other. Cassandra leaves her arm and pats her shoulder, appreciatively.

“So, you’re joining the drills, tomorrow.” This wasn’t Cassandra, this was the Commander, and it wasn’t a question.

Aisling snaps to him, squinting. “What?”

“You want to learn to defend yourself? Cassandra has better things to do than babysit you, which she did. You’re joining the drills, Herald.”

Her mouth opens in a O, and she looks at him in disbelief.

“But-“

“Tomorrow, one hour after noon.”

“I can’t, I’m helping with the horses in the afternoon!”

“Not my problem. Reschedule, or choose what to do. Half an hour won’t do you any good.”

She stares at him in disbelief still, but he’s not moving, not impressed, the vague resemblance of a stuttering person totally gone.

“… I’m joining SOME of the drills.”

“All of it, or nothing.”

“Half.”

“Half, and you’re never entering town with a horse again. I’m not allotting more funds because you destroyed horseshoes and filled the town with manure.” He actually, positively smirks at her, smug and a little bit of Aisling is even thankful for it, as a confirmation that he doesn’t do it because he doesn’t like her. The other part just wishes he didn’t.

“I asked you for training, tho, what do you think?” She huffs, asking Cassandra who, in turns, shrugs.

“I’m not going against our Commander, Herald, if you want to learn better and faster. I can help, but I’m no teacher.”

And with that, Aisling pouts. It’s two against one, and she knows they’re both right, but it felt suddenly like a lot of commitment for a cause she was dragged into pretty much unwillingly. Besides, it takes away a great chance to spend time alone with Cassandra and see how things go. Sure, they were sparring near her training dummies, but they held a little more privacy than the middle of a clearing full of other soldiers. She glances between the two warriors, but they give her no way out, if ever they perceive the doubts going on into her heads with their oh-so-keen observational skills. So, and it’s totally not because she has stopped long enough to remember her shirt is still wet and she really wants to change her clothes and have a bath and step in something that’s not dirty half-melted snow, she yields.

“Fine. ”

She grumbles, taking the second staff from Cassandra and stepping to give them both to Cullen, a little unceremoniously, but she does hope that holding her chin up high and keeping up the pout is enough to underline she’s joking.

“But you really ARE the fun police.”

Chapter Text

Varric was right.

So much for labelling himself as an extravagant liar, this shit is weird for real, and he wasn’t lying on that. You may think that mages have a higher tolerance for weird shit, travelling the Fade at night, seeing demons, conjuring elements and bending reality by barely thinking of it. And that was true, it was totally true. Hence why yes, the giant scar in the sky was peculiar and frightening, but not shocking, or at least not in the way you just can’t wrap your head about it and thinking of it gives you a headache. “Weird shit”, wasn’t that much of a label.

Time travelling, tho? That is weird shit that gives you a headache and a good dose of existential crisis, even if you’re a mage.

So here we are, in a different place and -he said- time, in a flooded cellar, water reaching up to Aisling’s mid-calves as she sploshes around walking in circles. She knows she’ll have to take off her leg wraps before the leather dries and shrink on her legs, but right now wet leather is the very last of her issues.

“So, you and your teacher decided to just work on time travel. Because I mean, why not. And it fucking worked.” She summarises, desperately trying to keep her mind in check and not to start overthinking. It is very difficult, particularly with the mark acting up and buzzing constantly on her left hand, on the point that it actually hurts acutely, more than just the constant itching she was getting used to.

“Well, if you put it like that it just seems like it was a bad idea. Which I mean, it probably was, in hindsight, but I never expected it to work, you know… It wasn’t supposed to work.”

The Tevinter mage -Dorian, he said- isn’t exactly that put together either, which calms her down a little. It feels good not being the only one who has no clue about what’s going on. She turns around herself, combing her hair back with her left fingers, from the brow to the top of her head, grabbing her staff more firmly with her right.

“You know, I’m seriously impressed. Or I would be if I couldn’t think of at least a dozen consequences that terrorise me. Please tell me you have a plan to get us back.”

“Well.” Dorian raises an eyebrow at her, crossing his arms on his chest. “I have some thoughts on that. They’re lovely thoughts, like little jewels.”

He smirks, wiggling his eyebrows and acting smug, and Aisling has to stop and look at him straight in the face to see if he is actually serious. One mustache rises up, following his lips twitching in a smile. The situation is so weird that she just has to laugh, nervously, and he follows suit. After all laughter has gone, and the atmosphere is less grim and desperate just because of that, they decide to get out from the cell, at least, and to proceed one step at a time. First step: discover when we’ve been brought. Second, guess if Alexius is around and/or where the enchanted amulet could be. Third: Get the amulet, get back. It almost seems easy.

And then, they climb enough stairs to find a window and look outside. The reason why the mark on Aisling’s hand is flaring up so much and hurting is in front of them: the Breach is still there, except it has grown exponentially, and now fills the whole sky, tinging the world in a green, sickly light and thundering lazily above. She feels dread, cold and gnawing, crawling down her spine as she realised exactly what was at stake and exactly how much she failed. The portal is so wide it engulfs everything, the land below deserted and filled in fog, spectral pines and spruces raising up gloomily from the mist.

“We went forward.” She says, swallowing and not able to look away.

“The only thing is: how much?”

“How many chances are that this is not a week later?”

“Depends, did the dwarf call you Lucky because you’re actually so, or was he ironical?”

“He calls me like that because I can sleep anywhere and he needs darkness and a bed.” She confesses, sharing the badly hidden fear.

“Oh, fantastic, then, I am not lucky either, so it’s a couple of hours later.” He retorts, bitterly but not at her.

“This shit is weird.” She comments, speaking of Varric and quoting her… Friend? Is it too soon? She has to ask, if she’s ever getting back.

“That was never in doubt. Just look at us. A Dalish and a Tevinter enter a tavern…”

Aisling has to laugh again, not able to refrain from it. She must have gotten really crazy to think that she instinctively likes a Tevinter Mage, particularly after a little too much time near Hasmal to flee a particularly nasty group of enslavers, and after a little too much in town to trade, seeing refugees fleeing from the Imperium. And yet, in the extreme weirdness of this shit, he’s making her laugh and sharing her distress, and he is there because he purposefully jumped after her and redirected the spell. And so, just to add to the weird…

“…Tabernarius querit si hoc est quedam jocum.” (1)

It’s her turn to smile smugly at the other, expecting a laughter that never comes. Instead, the Tevinter looks at her like she grew a second head, opening his mouth and eyes wide.

“You- That- You speak-!”

She giggles, starting to walk down the corridor as her feet grow cold -she took the wraps out and tucked them in her belt twice, on her front and on her back as a makeshift bandolier that trails after her some. But at least, it’ll hopefully get dry again. Dorian follows her, as she briefly explains.

“Eh, that’s pretty much all of it. We were pushed north by a particularly vicious band of enslavers, few years ago. Bought an old grammar in the market in Hasmal while we tried to sell pelts and restock, and had the whole clan learn some language, should the worst happen. Most stopped when we crossed the Minanter again, headed South… I liked the language, tho, and so I kept it up. It’s nice to have a formed, full grammar for once, Elvhen is lacking rules and words and it’s frustrating at times.”

“That’s-“

“Stupid?” She concluded, a little sheepishly, repeating what has been said of her proposition by not few clan members.

“A Dalish speaking Tevene? Nah, it’s not stupid, it’s… Sad and clever. But it’s also the weirdest shit I’ve ever seen, on my word.” He smiles at her, shrugging. He sounds sincere, before deflecting with humour.

“Come, now, I’m self-taught but the accent can’t be that bad!”

And here he laughs, tossing his head behind, at full force. It’s a deep laugh, one of those contagious ones, and she laughs as well. It’s easy and light, even if she probably would never restore to humour with a person she barely knew, and a person from Tevinter all the most, if the situation wasn’t so dire and weird. But what can go worse if she just forgets being shy for a minute and just gives in to sarcasm? The sky’s already open, her hand hurts a lot, their plan to get back to their right time is flimsy and based on too many ifs. It’s the worst possible time to laugh about it and remember that by all means an elf should not trust a Magister, it’s the best possible time to find some light in the dark and just don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, or refuse the alliance of the one person who knows what’s going on and doesn’t want you dead or erased from existence.

They go on like that for a while, speaking between them and lightening the mood with sarcasm and jokes and snarky comments, and lots and lots of complaints on how bad and cold the weather is this far South, and how they both miss fresh peaches and apricots. If Aisling’s Tevene doesn’t reach all that far and she soon fails to understand the other fully when he tries speaking in his mothertongue, it’s little important, they switch easily to the Common. It’s a spark of normality in a grim situation, and keeps the both of them on through deserted rooms that would look abandoned from decades if the dust was just higher, the walls more ruined than they were. Finding some occasional Venatori cells makes them conclude that Alexius could actually still be there, and that it wasn’t just joking that came easy with them: they come to the same conclusions pretty quickly, easily following each other’s reasoning, and even fighting together comes more natural than it was with Varric or Cassandra.

And then, they found the others, and what little they managed to keep their morale up is gone.

Her heart clenches painfully when they come into another set of flooded dungeons, just to discover them illuminated by growth of red lyrium, spurting out of stone walls and empty cells, weaving spires between metal rods. If the dungeon they fell into and the rest of the castle felt gloomy, the narrow corridor surrounded by cells is absolutely out of a nightmare. The space is tinged crimson by the corrupted crystals, their malevolent light reflecting in the water that floods the floor, the air heavy and charged, making them dizzy. Aisling is about to tell Dorian to not approach and leave the room alone before the lyrium can affect them, when she hears someone coughing in a cell.

The first they find is Solas, and her heart breaks when he’s for once openly surprised and happy to see her, matter-of-factly telling them that Aisling can’t help, not with all the Elfroot in the world -not that she had a lot of them with her, just a couple of pouches of dried leaves just in case. But, they can reverse the spell and make it so that this abomination of a world never comes to pass. She trudges on, her heart in her throat, looking at cellars and other dungeons, looking for the others. They find Varric, who at least hasn’t lost all of his spirits and quips, and as her sense of guilt raises still, finding Fiona totally trapped in an outgrowth of lyrium crystals -and it’s her fault. Seeing Cassandra, hopeless and forlorn, most of her fire dimmed, actually makes her cry. She decides that if she can exchange jokes with Dorian, she may as well be a little more open with the Seeker, hugging her when she tells her that it doesn’t matter if she wasn’t there and disappeared, all that matters is that she’s there now. She’s solid as she imagined, but her own weight makes her falter on her feet, revealing what her looks may not let totally on: red lyrium took a toll, and a high one, if the Seeker can’t take Aisling’s weight. She hugs her tighter, forcing herself not to cry. She can’t cry now, there’ll be time, later. So, she stops.

They march on, collecting informations and forming a better plan: what the three companions can report is even direr than they could fathom. Empress Celene dead, Orlais in chaos opening the whole of Thedas to destruction, and now the Breach making every hope of a future, in tow or not, totally futile. A quick look of Solas at Aisling’s mark confirms that they haven’t much time before the rift swallows everyone, that the only solution is going back and preventing this future altogether. Dorian seems interested in that, enthousiastically enough that Solas’ interest and willingness to explain and share knowledge gets spiked as well, in spite of some initial ritrosy, but the three mages can’t really discuss over magic any further, before work calls them in.

Finding Leliana definitely confirms all that they gathered between them, and sets a stop to any possible silver lining. Aisling does understand the Spymaster, she’s even grateful for her steely willpower trudging her on and setting her on returning back as soon as possible, all indecisions set aside for later. Because there will be a later, and that’s all she can desperately think of. Nonetheless, she carefully approaches a now carefully silent -and gloomier- Dorian, walking behind them all with a frown on his face and looking down at his feet, shoulder tossed forward, just to whisper to him.

“I didn’t mind you talking to fill the silence, by the way.” She smiles, encouragingly.

“Well, I’m sure you didn’t, I’m great company for people without a dull Southern taste.” He quips back, smiling back.

She snickers, and they gain another angry look from Leliana -and another more familiar from Solas. They apologise at the same time, and for a moment, she really, absolutely believes they’re gonna make it.

“I have to admit, Lucky, when I think this shit can’t get any weirder, you keep surprising me. Time travelling and then acting all friendly with a Tevinter Magister? Just tell me you’re doing it on purpose…” Varric chides, a smile on his face even if it’s evident he’s tired and just at the end as the other three openly admitted. Aisling’s laughs bitterly, patting his shoulder in a silent reply that gets worded by Dorian.

“And she can always make it weirder: has she already told you that she also speaks Tevene?”

---

When they fall out of the portal, the stone under them is cold and unforgiving, and yet she welcomes the cold. Yet, she scrambles back on hands and knees and dry heaves, her stomach in shambles from both crossing the spell and being squeezed in some sort of weird temporal tunnel, and from the shock of what preceded their return back to the past. She swallows, forcing herself back up on unsure knees, ignoring how the throne room gently sways in her eyes or her hands trembles. At least her left has stopped hurting constantly. It’s probably a bad idea, but she’s just seen friends die before her eyes, giving up their lives so she and Dorian could have a chance and get back, and it has steeled her into raw determination. A quick look on her side confirms her that it mustn’t have passed more than a couple of minutes since they disappeared: her friends are back to back to each other, in the middle of guards circling them over to imprison them, and everyone just stopped mid-track to look at them in various degrees of puzzlement.

She vaguely hears Dorian quipping at the Magister, and as relief floods over her seeing them all alive and well, it’s her clue to snap back towards Alexius, glaring at him and falling back into an attack position, staff behind her and calling on her mana, expecting a retort. Another person would have attacked on sight, electrocuting him without even say goodbye; she’s not another person, and even if she actually considers it, she just stops, remember she was raised better than that and she now speaks for a whole organisation.

“Surrender. NOW. Put aside all claims to Redcliffe, and we’ll let you live.” She hisses, loudly and spelling out as clearly as she can.

She feels everyone watching her, but she has no time to dwindle and feel embarrassed. She’s her Keeper’s First, she was raised and educated to lead her clan, one day, and she had paid attention. There’s a moment of pure, absolute stillness, Dalish and Magister looking at each other in the eyes, the very air holding its breath. And then, as unexpected as Aisling going from shy person who speaks more to horses than to people to demanding and gaining respect and giving orders, Alexius closes his eyes and falls to his knees, shaking his head and surrendering to the Inquisition and to her. Lavellan relaxes a little, waiting for the guards to slowly step back and lowering their weapons, confused about what to do before relaxing and lowering her staff and her mana.

“Surrender to the Inquisition, and you’ll be spared too.” It’s Cassandra that steps forward and barges in, addressing the guard with her usual, steely voice. She casts a glance at Lavellan, a question in her eyes that goes unanswered.

Aisling just needs to sit down. She’s surer on her feet, and the room has stopped spinning, but she just wishes to lie down in any corner and sleep it off until tomorrow. Dorian catches her elbow and keeps her up, stepping back from where Felix has reached his father and is talking to him.

“Are you all right?”

He asks, but glancing at him, she notices he keeps on looking at the other two mages with somewhat of a pained look, brows furrowed.

“Just exhausted. You?”

“I am perfectly fine, why, isn’t it clear?” He quips, but it’s not so convincing, this time.

She’s unsure whether to ask further or pry for more, they have indeed clicked and their adventure a year after has made her sure he won’t just wait until she’s asleep to sell her at the first slave merchant around. Still, he has mentioned Alexius was his mentor, Felix a close friend… And maybe asking him for more is too soon, too much to put in words with a person you barely met and just find good company for shared near-death experiences and crooked sense of humour. So, she just places her hand on his, still on his elbow, and squeezes, hoping he’ll read it as reassuring as she means it to be.

They’re interrupted by another set of guards marching abruptly in the throne room and followed by…

The King and Queen of Ferelden. And she’s barefeet, covered in grime and blood, and she just would like five minutes to sit down, today, is it too much to ask?

Not to lie, she has never met royalty in her life, but the way King Alistair just launches against the First Enchanter, complaining about betrayed trust and whatever, twisted her stomach. Aisling looks at Cassandra, for any clue about what to do, but the Seeker just shrugs, mouthing that it’s none of their business, here.

And yet, when Aisling hears them banishing all mages from the land, feels Dorian catching his breath and Fiona starting to fumble, she just needs to do something. After all, she’s been sent there as a representative of the Inquisition, right? She has chosen to come and help the mage, against all better suggestion on pursuing the Templars instead, she’s been listened to in her opinion and decision. It’s a quick, instinctive decision, probably not one of the best thought ones, and she’s very sure that Cassandra, Cullen, Leliana and Josephine are gonna finally unite forces to kill her for what she’s about to do, but her feet move on their own and her mouth opens before her doubts can get the better of her.

She steps down and walks briskly to flank Fiona, as solemn and professional as she can muster.

“I beg your pardon, your Majesties.” She speaks, clear and loud. “I believe the Inquisition might be willing to take in the mages.”. She musters all the pride she can summon, exhaustion making it easier to just forgets property and be bold, her spine straight as she can, chin held up high, unapologetic and proud even standing shorter than the king of a full head.

“And what are the terms of this arrangement?” Asks Fiona, snatching her attention away from a game of glares with the King. The First-Enchanter is -rightfully- suspicious, it comes a little as a surprise that she’s the one that’s directly asked for clarifications, instead of Cassandra.

“I know you are a mage, but consider how these rebels have acted. They must be conscripted, not coddled.” Chides in Cassandra, making a step towards her with a stern(er) look that has something deliciously normal about it. This is not anything surprising. She’s about to answer in tow, when Solas also takes a step forward and speaks.

“They have lost all possible supporters. The Inquisition is their only remaining chance for freedom.”

“I’ve known a lot of mages.” Adds in Varric, crossing his arms before him and raising one eyebrow. “They can be loyal friends if you let them. Friends who make bad decisions, but still, loyal.”

Cassandra glares at them both, huffing through her nose. Not the angriest she’s ever been, or the best of her disgusted noises, but it’s evident she is saving the best for later. As it is, she’s definitely outnumbered when also Dorian steps forward, bowing his head slightly at the Royals before adding his two cents, directed at Fiona.

“Hopefully the arrangements will better than what Alexius gave you. The Inquisition is better than that, yes?” He asks, turning towards Cassandra and smirking briefly. Which earns a full, satisfactory disgusted noise from the Seeker, and a smile from the Herald.

Herald who clears her throat and returns looking at Fiona, expectantly. The First Enchanter considers, looking at the other elf and at her companions. After some moments, she exhales loudly.

“It seems we have little choice but to accept whatever you offer.”

“We would be honoured to have you fight as allies at the Inquisition’s side.” Aisling concludes, only then bowing her head in respect to Fiona.

---

Collapsing on the soft bed and on clean linen sheets smelling like sunshine after a warm bath, in her private room at the Gull and Lantern would have been heavenly. The day has been literally one year long, and Aisling’s more than exhausted, thankful that Dorian had suggested to stop at the inn, instead of walking all the way back to the camp – and effectively stopping a cacophony of Cassandra complaining loudly, Solas connecting dots between the weird Fade Rifts and time travelling, and Varric remarking how weird this shit is getting. But as she lets herself fall face first on the mattress, bouncing once and closing her eyes and not minding if the room has grown dark in the dusk, all she can think of is how much her heartbeat drums in her chest and up to her ears, annoyingly perceivable to a rhythm that would make for a wild dance party around a campfire. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to willing her breath to just slow down a little, heart to calm down, and mind to stop running so wildly.

Truth is, that she started being uncomfortable the moment she closed the door to the room that was assigned to her -keys handled roughly by a still-grumbling Cassandra who didn’t even look at her-, and nothing she tried worked to calm her nerves. On the contrary, it only got worse. She’s at that stage of tiredness where instead of relaxing and switching off into peaceful slumber, her mind just goes on haywire, the events of the days and all the feelings she had to suppress just barged in and are currently playing tag inside her head, magnified, the rest of her body struggling to keep up.

She tries to count her breaths, think of anything that’s not the castle, a year in the future, or the exact expression in Leliana’s eyes before that demon cut her throat: How the blanket is soft against her cheek, how the air smells like the pines outside the window she left open, the sounds of distant laughter and songs coming up from the floor below. The memories of Good Boi or Walter following her around the paddock like a big dog with hoofs, peaceful and tame, never refusing a good scratch on his nose and smelling earthy and good. The exact way Pansy, her favourite halla back home, inclined her big white head to listen better to her, ears perked in interest and the horizontal pupil fixed on her. The sensation of Keeper Deshanna braiding her hair as a silent way to express affection, praising the light hazel of it. Creators, she even thinks of how Ydun always smelled like sandalwood, when she hugged her and fell asleep tucked securely under her chin. And that’s the wrong train of thought, the face of her former partner coming up instantly with scorn on her face, telling her she’d be a terrible Keeper if she really thinks learning Tevene could help them. And look at how right she was, her friends just killed themselves for her in the future because she’s just that bad, her face morphing with Cassandra’s for a moment.

No.

She pushes on her hands, sitting up first and jumping off the bed right after. That won’t do, staying there won’t work. She paces the room back and forth, quicker than she ought to, breathing shallowly through her mouth but refusing to sit still. She hates having her own room, and she really wishes they were back at camp and she could have something to do with her hands, something to keep her mind occupied. She never slept on her own before leaving her clan to travel South, alone, and the solitary room is playing tricks on her. How humans can stand this, is beyond her, she won’t stand it a minute longer, she decides.

Without even bothering to light the candles or dry her hair with magic, she opens the door and marches out, not caring if she’s considered quite undressed for the place, and tucking her camisole tightly into her trousers. It’s too big for her and the cleavage lets a tid bit too much skin uncovered, but she can’t pay it any mind, right now. Jackets feels too tight and oppressive, she needs to breathe, and there’s nothing much to see anyway.

She steps two doors on the left, raises her hand to knock… And lets it fall back down. She seriously considers whether to ask Solas to please let her drag a sleeping cot in his room and let her sleep there. Admit that it’s difficult, admit that you never slept on your own before you set foot on that ship. That that spell and what you did next, without thinking, messed you up and you’re crumbling under guilt and regret. He’ll understand. He at least knows some Dalish customs, enough to devise how unused she is to single rooms. They’re on friendly terms. And yet. She’s struggling to make him see her as not a particularly tall child, and with her mind sliding all too quickly against the catastrophic, the chance of his disapproval seems if not a grim certainty, a very fat chance.

No.

She can move downstairs, she decides. Maybe order some alcohol. Maybe they’ll have some strong liquor closer to what’s familiar to her, hasn’t the Hero of Ferelden granted lands not so far to the East to the People? Maybe they’ve traded some plum liquor with them. She can’t hope in peach liquor this far south, but she has seen plums in the market. They’ll have something strong and fruity, yes.

She walks down the steps, not really looking ahead of her and making a beeline for the counter, waiting in a corner for the host to notice her. She’s still not good, but the clamour of voices and buzzing of chats and laughs around her feels a little like a hug. And still, after she orders her drink -no Dalish plum liquour, but as her face drops, the old woman takes pity and offers her some mead, explaining that it’s made with honey, it should be not as sweet, but sweeter than whiskey if she wants something strong. She also refuses her money when she tries to pay for both the liquor and the complementary pint of beer the hostess inform her it’s very necessary: it’s customary for each guest to pay the first round for the next guest, should anyone needs it.

“And you, miss, really looks like you really need it, if you don’t mind me.”

She smiles warmly at her, before leaving her to her own businesses. Aisling would really like to cry for the kindness, but she just walks closer to the counter and smell the liquor, grateful and suddenly feeling very pathetic.

“And look, a Dalish elf and a Tevinter mage in the end really walked into a bar…”

She snaps her head up, opening her eyes wide at Dorian, who’s just reclining casually on the counter beside her, smiling. She smiles back, a little weakly, before lowering her gaze again.

“You know, I’ve heard that Southern brews are great to just get drunk awfully quick…”

“So they have some good quality to them, go figure! Want some company?”

There’s not the usual bite to his words, the sarcasm coming a little weaker. She looks at him, and he looks at her, and maybe that’s it, and maybe that wasn’t just a click in a dire situation, and maybe she’s imagining things. But she really does not want to be alone, and so she nods, grab her mead -a compromise they made after he tries to take her drinks himself and she refuses, leaving the pint to him and following him to a table in a corner, as private as it can get. There’s also the youngest Alexius, already sitting there with a pitcher and two goblets on the table, and he smiles at her as well, the dim light highlighting the dark circles around his eyes and how faintly hollow his cheeks look. She smiles back.

“Three is the magic number, after all, and we definitely need some magic to make this poor excuse of a wine drinkable… Well, take a sit, please tell us the beer doesn’t taste like piss, I need something that doesn’t taste like piss.” Dorian quips, sitting on the bench beside Felix and leaving her pint on the table, in the middle between them on the opposite side. It takes him maybe ten second to slide onward and slouch back on his seating, with an oompf.

“Excuse his poor behaviour, he’s always bitchy when he’s tired.” Felix adds in, still smiling and nodding towards Dorian.

“I’m not bitchy, I’m witty.” Dorian retorts, bitchy indeed.

“Ignore him. I don’t think we were introduced properly, anyway, I’m Felix.” He proposes her a hand, which Aisling gladly takes and shakes. His fingers are cold, she notices.

“Aisling, a pleasure. Thank you for your help, I’m sorry I didn’t properly say it before…”

“Don’t mention it.”

They fall into silence that they’re all too tired not to find companionable, each sipping their own drink and basking in the quiet of their corner. It’s not long since Aisling slips a leg up to cross under the other, tucking her ankle under the opposite knee and following Dorian in slouching a little forward on her seat as he sips her beer. The buzz and noises of the room around her a balm to quiet off her own mind, giving it something else to focus on and tampering down the inner turmoil. She notices Dorian scrunching up his noise and yucking as he takes another sip of wine, and as he starts grumbling of how much he misses the sweet red from Qarinus, and how people shouldn’t make wine if they don’t intend to make it good. Nonetheless, he moves to pour another cupful of it, and she snickers and pushes on the ceramic of her pint, towards him.

“Enough with it, switch. I know shit about wine, and the beer is not terrible.” She proposes, bending forward to snatch the pitcher from his hand.

“I mean, that’s a sweet thought, but eeew?” He complains, weakly.

“Come on, princeling. I’m an elf, I’m not sick and I swear I didn’t spit in it.” She retorts, ignoring him as she takes his goblet as well, nonchalantly. She stops midway, tho, a realisation coming over. “…Did you?” She asks, horrified.

“I didn’t. And no, before you ask: no blood magic spells either.” He snorts through his nose.

“It’s just bad education in the high circles, back home. You know, you never know who can slip poison in your drink.” Felix adds, shrugging off.

Aisling huffs, shrugging and filling cups for Felix first, and for herself second. She does drink from Dorian’s cup, unphased by it, gulping a mouthful of wine down. It’s bitter and it tickles her tongue, and she scrunches her nose.

“See? Piss, that’s on you for not listening.”

“Yeah, you were right, forgive me for my foolish attempt to provide you with a better drink, let’s switch again-“

She tries to grab her pint back, but Dorian snatches it away with a “Ah!”, before gulping down a big sip. Felix laughs, as his friend tastes the brew, squinting his eyes and clicking his tongue on his palate.

“I stand corrected. After a thorough study and some careful experimentations, I hereby declare that this, my friends, is piss. That can call itself vinegar.” He concludes.

“And for further and indisputable confirmation…” Felix chides in, taking a sip of the beer himself after Dorian passes it. He takes a deep breath, turning its sip around in his mouth a little and making a show by puffing his cheeks. Finally, he swallows and nods, with a serious face. “Yes, Lord Pavus’ theory is unrefutably confirmed in a double-study, this is definitely piss. Another study must be called, however, to decides whether it’s better to drink piss or vinegar, the Circles all wait for the next tests. Lady Herald, words to you.”

He concludes, returning the pint in front of Aisling, and he deadpans so much, he’s so thoroughly serious -he does look like his father right then, a milder, less stern version- that they all soon can’t but burst in laughter. And it’s easy and it’s light, this time without the glooming presence of impending doom upon their heads. They quickly decide that piss is better than vinegar -and that the mead is actually good, after they share the shot in small sips each- and that they can order more of them. And indeed, the host was right: the beer after the whole shot of honey liquor is better, combining well with the warmth of the heavier brew. In some of an hour, the atmosphere got warmer, Aisling and Dorian are positively tipsy and red-cheeked and both more relaxed. Felix stopped after the first round of his own, joining in the revelry nonetheless and quipping at Dorian every now and then, making the other two laugh all the more. And maybe the alcohol wasn’t a good idea, but the company surely is unexpectedly good, Aisling thinks.

“So, if I may ask, since you’re both stubborn and refuse to go to sleep when it’s painfully clear that you both need it.” Felix retorts, grinning at them both and swatting Dorian when he tries to complain. “How’s a Dalish elf being called the Herald of Andraste?”

“Totally against her will and better judgement.” Aisling replies, grimacing and making a face. “They just… I saw a lady in the Fade, everyone told me it’s definitely Andraste, nobody listens to me when I say it wasn’t and I am not. And I need more drinks if we’re going to touch this topic.”

“Whom do you think it was?”

“I have absolutely no idea, I can’t remember anything. Save the spiders. Too many spiders. I hate the spiders, spiders are evil.” She groans.

“She’s weird, Felix. She also speaks Tevene.” Dorian adds on, not without some enthousiasm, and somehow it makes him laugh. “Can you imagine I travelled in time with a Dalish Keeper who speaks Tevene?”

“You’re weird. Weirdo moustache magister who invented time travelling.” She quips, smiling widely not just for the alcohol. “And I’m a First, not a Keeper.”

“And I’m noooot a Magister, I’m but a humble, terribly brilliant Altus.”

They raised their cups at that, clinking them together a little too strongly, all fine mobility drowned in the last sip. Felix laughs.

“I have no idea what an Altus is.” Aisling admits, after her sip, leaving the chalice down and crossing her arms on the table.

“Same for me with a First. I start! An Altus is a mage of noble birth, with no seat in the Magisterium.” Dorian explains.

“My father is the Magister, I’m an Altus, same goes with weird mustachio here.” Felix clarifies, a tinge of sadness in his voice.

“He does love you a lot, doesn’t he?” Aisling can’t but ask, smiling in spite of everything.

“I-“ Felix stops, looking down and exhaling “-Yes. I know he does, it’s just-“ He raises a hand to massage his temples, the other clenching in a first on the table.

Bending his head down, Aisling can notice the veins on his temple are slightly black below his skin. Maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s just that she’s still upset and still not caring much, but she moves a hand forward, placing it carefully on his first.

“I’m sorry.” She says, squeezing his hand.

“I should be the one to apologise, after what he did to you.”

“I’m fine, and it’s not your fault.”

“Are you?” He smiles bitterly, looking at her poignantly. And yet, he moves his hand to hold her fingers in his, and squeeze back.

Dorian huffs loudly and dramatically, falling back to rest his back against Felix’s shoulder, closing his eyes.

“You’re making this depressing with all your mushy feelings, this was supposed to be a fine evening and a happy hangover. Can we get back to complain about the alcohol before I start crying?” He groans, not moving from where he is, tho.

“Don’t mind him, he’s really bitchy when he’s tired, and he’s upset about this all as well.” Felix informs her, with a grin.

“How darest thou, my friend, says so. Breaks my poor dark heart.”

“He also saw you there in a corner, alone and looking all sad, and went right to pick you up without even asking.”

“He’s so wrong, I’m vile and suspicious, I have also an evil laughter. And she hasn’t replied yet, what’s a First?”

She and Felix keep up laughing, as Dorian illustrates his evil laugh, going baritonal and overly theatrical, absolutely unbelievable.

“Well, a First is the first apprentice of the Keeper. Usually the eldest or the most capable of the two mage apprentices, and the one who’s gonna become Keeper, eventually.” She explains, shrugging.

“And what were you – no don’t tell me, I’ll guess. You were the most capable, the pride of your clan.” Dorian concludes, smirking at her.

“And why would you say that? Maybe the Second was a child.” She is maybe a little too defensive all of a sudden, but her best instincts kicks in, making her frown minutely at that. As much as she can find the two men nice to talk to and really good company, and she laughed and joked with them, giving informations and talking about her clan is not something she feels comfortable about. Better safe than sorry, no matter how good people they seem to be.

“Eh, before coming down here all sad like a lost kitten under the rain, you were pretty damn good. Never seen anyone bend lightnings like you did today.” Dorian replies, without flinching or replying to her change of mood. Which, surprisingly, works a little.

“…Stop shitting me.”

“I’m- See, Felix, now I’m all sad and mushy too, why nobody believes me when I’m sincere?”

“It must be because you’re serious maybe twice a year, Dor.”

“You’re terrible, terrible company and I hate you both. I’ll go get some more piss. Or whatever they use to restore lost kittens back to happiness and revelry, and I won’t admit I need it too, before you tell her so when I’m gone.” Dorian grumbles, flaring his arms around him as he kicks himself up and walks away to the bar, the swaying of his steps not nearly close enough to make him loose cockiness.

They giggle amongst them, once again falling in companionable silence as they share a smile. Aisling goes back to sipping the last of her vinegar, almost used to the acidic flavour of it by now. Almost, as she scrunches her nose just a little, keeping her eyes on the room around them. Some people went home, but the room is still warm and filled with buzzes and chats, a bard playing in a corner too distant from there to really pay attention to the music. It’s not something she’s used to, but it’s peaceful.

“Seriously, tho, are you feeling better?”

She snaps out of her reverie, going back to watch Felix with a frown. He goes on.

“He may be terrible at communicating, but Dorian was right in saying you looked upset. If you don’t mind me asking, that is.” He smiles, shrugging at her.

“I- I’m better, thank you. I just need a little time to process things, and I’m not used at doing it on my own. Thank you for the company, by the way, I hope I didn’t bother you.” She smiles back.

“Not a problem, it’s not every day that we find someone that can actually keep up with Dorian’s humour.”

“So you found yourself with two weirdos relying on sarcasm to cope with traumatic experiences?”

“Must be my lucky day.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

They raise their cups and clink them against the other, sipping right afterwards. It’s melancholic, and neither explores any further on it and thread on delicate ground.

“So, Aisling-“ Felix asks, bending backward and slouching a little himself on the bench, tucking himself in the corner between two walls. “Can I ask you something a little personal?”

“Yes, but if I can as well, afterwards. One goblet of wine to each unanswered question?” She quips back, grinning.

“Deal.” Felix snickers, nodding appreciatively. “A Dalish elf choosing to spend the evening with two Tevinter mages? Seriously?”

Aisling laughs, heartily, at that. The irony of the situation is not lost to her, the irony of that whole… Day? Couple of days? Whatever. She tucks her legs up the bench, hugging her knees and resting the heels on the border of the wooden plank under her bum.

“It’s not weirder than being known as the Herald of Andraste, if you ask me.” She replies, amused. “You seem good people. Dorian actually saved my butt in the future, I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t jump right after me, and not just because he knew how to work the amulet and I didn’t. And he seems to trust you a great deal, so…”

“He’s a good person. Best I know.”

“Weird, he said the same of you…”

“A toast to three weirdos drinking together, then.” He raises his cup, she does too.

“… My goblet’s empty, tho.” She answers, and the thing somehow makes her laugh again, a little too much.

Felix sips from his cup and places it back on the table close to her, gesturing to drink from it. Which makes Aisling grin stupidly, and sip from it as well.

“Well, what were you two horrible people gossiping about?” Dorian falls in, placing a tray with a big pitcher of beer, judging from the foam on top, and a whole bottle of mead. Aisling yips in happiness, snatching the bottle and praising the victorious hero who came back with the full prize, making it as theatrical as she can as the two men laugh.

“Took you long enough, did you teach the hostess what’s good wine?”

“Alas, no, I just went through her alcoholics assortments to find something decent. The mead was the best option, I relieved us of the vinegar. Made in Ferelden, can you imagine? How do they grow grapes this far south with this cold, of course it tastes like shit.” He snorts, falling heavily on the bench, again, and crossing his arms before him. “Seriously, tho, what did I miss?”

“Nothing much, I was just taking care you won’t be sad and abandoned staying here. You know, recommending Aisling to take good care of you, feed you and walk you regularly.” Felix recollects.

“Wait, he’s staying and you’re not, Felix?” Aisling asks, losing her smile for a little.

The two turns towards her, Dorian for just a minute before occupying himself to fill their cups with beer, minding to incline them to avoid too much foam forming. It’s Felix who answers.

“He’s travelling with you to Haven to report to the Inquisition. I have to get back to Tevinter and deal with things, now that my father…” He shakes his head, sighing heavily. “But it comes to our mutual advantage, I hope I’ll be able to gather some informations on the Venatori to send you. It’s not much that I can do, but-“

“It’s more than enough, and you shouldn’t be alone.” Dorian interrupts him, and there’s an edge to his voice that sounds overly serious, for once. He takes a big gulp of beer right after, tho, drowning everything in foam.

“We already discussed it, Dor.” Felix chides, giving him a look.

“Fine.”

They don’t drag the topic further, and Aisling is left there, on the other side of the table amidst the two, still hugging her knees, and unsure of what to say or do. For once, the Altus doesn’t break the awkwardness with a joke, he just shifts his position on the bench to silently get back to lean against the other’s shoulder again, without a word and keeping on sipping his beer in silence. Without nothing to grab onto to further the conversation, and feeling a little like she shouldn’t really be listening to this particular exchange, she lowers her eyes, push her knees to the side of the table and drinks a good sip of her new-poured beer. The cup still tastes like wine, and the mixture of the two is pretty damn horrible, but she can’t bring herself to care, right now.

“Seriously, tho, Aisling… I know it’s a lot to ask you, but-“ It’s Felix, again, to break the silence.

“Go on. I don’t have quite a lot of power, but I’ll do what I can.” She replies, shily.

“Didn’t seem like you were so powerless, today.” Dorian quips, and gets shoved with the shoulder he’s currently resting on.

“-I was serious. Please, take care of him. You do seem a good person, and he needs at least a friend. He’s totally inept in a camp, save for lighting up the fire, but he’s really brilliant with magic.”

“Go on, I’m not here, my pride is not wounded and I’m not feeling like a stray dog, right now.” Dorian sighs, dramatically.

“You’re more like a cat. A big, majestic, fluffy cat that sets stuff on fire.” Felix corrects, but he’s smiling.

“Take note, blondie: I’m loyal if you flatter me.”

“Flatter him, take care he doesn’t sleep under a tree in a thunderstorm, feed him? That’s something I can do, yes.” She smiles big at Felix, and he seemed relieved, somehow.

“Hey, it happened only once! Felix, why did you told her?!”

---

Come morning, Seeker Pentaghast has to but step out of her room to be met with the first problem of the day. She hoped, going to sleep, that the next day would have been better. The next day couldn’t be worse than the one before, couldn’t be worse than the shy, demure, sweet elf actually stepping up to her role and both enrolling a bunch of rebel mages as full-fledged allies, and come face to face with the rulers of Ferelden and refusing to lower her eyes. Weren’t it her mess to clean up -and Josephine’s and Leliana’s and she didn’t want to hear Leliana’s opinion on the matter-, she would have been impressed. But it was her mess to clean up, and she could feel a headache forming just thinking of accommodating the Mages at Haven, in the little space they were allotted, and having them coexist with the Templar they had in house. So, half of her was impressed, the other half hoped Cullen would have eaten her alive so she wouldn’t have to be the one to dispose of her dead body.

Today couldn’t possibly be worse.

And yet, as she steps out of her room, there’s Solas banging on the Herald’s door, shouting to just open up. She can’t but think, forlornly, that she isn’t gonna see the evening.

“What is it?”

“She’s not answering. She wasn’t well yesterday evening, and- We shouldn’t have left her alone.” The apostate complains, trying to force the knob and pushing at the door, but with no result.

“What’s going on, stop banging, someone’s trying to sleep in.” Varric adds, popping out of his own room. Just what Cassandra needs.

“Urgh.” She grunts, stepping out and placing a hand on Solas’ shoulder, to have him step away and give her room. “Let me.”

“Hey, is everything all right with Lucky?”

“Either she has the deepest sleep of the world, or we’re finding a Demon inside.” Cassandra snorts, shaking her head.

“You don’t think-“

“Get your crossbow.”

She closes her fingers on the hilt on her side, and bracing up hit the door with her shoulder, hard. The door rattles, but doesn’t give way. She repeats the action, putting more strength in it. At the third attempt, the lock breaks and the door swings open, letting the Seeker in as she takes advantage of the momentum to swing her sword inside.

The room, however, is empty, saved for the still full bathtub. Cassandra walks in the room, sheating her sword again and huffing through her nose. The bed is wrinkled but still neatly done, signalling that nobody slept in it. The elf’s few belongings are all there: her staff is propped against the wall beside the bed, her armour tossed haphazardly on the chair in a corner, and below it, without an order, on the little table just there lie the pouches full of medicinal herbs she insists on keeping with her, along a couple of flasks full of healing poultices and lyrium drough. The windows is open, letting the fresh morning air in, but a quick check confirms the jump is too high, and there’s no rope attached anyway. The water in the bathtub is dirty and cold. No signs of fighting, all in all.

“She didn’t spend the night here.”

“She must have gone in the evening, the candles aren’t melted. And I’d say she planned on returning.” Solas added, walking inside as well and looking around.

“We’ll never find her if she slept outside, she could literally be everywhere.” Comes Varric’s contribution, before he turns and steps down the stairs.

“Where are you going, dwarf?” Cassandra barks, not intending of losing another one of her party. One she could manage, two definitely not.

“Relax, Seeker, I’m having breakfast. And asking the hostess if she saw Lucky yesterday.”

They follow him, without any better idea. The common room is empty, so early in the morning, but the hostess is already behind the counter, wiping glasses and tidying up. She greets them all, and before disappearing to get breakfast, she points at a precise corner as Varric asks her about a Dalish elf, blonde and with teal tattoos on her brow and chin. Coming closer, there’s a table tucked in that corner, two benches on each side: and on the bench that’s tucked against the wall, there they find her, in an unlikely company.

Lavellan is tucked against the side of the son of Gereon Alexius, her cheek resting on his shoulder and drooling slightly, mouth open and soundly asleep as the two other mages. Dorian is on the other side, equally resting against his friend in sleep. All three looks perfectly healthy, and by the cups, pitchers and empty bottle, it’s pretty easy to reconstructs what exactly had happened.

Solas snorts, shaking his head and approaching the three, gently shaking Aisling by her shoulder.

“Wake up, da’len, are you fine?”

“Ungh- Five more minutes…” she grumbles, not waking up and instead turning her head to drown further into the shoulder she’s perched into.

“Da’len.” He remarks, severely.

“What?” She finally answers, opening one green eyes and looking at her wake up call with as much reproach ash Solas used to stir her awake.

“You’re sleeping on a Magister’s shoulder.”

“He’s not a Magister, he’s an Altus. And he told me he didn’t mind.”

“Would you please shut up? I’m trying to sleep, here.” Dorian grumbles from his spot, turning to face the wall and draping an arm over his ear and face. Felix just grumbles and shifts, if he’s awake, he seems pretty sure to ignore everyone.

“Herald, we were very worried about you.” Cassandra adds, but all the edge is gone from her voice.

Hearing the Seeker sound not angry but just a little tired, tho, makes Aisling finally open her eyes for more than one second, looking at her for some moments before raising her hand and rubbing her eyes.

“Sorry… I came down for a drink, we started chatting and we fell asleep.” She explains, groggy from sleep, but not oppositive. Which makes Solas huff and raise up, patting her shoulder before stepping away.

“I’m helping Varric with the breakfast, you raise up, it’s not so polite.” He chides, her, going to help the dwarf and the hostess taking a couple of trays of full dishes and cups to the table. Cassandra, meanwhiles, just sits down on the opposite bench, scuddling over to the very end to make room for the others.

The clank of full trays and the movement of cutlery and dishes, as breakfast gets served and the remnant of the evening moved on the tray and taken away, united with the sweet smell of porridge, jam, eggs and bacon, finally stirs the two Tevinters up to wakefulness. Felix yawns, all so polite with a hand coming to cover his mouth and apologising for both the scene and for taking Aisling there without making sure she got back to her room. As Dorian keeps grumbling, he asks if there’s coffee and if it can please not taste like piss as well - Aisling and Felix giggles, the rest just look at them with a question in their eyes that doesn’t get answered.

Varric just keeps on looking at the three in front of them, slowly raising up in pretty much the same level of disarray and messy hair, Aisling and Dorian complaining that the room’s too bright and their head throbs, Felix doing the same because they should have listened and stop drinking before they actually did. He can’t resist but comment.

“This is really some weird shit, you know, Lucky?” Master Tethras, smelling a story, barely can contain his amusement as he sips his tea.

The elf turns to look at him with a shy smile and a glint in her eyes that promises nothing good. And indeed, when she replies, it gets even weirder:

“…Scis quod etiam amentior?” (2)

Chapter Text

Aisling has stopped listening to them yelling at each other and at her ten minutes ago. At this point, for what concerns her they can go on all day, eat each other’s face if that’s what they want to do. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t care because they don’t care in the first place. So, after the good part of an hour spent in trying to make them her see her reasons just to have Cassandra, Cullen, Leliana and Josephine in an open yelling match with no clear winner, she has decided they can go on without her, her contribution is of absolutely no use save for making people even angrier and start talking of Abominations and issues and whatever, Leliana verbally dueling with both Cullen and Cassandra and Josephine trying to mediate little effectively raising her voice as well. If more anger gets fueled in that room, the Chantry’s going to explode.

She wonders, staring blankly at the envelope Leliana gave her as a first thing when she set foot in the Council room, what exactly her contribution to this whole endeavour is, in the first place. She can seal the Breach. Possibly. She has been training with Solas, but even he has been dubious whether the mark and her magic alone would be enough to close such a big rift. But let’s say she can actually do that. Then what?

They put her in charge of some missions, and the one time she had to actually take a decision, an important decision which wasn’t already discussed, examined, thoroughly considered in every little part and agreed in that same room, it went like this. She took one decision fully on her own will, and she put the Inquisition’s highest ranks in pure, unbridled chaos that she can’t bring herself to listen to anymore. It’s better if she stays out of it, she decides, she has already done enough, and she has no idea what to make of the letter in her hands. It’s been… Just dismissed, handled over like it means nothing. And it isn’t nothing, it is important to her, and she suddenly feels rage building up, hot and scorching, thinking about the last couple of months of people telling her to be patient and to let people believe she was sent by some goddess she didn’t revere, when no one could be patient and make one step towards her and think that maybe she has feelings.

“-the terms of the alliance, Lavellan?”

She doesn’t get who was to call her, but she raises her eyes, hearing her surname, to see everyone looking at her, expectantly, in various levels of scowls and disappointment. Save for Leliana, who has actually been on her side, but was the one to just treated the letter as a mere inconvenience. She doesn’t want to hear any of it.

“What?” She asks, trying to be calm.

“We were pondering if you had given Fiona any terms for your alliance, or if you even thought about them, anyway, before welcoming them there?”

It was Cullen, and it hurt, after they formed some… Camaraderie more than friendship, but they have chatted and joked together, and conversation had started to come easier, as he welcomed her in the drills and eased her in amongst the recruits. She was told he was in Kirkwall, she can theoretically understand why he’s untrusting, but… She frowns right back at him, not willing to yield.

“What was I supposed to do, exactly?” She asks back, more calmly than she feels.

“Wait and consider? Write here and ask for an opinion?”

“The king gave them one day. I didn’t have time to write and wait for a reply.”

“Then let them go! We’re already at full capacity as it is, we’re struggling to feed and supply everyone, and you take in liabilities?”

“They would have died, Commander.” She snaps, suddenly, as she steps closer to the table, placing her hands on the verge of it heavily and staring right back at him. She has seen recruits scuddle back in fright at him, and indeed he is wearing his best murderous glare. She doesn’t care one bit, she has seen worse in the future.

“You’re being overdramatic, just as they are.“

“Just as they are?” She snorts, coldly. “Oh goodness gracious, I’m sorry, I must have forgotten to mention that I am a mage, just like them. But you all forgot, right? Your precious Herald of Andraste can’t possibly be a mage and be sympathetic towards other mages just like her!” And there goes the last of her patience.

“None of us meant to-“ Josephine tries to interrupt, walking closer to her and raising a hand to place on her shoulders.

“No, you all did. ” She retorts, taking her arm away from the other’s touch abruptly, stepping back again. “All the time I’ve been here, all I’ve been told is to just go with the flow, adapt to my role, play along even if I don’t know anything of Andraste or the Chantry or of life in a settlement. I have to adapt fully to your rules, as if my own culture and nature is something to be hidden away and forgotten, a mere inconvenience not to talk about, go figure incorporate.”

She stops, turning her head and looking at them all, in turn. In all the words she’s puking out, seeing the advisors without words to say to her, Josephine looking at her wounded, Leliana with lips drawn in a thin line -the most upset she ever saw her-, Cullen directly avoiding to look at her, it all emboldens her to go on, does nothing to stop the river of words she has to spit.

“I’m not the Herald of Andraste. I’m a Dalish elf, I’m the First of Keeper Deshanna of Clan Lavellan, I bear the vallaslin of Ghilan’nain on my face and I’m a mage, and a skilled one at that. And since I lived all my life a nomad, I know that a large group with children and wounded won’t survive long if they’re forced to move with such short notice. Particularly if most of the people in said groups are people who lived closed in a tower all their life, and don’t know how to get food, choose shelter, find water in the wilderness, with winter coming closer. Some would have survived out of sheer luck, others will have restored to thievery or violence to get food, other would just die.”

She pauses, taking a couple of deep breaths and pointlessly fighting a couple of hot, angry tears making her vision fuzzy and traitorously rolling down her cheeks. She lowers her gaze at that, muttering a couple of curses in Elvhen against herself and her stupid emotivity. She’s never been good at masquerading, she desperately wishes she could put up a strong, cold façade. Nobody dares to say anything, tho, and she doesn’t want to raise her head and see if there’s pity in their eyes. Because she feels pretty pathetic.

“And what makes me the angriest, is that you’re all speaking of this Inquisition as if it should renew the Chantry and bring justice. But if I treat Mages as allies, it’s not good. They should be kept here as captives or left to die? I’m sorry, but I just can’t see what would be different than before, or why should you be different than Templars, just roaming the countryside to kill Mages or supposed so. Did you ever mean to let me go after the Breach or was the plan to keep me here in check and then confine me in some newly restored Circle Tower?” She laughs, bitterly at that, the realisation coming as she speaks. She angrily rubs tears from her cheeks, calming herself a little with the gesture.

“I’ll stay to close the Breach. But next time, if you need someone to take decisions for you because you can’t learn to work together, and you want a Mage to make a show of your sympathy towards us, you’d better call Madame de Fer, not me.” She concludes, turning on her heels and reaching the door. “Oh, and thank you for the time you left me to digest the news of a letter from my clan after almost two months, it’s been nice to have ten second to recognize the calligraphy before being yelled at.”

And with that, not listening to Cassandra urging her to stop, she pushes on the heavy wooden doors of the room and leaves, her heart thumping heavily in her throat and shoulders contracted to the point of being uncomfortable. She doesn’t stop to check if the one perched against a column is actually Dorian, she doesn’t stop for Mother Giselle asking her what happened, she doesn’t stop for Minaeve looking at her with worry on her face, she most of all doesn’t even look at Vivienne to see the Grand Enchanter raising a perfectly trimmed eyebrow with that slight air of superiority that really grates on her nerves.

She slips out of the building, making a scout fumble in a mockup salute, but she doesn’t turn to greet him back. She just goes her way, ignoring everyone, turning right just outside the Chantry’s doors. She found that particular spot in the first days in Haven: it’s a little cluster of spruces, actually, just at the feet of the steep slope of the mountain, but not as vertical yet not to offer a good hiding spot. It’s also close enough to the village activities that any call to work can easily be heard. She has gone to that spot whenever she has wished for some privacy and fresh air, outside the barrack she’s been assigned to. Namely, when she’s feeling particularly lonely or sad or homesick. Now she’s feeling all three, and also angry and frustrated.

She cleans a rock from snow, and sits heavily on it, letting herself fall on the cold stone. With that, she starts fumbling over the letter, observing finally with the dued care the simple address Keeper Deshanna has written on the top, right above the wax-seal open because Leliana reads all the mail that comes and go from Haven. The rounded, slanted way the Keeper writes seems the usual, she considers, no visible signs of any worsening of her arthritis, but her eyes are getting wet nevertheles.

She sniffs heavily, blinking to clear a couple of drops away and down her cheeks staring at the envelope in her hand. She hasn’t realised just how much she misses her clan and her adoptive mother, but now, seeing a tangible proof of her… She’s just too far from home, and for what? She has proven to herself that yes, she can function on her own, she can fend for herself, take difficult decision and Creators, even challenge the King of Ferelden to a game of stares, she’s not a scared halla fawn as Ydun has defined her. At what price, tho? She’s alone, now, in a town full of Shem who wanted her closed in a tower because she’s a mage, the people she worked with in the last weeks now hate her, and she doesn’t know whom to talk to that understands just how much she wants to get back to the clan, just how much worried she is that this letter may contain awful news.

With trembling hands, she detaches the wax seal, freeing the sheet of paper inside and slipping it over. The envelope rests on her thighs, as she reads, her heart thumping heavily in her throat.

Mythal, please let them be alive and well.

Clan Lavellan offers greetings to the Inquisition and wishes it well in sealing the Breach that has opened in the sky. While some Dalish clans hate humans and wish nothing to do with them, Clan Lavellan has always dealt fairly with all and wished only for peace. That said, we have on occasion been forced to defend ourselves from those who saw us only as potential victims.
It has come to our attention that a member of our clan is being held captive by your Inquisition. She went to the Conclave only to observe the peace talks between your mages and templars, and we find it highly unlikely that she intentionally violated your customs. If she has been charged with a crime, we would appreciate hearing of it. If not, it would ease our concerns to hear from her to know that she remains with the Inquisition of her own will.
We await your reply,
Keeper Istimaethoriel Lavellan

She reads it once, then again, her hands starting to tremble as loose tears becomes a full-force crying and sobbing and she can’t read anymore. She clutches the letter to her heart, bending forward until her forehead is resting on her knees, and sobbing in earnest, letting everything out as Deshanna always told her. “Better out than in, da’len, cry and scream, it’s ok, don’t let it poison you. ”. And she doesn’t not care if she sounds even more pathetic, if she’s snotting heavily on her breeches, whimpering and trembling.

She thought it would have been easier to depart. She thought that after she was adopted by the Lavellan at six, and spent the next month crying because she couldn’t understand, little as she was, why her mamae didn’t come with her and feeling abandoned. And yes, the crippling feeling of betrayal subsided and she adapted, everyone in the clan was kind and affectionate, she knew she was a part of the clan… But always two steps distant, not really one of them but just a lost puppy taken in. She knows she’s been lucky for real, she knows it even better now, reading Deshanna still protecting her and looking out for her from miles and miles away. She misses them. She regrets not having ever called Deshanna mamae, because that’s what she has always been to her. She feels loved and she aches because all she would like to do is hug the Keeper and hold her tight, and tell her she should not have written this with her aching joints. But she cannot, and she can’t send hugs via letter, and she knows writing would attire potential attention on the clan and that her words would be read by Leliana anyway.

In substance, she stays curled on herself, on a solitary rock amidst tall spruces covered in snow, still dirty from the journey back to the Hinterlands because she wasn’t even allowed to change before being dragged into the War Room, and for all she knows, she would like to stay there for the next three months, until everyone just forgot about her and maybe, just maybe, she had a chance to make an escape unnoticed.

And yet, she’s been raised better than that. She’s been raised to take responsibility and be reliable, because a good Keeper should be so, and not run away from a difficult task just because it’s scary. She’s been raised better than to run away. She knows she must stay, until the Breach is closed, and stay she will.

About what to do in the meanwhile or whether to reply to the Keeper and how many details to say, she has no idea. So, she does the one thing that she should do. Cross her fingers, and start praying to Ghilan’nain for direction in a storm.

---

To Keeper Deshanna Isthimaethoriel of Clan Lavellan,

I hereby write you to inform you that I am being kept by the Inquisition of my own free will. The Creators had granted me power to close the rifts in the Veil that are plaguing the land and scarring the sky, and it is my duty to do all I can. I know you wouldn’t wish me to return and ignore the good I can do. You didn’t raise me like that, and our People never shied away from responsibilities.

I hope you can forgive my absence, I’m sure the Second will take care of my duties exceptionally well, when I cannot. It is also my pleasure to inform you that the war amidst the Mages and Templar is hopefully coming to an end, as the Inquisition allied with the Mages.

You are all in my thoughts, I am fine and I pray Ghilan’nain to guide your journey, Andruil to make your step swift and sure, Elgar’nan to gift you a warm winter and Mythal to give you strength in the year to come.

Dar’eth shiral,
Aisling Deshanna Lavellan

---


The Herald of Andraste has returned from a week from the Hinterlands, and the Herald of Andraste has not spoken to barely anyone that’s not a Mage or Master Dennet. Surely not to the advisors, and she has not shown face in the Chantry nor in the war councils, ignoring messengers calling her over for that, on the third day even saying to tell all three advisors that they could come and ask her personally, if they really cared. All that they have received from Lavellan is a single, sealed letter addressed to her Clan.

The seventh day, after the morning Council, the Spymaster is reading reports in her tent, scrolling through papers and setting them apart in three different piles according to either urgency or not, or informations about the Herald in the camp.

“Any word?”

Leliana sighs, turning around to face Josephine and hands her the report she has just finished reading.

“Not from her. But she’s still here, she’s not closed in her barrack, but...”

“She has had problems with the Mages? Why?”

“Appearently-“ A pause, as the Spymaster shuffles the Aisling pile looking for one very specific paper. “-some of the mages, don’t like Dalish Mages either. There have been slurs, they have been dealt with, Fiona doesn’t want to tell more.”

“It’s awful. After what she did for them?” Josephine frowns, reading the report.

“She never had to fight for her freedom, never had to hide, or worry that her phylactery fell into the wrong hands. It’s rather comprehensible if you think about it.”

“It is, but... It’s sad. What has been doing? I could send some desserts to her barrack, if she’s there...”

“Helping out the mages still, she’s stubborn. Other than that, she is working at the stables, training with Solas and Dorian. The Iron Bull told me she’s been sparring with him and the Chargers, but she refuses to follow them if they join our soldier’s drills. He described her as a cat put in a corner. That report should be... Ah, here.” The reports get switched, Leliana inserts what Josie just read amidst the others.

“Any news from you?” the Spymaster asks, placing the remaining reports still to read in a separate corner and resting against the table, turning to face her friend.

“The envoy has been sent for Wycome, they should reach Clan Lavellan in three weeks or a month, depending on the weather. I sent her letter as well. Oh, and this arrived... Maybe it could interest her? I don’t know, tho, she has been redirecting all mails and reports without reading them...” The eyes of the Ambassador falls to the ground, as Leliana takes her letter and reads it.

A couple of red eyebrows jumps up high.

“I don’t know, but maybe this would show our support...”



---



“...Are you fucking kidding me?” Aisling hisses, turning away from the red hart that’s staring haughtily at her.

“It was a gift sent specifically to you from a nearby clan, we thought it rude to refuse.” Leliana calmly replies.

“A gift from a Dalish clan to the Herald of Andraste. Sure.” She laughs, bitterly, turning on her heels and returning inside the stables, taking back the rake she has left when she was called outside. The hart gets ignored, not that the animal really seems to mind.

Leliana and Josephine exchange a look, not following the elf immediately inside. After some moments, the Spymaster gestures at the other, and precedes her in the stable, getting away from the cold wind that today has decided to sweep on the Frostbacks. Inside, they find Aisling in a box, cleaning the hay with sure movements, if a little strained from the weight of the tool she’s using - visibily too long for her.

“It wasn’t our idea, we just received the envoy and the letter.” Leliana specifies, standing in front of the box’s entrance and taking the mentioned letter out of her pocket.

“So you didn’t totally try to buy me, but just suggested a clan to show their goodwill with a casual gift. That’s good to know, thanks for stopping by. My position remains unchanged, tell me when you decide which Fade Rift I have to close next.” Lavellan replies, matter-of-factly and ignoring the letter. Actually, she doesn’t even look at the other two women, concentrated on her work.

“Is it so hard to believe that the clan sent the gift on their own free will?”

“No. But the only reason they could have sent it is to try to enter in my good graces and remind me to keep an eye out for the Dalish that may be influenced by the Inquisition. They sent a gift because they fear the Inquisition could mean troubles for them. I don’t need a gift to be reminded of that, it’s pretty insulting they thought or were led to think I do, and I don’t even have the power to make them happy or to reassure them this institution means no harm. Send the hart back, with my thanks and telling them they need it more than me, because my heart is with the People.”

She steps back, raising a rakeful of dirty hay she collected to turn around and bring it in a barrel near the entrance, mindful of the other two but letting them move away from her path. Chin held heigh and proud, even if her brow is sweating from the exercise.

“We thought you may have liked the hart tho, since you’re here… And the Inquisition does not mean harm to the Dalish.” It’s Josephine to reply, sincerely and with a tid-bit more passion than Leliana showed. This finally gains a look from Aisling, but it’s quick and it ends soon with a shake of her honey head.

“It’s not a hart I want. And you may not mean harm to us, but you’re still risking it nevertheless, because you don’t know about me nor the People.” She replies, dryly.

“And whose fault it is if we know little about you and what you want? I was on your side on the whole Mage endeavour, I still think you chose well, but this is getting ridiculous and you’re being childish now.” Leliana snaps coldly, her patience gone.

“If I was childish, I would have gathered the three things that are really mine in that barrack, taken Solas and Varric and left for the Free Marches three days ago.” The elf sighs and turns, now looking at Leliana with a weird calm on her face. She doesn’t look angry, she just looks disappointed, a slight frown creating a thin line between her eyebrows. She take a step to stand in front of Leliana, looking in her eyes directly. “It’s not my fault if I don’t exactly like to share my personal history and random fact about myself with strangers who don’t even care to ask how I am after hearing from my family after two months. And I don’t think you should be the one to talk about being too closed off, at that.”

And with that, she closes the door of the box and marches away, launching the rake in a corner with the other tools and filling the wooden building with a loud clank that makes most horses peek their big heads out, some snorting, some other neighing. Aisling launches a “I’m sorry!”, and the two women know it’s not directed at any being who walks with just two legs. Leliana huffs and massages the bridge of her nose, shaking her head, as Josephine scowls a little at her, full of disappointment.

“Whose fault it is?” Josephine mocks, hands on her hips.

“It just slipped out, ok? She’s being stubborn and I’m tired, Josie.”

“Well, way to go. Now what?”

“Now we go out and hope she doesn’t reach the paddock before we can inform the stableboys that our former order is to be ignored…” The Spymaster says, with a deep sigh, walking out of the barrack.

As she squints a little as the sun hits her eyes again after spending some times in the shadows, and the cold wind hits her in the face, she hears Josie complaining about the cold, and louder than her, movement and voices, the hart snorting and Lavellan actually yelling. They’re late.

“No, NO! I’m here, I’m telling you, NO!” She’s trying to take the reins from the hands of the stable boy that was in charge of the hart out of the external fence beside the Forge, not appearently afraid of swatting away people trying to remove her from her spot or hands that comes to take hers away.

“I’m sorry, Lady Herald, we were instructed to bring your mount here for you to tend! We have to-“

“He is not my mount and fucking stop with the Lady Herald! We scooped manure together, Randall, for fuck’s sake! Shoo off!” She tries to pry open Randall’s fingers from the reins, the two starts fumbling too much, and the hart, more irritated than scared, launches a loud, acute grunt and rears upon his hind legs, flailing the forelegs angrily.

Lavellan launches a curse in Elvhen and instantly releases the reins, grabbing Randall’s shoulder and jumping back physically dragging him with her. They both fall heavily on the ground, but they manage to avoid being kicked in the head. Master Dennet runs in the paddock and grabs the halter of the hart, dragging him down again and keeping him still, quickly imitated by another one of his assistants, even if the animal makes an attempt at freeing himself and snorts indignantly, jumping on his legs before calming down, ears plastered against his big neck.

A small crowd has gathered around the fence, in part curious and in part worried someone got hurt, even Commander Cullen runs from the camp to make people open up for him, as he asks loudly what happened and if everyone’s ok, Seeker Pentaghast hot on his heels.

“Are you fine?” Aisling can be heard asking to Rendall, sincerely worried and touching him on the ribcage and neck and head to check for injuries.

“I think I am. Just a knock. Thank you…” Rendall replies, but none of them can go on as the horsemaster interrupts them.

“That was an incredibly stupid thing to do, both of you!” Dennett roars, leaving the harts to his assistants and marching towards Lavellan and Randall, still on the ground. “And I’m particularly angry because you know it was stupid! Out of the paddock!”

“I was-“ Aisling tries to protest.

“Now!” Dennet doesn’t let her finish, pointing a finger towards the gate. “I expect you at the first shift, tomorrow. Stable work, and I want to see my reflection in those boxes!”

Aisling lowers her gaze and clenches her fists until her knuckles get white. But she doesn’t reply, just nods before turning towards the fence and bending down to slip between two of the horizontal poles.

She can’t do more than ten steps before she gets surrounded by all four advisors, Josephine and Leliana on one side, Cullen and Cassandra on the other. All the irritation and attitude she had, tho, seems to be gone with the recent exploit: she sighs heavily and looks intently at her feet, frowning heavily as she tries not to start crying from a mix of shame, regret and just sheer frustration.

“Are you fine?” Cullen is the first one to speak, and on his part he seems genuinely worried.

“He’s not my mount.” She replies, grumbling.

“I gave the order.” Leliana admits, shrugging.

“We’re very sorry, Aisling.” Josephine continues, elbowing Leliana at her right. “We didn’t know Dalish uses in gifts, and thought you would have liked it. You did tell me it would have been nice to have a better suited mount than the one that’s been assigned to you...”

“What did I miss?” Cullen asks, frowning at the others.

Cassandra snorts, stepping forward to take Aisling’s shoulders and examine her better if she’s not slouching as she was.

“Did you get injured? You fell pretty badly.” The Nevarran asks. Still looking at her up and down.

The elf looks at her from below, still distrusting but more shily, a slight tinge of red on her cheeks and eyes shining from unshed tears, before shaking her head.

“I’m fine.” She says, in the end. “Nothing happened.”

“That’s bullshit.” Cullen comments, at the same time as Cassandra makes a particularly disgusted noise. “What have you told her?” He raises his eyes to glare at Leliana, who frowns right back.

“Oh, don’t act the saint and saviour with me, why should it have been me?”

“Because I will believe Josephine has frustrated someone so much when I’ll see a donkey flying. What have you told her?”

“Now, please, if we can all discuss it calmly…”

As they raise their voices, Aisling falls back down, stepping back and trying to get away. Cassandra, tho, notices, firmly grabbing her hand -Aisling hates how her heart thumps a little harder at that- and stopping her on track, booming to stop the other from starting quarrelling yet again.

“Enough! ”

It reports all three of them on attention, automatically, Josephine even jumping a little from the surprise. Silence falls, as the Seeker glares at her three colleagues with pure reproach in her eyes.

“I believe we all wanted to be civil and ask Lavellan how she is faring, and what’s the issue with the hart.” Cassandra continues, in a tone that doesn’t really admit any possible disagreement.

“It’s fine, I’m fine, it has already been discussed. I’ll leave you to your work, if you’ll excuse me.” Aisling replies, warily and trying to force herself away from the Nevarran’s grasp. But with no use, the other’s hand just holds her own tighter, pulling her back when she steps back.

“You’ve been part of our work, and you should keep on being so. We value your opinion greatly.”

“You just need someone to pick a side when you can’t agree on something, you don’t value my opinion any more than that.” She retorts, gloomily.

“It’s-“ Cassandra sighs, looking at the other three with a silent urge in her eyes. “It’s really not like that, we just gave you the wrong impression.”

“If my little knowledge of the Dalish is true-“ Chimes in Leliana. “-You indeed are more used to cooperate with others and to work together. We never had to, running such a big organisation and building it up… It’s a first time for everyone.”

“We value your capability to put four different people together, and your external point of view to all the Mages and Templar question, to… Put things in perspective.” Cullen summarizes.

“And, it’s true we took advantage of your being good natured and obliging and were never that attentive to your wellbeing… But we’re all sorry. And we can do better, starting with putting a stop on the slurs, I can make clear that such behaviour won’t be tolerated. Towards anyone.” Josephine concludes, sure of herself and with an encouragingly smile.

Maybe it’s Josie’s being a delight and someone you just can’t really stay angry at, maybe it’s the fact that they’re really all collaborating and not quarrelling, for once, maybe it’s Leliana looking as tired as Aisling feels, or Cullen actually smiling, tho shily. Maybe it’s Cassandra’s hand still holding her own. But she is tired of arguments, she never liked arguments in the first place… And she believes in second chances. So, she takes a deep breath, and nods.

“Ok. I’m sorry if I yelled and acted crazy. But really, no harts, please, I… I quite like horses.” She yields, squeezing back the hand of the Seeker in a silent thank you, shoulder relaxing down.

She hears Josephine sighing, relieved, and raises her head just to see Cullen still smiling, looking at her with some doubts still on his face.

“What is it?”

“What’s wrong with the hart?”

“Oh, it’s… It’s a fearful gift done to convince me to put good words for the Clans and not forget I’m Dalish. A pointless gift.” She shrugs.

“Even if you were looking for a different mount, like you said?” Asks Leliana, stepping quietly to stand in front of her.

“Well, yes… But-“ She stops, pondering her next words, fingers nervously fumbling with the hem of her jacket.

“…Do you have something else in mind?” Cullen precedes her, bending slightly his head on the side.

“… Actually, there’s this horse-“



---



“…Are you sure it was a good idea?” It’s Cullen again, asking her for the tenth time.

“Oh, yes, he has character, I really like him.” Aisling replies, turning the page of the book she has perched on her crossed legs, without looking up.

It’s been three days after the Commander has agreed on approaching the visiting Comte De Canard, regarding that Dalish All-Bred that was drawing the carriage containing some more of his luggage and provisions for his guards. It turned out that Aisling has already offered him a proper sum for the animal, but the aristocrat didn’t want to sell it to a “knife ear”. Cullen glared at him, and managed to have the man not only agree and apologise, but also to lower the price. Aisling paid the full price anyway, with a snarky comment that ended up destroying the Orlaisian’s pride.

And so, here the elf was, sitting inside the paddock with a book, her back resting against the fence, and with a basket of apples at her side, eating lazily one every now and then and totally ignoring the angry, very uncooperative pinto horse on the other side of the paddock that was glaring dagger at his new owner. Cullen has never seen a horse glaring daggers, but that horse was. And it was scary, even on such a small sized equine.

“Character, you say. You know he bit Julian’s hand today, yes?”

“I know. He also bit me yesterday, I turned my back on him, I shouldn’t have.” She takes another bite of the fruit, making the horse snort in indignation and shake his big head, white mane flying around.

“And you plan on riding that wild thing?”

“I do. He’s just been mistreated. The Idiot started training him as a war horse, but it didn’t go well. He’s been beaten and whipped and given little food for too long, and relegated to do the work horse when he’s not. He just needs to learn that people can be trusted again, but he’ll be stronger and swifter than all the others, I’m sure.”

“He’s…” The ex-Templar has to think of it. Looking at the pinto strutting back and forth, kicking the air behind him every two steps just because. He doesn’t want to offend her again, tho. “…sure he is fierce and spirited, I wouldn’t want to stand against him in battle.”

“You can tell you don’t approve it, you know?” She giggles. “I’m not throwing another tantrum just because we don’t agree on everything.”

“I didn’t want to-“ Caught. “Ah, I didn’t want to make you feel like I don’t respect your decision. I’m- Ehr, I’m doubtful of the horse… And of you sitting there where he can reach. But I was doubtful of the Mages, and in ten days everything went well, so.” He shrugs, raising a hand to rub at is neck.

“I’m careful, I swear. Dennet told me it’s a good way. I’m here sitting, I’m not anything threatening to him… And I have treats. I’ll just wait for him to feel comfortable to come here for the apples.” She looks up and smile at him, shrugging.

She pauses, looking at the horse -he’s now kicking with his foreleg at the lowest horizontal pole of the fence, with a certain force.

“I’m also sorry about what I said about the Templars, or you all wanting to lock me in a Tower. I didn’t mean it, not for real.” She says, after a minute, with a serious face.

“I- Ah, don’t mention it. You did make a point, tho, and you were rightfully angry, we should have paid more attention. And I should really be the one to apologize to you for what I said of the Mages. It was... Unfair, it’s just... it’s not your problem, anyway. Just, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it either.”

“Thank you... and thank you also for the help with the horse, anyway.”

“No problem, it’s been satisfying to scare that Idiot. But tell Sera she can’t throw pies at every nobleman that comes around.” He looks down at her, with mock reproach.

“I have nothing to do with it, scout’s honour!” She also crosses her heart with a finger, puffing up her chest.

“Sure, very believable.” He chuckles, pushing away from the fence. “Just tell her to contain herself, if Josephine manages to call the Orlesians, we will all starve to supply her ammunitions.”

“Mpf, I will! See you later?”

“Two hours after midday, no excuses.”

She snorts, turning around to see him returns to the camp, before returning to her book and her snack. Dennet is still not fully over her nasty mistake with the hart, and is still making her work overly early in the morning, but she’s happy to recuperate like this. Even if the reading of today is a very, very boring treaty on Orlesian history. As much as Keepers are supposed to be historians too, she much prefers the practical aspects of the job, she must say. She just doesn’t care about genealogy and complex relationship between royals, and maybe -just maybe- starving to cover them in cream pies wouldn’t be so bad.

She’s still pondering, casually looking at the horse every now and then -he’s still pacing back and forth, minding to keep as far from her as he possibly can and snorting when she takes a bite, looking at her sideways, but not ignoring her. He’s not charged her, at least, and he’s at least a little interested. She smiles at him, trustingly. They’re gonna go somewhere, she’s very hopeful. And she has patience.

She’s just wondering why she should care exactly about the stupid obsession of Emperor Judicael I over occultism and weird immortality elisirs, when the fence behind her shakes again and a very familiar disgusted grunts fills the air.

“What happened?” She asks, peeking up to see Cassandra perching on the topmost bar with both arms, glaring right back at the pinto on the other side.

“Mages. Complaining over stupid things they can resolve on their own. Again. I just don’t know who told them I’m the one to yell at.” The Seeker grunts, grumpily.

“Is it that bad?” She asks, taking it as the perfect excuse to leave Judicael to his fake potions and scammy concoctions, closing the book definitely.

“Not worse than anyone could have expected. It was a wise decision, but people need time to adapt. The mages are here as equals. They need to get used to what that means. It is your doing, after all. You created this alliance.”

She lowers her eyes, feeling guilt and doubt rise again in her throat. She has gotten back to War Councils, and all four have really tried hard to yell a little less and listen to the others -with more and less successful results. She has received apologies and had a long talk with Leliana, setting things clear -preventing her from killing a spy in cold blood- and they are now on better terms… But she still is a little unsure that hers was the right choice. The Mages themselves look at her with suspicion -she can see the reasons, but it still hurts a little-, the few Templars are polite but cold -Cullen besides-, and she has walked into at least one overly heated argument between a Mage and a Templar. She wouldn’t do anything differently, but sometimes she ponders and doubts if it really wasn’t too much responsibility on her shoulders alone, and if it was the right pair of shoulders to bestow such a decision upon.

“Well, I… Well, I hope it works. What other choice do we have?” She replies, forlornly, fixing her gaze on the gilded letters on the leather cover of the book.

“Oh. I do sound like I’m blaming you, don’t I?” Cassandra replies, her voice changing from grumbling to calm, and a little sorry. She snaps her head back, looking at the Nevarran with wide eyes as her words go on. “I don’t disapprove. I may have been… Taken aback in that moment, but in fact, you did well. You made a decision when it needed to be made. And here we are. I wish I could say this was my doing.”

She sounds utterly, disarmingly honest in that. Not a slint of sarcasm or remorse. As she herself said, Cassandra’s not a flatterer, enough times hearing her and Varric talk -banter- with each other has assured her that irony and sarcasm are not weapons in the Seeker’s vast arsenal. And as always, her compliments strike even deeper. Particularly in the way she’s smiling at her, in earnest and with the slight tinge of admiration. Aisling can’t resist. She’s been in the future, she’s had a fight, she was almost kicked in the head by an angry hart. She decides that she can be bold and take a risk. A little one, just to see where it goes.

She breathes deeply, placing her half-eaten apple in the basket with the others -horse gets very interested at that, but stubbornly refuses to approach-, and help herself up, raising to lay on the fence with her side, looking at the Seeker with a smile and a glint in her eyes.

“You’re flattering me!” She replies, a laugh in her voice and her best big smile on her face.

“I’m not!” Cassandra perks up, frowning and grunting in disgust right after denying. ”This always happens. Nobody ever takes my meaning…”

“You should see your face!” Aisling quips, giggling and raising a finger to poke delicately at the cheek of the other woman, right below the smallest scar on her right.

“I’m thinking less flattering things now.” She frowns, scrunching her nose.

But Aisling, at that, just laughs, happily noticing how some colour pops up on the cheeks of the other woman. From his side of the paddock, the horse neighs, just to put his own two cents.

“Oh, you can participate in the discussion only if you come here! Come here if you want to get flattered!” She replies to the horse, tho, mirth still in her voice. The horse decides to ignore her, lowering his head to graze some hay.

“Let’s hope the Breach has your sense of humor, at least.” Cassandra concludes.

The hurt is not gone, she doesn’t feel at home, and she’s worried sick that her letter will give away her clan and his position. But for now, she pushes all bad thoughts aside and just enjoys feeling, for real, hopeful.

Chapter Text

Admittedly, it has been a mistake. A severe mistake her now throbbing headache won’t let her forget any time soon.

“Sure” she has told to a skeptical Leliana “I’ll bring Sera and Solas to the Fallow Mire, what could possibly happen!”.

Note to self: always listen to Leliana when she’s skeptical. Unless she’s talking of stabbing people and getting stupid revenges, that is, but Aisling is starting to think that Leliana is most often right, when she doesn’t have a dagger in her hand and that look in her eyes. The scary one.

“Boss.” The Qunari says, stepping to walk beside her and waiting for Aisling to turn her head and look at him with the face of a woman who is about to beg the other to just toss her in the water and leave her there. “There’s a Ben Hassrath technique which would save us.” He informs her, with the same look in his eye.

“I’m listening.”

“A firm pinch on the back of their neck. If I hit the nerves right, they’re gonna fall unconscious.”

“Have you done it before?” She asks, hope in her voice.

“Yes.”

“Did the recipient survive?” The hope raises.

The Qunari falls silent for a moment, then lowers his head, sighing heavily.

“No, he did not.” Comes the answer, killing all hope and leaving them in their misery.

“Uuurgh.” She groans.

Aisling honestly considers it, as the reason for her current distress -save the constant rain, the corpses left on the side of the road after the pestilence and the fact that a lot of said corpses don’t really like to stay dead and are overly friendly- stubbornly keep on quarrelling at her back, as it has been for the good part of the afternoon.

In conclusion, bringing Solas and Sera together was a terrible, terrible idea. Particularly if the surroundings are the very definition of depressing, the task ahead so nasty even Scout Harding couldn’t be cheerful about it, and lighting Veil Fire under constant rain, when her hands are freezing over and she can’t even regret the rain, as it’s the only thing preventing the air to smell really, really foul from the swamp and all the deads around. She doesn’t even know what the other two elves are discussing about, by now: she has zoned out since an hour, after getting yelled at when she tried to mediate proposing her own opinion on the subject and getting both of them to reply angrily at her. So she walks on, leading the group and enjoying the start of a headache, all her energies focused on trying to at least keep herself and the Qunari dry with magic. Solas has been the one to insist on performing the drying spell on Sera, and that has been just one further reason for further discussions.

“Five corpses ahead!” Bull booms, freeing his axe from its scabbard.

“Oh, thanks the Creators…” Aislings comments, sincerely relieved from the interruption to the endless discussion.

The Qunari laughs at that, charging on, as Aisling follows. With all that water and the rain, electricity can become a problem, fighting in a group, so she prefers to just be a little closer to exert more control over her magic. Between the slowness of the reanimated bodies, all cracking joints and rigid muscles, and how much exactly Cullen has been insisting on her drills and form, she’s more confident in engaging from a closer position. The Fallow Mire at least has a good use, letting her put in practice her new shining training without having to restraint from magic. So, covered from the distance by Sera’s arrows and Solas’ ice -and their mutual very welcomed silence-, she runs forward, holding her staff close and concentrating lightning just on the point. It crackles, but she is careful to contain it at the minimum, holding the spell under even closer control until she ducks a swing of a rusty sword, easily turning around the undead who attacked her, and lunges on, hitting the sternum and just then releasing the spell, lightning shooting through old nerves and frying the body from the inside.

She doesn’t wait too much, taking the staff back towards her body and turning to the next opponent. She ducks against a wide swing of Bull’s axe, running under his arm to charge the last undead standing. Solas freezes him, just before she can swing her staff in diagonal, hitting it on the shoulder, hard, and again conjuring lightning in the same overly-precise fashion, just contained to convince the enemy to just stay dead.

As the last one falls on the ground again with a disgusting moist sound, she relaxes and drop her arms, resting a little and catching her breath, leaning on her staff.

“Nice job, Boss.” Bull praises her, a big hand coming to pat her shoulder heavily. “Next time you decide to pass under my blade, tho, give me a signal.”

“Good job to you too. Wouldn’t a signal tip off the enemies?” She smiles at him, returning the praise and patting his hand in return.

“Choose a very improbable word and shout that. Like I don’t know. Some shit in Tevene, so I know it’s you, and you’ll weird everyone off as well.” He proposes, fixing buckles after placing the axe on his back again.

“Got it, what about Apokolokyntosis(1)?”

“…Is that a real word?”

“It’s the title of a play Dorian lent me to practice. It’s fun, the Archon gets turned into a turnip. Or was it a pumpkin… Or a squash? I should ask him what’s the right meaning of kolokynthe…”

“Ok, that will weird everyone out, Boss, even me.” Bull guffaws, jovially, patting her shoulder.

“So that’s perfect!” She agrees, stretching a little as she casts a look at the other two party members.

Solas is standing, straight as a pole, righting his clothes and side-eyeing Sera, scowling as he spots the other elf sticking her tongue out at him, as she slowly gets her arrows back from dead bodies. They’re silent, at least, but they’ve been quiet before, and it never lasted long. According to Harding’s scouts and the Sky Watcher’s informations, there’s still one standing stone with runes to activate, before reaching the fort. And she’s had enough. She looks at Bull, again, grimacing.

“Wish me luck?” She asks, sheepishly.

“Let it be known I warned you this was a terrible idea. But good luck, you’ll die with honour.” He replies, overly serious.

And with that, Aisling schools herself, straighten her back trying to summon whatever there’s left of her professionality and dignity under her throbbing head, and walks towards the other two elves, plastering a wide smile on her face she’s overly tired to care anymore if it looks too forced.

“So. Can we just agree that we all did a pretty good job in fighting all together, and we can appreciate each other’s skill and find some common ground in the reciprocal proficiency, like adults?” She realizes she’s using the tone she used to use with the children, back at the clan, the condescending tone that doesn’t do much in hiding how her patience is running short, with a shit-eating grin plastered on her face that’s happy on the verge of murderous. Pavyn has always, always been better than her with children for a reason.

“I’ve never put in doubt her skill with her bow, it’s the stubbornness of her beliefs and her Friends that I’m questioning.” Solas replies, the very image of calm, but if in the last months there’s one thing Aisling has learnt, is to recognise that he’s judging the other person, and badly, when he just squints his eyes in that particular way. And he’s squinting his eyes that way at Sera.

“Sure yer questioning, ‘cause your prissy Elfship is too prissy to deal with real people.” Sera, which to her honour is at least much more open and very clear about her opinions, retorts, spiteful as ever.

Solas is opening is mouth to start anew, but Aisling isn’t gonna have it. She raises her free hand in front of her bust, palm open.

“Please, stop, the both of you.” She firmly interrupts, sighing. “We still have work to do, and you’re making us lose time with your constant bickering. I get it, you don’t get along, I’m sorry I dragged you both here, believe me I am.

But, I happen to be in charge, hence I must remind you we’re rescuing people, we don’t have time. Either you stop and focus on the task and save trying to jump at each other’s throats for later, or one of you is returning to camp.” She finishes, as matter-of-factly and patient as she can muster. Which is not as much as she would like, but seems to be enough.

No one starts yelling at her, which she counts as a success, waiting some moments for them to consider. None replies, more side-glances get thrown, and before anyone can say anything, Aisling’s back at it.

“And before any of you suggests the other goes back-“ She adds, noticing Sera trying to speak with a mischievous glint in her eyes she doesn’t really like. “The one to decide who’s going back is me, not you. And I remind you that I can’t keep three people dry and fight on my own, and there’s a whole ass swamp full of corpses and mud for whomever gets back on their own.”

She just needs to look at Sera to have the blonde elf frown and huff in disappointment, puffing her breath so it slightly ruffles her fringe.

She turns to Solas, expecting something from him and gesturing him to speak. He exhales slowly through his mouth, lowering his head.

“I will refrain from further questioning how the Red Jennies operates and why, if she can stop with the whole Elvhen Glory thing.” He concedes, and right now Aisling can’t care how begrudgingly. He may disapprove all he wants, all she cares right now is completing the mission and return to camp as soon as she can.

“Good, thank you. Sera?” She turns to the other. This whole endeavour at least has given her the idea that Red Jenny doesn’t really work with people ordering her around, and need a calmer approach.

“Urgh, I hate you when you’re so elfy-elf and wiseshit.” She groans, tossing her head back. “But fineish, I’ll shut my mouth.”

“Thank you, to both of you.” She sighs, smiling for real, this time. “Now let’s go.”

She urges them on, turning around and reaching Bull again at the start of their line, keeping her staff out as a proper walking stick, and who cares if it’s an improper use and the blade at the bottom will lose its point and bla bla bla. It’s just nice, finally, to be able to hear the sound of the rain on stones, water and on the last leaves standing on their branches. It wasn’t enough to make that forsaken place anything remotely good, but it still was better than before. Her headache, tho, is still there, getting heavier by the minute until it painfully throbs in both her temples.

She sighs, slowing down her pace to fall back in line and get closer to Solas, eyeing him tiredly. They have spent together enough time for Aisling to just know when he’s really angry and when he’s not. And now, he is, judging by the minute line between his eyebrows and the way he holds his chin a little higher and lips contracted, prideful thing that he is, true to his name. She wonders, sometimes, if it’s a pseudonym, if he changed his name, or if his parents just had luck. He’s been particularly secretive on his past, however, the few times Aisling has tried to ask something about it, and she doesn’t really want to insist.

“Hey.” She greets him, earning a side-glance.

“Do you want to scold me some more?” He asks, his lips quirking up in half a smile.

“Mock me all you like, go on. If you can please do some healing on my head, you can vent all your frustration on me, I won’t reply and just push you in a puddle when I’m bored.” She replies, shrugging it off.

“Come here.”

He stops and so does she, turning to face him and pulling her hair back from her forehead with the free hand, chin up so he can work. He places his palm on her forehead, mana trickling and cool flooding her head in blissful ripples.

“Urgh, thank you, that feels much, much better…” She sighs, releasing her hand when he’s done and gifting him a delighted smile.

“Move, elfy-elves!” Sera chides from ahead, urging them on.

Which they do, falling in silence as Aisling softly glides over the good feeling of not feeling like having a press squishing down her head, feeling light and yes, tired but not so overly as before. She may also reach the evening, she feels, with one more quarrel. Even if tossing them both into a puddle doesn’t sound like a bad idea. Or asking Bull to toss them for her, he’ll surely manage. She considers him carefully, squinting her eyes.

“What is it, da’len?” He asks, with a knowing voice.

“Do you really hate her?” She asks, speaking softly and gesturing at Sera.

“I don’t hate her. I would just like for her to make any sense, maybe I question too much.” He replies, turning bitter all over again.

“She does make sense, you know.” She chides, kindly, but still pointing it out.

“She doesn’t.”

“She does. Maybe not on magic, but… You just speak two different languages, that’s it.” She insists, not caring if she earns a scolding glance in answer.

“I disagree.” He just says, coldly.

“Do you want me to help?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re helping me with magic and the mark.” She wiggles her left hand explicatively, even if the gloves cover up much of anything. “Let me help you with people, for once, you said it yourself that you’re rusty.”

He considers it, sighing heavily and not replying for a good couple of minutes. She doesn’t insist, walking on beside him and waiting for him to speak again, casting sideway glances every now and then when she can focus on not stepping in mud or deeper freezing water than the slight film that covers up the cobblestones of the pathway. She has patience, she’s waited a year before a particularly diffident halla, one they had found in the woods with a leg in a trap and took into the pack to heal, all but got closer to her. She knows how to wait, and will wait until Solas is ready to talk.

“If she just stops with the Elvhen Glory, do as you want.” He finally concedes, sighing.

She’s not really sure he doesn’t say it just to have her walk away, but she turns to smile brightly at him, and with a final “Thank you!” trots off on the hill where the standing stone stands, concentrating to summon veil fire and, hopefully, get it done with this hateful place.

---

Dorian,

To reply to your former questions: No. No, it hasn’t stopped raining yet, I still can’t decide if I’d prefer a dry but smelly swamp, or a frozen, drenched but decently smelling one. You’re right in saying that the smell of the air is distracting, but constant pouring rain is even worse than snow, also maybe the stench would have helped in making Solas and Sera stop quarrelling. Oh they have stopped, but the Iron Bull and me got real close to toss them in the swamp. Real close.

I’d dare say that you could make up for the misery you left me to face alone by offering me the first drink when I get back, and we can complain together to our hearts’ content. Yes, ditching this mission off was the wise choice. Still, chatting via letter is just not the same thing. I wish there was some way to make it quicker.

And by all means no, I’m not bringing you samples of the zombies, I’m sorry, we’re not at that point of confidence yet. I can confirm, tho, that it’s some sort of spell: the Veil is very thin, also according to Solas, and there are beacons fuelled by Veil Fire which attracts the undead… But it’s hardly my field of expertise, and whatever magic is there feels… Laved down and impalpable, as if the rain washed that away? I hope it makes sense, it’s hard to describe, really. When you kill them another time, they stay dead, tho.

You, tho, please tell me you didn’t really challenge Varric to a game of Wicked Grace. Or, tell me if you did and how much did you lose. And of course I read the Tale of the Champion! First thing when I came here, it was good entertainment and I really enjoyed it. There’s a copy in my barrack, take it when you go watering my Elfroot (you didn’t forget, did you?) and have fun, you’ll tell me what you think of it.

If you haven’t already sent your reply, don’t forget to say hi to Felix from me and to keep it up with everything, I’m sure he’ll manage to fix everything up with what documents and letters Josephine’s sending him. I wished it was easier tho, for him and for you as well, I know it’s difficult being stuck down here, but… Is it too little to thank you via letter?

It’s getting mushy, it’s better if I stop writing.

Hoping your next will reach me very close to Haven, and that this one survives the rain…

A very soaked up herself,
Aisling

*a stylized and simplistic drawing of one of the beacons, wavy lines with sparkles where the Veil Fire brazier is, and a doodly drawing of a very miserable Aisling, mouth shaped like an upside down U. A little on the side, Solas -recognizeable because he has no hair and a staff- and Sera -who has eyelashes and a bow- are screaming to each other. The Iron Bull, bigger and squarer than the other and with horns, has the same expression of misery of Aisling. Big puffy clouds with raindrops frame the group and the beacon*

---

The next day, the rain still hasn’t stopped, big gray clouds travelling far up ahead and crying all over the Mire. At least the covered spaces are dry, thanks for some hastily done requisitions and a couple of discreetly waved spells -she’s still not all that confident in using magic as she would back at home, so she had waited for a dead hour at night, on the first day, to cast a water-proof spell on the camp. The same she used on the aravels back home, preventing the wood to soak in and sails to get drenched.

As it is, she checks with Scout Harding and the Requisition Officer in the central tent, the one they assigned to the potion table and the requisition one and is serving as a base of operations. The reserve of medicinal herbs seems well stocked, resources are plenty to resist until more people and supplies will be sent from Haven, to retrieve the wounded soldiers they rescued the former evening and who are now in the infirmary tend. Some rationing must be done, but between the three women, they manage to make a solid plan to keep the camp up and standing with no one starving for at least three more weeks.

“Ok, so we can do another quick rundabout of the Mire, and get going in the early afternoon… Bull’s wounds aren’t that deep, but I’ll have Solas look at him.” Aisling decides, moving a couple of papers to take a better look at the map and evaluating roughly how far can they get from this cursed place if they leave when she suggested.

“Actually, Lady Herald…” Scout Harding intercedes.

“Aisling, please. Or Lavellan if you must. Not Herald.” She corrects her, with a sigh. She’s starting to lose all hopes of getting somewhere with her pleading, but at this point it’s automatic.

“Lady Lavellan… You may want to delay your journey to tomorrow.”

“Why? Did we forget something? The artifacts that Warden Blackwall mentioned must be in that tower, but we don’t have anything that can open up the door without risk of damages…” She asks, starting to look at reports again looking for anything she may have forgotten.

“No, no, it’s just-“ Harding giggles, placing a hand on her arm to stop her. “Sera. She wasn’t looking good at breakfast, poor thing, I don’t think she’ll be able to travel so soon.”

Aisling blinks at her twice. How did she miss it? She tries to recall what has happened that morning that made her skip Sera and… Oh. She had breakfast sitting with Solas, discussing whether healing magic or herbalism is the best way to get around wounds and sickness. She was so busy in trying to explain why she’s good with herbalism and doesn’t need to learn Spirit Magic for that, thank you, that she must have totally missed the Archer.

“I’m not much of a figure in charge, am I?” She sighs heavily, tossing her head back.

She hears the other two women giggle softly, Harding patting her arm again, friendly.

“You’re fine enough. I’ll organise patrols, you go and have fun picking all the Elfroot around.”

She smiles, and greeting the other two takes her leave, running not to be under the rain for more than strictly necessary and making a beeline for Sera’s tent. Indeed, she can hear the other elf sneezing inside.

“Sera? Are you in there?” She calls, knowing full well she’s being rhetorical, but still not entering without an invitation.

“You can hear me snotting, Ladybits! What is it?” Comes a reply.

It doesn’t take Aisling more than half a look at the other elf, once raising the flap with a hand and quickly slipping inside, to make a diagnosis. She has seen her full share of colds, as the First of a Keeper who was marked by Sylaise’s tattoos for her prowess with Healing herbs and magic. Sera’s eyes are puffy, her nose is red and angry and leaking, and she’s curled under three blankets -her own, the extra everyone’s given, and one more she doesn’t ask where she got from. And yet, all cocooned like so, it’s evident she’s still shivering like a leaf.

“Whaaat?” Red Jenny asks, complaining and frowning at her, defensively.

“Just checking on you. Harding told me you weren’t looking well today. I’m sorry I didn’t notice you at breakfast.” She tells her, making a couple of steps forward to kneel in front of her, levelling up their eyes.

“Pfeh. You were all busy being an elfy-elf with old Droopy Ears.”

“Yes, I was, and I’m sorry. Can I help you, now?” She asks, giggling at the way she addressed Solas.

“You’re not magicking me over, right?” Sera asks, glaring at her.

“Nope.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know healing spells, and I got the feeling you don’t want Solas. But if you let me, I have some more practical methods and some herbs to give you to make you feel better. No magic if you don’t want me to, not even to warm the air up, I promise. Deal?”

She offers her right hand to shake, the same way Cassandra did with her in the Hinterlands. Sera, tho, is much more diffident than she has been, and watches her warily.

“Why d’you want to mother me, Ladybits? I’m sick, I’ll sleep and it’ll pass, without snotting over you and making you sick in turn.” She grumbles.

“The sooner you get healthy again, the sooner we can leave this awful place.” Aisling still keeps her hand in the air, not yielding. “I admit I’m that selfish, I want to leave and luckily for you, I helped to heal a lot of people from cold, back home, you’ll have to spit out a huge amount of snot to scare me away. Don’t you want to get better sooner?”

Sera considers for a while, but another heavy sneeze shaking her from head to toe has the nice effect to make her give in, and shake Aisling’s hand in affirmation. In the following minutes, with a not so cooperating and slightly awkward tall city elf, Lavellan has discovered that the cold has developed in a fever, which doesn’t appear to be high, but still. The brazier has been moved in the centre of the tent, closer to the bedroll, a fresh charge of wood added to revive the flame. Sera also laughs at how Aisling is not so used to light a fire without magic and struggles a little until she gets some help from the other girl, and the tension eases up a little, at that.

A quick trip to the potion table and back again gives Aisling all she needs to keep working and enter in full professional mood, movements coming in automatically from experience, working quickly and precisely on the floor of Sera’s tent, as the other elf lies down on her bed roll, close to the fire, a metal pot full of water placed on it to boil. The temperature inside raises a bit with the extra wood on the brazier and the steam, but it’s still not as high as Lavellan would like it to be. She doesn’t dare warming everything up with magic without a clear permission, tho, even if tying her hair in a bun leaves her neck to exactly feel a nasty gust of cold air sweeping in from the opening flaps, so this will have to do.

As the water starts to boil, Aisling grabs a cloth and takes the pot away from the fire, filling a mug she has already prepared with a bunch of dried elfroot, some grated ginger and a couple of other herbs she had dried back in Haven and brought with her. The rest of the water stays in the pot again on the fire, so the steam will contribute in warming up the room and clear the lungs.

“There, as soon as it’s cooled down a bit, drink this.”

She scuddles closer to Sera, placing the mug beside her head on the floor and rubbing her shoulder over the blankets, soothingly. An automatic gesture she had done a thousand of times with more familiar people.

“Uuurgh, what is it?”

“Tea. Dried elfroot is not a great painkiller as the fresh plant, but it’s good to ease back pain and all the nasty hurts of fever. Ginger will fight the sickness and free your nose, it’ll be a little spicy, but please bear with it. And a couple other things which are an elfy-elf secret recipe, but they’re gonna lower your temperature.” She explains.

“All righty, I ain’t asked for a lesson, you nerd!” Sera complains, pushing on her elbow and raising up to sit.

Aisling laughs and stops speaking, as she fixes her blankets to drape on her shoulders, so she doesn’t have to, but Sera grumbles and tries weakly to squat her away. Aisling stops abruptly at that, without taking back her hands, to understand if the weakness of the gesture means the elf doesn’t like it, or if it’s just pride. Sera tho stays still, letting her continue. Which the Dalish does, happily, covering her up as best as she can, humming lightly.

“You good? Should I- Oh, yes, wait.” She asks, before snapping and scuttling away towards a bucket of water in a corner, tossing a piece of clean cloth she had taken with her for cleaning purposes and yet not used.

She tosses the cloth inside the water, sploshing it down until it’s soaked through. After rinsing it, she returns to Sera, asking for a permission with eyes and hands raised.

“What?” Suspicion is still there.

“Nothing. I’d like to place a wet cloth on your forehead, to lower the temperature if that’s ok.” Aisling explains, with the same calm tone.

Sera snorts, snatching the cloth from the other’s hand unceremoniously. Her grasp is slow and weak, tho.

“Stop mothering me, Gracious Ladybits, I can take care of myself.” She grumbles, and as she raises her hands to her head to fix the cooling patch, a blanket slips off.

“I know you can, Snarky Smartass, I’ve seen you fight. But everyone needs help from time to time, particularly when they’re feverish.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not my mom.”

“I do not wish to be? Why do you think so?” She asks, without understanding where this is going.

“Because you’re all caring and kindish.” A huff, the tall figure of the city elf curling around herself a little more. “We don’t know each other from so long, you don’t have a reason to be here and take care of me, right. That’s what moms do.”

“… Or friends?”

“Yeah, well, you ain’t a friend either.”

“No?” Aisling smirks. “Weird, because after convincing two templars, a bard and a diplomat in Haven to spend time and resources to gather bees, I considered myself a true Friend of Red Jenny…”

And that’s what makes Sera laughs, finally. Or at least, until the laughter is broken down by a fit of cough shaking her up. As she’s done with it, the Dalish takes the mug in her hand, still hot but not scorchingly so, and passes it on to her companion.

“Come on, Smartass, drink up your tea and go back to sleep, ok?”

“You’re still mothering me.” Sera chides, but takes the mug and sips anyway, sticking out her tongue as the bitter taste of the herbs fights a little with the spiciness of the ginger root. “Yuck!”

“My job in my clan was to mother people, so… Drink, smartass, come on, it doesn’t have to be tasty. Or I’ll explain more of medicinal herbs and what they do, and I can go on all day.”

Huffing and still grumbling, but with none of the stubbornness she showed since she came to Haven, whenever Aisling tried -pointlessly- to involve her in activities she did with her friends in her clan, Sera finally starts sipping the infusion, little by little and blowing on it. And strongly telling Lavellan to not dare blowing on her tea for her, which made the latter laugh and promise she won’t, before turning back to work.

She cuts the root into smaller piece, deftly with a little knife, tossing everything in the mortar and not caring if her hands are dirty when she takes the pestle and start grinding everything down, her movement practiced and automatic. It’s quiet and it’s something so familiar she starts even humming an old folk song, while she works.

“So, you’re the official mom of the clan?” Sera asks, after a while.

“Kinda, not yet. The official mom is the Keeper, she decides where the clan goes and stops, takes care everyone is fine and do their work, or tell them to rest and tend to the sicks, wards the camp, does all kind of magicky stuff. I’m the first apprentice, soon to be an official Mother of All, if you wish.” She laughs, explaining carefully and keeping up with the mom joke. It’s fitting, she must say.

“Don’t you elfy elves have mothers? Do you need a common one?”

“We do. Some of us at least. But living constantly in the wild, means that you need a big, huge mama to make all the mamas work together.”

“Sounds like yer shiting me.”

“I swear on Mythal’s pretty bosom, I’m not! Just following the comparison you made, it’s a fitting one.”

She takes the mortar, once the content has turned into a smooth paste with the addition of a little water, and scuttle closer to Sera back again, sitting beside her.

“Here, you can distribute this paste on your chest, it’ll help you breathe and free your nose. Hopefully soothe the coughing as well. You’ll be up and about in no time if you have the strength to joke.”

She places the mortar down in front of her, with a smile. Sera just squints at her again over the mug, sniffing soundly.

“So yer mothering me and be all supportive and taking my shite seriously?”

“I heard that’s what mothers do...”

Aisling turns her back when Sera finishes her tea and starts complaining there’s no privacy in this tent all of a sudden. The Dalish makes a show of covering her eyes with her hands, teasing back about how the archer can’t take a perfect chance with a pretty girl if it falls in her lap, and Sera obstentatiously utters fake puking noises, snapping back that this is the worst possible scenario to take a good chance with a short, elfy elf wiseshit who likes to spend time with Lord Droopy Ears as he screams of Elven Glory. By the time the archer urges the other to turn around, they’re both laughing heartily, the atmosphere is more relaxed, and the Dalish can even ease the other to lay down and sleep a little.

But as she agreed to lay down, the archer doesn’t seem to want to sleep just yet. Aisling keeps on working here and there, fixing up the little mess of herbs and tools she created in a corner by carefully wiping knife and pestle with a cloth, closing all the herb pouches neatly and slipping the now empty pot outside so it fills up again with rainwater, not noticing that the other is intently looking at her with half-lidded, suspicious eyes.

“Hey, wiseshit.”

“Mh?”

“You really don’t believe in Andraste?”

“Sera…”

“No, really. You’re her freaking Herald!”

“I’m not, Sera, please, I just-“ Aisling groans loudly, not wanting to have this conversation again. Not after they managed to get along so well today, without any of them saying something offensive for the other. “I don’t deny she existed, and I’m not offended if you or other people believe she’s the Wife of a god…”

“The Bride of the Maker.” Sera corrects.

“Yes. I just… I think she existed, she was a mage who made great things worthy of being remembered and admired. If I have to ask for guidance, tho, I ask my gods.”

“But Andraste existed, your gods didn’t!”

“We don’t know if they didn’t… We lost too much of our history to know for sure.”

“It’s as well as saying they didn’t!”

Lavellan is suddenly very, very tired. She sighs loudly, dropping her back and pointing her bust up on her hands, unfolding her crossed legs and straightening them on the ground. Oh, it would be easy, so much easy, to reply on her irritation and to start discussing and go on until all words are gone. And yet, she just clenches her fists and takes a deep breath. Sera makes sense, she’s sure of that, and she agrees with the philosophy behind Red Jenny. Maybe, Aisling can’t but think, maybe she makes sense even in this. Maybe there’s a reason and she just fails to see it.

“I want to believe in somtehing that allows me to exist without considering me a potential abomination, and promotes freedom and peace and knowledge. I’m for living my life as a normal person, the Chantry wouldn’t allow me. I’m not for Elven Glory, and neither is Solas, he doesn’t even believe in the Creators… You would actually get along on that if you could just try to understand each other, you know.”

“That’s some shite again.”

“It’s not! You’re both skepticals and people who doubts and question traditional conceptions. You just are both incredibly stubborn in your convinctions!”

“I ain’t stubborn!”

“Who’s trying to convert the other for the third time, and still isn’t sleeping as the doctor ordered?” Aisling quips back, this time annoyed, turning to look at the others.

The two glare at the other, none willing to lower eyes first. After a minute, it’s Sera that is forced to give in as another fit of coughs causes her to double over herself. The Dalish, on her part, exhales heavily from her nose and move to get at the other’s back and rub it as she coughs, soothingly.

“Come on, smartass, there’s still some paste for you, but you really need to rest.”

“You can go, y’know?”

“You want me to go?”

“I got you angry, I get it, you don’t have make a show of being all kind and motherly, you can go, I’ll get better.”

“Sera, I-“ She sighs deeply, shaking her head.

She pauses, tho, gently placing her free hand on the nearest shoulder of the Archer and gently guiding her to rest on her back, putting a little force as the other puts up resistance.

“-I’m not angry at you. And I’m not here because I have to prove something to anyone. Not even to you, ok? I’m here because this was my job and I liked my job a lot.”

“But you don’t like me.”

“I don’t like being told that my culture is stupid, as you don’t like it yourself. But I can accept you believe in something different than I do, if you can do the same. I had fun, today…”

“Me too… But you’re the freaking Herald of Andraste… Must be. Because the Inquisition is right, no? We’re helping people because Andraste chose you and us, not taking advantage of them, right?”

Aisling stops, an illumination forming as she looks at the other elf turning on her side with a frown on her face and eyes wet. So that’s the point? Indeed, since the time they recruited her, they hadn’t done much of concrete, but… Her heart clenches a little, all the speeches of Cassandra and Josephine about why it was important for her to keep up with the narrative falling on her heavily. It is a little too much to bear, and she feels a glump forming in her throat, cold anxiety creeping in as she was left to ponder what to answer, exactly. She doesn’t want to have this power over people’s heart. It feels acidic and it feels wrong. None speaks, the fire in the brazier popping merrily and the incessant plicking of raindrops over the waxed cloth above them filling the silence with a white, soothing noise that’s needed, as they both sense a deep gap forming between them.

It’s Aisling, unsure in her word but still forcing them out, a hand placed on Sera’s shoulder that’s more for her own reassurance than anything else.

“I… I don’t remember much of what happened. I was in the Fade, a woman helped me out, I don’t know who she was. I don’t feel like a chosen one, I just… I feel confused most of the time. I hope I can keep up with the narrative and place some change for the better but… I’m just me, and I hope it’s enough. Doesn’t feel like it, most of the time.”

It may not be what Sera wants, but it’s true. The other doesn’t move nor reacts, but the Dalish counts a lack of answer as the lack of anger or offense. It’s not a bridge between two different point of views on metaphysics and the world, but she hopes it’s enough. To at least savage some tiny amicable moment between them. After a minute, she sighs and get back from the other, scuttling to gather her things. She retrieves the pot from outside, and places it right beside the fire: enough to warm up and evaporate a little, not enough to boil and ruin the pot if left on direct flame unguarded too much.

She gathers the mortar and the tools that could be needed by others, and slips a hand under the flap, to exit. She can’t do that, tho, because the Archer speaks again.

“Hey, wiseshit.”

“…Yes?”

“I… I don’t know if I’m ok with everything. It’s freaking scary.”

“… I get it. Can I ask you tho to avoid comments on Elven Glory with Solas? Just to… You know. Keep it professional.”

“Ok. Will you return here?”

“…Do you want me to?”

“Eh. Dunno. But it was… Nice. To have someone to care for me.”

“I’d be glad to, if you want me to.”

“S’ok. I still don’t need a mother, tho, don’t get comfortable.”

“I won’t.” She smiles. “But everyone needs a mother, sometimes. Now, please, shut up and sleep.”

---

Aisling,

I don't know if you want to make me envious of ditching this mission or not. If your intent was to make me regret my decision and begging you to please, please bring me along the next way round, you need to put some more effort into it. I'll leave you to decide if it's better to smell corpses rotting or freeze under the rain, but by all means let me know all your considerations, I'll read them thoroughly over a cup of... I can't call it mulled wine, because calling that wine is an insult to every vineyard up North, but the spices are nice and it's warm, perfect to sip when outside it's snowing. The doodle made me almost doubt this decision, but it lacked a tiny me being absolutely gorgeous to balance all the misery out.

I'm so hurt that you don't want to bring me samples. So very, forlornly hurt, how will I curl my mustaches in the morning? Don't you know that in good old merry Tevinter you don't gift flowers to the person you're trying to befriend, but body parts? I can assure you and the lovely Spymaster who’s totally not reading this, that it is most definitely true, and that I’m absolutely bringing you on the bad, bad road of dissectioning corpses and dancing naked under the moon. Oh no wait, you’re Dalish, you already dance naked under the moon. But just saying, if you wanted to commit to it, nothing in Minrathous says "Oh Dorian, I greatly admire your brilliant company and refined sense of humour and also please offer me alcohol" like the liver of a zombie. Nothing.

I added your greetings to my letter to Felix. If I know him, and I do, he’d be more than happy to receive them, you made quite the impression on him as well, even if yes, you get quite mushy at times and you're not bringing me samples. But whom am I to deny my time when you ask so nicely? Be quick to get up here, I'm a busy man and you wouldn't want to arrive when I'll have drunk all the mulled wine to forget that it wasn't Varric, but Josephine to absolutely destroy me at Wicked Grace. Don't worry, tho, I'm saving all my best complaints and snarkiest comments for you.

Oh, I hope you didn't care too much for that Elfroot plant. I may have been too busy for it, oops. If you’re ok, I could try and experiment a couple of spells on it, to thank you for lending me your book. It’s not like I can kill it more…

Get back here soon, it's getting boring without you,

D.

*A doodle of a peacock wearing a scarf, all swirly lines for the tail, surrounded by sparkles*

Chapter Text

It’s an ungodly hour in the morning, the sun is not up yet and it’s snowing over Haven. Everything is quiet and still and for a good reason, seeing how it’s absolutely, utterly freezing: no one would like to be up and about now. And yet, horses don’t wait, horses want their breakfast and water to drink that’s not frozen, and as the population in the small mountain village grows, so it’s the number of equines that are needed as mounts or work horses. And feeding and getting so many horses ready and cleaned for the day takes time.

Hence, Aisling and Randall are on duty on the first morning shift, the ungodly hour one that nobody wants. But Aisling and Randall almost got kicked in the head by a hart they angered, and Master Dennet has still not deemed it wise to relieve them from the task. So here they are, grunting at each other in greeting, and not bothering the other with pointless chat that would require too much brain activity. Aisling lights up the torches with magic, because they agreed on day three of that tour-de-force that whatever way they have to get the work done as soon as possible and get back to sleep is good, and Randall told her he really doesn’t mind, if she can clean the boxes up with magic, she’s more than free to do it, he won’t judge. And really he doesn’t, as the stables gets suddenly lit up without raising a finger. They get to work in silence, falling into a practiced rhythm: check the horses are good, break the ice over the water buckets, change the water, clean the boxes that are overly dirty, fix the blankets that fell off the horses during the night, check their health, give them food.

Changing the water is the nastiest part of it all. One could think that manure and dirty hay was the worst, and sure, no one likes smelly horse poop -and horses poop a lot more than hallas-, but no. Making an old water pump to work so early in the morning with snow all around is the worst. The machinery is an old thing which probably would not work so well in full summer up in the Marches, go figure now, Satinalia approaching quickly, days being shorter and shorter and freezing water completely in the tubes. Aisling hates it, no amount of sword training enough to make the task of unblocking the cursed pump any easier. But she and Randall decided on taking turns with that, and today’s on her. She pushes and pull, grunting heavily, pleading the pump, cursing it, pleading again. She tries to push with her legs, squatting and pushing up with her shoulder, grunting loudly, but to no use. With a little creaking sound, the lever goes up just a couple of centimetres, before getting stuck.

She huffs loudly and decides that life is definitely too short, she’s not paid quite enough for this and she’s too cold to wait. So, she rubs her hands together, concentrating and calling on her mana for a little, before placing both palms on the metal, quietly weaving a spell to have the water slowly, slowly melt down, not too quickly to break anything. Her hands get warm too, which is a very, very nice side effect. She’s deep in concentration, dosing magic carefully, when someone clasps her shoulder with a hand, from behind.

She yelps.

In barely few seconds, she acts on instinct and fear, snatching both hands away from the pump and jumping back, air crackling around her as she tries to evoke lightning. Luckily enough, tho, both her wrists get hold tightly enough, so she has to stop and can focus on who exactly her surprise visitor is.

“Maker’s breath, Lavellan? It’s me! Just me, calm down!”

It’s Cullen, if she squints hard enough, she can make out the dark silhouette, the furry collar of his cloak and the harsh lines of his pauldrons, breath puffing up before his face and not so many other details to assess, in the darkness. But the voice is his own, it’s indeed just him, she can take a deep breath and relax, letting go of any spells she was conjuring.

“Fenedhis, Rutherford, you scared me shitless!” She complains, grumpily. It’s too soon for not being grumpy.

“I could say the same for you, I didn’t recognise you in the dark, I thought you were a spy.”

“… A spy fussing over a water pump?”

“How am I supposed to know? Strange lone figure crouching ahead, before the dawn, magic-wielder.” He retorts, letting go of her wrists a little brashly.

“What the fuck??” Comes Randall’s voice, equally distressed, as he pops out of the stables door.

“Sorry, Randall, it’s ok. Just the Commander, be right back in a couple of minutes.” Aisling pacifies him, heart calming down from the scare.

The stable boy nods with the air of a person who would not care if it was some thief or enemy spy, if it meant he could get back to his bed. But since it’s not, he shrugs and gets back inside the wooden building with a grunt, as a horse neighs indignantly from inside, calling him back to attention. As for the elf, she turns toward the Commander.

“I’m sorry if I startled you, it’s just me… I was trying to melt the ice inside the tube, the cursed pump is stuck.” She explains, sighing and pointing at the damned contraption behind her with a thumb.

“It’s ok, next time maybe send word.”

“… It’s not even dawn, I didn’t think there was anyone around to send word to… It wasn’t planned, but I’ll be more careful the next time?” She probes, stepping back and lowering her eyes, irritated by the very feeling of being ashamed of using magic as casually as she’s used to.

She huffs, shaking her head and the nasty feelings away and deciding that she shouldn’t let her work go to waste. She turns, returning to the pump and pushing the lever, hard: she didn’t manage to melt all the way down, but it’s still a little better than before.

“Wait, let me-“ Cullen steps forward, grabbing the lever himself and pushing. With a clack, they manage to push the lever up, letting water -and ice- fall into the bucket with a splosh.

“Thank you. Stupid pump…”

“Not a problem. I- Uh, I’m also really sorry if I startled you.”

“It’s ok. We’re even, I guess…” She agrees, fumbling to switch the bucket and fill the other one as well.

As he grunts and steps away, tho, steps thudding in the fresh coat of snow which she was too concentrated and groggy to hear before, it finally dawns on her.

“Wait!” She says, loud.

“Yes?”

“What are you doing up and about and in armour so early?”

There’s a pause, which doesn’t exactly feel pleasant or amicable, for once. A full minute passes, Lavellan almost on the verge of shrugging everything off and apologising again, when he finally speaks.

“It’s nothing, I just woke up early and couldn’t get back to sleep. Don’t worry about it.”

The tone is definitely on the defensive side, the same he uses when she asks something he doesn’t want to reply to, or is too embarrassed for. Which happened a couple of times, all when she tried to ask of Templars and of his pasts in the Order and he reacted poorly, without really replying. It reminded Aisling of an hedgehog curling on himself and becoming a ball of spines, and she didn’t touch the subject again with him, redirecting her more technical questions to either Cassandra or Lysette. She knows the thone, hence, as her clue to stop prodding, that whatever there is it’s something he doesn’t want to share and will not share. Never one for forcing confessions out of others, and fully understanding his love for privacy, she just nods, stepping back some and replying with all the kindness she can muster so early.
“Ok. Well, see you in some hours then, I’ll get back to work. And don’t worry, no more magic for today!”

“It’s… It’s fine, I’m sorry. Just take a torch with you next time, so I know it’s you.”

“Aye aye, Commander!”

---

The Singing Maiden is cramped full for lunch, as usual, but she quickly spots Dorian waving at her from a small table in a corner. Aisling elbows and weaves her way amongst scouts and soldiers and whatever, snaking until she can plop down in the chair that’s been reserved for her, in the little table where Dorian and Varric are playing cards.

“Urgh, I’m not playing, thanks.” She declares, slouching in her seat and raising her knees to point her legs against the table when the mage offers her some cards.

“Heavy morning, I suspect?” Dorian quips, smiling.

“Uuuuuurgh, that stubborn horse is killing me...” She groans in all reply.

“What has he thought of, darling?”

“Do you know horses can fake being dead? Well, I didn’t. Hallas don’t sleep on their side with legs fully straight. I thought he was dead, crouched down crying and shook him, and he rose his head to bite my arm.” She grumbles, rolling up her right sleeve to show the others an angry red bite mark.

“Andraste’s holy knickers, Lucky, have Solas seen it?”

“I would like to keep some of my pride intact, thank you. It made the horse so smug, you wouldn’t believe it. He played the hindrance all morning, when I left his box to get his food and feed him, he stood right at the entrance. Moved when I tried to sneak under him. Didn’t let me in and snorted, all so happy with himself. Uuuurgh.” She recalls, with dued emphasis. And casted a sideway glance at Dorian when she heard him snickering.

“You did want an intelligent horse, you said…” Dorian notes, collecting all the cards on the table.

“I still do. But it was too early in the morning, and he left me no time for properly cleaning up before the Council. Seriously, if I wasn’t so tired, I would be impressed.” She grumbles, huffing loudly. “But, I pushed his butt and he didn’t kick me, I’ll count my victories.”

“Well, Lucky, if you want to play don’t worry, I’m not putting more salt in the wounds. Sparkler here already owes me enough money to keep me satisfied for the day.” Varric ends up, snickering as well.

Dorian starts grumbling, but still shuffling the cards and distributing them in two sets. The game starts again, and Aisling can manage to unfold herself and get closer to the Altus, casually resting her chin on his shoulder and watching his cards. Varric complains that’s two against one, and even if they’re both equally terrible at it, it’s not fair. But Aisling doesn’t really have a mind to it, and as the hand goes on, she is thinking of something else, and watching casually the people fretting around her and eating.

She wasn’t exactly satisfied with the poor excuse Cullen made with her for his early wake up call. She knows he would react badly to her prying or asking more questions, and be even more evasive than he already is when the topic goes too personal, but that morning sat weirdly with her, and nothing prevented her from looking. And what she saw made her think. He did look, during the War Council, as he was totally battered down. Not that she looked any better in that moment, by all means, and yet Cullen managed to look even worse than she did. He always looked like he didn’t get much sleep, but today he had angry purple eyebags, constantly massaged the bridge of his nose, and was irritable for nothing at all, and constantly apologising because he realised he was replying in harsh snaps. And now she notices that Leliana and Josephine are entering the tavern, with Vivienne on their heels who looks like she actually owns the place -the reason she excused herself from lunch with them and swore she had very important matters to discuss with Dorian about the Venatori, and a lot of documents to translate from Tevene on the subject- and sitting down at the table that was usually kept for the Advisors. Cullen, tho, is nowhere to be seen, and doesn’t enter the tavern in the next ten minutes.

“Vishante Kaffas, Tethras, you’re hiding cards in your sleeves again, aren’t you?”
“On my honour, Sparkler, you’re just terrible at counting cards.” Varric replies, rolling up his sleeves to reveal they’re empty.

“I studied maths and algebra all my life, I’m at the top of Vyranthium Circle! I know how to count!”

“Sure, Sparkler, as you say. You want to bet your underthings next?”

She turns her gaze to her companions, getting back at them and snickering, deciding to take pity.

“Dorian, he’s hiding cards in his boot.”

“What?! Come on, Lucky, I thought you were on my side, Marchers pride and everything!”

“Sorry, but I’m the one he complains with, and I have little insight to complaints about not having underthings on.”

“Well, I wouldn’t lose my underthings.”

Two pair of Marchers eyes turn on him, extremely sceptical. Dorian huffs and raises his hands, in defeat.

“All right, all right, I get it, I’ll stop!”

They laugh, Aisling carefully taking the cards away before Varric can really do more damages than he already did. She offers a hand, palm up, to the dwarf, who true to his word bends down to fish three cards from his right boot, handling them to the elf and ignoring the protests of the Tevinter, saying that he would have won. They settle on cancelling all the bet for the day, and as they go on chatting, waiting for their food, and Aisling still holds no view of tall and grumpy Commander, not even when Cassandra makes her way to the counter. Which gives her an idea.

“Varric, you’re here often, right?”

“Yes, why?”

“When was the last time you saw the Commander here for lunch?”

---

“All right, who’s tied flowers on my sword??”

She can hear the Seeker booming from around the tent, loud enough to be heard over the metal clattering of soldiers passing by and voices chatting in the dull moment of lunch break. She hopes it is some flustered tone of voice, she really can’t be sure just yet with her, but she has patience enough to wait for the hard shell to crack open. Truth is that Cassandra reminds her enough of Ydun to make her nostalgic. Well, the good parts of her, at least: the Nevarran is much more ready to admit her own mistakes and make up for them, far less imposing -well, if you were not her enemy, that is-, and that was the thing that spiked her interest enough to start flirting. It isn’t that she is falling, but after travelling together as companions, she came to appreciate and like the Seeker very much. And hearing her admit she had overreacted in Redcliffe, and that she admired her willingness to choose and stand up for her choices... She doesn’t know if the future she saw is prevented entirely, yet, but she does know she doesn’t want to squander a possible last year just pining and imagining. Hence, the perfect excuse: she all but dragged Dorian outside with her, to have his help in growing three gardenias out of the dirt -spooking both Varric and Sera and just shrugging them off by saying that hey, she’s a Keeper, and bantering that Dorian owed her some gardening magic after he killed her Elfroot and turned it bright purple doing whatever to revive it. Then, she asked Flissa for two sandwiches packed in waxed paper, and ran to the camp.

She smiles smugly, turning her head away and retiring behind the red cloth of the tent so Cassandra wouldn’t see her. Or at least, not right away. At her side, she glimpses at Cullen perched on the edge of the bench, leg twitching -annoyingly- and half a morsel out of his sandwich, as he looks her way with a sceptical look.

“Not that I’m not ok in playing your wingman, but you have one flower behind your ear, you know?”

“Of course, I do!”

“So?”

“So, I want her to know it was me. Just... Not right away, leave some mystery, you know?” She waves her ungloved hands a little for emphasis, careful with the one that holds a half-eaten sandwich.

“It seems more complex than it should.” He huffs, shrugging.

She shrugs back, not caring much and biting another corner of her lunch. Of all things she hadn’t expected, getting along with an ex-Templar who was in Kirkwall is high on her list. But she discovered in the latest weeks of training with the recruits and casually chatting here and there when he comes to see her trying to gain the trust of her horse, he’s easy to talk to. That is, if you stray away from anything too personal for him. The little confidence they had built at least served well enough to convince him to sit down and eat with her, after she found him in his tent working, no food around as she suspected. She had to make him a part of her grand plan to woo the Seeker, which she hasn’t initially intended to do… But it worked nonetheless. Even if appearently she has to explain in more details than a simple ‘Cover me up and cough loudly if you see her returning’.

“Well, maybe it is… It’s just the way I’m used to do this kind of stuff you know? How would you behave?” She asks, when her mouth isn’t full anymore, casually.

“I’d give her the flowers directly, compliment her.”

“What if she doesn’t like me? It would be a… How did you call it this morning. A frontal attack, all troops in, if the enemy’s expecting it there’s no clear advantage if not in numbers. And we don’t know our numbers. No, I’d rather camp around and wait for her to lower her guard.”

“… So you were paying attention.” He points out, raising an eyebrow with half a smile.

“I was! Didn’t you think so?”

“You looked particularly like a fish out of water.”

“Hey, I was trained as a Keeper, troop movements in and out of swamps never were a part of it. You’d look the same if I were to talk to you about the thousand and one uses of Elfroot. Which just so you know, are-”

“Ok, ok, got it, please don’t.” He guffaws, not fully laughing but pleasantly chuckling.

She smiles, happy he doesn’t seem angry at her after all. She was honestly scared, at first, that he was too polite and formal to fully show he hated her as an Apostate and a Dalish elf, particularly after all his crankiness that morning. But it’s such a rare occurrence seeing him laugh and smile, that she’s now eased enough. She isn’t exactly worried, but he did look bad, and so she is doing what a good Keeper would: take care of people, check they’re eating.

The wind is chilly and promises snow later, but silence, with Cullen, feels comfortable enough. And he doesn’t seem to mind either. And yet, after some more minutes, as soldiers and recruits start to get back from lunch and get ready for the afternoon drills. She casts a sideway look at him, frowning.

“You should eat it, lunch is almost over.”

“What?”

“You’re not hungry? You see, I had to actually jump in line before Madame de Fer to get these so soon, it’d be a waste of such good work from my part, not to eat them…” She explains, a little smugly. She knows it’s childish, but the Enchanter is so prone in reminding her that she comes from the woods, that she doesn’t exactly feel sorry in making her wait.

Cullen, tho, frowns at the hard-earned prize, as if the meaning of life was hidden in its layers and he couldn’t read it.

“Why did you bring me lunch?” He asks, after a while, and he’s on the defensive again.

“What?”

“Why? If it was just Cassandra, you wouldn’t have brought these.”

“…I-“

“I can take care of myself, you know. I don’t need you to mother me.”

He’s angry now. Aisling looks at him perplexed, without knowing what to make of it. He has seen him angry at her, more than once. She has seen him at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, squaring her off with suspicion before reluctantly letting her go. She has seen him countering her every proposition or opinion in the first War Council she was invited to, she has seen him fuming at her after she returned with Mages as allies, she has seen him thundering at Orlesian nobles and soldiers. He never shies away, when he is angry. Now, he's curled on himself, leg still bouncing nervously, and head turned to the side, very careful not to look at her in the eyes. She doesn’t know what this mean, but just enough to guess he’s not angry with her. Not really, at least, or so she hopes. She scoots a little closer, not enough to touch him, but just enough so she can talk more softly and avoid the first soldiers arriving overhearing them.

“I know you can. I just thought you looked like a person who slept way too little, today, I thought you may use a little kindness from a friend? And kindness for me equals food. I tried to make it as inconspicuous as I could, I know you’re private and that’s ok but…” She sighs, deeply, resting her elbows on her knees and shaking her head. “It clearly wasn’t all that well planned. I’m sorry if I overstepped, I didn’t mean to imply you need coddling.”

On her right, he mumbles something she can’t quite grasp, but she eyes him taking another bite -a bigger one, at that-, and decides not to probe any further on the matter, leaving him the chance to speak. In the meanwhile, she finishes her own sandwich, proceding to lick her fingers from leftover crumbles and some mustard stains. Meanwhile, soldiers start to pair and warm up, as Cullen perks his head back up and tells them to start. She doesn’t pay him much mind at that, nor at the air being filled by loud clanks of metal against metal and woods: she’s supposed to be there and train in half an hour or so, and is lazily considering where to lie down and take a nap, as she licks a nasty patch of sauce from her wrist, when Cullen finally turns to speak to her.

“So, your worship, since you’re here, get yourself useful: tell me all the mistakes Gittie and Roslin are making.”

She turns towards him, freezing mid-movement, wrist still on her lips and frowning at him, studying his expression. He doesn’t seem angry, there’s no “eat the recruit alive” look in his eyes, at least.

“… I’m not on drill for another half an hour, and your worship fully intend of napping it out in the equipment tent, you see.”

“Well, your excuse for Cassandra is supposed to be an early training, no? Humour me, and maybe I will let you go sooner, today.”

“Uuurgh, ok, let me see…“

After some minutes of observing and listing minute movements and behaviours of the two soldiers, and slightly less mistakes from Aisling’s part than she would have made some weeks before, the atmosphere gets more relaxed again between them. As it always is, in the end, when talking of things that aren’t strictly personal.

Half an hour later, Aisling is still on the bench and grateful that Cullen is content today in having her just analysing other people, listening and correcting her if he doesn’t have to bark orders or correct other people. She won’t be the one to remind him that she’s there for practical work, not today at least. And then, the Chargers join in the drills. After a quick exchange between Cullen and the Iron Bull, sparring partners get rearranged with ease and casualty, the mercenaries taking their places amongst the ranks and the training continuing with now the addition of another expert warrior barking suggestions – and standing out with massive bulk and horns on the other side.

And then, she sees it. Or better, she sees him. Cullen, staring at something with a slighter deeper frown, jaw contracted weirdly and cheeks turned pink. Curious, she follows his gaze, and finds at the end none other than the big Qunari, standing there with hands on his hips and chest on full display. She considers for a minute whether to pry, thumbs itching and not just because the magic itchy mark. She knows that look and she is notoriously overly-curious, and that is one topic of conversation for sure. Whether it’s too personal or not, particularly after today… But it isn’t about his health, no? And she has come clean about Cassandra with him… So, she steps on her side and speaks softly, enough so that the clatter and noise around them cover her words, granting them a tid-bit of very needed privacy.

“He’s very handsome, right?” She says, smiling knowingly.

This has the unexpected result of actually startling the Commander. For the second time that day, it counts as a record. When he turns to look at her, he replies barking at her too and with one good “Eat the recruit alive” look, this time. Which could have been intimidative enough if he wasn’t blushing up to his ears, now. As it is, she’s just thinking she got it very, very right.

“What?!”

“The Iron Bull. That chest sure is pillowy. I’d sleep on it.” She smiles, shrugging and trying to sound as casual as she can.

“I- What- Didn’t you- Ah, I was admiring his skill. That has nothing to do with-“

He waves a hand in Bull’s direction to conclude his sentence, grumbling something as he rises up from the bench and takes his attention away from the elf, fully. Doubt creeps in, and as the realisation of maybe having read too much into things, rushed in and started a conversation that’s overly too delicate for their level of… Can she call it friendship, now. By all means, it’s the third time today she has put him in a metaphorical corner, and now she just wants to dig a hole and bury herself in it. Deep.

“Fenedhis, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, I just-“

She starts to fumble as well, and groans frustrated at herself. She really cares to have these people like her, she has to work with them and in her inexperience, she is treating everything like she would if they were in an elven clan, with familiarity and easy friendship and no need to hold much privacy because everyone just knows everything anyway in such close proximity. Except, they aren’t in a clan, they don’t have the confidence that comes from having seen each other grow up, and she really doesn’t know what to do without it. And has always been very bad at small talk anyway. She got the suspect that sexuality is a much more private topic that it is amongst the Dalish, and she had heard some nasty rumours about Templars as well. But those rumours came all from Varric, and by now she knows better than blindly trusting the dwarf without a second-check.

So, she lowers her eyes and concentrates on her toes, trudging the snow with them nervously. She can feel herself blush in embarrassment and feeling honestly sorry, she just hopes it didn’t reach her ears, as she concludes

“It’s better if I stop talking already, ok? I should have stayed in bed, today.”

He grunts, and returns fixating his gaze on the soldiers, and the same does she, with a sigh. She just hopes she hadn’t just made a complete fool of herself and tossed in the trashcan weeks of painful friendship building around the Commander, making stupid questions, apologising and let him push her further than she would during drills. And yet, after a couple of minutes…

“How did you know?”

“What?”

“I mean. That you like- Ah.” He quickly gestures in the direction of Cassandra’s training dummies -the Seeker’s there, sitting down and cutting the string she has tied the flowers with. Cullen’s pointedly not looking at her, and still a little reddened on his cheeks. Aisling tentatively rises up as well, taking a step to stand beside him, arms crossed behind her back.

“…That I like girls?” She tries, sheepishly.

“…Yes.”

She sighs in relief. Not everything is lost after all, she realises with gladness. She isn’t that eager to go tell her background or too many personal details around… But she has pried so much today, she feels, and if she wants familiarity, she should give as much.

“Well, it was pretty boring. I was 14, and when all my friends were sighing and swooning about the young boys, I thought that yes, the boys were cute, but Ydun was beautiful and perfect and I felt butterflies in my stomach every time she looked at me.” She can’t help but smile at the memory. She was so young and so stupid.

“Is it so easy?”

“Well, yes and no. Took me more to realise I like boys too, that way.”

“Really?”

“Yes. After two painful years of pining -and mind me, all the clan knew and it was very embarrassing- Ydun somehow took a liking on me as well, and we were together for ten years... I didn’t look much around for that time. Afterwards, I finally had time to do it and think more about it, but…” She vaguely gestures at the Qunari in front of them. “Come on, look at him, I’d climb him like a tree. Who wouldn’t?”

He starts to laugh under his breath, barely perceptible under a gloved hand raising to cover his mouth. But they are almost shoulder against shoulders, and Aisling can see the mirth in his eyes -small wrinkles forming at the sides, she notices- and his shoulder shaking with the laughter. She snickers as well, relieved it ended up well.

“Too forward?” She asks, but it’s not worried.

“I spent more than half my life in barracks and amongst soldiers, please, you’re very tame.”

“Hey, I’m trying to stay in the role. I was told I’m a religious figure and I should behave! You’re ruining the mood, people need to think I’m the Herald of Andraste for real and that you can’t laugh! Stop, or I’ll have to sing a very lewd drinking song, you’ll laugh loudly, and they’ll all know!” She jests, elbowing him slightly.

“Perish the thought!”

And just like that, tension is broken again, Cullen still looks like he’s been awake from far too long, but at least he’s not so cranky and closed off anymore, looking a little more relaxed in his posture as he returns to observe the training and remind people that shields could as well be used for blocking blows, not just for the aesthetic of it. Aisling sometimes gives a prompt of her own, highlighting how Krem tends to fight from down to up, clearly because he’s used to spar with the tall Qunari, and that poor Gittie who was just scolded for not using a shield is now putting so much more effort in blocking blows with it.

It doesn’t pass much time before Cassandra steps back into the group, sword hilt finally free and a deeper frown than usual on her face, making recruits give her space as she walks on. Aisling perks up, elbowing at Cullen and fixing her hair behind her ears, as she whispers.

“There! Come on, how do I look?”

She turns towards him, a bigger smile on her face and puffing up just a little for show. He raises an eyebrow at her.

“… Like a person who slept way too little today, and needs a small kindness from a friend.”

“I-“

She would like to retort something witty, but right now she’s too taken aback -in a very positive way- by having her own words used back at her, and being called a friend in the meanwhile. She has not the time to do anything more but smile, when Cassandra clears her throat and snap her attention back.

“You-“ The Seeker utters, pointing at the loose gardenia still behind Aisling’s left ear.

“Oh, this? I grew some gardenias today, aren’t they pretty?” She caresses the flower with the point of her fingers, casually, as she steps forward towards her, slanting her hips with each steps just so.

“So it was you-“ Cassandra continues, frown deepening and -is she imagining it?- a blush creeping on her cheeks.

“Yes, I hope you don’t mind. You see…” She slips the last flower from her ear, offering it to the Seeker. “…I thought they were so pretty I had to gift them to a pretty person.”

She smiles big, from one ear to the other, waiting for Cassandra’s next move. Oh, Varric will be furious that she pulled this stunt without him around to see the Seeker actually fumbling and out of words. So much so that she grumbles a very embarrassed thank you, takes the flower with little grace and marches right back where she came from, to her training dummies, ignoring the perplexed stare of more than one recruit.

And the cheerful “Smooth, Boss!” of the Iron Bull, right before he starts laughing.

She grins smugly at the Qunari, right before turning to Cullen, who’s still there covering his mouth with an hand to prevent Cassandra to see him laughing, but his eyes are squinted enough to signal he’s amused.

“See? Siege mentality, it doesn’t require an army.”

Chapter Text

Did it ever stop raining over the Fallow Mire? Because she got down there again in two weeks, and beside questioning what has she ever done so wrong to deserve returning there twice, Aisling was starting to seriously doubt the clouds ever parted over that cursed place. If possibly, with Satinalia just around the corner and winter fast approaching, it was even colder than when she first got there. At least it didn’t snow, even if the few parts where they had to step into the water because some bridge has not been repaired yet were almost as freezing an experience as getting pushed into a fresh mount of snow by a horse who’s definitely too intelligent for his own sake and has gone from hatefully ignoring you to pull pranks to show who’s boss.

Back to now, they’re back from just some of days, on an idea of Cullen and Josephine together -curse the day she ever complained they needed to learn to work together- to check if the operations to get the soldiers back to Haven was going smoothly, bring supplies, open the last closed door in the fortress hoping the Grey Wardens treaties Blackwall spoke about were there, and as we’re there, have the Herald of Andraste show up and bring food to poor wounded soldiers to get a good image amongst the people. Josephine went from trying to pass her as a proper Chantry-friendly figure, to the commoner hero, always ready to help everyone with a special eye for the most unfortunates. Which was true and was something Aisling could agree to… But it also meant returning to the freezing swamp, a far less agreeable task.

She’s now waiting on the battlements of the fortress, staff out of its harness and at ready in her hand, as she guards the gate to fend off possible overly-friendly corpses. Dorian, looking much like a very wet, very miserable cat, on her side to help her in case. In the end she managed to bring him down with her, on the promise of carving out the liver he wanted -turned out he was serious, at last- in his place, if he tagged along. Sera and Blackwall, on their left, are trying to convince the last closed door to open with a mix of the elf working on the lock with finer, more precise tools she had not brought with her on their first round, and Blackwall switching with her to try and forcefully open the door by hitting it with his shoulder. At least the Warden took a liking on the city elf, so this time around there was one misery source less – Solas wisely excused himself from coming, this time, just recommending her to exercise the mark as they devised in the former weeks.

“Do you see anything?” She asks Dorian, just to check.

“Beside the exact, very low point my life has taken me?”

“Beside that, yes.”

“No, then, nothing that moves.” He concludes, pretty grumpily.

He’s had no luck till now in retrieving samples he could use, and spent the way there complaining loudly with his party members to please, please put some attention and hit the corpses away from their belly, thank you. Which has earned some very disbelieving look from Blackwall, and a series of colourful explanation from Sera about where exactly she could hit him. The result was that he shut his mouth and sulked all the way there, he is still sulking, even if his face can’t be seen so well with a hood carefully dragged over his head, not speaking and crossing his arms begrudgingly leaves little mistery to what he’s currently feeling.

“Explain to me why the liver, tho. Shouldn’t the insides decompose?”

Aisling asks, and she’s not really interested in knowing why he wants to spend time rummaging through the insides of a twice-dead body, but beside her wanting to keep morale up, hearing him speaking about magic and magical theory is always fascinating, his sincere pleasure in the work contagious. He casts a glance sideway, eyes sparkling with interest… And a frown on his face.

“Why are you asking? I thought you thought it gross.”

“I do find it gross, but I would like to know why I’m to stick my hands inside the entrails of a dead person.”

“Beside being the best friend in existence?”

“Yes, beside that.”

“What, not even playing humble?”

“You killed my Elfroot, we’re past playing humble.”

“Hey, I tried to revive it!”

“You painted it purple! And it glows in the dark!” She retorts, but she can’t contain giggles.

“It’s prettier! And I was so kind and gracious and accepted to follow you in this horrible, truly despicable place, I’d say we’re even.”

“Who’s not playing humble, now?”

“My dear, with my surname I’m legally and morally forbidden to play humble.”

Her giggles develop in a full laughter, as she elbows him playfully in the ribs, and steps quickly on her side before he can return the gesture. It’s still not making the overall situation any better or warmer, but at least laughing about something helps. She’s still not forgotten her original question, tho.

“Come on, o modestissime et nobilissime avis (1), why the liver?”

“Well, if you insist…” He huffs, settling down more comfortably and leaning on his staff casually. “It’s because the liver filters the blood: you can find all the rubbish one ingests, alcohol, bad food, drugs, lyrium… And it’s the first thing where remnants of magic stays. I could ask Felix to send down the book that spoke about it if you’re interested, but beware, it was very graphic and not pleasant. Or you can ask him yourself, I know he wrote to you some secretly secrets...”

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous now!” She snorts. “So it’s the restored circulation what makes them move around? If it’s in the liver…”

“I don’t know, I’ve never put much effort in Necromancy before… Had other things on my mind. I’d just like to know if that’s some sort of blood magic or not, tho, if it is, it’s curious that there aren’t more demons running up and about, no?” He goes on, and as he turns to look at her when he asks for her opinion, she can see his eyes sparkling with interest.
“I don’t really think it’s blood magic either, that’s why I was curious about the liver… No demons, and they don’t bleed all that much when you stab them, I’d check for muscles and nerves first, but it makes sense wanting to rule the option out.” She reasons back, pensive.

Even if they can be heard by their companions and the discourse is abruptly interrupted by a very grossed out Sera stopping midway in her work to turn her back at them to yell.

“Eeeeeeew, stop with the freaky corpse shit again! Seriously, you’re the worst kind of nerds, nerds!”

“Sorry, Sera!” They reply, at the same time, and start laughing right after, realising the impromptu chorus.

---

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t. Watch out with that knife, sweetie, you’re getting close to-“

“I most definitely hate you, why am I doing this?”

She complains loudly, voice muffled behind her scarf as she tries desperately to forget her first instinct to gag and concentrate on directing the point of her knife better to detach the liver without damaging it. After discovering that in that room there were no Grey Warden treaties, but just some leftover weapons and artifacts, and some notebooks which may contain hints on the treaties, according to Blackwall, they managed to keep a corpse intact enough for Dorian to study.

Which meant, actually, for Dorian to smooth Aisling out enough so she was the one to open the belly of the corpse -a move which has forced Sera and Blackwall to quickly excuse themselves and run the last hundred of metres back to camp- with the small knife she brings along to cut plants. And start with the delicate procedure of removing an organ without damaging it, with Dorian’s instructions, the Tevinter looming over her shoulder at a safe distance, just enough to be able to see what she’s doing.

She moves her frozen fingers behind the top lobe of the organ, moving it up a little to separate it better and give herself a cleaner edge to cut, separating it from the soft tissue that keeps it connected and secured in its place, and it’s even more disgusting that she thought it would be.

“Dorian if you don’t put this to a good use I swear-“

“Oh come on, you were the one to say your Keeper was a healer, weren’t you?”

“Healer! Not surgeon! Is the word the same in Teve-“

“Watch out, that’s-“

The advice comes too late: she cuts from up to down, and between speaking, the cold and how grossed out and mildly nauseated by the whole endeavour she is, she doesn’t stop quick enough not to puncture the intestines. She was curious, but she was not curious about exactly how much a dead body can smell bad if you open it up and cut his bowels as well. The scarf and the rain are suddenly not enough to tune the stench out, and she has to let abruptly go of the liver and the knife, abandoning them both in the bloody mess she’s done -the noise not helping at all with her predicament-, and turn around to take the cloth down and meet with her breakfast a second time.

At least Dorian rushes at her side, plopping down beside her to hold her air back and pat her back. He’s no healer either, but she can feel mana whizzing behind her back, and his hand on top of her clothes becoming warmer and warmer, heat seeping slowly in, soothingly.

“There, sweetie, there…”

“I hate you…” She manages to whine, spitting out as soon as she’s over with, panting hard.

“I know. Come on, off with this… Eeew.” He mutters, untying her scarf from behind her neck and carefully slipping it off, just to see she wasn’t quick enough to pull it all the way down, and got it dirty.

“It’s puke, Dorian.”

“Exactly. Eeew.” He comments, holding the offending scarf with two fingers and letting it drop in a nearby puddle, as far as he can reach without taking the other hand away from her back.

“Don’t, it’ll float away!”

“You seriously want it back after throwing on it?”

“I’ll launder it, it’ll come clean.”

“Yuck. I’ll buy you something better.”

“Creators, Dorian, you’re spoiled…” She laughs, waving a hand to force magically a current in the water to push the wool on the shore, so it won’t be lost in the middle of a pond.

“I’m very much spoiled, yes, and when the loveliest, nicest, kindest and most generous elf in this whole cruel world will be feeling better, I think our friend there has successfully let go of his liver…” He goes on, batting his eyelashes at her with a comically pleading expression that cannot but make her laugh back, in spite of everything.

“Sweet talker.”

“The pot calling the kettle black, uh. I heard you made the pretty Seeker actually blush…”

“And all the prize I got is dissectioning a corpse under the rain…”

“Yes, but with a prize company that’s literally warming you up, and-“ He pauses, considering her before him. She’s on her knees, propping her bust up with both dirty, bloody hands splayed on the ground. She’s still pale and shaking slightly, and as he seems to study her thoroughly and ponders something in his head, she casts a questioning glance at him, not understanding.

“What is it?” She asks, after a while.

“Uh? Nothing… nothing, I was just thinking…” he turns to look at the grown and sighs, grimacing. “… that your prize company is bringing his liver back to camp himself.”

Another pause, Aisling looks at him in slight surprise -a pleasant one-, but he stays there. Unmoving, visibly considering a thousand things at once, furrowing and starting to move his hand in circles on her back.

“Come on, I can do it.” She gets back up, the wave of nausea back to a tolerable level, moving to stand. She would pat him, but her hands are both overly dirty with goo, blood and mud, and she’s not feeling so cruel as to retaliate dirtying his white cloak. Particularly seeing his latest aversion against laundry.

He helps her up, holding her back and reaching for her still clean elbow with the other hand and waiting to see if she’s stable on her feet -which she is- before letting her go with a last pat on her back and, for Aisling, a distinct sense of cold as the contact with his warming spell is lost.

“No, please, let me do it, I wouldn’t want you to puke on it and ruin all that hard work!” He insists, as they take the couple of steps they need to get back to work.

Aisling crouches back down, right after looking at him knowingly and with half a smile, very secretively but also very evidently, and shuddering as she starts from where she left. Luckily, both the stench has diluted down in the rain, and there wasn’t much to cut away to finally -finally- free the hard-earned prize. Once done, and really yearning for the warmth of her tenth and a good, long bath to take away all the filth from her hands, she carefully raises up with her prize, exchanging another look with the Tevinter. Who seems to be mildly regretting his offering.

“I can take it-“ She probes.

“No. No, I can do it.”

“Dorian, you don’t have to.“

“Yes, I have. You’re already taken it out for me, you’re not interested in this research. I-“ He looks at it and pales, resolve visibly dwindling. He swallows, Adam apple’s bobbing up and down with it. “-no, I actually don’t think anymore that being spoiled is a bad thing, you know, I-“

Aisling laughs at it and delivers it right into his hands, putting an end on his stalling. He gurgles as it splotches on his palms and he can feel it, voice pitching high in clear discomfort.

“What was it- Oh, yeah!” She mumbles, clearing her throat before continuing, with as much emphasis she can muster while trying not to laugh, puffing her chest up. “Oh Dorian, I greatly admire your brilliant company and refined sense of humour and also please offer me alcohol!"

He squints at her, still as a marble statue and keeping his hands weirdly well far from his body.

“Using my words against me? I am being a bad influence over you, then.” He grumbles, no real bite behind his words, tho. She thinks she can hear something dark, in it, some regret or disappointment she can’t quite place, and the bravado is up as it was on.

“Oh, I’m sure we’re both being bad influences over the other.” She pacifies, gently this time, bending down to retrieve both the knife and the scarf. They both are overly dirty, but so is she, and she doesn’t mind, by now, keeping the blade in hand and tossing the wet scarf over her shoulder. The coat will definitely need some cleaning as well, after battles and well. Experiments. She can as well get it a little dirtier still.

She turns back, snaking her arm to bend over his and gently turning the other mage towards the camp, careful not to push him too much as she gently coaxes him to start walking. Which he does, handling the liver still in his outstretched hands as if it was some Qunari explosive about to burst, slowing the elf down and opposing any attempt to speed up. She complies, staying by his side and not letting his arm go.

“I’m sorry if I called you spoiled. I didn’t mean it, you know it?” She lets out, in a soft voice.

“Don’t worry, save the mushiness for Felix. And I’m not jealous, just so you know.” He replies, shrugging minutely.

“Of course, but I worry. Thank you for coming down here, you shouldn’t have but I’m glad you did.”

“You’re not the one to thank the other-“

“I am. I like travelling with you, and I really think you’re doing fine.”

“And you don’t even hate me, maybe?”

“For that I’ll wait until I get cleaned up, if you don’t mind.” She laughs.

“You can wait until I have some results out of this… We’ll be in two in hating good old me, otherwise.”

As they return to camp, no one makes questions directly, but everyone stands out to watch them. Aisling can’t but think, as they make their walk of shame with dissected liver through the tends, that she will have to explain to Josephine why her plans in portraying the Herald of Andraste has possibly been tainted by a dissected liver and a very disgusted and self-conscious Tevinter mage. But as Dorian -right after the first scouts spot them and gasps in disgust, he with something slimy in hand and she with forearms caked in blood and mud- tries to separate from her awkwardly, without moving his hands, she holds on tighter, seeing the movement as the attention to her that it is. He mutters to her, in Tevene, to let go and savage her image, wouldn’t want to make a bad impression, come on let me go. She giggles and holds on even closer, bumping her shoulder to his and replying loudly “It’s science!” so the scouts can hear her. She heard Mother Giselle lecturing Dorian, before they left, on how it was and wasn’t proper for him to approach the Herald in public, and it’s endearing that he actually paid attention. Truth is, she gets back to camp covered in blood more often that she would like to. And if for once it’s to help a friend, she really doesn’t mind.

---

Some excruciatingly damp and cold days later, they’re finally packing to get back to Haven. Sera is not sick -Aisling went to check on her as a joke in the early morning, bringing her a cup of elfroot and ginger tea, they both laughed-, Blackwall looks a little less grim with what they took back from the fortress, the soldiers are well fed and as content as the place and the season allow them to be, with the fresh batch of supplies carefully stored and the Herald of Andraste -now free of dead entrails and cleaned up- checking on them and helping in the infirmary and in camp how she can, strongly refusing to act like a Lady and getting to work. Josephine was right, in the end, everyone was pleased to see her so down-to-earth and ready to do some actual, physical work. Mission completed, they just received a raven giving them the ok to pack up and get on the road, before the snow blocked all paths up.

Aisling packs up the last of her stuff, tying tightly the sack that contains her few belongings. She sighs, trying not to think of the fact that the last dispatch contained also some clear references on how they were almost ready with a plan to attempt to seal the Breach. She hates the Fallow Mire as any other person and can’t wait for the rain to stop, but the idea of what was to come fills her with anxiety and makes her stomach close in a knot of nerves. She realises all of a sudden that she’s picking absentmindedly at the mark again, scratching the borders with her nails, as she started doing when she ias distracted and the scar itches particularly, and that Solas has strongly suggested her not to do. So, she shakes her head, takes a deep breath and puts her gloves back on. The last thing she has to do is taking her staff from its support. A last check around her tent to see that she hasn’t forgotten anything, and grabbing her sack she’s out of it, marching with decision to the outer camp where the horses wait for them. Fake it till you make it, right?

She’s the last but one, mounts being kept by scouts, Blackwall and Sera already fixing their luggage on the saddles. She approaches her horse, offering him her hand to sniff and nuzzle right away. It’s still good old Walter that brings her, too placid and loving to mind much that he, in the end, is not the forever horse of the Herald and she can’t but sigh a little. She scratches him nonetheless, having grown affectionate to the big equine and appreciative that he’s so docile, as she turns on his side and starts securing everything to the saddle.

“Ready to leave?” She asks, as she ties her sack behind the sitting, to the other two of her party.

“Urgh, Wiseshit, you have no idea. This place’s an asscrack full of shit, let’s go.” Sera grumbles, tying angrily the last buckle around her quiver, in front of the saddle on easy reach.

“Lead the way, milady, it’ll be nice to get dry again.” Adds Blackwall, chuckling at Sera’s colourful -and very fitting- description.

Aisling, chuckling herself and playfully calling Sera a foulmouthed smartass -and earning a tongue out as reply-, though having deftly secured both luggage and staff on Walter’s saddle, still has one thing that troubles her. She doesn’t reply any further, expecting another smart comeback, that never arrives. Suspicious, she looks around.

“Where’s Dorian?”

Ten minutes later, here he is, standing just outside camp and facing a pathway leading up the hills, winding through tall stones smoothed out by rain and wind and leading to a standing stone circle. He’s standing there, unmoving, one arm crossed before his chest and the other raised to absent-mindedly curl one of his moustaches, twirling the end through his fingers. Getting closer, and minding to step as heavily as she can over pebbles and twigs to signal her arrival, she can glimpse at a frown on his brow, glancing at something right before him. White cloak laundered -with magic- and pristine again and raindrops magically stopped just around him, there’s something statuary and proud about him. If she didn’t already know him, she would have second-guessed approaching. But, he’s friendly enough with her, and after helping him with the most disgusting research ever, she minds not disturbing his line of thoughts. The last time she wasn’t there to do so, she was asked to carve a liver out of a revived corpse, so.

“Still sulking over your insuccesses?” She asks, playfully, as soon as she deems to be in hearing shot.

“Tsk. I took them as any good scientist. With calm, dignity and class.” He proudly retorts, not turning to look at her.

“Sure.” She quips. “It wasn’t you the one who tossed the dead liver out in the swamp, then.”

“I don’t know who was it, but it was absolutely justified.”

“Of course. Setting it on fire when it landed on solid ground was justified as well.”

“It would have attracted all kind of wild beasts, otherwise.”

“Such a lucky thing that the mysterious arsonist listened to the prettiest, wisest, kindest Dalish around then!” She giggles, stopping a little behind, facing his side and looking at him.
“Lucky indeed. I’m coming, tho, just…”
He casts her a keen glance, curving his lips up into a smile. It’s the keen, sly smile that she has learnt usually precedes another one of his brilliant, most whimsical ideas, and she drops her smile instantly, returning his stare with a suspicious one of her own. It was the way he smiled when he announced her that he wanted to play Wicked Grace with Varric. Or when he told her he would have followed her to the Fallow Mire, if she had helped him with a teeny, tiny, inconsequential favour since she was much more used to the practicality of magic than he was.
“I’m not opening another corpse.” She announces, still squinting at him.

“Mpfh” He huffs out of his nose what could be a laughter or a reprimand. “I wasn’t going to ask you to. Actually…”

And then, curious and suddenly relieved by the prospect of not having to dissect another zombie, she decides finally to follow his line of sight, stopping beside him and turning her head. And immediately regretting it.

“… Dorian, that’s-“

“See, I thought about what you said. The liver had nothing peculiar about it, meaning it’s not blood magic… So it must be something else, as you supposed. Whatever spell it was, it operated directly on muscles and nerves, it wasn’t actual resurrection, just some overglorified puppettering. It could come in very handy, but not something one can improvise, so I thought…” He starts, gesticulating with the hand that was playing with his facial hair as he speaks, glint in his eyes and joy in his voice.

“… Dor, but that is definitely…” She tries to interrupt and bring his attention back on the practical world, out of theories. Because the big form before them, the blackness she’s not indicating with a pointed finger, looming and blocking the path, still as a stone but not stone is definitely-

“…So I thought! I found nothing in the liver, because the liver was too little and too small! I must work bigger and with something more complete if I want results! Maybe ask for some books from Nevarra, maybe they’ll know. What do you think?”

He turns towards her, smiling with the same joy of a child in front of a table full of candies, barely reigning his enthusiasm and full of expectation. The question wasn’t rhetorical, and for but one small moment, Aisling wished that he was Solas, and that he already had an answer to his own question. But no, he was Dorian and he really cared for her opinion and really wanted to share. And with that face, all she could do was returning his look with one of her own, forlorn and a little begging.

“… Dorian, that’s a dead horse.”

“Yes! Bigger and easier to research! Do you think we can fit it on a cart?”

“… With a sword in his head!”

---

To F. Alexius.

Thank you for your letter! I didn’t expect you to write directly to me, but it was a lovely surprise, it made me happy you took the time.

As a direct reply and to take formalities away, I don’t know if it’s the case to congratulate for your being a Magister, seen the situation… But I’m glad there’s some good person to hold the place? Give it your best, I’m sure you will, and as we Dalish say in these situations: Mythal’enaste!

Which roughly translates as “May Mythal bless you”, and Mythal is our Mother Goddess, she protects the People and stands for Love and Judgement. Sounds fitting to me, but I’ve been told I should also wish the Maker to watch over you. Both can’t be bad.

As for the rest… I really wish there was something I could suggest you. But as far as I’m concerned, we hold no special cure to the Blight. The Hero of Ferelden was corrupted by it, I heard her Keeper was a talented one, and she had to become a Grey Warden nevertheless. I’m really sorry not being able to tell you more. I could suggest, tho, some painkillers? The best you can do, if it’s really too much, is chewing Elfroot. Take the leaves, the ones that are vivid in colour and feel chonky to the touch: you can chew them, start with one and increase if needed. Don’t swallow them, spit it out! I wouldn’t suggest to enchant it, too much Elfroot isn’t good for your health, and it may kill you, and fresh leaves are already strong as they are.

If the leaves feel a little dry: prune them and let them dry completely in the sun, they’ll make a good tea. Tea won’t take much pain away, but it’ll be relaxing, it helps soothing muscles and sleeping. I’ll attach some more recipes for other poultices (I noted the strength of each)… I got the ingredients in the wild, but in the Free Marches. My time near Hasmal was short and I didn’t exactly have the chance to forage much.

Tell me if it works and how, the more details you add in your next letter, the more I’ll be able to help you. And don’t worry, I won’t tell Dorian of this. It’s not my secret to share. Please, tho, reconsider telling him to reach you. He speaks very highly of you and has a big heart -as much as he tries to hide it-… I’m sure he’d want to be beside you and help you. And you don’t need to be on your own. But if you’re sure, please write back, I’d love to hear from you again.

Dorian’s doing fine, he’s laughing it off, but I know first-hand what it means being here and belonging to some place that everyone deems “Dangerous”. I’m doing the best I can to help, and I can swear it’s not just for pity: I quite enjoy our time together, and helping him study. I don’t know how much I contribute, I have not the same amount of theoretical knowledge he has, but hearing him speaking is quite fascinating and I’m learning. And he keeps on asking for my opinion, so I guess the feeling’s mutual. I will not enter into many details about his new line of research, I’m sure he already wrote you about it. It’s pretty gross, but he seems to be happy about it. He’s also managing to make some friends, beside me, even if the means for it is too much Wicked Grace with a clever dwarf who’s great at lying, and our dear Lady Ambassador, who’s the nicest, loveliest person in the world until she has some cards in her hands. But, we’re having fun, so that’s it?

As for me, I’m doing fine, thank you. Much better than that night... I’m sorry, I’m not usually that moopy, you just caught me in a bad day. It was a bad day for everyone, tho, wasn’t it? Well, I’m glad at least nobody was alone in it, I really am.

Anyway, I bought a horse! He was treated poorly by his former owner (a nasty Orlesian noble with a pole up his ass, but I was a lady and didn’t shove the coins up... you guess where), and he’s being... Difficult. I can relate to him, so it’s fine even if he bites me and pull pranks. But! He is appearently starting to... Not like me, but accept me as part of the furniture. Today he munched my hair! Meaning that he got close to be able to do it. Couldn’t pet him yet, but I’m trusting he’ll come around.

I read this again and it sounds a little stupid… But I want to write happy things, and that particular part of my work makes me very happy. The rest much less so. The world’s not exploded and the Chantry’s not out to seek our head, so it’s fine. And you don’t want to hear of rainy swamps, I’m sure (you’ll hear of it anyway from Dorian, we just got back and he hated it). People here are very fine and well. We’re planning on travelling up the mountain to close the Breach. Attempt to do it, anyway. I don’t know if this letter will find you before that, but… Let me be a little fatalistic: I’m leaving word to send Dorian back in case I fail, anyway, he deserves to spend these last months with a friend. As for me, it has really been a pleasure to meet you and write to you this long-ass letter.

In case I’ve not bored you to dead with my ramblings, by all means don’t listen to me being anxious and do write back when you receive this. If you want to, of course, no pressure! I never had a pen friend, and it’s quite nice.

With affection,
Aisling Lavellan.

*follows a doodled drawing of Aisling, smiling as a black and white horse with furrowed brows is eating her head. Right beside her, Dorian -recogniseable by his moustache, flowy coat and sparkles all around him- is holding a pot of elfroot, that a note carved in the hand of the elf with an arrow pointing over it informs that “it’s purple!”.*

Chapter Text

Three days before.

Take a deep breath, take another. Concentrate on the task ahead, concentrate on the now, don’t let your mind wander. Control, da’len, it’s as simple as that. It’s a weird sensation, but not that unpleasant, mana buzzing in and out, feeling Dorian without looking at him. She doesn’t let the energy strain, keeping it carefully in check in a bubble around them.

“Good. Now, channel it.”

Comes the instruction and she slowly, so slowly, channel the energy around her, forcing it down her shoulder, arm and finally into her left hand. The constant itch she got used to, by now, develops into a warm tingling and insistent sensation, crackling sounds filling the air. She opens an eye, looking at her palm in her lap and observing how it’s come to life and is jolting green sparks of energy out, shining even brighter than usual. She doesn’t let go, keeping it still under control, even if the tingle becomes too hot and burning, and her hand starts to hurt. She grinds her teeth, huffing through her nose and concentrating on everything else. Dorian’s presence at her side, fire and smoke and bubbling, in their joint effort. It’s weird to feel a person like that, but it’s grounding. Solas’ voice before her, she can’t see him but can hear his voice, calmly giving instructions.

“Good, da’len, very good. Keep it there, as long as you can.”

And so she does, schooling herself and straining her magic to control the energy in the mark, trying desperately to ignore how the pain now runs up her wrist and her whole forearm is tingling as if she slept on it, the hand burning up as if she’s being stabbed. She lets out a whimper, as a particularly vicious bolt of energy leaves her hand and sparkles up angrily, but bites her lower lip and goes on. The air is growing thick and heavy around them.

“Hey, we should maybe stop.” This is Dorian.

“A little more.” Solas retorts.

“Yeah, but she’s-“

She is. In pain, almost at her limit. But she holds it for another couple of minutes. And then, she lets go, with a groan, just before the sensation becomes too much. In a flash of green and a gust of wind that sweeps the snow around them and shakes the lowest branches of the pine trees in the little clearing they found, she collapses forward, curling around her arm protectively as the connection between her and Dorian gets severed, the summoning’s broken and she has just to concentrate on the pain in her hand and arm, bringing tears to her eyes.

She breathes heavily, clenching her fist as tightly as she can and waiting for the hurt to slowly, too slowly subside. In a moment, there’s Dorian rubbing her back, as he did in the Fallow Mire, and Solas’ hands gently urging her to unfold.

“It’s over, da’len, you did good. Please, let me…”

The older elf carefully pushes her shoulders up enough so she can snake her left arm out and in his hands, the cool, fluid sensation of an healing spell washing over her right away, starting from the hand and creeping up her whole arm. She sighs, relieved as the pain goes back to the usual itching. It itches a little more, she can tell, even as the spell takes away the pain from her whole arm and the muscles in her shoulder can relax.

“Better?” Solas asks, after he’s done..

“Yes, but it’s itchier than before.” She confesses, straightening her back and opening and closing her fingers, tentatively searching for some position that’s more comfortable. With no success.

“It was probably too much all together… Can I?” Barges in Dorian, offering one of his hands to her. She leans her left on it, letting him examine the mark with squinting eyes, probing at it lightly with his magic to see if it reacts. It does not, luckily.

Solas is still kneeling before them, furrowing slightly as he looks at the mark, jaw contracted. It’s not an expression Aisling particularly likes on him, it leaves her ill at ease.

“It’s not going to be enough to close the Breach, is it?” She asks, trying to be as direct as possible, and not dancing around the topic.

They’ve been working constantly on her ability to control the mark’s power in the last two months and a half, with Solas slowly probing and her following. They had made progresses -she can disrupt Fade rifts pretty easily now, and quickly, to impair the demons that jumped out, and closing them isn’t so difficult anymore-, but the Breach is also incredibly big, and unprecedented even in the memories he can reach in the Fade, he told her.

The idea of grouping all the Mages they so she could channel their combined power came to them together, and in the impossibility of putting it into practice as a trial -too many risks, too many people-, Dorian has been of great help in getting her used to channel someone else’s magic. They’ve been doing it for longer and longer with the same procedure, stopping when Aisling can’t stand the pain anymore. It’s getting progressively longer and longer, but it’s pretty evident from his expression that Solas thinks progress has not been enough, or that they’re getting something very wrong. Instead of replying, tho, he just sighs, lowering his eyes and shaking his head.

“We shouldn’t delay any further. We’ll try again tomorrow, I’ll ask Fiona to come as well.” He announces, patting her shoulder and raising up from the snow, walking away.

Dorian helps her stand up, the two brushing snow away from each other carelessly. It took some time to ease Dorian into her casual touches, but caught on it pretty quickly.

“Grim and fatalistic as usual, uh?” He comments, snarkily.

“You know how they say. With a great elf sense, comes a great responsibility.”

---

Two days before.

“Oh come on, Josephine… You can’t be seriously asking me this!”

“I wouldn’t… But some rumours are getting around that the Herald of Andraste is too close to a Tevinter Mage, hence to Tevinter. I’m just asking you to be more… discreet.”

The Ambassador is trotting beside her, walking briskly down the village right after today’s Council has been called off. It has been routine at best, resources to gather, a favour to call, and other preparations for the approaching expedition to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. And, appearently, her friendships that are not her own business all of a sudden. She huffs, puffing up air to move a loose strand of hair that’s fallen in front of her face, as her hand raise to tie the rest in a ponytail.

“What should I do to be more discreet about it? We did nothing wrong, all experiments on the mark are done in the woods, far away from sensible eyes.” She retorts, not really wanting to know or have this conversation, but not blaming Josephine for it either.

“It’s been… Whispered, that you are more than friends. You do touch him a lot, Aisling…” Josie replies, looking left and right for possible overhearers and lowering her voice.

“What? I never touched him inappropriately, why is that a problem?” She asked, looking at the other woman with big eyes, staring at her. “I am touchy and he’s my friend! I touch everyone… But not in that sense!”

She tries to explain, stopping in her gait to be adequately puzzled by the latest news. Truth is, she honestly never saw Dorian as anything more than a friend, as handsome as she may recognise him to be. It just didn’t click that way. Josephine grumbles something under her breath, noticing some people turning to look at them and placing a hand over Aisling’s arm to push her sideway more out of the way. They stop just in between two cabins, as much privacy as they can get without running down to the elf’s lodging.

“I know and yes, everyone noticed you’re touchy feely. But nobles don’t know it… Help me out, what should I say? That you’re an incredibly hug-loving teddy bear?” Josie is a delight in trying to smooth it out and joke on it, but Aisling isn’t really in the mood today.

“That my private life is not anyone’s business?”

“I wish it wasn’t, but you’re a public figure…”

“Urgh, fine. Just tell them I like girls.”

“I can’t!”

“Why?”

“Because that will be too much of your business! I know it’s confusing but…” She groans, looking at Lavellan returning a puzzled and lost look, big eyes and open mouth.

“So, whom I have sex with is a public information, but my preferences aren’t?” She asks, sincerely not understanding how this work.

“Yes.”

“… It doesn’t make any sense!” She complains, throwing her arms off her sides.

“No, it doesn’t, but it is like it is! The very fact that he’s from Tevinter attracts a lot of eyes on him… And on you if you stay close. You shouldn’t be so open, it’s not good for the image of the Herald and the Inquisition.”

Aisling snorts a laugh out of her nose.

“The Herald is a Dalish Apostate who doesn’t believe in Andraste, Josie. How can it get worse than that?”

“By sticking constantly together with a Tevinter Magister. You do spend a lot of time with him, you know…”

“He’s my friend, he’s not a Magister, and he’s helping me! And I’m an elf? Shouldn’t this say something on… I don’t know, fighting stereotypes or whatever?”

If she got used to most of everything in Haven, having to care for her public image and watch her steps is still something she find very difficult and gets her exasperated easily. Josephine tho, lovely as she is, doesn’t mind, smiling sympathetically at her. It makes the whole ordeal that much easier to bear, honestly.

“I know, it’s nonsensical… But if we want to impress the Chantry and Orlais, we should take care of their sensibilities… What should I tell him?”

“That Tevinter is made of people as well, and if they can bring themselves to accept a Dalish Apostate as their precious Herald, they can stop being asses and think that maybe as not every Dalish is out for human blood, not everyone in Minrathous sacrifices goats. Please underline Dalish Apostate. Or use Rabbit, or Gutter Rose as Vivienne called me the other day, as you wish.” She manages to grumble, crossing her arms in front of her chest and leaning on the nearest wall grumpily, looking at her feet.

She’s irritated and disappointed in herself, and for a minute, she needs to stay silent, think and consider. Josephine -lovely, nice Josephine- gives her time, stepping closer and tentatively leaning against the wall, shoulder to shoulder in a silent form of support the elf can’t but appreciate. She sighs, melting a little.

“I’m sorry, that was… Unnecessary.”

“Nonsense. It must be difficult for you, don’t worry about it. I am just worried that your situation may become even more difficult, you know Roderick’s out for your head…” She notices, with sincere worry in her voice.

“I… I know, I’m sorry. Your advices are wise and sensible and I shouldn’t lash out on you, it’s just that…” She huffs, hugging herself closely and digging with her toes a small pebble out of the snow, freeing it and then kicking it out of its socket. “…I’m just nervous. And I like Dorian.” She sighs, turning to look at the Ambassador and smiling a little forcefully.

Josephine wiggles her eyebrows at her, eloquently, with a knowing smile.

“Entirely as a friend!” She adds, giggling despite herself.

“It’s gonna be all right, ok? And if it won’t, we think of something better, that’s fine anyway. We have time.” Josie giggles back, nudging her shoulder delicately.
Aisling smiles, more sincerely this time, and bumps the other’s shoulder back, in a silent thank you. It’s not enough to calm her nerves, but it’s something.

“And leave the rest to me, I’ll settle everything.” Josie huffs, pushing herself away from the wall and taking two prideful strides, before turning on herself and pointing her hands on her hips. “Just, if you want to make my life easier…”

“Yes, Lady Montilyet?” She asks, faking a courtesy the way the Ambassador taught her before she left for her trip to val Royeaux.

“…No more dead horses, please!” Josie begs, with a grimace that’s half a joke and half not.

---

One day before.

She checks her letters, spreading them on the hay where she’s sitting – no, where she’s hiding to be more precise.

“Clan… Deshanna, Ydun, Radha, Pavyn, Vyrina – check.” She checks, taking five envelopes and placing them carefully in her lap, fixing their borders so they can seat one above the other in a neat pile on her thigh.
“Dorian, Josephine – here.” Another envelope gets taken and placed on top of the others.

“Solas – ok. And Cullen.” The last two but one reach the pile as well.

Before the last, Aisling hesitates, unsure of what to do with the remaning closed missive. She stares at her own calligraphy, tracing the name of the last receiver in tidy letters. Raising a thumb to her lips, she distractingly bites the nail, as she considers what to do. She didn’t want to leave long letters to anyone, and chose just the people she actually had something to say to. In a moment of anxiety, the night before, when she couldn’t sleep and noticing some loose sheets of paper and a bottle of ink on the little desk that sits in front of a window in the cabin she’s been assigned -too empty, too big-, she didn’t think twice. These letters will be actually read if she won’t be there to be absolutely embarrassed by their content, after all. And yet, there’s still something about pouring your heart out and express admiration and… and what? Flirting? Interest? She can’t name it love because it isn’t love. Maybe it’s facing her situation or realising that there may not be a “later” to reserve her crush to, but whatever it is, it makes her feel even more vulnerable, and curl up on herself, breathing deeply as her shoulders touches her crossed shins and her forehead reaches the ground.

It's gonna be ok, she could sustain channelling Dorian and Fiona’s magic for so much longer today. It’s gonna be ok, even if her hand still tingles. She decides to concentrate on that, on the physicality of the sensation in her left hands, like thousand little needles puncturing the skin, not to dwell on nasty, fatalistic thoughts. It’s the end of the day, everyone’s retiring for dinner and there’s nothing left to do but wait. And without a clear task at hand, she was left alone with her thoughts. The thoughts turned nasty and dark and full of despari. And so, she ran to the stables.

The small but steady progresses with her horse -her horse!- now allow her to sit in a corner of his stall without damages, if she takes as little space as possible and doesn’t do much noise. He’s still pranking her and being stubborn, letting her touch his nose just to try and snap his teeth around her hand -he got her once, by surprise, but not the second, and she’s now convinced he just does it because it’s somehow amusing for his weird horse humour. But, he discovered that she has apples, and carrots, sometimes, and that she doesn’t do anything if he eat the ones she let fall right before her feet, nor does she do much of anything but grumbling and calling him “bad horsey!” when he bites her or kicks a bucket or fake his own demise to scare her. So, she’s gained her spot a little closer to the equine. She ran there and sat in a corner to read the letter again and seal them, checking again if she said everything or left something out. She wants to come prepared.

But as her mind spirals down quickly, concentrating on mild, constant physical discomfort and regulating her breathing not entirely enough to placate intrusive thoughts and calm her racing heart, she can hear the sound of hoofs approaching, squishing fresh hay and thumping the pressed ground below. A minute later, hot breath is puffing on the back of her neck, and thin horse whiskers tickles on the skin left bare by her hair, fallen forward and down bent as she is. She doesn’t move, she can’t move if she doesn’t want to break down and start crying. The horse must sense something, because instead of biting, or doing some other nasty prank like headbutting her away, stomping on her foot or trying to sit on her, with a snort he starts munching on her hair, taking full locks up between his lips and munching, very delicately for how much physical he’s been in the last month. If it was any other moment, she would have found it pretty disgusting -she had a strong bond with Pansy, back in the Free Marches, but neither she nor any halla she saw ever munched hair. But it’s that moment, and it’s that horse, and he’s being delicate when she needs it, and showing trust in coming so close to her and playing.

Aisling doesn’t dare doing anything at all, in fear of scaring him away or convincing that it’s been too much sentimentality, he’d better go back to act like a prick with her and test how much she’s ready to put up with him. Instead, she closes her eyes and starts crying for real. It’s wishful thinking at best, she knows, but there’s no harm in taking it as a sign. Her Vallaslin is from Ghilan’nain, and she’s the mother of the hallas… Why shouldn’t she be the one to send a clever horse with a nasty sense of humour to signal her that she’s on the right path?

“Ma serannas, isa’ma’lin.”(1)

---

Eight hours later.

She moves her fingers in a trained sequence that appears, maybe, a little weird on the outside. She can follow the path as easy as breathing, and noticing it doesn’t change tells her that no, she’s not in the Fade. It really happened, they really closed the Breach and made it back down to Haven. It’s done.

She continues with her fingers, out of habit - small tricks and exercises to tell the Fade from the waking world were the very first thing the Keeper taught her, and the ones Deshanna always, always was adamant that she and Pavyn kept in constant exercise. All around her, who’s now sitting on one of the stone half walls around the village, people are celebrating and dancing around fires and braziers. Laughter and joy are all around, but she made it out of the tavern ten minutes ago, feeling a little detached from the revelry, preferring to sit in her corner and just bask in the moment. In the relief flooding the town, the crispy winter night air keeps her awake, the moon shining bright above their head.

The party in the Singing Maiden has been nice enough, for one evening there has been no shortage of food or drink, all supplies being open for use and rationing ignored for the occasion, and it’s been a success. She had eaten her full, both Dorian and Josephine apparently dead-set in having her try all sort of sweets once they realised she likes sweets very much -she particularly enjoyed those little pies filled with jam and dried fruits, but both of them decided it’s just because she never tasted the real peak of Orlesian patisserie, and started to present her all kinds of pastries available for the night. In the clan, sugar was a luxury, baking was really not the same in a camp, and most of the baked goods she’s been presented to has been new and delicious. Varric has spun a tale over the events at the summit, most of the room intent in listening to him, laughing and gasping as if on command: she read the Tale of the Champion and was making good progresses with Hard in Hightown, but hearing it first hand was really something else, the charisma of the dwarf ever more evident as he weighted each word and intonation with art, leaving nothing to chance, Solas sitting nearby and adding details to the story every now and then to add colour to it. Sera has drunk a pint too much, admitting she wanted to forgot all the “magicky stuff”, and had settled amidst the Chargers, causing the Iron Bull to roar in laughter every now and then. Leliana was there, drinking wine and more relaxed than she ever saw her, looking younger than usual and even laughing when someone asked her to sing - she didn’t. She spotted even Cullen, in a corner and looking much like a person who really needed sleep and was standing for pure willforce, dark circles under his eyes, but smiling and laughing with Blackwall, Cassandra and one of the Templars living there – Rylen, if she recalls correctly.

She managed to say hello and converse with everyone in turn, but truth to be told, it didn’t pass so much time till she felt like she needed air and slipped out of the side door, unnoticed, and found the current spot, where she’s just her with the stars and the moon, to muse about what happened and how much the stars seem brighter this night, without eerie green hole promising doom, and with the mountain air so clear and sharp. Luckily for her, nobody really notices her sitting there brooding, but she really doesn’t wish for much company, right now, content to just sit and watch, and wait for the surrounding joy to catch on to her as well. But it’s not something that’s so easily spread, it appears, or at least, not to her.

She hears the steps behind her, after a while, but doesn’t turn to look who it is, uninterested. The steps grow closer, and suddenly with a huff the same person sits down beside her, not too close to touch her or invade her personal space, but not too distant to indicate that it was the very last sitting spot.

“I pegged you for one to enjoy parties.” It’s Cassandra’s voice, as joking as she can be. Which is, little.

“I do, normally. I just…” She huffs -she’s not blushing, it’s definitely the cold-, not turning her head to look at her. “I needed some fresh air.”

The Seeker pauses, looking at her with a thoughtful expression on her face. Not that Lavellan can see it, concentrated as she is on the movement of her fingers, that continues, in a serrated rhythm. She starts again when she misses one finger because she’s going too fast.

“Solas confirmed the heavens are scarred but calm. The Breach is sealed. We’ve received reports of lingering rifts, and many questions remain, but this was a victory. Word of your heroism has spread.” Cassandra continues, matter-of-factly, but in a softer voice.

“Yeah, some more attention is just what I needed.” She quips back, not managing to reign in some lingering uneasiness that never left her today.

“What’s the matter?”

“I-“ She stops, thinking of what to say. Her fingers finally stops, as she scrambles to get a hand on the loose threads of her thoughts. “-Nothing, I’m sorry, it just… It doesn’t seem real. None of this. I just fell into something, almost literally and it just-“

She exhales loudly out of her mouth, shaking her head and closing her fists, slipping forward with her bust to rest her forearms on her thighs.

“-It’s been a long week, I was very nervous, and I don’t know. I’m weirded out by how easy it was. Too easy. I don’t see any heroism, on my part.”

She blushes, hoping the chill of the night and the delicate discussion can masquerade how red her cheeks are -she prays that it didn’t spread to her ear. She can lean her head a little further down, so that her hair can fall over and cover her face, light hazelnut tresses freshly washed after the climb back swishing easily past her shoulders. But nothing hides the tip of her ears sticking out of the locks. Stupid, traitorous pointed ears.

“Perhaps you’re too close to judge.” Cassandra replies, all so serious. “We needed you. We still do. We have yet to discover how the Breach came to be, and that is only the most conspicuous of our troubles. Strange days, and more to come.”

It’s not exactly comforting, but it’s as straight to the point and not sugar-coated as Aisling needs right now. She nods, humming in assent to the other woman, and who could agree that this whole shit isn’t terribly weird.

“I’m glad I’m not the one to feel it’s not over, yet… I was feeling a spoilsport.” Lavellan snorts, after one minute of silence in the conversation.

“You sound so destituted about it.”

“I would like to be wrong and just anxious. I really would love for this story to be over.” She admist, sighing as she pushes on her forearms and straightens up, turning her bust to look at the Seeker. “Wouldn’t you?”

“I will still have things to sort out in the Chantry, with the new Divine to be appointed and my role as Right Hand, so… This is the break for me.”

“Seriously? Do you prefer a hole in the sky to discussion with Chantry clerics?” She giggles, unbelievingly.

“Clearly you haven’t spoken to them quite enough.” Cassandra retorts, dryly.

“Oh, after Roderick and Vivienne reminding me I am a no-one with delusions of grandeurs, I really don’t wish to amend that. I just thought it… Odd, hearing that from the Right Hand of the Divine.”

“Not odder than hearing that from the valliant Herald of Andraste, after all.” One eyebrow pops up, as the Seeker cracks a smile. It’s sarcastic, but it’s a smile, and she’s beautiful, Aisling can’t but think, when she smiles.

“Oh, well-“ Aisling laughs, a little nervously, turning her head back forward and feeling her mouth suddenly very dry. “If you put it that way…”

She suddenly realises that the situation could be considered romantic, and not just because the Seeker was the one of her new friends that noticed her missing and came to check on her. Hell, she gave her first kiss in a similar situation. There were just hallas grazing around instead of people dancing and celebrating, but it was night, the moon was full and the clan was celebrating how Vyrina and her got their Vallaslin, adding the fact that she was also named First. She traced the parallels and her mind raced at what came next, making her blush wildly at the idea of a replica. She hopes the moonlight and the firelight aren’t enough to make her current state visible, another time. But as Cassandra doesn’t speak, and silence falls upon them, she tries her luck and scoots slowly closer to the other woman, moving slowly and without looking at her. Not enough to be side by side, but as she glances quickly, if she props herself on her hand…

There. She takes a deep breath, and moving carefully as if she was trying not to scare a wild animal, moves her bust straight, unfolding her hand and placing it on the snow, not-so-casually just beside Cassandra’s. Close enough that, if she wants, she can slide it just minutely and graze their pinky fingers together. She doesn’t do that, not yet, to make it casual. The Nevarran doesn’t move away, nor react otherwise, and oh, how her heart soars at that.

“You know. It occurs to me I don’t know very much about you.” Cassandra speaks, finally.

“No? I suppose you do, it’s been what, almost three months?” She asks, not moving a muscle but a little on the defensive.

“Well… You’ve not really spoken much about yourself, beside a couple of things. I suppose could ask Leliana, but I don’t want to ask her.”

There’s something about the Seeker that is just disharmingly honest and makes Lavellan want to just trust her and tell her. She wonders if every Seeker is like that, or if it’s just her, and how long exactly would Varric scold her for that thought. In any case, she relaxes a bit, as much as she’s comfortable to with that topic and in that moment, and returns the question.

“Oh? What do you want to know?”

“I’m…” Cassandra hesitates. Apparently, she’s not thought it through, which Aisling finds endearing – and relaxing. “…Not sure. Where are you from?”

“My clan never stayed in one place for long, though we primarily roamed the Free Marches.” She tells, shrugging at how much vague it feels. And it’s not her making it vague, for once.

“Oh? I didn’t think your people roamed that far north. Clearly, I’m mistaken.”

“We try not to get attention on us, and we do avoid getting too close to Tevinter for obvious reasons. But there are clans in Nevarra, and around Antiva, and as far north as the Arlathan forest.” She explains, casually.

“I see. I’m told some members of your clan might still be alive. Do you intend to go back?”

It’s an innocent question enough, but it’s the wrong innocent question. Words die in Aisling throats, as her breath catches and her eyes turns down. She takes some moments to think about it.

“I… I think I may, once all this is over. But honestly, before now I didn’t really think there even was an after to think of.” She blurts out. “Not after Redcliffe.”

“Mh.” Comes the reply, thoughtful and careful, each word clearly chosen wisely, with a tinge of nostalgy in it. “It will not be the same once you do.”

“I guess not.” She can’t but reply, turning again to look Cassandra in the eyes, with a smile that’s tinged in sadness.

There’s a moment, right there and then, as Aisling’s eyes meet Cassandra’s, green in brown, where the elf can feel electricity in the air, the white noise of the party around them stilling. For a moment, the world takes a breath and there’s just them two under the moonlight, close enough to the fire that its light tinges their skin in golden hues, bringing the gold out in Lavellan’s hair and tinging Cassandra’s eyes in more reddish tones, but not close enough to be warmed by it. The moon shines bright, as the star, and all is calm, there’s no rush and the distance between them seems very, very little.

Aisling swallows, biting her lower lip a little and deciding that she can be bold enough, Cassandra’s hand still a breath away from hers making her bolder and surer. She leans in, minutely, again painstakingly slowly to leave the other’s room to move, her heartbeat roaring in her eardrums and pinky finger reaching out to cross Cassandra’s. At that, tho, she sees the Seeker jolting an eyebrow abruptly upward, red creeping upon her cheeks, and before she can assess if her head gets turned away as her own approaches-

DLENG

The warning bell starts ringing, loudly and dissonantly, making everyone stops in their track. Aisling abruptly turns towards the gates, where the noise is coming, the sensation of Cassandra’s hands slipping out of hers barely registered as she’s distracted from any other thoughts again by hearing Cullen crying aloud, in that tone that makes all the recruits instantly listen.

“Forces approaching! To arms!”

That tone that, now, makes a shiver run down her spine, the same gnawing anxiety that followed her all week falling back on her instantly, clenching her stomach and putting all sense on alert.

“What the…? We must get to the gates!” Cassandra urges, as she kicks herself up, steely and commanding back again.

It’s not lost, on Aisling, how the Seeker grabs her wrist, not her hand, to urge her on towards the gates, towards a weird blond boy with a large hat, and towards a battle no one is ready for.

---

Deep into the night.

They’re barricaded in the Chantry, discussing how to move and what to do, the events of the last hours seeming impossibly far away and impossibly close at the same time. The army of Templars marching over Haven, fighting outside the gate until Cullen called the retreat, Aisling shouting at Vivienne that suggested saving people would only slow them down, and stopping to help all that she could -and crying when she just managed to drag Flissa out of the Tavern before she died. Making their way up to the Chantry, escaping a high dragon that the strange boy that showed up to warn them called an Archdemon, and the creeping, dooming knowledge that he’s right, whomever the Ancient One is, he’s coming for her.

“It was whim that I walked the path. I did not mean to start—it was overgrown. Now, with so many in the Conclave dead, to be the only one who remembers… I don’t know, Herald. If this simple memory can save us, this could be more than mere accident. You could be more.”

She looks at Roderick, not understanding his words correctly and looking at him in the eyes. For once, he doesn’t falter, he doesn’t scowl at her, nor does he say anything snarky or berating. She really has no words to reply to him, or well, she would have too many of them, but this is hardly the right time, in general, and she has seen how deep the gush on his side is, and even tho Solas healed it some and they both showed him how to press with enough force to hopefully stop the bleeding, she knows he’s bleeding too much, and time is not something he has to spare. Not if he has to show a path to the survivors.

So, she just looks at him, a grateful expression tinged in sorrow on her face, and nods. There’s really no time to linger, she doesn’t need to be so learned in strategy to understand it. So, instead of dwelling on how unfair the whole situation is, she schools herself and gets back to work, turning to Cullen.

“What about it, Cullen? Will it work?”

“Possibly, If he shows us the path.” He frowns at her, his hand tightening on her elbow where he placed it some minutes ago, when she needed a moment for the news that whatever is out there is looking for her very specifically, and won’t stop until she is dead, to sustain her when her knees wobbled a little. “But what of your escape?” He asks, after a while, all steely determination gone from his voice, all of a sudden, to leave place to worry.

She looks down, frowning and contracting her jaw. Her hand raises to latch onto his bracier, automatically exchanging his gesture. She doesn’t want to die. She really doesn’t. But she has spent the last week preparing for it, prepared from an unknown doom in the event of failure at the Breach. And now, seeing death so close to her, so defined and certain… It comes almost as a comfort, knowing precisely how it’ll happen. But, she has no heart of telling him that no, she doesn’t plan to escape, but she also doesn’t plan on having every person in that building dying horribly because she was egotistical. She’s her Keeper First, and her duty is protecting her clan, after all. And at that moment, her clan is that group of people closed in the Chantry.

“If that thing is here for me…” She starts, nevertheless, forcing her voice to just stop faltering. “…I’ll make him fight for it. I’m a Dalish, we’re the last of the Elvenhan, and never again shall we submit.”

It works as a charm, repeating part of the Oath of the Dales, to make her find some remnants of resolve, all out of her pride as a person and as a people. And she doesn’t care for once if anyone may have something to say about her displaying her upbringing, or if Solas may have something to say about the wording or what’s beside it. She won’t go without pride, or hiding away in a corner, if they’ll have another Mage to be martyred, let them known she was a Dalish Elf. So, with her back straightening up, and communicating silently with that all she has to say, Cullen nods at her, even more worried than two minutes ago.

“Perhaps you will surprise it, find a way…” He manages to reply, softly and just to her, squeezing her elbow one last time. She doesn’t reply, and that’s enough of an answer for him. So, he nods and turns towards the room. “Inquisition! Follow Chancellor Roderick through the chantry! Move!” He barks, moving out and starting directing people, helping some out, giving orders to others.

Aisling’s there on her own, she feels everyone looking at her, briefly or not, but she doesn’t look back. Except, when Roderick approaches her, leaning heavily on Hat-Boy, even paler than before but with the same, usual fire in his eyes.

“Herald…” He starts, and it’s still weird hearing him speaking to her without despise. “…if you are meant for this, if the Inquisition is meant for this, I pray for you.”

“Thank you, Chancellor, for everything. Dareth Shiral, may your god smile kindly upon you.” She nods at him, with a smile that’s sincere, for once.

And with that, a last nod and even a pained smile, he goes towards the back end of the Chantry, in a place she doesn’t care to look at because she knows it won’t really interest her much.

Instead, she gets back to work, helping people up and urging friends to just go with the others, saying her goodbyes without really saying them. She’s lying and faking it’s all gonna be all right, she’s just gonna follow them after a while. It doesn’t matter if Minaeve hugs her tight, not really believing her, or if Josephine looks at her like she’s about to cry, and almost make her start crying as well: she puts on a brave face, smiles and urges her own with a praise for all the people she’s gonna help as she has helped her.

She turns back just to face her friends unmoving, and it’s the second time she risk on just breaking down and start crying there and then. She tries to protest and have them all go as well, but they are adamant: she won’t get to the last trebuchet on her own, not with so many Templars around. After some minutes of discussion, a plan gets formed quickly for a small party to bring her down and help her, but she’s adamant on them all running back there as soon as the trebuchet is aimed. Varric is the first to say he’s up for it, talking Sera down. She tasks Blackwall of warning the Grey Wardens of the new Archdemon and all possible implications, ruling him out. She hesitates looking at Cassandra, all unsaid between there lingering on heavily, but it’s the Seeker who takes word, frowning a little at her with determination. She turns towards the Iron Bull, telling him to take the Chargers and cover the rear of the people and defend them, if things go south, deciding for them both. Aisling can’t but be grateful and oh, so regretful the interruption didn’t come just one minute later.

Lastly, she starts speaking, but gets interrupted by Dorian before she can all but take breath to speak.

“I’m coming with you.” He blurts out, without the trace of a doubt.

“Dorian-“

“No, not but or ifs, Solas’ a healer, he’s better off with the others and you know it. It’s either Madame de Fer or me.”

She frowns at him, contracting her lips in a thin line, just before walking off and taking him by the arm, all but dragging him in the lateral aisle, out of everyone’s hears.

“A word, please.” She tells, as all the explanation.

He follows her, and when the elf let him go, he’s all but glaring at her, taking back his arm to straighten his cloak with irritation.

“Are you gonna scold me? What is it? If we’re here to say goodbye I’m gonna set your butt on fire.” He quips, with the same irritation she sees in his gestures.

“You can’t come, you have to get out of here and back to Minrathous.”

If she slapped him with an iron rod, he would probably have a less hurt expression.

“Excuse me?”

“Felix is dying.”

Another slap, his bravado starts to crumble. Aisling hates herself for it, she really does, but-

“He asked me for some Dalish remedies for the Blight, told me he’s suffering, and not to tell you, he didn’t want to make you worry or unconcentrated. I… We don’t have anything that can help him, I’m sorry, I really am. Sent back some recipes to ease the pain, it should help him, but…”

She can’t continue, Dorian casts his whole head down and starts shaking it, in denial, grabbing her wrists in a silent signal to please, stop talking. She steps forward, bending her head to look at him in the eyes, or trying to.

“Dorian, look at me. You have to get out of here, if you leave now you can reach him, ok? You’ll get back later, just…”

“I knew he was dying.” He replies, interrupting her. He gets back to look at her, there are no tears but just raw determination in his grey eyes. “We said our goodbyes, but you? We survived together from a worse situation than a talking darkspawn on a dragon, I’m not breaking the tradition and leaving you here.”

“Solas was in the future as we-“

“I was talking about the Fallow Mire.”

He deadpans, and she loses all her words at his comeback, staring for a moment. And then she starts to laugh, lightly at first, then shaking with the force of it as he laughs as well, calling him spoiled again with affection. She closes her eyes, and feels his hands leaving her wrists just for him to hug her, tight. She slips her arms around his neck and hugs him back, equally tight. Who cares if everyone’s watching or if her reputation is at risk for fraternising with a Tevinter. She’s not going without a hug.

They get back, and the team is formed, the last details communicated and the Chantry almost empty, by now. She says her goodbyes to the remaining of her friends, giving other hugs and not sparing smiles, as if there’s no gravity to what she’s doing and she’s gonna be fine, totally fine. She also manages to sneak and hug Solas - who very awkwardly pats her back, before she takes pity and let him go.

As she approaches the gates, steeling herself and casting one last look at her surroundings, silently saying goodbye, there’s Cullen back at her side, walking her there.

“They’ll load the trebuchets. Keep the Elder One’s attention until we’re above the tree line.” He repeats, the very image of professionality, even if he doesn’t look at her.

“Got it. Get to the trebuchet, send the others back when it’s aimed, wait for the signal, shoot.”

He nods, humming in silent assent. Cassandra opens the gate minutely, swords already out of its scabbard, and peeking out to assess the situation, Varric hot on her heels with Bianca already out, and Dorian right after. Cullen stops, three steps beck from the others, and stops her with a hand on her elbow, again. She arrests her step, turning to see he’s now looking at her, intensely.

“If we are to have a chance—if you are to have a chance—” He starts, pausing to search for the right words “-let that thing hear you.”

She smiles, nodding in assent. He smiles back, and for just a moment, he doesn’t let her go. But they get called to action, and with a last smile, she turns her back and marches out, no more hesitation in her steps.

---

At the witching hour.

There’s a blizzard on the mountain, and all around Aisling is white and black and grey. Gone is the moon, gone are the stars and laughters are a distant memory. Haven as well is gone, but in spite of everything, she’s still there, trudging heavily in the high snow, her left hand -sparkling green and the only light all around- cradling her right shoulder, which she has no intention of baring to check whether it’s broken or just dislocated.

The cold luckily took away most of her sensitivity, making her forget the sharp pain in her shoulder, the one of probably two or three broken ribs, and the fact that the mark - no, the Anchor is still numb after having been unceremoniously probed at and flared angrily to open a rift some… She couldn’t say how much time before now.

All she knows is that if she stops, she’s dead sooner than later. And in the sheer unlikeliness of her being there standing, with tears frozen on her cheeks from a mixture of physical pain, exhaustion and desperation, she doesn’t want to let go. Not just yet. Better later than sooner.

She wishes desperately she didn’t give up on the boots: she has almost no more energy in her to keep her toes warm with magic, and they’re getting colder and colder. But all she has are the clothes she’s wearing, all healing poultices and lyrium draughts she had with her broken on the floor of the gallery, her staff broken first by a dragon’s paw and then buried under an avalanche, and no Elfroot around to chew. Nothing around, actually, then snow.

She sticks closer to the few pines that manage to grow so up in the mountains, sheltering herself a little from the wind. It’s not thundering above, luckily, so the trees are a viable option for a minute solace against the biting cold all over. But, she can’t stop. Not that she has any idea of where to go, really, no stars or anything to signal a precise direction.

She’s going to die there, why fighting it, just lay down and rest, you earned it.

She shakes her head, fighting the very thought. Just a little further. She saw a campsite on the way. The embers were cold, but maybe-

Maybe what?

She stumbles on a stone hidden in the snow, falling forward heavily. The coat of white breaks her fall, preventing her from hurting herself more than she already is. Bad thing is that like so, she has ice inside her collar and all her front is damp. Not a good thing, in a blizzard. A very, very bad thing, indeed.

She stays there, as hot tears creeps in her eyes again and a thousand and one regrets flood her mind. Maybe it’s the Fade and she’s gonna get swallowed by a Demon, but from slowly dying from hypothermia and a Despair Demon coming for her, she can’t say what would be worse. She’s too cold for making that choice, at least, so she just takes a moment to cry.

She’s almost giving in to a fate that seems already sealed, when she hears them.

Wolves, howling loudly.

First thing that crosses her mind, is that wolves mean safety, and shelter. No wolf would linger up there, in the middle of a storm, without a safe spot to hide in or if the area wasn’t suitable for living beings who need food and shelter. Second thing is that it’s just her luck having to choose between dying peacefully of hypothermia, or facing wolves with no energy nor weapons left. She really had to tell Varric to reconsider her nickname.

Another howl, closer and more insistent, calls her back on track. She groans, loudly, forcing herself up and starting to walk again. She brushes some snow away from her clothes, but it’s difficult shivering so much as she is, particularly when she leaves the line of trees and the wind hits her back in full force. She hugs herself tighter and grits her teeth as she fights with the urge of putting more effort in the spell that heats her feet and warm herself all over. She won’t get far if she extends it, and she needs desperately to find shelter.

She closes her eyes, the wind too strong to keep them open for long anyway, just following the wolves with her ears, correcting her track as the verses comes and go. She looks around just when necessary, thinking of how ironic it is that the Herald of Andraste is now getting saved by animals with a widely different meaning for her.

“Fen’Harel em ghilana…”(2) She stutters, with half a laughter out of pure distress at the whole situation.

And yet, how can it get any worse than this? Lost in a snowstorm amongst mountains she doesn’t know, one arm out of service and two, maybe three broken ribs, no equipment and no chance at magic. If the Dreadwolf showed up right then and there, she would count it a step up: at least maybe he’ll kill her quickly. Or maybe he’ll just torture her and make it even longer, if it’s gonna line up with her luck of today, who knows.

Weirdly enough, tho, she never reaches the wolves, the animals falling always back, not approaching her as she can judge from how distant they sound. She has no energy to really think of what does it mean and the implications, or if it’s the Dreadwolf for real. She’s too cold to care, her feet are now frozen, her hands are numb and she’s getting sleepy, and for more than having been awake for 24 hours.

But, as she opens her eyes, something catches her attention. She’s now close to a rocky slope, the side of the mountain looming closer. And there, in a small indenture between two walls, barely visible in the snow… That’s not a rock. That’s another campfire.

She groans, pushing herself towards it. One direction equals another, and she spots a small opening at the far side. A cave, or a small pathway, she can’t say, but maybe enough to get out of the wind, first, before, she kneels down to touch what remains of what yes, is a small circle of stones to protect a fire, a small mount of white ashes in the centre of it. She stretches her left and touches the ashes, very ungracefully from how much it’s shivering and dust sprayed all over, but there’s no one there to judge her anyway.
Relief floods her, as she feels warmth radiating from the dust, and as moving it makes some fly over and disclose some embers underneath, still not quenched.

She pushes on her knees, ignoring how her head starts spinning and her vision blurs. Her legs feel like lead, but she pushes them on anyway, dragging her feet for one, two, three, four steps-

At the fifth, she collapses on the snow her energy at its very limit. She doesn’t even feel the cold anymore, all that’s left is bone-deep exhaustion.

And two voices, familiar, that lulls her to sleep as her conscience drifts away.

“There! It’s her!”

“Thank the Maker!”

Chapter Text

He’s outside the tent that’s been assigned as infirmary, head bent on his knees, fingers clasped together in a prayer. He almost couldn’t believe he really, actually found her, all his insistences were prized. And yet, he did find Lavellan almost frozen to death, unconscious and with blue lips, fingers and toes - why did she have to insist on walking barefoot? And got scared. Scared from the sudden confirmation that he actually sent to her death, let her walk away to face an Archdemon on her own, in a move that would have probably be her very last action in the waking world, as if it was the normal, most obvious thing to do. And he let her and turned his back, he walked on when maybe, just maybe, there was an alternative he didn’t want to see. Yes, technically she was still alive, but for how much?

His head pounded heavily, at this point he didn’t knew whether for the lack of sleep, stress or lyrium withdrawal. Or everything together concurring in feeling like his skull was sitting in between a hammer and an anvil.

“She’ll make it.” Cassandra tells him, iron in her voice as she sits down heavily beside him.

“Her lips were blue, she didn’t even stir.” He counters.

“She will. There’s more than one healer, Solas already brought her back once. She’s stronger than she looks.”

“What if she doesn’t. What if I- “

He can’t finish the sentence. He can’t think of the finished sentence, he had not wanted to get back to that, not after Kirkwall. Not another mage he sent to death, one way or another. Particularly, not her.

“Cullen, you should get some sleep.”

The good thing about having Cassandra to watch over you is that she rarely meddles, doing her own business. It’s unnerving knowing she’s there observing but not hearing anything from her, but it’s mixed with the relief of not having a person coddling you when you don’t want to be treated differently. The moment she says he needs to sleep, though, he knows something must show.

“I’m fine, I- “

“We’re all tired. I can take care of things, and I promise I’ll call you when she wakes up or when there’s news. You’re gonna be of no use to anyone if you stay up, your tent is up, go.”

It’s more of an order than anything else, but Cassandra’s tired to the bone as well, and has that expression that just means she won’t take no for an answer. So, Cullen sighs, deeply, and nods.

“Please, I know I’m not the first person she’ll want to see, but… Tell me if anything changes, or if I can do something, I- “

“I will. Now, go.”

He grunts in affirmation and raises up, joints protesting the movement. He casts another look inside the infirmary, on his way, moving the flap slightly to the side: Solas and another mage crouched down on Lavellan, covered in fur, braziers burning bright. The elf is giving orders, he can still feel mana buzzing insistently inside. There’s Dorian sitting in a corner, probably keeping the fire up and the temperature all too warm inside, looking actually dishevelled, for once, and keeping out of anyone’s way. The Tevinter somehow turns his head in time to see him peeking inside, and their eyes met. The mage looks just as exhausted and worried as he feels. They share a smile and a nod, and the Commander is then on his way.

He doesn’t plan to sleep, he knows for sure that he’ll just see a burning Haven as soon as he’ll close his eyes, and a torch in his hands.

But if Aisling Lavellan was really touched by Andraste, as he had some doubts about before finding her in the snow, mortally cold and totally unresponsive, but still breathing faintly, he’ll pray for her until sleep or work will call him to some better use of his time.

---

It’s been five days since Aisling woke up, and they’re almost ready to leave. What could be recovered from Haven, found or dug up, has been, the wounded were declared in condition to travel, the deads buried and functions celebrated -Aisling has actually cried for Roderick’s, and he was close to her enough to hear her slowly murmuring something in Elven, but it was too soft to distinguish any word. Not that he would have understood them.

He had slept, in the end, for pure exhaustion when his body just gave up, and his nightmares had been coloured with new hues of Haven burning and, lately, the Dalish elf either being burned as well -and he held the torch each time. It didn’t matter how many times Leliana deconstructed and inspected the events and underlined that no scouts returned back first, or reminding himself that fortifying Haven would have been difficult in a year’s time, go figure three months they’ve been there, or that nobody could prepare them for a dragon. The dreams came back.

He saw her around camp, trying to act normal even if Solas was effective in having her keep as quiet as she could with her right arm kept in a sling and constantly fussing over both her temperature -he had insisted for her to wear boots, and a pair of very old and worn felt boots were found and lined with the fur of a couple of hares they hunted. She has complained that it felt very weird, but never took them off to walk barefoot again. All in all, Aisling looked pretty normal, if a little gloomier than usual, when she thought nobody was looking and he quickly reminded himself he should not be staring, not even if he was still antsy and worried about her. But she stuck with Dorian even more, and as soon as she felt confident in standing up and exiting a closed tent (“Fenedhis, why is it so cold?!”), she has started going around and checking on people and giving advices, shily at first more confident as people started to understand she knew a couple of things about living in the wild.

And now, as the last things are being packed and he just had words that something has just been found, Aisling Lavellan is nowhere to be found. Nobody has seen her so recently, and after a quick asking of all her friends -Dorian has just pointed him towards a small path that flanked the mountain and gave him a look-, he is hopefully on the road to find the missing Herald. Hopefully, because a part of his mind who’s still paranoic already see her, again, fallen in the snow, frozen to death, eaten by a bear, trampled by a silent dragon nobody heard…

He shakes his head -not a good thing with a mild but insistent headache- and trudges on, turning alongside the cliff in the shadow of the mountain. It’s a small path that leads pretty much nowhere relevant, he remembers the report: the most notable thing is the panorama, which indeed is stunning: an open valley, a frozen river glistening in the sun at the bottom amidst patches of snowy conifers, more mountains raising up and piercing the sky tall and proud. It’s some of a relief, at least, to see the sky whole and without any giant, ominous hole. It’s not long, however, until the path that has been opened suddenly stops, the snow rising in level, the topmost layer still frozen from the night as the sun hasn’t reached it yet. But as if on cue, there are footprints, turning gently up and right towards a small cluster of pine trees. The steps look uncareful, the holes left by the feet in the snow not clean, as if whomever walked that way had to trudge and drag themselves to fight against the snow. Either an inexpert scout, or someone who never saw much snow in their life, or was uncomfortable on their feet. His shoulders relax a little, as he recognises whose steps are those and follows them, snow reaching the middle of his shins and steps indeed not being the easiest thing to do ever.

Behind the trees, he finally finds her: the rocky wall got eroded a little, forming a small concave that’s still gravelly and clear of snow. And there, kneeling down in front of a small fire at the top of which are planted two roe deer horns and three raven feathers in the middle of the firsts, is finally Aisling, concentrated and mumbling something he can’t understand.

It doesn’t take a genius to guess that she’s praying, as little as he ever saw her doing such things or even mentioning her gods, beside the usual reminders that she isn’t Andrastian every time somebody called her Herald or mentioned her public role as such. He considers turning back and waiting for her back at camp, leaving her the moment to recollect, but as he turns to get back on his track, he bumps into a couple of branches of one of the pines, making the snow on them fall heavily on the ground.

The sound is muffled, but it manages to startle the Dalish: she gasps with her eyes open, abruptly turning her bust towards her back. Cullen feels her calling on her magic, the air starting to crackle for a minute, as two things happen: Aisling sees him, and she folds a little on herself, free hand running to hold her ribcage with a groan of pain.

“Maker’s Breath… I’m sorry, are you ok?” He asks, half running towards her.

“Shit, Cullen, you scared me.” She grumbles, rubbing on her ribcage under all those layers of leather, wool and fur to soothe her broken ribs protesting the movement.

“I’m sorry. We’re almost ready and you were nowhere to be found. I-” He stops, both speaking and walking, standing a little off to the side and rubbing the back of his neck with a hand.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t plan in disappearing. I’ll be right back, give me five more minutes, ten at best?” She tries to bargain, expecting a resistance and some scolding over her behaviour that never comes.

“Of course. My apologies for having disturbed you, I…” A pause. “I’ll be back at camp, if you don’t need anything.”

She looks at him without understanding, furrowing minutely with her mouth open. She looks much healthier than she did few days ago, her face got some colour back and the nasty cut over her temple is not looking so angry anymore, as the one at the right side of her lower lip.

He turns to get back, suddenly very self-conscious of how intruding he must sound. He wouldn’t like to be interrupted that way, for sure, when concentrated in praying, not by any means by the same person who just five days before sent him to face his death. That is, he wouldn’t like to be interrupted by Meredith, even if it’s a thought he struggles to fully acknowledge, preferring to hide it deep, deep down his mind as he faces the valley again and tries to ignore his heartbeat speeding up and thrumming in his ears.

“Wait, Cullen.”

It comes like an anchor, and if he doesn’t stop his mind from running, because it doesn’t, it makes him stop, instinctively following an order as kind and well-meant it was. He doesn’t reply, tho.

“You didn’t disturb me, I just didn’t hear you coming. You can stay, if you want, I’m not doing anything secret… If you want to wait for me, I’m almost done.” She attempts, shily as she was in the first days at Haven. “Please?”

He sighs and considers it. The back part of his mind tells him to go, make things normal again, you meant it when you told her you were friends and she doesn’t have a bad bone in her body. They wouldn’t need to travel with another Magister who almost killed her and destroyed the world in the process, if she had, and she and Dorian wouldn’t be friends. The other part though is screaming to run, that he shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t be here pretending he can be friend with a mage in the first place, that she just wishes to be polite. She is touchy-feely, he has seen her pat and hug and casually touch people she’s friendly with, she was never that touchy with him. She brought him lunch, yes, but the bad train of thought just tells him it was out of pity: she’s an herbalist, she knows some basics of medicine, she must have seen, she must know, that’s just it.

His head throbs, and they have a long day to go, and he doesn’t really need more bad thoughts. If it’s pity that she is offering, he’ll take it. He forces himself to turn, walk the distance that still separates them, and sit at her side, not so close to appear clingy or prevent her movements, not so far as to appear rude. She smiles at him, and the best part of his brain just wishes she’s sincere. She doesn’t say anything, and gets back to chanting and praying in words he doesn’t understand, the balmy smell of evergreens being burnt filling the air.

When she’s done, she casts a worried glance at him and waits for him to look at her, before slowly, oh so slowly, extending her hand towards the fire and putting the fire out with magic, careful and controlled, always casting sideways glances at him, green eyes jumping from the hearth to him. His heart clenches at the care, feeling very unworthy of such a thoughtful gesture. He doesn’t say anything, though, quickly gesturing for her to go on, as he swallows.

She sticks two fingers in the ashes and traces the outermost, longer lines over her forehead, murmuring a couple of words -or a very long one? Then, she looks at him again, squinting a little and considering. She asks for his permission before doing much of anything, but in the end, after he tells her yes, she shily dips the same fingers in the ashes, again, and traces his forehead as well, in the same lines she did on hers. The pads of her fingers are cold on his head, the touch feather-like and too delicate not to be soothing, as if she’s concerned to scare him away.

“Ghilan’nain’enaste.” She repeats, slower this time, spelling the words clearly. “May Ghilan’nain grants you her favour.”

She tries to brush it off with some or other self-deprecating comment, as she scatters the feather to the ground and keep the horns in her pocket, but he doesn’t let her. He doesn’t mind, not really, or not from her in any way: the favour of one goddess more can hardly do some harm, if she can bring herself to guide a Chantry boy. She laughs and nods, confesses Andraste kinda reminds her of Ghilan’nain, in some ways, and that she surely would understand.

Her kindness and acceptance make him a little calmer and bolder, as he offers to help her putting her missing gloves back on: she accepts, fishing the garment out of her pocket and letting him work, following his clues and movements as he slips her fingers in -they’re frozen and reddened, just the palm surrounding the pale scar in the middle is a little warmer-, carefully and trying to be delicate which isn’t easy with gloved hands. She doesn’t seem to mind, tho, and thanks him warmly when he’s tugged the hem inside her sleeves and nods his approval.

They make their way back to camp, and Aisling doesn’t complain about the cold in the shadow of the mountain, but tucks herself up tightly in her coat, dragging the collar upward and contracting her shoulders so her nose gets covered. She’s cute, and when they reach camp and he brings her to the back, to show what a couple of scouts has managed to find and bring back there before he left to look for her, he feels that maybe, just maybe, he hasn’t let her down so much. She squeals in happiness, running towards her hellish black and white horse -who looks much more prone to be handled and petted by an overly enthusiastic elf, and tries to scroll her away and bite her after a while. The bite is not anything angry, he can tell as well, and she laughs at it, patting the white spot at the centre of his muzzle affectionately anyway, cooing at him in elven. Master Dennet laughs and explains he let all horses out of the stables, and didn’t expect to find any of them back again. But the “devilishly clever equine” has led some others to safety and up the mountains, and they were able to find them and bring them back. The horsemaster also adds that it was “the Commander’s idea”, smiling impishly at him, and as Cullen grumbles to minimise the thing, saying it was just an idea, Aisling turns and smiles again, and the thank you is much more felt than before.

He still feels like a fraud and not someone she should thank for anything or smile at, but they’re about to leave, a scout reaches them to inform that all they’re waiting for to start on the journey is the Herald, and there’s no more time to dwell on feelings.

---

There’s no more time to dwell on feelings and talk in the journey, either. Aisling is at the same time nowhere in sight and everywhere she’s needed: she guides them, runs forward with the scouts to choose the path and find good places to camp, and when the course is set, she’s around the caravan helping out where and how she can, more and more as days go on and Solas finally agrees to free her of the sling and allow her to use both arms and hands again. More than that, she looks happy, in her element.

He is close enough when Josephine makes a comment with the elf over the latter’s new-found confidence in herself, saying that it’s good to see her so sure. The Dalish just smiles and point at her brows, commenting that she’s her Keeper’s First, and what she’s doing is finally something she’s been trained for, unless closing Fade Rifts and dealing with human aristocracy. And indeed, all the reports attest that having her and one of the Chargers, both elves, has prevented for more than one accident and contributed to how smooth the journey for so many people is being. At night, he can see her next to the fire, shivering slightly but concentrated on maps, looking at the stars and measuring them with her hands, signing down notes and directions on the paper. Scout Harding precedes him in approaching her and reminding her to go to sleep.

The next time they’re alone, it’s the fifth day of travel, Solas is positive they’ll reach wherever they’re going in a couple of days at worst, and Cullen’s sure that he’s in the wrong place at the wrong moment. They settled camp for the night, and he is on his usual round to check everyone’s still there in one piece and to collect eventual problems and issues to deal with. He enters the storage tend, expecting to find the requisition officer, and instead he finds the Herald and Cassandra, just in time to hear the Seeker mumble something ill at ease and to see the elf snap out her hands, take the other’s face and kiss her.

It's a proper kiss and he instinctively ducks out of the tent, praying none of them noticed his presence there. He slips out, not so gracefully but taking care of doing as little noise as possible, and briskly steps away. After three steps, he thinks better, his mind running loosely in all directions without settling. He knew she liked Cassandra, and he saw the pair of them in Haven, sitting close together, the elf looking at the other with longing. He knows what’s going on, and beside some unpleasant, gnawing thing that munches at his stomach rather fastidiously, and that he deliberately chooses not to consider in the least -she’s into girls, she’s into a friend of his, and into a friend who’s a good person who deserves good things, she’s the Herald of Andraste, and she’s kind with everyone, not just with him. He finds that a good friend would cover them up. So, he groans and swing back, intending to stay at the entrance of the tent to prevent others from getting in. He can think of a good excuse, surely.

But an excuse is not needed: as he turns back, Cassandra storms out of the tent, frowning and flustered. Their eyes meet, and he didn’t think the Seeker could actually blush. But she does, grumbles something unintelligible and walks away as briskly as she can without making it a proper run. As he approaches, slower this time, the entrance of the tent -he needed to enter after all, and it’s stupid to still feel like he’s intruding and sticking his nose where he shouldn’t, right?-, he hears Aisling groaning from the inside.

As he enters, a little to brashly to really sound casual about it, he has to turn behind a couple of crates to see her, crouched on the floor and with both hands on her face, dark blonde hair falling all over it with just the tip of her ears poking out. When he approaches her and make his presence noticed, she doesn’t look at him, just groans louder and informs him that if he’s here for any business which is not to close a Fade Rift where she can jump right into and disappear from existence, she’s definitely not there. He can’t but huffs a laughter at that, informing that no, he just needed to check if every crate is still there, but she can talk if she needs to, he doesn’t mind. He does, a little, but again that’s a part he stubbornly refuses to listen.

“Can I ask you something personal?” She asks, after a while of him counting and she still sulking on the ground.

“I- Ah, sure.”

“Suppose the Iron Bull approaches you and suggests you to spend the night riding the Bull, so to say.”

He snorts, at that, picturing the scene and hoping his ears aren’t as red as he feels them. If she notices, she doesn’t give too much importance to his reaction, tho, and keeps on with her reasoning.

“And you think oh that’s very cool, maybe you think it’s flattering! But, you’re still not that sure if that’s just not something you wish to try, as flattering as the feeling may be, or if you’re curious but you’re not sure if you could like it… Which is fine! Totally fine, maybe you never thought of it beforehand and sure, you need time to think about whether you like fish and not just meat, so to speak…”

He had the chance, in those days, to walk as close to her and Dorian in one of their moments of brainstorming, he has seen her -the both of them- bantering back and forth, back and forth, speaking so quickly the reasoning was hard to follow -pulling one Tevene word or sentence here and there didn’t help at all-, but being on the receiving end is weird.

“But my point is.” She sighs, stopping her rambling and unfolding, hands placed on both knees to push herself up on her feet, righting her jacket when she’s up standing and brushing away wrinkles that on such a heavy and fur-lined garment are not there. “… How much time would you need?” She asks, finally looking up at him with an expression that’s just… vulnerable.

He blinks a couple of times, looking at her. He lost count in his mind, but right now it doesn’t even matter: if that’s what she wishes to know, he owes her a reply, he feels. Even when after he hesitate some before replying she tries to back up and offer him a way out, dismissing everything with a shrug and a smile -a very fake smile, Josephine has a point in saying she should get better at lying if she wants to make it to Orlais- and saying it just wasn’t important, forget she even asked. No, he just stops her from walking away, asking to just give me a couple of minutes. She does, nodding and resting her back against a barrel, arms crossed before her. Though stuttering, and not looking at her because it feels raw and he has thought about it in the last month since she made him notice, but it’s the first time he really opens up about it and speaking without looking at her is better, he replies.

“I- Ah, I think it depends. How much time- “

“The party.” She doesn’t need to specify which one.

“Did you- “

“Corypheus kinda interrupted me, so, no. But it was clear what I wanted to do. Then I spoke to her today because she just wouldn’t and I was getting crazy, but-” She shrugs, groaning and starting to pace around the tent. “I fucked it up, didn’t I?”

She slumps back against a crate, frowning at her boots -she’s free of the sling but apparently Solas still prevents her to go toe-free- and digging in the ground with one toe, absent-mindedly. Cullen places the paper he has with the inventory notes on a barrel and reaches her, staying again, close but not too much.
“Cassandra’s stubborn.”

“Yeah, I noticed…” She snorts.

“If you want a better opinion, Leliana knows her from way longer than I do.”

“Mh.”

“But, you’re strong and you’re brave, and you’re doing great in keeping us all alive and on track, now. That’s something that will gain her respect and admiration, at least.”

“I’m not doing much of anything, Solas and the Surgeon barely allows me to walk on my own, I should be forward with the scouts, not down here making even a bigger fool of myself.”

“You’re doing just great, for once you’re not struggling to run uphill, we are all fool to be reminded that you shouldn’t sit in the snow.”

“See, that was Scout Harding to teach me. I never travelled in the snow.”

“Maker’s Breath, I swear the next recruit I hear complaining that I’m too demanding, I’ll tell them to hear what impossible standards you put up for yourself.” He chuckles, after a little hesitation trying to elbow her, very delicately, as he saw Dorian do. It’s not enough to really move her, but it makes her smile.

“They’ll roll over in laughter hearing how I tried to woo Seeker Pentaghast and collided face-first with a stone wall.”

“You didn’t collide face-first. Just… Give her time, she’ll come around.”

He tells her, because she’s on a bad route of berating herself and he does know first hand that she doesn’t know any more fuel to go on that route. And yet, there’s just something about the whole endeavour that makes this the one sentence he doesn’t really mean, unfortunately, words coming out a little forced. She turns and looks at him, and the smile now is forced as well.

“Yeah. It’s not like I can do anything more, right?”

“Siege mentality. You just have to endure.”

“I guess so.”

She sighs, and then she helps him counting stuff, splitting crates and barrels between them. They’re out of the supplies tent when dusk is already settling, and make their way quickly to the centre of the camp for dinner. As Aisling quickly excuses herself seeing him go towards where Leliana, Josephine and an even more rigid than usual Cassandra are sitting, and runs to squeeze in between Dorian and Sera, looking pointedly at her feet with the same forlorn demeanour she had before, he knows he hasn’t gotten through.

---

The fortress is huge, solid and proud, and the works to keep it up to good use aren’t as many as it could. It surely offers shelter for everyone who made it that far, and space enough to work around what needs to be cleaned or repaired. In substance, the fortress is in great condition, buzzing with peaceful, serene magic making the air much warmer than outside, the trees that overgrew in the courtyards rustling in the breeze still painted yellow and gold. It’s a good base, and the casualties in the journey have been surprisingly little. Things seems to be looking up, finally, for everyone but him.

Nightmares have subsided a little, and if his body is feeling the effort of the week of walking even more than he would. His head is killing him -he dreads to know how literally- and everything hurts pretty much constantly, protesting movements. He trudges on, and if the impromptu councils between just him, Leliana, Josephine and Cassandra pains him a great deal, for one question he doesn’t need much brain capacity to have a strong opinion about.

“Are you sure, Commander?” Leliana sounds surprised, eyeing him from the other side of the war table they found.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He asks, frowning.

“She’s a Mage, and you’ve been… Very vocal about her presence in this council, in Haven.”

“Things have changed.” He grumbles. “I was concerned of a person with a cloudy background participating in important decisions. She has more than proven herself now, none of us would be here alive, if it wasn’t for her.”

“Corypheus wouldn’t have come if she wasn’t there. But a Dalish Keeper is trained to guide her people through the wilderness, it’s been a blessing having her. It’s not the same as the Inquisition. Would you be ok in giving it to an Apostate Mage?” The Nightingale prods on, squinting her blue eyes in that way he finds particularly unnerving.

“I couldn’t think of a better candidate.”

He is already squinting because the light’s too intense and curtains are far at the bottom of the to do list. So, it doesn’t take much to meet the Spymaster with the same frown, none of them lowering their gaze first. They’ve worked together for long enough for him to guess that she may not be opposing the choice, but just making sure the stakes are known, but she’s too hard to read to tell for sure. So, he doesn’t lower his gaze.

“Sure, it would be hard to sell to the Aristocracy and the Chantry…” Chimes in Josephine, sounding worried about that, for once. “But I also agree with the Commander, it’s the right person at the right time. Mother Giselle will put a good word with the Chantry, I can turn the aristocracy around. We just need to train her to be a little less…”

“…Casual in her use of magic and Tevene?”

“I was saying a little less wearing her heart on her sleeve, it will be exploited, but less Tevene with nobles would also be a good idea, yes. Nothing we can’t work on. She’s clever, she’d be great.”

The Ambassador nods, sounding positively thrilled at the idea and with a smile, scribbling something on a piece of paper. Cullen notices how Leliana flashes a smile, for but a moment before she turns to Cassandra, and he knows for certain, and with relief, that she was just playing the devil’s advocate.

“She proved herself in Redcliffe.” The Seeker states, more level-headed than the Antivan, and stubbornly keeping her eyes down on the map. “She stood up to the king, without being offensive, we’ll need that. I have no objections.”

“Well, she will be glad to know we actually can learn to work together.” Leliana trills, giggling as she collects her papers. “I think our Seeker should be the one to tell her the good news, don’t you all think?” She smirks at Cassandra, who just replies with a disgusted noise before marching out of the room.

The doors are heavy and creaks and slams all too easily, and Cullen groans at it, mentally noting to put oiling the damn hinges as the top priority for the workers. Everything else can wait, but the damn doors can’t. He shakes his head, asking if they’re done and he can go to gather the people for the… Ceremony seems a little too official for what they have planned. For whatever it will be. Josephine nods, saying she’ll gather the nobles that made it already there and arrived with the latest news of the rediscovered fortress and the Herald’s latest accomplishments. Not caring if the Herald’s currently using magic very unorthodoxically for a good Circle mage, and telekinetically moving debris and setting ramparts up. She exits the room as well -the fucking hinges!- and it’s just Leliana and him. She looks at him with that look she uses when anyone tries to hide something she knows better.

“What?” He has no patience for it, right now.

“It’s not going to work, anyway, you know? Don’t need to be all cranky about it.”

“I had the impression you agreed with naming her as-“

“I’m talking about her and Cassandra. I know you know, she talks with you, does she not?”

He definitely has no patience for this anyway. He already has Rylen to tease him because apparently if Aisling has male friends, it’s ok, but when he does, it’s weird. He raises a hand to massage his temples.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He hears the woman giggles again, still with that unsufferable knowing underline of hers. He has no strength to look at her, but he knows he would find her smirking.

“Oh, I think you do.”

He groans, she can’t stifle a laugh, and with that, they’re both out of the War Room, now ready with fresh markers and all the necessary, and out in the fortress, to give the good news and finally make the new Inquisitor official. With a little bit of luck, anyway.

Chapter Text

“Inquisitor, I hope you understand that I can’t return your… Affection.”

It’s very strange, to see Cassandra actually fumbling and treading in a conversation as if she’s walking on thin ice. Strange in an endearing kind of way, seen the circumstances, one that makes her heart clenches painfully. She hears a little voice telling her that insisting is pointless, that this is nothing new than what she already guessed when she kissed her, when she’s been so foolish as to kiss her. But as her using “Inquisitor” screams for distances to be kept, more than of politeness, Aisling can’t but clench her fist over her elbow and try again.

“Are you sure? I can be pretty persuasive…”

It comes out half-hearted, her eyes quickly turning down to the ground as embarrassment raises in her throat and stomach.

“Be that as it may, I think not.”

Oh, she hates how delicate she’s being. It’s not the way she would have liked to know this side of her, to have the confirmation of it -it’s plenty evident that Cassandra Pentaghast cares, and cares a lot in her own though love way, it was plenty evident that night in the Hinterlands when she convinced her to stop wearing boots just to adapt. Aisling looks down, and her bare toes are there to look at her and reminds her of that episode and the knowledge that deep, she has always known that all it ever was was this. But as she doesn’t reply, nodding in comprehension, Cassandra goes on.

“You are the Herald of Andraste, and my leader and… And a woman. I take it as a compliment, truly. I hope we can remain friends.”

Aisling forces herself to smile and nod, as the only confirmation for the other, as the “Herald of Andraste” makes bile rise in her throat and each words falls heavily on her shoulders, burying her all over again under a mask and a cloak that were never really cut for her and feels uncomfortable. She doesn’t want to cry, not there, not in front of the other. And sensing her upset, maybe the loss of words, maybe how she slouches her bust forward, one arm hugging protectively her belly and arm, the other limping, hand clenched, or maybe all this, Cassandra just excuses herself and leaves her alone on the balcony.

It's a private corner, she can watch the sky and the ramparts from there, but as the day drags on none of the occupant of the rooms are really passing. So, as soon as she hears the door to the Great Hall closing, hinges squeaking as they still miss an overdued round of oiling, she can fold on herself, hug her knees and start to cry, in a mixture of self-pity, rejection and feeling very, very stupid. It would have been easier if she was met with anger or reproach. As it is, she has nothing to blame but herself.

Point is, that she went on because she was feeling lonely, and flirting made her feel like she wasn’t, like she could be close to someone enough to feel like a person again. All this crumbled down as she was so delicately remembered that she’s not a person anymore, she’s the Herald of Andraste and, lately, the Inquisitor. And yet, she stayed, this time she knew what she was doing, and it wasn’t just seeing people she respected and whose opinions she cared for, offering her the title without a doubt in their eyes -not even Leliana, always so ready in pointing out every turnback, always so suspicious. Oh no, it was that she wanted this, foolishly and proudly, and thought that maybe she could do it, and do some good.

She still thinks it, but it felt heavy. So, she lets it out, the frustration and rejection, all complicated emotions knotted in her chest. She realises she never cried after Haven, in that moment, too wound up in a job she felt prepared for and took with joy -the journey there and discovering the Fortress has been much like travelling with her clan, back home. But she never really stopped to process how much her life has changed, how much is at stake.

Cassandra takes her blame, in her internal monologue, for a minute, Cassandra takes the blame because she didn’t treat her like a person and couldn’t return her feelings. She groans loudly at that, letting it out and letting it go, a little, leather leggings getting damp from her tears against her cheeks. As all tears eventually run dry and she's left hiccupping, chest still convulsing minutely, she unfolds and falls back to lay on her back, looking up at the sky and waiting.

The sky feels closer, in Skyhold. Maybe it's the height, maybe it's how the mountain air is crispy, sharper, or the strange enchantment that makes the weather warmer in the fortress. But laying there on her back looking up at puffy white clouds flowing in the wind, it almost seems like you could touch it, if you stretch a hand high enough. It is beautiful, and if she closes her eyes and concentrates, she can feel the quiet, constant buzz of old magic coating everything around, embedded in the stones, the trees and the ground. The renovations felt like overstepping, at first, but after a week, she felt like the Keep was friendlier. Somehow, it now feels like the Keeps has understood that people are fixing and peopling it again, putting walls and rooms long abandoned to good use, and it appreciates the effort. Still a little suspiciously, but with approval, if it makes any sense. She should really speak to Solas about it, he would know.

It isn’t belonging, not yet, but it is welcoming and grounding. A clean slate to start again onto.

She could work with that.

But in another ten minutes.

---

Three hours later, she feels a little too much welcomed, truth to be told.

As she entered the Great Hall again, with eyes that felt puffy and dry and that she schooled down hoping it would pass her as being demure and humble, and not too emotional and a cry-baby, she couldn’t make it past Josephine’s office before the Ambassador and the Spymaster, both in weird excitement over something, basically kidnapped her from the War Council that was planned for the afternoon - the Commander was quickly dismissed with the excuse that this was a “very important but girls-only council that could not wait any longer”, and she was dragged, very confused, up the stairs to her own quarters.

The room was overly large and big, she had tried to complain that she wanted something smaller, but there has been no reasoning against it: she was the Inquisitor, she needed to look like one. Important people have big quarters. And as it turns out now, Important people also have a proper wardrobe that’s made not from hand-me-downs, spare shirts, breeches quickly reduced to her size, and Solas’ old leg wraps pair, trimmed down to be adapted to her shorter calves.

So, she was propped on a pedestal in her undershirt and smalls, as a rather fussy tailor by the name of Miss Bernadette taking careful measurements of every single part of her, and draped her in all kinds of cloths, asking her opinions (she really liked velvets, it felt warm and soft, and she was pleased to know that “What’s your favourite colour” was still a relevant question), clothed her in existing garments to figure out what she liked and disliked. Or more like: what Josephine and Leliana thought she may need, since Aisling’s wishes were, it turned out, very basic and totally unknowing of human fashions and ways of styling oneself.

She was allowed, tho, to give some prompts to better direct the trio, such as her favourite colours -teals, blues, greens, warmer in shades, and she really disliked orange, and thought pink made her look like a creepy porcelain doll-, cloths -velvet felt so warm and soft- and cuts – “Can I have one of the jackets I saw on Comte Whatshisname? It had cool pointy shoulder-things!” “You mean a doublet?” “Double what?”.

But as it turned out, the task took way longer than it should. Undergarments and all the basics came already with mock-ups to be pinned down on her body and adapt momentarily to her structure, and get the job quicker, but for more structured items and all the tailored ones, precise measurements needed to be taken according to the model chosen. Three hours later, an elf with very tired legs from standing up so long begins to wish all her belongings haven’t been blown up with the chantry so she could sit down and stop having a fussy lady handling her like she was a doll.

“Is this going to take much longer?”

She asks, shily, as the seamstress bats weakly at her arm as she lowers them minutely whilst she’s pinning some reduction over the back of a shirt.

“We have to decide for your formal wear! Oh, dresses are the funniest part, you’ll love it!”

Josie chimes from the loveseat against the balustrade just above the stairs, a smile that reaches from one ear to the other as she switches samples and papers with designs with Leliana at her side, pointing this and that. They had called for snacks and tea, at least, which now rest on a tray on the small table beside the couch.

“It’s gonna require less time, since you are so adamant in refusing shoes.”

The Spymaster adds, noticing how the elf grimaces and looks at the fruit tartelette she can’t reach and eat right now with longing. It’s been a long day and she needs something sweet, but with the woman working and requesting her to stand still as a tree, it’s a forbidden desire. She’s left with watching, and if Josie’s just more relaxed than usual, the smile a real one on her face, Aisling doesn’t think she has seen Leliana actually relaxed before. There’s a real spark in her eyes and she looks much, much younger in that rare moment free of cares or anything more urgent and severe than a seamstress complaining that the Inquisitor just won’t stay still.

So, not looking a gift horse in the mouth and just enjoying the good humour of the Bard, she shrugs, huffing when the seamstress forces her head to look forward and adjusts her back and shoulder to sit straight rather brusquely.

“I can’t move well in closed shoes, they’re just so uncomfortable!”

“But they’re pretty, and a good pair of heeled slippers can really those pretty tattooed legs seems longer.”

“As if I had any reason to have them look longer, now…”

She lets slip, and bites her lower lip in regret right after, as two heads perks up from the models and books to look at her.

“Why wouldn’t- What happened?”

“I- Nothing, actually.”

“But-“

“So, Cassandra took some guts and told you, finally?”

Leliana concludes, not looking particularly surprised about it because of course there’s really nothing new to her. If in Haven her knowing basically everything felt intruding and unsettling, she has gotten used to it. Not that it makes talking, or even thinking about it so soon, when it’s still so raw, any easier.

“She did.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry…” Chides in Josephine.

“No, don’t be. She was… Nice. It was my fault, really. But that’s done and dusted, now, I can concentrate fully on work. No more distractions and, lucky for me, no longer need to show off with painful shoes…”

“Oh, come on, Cassandra’s not the only dashing Templar in the fortress, if that’s your taste, you see…”

She can hear the smirk in Leliana’s voice in the last remark, even before she hears Josie’s strangled laughter. She turns abruptly, to see the Bard smiling sweetly at her, a knowing look in her eyes the elf really doesn’t like, and the Ambassador crouches on the sofa’s back, hiding her face with both hands and back hiccupping in laughter she’s trying to suppress.

“…What are you implying?”

“Nothing at all, beside the fact that there’s plenty of fishes in the sea, no need to give up just yet… You may want a rebound.”

“I do not want a rebound!” She complains, blushing all the same. “And who are you talking of, anyway?”

“Oh, don’t mind me, I was just taking an educated guess from your latest preferences…” Leliana tuts, in that lilting, very musical voice of hers. In a way that -united to Josie’s still laughing that just screams that whatever it is, they shared it already- tells Aisling that she really has someone in mind, but she just won’t disclose this information yet.

Knowing better than to try and pry any secret from her, tho, even if she considers ordering her to, she huffs, feeling that as the topic falls, she won a battle but not the war, but keeping it for a better moment. One where she can move freely, at least, and her heart isn’t sitting so heavily in her chest.

“Can I have some working clothes as well?” Aisling asks to miss Bernadette, hopeful. “Something practical, breeches, loose shirts…”

“Some battle clothes to go under your armour has already been accounted for, your Worship.” The seamstress replies, helping the elf out of the mock-up shirt carefully slipping it off her arms and head without poking her with the needles.

“Yes, but I meant something I can get dirty, with more changes. Oh, and possibly sleeveless, if it isn’t too much trouble… Sleeves are just gonna get in the way in the stables.” She explains, finding finally something to be really eager for.

The seamstress looks at her in disbelief, and then turns her gaze to the other two women, evidently sceptical about the weird request and the mentioning of stables in the mouth of the Herald of Andraste. Leliana just shrugs.

“Sure, why not. Same cut of her basics, but with less fine materials. And no sleeves. Now!” She declares, closing the book with models in her lap with a snap and raising her head towards the elf, a glint in her blue eyes and a mischievous smile on her face. “If Miss Bernadette is over, come here before the formals…”

“What do you have in mind?” Aisling asks, curious in spite of everything.

The seamstress keeps her a minute more, checking one last time that she has marked all the necessary mock-ups before allowing her to step down and approach the couch. She’s barely clothed, arms and legs bare, the tattoos on her legs fully visible, but she doesn’t care much, not if the others don’t seem to be bothered by her being not so proper for human standards. She quite likes the work, sinewy lines starting at the sides of her thighs and circling in smooth curves, intertwining around her knees and calves and terminating in a stylized star on the back of her ankles.

“Try these! We should have the same shoe number.”

Leliana produces from a box she had placed at the side of the couch a pair of delicate shoes of shiny blue satin, decorated at the point with a small cream ribbon and some delicate embroideries of flowers and leaves. It’s a modest work, not much refined as the other drawings of shoes they saw and the redhead praised, but still it looks neatly made, elegant in its simplicity.

“No, uh-uh. I don’t wear heels.”

Aisling steps back, but the Bard raises up threateningly -a playful kind of threaten, but still.

“You’ll have to, at the Winter Palace.”

The elf so does the most sensible thing, one for which the Commander would -probably- be proud: she doesn’t fight, she just runs, turning on her heels and trying to put distance between them. She’s nimbler and with much less weight on her. Josie laughs on the couch, as the seamstress stands in the way and put an ending on this poor attempt to an escape, grumbling to just sit down and be mature about it, you can’t wear a ball gown in whatever barbaric contraption she entered the room with on her feet, and letting Leliana hug her shoulders and gently coax her to sit on the bed and present her feet.

Walking in heels is really nothing she was ever prepared for: the slippers are indeed nice, she can tell, and soft from use, but the way she has to balance all her weight on the meaty part of her feet is totally foreign to her. Aisling huffs, following the Spymaster gently walking backward in front of her, hands outstretched to catch her should she fall. But Aisling’s Dalish, and a proud one at that, so she stubbornly prefers to wobble her way forward, measuring each step and trying to ignore how her toes are compressed very uncomfortably, very ungraciously and legs very far from looking longer, but on her own.

“Straighten your back and look forward, it’ll be easier!”

“Easier to break my neck if I fall…”

She counters, grumpily, as Josephine indicates to the seamstress some models she would like for all three of them, the two discussing happily over which cuts would compliments each best, happily delegated in the task by the Inquisitor -how weird is that- after her head started spinning and mixing terms together.

“You know, she said the same thing when she gave them to me…”

“Who?”

It’s a rare thing to see Sister Nightingale lowering her guard or speaking of her past. But right now, they’re only girls and in a relaxed situation, and during the journey they had their chances to speak and get to know each other better, working closely together managing scouts enough that Aisling can see the Bard is not cold-hearted, after all. It doesn’t come as much as a surprise, now, to see her smiling nostalgically, looking at those blue satin shoes Lavellan is bringing so little honour to.

“Alyra.”

It’s just a name, pronounced with affection, but it’s enough for Aisling to fill the dots. She stops, looking up at the other’s face with big eyes and an open mouth, in surprise.

“…You’re making me wear a gift from Mahariel?”

“They’re the oldest and softest I own, you won’t get any blisters from them. They’re well made, and the heel’s short. Maybe we should consider a similar model if you like them…”

“But it’s-! The Hero of-! Oh, no no no, I can’t!”

She shakes her head, finally grabbing Leliana’s hands just to have some sort of support as she tries to slip away from them, suddenly feeling even more like the ugly chick of a cuckoo than before. The redhead tho grabs her forearms firmly enough to keep her in place, laughing.

“I’m pretty sure you aren’t so bad to break them by walking very slowly in a room. Go on!”

Any further protests, too awestruck to be convinced, is shushed down, and soon enough they’re again wobbling around the room, with the elf putting so much more effort than before and trying desperately to be light on her feet. Indeed, straightening her spine makes it easier, even if looking at her step is more difficult. But more than her steps, she’s burning with curiosity for something else, right now.

“Do you know her well? The Hero of Ferelden, I mean.”

“She’s one of my dearest friends, and one of the few people I trust completely. Do you know her? You were very far from Ferelden, during the Blight.”

“Are you joking? News of her spread like a fire in a summer wood. At the Arlathvhen following the Blight she was on everybody’s mouth! How was she, for real? Whose vallaslin did she bear? Did she like shoes as well? Did she really ambush the King on her own to force him to gift lands to the Dalish?”

“My, I get why Solas told me you ask a lot of questions!”

Leliana stops them, starting to laugh, and a real laugh that reaches her eyes, crystalline and melodious as if she was singing. Aisling, snorts, lowering her gaze and blushing faintly.

“Too many?”

“No, it’s just… I’ve never seen you so at ease in talking with me, or smiling so brightly. It’s good to see you doing so now, of all times.”

“I-“

“It’s fine, we’ve never had any reason to really talk outside work.”

“And it’s maybe the first time you don’t look at her with scrutinising eyes, Leliana.”

Josephine jumps in, amusement in her voice as she steps close to the small desk in the corner the other two almost reached.

“We’re ready for the gowns, I think I found something you may like!”

“Can I step down these evil contraptions then?” Aisling asks, hope in her voice and perking up at the idea.

“No!” The other two replies in chorus, giggling.

---

When the sun has set behind the mountains, the tour de force is finally over, the seamstress has collected her things and all her notes and excused herself promising to start working as soon as possible and sending the finished items as soon as they’ll be ready – with an order carefully planned by Josephine. Aisling has managed to keep the other two women with her to have dinner together and chat some more, a couple of servants -Frida and Christine- bringing up dishes and bowls and wine for them all and leaving them to keep chatting.

Aisling got dressed in her old borrowed clothes, but didn’t bother to put up leg wraps, and Leliana got her hood and greaves off. Josephine went as far as slipping out of her shoes, to gather her legs on the couch. The topic has gone from clothing, and explaining to Aisling that crinoline isn’t any weird chemical concoction, to the Hero of Ferelden’s favourite colour -blue- to Josephine telling one grandiosely hilarious story of a dinner party involving two Orlesian chevaliers, a pot of begonias and a grilled sole that somehow learnt to fly, to Aisling prodding Leliana for stories of the Blight, and Leliana redirecting it by asking exactly how extended her Vallaslin is, which turns out to be something that picks at Josie’s curiosity a lot. It has been hard at first for her, words coming out weighted and unsure, but Lady Montilyet eased her, with questions that didn’t prod too much nor shied away from stepping further and asking for explanations. And so, sweet wine Dorian would probably dub as “stale molasses” or something, the Dalish slowly unfolded, explaining the ceremony in brief and very generic terms.

“And you don’t have to say anything throughout the whole process?”

“Not a whimper, or the Keeper will stop.”

“But they’re so…! You have them on your legs!”

“I was told I scrunched horribly when she came to my belly…”

“On your…! Can I see it?”

Shifting on the desk chair that she brought in front of the couch, the elf unfolds a leg, placing the foot on the carpet and unbuttoning her shirt until it’s comfortable to slip up and uncover her mid just down her boobs. Both women bend forward, curious: two sinewy lines, coming from the bigger section on her back, snakes around her ribcage in smooth, specular curves, curling right before a small, stylized eight-point star just above her belly button, the colour the same teal that’s on her forehead and chin.

“There. Not much, but this was the part that hurt like hell.”

“Oh, wow… How old were you?”

“Seventeen. When the ceremony was over, I was named First.”

“Pretty young, weren’t you?” Leliana asks, curious.

“Not much. It’s more a question of mental maturity, more than age, you can try whenever the Keeper and the Hahren deem you ready.”

Shivering, the elf closes her shirt back again, tugging it down carefully before she collects both her legs on the sittee, slouching down a little against the armrest.

“Don’t you have any ceremony that marks maturity and adulthood?”

“No, for us it’s just age.”

“But how do you know? Not everyone is an adult at…”

“Eighteen, usually. And no, actually not. Empress Celene was crowned at barely sixteen.”

Josie explains, going on about how adulthood and maturity are indeed something personal not dictated by age, but the benefits of having a universal age to consider people responsible should not be shunned. All this with loose references to the Empress’ life and reign and gesticulating, clearly admired. Endearing as it is to see her expressing real admiration over a famous woman, such as she did before, Aisling just shrugs, with a smile.

“Still think that tattoos are better, sorry Josie.”

Josephine scoffs, muttering that it wasn’t even a challenge.

---

Half an hour later, when the moon is approaching the snowy peaks outside and the air breezing in from the open windows to the balcony turned really chilly, the fire still burning bright but candles running low and the three all slouched or laying there more relaxed, Leliana pats her knees and raises up, offering the Ambassador her hand to help her raise.

“Well, Inquisitor, it’s been a very pleasant time, but it’s quite time we leave you alone.”

And with a single, dainty title, all the closeness of the afternoon is suddenly gone. The smile falters on Aisling’s face, as she looks down and nods, her hands clenching in fists.

“…Yes, I suppose I kept you here too much, haven’t I…”

If it was her clan, she would have asked them with no issues to stay. It would be childish, she knows, none of them was 10 anymore, and they were too old for sleeping over, cuddled together. And yet, today it has been the first day where that room hasn’t felt dauntingly huge and lonely, and she know it will feel even more so when they’ll leave her alone with her thoughts.

“What’s the matter?”

It’s Leliana, again, that asks.

“I-“

She considers, turning her eyes up again after a moment. They’re both looking at her, without moving. There’s interest, as Josie rights her puffy sleeves and Leliana stands there, greaves in one hand. But if she concentrates a little, maybe she can pretend that they’re friends for real. She won’t ask them to stay, she decides, but there’s one thing… So, she sighs and continue.

“Can I ask you both not to call me Inquisitor, when we’re here? Correct me if I’m wrong but it felt more like… Not work, today.” She shrugs. “I know I… Kinda made myself scarce in Haven, particularly with you, Leliana, but… But I would like if we could be friends. And I would like for my friends to call me by my name.”

If she has little to no doubts that Josephine feels the same, Leliana’s the wild card. She just can’t read the woman, as guarded as she is. So, it’s towards the Spymaster that she turns her eyes, bearing her piercing stare and letting her study her without flinching. Some days, she has the impression that the Sister can actually read minds and hearts like Cole seems to be able to.

But eventually, it turns out that this evening there’s just Leliana with them, not any of her other roles or masks. And Leliana smiles and nods, agreeing easily to it. Josephine, paradoxically, seems more suspicious, for once.

“Of course… Aisling, then. We should go, tho, from tomorrow we’ll have some real work to do.”

“Right. Thank you, and sleep well.”

She pats Leliana’s shoulder and hugs Josephine, and when they’re gone, she sighs loudly, plopping down on the couch and looking up at the beams above.

It’s been a very long day, and she has to remind herself that it’s not their fault if they haven’t even asked what do her tattoos mean, tho. She has been particularly closed about everything that’s Dalish, and she kept on praying to Ghilan’nain in secret, in the dead of night when just the guards were up, briefly. It’s not their fault.

Her heart clenches when she caresses the thought that Cassandra would have asked.

But apparently, the day hasn’t finished yet, wanting to drag on and on: as the fire crackling slowly melts to be the only noise around, there’s a loud thud below the window, still opened in spite of the chilly breeze that sweeps in -she hates the cold, but having the glass open leaves the impression that the apartment is less huge and less not-hers.

But anyway, a thud.

She still hasn’t started the treatises on strategy Cullen lent her, but as a second sound follows the first, she’s jumping on her feet and running to the balcony, calling on her magic in the meanwhile -no staff means less control, but a high dragon isn’t a small target to require too much precision to be hit by lightning.

The spell is kept there, ready to be launched, static raising around her and electrifying her hair to stand up, as she reaches the railing on the balcony and looks down to the enemy, to be met…

… With two bruised goats confused on a small step in the middle of the tower she’s into.

---

The next day, there’s work to do for real.

Namely, Aisling was asked to wear her newly built armour -a long coat in bearhide and summerstone pauldrons with the Inquisition eyes on them, that Harrit has managed to pull off in record time. And with that, sit to judge the responsible of the flying battle not-quite-rams.

She steps on the dais nervously, trying to be as straight as she can, chin held up as she approaches the throne up there. Still an old chair upholstered in some faded cloth that surely has seen some better days, but for now it would do. She sits down a little stiffly, minding her posture to be straight, swallowing a little as she turns to see that there’s quite the crowd gathered there. All the important people, studying her behaviour and judgement, and all the inner circle, looking at her with a range of expressions that goes from curiosity, to support, to the slight disappointment of Vivienne, who still looks at her expecting and challenging her.

She sighs, schooling her expression and nodding to Josephine, standing on the dais to her right, to bring the prisoner forward and start this charade.

It’s not so different from what she should have done as a Keeper, after all. Just with more formalities and more at stake, but she trained for this. She repeats it like a mantra. She trained, she’s ready, those on his hood are some big horns, how do they stay up, she trained.

Chief Movran the Under, as she explains Josephine who’s equally trying to school herself and be fully professional. Seeing how the situation is unsettling even for a veteran as Josie relaxes her a little, her shoulders lowering minutely, as Josephine phrase her last question as a hint.

“Where… Should he go?”

She nods to the Ambassador, turning her heat to the Chief and studying him. He looks proud, dignified, not at all intimidated and… Resigned. She bends her head on the side, and as little formal as it may be, she just has to ask.

“Forgive me the question, Chief, but coming from a close-knit community such as I’ve heard yours is, I have to ask. You answer the death of your clan… With a goat?”

He laughs at her, softly, turning his head to look at her and walking forward, so one of his feet is on the first step of the dais. She hears the hissing sound of a sword being unsheathed from its scabbard, soon followed by other three similar sounds, but she just raises a hand to stop them, interested. Movran is chained, and from his relaxed tone, explaining her that it was customary for his culture to answer the death of a son by smacking the culprit’s door with goat blood. He’s not threatening, and bitter about his son.

Considering the question, it was hardly dangerous, but it was an attack nonetheless: excusing the chief briefly would just make for a poor precedent, she knows, but a too harsh punishment for two goats launched…

But then, the man says something that catches her attention, giving her the seed of an idea. Looking at Josephine, she just shrugs and tells her not to look at her. So…

Take your time in these questions, da’len, don’t rush the judgement, nobody would die or turns to life any sooner if you take the time to think about it, if you can.

With the ghost of a smile on her lip, remembering the Keeper’s teaching, she slouches a little on her seat, pointing her elbows on both armrests and pressing the top of her fingers together in front of her chest, feeling more and more sure as seconds tick away, she thinks about it and the Chief does nothing at all save waiting patiently and accepting his fate.

“It seems our conflict was accidental, Chief Movran. But you’ll understand that it can’t be repeated.” She pronounces, voice loud and sure.

“I banish you and your clan, with as many weapons as you can carry…”

She turns her eyes briefly to Dorian, amusement and a mischievous smile on her lips. He’s on the wall on her left, propped on an elbow, arms crossed. When he catches her eyes and sees her, he frowns, but she’s already looking back at the prisoner.

“… To Tevinter.”

Silence falls on the Hall, as she concludes, with a nod of her head and resting her back on the chair, smiling at the chief. And he, looking up at her in disbelief and meeting up with a clever smile, laughs again, with mirth this time, sound booming in the tall room.

“My idiot son got us something after all!”

He keeps on laughing, before the guards take him away under the smiling Inquisitor. Josephine seems pleased, as most of her companions. The Iron Bull looks positively pleased, and Dorian too is snickering behind a hand.

Yes, she thinks.

She can work with this.

Chapter Text

“I am sorry.”

“Don’t mock me, now, Inquisitor.”

“I really am.”

And it’s true. Point is, she’s not lying, not dissimulating, not putting up a face nor being sarcastic about it. The letter has come the morning before, and she has tried to ask Josephine to please, postpone the judgement. But turned out, the schedule was full, it was either postponing that or the trip to the Vandral Hills. She doesn’t enter the room that’s been assigned to the once-Magister, staying on the door and giving him space, as much as she can. This is a long overdued conversation she doesn’t want, but she feels she needs to have. Late as it comes. The man gives her his shoulders, placing both hands on the desk and slumping forward, with a sigh.

“If you’re here because Dorian told you-“

“All he ever told me was to be merciful with you, if I found it in me. I had to fight with my advisors to come here, actually, and I suppose Dorian would have told me not to come as well.”

“Why? You’ve shown your mercy, there’s no need-”

“I wanted to tell you that you’ve been punished enough. You don’t need to be alone… Not now. Dorian’s suffering too. Please, don’t… I can’t say I know how you’re feeling, but I know of losing family somehow. You don’t need to be alone.”

He laughs, mirthlessly, head falling even further down between his shoulders. He didn’t look so old in Redcliffe, and as much as Josephine insisted saying that keeping him to work is a political liability, as much as Cullen insists that he’s dangerous… She can’t but think she took the right decision. That’s not a man that has reasons to be dangerous again. On the contrary.

“I don’t know how much you know of Dalish Keepers… If what Dorian knows holds true, not much, but… I’m here to listen, if you need. I met your son for too short a time, we exchanged letters… I’m sad for his loss as well. I could listen. Or, if you don’t trust me, please look for Dorian. He’s hurting too.”

“He’s angry with me.”

“He’s sad and you share the same loss. Please, I-”

She sighs, stepping back.

“What you did was terrible, yes, there’s no turning around it. But speaking with both Dorian and Felix when… Well, they both love you. That must count as something, I think enough people suffered for this story, it’s time to stop. Dorian doesn’t hate you, not really. Or, I can listen. Without replying or judging, if you need, I-”

A step back towards the corridor, lowering her eyes.

“-Please, don’t let your grief poison you, that’s all I wanted to say. I don’t think you’re evil. Just… Enough people suffered.”

And with that, Aisling, no, the Inquisitor now, turns her back in the corridor, nodding at the guards out there that everything’s fine, she’s unharmed. Not that she really believes she was in any danger from the start, not after the latest batch of news from Tevinter, but she can find some reason in having the man guarded, as both Cullen and Leliana were so adamant in proposing. No more than three steps are made, tho, when the man stops her.

“Inquisitor.”

He doesn’t scream, doesn’t raise his voice. One thing that needs to be said is that in good or bad, Gereon Alexius keeps being dignified. The elf stops, raising a hand to stop the guards from doing anything more than bringing their hands on the hilts of their swords as the former Magister steps out of his door.

“Yes?”

“You’re too kind. It will be exploited, if you’re not more careful.”

This has really been the mantra of the last afternoon, just after she decided to let Alexius stay in Skyhold, guarded, to research magic on behalf of the Inquisition. She smiles, the reply coming ready on her lips. But this time, in an accented Tevene.

“I am aware I must sound like a child. But I believe people are good, deep down. And that everyone deserves a second chance.”

The mage looks at her, barely containing the surprise in his eyes. She doesn’t flinch, she’s used to it by now and it was just to serve as a reminder that she’s not exactly born yesterday, beside making him more at ease. She just hopes Dorian got her speaking to be decent in these months, and that she didn’t choose too basic words.

“Then, I pray you’re right.”

It is as close as a thank you and an apology as she can get, considering also that he switches to Tevene as well, she thinks, but it’s enough for now. He bows his head in respect, and she does the same, turning back and proceeding on her path, not afraid of turnin her back on him. Not a wise choice, but she doesn’t think revenge could really gain him something, now. And indeed, she’s almost at the stairs, not far from the room that’s been assigned to him, when she hears the door closing, echoing through the walls.

And then, on to the next Tevinter.

---

“You make it sound like he was a better person than you…”

“What a mad thing to say!” He replies, with a snort and a smile Aisling by now can see is fake. “Few people are better than I…”.

She gives him a look, not buying the lie for a minute. Whenever Dorian smiles, and smiles for real, his whole face lights up, posture straightening up -does he even notice? It happens when he’s happy or when he has an idea, or when she tells him his idea is actually doable or offers him her help. This time it’s dull and lackluster, just for show. He huffs, nodding once and averting his eyes.

“Very well. A better person, clearly. Not nearly as handsome.”

He admits, and Aisling steps forward, all instincts kicking in to scream he needs the contact, she needs the contact, and making him feel he’s wrong, he’s so wrong and he can’t see it. She’s raising her arms, when he sees something, looking at the corridor on the mezzanine in the library, and steps back abruptly, clearing his throat and crossing his arms on his chest. Still not looking at her.

Raising her eyes, she suddenly understands why. Her back instinctively straightens up, expression schooling as best as she can -as best as Leliana and Josie tried to teach her- as she braces for Madame de Fer, graciously walking towards the stairs as if she had a bull’s eye pointed at her, stealing the scene.

“Madame de Fer.” She greets, her, with the minute bow of her head to show respect.

A perfectly trimmed eyebrow raises up, as the Enchanter studies them both, from up to down. For once, Aisling wishes some of her new wardrobe already arrived: Vivienne has the magic power of making her feel inadequate even in the best situations, and she knows that clothing doesn’t work on her favour, right now. Maybe with a shiny new doublet it’ll be better. Maybe.

“Good morning, darling, how quaint seeing you among books, for once.”

“You must have missed me here every morning, Madame de Fer.”

“Could as well be, darling, I hardly pay attention to wallflowers. But if I may be so bold…”

Aisling bites the inside of her cheek to avoid replying something overly direct and offend her with words too, more than just with her sole presence as she seems to be exceptionally good at. Instead, she nods, signalling her to go on.

“… I would start paying more attention to the company you… Entertain yourself with.” A single glance at Dorian, leaning on the library casually, as he owns the place and paying no mind to the discourse.

“Lord Pavus is an estimated member of Tevinter aristocracy, hardly someone unworthy of the Inquisitor’s time if we want to form some meaningful connections up there. Which may prove useful, if Orlais falls to the current civil war.” She quips back, not as aloof and matter-of-fact as she would like to.

“Coming from a land of sharks doesn’t make him something else than a fish, darling, or more useful than one in a tank full of fishes with teeth. I would be more careful, if I were you, of the chance of nasty rumours going around, gutter roses can’t mask the stench of fish, teethless or not.”

“That’s enough!”

She hisses, blood rushing to her head and her patience reaching its limits, when Dorian places a hand over her upper arm, effectively moving her attention elsewhere and preventing her from speaking further. It’s of no other use than to somewhat calm her down from starting telling Vivienne off, because the Grand Enchanter simply raises her eyebrows and graciously inclines her head minutely to the side, faking surprise.

“My dear Inquisitor, whatever is the issue? We are having a perfectly civil conversation.”

“It’s true.” Chimes in Dorian, with a smile and honey in his voice. “I’ve heard worse from my gardener back home.”

And with that, bowing her head back to both of them, Vivienne walks on, as graceful and poised as ever and, the elf notices with a notch of envy, perfectly balanced on high, thin heels. She waits for the Enchanter to disappear down the stairs, before relaxing a little, exhaling loudly and stepping to rest against one of the bookshelves, arms crossed on her chest.

“Why did you let her speak of you that way? It’s not-”

“It’s her way of giving compliments. If you read between the lines and clean up the Game…”

“If I punched you for your own good, would it be less hurtful?”

“She can’t speak but in punches, seen her own situation.”

“I understand, but it doesn’t mean you should act like her punching ball and be happy about it.”

Dorian nudges her shoulder with his, leaning against the bookshelves just beside her, distant enough not to make it look unproper. It’s a silent thank you and it doesn’t require any more words. Not now, anyway. Or at least, not from him, appearently.

“About what she said, tho-”

She starts, but he huffs and kicks out to step away briskly from the little nook he claimed for himself in the library -and where Aisling reaches him every morning or afternoon, according to the War Council, to study or chat or both things at the same time. A raised hand is the only signal she needs to understand she is not to follow him, not this time; all she’s left with is pouting a little, feeling sorry and watching his back as he stops after some steps.

“There’s some truth in her words, some sharks made it here as well and you’re in no position to ignore court unpleasantness. But thankfully, Felix wasn’t the only decent sort kicking around Thedas.”

He adds, turning to smile at her, the smile still not reaching his eyes. She smiles back, nodding and clenching her hands on her arms to avoid reaching out for the hug she wanted to give him before. It’s there between them, left unsaid and implied, and heavy, sitting on her throat. It’s a moment, a glance, and she kicks away from the library herself, hopping down the stairs as well, with a goodbye.

“Inquisitor” doesn’t sit on her shoulder as heavily and fake as “Herald of Andraste”, doesn’t make her feel like a ruse and a scam. But today, it’s heavy nonetheless.

---

“Are you absolutely sure about that, Inquisitor?”

Josephine asks, with a sigh as she shuffles through the papers on her board, looking for something relevant she doesn’t seem to be finding.

“Yes, Josie. It’s just a small trip, we’ll be back before most people will even realise. We’ll leave before dawn not to catch attention, as we planned, to keep up with the excuse that I’m indisposed. I settled everything with Leliana, but I’ll be in contact constantly, it’s just… Three days, four at worst. Unless there’s something else that requires my immediate attention…”

“No, there isn’t, it’s just…”

It’s not usual for the Ambassador to be shy about something, as she is right now. Which tips Aisling slightly off. The trip to the place indicated by Lord Pavus’ letter, a brief come and go actually, has been planned and approved the week before, they all knew and approved of it, and she managed somehow to settle everything urgent already -working extra hours and staying awake at night to finish reports and instructions and requirements, still. All Josephine had to object has been justifying the absence of the Inquisitor without a full party, but that has been settled with plans B and C and D. So, worried, she leans a little over the Antivan’s desk, propping herself up on her hands and lowering her voice.

“What is it, Josie?”

“There have been… Rumours. What if someone sees you and-”

The elf can’t but groan at that, already knowing where the other’s headed.

“Josie, let them talk.”

“I can’t! It would be detrimental, and-“

“It’s just Dorian! I swear, there is nothing to worry about, we’re not running to get married.”

“It will look like so, now! You’re always with your hands on each other! Comtesse Richelieu heard you were on his lap in the library the other day, and I know you’re-”

“Wait, Josie, stop.”

She interrupts her, gently placing a hand over the other’s, stopping it from flailing wildly in the air. Josephine takes a deep breath, nodding for the other to continue and placing both hands tidily on the leather left bare from letters and spare papers.

“Who told Comtesse Richelieu?” Aisling asks, drily. “Either there’s someone else, or she is doing it on purpose or has really bad eyesight. I was not on his lap, I may have propped a knee on his ankle when we were sitting on the ground, that’s all.”

“I should ask around.”

“Are the rumours more than in Haven?”

“Yes… I can’t contain them anymore.”

“So that’s why Vivienne-” She snorts, pushing herself away from the desk and starts pacing the room in circles, absent-mindedly biting the sew line of the thumb of her right glove.

“Tell me you didn’t-”

The Ambassador pales, looking at the other with horror on her face. Which makes Lavellan laughs, shaking her head in denial and gaining a deep relieved sigh.

“I didn’t do anything. She just… Tried to warn us. Which brings her out of the suspects. I think, or she has some very convoluted way of getting us in trouble which I don’t want to know.”

“It would be out of her interest, as an associate to the Inquisition, we can rule her out. I’ll ask if she knows something. Who’s your suspect, tho?”

The elf keeps on pacing, thinking about it deeply, brow furrowed in thought.

“I haven’t seen many nobles in the library, but I couldn’t exclude them all…”

“Some mage? Someone particularly resentful over what Tevinter did to them in Redcliffe.”

“A very stupid move, but could be, even if he has been helping them settling down, same as me. I’ll ask Fiona about it. Or…”

She stops, raising her head to look out of the window at the golden light of the sunset painting the mountain in blues and oranges.

“This trip was an idea of Mother Giselle. Dorian complained she was too much onto him… And when she asked for my help, she didn’t want me to tell him anything about the reason of this journey, I didn’t think it was weird but-”

There’s another groan, this time from the Antivan who just slumped with her back on the plush seatback of her chair, looking at the ceiling with discomfort.

“Pray she’s not her, she’s all too trusted, it would be hard to prove her wrong...”

“I think we’d better call Leliana on this. For what concerns me, I swear it’s all based upon nothing.”

“I believe you. Whether the rest of the world will, if it slips that you’re travelling alone with a Tevinter Altus…”

“We’ll handle it. I’ll pay more attention to overly open shows of affection if it may help, I’m not stopping studying with him or being his friend.”

“If you just were still overly friendly with Cassandra as well…”

Both freezes at that, Josie snapping a hand over her mouth.

“I’m sorry, Aisling, I didn’t-”

“It’s ok. Really, Josie, don’t look at me like that. It’s nothing.”

“It’s not-”

“Yes, it is. Really, I’m fine.”

The diplomat looks at her, unconvinced, inclining her head on the side and stretching her lips on the side. She doesn’t need to tell her anything else, really, delicately understanding when to stop talking but still making it clear -and Aisling is sure it’s just because they’re on friendly term and because right now it’s Josephine speaking, not Lady Montilyet- that she’s not fooled. Lavellan lets the topic drop, tho: it’s true that she hasn’t spoken with Cassandra if not for business matters, and never alone, in… Well, in a while, and actively avoided the woman. She’s not fine and she’s still licking her wounds, but she really doesn’t want to talk. Not now, at least. She clears her throat, tho, crossing her arms on her chest and approaching the desk again, careful not to make too much noise with her steps.

“So, in the meanwhile that the source of the rumours is cleared… Is there anything we could do to make this friendship more palatable for the public?”

“Beside converting and taking vows in front of a Chantry sister?”

“Come on, Josie, we both renounced to blood magic, human sacrifices and dancing naked under the full moon, you can’t ask that…”

They both laugh, at that, the atmosphere relaxing some. Aisling also pops up and jumps to sit on the border of the desk, in a corner left free of writing tools, candles or parchment, crossing the ankle below the opposite knee.

“I’ll think of something. In the meanwhile, please, be careful on this trip, both of you.”

“We will, thank you Josie.”

---

“How can you like this evil, barbarian way of transport is really beyond me.”

Dorian groans, slipping off his horse pretty ungracefully and struggling to take his foot off the stirrup, long coat rolling around him and getting stuck on the saddle, raising up as his feet reaches the ground and pulling the rest of his attire up. The mage immediately starts to grumble in Tevene, cursing this and that and the dead ancestors of that other, as he scrambles away from the animal and irritatedly fixes his clothes, pouting at the saddle as if it was its fault. Aisling, still on top of her horse, can’t but laugh at the scene.

“They’re faster than carriages, less bumpy and get stuck in mud way less. Remember how much time it took getting the food chart out of that puddle, on the mountains?”

She giggles, turning and smoothly rotating a leg on the butt of the horse to slip herself down of the saddle, landing on the ground with both feet and a bounce in her step, as if she just stopped dancing. Another giggle follows suit, as she turns and finds her friend glaring at her in envy, still in mild disarray.

“You’re a horrible person, and you’re doing that on purpose.”

“Doing what?”

“Hopping and levitating on mega-fauna that could trample you like it’s the most natural thing to do. Is this a Dalish thing?”

“Oh yes, I can totally talk to animals, when I wake up mice and sparrows help me dress, spiders weave silk for my clothes, and back home all the hallas helped me keep the aravel clean while we all sung together merry songs.”

She starts walking, not before she takes the bridles of both horses, her own - still good old Walter, and the mare she chose for Dorian, aka the quietest, gentlest and oldest still good for riding mare the stables had to offer, named Gwinevere. They’re just at the border of a small, inconsequential village in the middle of rolling hills dotted by farms. In the middle of a nowhere covered in a light coat of snow, all trees have lost their leaves and stand bare against a silvery sky full of clouds, and the village itself can be defined as such by pure goodwill and nothing else. It’s just a sparse group of houses all close together along a river, where the most notable findings are a humble Chantry that inside is maybe as big as the War Room in Skyhold, and a tavern which is bigger just because it has an upper floor for rooms. It’s a cold day, and few people are up and about in the streets, all minding their own business and just casting the pair of them some wayward curious glance, but not stopping to question the Dalish elf and the Northener in weird clothes passing by.

As they turn a corner, rounding about a badly fenced courtyard full of cooing hens, the tavern pops up in sight, the wooden sign creaking slightly as the cold breeze makes it wind on the hinges, but freshly painted in bright colours that states the name of the tavern is the Flying Donkey in bright yellow, as yellow is the poor winged equine above the letters, on blue field. It’s little and it’s unassuming, but it looks well-kept and clean, the place clearly mostly untouched by the war or not enough to ask for major reparations. Dorian, tho, stops her with a hand on her upper arm, not clenching but squeezing.

“Are you all right?” She asks, worried.

“And why wouldn’t I be?” He snaps, irritated. “I’m sorry, I- I wanted to check if you’re ready. It’s- It’s too quiet here, it doesn’t bode well.”

She sighs, turning towards him and fussing over his clothes, righting some straps he left in disarray and fixing the cape over his shoulder. He tries to bat her hands away, but she bats his own back, refusing to stop until he gives in and let her do, with a sigh.

“It’s ok. We’ll be in and out in no time, we prepared. Knife?”

“Here.” He pats his right thigh, meaning the boot.

“I have mine there as well. Just in case there’s really an henchmen who can Dispel magic.”

“In case you can use the Anchor, I’m at your back.”

“And if no one can… Dispel the magic, you take the left, I the right, make the biggest, flashiest show and retreat to the door. Ok?”

She continues in Tevene this time, smiling at him as brightly as she can, as she tugs his collar up and pats his shoulders to signal that she’s done. He takes a deep breath, nodding one last time. They’ve been up and about with one, two, three plans according to the situation all the road from Skyhold, bantering back and forth constantly about possible outcomes. They’re as ready as could be.

“Abeamus. ”

He quips, patting her shoulder somewhat awkwardly. She stays close, their shoulders brushing together as they walk the last metres until the tavern. He doesn’t get closer, but he doesn’t walk away either, stopping to keep that fleeting contact even when Aisling stops to tie the horses to the pole. They retrieve their staves from the saddles, a last check that all the rest of their gears -poultices, droughts, a couple of smaller knives hidden in their sleeves -an idea of Leliana- are all in order, and together, they enter.

---

She shouldn’t be there, shouldn’t be assisting, shouldn’t be in the middle of this.

And yet, looking at Dorian, looking at her friend, she’s in the right place at the right time. Maybe for the first time in a while. She follows him with her eyes as he marches to the other end of the inn, cursing under his breath, shoulder raised up till his ears and head lowered. Today’s surprise, who was not an envoy but Magister Halward Pavus himself, steps to follow him, but Aisling is quicker. She steps from the door where she stayed, frozen as father and son got into a heated confrontation, glaring at the older man enough to stop him in place. Maybe he understands, maybe she gained some confidence by facing Kings and other Magisters, but the result is that Halward looks at her and steps back. It’s her who follows Dorian, for once minding to make her step noisy and loud -difficult when you’re barefoot, but still- so he knows she’s approaching.

He's propped himself on a table, and looks away from her, when she flanks him. Aisling raises a hand, wanting to touch him, badly, but has a feeling it wouldn’t do, not right now. This is too raw and personal, and in the end… In the end they really don’t know each other from long enough to be fully comfortable in showing off their deepest secret like that. So, she exhales slowly, as her hand lowers in front of her, fingers closing around the other.

“Don’t leave it like this, Dorian.” She urges him.

“What do-“

“I know. You’ll never forgive yourself if you leave now.”

He turns towards her, grey eyes shiny from emotion and unshed tears and meeting hers. Some words die in her throat, it’s not the right time, but she feels them, deeply, thinking every word. They look at each other for some more, and it’s still another click, another instinctual feeling that they come from wildly different environments, but somehow, they’re both here, there, close together and seeing the other. He’s the first to lower his eyes, nodding weakly. She smiles at him, staying still as he slowly, carefully, unfolds himself and huffs a breath before turning back and facing his father once again.

It's her, barely minutes later, who quietly slips out of the door as he was on the verge of doing more than once, leaving the two some privacy and time on their own to settle things up for good, mouthing a “Be right there” to Dorian as he casts her a last glance that, finally, isn’t desperate.

The fresh air is a balm to her, after she closes the door and turns around. The clouds are getting puffier, and maybe it’s going to snow for real, later. She looks up, feeling her eyes burning a little with tears. It’s been… A lot. Truly a lot. She huffs, rubbing her eyes with both the heels of her hands, before going to the horses.

They’re two of the finest, gentlest horses in the stables, and she’s met with two warm, fuzzy noses sniffing at her, as she gets closer.

“I’m fine, you two…”

She coos at them, offering both her hands for them to snuffle at and scratching their muzzles. It’s delicate, and none of them bumps at her, or is physical how she would need right now. But it’s still better than nothing, she thinks, better than being there with the gut-wrecking feeling that she’ll never have the luxury of such a confrontation. That she is, ultimately, on her own. Rootless, and horribly envious of a fierce quarrel.

“I’m so stupid.”

She muffles, guiltily, placing her forehead against the chestnut one of the mare, one hand raising to scratch her behind her ear and ruffle her white mane a little.

It’s a couple of hours before Dorian gets out of the tavern, and finds Lavellan napping against the wall just out of the tavern’s door, sitting on a stool and propped against the white lime of the outer wall, tucked securely in her cloak and feet well planted on the sittee, nose and cheeks red from the cold.

“Hey, sleeping beauty, wake up…”

He shakes her delicately by her shoulder, meeting her eyes as she bats her lashes as she realises where she is and whom she’s looking at, just awake. Her eyes are red and a little puffy still, making her irises even greener than usual by contrast.

“What time is it?” She asks, groggily.

“Time for you to stop falling asleep in the snow, before your dashing Commander will have my head.”

“Mpf, it was only a nap.”

“I know, it’ll get me some good money on Varric’s poll. Come on.”

There is sarcasm and friendly teasing in the hole he leaves behind, raising up and reaching to fumble with the horse pasturer the elf has put on on both of the animals in the meanwhile. None of them fills the gap, tho, settling to work in silence, fitting in each other’s space automatically and not looking at the hole that’s still there. It’s the hug she didn’t give him in Skyhold nor in the day and a half of travel, it has the shape of Felix, putting them both at ease when they’re both to tired and upset to speak anymore. It’s the two hours that passed since Aisling left the two Pavus alone, and the incognita of the future. It’s the place they fit with each other with the ongoing rumour about them, and the fact that they’re by default unfounded, but by default they can’t be ignored. It’s the small, crucial, little chance one of them just had, and the small, crucial difference it painfully highlighted.

They walk out of the village still in silence, Aisling helping Dorian up cupping her hands without him asking, to offer a step closer to the saddle. He just nods in thanks, she oomphs when he steps on her hands, pushing him up. She mounts second, clicking her tongue to signal both horses to start. As it starts snowing lightly, she slips out her hood, pointing her nose up and breathing deeply.

The path needs to wind up an ill, running on the hilltop and looking out at misty valleys, grey and white all around dotted by black trees and still green conifers, before someone speaks again. And it’s Dorian.

“He says we’re alike. Too much pride.” He explains, words coming out slowly and heavily, and as she turns her head towards him, horses walking side by side, the snow falling too light to really pose a concern to be blocked down, his head is turned towards the hills, looking at everything and at nothing at all. “Once I’d been overjoyed to hear him say that, you know. Now… Now I’m not certain. I don’t know if I can forgive him.”

She knows when he’s faking a laughter, when he’s bitchy and snappy because he’s tired or upset or hungry, when he’s sincerely happy. She has never heard him this down, tho, and it clenches her heart painfully. She has a question on her tongue, about what and how, but it can wait until later. Not now, not here.

“Are you all right?” Is all she can ask, now, delicately.

“No.” He sighs, deeply. “Not really.”

He turns towards her, pulling the reins to bring the horse closer. With little success, and it’s mostly the elf who needs to slower and manoeuvre a little to pull them side by side, as much as it’s possible.

“Thank you for bringing me out here.” He continues, looking at her, finally. “It’s not what I expected but… It’s something. Maker knows what you must think of me now, after that whole display…”

He snorts, the deprecating irony still something to patch the hole that’s still there. But it’s just them, out there, no one around to see them or mind two random travellers on the road. So, she can stretch a hand, making grabby motion to beckon him on. He huffs, shaking his head but still grabbing her hand, a little unsurely.

“I think you have a huge heart that you don’t get yourself credit for, and that you’re very brave.” She replies, squeezing his fingers to underline it.

“Brave?”

“It’s not easy to abandon tradition and to walk your own path, is it.”

A pause, he doesn’t reply, just motions to let go of her hand, but she doesn’t follow it, still letting them hang between them. It’s not so comfortable, on horseback, but she cares little, leaning a little on the side against him, as much as she can without Walter mistaking it for a command. Luckily the fourier isn’t the brightest of horses, or the more attuned with her, and doesn’t veer.

“I wouldn’t have made it, in your place, and… I’m sorry, about before.”

“What for?”

“I didn’t push you to do anything you didn’t want, did I?”

“You horrible person, push me to do what?”

“To bridge a gap you maybe didn’t want to cross. I… I never wanted to know my mother’s name.”

There’s another pause, and Aisling is the one, now, to look away, words coming out of her mouth automatically.

“It’s not to… Take the attention away, I swear, it’s just…” She huffs, shrugging her shoulders. “Some Dalish clans don’t accept more than three mages. The Keeper, the First and the Second apprentices. If another child shows magic, they’re either adopted by other clans, or… or left in the woods. That what happened to Minaeve, she was lucky to be found and brought to a Circle. I was luckier, the Lavellans had just a First apprentice, and I was adopted by them. I didn’t speak for two months, when I realised that my mother didn’t follow me. Sometimes parents cross the clans as well, but mines… Didn’t.”

It's Dorian’s turn to squeeze her fingers, and she cracks a smile, squeezing back at the gesture.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore. But… I don’t know, I think it must count as something that your father came all the way down here to see you. That he actually looked for you and tried to fix it. But I hope I didn’t push you, did I? Maybe you didn’t want to, and that’s-“

“How do you- What- Can you maneuvre the mega-fauna some more??” He grumbles, now tugging at her hand and flapping the reins about, frowning at the horse.

Aisling giggles, asking what he wants to do, and devising a plan that just makes him fumble with uneasiness and worry, as she slips her feet away from the stirrups and carefully, cooing at the horses, steps from one to the other to sit in front of the Tevinter, with both her legs dangling on the side of poor, good Gwinevere and snaking her arms around Dorian’s torso. He grumbles a little that this seems like a much dangerous situation and they’re both gonna break their necks in a very stupid death, but as she squeezes him, laughing and promising him some riding lessons, he hugs her back, holding tight. It’s long overdued and none of them let go, settling against the other more comfortably: it’s just them, out there, no one’s rushing them over, no one’s watching or spreading rumours, they can just be, and fill the hole of before together.

“It’s ok. You’re not alone, you know?” She whispers, rubbing circles on his back as she feels him shivering.

He snorts, and hugs her tighter nevertheless, shaking his head a little -his moustaches tickle her cheek, making her giggle again.

“Look at you, already catching on the road of perdition of Dalish scandalous nonchalance about physical contact…” She teases, just to lighten the mood a little, but far from letting him go. Oh, she has needed a hug herself since she woke up on the mountain, cold as hell, under her weight in pelts, and with a dislocated shoulder she was forbidden to move, and she’s not letting go before he does.

“It’s definitely all your fault, you see, your mushiness is contagious. Mother was never a hugger either...” It’s self-derogatory again, but this time there’s no Vivienne to shoo her away, nor distance or holes that need to be filled.

“Mh, lucky I’m here to give all the hugs you’re owed, then…”

“Lucky indeed…”

They stay there for some more, the horses deciding to stop on their own, the snow giving them privacy and silence. It’s been the week, and none is really in a hurry to get back and put up masks again. But just for here, and now, they can let everything go and just breathe and exist. For once, it’s not Aisling the first to start crying.

When they get back to Skyhold, the next day, late at night enough so there’s no one but Cullen, Josephine and Leliana greeting them at the portcullis, both with runny noses and sneezing and a good old cold, they’re hand in hand and smiling. And if it’s Mother Giselle the one that put up some nasty rumours about them, or if Josephine has decided that they could learn Orlesian and start practicing etiquette and dancing proper for Halamshiral for now, it’s not a pressing concern: they just announce that the best way to heal from a cold isn’t magic, but mulled wine, and make their way to the Herald’s Rest, giggling like children at the idea of an ice-cream. The masks can be put on again the next day.

Chapter Text

“So there were… Two of you.

She asked, awkwardly trying to decide what to do with her arms. What does one do with her arms when talking, she suddenly wonders. In doubt, and feeling particularly clumsy, she settles for tidily crossing her hands behind her back, fingers twining together as she clenches and unclench the hands. And leaning her left arm against the balaustrade, in careful steps without taking her eyes away from the other woman, to fake some nonchalance she doesn’t really have.

“Yes. Which version did you read? The one with me or my brother? Which of the twins stayed alive?”

“I- There were you and Bethany. I thought of her when Cullen mentioned the Mage Hawke sibling…”

“Yeah, that’s one of the odd number editions. The even ones have Garrett, he agreed that this was a fun thing to do and- Wait. WAIT.”

Hawke -Raina Hawke, the eldest sibling of not three but four, as the day has brought on- kicked herself off the balaustrade, looking at Lavellan with a mischievous glint in her blue eyes. Aisling, worried and a little intimidated, took a step back. Too slowly, tho: two strong hands fell on her shoulders, blocking her in place. The woman surely was tall and buff, Aisling thought, which made a stark contrast with the impish, gleeful expression on her face.

“Did you say- Curly is here?!”

“Uuuuh-”

She suddenly was very self-conscious and thought she overstepped. At this point, she didn’t really know what was true and not in the book, which was stupid of her seeing how Varric has always been very clear about being all up for extravagant lies. But something on her face must have shown, because the Rogue’s smile just grew on her face -small laugh lines forming under her intelligent eyes, she noticed- and she patted the elf’s shoulders enthusiastically.

“Oh, that’s GOOD news, it’ll be fun seeing how he’s faring with a mage as his boss, now! No offense.”

“None taken…”

“We must organise a party! Oh, damn, yes, a big party in Kirkwall style, with drinks and little hats, a shitton of beer and sandwiches. We’ll play Wicked Grace -do you know how to play Wicked Grace? We’ll teach you, no problem, you’ll do great, just don’t bet against Varric– Come on.” She says, taking Aisling by the wrist and basically dragging her up the stairs and on the battlement again, looking left and right for a direction. “I updated you on everything, now enough with the grim stuff. Let me change into something less spiky, let’s find my brother and get something to drink. I need the drink.”

It was all too clear why exactly this woman took a whole city in seven years’ time with none the wiser. Beside the moment of starstruck-ness when Varric brought her up on that balcony just to find the Champion of Kirkwall in full armour, sneaked in the fortress Creators knows how, she just had an attitude that you couldn’t say no to. Said Champion -one of the two in the hold, apparently- dragged the Inquisitor on the battlements, half running up the stairs, and all but stopping to ask the latter where was “Curly’s den”. Aisling tried to propose going elsewhere before, but to no avail: the woman just marched in the right direction with a spring in her steps, shortly cropped black hair gently swaying in the breeze and, as the elf could look at the other without being seen, a deep frow between her eyebrows, even if she was still smiling.

They exited the last tower before Cullen’s, at the same time as the Commander exited his, scrolling between reports and giving orders to a couple of scouts trailing after him. There’s a moment of perfect stillness on the girls’ part, before Raina breaks the silence.

“There he is!”

From Hawke at her right, and Cullen looks up, freezing in place and paling -no, he’s too pale, he has more bags under his eyes and- has something happened?- as he sees the woman. He moves his eyes from Hawke to Aisling, and back, without doing anything. The elf mouths him an apology, silently, as Hawke, unphased, go on.

“Curly! It’s been ages, it’s so good to see-”

She can’t finish, before a scout runs out of the tower they just exited from and, panting loudly and all flustered, stops beside Lavellan.

“I-Inquisitor!”

“What is it? Breathe… Jim, isn’t it?”

“Y-yes, your worship, I- Seeker Pentaghast…”

“What happened?”

“She’s with Master Tethras, the voices were loud…”

He doesn’t need to finish before all the dots get connected. Aisling curses under her breath, placing both hands on Jim’s upper arms to bring him to look at her face.

“Where are they?”

“Smithy- She saw Sir Hawk-“

Jim stops, gawking at Raina behind the Inquisitor’s back and blinking twice at her, mouth fully open.

“There’s another?”

“No, I shape-shifted into a prettier girl.” The Champion replies, grinning.

“Shit. Yes, Jim, there’s two. Sit down and drink some water, don’t run up the stairs with your armour on again.” She beckons, patting the poor scout’s shoulder and taking a step back.

“I’m sorry, I’ll let you catch up, I- I need to go.”

And with that, she sprints right back, opening the door with a bump of her shoulder and running whence she came.

---

The mezzanine over the smithy is way hotter than outside, and the scene that’s taking place in it doesn’t help making it any fresher. The dim light of a couple of candles and of a window that at this time of day doesn’t really receive much sunlight bathes the interiors in dim hues, making it intimate. An intimacy that, truth to be told, Aisling can’t wait to run away from. Morale of the story, she entered the smithy and climbed the stairs taking the steps two by two, just to find Cassandra and Varric physically fighting and shouting at each other – or well, Cassandra trying to fight and Varric sneaking away from punches and shoves. She stepped in and had to remind a very angry Seeker -she only saw her so angry after the Conclave, and she had handcuffs on- that Varric earned his place there, confutating irate accusations and trying desperately to deescalate the situation.

As the dwarf left the building, a heavy silence fell among the two. They haven’t been alone in weeks, never spoken without anyone else present of something that wasn’t a brief exchange of informations in corridors and courtyards about strictly-related business. Aisling swallows heavily, looking at the back of the woman sitting, heavily leaning with her elbows on a table, and not knowing exactly what to do. A part of her screams to just excuse herself and run, she did more than enough. The other…

She steps carefully, measuring her movements to make the fewer noises possible on the creaky planks of the floor, and stops to turn a handle and open the windows panes, letting some much needed fresh air in. And then, equally slowly, reaches the table Cassandra is sitting at, slipping on the chair in front of her and bending forward slightly to look at the other in the eyes.

“I… I believed him. He spun his story for me and I swallowed it.” Cassandra explains, voice cracking from emotion. “If I’d just explained what was at stake… If I’d just made him understand…”

The Seeker kicks out the chair, raising up from the table and pacing the room. Aisling, staying on her chair and not saying anything, tries to ignore her heart still clenching when she realises that she’s never heard Cassandra speaking her with her heart so open. Not even once, and she believed…

“But I didn’t, did I? I didn’t explain why we needed Hawke. Or any of the two, apparently. I’m such a fool.”

Another time, she tries to ignore the sudden feeling of inadequacy, the little voice in her head telling her that it shouldn’t be her, right now, right there, being called Inquisitor. She swallows, blinking back as the Seeker falls back sat on the opposite chair, head again lowered down, dismissive.

“What if you hadn’t believed him?” She manages to ask, weighing words and relying on what she’s good at. Making questions, inquiring. She can still do that. “What if you hadn’t believed him, and you’d tracked Hawke down?”

“Honestly?” Cassandra snorts, finally looking up at her and squinting a little. “Both of them may not even have agreed to become Inquisitor. They both supported the mages, they wouldn’t have trusted me for a second. I should have been smarter, nonetheless. It’s not about Varric, or Hawke, it’s about… I don’t deserve to be here.”

“You’re too hard on yourself, Cassandra.”

“Not hard enough, I think.”

“You can’t really believe that…”

The conversation stalls for a minute, and it’s Aisling’s turn to lower her gaze, suddenly uneasy in her skin. Faint beats of a hammer on an anvil raises up from the floor below, and yet the silence is deep and thick. She’s startled, a little, when Cassandra’s hand suddenly and awkwardly falls on her arm on the table, long gloved fingers wrapping around her wrist.

“I want you to know I have no regrets.” She tells her, matter-of-factly.

The contact is soon retrieved, with a clear of throat, before the Seeker continues.

“Maybe if we found Hawke, or the Hero of Ferelden, the Maker wouldn’t have needed to send you.”

And with that, she just nods at whatever the Nevarran follows, heartbreak coming back in stride as she fights the bitter feeling of being the second - no, third choice. More than what one would hope for. It’s hardly a consolation if you’re struggling to keep up and doing stuff nobody prepared you for, and suddenly you’re in direct confront with not one big hero, but his brother and your teenage year idol as well, just for good measure. She pats Cassandra’s shoulder awkwardly, with a smile she forces up and another greeting that she hopes is uplifting but can’t really put a mind to, and exits the building, steps heavy and the acrid taste of bile in her mouth.

Maybe she just needs to steps down and leave the title to Hawke. Any Hawke would do, at this point, it’s not like the chair she’s occupying was ever meant for her.

---

“I keep hoping none of this is real. Maybe it’s all some bullshit from the Fade, and it’ll just disappear.”

Varric is considerably easier to talk to. He’s not awkward in his phrasing, each word coming out carefully chosen and polished, as a good storyteller, and he’s careful of his audience. She’s careful too, hence why they’re both sitting cross legged before the fire, exchanging some beignets she coaxed the cook in giving her, before going to check on him. They’re on the floor, because it’s a “on the floor” kind of situation, the table he favours to write acting like a shield to hide them from unwanted attention. Or from some of it, at least.

“Do you think that if I concentrate hard enough, I can make it all back to normal?” She asks, wiggling the fingers on her left hand to highlight her meaning. “Because I would be willing to try, right now…”

“What’s the worst that could happen? Chuckles frowning at you? There’s already an undead Magister plaguing the land…” He snickers, under his breath, all the same snatching a pastry from the plate she left on the floor, between them.

“Indeed, things can hardly go worse, right…”

“They’re not so bad, come on…”

He picks another beignet and stretches his arm to pass it to her, waving it a little over her left hand resting on her knee, until she flips it and opens her palm to accommodate the sweet, smiling at the gesture.

“Speaking of which…”

“Mh?”

“Different editions, different Hawkes? Seriously?”

She giggles, popping the pastry in her mouth, whole, and munching on it. She’s just teasing and it’s pretty evident, but Varric huffs dramatically nonetheless. As the corners of his mouth quirks upward, tho, she can for once spot the lie.

“Seriously, I took their privacy in deep consideration, you see.”

“Of course.”

“And it worked so well that Cassandra was sure Garrett was the only one around and Bethany died.”

“My version had Carver dying, what happened to him?”

“He came along to the Deep Roads and became a Grey Warden.”

“Oh, that’s why they’re so involved with them?”

“Exactly. That’s also why the Seeker was so confused, some rumours got very mixed up. A pretty effective move, in hindsight, it’s good she never found them...”

That’s another sting, for Aisling. She bends her knees, hugging the legs and resting her chin on top, looking at the fire, without saying nothing. Rationally, she can understand everything, but other than that…

“Can I ask you something, Varric? You have to be sincere tho.”

He considers it a minute, as she absentmindedly unfolds her left and stares at her palm, considering the pale scar in the middle, now at rest and barely glowing in green.

“Go on, your inquisitorialness.”

“Why are you here with me? Two of your best friends are in the Keep and you’re sitting here with me eating pastries…”

There’s another question she’d like to ask him, that sits heavily on her throat and weighs her down since the smithy, but she can’t ask that. It would be unfair, and she recognises it’s just stress and fear forming it, right now. So instead, she turns it around, bending the words and asking something parallel, but not quite so unfair to ask Varric of all people. He raises an eyebrow, considering her for a minute before huffing as he slids a little down, resting his back on the leg of a chair.

“You’re not bad either, Lucky, don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“I’m not Hawke.”

“No, you’re not.”

“So why-”

“Because I needed time to think as well, and… I love the Hawkes. But hot damn, they’re the worst people to have around when you need time to think. You met Raina, no? She just can’t sit still one minute in a row. Garrett won’t stop talking and making terrible jokes. You’re calming and a good listener. Heck, you made friends with Curly, and you’re an apostate…”

“He’s not so-”

“He is. Do you know that most recruits are scared shitless of him?”

“That’s because-”

“Stop selling yourself short, Lucky. You’re a good person and we’re friends, you just defended me against an angry Seeker, I’m a liar and I cheat at Wicked Grace and I get that you don’t trust me, but I do appreciate your company, I’m not staying here with you because you’re second best, nor I took pity of you when you entered here looking like Cassandra just made you swallow a frog.”

At that, she moves her head slightly, to peek at him with one eye, a smile creeping up on her face.

“What is it?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I do trust you, you know?”

“Well, you shouldn’t.”

“Are you sorry I don’t have siblings you can write two books about?”

That makes him laugh, hard and loud, tossing his head upward and patting her shoulder another time, heavily. She snickers, following through. The real question, the cruel one she kept inside, gets forgotten for a minute.

“Believe me, Lucky, there’s enough weird shit to make the truth pretty unbelievable as it is, you’re very safe.”

---

The sun is setting, when she knocks on the door, balancing a small basket on her hip with the other arm, fingers splayed one the straw bottom, careful to keep it as straight as possible. The air is also getting chilly, even if the stones of the bridge are still warm from the sun of the afternoon, under her toes. Who know if in summer the weather spell will hold on and keep Skyhold in a perpetual autumn or no.

Luckily for her, her musings are interrupted pretty soon, and also her permanence outside, as a voice from inside asks her to enter. She huffs and pushes on the knocker, peeking her head in first without entering fully. Behind the desk, the Commander is still bent on a report, but Captain Rylen’s, standing beside the other man, raises his eyes to look at her, not doing anything beside greeting her with a smile and a glint in his eyes.

“I’m alone and I come in peace.” She declares, smiling shily.

“Inquisitor!”

Cullen startles up, kicking the chair he was sitting onto back with a loud dragging noise that fills the whole room and makes the three grimace. He turns to glare at the offending furniture, as he replies.

“I’m sorry, I thought it was another messenger…”

“Is it a bad moment?”

“I- No, no, please come in…”

“What the Commander means is that he’s happy to see you. Good evening, Inquisitor.”

“Good evening, Captain.”

As Cullen glares at Rylen, she smiles, decides not to question any further and pushes the door more open, slipping inside as soon as there’s enough space to do so. Closing the heavy wooden door behind her, she takes a moment to assess her surroundings. A ladder, a small, run-down couch filled with two boxes of books and paperworks that needs to be sorted in the bookshelves in the opposite corner, a big desk, a chair and a training dummy. Nothing more, as of yet. And as she thought, the table’s just full of papers, writing materials and a solitary tankard perched upon a pile of reports, in a corner, a big book opened in the other. There are but few candles around, enough to illuminate the writing space, but casting everything else in a dim shadow, as the sunset’s just not light enough to send enough light through the loopholes in the walls.

“I’m sorry, it’ll just take one minute… I was on my way to the tavern, I thought I’d stop by to bring you some dinner, if you don’t mind. I’m sorry, Captain, I would have brought some for you as well if I had known… Can I send something up?”

She explains, stopping in front of the desk and searching a good spot to place her cargo on a plane which doesn’t really seem to be showing much of the wood that makes it. It doesn’t take much for both the others to understand the clue and start making space, collecting parchments and piling them up to clear a spot. She smiles, huffing in a silent thank you before placing the basket down, filled with some plates covered in waxpaper, a corked bottle and a couple of loose apples, patting her hands together with a satisfied air.

“You’re too kind, Inquisitor. I was just here to convince the Commander to join me for dinner. Heard there’s a party in the tavern…”

“Serrah Hawke organised something, I was just heading there…”

Two pairs of eyes now turn on Cullen, expectantly, but he just huffs and frowns, shaking his head and gesturing at the vast expanse of missives in front of him.

“I have too much work to do, I’m sorry but I can’t come.”

“Come on, Cullen, a couple of hours won’t see the Fortress falling into dust, I’m sure.”

“It’s urgent, Rylen.”

“It is not, it’s just a break.”

“I am not changing my mind.”

There’s really something weird about Cullen today, Aisling muses. It’s not the way he put up a resistance to anything that’s not strictly related to work – it’s the way he tenses and replies in irritable snaps, it’s the way his voice raises up slightly and fixes his gaze down on the table, where his hands are resting, closed in fists. Years of training under a Healer kick in, and, suspicious, as she takes him in and notices that it wasn’t an impression today, he does look more tired than usual. So up close, she can see his eyebags are darker and more accentuated than usual, and his hands are trembling slightly? She frowns a little, catching up and interrupting the conversation.

“Actually, I just met Leliana and she told me she received a pretty urgent report that will require immediate attention and possibly an unplanned evening War Council. Some news about a possible Venatori presence in the Emerald Graves, I believe.” She explains, turning to Rylen with a sorry smile.

“The Emerald Graves?”

“Yes, it’s just a rumour, but it could confirm their collaboration with the Red Templars, the Spymaster is deciphering the message. I will just be able to make an apparition to greet our guests myself, I would skip it as well if I could.”

Rylen looks at her squinting his eyes, clearly not sure whether to believe her or not. Feeling very much under exam and a little uneasy under the piercing glare of a Templar, as easy-going as the Captain has been in Haven and until now, always ready to help her during drills, she instinctively straightens her spine and keeps smiling, polite but keeping her place and her ground and refusing to look down. In the end, Rylen just huffs, shaking his head and raising hands as an admission of defeat.

“Ok, ok, I’ll pretend I believe you.”

“It’s true.”

“Sure. Come on, Lady Inquisitor, on to your courtesy visit.”

He circles the desk, offering his folded arms to her. She giggles at that, swatting it away and protesting she’s not a Lady and turning to Cullen for a moment.

“See you later, Commander… Please eat, it’s gonna be a long Council.”

She recommends, casting him a knowing look and frowning when he, in all response, turns away his head, not looking at her.

“Thank you, Inquisitor.”

Before she can turn and invent some other excuses, tho, Rylen manages to snake his arms in hers for real, taking advantage of being taller and stronger to effectively drag her away.

“Bye, grumpy cat, remember to sleep!”

He greets Cullen, jokingly, as he manoeuvres himself and the elf out of the door and into the ramparts. The sun is now completely set, painting the clouds in pink and the sky in lilacs and purples as they run into blue over their heads, as they make their way on the battlements, arm in arm. They’re out of one guard tower and are turning down the stairs, and they’re alone, when Aisling asks.

“Is he all right?”

“He is.”

She keeps her voice down, turning to look at the man. They’re alone, the party in the Tavern below attracting everyone who’s not on duty effective enough to make their conversation as private as it can be. She tugs at his elbow, forcing him to stop and turn to her.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“Why are you asking me and not him?”

“Because he has the ‘I’m closing myself up in a spiky ball like a hedgehog’ face. Had the same one in Haven the first time I brought him lunch. I won’t ask him because I know he’ll be too polite to tell me it’s a problem, if it is. So, is there some Chantry rule I’m breaking and bringing food to a Templar is offensive, did he mind that I wasn’t able to stop Hawke from looking for him? Or… I don’t know, you’re friends, maybe he talked to you.”

She stops rambling, turning her face down with a frown that would very well rival the one of the person they’re speaking of. Truth to be told, she didn’t like the trembling and the expression he had today, and now that she thinks of it, he was particularly compliant during the latest War Councils…

“You did nothing wrong, Lavellan, believe me.”

Rylen stops her from overthinking, patting her shoulders with both hands, effective in making her snap out of her own mind and returning to look at him.

“He’s just stressed, don’t worry about it. Bringing food was not prohibited in Circles, just… It didn’t happen so often that mages offered food to Templars. Believe me, he’s appreciative. He’s gonna be fine.”

Gonna be. Not present anymore. She frowns, still worried, but nods and thank him anyway, earning a smile back and a urge on, with a very enthusiastic tale of parties Kirkwall-style and how great it’s gonna be. And when they enter the Tavern, there’s really no time to think of much else which isn’t not one but TWO Hawkes there, urging the crowd to raise their glass at her with a shout as soon as she steps in.

There’s a quick run for names as Raina snatches her arm from Rylen and drags her to meet her brother, Garrett. Who’s even taller and bulkier, has eyes of the same piercing blue of his sister that sparkles and laugh lines around them and hidden in a thick black beard. When he shakes her hand, it’s over enthusiastic, which is a stark contrast with the silent, broody elf with white hair that stands beside him and eyes her suspiciously.

“Don’t mind Fenris, he’ll be better after the second drink. It’s such a pleasure to meet you, you must be Lucky!”

“Likewise, and it’s Aisling, actually. It was such a surprise to know that there’s two Champions!”

“Nah, the Champion’s my sister, I just swung a staff and made some magic. So, you know me because Raina told you about me, or because you read the better Tale of the Champion?

“Your sister, I’m afraid.”

He looks at her with a shit-eating grin, expectingly. Fenris, on the side, sighs a resigned “Garrett, no.” which gets promptly ignored, as the man replies.

“Hello Afraid, I’m Garrett.”

She freezes on the spot, looking at him with her mouth open, unsure whether to laugh or cry. Fenris groans loudly, and Raina pops in just to swat at her brother on the back of his head.

“Give her ten minutes before pestering her with your awful humour!”

“Ouch… I was being friendly!” He complains, rubbing his head. “Fen, tell her I was being friendly!”

“Hawke’s right, the ten minutes weren’t over.”

Brought out of the stupor of finding them so down-to-earth, she starts laughing, covering her mouth with one hand. Garrett just glows.

“See? She finds it funny! I knew she was a good one. Come on, Lucky, let’s get you some beer, first is on me!”

He circles her shoulders with one big arm, moving her around with ease as she lets him. Fenris and Hawke just shares a knowing look, shaking their heads.

“Mages!”

They comment, in a chorus, before the mages in questions opens up a path for them all to reach the counter.

---

It’s considerably late at night and his eyes are starting to burn and itch unpleasantly, and there’s not one single way of sitting that isn’t deeply uncomfortable and doesn’t ache some way or the other. He supposes it’s not so weird, given how ill at ease he is in his own skin since yesterday -sleeping so little didn’t help. So, he just shifts again on his seat and rubs his eyes with more force, counting his breath for a parvence of calm.

He didn’t need BOTH Hawkes in the Keep to his list of worries and things to do. He really didn’t.

Trying to concentrate over the words on the reports he’s holding up right now is little to no use: between tired eyes and his hands that just won’t stop trembling, he just finds it difficult to make sense of the words he’s reading. Knowing it will be to no use, he just groans loudly, putting the parchment down with the others and slouching a little down on his seat, stretching both legs before him.

As he assesses his surroundings and considers how much work he can do in the early morning if he just raises an hour early, Aisling’s basket catches his attention, unpleasantly. She has been incredibly busy in the latest weeks, between guiding them there and getting into her new role. She stopped taking parts of drills for more than twice a week, always came there running and couldn’t stop afterwards, and she has just not had time to bring him lunch again. And when she finally did, he was-

Cullen really, REALLY didn’t need two Hawkes in the Keep. They would talk with her, they would tell her tales that aren’t as made up and sugar-coated as the Tale of the Champion surely is, and-

He presses the heels of his hands in his eye sockets, gritting his teeth and stubbornly ignoring the stab of pain in his lower back from the position he’s currently in. He will endure, he can, he can, he should-

A knock on the door startles him again, making him jump on his seat.

He blinks quickly, once and twice, giving time to whomever is outside to call on him again.

“Come on, Cullen, I know you’re still in there.”

“C-come in.”

He urges, straightening himself and resting on the desk. Rylen enters and gave him another one of his looks, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh look, you’re not at another mysterious War Council, who would have tought…” He teases, grinning impishly at him.

“Rylen, please.”

“I’m just saying that it was very sweet of her.”

“What is it?”

“And you didn’t even-”

“What is it?”

He massages his temples, in a silent beg for him to cut it short and get to the point. It’s the wrong evening. Or night, or whatever part of the day it is, and he just doesn’t want to explain that he did appreciate the gesture, but he really doesn’t think he can eat without being sick, right now. Rylen -bless him, for all his teasing sometimes just gets it- leaves him a minute, before continuing.

“It’s midnight. Either you go to bed and get some rest, or you come with me. Get some distraction.”

“It’s not-”

“You look terrible and behave worse, you didn’t eat and refuse to sleep. It’s not gonna get better if you don’t do anything.”

“There’s not anything to be done.” He yells, slamming a fist sidewise against the table in frustration.

“A break and some relax would be a start.” Rylen goes on, totally unphased.

“Not in a tavern, with both Hawkes there.”

The Captain walks closer to the desk, and Cullen hates to see the worry on his face, still evident in the pale candlelight.

“They’re behaving, and happily tipsy. Last time I saw her, Hawke was dancing on a table with the Inquisitor, Garrett heard of the purple Elfroot and was trying to turn the beer blue. The most that has been asked was about Merrill.”

“That doesn’t mean-”

“Lavellan asked me if you’re ok.”

He freezes, shoulders contracting and panic rising.

“I told her that you’re just stressed and not to mind it. But I’m not covering you forever. You try and do something to keep you up, or you’re telling her you quitted Lyrium and what does it mean.”

He’s clear, matter-of-factly as if he was just explaining a basic shield bash to a recruit, the same tone he heard him used many times in the training field. Rylen’s always patient and laid-back, which is good, and doesn’t make him feel more cornered than he already does. He blinks a couple of times, taking a deep breath.

“I stay on the upper floor, and you don’t tell anyone I’m there.”

“Fine enough, life of the party. Let’s go.”

The tavern is too crowded and too warm, and even in the upmost story the laughters and music and loud chats fill the air, not so muffled from the distance. A loud raspy acute and a laughter tells him that Hawke, down there, is singing, and as soon as it ends, there’s more people laughing boisterously and clapping, somebody whistles loudly making the Commander cringe at it. At least it’s not so illuminated, up there. Even so, Cullen doesn’t really want to be there. The fresh air helped some, but the closed space is hardly relaxing. He tries to grumble that he doesn’t want to be there, but Rylen just grabs his elbow and drags him on, grumbling right back.

They don’t make it so far, tho, before noticing a group of figures cramped in a corner, sitting down on the floor and conversing, but the revelry is too loud below to really listen. He doesn’t need the voices to recognise the Inquisitor, the spirit boy -Cole-, and Garrett Hawke.

Before he can groan and rush down the stairs, tho, the traitor of what he considered his friend saw them as well and beckons them.

“Look, three fugitives.”

The two mages turn around, looking at them both and abruptly stopping their conversation, as the Captain strides towards them and Cole peeks up between the shoulders of his two companions and, instantly, fixes his watery gaze -all to keen- on Cullen.

“Hurt. Fear. There’s two mirrors in front of him, but looking into either hurts mo-”

“Cole, what did we say?”

Aisling stops him, turning back to him and offering both hands, palms upward, to the lanky boy, who instantly blushes and lowers his head, so much so that his hat covers his face entirely, muttering as he places his hands on the one of the Inquisitor.

“S-sorry.”

“Don’t worry. But ask first, ok?”

“Ok.”

“I’m sorry, we’re working on it, but it’s a little difficult. Too many people together confuse him a little, I guess.”

The elf apologizes with a smile to the two Templars, squeezing the hands on hers as it was the most natural things on earth -she always makes touching seem natural, and yet she never touches him. Garrett doesn’t even look, too intent in gawking at Cole, eyes big in wonder.

“That’s really exceptional, was it all from one person or just glimpses of thoughts taken randomly in the chaos?”

He scratches his beard, bending his head on the side, evidently interested. Aisling just ignores him.

“It was getting too rowdy down below, I came to check on Cole and take a pause, Garrett wanted to meet him. How are you both? Work’s done, Commander?” She asks, fixing her gaze on him with contracted eyelids, studying him thoroughly.

“Wait- Commander? Curly!” Garrett turns, abruptly, smiling widely.

“Hawke. Work is still there waiting for me, the Captain insisted.”

“Aaaw, come on, Curly, Hawke’s my sister. Just Garrett, how long has it been??”

“We were just going, actually. Inquisitor, Hawke…”

He nods, politely, going for the stairs and walking down as fast as he can, ignoring Rylen’s complaints -which are the only one, actually. It’s a bad day, and he’s not adding fuel to it with any former Kirkwall dweller and Aisling to listen. Hopefully Raina will be too drunk to notice him by now -and judging from the fact that she seems to be singing down below she is- if he stays in the middle level.

After Cullen leaves, almost running down the stairs heavily, silence falls on the four left in the uppermost floor. Aisling just frowns at the head of the Commander as it disappears down the stairs and then covered by the floor, squeezing back Cole’s hands as he does with hers, in response.

“I’m sorry, he’s in a particularly sour mood today.” Rylen sighs, leaning against the wall, close to them.

“Is he ever of good humour? I don’t think I ever saw him laugh, in Kirkwall…”

“Mh. I hope he’ll get better after some beer. I’ll see to it.” He kicks up, turning to Aisling with a frown. “And you.”

He adds, touching her hip with the point of a boot, enough to have her snap out of her thoughts and turn abruptly to him, with a question on her face.

“You’d better get down and get seen, you’d want a good excuse to skip that very important, much real evening War Council.”

“Snitches get stitches, Captain.” She sticks out her tongue at him.

“Likewise. Have a nice evening, Lavellan. Garrett.” He greets them, hopping down the stairs as well and leaving the Mages on their on.

Aisling just huffs, turning on Cole. He’s still pale -well, paler- and curled on himself, shoulder sagging forward and less composed than usual. Which is saying a lot. She bends a little forward, to look at him in the eyes, under his big hat.

“You did good, Cole. Very good.”

“It’s easy when there’s a lot of people. So many feelings, it’s easier to get lost on everything and anything.”

“It’s really unbelievable. Cole, can I write a friend about you? She’d love to meet you.” Garrett asks, jovially.

“Does she need help?”

“Who doesn’t! But no, I think she would just be fascinated to talk with you. She likes Spirits, and you seem the kind of Spirit who would like her. She’s kind of a helper too.”

He goes on, telling Cole about Merrill in anecdotes and impressions, talking quietly but never really stopping. Aisling listens as well, instinctively getting more comfortable as the man gesticulates to underline particularly important passages and yes, even laughing at some jokes that are indeed cold as the snow – just because he’s a tid-bit too expressive and looks like he really finds his own jokes the funniest around. The booze dwindles off and her head stops feeling lighter than usual after the double pint of dark beer she drank -and comment as being worse than her own clan’s, causing hilarity amongst what’s there of the Kirkwall crew, because apparently Merrill said the same thing on her first visit at the Hanged Man. As the alcohol gets out, tho, she has to ask.

“Do you think he could have helped Anders? Is that why you were so interested?”

He stops abruptly, frowning heavily. Cole takes a breath and opens his mouth, snapping his head towards him, but with a silent squeeze of fingers, still closed on the hands of the boy for the pure and simple joy of sharing some closeness to another people as she would have in her clan but is considered “improper” here, she signals to the boy to leave it.

“Varric was right about you, you know?” Garrett replies, huffing.

“What about?”

“He told you were really not like Merrill.”

“Were the tattoos that gave me away?”

He snorts, leaning back and propping his arms behind him.

“No, it’s that your air are lighter. No, you just look naïve. All shy and innocent, and then bam, you strike with the most delicate question you could ask without even flinching.”

“… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“You don’t have to answer, if it makes you uncomfortable.”

A heavy sigh, as he looks up and considers it. Then, he looks at Cole back again, smirking and nodding at him, in a permission to go as he props himself placing both hands behind him, in a more comfortable position.

“Regret. Sorrow. A thousand what-ifs, but none of them really holds up. Crying at the world burning while everyone looks at how dry the earth is in their own garden. Should have listened to him more, should have made him listen. He wouldn’t have listened, tho.”

“It’s on the verge of creepy, but yes. I think he was beyond help. Mine, at least. I was interested in the Spirit part, tho, you may have been helpful talking to Justice, Cole.”

Cole seems to consider it for a moment, shifting his posture on the spot and crossing his legs, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“Justice doesn’t listen.”

“Yeah, somehow that part was very clear.”

He laughs, mirthlessly, which makes Cole retreat a little on himself, curling even more, protectively. Aisling slides closer, circling his shoulders with her arms, before replying.

“I think you all did the best, given the situation. It wasn’t your fault, Garrett, and… None of this would have happened without the explosion.”

“You mean you wouldn’t have a mark on your hand that could kill you, if the fucking evil Magister me and my sister somehow freed and failed to kill for more than 10 minutes doesn’t come first? Yeah, none of this would have happened.”

Silence falls, and not a good kind of one. Truth to be told, Aisling has really nothing to reply to the sting, the real answer too convoluted and confused to propose a real conversation. Not with a man she just met today, at least, no matter how easy-going he may be. She fixes her position around Cole, as he leans slightly towards her. She frees her left hand, absent-mindedly, to examine the pale scar on her hand.

“I’m sorry, that was uncalled for-“

“Don’t be.” She cuts him off. “It went how it went, if it didn’t, maybe the Mages would still be prisoners, or in Corypheus’ hands. Maybe you would be in a Circle as well, who knows. Another person would have kicked Cole out of Skyhold, or tried to exorcise him. Does it matter? What’s done is done, finding a culprit is pointless if not for starting a witch hunt.”

“I’d look dashing on a stake, tho.”

She can’t but giggle at it.

“And, if it makes you feel better, I came south of my own free will. The war affected us Dalish too, and who better than a Mage to go and understand the implications of the peace offerings? My Keeper wanted to send a hunter, go figure, I had to talk my way to go myself.”

“Pride, stubbornness, longing to know what’s outside. The scared fawn doesn’t look at the world with eyes open in fear, but in wonder” Cole adds.

“So you’re crazy. If you ever get tired of the Inquisition, consider Kirkwall, you’ll love it.”

“Wasn’t it a shithole?”

“Coziest shithole in Thedas, absolutely. We all love to hate it.”

“The smell gets worse after a while, the affection makes it good.”

“Thank you, Cole, that’s exactly it. Good shit smell.”

Both Mages start to laugh at that, forcing Cole to melt down a little and smile as well, shily. Garrett bends forward, giving him a loud pat on his shoulder which makes the boy flinch, but his smile just grows.

“Sooo…”

The man asks, turning back to Aisling with a predatory look in his eyes that much resembles one that’s more usual on his sister.

“You brought dinner to Curly, uh?”

---

There’s a small table, just beside Sera’s door, which is now blissfully out of everyone’s way -and particularly of that guy, Sutherland’s- now that Red Jenny has joined the party in the bottom floor. Party which is still going on wildly, as one would expect from anything that comes from Raina Hawke: it stops when she says so, and she apparently haven’t drunk herself into a stupor yet.

Cullen’s been left on his own, after Rylen made sure he drank and ate something and begrudgingly admitted that yes, a less empty stomach did him some good. He's dozing off leaning against the wall, when a roar from below, framed by loud whistles jolts him awake with a small jump on himself. His head starts to throb in retaliation from the abrupt wake up call, and the faint light seems too much, all in all; massaging his temples works some, but not to any appreciable level. As he’s considering raising up and, providing his back doesn’t decide to kill him for sleeping in a weird position, returning to his proper place, there’s some quick, weirdly muffled steps coming his way, making that particular plank on the flooring creak. Right after, someone is dragging the chair before him away from the table. Something clinks on the surface before him. Considering exactly whose room he’s currently sitting in front of, he braces himself for an unpleasant and convoluted conversation or worse, a prank.

“Is this hiding spot taken?”

For the second time this day, he jolts up, neck protesting his movement and vision turning blurry for some seconds, before focusing again on the face of Lavellan, face flushed, messy hair and a worried expression. She placed a little ceramic dish on the table, with a tiny fork and an oversized scone filled with jam and cream.

“Don’t raise so quick! It’s just me…”

He grumbles something, trying desperately to have his brain start functioning again past exhaustion and dizziness. With little results.

“I’m sorry.”

“Of what?” She smiles, unsure. “I came here and sat down, I should be apologising.”

“I-” Of what he’s sorry, exactly? “I didn’t greet you, before.” That’s the tip of the iceberg and he can’t look at her face, but that will do. “And you can sit here all you want.”

She humms, without replying. Fixing his gaze on the wood of the table, tho, he can’t but glimpse her arms, bare from having the sleeves rolled up on the elbows -she has more tattoos on them, they’re the same green of the ones on her face, the same sinewy lines. The arms cross on themselves and slip forward in his field of view, a dark blonde head resting her chin on those soon after and peeking as well.

“It’s fine. Looks like it’s been a rough day.”

“I- Yes, it was.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“How was yours?”

He rubs his neck, nervously and acting on self-drive on politeness. He doesn’t want to talk about it because he would have to explain too much. And right now, he’s not ready nor to tell her about Lyrium, and least of all to explain why he’s on pins and needles around the Champion and her brother. Too many bad memories involved, too many occasions for things to go wrong or the wrong anecdote to slip out. He’s not the same person the Hawkes know, he doesn’t want to get back to it, or for anyone there to meet that other, old self. Particularly, he doesn’t want her to.

“Long and stressful. Cassandra is angry, Varric is sad. The Hawkes are a handful, but I like them. I think that Fenris doesn’t like me. Hawke kissed me and we got a standing ovation, I grabbed my well-earned dessert and found you here.”

“Why doesn’t he- Wait, what?”

“Mage, too much power, friend with a Tevene… Honestly, it’s not like I can blame him.” She shrugs, taking the fork and using the side to cut a morsel out of the scone. Sighing when the pressure makes the ovely abundant filling overflow from the cut in the middle.

“No, I meant… Kissed you?”

“She’s pretty drunk, I think, it doesn’t mean anything. Mistook me for Merrill somehow, I didn’t expect it and she’s stronger than she look BUT!” She declares, very seriously, raising her sweet-filled fork for emphasis and opening in a sly grin. “I KNEW it wasn’t just Hawke ad Isabela together, that Merrill was with them too. Romantically, I mean.”

The first bite of scone gets in her mouth, interrupting her self-complacency in having evidently a theory confirmed with the pure, unabridged delight of someone who just ate something delicious. Her face just melts down in pleasure, as she chomps and then swallow, with a deep sigh. But if she had ideas on Isabela and Merrill-

“You don’t like them very much, do you?” She asks, still looking at her scone, taking another little piece away.

“Who?”

“The Hawkes. Want some? It’s delicious.”

They haven’t talked much on their own in the latest weeks, truth to be told. Both too busy, both adapting to Skyhold and the new rhythms. He almost forgot exactly how pin-pointed she could manage to be. He slouches down on his seating, going back to lean against the wall and crossing his arms.

“No, thank you, I’m full. And… It’s complicated.”

“Tell me if you change your mind, the jam is fresh and aaaw-” She groans, delighted, as she takes another bite. “Complicated how?”

“I-” He pauses, thinking on how to phrase it. “Ah, I don’t think they like me a lot.”

She stops, considering it as she keeps on eating. There’s nothing on her face saying whether she approves or not, or what is she thinking, for once.

“That’s ok, you don’t have to get along with everyone.” She says, in the end, patiently -if not entirely convinced, she doesn’t at least appear anything judging. “Sorry for today, then, I let on that you were here, and Raina just… dragged me. Do you want me to be more careful and see if I can prevent you from seeing them more than necessary?”

It’s kind. Overly kind, particularly because she seemed to get along with… Well, with both of them. And right now, for some stupid reason that surely must be his being overly tired or cranky because his whole body is mildly hurting right now. So, he frowns, feeling the words coming out by themselves from his mouth, slimy on his tongue, and not wanting to look at her when he says them.

“It is none of your business, nobody asked you to mother me. There’s no need for you to do such a thing.”

She doesn’t reply, and it’s horrible. More horrible than hearing himself say the words, as if he’s not really the one in control, and not being able to stop. It’s unfair, he knows she’s not mothering him, he knows -Rylen told him- she’s just worried and has a right to be. He knows it because she’s seen her with her stupid horse, adapting to his shenanigans without fighting back, bending and try to guess what he wanted. He saw her with soldiers, staffs and nobles around the Keep, preventing needs and offering help without being asked to. She has explained, in one of those rare moments where she actually talked about her clan, that it was what she was trained to do. And that if she really didn’t want to be there, there were no amount of undead evil Magister or fluffy cakes to drag her there and then. It’s unfair and cruel, and all he can manage to see of her, angry at himself, is her hand closing on the dish, and the fork taking bites away from the scone, not any quicker or slower than normal. He realises, in background, all his muscles are contracted, in emotion and shame, and that it was a bad idea. He doesn’t really care.

Minutes pass, a whole eternity in them, before she deposits the fork beside the dish, caring for its position as if it was a grand table set up for a formal dinner – she fixes carefully with deft fingers the slant of the cutlery, Josephine would be proud. She pats both palms on the table, and pushes on them to raise up. Cullen’s heart drops in his chest and his shoulders deflates, the long expectation of a reply and a refusal from her finally arriving and setting the world back in its place. Back in its awful, dark and lonely place. And yet.

And yet, she takes her chair and moves it to sit right at his side, careful not to drag it too much and sitting down, to look at him in the eyes, when she’s done.

“It’s not that I need to. It’s that I want to.”

She says, matter-of-factly, weighing each word carefully and uttering them slowly, underlining the want part.

“I know you can take care of yourself and that you don’t need me to do stuff for you. But I consider you a friend and friends help each other. You’ve been looking very tired in these last days… I can’t tell you to stop working, nor I can help you with much of your job. But I can do small things. You’ve been helping me a lot, and I’d like to return the kindness.” She explains, plain as day. “If you’ll allow me, that is. You’re private and I get it, I really do, so I’m trying to guess what could help you. If there’s something I’m getting wrong, please tell me and I’ll stop, you don’t even have to tell me a reason why. I’m sorry if I misread something, overstepped and hurt you.”

He feels all the more guilty, at the speech, turning back his head to stop looking at her. It’s easier if he doesn’t look, he finds.

“I didn’t do anything for you, and no, you’re not overstepping. I’m- Ah, you were kind and I just lashed out at you. That was uncalled for, you didn’t deserve it.”

“Hey, that’s ok. I’m insufferable too when I’m not getting enough sleep. Don’t worry about it.”

He turns slightly to look at her with disbelief.

“It’s true! A total bronto, just ask Solas. Also, it’s not true that you didn’t do anything for me.”

“A pouty bronto, who won’t go any further than calling the horse who just bit her ‘bad horsey’.”

“Ok, got it, I’ll stop talking, ok?” She laughs, shaking her head. “I’ll also leave you be. The offer still stands, tho, if you need, you know where to find me, Mr Grumpy Cat.”

He replies with a snort at the way she calls him, and would be protesting if by the time he turned his head to reply and protest, she wasn’t already leaning in, dangerously close. Cullen just stops in place, taken aback and not understanding what exactly she’s doing. Hopefully, the armour will cover the sound of his heart thumping heavily in his chest, as she leans in and gives him a feather-light kiss, just on his cheekbone.

“And by the way, I haven’t thanked you for saving me on the mountain. Thank you, Cullen.”

And with that, as quick as it was and leaving the Commander with the impression that it was still a dream -one of the tricky ones that gets good before getting even worse than the rest, she’s padding away, waving a hand in salute. Before turning the corner, tho, she pirouettes on herself, hair flaring in a curve, to pout at him.

“Last mothering of the night I swear, but: Go to sleep in a bed if you’re tired!”

She recommends, before bidding him good night and disappearing back down the stairs again.

She left half of her scone on the table, and he may not know so much of her - she very rarely speaks of her past before the Conclave if not in the littlest glimpses- but he knows, by now, that she never left any food in her plate if not on purpose of sharing. He looks at the leftover of the dessert and his heart clenches, touched by still another silent kindness he doesn’t know if he’s good enough to take.

He has to tell her.

---

The next day, after a pretty busy War Council spent in organising the last things and requisition for the imminent trip to Crestwood, she’s in front of the stables, Dennet and Blackwall both looking intently at her as Aisling finally, finally managed to sit on her horse without being kicked off in the first thirty seconds. Actually, the problem today seems to be that the horse took some steps, and then just… Stopped. In the centre of the paddock, refusing to move no matter how much the elf tries to coax him with words or move her weight on his back, pat his neck, pull the reins, whatever. Oh no, the horse just bends hisneck to look at the Inquisitor, and the Inquisitor pales, face contracted in horror.

“No. Don’t do it. Don’t you dare-”

She hisses through gritted teeth, turning rigid on her place and clenching her thigh as hard as she can. The horse -she calls it Little Brother to stop people from constantly asking her what “Isa’ma’len” means and to save her ears from Dennet’s horrible pronounciation of elven- just keeps looking at her with bright, brown eyes. She severely misses how hallas are less expressive than this horse in particular, as she stares into the eye that’s turned towards her just to find a mischievous challenge in it, one that she by now knows all too well.

“I gave you apples this morning!”

She reminds him, scolding and trying to sound as imposing as she can. Which is not much if you’re talking to an equine that yes, is smaller than the others, but is still bigger and way heavier than you. And who knows it. The reminder indeed comes empty and streaked with fear: the horse -the shitty, prick of a horse with a despicable humour-, just bends his neck ahead and forward, moving his shoulders down and quite literally taking the ground away from his rider’s butt.

And with a yelp of surprise and, on her honour, a real fight to stay on the horse’s back, Aisling just inevitably slides forward to her doom, effectively tumbling over the big equine neck and rolling on the ground on her back. Very, extremely ungraciously.

She lays there, arms and legs sprawled, looking up at some fluffy white clouds navigating in a big blue sky… And a black and white horse head coming to hoover over her face. She doesn’t know if horses can snicker, but she knows that’s definitely what he’s doing right now. His ears are perked way up, his lips chewing softly and eyes bright. He’s having fun, the little shit, as Dennet and Blackwall are – She can hear them laugh.

“That was not kind of you, you know.” She pouts.

The horse huffs breath, warm and loud -and smelling very much like apples, her apples- directly on her face. At least he doesn’t seem prone to stampede on her.

“You find it funny, uh? Well, see if you’ll still laugh when you’ll be the one to explain Solas why my ribs broke again.” She reproaches.

Little Brother, in all reply, lowers his snout just so and start to munch her face, just with big, soft and horribly wet lips, so gracious as to avoid teeth.

“Creators, eeeeeew, stop it! Bad, bad horsey!” She complains, raising her hand to move the big horse head away from her face. But she’s giggling, taking it as an expression of equine affection.

She’s still struggling to have the horse move away and let her raise up, giggling pretty stupidly on the ground and fighting with a big animal who apparently is finding her face very tasty, when a voice interrupts her.

“Inquisitor?”

She perks up, rolling on her side and propping herself up on her elbows, away from Little Brother’s mouth -who content himself in munching happily at her hair, now, chomping on her ponytail.

“What is it, Commander?”

“May- Ah, may I have a word with you, as soon as you’re able to?”

He’s fumbling, and not in the funny, cute way he has when he’s embarrassed by something. He still looks like he’s been just trampled by a bronto, and he’s rubbing the back of his neck, the rest of his pose too rigid, other hand clenched tightly on the pommel of his sword. He’s nervous.

She raises up and turns around, fixing the loose shirt she’s donning and patting dirt away from it. She looks at Dennet with a question in his eyes, and in all answer, he just nods and returns back to the stable, leaving the elf way to speak. She walks to the fence, horse following her and snorting, for once.

“Go on. Is everything all right?”

“Can we speak… In private? My tower, in an hour?”

She squints at him, trying to figure out what is it exactly. He doesn’t speak any further tho, so she just nods and promise to be there, leaving him to return briskly to his job, and her to give up trying to mount and just getting the horse used to her guiding him around the fence and used to small lightning she conjures, pensively, in her hands.

When she finally reaches Cullen in his tower, cleaned up and with a worry she can’t make go away, he closes the doors, and he tells her.

Chapter Text

There’s something weird in Crestwood that makes her skin crawl, and is not the rain, heavy and cold as it is. Stuff started to go wrong since they arrived, honestly. From the Grey Warden they met and were all but friendly, even to Blackwall, to the Mayor, whom she’s still convinced didn’t tell them all that was there to say and left her with a bad feeling about it.

The Veil is thin, she can sense it, lying over everything impalpably and giving the impression that there are spirits pushing to get out, and it makes her skin crawl. She confronted with Dorian and Garrett, who shared her feeling and agreed that the place looks overly creepy for being a calm and peaceful townlet in the countryside. And it was something else than just the huge, imposing green rift under the lake’s water. She honestly considered writing back to Solas to reach them there, but the current mission is time-sensible, and every day spent waiting for the apostate to reach there from Skyhold is a day that Hawke, her contact within the Wardens and Varric who reached them for support risk being caught or left with no supplies.

And now, they have a fort to conquer.

Caer Bronach looks daunting from the Old Market’s Road, standing imposing and strong on the hilltop and surrounded in stone, looming in the faint light that passes under the black clouds ahead. They are six, with a small contingent of scouts. Against a whole fortress. And yes, there are three mages, but still… She wished Cullen could have come along. Or gave her more books on military strategy and sieges, she felt terribly unprepared. From what Leliana had gathered and Sera confirmed by talking to Friends in town, the castle was scarcely inhabited and they were all bandits, not an organised army. Yet, the walls are thick, and what Cullen did was lending her enough books to make her understand that fortresses were designed not to be taken easily, engineering helping out more than the soldiers could on their own. And with how thin the Veil feels there, she dares not using the Anchor, in fear to tear it too much and opening proper rifts, instead of the controlled, small version that is just enough to suck enemies in. She lingers on what would Josephine do in this case, but somehow talking through to a group of people rummaging an already suffering village and countryside to convince them to just… Stop stealing, looks not like the best option.

“It’s a good plan, Inquisitor, once Sera returns, we should go.”

It’s Blackwall to take her away from revising said plan and trying to think of better, safer solutions. She turns towards him, following with her eyes as he walks to flank her.

“We’ll be cornered in narrow corridors, most likely, they could cut our retreat. It’s too risky.”

“It’s risky enough, we have three mages. If we can’t run, it means they can’t as well, if you shoot enough fire and lightning and whatever at them. You agreed with Garrett on this.”

“What if they’re too many in there? Even trying to merge our magic as we did for the Breach, we can’t go on forever.”

“They’re bandits, my Lady, driven by hunger and misery, closed there to protect against the undead. Show them mercy, promise them safety, and it’s unlikely they’ll put up such a fight.”

“We’re 6 people.”

She counters, stubbornly, and he starts to laugh. As much as he always seemed daunting to her, always so serious and unshakeable, his laugh is warm. He’s been warm, this past travel, she has to say, taking care of everyone and, surprisingly, bonding easy and fast with Sera.

“Yes, we’re 6 people. But we’re the Champion of Kirkwall, a seasoned warrior that survived Seheron and escaping a Magister, one Tevinter mage who invented time travelling, an archer that would centre the eye of a soldier from here, if you’d ask her, a seasoned Grey Warden and you, who can open the Fade at will and shot lightning without having us all electrocuted in the rain. It’s the quality that matters, Lady Lavellan. Not the quantity, and you have plenty of quality at your disposal.”

She smiles at him, nodding. There’s still a thousand doubts that dance in her head, but it all seems reasonable enough. Furthermore, they need the Keep, and they need it soon, and none has come up with a better plan. So, she greets Sera when she trots over and they enter the cave, reaching Dorian and Garrett and making the last, small corrections to the plan before proceeding. Dorian even complains little of the cold, miracolously. Could be that he ended all forms of complaints, but Aisling somehow doubts it, still sticking close to his shoulder for warmth.

Ten minutes -and a loud and strong pat on her upper arm by Sera, recommending her to pay attention- they’re ready, armed, and in front of the gates.

“Knock knock!”

Garrett snickers, waving his staff and making the big entrance door explode towards the inside in a spiral of flames.

---

Commander,

As stated by Warden Blackwall: he, Lord Pavus, our two special guests and me infiltrated the Fort at night, hoping to take them by surprise. Outside, our Scouts prevented any of the men batting the countryside to rush and enter, as well as giving us support. Sera was with them, and as soon as we cleared the first courtyard, she was up on the battlements, covering our back from above. Three mages in narrow corridor worked pretty well, we were able in three to keep most enemies at distance, while covering for Blackwall and the Wraith in first line.

We aimed straight at their chief, clearing soldiers along the way and opening a path to the inner courtyard. The mission was a success and the Inquisition has now a stronger base for operations in Crestwood. It will be a good base for further operations in the area, possibly freeing the countryside from undeads and bandits that are currently making the life of the villagers impossible, and furthermore, as a middle stop between Ferelden and Orlais, for communications. All bandits that were out or didn’t put up a fight begged for mercy, I had them conscripted under pledge of loyalty and put them to work restoring the Keep, Charter is keeping an eye on them.

I confirm that I got wounded, I miscalculated a movement of sir Blackwall, got distracted to avoid him and were left unable to defend myself against an assassin. To prevent a complaint: evoking electricity around you when you’re surrounded by water and wet from the rain is a good idea if you want to roast yourself, without the chance for careful control. I know my magic, it’s not anything that can be wielded on a rush and lack of care, in this weather, by “defending” myself with no clear sight on the target I would have given the killing blow, yes, but to myself as well, and hurt the others in the meanwhile. It was just one stab, Sera shot the assassin and Blackwall was there to cover me up as Dorian took me away.

I’ll live, you can tell Corypheus that he can postpone the party, I’m sure he’ll be very pissed and will get distracted enough for you to strike at his flank. Go for it, you have my blessing. G. healed me pretty well, I’m getting some rest as I supervise the Inquisition taking hold of the Caer and organise everyone. No need to send for Solas, but if he insists to come, the Veil is weird here, and I think he could find it very interesting. He may not find me here anymore, tomorrow we’ll be on the move.

The plan is to scout the dam and drain the lake, as the Mayor of Crestwood suggested. Hopefully, we’ll be able to reach and close the Rift. After that, we’ll investigate further south: we spotted Grey Wardens patrolling in that direction, we’d like to ask them if they need assistance. If there’s darkspawn around, we’ll move to clean it out. The plan is going on, save for these two days of forced delays which I am entirely responsible for. I sent the Wraith and his companion ahead with supplies, if some travellers were stuck somewhere and are left with little sustaintment before we can set a forward camp further up south.

This is all for now, will write as soon as there’ll be news.

Take care,

A. Lavellan

-

*Attached there’s another paper, written less tidily*
Cullen,

I’m writing less formally here to ease your worried self. I’m fine! G. is a Spirit Healer, he patched me up all right. Not as delicate as Solas, but all I can complain about is that I will not be able to ride for a couple of days more at least, bastard caught me right in the abs. I would like to remember you that I am a healer too, just keener to our good Surgeon in Skyhold than to Solas. No elf sense for me, I’ll have to do with Elfroot and a little creativity, but I actually can take care of myself. I’m not used to Blackwall’s fighting style as I am with Cassandra’s. It’s been… Weird. But I’m fine, I swear I’ll get back to Skyhold jumping and dancing a gig to keep you calm if you insist.

How are you, speaking of which? For real, tho, not the usual

*A detailed doodle of Cullen’s face, all grumpy and frowning but with big, dark eyebags under the dots that are the eyes, recognisable for the big furry collar, a baloon has him saying “I’m perfectly fine why d’you ask?”*

I’m glad you appreciated the brew I left you, I was… A little unsure it was too much prying, so thank you for having let me know. Of course Adan’s recipe didn’t work, he was given such shitty elfroot that he had to add deathroot to compensate… A pity that deathroot does another thing that’s not alleviating pain. Stubborn man never listened to me, never accepted the elfroot I picked and even told me I speak too much, bah.

If what I left in that pouch ends up, write me and I’ll note the recipe down, I swear it’s easy and you can handle it too if you’re precise (there’s a scale in my room, so it won’t be a problem, just enter and take it, or ask Frida to retrieve it, she knows where it is). For good measure, chewing fresh elfroot leaves works wonder. There’s some in the garden, I had Elan’Vemal plant it in a vase before someone weeded it out… It’s this:

*a doodle of an elfroot tralch, there’s more care than the former one, and minute, precise indications all around on how to recognise the leaves and how to distinguish fresh from older ones from colour and touch*

Just remember to spit it out, and don’t overdo it. Two or three leaves, thrice a day, no more, and spit them when they don’t taste like much anymore. DO. NOT. SWALLOW. IT..

You would like the Fort, by the way. Stout and solid walls, didn’t crumble even after me, D. and G. caused quite the ruckus. Maybe come when it’ll have stopped raining. Please tell me Dorian’s lying and it doesn’t rain from First Day to Summerfest in Ferelden…

If you care, tho, can you save me some further books on sieges? Planning the assault to the Caer has been a little difficult and I felt ill at ease, I realised I know little about sieges. It all worked out in the end, but I’d like to be more prepared for the next time. Yes, it’s your clue to tell me all the tiny details of strategy I got wrong, go on, I’m already wounded what some more stabs to my pride could do (too soon? I think G.’s humour may be contagious, having Sera around who actually laughs doesn’t help much…).

No, I don’t mind writing double, it’s nice to catch up for real and I’m bad with reports anyway, so don’t worry, it’s always nice to chat with you.

Take care for real tho, I’m serious. And if you need, you know where to find me.
Aisling.

---

Back to Caer Bronach, two days before.

The rain makes the upper courtyard slippery and a terrible battlefield, forcing Aisling once again to measure carefully her spells. Thanks to some weird experiments with Dorian and Solas the week before -which the older elf has welcomed with a quiet resignation, as the two younger mages literally made rain in his rotunda, just stopping them when they suggested to go from rain to snow-, she now can weave raindrops away, which she does to clear a path for Dorian’s and Garrett’s flames to burn hotter and brighter. It’s not easy, since she can’t foresee what Hawke will do -he’s quite unpredictable in his movements- and her spell clashes with Dorian’s nullification enchantment, requiring her more energy to fight it even if she fought with him enough to know where he’ll shoot.

“Quizzy!”

When the flames burst in front of the lieutenant of the Highwaymen, she lets go of the rain with a grunt, as she turns abruptly on her back, raising her staff evoking an energy barrier to cover herself from a loose arrow at Sera’s warning.

“It won’t do, Dor! Not with other enemies around, too much concentration needed!” She quips back to her friend, as she focuses to evoke Chain Lightning on the enemies, careful to direct each branch of electricity from drop to drop and only on the targets she is aiming at.

“Got it! Don’t worry, I have a trick up my sleeve…”

“Dorian, no!”

“Dorian yes!” He laughs, taking a couple of steps back to approach one of the archers that Sera just shot, repairing behind Blackwall and starting to weave his hands in circular motions, directing on the corpse.

Blackwall jumps forward, groaning loudly as he understands what the Mage is doing, ducking a hit from the lieutenant’s axe.

“Andraste’s holy bollocks, I already told you: NOT. SO. CLOSE.” The Warden loudly complains.

Hawke launches a fireball at the lieutenant, raindrop fizzing and evaporating in its track, strong enough to make the man stutter back and distract him enough for Fenris to jump forward and strike from up to down in a big arch.

“What, what? Some Tevinter trick? Are you turning into a dragon?” He asks, all too hopefully, ignoring another set of lightning dancing around them, from Aisling. Fenris groans loudly as an only answer.

“No dragons, sorry, just- Ah!”

Dorian ends the spell, snapping back his hands as the others cover for it, and attracting a wave of black energy, streaked in purple and sparkling, from the corpse towards himself, in a big -and quite showy- arch. Garrett stops on his track, mouth opened in wonder, as he looks the Tevinter absorbing the smoke.

“Incoming! Move, move!” The Mortalitasi bellows, having both Blackwall -cursing loudly- and Fenris jumps back and on the side as the mage concentrate for little before slamming the end of his staff hard on the ground, casting a wall of flames that starts from his feet and runs to the Lieutenant, towering high and impossibly hot on the unlucky enemies on his track.

“That is SO COOL! You draw energy from- FEN!” Hawke chirps, as he raises his hands to freeze raindrops and force them down, acquiring speed as they launches to the enemy. “Why didn’t you ever told me I could draw energy from corpses??”

“Because you have enough ideas on your own, amatus.” Fenris grumbles, resigned as his tattoos shine in blue and he steps easily through the shield that’s being bashed towards him, sword clanking loudly against a pauldron.

“I didn’t hear you complaining, last night…”

“Can you not?!” It’s the lieutenant they’re now facing to stop them, evidently irritated by the atmosphere to stay silent and let them talk, huffing angrily as he shield bash Fenris hard enough to have the elf jump considerably back, before charging straight to Hawke.

“Woah! Someone’s jealous? I’m sorry, bud, you’re not my type…” He jeers, sounding sincerely disappointed as he retreats back, trying to keep distance.

Aisling considers the situation: Blackwall is busy fighting a couple of rogues that joined the fight, helped by Sera that’s keeping the unengaged rogue away from the Warden. Dorian and Hawke are currently busy trying to get past the huge shield of the chief of the Highwaymen. She runs sideways towards Fenris, currently rising up from the ground and grimacing.

“Are you fine?” She asks, raising up a hand to the sky and abruptly dragging it down, evoking lightning straight onto the lieutenant, thunder booming all over.

It’s more for the distraction than for everything else: she can’t pull any stunt from the distance without risking it under the rain, and with that shield, she can’t get any closer either. The booming from so close makes him winch a little, at least, giving an opening for a joint fireball from the two Mages, still stepping back to gain some much needed distance.

“Fine enough.” Fenris grunts at her.

“Take this.” She unlatches the last healing potion from her belt, tossing it to him and shushing the complaints. “Can you keep the big one busy? I’ll go help Blackwall, before the rogues slip out and backstab the others.”

“Your magic is still unsafe, in this weather, it’s not-”

“Non si satis accedo.” She cuts him off. “Bibe potionem, quaeso!” (1)

She doesn’t wait for him to complain or ask her why exactly she speaks Tevene: she just switched to have him stunned enough to avoid any reply, honestly, and it works like magic. She can run, keeping on the edge of the battlefield, cursing when she splashes in a puddle deeper than the others, and bring herself to the back of Blackwall. She turns to yell at Sera to pay attentions, and before much else, she just rushes in, evoking lightning on the tip of her staff.

Except, this expedition is the first she’s done with Blackwall, and surely the first time she tries this stunt with him. He doesn’t see her approaching until the last minute, when she just tells him to please, move a little. He reacts too late, hesitating that little that’s needed to move his elbow in the wrong way and forcing her to unbalance herself to avoid it landing on her nose, shield included. She slips on the wet stones on the ground, still moving her staff forward so that the lightning can run through the air and hit one of the two rogues. Concentrating just on that, to direct it with enough precision, doesn’t make her notice until the last minute. She’s on the ground, on her back, she hears a weird cacophony of “Lady Inquisitor!” and “Quizzy!” from above, and there’s some deep, piercing pressure on her waist.

It all happens too quickly: she hears Dorian yelling as well, and Blackwall jumping over her, charging someone that was onto her but she didn’t see. The pain hits her suddenly and acute when she tries to get up, and that’s when she realizes something went wrong. Her vision grows white for a couple of seconds from the intensity, and she grunts in pain -it runs deep, too deep into her abdomen, it can’t be good- before she manages to raise her head and look at herself. She has now a dagger planted pretty deep in her side. Nice, she thinks.

Everything then is a blur: she sees Blackwall engaging the assassin that got her, pushing her away, and as she hears Sera yelling from above, she turns her head to meet the eyes of the other rogue, the one she shot lightning at while falling, and that she failed to kill. She may have been stabbed because she made a stupid move, but she won’t get down(er) without a fight. She pulls at her magic again, clenching her teeth as the movement stretches muscles along the blade and her belly starts to feel even more wet than it was from just the rain, and warm. She trudges on, static dancing around her, buzzing and sparkling. She still has the hand on her staff, luckily for her and not so much from the second assassin: he approaches too much, enough for her to pull on the staff, raising it some and sending a salvo of lightning blasts ahead, hitting the enemy in full and sending him jumping back for metres. Someone casts a fireball that hits him in the chest as soon as he lands on ground, but she is biting her lower lip hard to avoid screaming, as the movement pulled at her wound pretty uncomfortably and it started to hurt again.

“You cretin, reckless IDIOT-” Comes Dorian from somewhere close around her, hands slipping under her knees and upper back to raise her up.

“I love you too, you doofus.”

“Stop the mushiness! Fasta vass- Debemus-”

“K-keep the dagger in, I’m going to bleed out if you remove it.”

She instructs him, opening her eyes again as the pain slowly subsides: he brought her in a stone porch, out of the rain. Some tables have been stacked against the wall, and she notices that he’s wobbling slightly under her weight. Somehow, the detail makes her giggle.

“Eh, you’re not even walking straight…”

“I swear I’ll tell Vivienne where to find you.”

He grumbles, not really angry, as he carefully deposits her butt on the edge of the closest table and slips out the arm from below her legs to clean the surface and, once done, carefully having her rest there.
“What should I do?” He asks her. “Shit shit don’t fall asleep! Where’s your damned elfroot?”

“Don’t you know basic healing?”

“Honey, you stopped mocking me for killing and reviving your elfroot the other week, you helped me resurrect a horse, do you think I know shit about healing, beside your incessant praising of plants?”

He starts fumbling over her pockets and pouches on the belt, handling her quite roughly in his haste. At least her long leather coat was opened and the leather didn’t get stuck. She hears steps coming from behind, heavy and sploshy in puddles.

“Move, MOVE!”

There’s a clank of wood on stone, before Dorian gets gently pushed on the side and Garrett pops in her field of vision, ruffled, wet as a duckling and with a cut on his cheekbone, but otherwise in good health. He smiles at her.

“Hey, gorgeous, what’s up?”

“Elfroot in the front right pouch, on the belt.”

“Nah, you’re too cute for it, I think I’ll just get to the point of getting rid of your clothes and look at you, what about it?” He jests, starting to fumble with buttons and buckles.

“What, without even dedicating me the tastiest cut of your hunt first?”

“Sadly, we must get it done before my boyfriend returns home. He’s very jealous.”

“Or I could join you both.” Chimes in said boyfriend.

“Or he could join us if you don’t mind.”
Dorian groans in disappointment, still helping the other mage in delicately removing all the layers of her light armour that will be uncomfortable or be in the way. In minutes, all that covers her front is just the left side of her jacket and her shirt, both pinned in place. Garrett looks at Dorian, regretful.

“I am so sorry, but if you never had experiences in healing someone… Can you move? I’ll be careful, I swear, but we must move quick. Fen?”

The mage reluctantly moves away squeezing Aisling’s hand once in reassurance, letting Fenris take his place on Hawke’s side. They exchange a look, taking a deep breath, before the elf nods, bending slightly over her to reach for the injury better.

“Ready, sweet thing?” Asks Garrett, still smiling as his hand

“Be delicate.”

She quips, tired enough to go on with the joke, ignoring her heart beating loudly in her eardrums. She rests her head on the table, as Hawke counts backward from 3 to give her some expectation. Turning her head sideway so she doesn’t see anything, she catches Sera, Dorian and Blackwall beside a column, all three looking worriedly at her. She smiles at them, nodding in reassurance, and then the dagger gets extracted.

She yelps, not looking as the jacket gets tossed away, she feels wet all over, and two hands press heavily on her side to stop the blood. She isn’t looking, she shuts her eyes tight, but she can feel there’s too much blood. It’s two seconds before some fresh cold feeling seeps into her belly, Garrett’s hand splaying on the sides of Fenris’ that are still pressing down, to reach down and deep and giving her some relief. She is crying, grunting and forcing herself not to bite her tongue and to keep still, hand clenching tight on the edge of the table: If Solas’ healing is quick and precise, Garrett’s feels… Waving and hiccupping, wobbling here and there like he’s not really sure of what he’s doing. As she peeks up, he’s frowning and sweating.

“A-are you-” she tries, voice broken.

“Bastard caught some organ, there’s too much blood…”

“Garrett.”

The two above her exchange a look, saying everything without really saying anything at all. She doesn’t intrude, starting to worry a little. Or admitting to herself that she is, actually. After some moments that seem to last for an eternity, healing spell wobbling and faltering with the concentration of the caster dwindling, but luckily just enough for the bleeding to stop, Fenris turns towards her. If she saw him in fifty shades of grumpiness and suspicion -particularly when he eventually discovered that she didn’t justice a Magister and still firmly refused to recognise her choice was poor and asked an Altus to travel with them being overly friendly with him-, this is the worst he’s ever been. She doesn’t falter, tho, bearing that look with all the pride she has left. He bends down to whisper in her ear, before going away.

“You tell anything and I’ll get after you.”

It sends a shiver down her spine, not understanding one bit why he’s just so… He never was particularly friendly towards her, and she honestly gets why seeing his personal history, but this… She’s getting dizzy, but she knows it’s not an empty threat. So, she just nods to signal she understood and agrees, and with a snort, he’s gone to shepherd the others away. Dorian and -weirdly- Sera put up some resistance, but she manages to say out loud that she’s fine, please go and put the Inquisition banner up and call the Scouts in, please Dorian, just go. Which he does, looking much like he disapproves greatly, but with a last please, he turns on his heels and they’re alone.

“How bad it is?” She asks, tentatively.

“Oh, you’re lovely, gorgeous, don’t you worry. My idiot of a significant other is just jealous I have you all for me…”

“Garrett-”

“Listen, I know it’s…”

He stops mid-sentence, which for him is weird. VERY weird, exhaling loudly through his mouth. He lowers his gaze, searching for words he’s missing. Aisling doesn’t really like how unusual for him this reaction is.

“What is it? Your beloved just threatened me, I’m not telling anyone…”

“I just…” He sighs, deeply. “…People react badly when I tell them, and he’s protective. And you’re the Inquisitor.”

The healing spell dwindles a little too much, blood getting back to pool up. Aisling whimpers and Hawke curses, and she moves her hands -which are now trembling, great- to press on the wound, snaking around his and pushing as much as she can, biting down another whimper.

“I- I’m just an elf who did something very stupid. M-my best friend is a Tevinter mage, I made friend with the former Knight-Captain of fucking Kirkwall, and didn’t kill the Magister that almost killed me. I know we… Don’t really know each other. But I swear I won’t say a word or judge, and my people don’t break oaths. What is it?”

He looks at her, with half a tentative smile, considering it for a minute as he takes hold of the spell again, stabilising it as he checks his surroundings to make sure they’re really alone, before going on talking, voice soft.

“Blood magic?”

She stops on her track, all muscles contracting instinctively at the two words. Oh, she knows that Healing magic and Blood magic are close, just a tid-bit distant… And that’s the start and end of the issue, and what makes her breath shorten as contracting her abs sends a new jolt of pain up.

“Shit, I knew it. Forgive me, I won’t- Forget I said anything, just… Breathe, ok? And-”

He starts to fumble over his words, as she casts her eyes down and consider it, mind racing too quickly and heart beating fast, as she takes measured breath.

“Go on.”

“If you just could forget- What?”

“I said.” She takes a deep breath. “Go on. I’m not dying here if I can help it…”

“Really?”

“Believe it or not, I’m not spooked by it just for the principle. Just… Is it your first time?”

“You met my boyfriend, I’m not a virgin.”

He snaps, before he can actually think better about it. It’s so out of the situation that the two are left looking at each other in the eye for ten good seconds, before starting to laugh, loudly. Or well, he laughs, Aisling tries to and has to stop right away, the movement hurting like shit.

“Th-thank you for the foreplay, then. Can you go slow?”

“Don’t worry, sweet thing, I’ll be very delicate.” He wiggles his eyebrows, smirking.

She keeps giggling, not still entirely ok with what’s to come but less nervous than before, as she tries to relax with measuring breaths, gesturing to him to go on.

“Do you mind if I don’t look?”

“No problem, Lucky.”

She huffs, covering her eyes with one elbow and waiting for him to start. She feels his hands, shifting a little to get closer to the wounds. He mutters an apology, and she can hear him concentrating, and soon her blood answers to his calling, drawing and pulling inside her as he infuses it with energy. It’s unnatural and it’s weird, and if she opens her eyelids and look down, there’s red light filtering through a crease in her juncture. Her first instinct is contracting the muscles there to keep herself steady and still. She whimpers, the feeling is like having her insides walking against the current of her own body, and she has to struggle against panic.

“Relax, it’s ok.”

“T-trying. Does anyone knows…?”

“Varric. All the former gang in Kirkwall, save Sebastian of course. And I suppose all the people who were at the Gallows that day, I…” He clears his throat, concentrating a little on his spell. “…I kept Meredith blocked while Raina went forward and attacked. Merrill taught me, I’m actually better with this than proper Spirit Healing, as you may have noticed…”

He doesn’t have to specify the exact details, or he is suddenly shy of details. What matters is that she can actually sense the difference within the spell, this feels finally in control and expert, as he wills her blood to coagulate and binds tissue together, hastening the natural process of healing as it should be. Just, it all draws from her, in the weirdest, itchiest sensation ever. He’s going slow, but very steady.

“You- Urgh, it’s itchy…”

“I know, keep it up. What were you saying? Keep talking if it distracts you.”

“I-… Is it difficult to mix the two things? Spirit Healing and Blood Magic, I mean…”

“You know what? It really isn’t.” He snorts a laugh. “Merrill can’t, but she’s really not talented for healing, of any kind… But for me? I don’t know, most often than not they overlap.”

“Is this why you were so in difficulty with normal healing spells?”

“Yes. I’m used to heal this way, drawing on the Fade and lyrium is… It’s not impossible, with bones I can’t really do much with the blood, but eh. It’s like… Trying to write with the opposite hand. You could do it… It’s just doesn’t come as natural, you write worse and slower, get what I mean?”

“So you basically -ouch- tried to wrote me an unintelligible new kidney with your left hand?”

“Hey, hey, I was aiming at a functioning kidney, didn’t… No wait.”

He leans his head to the side, pressing his fingers more insistently on her skin, and… listening. Searching.

“AH! That’s it, you little shit! Sorry, this is gonna-”

Garrett declares, with a shit-eating grin, before putting more energy in the spell -or at least, drawing more energy from her and quickening the process, going deeper and pulling something out at the same time. For a moment, it’s like being stabbed all back again, she would jump up, were it not for Hawke’s left hand jumping at her clavicle and pinning her down easily, as the other keeps pulling up and up...

“I know, I know, sorry, it’s just… There!”

A big drop of blood jumps up from her side, two pieces of cloth that were dragged in by the tip of the dagger floating inside and pain relieving a little. The mage flickers two fingers, letting all fall in an arch and splotch wetly on the table, forgotten.

And as soon as it came, the spell is lifted and Aisling’s just filled with fresh relief, like blood returning to circulate in a limb that was fast asleep and insensible after you slept over it. She inhales deeply, shivering all over as a hand pats her belly on the waist with a splotchy noise. It hurts still, but it’s nothing compared to ten minutes before. The elf pulls her head up, peeking at her wound: it’s difficult to distinguish it, with all the blood, but she can make out a thin line, but it has stopped bleeding.

“I left something, just so people don’t suspect. You won’t need stitches, but some cleansing poultice and some more regular healing will get you going in a couple of days of full rest.”

He explains, voice faltering a little betraying the fact that he’s tired and still not so at ease, even if he carefully takes the hem of her shirt down to cover her up fully. And then, he falls on his knees, with a loud huff and resting his forehead on his arms, crossed on the table.

“Will you be fine?” She asks, softly, a hand going to rest on the nearest elbow.

“Yeah. I’m careful, I swear. I’ll stay quiet as a mouse tomorrow and rest with you, I’ll be fine. I’m not using it so often.”

“If you need anything… Thank you, Garrett, really.”

“Don’t mention it. I’m sorry if I scared you.”

“You didn’t. I just…” She sighs, heavily, looking at the roof. She’s tired, bone-deep. “…recalled why I don’t heal with magic.”

A moment of silence, she can feel his eyes on her.

“You mean you-”

“I’m not telling anyone, ok? Don’t worry.”

“You know, you’re not so stupidly accepting everything blindly as I thought...”

“No, I’m just stupidly running into battle head-first.”

“You’re not stupid, and I happened to overhear there’s just a specialisation to teach you how to do it not stupidly… But now, get some rest, ok?”

“Wake me up when the others arrive?”

“And lose the chance to see if the Mortalitasi tries to resurrect you as he did with your elfroot plant?”

“Well I’m lucky I look decent in purple, at least…”

When the others return, they find them snickering like two idiots, blood all over but both thankfully alive. It’s been a long day.

---

Solas,

Don’t think I don’t appreciate what you’re saying. I get what you mean, I’m not a child.

Your Trainer My Trainer The Trainer explained themselves properly, and I read their notes. I just… It’s cool enough but it’s not mine? I know I could do something and learn it, please believe me it’s not a false sense of inadequacy that drives me towards something else.

Also, they give me the creeps. I know it’s just a failed experiment and it can happen with any branch of magic, it could happen to me when Dorian suggests to do something, it’s just… I don’t know, it’s really not my cup of tea, I like the practicality of magic more, and I hate staying in the sidelines whilst other take blows.

It rains so much in this town that if I stay on the sidelines, I won’t be able to do much of anything, I have good control over electricity, but in an environment full of water it’s still risky if I stay far from the field. And it’s frustrating.

So yeah, I think I’m going for commander Hellaine. Yes, I talked to G. and no, he didn’t convince me or persuaded me or whatever. Just helped me sort my ideas out. I know you gave your opinion for my sake because it’s your way of worrying and I do appreciate it and I’m grateful for it… But trust me, I know myself.

You can tell me “I told you so” when I’ll ask you to stitch back the fingers I’ll cut myself on the spirit blade, I officially invite you to do it, show future me this letter when I’ll complain.

Anyway, we’ll stay in Crestwood for some days still, I think there’s time for you to come down here and…

The Veil was thin, too many spirits ran in the countryside, even after I closed all the smaller Fade Rifts. I feel a little stupid for not realising sooner what caused it before we drained the lake and… And we all saw what happened. Anyway, I helped some spirits that were too much in difficulty as best as I could (Command was… Difficult, but an enlightening meeting. I liked her. Them? Sounded a her, but didn’t ask, I should have). But there’s so much to fix… I don’t know, if you’re up for some gut-wrenching sight and being even more angry at people, you’ll really have a ball.

Actually, don’t come, I know you’ll put up a stoic face but this situation will affect you more than anyone else, and I don’t want you to suffer.

I just… I think I’m getting a bit nostalgic, and what we saw hit me right in my beliefs. Mind me, I wouldn’t ever want to find myself in the same position but… It really struck a nerve, and there’s no one here that has the same sense of Community that we have?

I’m starting to ramble. I miss home, that’s it, and here no one really gets the Vir Adahlen, and how… wrong what happened here feels to me.
… Not that you would agree with me, I don’t know if you share the philosophy, but at least you know what the Vir Adahlen is. I hope.

I’m sorry, lethallin, I think I put you ill at ease sometimes. If I do, please tell me, and know that I just write this because I trust your confidence. I hope you’ll trust mine.

Ma serannas, hahren.
Aisling.

p.s.: I’ll give you one joy and admit that Spirit Healing is in some cases more effective than just herbalism.
There, take your joy in this, I said it.
No, I still won’t learn it.

* a doodle of Aisling, very stylised, surrounded by elfroot leaves and smiling happily. A balloon on her head inform the viewer that “Elfroot is the coolest!”. On the side, a stylized Solas with a very grumpy expression ( >:( ). *

---

“Charter. Charter!”

She marches inside the Caer, yelling the spy’s name as she marches up the stairs. The wound on her side still pulls at her skin, in spite of clean bandages and a lot of elfroot poultice to clean it, but no one really expected to find… So much on the bottom of the lake. So much more than just a Fade Rift, and even if it was huge in size, the demons were better than what the rest of Old Crestwood offered.

Of course the Veil was thin.

Of course there were so many spirits around.

The elf rushes down the stairs, noticing the way the Inquisitor’s limping and reaching to help. Aisling, tho, too upset for much else, bats her away, keeping stepping up on her own, using her own staff as a walking stick, her party equally gloomy at her back.

“What is it, Inquisitor?”

“A letter to Sister Nightingale. Scouts and spies must be deployed to find Mayor Dedrick.”

“What happened?”

“NOW, Charter, please.” She replies, briskly approaching her with a look on her eyes that admits no denials, handling the parchment they found in the Mayor’s house in the hands of the other elf as the only explanation.

The elf, most likely used to avoid all questions and not having clear answers from Leliana, takes the message, face contracting more and more at each new word. At the end, she releases breath through her teeth, as she nods and precedes her to the inner courtyard.

“Yes, Inquisitor.”

Aisling makes her way to the war room and plops down on a chair, suddenly feeling the extreme fatigue that’s plaguing her, mind still racing fastly to elaborate what they discover and consider solutions. Stupid wound doesn’t stop itching, and she presses the heel of her left hand, hard, on it. Which helps some.

“I knew the bastard was hiding something. Son of a darkspawn, and he didn’t even…”

Garrett approaches her, briskly dragging a chair to face her, not minding if the legs drag on the ground some. He falls on the sitting, quickly fussing to unbuckle the gauntlets and vambrace over his right arm, furrowed as well. Dorian pops in the room, followed by Sera who’s fuming in anger. They sit down on the table, between the other two, Dorian placing close to Aisling and eyeing her carefully.

“Shitty arse drowned them. Knew I should’ve planted an arrow in his butt.” Sera grumbles, positioning herself beside Dorian.

Aisling tries to find a reason, as she’s doing from when they entered his house and had the ultimate, grim confirmation that the men not only knew, but did it on purpose. She shivers, shaking her head roughtly.

“Not even a clean death. That was…”

“No wonder those spirits were so angry and the Veil so thin, uh? I would wonder if there’s a correlation between the two things, but there was only one Rift…” Count on Dorian to rationalise.

“It was a huge Rift, Dor… I wouldn’t be surprised if what happened made it larger, but you’re the expert on Death here.”

“If you tell him I said so I’ll leave you with just closed shoes in your room, but: it would be nice to have Solas here.”

“No, urgh, we just miss Droopy Ears to make this situation the shittiest, here, no shitting!” Sera complains, pushing on Dorian shoulder with a hand.

“Ouch! So much shit flying around…” Dorian replies, theatrically faking to fall on his side, holding is “injured” shoulder.

“That’s why Quizzy is Quizzy, she’s used to it from the stables!”

“Aisling, can you confirm horses shit this much?”

“Can you stop?” She snaps, effectively stopping them both from keeping up with the jests. She averts her eyes, frowning, as she adds a tired “Please. It’s just…”

“That was a shitty conversation anyway.” Pops in Garrett, returning from a brief visit to retrieve a bowl full of water and some clean cloths, as he gestures at Aisling to raise her shirt.

Sera snorts loudly through her nose, crossing her arms at her chest. “Arse biscuits, wiseshit, you’re no fun.”

“Perhaps we really should get moving with the healing part and get some rest, mh?” Dorian adds, still looking at Lavellan. “We’ll get back to poop later, maybe over a drink, Sera?”

The elf just grumbles, leaving the makeshift room in a gloomy quietness, no one really into speaking anymore as Garrett prepares all that he needs and Aisling takes off her belt and fishes a small tin box from a pouch, handling it to Garrett before leaving the belt on the floor with a clink of glass jars, and proceeding to unbutton her jacket, in silence. She just greets Blackwall and Fenris, entering the room once they removed the majority of their armours, as she tucks the bottom hem of her shirt in the collar and ties it in a knot so it just covers her breasts. Blackwall clears his throat and turns his back, which makes her even more nervous than before.

The bandages, at least, are not that awful: there’s just a small red stain on her side, but the wound is healing good. She takes the cloth up with one hand, straightening her back so Garrett can easily undo her bandaging and reveal the cut. It’s still there, blood droplets popping out sluggishly from the layer of dried elfroot paste she applied that morning.

“Well, I feared worse.” Garrett declares, nodding, drenching and rinsing one of the cloth in the water to clean the wound from the leftover paste and the blood.

“She got my Vallaslin…” She notices, looking down at the straight line just below her ribcage. It cuts the green line in two, just before it curls one last time to make space for a star in the centre, just above her belly button.

“Forget the damned tattoo! You’re well, ain’t ya? I’m tattooing you anew if you want, Quizzy.” Sera grumbles, from the table.

“You can’t do that, this is not just a tattoo.”

“So what?”

“I’d need a Keeper.”

“What for? I don’t get you elfy elves, it’s just a smidge on a line!”
The comment gets lost in the air, no one really replying to it but noticing how Aisling gets gloomier at it. It is stupid and she knows it, but this mission hit her in a sore spot, as a whole, and she wants to go home. Wherever home is, right now, she couldn’t tell either.

“We’ll end this war, my Lady, and you’ll be free to return to your Keeper soon enough.” Blackwall, in the end, declares. It almost seems like he really believes it.

“Will I? And the Inquisition?”

“GEEZ, Quizzy, what’s with you today?!” Sera snaps, slapping her hands on the table. “We saw some shit and the Mayor run, true, but you’re acting up!”

“Sera, it’s not-“

“No, Dorian, it is. I’m sorry, Sera, what we saw got to me, ok? So many people dead horribly, and by the hand of one of their own. I get war, but this?” She snorts, looking around her and ignoring Hawke protesting as he finishes his -still wobbly but less urgent- healing spell struggling against her thrashing. “I honestly don’t know how you are all so calm and willing to joke, right now, it’s… Unnatural.”

“People do awful things if they’re in a corner… Take it from a man from Kirkwall.”

“You mean humans do awful things.” She snaps, and she regrets it the instant it’s out of her mouth.

A heavy silence falls, charged with tensions. She exhales through her nose, taking the tin box from the table and raising up. “I am sorry, that was uncalled for and very cruel of me. I don’t mean it, really, I just… If you’ll all excuse me.”

She’s sincere, she is, but right now she can’t stay in that room, she can’t stay with anyone around or in the Keep without making it worse for them and for her. She fishes her jacket, not bothering in dressing back.

“Wait, darling, where are you going?” Dorian tries to stop her, unphased.

“I’m sorry, I just need to be alone.”

---

The dirt is still wet under her legs, folded under her body and seeping through the trousers where they are in contact with the ground. Everything is golden and fiery in the sunset, all the nasty spirits are gone leaving just some curious green wisp playing hide and seek in dilapidated buildings eaten by underwater plants.

She found a nice spot, in the centre of what must have been once a lively little community of fishermen and shepherds, judging from what’s left of the personal effects of the inhabitants, all scattered here and there amongst the ruins. It looks at the houses and one road leading west offers a beautiful view on the sun setting over the hills crowning the lake. It will be a good spot for a tree. She finishes digging the hole, deeming it deep enough, and tersing the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. Her forehead is now dirty with mud, but there’s no one there to watch her anywhere. Or, no one there to watch her who cares about physical appearance and is able to distinguish proper and improper looks.

Carefully, she turns on her side to pick the oak branch she cut from a tree she saw the other day, moving it around so that it rests with the cut part in the ground. She keeps it there, vertical and proud, with her right, as her left hand gathers and move the dirt she dug to fill the hole again with it and effectively plant the sapling. She compresses carefully the earth around the wood, so it’ll stay still. Once she’s happy, she takes a deep breath, looking around her and considering if the place is actually good, or if she can find something better, more significant and encompassing the whole of Old Crestwood.

A wisp approaches her, almost invisible when it gets against the sunlight, curious about the strange activities that are going on. She smiles at the little green form, unmoving.

“What do you say, little friend, do you like it here?”

She asks, not really expecting a reply. The wisp, tho, starts floating around the branch, lively and bouncy. She takes it as a yes, and gets back to place both her palms on the ground, around the sapling. She calls on her magic, quietly and counting her breaths, concentrating it in the wood and in the earth, with ideas of growth and prosperity, roots digging in the earth and branches sprouting up proudly to the sky, showing the way to the spirits who rests here.

“O Falon'Din, Lethanavir—Friend to the Dead, Guide their feet, calm their souls, Lead them to their rest. Falon’Din’enaste, Falon’Din ish’ala enasal.”

The recitation comes up naturally, as second nature, as she’s done more than once, back in another life, every word still deeply felt and full of meaning, not letting the spell go until she’s done with the prayer.

She’s done, and nothing changed. Just, there’s an oak sapling in the middle of what once had been a crossroad in a little fishermen hamlet that is no more, all the inhabitants drowned without a choice or any further knowledge. At least it’s peaceful now.

“I don’t know if I’m cut for this, little friend, you know?” She asks the wisp, raising her muddy fingers to it, in what she means to be a caress.

The wisp, in all answer, starts to wobble and dance through her fingers, air cold and buzzy against her skin as it goes. Just like static. It makes her smile, at least.

“Ma serannas.”

She’s still there sitting, hugging her knees and distractly playing with the wisp that for some reasons found in her a great companion, when the stars start cloaking the dusk sky and Dorian reaches her, with a torch and the heavy step and not-so-quiet complaints of a person who’s really not at all used to hiking or be outside of a paved environment. Aisling doesn’t need to turn to guess who is approaching, hearing him grumble quietly, in Tevene, about the mud and the unevenness of the terrain. At least he stops when he reaches her.

“Is this seat taken?” He asks, jovially. It’s fake, she can hear it.

“If it doesn’t get your cloak dirty, go on.”

“My bad in wearing white outside, it’s already ruined anyway.” He huffs, placing the torch in an empty area, with no leftover weeds, and sitting down beside her, not so close to touch her but close enough to let her scoot over minutely and get in contact, should she need it.

She leaves a couple of minutes pass, in silence, and thankfully he decides not to start talking, for once. He just stretches a hand, pointing a finger towards the wisp for it to examine it, as one would a stray dog. The wisp lingers around the digit, soon after dancing in a couple of quick turns around it, making the Tevene chuckle.

“Lively little fellow we have here.”

“I didn’t find a cedar.” She’s still looking forward, to the solitary oak branch she planted.

“Is it important?”

“We plant trees on our graves. Bury our deads with an oak staff and a cedar branch.”

“What meaning do they have?”

“The oak guides the spirit. The cedar serves to shoo away the ravens, Lie and Deceit. So the spirit of the deceased can rest in peace. I thought…”

“We could have a scout search for a cedar tree, tomorrow.”

“Yeah, we could.”

“We plant cypresses in our graveyards. Their roots grow down, so they won’t disturb the graves, they never lose their leaves, and they look like flames, so something burns for the spirits even if nobody is there to pay homages.”

“Oaks lose their leaves, but they grow tall and proud, roots digging deep, from the sky to the underworld, the spirit just needs to follow the roots.”

“It’s quite poetic.”

“It is.”

The evening is getting chilly, as the sun sets down, and Aisling, sitting there still since quite a lot, shivers unwillingly. Alarmed by the movement, the wisp float around her bare forearms in zig zags, quickly as if the goosebumps alarmed it quite a lot, green light weavering anxiously. She raises a hand, placing fingers over it in what would be a caress, pads pricked lightly, until the little spirit stabilizes a little. On his own, Dorian unfolds part of his cloak, tucking the hem out of one of his belts to drape it across his friend’s shoulders, scuddling closer enough so they can share it, shoulder to shoulder.

“Do you want to talk about it? I’m sorry if I did something that offended you.”

“I’m sorry I said some stupid shit, I don’t think humans are awful.”

“I know, but thank you. This shit really got to you, uh?”

“It’s… It’s fucked up. Soldiers are willing to get into battle, but this? They didn’t even- He should have protected them, not killed them, not like this… I know the community isn’t as important for you as it is for me, but-”

Her voice breaks, hot tears filling her vision as she grits her teeth and deeps the heels of both hands in her eye sockets, a vain attempt to keep it together.

“He was between a rock and a hard place… But yes, he chose the worst solution. At least he’s feeling guilty about it.”

“Not guilty enough, if he ran to save his life… It’s not the point.”

“Help me understand what is the point, then. I am sorry, I come from a place where individuality is more cherished… Never bore with any school because there was too much competition over nothing and people got envious and mean, what I had the closest to what I think you’re saying is the Alexius but… You know how it went. I can’t understand, but I can listen, as you did with me.”

She sniffs it out, letting a couple of tears roll down her cheeks, frustration level heightening still at the idea of having to explain something that is just basilar to be understood, fighting with gratitude for that step towards her.

“It’s called Vir Adahlen: the Way of the Wood. ‘Receive the gifts of the hunt with mindfulness. Respect the sacrifice of my children. Know that your passing shall nourish them in turn.’. It’s a cycle, the tree grows from the nourishment of the soil, it offers protection and shade and shelter and food, and in return you care for it, nourish it when you die and return to the earth. Everything is shared, one tree on its own won’t survive much, but a forest? Everybody in the clan acts like one tree in a wood, the only way forward is together.”

“So, it’s a matter of survival.”

“Yes, and at the same time, no. Survival, identity… It’s pride. Doing something like this… He acted on his own, choosing some over the others, without their consent. It’s just wrong. I…” She stops, taking a couple of deep breaths. “…If I ever become like this, please stop me.”

He moves his arm to snake around her shoulders, dragging her bust towards his in a hug.

“You won’t.”

“I may.”

“You wouldn’t be here crying and planting trees to honour people you never met and that most likely wouldn’t be able to interpret the gesture for what it is.” He squeezes her, reassuringly. “And Twinkle here wouldn’t be so attached to you. See? He doesn’t think either you’ll become ruthless, right Twinkle?”

He coos at the wisp, raising the pitch of his voice and reminding the spirit that he’s a very, very good boy. The spirit dwindles back and forth, not enthusiast about it, but when Dorian apologises for the misgendering, suggesting that he didn’t notice Twinkle may be a girl, the sparkle seems to be content, running in circles around them both and shining brighter. Which makes Aisling giggles, as the last of her tears run dry.

“Better?”

“No. But thank you, Dor.”

“Don’t mention it. Just… You know you can talk to me, right? That your offer of support and a hug a day is totally reciprocated, right?”

“Yeah… It’s just…” She shrugs, not having words to really say it and process it. “…Explaining everything is tiresome.”

“I know, darling, and I’m sorry…” He huffs, rubbing her shoulder. “By all means don’t tell him I said this, but: maybe you really should have brought Solas and not me.”

“I don’t think he would get it either…”

“Well, he would get it better… And wouldn’t have let Sera joke to kill tension.”

“He’s not Dalish, Dor… And he wouldn’t be here with me, now. Or he would, but just talking and over-analysing things, I don’t need an analysis. Stop trying to convince me you’re the short straw, it won’t work.”

Her arms unfold, as her whole figure does, to turn towards her friend and circle his bust with her arms, returning the hug. He’s not Dalish and for as much as he tries to, and as much as she appreciates the attempt, he doesn’t get it fully. But, he gets it enough to be there with her and not complain too much because her hands are still dirty with mud and she’ll spread it all over, as he folds the other arm around her and does everything but letting her go, resting his chin on the top of her head. It is family enough, right now.

“I have one more question.”

“I highly doubt it is just one, Aisling…”

“Rude! But right now it is.”

“Go on.”

“Do you think we can adopt Twinkle?”

Chapter Text

A week after Crestwood, the Inquisitor and her party are back at Skyhold, with both Hawke siblings and Warden Stroud, safely retrieved. The news about the Wardens are grim, and the Keep fills with tension as voices of the upcoming expedition to the Western Approach start to circulate and everyone sweats at the idea of being assigned so far from the base, in a mission that looks particularly dangerous. War Councils these days last longer than usual, lunch or dinner being brought directly to the War Room, scouts and crows working overtime to take into account everything and everyone to the minimal details. Warden Stroud and Hawke -Raina- were summoned to the War Room for help, sharing what they both know about the Wardens and the whereabouts of bases and fortresses in the Western Approach, giving them at least a good starting point and, from Hawke’s side, too many witty remarks, half of which clearly meant to poke on Cullen and get a reaction from him, with the same amusement of a kitten taunting an old cat to play.

Today, the Council has been called off earlier by the Inquisitor, with her usual politeness and tact, but a tired tone of voice at the Spymaster and the Commander that were apparently able to find common ground only on the volume of their voices. Aisling has sounded not displeased, but disappointed, as would a mother stopping a quarrel between two riotous children, as she stopped them both with a pointed comment and adjourned the meeting, sounding as she was sending the both of them back to their rooms without dinner, grounded for a week.

A couple of hours later and irritation against how much of an unsolvable riddle the situation is proving itself to be if Leliana refuses to let him send a big armed escort alongside the Inquisitor, Cullen is headed to find the Inquisitor again, after a couple of messengers brought him some informations that she needs to know as soon as possible.

The good one is that Leliana’s spies were able to track Mayor Dedrick down pretty easily, and are bringing him there for judgement, something that Lavellan has been adamant in wanting to know as soon as news were received. The bad one is that there’s some ruckus on the main gates that requires the personal attention of the Inquisitor in the immediate, even if technically she asked not to be disturbed whilst she worked in her room on an urgent requisition. As Cullen reaches up the last door before her private quarters -short of breath and asking to himself why exactly Josephine had to reserve her the remotest room in the tallest tower, like in one of the fairy tales his mother read him and his siblings as children- he hesitates on the door, before knocking. The remnant of lyrium in his blood reacts and itches under his skin to the magic that lies on the other side. It’s faint, but it’s there.

Which shouldn’t surprise him, seeing that the Inquisitor is, in fact, a mage, and that he knows Dalish are more free and casual in their uses of magic than in Chantry Circles. And it’s her room, she’s free to do as she wishes. Still, he’s suddenly alert and ill at ease, shoulders instinctively contracting and hand clenching on the knocker.

He stays there, breathing deeply, for a minute, before getting a grip over his stupid nerves, reminding exactly who’s behind that door and knocking with more decision that should be necessary.

“Inquisitor?”

“Come in!” She trills, from behind the wooden door.

He opens, quietly looking around for any signals to stop.

“Up here!” She calls, again, from up another flight of stairs.

Up the stairs, as he hops on with armour clanking and filling the silence, she is standing in the middle of some ruckus, instruments and materials and piles of books spread all around the pavement, clad in just a sleveless camisole, trousers and leg wraps. Hair tied up in a messy dark gold ponytail that swings gently in the breeze that enters from the opened glass doors leading to the balconies, and swings more by the flight of the green sentient speck of light that she brought back from Crestwood that she presented to the advisors and her Inner Circle as “Twinkle the Wisp, who’s most definitely a she, please don’t misgender her”. She’s concentrated, gaze fixed on her left hand, fingers clasped on the hilt of a rapier… Whose blade is made of pure, green energy fizzying in the air. It’s thinner than any training sword he ever put in her hand back in Haven, and it feels much more natural on her. Beside the fact that the blade is kept up by magic, or maybe exactly because of that. She seems genuinely happy, pride shining in the eye he can see on her profile.

“Isn’t this cool?” She asks, turning around and fending the air tentatively with her blade, very careful of keeping the point down to the floor and never directly at him.

“It’s… So you did choose the Knight Enchanter specialization in the end?”

“Arcane Warrior.” She corrects him, with a smile. “Hope you won’t mind me joining the drills again, Commander.”

“It would be a pleasure, I- you’ve been missed.” He smiles back. “Ah- If you don’t mind Rylen crying because I’m sending him to the Western Approach.”

“I think I’ll resist. How are you, anyway?” She asks, casually as she can. She lets go of the spirit blade -the ozone and mana in the air dropping abruptly, leaving the air incredibly still in confront- and studies him with keen green eyes, taking a couple of steps towards him. The wisp float from the back of her head to him, dwindling on his face in a way he could describe as curious, but still making him step back, not knowing how to act.

“She’s not harmful! Just curious. Twinkle, give him some space, please.” She coaxes, and the puff of light dances some away from him, still floating around his head and shoulders and playing with the fur of his coat. It’s… Weird and a little unsettling -not like Cole, but there’s no other effect than the collar being ruffled. Enough distraction not to let him think too much that they’re alone for the first time in weeks, and she’s smiling at him and-

“I’m- Ah, I’m good, thank you.” He hesitates, hand raising up to rub at his neck and fixing his eyes on the wisp. She doesn’t reply, but luckily, he has something else to avert her attention. “I- Ah, I was there because there’s a situation that requires your direct attention, at the gates.”

He handles her the parchment that has been given to him with the news and addressed directly to “Lavellan”, folded it in half. She takes it, wisp floating finally down to illuminate the parchment as the elf unfolds it. Her face furrows, paling a little and mouth opening.

“Where did you get this?” She asks, with urgency.

“Do you recognise it? An elf managed to sneak up to the main gates, and threatened Lysette to bring you to her. She used your first name, no titles. She put up a fight, but we managed to disarm her and stop her, she said to let you go with her right now if we don’t want a political incident with the Dalish… We managed to stop her, but she kept on asking about you and looks like she knows you, so-”

“You stopped- You didn’t imprison her, did you?” She asks, snapping up at him with disbelief.

“She wounded five of our best guards before we could disarm her, and it took the Iron Bull… She’s tied up but safe, she accepted to wait peacefully if she could send you that message. I thought she may be an assassin-”

“FUCK!”

She swears, loudly, tossing the spirit hilt on the sofa against the railing -it hits loudly against a pile of books, making it fall on the cushions- and races past him and down the stairs, wisp trailing behind.

“Wait-” He tries to stop her, turning and following after her.

“I know her, she’s-” She does stop in the middle of the stairway, looking at him and clearly upset. “She didn’t tell you who she is, did she…”

“No.”

“SHIT, FUCKITY FUCK-” She swears again, stomping her foot and returning to rush down the stairs, preceding him.

She’s lighter and nimbler than him, not hindered by armour, so she’s quick to leave him behind. She pops out of the second door soon after, tho, catching him as he is closing the door that leads up to the room behind him.

“I’m sorry! I’ll wait for you down, thank you for coming all the way up to tell me, I really appreciate it!” She’s talking ten miles per hour, but she manages to smile at him, before disappearing again with a last “Don’t rush too much!” that echoes through the tower with the sound of her steps and the creaking of doors opening and closing in her wake.

He slows the rhythm down a little, not seeing the point in running if she’s not in sight anyway. Instead, he stops to get the message he brought her from the ground, fallen in the rush. Unfolding it, it shows the quick, rushed and stylised drawing of what looks like a shrimp, with no words, no symbols, anything.

---

As Cullen reaches the portcullis, expecting another fit of outrage such as she showed in Haven with the ill-gifted Hart, there’s nothing of the sort. Aisling, standing straight as a column and with so much confidence and pride about her that it doesn’t really matter that she’s half-dressed and that her hair are unkempt and spinning wildly around her head, she is talking firmly but calmly to his and Leliana’s lieutenants and Cassandra, convincing them to let go the newcomer, that she’s not an assassin sent for her.

The newcomer is a tall elf, skin slightly darker than Josephine’s and a stern, long face tattoed in purple with spikes and curves, in a design more extended than Aisling’s, short dark hair trimmed at the side of the head and falling in soft curls. She’s dressed in travel clothes and leg wraps, and is standing so straight and looking around her so haughtily that she looks more like a princess than a rogue whose daggers have been taken out of their twin scabbards on her back and whose hands are tied securely at her back.

“What’s going on?” He asks, raising his voice and going to flank the Inquisitor in front of the guards.

“Ser Ulrich was just about to set our guest free and give her back her daggers and whatever has been taken from her. Right, lieutenant?” She asks, with a firm tone that admits no excuses and eyes flaming at him, signalling there has been protestations.

“Sister Nightingale-”

“I’m the Inquisitor, my orders supersede the Nightingales’, I believe. Don’t they, Lady Seeker?”

“They do, but the concern about your safety-” Replies Cassandra, flashing concerned eyes between the two Dalish.

“There’s no concern on my safety, this elf is a member of Clan Lavellan, she’s to be treated as my own blood. There has been a misunderstanding, I’m sure.” She declares, turning to the newcomer, expression softening greatly. “Lethallan, can you promise you’re not here to hurt me?”

One eyebrow raises up, but there’s an exchange of glances between them that speaks volumes, before the rogue moves her head to look at every one of their presents, examining each and every one of them. She stops more on the Iron Bull, leaning casually against a wall but looking equally attentively at her, and on Cullen, raising one eyebrow. Understanding this is some kind of trial and there’s something expected of him as well, he clears his throat and speaks, hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

“I’m Commander Rutherford, in charge of the Inquisition armed forces. The priority in the Keep is the well-being of Lady Lavellan, our Inquisitor. Forgive me and my men the rudeness, we were just getting sure you weren’t there to hurt her. No harm will be done to you, if you’re here in peace, I will personally make sure all the soldiers know.”

And with that, he does his best to not look down first, metaphorically stomping on his feet and stubbornly refusing to let down first, even sporting his best scolding frown. The elf doesn’t seem impressed in the slightest, but after a while she exhales deeply through her nose -it’s been broken, he notices- and gracefully returns to look and speak directly to Aisling.

“I am here on behalf of the clan, lethallan. I’m not there to hurt you, I was sent to check that you’re good, and not kept prisoner in some Circle against your wish. I won’t pose any threat until you’re threatened.” She speaks, clearly and with all due calm in a deep, rich voice.

“All Circles of Magi have been disbanded in the recent war.” Cassandra points out. “She is here of her own free will.”

“Have they? Because all I see here is one Seeker, at least two Templars, if not three, and a Qunari. The mages I saw were all on the sidelines, no one joined the fight nor is here to discuss matters of security but the First to our clan, and no one here is heeding her orders.”

“They are, Radha, they just wishes to be sure I’m not in any danger, I was told you didn’t introduce yourself.” Aisling chimes in, professionally, but placing one hand on one arm of the other elf, expression melting a little. “I have so much to explain, but now would someone please untie her, or should I burn the ropes myself?”

She returns to the presents turning around with expectation until one of the scouts rushes forward and starts undoing the knots on the ropes, setting finally the rogue free.

“Thank you, Jim.” The Inquisitor tells him, with a polite nod of her head and a smile. “Now, all of you, back to work, I’ll take it from here.”

A couple of claps, a nod from Cullen as well, and everyone gets reluctantly back to their places, leaving the elves alone with just Cullen and Cassandra, in a tense silence as the Seeker still glares at Radha, Radha massages her wrists and looks at the present with the same air of haughty confidence, as she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be, and Aisling’s challenging anyone to say anything back to her.

“You made us pass like fools.” Cassandra finally blurts out, arms flaring at her sides in two wide arches.

“I am very grateful of the attention you pay to my well-being, Cassandra. But, she’s not a threat.”

“She stabbed five people!”

“If I stabbed anyone, they’d be dead, Seeker. I avoided tendons and vitals, I just reduced my enemies, they’ll live. It wouldn’t have been like so if you told me whom you needed to call using her name, and not a title that doesn’t mean anything to me.” Radha, serene as ever, adds.

“It-”

“STOP, the both of you.”

Aisling interrupts them, raising both hands to show one palm each. She moves her left towards Radha, whose serene façade of calm cracks a little in a frown, noticing the pale scar that runs in the middle of the hand presented to her.

“War Council in a couple of hours to talk about this. Give me time to explain to her what’s going on. I’m not to be disturbed for anything that’s not Corypheus knocking at our door. Commander, can I ask you to notify Leliana? I’ll tell Josie.”

“Of course, Inquisitor.”

“Thank you. Cassandra, you’re coming as well, later. And in the meanwhile, I’m sure I don’t need to remind it to any of you.” She turns to look at all presents, elf included, with reproach in her eyes. “No one stabs or cut or tie up anyone without their consent.”

Radha keeps her stare, and nods right after, conceding the point. Finally relaxing minutely, on the background of one of Cassandra’s best disgusted noises, the Inquisitor dismiss them all, stopping a scout to invite her to bring the sequestrated daggers and tea for two to her quarters. And with that, she latches her arm in Radha’s and guides her up the stairs, stopping by to thank Cullen and apologising again for having made him run, assuring one more time that it’s all right, before leaving him alone with the Seeker.

“Do you seriously avval her? It’s madness! What if she’s there to kill her?” Cassandra seethes, taking it on him.

“She wouldn’t have asked for her if she really is here for an assassination. As she came here unseen, she would have arrived to her room or hidden in the stables until she found a better moment. Also-” He reaches forward with a hand, passing the the Nevarran the parchment that made Aislin rush down here. “-the message was personal. They do know each other, I believe.”

Cassandra looks at the drawing squinting her eyes, turning the sheet here and there to see if there’s something else no one noticed before.

“A shrimp?”

“Don’t ask me.”

---

“So. Inquisitor?”

Leave it to Radha to only speak to make the most uncomfortable, direct and poignant questions ever and watching you in silence until you spit out everything just to have a reply from her. She’s been silent all the way to her room, greeted Josephine with just a nod of her head, and while they waited for Frida to reach them with a tray filled with all the necessary for tea -well, Orlesian style at least- and plates full of biscuits and pastries for them to eat according to the taste of the Inquisitor. She has just taken the large room in, walked around and looked at its content. Not that Aisling has really done much with it or put too much personality beside the mess all around, adding just a halla statuette on the mantelpiece and fixing a little altar on the raised floor of one back, protected by external eyes, and misplaced books and papers in various piles on the floor according to topic and purpose. And placing an extra table for her instruments: pots and flasks, jars of herbs and bottle of extracts and tinctures, a scale and a big stone mortar. The maid has been thanked and sent back, leaving the two on their own, and Radha finally stopped reading the titles of books here and there and turned to make that one single, vital question.

“Yes, Inquisitor. It’s a long story…”

Silence on the other end. Aisling turns, watching the other look around her, searchingly. They grew up together and has been friends, so she instantly knows what to say.

“Settle yourself, this room is my own, use it as yours even if Josie is surely planning on assigning you one, you can stay here and use everything. Take off your jacket, sit down… Oh, I have some clean clothes to lend you if you want to change-” She fumbles, marching to the dresser to fish something that’s not so tightly fitted and could potentially be good for the other as well, in spite of the difference in height.

“At least now I know they didn’t brainwash you.” Radha chuckles, not letting the other repeat herself twice and taking a place on the couch, moving the fallen books in another pile to make a free spot for her with all due calm, reading each title with interest that cracks her tightly kept façade and makes Aisling smile and melt a little at the familiarity of her attention instantly getting caught by books, any kind of book.

“They didn’t. It’s quite a long story but first-”

She returns back to her clanmate, fingers nervously twining and looking down until she’s directly in front of the rogue, just to look at the other right in the eyes as she speaks again.

“Why are you here? How’s the clan? Please tell me-” She keeps up the face, tightly wounded but not breaking even if she can’t really finish the sentence and voice her fear out loud.

“They’re fine, lethallan. The Keeper was worried by your letter, it… It didn’t sound like you at all. She sent me to check whether you said the truth, or bring you back home if you needed help.”

Aisling nods, puzzle pieces coming back together and relief flooding her as she falls sitting on the couch too.

“I didn’t want the letter to be intercepted and give too much out. Did she understood what I meant?”

“Yes.”

“Did you move north, as I told?”

“No. They’re still outside Wycome, waiting for news. Nobody understood what you meant by mentioning the year to come, that was what convinced the Keeper to send you some back up.”

“It’s a long story.” She sighs, retrieving her new spirit hilt from under her butt and bending her bust forward, elbows resting on her knees as she plays with the spirit hilt to have something to do. Radha imitates her, moving closer so their hips touch. “It doesn’t matter anymore and… I have so much to explain you, lethallan, I don’t know where to start.”

“Start by the beginning. What happened at the Conclave?”

A hand squeezes Aisling’s shoulder, reassuringly as she’d done a thousand times in all those years. She raises her head, smiling at her friend with teary eyes.

“I missed you all so much, Radha. I’m sorry I left.”

In all reply, Radha leans forward, inviting her in a hug that comes full of relief and joy and nostalgy for a home that once was and she believed to have lost. She didn’t remember the way Radha’s curls always smell of olive oil and are so soft to the touch, grazing her cheek. They hold each other close for long, not needing to say anything more, before Aisling raises to pour some tea and start telling her everything that happened until then.

---

The evening War Council is one of the most chaotic they’ve had in quite a while. Mainly because Cassandra has not digested having been contradicted in her being cautious and is putting her foot down on how Radha should at least get disarmed while in the Keep, and Aisling facing her and matching all her arguments, one by one, leaving to Josephine trying to mediate between them and Cullen and Leliana, for once, deprived of much to do and quarrel about, or better yet: not having space to voice their opinions or contribute.

Radha, on her own, is standing in the corner of the table, arms crossed on her chest and observing what’s going on with vivid interest in her brown, expressive eyes. Particularly, she’s fixed on Aisling, lips twitching in a smile every time the Mage counters an argument with a witty remark or a jab, pride in her eyes. After half an hour, Leliana approaches her, deciding to direct her questions on the object of the discussion.

“The Seeker has a point in not trusting you. You proved yourself to be a more than capable warrior, and if the Inquisitor protects you, you are free to do how you please, none the wiser.”

The elf turns her head, raising up an eyebrow.

“So, you don’t trust your own Inquisitor’s judgement.”

“I never said that. I said you’re a liability.”

“You’ve said enough.”

Leliana twitches in a smile, eyes sparkling with interest as she finally turns to the other. She’s tall, facing her directly in her eyes. They keep on studying the other for a while, before Leliana nods in approval.

“Just don’t let her down, it’s not been easy for here in these months, and it’s gonna get worse.”

“I’m here to make her life easier, if I can. But tell me, Spy.”

“Leliana. What is it?”

“Did they fuck and it went bad?" She asks, pointing at Aisling and Cassandra, one after the other, with her finger.

“RADHA!” The Inquisitor snaps, turning red as a pepper.

“What? She’s your type.”

Weirdly enough, for Radha at least who raises one eyebrow at him, is that the Commander as well is blushing, turning his head away as he clears his throat. All attention gets off from her, tho, as the Seeker, equally blushing madly, leans on the table against Aisling.

“What did you tell her??”

“Oh, was there something to tell? I didn’t-” She stops, still red, to look at her surroundings.

Cullen and Josephine have both stopped looking, averting their eyes and doing their very best to pass as two very big knick-knacks, just there to decorate the room and definitely without ears. Leliana is looking like the cat that got the cream, blue eyes darting between her and the Seeker with too much interest -and Aisling knows that Leliana being too interested is never that good of an idea. And Radha is interestingly looking at the Commander, which Aisling right now doesn’t understand the reason of. Thankfully at least, Cassandra doesn’t reply, glaring daggers at her and all but fuming in rage.

“I am sorry. My point is: Radha is basically my sister. She’s staying until she wants to, you three can get to some agreement with her, I’m sure. She’s a capable hunter and has good memory and I trust her completely, if you trust me, you’ll trust her as well. Now if you would excuse us…”

And without adding another word, still embarrassed like few other times in her life, Aisling trots around the table and takes the nearest of Cassandra’s arms, all but dragging the Seeker with her to the small balcony that opens at the end of the War Room and, thankfully, has glass doors that close. The Seeker protests minutely, stopped in all her remarks by a hissed “A minute, please.” By the Inquisitor. The action doesn’t get commented by anyone else, all eyes following the both of them until Aisling turns, still flustered, to close the doors behind them, and the two gets back to yell at each other, gesticulating but words blissfully muffled by the door.

“So, when did they stop fucking?” Radha asks back, as if it was the most normal thing in the world, causing the Commander to fall in another fit of fiercely trying to turn into stone, visibily ill at ease, and the Ambassador to clear her throat expressively, concentrating on some documents she has on her board.

“The issue is that they never did, I’m afraid.” Leliana replies.

“Mh.”

“You don’t look surprised that she fell for a human.”

“Should I be?” She asks back, raising one eyebrow.

Leliana, in all reply, just smiles, knowingly, shaking her head minutely.

“So, let’s see what we could do with you, shall we?” The Spymaster chuckles, approving the new addition to the Keep and urging all the rest to get back to work.

---

Out in the balcony, weeks of carefully walking on eggshells and avoiding each other are leashing out all the unsaid and repressed comments that should have been addressed way before. It’s cathartic in a way, as it’s been cathartic to break with Ydun, and she doesn’t really want to stop to think of the similarities and realise just how much she just acted on nostalgy.

“I told you I didn’t tell her anything!” She repeats, for the third time, her patience dwindling to a limit.

“And how does she know then? I keep asking it because you don’t answer!”

“She knows what? Is there anything to know that I wasn’t aware of?”

“You know what I mean!”

“No, Cassandra, I do not!”

She turns her back, pacing the rest of the balcony and grunting in frustration. She wants to cry, but she’ll be dead before she gives in and does it, not right now, not for this, not to admit that she’s been stupid and lonely and now it’s all biting her back with the realisation that she threw a friendship in the dumpster. So, she just walks to the other side of the balcony as quickly as she can, and props herself on the balaustrade with both hands, breathing deeply, trying to regain some calm, because she knows Cassandra will just barge on, head down, without stopping.

“I am sorry she offended you. But if you really expect me to stay silent and act like nothing happened and just… Swallow. I can’t do that.” It must have sounded still irritated, because there’s a disgusted noise behind her, before Cassandra goes on, still angrily.

“And you’re acting like it’s all my fault and I’m the big bad wolf! I gave you space… I did nothing to deserve such opposition, and now you’re mad at me for what? Doing my job and not returning your affection?”

“You don’t know how I feel.”

“You’ve been yelling at me all afternoon, and it’s the first time we spoke in weeks!”

“I am mad at myself, ok?” She yells, turning back to face the other, arms throwing widely at her sides. “I am extremely embarrassed about how I behaved with you, how I put you ill at ease by misreading your signals because I was feeling lonely. I am mad at myself because I feel like I threw a friendship in the gutter and I am sad that I got the wrong idea because you let me talk without judging me and I liked that, and now…”

She cracks a laugh, mirthlessly, turning her eyes on the side and getting lost in the valley down below, filled with darkness, white speckles of snow lighter in the faint moonlight. Her eyes start to burn with tears, but she refuses to shed them.

“…and now I would like to talk you but I can’t because it’s you I’d need to be talking about. I don’t know how to process things without people to talk to, I… I am so sorry, I got the wrong idea about you because it’s from the Conclave that I feel so incredibly lonely and I hate it, you were the first to treat me like a person and not a religious icon, you reminded of the best things of a person I once loved and-” A couple of tears, hot and fat, rolls down her cheeks. She hisses, frustrated, rubbing them off with the back of one hand, the other raising, palm outward, to signal that she’s not done. “-and today I saw Radha and it was all too much. She’s been like a sister to me, she was there and she listened. I was terrified she had bad news about the clan, I was relieved to see her and knowing that I’m not alone anymore, and everything else... I saw you tying her up and I lashed everything on you and I am sorry. I really am.”

Oh, she hates being emotional at times, now it’s one of those times as she can’t keep tears in. At least she tries to be dignified about it, resting the small of her back against the railing, crossing her arms protectively in front of her and keeping her head stubbornly turned as she bats away tears from her eyes and keeps herself rigidly there, waiting for an answer.

A full minute pass before a question arises.

“You didn’t talk to Dorian about this?” Cassandra asks, all edge gone from her voice, leaving space to disbelief and something more fragile.

“I told him you turned me down, and that’s it. He’s going through his own shit, didn’t feel right in adding my own. I told the same to Leliana and Josephine, they noticed I was upset when they dragged me to a tailor right after… Right after. That’s it. Maybe Cole knows, because it’s Cole.”

Silence, again, each of them thinking things through and taking time to reply, not daring to speak to ruin the moment or say the wrong thing.

“I am sorry, I didn’t want to make you cry, I-” Cassandra starts, huffing breath through her nose and taking one tentative step towards the elf. “… I enjoyed talking with you. You’re a good and kind person, and I admire your wisdom and patience as a leader, I value your friendship. I-”

She stops again, with another disgusted noise that makes Aisling, turns her eyes to her, frowning a little and retreating more into her own shoulders.

“I am bad at people. You avoided me these weeks and left me here for Crestwood and… I thought you were angry at me, hated me even, I reacted badly convinced of that. But I hurt you and I led you on and I had no idea that you were feeling alone all this time, I am sorry too.”

“You didn’t lead me on.”

“I could have told you I didn’t like women when you gifted me the flower, I wasn’t… I wasn’t sure.”

“We’re in two being bad at people then… Sorry for the kiss.” She snorts, grateful for it, joined in the half laugh by the other woman.

“Don’t mention it. If you’re bad, there’s no hope for me.”

Their eyes finally meet, and tension melts, leaving them laughing, relieved. Aisling even shed the last tears, tersing her eyes with her hands right after and smiling, albeit shily, at Cassandra.

“We should have spoken before.”

“Let this be a lesson. And… For what concerns me, you didn’t throw a friendship in the gutter. If you still want it, you have it, I… I just felt like you may need space.”

“Thank you, I did… And I want the friendship back, it would mean a lot. I admire you greatly as well. Just…”

“What is it?”

“… I was serious about Radha. She hurt people because she thought I was in danger. Can you… Maybe not imprison on sight the next elf that comes around?”

This particular disgusted noise is accompanied by eyes rolling towards the sky and a barely contained smile, as a black head shakes on itself.

“Only if the next elf that comes around avoid doing very stupid, reckless things in the first five minutes.”

“I don’t know, there’s at least a couple of hot-heads more, back home…”

“I’m sure you’ll keep the first place in reckless things, tho.”

It’s done and it’s light, finally back to some sort of normality. There’s still embarrassment, at least on Aisling’s side, and the jokes comes up a little forced and more to ease the other up than anything else… But it’s a step.

“Can I… You like hugs, right? Would you want me to… You know-?”

Aisling laughs, shaking her head at the weirdest request for a hug she ever heard till today.

“You really are bad with people!” She giggles, but before a protest can arise, she’s shaking her head, with a smile. “Thank you, but no. Too soon, still. Maybe next time?”

“Next time.” Cassandra smiles back, nodding in approval, relief on her face.

It’s a promise and it’s an opened door. And with that, it doesn’t really matter if when they get back inside the War Room, with an atmosphere much more distended than before and all the tension gone, there are knowing smirks and teasing sentences by the two rogues in the room -and Aisling really doesn’t like Radha’s knowing look. It’s gonna be all right.

---
“You’re so cute, aaaw!”

Sparring with Hawke has been a bad idea. Or maybe a good one, but in a very “sink or swim” attitude. Or well, a “Get stabbed again or learn melee fighting” attitude. The problem is that she did it once, after one miraculous training with Commander Helaine that didn’t leave her all one big bruise and wishing she really listened to Solas and opted to learn Rift Magic for real, the Champion had asked to spar with her “just for ten minutes, I’ll go easy with you”. And that has been the end.

Helaine decided that it could be beneficial to have Raina as an extra sparring partner, so Aisling could think faster and have a better idea of what it meant fighting in close combat. Except, Helaine severely prohibited to use sparring weapons –“the spirit blade will cut through wood like butter, when you’ll finally be able to keep it up consistently, recruit”- and she realised with horror that Cullen was too much right when he told her that half the drills was still too little.

So here she is, desperately trying to put distance between herself and Hawke -a Hawke who is toying with her and having a lot of fun, jumping and dashing and rolling and conducting the fight with all the ease and the grace of a cat playing with her still alive food. Because if she could summon a spirit blade in the calm of her room with all the ease to keep the necessary concentration up, the middle of a fight is a whole different thing, and most often than not, the spell just fuzzes and crumbles at the barest touch with the adversary blade.

“You’re not concentrating, put some effort!” Barked Helaine from the side of the training ground, disappointment clear in her voice.

“I’m trying, she’s too fast!”

“Excuses!”

Some days, she actually hates Helaine. And it’s not the fact that she knows that Helaine’s a friend of Vivienne and the two are confidents and she feels… Exposed. Oh no, it’s just that she has a way of highlighting her lacks and her mistakes that’s just… Cassandra is brash and won’t refrain in telling you what to do. Solas will tell you that you’re wrong and correct you. Helaine expects you to be able to do things right after she tells you once, and sounds disappointed when you aren’t. So, Aisling groans, frustrated, and clenches her teeth, putting more effort in the spirit blade. The blade shines green and it’s very wobbly, but she manages to keep it up for more than ten seconds, as she steps quickly back and on the side, raising the sword to block both daggers flying down at her from above. She grits her teeth and struggle to keep the blade up even if her knees tremble with effort under the pressure, managing for some time more, before she feels the spell slipping from her hands and is quick to quickly pirouette around Hawke, evading the blades – and let it not be said that Josie’s dancing lessons are pointless.

“Don’t listen to her, you’re doing good.” Raina tells her, amusement deep in her voice as she raises one of her daggers at her, turning quickly to face her again.

“Not good enough.” Aisling grunts, ducking last minute with a step back.

“Well, nobody got stabbed again and there are no demons around, so I’d say it’s a success. But I’m no cranky elven lady with a broom up her ass, what do I know.” She winks, trying another hit to her shoulder with one dagger, as the other slices towards her waist.

“So Garrett told you-” She groans, instinctively calling on wind to just… Slow down and repel both daggers as she scampers back away.

“He did. I won’t tell your pretty sister there, don’t worry, before she skins alive both the Hawkes, and I don’t know who’ll survive between her and Fenris.”

“Shouldn’t you be the one to survive? Champion and all?”

“Oh yeah, but she is a pretty Dalish with a talent for knives, and I miss my girlfriends, you see. She’ll wink at me and I’ll melt in a puddle, crying because she reminds me of both.”

She sighs, heavily and theatrically, just as they were chatting in a normal environment. Helaine’s reproach over needing to use BOTH spells at the same time, or in quick succession, and anyway putting more energy into it comes and goes, half ignored as both are too concentrated to fight and speak. Aisling is particularly careful in avoiding getting stabbed or horribly cut for real, even if she has the impression that the Champion is all but having fun, not putting real effort and perfectly capable to stop in time. Not that she’s particularly willing to confirm that sensation. She’s getting tired, tho, and Raina is evidently not, so…

“A crying puddle, you said?” She tries to open up in the biggest, warmest smile she can conjure, and winks at Hawke, putting effort in looking flirty -strutting her hips just so as she wiggles around another slash. She’s sweaty and flustered from the exhertion, but-

This surprisingly works in leaving Hawke totally taken aback for one moment, blue eyes wide open and mouth too in a surprised O. Aisling doesn’t need the invitation: she tries to conjure lightning -not much, more for show and just enough to stun her a little and make her fall, without hurting for real- as she steps forward-

- but it doesn’t work. A foot slips quickly forward, and before she can realise much else than Helaine grunting a “Stupid move!”, she’s turned around, both hands behind her back, wrists held behind by one hand as the other points the blade of one dagger at her throat. There’s a clank of her spirit hilt and the other dagger, disarming her, as Hawke drags her back just so that she’s leaning fully against her chest, incapacitated to move.

“Good try, Lucky. But you’re more of a Merrill, flirting like so won’t work.” Hawke tells her, merriment in her tone of voice, just beside her ear. She pauses, leaning her head against her and looking forward to the circle of recruits and lieutenants that circled around the enclosure, looking at the duel. There’s Helaine, totally not impressed, Radha casually leaning over a pole, observing, Cassandra and Cullen just beside her.

“Or at least, it won’t work with me, maybe try again with another person, mh?” She snickers, pecking her cheek loudly just before pushing her forward, taking her knife back and patting her shoulder.

They retrieve their weapons, after a dismissive wave of Helaine’s hand signalling them both that they’re done for today. Aisling, wounded in her pride by yet another unsuccessful day of little progresses, makes her walk of shame to Helaine, bracing herself for the long, tedious report on exactly how much did she got wrong and how and how “pointlessly” deconcentrated (by trying not to get wounded) she was. Which lasts a good of ten minutes of her entering in her best Inquisitor mood, grimacing when the other elf puts particular emphasis in denoting how unprofessional and uncalled for and shameful her poor attempt at distracting via flirting has been. Thankfully -and if there wasn’t still a whole crowd looking at her and listening attentively she would have kissed the Champion- Hawke pops in to help her, explaining that it was her to give her the idea, and it probably could have worked, on another person and with some more exercise on that part too. They start bickering on what’s becoming for a Knight Enchanter (“Arcane Warrior!”) and what’s not, debating between Helaine insisting that there’s a certain decorum that must be kept and Hawke firmly staying on the “Whatever keeps you alive” side of the argument, until the commander just groans in disgust and dismiss them, calling them back for the next day, same hour. Maybe with some more seriousness to them.

As the fence gets freed, Cullen barks orders to the other recruits to enter and do something useful with their day that’s not gawking like fishes, freeing them from the crowd and allowing Aisling to groan, loud and forlornly as she reaches Radha with outstretched hands for a hug. Which she gets, the taller, seemingly unapproachable elf easily welcoming her clan mate in and patting her shoulder.

“Next recruit I hear complaining about our Commander will get a day with Helaine. Can I reassign them?” She grumbles, muffled by a shoulder.

“I’m afraid not, Inquisitor.” Cullen snorts. “But she’s just giving you the accelerated course, I was more lenient just because you had more time and less urgency.”

“What, you trained under him as well?” Asks Hawke, perking up in interest. “Aaaw, Curly, you did got soft! Is that all the hair pomade?” She asks, grinning at him teasingly.

“No, it’s two years without you around.” He quips back, drily.

“So it’s you who taught her to play defense?” Radha tunes in, squinting at Cullen. It’s not an accusation, it’s just a statement of the obvious fact that Aisling has just played in defense and not really attacked.

“She asked me for help to defend herself in close combat, I did that.” He replies, huffing. “What’s wrong?”

“You never saw her fighting for real.” Another statement.

“Radha-“

“Only once, and briefly. Why?”

“She’s a mage who wields thunder. She’ll zap your butt and attack, not cower behind a barrier. Defense isn’t her style, that’s why she’s struggling. She’s trying to act like something she’s not even more than she seems to, around here.” Radha huffs, releasing Aisling and poking her in a shoulder, shifting her minutely. “Stop defending, lethallan, and attack. You’ve always been better at that.”

Hawke whistles, impressed, twirling her blades in both her hands, eyes glinting.

“I like her. Care to join me… Radha, was it? I see food in Curly’s hands and I believe it’s not for us anyway.” A pause, she turns towards Cullen, shit-eating grin plastered on her face. “Or it is? For old time’s sake and to celebrate being the only two real people in the compound?”

Cullen’s eyes get as big as saucepans, cheeks painting red as he stutters something unintelligible, turning abruptly away and crossing arms over his chest, indeed showing off there’s a tied cloth in his hand. Hawke snickers, looking extremely pleased with herself for the obtained answer. Radha, meanwhile, just huffs and steps forward, turning to Cassandra.

“I’d be glad to. If the Seeker will allow me to wield a weapon, that is…”

In all answer, there’s a disgusted noise and a nod of a black head. “Don’t kill each other or anyone else.” The Nevarran grunts, sending them both off with a nod of her head.

“Yes, mom!” Hawke chimes, snickering as the two rogues takes a couple of steps inside the ring before starting.

They’re both quick, Radha coming out as more cautious and ducking and evading hits with much, much more grace than her clanmate before her did. She’s studying the adversary and getting her tired, luring her around the ring, more than just scampering away and hoping for the best. Aisling notices and groans, getting closer to the two warriors and slipping her hilt under her belt, pouting as she observes the two doing what she couldn’t, just noticing the differences as she retrieves her jacket from where she left it folded on one of the poles and slip it on again, buttoning it securely and tying the scarf that was tucked in one sleeve on her neck.

“I should have gone with the creepy Trainer.”

“You’re doing good, it’s just an intensive class.” Cassandra comments, patting her shoulder. A little awkwardly, but the elf doesn’t seem to mind, smiling weakly at the other.

“Anyway…” She turns to Cullen, eyes sparkling. “Did I heard the word food?” She asks, hopefully.

The Commander snorts, unfolding his arms and handling her the bundle with half a smile.

“Here.”

“Saviour of the day!” Aisling trills happily, launching both hands up in joy before accepting the package and opening it, very carefully, with one hand as it’s balanced on the other.

Inside, there’s two sandwiches folded in waxed papers, one of which gets handled to Cullen -who tries to leave it to Cassandra, apologising for not bringing food to her as well, but none of the women will have it. Lavellan tosses the cloth on the fence, haphazardly, which gets right after taken up and carefully folded and hanged by a still grumbling Commander. Cassandra, on her own, pats the both of them on one shoulder, excusing herself to have some lunch as well and agreeing to meet them for dinner, if they’ll exit the War Room at a reasonable time.

Once left alone with their shared lunch -which they began anew as soon as Aisling got back in the drills with Helaine-, the elf can have her way and ask the other.

“What did Hawke mean when she mentioned that she and you are the only real people in the compound?”

“Nothing at all. Some nonsense she must have misinterpreted once and she got insanely attached to. Impossible woman.” He grumbles, grumpy and furrowing again with flushed cheeks, and soon after distracting himself by correcting a couple of recruits from misusing their shields.

“Weren’t you friends, in Kirkwall?” Aisling asks, between a bite and the other, curious.

“I… I couldn’t say. She seems to be sure we were- are- I don’t know… She likes to tease.”

“She seems to like you, tho, in a ‘tease your friends mercilessly’ way... But she’s been like this with Varric as well, so.”

“I wouldn’t know how she thinks so. I wasn’t… at my best, back then. Didn’t make a lot of friends in Kirkwall.”

“No?” She asks, a mix of surprise and worry in her face. “I’m sure it can’t be… Not even anyone special?”

“…” He considers it for a minute, before turning to her and replying in a soft voice. “Not in Kirkwall…”

They cross eyes, green in hazel, in silence. Aisling’s mind running ten miles per hour to elaborate the brief, detail-less sentence as she nibbles at what’s left of her lunch and comes to the wrong conclusion.

“So why are you here with me? The Iron Bull’s over there…”

The answer gets delivered with so much, clueless innocence that it brings another pause, and the slow, invisible, internal death of the Commander, not knowing what to reply. It’s clear from her expression that Aisling has absolutely no idea of what’s going on exactly and is a little lost, and there’s something that sits bad with him in how she’s putting herself second. At the same time, elaborating any further, in whatever direction seems… Unwise and badly timed. So instead, the Commander calls on year of Templar training to clear his throat, ignore the instinct to just get into the drill disarmed and have someone hit him hard and fast so he can stop overthinking and replying, looking stoically in front of him and straightening his spine.

“It was my turn to bring lunch.”

The elf doesn’t seem particularly impressed nor inclined to think better of what just happened -as he notices glancing sideways at her- but at least doesn’t elaborate further, shrugging her shoulders and concentrating on finishing her sandwich, turning to look at Radha and Hawke who are still there trying to decide who can force the other to give in. The elf has in the end started to attack: she’s still cautious, but daring, slipping quick and aimed slashes as often as she can as she avoids the Champion’s. Hawke tho comes directly from Kirkwall, and it’s not letting go so easily even if she’s starting to let go of the serrated rhythm of before. They’re going on steady, dancing around recruits and sending the greener one in a fit of fear as they scamper away to avoid the rogues, breaking concentration.

“Ignore them! No battle will have you fighting one on one, concentrate on the enemy ahead!” The Commander barks, a little harsher than the usual.

Some recruit tries to speak up and answer, but it’s quickly stopped by another soldiers, not at their very first drill in the Inquisition, that bats at the uncareful one with a slap on the back of his neck and gloomy stories of morning shifts cleaning the latrines in the valley camp for insubordination.

Some minutes later, tho, tired of the silence, Cullen slips a hand inside a pocket, offering a folded piece of wrinkled paper to Lavellan, with a grunt.

“Here- Ah, you lost this.”

“What is it?” She asks, taking the parchment and unfolding it, the waxed paper that enveloped her lunch crumpled in a ball and slipped in a pocket.

It’s the message Radha sent her up, the one with the shrimp drawn on it. Flattened as one could after it was mishandled, but still in good conditions.

“You kept it!” She exclaims, surprised. “Thank you!”

“Nothing… I thought it was important.”

“Actually not, it’s just… An inner joke, just to let me know exactly who was who sent it.” She grimaces, smiling with uneasiness as the paper gets folded back and slipped inside the other pocket. “Thank you, though.”

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No! No, no, it’s just… It’s a stupid joke, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Talk about what, lethallan?”

And of course, that is the exact moment when Radha decides to get it done with the daggers and return to the fence, tagging Hawke along, both flushed from the exertion and catching their breaths. Aisling all but glares at her supposed friend.

“Nothing.”

One eyebrow raises, crinkling slightly the purple of her vallaslin, not believing that it’s nothing.

“I found the message you sent the Inquisitor, lady Radha.” Cullen barges in, his turn of being clueless.

“Lady?” Radha cracks a smile at him, as if asking him if he’s really serious.

“No no no, lethallan, he was talking of another message, another time, something very secret and very private he should NOT talk about with you.” Aisling interrupts, trying to physically push the other elf away, blushing madly at the idea of the reveal.

“Which message? Oh it’s a dirty one? Tell me it’s a dirty one, Curly, please. Or that you have other food hidden in all those feathers of yours.” Hawke asks.

“It’s fur. And no.”

“No what? No food or no dirty?”

“Both.”

“Fun police.” The Champion punches his arm, just below the pauldron, earning the mother of all scowls as he rubs the offended point.

It’s in that moment of distraction, when Aisling turns to snorts a little hearing Raina using the same appellative she had used, back in Haven when their relationship was still on pins and needles and mistrusting, that Radha decides to strike.

“You mean the shrimp, don’t you?”

“Radha, no.” It would want to be a warning, but it comes out as a hissing plea.

“My elder brother calls her Shrimp. When she arrived, she used to sit all curved, and after we crossed the Waking Sea back North, she got such a bad sunburnt that she became all red. You know, like a shrimp.”

“Fenedhis, lethallan!”

The Inquisitor gets progressively more curved on herself, in pure, unadultered embarrassment, and turns slowly toward the other two just let part of this bit of childish informations for the first time, a plea in her eyes to please, please don’t react. Amidst soldiers that luckily are too occupied to pay attention, scouts running around and clouds covering the sun above, tho, the happy bubble burst suddenly.

Hawke starts to laugh. Hard. Radha smiles too. Cullen at least has the good grace of pretending he’s not doing the same, covering his face with a gloved hand. Aisling, on her own, would very much like to disappear. Which, thinking about it, is something she can do, even if not permanently. She groans loudly, looking down and stepping to exit the fence, without looking at anyone.

“Come on, lethallan, it’s a harmless anecdote.” Radha tries to soothe her. And it would be true, if not…

“Please, don’t ever tell Varric.”

Chapter Text

Things are going fine.

First, the expedition on the Western Approach is finally organised, Leliana and Cullen apparently are done with trying to prove that the other is incredibly wrong and has ideas that will just put everyone around and the whole of Thedas on a straight road to ruin - that had taken quite a lot of mediation and reasoning and rescheduling councils in the worst of times, and a lot of chamomille for Aisling and Josephine. But, all the details have been finally settled, and if another urgent Council doesn’t get called for the evening, she and her -extended dued to the supposed length of the expedition- party are bound to leave the next morning.

Second, Radha got in the Inquisition quite well. Better than, Aisling considers, she did. Sure, she’s still glaring at Dorian with suspicion, but she melted a little, seeing them getting along. So much so that when they’re experimenting, she’s also leaving them relatively on their own, and actually gets along incredibly well with Solas – not that Aisling ever found it minimally surprising: of the trio that she, Pavyn and Radha formed as children and teens, the two siblings sticking together even if Radha had no magical talent to train, Radha was probably the most interested in history and reading of the three. Aisling always was for the practicality of magic, and Pavyn decided to put some effort just after he was degraded to Second. And if Aisling’s questions to the Apostate mainly revert on explaining something they see or experience and asking how to do something, Radha’s all for knowledge for the sake of it, and they found a nice balance between the two elves discussing of whatever down in the rotunda, while Aisling and Dorian are up with more practical shenanigans in the nook in the library Dorian had claimed. Until either Solas stops them “before you hurt yourself “, or Josephine comes to drag them to some dancing lessons in the great hall, parading them around as she teaches them basics of Orlesians. And even with the rest of the inner circle, Radha’s quiet presence has fit right in incredibly smoothly. It’s been peaceful and happy, and for the first time Aisling has started to feel like home. Whatever home may mean.

So now, she’s hopping gingerly as she can with sores all over from Helaine’s merciless training, down the stairs that lead to the lowermost level of the fortress, left hand on the stone wall of the main tower and quick feet, eager to see if Harritt has finished the saddle she asked for. There’s still some hours before lunch, and she’d like to check whether everything’s ready for leaving. Another thing that’s going well is the fact that after finally having spent a whole hour on the back of Little Brother without the horse trying to kick her off, roll down and forcing her to jump away, stopping mid-run or just refusing to move, the horsemaster had declared that she could finally -finally!- leave with him as her mount, provided he accepts a saddle that’s not just a blanket.

Because the main issue with mounting appeared to be the saddle. Oh, the bad attitude and prickiness remained, but she noticed that he was very ill at ease as soon as a saddle got placed on his back. The added weight of a person got the horse all jumpy and skittish… And judging by his ears and the way he moved in quick, sudden movements and couldn’t stay still, she suspected it was not a case of awful horse humour. So, she jumped right down the big, comfy wooden saddle with back and front support, calmed the horse as best as she could, speaking nonsense in both common and elven as she unbuckled him, and gave him a couple of sugar cube she totally hadn’t saved in her pocket from the last tea with prissy Orlesian aristocrats for good measure. And discussed with Dennet about Dalish saddles.

“Is it here?” She asks, a big smile on her face as she enters the stables.

“Your pillow?” Dennet asks, emptying a bucked full of food in the manger. “There.”

He nods toward a stand put in front of Little Brother’s horse – the head of the horse is not poking out, and looking inside he sees him laying down on his side, in a good impression of a dead horse. By now, tho, she’s used to it, and just shrugs

“I know you’re alive, you bicoloured doofus. Up! I got you a nice surprise…”

She greets him, as she examines the saddle she had made. It’s not exactly something you would find in a Dalish clan, but between her and Radha’s explanations, Harritt and Dagna made good work out of it: it’s little and light, nothing more than a small shaped form covered in leather, stuffed in the front and back to give some support, stirrups sewn to the sides along with one single leather strip to buckle it under the horse’s belly, and a couple of blankets folded along, to protect the horse’s back since the saddle per se won’t. Dagna also cared to decorate the corners by indenting the leather with rough designs of stars and elfroot leaves, a thought that makes Aisling smile wide, humming in appreciation as she pads it and examine it. It's more structured and stiff than she would have invisioned, and the shape is adequate but not quite as any Dalish clan would make it, but good enough to try it.

“You’re gonna break your neck on that, you know that, lass?” Dennet comes by, eyeing at the saddle with suspicion. It’s indeed terribly smaller than any saddle he has in his arsenal, a little more than going bareback.

“You told the same when I told you that I didn’t want the bit on my reins, and yet.” She shrugs. “It’ll bother him less, and with this we could even jump, who knows…”

“Bah. Your friend’s hart has a wooden one as well, and you want to cross fucking Orlais on a pillow.”

“Little Brother isn’t ok with a wooden one yet, Sileal was never beaten or forced into one or whatever they did to my gelding. We’ll get there, but I’d rather a pillow than going there just on a blanket.” She explains, offering a hand to the nose of the horse who “miraculously” remembered to be alive, and scratching it in a way she knows he likes -and will be the less likely to cause some friendly bites.

“You’re trying the dalish saddle, Inquisitor?” Pops in Blackwall, curious about the new endeavour.

“If master Dennet stop fussing over me, I will.”

“Sorry if I worry about you crossing all of fucking Orlais on a hot-headed animal you all but took out for a walk to the camp and back, and on such a tiny saddle.”

“In the case I’ll tragically fall to my death on horseback, I’ll leave a note to allow you to talk to my funeral and tell everyone that you told me so, is it all right?”

She jokes, opening the box to slip in with the saddle on her arm and tie it on the horse’s back, cooing and coaxing his nervousness away. She lets him sniff the new contraption, explaining minutely what is it and how it’ll tie under his belly without weighing too much of it and you’ll see, Isa’ma’lin, it will be like not having anything at all, what do you say. The Horse-master just crosses his arms on his chest, grumbling and shaking his head, still voicing out that she’s gonna break all of her bones and he’s not gonna have her on his conscience. Still reminding her to tie the buckle better because it looks a little loose, which she thanks him for. It’s been like that with Dennet, whenever Aisling has tried to bring something Dalish in the way things are done. Like, the lack of bit: it took the horsemaster a good month to accept the fact that it was possible to go without it, before he begrudgingly admitted she was right. She quite likes the old man, hard and gruff exterior and firmness in requiring hard work, not a minute more not one less, and yet always so caring and ready to help.

So, she takes Little Brother around the courtyard for some minutes, walking slowly beside him and letting him follow her around or stop to graze at some grass if he wants, just to get him used to the weight. She doesn’t stop talking, occasionally rubbing and patting his neck. Blackwall joins them, arms crossed behind his back and inserting in the conversation as if was the most normal thing to do and explaining all the duties of a good steed to the -truth to be told little interested- pinto. After a while the horse seems used to the saddle and looks even good about it, ears stably pointed forward and playfully trying to fall behind the walk to reach Aisling’s hair with his teeth to munch them -what does he find so tasty in them she doesn’t know, maybe it’s just because he noticed she doesn’t like it-, and that’s when Aisling takes a deep breath and hauls herself on the saddle, pushing her up with both hands and swinging a leg around the butt of the animal. Begrudgingly thinking that all the training with Helaine at least served her in building some muscles in her arms, which came in handy in these occasions.

Even slipping both feet in each stirrup doesn’t cause more of a reaction than some tentative steps on each side and a snort, horse trying to make sense of the new weight placed weirdly, but not too imposing. She waits on top, without giving any direction and letting the gelding just walk some more, praising him for being such a good, clever horsey, and begging internally for him not to decide to… Jump on his place. Fall on his side. Raise on his hind legs. Anything.

Some minutes later, she tentatively bends forward on the neck of the horse, reaching down for the reins -thanking Blackwall but not allowing him to pass them on. Still no reaction? Well, then…

She clicks her tongue on her palate twice, in the signal she has taught him for “Go”, and the horse as on clue starts increasing speed, shaking his head a couple of times with nerves.

“I know, I know, it’s weird. You’re doing great, tho, it’s ok!”

She coos him, still bending a little forward (“Yer gonna fall, lass!” Grumbles Dennet from the side) to pat his neck better, just in the spot he likes. As he finds the gait and gets more comfortable with the new set-up, the pace increases, horse taking trust and speed an showing off a little as his rider pushes on her thighs to hop up and down the saddle, accommodating the movement and adapting to it.

It's more comfortable than a halla for real, she thinks, ignoring the horsemaster’s grumbles as they pick up speed in circles around the well, happy for the moment and not waiting until there’s more space to run and try new things and tricks. The back is broader, the pace heavier and steadier, and it just emboldens her.

After a while, seeing that the horse seems pretty comfortable with the new arrangement and not particularly in the mood for pranks, just happy to run and of the relative lack of further instructions that aren’t letting him run in circles as he pleases, Aisling bends a little forward, after noticing a couple of crates pulled midway in the walkway that brings to the portcullis, one beside the other, as Slim Bonnie discusses with another merchant close enough to her stall to leave enough space, maybe, for…

“What do you think, buddy, wanna try to fly?”

She asks the horse, wobbling a little on his back but still maintaining balance helping herself with her hands on his whithers. The gelding just bends one ear backward, shaking his head with a dubious snort.

“Come on! You’re just so fast, it’s gonna be great! I know you can do it, it’s just like the time you jumped to push me off your back remember?”

Whether the horse actually remembers or not, she gently pulls the reins and moves her hips so as to make him turn, right after he turns between the well and the stairway that leads to the kitchen, clicking her tongue thrice on the palate and spurring him on, with her voice and the gentlest kick of her heels on his sides. And oh, the horse takes flight in a gallop, deliciously fast as to reach the crates in little, too little…

“Move, please!”

She beckons to the merchants, loud -they need not be told, both Bonnie and her guest rushing to take cover away from the running horse, as Aisling raises up to a half seat, keeping her butt up from the saddle and grabbing some mane for balance -she can hear behind her both Dennet and Blackwall yelling at her a various mix of No-s and Stop-s, but she’s concentrated and has faith that the horse WILL jump- and pushing faster until-

- Until the only one flying is her. Backward, as the horse shies and neighs loudly, raising on his hind leg and throwing Lavellan out and back from the saddle, a chorus of gasps and yelps all around. It’s not the first time it’s happened -even if never at full gallop- and she has the reflexes to instinctively call on her magic and move air and wind to blow in the opposite direction, breaking her fall. It’s messy and not one of her usual controlled spells, and not enough to avoid her landing heavily on her butt, bouncing once and ending flat on her back with all her breath out of her lungs, but considering the urgency of the situation and how little time she had, a big cloud of dust enveloping the merchant stalls and part of the courtyard is a good result.

“Andraste’s grace, lass, YOU’RE CRAZY??” It’s Dennet, shouting over her head as the dust settles and her vision clear.

“Lady Inquisitor, are you all right?” Blackwall follows suit, both men appearing in her field of vision and crouching over her.

Truth to be told, she didn’t break the fall so much, and her butt aches, but not in a particularly acute way. What concerns her a little is her head, which she knows better than trying to move, right now, even if it’s not in pain. Breathing comes easy, she feels all her limbs, and wiggling her toes doesn’t make anything hurt.

“Are my toes- Oh, nevermind, I can feel them. He’s munching my feet, isn’t he.” She asks, sighing as she feels her toes getting wet and prodded by soft, furry lips.

“You’re a reckless idiot, you could have killed yourself!”

“But the saddle worked very well, did you see how fast he ran?”

---

After someone called Solas to check that she didn’t break her neck or skull, she got the scold of the century both from him and from Radha, who apparently was still in the library with him and followed suit with a scowl and words of disappointment. But, confirmed that she managed to effectively break the fall enough to just be a little sore on her butt and back, nothing was broken except for Master Dennet who complained he lost 5 years of life from the scare she gave him, she was able to end her job in the stables. Namely, getting the horse calmer because he got spooked by both the jump and her lying still on the ground for so long, brush him thoroughly, clean his box and then help Bonnie and the merchants to get their wares clean.

And as it ended, she’s now very, very late. She shouldn’t run -as Solas doesn’t fail to remind her as she sprints through the rotunda and out of the door to the bridge, she just waves him away with a “I’m fine!”. But she promised Cullen to bring him lunch today even if there was no drill planned around noon, and she knows he runs on a schedule even tighter than her own, and that if she misses the window he gave her, he would just got back to work and to some impromptu meeting and be out of reach till much later in the afternoon. Which means she wouldn’t be able to be there, busy with the last ten things that she had to complete before leaving, early the next morning.

A pity, really, she would really prefer another game of chess in the gardens with him talking about his family, than a formal tea with this or that noble that unluckily arrived yesterday evening at Skyhold and had to be properly greeted and welcomed by the Inquisitor herself, if she was present in the Keep. Who cares if said Inquisitor needs to leave early in the morning and there are still things to get ready, requirement lists to sort through to check the caravan had everything needed, people to check, friends to bid goodbye to. Orlais won’t care.

Really, she doesn’t particularly like chess, it is too cold and impersonal for her tastes and she’s been happy when Dorian found another person to play with that actually appreciated the game and not just the company. But it is to be said that Cullen had a way to put her at ease, and his enjoyment of the game was contagious. Even if she lost twice and she was very sure he let her win their third game in the end to save her pride, even if he swore he didn’t. She really wishes she could skip Comte and Comtesse Whatever to challenge him to another game and lose with dishonour all the time because she didn’t bother to pay attention.

Sadly, she knows she can’t, her relationship with noblety challenged enough as it is by the simple fact that she spent the least possible amount of her alleged free time chatting with nobles, and didn’t cut away time to other useful but “not so good looking” activities that had her sweaty, dirty, or involved too much experimental magic for comfort. And, she really doesn’t want to make Josie’s work any more difficult than it already is, so…

…So, she jogs up the few steps that leads to the Commander’s office and knock twice with her free hand, the other safely assured on the handle of the usual basket filled with provisions still hot from the kitchens. No one replies, not even vocally.
Weird.

She knocks again, with the same result, but trying to push on the door works: the wood lets out and swings heavily on the inside. She shrugs and slowly opens the door, peeking in to check she’s not stepping onto something. But the inside is dark, and as she slowly slips her head inside, the office is completely empty, all candles out.

Weird.

She enters, since she’s there, pondering whether she just missed or mistook the right time and place they convened. But no, in their at this point established tradition of sharing lunch to give each other a small break in full schedules and long days, if it wasn’t the training grounds because they were both already there, it was always his office. And if she forgot to tell him she had no morning drill with Helaine to attend to, he must have realised not seeing her around. If it was some urgent meeting that took him away, she was sure she’d been called for it, and if he had to reschedule or had decided to meet her in the gardens for chess she’s sure he would have notified her somehow. Josie knew her whereabouts and no one interrupted her in her room, when she got cleaned quickly and changed into one of her new fancy doublets -the ring velvet one with pointy shoulders and golden buttons she favoured- to be ready for tea without having to run all the way back up there to change a second time.

Musing over this and that reason, her attention gets caught by the ladder that leads up to his private quarters and the closed trapdoor on top. Tentatively and not overly loud to not wake him up if he’s sleeping, she tries to knock on the inside of the door she came in from, looking up as she calls.

“Cullen? Are you up there?”

Still, no answer. Weird, but if he managed to fall asleep, all the better, she thinks. She shrugs and makes her way to the desk -still a mess in which he left no free corner for her, which he started to do as of late. Another weird thing, but she vaguely knows how he doesn’t hate to find his notes around, and so she makes some space herself, just enough to place the basket over the surface. Then, she fishes out a covered bowl full of small fried bites of a mixture between lake fish, potatoes and other root vegetables, starting to munch something. No point in getting back to the main Hall, at least she would have a quiet lunch, even if her planned companion is napping it out -and she is the first to understand naps. She wonders, absent-mindedly, if he would mind finding her napping somewhere here. If she scooted over that box on the couch, maybe she could fit in the corner and curl up on the armrest… When a scout enters through the northern door, marching in and heading to the opposite one. Instantly she takes a step back swallowing what she’s still munching and straightening her spine, clearing her throat.

“Lady Inquisitor! Forgive me, I didn’t see you.”

“Worry not. If you look for the Commander, he’s not there, Scout, I’m sorry.” She smiles at the scout, politely.

“Oh… Well, of course he isn’t. He’s gone to speak with Seeker Pentaghast, if you’re looking for him.”

She pauses, mouth slightly open as the news settles in, knowing what it could mean adds to the weirdness of him all but disappearing without a word after giving her time and place the afternoon before, links things together.

“They’re in the smithy, I think?” The Scout suggests, with a delicateness she’s grateful for and that serves in snapping her out of her train of thought.

“Thank you, Scout…?”

“Tanner, my Lady.”

“Thank you, Scout Tanner, if there’s nothing else to my attention, off with your duties, then.”

She beckons, barely staying still but forcing herself to, and to smile, even if it’s the last thing she’d like to do now. As Josie taught her, tho: mask. Think of something else, pretend you’re wearing a mask, don’t think of anything. It’s not working so effectively, and Tanner gives her a worried look, but nods and bids her goodbye nevertheless. The elf waits for her to be out of the door, before taking a breath she was catching, leaving the bowl still in her hand dangerously on the top of a pile of reports, and running out of the north door and down the battlements, as fast as her feet can go.

---

“And would you rather save face than admit I’m-”

She enters the smithy and interrupts them, panting hard after she ran, and she knows it was the wrong move, and she has the wrong expression on her face. Because Cullen freezes, seeing her there, maintain eye contact for roughly a couple of seconds -and oh, he got back looking terrible and tired and worn, and there’s a ocean of hurt- and roughly apologizes, walking right out of the door.

Cassandra just sighs and shakes her head.

---

When she gets out of his office for the second time, she feels dirty.

She wonders if Garrett knows. She wonders if Cullen knows about Garrett, and if that’s the reason why he always stayed on the other side of the Keep from the Hawkes, if he could help it. And if that’s the reason, what would happen if-

She walks to the rotunda in a haze, informations and grief for another person heavy on her mind. She doesn’t have the time for a nap, or to cry, even if she suspects that right now, tears won’t shed. She nods with half a smile to Solas raising one eyebrow at her in a silent question, when she passes beside him, ignores Dorian that props on the railing and asks her what happened.

She has no time to break down, she goes on and meets Comte and Comtesse Whatever, for Josie, and pretend everything’s all right as they sip tea, as she’s the perfect image of feminine restraint in front of all the tiny pastries and cakes served -her stomach is closed- and she smiles and laughs demurely, not really hearing what she’s saying nor what she’s replying to.

At least when it’s over, Josie’s satisfied of the outcome.

But it’s not Aisling’s secret to tell, and even if it’s Josie that asks her if she’s ok and she trusts the Antivan, she just says it’s all right, she’s just tired and aching still from the fall of the morning, and retires to her room early.

She has to tell him. But she leaves at dawn.

---

Radha has been appreciative of the room that has been assigned to her, but has found troubles sleeping, the first time, the environment foreign and weird for a Dalish. Aisling, knowing perfectly the sensation, has given her a spare key to her apartments, and the rogue now has half her things here, with her. For now, at least.

It’s homey and it reminds Aisling of when they were children and Radha would slip in the Keeper’s aravel and tuck herself in with her, close enough to Pavyn as well so the three of them could talk some more until Deshanna caught them awake and scolded them, with empty threats to have them gut fish all day or send them to help Hahren Isene repairing wheels. And Hahren Isene had the most boring stories and always smelled like cabbages. But she never shooed Radha away, shaking her head at her and sighing as she tucked the third child -almost a teen by then- in and bid them to sleep.

And there they are, twenty years later in an incredibly bigger room sleeping still in the same bed, each on her own side. Radha still has a heavy breath and sleeps curled on her side, she notices, turning her head to look at the other’s back. For a moment, her heart aches, thinking of what could have been if she never left. If she stayed, instead of insisting on going herself to the Conclave.

“Who better than a mage to expose our concerns against Templars roaming the countryside and rebel mages not trusting us either?” She said.

And now, as she returns to look at the beams of the ceiling above, dipped in darkness as the little fire that still cracks in the hearth can’t illuminate so high, she is really thinking that maybe it really would have been better if Cassandra had tracked Hawke down. Raina would not have taken no for an answer and would have charmed Orlais with her wits and assured attitude, and Garrett would have been impossible to hate, once Josie had convinced him to tune the dad jokes down. Both of them would know what to do, had at least some experiences to relate to today, and she would have been free to run- No.

She feels even guiltier for that thought, it is unfair and both of them already have their problems without taking care of hers as well. She will offer them her cookies the next morning.

And, she has to tell Cullen. But-

“Radha?”

No answer, but that isn’t anything weird for her, could mean yes or no.

“Are you awake?”

“Go to sleep, Shrimp.”

She rolls on her side, facing the other’s back fully, hands collected near her face.

“I can’t sleep.”

“I didn’t notice.”

She sighs, but beside the sarcasm, she rolls over as well, yawning as she faces her, opening her eyes.

“Ok, what is it?”

“It’s… I was thinking of Nehnis.”

Silence. There’s no need to specify what she’s thinking of or exactly why, the two looking at each other. Aisling sees the worry in the other’s eyes, her eyebrow taking up a fold she doesn’t really like.

“Are you seeing it again?”

“No. No, I’m fine, it’s just…”

A shake of a blonde head, as she scuddles over and snakes her arms around the other in a hug that’s soon given back. It is like they’re back in the Keeper’s aravel, for a moment, and not in a room that’s too big and slightly less empty.

“I need to tell a person, and I’m afraid.”

“Aisling-”

It’s a warning, and she can’t take a warning, now.

“I- I know it sounds crazy, with humans… But… Do you think it’ll go in a shitshow? I’ll lose their trust? I- I don’t think they’re shems, but-”

“I think they all care about you, in their own way. But please tell me you’re not planning on telling it to the Seeker.”

“I know you don’t like her, but she’s understanding, I think-”

“Ash. She’s extremely Andrastian. She wouldn’t understand that.”

“I wasn’t thinking of her, anyway, but I think you’re wrong.”

“Mh.”

They stay there, breathing each other in. After some minutes, Aisling decides that it’s enough brooding, and stalling won’t do any good to anyone. So, she pats Radha’s back, with a sigh, and slip back to stand.

“Are you sure about that?”

“No. But I need to. Go back to sleep, asa’ma’lin, I think it’ll take a while.”

She grabs a dressing gown on her way to the desk, slipping it in as she reaches the table and waves a hand dismissively to light the candles up with magic, without even thinking. Twinkle floats out from the drawer she likes to sleep in and she leaves always slightly ajar for her to go in and out, adding to the light and just settling to float around her shoulders. There’s enough light, and enough ink still in the jar on the desk. She sits down, fishing a pile of clean sheets under a book and an empty mug from a corner, moving trinkets, reports and crumpled papers away to have some space to write with ease.

“Can I ask you whom is it?” Comes the necessary question from the bed.

“You won’t judge?”

“Did I judge you when I knew what you’re writing?”

“Point.”

She fishes a quill as Twinkle shines upon them, indicating where they’re hidden on her messy desk. Thankfully she has a couple already sharpened, one thing less to do. Or unluckily, because there’s one thing less to delay actually putting everything on paper. She bites the end of it, wondering how to start, how she should address him.

“So?”

“… Cullen.” Comes in a sigh.

Cullen, whose name she writes on the sheet, in a simple address and greeting, taking her time in tracing each loop, the point of the quill grating on the paper as she flips and descend.

And then, how to start? Going directly in? A full on attack, or good old siege mentality? Blowing horns so he knows something’s coming?

“I hope it’s worth it, asa’ma’lin.”

“I hope so too.”

And then, all the words are those she forces out of her hand and puts on paper.

She ends up writing it three times, and by the time she finishes, the sky’s lighting up, and if she’s quick about it, maybe she can just slip the envelope in one of the book he lent her and leave everything on his desk without him noticing. Uncospicuously, discreetely, by the time he’ll find it, she’ll be already on the way.

“Creators, let this not be the end.”

---

They leaves at dawn, a bigger party than the usual accompanying the Inquisitor, given the distance to travel and the length of the mission. Nothing particularly weird about it for a Dalish, but it was really a good moment to see the differences in behaviour and learning more about this weird, mismatched group of people. Scouts acting worried of leaving, people checking luggages again and again. The Qunari triple checking that his men are good and have everything they need, as a mother goose with her ducklings -the lieutenant with keen eyes, Krem grumbling and fending away the fuss. She likes Krem and his no-shit-taken attitude. The Seeker looks even more on edge than usual, equally going around horses and people and checking on everyone, but in a brash way she doesn’t believe is just lack of sleep. She noticed Aisling taking her on the side when they arrived, whispering a couple of things that left the elf even more on pins and needles than she already was. Than she’s been since yesterday’s afternoon, actually. But, Aisling jumped on her horse, yawning loudly, waiting for everyone to be ready. And no matter how many times she asked her when she woke up and walked her to the Commander’s Tower, she won’t tell her why she felt the need to tell an ex-Templar that particular thing.

Her hart makes some faces turn onto her, but she dismisses each of them easily and no comment was done, more than a gritty “Great, more elfy-elves things” from the elf archer -Sera- which she replies in tow and weirdly enough makes the city elf snort a laughter. If there’s one that’s still a puzzle for Radha, is her. But they have time ahead, and she doesn’t seem to be as oppositive to Aisling as she is with Solas, so.

Finally, because humans apparently are terrified of ending up in a wood without a walking stick they already owned instead of picking up a fallen branch from the ground, they’re all ready to leave and mounted. She huffs loudly, straightening her back and taking the reins of Sileal, hoping that they’re finally on it. The hart himself shakes his head, weaving antlers around and causing the closest to complain loudly -Dorian in primis and she swear she didn’t do it on purpose, but finds the event so funny that she cracks a smile.

Aaaaand, no, they can’t leave yet. The damned advisers are there and want to say something to the Inquisitor, personally. Which-

She stays there, looming at the Commander in particular. She’s still not sure Aisling’s trust is deserved, and sure, he does look smitten enough with her friend. Still, he was a Templar and she’s a Mage, and in the weeks she’s been in Skyhold, she has noticed that the only person Aisling allowed herself to be as casual and open about her magic as she’s always been is the Tevinter. And, the mage keeping secrets and avoiding communicating her emotions is not something she’s particularly liking. The one thing she didn’t tell her, when Radha asked, was right before she broke with Ydun and she’d been at her lowest, full of doubts… And when she jumped out around the fire and convinced everyone she was the right person to travel south. She didn’t like her keeping secrets, and she was worried she was doing something stupid and reckless and self-destroying again.

And yet, all she can do, now, is swallowing her worry and watch her speaking, taking on a role that really suited her – and casting sideway glances at a Commander who looks like he was just half-digested by a high dragon, dark eyebrows and a hunch in his shoulders she never noticed on him. She was out of their world, and her heart clenched in pain.

“Silence is golden, words are precious, she was the first to see it, the one that shared the silence and didn’t mind it. The magic is in the listening and she gets it, she’s the only one that really does. Protective, the sea took her away once, you’ll jump in too this time. Knife in the dark, wait, wait to strike, not yet, knowledge like pearls, safely collected, but if you stop to pick pearls, she runs away again. Unspoken words chokes you, if she runs too far.”

She turns, slowly not to give him satisfaction, to find the spirit boy -Cole, Aisling said- perched on her saddle, looking at her with his head turned sideway and big, blue eyes like mirrors under the huge hat. She still doesn’t know what to make of him, so, she just sighs, catching his wrists and tucking him closer.

“Hold on, or you’re gonna fall.”

She just tells him, and he obeys.

Aisling trusts him, and all Radha can do, for now, is kicking on her heels and having her hart go, as they all leave Skyhold.

She won’t choke, she still can run after her, catch her when she falls.

---

Cullen notices the book on his desk after midday, absent-mindedly realising that there’s no one today to bring him food, and he misses it. Even if after his vent of the day before and the hurt, sad expression in her eyes, he doubts she’ll ever talk to him again.

And yet, as he moves a couple of reports on the side, he notices it. A treaty on sieges and strategy that he lent the Inquisitor after she returned from Crestwood, and for which she has thanked him for with too much enthusiasm that the topic would have required. It’s not the only one she took from his library, and that it’s that alone on his desk, without her returning it personally to discuss what she read is… Weird.

He takes it, and notices there’s something tucked in the pages, right in the middle.

A thick envelope, sealed roughly with a dollop of wax sealed with the Inquisition’s eye, and addressed with a single “C.” in Aisling’s writing.

He drops the book and the reports on the desk, opening the seal and taking away the papers inside.

Maker, please let it not be the end.

Cullen,

Forgive me if it’s a letter, some things are better said face to face... But I feel like you need some space, there’s no time to come and talk… And honestly? I’m afraid of how you may react to this, so maybe it’s better if I write.

As much as I like our friendship and would hate to ruin it, as I’m terrified what I’m about to write will do, I believe you need to know this about me. It’s not to challenge you, by all means -what a stupid challenge would that be?-, it’s just… I think you must know this about me and make a choice whether to go on as before, or not. I will understand if you feel it’s too much, or you can’t trust me anymore, the choice is yours and I’ll respect it. Believe I will, now that I know, the last thing I want to do is impose.

I’m rambling, but I’m not writing this letter one more time. I don’t have the time to, and for obvious reasons, I won’t trust a messenger. I hope you’ll be able to find some sense in this.

Point is.

I used blood magic in my past. Just once. I’m not regretting that I did.

There, it’s out. Please, go on reading, there’s an explanation.

I was barely twenty, and it was the first time I assisted the Keeper in childbirth. Pavyn was out for a scouting mission, there was just us, and I felt so honoured to be there. You see, children in Dalish clans are precious: pregnancies are rare and difficult, in most cases, and thus each one is treasured. The mother was a dear friend of mine, and she started daydreaming about growing a big, happy family and having lots and lots of babies ever since I remember. She bonded early with a kind, like-minded elf, and we all knew they would have been the most wonderful, loving parents ever. They tried for years, and we all mourned with them at each miscarriage. She lost three, before, and you can imagine how happy she was when she finally felt her baby kicking and moving in her belly, and the Keeper saying he was strong and healthy.

I was First since three years, more or less, and it was the first pregnancy I would have assisted with. It was a great honour. I already told you that Keeper Deshanna was a skilled healer, both as mage and as herbalist. But, hours passed. We waited, soothing the mother’s pains. Nothing happened, the baby wasn’t showing up. After... I don’t know how many hours, but the sun was long set and the moons as well, the mother was exhausted, and nothing had changed. The Keeper was worried: she pressed the belly, made me press it too -it was uncomfortable for the poor woman, but I felt it.

The baby was in the wrong position, with his head upward. I won’t bother you with the gritty details, but… It’s bad, the legs get stuck and the solutions are very few. The practical solution is cutting the mother’s womb and taking the baby out. With three mages together it’s not crazily risky, but we were just in two… Or one and a half, since I wasn’t experienced with Healing magic, and I didn’t know what to do with surgery or with a suffering newborn. We sent for Pavyn, but he and the hunters were too far: waiting or cutting could mean losing both of them, since so much time had passed, so many things could go wrong.

Unless.

I still remember the way the Keeper looked at me and forced me to follow her outside the aravel, in the woods. She explained to me that surgery would have most likely killed the mother, and with no certainty that the baby would have survived. But, we could try another spell.

I did it. It was... I turned the baby inside his mother’s womb, manoeuvring his blood. Slowly, oh so slowly. I could feel him -I knew it was a boy, then- and I knew he was suffering, he would never have lasted much longer. It took me all my concentration, the Keeper watched over me all the time as she tended the mother, ready for the worst. I’ve never been so scared as in that moment.

But, the worst never happened. The boy was born pretty easily once he was in the right position, the Keeper had to heal him to make him breathe... But he eventually did. We saved them. For me it was... It felt horrible. I distinctly remember thinking that no one should have that power over someone else. I had to force myself to use magic again, it felt disgusting. And yes, the demon came in my dreams.

I don’t know what you see, or saw, and you don’t have to tell me. For me, it was Despair. The world encrusted in ice, and me puppeteering the people I loved until the bled themselves dry, the ones that still lived running away from me, terrified. I never learnt healing magic because it felt too similar to that and it still makes me sick if I try. You can see I didn’t become an abomination, I never listen to the demon and slowly they left me alone, as the newborn grew into a baby and learnt to smile.

I was never that good with children, I’m too shy until I become demanding... But that child always had a smile for me, no doubt his mamae told him that I saved them both... He’s now a strong boy who’ll be 9 in summer, the sweetest child you could imagine, and he called me auntie. I miss him the most, after the Keeper. And that’s the reason because yes, I realise that blood magic can be used for horrible things… But if I got back, I would use it again.

So, yeah. That’s it. I’ve never, and would never do what they’d done to you… But I don’t know if you can trust it and I only can put my word on it.

To conclude, before I think twice and throw this all away. If you believe you can’t go on being friend, I’ll understand it, don’t worry about me and please, please don’t force yourself if I make you uncomfortable. We’ll keep it professional and I will leave you alone outside the War Room, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable for my sake. Do what you want with this story, it’s your choice and I’ll respect it, whatever it is.

And whatever comes: please, don’t be so hard on yourself. You may not be the same person you were before... But I quite like who you are now, and if I hate what has been done to you, I am grateful to every one of your past selves for bringing you where you are now. Yes, even to the grim Knight-Captain in Kirkwall, it was him who said no to Meredith and stood up against her, wasn’t it? And Garrett told me you never denounced him, even if you knew years before Meredith caught him while fighting the Qunari. He wasn’t all that bad too, I’m sure, just hurt. Well, give him a hug for me, from what you and the Hawkes told me and I read in Varric’s book, it really sounds like he needs the tightest hug.

As for me… Nothing changed. You are the same person you were before I knew. Maybe more dear, and closer from confidence. Creators, I hope you feel the same. Forgive me if this is all written, I couldn’t leave without telling you.

There, I’ll end it for real.

What I really wish to say is that I’m grateful for the trust you’ve put in me until now, I really enjoyed your company and am grateful for the time we had, of all the help you gave me, and for your friendship.

I hope you still feel like that trust was well placed.

With my trust as well,

Aisling

Chapter Text

More than a month after the arrival of the Inquisitor, when the bulk of the Inquisition army reaches the Western Approach there’s just a (terribly passive-aggressive) Rylen to meet and greet Cullen at Griffon Wing’s Keep. The Inquisitor, he says, tracked a massive presence of Venatori to the Hissing Wastes, and is bound to get back in a matter of days, according to her messages, if the weather keeps up and another sandstorm doesn’t force her back. Some of her inner circles is still in the fort, tanned from so long in the sun and drier from the harshness of the life there: there has been reports, many dispatches, asking for supplies and engineers to repair wells and bridges to reach more easily sources of water beside acidic pools and darkspawn presence.

A lot of reports and dispatches, and not one single personal letter for him, not one silly doodle tucked between two lines, not a joke or sarcasm about much of anything. Oh, she wrote personally to Josephine, as he discovered, and Master Dennet told him she wrote to him to, to assure him she actually didn’t fall to her death on the pad saddle, even if she had to pull a couple of stunts in a canyon and bumped her back against a railing while galloping. How to make sense of the two things together, Cullen wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Oh, he tried to wrote her. Many, many times, but never was able to complete a letter with some decency and not just rambles that meant nothing or didn’t convey exactly what he wanted to say. He’s always been horrible for personal correspondence, and with a matter so delicate…

Well, no point in dwelling or overthinking. There was a lot of work to do, an army to accommodate and supplies and equipment to distribute. Not that she was there so he could at least take a glimpse of her, nor clench the dreadful feeling of guilt that was gnawing at him since she left. Or the jealousy that everyone got letters but him. He shakes his head and does what he’s ever done before. Ignore the scorching heath, ignore Rylen who’s still launching verbal jabs at him and sarcastically letting him know that he’s been miserable and his skin is horribly dry and what he meant when he told that he missed the heath wasn’t this. Get to work, put all your energies into it, ignore the dull headache that all that sun is just enhancing.

The next day, words from the Inquisitor come: they will run a little late, due to an unforeseen obstacle in getting to the dwarven cript the Venatori were looking for, to pull into safety whatever there’s inside. Three days at best, she hopes, with her formal greetings to the advisers and the army. Nothing more, nothing less. He considers writing, again.

Days are all the same in the desert, and the upside down rhythm of starting to work late in the afternoon and stopping at dawn, sleeping during morning and noon to avoid the hottest hours, is getting on Cullen’s nerves by fraying his routine. But working during the day is hard, since the temperatures are high and the sun beats too strongly. Rylen has given Cullen a jar of some weird and smelly concoction, telling him to spread it on his exposed skin if he planned on walking in the sun outside the early morning and late afternoon: Lavellan’s prized elven recipe. It’s white and sticky and thick, and it looks like cement in colour and consistence, but it works in preventing his skin to get sunburnt again. He wonders absent-mindedly what she put inside: it does not smell like elfroot, for once, the smell familiar from the herbal mixture for tea she used to brew and leave him. Now long-over.

He feels all the more like a fool.

It’s still early morning when the Inquisitor and her team get back in the Fortress, announced in the Keep by the blowing of a horn. He rushes his way down stairs and walkways, reaching the portcullis as the Inner Circle is dismounting in the first courtyard, stable hands right there to take the animals away to be properly tended to.

And just like that, Aisling’s there, telling the girl assigned to her horse to tend to the others’ first, as she gently caresses the neck of her mount, scratching a little in a precise spot when she passes on it. She looks tired and she’s wirier than he remembers, skin tanned in the sun and nose dry and flaking a little as she removes a cloth hood from her head and fixes her hair -tied back from her face in tight braids on the side of her head to a half ponytail- sighing loudly and replying here and there shortly to the people around her complaining about this and that or expressing gratitude about being finally back and headed for sleep.

They chat and laugh, tired but close, as close she seems to be with the officers and soldiers that crowd over her and her party, taking horses and luggage away for them, heeding orders and requests. She’s always been friendly, but there’s a new camaraderie now, sure the month there with a small garrison had granted it, he muses.

He is still standing there, transfixed, a thousand thoughts in his mind, when her head moves slightly and she sees him, eyes meeting his and smile falling from her face. It’s a moment, but he sees it, so concentrated he is on her: her shoulders contracting, raising slightly in their position, her smile faltering for but a moment. But when she smiles again, it’s not reaching her eyes. She just nods and greets him, somewhat coldly, or colder than her usual. He notices Dorian looking between them and furrows, and… And her clanmate, Radha, glowering daggers at him. Which isn’t something good, and just has him react the way he would have as a child when a Mother would have looked at him in the same scolding way.

Straighten his spine, clear his throat, do what’s expected from him.

“Lady Inquisitor.”

She nods at him, all politely and in a way that would make Josephine insanely proud of her, and just ties his stomach in a tighter knot than it was before.

“Commander Rutherford.”

She greets him, making most of the friends that can hear her look at her weirdly, without muttering a word. Someone snorts in the group, and he just knows it’s Hawke -he glares at her, earning one of her prized shit-eating grins he really hasn’t missed. Out of the moment, said Lady Inquisitor pats a last time her horse, scratching his nose a couple of times before leaving the reins to a stable boy, and excusing herself with all the presents. She dismisses the officers, and him as well, telling them she will meet them all at sunset for a War Council, before nearly running up the stairs -still wobblying a little, but not stopping.

The group equally disperse, after a minute of tense silence at what had just happened and the runaway of Lavellan, luckily no one comments with him as he finds an excuse and follows an officer on the other side of the courtyard. He doesn’t miss how Dorian all but scowls at him, and Raina punches his arm with a flying “Don’t fuck it up, Commander Rutherford.” That just makes him groan.

Cassandra stops with him, thankfully giving an excuse to stay where he is, and more thankfully just debrief him of the situation in big lines, after just a single question about his health and a poignant look at him. They keep chatting, as he walks her back to her tend, up stairs and walkways, catching on after so long.

Left Cassandra to a well-earned rest, Cullen turns to get back to his own lodgings, without finding anything else to do outside. Which is unnerving, but he knows he can’t stay out pacing around mindlessly like a caged lion. Plus, it’s been a long night, even without a travel to complete, and the temperature is starting to rise and make armours uncomfortable.

He’s in the middle of the covered stairway that leads to the upmost courtyard, tho, when a strong arm catches his elbow and turns him around physically, girating until he’s with his back on the wall , in the shade and covered by the middle partings, facing a tall elf who still isn’t evidently done with glaring daggers at him, tired as she may be, pushing a forearm hard against his throat, not enough to cut breath out, but just to imply that she could.

“I know she told you.” She just states, quietly but in all cold rage.

“I-”

“No.” She stops him, hissing through her teeth. She didn’t unsheathe any of her daggers, but it’s just as if she did. “I don’t know why she felt like she needed to tell you, of all people. I don’t care. But let me just tell you one thing.

“She may believe the nice story of the regretful ex Templar, everyone may believe it on your word alone. Your word means nothing to me. If you raise a finger at her, you try to silence her or think something worst once, you won’t have hands to complete your attempt.”

She shoves him against the stones, stepping back a couple of steps, and if looks could kill, there would be just an armour and a fur-lined cloak left of Cullen, right now. Except, he knows of stubborn, he knows of protectiveness and he is used to people judging him. He steps forward, glowering right back and doing his best to tower over her, without touching. She just raises her chin, keeping the eye contact and not moving a muscle.

“You’re not the person I should be discussing this with. I don’t know which bond you share with our Inquisitor, but this matter is between her and me. She was plenty capable of defending herself before you arrived, she doesn’t need this.”

“She needs it, if she trusts the Knight-Captain of Kirkwall. I saw my Keeper’s First going out of her way because a person she cared for told her to, I’m not standing in the line if it happens again.”

“I’m not making her go out of her way.”

“And the most ridiculous thing, is that you don’t even realise.”

She laughs, mirthlessly and with another note of despise in her voice, just turning on her side and stepping up the stairs.

“How many times did you saw her using magic? You taught her to play defense without looking at her style of fighting and attitude first.”

“Fighting close combat was not to be her first option!”

“Doesn’t change that you don’t know her, and I won’t let you hurt her because of that.”

It’s reasonable, under the way she decided to have this speech with him. It hits sore spots and nasty truths, even if a good part of it is just mistrust and suspect… Which Cullen can hardly blame her for. Thinking of that, he built some sort of friendship with Aisling because she was the one to insist and just… Showed up, coaxed him into conversation, showed vulnerability and expressed embarrassment she didn’t feel ashamed of, first and cautiously dragged him out of his shell. Radha never had a chance, in the few weeks she spent in Skyhold before leaving again, to speak with him much, even if she seems observant to a fault. Under the outrage and offense, thus, he takes a deep breath and is the first to lower his gaze, still furrowing and clenching hard the pommel of his sword, but still forcing the words out.

“I swear my intentions towards her are good, I never gave her reason to… tell me what she did because she feared for her well-being. I don’t want to hurt her, but I can’t give you more than my word. Which is of no value to you.”

“I wait to stand contradicted, Commander. I’m an enemy only if you’re an enemy to her, but you were right. It’s none of my business.”

She nods, and as he looks back up, her gaze is less fierce and murderous, revealing minutely in her perfect façade of spiky lines and harsh corners that she’s tired as well. He nods in reply, grunting his affirmation.

“Get some sleep, you look tired.”

Is the last remark the elf, and as quick as she came, before Cullen has fully the time to assess the care behind the comment and make any sense of it after everything else, Radha turns back and skips up the stairs before him. By the time Cullen reaches the courtyard, she’s already disappeared, and he’s alone as all the upper quarters sleeps the hottest hours of the day away, out of the scorching sun.

He will talk to her, but not now. He just needs the right timing… And Maker, he was never good at timing.

---

It’s the half of the afternoon, the sun has started to hit a little less, and even if most people are still asleep, Cullen has had enough of watching the ceiling while failing to get back to sleep and overthinking, and thus decided to let down stress by taking a detour of the battlement and checking that everything is in order and no guard is slopping down or napping.

He finds a couple fast asleep in shady nooks, whom he wakes up, more than he can count who took their armour off, whom he can’t really blame and thus leave be. And in a little more than an hour, he’s by the lower bailey again, with everything in check and all the guards and soldiers on shift on pins and needles around him, putting just that extra effort, and he has nothing left to do until more people wake up.

Surely the Inquisitor will be asleep.

Surely it’s not a good moment to realise that your hobby is work, and without another person for chess, he has nothing to do, he has never found himself in need of killing time on his own.

He snorts heavily, and is about to turn on his heels when he hears a shout from above and the heavy creaking of the hinges of the door being opened. Weird as it is, since he planned scouts rounds in the area and he’s pretty sure that none is to return or depart now, and that no one was missing, he turns to see whom it is.

As if on clue, there’s Aisling there, out of her armour and hair still moist, darkened and plastered back on her head, trotting inward on foot, staff held leisurely in her right hand and reminding the closest guard to please be a dear and clean the hinges of the door, sand must be stuck again making it noisy. Or just to oil them again if sand won’t be the culprit.

Again, she freezes as she turns and sees him, staying absolutely still with her mouth slightly open, before getting back on track and greeting him with a nod and half a smile.

“Commander.”

“Inquisitor.”

He replies back, automatically, and instantly wishing he could punch himself for such a stupid thing to say right now. Indeed, it just worked as a confirmation, for her, and made her nod and get on her way, quickening her step as she furrowed and looked poignantly before her. No, none of that, it was a perfect moment, if she-

“Wait!”

He acts on instinct, stepping towards her and grabbing her arm. She does stop, turning to look at him with… He doesn’t know what it is. Disbelief? Outrage? Maker, let it not be fear, he couldn’t- He can see that it is too forward of him, acting like so. So, he lets her go, steps immediately back and clears his throat, lowering his gaze.

“Ah- I mean, can we… Can we talk? If you aren’t tired, that is.”

She considers it for a moment, thinking about it without replying. A moment that seems to drag for an eternity, before she answers.

“Ok. Out?”

“I- Ah, I mean-” Of course she doesn’t want to talk about that inside. “-of course. Lead the way?”

A nod, a hum in confirmation, and she turns back on her heels, stopping the guard from closing the door when he’s midway. The guards holds back a groan very badly, but as Cullen scowls at him and makes him flinch, Lavellan just apologizes, promising it will be just one more opening and closing and she will stay put until the next day. She leaves him her staff, asking if he can please take it to her room, and they’re out.

Out of the Keep, the sun is still not low enough to cast much shade under the walls, barely covering the few stalls that’s been tucked right beside the main entrance, beating hard on too much sand and too little clouds in the sky, everything reverberating annoyingly in light that’s still not enough gold to promise any upcoming freshness. The wind itself is dry and hot, lazily running on dunes and moving the sand in its wake.

“This way.”

Aisling beckons him, turning right and following the perimeter of the keep with sure feet, snaking between the first line of tends of the camp and the bastions trying to keep in the shade of the fortress as much as she can, and looking for a path out of the sand and on more stable, rocky ground. Which must not make it more comfortable for her, with her toes bare, but it surely does for him and his boots. They stay in silence, her leading and him following right behind, step after step as she rounds the corner and picks up the slope of rock when the tends line stops, blissfully shaded by the bulk of the building and that monstruosity of a lion’s head still in construction. Her path doesn’t go much further, tho: she stops below one big spike, a rocky step offering a nice enough place to sit down, with a good overlook of the plateau, the abyss on their right and the distant mountains. The blue of the sky makes everything seems that much redder, in contrast.

It’s a good spot to talk with a little privacy and stay out of the sun, honestly, the metal spike covering them above from guard rotations on the battlements.

“Is it fine here? There’s a couple of good spots, but they’re all in direct sunlight now, or need a good walk. Or, there’s the cistern, we cleaned it and it doesn’t smell anymore, but there’s nowhere to sit but the floor.” She asks, explaining with a hint of nervousness in her tone.

Turning to look at her, she’s fumbling with her hands, moving her fingers in precise movements as her thumb touches other fingers in a sequence he can’t follow, but that she performs too quickly to be casual.

“It’s perfect, yes. Shall we… Ah, sit?”

She nods, plopping down heavily on command on the ledge of rock and tucking one ankle under the opposite knee, gaze intensely fixated on her fingers, still running in a sequence between her thighs where she propped her elbows. A furrow creates a deep crease between her eyebrows, head turned down in concentration. He sits down as well, not too close but not too distant to make speaking impossible. Nobody speaks for a good two minutes, each one of them too drowned in their own nerves to really start anything.

“How are you?” She starts first, tentatively, with a glance towards him.

“… Fine, thank you. You?”

“I’m happy to hear it. I’m good, too.”

Except, she doesn’t sound happy. He has heard her happy, and it’s a world away from whatever she is right now. Some other minutes of silence pass, that are weirdly charged and uncomfortable, as it never has been before save, maybe, that one time when they both arrived early for a War Council, before she left for the Hinterlands the first time and she still looked like a fish forced to climb a very tall tree. He frankly hates the feeling, it brings him back to Kirkwall, and- And to the point of this conversation. He knows her numbers, and well, no point in hesitating. There’s really nothing else to study.

“I… I found your letter.”

“I… I figured it out.”

“Is that why you didn’t write? Beside reports, I mean.”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Cullen pauses another time, needing to recollect thoughts. This was harder than he wanted, but words just escape him. And it is the worst possible moment to have no words to spare. It’s so bad that she sighs heavily and speak first, not catching on that he’s just thinking on which direction to take.
“Look, Cullen, you don’t need to do this. I understand, it’s fine, there’s no need to explain anything to me. I… I’ll get together and will not act weird on Councils, just give me a couple of days to get used to it. And for the rest, it’s settled as I’m used to, mages keeping each other in check, Radha knows too what to do and look for, we grew up together, she would know, I told Dorian, he knows what to do. You don’t need to worry.”

Wait. Wait a minute.

“You’re worried I could… Do something about something you did what, 9 years ago?”

It comes out more brash than he would have intended, but the very thought that she could actually believe he would raise a finger against her is… It leaves him with a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, and anger burning up.

“I honestly don’t know what to think. I saw you flinching when I used magic, more than once. No, but...”

There is a but. There is a but and he hates it with all his heart. He turns away, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on his feet. The view before him is nice, but it is too wide, now, he needs to calm down. Thinking about it, of course she has doubts. Of course. He knows she read the fucking book of Varric. But-

“I never reported Garrett Hawke.” He still sounds angrier than he’d like.

“I-”

“I knew he was a mage, he used magic the first time we met, on the Wounded Coast, they were… I think there from one year, no more. When Meredith knew of him, it wasn’t from me. And I was in the Gallows, I saw him using blood magic. I saw Anders with them many times in those years, I knew him from Kinloch. I knew of his clinic, I never said anything. Anything at all. I…” He gulps down, repressing anger as he thinks better about it, a hand raises to rub at the bridge of his nose. “…How could you know any of this. Of course you think I would act on it and… I am sorry. I am so sorry. I… I know I am not exactly a good person and I did horrible things in the Order, and that… What I mean is, I won’t do anything, you don’t have to worry.”

She doesn’t reply right away, and he doesn’t look up to see if she’s looking at him or eventually how. No, she stays silent, as if waiting for him to continue, but he doesn’t. He keeps stubbornly looking at his feet and at the patterns the sand is drawing on the rock below, the colours of the grains.

“You are a good person. And you can be angry at me.” She speaks, finally.

“Why would I?”

“Because I offended you, and you were angry. I shouldn’t have thought there was a possibility of you doing anything to me, not after all this time, and I’m sorry if I didn’t tell you no right away. I… Garrett told me you know he’s a blood mage, I thought it is the reason why you avoid both him and Hawke and that would apply to me as well… I overthought it. You never wrote a word, and honestly, you were the only person I could talk of it for real, but…”

“… But I never gave you reason to guess any better.”

“More like I never took the time to really get to know you, and didn’t know how to act.” She sighs, heavily. “You can be angry, and yell at me, I won’t mind. I know a couple of places where you can scream with none the wiser, here, if we get moving we can be back in time for the sunset.”

He turns to her, finally, with a frown. She’s looking up, propping her back behind her with both hands, fingers still tapping nervously on the ledge even if she schools her expression carefully.

“I don’t want to yell at you.”

“You were offended.”

“I-”

“You were. It’s ok! Let it out. I was offended too when you scolded me because I allied with the mages in Redcliffe! We spoke, and it was fine, after. Just say it: I made you angry.”

“You acted on some justified prejudice, nothing you saw until now could have given you a better impression, it’s hardly anything to get angry for, and you’re too nice a person to make anyone angry.”

It was, apparently, the wrong thing to say, and not in the way he would have thought, in the way that it let slip the fact that he thought of her even more than necessary, came to enjoy her company too much and that if he concentrates, he still can feel how his heart was thundering in his throat when she marched out of Haven’s Cathedral to face Corypheus and his pet Archdemon. No. She scowls at him, stretching her lips in a thin line, and raises a hand to push on his shoulder.

“I’m not too nice a person, don’t idealise me. I’m not the Herald of anyone but myself and I have plenty of flaws and I can make people angry. You got angry at me, because I acted on prejudice when I should know better by now than judging all Templars or former so by the Red ones and the ones I met in Redcliffe and in the Marches. And I pushed you-” She did it again. “-twice. You have right to be angry! Just admit it, so I can apologise.”

“I-” He huffs loudly through his nose, shaking his head. She is right, he knows that, and yet admitting it is hard and unnatural. Oh, thinking about it, it is as he still is in Kirkwall with his head under the sand, pretending not to see anything, and he doesn’t remember the last time anyone has told him not to just deal with his feelings and don’t show them. It’s… not natural and he doesn’t want to do it. But it is her… And she isn’t in a yielding mood, that he can tell. “…It was irritating.” He concedes, tentatively.

“I apologise for irritating you, I was inconsiderate of your feelings and I will try to act better in the future, thank you for telling me.”

“You’re welcome…”

“Feel better?” She asks, cracking a smile.

“I-” That’s it? “It does. Thank you.”

She hums, nodding her approval and relaxing a bit on her sitting, stretching her legs forward and pointing her toes forward for a moment, before relaxing some and getting back in silence. She has stopped fumbling with her fingers at least, but it’s still far from being at ease. His turn to start.

“What’s… What’s his name?”

“Mh?”

“Of… You know. The child.”

“… Oh.” She turns her head away still, nervous, and her fingers start batting again, one after the other. Slower than before, but still. “Nehnis.” She speaks it, in a soft voice, but he can peek a smile creeping on her face. “It means ‘endless joy’. It’s a very fitting name, he’s just… The happiest kid, you just can’t stay sad or mad when he’s around.”

“You miss him.”

“I…” She sighs. “Yes, of course. I miss my clan a lot. You don’t have to ask tho, if you don’t want to.”

“But I want to. You never speak of them. Or of anything before the Conclave, actually. I… Told you of my family, I would be curious to know of yours, if you want to share.”

She looks at him for a moment, suspiciously.

“You’re not… Upset? Are you fine with me?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I’m a blood mage. Like the ones that…” She doesn’t end the sentence, but there’s a quiet, sympathetic rage in her face that speaks everything, and just honestly irritates him a little, all over again.

“You did it to save two lives, I… I know I’m not at ease with magic around. I am sorry, it’s nothing personal. But I think you can give me the credit for knowing the difference between a psychopath and a person who tries everything to save a friend and her baby.” He grumbles, letting himself show more of his feelings in his voice.

“Garrett-”

“Maker’s breath-” He groans, voice raising. “I’m not at ease with him or his sister because they knew me at my worst, and I don’t think Hakwe really believes that it wasn’t me who brought the Templars to their doors, looking for Garrett and taking Bethany instead. I just… followed an order for Bethany, but I didn’t oppose it either. What does upset me, tho-” He turns towards her, glowering. She’s there to look, frowning minutely but not taking her eyes down nor doing much more than listen. “-is you tiptoeing around me and acting like I’m made of glass and could break at every next word ever since I told you that I quit the lyrium. I am not fragile, I am not laying in my deathbed, I don’t want your pity, and I don’t need a whiny elf to force elfroot down my throat.”

He stops on his track, realising just how much words slipped out of his mouth automatically, without him really willing them to. He’s straighter on his pose, perching on the verge of the ledge and almost raising up, towering over her looking with big eyes and surprise on her face, looking that much smaller, as they are, than she is. Realising that he indeed got mad and unfairly so, Cullen sits back down, frowning at the landscape in front of him as if looking at the air bad enough could scare it enough as to lower the temperature. It’s hot under his armour, he realises, even if they’re in full shade and the weak breeze there, it’s not scorchingly hot.

“I’m sorry.” He clears his throat, still grumpy in his voice and raising a hand to rub at his neck, embarrassed.
Unexpectedly, she starts to laugh. A weak giggle, at first, muffled by both hands coming to cover her mouth, eyes crinkling in amusement. It becomes a full laughter when he snaps towards her, glaring.

“Is it funny?”

“Whiny elf that shoves elfroot down your throat!” She repeats, snorting heavily and fighting against a fit of laughter after the other, struggling to take breath. “I’m- Oh, Creators- I’m sorry, it’s-”

Another fit of laughter has her folding on herself, an arm holding her stomach and the other punching once on her knee.

“Oh- Oh damn-” After a while, she recovers, finally, taking big gulp of air, a smile still plastered on her flushed face and rubbing away tears from her eyes. “I want it on a shirt, it’s… It’s honestly perfect for me.”

Another snort of laughter, but she shakes her head and send it away, trying to gain a little composture as she looks back at him. “I am really sorry I gave you that impression, thank you for being sincere and telling me, I had no idea. I was trying to help but evidently made the wrong choice, I will stop with unwanted suggestions, and I will try to get back to normal. I just care for you and I worry, but I promise it’s really not pity what I feel. I just…” She giggles again, she can’t stop. “… I guess I am just whiny. And a crybaby.”

He snorts, not helping it but finding her funny and impossible to stay angry at, as ready she is to admit she has it wrong and apologise. He smiles back, deflating a little and flopping down on the rock again, not willing to get back even if he’s tired and sleep-deprived and hot in that climate.

“Are we… Are we fine?” He asks, tentatively.

“Are you angry for anything else? Something else you want to tell me?”

I’d like to kiss you. No, he can’t tell her that. They’re friends, it’s just him being too unused to being able to speak with anyone this openly and just being… Listened and not judged. And if there’s judgement, there’s an apology. No, no, he won’t ruin it any more than he thought he already did. Maybe he’ll tell her, one day. When they’ll be old and they’ll laugh together at hey remember that day at Griffon Wing Keep? I was sweating like a pig and I had a crush on you, go figure how young and stupid we were. For now, tho, he just shakes his head with a smile.

“No. I’m clean, Lavellan. You?”

“Seriously? Not even a complaint because I arranged the Keep in clearly the wrong way?”

“That is my speech for the Council, I won’t spoil it. I prepared it with care. But seriously, you? Something you want to tell me?”

“Write, the next time. Just a note, a small ‘I’ve read and I need time to think’. Insult me via letter, I don’t care, just…” She sighs, shaking her head. “Anything. Not nothing.”

He huffs, hearing back most of Mia’s letters in her voice. He had the feeling they’ll get too much along, if they could meet. But, it’s something he can grant. Or at least, try to.

“I’m sorry. I’m bad with letters, but… I’ll try.”

“Thank you. I’m fine, then. Friends?”

She offers him her hand, palm opened, to shake. He chuckles, shaking it.

“Sure.”

She hums, smiling for real and scuddling a little closer on the rock. Still not enough for them to touch, but less the unfriendly distance of before. There’s a pause, and silence, which is finally back to be companionable and quiet, calm, both of them recharging social batteries and with no real hurry to say anything more, hearts lighter. It leaves Cullen thinking, tho, about another conversation with another elf. And of the fact that she indeed was quick in changing the topic as soon as it got too personal.

“How are you?”

“Mh?” She snaps back towards him, questioning.

“How are you. It’s a month with no letters, and no doodles. How are you, for real?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“For real, Aisling.”

“It is, seriously. Beside the… Month of nothing that left me anxious, and what happened at the Ritual Tower, it’s been surprisingly good, down here. Hard work and lots and lots to do, there hasn’t been a dull moment, but…” She stops, spacing out in the wild with her eyes, and crossing her legs swiftly. “…But I like not being there just for show and to look good for nobles. I feel useful and it’s nice, I got closer to the soldiers and to the guys. It feels… It feels like being in a clan all over again.”

A pause. He can see it in her eyes. If Radha’s been true that he doesn’t really know much about her past, there’s one thing at least that the elf knows less than he does about the Inquisitor. One thing that he just knows it’s there, and waits to be told. So, he doesn’t dwell on Erimond, the Ritual Tower and the upcoming siege. If she doesn’t want to speak about what she left behind, he’s not forcing her to. There’ll be time in the next days to talk about nasty things, they’re still a couple of days away from attacking. Now, now it’s for pleasant things and getting back to a level of normality that doesn’t need to be weighed down by the local madman.

“Come on.” He sighs.

“What?” She feigns innocence, casting a sideway glance at him.

“Go on, I know you want to talk about it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Good sir, I am not!” And, she’s grinning.

“How many Venatori did your horse bit in the arse?”

Her grin just gets broader, the glint in her eyes shining in full force. There she is, finally. He smiles too, not able not to.

“You should have seen him. He was a fury, and he’s so fast, and he was the greatest horse ever! Dorian is absolutely terrified by him, but I’m pretty sure Little Brother just likes to mess with him and can distinguish good and bad Tevinter pretty well…”

“Really. Tell me more.”

And tell him more she does. So much so that they get in the War Council last, causing not just a single pair of raised eyebrows, witty comments and Rylen smirking evilly, before finally getting to work. Hawke still doesn’t look like she has any intention of letting the “Commander Rutherford” go, calling him like that every now and then with the face of the cat that licked the cream. As much as Cullen is still on pins and needles with both siblings, he notices that Aisling indeed established a good relationship with them, navigating through Raina’s sarcasm and Garrett’s more laid-back demeanour with ease, and directing people and soldiers and operation with an ease she never had before. She wasn’t lying when she told him she was fine: she’s still overly cautious with the upcoming siege, and her direction of preparing for the worst hints at a specific kind of prudence that comes from never having been to a proper big operation like that -and that Cullen shares, even if he shows less. She made good use of his books, tho, and the times he has to pop in and correct her are considerably few, limiting in proposing strategies she hasn’t considered or enriching a plan.

When they get out, a couple of hours later and with the stars starting to shine in the dark sky, moons on the rise to the east and Fortress illuminated by torches, the air doesn’t seem so still anymore. The Inquisitor is back, and she is in charge, falling easily behind the lines and talking with everyone, getting interested on how everyone’s doing -and still being overly friendly and touchy-feely with her inner circle. The morale is high.

Oh, she hasn’t changed that much: he spots her sticking close to Dorian for breakfast, hip to hip under the same blanket as they eat their rations and he makes her repeat some words in Tevene, correcting her pronunciation here and there. But outside the gilded world of Orlesians and their Game, nobody really pays it any mind. As nobody pays any mind, in the mixed ecosystem that built up there where it’s either collaborate or die, to the official science bros -Dorian and Aisling, as Hawke calls them with a cheer- and the science whiskey grandpa -Solas, who frowns at her and at Varric who laughs- launch a warning for big spell incoming and… Make rain over the keep. Just like that, in a weird combination of magic that makes everyone cheer enthusiastically. Radha is still silently looking at him, here and there, but no other harsh discourse is started. She just… Observes.

It’s gonna be fine.

---

They meet just once, on the battlefield.

Adamant is a formidable fortress, and just by looking at her it’s clear as day why it stood so long. The walls are thick and tall, looming proudly over the desert, banners flapping in the wind and towers raising up to the sky. It takes hours and hours for the trebuchets to cut a line and give them an edge and a chance to advance, mages setting the ammunitions on fire and soldiers working overtime to charge them quicker. After so long, moving slowly but steadily to keep the loss at a minimum, they’re able to reach the main door and place the battling ram in place, pull up the defenses as mages raise barriers above them, and start the process of taking the huge wooden door down as quickly as possible. Cullen’s in a frenzy, running here and there, giving instructions, praising soldiers to keep the morale up, calculating every possible outcome. It's a game of chess, he reminds himself. Just another game of chess, but bigger.

It was Aisling to insist on speed, to lose the less Wardens they could and not allow Erimond to raise a proper army of demons, and recommending personally to every officer and lieutenant, the word to be spread to their units, to spare any Warden that would have asked for mercy and surrendered their weapons.

A hit, another, dust falls from the hinges and Fiona comes to tell him the magical barrier won’t hold that much longer. He nods, judging from how much the doors are swinging inwards, the bar behind it must be giving way, it’s not long now. Any minute, he tells her, hold on just a little more, as much time as you can give us, than take cover, fall back if needed and you can’t go on with the fight.

They hold on, and in a cloud of dust and debris, the door opens, the walls are breached. He spurs on soldiers to defend, as the first line of Wardens slips through and attack them, not even waiting for the dust to fully settle and the visibility to get optimal. It goes in their favour: they do fight like they’ve nothing to lose, and cleaning the first courtyard from them and Shades takes more time and losses than he would have thought. But, with a swing and a “Can’t leave you alone for five minutes, Curly!”, there’s Hawke insight, dancing and running and being everywhere all at once, daggers flashing and for once trying to disarm. Garrett, Fenris and Varric follows suit, giving them a real advantage from fresh forces -and quite unstoppable ones.

He manages to shout at Raina to head for the battlements, when the bulk of the first line is down, she just nods and with a “Sure, Commander Rutherford!” that’s too sarcastic for his tastes, and runs in the right direction, followed suit by her brother and what’s there of the Kirkwall gang.

Just then, the Inquisitor arrives. He hears her before he sees her, by the soldiers and mages cheering her up and a solitary lightning finishing a Rage Demon, hitting right between its eyes as thunder fills the air. He turns and she’s there, full armour and ready for battle, with the wooden staff she brought back from Crestwood, from the look just a tall branch blackened in some fire, and the solitary hilt tucked securely in her belt, large pointed pauldrons and breast plate making her look bigger than she is, more imponent, face bare and hair tied in tight plaits behind her head, her helmet under her elbow. Teal and golden and beautiful.

There’s a brief exchange, he gives the status report to her and her party -small, too small for his taste, just Dorian, Solas and Cassandra, and he hopes the quality can make up for being so few, since she insisted on the rest of her friends to follow them a little later, and convincing Radha has been incredibly difficult. He tells her the Hawkes are freeing the battlement, they’ll need support before ladders can be pulled up safely for their soldiers and offer further reinforcements. Aisling nods, and after reminding him to accept surrenders, she gives him a smile and a good luck, and as her party precedes her up the stairs -Dorian with a witty remark of his own that sounds a lot like a “Don’t get too smug”, Cassandra with a solitary pat on his shoulder-, he indulges. He let her go into danger once, and even if this time she won’t face it alone... He steps forward and takes her hand, gently closing his fingers on hers on her staff. She stops, turning towards him with a question on her face he doesn’t let her voice. He took off his helmet when she arrived, so he can bring her hand up and gently kiss her knuckles, looking directly into her eyes.

“Let them hear you.”

She stands there, looking at him with no real answer she can muster, a faint blush on her cheeks and more questions in her eyes, mouth open. After a minute of perfect, serene stillness when the battle stopped to exist and there were just them, Dorian yells a “Save the mushiness from later!”, Cassandra makes a disgusted noise and Solas can be heard sighing heavily. She wakes from her wonder, clears her throat, and blabbers, still faintly flushed? Maybe it’s just that she ran.

“Thank you, you too.”

Which makes her wince, and quickly retreat, with a last -embarrassed- smile on her face and a spring in her step, as she puts her helmet on and reaches her friends. Dorian mocks her with something he can’t hear, earning a bat on his shoulder, before they head up to the battlements and disappear in the battle.

“So those are your good intentions?”

Oh, Maker.

He turns, and there’s Radha there, in a reinforced leather armour, looking even more deadly than usual, half a smile on her face he can’t guess if it’s good natured or not. She makes him nervous.

“Smooth recovery, Commander. I’m still watching you.”

She just tells him, snorting what one could even mistake for a chuckle coming from a person who’s less stoney and haughty.

“She told you to wait for the others before following.”

“Stop me.”

She challenges him. He just snorts and, gallantly, opens an arm on the side, showing her the way to the battlement. With a courteous nod of her head, she’s up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

From the bastions, thunder starts to boom in a rhythm. He hears her, too, and uneasy at it may leave him, he knows it’s her, and it’s almost like music.

---

He sees her from afar, the second time, when she raises her hand and push the dragon away with a flash of green from the Anchor, up above in the tower but very visible in the dark of the night. He’s still shouting at soldiers to reach her, help the Inquisitor, trying to figure out with Fiona if they can muster up a contingent of mages who aren’t too tired to offer her support, Fiona’s Warden knowledges sadly not really encouraging as far as “Killing an Archdemon” goes. He barks to send for Blackwall, right now.

There’s a ton of things to do, and he doesn’t have the time to stop and be fully worried. He just walks in lines, barking orders and spurring soldiers on, as best as he can amidst the fight. It’s his first siege as well, and he can already see the mistakes he made. He hopes that sending Aisling on her own in first line wasn’t one of them. She’s strong and she’s capable and surrounded by people who loves her and will protect her. There’s that. For the meanwhile, he just drags on, fighting himself and praying it will be enough.

When little later the whole army and the Wardens as well that still are fighting stop collectively to look at the bridge collapsing, there’s a speckle of teal and gold he recognises instantly, beside flowing white robes, both falling down. His heart skips a beat, knees trembling.

Maker, please, not yet.

A flash of green, blinding everyone there to look.

And there’s still work to do. A lot of it. He doesn’t have time to stop and mourn.

He goes on floating, as if it isn’t really him. Because he would be running to look for her, instead of sending some Scouts. He wonders who could know of Dalish burial rites, but he doesn’t want to think about that. He can’t.

---

Time later, Cullen finds Radha sitting in a corner, hidden, and clutching her head, breathing heavily. He didn’t know anything could crack her aloof façade like that.

The assault is far to be over, but they’re waiting for the soldiers to tear down the door to the inner courtyard where Erimond and the last Wardens are barricaded. Until the door is down, he can take a breath.

He sits behind her, shoulder to shoulder.

“She’ll get back.” He is trying to convince himself as well. “She always does.”

“I couldn’t catch her. She fell.” There’s desperation in her voice, all too relatable.

“I sent her there. She’ll be back. Somehow. They didn’t find any corpse save Clarel’s. She’ll find her way.”

She stays there for minutes, breath easying as time passes, and he doesn’t have the heart to let her there on her own in that state, just bidding a lieutenant that stops to give him a report to tell the men to go on with the door, he’ll be there in a minute.

“I’m sorry if I was rude to you.”

Radha says, finally, words coming through her teeth raggedly.

“No, you aren’t. I’m sorry I gave you reasons to worry, I... I wouldn’t hurt her. Not willingly.”

“I know, now.”

When he has to raise up, he offers her a hand and helps her on her feet. She cracks a smile, a small one, just a quick of her lips. But it’s real.

“Finds Garrett, tell him to take a breath, he’ll be all over the place as well.” He tells her, nodding his chin in the direction he saw the mage going, a hard expression on his face that’s a rare sight on him, but comprehensible since his sister is missing as well.

Radha, tho, just shakes her head and follows him, shadowing him from afar when he reaches the last line and get the situation back in check, getting the men ready for the last assault. He feels her eyes on him, but this time they’re not hostile. He’s not making friends with a friend of her because Aisling’s not getting back, tho. So, he schools himself and goes on, bidding orders, more present than before.

When they break in, Radha’s everywhere, dancing around enemies and hitting to disarm them. She’s not Hawke, she doesn’t rush in and prefers a more cautious approach, she hits like her words: few and precious, but extremely precise.

And just like that, everyone stops on their track again, even the demons seem compelled to stop and stare; the battle comes to a sudden halt when a Fade rift abruptly bursts in the centre of the courtyard, casting everything in an eerie, green light. Cullen’s heart catches in his throat, as Cassandra, Dorian and Solas gets out, fazed and ruffled but alive. Hawke is the next, and he never saw her so visibly upset, blue eyes void and terrified. She doesn’t stop to look around, she just stumbles a little and shouts, launching herself against a Shade, planting both daggers deep in its chest, and not stopping there, in a frenzy, covered by the rest of the party and, after a minute, by Inquisition soldiers.

Aisling is the last one to get out, falling out of the Rift with a groan, and she too is not stopping there. She’s on her feet again, she’s trembling a little, he can see a clearer path on her left cheek that’s covered in sooth, hinting that she cried, but she doesn’t hesitate in raising her left hand and closing her rift, with a resolution that’s weird, indeed. The demons are annihilated instantly, as the tear is closed. Everyone cheers, everyone but her party. He sees Hawke falling on her butt on the steps of a small stairway, with nothing left to do, and taking her head in both hands as she folds on herself, and Aisling snapping back to the first scout in sight, asking for a report brashly and without even a please, tense like a violin string but stepping in centre stage and taking control.

“Something happened.” Radha tells him, stopping by him as she cleans and sheaths her daggers.

Aisling turns to him, and there’s just a fierce fire in there. It’s over. The battle is over, but there’s not all there is in the demon army being defeated and the Wardens surrendering. The Inquisitor explains to the Wardens what happened to Stroud, voice listless and matter-of-factly -it’s evident, knowing her a little, that she’s still up and about just because she’s too tense to stop-, and bids the remaining Wardens to help the Inquisition.

It’s not a request, once again, and the only possible reply is yes, as much as it shocks most people there to see the usually calm, kind and shy Inquisitor being so assertive - he wasn’t in Redcliffe when she did the same with the mages, but from the way Aisling glares at Cassandra, silencing her on the spot, Cullen can suppose it’s a deja-vu.

---

He doesn’t see her until much, much later. The fortress needs to be cleaned, deads needs to be counted and buried, and the army needs to reassemble before going back. The siege has been a success and a remarkably quick one at that, even if the losses aren’t few. But work’s not over, not for the Commander at least. He ignores Cassandra telling him to just rest a while, and trudges on. Aisling’s alive, the biggest of his worries is no more, he won’t just stop now. A camp gets set to avoid travelling all the way back to Griffon Wing’s in the hottest hours of the day, and he’s walking with a couple of Scouts that are reporting him about casualties and the state of the Fortress. He spots her then, just out of the infirmary, out of her armour and with sleeves rolled to her elbows, an apron she tossed on dirty in green as her fingers, and talking animatedly to Solas. A Solas that is, weirdly, aloof even to her: he have seen them together, the older elf is always three steps away from everyone but her, who managed somehow to ignore his evident wish to not get close to anyone and just drag him into weird magical experiments. The time they made rain in the library was a bureaucratic and logistic headache, but she’s been just so happy that nobody could tell her much, not even the grumpy Apostate. Or he saw her just involving him in inconsequential activities, brought him and Bull to play chess together, dragged him in the Tavern with the others… He was warm with her, less distant. Not today, tho, right now he isn’t even looking at her. Cullen can’t hear what they are saiying, but he notices that when Solas nods and circles around her to get back in the infirmary, Aisling is hurt, deeply so apparently, lowering her head and falling on a bench, face in both hands.

He bids the Scouts to leave their reports in his tend, and to go get some rest. The sun is getting high in the sky and the air hotter and hotter. Maybe it is time to cut off, for real. Or, just a pause. To check on her. Unobtrusively.

“What happened?” He asks her, sitting down beside her – again, not too close to touch her, because if she seems to be touching everyone else, she was never that touchy with him and even if it hurts, he’s going to respect it.

“I can’t do anything right.”

“You just won a siege in something more than half a day, it’s remarkable.”

“You won the siege, I just… Got kicked out of the infirmary. Fell in the Fade. Sacrificed-” She shakes her head, vigorously, loose strands that escaped the hairdo she didn’t stop to put up again flying wildly around her face.

“Hey. It’s your first battle. It’s normal, it’s… It’s meant to be unsettling. Go get some rest, it’ll get better. You did great, you survived, and I’m glad you’re still here.” He leans on his side to bump gently on her shoulder, making her sway a little on the spot. There’s no positive reaction, tho.

“At least someone is.” Comes the only answer, and it’s bitter, as bitter as he never heard her and didn’t think she could be. It’s painful.

Nobody comes to call them back to work, the long night slowly coming to an end. They stay there, in silence, unwinding. She scuddles closer, gently placing herself so their arms touh. There will be time for the rest.

Chapter Text

“Can I-”

Dorian looks at her from his armchair, closing the book he’s reading on his pointer finger and leaving her space to finish her question. He’s stressed as well, she can see it in the harshness of his eyes, unusual except for when he’s tired, a deep crease between his eyebrows and lips contracted. He does look like his father, she muses. But, seeing her twisting her fingers on themselves, shoulders contracted to reach her ears and eyes darting between him and her feet, nervous, he doesn’t do anything much but attempt a smile and nodding, silently inviting her to go on as soon as he’s sure she’s watching him.

Adamant has been… Hard would be an understatement. The siege itself wasn’t easy, all that happened in the Fortress, the showdown with Erimond and the desperate trial to have Clarel see reasons. And then walking into the Fade, physically, facing the Nightmare demon, her and her friends’ most intimate fears, and retrieving her missing memories -knowing for certain she didn’t kill the Divine nor was the Herald of Andraste has been good… But the price too high. Knowing the exact number of casualties and… Well. Stroud. She realised how much of a toll it took on her just weeks later, when the easy camaraderie and buzz of the long march back with the army ended and they finally made their way back to Skyhold, and she found herself alone in a room far too big and far too empty. She regretted telling Radha that yes, she could finally take possession of the room that has been assigned to her, it was no trouble. She has lain awake with her thoughts running fast through her mind, making her heart run faster and faster and taking her breath away. She hasn’t been able to sleep all night, there was no Dorian sans-Felix drinking it away in the main hall not in the kitchen -she checked- and the day hasn’t been kinder yet.

Oh, she knows people need her. She knows that she’s the Inquisitor, she’s the one in charge, and that people around her are suffering as well, have been affected by the events as much as she was or have needs of their own, and she doesn’t blame any of them for asking for her help or comprehension, today. A part of her, under the panic, bone-tiredness and exhaustion, is really grateful to see that they all put enough trust in her to share their burdens and open up with her. It’s just too much, right now, with her personal emotions to cope with and that she had to sweep back under the carpet to be the caring, calming and reliable presence that was requested of her. And she feels terribly alone.

Aisling has felt alone when she popped in the Rotunda, and Solas still gave her the cold shoulder. He and Radha were chatting over this and that, and she wanted to bid the both of them -the closest she got to a proper family, beside Dorian- good morning. Solas stopped smiling, schooled his expression in a way he has never done with her, not even in the first days, and called her “Inquisitor”. Before the siege it was “lethallan”, not even “da’len” anymore. She buried how hurtful it was under a smile, greeted them as she had planned to, and forced herself not to run up the stairs to the mezzanine, assuring her clanmate that she needed not to follow, she was just there for a round of good mornings before heading to the morning Council anyway. It hurt.

Aisling has felt alone when, after that Council, Josephine stopped her in her office. And when all sweet, lovely Josephine could tell her was asking for her help in a serious family matter that indeed needed some quick intervention and must have been worrying the Ambassador a lot, if she couldn’t put up a calm and collected face talking about it.

She has felt alone when both Cassandra and Leliana asked for what happened, but not how she felt about it or how she was coping right now. And of course, it was obvious, they needed time to mourn Justinia, their Divine and their friend who has chosen to speak with her, a Dalish elf who was there on a fortuitous chance, and not with any of them two.

She has felt alone when the Iron Bull needed reassurance, in a way she did not really understand, but that let on that he was greatly phased by the whole matter. Always so reliable, always so caring for everyone, Bull needed the same today, and to calm down. And oh, she could relate.

Sera has been scared out of her wits. Aisling could read her better now after month of being patient with her and trying hard to understand what was under all those walls and pushing people away. She mainly found fear of magic, and how could she blame her now? She mustered a brave face, pretended to be confident and collected and hoped the archer couldn’t see right through it. One of them openly scared was enough, and it wasn’t a luxury Aisling could allow herself anymore.

Varric too needed a moment on his own - she hoped on snacking puff pastries together on the floor again, but… Not today, apparently, the dwarf needed time to think and she respected his spaces, letting him get used to the idea of his three friends headed to Weisshaupt on a dangerous mission, and of Raina who left without being fully over what happened in the Fade. Varric stayed, Aisling has been seriously moved by his decision, but needed a little time to himself. She could respect that.

Her heart clenched when Cole was nowhere to be found, and Cullen just excused himself telling her it was a “bad day” and he wouldn’t have been of much company for lunch today. He had apologised, of course, and she had nodded and smiled, switching the way she wanted to beg him to please let her help, let her try something, with a more respectful and neutral suggestion to come look for her if he needed anything. He nodded to her, but she just knew he would never have.

“They are hurting, da’len. Be patient and they’ll come around.” Keeper Deshanna would say, and she can hear her as if she was there with her, standing beside her and leaning faintly on her arm. “You can’t expect them to focus on you if they’re bleeding. That’s the burden of your role, be strong and patient.”. Keeper Deshanna would be right. Keeper Deshanna isn’t there, tho, and she just wants to cry. But she cannot cry. Not now, not in public. She has to let the afternoon pass, and then she can close her door and flood her own stupid huge room with tears and sobs. For now, she must endure.

When Vivienne (whom she respects but can’t agree with and really, really doesn’t want to face today of all days) requested to chat with her, she hoped that maybe there would have been one silver lining in this shitty day. Maybe a real success was all the Enchanter needed to start respecting her as Aisling wanted, bridge the gap between them, stop the game of backhanded insults, start treating her like a peer and not as an unruly and stupid child. And instead, things went even souther than they already were. Because the Enchanter didn’t want to chat, oh no. The Enchanter wanted to know, with a sparkle of joy in her eyes that Aisling couldn’t convince herself was just staged and a performance, how it was to physically walk in the Fade. Because that was the success that could break the hard façade and win the respect of Madame de Fer and make her, in her own words, envious. All Aisling wanted to do was puke, there and then.

But Josie taught her good. She excused herself as politely as she could, faking a former appointment she was getting late to, and ran to the mezzanine in the Library.

Dorian has been the one who shared her distress. He was coping badly, and when she came to greet him this morning, he was trying to mask his real feelings and failing spectacularly, as irritable and angry as he was. He had thrown himself into work sorting books and treatises in a “sensible order”, complaining more and worse than his usual about a thousand little, easily fixable things, and lashing out on her when she tried to calm him down. He realised as soon as he stopped talking, and apologised profusely. And he has been the only one in the whole day -now slowly falling into afternoon- to ask her how she was feeling.

Rationally, she knows well that Elves and Tevinters shouldn’t get so along. Rationally, she knows he most likely had slaves back home, or knew people who had them, and they never discussed it, as they never discussed the reason why she decided to have her clan learn some Tevene in the first place. They both knew. But she didn’t care one bit, honestly. Radha too warmed up some with him, in the Western Approach, and stopped gawking over them like a protective vulture when they were together. He saved her butt more than once, opened up and let her see where it hurts, didn’t judge her when she did the same. Took on her relying on touch to express affection with remarkable speed and shared the same language with her, now. She started to just hug him randomly once a day (“To compensate all the hugs you never got”) after the meeting with his father, and he let her, welcomed the gesture with a snarky remark that told the opposite that it really meant. They shared their stories and opened up, he taught her Tevene and maths and always involved her in his experimenting (they worked so well together), and she helped him when camping and getting decent at riding -and overcome a weird fear of horses. They were birds of a feather, or “culo e camicia”(1) as he defined them.

And still, right now, standing before his nook, words are escaping her, her request stuck in her throat with the Nightmare still caressing her mind and convictions and seeding doubt. Aisling Lavellan, Abandonment. Her grave has said, in the Demon’s realm. And she is running on too little sleep and too many things bottled up to distinguish clearly that he wasn’t Solas, there probably won’t be any need to beg him to let her stay, please don’t leave her alone.

He doesn’t do anything, still waiting patiently for her to go on, with a delicacy Aisling loves him for, and at the same time resents greatly in the moment. It would be easier if he just decided to tell her what to do with some sarcasm, but none escapes his lips.

The nook he has claimed for his own is private as it can be, but not closed off and invisible, and she cannot afford to start bawling like a child there and then.

“Uh… I…”

She tries to continue, forcing herself, one word after the other.

“…Everyone is… Everyone is hurting and having a bad day, and a thousand things are happening together and-”

She won’t cry.

“-and I am glad people trust me enough to confide in me. I really, really am! But-”

A couple of traitorous tears rolls down her cheeks, fat and wet. She fixes her glance on her toes, curling them on the stone of the flooring in a last trial to get a grip on them and also on herself, and hopes Dorian fails to noticed.

“-but I need a minute. I feel awful. And terribly alone.”

There. It’s out, all in one breath. More tears follow the first two, damn. She frowns at the pavement and bites her lower lip, refusing to hiccup.

“Can I…?”

A moment of silence. She can’t force down a hiccup, dammit.

“I believe we can both fit in this armchair.” He finally speaks, in a casual tone. “If you don’t mind me going on reading, that is. I think Mother Giselle is busy in the garden, so…”

He scoots a little over on the sitting, as much as the narrowness of it allows, and pats the pillow left free beside his hip, loud enough for her to hear even if she’s not looking at him.

“Just don’t snot all over my clothes, sweetheart, would you?”

She wants to punch him for recovering his smugness now. But she giggles a little, watery and sad, so she walks all the way that separates them and settles herself on the armchair beside him. They move around, sticking themselves in a tangle of arms and legs that in theory couldn’t possibly be comfortable, but it is.

She drapes her knees on his thigh, and tentatively hugs his midriff, waiting for any signal to stop or move to another more comfortable position. He lets her do, and even slips his arm over her shoulder, tucking her in his side and hugging her back without a word, as if it’s the most natural thing to do. It surely feels like it. He doesn’t say anything when she lets go and starts to cry on his shoulder, biting her lip to muffle the sobs. He just starts reading aloud to cover her, starting from mid-sentence and mid-chapter, putting all his emphasis on the phrasing and making it sound like how to calculate the optimal time span in which dragging mana from corpses is not anything boring at all. Talking to fill the silence, in the present, feels very nice.

She thanks him in Tevene, amidst the tears. He hugs her tighter.

Mother Giselle does find them, in the end. They’re both asleep on the same armchair, curled on the other in a position that surely will grant the both of them a massive back ache when they’ll wake up. She laughs under her breath, covering her mouth with a hand to muffle the sound and avoid waking them: they make her think of a couple of kittens sharing the same basket, snuggling together as close as they can to fend off the winter chill. She tiptoes softly close to them, spreading a blanket she finds on a stool in the corner over them to keep them warm. Spring is just arrived, but the Keep still hasn’t warmed up. They luckily don’t wake, too tired for it. The Inquisitor, she notices with a smile, drools in her sleep.

This time, she doesn’t spread any rumour.

---

Snow started to melt, down the valley. The difference with the Western Approach is stark, in the air that’s still chilly and biting on noses and cheeks and fingers and ears. In how everything is muddy and wet, how much water there is all around, how the sun is just a gentle caress when it reaches the zenith. Mountains leaving space to rolling hills and farms, cattle barely starting to venture out of their barns with the promise of the approaching Spring. It would be peaceful and idyllic.

Except, it’s probably the tensest of the travels Aisling ever did with the inquisition, and she’s doing her best to keep up a good attitude and not give in to the tension and nastiness in the air. In truth, she can’t wait to get back to Skyhold. She wouldn’t have left, if Cole hadn’t been so upset and terrified, and she couldn’t tell him no.

Even if it meant a three or four days trip in the field with a Solas who still doesn’t want to talk to her more than the absolute necessary -asking for her help had been the absolute necessary and she didn’t miss the harsh comment and return to explaining things to her with that tone that made her feel like she was stupid and couldn’t grasp the obvious. Luckily enough, Alexius still had contacts that Dorian could verify and approve of, to gather the Rivaini talisman needed, as much as the older man expressed his doubt and worry in the strange request. Aisling doubted he could see Cole, even if his presence around him was clear – he never seemed to have his goblet empty of water or wine, and there was always some food around him, even outside of meal times. Once, when she and Dorian asked for his consultation on a particularly tripsy formula, he had turned to a plate full of cheese cuttings and smiled, telling them it was Felix’s favourite. Yet, he had no idea of the kid, which made convincing him to give her the name… Not so immediate. He did, however.

She could have survived three days with Solas acting up and ignoring her entirely and a Cole terrified out of his wits and needing constant reassurance – which she was happy to provide, once in a while. But Varric added himself up to the group, openly disagreeing with Solas on how to deal with the whole endeavour of protecting Cole from blood mages and letting him “discover his true self”. Aisling couldn’t go on too much being in the middle of the two, quarrelling politely but fiercely and talking to each other just in passive-aggressive jeers.

Suddenly, being attacked by a group of angry bears started to sound the most appealing option, she mused as they both got back, once again, on the very same argument. The same way they did at least ten times on the way there. She didn’t note if they used the right words, but she wouldn’t be surprised, at this point, if they did. All the way, she ignored them and decided to just work her way to keep them fed and repaired, saying nothing much beside logistic and asking Cole how he felt and for his help, just to take him away for some minutes from the two roosters fighting for the same grain of corn, dragging him around as she went to fetch water or wood for the fire, or pick some elfroot she saw on the way. It was almost Embrium season, but this far south it was still too cold, the flowers were a little behind.

Fast forward to the present, she’s leading the group towards the village centre and the griffon statue, walking forward with Cole and following his directions, elf and dwarf some steps behind them intent to pridefully pretend the other doesn’t exist. There are few people around the square and the streets, luckily the region got back to a countryside activity as the war stopped and the Fade rifts were closed and not spitting out demons anymore. It wasn’t empty either, making the research for their mysterious target difficult. From the bits and pieces Cole had let out about himself and his past and she has pieced together, it was difficult he was talking about a place, not there in Ferelden. She wondered if Rhys and Evangeline stopped there on their way back from Gwaren, where they sent them for their mission. If it’s a person they’re looking for, tho, having many about won’t really help.

“Cole, can you-”

She tries to ask, but the boy just… Stops and starts to glare at a precise direction, snarling. Aisling flinches, not understanding, but following his look…

“Can I help you?”

“… You.”

It’s a flash, and Cole’s gone, with a snap and the ozone smell of magic. It’s too late to do anything. Cole’s on one of the men around, an older man with a ragged look about him, in clothes that are Orlesian from the cut, but very worn and consumpted by time. What follows makes shivers run down her spine, a mix of grief and horror at what exactly slips out of Cole’s mouth, uncharacteristically angry.

Locked, forgotten, starved to death, alone.

Solas, at least, is readier than she is, stepping up and stopping the boy from lowering the dagger he already unsheathed. Cole listens, luckily, and lets the man -no, his killer- go. At the very least all this anger and pain serve to bring all of them three together, combining forces and trying to calm him down. But there’s more to his story, more he finally lets on, stopping everyone on their track. And how could they not, even Solas, who’s admittedly hardly socially savvy, looks struck by his words. Cole walks away, but stops a little away and slumps sitting and holding his head with both hands, under the hat, on the far side of the statue’s pedestal.

Which leaves them three looking at each other, the same question in their eyes. What to do?

Both men look at each other, and she would slap them in turn. She knows both looks, and those are the looks of two people who are just about to start quarrelling once again. Oh, no, not now. She speaks first.

“Solas?”

“We cannot let Cole kill the man.”

“I don’t think anyone was going to suggest that, Chuckles…”

“Cole is a spirit. The death of the real Cole wounded him, perverted him from his purpose.” If a spear had to be broken in his favour, Aisling has never heard the older elf so much involved in… Well, in anything since they’ve known each other. Not even when he told her that Corypheus’ orb, the one that got her the Anchor and started all the mess they were knee-deep into, was elven. “To regain that part of himself, he must forgive.”

“Come on.” Varric snorted, not convinced, or not seeing how important it was, for the other. “You don’t just forgive someone killing you.”

“You don’t. A spirit can.”

And we’re back to bickering and walls. Not yet.

“Varric?” She coaxes, preventing the argument to go south.

“The kid’s angry, he needs to work through it.” Varric, for once, looks at her while speaking, and is friendly. It makes sense, but-

“A spirit does not work through emotions. It embodies them!”

“But he isn’t a spirit, Chuckles, is he? He made himself human, and humans change. They get hurt, and they heal.” He turns to Aisling again, determination in his eyes. “He needs to work it out like a person.”

“You would alter the essence of what he is!”

“He did that to himself when he left the Fade! I’m just helping him survive it!”

“Enough.” She stops them, holding her hands up, very firmly. “Both of you.”

It works in having them both, finally, stop yelling and turning to her, and Aisling won’t worsen her nerves by analysing what emotions she can read on their faces. She just glares at them both, one after the other.

“You’ve been debating since days about what Cole should or shouldn’t do, what he is or is not. As if he wasn’t there, as if he doesn’t have opinions of his own. And now what? Who’s gonna decide what he’s going to do? You two? Either of you? Me as a neutral third party?”

She spits out, reproaching for them both. She shakes her head, stopping Solas from replying as he’s taking a breath to speak.

“No. Stop speaking of him as he’s some object you can bend at your will. He has a voice and he can choose for himself. You’re no better than Vivienne, like this.”

That one time Cole tried to read the Enchanter and she requested Aisling to “Keep her pet demon at bay” has become famous in the whole Inquisition as the reason why making the Inquisitor angry was probably a bad idea. She isn’t quick to anger, at all, but that time she couldn’t keep it in, and snapped back to the woman to dare her to call him a pet one more time, and she would have sent her back to the Court in Orlais to get back on being a pet herself. Nobody in Skyhold had dared pronounce the word “pet” in front of her since then.

So, she marches towards Cole, leaving the other two to… Do whatever, she doesn’t care anymore. She just sits down beside the spirit-boy, offering her left palm up, propped on his knee, delicately, for him to take. It takes him one minute, but he does, and she squeezes, intertwining her fingers in his.

“Angry. Sorrow. Shouldn’t have gone like this, should be around people who let him choose. It’s… It’s me?”

“What do you want to do, Cole?” The Keeper always did this in questions. She has learnt well.

“I… I don’t know. If I kill him, it will get better.”

“What will get better?”

He doesn’t reply right away. She doesn’t mind: it’s a sunny day, the stone under her breeches is a little wet, but not unbearably so. She’s not cold, she can wait for as long as it will take.

“I… I don’t know.”

“It’s fine. You’re so concentrated in helping others than focusing on your emotions is difficult, isn’t it?”

“… I suppose…”

“Do you want me to let go of your hand? Is it distracting you?”

“…”

Another pause. She caresses the back of his hand with her thumb, trying to warm it up minutely as she waits for an answer.

“Warmth, summer, the aravel is private and small, like a fox burrows, it’s cozy, you can talk, da’len, it’s just us. Let it out, don’t let it poison you, let it out and we’ll accept it together, demons can’t hurt you if there’s love in your heart. You miss her the most, she would know what to do. But you paid attention and you know, and… And… You care for me, either way. You’re in pain for me. How…” He turns towards her, frantic. “…Make it stop, I- I cannot heal this.”

“Sure you can.” She smiles at him, booping at his nose with the pointer finger of her free hand. “People who cares about you stop hurting when you heal yourself. Now, concentrate, breathe with me, ok? It’s ok. It’s ok. We got time.”

She turns her bust towards him, and gently, so gently, raises the hand she’s holding to place it onto his heart, splaying fingers carefully and leaving it there, alone.

“What would heal you? What do you feel?”

“… Anger. Deep, gnawing, all-encompassing, it’s… I’m drowning.” His breath increases, she can hear behind her Solas fumbling. She raises a hand behind her, to signal she got it.

“Ok. That’s fine, you have a lot of things to be angry for. I know it hurts but… What are you angry for? Concentrate a little on it.”

“Inquisitor-” Comes a warning from Solas, behind her.

She waves a hand at him, dismissively, without turning back from Cole. Oh, she can feel the buzz of mana around him, air wavering as in the desert at midday. But she has a direction, and she needs to follow. She would like to touch him, but she won’t risk him reading her and not himself. So, she scoots a little closer, breathes more loudly so he can hear her, slowly slip her hand in one of the pouches on her belt, taking out a pinch of dried elfroot and pressing it between thumb and fingers, releasing the smell and getting the hand closer to the boy’s face, without intruding. Grounding, grounding without touching. She can manage.

“I-…” Cole starts back, struggling with his words. “… He killed me. He killed Cole. Did horrible things, he died alone, in the silence, no one there, dark all around, all because of him.”

“Would kill the responsible make it better?”

He stops, again, but as he thinks, the tension slowly relents from the air and the boy deflates a little. Still tense, but he slouches slowly forward, shaking his head.

“I… Cole won’t get back. But I don’t know what to do. It- it hurts. It hurts and it won’t stop.”

“I know. I know, it does and it sucks. But we can do something, ok? I can help. We’re all here to help you, you’re not alone anymore.”

There she touches him, placing both palms on his upper arms and squeezing, rubbing her thumbs just hard enough to be sure he feels it, reassuringly, the way Deshanna has done many, many times with her. If he’s seeing it and feeling how comforting it was for her, he doesn’t say, letting her go on.

“See, Solas and Varric had a point, even if they had their own way to show they care.” She starts, gently. “You have choices. Humans feel and heal, you know better than anyone. But to heal, you have to feel the pain, if you want to go on this way. It will be longer, but it will be… More intense. Live as Cole, give it a full chance. You’ll feel what you feel in others, and all the good things as well. Love to and from your friends, gratitude, happiness, fun. You’ll have to learn to feel things and accept them, the good and the bad, because none happens without the other.”

He nods, signalling he understood.

“Or, you can listen to Solas. Be true to your nature as Spirit. Let go and forgive, make it go away. Heal yourself, you can, you are plenty capable to. And get your full powers back, be true and strong to your nature. It’s… Compassion, isn’t it?” She asks, tentatively.

He snaps his head up, recognition in his eyes. They’re getting watery with distress and it clenches her heart to see him like so. She gently rubs away tears with her thumbs, cupping his face.

“You’re hurting.” He says.

“I’m hurting because you are, and I can’t snap my fingers and make it go away. This way is the only one I know, it’s good but it takes longer. The Keeper taught me.”

“It wasn’t done with you… It helped, but it didn’t heal. Not totally.”
“The bad and the good, Cole. The good is better if there’s bad, like when it stops raining and the sun shines again, or when springs melts the snow and the flowers grow. But, humans can’t choose one, you know it. There must be snow and rain and thunder to make the flowers grow. I’m fine, don’t look at me. What do you want to do?”
He stays there, not moving nor batting her hand away. By now, she doesn’t know if the Templar ran away or what. She can hear Varric’s heavy steps, pacing around, but she doesn’t care. It takes the time it takes, she’s not there to save anyone’s pride.

“What would you do?” Cole asks, in the end.

“I can’t choose for you, Cole.”

“I…” He takes a minute to think returning panicky. “Make it stop. I… I want the talisman to work, I don’t want to be scared or angry anymore. I can’t heal if I’m scared it’s… It’s wrong.”

He slumps forward, pushing his forehead against her shoulder and crouching down. His hat bumps on her hand, and as she circles the boy’s shoulder with one arm, the other goes up to move the large brim in a more comfortable position to accommodate her head. The gesture is hers, it’s a memory he’s seeing and repeating, seeking comfort the way she did, but the words are not hers. Give me the strength, I can’t do it alone, she said the Keeper, when she did the same. Of course you can, da’len. You’re stronger than you realise..

And strong she must be, but she has means to judge, now. So, she slowly turns towards the other two, dragging Cole’s bust a little with her movement, but he doesn’t seem to mind, resting his forehead in the soft leather of her coat.

“Solas?”

The elf sighs, nodding and stepping forward towards them. Aisling, still not fully sure, moves the boy slightly away from her, resting her forehead against his -the hat moves a little up and scruffle his hair.

“You can change your mind at the last moment, if you don’t like, it ok? And go right back.”

“I don’t-”

“You can. Ok? If you feel just for a moment that you’re not doing something right… Stop. And get back. We’ll fix it another way, I promise.”

It’s the last thing she can tell him, before he nods and raises up, following Solas in the direction the Templar went. Her eyes follow them, heart in her throat and finally allowing herself to step down the Keeper’s role and feel her worry and pain, until they’re behind the Chantry’s courtyard archway and out of her sight.

And now, there’s just waiting. Waiting and…

“I’m sorry, Varric.”

“Quit the bullshit, Lucky, you’re not.”

Well, at least he sounds more tired than angry. There’s that.

“I’m sorry because you’re not like Vivienne, with Cole, and it was unfair for me to tell you so. You’re acting because you love him. You always do things out of love, but… He had to choose for himself.”

The dwarf sighs heavily, stepping forward to sit beside her, slouching down equally with tiredness in the curve of his back and in the way he massages his temples.

“I hope you’re right and that it was my impression that Chuckles treated him like a demon.”

“He’s… He’s bad with people. Absolutely socially inept. But… His intentions are good, there’s kindness. And I saw him in the Fade. I know he’s hiding big chunks of his past, but with Spirits? I do trust him with them, he knows more than any mage I ever met, every old Keeper I spoke with at any Arlathven..”

“He barely looks at you anymore, Lucky. You sure you didn’t do it to get back in his graces?”

“Fuck you, Tethras, it’s not one of your books.” She bumps his shoulder with hers, playfully, a sarcastic snort escaping her nose. “No. I did it for Cole, if you can believe it.”

“Glad to hear it, Lavellan. I hope you’re right.” He guffaws as well, not really amused. But his tone is soft.

Truth is, she hopes it as well.

---

They stop at the Dusklight camp in the way back, the tall rock formations cocooning the tends and tables. The night brought back some of the piercing chill of the winter even if the location is repaired from the wind, but it still makes everyone particularly eager to either get closed in their tends or to the braziers that got installed since the last time she was there. It was a stretch arriving up there, but it’ll save them some time the next day.

So close to the fire, her feet gets warm even without spells, and it always has some extent of luxury curling and uncurling her toes in the fire’s warmth, if she lets go the heating spell for just enough time to have them get cold. It’s even more luxurious since she knows exactly how does it feel to have her feet frozen for real, because she needs to choose between warming her feet for a minute more and walking a metre more. Aisling is musing, not really wishing to go to sleep just yet, tucking herself closely in her cloak and watching the flames dance and twinkle.

Nobody was really in the mood for speaking more, today, words are ended and they all need a moment on their own to recollect and face another full day or more up to Skyhold. Cole has not spoken once, but looks far less chagrined and furrowing than he did on the way here, so there’s that. Varric is masking badly that he still disagrees with how the matter has been dealt with, but is not fiercely opposing everything Solas says anymore. Solas is the usual. Not looking at her, keeping on his own, and at least sticking close to Cole. She wrote her report in no time as she had a quick dinner, sent it back to Skyhold via raven to anticipate their return and communicate they’re all alive and well.

With nothing better to do, now, she’s considering raising up and sneaking into the tunnel to Queen Shayna’s Valley to hide somewhere and see what the dragon is doing. She promised Bull and Sera they’ll hunt her together, but… She has made excuses. The beast is posing a problem, with her litter, sure, the valley is currently impracticable and the harbour there inaccessible. And yet, there’s a grace in the reptile, a nobleness and beauty that just stops her. She has done nothing wrong except being an apex predator and nesting where she saw fit. Maybe they’ll all move when the dragonlings would have grown. She hoped, at least. After all, she may as well check, since she’s there, right?

She raises up, slipping into her tend to quickly fish her staff and hilt, tucking the latter in her belt. All the rest of the preparations consists in re-arranging her scarf to cover her hair, to prevent too much smell in the air and the colour to reflect moonlight and attract unwanted attention. Ready and well, she slips away from camp, steps light and soft on the rocks and the dirt, waving at the guard on rotation as she makes her way down the ravine.

The moon is almost full, which grants a good visibility over the valley. There are no fires burning, today, suggesting her as she pokes out into the valley, crouched behind a rock, that probably the friendly draconic family chose another place to rest this evening. A pity, honestly. With not too much caution, tho, she’s overtly slow in stepping into the valley, carefully placing each step on the ground, feeling with her toes for loose twigs she may snap and, when she finds one, moving her foot elsewhere. She goes from rock to tree to bush, minding the wind and keeping herself under it, well close to the western part of the valley. It’s more illuminated, but her smell will be hidden, and there’s more vegetation to hide into, anyway.
Not a single reptile in sight, at the third nug she spots quietly padding around to feed on the grass or return to their burrows, she’s more than sure that the dragons really aren’t there today, and that she can stop hiding. A pity, but not for the chance of a small walk under the moon, like the true Dalish heathen she is. It’s a nice, serene night, good for stargazing. So, she slips her scarf off her head, rolling it back around her neck and tying it with a knot as she steps down to the river shore, trudging her feet in the mud and returning to walk eastward. There are rocks she can sit on, that way.

He's silent in his step, usually, but keeps his feet heavier and hearable to signal his presence and not startle her, thumping his staff a little too purposefully. Aisling raises her eyes to him, frowning minutely but schooling herself to a neutral expression.

“The dragon is not here, hahren. I’m just taking a walk and sticking close, I’ll be back in ten minutes.” She explains herself before he has a chance to do the same and tell her what she’s doing and why she’s obviously wrong.

Solas, tho, doesn’t catch the bait or explains her anything, for once. He stops at a convenient distance, hardly a friendly one, before replying.

“I’m sorry if I disturbed you, Inquisitor.” He nods his head, politely. “I just wanted to thank you for what you did today.”

“What did I do for you to thank me?”

“You supported me. It’s been important that Cole kept true to his nature, Spirits are fragile the more they strain for their purpose. He would have been a human, yes, but detached from his true nature, and who knows what may have happened. You convinced him in doing the right thing.”

She stops to consider him, under the layer of aloofness and recollection and conceding explanations. He’s back to making himself hard to read, all the months of slowly befriending him and creeping behind his walls gone with a single choice that she fails to see how could he not have expected from her by now. It hurt and she grieved, because as many flaws the elf had, she does find his friendship dear and his company pleasant, calming even. Now? Now she was tired. And mildly irritated by the latest explanation.

“I didn’t support you.” She clarifies, tone clipped as she turns and returns walking. “I help Cole choose for himself and get his thoughts in order to make a choice. I just considered his own opinion, don’t Spirits have one?”

“They have.” He follows her, still keeping his steps louder than usual, painfully evident by how he stomps his staff on every stone on the pathway. Every. Single. One. “I suppose it’s just difficult for him to find his own amidst the noise, particularly today.”

“So, he needed to be told what to do without a saying.”

“I never meant it like that.”

“No, and that’s exactly the issue. You never do.”

She turns to look at him, making him stop.

“You never mean it, and think that’s enough to just… Excuse you when you hurt me. I got it, you disapprove what I did with the Wardens, I wasn’t the person you thought I was, that’s fine. Just… not this, please. Not the empty pleasantries. I have plenty of those, I don’t need more, particularly from you. For old time’s sake and for the affection you bore me.”

He frowns at her, façade cracking at the borders and lips parting, Aisling can see the thought forming before he can speak it, continuing and instantly replying to what she thinks he’s about to say.

“You did. You wouldn’t have stepped up so much and indulge me with Dorian’s and my silly experiments otherwise. You did care about me, even a little. If you want to stop it’s fine, I get it, I really do. Just… Don’t joke with Radha, and don’t thank me because it’s the polite thing to do. You don’t owe me any thanks, I didn’t do what I did today for you.

She huffs loudly through her nose, the two glowering at each other as equally prideful creatures. The same pride keeping them there and unmoving. After a while, tho, Aisling’s the first to turn her eyes away, stepping away and beside him, on her way back to camp. She won’t have him see her cry, oh no.

“Forget it.”

It’s a hiss through her teeth, a hand rubbing at her eyes and sniffing. Again, she can hear him stepping behind her, following and making her notice he’s doing so.

“I meant that it’s not so common to find a person so willing to empathise with a Spirit as you did, and that I appreciated it. It wasn’t an attack.”

“You haven’t spoken to me since Adamant.” She states, equally pointing her feet down. “And it hurt me.”

And at that, weirdly, Solas yields, and she hears him sighing loudly, behind her.

“If it’s still for the infirmary, you were in no condition-”

“It is not about the infirmary and you know it. You’re more intelligent than that, Solas, don’t mock me. It’s because one day it’s lethallan and smiles and care, and the other it’s Inquisitor and looking at me like… Like I’m some kind of annoyance and a bother and you won’t ever try to talk with me and get things clear. It’s fine, I don’t need your approval, just… I need to digest it.”

The sigh of before turns into a groan, the noise of his steps quickening until he’s at her side. She turns her head not to show that she is, indeed, quietly crying, but it’s evidently too late. He catches her elbow to stop her, forcing her to stop walking just to free her arm from his grasp.

“Let me go.”

“You’re not annoying, you’re stubborn as a mule, with a tendency to martyrdom, and prideful and too trusting, and emotional.” He states, in a clear tone that’s not angry. “And you need to stop approaching people like they’re horses, slowly creeping in, and complaining when it doesn’t work. It won’t work on everyone and it doesn’t work with me, stop it.”

She pouts and frowns, punctured in her pride once more and glaring up at him.

“You’re a liar.”

“I am.” He admits, taking her aback. “But I’m not lying on this: sooner or later, you’ll approach someone and you’ll trust too much and you’re going to suffer even more.”

“Whom are you talking about?”

There was too much sureness in his words, too much knowing. More than the usual calm superiority he has when explaining pretty much everything. This… This seems personal? Indeed, he hesitates before replying. Weird.

“You’re an elf. Surrounded by humans and nobles wishing to exploit your position. The better question would be whom I’m not talking about.”

“You don’t need to remind me of racism. Be specific. I’m trusting any aristocrat from Orlais that I don’t know of? If you have accusations, make them clearly.”

He furrows, and if even she’s not annoying, he now is annoyed. She doesn’t back up, tho, eyes drying and tears finally stopping.

“I was… Speaking in general terms.”

“You’re lying again.”

“You don’t know your own good.”

“At least I don’t push away people wanting to be my friend, if I’m scared of being alone.”

It’s out of her mouth before she can really realise what she is saying. And it’s the one thing that breaks through to him. He flinches like she just punched him, and she feels a sharp wave of guilt. Solas leaves her arm, clearing his throat and stepping back, turning so he’s not looking at her anymore.

“I am sorry, I should not have said that.” She apologizes, all bites away from her voice.

“No. You thought it.”

“I hurt you.”

“So, we’re even.”

“Solas-”

“Don’t.”

He steps away, turning his back at her and stepping back into the valley, away. Truth to be told, Aisling doesn’t know what to do or say. She never does, with him, like a puzzle she can’t solve, or doesn’t have all the pieces to. So, she steps back and sighs.

“Just… You don’t have to be alone, if you don’t want it, you know? If not me, Radha’ll be there. She likes you.”

“Thank you, Inquisitor, you don’t need to bother with my life.”

“It’s not a bother. If I can help you, I’d be glad to. Just… Just that. I’m sorry if I overstepped.”

“You didn’t. Good night.”

“Good night… Lethallin.”

It hurts, right now, she is not sure if she still feels it or if it’s just anger and her wounded pride making the word hard to pronounce and fill with meaning. But, if he won’t take a step, she will. Without any further reply, understanding the conversation’s over, she reaches the camp back, with a heavy mind and a heavy heart.

You can’t expect them to focus on you if they’re bleeding. That’s the burden of your role, be strong and patient.
She slips in her tend, and there’s Cole there, curled on a second cot beside hers, like a stray cat exhausted from a full day. She smiles under her nose, quietly stepping inside the shelter and leaving her staff beside her sleeping arrangement. She just takes off her leg wraps and scarf, before slipping under the covers and scuddling closer to the Spirit.

She was trained in caring for others first and herself later, after all. A Keeper remembers, a Keeper takes care of everyone. There’s a kind of grace and self-help in helping others. And maybe today’s silver lining is that she did with Cole. So, she exhales loudly, circling the shoulders of the boy with both her arms and tucking him securely, and entirely platonically, against her. His hair is silky against her nose and cheeks, if a little matted. He smells of ozone, like a spell.

“Eyes too big, too attentive, you can see the cracks. You didn’t deserve it. Guilt and regret, wish it wasn’t you, but you’re the one who can. Conflicted. Don’t feel sorry for speaking the truth.”

“Cole, what did we say about consent?”

“… sorry.”

“Don’t worry. Are you feeling better?”

“Warm. Arms to hug, hates nights alone, love in your heart, the Keeper suggested Mythal.”

“Yes, but we agreed on Ghilan’nain…”

“Guidance, a light in the dark, a direction to follow, hallas don’t judge. Yes. It suits you better.”

“Go to sleep.”

“Don’t know if I can, I’m…”

“Try. Do whatever. Can you stay here a little, until I fall asleep? It would help me.”

“… Yes.”

She hums, bidding him good night with a yawn.

“Cole?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

She drifts asleep, and for the first time after the siege, her dreams aren’t nightmares. Things are gonna be fine. Maybe.

Chapter Text

It’s around midnight, and Aisling isn’t feeling like sleeping, not yet. She isn’t really keen on returning back into the Fade and get back to nightmares and horrible visions that still haven’t subsided fully. So, she just puts down her quill and the last report she signed and grabs a light adventure novel in Orlesians, a gift from Josephine to help her practicing the language. Tevene luckily helps some for vocabulary, a lot of words are similar, if not the grammar and pronounciation. She doesn’t particularly like Orlesian, but she promised Josie, it is too late to get work done in some sort of efficacy. So, she just spreads a blanket on the carpet in front of the fireplace for extra comfort, tosses the pillows up there from the loveseat and takes out from its hiding place the jar that contains her secret stash of candies number 2 (number 1 was easily discovered and regularly sacked by Sera, and Aisling mainly keeps it for her).

She splays on her belly, waving her legs behind her in the air, chest propped on the pillows and going on reading aloud, quietly and slowly concentrating on skipping the last letters of words, as Josie told her, all vowels safely kept in the front of her mouth. Every now and then she keeps silent, propping a candy in her mouth and chewing slowly, savouring every bit of it. There’s plenty of unpleasant things about being the Inquisitor, but free access to so much food and sweets is definitely not one of them, it feels a wild, crazy luxury and makes her feel pampered. Another wild, crazy luxury: there’s a bathtub full of water in one of the little closed rooms in her quarters, which she’s saving for just before going to sleep and savouring in anticipation. Oh, she has prepared some nice lavender oil, with just a smidge of elfroot, it’s gonna be great and decadent.

She’s still there, trying to understand words by context alone because she can’t be bothered to raise up for the dictionary, cosy and warm from the fire she’s maintaining up and crackling with magic, when someone knocks at her door.

Of all the people who would knock at this hour, none of them would do it for leisure. Maybe it’s Dorian who somehow got his hands on a bottle of wine he considers decent, finally, but Dorian would just… Walk in, most likely. Wouldn’t be the first time. More than that, he wouldn’t keep banging on the door so urgently. Heart in her throat and fearing from the worst -and Creators, let it be just one of Sera’s pranks, she thinks as she runs down the stairs- everything goes south from there.

Because in front of her door there’s Cassandra, distressed as Aisling maybe saw her just when Divine Justinia showed up in front of them in the Fade, asking for her help with an unconscious Cullen she’s barely holding up -even if his armour is gone. All it takes to assess the situation is that, and seeing, vaguely because there’s no time for stalling, how clammy and sweaty the Commander’s skin looks, how his figure is totally slumped against the Seeker. The elf would be surprised if he was conscious. She doesn’t even ask what to do or reply in any way. She just moves to slip the free arm of the former Templar around her shoulders, sharing his weight with the Seeker and moving his dead weight upward, up the stairways and across to her bed. It’s hard work, thankfully Cassandra already removed the armour -leaving him in a tunic that’s soaked in sweat and that Aisling insists on removing as soon as he’s down. They manage, somehow, and from there it’s a rush. There’s no time to panic, and she kicks instantly in her Keeper mode, for once it’s her to instruct Cassandra on what to do and not the other way around, and when she’ll have time to stop and think, she’ll be surprised that the Seeker just listen and obeys, speaking only when asking confirmations or clarifications. No panic, just work.

Maybe panic a little because she has no idea about Templars and what effects lyrium has on a person, what it does and how it affects a body of a person who’s not a mage. And it’s not any Templar who needs it, it’s Cullen. He’s running a nasty fever and his pulse is overly quick, and she has the suspicious that he’s in physical pain – but for the pain, she needs questions, and he’s very unconscious if all the noise and being moved didn’t wake him. So, she does the next good thing: she concentrates a little mana in her hand, dropping the temperature to cool him down as Cassandra gets a bowl ready with fresh water and some clean cloths. The mistakes is not noticing that Cullen frowns deeper in his sleep, that his muscles contract. She’s telling the Seeker where to find stuff, so… So she just turns and tries to place her cool hand on his brow. Mistake. In hindsight, she could have foreseen it well. Because Cullen regains consciousness, or a parvence or so, just enough to open his eyes and grab on her wrist, hard and on instinct, and raise up, glaring at her with no recognition in his eyes. She knows he’s not fully conscious, rationally she knows it. Emotionally, there’s clearly hate in his eyes and it scares her, brings her back to the Marches, and to when she found the Templars over the dead, non magic body of-

It's a moment. It’s a moment before he lets her go, furls on himself and starts screaming bloody murder, evidently in pain, deep from his chest. No time to think, again. She lets go of her spell, luckily she’s not a magic healer, and pushes on his shoulders, forcing him more than coaxing him to lay down on his back with words. She attempts a question on what exactly hurts, but he’s in no condition to reply. She yells at Cassandra for help in keeping him still, and as soon as the Nevarran is there, dashes to her working table.

From there, it’s a blur. Pick herbs from jars, toss in the mortar, add water, grind, add some more, grind again. Quick, as quick as you can, calculate mentally how tall and heavy he is to guess at dosages, it’s a very rough estimate but it will do. Cassandra is there, she’s clumsy and clearly doesn’t know what to do in such a situation, but she listens and she helps, even needing corrections and instructions. Making a full-grown, heavy with muscles warrior drink something when he’s very uncooperative is a deed more notable than other she have been praised for, but in two they manage. The first concoction doesn’t do much save toning down the screaming and groans, but he’s not better by any means. Aisling refuses to panic and gets back to work, again and again, trial after trial.

Mix, add, grind, add water, shake the flask, a pinch of this and more of that, make him drink, feel his pulse, it’s not working, he shouldn’t be ingesting so much elfroot, why doesn’t it work, the fever is not breaking please Sylaise let it not be the nerves. Try again, try not to cry, just think of the task ahead, think again, think more, think better, think faster. Restore to the tiniest bit of Nightshade and Felandaris -the last she has in her personal stash- when not even royal elfroot and prophet’s laurel together seems to be working. Pray Sylaise again it won’t kill him.

Eventually, as the hours grow late, or terribly young, and the sky starts paling up in the east, the dosage is finally enough to beat Cullen back to something that could look like a quiet sleep. The fever has broken a little, and his pulse is slowing down. He’s calm, and she won’t dare rouse him back to… To before. It’s over, at least for now. So, she slumps on the free side of her bed, and bids Cassandra to just lay down and rest a little. The Seeker protests, because of course she does, looking as phased as Aisling feels and pointing at the absolute chaos around them. The elf, tho, won’t be convinced: she urges the other woman to please, lay down. Please, Cassandra. And with that and a hug that the Seeker gives her -long overdue and very welcomed and grounding, now, making her notice that it’s blissfully just friendship what she feels, and a bone-deep gratitude- the Nevarran recovers a pillow from the fireside and slumps down on the loveseat. It takes her remarkably little to fall asleep, breathe slowing down and posture relaxing minutely, the deep line between her eyebrows smoothing down.

Aisling can’t sleep. She knows she won’t be able to, if she’ll lay down. So, she cleans up her mess, noting down on a loose piece of paper what she used exactly in the last potion -the one that worked-, quantities and minutes she ground, everything she can remember (and she can remember quite a lot). The mortar gets cleaned, the remnants inside poured in… There’s but one clean glass jar left, and she’ll need it again in some hours. So, she snatches the penholder from her desk, throws the loose quills and tools for sharpening feathers out on the table, and use it as a makeshift glass. She does what she can, with the calm of such an early morning, her hands start to tremble a little with a mix of tiredness and loosening tension. Her right wrist is bruised, she notices absend-mindedly. It doesn’t hurt if she doesn’t press it too much, at least. Staking the fire again with magic is, thus, out of the question. With a sigh, she pads to the hearth and fishing a couple of logs from their basket, tossing them on the embers. Cassandra kept the fire going, but some more won’t hurt. It takes her longer than the usual, not knowing exactly where the tools for the fire are and what to use exactly -she doesn’t think she ever tended to a fire without magic before and it’s weird and counter-intuitive. But, probing and trying as it apparently is the trend of this night, she eventually succeeds. Which leaves her with nothing to do and eyes that are heavy.

Defeated, she returns to her bed, hopping on the mattress on the opposite side than the one Cullen’s currently sleeping in. Delicately, very careful not to wake him, she presses two fingers on his neck, checking his pulse all over again. One, two, three… Slower. Good. Still not fully normal, but better. The only issue, now, is that the pulse shouldn’t drop further and further, slowing stopping. Too much elfroot could do that, she added Deathroot to counter it… But she also used two plants that if not treated well are poisonous. Worry and fear, and a whole, big messy glump of different emotions she has not the force to face right now, raise up, choking her throat and calling tears to her eyes. She just allows herself a couple, as she joins her hands in a prayer, whispered and intimate. Sylayse, please, please watch over him, Falon’din please don’t take him. Not him, not now, not yet. Not him.

She repeats it until her words clumps together, checking his pulse every five minutes, until her eyes are struggling to stay open. Keeper Deshanna taught her what to do if she’s alone. She doubts he would approve, surely won’t if he was indeed conscious when she tried to use magic on him… But, she’s not able to stay awake anymore. So, she just slips a little closer to his left shoulder, and curls on her side beside it. Not close enough to touch it, but enough to be awaken should he move, enough to smell him when she breathes in deeply enough. She welcomes the sweat because it means he’s alive. She closes her eyes, and her last conscious thoughts are other prayers.

She wakes, one or two hours after, she couldn’t say, when he finally moves. She opens her eyes and bats sleep away from them, still groggy and assessing the situation. And here he is: awake, consciousness in his hazel eyes, opened wide and full of embarrassment as he stares at her and tries -badly- to move away. With little results. She doesn’t care, she doesn’t care if she grew up another head as his look make her think she did. Oh no. Elation floods over her, fresh tears in her eyes and a smile on her face.

“Cullen?” She asks, tentatively.

“I-Inquisitor?”

He replies, fumbling over his words in a way she knows and can recognise. Oh, adrenaline kicks in and she’s on him, not enough joyful to hug him, but enough to just press her fingers in his neck -eliciting a gurgling noise she ignores as she apologises and starts counting.

What she hears isn’t anything good. What she hears make her worried all over again, and in the bat of an eye, ignoring she has no energies left to spare, she’s out of the bed, shaking Cassandra awake for a moment as she returns to her table and starts working all over again, quick and frantic, purely going on on an adrenaline rush that keeps her up, going and most fresh than she really is. At least, for this she doesn’t need to even think much or consider stuff. It’s an old Dalish remedy she knows by heart and is ready in little time. Mixed to some more additions that should not take effects on the rest… But counter the felandaris she gave him. Poured in the last clean flask, it looks exactly like swamp water, taken from that one muddy pool she retrieved a corpse liver for Dorian all those months ago. And oh, she knows for experience that it tastes absolutely foul. But she doesn’t tell Cullen, she just lies and tells him it tastes better than it looks. The question is debatable, as the Commander grumpily remarks after gulping everything down and turning green by the flavour, choking out as he finishes.

In the next hour, as Aisling changes and does her hair in a tight braid to get ready for the day and cleans up what’s left from yesterday, they wait. Wait for the antidote to have an effect, wait for him to puke the whole thing out and force her to start again or try something else, or just take the day off to stay with him should the worst happen. But, the worst doesn’t happen.

After another hour, Aisling slumps on the couch, at the side of Cassandra, closing her eyes in minute relaxation and declaring, finally, that it’s over. What is needed now, for Cullen, is absolute, total rest for the whole day if not the next morning. She vehemently forbids him to leave the room, when he asks and insists that he should be returning. No. She gives him permission to use her things, access her bookshelves and take whatever that isn’t work, use her bathtub if he can manage to stand up on his own for enough time to sing a whole sea shanty she heard him mutter with Varric, that one time the dwarf managed to convince him somehow to join him at the tavern for a round of beer. Convinced the Commander that it’s an order. She asks him if she can use magic to heath the water, he frowns a little at the question, but doesn’t oppose it. It’s a quick spell, she makes it even quicker, and scribbles a couple of runes on the side of the tub with a piece of chalk, to keep the water warm and in temperature. She promises she’ll be back around midday to bring food, and Cassandra will turn around at mid-morning.

And with that, cleaned up and polished, she had to enter the day as the Inquisitor, aloof and professional and acting kind and polite as if nothing at all had happened.

---

Commander Helaine just can’t be bothered. The elf told her none of her opponents would care if she had but slept less than a couple of hours the night before and was just too exhausted for fighting, and in retaliation just started to mark her closer, hit her harder and quicker. Aisling is trying her best, but she really struggles to keep up, her body screaming in protest and moving sluggishly, no sleep nor breakfast to sustain the effort of the fight and the necessary mana to add spells as her trainer bids her to.

Moreover, she doesn’t need Helaine to be that pressing, today. Her limbs don’t exactly want to cooperate, as best as she tries to force herself to react quicker, she is exhausted in more ways than one. She made a lot of progress in the Western Approach, she can keep up her spirit blade without thinking, but the elf is still not satisfied with her, still pushes her harder. Which Aisling appreciates on normal days… Not right now. She parries a side blow of the other’s spirit blade, directed at her ribs, and notices a split second too late that it was bait. She turns just in time to see the staff coming hard at her, and her reflexes are too sluggish to duck in time. The weapon hits her jaw, hard, making her trip and fall down to the ground. She knows how to fall, tho, and she rolls away, clenching hands on her weapons -the spirit blade disappears. As she rolls to get up, tho, Helaine’s there, looming over her head with spirit blade shining green and ominously, in a hit she won’t be able to skip. She closes her eyes and retaliates instinctively, but with too much intensity.

The thunder roars and fills the Keep, annihilating every other sound, lightnings shotting down from the sky and falling between the two elves, around the Inquisitor, painting the whole upper Courtyard white. Helaine is forced to jump back as Aisling screams with the bolts. When it’s over, everyone around is silent, all the Keep stops to look at the training circle while static still crackles around the Inquisitor curled on herself on the ground.

“We’re done for today.” She declares, voice raspy and propping herself up with her staff, closing her eyes and focusing on her breath to calm down, clenching her fists so they will stop trembling.

“You should put that energy in your spells every day, we’re contin-“

“I said: WE. ARE. DONE.” She cuts her out, all but glaring at the other woman and straightening her back.

She knows she makes a poor imagine of a general, leather pants and white undershirt muddied up and dark with sweat, hair frizzled and poking in every direction from the braid she had tied it in. She doesn’t care.

Rule number one of magic, Keeper Deshanna used to say: know when to stop.

She has to stop.

Helaine must see something in her expression, or she somehow pushed forward the right attitude for a good Inquisitor, since after a moment the Commander mellows a little -as much as she can, anyway- and nods, lowering her staff and allowing Aisling to turn her back, grunt a goodbye and march as fast and dignifiedly as she can without running, straight down the stairs and to the stables.

Padding in the quiet of the lower courtyard, she greets Master Dennet without looking, and all but jumps in Little Brother’s box without a word or even opening the door. The pinto sniffs at her, and snorts a little just for show, with half a step back for the same reason, as his companion hugs his big neck and hides her face in his mane. The horse may be a total prick, but he’s clever and sensible. Sensing something’s wrong with the elf, Little Brother just forgets all the pranks he concocted in this little time of having Aisling there, and just nuzzles her back with his nose, bumping her softly with his big head and grumbling soothingly at her. She starts to cry, holding to the horse for dear life and following his movement as he slowly folds his legs and lays down in the hay. She hugs his neck tighter, silently thanking the equine with scratches in the spot he likes. All too intelligent for his own sake, the former owner defined him, and it is true. He’s smaller and lither than the other war horses (just like she’s not exactly tall nor imposing), and too clever and not docile enough to just obey to instruction without work. All the work they made in the last months, tho, has paid off, and Aisling wouldn’t change the Dalish All-bred for the best of Orlesian steed or the purest of Elvhen Harts. None of them would just get it and ease her down to sit like that. Pansy, her favourite halla in the clan, surely never did, as much as she loves the old animal to bits. Pansy would never bites at a Venatori’s buttock for daring to come too closer to the rider. She sobs and bawls and hiccups in his warm fur, the earthy smell comforting and grounding, letting everything out and eventually crying herself asleep.

She awakes when someone places a blanket over her back, groggy and still hazed. Her eyes burn, her back cracks unpleasantly when she moves from Little Brother, who in the meanwhile has lain on his side on the fresh hay to take a nap in his best carcass disguise -it started as a prank to scare her and he discovered he was actually comfortable, by now all the stable staff is used to it. She is folded in half, curled against and above the side of the horse’s neck, and her body protests the sudden movement, eliciting a groan. A hand rubs her back soothingly, she moves to see why Blackwall is now cuddling her.

Except it is not the Warden: it is Dorian, smiling at her with that smile that means he is worried.

“Good morning, horse girl, feeling like returning with us humans?”

He jostles, half-heartedly and without the joking bite he usually has.

She groans again, rubbing her eyes with her knuckles and turning on her side. Still staying on the warm fuzzy neck of the horse.

“What time is it?”

“Not your best record for length, I fear, but bent in half over mister carcass here could earn me a sweet victory over the poll for weirdest position. It’s close to midday, give or take.”

“Is that bet still open?”

“It will be until you insist in making us all envious with your talent to fall asleep at will. But I should thank you, you’re making me gain back all the money Varric won me at Wicked Grace.”

He pats her shoulder, keeping his hand there. One would never suspect all this sensibility and care from him, under that thick façade of cockiness and arrogance, but she thanks all her gods for having placed him in her life.

She pats the back of his hand and takes it right afterward, and props on an elbow, raising up slightly. She ignores the back pain.

“What are you doing here? Did I miss something? Did you finally realise horses are not after your head?”

“Mock me all you want, go on. Cassandra just came by and asked me to check on you. She apparently also dismissed today’s War Council and barked at Josephine that you were not meeting any Viscount, said you weren’t feeling fine.”

“Did she.”

She lowers her gaze, fixing her posture in a way that doesn’t make her neck screaming in pain, huffing as reaching it has just the opposite effect on her spine. Dorian lets her, observing her closely before asking.

“Has anything happened? The Seeker looked exhausted, and you’re not looking any better, darling. Did you two finally…?” He whispers, positively smirking and wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“What- Mythal’s mercy, no!” She snorts. “I’m over her and she was never into me! We’re friends. Just friends!”

“You can tell me, darling, I swear I won’t tell Varric. Was it awful? Did she put too many teeth?”

“Too man- NO! NOTHING happened, she’s still straight, I’m not pining over her, I’m not even sad anymore! Nothing at all!” She can feel herself blushing at the idea, covering the face with her hands. Little Brother stirs behind her and grunts, as Dorian smirks from one ear to the other. She hates him.

“You didn’t deny the teeth, you minx.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“It’s part of my charm.”

“No, it’s not.”

“I’m quite fond of you as well, yes.”

That she is, muttering some backhanded agreement in Tevene just for him and leaning forward to place her brow on his shoulder and hug him, in a silent thank you.

He hugs her back and sniffs her hair, taking advantage of the position. His moustache tickles and she tries to move her head out of their way, but he follows.

“You should eat. And get a bath, you-” Another sniff, deeper. “Did you roll around in the apothecary? Your stinky horse didn’t quite cover- medicinal herbs?” He sniffs again, fully, growing antsy.

His hand squeezes her shoulders and moves her away from his chest, now proceeding in checking her out for injuries.

“Are you fine?” He asks, not easing his worry even assessing that she isn’t bleeding anywhere, and pressing his hand, delicately, over the angry bruise on her jaw where Helaine had hit her. She flinches, but nods.

“I am. This is from this morning, I just –” Played doctor in the worst possible sense, healed Cullen, almost killed him in the process. She swallows. It is not her secret to tell, not even to Dorian. “… I couldn’t sleep, I experimented a bit with herbs and didn’t realise it was dawn when I finished. I’m exhausted, the morning drill was too much.” She admits. In a way, it is true. At least a part of it. Dorian, tho, doesn’t buy it because of course he doesn’t. Raises an eyebrow and takes her right hand.

“And this?” He asks, at the circular bruise on her wrist.

“Training.”

He doesn’t buy it. She knows he doesn’t, not for a minute, not by the way he looks at her or how she can’t hold his eyes and looks down.

“I’m ok, really.”

“I’m sorry, honey, but it doesn’t look like it. Can I help you?”

“… Can I use your bathtub?”

He luckily doesn’t question why she could not return to her own, or ask Radha (who’s in the rotunda with Solas, they crossed them making their way up from the stables and she and Solas aren’t yet on speaking terms, she won’t stop to ask for help with him around, not today and not on this, so she just ignores her too as she asks and tries to stop her), and between the pair of them they manage to slip into his room without getting noticed. He leaves her alone after showing her around and taking a clean towel out of a drawer, jesting that if his father just could see him, sneaking girls around his quarters, finally. What the South makes to respectable Tevinter men! She kicks him out laughing and teasing that he just wishes she was a tall and buff Qunari, her turn to make the other blush and fumble for words. She doesn’t let him, gives him a kiss on the cheek before closing the door, and returns inside to soak in the bath and try to relax a little.

---

Cullen isn’t made for rest, but even he can feel he needs it, this time. Even without the Inquisitor ordering him to rest, with a demeanour that wasn’t orderly but pleading, he knows she was right.

So, he swallows his restlessness, guilt and the feel that he’s losing time and being a burden, and takes it easy. He waits until the morning’s swamp water is fully effective and he can move again without feeling as if his limbs are made of lead, terribly heavy to move. They eventually do, legs wobbling under his weight and forcing him to lean heavily against the wall when he tries to stand up - he understands why Aisling was so adamant in telling him he should not return to his tower. Even if he made it that far, all the Fortress would have known, and he wouldn’t ever been able to climb the ladder in these conditions. At least his headache is blissfully gone, for the first time in… Well, in months.

So, he concentrates on regaining mobility, easying his body back into motion slowly but steadily. To avoid thinking about everything else, where he is and whom he woke up too close too, and probably cause his early demise from pure embarrassment. Would have been a pity, after all the effort Cassandra and the Inquisitor had put into trying to avoid it.

The Seeker comes to check on him after no more than two hours, bringing him some clean clothes, fresh water to drink and glaring at him when he asks her to help him get back to his room, since he’s feeling better. She just dismisses him telling him not to be stupid about it, declares she would not drag him all that way another time, but that he could help himself if he insists and fall down the stairs on his own. Settled the matter, she proceeds in filling him in about what happened, of which he is very grateful. He is also grateful for her switching to ask him about morning drills and assuring she would take care of his work today. They are interrupted by a sudden burst of lightning and thunder, so close that the glass on the windows rattles. The lack of clouds alarms Cassandra, who frowns deeply and excuses herself.

He could recognise it too for what it was: some mage overdid it. His thoughts run on Aisling: he saw her at Adamant casting magic and fighting for real and giving it her whole, and knows that such a trick would have been in her easy reach. He also saw her for months joining drills and putting all her effort in it, getting better with Helaine, dancing around both Hawke siblings and Fenris in the Western Approach, in a training combat all-against-all that delighted the troops and was, indeed, mesmerising to watch. He knows she has control, even too much of it, and that… He can worry, a little. But, there’s no more noise, no more thunder around. All he has to do is worry and praying she’s safe, and heeding her advices.

When he feels like he’s stable enough and thrashing around the bed is easy again, he tries to stand up again. He’s still wobbly at first, but his legs don’t give way under his weight. There is, indeed, time enough on his feet to sing that sea shanty -he wonders where she exactly was when he did, he doesn’t remember her around. But he also drank, so. He debates internally, observing the bathtub in the small side room fuming enticingly in warm water. It is HER bath, her things. She gave them freely, enchanted the water for him… And yet, he smells himself quickly and decides that it really is better to take advantage of her hospitality. Doctor’s order, in the end.

Three quick knocks on the door some hours later announce the return of the Inquisitor. He felt too guilty to claim her bed again, so when he got out of the bath he just made it up again, as best as he could, and grabbed a blanket -why there was a blanket on the floor in front of the fireplace?- and cozied up with a couple of books on the couch, leaning his back against one armrest and legs straight on the sittee. She pads up the stairs, a tray in her hands and wet hair plastered on her head, leaving her tattooed brow free. She smiles at him, dark circles under her eyes and clothes dirty, otherwise looking less tense and frantic than when she left.

“Hey there.”

“Good morning.”

“How are you feeling?” She asks, placing the tray on a small table beside the fireplace. On it, he can see a bowl and a tankard, some bread, a couple of oranges and some biscuits.

“Better. A little weak still, but I’m sure I’ll be able to give you your quarters back in a couple of hours.”

“Mh, let me decide that. Can I-?” She asks, kneeling in front of the couch to face him, stopping her hands before actually touching him.

“Sure, by all means…”

He nods, she gives him another tired smile and places her hand on his forehead, the other placed the same way on her own, covering her tattoo. Her hands are cold, as she concentrates.

“No fever, good.” She declares, deftly shifting to go and press on their respective pulse points with the first two fingers. He lets her work, raising his chin to give her better access and waiting for her to count. A minute or so in, she lowers the hand, resting the palm over his shoulder, absentmindedly, and slouching a little on herself.

“The pulse is good too, thanks Sylaise…” She sighs, true relief making its way in her expression. She does wear her heart on her sleeve, Leliana was right. “Now. I brought lunch!”

She shakes her head and pats his shoulder lightly, using the other to help her get back on her feet and retrieve the tray. He tries to raise up and help, but she must have eyes on the back of her head, because she chides a “No, don’t move!” without turning. She hands him the bowl -full of stew- and a spoon, leaving the tankard on the railing of the stairs so he can reach it.

“Eat how much you can until it’s still warm, I’ll be right back.” She invites, a last smile before trotting towards the other side of the room and the dresser. She opens a couple of drawers and fumbles a little, fishing a change of clothes without caring to tidy up the garments she didn’t pick and closing the drawer without another care. He looks at her, amused, disappearing in the small side room to change and closing the door.

She reappears five minutes later, freshened up with clean clothes and a towel on her hair she’s towsling around to dry it up a little bit, a brush held between her teeth.

“Yoo hont laih id?” She mumbles, worried.

“What?” Her eyes skip down to the bowl, still lying untouched between his hands on his lap. He interprets the mumble as some questioning over his liking. “Oh. No, it’s fine, I was waiting for you and wondering where is your lunch.”

She lets the towel hang on her shoulders, hair in total half-wet disarray, and places the brush on the tray. Then, with her loot in fruit and cookies in her hands, made herself comfy on the floor, facing him just beside the couch and crossing her legs. Tray in front of her, she picks an orange and starts to unpeel it with her fingers.

“I’m not that hungry, just a quick meal will do. Before you ask: yes, I stopped to ate breakfast, I won’t starve. Please, eat, I’m not the one you should be worrying about.” She pleads, gesturing at him to go on as the tart perfume of the orange fills the room. She really sounds tired.

They share the meal in comfortable silence, or too tired to speak further. Cullen’s stomach is still closed, but he forces himself to eat half the bowl nevertheless. She recommends the second orange for him, saying it would be good. He obliges, finishing half and tossing her the rest, the conversation light and inconsequential. He asks her about what was going on in the Keep, she shrugs and said the usual, Cassandra’s minding the drills so nobody’s get too comfy over one lazy day. She is particularly evasive, he notes.

After a while, the conversation stalls, the Commander knows she doesn’t have much time for her own, his head is clear and not hurting and Maker knows how long will it lasts, and has to say it. He clears his throat, suddenly at a loss for words and feeling awkward.

“I- Ah, I haven’t thanked you for what you did. Are doing.”

She lowers her eyes, fixing herself on the hands in her lap and picking at a nail nervously.

“Thank me when you’ll be back on your feet and able to go down the stairs.”

It is a mumble under her breath, but she is close enough for him to hear anyway.

“I thank you now. From what Cassandra told me, you saved me yesterday night.”

“Yes.” She laughs without mirth, still not looking at him. “And almost killed you in the process. I had to go for trials and ended up giving you enough Elfroot to sedate a horse, you should NOT thank me for giving you enough Elfroot for a horse.”

“It worked out in the end, no?”

“I should have known better before it happened. I should have asked you more. I did nothing and- You were already feeling sick at the War Council yesterday, weren’t you?”

That, he remembers. He was indeed feeling horrible, hurting all over, his head felt like it was splitting in two. He dragged himself on, somehow. The Inquisitor indeed had looked at him more closely, stopped him after the end to ask him if he was all right, if he was sure he was all right. She didn’t seem so convinced when he told her he was, there was nothing to worry about. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers and leaning on his back. He feels so stupid.

“It wasn’t your fault, I told you not to ask, didn’t I.”

“No, it was. I knew what was going on, I was trained as a Keeper and it’s my job to know better and insist when it’s the case, I should not have let you walk away without checking for real.”

She is matter-of-factly, frustrated, her hands closed in punches, hard on her thighs and with knuckles white. He doesn’t know if it is better than the frenzy of this morning, when she looked like she would have just broken and cried if she stopped for one minute.

“You know I don’t blame you, right?” All he can say, hoping to break in. “I asked you not to meddle, didn’t I?”

He meant it to further the counter-argument, he really didn’t want her to blame herself on it. And yet, she just darkened, collected her legs up to her chest and rested her chin between her knees, fixing her gaze on the far window.

“Yes, you did.”

She stops, takes a deep breath to calm herself, and some time in replying further, slowly, slowly unfurling herself. He leaves her space in that, not pressing on.

“I know you did, and...” Pause. She looked up, back into his eyes. “- I’ll insist next time. If it’s ok with you? I don’t want to pressure you or pry, but… It’s better to prevent, let me try? Maybe there’s something I can do that will… Prevent yesterday night to happen again, you don’t have to go through this again...”

“I don’t want to bother you, you already have responsibilities without adding me to them.”

“I’m a Keeper, right? This is my job. Let me do my job.” She concludes, with a sad smile curling her lips up. She leans closer and pokes him right in the chest with her index finger. Any reply is caught in his throat from feelings he really shouldn’t be having. She seems to notice something, clears her throat and sits back again on her heels.

“Ah, I- Sorry.” She looks away, a weird furrow on her face and cheeks taking some colour. It’s fleeting, tho, she looks back and is back in professional mode, going on with determination. “What I meant is: I would suggest you to find a person who trained in a Circle and knows about Templars, more than me going for trial and error… But if you’d rather not involve any more people, I will need help in proceeding. So, either you give me bibliography on the matter, because there’s no treaty in the library on what effects lyrium has on non-mages, or you need to tell me everything, and I mean every single tiny detail about your health from headaches to how many times your nose itches, so I can make up something on my own connecting symptoms and guessing, or…” A pause, she seemed to consider him with caution. “...Or, I can ask Cole for help.”

She adds, almost guiltily. He nods his understanding, considering. He doesn’t want to drag even more people in his private affairs, were it for him he wouldn’t even have told Lavellan if he could have helped it. Least of all, he wants someone coming from a Circle, with the possibility of judgement or resentment if it’s a mage. On the other hand… The spirit boy doesn’t seem like the most appealing option eithere to him. He honestly doesn’t know whether he’s creeped out or not by the boy and by the random letters he’s been finding full of very personal details. Old prejudices hard to die or not, it’s difficult to say. And yet, the idea of giving Aisling of all people so much informations…

“Do you think Cole would be of help?” He asks, cautiously, and is glad to see her smile at that. A real smile, this time, not a tired or guilty one. Finally.

“Oh, yes! I’ve seen him with hurt soldiers in the infirmary, he’s unvaluable. He’s learning to… Choose what to say and what not. And when to stop.”

“Still better than bothering you with daily reports on how many times my nose itches, right?” He would have probably died of embarrassment. It would have been the best option, if he didn’t have to admit to have feelings for the elf. Elf that turned serious suddenly, not catching on his irony.

“It wouldn’t be a bother. Do you think you’re bothering me?”

“I-” He does.

“Because you’re not. I’m glad I can help you, really. I’m glad you trust me enough with this, you know it?”

He remembers having Josephine and Leliana both worried at how Lavellan wears her heart on her sleeve and can’t be bothered, if she doesn’t take a real effort at it, to mask her feelings. It will give anyone in Orlais’ court leverage over her they needed to avoid. He can see the problem. He can’t agree the problem is hers, tho. Flustered, he looks away, scrambling for words and rubbing his neck.

“I- I stole your room and your bath, and a full night rest. I am being a burden and an extra thing for you to worry about, you looked so bothered this morning, and… And...”

She frowns, getting closer again and delicately -tentatively- placing both her hands on his cheeks to turn his face towards her, gently.

“I wasn’t bothered. I was terrified I had taken the pain and the fever away but killed you in the end. You are not a burden to me.” She speaks, as slowly as surely, looking at him in the eyes. She is so close, he can notice the hazel speckles in her irises, around the pupil before they turn green. He reminds himself it would NOT be proper to kiss her here and then, his breath must be horrible anyway. He manages to swallow, before she quickly turns her back and frets to the side table beside the bed, where a small mirror lied, picking her brush along the way and clearing her throat.

“So, it’s settled then. I’ll have Cole come up here to check on you. And before I return for company, if you wish so. He’s not used to people, just tell him to stop if he says too much.” She is quick to brush out her hair, grimacing here and there when she finds knots but not slowing down nevertheless.

“Send him to find me if you feel even slightly worse, even if it’s a small headache or concern, I’ll be in the library with Dorian for the afternoon.”

There’s a thousand of questions he could ask, first of all what happened in the morning and if that set of too loud, little controlled thunder was her for real. But, she seems fine and herself, just fussy and tired. And honestly, Cullen has not the words to ask her. Not without going back in years, not when she’s been overly kind and selfless, his doubt is just… Education, long-ingrained thought sets. The truth is that he doesn’t want to think of the alternative. So, playing on the long run, he deflects, bring back the conversation to a better place. Not now. There will be time for seriousness and he’ll find the right words to express concern without sounding accusing, but not now.

Now, he just smiles and bids her a nice afternoon, promising yet again not to attempt the stairs back.

---

She returns to her room later at sunset, greeting him and Cole -who just pops out on the desk as if he’s always been there. He feels way better than the morning, as he dutifully reports s to the Inquisitor. Still a little weak, but he could move and walk and stand, no headache, a little nausea after lunch, but he managed to keep everything down. She nods, satisfied with the answer and with whatever she felt checking temperature and pulse again.

And then, she explains that she needs Cole to pinpoint exactly what was wrong. She has not the knowledge necessary to act but on the symptoms she could see… And so, she can’t act on the real problem. The Spirit could -she thinks- pinpoint the cause behind them and give her a precise direction to work towards. It seems logic and normal to Cullen as well, but it must show on his face that he is nervous at the idea of Cole purposefully checking him out and blurt out whatever, because Aisling catches the hint and demonstrates first.

Taking Cole by the hand again -why was she so cool in touching everybody but him?- and sits with him on the ground, facing the boy and giving instructions. She takes off her gloves, a weird bruise on her right wrist he didn’t notice before, and the Anchor glowing green against the boy’s skin when he placed his palms over hers and they start.

“Just the physical sensations. Tune down emotions, concentrate on the body.”

“Tired. Need to sleep. Won’t go to sleep, tho. Jaws hurt when she hit you, it’s dull and annoying, but it will disappear. Back hurts, can’t turn fully on the left without muscles protesting. Pinky fingers still aches after you stomped it against the desk, yesterday. Your right wrist hurts too, in more ways than one. But physical pain helps tune out the-“

“Cole.”

“S-sorry.”

The boy obeys to the stop, and she squeezes his hands, ducking her head a little under the large hat so he can see her smiling reassuringly at him.

“You did well. Just remember. Stop at the emotional implication, ok? Come on.”

She raises up again and turns towards Cullen, smiling at him as well.

“Ready?”

“As ever.”

A minute later, Cole is sitting on the couch by his side, holding his hands. The Sprit’s are cold, but soft, touch feather light and delicate. He reminds him of Aisling, in some way.

“Heart beats fast, but it’s-” Pause, Cullen freezes, realising what he was about to say. “Sorry. Not the lyrium. It’s better now, head light, can’t remember the last time it didn’t hurt. It’s the head that hurts more, but… It’s everywhere, it was everywhere, in bones and muscles and…”

Aisling, standing right beside them with her arms crossed on her chest, focused to Cole’s words, steps closer.

“Good, Cole. Just focus. Where is it? Everywhere, blood or nerves? Does it feel like water or electricity?”

“… It rushes and flows, like creek in a stream too full of blue, the blue lingers and clashes. Blood.”

He can see the elf closing her eyes, her teeth poking out to bite at her lower lip. She nods gravely, once, and carefully places a hand on Cole’s shoulder.

“Ok, Cole, thank you. That’s it.”

“I can’t heal it.”

“No, it’ll just take… Time.”

The boy, or better the Spirit, nods, turning towards Cullen once more to lean his head on the side, looking at him with wide blue eyes.

“She doesn’t because she thinks you don’t want her to.”

“What-”

And just like that, the Spirit pops away from the room, leaving nothing where he was but one split-second before, save a strong smell of ozone, and an Aisling that fumbles down with the loss of the shoulder she was perched on. Not phased by the fact, tho -at least one of them isn’t in need to process the fact that a boy just disappeared in a puff of smoke- the elf turns on her back and starts to pace and… And mumble curses under her breath, pacing from her desk to the fireplace and back.

“… Is it… bad?” Cullen asks, a little afraid of the answer.

“What-” She looks at him, seemingly noticing he’s still there right now. It’s a moment, she shakes her head and recollects. “No. I mean, yes, all I can do is fight the symptoms and make them bearable... But it could be way worse. It could be the nerves, nerves would have been a shitshow in terms of difficult ingredients and possibly nasty side-effects. I mean, it makes sense for the blood but… The audacity of the Chantry, convincing Mages they’re evil incarnated, if you learnt outside of a Circle than either you enter and repent or you’re a maleficar because oh no there’s just one way of doing magic safely, and that way requires fucking people’s mind and people’s blood up in the process! And I’m the barbarian because I worship my gods in nature!”

It's probably the most riled up Cullen ever saw her, including that disastrous War Council when she got back from Redcliffe, or when she discussed in a Council the options they got for Mayor Dedrick -and she’s been as close to furious as she probably can get. Which isn’t, not even now, anything particularly scary, it just involves her pacing, gesticulating and pouting irritatingly at nothing at all as she reasons out loud, speaking fast. She stops abruptly after a while, pressing the heels of her hands in her eye sockets and groaning loudly.

“And I’m sorry, I should not say those things of something you believe in but… It’s just so unfair.” She concludes, calming down as abruptly as she started storming in her room.

“You have nothing to feel sorry for. It is fucked up, it’s the reason I quitted and joined the Inquisition.” He snorts, without fun. “Believe me, I’m angrier than you are.”

“Of course, I’m sorry, it’s just…”

“Don’t be. Seeing you like that is… Relatable. Good?”

She smiles, still a little upset. And then, proceeds in explaining that blood is tricky, but manageable… If it can’t be cured, of which Aisling has no idea: Mages process lyrium differently, and never take it so regularly. Or at least, not where she lived, where Lyrium was a rare commodity, maybe in Tevinter it’s different. They chat and talk, coming up with solutions that are viable for both of them. Truth to be told, Cullen still has some issues in admitting he needs help and leaning so heavily on her… But if there’s one thing yesterday and today has shown, is that he doesn’t know if it’ll get any better if left on his own. Sure, he overdid it in the former days and maybe if he had stopped to rest after the long march back from Adamant, he wouldn’t have come to this point… But, Aisling at least is delicate and respect his boundaries, just insists on him taking some remedies before symptoms kicks in, in an attempt to keep them stable and, hopefully, help his body cope better and adapt. He agrees at that, provided it’s not gonna get in her way in any case, and that she won’t lose sleep or time she would spend otherwise.

In the end, Aisling slumps on the couch, on the other end that he’s sitting on, an arm propped against the backrest and head tucked in the elbow, sighing deeply.

---

After sunset, Frida comes up with dinner for both of them, just raising one eyebrow at the Commander seating on the couch and snapping up to a dignified position that doesn’t have his legs disorderly splayed around him and over the sittee as before, and scolding Aisling for having once again left her room a mess. Thankfully, the elf doesn’t make many questions, just threatens the Inquisitor that she’ll stop working if she didn’t clean up the mess she left with her instruments for a whole day herself (“I ain’t scrubbing your crusty potions from the glass again, lass! Clean after your mess and I’ll keep the room to a decent clean state. Commander, forgive me the state of this room, tell her to behave.”).

With the dinner, there’s a note from Cassandra, informing them that she told the maid to bring them food for an urgent meeting about troop movements in the Exalted Plains, and that she will come by Midnight to accompany Cullen back to his room, if he’ll be in condition to it.

They tries if he’s in the right condition: Aisling makes him walk down and up the flight of stairs, following him with a critical eye. Once and twice, she measures his pulse back again, and declares that he may as well do it. She’s a little worried of the ladder and suggests him not to attempt it yet… But he just starts to fumble again and strongly refuses to stay another night, not even on the couch. Aisling just giggles, and states that if he’s so stubborn maybe he is feeling better.

Eaten dinner, conversation runs to better and more pleasant topics and both brought back to a quiet state of relaxation after fussing the other in turns to just eat some more you’re starving -they had a good laugh about it. And then, they’re left in silence. Silence that’s just blissful and back to being comfortable and relaxing, both easying into whatever position on each side of the couch with legs folded badly and weirdly all over, knees touching under the same blanket. The long day, cozy environment and warmth from the fireplace making them sleepy. Cullen just fakes to read one of her books, looking at her fighting against sleep with amusement, eyes refusing to close as she’s splayed over the back of the couch, head tucked in her elbow. Of all the things he didn’t expect from the Inquisition was this weird friendship, and he’s all the more grateful for it. And yet, there’s still a question that’s lingering there. And maybe, in the relaxed atmosphere, it’s the right time. He takes a deep breath, closes the book and ask before he can think better. She took care of him all day… It’s his turn, now.

“Aisling?”

“Mh?” She asks, not moving from where she is.

“I… It thundered, this morning.”

She tenses, but doesn’t reply.

“Was it you?” He attempts, hoping not to sound so much as a Templar.

“I am fine.” She replies, clipping and defensive, her left hand runs to her right wrist.

“I didn’t mean…”

“I know. But I am. Really. I made a rookie mistake and didn’t respect my limit. I will be fine, after some sleep, I’ll take it easy tomorrow. I’m ok… I won’t use magic on you anymore, don’t worry.”

“Wait, what?”

Cullen asks, not understanding the last sentence. It hurts hearing her so destitute and not looking at him. Another person, compared from when he found her here with her spirit blade in hand. And yet, she’s still her, the same insecurity he saw in the first days at Haven, the same scared demeanour she had the day before the Breach and tried badly to hide. A cat in a corner.

“Aisling, what happened?”

“You know it.”

“No, I don’t. Did I do something, yesterday? I blanked out from the evening until when I woke up this morning, it…” it dawns on him, then. Her wrist. There’s a circular bruise on her wrist, and he’s no healer, but can see that the causes are either that someone tied her, or… “I did this, didn’t I?”

He asks, dread in his heart, as he bends forward and delicately takes her hand in her lap in his, bending the arm down towards him to take a better look. It’s not that severe, at least, but the skin is angry and faintly red. His heart sinks.

“I- Ah, I am so sorry, I… I don’t know what to say, it’s…”

“Don’t worry. It’s nothing, I don’t know if you were hallucinating or… Well, you weren’t conscious, that was clear. It’ll pass.”

“it’s not nothing, I… I shouldn’t have, it is… Ah, it’s…” And just as that, he’s spiralling down again, deflating on himself. “-I am so sorry. I…”

“Cullen, don’t. It was my fault. I knew you weren’t conscious, I knew your past and I could have realised that if the problem is lyrium, using magic would have had effects. I know you wouldn’t do it… Not consciously. Really, the blame is on me, I won’t do it again.”

Aisling tries to take back her hand, but he doesn’t let her. Without hurting, without pressing too much, he just closes his fingers on her arm, frowning at it.

“The fuck it is your fault. I… I don’t know how to apologise. You saved my life, you have been kind to me and Maker’s know why you one day decided you wanted to have anything to do with me of all people. And at the first dull moment, that’s what I do? I’m… I’m not any better than I was three years ago.”

“I used magic and I knew I shouldn’t have, Cullen, it’s hardly-”

“No. Don’t shoulder it. You’re helping me and I’m ok with it, but… I’m not ok with you shouldering my problems. This is for me to get over with, you did nothing wrong. I- Ah, I’m-”

Words are hard. Harder still, harder now with her. But, she shifts her arm in his grasp until her hand is in his, and closes her finger against the side of his palm, squeezing.

“I am sorry, I did it again. I just don’t want to cause you more troubles, that’s it.”

“You aren’t.” This, at least, is easy, as he tentatively holds her hand back. Her fingers are cold, soothing, if a little boney, callused on the meaty part of her hand, a working hand. “Thank you.”

“Likewise.”

Silence, still, each recharging after an unpleasant conversation for both, atmosphere relaxing. After a while, tho, it’s her turn to speak.

“Cullen?”

“Yes?”

“Can I ask you something? You don’t have to reply.”

“Of course.”

She stalls, lightly biting her lower lip as she thinks.

“If I was possessed by a demon… Would you…?”

It’s tentative, it’s shy, it’s not her usual blunt asking personal and delicate questions making them seem normal. This, is personal, in a way Cullen can imagine, but maybe not so much. And it stings maybe even more than knowing he hurt her, even unconsciously. It brings him back to places he doesn’t want to go in. And yet…

“… Don’t ask me this.” He answers, heart in his throat, hands clenching. He recollects himself, tho, realising he still has his hands in hers and unclenching it, not moving but not holding back anymore. “…Please.”

She moves her head up, reading something in him that he is afraid to see what is it. It’s back in Kinloch, when Greagoir told him he was assigned to Amell’s harrowing. And he has been proud of it. There’s no pride left about it, now, just… Just shame, of what came out of that sentiment, and how young and stupid and blind he has been. Or, he hopes there’s no pride left.

“I think I know my answer.” She whispers, her fingers coming back to hold his hands. He’s spiralling too much to recognise the meaning, and goes on.

“I- It’s… I don’t think you do.” He swallows. “It’s… It’s not that simple and I… And I would rather not think of it.”

Her hand doesn’t leave his, even if the elf takes the hint, reads discomfort at the thoughts and changes the subject to some other very trivial and inconsequential topic. Calmer than she was before and Cullen knows not how she manages to stay the more level-headed the more the tension increases around her, and lose it so quickly when her friends are touched. But it’s a saving grace, and he can slowly get back to talk with her, normally.

Eventually, Cassandra makes her way up there, knocking twice before just entering, the face of a person who really needs sleep herself even If of course she’d rather die than admit it, hair in disarray and a grumpy expression on her face as she turns directly to him.

“I don’t know how you fill so much work in a day, of course you crumble down. Inquisitor, you tell him, I stopped because I decided to, not because work was over.”

Aisling snickers, amused, and turns towards Cullen, straightening her spine and replying as seriously as she can. “Sir Commander, no more reports after dinner, it’s an order.” She turns to Cassandra too, for fairness. “And Lady Seeker, if you had no time to dine, my order for you is to go straight to the kitchen, or I’ll do it for you.”.

There’s a chorus of disgusted noises in -fake- protest, which leaves Lavellan totally unphased as she stands up with Cullen and walks the pair down the stairs, keeping the door open for them.

“No no, no complaining. Or I’ll tell Josephine for your dresses for the Ball that you’re both overly fond of very frilly shirts.” She smiles, tiredly but with a glint in her eyes.

Cullen chuckles, but Cassandra, exhausted and less quick to catch sarcasm, puffs up and grumbles as the two warriors walk out of the room.

“You wouldn’t dare-”

“With LACE!”

---

The next day is a good one. The headache is back on track, whatever Aisling has given him must have dwindled in its effect. But, he slept -eventually, after processing the whole day, waking up beside her, her fussying over him and being vulnerable, both lunch and dinner together, hand-holding- and woke up refreshened.

Cassandra had done her best, but some of the reports she attempted need corrections, which he does before leaving for the War Council, as much as he can. And from there, it’s all back on track. Josephine asks what happened yesterday and if they’re all right, Aisling casually covers him up by saying she just was sleep deprived and needed the day, it’s better now, can we move on. The Council itself is peaceful enough, with the one exception of discussing the trial of Livius Erimond -Aisling is still not sure about what she’s going to do and ask for another couple of days to recollect informations and make her own idea of his fate. It’s not like he’s going anywhere particular, and the Archon even send word to delegate the fate of the Magister entirely on the Inquisition. So, the trial gets delayed, the planning for the Exalted Plains proceeds smoothly. It's all by the book, it’s all as it was before.

Except, Cullen is a little taken aback that Aisling seems… Normal with him. Kind and polite and friendly, but as she is with everyone else, not anything in particular towards him. Even her questioning about his health comes quickly and she doesn’t prod anymore.

But patience. He knows she likes girl -she may have told him she likes both, actually, but she has never told him of one time she actually fell for a man. It would be pointless and stupid, he thinks as he makes it back to his office, to hope otherwise. He’ll just convince himself that all she did was just out of friendship, compassion and as she said, her job, and that was all that ever would have been. A best friend was good enough, he mused. He hasn’t had one in so much time… And the closest he got was now a pen pal in the Western Approach. It was good, he would just have made this stupid crush go away.

And yet, when he enters his office again, there’s a wooden box divided in sections on his desk, six glass jars inside, and a letter on top in her calligraphy.

I asked Cole to deliver this for you, hope you don’t mind!

Four are medicinals, to be taken one each morning. I numbered them, take them in order:

1: drink it now.
2: tomorrow morning

Let a day pass.

3: three mornings from now
4: morning after number 3

Please write down any tiny weird thing you feel. If you have troubles moving or concentrating, if your headache gets better or worse. If after number 1 and 3 you feel worse, don’t take number 2 and 4 and call for me immediately, I don’t care if I’m busy or it’s the middle of the night. Every little thing helps.

Too fussy? I feel too fussy. But alas, if Dorian can’t find me some books from Minrathous library on the subject… We’ll proceed it like this. Stupid lack of research!

*a doodle of Aisling, grumpy face and noodly arms pointed on her hips. On her side there’s a big plant of elfroot, with an equally grumpy face and a note for what it’s saying. “I don’t work like I should and I’m grumpy!”*

Bottles number 5 and 6 are whiskey, an informer told me you like it… And I think you definitely need a treat. It won’t affect the potions, so take it as you see fit.

Sera, if you’re reading this, I left some whiskey for you in your room, it’s on the top shelf, you glutton.

Well, that’s it.

See you for lunch!

Your trusted elfroot dealer,
A.

p.s.: since I’ve been kind and good and whatever, if you really feel grateful… Can we skip chess and play something else, for today? You saw me drooling in my sleep and covered in mud, and I’d like to keep some of my pride intact without losing in less than ten moves. Ok, going for real or I’ll be late for the Council. Bye!

He slips into his chair, smiling, all reports forgotten for some blissful moments.

Yes, it will be good enough.

Chapter Text

Da'len,

I would not trouble you normally. You have enough on your shoulders, fighting ancient Tevinter magisters while representing your people. Unfortunately, the rifts that plague this land have spread chaos and fear along with them, and many seek to take advantage of it.

Bandits are attacking Clan Lavellan. The raiders are well armed and heavily armoured, and they come in numbers our hunters cannot match. We had settled in a small unclaimed valley not far from Wycome, a safe place with few rifts—but these bandits may force us to seek a new home. If your Inquisition can help, you might save our clan much hardship.

Dareth shiral,

Keeper Istimaethoriel Lavellan

They all agreed, for once. And they all agreed that it was… Unlikely that those were normal bandits.

Aisling knew this would have come. Deep in her bones, she knew it would have come to this. Attention never bodes well for elves, and she has put a spotlight on her clan. She shouldn’t have used their name. She should have stayed silent, remained nameless, refused the title when she could and got back to them. But, she didn’t do any of these things. And now she’s there, standing in front of the war table, eyes closed as she furiously thinks about what she can do now. All three advisors are unusually silent, for once, she knows they’re all looking at her.

Radha at her side, is equally frozen, reading the letter again and again. As unsettled as she ever saw her. Ever. Nobody speaks, so Aisling does it. She’s the one in charge, after all… In both of the worlds that are clashing down on it.

“What are our options?” She just asks, voice carefully measured and cold.

Leliana and Josephine exchange a look, and the Spymaster is the first to speak.

“I have a contingent of skirmishers not far from there, they could strike at midnight and take prisoners to interrogate, while your Keeper bring the clan to safety.”

“Or, Duke Antoine is our ally. We should not risk to offend him marching on his lands, we can ask him for his soldiers, they’re the closest contingent anyway. If the bandits are so close to the city, it will be of his first and foremost concern.”

“Risk to offend him?” Radha, at her side, hisses, interrupting Cullen before he can speak. “My clan is in danger and your first worry is not to offend a Duke?”

The elf is glaring at the Ambassador, who takes a step back on instinct, looking mortified and quickly scribbling her notes away.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“I don’t care what you mean. If you’re not suited to deal with a situation you evidently know nothing of, get out.”

“ENOUGH.” Aisling stops her, slamming a hand on the table and turning to her clanmate. “I asked for an opinion, Josie gave hers. It will serve nothing quarrelling between us. Radha, you’re welcomed here, but if the situation is too much, you’re in no obligation to stay. I’ll take it from here. Josie will stay where she is if she so wishes.”

She tries to be calm, she really tries. And yet, the look that her friend gives her is full of resentment and anger. She never saw her like this. Not even once. She has seen her angry, but never at her. It hurts, but not as much as her words.

“I’m not a pawn in your grand game of acting the saint and saviour, da’len. Listen to everyone but me as much as you’d like, but do not treat me like I’m a commodity.”

“Or-” Thankfully Cullen thinks better and interrupts them, having both elves snap towards him. “We actually have an armed contingent in reach. I agree with Leliana, this is suspicious. I could have Lieutenant Chambreterre march there in a handful of days to aid Clan Lavellan.”

He moves a couple of markers in a precise point of the map, illustrating the positions of both the Clan and the aforementioned Lieutenant. It’s but a little more distant to them than Wycome is… And they wouldn’t have to rely on some unknown Duke.

“Marching to a Dalish clan, what a genius idea.” Radha sneers, still evidently in no mood to listen to anyone. Aisling can understand her, but won’t make her mistake.

“Leliana, can you make a letter reach the Keeper without anyone knowing? And, send your spies to support Chambreterre in investigating on the bandits?”

“Yes, Inquisitor. Write a letter, I’ll code it myself. If you’d be so kind, give us a sample for the design of a Vallaslin, I could slip a scout more easily amongst them with no suspicions if they looked Dalish.”

“It’s preposter-”

“It will be done.” Aisling interrupts Radha, taking a couple of notes on a piece of paper she left in her corner and considering the situation. Trying desperately to stay in the present, stay lucid and calm.

Between herself, Leliana and Cullen, they devise details and plans, going back and forth on what to do and plans B, C and D, trying to determine which instructions to send to the troops to allow them to accommodate possible elven hunters joining the fight without damages, the priority falling without saying on that. Orlais can go on self-destroying in a Civil War for a couple of hours more. Radha thankfully, but in a way that hurts Aisling, has exhausted all her words, and keeps on glaring at them all, gradually going from fury to disapproval to disappointment, but quitting the hostility.

Some things get said about the Exalted Plains, but Aisling’s mind is still in Wycome. Thankfully, Orlais can go on self-destroying itself in the Civil War for one day more, according to Leliana who dismisses the Council soon after all urgent matters has been settled. Josephine tries to approach Radha to apologise, but the elf just nods to recognise she heard, and storms out of the room without even a goodbye.

“I am sorry. She’s… She didn’t take the news well. It’s nothing personal, Josie, I’m sorry, she shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, Inquisitor it’s… It’s true. I hardly know what’s the situation for the Dalish, I shouldn’t have meddled. You made the right choice.”

Oh, if only she could believe it for real.

---

Keeper,

I am so sorry to read the clan verses in such a condition. Please believe my heart is bleeding for not being able to help you first-hand. You know I’m with you.

A contingent of soldiers is bound to reach you in one or two days time from when you’ll receive this letter. They’ll be flying the colours of the Inquisition, and are ordered to back you up and fight the bandits. Please tell the Hunters they’re on their side. R. and I sent instructions for them to be as prepared as they can be in dealing with the Hunters, if they chooses to fight alongside them. Refer to Lieutenant Chambreterre at their head and give instructions, I sent word that your word is to be listened to as if I was the one speaking.

It's unlikely those are normal bandits, not so close to Wycome. I will keep you informed of any further information that may help the clan.

I am so sorry I brought this on

Whatever I can do, you only need to ask.

Mythal’enaste,
Aisling.

---

Cullen,

No, I can’t have you take the same dosage, remember the “I couldn’t move around for a day” part? There is, unfortunately, such a thing as too much elfroot, even the best things have downsides.

I’m sorry it wasn’t as effective tho, I’ll let you have something else this evening or tomorrow. Thank you for telling me!

Maybe, tho … Does Rylen know? Can I write him to have some plants from the Western Approach sent here uncospicuously or do I have to invent some wild excuse? The wild excuse is fine, I have something in mind, but I didn’t pick enough Amrita.

Tsk.
Never challenge a Dalish in drinking competitions. I don’t care about Fereldan blood and Fereldans running on whiskey for breakfast, sir, we fucking brew our own alcohol and your pale beer, good sir, is water in comparison. You’re talking to someone who proudly survived two Arlathvens in drinking age, I’m basically a veteran.
If you still wish to dare me, we can meet at the Herald’s Rest after dinner whenever you feel brave enough. The one who loses pays up.

I think I’ll need some drink after the trial, so thanks for the offer.

Don’t overdo it and get a break!

A.

---

She finds Radha half an hour of searches later, and solely, Aisling knows, because she spent more time than her exploring Skyhold to find all the nooks and crams. She’s in the cellar library, perched on the table and swifting between the pages of a book with a delicacy that her expression doesn’t match at all. Her entrance gets ignored.

“Radha?”

“Did you finally remember I exist?”

Aisling thought she was used to her being poignant and brash, but this one hurts. But, it’s the day of sweeping everything under the carpet. So she just stalls for a moment, ignore and goes on, coming closer.

“I know you’re angry and upset, and I’m sorry if I yelled at you and disagreed. But I’ve already been there, and quarrelling during a Council would but make us all lose time, and you know it.”

She’s met with a snort, unconvinced, as the other closes the book and lets it fall on the table with a thud that echoes loudly in the room.

“At least I didn’t forget who I am.”

“What do you-”

“You know what I mean. You are so busy in this nice idea of playing the saviour that you forgot your own people.”

“I am acting to save my own people, in case you didn’t notice.”

“By what? By listening to shem who know next to nothing about us? By learning Orlesian to play their Game, or by spending all your free time with a mage from Tevinter? Would one of these people know whose Vallaslin you carry?”

“It is not-”

“Would one?”

She hesitates in replying. It’s true, none of them probably would. Maybe Solas, or Bull, but surely not because she was the one to tell them. Knowing that any pause is as telling as words, tho, words start coming.

“I couldn’t back down, could I? Getting back to the Clan with the Anchor would only bring them more destruction. No Arlathven is ready to face an Archdemon, you know it. You saw it. Mahariel herself asked for more allies than the People alone. Corypheus will come and look for me, I will not get a target on their heads. I had to adapt, here, and did what I could to protect them. If I didn’t, they would have been targeted sooner. We wouldn’t be able to help them if we left now, not without Inquisition soldiers to back us up. They do not know how to act, but I do and I can guide them. I won’t be able to help her if I left now, nor if I returned months ago. I am more useful from here, coordinating help. And you know it.”

She fixes her gaze in hers, green eyes in brown. They had done this so many times, she knows Radha as the back of her hand, as the other does with her. And yet, she didn’t know that Radha wouldn’t sway. It’s a minute, before the older elf replies.

“You forgot your culture to adapt. You forgot me and looked for unknown people who cares just about the mark on your hand when you needed it. They’re taking you away and you’re defending them against me. That’s fine da’len, as long as you’re happy. But I thought my mother taught you better.”

And with that, the rogue marches out of the library, leaving Aisling on her own. She waits for the door to click close behind her to fall on the high chair and, amidst a cloud of dust that puffs up as she sits down, starts crying, all tension bursting out and pouring from her eyes, coming out in ragged moans and screams from her throat.

She feels torn in two.

---

When she makes her way out of the cellar, she schools herself to an expression of calm and dignity. Knowing her, it would read as void and haunted, not like her at all. But, it’s either this way, or spending all day in a hole, and as much as her new position may be a sway on the path intended for her, she has work to do. And one thing the Keeper has actually taught her and that stuck with her, is getting job done and shouldering responsibilities. She will be able to rest and have a life crisis about what to do next when Corypheus will be defeated.

And today’s job, as if the day didn’t start bad enough, is deciding what to do with Erimond tomorrow, for his intented trial. She stalled it for long enough. So, she makes her way in the Great Hall, greeting people with a poise that Josephine would be so proud of, walk in the Rotunda and up the stairs, nodding a hello to Solas, and reaching Dorian in his nook.

And realising she ran late, fantastic. She never runs late, except for today.

At the table there are two Tevinters, sitting there in front of a table full of food she had asked Frida to get ready for them. Which she hopes it will still be warm by now. She was bound to reach the Library before Alexius, but… She lost track of time.

“Forgive me, some urgent matters came out and I couldn’t arrive any sooner.” She explains, equally moderately as she carefully slips the chair out of the table and sits down on it, fixing all her limbs in perfect position, one beside the other and elegantly crossing one ankle beside the other, as Josie taught her to do.

Every movement is studied and measured, as she needs more than ever to exert some control over her life not to feel like it’s all slipping away from her fingers like sand. She expected some doubt from Dorian, but she finds none. He limits to push a plate of lemon cookies in front of her, with a sorry expression on his face. It is Alexius, in the end, who speaks first.

“We’re sorry about your clan, Lady Lavellan.”

“If you wish to postpone this, you just have to tell.” Adds Dorian, more delicately.

Ah. So they heard. That explains it. She nods, politely.

“Thank you both. But no, help is on the way and this has been postponed long enough. Let’s go on. What can you tell me about Erimond?”

The two men exchange a look. Oh, she’s used to it by now: it’s been very gradual and tentative, Dorian mistrusting and still angry at his former mentor, but they reached a point of balance on their shared loss. Dorian started, little by little, to ask for the Magister’s opinion, claiming with an agreeing Aisling and a final blessing from Leliana, that he has no more reasons to help the Venatori. Carefully, and without having him partake in anything strategical or in any relevant informations yet, they let him on and welcomed his contribution to their researches, eventually. After Adamant particularly, when Solas just refused to join again if not in caustic comments. And it was extremely evident that the two mages were very used to work together, falling easily back into old habits and patterns without making her feel excluded or a third wheel. Which was something that she would never have expected, particularly from Alexius, and the main point that made her trust, relatively, that he posed no threat for her or the Inquisition anymore.

So, right now, she asks him about Erimond, listening attentively as the old man traces a portrait she has already heard but need to listen to once again. A cruel man, ruthless, with little to no respect for people he considers lesser than him. And he has, unfortunately, an insanely high opinion of himself. She asks and probes for anecdotes, bits of conversation the former Magister could remember, which motions he backed in the Magisterium and with which argumentations. Anything to make her see whether he could be spared and brought to some sort of agreement, or not. After a couple of hours, food not over because they both left some for her without hinting at how untypical it was for her not to eat, she looses some of her poise. One leg crossed, ankle under the opposite knee, the other bouncing nervously on the spot. She’s biting her nails, trying to think of something, Dorian trying to stop her train of thoughts by countering her every argument. And she knows he’s right, she knows he is lucid and she is not. But-

“Lady Lavellan.” Alexius stops her, calmly as ever. “Forgive my bluntness, and please don’t believe it comes from being ungrateful for the kindness you showed me. But Livius Erimond will never yield to an elf. If you keep him alive, he’ll turn on you at his first chance, with or without Corypheus.”

“But if-”

“I saw him treat his slaves in ways you wouldn’t like to know. Kindness can reach a long way, but it can’t reach him, Inquisitor. Do what you want, he won’t cooperate, not even to save his life.”

She nods, gravely. She knows this too, deep in her bones, but she’s been fighting for a week for a different solution, an alternative that could save him as well and not… Keep the fate of a person who can’t defend himself in her hand, totally at her mercy. She never wanted this kind of power. She doesn’t want it.

What she knows, is that she won’t consider Tranquility on anyone that won’t ask for it themselves. Not even on Erimond. She doesn’t hate Tranquils and Helisma is a fine person to work with, she respects her keen eyes and logic… But it would just be to save her conscience from knowing she took a life without a fight. Substituting the life with emotions, dreams and magic, with no consent to back her up sounds possibly worse.

She nods to the other two, swallowing down the glump in her throat. Today of all days it’s harder still. And yet, maybe it’s easier.

“Has Fenris answered? You wrote for informations to him as well, right?” Asks Dorian, nudging her calf with his foot under the table, in a silent comfort.

“Yes, I have his letter waiting in my room. But… Thank you, the both of you. I know what to do, I just don’t know if I’m strong enough for it.”

Weirdly enough, if Dorian just stretches out a hand, placing the back of it on the table and flexing his finger in a grabby motion, it’s Alexius who speaks, not caring if the two in front of him are effectively holding hands.

“You are, Inquisitor. You diminish the person you were in Redcliffe, standing up to a King to defend your values, if you doubt it. There’s strength in a kind heart, and…” He sighs, frowning but not looking down. “… And I should have seen it in Felix as well, before it was too late.”

It’s not enough to give her strength, but enough to make her sure that she has not done, after all, everything wrong.

---

Inquisitor,

I do not know what you could expect me to say differently than what I am about to. But you’ve been kind, and G likes you, so I’ll indulge you.

Livius Erimond is not a person who deserves mercy.
Livius Erimond is not a person who’d give you mercy. If the roles were reversed, you’d be already in chains and deprived of your blood, or used for some other experiment. If you were lucky.

I had the misfortune of meeting him, just once, and it was more than enough. I know the kind. You may partially be right on the young Pavus, if he’ll commit to step down his high horse, and Alexius indeed has no more bite to him.

But Erimond would be better off dead.

Weird that this request comes just now, I would have been glad to relieve you of this burden. If burden can be called freeing the world of a person who ruined more lives than we could trace.

Don’t be a coward, you’re not.

G sends his greetings, says he’ll write you himself. Please ignore all his requests on how to turn into a dragon.

Fenris.

---

As much as all her advisors told her she had not to be the one to do it, she insisted.

She isn’t a coward, she will not shy away. If death is her sentence, the best she can do is to deliver it herself, not duck behind anyone’s legs and send another person to do her dirty work.

So, she takes a deep breath, steels herself and marches to the gallows that’s been quickly set up.

“Don’t hesistate. A straight, strong hit, follow the blade down, he won’t feel pain if you’re as precise as you are with magic.”

Cullen whispers, handling her the sword, compassion in his eyes. She nods and smiles, thankful for the sentiment and walks up.

She doesn’t hesitate.

As she steps down the gallows, in a perfect, still silence as everyone around the battlement just catches their breath, automatically and not wanting to think about the blood on her hands and exactly how much blood does a severed neck spills, Leliana is there. Leliana stops on her track when they enter one of the guard towers, away from peering eyes, and takes her face in both hands, moving it to look at her.

“You did the right thing.” She tells her, and under her lilting accent, there’s iron. And a sweetness she doesn’t always lets on. But it’s there, now. “You hear me? You did the merciful thing. It was merciful and it was quick. You did the right thing.”

Aisling has not tears to shed, for once. She just nods, signalling that she understood, and let the Spymaster hug her, and tell her she’s sorry, from under her shell.

---

Aisling,

Beer brewed in a camp can’t be that strong, and you weight nothing when soaking wet, there’s just this much alcohol you can bear.

Game is on, if you feel like it and it’ll offer some sort of… Distraction.

I’ll be at the tavern this evening, feel free not to come, of course.

You helped me, I could maybe help you, just ask.

Cullen.

---

The courtyard is silent, and she’s sitting between the Iron Bull and Sera in a sunny corner on the back of the tavern, backs against the wall.

Aisling scrubbed herself raw, and made a beeline for the Herald’s Rest. Still feeling… out of herself, not really in her body. She has asked the Qunari if he could beat her with a stick. Maybe it would have worked for her too. It seemed to have worked with him.

Bull, tho, could go from laughing at a kill and cutting down three skeletons with one single swing of his axe, to being incredibly motherly. It has been so in the Hissing Wastes, when he carried her back to camp when she sprained her ankle, and was so delicate in his step that she fell asleep (apparently, it won him some good money on the napping poll, with Dorian’s deep chagrin for being finally tossed out of first position). And now, he entered in motherly mode instantly, bringing her to sit down as he sent Krem to fetch some cocoa.

“It’ll work wonder, Boss, you’ll see.”

Sera joined in, bringing some arrows to fletch to keep her hands busy, and refusing categorically to leave her side when Dorian reached them and wanted to sit beside her. He grunted and crossed his legs to sit beside the archer, huffing in pleasure at the warm sun that shone. Krem returned with a tray full of cups, handling her one he had topped with whipped cream and, he said, had Cabot toss some candied orange peels inside, just for her. If she had been more in herself than she was, she would have cried. But she wasn’t, so she just smiled at him, thanked him, and kept the mug between her hands, propped on her raised knees. The warmth in her hand, Sera’s shoulder against her left and Bull’s side against her right, it’s grounding.

Even more grounding when Dorian starts humming a song, deep from his chest. From her right, Krem snorts and join in, putting words in it. It’s a more popular Tevene than what Aisling is used to, but she can make up some words about a donkey, a dog, a cat and a rooster escaping death to go and find fortune as travelling artists. They’re on two different pitches altogether, and it takes Cassandra, spotting them as she walks towards the training dummies, to cut them off with a disgusted noise, inviting them both to stop for the love of the Maker. Sera actually thanks her, eliciting an elbowing battle with the Altus. Which ends when Sera acts like she’s going to spit on Dorian’s clothes and he’s quick to yield.

Cassandra sits down as well, grunting as she fixes her sword and stretches her legs before her, without a clear question in mind, but just closing her eyes and resting her head against the wall from her spot beside Krem, who’s still laughing at his chorus companion being forced to yield in so little time. They ask if they can at least hum, and it’s Bull to snort a laugh and give them a go. Just, no words.

Nobody really wants to speak, or nobody really knows what to say to her, right now. Either way, she appreciates the presence, and just… Being there, existing together. None of them share much of anything with the others, and they’re as mismatched as it could be. But, it feels warming anyway. Not a family, but almost. She would like to cry, but there’s nothing behind her eyes, now.

So, she just sips her cocoa, slowly, the tangy bitterness of the orange zest complimenting the sweetness of the cream and the cocoa. Sera laughs hard when she lowers the mug and, apparently, have enough cream on her upper lip for the archer to be able to make jokes about how now she and Dorian are even more twinsies than before. Bull laughs at that, as well, and there’s a disgusted noise coming from Cassandra in her corner, with no sentiment at all and just for show. It’s familiar, even if it’s the first time that Sera actually dotes on Aisling, dragging a sleeve down to her hand to rub her clean, ignoring all protests from the mage. A pat on her shoulder, and the archer returns, satisfied, to fixing new arrows.

“You did well, Wiseshit, you know?” Sera is the first to talk, hitting right on the spot.

“Sera, a little delicacy.” Bull chortles, bending his head on the side to cast her a look.

“What? She did! ‘Twas the best solution, you all know it! What was she to do, send him back to the Wardens? So he could sneak his prissy way out of them again?”

“Sure, Sera, but she’s spooked right now. We’re all here to give her space.” Dorian adds, calmly.

“Pfffbht.” Sera blows a raspberry, playfully. “She ain’t made of freaking glass.”

“And, you’re not really giving her space, Chief, you’re trampling her.”

“I’m not!”

“At least you’re not beating her with a stick.” Cassandra adds, huffing a laugh.

As the banter starts, the banter goes on, and Aisling, little by little, sip by sip of overly sweet cocoa -just how she likes it- melts a little, the weird sensation of not really inhabiting her body vanishing away in the warmth of having friends around her. It feels like a hug. They would all have better things to do, and yet she didn’t even had to ask for them to just… Exist a little with her. No demands, no roles, no need to keep up a culture. Just… Existance, pure and simple. And oh, she needed it. She needs it.

There’s a puff on the left, and she can hear Dorian gurgling, his movement pushing Sera and her as a consequence, stopping against the large mass of the Qunari. There’s really not much space, but Aisling doesn’t mind. Cole pokes out and looks around, assessing everyone calmly, eyes bright. He stops on her, but is quick to disappear and reappear, sitting with his legs crossed right in front of Cassandra.

“Warden-Commander Clarel wasn't like you, Cassandra.” He declares, dreamily but surely.

“Thank you, Cole... I think. I never met Clarel, but I will take that as a compliment.”

“She fell because she fell. That's how Erimond convinced her to hurt people. He made it look like bravery.” A chorus of snorts and groans. “She called it a choice, but it was a lie. She was afraid. You aren't afraid. You won't fall.”

Silence all around, everyone pretends they’re not hearing it, back into the giving space mood. Cassandra, tho, looks visibly relieved.

“Thank, you, Cole. I appreciate that.” From her voice, she really does. But before continuing, she casts a sideway glance to Aisling, worried. ”What of magister Erimond? Did you sense a secret pain in him?

Cole seems to consider it, as Aisling freezes, all muscles contracting. She doesn’t want to know. Not now, not here, not…

“No.” Cole concludes his musing, as sure as he ever was. “Erimond was an asshole.”

There’s a full minute of pause as the group considers that it’s maybe the first time they hear him cast such a one-way, decisive judgement. And it comes with a swear word. In his serene, boyish tone, it’s… It’s so out of place and weird, that everyone starts to laugh. Softly, at first, but it grows and grows, all spurring each other on.

It’s then when the tears finally start falling, for Aisling, but she has arms to catch her.

---

She gets in the rotunda again, as the last thing in the afternoon.

There’s just Solas there, quietly painting another section of the mural, up on the ledge, concentrated on following lines and make them precise as he can, balancing his hand on the wall with his pinky finger as he traces details and lines.

If she was to be honest, Aisling misses him. He would know what to say, now.

But, it went how it went and the Hinterlands only got it worse, so she just clears her throat to signal she’s there, as he takes the brush on his palette to scoop some more paint.

“Inquisitor.”

“Solas.”

Silence, he looks at her expectantly. At least he doesn’t look haughty nor hostile, there’s that.

“I… I was searching for Radha. Thought I’d find her here.” Aisling explains, shrugging it off.

She doesn’t know, honestly, how much do they talk or of what. It’s true that she… Gave Radha for granted, a little, as she had fun with new friends, new friends that didn’t remind her what she left or what she is not. She just knows, as a consequence, that the two elves have spent quite some time on their own.

“I haven’t seen her since the gallows, actually, and I have no idea where did she go. Maybe the library in the cellar?”

“No, she…” She wouldn’t return there because she knows Aisling would look for here there. “…I checked.”

She sighs, heavily, turning on herself.

“Forgive me for the interruption, have a nice evening.” She greets him, stepping back to the main hall. She can write her, at least.

No more than two steps after, tho, Solas stops her.

“Inquisitor.”

It works as a spell. She stops on her track, sighing heavily and bidding him to go on. She’s ready for some weird request or a long tedious explanation on how she should treat her friends and other elves, but she just hears him stepping down the ladder and approaching her.

“It was the most merciful, humane choice you could do.” He says, with all but serenity in his voice. “Don’t let it affect you, he does not deserve your pain.”

“I-” She breathes deeply. “… Ma serannas.”

“You were not what I expected but… We’re lucky it was you who got involved and took the Anchor.”

It’s the last he tells her, as aloof as before, but for once since she was spitted out by the Fade yet again, he’s finally sincere and not sarcastic. She nods, trying to let the words sink in, before walking out.

Maybe it’s a step forward to gain back his trust. Whatever is it, she’s grateful.
And, she really needs a drink.

---

It’s late in the night, when someone knocks on Radha’s door, waking her up.

Still refusing to settle on rhythms that aren’t the hunting ones -and why would she-, the hunter groans and tries to ignore the visitor.

But the visitor’s insistent and keeps knocking.

She slips out of her covers of that stupidly comfortable plushy bed, throws her jacket on haphazardly and goes to open the door, hoping it’s an emergency or that whomever is will not duck a good punch on the nose.

She opens, and it’s Aisling, flustered and slightly swaying on her place, a hazy look in her eyes. She knows that look.

“You’re drunk.”

“Am not!” She replies, pouting.

“What do you want, Aisling?”

“Aisling Aisling Aisling. Why does the s is pronounced like sh?” She giggles, walking unsteadily in her room, pushing Radha’s away as she tries to not let her pass.

The hunter just scoffs, not closing the door behind her as she turns to the other. She doesn’t want to see her, right now, and she won’t indulge her in her silly thoughts. So, she just leans against a wall and crosses her arms on her chest, expectantly.

“I wanted to apologise.” The mage goes on, in a dreamy tone as she walks and turns around to look at the room. “You weeere right, I let you out and I’m-” She hiccups and it makes her giggle. “-I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry about everything that happened, and I’m sorry about leaving the clan.”

The giggle ends, as she props a hand on the footboard of her bed for support. It makes her swing on her spot less, as she looks at her own feet, contracting and decontracting her toes.

“Honestly, I think all the time that you would have made a way better job as Inquisitor, if I hadn’t convinced the Keeper to send me and not you. You would have done a better job as First than I ever did, if… And I’m… I’m trying to prove that it’s not so, that I can be good too. Been doing it all my life, honestly.”

Radha’s looking at her from above, the hard shell of resentment and hurt slightly crack at that confession, drunk or not, and she can see tears in her eyes. She’s always been a cry-baby, and yet she never faltered once.

“Buuuuuuuuuut!” Aisling drags it, snapping her head up again with the hand on the footboard, the pointer finger raised. The movement is too abrupt and she wobbles heavily on the spot, taking tiny little steps to regain some sort of balance. “-But, you’re not my mother. I love you, you’re my sister if not a blood one, but you’re not responsible for me and I don’t have to report to you at the end of the day. The people here are nice people, and they do care about me. I thiiiink and am pretty almost sure they never ask about much because I never speak of anything first, aaaaand change the subject quickly when I do. ‘Cause I don’t want to attract attention on the Clan. And you see it went like shit so it was stupid and idiotic and… Isn’t it a funny word? IDIOTIC!” Another giggle, as she rolls the word around in her mouth. “But I was saying. Josie was the one to ask stuff, and she was curious and she never told anyone and she helped me the most, with Dorian and Cullen and she’s lovely and kind and you really treated her badly today.”

The wobblying gets worse, and Radha, convinced out of her being upset with her, steps forward to catch both her arms before she can fall and bump her head. The movement makes the mage just giggle more.

“Ok, I got it, now let’s get you to bed, ok?” The rogue tries to coax her into her bed: no way she’ll drag her up all those stairs in this condition. She had to drag her once from one side of the camp to the other, when she finally dumped Ydun and got BADLY drunk -worse than this- and it has been just like herding a big flock of cats. She swore she would never do it again, and she doesn’t intend to break the promise with stairs in the middle.

“Nuoh, I still have two things to say!” She protests, pointing her feet and struggling against being moved.

“You’ll lay down afterwards?”

“Maybe.” After a suspicious glare, the answer change to a “Yes, mom.”

“All right, go on. Would you sit down at least?”

“Nope. Ok. First. Can you apologise to Josie tomorrow? She is a good person, she never had much to do with Dalish before… But she’s very respectful, never treated me differently, listened to me when I told her I was no Herald of no Andraste. And she’s so cute and a good friend and I’d like to make her small so I could take her around in my pocket.”

The idea makes Radha snorts a laughter, which makes Aisling smiles brightly in turn.

“Fine, I’ll apologise. The second?”

“The seeecond is…” She pauses a little, spreading her feet so she can balance better and putting some more weight on her arms. As stable as she can get, she looks up, with a serious expression. “It’s not your fault that I fell down at Adamant. You tried your best and I’m happy you didn’t fall too because it’s been a shitstorm. Everything went well and it wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry I let you out and let you feel guilty. Can we make peace?”

She sighs. Leave it to Aisling to look the most airy-headed shy creature on the planet and then hit you right in the spot five minutes later with a caress and a kiss where it hurts, without even a hint of hesitation. She would have liked to stay angry a little more, just to let out some frustration about the whole situation and the clan with someone to address it with. But it’s unfair, and she doesn’t deserve a bit of it. Plus, Radha knows her and knows that she’ll be feeling horrible in the morning, not just for the hangover, but also for the execution. And yet she’s there talking of her feelings and trying -as best as a person who drank a lot can- to comfort her. So, she answers.

“Yes, asa’ma’lin. I’m sorry if I was harsh on you, you have a lot of responsibility on your shoulders and the clan wasn’t your fault, it was unfair for me to imply it. Now, would you go to sleep?”

Finally her personal herd of cats agrees on going to sleep, and lets Radha carefully walk her around the bed and up to the mattress, take her leg wraps away with minor resistance –“It tickles!”- and tuck her in. Drunk Aisling, beside being loose-tongued and giggly -and thankfully she didn’t start singing, even if Radha thinks that the singing part was done with in the Tavern already- is even touchier than usual. So, the rogue can’t even lay down properly that she’s hugged tight, with a happy set of giggles.

“If you need to puke, let me go and turn the other way, ok?” Radha reminds, caressing her head. She smells like beer.

“Eh. Not that drunk.”

“Sure you aren’t.”

“Am not! I walked here aaaaall by myself. You should have seen Cullen.” It makes her giggle more, evolving into a laugh. “Radha?”

“Mh?”

“Solas is a good person.”

“And so?”

“You like him. He’s a good person. Awfully socially awkward. But he means well. He’s very caring and needs a lot of hugs.”

“… Sleep, Aisling.” She grunts, not wanting to have this conversation now. Or ever.

“If he hurts you, I’ll punch him myself, don’t worry.”

This elicits a snort, particularly because the punch is illustrated by a playful one on her shoulder, very clumsy and soft.

“I’m serious. It’ll be easy, he can’t tank.”

“I’m sure you are, asa’ma’lin. Now sleep.”

Aisling finally settles down and, with a deep contented sigh, closes her eyes and her mouth. The room is left very quiet, finally, the remnant of the fire cracking happily in the hearth. It’s not an aravel, but it’s cozy enough. More cozy than the Inquisitor’s huge room, surely.

“Radha?”

“Sleep.”

“Thank you.”

Radha doesn’t reply. Not right away, at least. Some minutes passes, in pure and perfect quiet, both elves relaxed under warm blankets.

“You’re doing a much better job than I would ever had.” Radha finally admits, whispering softly against her hair.

There has been few times, in her life, when she had wished she had developed magic for real. Adamant has been one of those, as she was left out of the rift with with a deep sense of dread that she couldn’t do anything, anything but watch what she considers in all effects to be her little sister curls on herself and spiralling down and inward walk away and look for other people and not herself. Giving ways to her own guilt to grow and grow. She had wished she had magic so she could have helped. Or at least understood what she was going through.

Tonight, she’s happy as it is. No magic around, just her own hands and brains. And it’s good like that.

---
“Inquisitor, you shouldn’t have.”

“Yes, I should.”

Aisling replies, dragging Josie by the elbow they’ve crossed down to the steps from her office to the small picnic she had set up in front of the heart, while the Ambassador was out. There’s a blanket spread on the ground, with pillows and other blankets, neatly folded, in the case they get chilly. And plates of food -Lavellan asked the cook to assemble whatever Lady Montilyet likes best, and the cook delivered in quantity, so much so that there’s hardly space for them to sit.

But, they manage, moving a plate of fried pastries covered in sugar here and another of dainty macarons in pastel shades there, around croissants filled with cream and jam to the brim and a luxurious honey and dried fruits cake that, the cook said, is a typical Antivan recipe the Ambassador’s really fond of. They’re careful not to pour the jar of freshly brewed coffee nor to break the cups -some delicate china painted in flowers. It’s small but it’s cosy, and Aisling can see the woman smiling, shily under her nose.

“What brought this on?”

“Radha treated you badly the other day, and I wanted to cheer you up.”

“She apologised, Inquisitor, you don’t-”

“I know she did. But, you’ve been working non-stop and extra hours to get me ready for the Ball. And I wanted to express that I’m grateful and I appreciate.”

Josephine lowers her eyes, assessing everything around her, as a smile creeps on her face and she relaxes more in her position.

“Shouldn’t a picnic be set outside? It’s a nice sunny day.”

Aisling grimaces, at that.

“Yes, that was the plan, but…”

“…But she’s still hangover from yesterday.” Concludes Leliana, making her way in the room as well.

Josie giggles, moving plates away from the blanket to make room for the Spymaster as well. Aisling just grumbles, crossing her arms on her chest and resting her back on one of the armchairs.

“So that’s what was into her and Cullen today! I was doubting it when you both insisted on having all the curtains in the War Room drawn shut…”

“Anything you’d wish to confess on the matter, Aisling?” Leliana asks, sitting down with her legs crossed and proceeding in pour coffee for everyone, smirking at the elf.

“Not much to say. He thought he could drink more than me. I proved him wrong. Can you please not make all that clanking noise with those cups, Leliana?” She groans, massaging her temples and trying to fend a headache off.

The other two giggles at her, and there’s more of that horrendous clanking as cups get distributed and placed in laps, hands or in Aisling’s case beside a knee. It’s softer tho, everyone paying attention as the cramp slowly subsides and the elf can open her eyes again to find something to eat.

“We should make this a habit, you know?”

“What, Josie?”

“Someone is down, and we have a girls’ night. Or, well, afternoon.”

“Oh, I’d be up for it.”

“But if you’re up for it, Aisling, we would not work anymore.”

“Hey! I also have good days!”

“If she’s an excuse to eat more pinsa, I’d take it any time.”

They laugh, falling into conversation about this and that easily, as they pick food and slowly sips their coffee. A couple of messengers get excused with a wave of one or the other hand, explaining the absence with some matter of very urgent diplomacy to be discussed right away, be right back in maybe an hour or two. They will get back to work, just… Not now.

For now there’s some gossip about the nobles that are coming to the formal dinners Josie has organised for the next weeks, in preparation for Halamshiral, and exchanging impressions and suggestions. Nothing bad gets discussed with a heavy heart, and as the snacks are done and Leliana cracks her hard façade with exposing her absolute love for macarons, debating longly that the cook doesn’t quite get the recipe right, and that she will have some good ones in the Winter Palace if it was the last thing she did.

Josie, truth to be told, has been on pins and needles the last two days, between the news of the Lavellans, being scolded for it, and the trial. She hasn’t speak much with Aisling, and it was painfully evident that she was tense and ill at ease. So, as the coffee helps some with her headache and nausea, she observes the Antivan slowly relax and start laughing and replying more and more lively to Leliana over this and that.

After an hour, when Josie concludes the circonvoluted tale of an epic party in Val Royeaux they both attended and ended in a Comte’s underthings to be hanged proudly on the door of the Grand Cathedral, Aisling pours the remaining coffee left, and raises her cup for a toast.

“To busy, busy girls getting shit done.”

They all drink to that.

“Also, my Vallaslin is dedicated to Ghilan’nain. She’s the mother of the halla, and our goddess of guides and navigation, she who leads the way.” She has to add, as the other two look at her in surprise, shrugging. “I thought there had to be someone to know it.”

“But… You don’t ever talk about it?” Josie prods, shily.

“I thought it was best if I… Wasn’t so Dalish. With the Chantry against me and the Herald of Andrase thing, I didn’t think it wise to just expose my culture and my clan. Didn’t think anyone would have cared, either.”

“So it means…”

“That I trust you? Yes. I should have sooner, honestly, it’s not like it served to protect the clan so much…”

She sighs, deeply, and none of them has much to reply, to that. The coffee gets drunk, and the last fried puff eaten. But, Aisling can see how Josie keeps on casting glances upward, curious. It’s endearing, really.

“Want to ask something, Josie?” She giggles, smiling at her.

“Oh, yes!” Josie chides, too high and enthusiast for her standards, and right away shying back with a flush. “Oh- I didn’t mean to…”

But, she meant. And she meant it when she asked this and that, and what’s a Arlathven and why are hallas important, if they’re so different from horses, and if tattoos designs vary according to clan and Keeper or stay fixed.

It’s not like back in the days when she explained the lore to the children in front of a camp fire, so many stars above them that she could name and form constellations of, explaining mythology and stories. But, there’s a fire still, and there’s interest, and no pressure in just telling stories without the need to have the other learn. It’s not the same thing, and a deep part of Aisling still knows that they won’t get it all, or the importance.

Still, it’s something. And maybe, just maybe, it’s a seed. And frankly, she’s tired of hiding.

Chapter Text

After the third formal dinner in grand Orlesian style, with aristocracy and a strict dress code Josephine could not be swayed from imposing -and Maker, he tried his very best-, Cullen has decided that maybe friendship was not enough. It wasn’t enough when she caught his discomfort across the table and was quick in distracting the guests and stop them from pestering him. It wasn’t enough when she casually made her way to him, brought him away from a Comtesse who was dead-set in dancing with him, and whispered to him that the door to the Undercroft was open: she and Dorian were planning on slipping out and had told Dagna to wait for them with food, the greasiest things the dwarf could find out of Cabot’s kitchen. Which they did, eventually, sitting on the floor and getting something better than the micro-portions Josephine had arranged -the food was delicious, but the quantities were not. She smiled and laughed at his jokes.

Friendship honestly stopped being enough when she kicked his ass when he coaxed her in drinking, after Erimond, he laughed in public and she lit up like a chandelier and declared that since the Commander could laugh aloud, she owed him a very lewd song. Which she had sang, very seriously, standing on a bench, face flustered from alcohol and having the whole room whoop and cheer her and clap their hands in time.

Friendship may not be enough, and he could, discreetely, try and launch some more hints at her, and see how it goes.

So, he is considering his options, quietly and trying to distract himself with more work. The last thing Cullen wants is put her in a difficult position or embarrass her as she was with Cassandra, and ruining their friendship. Because even if it grew a little tight on him, he cared about it deeply. But he still remembers her epic speech about the siege mentality in courtship. She wants a siege? He can give her a siege. Honestly, it’s less scary this way than just strolling around and confess feelings he shouldn’t be having all of a sudden. His experience in romance may be limited, and he never had to deal with a different culture in the middle, but he knows about sieges and strategy.

The quickest, smartest solution, would be looking for allies.

But the idea of taking Dorian on a side and having him with that smug expression he has when he wins at chess -it doesn’t happen often, but the man’s more intelligent than he lets on and doesn’t think in schemes- and he is not ready to face a “I knew it”.

Radha’s just out of her question, she barely tolerates him, he’s fairly sure she’s gonna just serve him all his doubts and fears on a silver plate, right onto his nose. So, no until he’s sure of his feelings and intentions and can face her with a clear mind. Possibly never, if Aisling keeps being so oblivious whenever he tries to say something flirty as she’s been in the past when he’d clumsily tried.

So, he needs something small, something uncospicuous.

What does she like?

Horses. Too much, and it doesn’t take a genius to understand that she’ll never switch her horse for anything else, right now.

Food. They already have lunch together most often, since Haven. It wouldn’t sound anything special. And when? There’s another one of Josephine’s dinners, today, and she’s bound to leave for the Exalted Planes in days. No.

She doesn’t wear jewels, but maybe something enchanted for battle would be an idea, but it sounded… too much, right now. Maybe another time.

New armour? He heard her complaining about hers, but it was about the cutting not leaving her enough room to move, and he wouldn’t know how to concoct anything better. Too personal.

Books? No, it’ll look like he’s lending her something.

The issue with Aisling is that she’s terribly modest, low-mantainance and practical.

Something practical? Maybe something he can do for her? Possibly, she would appreciate that. But what?

He’s still musing, noticing he stopped writing with a grunt and stretching back a little to ease a nasty ache in his lower back from bad posture, when he sees it. A small pot of Elfroot she brought him the other day bidding him to try and chew (“Chew and spit, do not swallow!”) leaves when he has a headache. Which brings an idea.

Plants. She likes plant. Maybe she’ll like flowers.

Memorandum: avoid the gardens at all costs for the next month.

He went thinking it would have been a quick work to pick some flowers, uncospicuously, early in the morning when everyone was either waking up or having breakfast, no one the wiser. Except, Elan Ve’mal was awake, up and about, and stopped him from picking a loose leaf, barking and scolding him. So, he had to ask. She had smiled knowingly, smugly, and Cullen would have liked to ask her for a spade and dig his own grave.

But the elf thankfully said nothing, and proceeded in picking up herself some daffodils and anemones, with dusty miller all around an between the flowers to make the arrangement prettier. She complained that Embrium wasn’t already in bloom, and Cullen had the horrible suspect she knew his recipient. But the bouquet was pretty, he had to admit, begrudgingly after she insisted in tying everything together with string. And recommending him to keep it in some water to keep it fresh and nice as he did his walk of shame, all intentions of stealth and discretion jumped right out of the window.

Thankfully, as he walks now out of the garden, the Inquisitor is in sight and blissfully alone in a Great Hall, before the whole Keep could spot him with flowers in his hand or assist to him making a complete fool of himself.

She’s still yawning, hopping down the stairs of the main hall as she ties up her hair in a loose ponytail, working clothes on and… And a pair of frying pans tied together with a string, dwindling lazily on either side of one shoulder. Does he want to know? Possibly not.

But, she is actually alone, there are still few people around, the flowers are still fresh. It’s as perfect a chance as it can be. So, he jumps at it, schooling himself and marching down the stairs behind her.

It’s a mission. It’s just another mission. You can do it.

“Inquisi-” He stops, abruptly. He is giving her flowers while calling her by her title? This isn’t anything professional. Which is the start and the end of the issue. But, no hesitation. Sieges aren’t won by hesitating, and he has a wall to breach. “Aisling!”

He calls. Better. She stops right before entering the tunnel that leads down to the lower courtyard and, at this point, the stables, and looks up with surprise in her green eyes.

“Good morning, Cullen. What is it?” She asks, taken aback as she stops and looks at him quickly walking down the last flight of stair and marching to her with determination clearly painted on his face. “Is everything all right? You look all right…” She asks, worried, before paling, expression hardening. “Is there some news from the Free Marches?”

“What?” Maker, he is an idiot. “No! No, no, nothing yet, I’m sorry… I just… Ah.” Want to give you flowers. It isn’t difficult, but it is. He raises his free hand to rub at the back of his neck, trying to gather the guts to just push words out of his throat. He feels hot to his ears, this won’t do. “I- Ah, here.”

He just snaps the hand that is holding the flowers forward, presenting them in front of her in a gesture that he hopes is clear enough. It’s done. He can’t look at her in the face. And Maker, of all the times she decides to take her time in replying, this is the one? A minute passes that feels like an eternity, before she answers.

“For me?”

“I- yes.”

Her fingers brush over his as she takes it, finally. Slowly releasing breath, not in a sigh but in something he hopes she can read as such, he carefully turns his head and his eyes to look at her. She’s there, examining the flowers, a smile on her face as she considers it. He hit the wall, now to wait for the dust to settle and reveal if a breach was opened.

“Well, thank you Cullen!” She smiles brightly, looking up at him. Maybe… “It’s such a sweet thought!” It’s sweet! “Daffodils are good painkillers, and I was just about to run out of dusty miller in my personal stash, how did you know?”

At least she isn’t offended. There’s that. Better totally, absolutely oblivious than angry. Except, he now has to answer her. And invent an excuse and pretend he doesn’t want to crawl in a hole and die there.

“I… Dorian told me?” He fumbles, frozen in place and not daring to move.

“Well, thank you to the both of you, I really needed this!” She’s still smiling, in awful sincerity. “Is there anything else? I’d stay to chat, but Master Dennet is waiting for me, we have plans, you see.”

She explains as she raises the pan in front of her, to illustrate her point. Cullen knows a defeat when he sees one. The projectile bounced on the wall of her obliviousness and shot right back at him, straight between his eyes. But the frying pan gives his brain something else to do that’s not screaming internally.

“Plans that involve frying pans?”

“We’re desensivitizing Little Brother!” She declares, excited, puffing up her chest.

“I see.” He chuckles, a little stiffly but he can’t help it. Josephine won’t be happy about it, seen the strict programs of nobles and dinner, but if she can force the Ambassador to postpone an event, who’s him to stop her. “Ah- no, there wasn’t anything else. I’ll let you to your work.”

“Likewise! See you for lunch?”

Hit, sunk and defeated.

“Sure.”

She waves her hand and turns to step down the stairs, leaving Cullen to lick his wounds. But…

“Wait!”

“Yes?” She stops mid-track, graciously turning around to look at him.

“Does the cook know you took the pans?”
At that, she pouts, slightly closing her eyes to mockingly glare at him. There’s really nothing serious about it, and he knows his answer, bringing a smile on his face.

“Snitches get stitches, Commander.”

And with that, and a tongue stuck out at him, playful and friendly, she’s back on her track, gingerly stepping down the flight of stairs. She waves a hand at him before turning and disappearing from view, and he replies in tow. So, Master Dennet and Blackwall will probably know. Hopefully she will be able to convince them it was just a careful thought for her personal stash, but seen his luck, he doubts it.

Great. Just what he needed.

Lost the battle and a big question mark on whether the war was a hopeless one, the Commander turns on his heels, making a beeline for his office and that now reassuring, controllable and splendidly detached from any form of feeling pile of reports.

He’ll try again. Maybe. After she’ll get back from the Exalted Plains.

He hates sieges, he decides.

---

Aisling is restless.

She doesn’t know if it’s still some lingering side effects of Adamant or the new balance in friendships that the aftermath has brought, the big question mark over Solas after her decision to rehabilitate the Wardens and their quarrel in Redcliffe, Varric who’s still struggling with Cole, her clan who… She doesn’t want to think about them. Or, some nerves for the upcoming Winter Ball, now approaching closer and closer.

Oh, she’s maybe ready for the Ball, or as ready as she’ll ever be. Josephine, sweet and clever Josephine, has organised a series of formal dinners with this and that fancy noble, to ease her into the Game with far less at stake. This is one of those evenings: the Great Hall, now fully functional and polished to a shine is elegantly decorated with tables and candles to welcome guests, everyone in her inner Circle who wished to participate in their best clothes, the small string quintet Josie has found and hired to teach her dancing is softly playing in a corner a suite from a composer she really likes. It’s a nice evening, for a formal dinner, she didn’t mix the forks, not even once, the food was good and Sera has still not barged in with a full beehive.

And yet, she’s ill at ease in her skin and can’t wait to just jump on her horse and leave. Even if the next planned mission is in the Dirthavaren and it’s not going to be pleasant from the reports. She is irked by staying there and look pretty and play pretend and not being able to do what she wants. For example, her favourite passacalle just started and she can’t just leave Comte and Comtesse de Renard to grab Dorian and start dancing because she’d love to and they always have so much fun with passacalles.

But no, she reckons that this is all useful, so she puts up a nice smile, sips another bit of the sweet wine (the “stale molasses” in Dorian’s word, but he’s been scolded by Lady Montilyet to be on his best behaviour too) and just nods and reply something absolutely inconsequential over fox-hunting and riding in the countryside, shifting the topic to just riding with ease, at least.

The music changes to something slower, and the de Renards excuse themselves to go and dance, leaving her alone – for the wild luxury of maybe five minutes, if she’ll be very lucky and Josephine won’t notice her. So, she walks to the side, nodding to other people, gently raising her gown with a swish of green silk and petticoats underneath as she steps down to reach one of the tables and sit down for a while. The evil contraptions she has on her feet started to hurt, and between that and her growing antsier and more impatient… She needs to sit down. And so she does, placing her glass on the table as both hands discreetly fixes her skirt to sit on it without wrinkling the precious fabric, fixing the gown under her bottom before sinking on the chair and slipping her feet out of the shoes. Another sip of wine to hide the satisfied smile of toes blissfully splaying on the cool stones beneath them, pressing flat and wide and free, finally. Long skirts at least are useful to hide these little much needed moments of rebellion. She didn’t think she would have liked them, but… They weren’t so bad.

But it doesn’t last long, unluckily for her: not even the time to finish her wine, and Josephine’s there with her, looking like a jewel on herself in a dress of light, sheer silk that’s similar to what she usually wears but in a cut that’s more forgiving and loose, leaving her shoulders bare, more fit for a soirée.

“Josie!”

Mistake. Josie pouts, clicking her tongue over her palate.

“Lady Montilyet or Ambassador, now, Lady Inquisitor.” She chides her, softly. “Can I steal you for a moment, or has someone asked you to dance?”

“No, Dorian’s…” Where’s Dorian, exactly? Which is by now the only one who invites her to dance in these occasions. She looks around her, but the mage is nowhere to be found. “…Lord Pavus took flight.”

Aisling states, frowning and pouting in offence that he just managed to slip away from the room without her. She’s gonna put salt in his coffee, tomorrow. As a retaliation for not even letting her know the nearest escape route and leaving her there to envy him a lot.

“Yes, I think he slipped into the gardens…” Josie whispers, soft enough that just she can hear, before clearing her throat, with an apologetic smile on her face. “On that matter… Duc and Duchesse de Mourny expressed their… Interest in speaking with you directly.”

“Why would that be related?” She asks, suspecting something.

“They have expressed… Opinions on Lord Pavus’ upbringing.”

“I see.” Maybe no salt in his coffee, then. She sighs, slipping back into her shoes and raising up, gulping down the remnant of her wine -Josie scoffs but she cares not, she’s gonna need it- and leaving the glass on the table. “Let’s go.”

“You look lovely in this dress, by the way.” Josie adds, satisfied. She chose all of her formal dresses after all, Aisling just put some words in colours and in staying away from too many frills and ruffles, which is really not her style.

“You too, you look like you’re out of a painting! Yellow looks so good on you.”

“As long as I don’t look out of my sister’s paintings.”

“Why so? Is she bad?”

“No… It’s that Yvette never finishes them. I would hate being here with half a gown, you see.”

They giggle together at that, walking on the other side of the room, close to the door that leads to the Undercroft. The Duc and the Duchesse are there, talking with Cullen and Leliana, and they may be the most richly dressed people in the room: the invitations to the soirée clearly specified it wasn’t that formal of an event, but they must have missed the line. They’re both dressed in the most precious and translucent brocades and silks, in clothes that would be fit for a gran gala. The Duc’s mask is made of pure silverite encrusted in sapphires, the same sapphires that adorns the heavy necklace and earrings of his wife, face hidden by a mask of ivory very delicately carved in a net of flowers and vines. Her raven black hair is up on her head and made even higher by a pair of ostrich feathers that looks as soft as snow and dwindles in every little minute movement of her head. They would make even Vivienne run for the prize of best-dressed, and Aisling suddenly feels underdressed and very much like the chubby and clumsy chick of a cuckoo, with her dress that yes, it’s silk and has a round of lace to embellish the wide neckline, but that’s it.

Rule number one, tho, the one Leliana always insists onto: don’t let them know, act like you’re in control. And Lavellan’s good at control. So, she just smiles and hints a curtsey to them both, checking her movement, not going too deeply down, just the necessary. They exchange with a nod of their heads, the Duchess waves her fan -ostrich feathers for that as well of course- and Aisling instantly knows they’re not there to have a good evening.

“Your Graces, it’s such a honour to have you finally here. Please forgive me for not being able to welcome you to Skyhold before.”

“Bien-sure, Inquisitor. Your advisers were just informing us of how busy you all are, no need for you to reiterate.” The Duc says, dismissively. The lack of Lady speaks volumes.

“This war won’t be easily won, Your Graces, but the busier we are, the quicker peace will be restored, hopefully. I am enchanted that it still gave us the chance to meet.”

“Such lovely words and such a lovely girl all for our pleasure, isn’t it, darling?” The Duchess chortles, mirthlessly. “So polite and charming, even speaking to nobles from the Empire she favours less!”

“Your Graces” Josephine speaks, as polite and diplomatic as ever. “I’m sure you’d realise that the Inquisition was founded by will of the late Divine Justinia as an organisation that’s super-partes. Lord Pavus’ presence is detached from the Magisterium, and honours that will.”

“Mais certainement, ma chère Josephine, the institution was never in doubt. One would wonder, tho, where the true master of its pretty head lies, seeing the lenience she has for Magisters and people who were in their service.”

Dorian ran, it was for his upbringing. So, that’s it. She can see in the corner of her eyes Leliana casually moving her eyes on her, without saying a word. Expectantly. And Cullen clenching his fist on itself, reaching for the pommel of a sword that isn’t there. At least she didn’t call her rabbit. And at least now she knows that the danger lies in the Duchess, not the Duc.

“I apologise for giving you the wrong impression, Your Graces. I’m really desolate my conduct led you to think so poorly of me, but your concerns aren’t founded. Lord Pavus is far from the Magisterium, and I just freed people who were unfairly tricked in conditions of servitude. I’m sure you learnt of Magister Erimond.”

“We did, Inquisitor.” The Duchess smile, a satisfied curl in her smile. “We learnt that the Archon himself gave you space to deal with him as you saw fit. And after the disaster that was Adamant... The occupation of Orlesian forts in the Approach... One wonders.”

Oh, she hates this. She hates having to justify herself to a woman who never saw more than her own monthly blood. People who killed but never by their own hands, never in front of their eyes. Josie warned her. Josie knew. Aisling thought she was prepared, but she’s not. She schools herself as best as she can, smiling amiably as she tries to think of anything that isn’t an insult to reply.

But it’s not her who speaks.

Weirdly enough, it’s Cullen to step forward and clearing his throat, catching the attention of the pair.

“One would argue, tho, what would have become of the Approach should the Inquisition have chosen to leave the matter to Orlais, and whether the Empress had means to face that threat or the War without us, right now.”

"How quaint.” The Duc smiles, venomous. “Ignoring all our effort to end the Civil War and taking all the merit for yourself. It was me who conceded Citadelle du Courbeau to the Empress, after all, and the strategic position will eventually allow her Generals to win. But what would a Fereldan country boy know? If I’m not wrong, all your experience resides in the Circles of Kinloch and Kirkwall … A couple of remarkably positive examples.”

“A Fereldan country boy who’s responsible to the aid to your own lands, your Graces.” Chimes Leliana in, smiling sweetly at the Duc. “You should thank him and the Inquisitor for their effort in freeing them from the Civil War, so you will be able to spend the summer in Fort Revasan, which Gaspard’s troops luckily conquered with no damages at all to the structure. I heard there’s a lovely view over the river from there.”

And that line, sweet as honey and sharp as a knife, has the effect of silencing the two. The Duchesse’s smile grows strained at the corners, and the Duc just scoffs, clearing his throat and not able to reply anymore without confirming that they had, indeed, conceded the other fort to Gaspard. Josie gently elbows her, signalling that it’s her turn to calm the situation down, and Aisling swiftly replies.

“Our main effort, Your Graces, is only towards peace. People, soldiers and nobles alike have suffered enough in the last year, and this only enforces Corypheus’ and the Venatori’s threat. But I am sure we can all forget about the war and just enjoy the soirée, now, if you wish to discuss business, we could arrange a tea tomorrow.”

The Duchesse snaps to her, her smile widening with a threat and swaying her fan gently as she but turns to Josephine, without deigning Aisling of a direct answer.

“What a remarkable work you’re doing with her, Lady Montilyet. Your dear mother would be so proud! One would almost think her a Lady, and not the wild rabbit that she is. A pity you couldn’t do anything for her poor looks. Without the ears, those horrible marks on her face and the poor dress, the illusion of a politician would really be complete.”

It’s not the first time she’s been called rabbit. It’s the first time that she’s not being addressed directly with the insult, and treated like she’s not even there. It adds to the jab, and by the way the Duchesse’s eyes darts to her on the side, it’s all orchestrated. She freezes with a smile on her face, thinking of everything else and just reacting with her hands clenching slightly in front of her, over the little bow on the belt hiding the hem of the corset. They cut her out, and she can’t reply without-

“We have different opinions on what a Lady is, Your Grace.” It’s Cullen to interrupt, again, badly hiding the chagrin in his tone as he pronounces the honorific. “We may all be too simple for your taste, but at the end of the day, modesty and humbleness will get you through the winter. It will get through the winter even the people you left on their own devices in your lands, left helpless and with no shelter or resources so you could afford gemstones and feathers. Our Lady has no need to cover the smell of rot with fancy ornaments, her actions shine more loudly than the most precious of diamonds.”

Was Aisling able to move her eyes, she would see Leliana smirking, an amused glint in her eyes as she observes the situation unfurling, she would see the Duc and Duchesse grumbling and falling on themselves, hear their answer lose its bite. And yet, she’s fixed on Cullen’s eyes, grateful for the saving, with him looking back at her earnestly, steadfast and proud as ever, like a rock in a storm. Thinking better of it, it’s not the first time he saved her, even if she never saw him this polished and elegant, a fancy jacket in the place of the armour, under the usual cape, face neatly shaved – no, that’s a pity, some stubble really suits him better. Has he ever had such pretty eyes or it’s just his words? She muses, not able to look away as she feels even more restless than before. She can’t make up her mind whether she’s blushing for real or if it’s just an impression. All that exist, for a moment, is just him, the deep, warming respect and complete trust in his eyes and words, and the look they’re holding on between them.

It's gratefulness that makes her heart beat faster, sure, but maybe it’s something else, a doubt in her thoughts creeping its way up.

Her train of thoughts is abruptly interrupted by Josephine, elbowing her again casually as she clears her throat. Aisling startles, suddenly even more restless and antsy in her skin, but snapping back to the present, as Josie finally concludes one of the most unpleasant exchanges in the last series of dinners and teas with aristocrats.

“Now, this is too lovely an evening to talk about War, Your Graces. Shall we forget all unpleasantries and enjoy the rest of the soirée? You haven’t told me how did you find the canard à l’orange. We heard it’s your favourite.”

Aisling doesn’t care of the duck. It was delicious and tart and she loves citruses in savoury dishes as well, now. But, she’s still with the deep need of running out and find the loose strand of her thoughts, unfurl them one by one and hopefully get a grip over herself. She answers mechanically at a couple of questions that are asked to her, frowns at Leliana who’s still looking at her like the cat who licked the cream, and politely excuses herself out of the group with an excuse, promising everyone and no one in particular that she’ll be back in no time, wishing a nice evening.

Dorian had an escape route. To the gardens, then. She struggles not to raise her skirt with both hands, launch the heeled slippers somewhere -she doesn’t care now, she doesn’t care that they were bought by Mahariel and she treasures the chance to wear them- and just run out and away. All her self-control gets in keeping her pace poised, smiling and nodding at people who greet her along the way, and finally -finally!- open the door to the garden and slip out in a swish of silk.

The air outside is chilly, Spring still too early to warm the evenings up. She doesn’t care about goosebumps, and now, just now, bends down to take both shoes in a hand and finally run to a quiet, dark corner where she can fold on herself and groan loudly, voice muffled by the green silk on her thighs.

It’s friendship.

It’s just friendship.

He did it out of friendship, she would have done the same in an inverted situation.

The word, tho, has now a crack in it. It’s friendship, she counts him as one of her best friends here, after all...

And yet-

She wonders, for the first time, how would it feel to thread her finger in his hair and undo whatever he did with so much pomade to keep it in order.

She shouldn’t think these things. He’s her Commander, they’re at war and he’s her friend.

And yet-

---

“So.”

“Your move.”

“Mh-hm.”

Cullen really should have avoided Dorian. He thought, the former evening when they chatted some at the dinner party, before the Dukes picked on him quite roughly and he disappeared all of a sudden. And yet no, they’re here playing chess as usual, and the Tevinter is looking at him with a smug, knowing face and half a smile under his moustaches as he moves a pawn absent-mindedly.

“Flowers, eh?” Dorian smirks, going straight to the point.

“It’s spring, they happen to bloom so much South as well. Your move.” Cullen grumbles, moving a piece and setting it down less gracefully.

“And they happen to grow in carefully planned bouquets that I’m not so sure were just a thought for the dwindling stash of our pretty, pretty Inquisitor?”

So, he knows. Cullen takes his time to reply, pondering over his next move. There is a number of tactics Dorian could be using with the pieces he already moved. But if months of chess with him taught him one thing, that is that the Mage is very quick in changing strategy and jumping from one to the other, adapting to the adversary. It is not impossible to beat him, but tricky, and he has to pay attention. That the attention needed is also a nice benefit in not having the conversation with him, it’s all a nice side benefit.

“Because you know.” Dorian keeps on, casually, countering his move quickly. “I didn’t know what to say when she arrived in the library, yesterday, and thanked me for some plants I told you to get her, and I had absolutely no idea about.”

As casually as it is said, the tale makes Cullen stop his hand mid-air, before actually closing on a particular piece on the board. Dread filling him with the realisation that maybe… So that’s what why Aisling looked at him like she swallowed a frog, yesterday evening? She knew all along?

“… Did you-”

“Andraste’s hairy toes, who do you think I am, Sera?” Dorian snorts, indignant. “Of course I didn’t tell her. Next time, tho, send a note if I have to cover you up. Maker knows how she did not question why I should have been talking with you about her plant stash.”

And with that, the Tevinter moves his bishop, as per usual destroying the idea Cullen was caressing about the adversary’s strategy and leaving him with no precise direction about where to go. Before moving, so, he answered.

“Thank you, I… I didn’t expect her to- Ah, thank you. I don’t know whether there’ll be a second time.”

Ah. Pawn moved, blocking the bishop and a couple of other possible moves he could have attempted with that. Hopefully that will hinder him some, and by the way Dorian contracts his eyebrows and hesitates a minute before moving, he managed.

“Why so?”

“She’s… Are you ok with this?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?” Dorian asks, forgetting about chess to look at him, puzzled. “… Don’t tell me you believed those rumours, please, I can’t bear with another one who questions it. She’s like a sister, I wouldn’t touch her. Well, not like that, for the rest it would be difficult not to, she’s basically an octopus- But I’m getting distracted. You were saying? Ah.”

And, he changed strategy yet again. Or was following one that Cullen was struggling to follow. Could be both, knowing how he played.

“I was asking because you care for her and…”

“And, she’s not mine to give away. Go on, she likes you and this is a boring conversation. Rest assure I’ll set your cloak on fire if you hurt her. And for the rest, before you ask me and drag this conversation further… She’s touchy and looks at actions, not at words, and you may want to tell her that you’re not into the Iron Bull. Now-” He urges, moving his knight and gesturing at Cullen, at the end of his speech, slouching down on his sittee. “-Would you please take your head out of the clouds and play?”

“Yes, I’m sorry.” He sighs, some of his worries lifted from his shoulders. Enough for him to consider his move and finally pick up a rook, blocking an opening to his King.

Still…

“Wait.” After a couple of moves, some pawns have left the board, but the match is still on. “Into the Iron Bull? How did she- I mean, you think that-?” Oh he didn’t want to blush, but he felt his face hot.

Sure, there has been that one time Aisling asked some very specific questions. But she never picked the topic up again and… And yet, as he thinks about it, she has been pushing him to go drink with the Qunari, after Erimond. They were both tipsy at that point, and he didn’t pay it much mind. But-

“It’s ok.” Dorian says, calmly. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. It’s just natural, some people like fish, some like meat, others like both. You can stop pretending, at least with me. Honestly it’s pretty evident.”

“… Evident? I’m not- I don’t-”

Cullen considers digging his own grave for pure embarrassment. So much so that he makes a bad move, allowing Dorian to take one of his rooks with his bishop, forcing him to switch strategy and play defense. He grumbles, loudly, as he reconsiders, but the Altus just looks at him sceptically.

“You’re not? Sitting like that? Come on.”

Cullen instantly minds his posture and straightens his back, pulling his knees together, clearing his throat as he did a thousand times back in his training. He still remembers, if he concentrates, the sharp pain of the reeds the Mother used to snap at him and at the others recruits who misbehaved, and the response was by now immediate.

Dorian just laughs at that, tho, but is luckily delicate enough to show some mercy and changed the topic.

Half a hour later, Cullen loses his match with flying colours, distracted by other thoughts -first of which to keep his sitting and his posture perfectly still, which indeed required a lot of attention more than he would have thought. For once, tho, Dorian’s not smug.

Or at least, less smug than usual.

The board is set again.

---

Aisling’s for once thankful that her room is so awfully big and so awfully detached from the rest of the Keep, when she wakes up screaming after a particularly vicious nightmare.

She scrambles up, sitting upright and watching her fingers in the practiced exercises she knows to realise whether she’s still in the Fade or not. It’s a poor attempt, given how much her fingers are trembling right now, any fine mobility is severely impaired and she grows antsier with frustration at not being able to do it. It’s something that Deshanna taught her as a child and always insisted with both her and Pavyn to keep on practicing every day, all day. She has committed to the exercise, she’s been teaching the same to the Mages she recruited! And yet, now she’s to wrung up, too trembling, her sweaty skin itself feels uncomfortable, and she’s struggling.

She resorts to the second best: close her nose pressing her nostrils with her traitorous fingers, shut her mouth, see if her body needs to catch up with breath. She’s still trembling like a leaf, but eventually her lungs start to burn, and she gags in reflex, gasping for air. Not the Fade, after all. She can relax, sure that’s really her room, really her space and not yet another vision of the Nightmare. She curls on herself and starts crying.

Truth is, she hates sleeping alone, she has never slept alone before Haven, and even if the first few weeks of it felt frizzy and wild with the new-found freedom of spreading and curling up in blankets as much as she wants, no one snoring or waking her up, it quickly faded out. The new bed in Skyhold, insanely big and plush, gave her the enthusiasm back for maybe one night of spreading as large as she could in the middle of it just because she could. But honestly, the only fully restful nights had been before the Western Approach, when Radha shared the room. In this moment, feeling alone and upset by her nightmare, no one to talk to or comfort her, she would give a arm for someone beside her to hug. She’s stayed in Adamant, if not physically, at least with her mind, the Demon had got through to her and managed to convince her, at least in moments when she’s more vulnerable, that she is alone after all. And with the recent news of her Clan being attacked, sleeping on her own at night is becoming rather difficult.

Biting back a whine, she raises her face to look out of the windows: it’s still dark outside. She considers putting on some more clothes and slip in Dorian’s room and take shameless advantage of his kindness. Except, she’s now afraid he may reject her, just tell her to go away because it’s definitely too late or too early, and she’s just being whiny. A little part of her brain tries to tell her that it’s Dorian, he wouldn’t, he would just complain because he likes to complain mindlessly, while giving her one extra pillow and tucking her in without asking. Except, that part is the weakest one. As weak is the one that suggests her that if not Dorian, go to Radha. She knows, she wouldn’t mind, you already did the same so many times, she wouldn’t even need many explanations over sharing a bed platonically. But the night still whispers, and it whispers that they’re not children anymore, she can’t keep on relying on the older elf so much, it won’t do any good to either of them and Aisling knows Radha’s feeling guilty already because when the bridge got destroyed, the Rogue tried to catch her and didn’t manage, and is now blaming herself, hard. She won’t add to her guilt, she won’t make her feel even more miserable, not when she’s staying in Skyhold just because of her.

Without anything better to do or person she feels close enough to seek for help right now, she hugs herself, because she needs a hug and there’s no one around, and keeps on crying.

There’s a pop on her left, and the mattress slightly shift under the weight of someone.

“Lonely, unwanted, nobody can quite reach, I should have stayed, not Stroud, all those deaths are my fault, I killed them, I killed them all. But they’re all still alive.”

It’s Cole, in his dreamy tone. She hasn’t in herself to explain to him that appearing in someone else’s room it’s not quite polite, she just cries more at his words, without replying or even looking at him. She’s vulnerable and she hates being so, but she’s grateful there’s at least one person who can see her, and that makes her cry more.

“I’m not the only one, tho. He’s not sleeping either, he rarely does. Solid, protecting and proud, can see where you can’t, would understand this.”

“Cole, please.”

It’s not the time for that, it’s not the time to be reminded she may have developed some interest. She feels pretty uninteresting right now, little, lonely and guilty. So, so guilty.

“Do you want me to make it better?”

He asks, and she wants to cry because it was her to teach him to ask before acting, at least with people who can see him. She doesn’t need any more clue to unfold herself and throw at him in a hug, circling his bust with her arms and bawling on his chest. He hugs her back a little awkwardly, but doesn’t say anything and lets her feel everything and throw everything out. She squeezes him and tries to concentrate on how grateful she is that he’s here, how fond she is of him and how she wants him to be happy.

“Thank you, Cole.”

When his arms hug her back and she can feel his cheek on her head, a sigh ruffling her hair, she hopes she got through.

---

It’s almost dawn, which means it’s almost a proper time to visit the gardens and start the day, she decides, minding both the doors and her steps to be as quiet as possible, as she exits her quarters and quickly pads through the main hall. It’s still empty, save for a couple of tired guards on night’s watch, whom she waves at in silence. She’s quiet and careful in opening the door, and in closing it behind her, welcoming the crispy air and the cold with joy as soon as she slips in the columnade around the small garden she insisted in dedicating to herb gardening. As she thought, she’s the only one there so early in the morning, but it’s another kind of loneliness than her room. Here it’s more welcoming, the air is fresh and full of the familiar, homey smells of earth and grass wet with dew, and of all kind of greenery that grows. It’s not the perfume of woods and forest of her childhood, but the background humming of Skyhold’s silent presence, welcoming and peaceful, barely caressing the back of her mind, feels like a welcome embrace, feels like peace and quiet and a promise of something good.

Not that she can do much of anything as for actual gardening, as Elan Ve’mal had tactfully made her notice, knowing where plants like to grow in the wild and what to cut and prune to make them grow better has little to nothing to do with where and how they like to grow in vases or in gardens from a seed, and it’s as delicate a matter than combining them for poultices and medicines. So, what she can do to keep herself busy, what Elan has checked that applies for vases and greenhouses as well, is gathering and pruning. That she can do, and that she sets up in doing, grabbing a basket and a pair of scissors from the rack and getting to work.

She sits down on her knees in the patch of Elfroot: the light is still not enough to clearly see colours and details, even for keen elvish eyes, but she has handled enough Elfroot to know from tact alone which leaves are dry and dead and which aren’t, and where to cut the leaves if she goes slow. She’s a little out of it anyway, so she picks leaves indiscriminately and puts everything in the basket. As much as Elan complains about it, nothing gets thrown away of elfroot. It’s mechanical work and it’s all the more grounding, with the dampness of the dewy grass, the pungent smell of the plants and the light, chilly breeze prickling at her ears, everything reminds her that she’s there, not in some distant nightmare. She concentrates on the work and on her body. She’s sleepy and her eyes are still a little dry from having cried, but it’s still too early to nap somewhere, and she doesn’t really feel like it. Not yet.

As the first rays of sun starts to pink the sky and illuminate somewhat more her surroundings, she can assess how the other plants are doing. She really doesn’t want to bother so much as to collect rashvine, she forgot to pick the gloves and they feel too far away to go and fetch on her own -a pity Cole didn’t want to follow her, she muse… But she notices something that reminds her of childhood.

Embrium, two flower beds to her right, is on the verge of blooming. Meaning that the flowers are still closed in little buds of the same red of strawberries… And they’re sweet and sour and delicious. That has her smiling in bittersweet memories, and decides instantly to head there. Before people arrives and she’s caught in the act.

She’s flooded with memories as she settles beside the flowers, smiling at thinking of her, at 6 following Pavyn like a duckling with his mama, hand clutched on his vest and hiding behind his legs when he stopped to greet other clan members, Radha walking quietly behind. The Keeper was out of the camp with the scouts, she was there since too little and still didn’t speak, and the two siblings were usual presences in the Keeper’s aravel and just what she needed. Pavyn and his ability to make friends with a wyvern, and Radha who shared her silence and just… Was there, comforting and reliable, not expecting her to speak or stop crying as the rest of the children. It was her who found the Embrium in bloom, eventually, and Pavyn praised her, leading their already well-established trio towards the flowers. It was the first time she had laughed in weeks and weeks, eating the buds and playing who has the reddest tongue...

She misses dearly the Pavyn of old times. She hopes he is happy, now, back as First by role if not by name, and who knows how long not by that as well.

She’s so lost in thought, rolling one bud between her fingers so it easily detaches from the stem, that she doesn’t hear the door opening and closing behind her. She’s chewing and relishing in the sweetness, when someone startles her with a supposing innocent

“Good morning.”

She jumps on her spot, swallowing badly and instantly starting to choke on a mix of tangy fruit pulp and spit. She pats her chest, bending over and coughing loudly. Deshanna was right in getting angry whenever she caught her eating them, they WERE dangerous.

Someone kneels beside her and starts to fumble around her -she catches some movement with the side of her eyes, but is too preoccupied to not dying to really notice much- before awkwardly patting her back.

“Maker’s Breath, I’m so sorry, are you- Ah, let me call someone. Or-”

“I’m -cough- fine!”

She manages to reply, finally able to swallow properly and breathe after the moment passes and she coughs her airways free. She takes a couple of gulps of air and assessing, finally, that the early visitor is Cullen, who’s now staring at her with worry.

“I’m fine, I swear! I didn’t choke, see?” She takes a big breath, puffing her chest up and exhaling noisily as a show. He chuckles.

“I see. I’m sorry I startled you again, I thought you heard the door.”

“Don’t worry. Serves me right to get so lost in thought, anyway.”

“It was very unwise, tactically.”

She snickers in agreement, and for a minute none of them seems quite sure where to go there. He is quick in getting back his hand from her back, and she notices that since news of her Clan arrived, he’s even of fewer words than usual. At least with her. She clears her throat and thinks of the best thing that comes to mind.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“Not quite. You?”

“Neither.”

She admits, rather sheepishly, and there’s silence again. She would smack her head against a column if she could for making it so awkward. After he kissed her knuckles at Adamant and defended with words of gold against those horrible Duchesse, she was forced to admit that she may have some deeper interest. But, since apparently nothing changed for him and she’ll be dead before repeating another stunt like she did with Cassandra, she must keep as normal too. So, she wills her brain to abandon the idea and not go that way, it’s just that it’s been a difficult night full of nightmares and he’s there, and she’s fragile, and he looks like it’s been a rough night for him as well. Nothing more, she won’t get the bait. But then again, staying there silently looking down won’t do. So…

“Here, try this.”

She says, picking another bud -and that she chooses the biggest and reddest one is merely a coincidence- and offering it to the Commander, with a smile she wishes was confident and not shy. He looks at the bud and at her, raising an eyebrow.

“What’s this?”

“Elven candies.”

“What?”

“Try it!”

She giggles, but he takes her offering nevertheless -still a little suspicious- and tentatively eats the flower, chewing a little before opening up in a surprised expression.

“It’s sweet.”

“See? Embrium buds are so tasty at this stage, They’re really great if you don’t eat too many.”

“Speaking for experience?”

“Mpf, yes. I still remember the cramps, it was awful.” She snorts, picking another one nevertheless and chewing it with a smile.

“How many did you eat?”

“Mh, I don’t know? Ten or more… But I was six and scrawny, so the effect was only worse. The Keeper was so angry at Pavyn… I wonder if he still eats them.” She snickers, absent-mindedly, and doesn’t notice until it’s too late that it’s maybe the first time she spoke of her clan unprompted and unasked for.

“Is Pavyn your brother? You mentioned him in your letter as well…”

“N-no… As if, but not by blood. He’s Radha’s older brother, the other Mage in the clan beside me and the Keeper. We were very close as children and teens but he… Got angry at me when I became First in his place. It was never the same between us, after… And now…”

Her mood drops once again, realising that she may not have a chance to settle things up with him ever again, if things go south in Wycome, rolling another bud between her fingers, absent-mindedly and looking how it stains her fingertips if she pressed enough.

“We’ve sent help, they’ll reach them in time.”

The way he says it, it’s half an order and admits no denial. She almost wants to believe him, but the recent nightmare still gnaws at her heart. She doesn’t want to cry in front of him, tho, so she nods, and get back to the Embrium. There’s light enough to check the leaves.

“Yes, we will.” She simply replies, hating how destituted she sounds. She wants to believe him, she really does.

“I’m-”

“I spoke of them. I was thinking of them, I can’t not think about them. That’s a bittersweet memory even on normal days, you didn’t do anything wrong. Either we’re both sorry, or no one is.” It’s her Keeper tone, the one she uses when she really wants to make a point or be listened to. She casts a glance towards him, see snapping to attention, and nodding. She smiles, hoping to sound reassuring. “Bad dreams?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Wanna help me?”

She asks, kindly, and watching how he raises a brow sceptically at her.

“Are you sure whom you’re asking to help with gardening?”

“Are you sure you know who is asking it in the first place?” She laughs, softly.

“You’re great with plants.”

“I’m decent at using plants. Not at growing them. Dalish, remember? We forage and care for the plants we meet, not grow them in vases.” She offers him the scissors, invitingly. He doesn’t seem so sure of it, but accepts them nevertheless, huffing through his nose and raising to his knees beside her.

“All right. But if Elan Vem’al gets angry, she’s all yours.”

“Oh, she’ll know it’s me. Just cut the dry leaves out, see? These ones… There, yes.”

“And no eating the flowers.”

“Ah! Nope, that’s enough.”

They fall into work side by side, and it’s easy enough to snap dead leaves with her fingers, no matter how cold and chilly they’re getting in the morning. The sun is rising, and the clouds are getting pink and lilac, and not being on her own really helps. Silence with Cullen is comfortable, it always has been outside of the moments, lately, when she’s too occupied in thinking she would really like to tread her fingers in his hair and see why exactly Varric calls him Curly and she’s afraid she’s readable enough for him to see. But if he does, he’s delicate enough not to mention it. And now, with hands occupied and her minds upon something she has control and -some- knowledge about, everything is back as usual. Comfortable, and warm. He isn’t apparently, because this time it’s him that breaks the silence.

“You know you can- Ah, I meant.” He starts fumbling again, after a while.

“Yes?”

“I came here because Cole told me.”

She was smiling, but her smile drops instantly, turning back to the flowers and working quicker -antsier- than before.

“Did he.”

“He told me to check on you.”

She shakes her head, vigorously. She has just regained a parvence of stability and peace, she would not go back there again.

“I’m fine, it was just a nightmare. You should not be worrying about me.”

“I worry because I can relate, and I know what happens if you go on like this.”

“I’m not-”

“I’m sorry but-”

He gets closer and gently -too gently that she’s not startled again- grabs her left wrist with his hand, effectively stopping her from her frenzied pruning. His hand is cold against her skin, but she shivers involuntarily.

“I’ve seen you getting so riled up and crumbling not too long after, for tiredness and nerves. I don’t mean to pry or tell you what to do, but please, I- Ah.”

He seems to gain knowledge of exactly how close they got, his shoulder pressed against hers, her arm still in his hand. She can’t look up but it’s something, right? She hears him swallow, and move the other hand -calmly and slowly, giving her plenty of time to move back or give him a signal to stop. She doesn’t, so he gently moves her face sideways and up with warm fingers, so she’s looking at him. Cole was right, he is steadfast and solid, and she feels even more tired than before.

“I only meant to say that if you want to talk, I can listen. Or if you prefer Dorian, Cassandra or Josie or Solas, just please, tell me you need some time, I’ll manage to spare you some hours. Just-“ He sighs, and shakes his head, averting his gaze, she feels his finger under her chin contracting minutely. “-If you get to worry about me I get to worry about you, right? You’re not on your ow- oomph!”

She can’t take it anymore. Fuck ruining friendships or minding his supposed attention for personal space. Aisling Lavellan expresses her feelings physically, and through physical touch. So, since she’s a second before crying, she launches herself forward and circle his bust with both her arms, hugging him tight. She’s started to cry again and she will be embarrassed by it in some minutes. Right now, she relishes the fact that Cullen’s not wearing armour, for once, and crying on his chest is warm and comforting, and she hopes he can feel how much that means to her.

“Thank you.” She just says.

“I’m here.”

Which may sound stupid and so close she can hear him grumble and groan in embarrassment. It makes her giggle, it’s endearing and adorable, and she just hugs him tighter, grateful. She’ll need to bring some sweets to Cole, or show him where her secret candy stash number 2 is. But right now, she just moves a little away from him -ignores that her heart is stupidly beating faster than usual- to look at him in the eyes.

“I’m here as well. If you want to talk about it.” She declares maybe too solemnly that what would be needed, but. “I mean, if you want… It helped me, speaking about it, and-”

He smiles, shaking his head fondly and just dragging her again in another hug, holding her tight.

“Thank you.”

He just says, and even if he doesn’t say anything, it’s comforting and Aisling can feel him melting slightly around her, as he sighs heavily and hugs her tighter.

Chapter Text

Cullen,

Since I know you will ask this if I don’t say it: I’m fine and healthy.

I think I spent too much in the report saying what is wrong with this place, so here I’ll try to focus on the nice things. I need some nice things, now, amongst the destruction and pain, don’t you?

Well, we were clearing the Western Ramparts the other day, and I found a couple of Embrium flowers, grown right in the middle of a walkway, up between two wooden planks. I don’t know how they resisted, and how come no corpse or demon trampled them… But we turned a corner and there they were, in full bloom, swinging gently in the breeze, a speck of colour in all that mess. It was beautiful and hopeful. I picked them myself, pressed them tight into my notebook. Those, I won’t use.

The clan in Halin’sulahn… I can see why Keeper Hawen was on the cautious side, I really can. I did all those errands with pleasure, it was no trouble and it felt good helping out. But… How to explain.

I left Little Brother graze with the hallas, Hahren Ithiren allowed him to stay with them. You should have seen him, he was so funny and so out of place. Taller than the rest, acting all smug because finally he’s not the smallest animal around… Instantly visible and different for his black spots.
I feel a little like it here, in the clan. Similar to the rest, fitting in their rhythm… But not quite the same anymore. Did you feel like that too in Kirkwall, before Cassandra came to recruit you?

And here I am, writing of depressing things! I’m sorry, it has been tiresome and I can’t wait to get back. I considered staying a little more with the clan, they need help in supplying since the War prevented them from accessing some areas richer in materials. I told the Scouts to lend them a hand and share what they have, but I think I’d better get back. At least until the bridge will be repaired and the other passage cleared.

On this matter… I need to ask you a favour. I’m planning on getting on the road back tomorrow, the day after at the worst (that is, if something else doesn’t happen. Tell Josie I’m very sorry about it, but if anyone else starts evoking Arcane Horrors and corpses I’m gonna set every fortress on fire myself). But, in case Solas reaches there first… Can I ask you to please ask Frida if she can bring him a cup of hot cocoa, low on the sugar, with whipped cream and cinnamon? If he asks why: I found the recipe in some old inscription in the ruins, here, that I managed to translate, and I need him for an accuracy check, to see if I got every term correctly or something tastes foul. Or I don’t know, invent something.

Since you’re there, have a cup of cocoa yourself because I know you skipped lunch anyway, and even if not, you always work so hard and deserve a treat.

*a doodle of Cullen, furry cloak and a cute scowl on his face and a steaming cup at the end of his arm, a little more accurate than usual, says that “I really really do!”. There’s another arrow pointing at the doodle, but whatever was written there has been scribbled out.*

I’ll stop before I get boring, this is really taking forever and you’ll be annoyed by now. I don’t know whether to ask you to tell me how you’re doing and if there are some news around the Keep, if you found something interesting or if you got to the Tavern to exercise a little before asking me for a drinking game again. I suppose by the time your letter will reach me I will be able to ask you in person.

But, no, you know what? Write me nevertheless, I’d love to read it anyway. Tell me everything and please, don’t spare the details.

See you soon,

Aisling

---

Aisling did consider staying in Halin’sulahn with the clan. Keeper Hawen already told her that she and Radha were welcomed to stay as long as they liked, after gaining the trust of the clan.

But, in the end, she packed her things and set the party to ride back home.

Too many days cleaning up the battlements from demons has been horrible - why did it turn always to demons? Why did humans think that the solution to every problem was “Let’s raise the deads and see what happens”? Dorian either agreed that it was too much and too creepy and done wrong, and he’s a Necromancer. It has been horrible, long and depressing to see the Dirth reduced in that sorry state, a plagued countryside where nobody could live anymore, fields destroyed and unkempt, houses reduced to dust… A bridge in shambles. The implications of how they managed to reduce Dirtharaven clenched her heart painfully, got her enraged with both Celene and Gaspard, and with none at all. Spending some times with the Dalish, with her own people, didn’t bring the comfort she hoped it would have.

She wrote to Cullen, in a personal letter attached to the usual report. It was… Weird. Like she was telling him things, but not the important one. Not the one she wanted to say. And how to tell him, tho, and what? Remember when you hugged me in the garden, you’re really not touchy and I’m getting mixed signals and having ideas and butterflies in my stomach, is it just me? Also, that time you helped me with that horrible Duchess? That was very sexy. No, that wouldn’t do, and she won’t repeat another Cassandra if that was the last thing she ever did. But, this was more intense than with her, this wasn’t just that she found him pleasant to look at and she was feeling lonely. This was Cullen and they were friends, there was much more at stake. She didn’t want to lose his friendship and… And they had to work together in close contact. She couldn’t risk the Inquisition, it was a bad idea.

But, these were fleeting thoughts for the evening, when she was left alone, and thankfully the clan gave her enough to do to keep her busy and distracted from thoughts that would have made most of the members frown hardly at her. She did everything and put real effort in it, she did errands and chores and ran after the Golden Halla - the most stubborn, diffident, haughty halla she EVER saw, making her pondering whether strongly preferring horses over hallas was blasphemy, for a Ghilan’nain devotee. The clan trusted her. She couldn’t shake the feeling of always being slightly out of place, nonetheless, no matter how hard she tried.

And yet, as much as she needed to feel… Whatever she was feeling in the clan and come to terms with the crippling certainty that sooner or later she would have to choose one thing over the other and it wasn’t a choice she could do. As much as she needed it, she felt like she needed to have a chat and check on Solas.

Oh, they found his friend. Bound and corrupted and trapped by a group of inexperienced mages. It wasn’t even a choice: she grabbed Bull and let Dorian, Solas and Radha cover them as they made their way around the summoning circle, breaking one ward after the other, Aisling covering the Qunari -the most phased, heavily cursing and ill at ease Qunari ever- from the Pride Demon’s assaults and loose spells coming their way. There was nothing to be done, and… and she couldn’t think Solas could actually get that upset, honestly. Radha managed to stop him from doing something he would have regretted, Aisling talked him down the rest of the way… And with that he just went, promising to get back to Skyhold. She sent Radha after him, if she wanted -and she wanted it, and that was it.

So, she got back to Skyhold sooner than the necessary - it wasn’t like she had much to do on the field whilst the bridge was being rebuilt and the passage in the cliff opened, anyway. Thus, she told Leliana, Josephine and Cullen - her heart totally did not skip a beat when Cullen greeted her with a lopsided smile that bent the scar on his upper lips weirdly and made her ponder how would it feel like kissing it, thank you very much she wasn’t 15 anymore. The Council was kept short and readjourned to the next morning, and so she was free to get to the Rotunda, where Solas was.

She got informations, learnt that he made his way back just the day before.

So, she now quietly knocks on the stone archway that opened to the rotunda, not entering unannounced or surprising him as he is intently considering a section of the wall that was still unpainted. She clears her throat as well, for good measure, waiting for his reaction.

Which comes calm and poised.

“Inquisitor.”

The smile on his face is strained at the corners, forced. He isn’t well, Aisling can tell.

“Hello.”

“Radha is back too, she’s in her room.”

“Thank you. But actually, I was looking for you.”

He pauses, frowning minutely at her.

“Can we talk?” She prods, tentatively, moving just one step in the room and no more. “It’s ok if you don’t want to.”

Solas considers it, studying her as minutely as he did with the walls, as he did with his calculation over the datas collected by the artifacts they activated, as he did with the mysterious shards or as he does all the time with anything that really catches his attention. It is… Unsettling. But, she doesn’t flinch. As she would with a horse or an animal: show weakness, falter, and they’ll interpret it as a signal to either fight or fly. So, she keeps perfectly still, measuring her breath, trying to look unthreatening.

As much as the older elf scolded her for approaching him like a horse before, it works.

“Go on.”

“I wanted to say I’m sorry. And to thank you for coming back, you… You didn’t have to.”

He looks down, some minute cracking in his composture showing grief.

“I… wanted to talk to you too. Can we move to somewhere more… Private?”

---

She opens the door to her balcony, bringing the candy stash number 1 out from its hidden place to put on the railing, opened. Sera didn’t quite reach the bottom, luckily, nor Frida threw everything away as she took advantage of her absence to tidy the room and put everything back into its proper place. As a result, there is still something inside the jar.

They speak, for the first time without quarrelling or reducing the interactions to a minimum after the weeks that passed since Adamant, and as delicate and probing as it sounded, it is a relief.

Aisling asks him about Wisdom and about when and if it may come back to existance, reminds him that he needn’t be alone in his grieving. She is delicate, overly delicate and walking on eggshells even more than usual, letting him talk and limiting to make some question and express empathy over his loss. Empathising on Spirits, after meeting Cole, is not hard at all in the end. Luckily, it seems to reach him somehow, even if it doesn’t smooth the deep crease between his eyebrows nor relaxes his lips into less than a thin, pained line.

After a couple of minutes of pause, apparently it is his turn for questions: and Solas’ are about the Anchor. Not in his usual probing at her health, how much it itches and if she has found some differences in using it. No, this is…

“Has it affected you? Changed you in any way? Your mind, your morals, your… Spirit?”

It strikes Aisling for the first time that he’s maybe as much on eggshells around her as she is with him. Now, in the moment of most vulnerability he has ever seen him, there’s something more relaxed, less upkept and carefully shaped for outward presentation. No, he looks… She has to squint, reflecting about it and trying to read him. Fear? Is that…?

“I don’t believe so.”

“Ah.”

There. He averts his eyes. He’s ill at ease, Aisling wouldn’t know if that’s because the question was far more personal than they ever went with the other, ever, or what else. She can’t see the point in being ill at ease for a simple, unrelated question. Unless…

“Why do you ask?”

Solas exhales slowly, gently shaking his head and fixing the mountains before them without really seeing them. Aisling could swear she could hear wheels and mechanisms turn and run inside his skull. She can’t make out why on earth would he do such a question, and why it is so important, the curiosity gnawing at her brain and something bad rising up from her stomach, at the implications of such a statement. But as much as she doesn’t understand what’s his point, as much as she can make out ten horrendous scenarios of decaying health, brains rotting and this and that…

… This is not about her. So, she does what she would with a friend, hoping not to step too far yet again. She moves closer, crossing her arms on the railing beside him, at a safe distance not to have him feel overwhelmed, and ask again.

“Is it something you’re worried about?”

She asks, softly. No answer, yet again.

“Can you talk? Is… Is the Anchor going to affect me?”

He shakes his head. So, no or not going there. Got it. Not wanting to press him further, she just waits. The sun is still too weak to fend the chill of the mountains, she quickly casts the hint of a heating spell, concentrating just a moment to launch it over them both, warming the air. Absent-mindedly, she spreads her left hand in front of her, flexing and turning it and thinking. After the Breach was closed, all she feels is a dull itch that she can ignore easily, like a wound right on the verge of closing. It grows sharp when there are Fade Rifts around and her hand is dull for some time after she closes one. But otherwise, it seems good. Bearable. She wonders how much will it last, if the burning pain of the Redcliffe of the future was caused by the Breach grown so big, or if it was a taste of what was to come.

“You show a wisdom I have not seen since…” Solas starts speaking again, words measured and somewhat unsure, for once. He interrupts himself minutely, frowning at nothing in particular before continuing, surer in his words. “… Since my deepest journeys into the ancient memories of the Fade. You… You are not what I expected.” A pause. He already told her so. “I meant to say this, in Redcliffe. It came out wrong.”

It’s Aisling’s turn to frown at that. Partly from how many holes there are in that speech and… And there’s something that just sits very wrong with her.

“Thank you for clarifying. But I’m just like everyone else, Solas, I’m not… I’m not different. You sound like… I mean, thank you, but there’s hardly anything special about me.”

“Perhaps not in the form of your body, no.” He insists, morosely.

Probably that would have been it, but Aisling frowns and looks away, distressed. It’s not the time to disagree and make a speech about why exactly being different is not anything she aspire at, quite the opposite. This is tentative, this is a bridge and they’re standing in the middle of it. And she doesn’t want to destroy it. If something of her train of thoughts is caught, at least it is that there is a train of thoughts going on quite fast and with no brakes, right to a precipice, and Solas is the one to break the silence, again.

“What I meant is that you have shown a subtlety in your actions. A wisdom that goes against everything I expected. A… A kindness that is rare.” He huffs, turning to her. “If the Dalish has raised someone with a spirit like yours… Have I misjudged them?”

It’s a sincere question, a curious one. Not a rhetorical demand that already knows an answer and is meant to prod at her preparation on a certain topic.

“We’re far from perfect, and some clans are… Overly closed-minded.” She shrugs, turning to smile at him, tentatively. “But it happens for every other people on earth. No one is fully bad or good. We try our best to respect and reconstruct our history and keeping true to our values, and there’s something worth honouring.” She muses, going a little further in her reasoning.

“Perhaps that is it.” He chuckles, true to his nickname. “I suppose it must be. Most people act with so little understanding of the world… But not you.”

“So… What does this mean, Solas?” She asks, not really sure where he wants to go.

“It means that I respect you deeply, Inquisitor. And that I have disturbed you enough for one evening.”

He turns and kicks to go, but she’s quicker.

“Lethallan.” She says, stopping him.

“What?”

“Lethallan. Or… I don’t know, call me Aisling, or even da’len. But, not Inquisitor, please. I am sorry for how harsh I was in Redcliffe, I was frustrated and stressed and I should have measured my words. But I meant it when I said that I want no empty courtesy from you. I’d like to get back to friends, or whatever you think we were before Adamand, if you’d like. I… I have a name. I’m not a role.”

No answer comes, and just as Aisling is convinced that he’s quietly walked out of the room, leaving her alone and thinking Creators knows what about her request, he’s approaching her on the railing again, mimicking her position prodded with both vambraces on the flat of the stone.

“It’s a heavy burden, isn’t it?” There we are with the rhetorics. There’s no cutting aggressiveness in it, tho, but some sort of tenderness he very rarely shows. Something she always saw him show with Cole, or with Spirits.

“I can shoulder it. I chose it, but… Sometimes yes. You’re Hahren, I consider you such and I care for you, and I hope you don’t see just the role, but a person.”

“I do. I didn’t realise you got so attached.”

“We had fun with Dorian, experimenting all together, hadn’t we?” She smiles, he chuckles.

“It would be funnier if you both weren’t trying to kill yourself in the most horrible way possible… But yes.”

“We aren’t! Bull won’t give us the recipe of Gaatlok anyway, not even tell us how close we are, so you see, the Keep is safe.”

He chuckles again, stating it a victory. To properly celebrate it, Aisling bumps her shoulder with his, playfully, and picks a couple of candies from the jar, handling him one and eating the second. It’s a small morsel, two nutty biscuits with jam in the middle. They eat in silence, slowly crunching and savouring it.

“Solas?”

“Yes?”

“Radha is a good one.”

“Inqui- Lethallan.”

“I’m just saying! You both smile more with the other around, you like to explain and she likes to learn and listen. You’re cute together, I’m happy you’re friends.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“She’s my sister, so she is. Mind protections and have fun.” He gurgles a grumble, she giggles. “And if you hurt her, I’ll punch you.”

“Is that supposed to intimidate me?”

Effectively, she wasn’t tall or particularly muscular. But he was lanky, and she was training. So she just scoffed and ate another biscuit.

“It is. You can’t tank, as much as you always try.”

“Should I say the same for you and the Commander?”

It’s her turn to gurgle and fumble on her words.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m just saying that it’s pretty evident.”

“What was it?”

“Surely it’s not anything new, lethallan. Not to you.”

“I…” She stops, thinking. “Was it the letters? But I wrote to Josie as well! Sure they weren’t as long, but… Oh, Mythal please tell me I haven’t blabbered when he was around.”

“… Blabbered?” He raises an eyebrow, sceptical, corners of his lips struggling not to curve up.

“Blabbered.” She nods, solemnly.

There’s a pause, of consideration and re-assessing, before Solas snorts a laughter, shaking his head.

“You keep defying expectation.”

“What? I did blabber, didn’t I.”

“You did not. It’s a good thing, defying. Keep people off your back, don’t make yourself predictable.”

“Speaking from experience?”

He turns at her, a playful glint in his eyes.

“Maybe. Not with Templars, tho.”

She swats at his shoulder, both sharing a laugh. It’s good, after so much, it feels like normal again.

“I’m serious on Radha tho. You’d be cute. Unsufferable, talking of History all day long. But cute.”

“It’s really time for me to go.”

A strategic retreat, but it’s not interrupted again. Whatever it is, they’ll figure it out, Aisling has said what she needed. She follows him from three steps behind, accompanying him to the door.

“See you tomorrow for experiments?”

“Only if you’re not planning on setting anything on fire.”

“Can’t promise it.”

“… I’ll bring a bucket of water.”

He sighs, exiting from whence he came. There’s the ghost of a smile on his face, and he does look more relaxed than when he entered. Things were, after all, going to be fine.

---

*a hour prior*

The door to the Inquisitor’s apartment closes behind the two elves, leaving the impromptu public with no more reason to casually group at Varric’s table, faking activities whilst all fixing their gazes on the other side of the Hall. As the wooden door definitely shuts, they all release a sigh, abandoning the whatever excuse they hastily adopted. Dorian stopa twirling his moustache, Varric leaves the quill on the parchment he was writing on, Cassandra closes the book she opened in front of her nose -upside down- and Cullen lowers the random page of Varric’s latest manuscript that he faked was a report.

“You seriously thought they would have believed that all that was casual.” Bull asked, sitting on a chair in the corner, eye darting amongst each one of them.

“Well, what were we supposed to do, staring openly?” Cassandra counters.

“Tiny was suggesting that your book could have been the wrong way down.” Varric points out, earning a disgusted noise -first of the day, but there still was dinner- and tosses the book on the table.

“Do you think that they…?”

Cullen asks, trying to sound innocent about it, and silence falls again, all eyes turning on him asking the question they were all there for, all for different reasons observing how Aisling and Solas suddenly returned to speak to each other without water turning into ice from how cold the exchange was.

“Quizzy and Droopy Ears?” Sera snorts from another chair against the wall, starting to laugh boisterously after a minute. “No freaking way.”

“How are you so sure? They got along pretty well before the siege, and he listened to him with the kid.” Varric asks.

“What, have you looked at them? Droopy Ears has been babysitting the twinsies, that’s all that. Now with Crazy Hawke? That I could believe.”

“Crazy Hawke, Buttercup?”

“Yeah, the Champion, right? Crazy Hawke. Cause she’s nuts, in the good way. The other is Buff Hawke.”

Dorian snorts heavily, Cassandra puffs up her chest, turning towards the elf to scold her for disrespect, as Varric simply folds in half and starts laughing. Cullen as well, who by now is trying to find a loose end for too many thoughts -first her asking him to bring the older elf cocoa, then inviting him in his private quarters, alone-, is brought a little back on earth and chortles as well, amused by the effective differentiation between the two siblings. All too accurate.

“Anyway, in case someone’s interested…” Dorian cuts in. “…I agree with Sera.”

“And you’re the maximum expert on Boss, right fancy pants?” Bull asks, challenging.

“Hit me with a stick. Seriously?”

“Hey, she did it. It was good for her sword arm too, can’t tell the same of trying to make things explode.”

“Vishante kaffas, I won’t deign you of an answer. What I wanted to say was that she runs after him like a lost duckling who spotted an adult. That’s it, no romantic undertone whatsoever.”

“Like the ugly chick of a cuckoo.” It slips out from Cullen’s lips before he can think about it, a smile tugging at his face. Time has passed since she could barely parry, indeed.

There’s silence and he suddenly feels very observed.

“What?” He asks, turning to scowl at everyone and no one in particular. Because they are, all, looking at him.

“Come on, Curly, we all know.”

“Know- Did you?!” He turns to glare at Dorian.

“I didn’t say a word.” He just scowls back, raising up his hands.

“You’re drooling where she walks, Cully-wully, we’re not blind.” Sera snorts.

There’s an affirmative grunt from the Iron Bull, before he confirms with words.

“It’s clear as day, Commander. You may want to stop looking at her like that. Not that it will serve something in practice.”

“Looking at- Wait, why?”

“Because she’s… Oblivious, with men. Tried to flirt with her, once, I don’t think she even realised. Just thanked me for the thought with a smile, hopped her way right on the other way of the fence, Krem’s still laughing.”

“Wait- you what?? When?”

“See? Dorian’s surprised too, meaning she hasn’t told him, meaning she didn’t notice.”

“Oh, she could have just… Not told me.”

“Nah, I heard you on a mission together, come on, you complain about sand in your smalls and she tells you when she needs to pee and what bush she hides behind so you can check nobody’s sneaking up on her. She would have told you, twinsie.”

“I- Still didn’t answer me.” Cullen interrupted them, clearing his throat.

“Hissing Wastes. Was bored. She didn’t flinch at Qunari dealing with sexuality and urges, I asked her if she’d want to give it a go. She just… Told me it would have been a nice way to deal with problems, that people should loosen up, and that was it. Walked right back and asked Dorian if they could make new flasks out of sand. Which they could, by the way, she was all over the place. Was she so oblivious with you too, Seeker?”

“She-”

“She’s just used to being the one to flirt. She realised Ydun liked her back when she kissed her. Wasn’t really in the mood for looking other partners, before she left.” They’re interrupted by none other than Radha, popping out of the library and perching on the hinge of it, absent-mindedly scrolling through pages in a book as she explains. “You were not clear that it was an offering, she didn’t read it as such. I’d suggest the Commander to be extremely clear expressing his feelings.”

The little crowd turns suddenly towards her, looking at the elf who’s just there as she was gracing them of her presence. Realising she’s being observed, she raises her eyes, quirking up one eyebrow in a sceptical expression.

“Were you not talking of Cullen’s crush for my sister?”

And that’s the exact moment when Cullen would like to yeet himself right into the fire to avoid this particular conversation with so many people around. Not knowing what to do, and knowing he just told Dorian about it, he scowls at him.

“He didn’t say, I noticed there was something weird in how you behaved with her the day I arrived.”

“… Are you sure you’re not a Spy?” He asks, suspiciously, earning just a shrug, very disinterested.

“Leliana just hired me with her agents, as a matter of fact. So, technically I am.”

“Congrats, Sharp!” Cheers Varric, joined with cheers and congratulations by everyone in the group, there’s also an applause.

Radha cracks a smile faking a curtsey to the cheering crowd, as usual very graciously. If Cullen’s suddenly grateful that the topic is finally changed, leaving him to try and find something else to think that’s not the Inquisitor -yes, she’s the Inquisitor, a far away figure that always scolds him after yelling matches with Leliana, the one who made thunder rain over Adamant- he’s very wrong about it.

Because it’s Cassandra, traitorous Cassandra who should be his friend, to lean in on the table in his field of view and ask, with a glint in her eyes that’s really weird on her.

“So, what are you going to do?”

“About what.”

“Aisling. Are you planning on courting her? More than giving her flowers.”

“… Maker, no.”

“No, Cully?” Asks Sera, disappointed. “So we’re just here to look you mope pointlessly? Piss.” She snorts, grumpily.

“Twinsie and sister, does he have a chance?” Snorts the Iron Bull, nodding towards Dorian and Radha.

They both exchange a look, each thinking.

“Possibly.”

“If he plays his cards well…”

“Whatever.” Cullen has enough. He stomps both hand on the surface of the table, loud enough to stop the conversation – and also attracts the attention to some of the nobles in the Hall, a reason more to just get back to his office and drown in some work. He clears is throat, continuing. “It’s irrelevant and it’s personal. She is the Inquisitor, I work for her and we’re at war. That’s it, end of the discussion.”

He cuts everyone off, any answer stopped before going up. Sera blows a raspberry at him, but doesn’t vocalize any further.

“You’re making a mistake.” It’s the only note from Cassandra, stern.

Cullen ignores it and moves out of the table, effectively choosing the sensible option to get away from a conversation that’s becoming too much personal and private for his tastes. It’s flattering and it’s warm seeing how none of them bats an eye and, how they can, are showing support. He realises, and for that, he mumbles a “Thank you for your concern, really.”. Before exiting the hall.

The rest of the group just assists to the Commander’s flight, without a word. Or at least until he’s out of the room and possibly out of hear’s shot, after a minute more for good measure.

“Pay up, Varric, he ain’t gonna tell her, I told you.” Sera outstretches a hand towards the dwarf, flexing her fingers eloquently.

Varric, tho, just scoffs, ignoring the gesture completely.

“Not so fast, Buttercup. The game’s not over, give him time.”

“Not over?! He said-”

“Yes, I heard. Yet… Playing his card well, uh?”

---

Ambassador Montilyet,

It has been my pleasure to meet Duke Antoine of Wycome and pay my respects on behalf of the Inquisition. The duke is a most friendly man. Indeed, I dare say he thinks the best of everyone, and has advisors from as far away as Tevinter!

Duke Antoine assures me that he wishes the Inquisition well, and will offer us military support as soon as his city has recovered from a strange disease that has spread through most of the human population, though the elves in the alienage are thus far unaffected. This illness may explain why bandits were able to operate so close to Wycome with impunity: all the nobles and most of the soldiers have been weakened.

Any concerns I have raised, he say, can wait until then. The duke's Tevinter advisor has indicated an eagerness to make my acquaintance, and it is becoming increasingly difficult to resist such a tempting offer.

Yours in haste,
Lady Guinevere Volant

They are again conveyed in the War Room, staring at the latest missive from Wycome. The raid for the bandits was successful, and even if they were not able to discern more about the motivations and provenience of them, Clan Lavellan was safe and sound, if a little spooked by the upcoming turn of events. New from the keeper told them that she was reluctant to depart now, not knowing if danger would follow them, and preferred to remain in a known position, if they could offer or receive help back.

In the end, investigating on Duke Antoine’s sudden hospitality was really what was needed. Even if the news were grim.

A heavy downpour of rain sways over the Fortress, batting on the glasses angrily as two Lavellans and three advisors all stare at the letter, thinking on how to proceed.

Another show of military forces is not an option, if they don’t want to declare war on Wycome… It remains the big question whether it would be possible to solve the situation with diplomacy.

“Lady Guinevere is a skilled diplomat, Inquisitor…”

Josie says, but even she doesn’t sound so sure about that, shuffling between papers on her board, lips contracted in a thin line as she fails to find whatever she’s looking for.

“I can imagine, but… She’s on her own. If she fails, we’re out of the games.” Aisling adds, tiredly, turning a marker in her hand, nervously. “And, they’d blame the elves even more.”

“Can we know anything about the Duke or the advisor?” Radha asks, frustrated.

“We gave you all we know on the Duke, I have agents already at work for that and the advisor.” Leliana explains, calmer than before. “I hope you’ll forgive me if I sent ravens asking for informations before coming here.”

It’s almost comical how the situation is potentially grimmer than the last time they met to discuss things in Wycome, and yet they’re all apparently more in their wits. Progress, on some sort. But, there’s no time to think about the eco-system of the War Room and how it’s much calmer than before. The thing at hand is much more urgent, and maybe it’s just knowing that that keeps everyone quiet.

“If I may, Inquisitor.” Leliana prods on, calmly. “It’s a stretch. But I would act assuming that this advisor is Venatori.”

“Do we have certain proofs?”

“Not yet… But it’s quite a few coincidences, no?”

“What are the stakes if we go that way?” It’s Radha, this time.

“A diplomatic incident.” Josie adds, but she doesn’t sound particularly worried.

“Reasoning in the worst case scenario… Would Lady Guinevere hold herself up if things go south and the advisor is really a Venatori mage?” Asks Cullen, turning to Josephine.

The Ambassador sighs, shaking her head. “Doubtfully. She is a skilled diplomat, and if there’s one way to diplomacy I trust that she would find it. But I agree that there’s more at stake that we can bet on the good faith of an unknown Tevinter that very casually appears in the proximity of the Inquisitor’s Clan right when they’re getting attacked by very organised bandits.”

All eyes turns to her, Radha’s included. It seems to be settled, risky as it would be. It’s a rare day when everyone in the room agrees on first try, without discussions, all pieces falling together smoothly, for once. It’s sad that it needed this and the clan at stake for it, but also there’s a level of comfort in seeing that they all are taking a step further in such a delicate situation. It feels like a safety net, it feels like a family. One that still needs the Inquisitor’s approval, tho. So, said Inquisitor sighs deeply, stopping in turning and circling two markers in her palm, and turning towards Radha.

“You agree too?”

“Yes.”

A final nod, some comfort taken in hearing her sister so sure and determined, and she turns back to the advisors, determined as well.

“All right.”

She leans forward, outstretching her hand to Josephine, since she can’t reach the exact place on the map where Wycome is, for her to place the correct marker. The Ambassador understands right away.

“Leliana, proceed. As discreetely as you can. Josie, if you have any advice on how to make this less of a mess, politically, they’d be welcome, but refer to Leliana directly.”

“Yes, Inquisitor.” They both answer in chorus, Josie scribbling something over her board.

There’s sadly no more time to dwindle, and so, with a raven standing firmly on Wycome, they go on.

---

They went on, sure, but as soon as the day’s meetings are over, Aisling’s feeling overly exhausted. Between the situation in Wycome, new reports of soldier movements and demon sightings from the workers rebuilding the bridge to Citadelle du Courbeau in the Exalted Plains, and organising another expedition there right before the Ball at the Winter Palace, and stopping by with Josie to learn by heart the guest list for the Ball, Lavellan emerges back in the Main Hall well past dinnertime, and all she wants to do is crumble on a couch and sleep until tomorrow. Maybe she’ll just curl on the stairs, in a spot where Frida wouldn’t have stepped on her entering the next morning. Yes. Who even wants to climb a flight of stairs more.

The door to her apartments looks like bliss, like a light in the darkness and a promise of quiet and rest. But of course she can’t make more than three steps towards it before someone stops her. Because of course.

“Your Inquisitorialness, there you are!”

She turns towards a very happy Varric with the face of a person who’s two minutes away from begging, and no, she doesn’t care anymore to fake anything, not with him at least. She doesn’t even ask what is it, just look at him and waits. Which makes him chuckle, stopping some steps distant.

“I’ve been looking all over for you! You’re just in time, we almost had to start without you.”

He’s happy. Too happy. There’s something behind it, she can smell it. He’s too upbeat.

“I’m battered up, Varric.”

“Yes, I can see it Lucky. But we really can’t make without you, and nobody saw you at dinner. Come with me?”

“… What exactly are you starting without me, now?”

“You’ll see! Come on, it’ll be fun.”

“Tell me it’s not a party.”

“Nope, don’t worry. A small thing, we’ll get Ruffles and get going.”

He places a hand on her elbow, beckoning her on. She sighs, nodding and going along. A part of her would just like to cry, but if there’s a chance that whatever he orchestrated won’t be small for real, she’ll be able, hopefully, to sneak away in a corner and have a nap. Or, make someone happy by choosing a weird place and playing along with the ongoing poll, maybe. So, she lets him walk her, knocking on the door of Josie’s office to have the Ambassador basically jumping out of it with a huge smile on her face, and chirping that she didn’t think it was already the time, and then all three together are out of the hall, and down to the Herald’s Rest.

---

In the end, she did well in going. The mysterious endeavour turned out to be the most epic dead-set battle of Wicked Grace in the Inquisition. Which involved just the inner circle, sans Leliana, Vivienne, Solas and Radha, and a weirdly empty tavern. Beer and food -and cake, Aisling cheered at the cake- to ease everyone into laughter. Including a Cullen that went from grumbling that this was a loss of time and they had already enough players without him, to him, now, entertaining the whole table with a flaring tales of Templars in their knickers and standing ovations, genuinely amused.

She can’t but smile at that, enjoying seeing him at ease and smiling as everybody laughs. They exchange glances, and trying to ignore that she feels warm all over because that particular smile, the shy one that seems unsure, feels somehow just for her, purposeful from across the table. But, she’s not in the right condition, emotionally, to really judge. So, she ignores the butterflies in her stomach, smiles back and leans on the table, a glint of challenge in her eyes.

“Oh, I have a story too.” She declares, leaving her cards -a bad hand anyway, she wasn’t going to bet anything on it- face down on the table. “The clan decided to camp near this fortress, just on the border of the Tirashan… Dark as the bottom of a well. The Keeper swore it was safe, but some of the Hunters started to hear noises in the middle of the night…”

She spins and waves the tale, enriching here and there, moduling her voice, putting a real effort into it. Eased into the evening and feeling far less cranky after having eaten and in good company -good company that doesn’t require her to speak at all costs- between Josephine and Dorian, it’s almost like back in the days, when life was simpler and evening were not just a space to worry about the next day, next task, next mission. For the second time, it felt like family, Dorian leaving her the last cream puff because he knows she likes them, Josie giggling at every funny part, Sera tickling her foot from under the table, Varric asking for the details that allows her to put that more detail and Cassandra for the details that really have little to do with the story, Bull and Blackwall filling the whole room with laughters and Cole asking about the rabbits.

By the time she ends with the group of teens that sneaked in the fortress to scare them, running back home with no clothes on, everyone is laughing again at the “Moon butts”, they deal back in, even if she promises Cole to tell him more stories with rabbits. And about rabbits in general apparently. Another round of beers gets ordered, and everyone seems to relax and have fun. In the confusion and banters, as everyone groans and complains with Josephine when she wins yet another hand with particularly high stakes she manages to trick everyone in making, Aisling manages also to sneak a couple of long looks at Cullen, right in front of her, and notice he has dimples when he laughs. Weirdly, she hasn’t noticed ever before. Or it is really the first time she really paid attention to him, physically? In any case, it is weird, and makes her feel all fuzzy, stealing looks when he isn’t looking her way, and taking her time to observe him for real. Paying attention to small mannierisms -he always lowers his eyes when he laughs, and often shied away from looking at people in the eyes, if he wasn’t purposefully challenging someone to raise his bet. She wondered, tho, why now. He looked her in the eyes plenty of time, at least.

Dorian has to elbow her, clearing his throat, to make her fall down of her train of thoughts and get back to her hand. But by now, she realises it was her turn and she has no idea of what is going on on the table. The Angel of Death hasn’t been played yet, at least, but… she blushes a little, grumbling as Bull teased her for her distraction, and answered right back, albeit weakly.

She loses with a flourish, but it doesn’t mind. As most evenings around a campfire with the clan, sharing stories and laughing together, winning isn’t the point. And she couldn’t care less.

Except, half an hour later, when Josie is happily dragging her latest win -the last of a long sequence- towards her, she is left with just one copper in her hand. She isn’t the only one in such a situation, and she laughs when Cassandra sees her turning her last coin in her fingers and shows her that she’s left with the same amount, not even enough to buy a last round if they wanted to share one. And yet, Cullen decides to deal again, determination in his eyes and back a little straighter as he declares he understood Josie’s tells now. There are protests and suggestions to withdrew when he still had clothes on, Blackwall actually laughs -much, much more relaxed than anyone ever saw him-, Varric tries his best to warn him off, but there’s no swaying, and cards are dealt again. Aisling, now up for another round, bet her last copper. Usually she’d stop, but the evening is nice, and she’s surrounded by people she loves, and feeling loved in kind. And one copper is a good price to give support and show appreciation.

And with her money, she loses also her whereabouts and ability to form a finished sentence. By all means she has already seen Cullen without his shirt. Except he wasn’t conscious and she was worried sick, and when he was awoke, she was convinced he would have dropped dead in the next hour. She didn’t have the time to… Enjoy the sight. As she’s doing right now, a little too much, after Josephine -sweet, lovely Josie who’s a dearie but an absolute Erinyes when she touches cards- won all his clothes.

His embarrassment is relatable, and there’s Dorian beside her looking sideways and smirking, leaning his arm over her shoulder as they scuttled closer together as the evening proceeded, in a usual motion. If his arm wasn’t grounding and the one thing that got her shit together and allows her to stay anchored in reality, she would probably melt and she feels her face hot.

So, she does the one sensible thing to do. Stops looking, ignores her brain going haywire, drinks up two big gulps of her beer. Pretend she’s blushing for the alcohol. Yes, she can do it. Don’t out yourself, elbow Dorian when he smugly says he wouldn’t mind assisting in the walk of shame, laugh a little when the other do, smile in solidarity at Cullen that looks at her with the air of the most miserable, wettest cat in the world.

Dorian smirks at her again, and worst of all Cassandra does as well, when she needs a clue to get up and turn, so poor Cullen could run out as unseen as it could be, Josie still chuckling sweetly between herself as if she hasn’t just revealed she is as much an evil mastermind as Leliana.

“Enjoyed the view?” Dorian asks, and in all answer, she turns to poke at his ribcage, right in that spot she knows tickles and annoys him the most.

Who cares, after all, if they start trying to swat the other like overgrown children. Even if they were, they both starts to laugh at the other, before Cassandra separats them.

“Stop, you two, before someone gets hurt.”

“Well, someone’s hit her head when she fell-“

“And someone’s getting cream in his pasta!”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

The Seeker laughs, pushing them away from the other, with not much strength as it’s all just for show, patting Aisling’s shoulder as the elf stops, straightening her jacket and sticking out her tongue at the Tevinter.

“Come on, you two, off to bed! It’s way past your bedtime.”

She coaxes them, pushing Dorian away and having them both bid good night to the other, in pure unruly children style. They play along, alcohol helping keeping the scene up. She stops with her, the others equally scattering around and bidding their good nights and good byes. And smiling at her, happy.

“It’s good to see you happy.”

“Likewise. It’s been a nice evening.”

“It really was.” Cassandra nods, expression hardening again right after. “Don’t tell Varric I said so.” She grunts.

“Not a word, scout’s honour.” It comes with a giggle and a cross on the elf’s heart, stepping towards the door with Cassandra.

“Cullen’s a good man, you know.” She adds, abruptly, turning to smile at her, impishly.

“Wha-”

“I’m just saying.”

“And-”

“I’m happy if you are, Aisling.”

And with that, and a last pat on her shoulder -with a heavy hand, but delicacy is not really for the Nevarran- she’s out of the Tavern, leaving her alone. So, like, everyone suddenly knows? And well, it’s not like she’s gonna do anything about it. Not right now. Not acting on “he’s been kind to me these months when he didn’t have to, he’s kind and talking to him it’s easy and staying silent with him is easy too and I have fun and now I saw his chest and I liked what I saw”. She assess the exact situation, realises she’s back at being 15 again, with the whole clan looking at her and sighing on young love as she pined and pined over Ydun. And groans heavily, slumping on a chair, face in her hands.

“Hey, hey, it almost looks like you didn’t have fun…” Comes Varric, chuckling somewhere in front of her.

“I did, very much. I enjoyed it a lot. Let’s do it again. Maybe forbid Josie to accept clothes and titles and lands as bet?”

He laughs, patting her shoulder.

“Sure, Lucky. Any time. It’s all too easy to mistake you for the Inquisitor, lately.”

She peeks up from her hands, smiling.

“Too much acting serious?”

“Yeah. And doing great things in the meanwhile, swiping down the land and solving problems that politicians would quarrel about for months, all on your merry self.”

“I know, right? Sometimes I feel the same and… Well, thank you, Varric, I really needed this.”

“Any time. And…” He sighs, sitting on a chair beside hers. “I should tell you that I’m sorry for picking it up on you, in Redcliffe. It was… Unfair. And you were right, we chose for Cole without thinking.”

“Varric, it was nothing, really, don’t mind it.”

“No, I mind it. I acted like I blamed you because Cole is, indeed, a Spirit. But, he was normal, this evening. As normal as he can be for well, him. I just wanted to tell you, I don’t want harsh feelings to linger, ok?”

“Me neither but really, it wasn’t a problem. Thank you for telling me, tho. Cole’s doing well, isn’t it?”

“He is, yes.”

She bumps his shoulder, playfully, earning herself another chuckle.

“Up for another game, so, when all this ends?”

“Count me in, master Tethras. Even before.”

“Yeah, well… I think I’ll need some time to talk Cullen back into it.” He laughs, shaking his head. “I’ll work on the revenge angle and get it going.”

She giggles with him, agreeing on the plan. Sera wakes up under the table, very drunkly asking if she won and looking around with a watery look on her.

“Come on now, time to sleep. I’ll help her up in her room and get going.” She declares, patting her hands on her knees and raising up, walking backward to face the dwarf.

“No more Your Inquisitorialness, then? We’re back to Lucky?” She asks, lastly, smiling at him.

“That depends on how much you’re the Inquisitorialness in the moment, you see. Count yourself honoured that you have two nicknames!”

And with that, to show that she is very honoured, Aisling stops and does a deep curtsey, with a flourish of her hands just for show. Making Varric laugh.

“I’m greatly humbled to be honoured with such a boon!”

“It sure is, Lucky! Good night.”

“Good night, Varric, and thank you again, I miss being treated like a person, sometimes.”

“Again, Lucky, you know where to find me if you need it. I’ll treat you like a person all you want.”

She hums, confirming she heard, as she crouches down to slip under the table and recover Sera from her spot under it.

“A person with a huge templar kink, sure.” Varric ads, as a last jab, and Aisling, surprised, jumps up, bonking her head hard against the table.

Chapter Text

She is tired of the Exalted Plains. Officially tired.

Pont Augur has been repaired, in the end. And as soon as it was, the reports started, speaking of an unnatural quiet on the other bank, not even birds singing, and undead welcoming every scout that crossed. They barricaded the other end of the bridge, held the post until the Inquisitor arrived.

Clearing Cittadelle du Courbeau is proving to be nastier than all the rest of the reinforcements considered at the same time. She and her party -Dorian and Solas, Radha, Sera and Bull- have to put their best into it, Aisling doubling efforts switching from distance attacking and jumping in close combat, covering Bull when he needed and slipping around him to strike fast and in precise stabs. They planned it, they exercised it and practiced in the Western approach. But all their work can do little if the damned undead keep on swarming down the battlements, and if the absolute idiot who planned the magical flame-thrower didn’t think to add a targeting spell that could sense evil intentions.

As Dorian keeps remarking, bitterly, as he slips and weaves spells, one after the other. It should technically be his ideal battlefields, corpses abundant -overly so- providing him with lots of material to work. And yet, he is getting winded too, hair starting to fall on his brow, the slight glint of sweat pearling his temples. Which, in Dorian language, is to say that he is growing exhausted.

And who could blame him, honestly. This wouldn’t do, they are too slow, getting too tired, and their enemies aren’t diminishing. They have to find the Arcane Horror controlling the pit, and quick. Weren’t for those cursed flame-thrower which just got in the way, turning always to follow them and-

She fade-stepped through an axe that was coming too close to her waist, yelling a “Oops!” as Sera shrieked after her to move. And shrieked some more because Aisling faded away and reappeared a little further back, which creeped the archer out, apparently.

“Cover for us, please!”

She yells to the others, earning grunts and complaints, as they all do it anyway. She grabs Dorian’s hand and runs, with him in tow huffing and panting. They cast barriers, avoid the corpses. Aisling leads, holding tight on the Tevinter’s hand, looking frantically around her as she makes him circle the turret. The un-deads aren’t difficult to outrun, but it means they can’t stop, and-

“Ladder!” She signals him, turning abruptly to her left and approaching it, letting him climb before as she summon back her sword and covers for him, parrying and dodging and swinging around to build momentum and slice deeper and faster. She cuts the line dragging a hand down, a discharge of lightning booming in front of her, felling the corpses too close and making the others step back, confused by the light and sound. She scurries up the latter, as quick as she can with legs that are getting heavier.

What she loves about Dorian is that he doesn’t need to be told things twice, and most of the time can guess her line of thought without her needing to explicit it: he is kneeling, hands on the statue that is spitting fireballs everywhere and at everyone, examining it. She lets him work, without a word, shielding her eyes from the sun and looking to see if she could spot the- Ah.

“Do you think we can make it turn this way? It’s a stretch, but maybe if we can power it up…”

“It seems to be working with some sort of glyph… No, they’re two, ah! It’s not that idiotic, one sucks air in, separating oxygen and hydrogen, and the other makes sparks in the channel setting the hydrogen aflame and bursting. They really did things halfway, the absolute morons, but, the half of the work they did is not bad. Rudimental, but…”

“We have a bomb.” She concludes, grinning at him.

He turns, grinning back, with a glint in his eye that she knows too well and is sharing.

“We have a bomb.”

---

“For the last time, I won’t ever tell you two, of all people, anything about Gaatlok, not even and especially what it does and how it explodes.”

“Come on Bull! We contained it, see?”

Aisling pouted, gesturing at the upper courtyard: it was still, technically standing after she and Dorian turned the defense statue around and forced the spell, working together. They flew back and hit against a wall, the statue exploded, but so did the Horror and his spell, the corpse pit catching fire without them needing to get closer to do it manually. Sure, the courtyard was in shambles and every single piece of wood took fire, the stones were all black with soot and burn, there were pieces of corpses and demons everywhere scattered around, making everything slimy and Aisling had to try hard not to think where she was stepping, but It worked. They didn’t even bump so hard against the wall. Except Bull indicates at their surroundings, pointing at hot everything is sooty, burnt or covered in goo if not all three thins together, the stench of burnt flesh something vicious and Solas walking around evoking ice to dwindle the flames with a frown of disapproval on his face -this is, apparently, the limit of leg wraps-, Radha and Sera examining the door of the Inner Keep to guess a way to open it.

The Qunari, in all answer, takes a good look around and bends his head towards the elf, a very sceptical look on his face.

“The Inner Keep and the battlements are still intact!” Aisling points out, stubbornly.

“And, we didn’t even hurt ourself so much. All the flaws are dued to the machinery we used, that was built incredibly sloppily and made it impossible to exert more control.”

Pops in Dorian, weaving his hand lazily to extinguish the flames on a piece of fence that leads right down to the lower level.

“Sure, who could imagine that their defence mechanism would have been hijacked by a couple of mages mad as hatters?”

“I’d prefer the term geniuses. Terribly brilliant. Enfants prodiges, if you’d fancy Orlesian.” The Tevinter rebukes, puffing up his chest. “Why all the concern, the Iron Bull, are you worried to have a “Vint” behind you?”

“Hope you like the view.” He huffs, smirking, as they all approached the door of the inner courtyard, taking a longer step to leave the two mages a little behind, and strutting a little, for show.

Aisling casts a look at Dorian, smiling under her nose, but not saying anything.

“Well, you can’t deny you enjoy butchering my people.” Dorian countered, ignoring everything between the lines.

Aisling pouts.

“Heeeey.” Bull turns back, frowning. “Butchering implies I’m gonna eat ‘em. Most Vints are just gristle and fat in a red wine marinade.”

“That-” Dorian tries to say something back, but frowns instead. “… Well, that much is true.”

“Can you stop and help us, please? No one’s making anything explode or eating Vints.” Solas sighs, bringing them all back to order.

They all heed him, Aisling smirking mischievously at her friend and him pushing her shoulder, playfully.

“What?”

“I don’t like that look on your face.”

“It’s just my face, Dor, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re dropping a clanger, my friend.”

“A clang- What does it mean?”

“Stop. The. Weird. Language!” Sera hisses, tossing a loose finger she found on the ground at them. Dorian yelps, jumping sideway to avoid the projectile. “Nerds!”

They do stop, her giggling and him grumbling -as per usual when Sera puts a stop to their shenanigans. Dorian still refuses to tell her what his latest idiom in Tevene meant, as they put down loose fires around the courtyard and admits that yes, they made a mess. But a very successful mess that in the end made the undead all drop down again for good and ended a long and tiring battle with not many damages, so.

At long last, the two Rogues manage to open the doors, helped by Bull to force a hinge that got smashed badly in the explosion. And just like that it is over, the soldiers are miraculously still alive -save some badly wounded that didn’t make it in time. Needless to say, they are all elated by the arrival of the Inquisitor herself, making it easier for her to ignore the usual whispering full of surprise in seeing her, the one small elf and the mage one, presenting as the Inquisitor. She just straightens her spine and holds her chin up high, the way Josephine told her too, arms crossed behind her back and legs slightly divaricated, the way Cullen rested when looking at the recruits.

And at last, she gives Jehan her ring.

The Commander crumbles, head slouching down as the free hand comes to cover her mouth, under her mask, visibly hit by that tiny circlet.

“Oh, Fabienne…”

It wouldn’t be proper for a Commander to show weakness like that, Aisling knows. It isn’t fit for the Empress’s main general. And yet, after days of barricading and being sieged by undeads and monsters, after days of being sure they would all have died like rats, nobody really cares anymore for formalities. There’s just relief flooding all around, and everyone is too tired to really mind. The Commander can crumble, hidden by her mask but body language fully readable. The soldiers just silently respect her, and as much as Aisling hates war and all this destruction, she can’t help but finding a saving grace in this aura of companionship and camaraderie, bringing people together and teaching empathy.

If only it could be reached with less suffering and pain and destruction.

She steps forward, silently placing a hand on the other woman’s shoulder, rubbing in an attempt to comfort her a little. She doesn’t know her, she doesn’t even think her strategy was the winning one… But right now, they’re both just people. And one of them is suffering.

“She died peacefully.” She tells her, softly. “We saved her.”

“Th-thank you, Inquisitor.”

“I am sorry for your loss.”

“She was… Oh. I thought she had made it. I sent her as messenger to-”

“You did all you could. Both of you.”

The woman looks up, eyes shining with tears for a moment, as the light hits them just so in the holes of her mask.

“I wish it was true, Inquisitor. I wish it was.”

---

Three days later, just the time for Cassandra to reach them there as they wrote her that they found Ser Hildebrandt, camped in the Crow Fens, they’re finally done with the bigger of the matter - and exploring the Fens as well, since they were there, with another elvhen artifact to turn on, and a weird moment of looking at Radha and Solas helping each other up the stairs by him placing a hand on the small of Radha’s back, very casually.

Aisling stalls, stopping her friends as well to leave the two more privacy and distracting them by pointing to a random point down in the river. A vain attempt because her sister notices and huffs at her, reaching back and walking slight behind in line when they are done and heading back to camp.

“Did I do something wrong, Ra? I just wanted to leave you both a moment…”

“You shouldn’t worry about me, Shrimp.”

“I’m not fussing… I’m just helping? You’d be cute together, but the rotunda isn’t exactly… Private?”

Radha turns to look at her, cranking one eyebrow up.

“Let’s do it like this. You help me, I help you with the Commander.”

“… What?”

“Five letters, Ash. Five. In ten days.”

“Those were reports! He’s… He’s my Commander, I have to-”

“There were doodles. And, lately you look at him with those eyes.”

“Which eyes?!”

“You told him about Nehnis and Vyrina.”

“He’s my friend!”

“You told him before you told Dorian, and Sera is right in calling you two twinsies. You’re looking at Cullen lately as if he was the last piece of cake on the plate.”

“I-”

She stops, realising she’s been caught. With nothing else to say, she sighs, lowering her gaze. Instinctively, looking for some reassurance, she moves her hand to grab the one of her sister. Glove against glove, but they go on like that, swinging the hand they’re holding between them, the same familiar way they’ve done so many times.

“Doesn’t the thing… Bother you?”

“What? You fawning over a human?”

“Yeah…”

“Not at all. No more than you trusting a Tevinter Altus and a Qunari spy.”

They pause, again.

“Do you think that…”

She asks, shily. She doesn’t finish, but Radha doesn’t need much many clues. She just needs to tug at her hand slightly, bringing them both on the other side of a rocky formation to avoid a wyvern that was getting too close, slowing their steps and inviting Aisling to do the same.

“I think our mother would like him. He’s a good person, I misjudged him at first.”

“Did you?”

“I didn’t believe the great epic tale of repentance was more than words. I thought that not-writing was answer enough, and that he would have tried to put you down, in the Western Approach. Adamant would have been the perfect place to make it uncospicuous.”

“… Radha, what did you do?” Aisling asks, terrified.

“Nothing. I just spoke to him.”

“Radha!”

“Nothing happened. I change my mind at Adamant, he was…”

“Radha, what did you tell him?! Fenedhis, it’s like with Ydun again! Seriously you have to stop, it’s not like I’m asking for his hand!”

“… He was steadfast and held his own and never lost faith that you would have made it. I did, he did not. He had done horrible things, that’s true… He has also learnt from them.”

“I know…”

“Why are you so unsure, then?”

“… I’m a mage. He’s not comfortable with magic. We work together. And he’s kind with everyone, and…” She sighs. “… I’m a Dalish apostate, Creators know if I’ll still have a clan in one month’s time… And yes, I sent him five letters in 5 days, along with the reports, and he replied to one, and very briefly. Sure, he helps me, but it’s his job. He doesn’t touch me, he doesn’t like when I touch him. I’m not blind, Ra, there’s nothing more, as there was nothing more with Cassandra, I won’t pretend there is this time.”

She concludes, a little forlornly and looking down at how her feet, submerged in the water and only partially visible, raise up big puffs of soft dirt on the bottom of the river, clouding everything around it, the images broken by her own movements disturbing the water. Impermanent. Radha doesn’t speak, leading her on in a sure and winding path avoiding big reptiles out for an afternoon snack.

“I believe you’re giving him too little credit.”

The Rogue just says, matter-of-factly. Which is comforting, a little, but it doesn’t make Aisling say anything else on the subject. And frankly, doesn’t convince her at all. Sure, Radha is observant, she’s always been keen to read people and knowing things – the Keeper herself had no doubt that her Vallaslin would have been for Dirthamen, the god of Secrets and Knowledge. Maybe she was right. And yet no, she gave Cullen a whole deal of credit. Yet… Yet she needed to change the topic. A rapid check that they were alone, and she got back to smirk at her sister.

“Soooo.”

“Mh.”

“Your turn. About Solas-”

“I’m not going on with your bad attempts at putting people together. Go paint some signs for Dorian and Bull.”

“I’m just saying that, hypothetically, if you were in need of a place where you could be just the two of you, you may, always hypothetically of course, ask your little sister, who’s really the best sister in the world and loves you so much and happens to be the boss, to… I don’t know, casually have the library evacuated.”

“Hypothetically.”

“Of course. Just think about it, if you’ll ever want some more than casual touches and telling looks between you. No rush, but… The chance is there. You’ve never been interested in these things, and if this time you are I’d like you to have a good time and for things to be easy.”

Radha hums, to signal she understood, with some scepticism in her tone. But, her hand squeezes Aisling’s, in a silent thank you, and that’s all the mage needs to know to understand her sister’s appreciative of her thought. They turn and saw the archway that leads back to Ghilan’nain Grove. And right when the topic looked over…

“… And here I thought that you, as a mage, knew that there are other ways to get some privacy.”

Aisling gasps, stopping on her tracks and looking at her sister with her mouth open and eyes big as saucers.

“You…!”

“Come on, Shrimp, the Inquisitor has to prepare to fight a Dragon.”

“Forget the dragon and tell me everything!”

---

Aisling is tired. And very sure that no, there could be nothing with Cullen. He didn’t write -he told her he would have tried to, at Griffon Wings Keep. Except, he never does, outside work communications, if not seldom, and always briefly. She is starting to think he is annoyed, but he always insists that she keeps writing when she asks if she annoys him. So…

… So, she convinces herself there is nothing to do. It is just her imagination running wild, clinging to every small act of basic kindness and friendship there was. As she did with Cassandra, exactly like that.

She smiles, nodding and trying to ignore the sense of disappointment when scout Harding at the main camp tells her that the only mail for hers came from Leliana and Josie, congratulating on slaying the Dragon, updating her on things and bidding her to return as soon as she is able too, for the last preparation for the Ball. Nothing else from the Commander. She writes her answers and sends the crow herself, checking with the requisition officer that there is, indeed, nothing much left to do for her. And so, she thinks she may as well check with the Clan and bring them more supplies, before going. And tell them that she will discuss with her Advisors for a more stable line of supplies for them, as soon as she will reach Skyhold.

She has to go and pick Loranil up, furthermore - he was sure he wanted to go, and Keeper Hawen entrusted him to her. And maybe… No. Her armour is good as it is, even if it isn’t the most practical thing in the world and she finds the long coat sincerely not very comfortable. But, she is amongst human. She needs to be… She doesn’t even know. People tends to be uneasy when she is too Dalish, and she automatically stopped and went private very quickly, in Haven, hiding. The people who ask her about it were all in her Inner Circle anyway and she just cared about them. But… But, she grabs Radha, let her jump on the saddle behind her, and they’re going.

She huffs, patting Little Brother’s neck as he turns towards the pass, as soon as Corporal Rossellin calls her out.

“Bad horsey!” She whispers to him, earning a very satisfied snort from the animal and another from her sister.

Checked that the Corporal, indeed, didn’t need anything urgent -as per his usual- they made their way and crossed the river.

She crosses the river to Halin’Sulahn, saddle bags full of the supplies Nissa requested from her, just to see the camp flowing with barrels and crates, Nissa visibly relaxed and smiles on everyone’s faces.

“What happened?” She asks, dismounting right after Radha, looking around puzzled. The crates have the Inquisition eye on them, but she hasn’t heard of any project to resupply the Dalish in the Exalted Planes in such measure. Which was weird, considering that she was, for once, the Inquisitor.

“A group of your soldiers arrived and brought us these. There’s everything that I requested, and more, we’ll be able to stay here until the Planes will be safe enough to cross! Thank you, Inquisitor, you took a big weight off of our shoulders!”

“… Did I?”

Nissa laughs and playfully pats her shoulder, walking away as if it was a joke. Which it isn’t, unless she missed a note on one of the latest reports and missives from Skyhold. But she always reads everything twice and…

“Oh, I’m sorry, they also brought a letter for you.” Nissa returns, slipping an envelope out of a pocket.

“Did they?”

“Apparently so. Here. Thank you again, really!”

She nods, puzzled by the latest turn of event and opening whatever it is. The calligraphy on the envelope, addressing it to “Lady Iquisitor Lavellan”, is Cullen’s, and she is now very sure he never mentioned anything about supplies or helping the Dalish or doing much of anything with all the blabbering she pours in personal letters he rarely answers too. She ignores Radha that steps casually to perch on her shoulder, curious as a cat, and pretends that when casting a side-glance at her, her traitorous sister is not smirking at her, a knowing look on her face. Oh no, she won’t fall, she’s teased her enough already.

Lady Inquisi Lavellan Aisling,

Forgive me for not writing you before about this, but I thought you wouldn’t have said no, and decided to not lose time to wait for your reply. I took the liberty of having supplies delivered to the Dalish Clan in Halin’Sulahn, following what you wrote they missed, and adding things that they may need until the road will be safe and the army will have retreated back north. Leliana did a couple of suggestions.

I hope it wasn’t overstepping, if it is rest assured that the Keeper is informed that this is all on me, and not on you. I wrote to him as well, you don’t have to worry about anything. I hope, at least.

So he does read her letters, she thinks, smiling goofily at the missive as she reads it. Radha chuckles, reading too over her shoulder.

“You really are giving him too little credit, Shrimp.”

“I remind you that you hated him, when you arrived.”

“That only proves my point, actually. Grow some balls and just tell him.”

“Hush, you.”

She dismisses her, waving a hand at her, as she finishes the letter. She would rather take her back to camp and savour it on her own, honestly, but it would just fuel Radha’s foolish sureness that she has to actually do something about her feelings and that it isn’t anything that she could just ignore until it will go away on its own, saving her from another round of terrible embarrassment as she did with Cassandra. But, Cassandra never went out of her way to do something for her just because she mentioned in a stupid letter full of nothing and doodles that oh yeah I’d need to find time to pick up some more spindleweed for Nissa down at the clan, they’re almost out of it. Cassandra never hugged her, nor kissed her hand. Maybe… Just, hypothetically, she could at least tell him to show that she’s very grateful… Or to tell him to stop if he doesn’t mean it, since he has so much work to do…

But no, she has some more lines to read, she will be able to enjoy some butterflies in her stomach later. Now, read.

As per your latest letter, things in Skyhold are going nice. It’s quiet without you and Dorian inventing shenanigans, almost too much so.

Fiona’s Mages look like they are finding some common ground with the Templars, yesterday I spotted Lysette helping one of the Apprentices correcting her grip on the staff, explaining she would have just blistered. It’s a start.

I spoke with Lady Vivienne the other day, it was nice. She’s very traditional in her view, and it’s nice to have a person that doesn’t dislike you on principle.

Josephine has collected quite the huge collection of fabrics for the Ball, brace yourself for when you return.

Respectfully Looking forward for your next,

Commander Cullen.

She reads it once. She reads it again, a nasty sting burning in her throat.

“… That’s just a slip, Shrimp, it doesn’t-”

“It’s fine, Ra. It is. I just… Well. We have work to do. It was really nice of him to send supplies before I asked. Let’s go tho, we still have work to do and I…”

She huffs, marching away to Master Taniel. She has one thing to do, beside the supplies, after all, and all this story just spurs her on and settles her decision. She could think about Cullen later, and why does he think people dislike him on principle… And if that includes her, because it really seems it does, and the thought... No. She stubbornly ignores the sting and tells herself she should concentrate on the task at hand. On that, and maybe, when she’ll be back, ask him what she did wrong, if he thinks she disliked him on principle, and why.

But, for now, she just asks Taniel if she could fit some new armour for her.

Because if she wouldn’t do anything about the butterflies in her stomach, she could do something about how uncomfortable she found Enchanter Coats to be, no matter how soft the leather was. And at this point, who cares if people dislike the Dalishness. It’s foolish and it’s not like hiding brought her something.

---

Cullen,

Thank you for the supplies, it was very thoughtful and the clan appreciated it much, as well as me. I thought to speak about it to you and the others back in Skyhold and just told everyone in camp to help them as much but… Well. Thank you for preceding me, really.

On another note, tho, I’m sorry, but I must ask: did I ever let you think that I judge you for your past or ever disliked you just because I heard you were a Templar? Because none of it is true, I just am grateful that your past brought you here, because if not we wouldn’t have met. But this is very selfish, of course it would have been better if you never-

She crumples the paper, angrily, and throws it to join a pile of others failed drafts in and around the small bin she has put far enough to make it a challenge. A challenge she’s losing, because she’s not concentrated enough to aim, and she’ll have to collect everything from the ground, or she won’t hear the end of it from Frida.

She slumps in her seat more, crossing her arms on her chest and chewing on her quill, morosely. She can’t even write a letter, this won’t do. This won’t do at all. She almost blabbered, not knowing what to say this afternoon, when she entered back at Skyhold in her blissfully comfortable new Dalish armour -which was, indeed, much more flattering to her figure than her old Coat -tattered and ruined beyond repairing between the explosion and the dragon. Cullen, there to greet them and kindly taking Little Brother’s reins to keep the horse still while she dismounted, told her she looked good, and that it suited her, and he fumbled on his words and smiled at her for just a moment, and her stupid, butterflies-filled brain zeroed down and she didn’t know what to reply exactly and mumbled some thank you very incoherently.

This really won’t do, she can’t blabber to her Commander, not in her position. She needs to set things straight. At least clarify that she’s not there thinking she sees him as just the former Knight-Captain of Kirkwall, and a Templar. Because it really wouldn’t even start to encompass all that he is and she sees.

And yet, how to avoid touching her feelings?

Aisling groans loudly, pressing the heels of her hands in her eye sockets and slipping down the sitting, propping both feet on the border of the desk, not caring if she’s not sitting like a Lady should, nor if she’s loud. What’s even the point of her quarters being in the remotest room in the tallest tower if she can’t be as loud as she wants?

A poof on her desk announces that she’s, indeed, too loud for at least one person in the Keep.

“Hi, Cole.” She greets, gloomily, still not looking, not bothering to explain or reminding him that he should use the door and knock before entering in people’s room. She’s alone and, right now, she doesn’t feel like scolding him.

“A daisy in a summer morning, each plucked petal is an oracle brought away by the current. Loves me, loves me not, tell him, tell him not. The scar bends just so when he smiles, it makes you happy and at the same time it makes you incredibly sad. Your thoughts are running too fast, like your horse when he’s happy and running, there are butterflies all around.”

“I hate the butterflies.” She groans.

“… No, you do not? But you do. But you don’t. It’s… It’s confusing.”

“It’s… Infatuation, Cole.” She sighs, unfolding herself and unwinding her leg, to place both feet on the ground and stand up. “It’s always complicated.”

“But it needs not to be.”

“It just is.” She sits down on the desk, beside him -cross-legged on the latest reports, but oh well. She was so distracted that she should compile them a second time. Just to make her writing readable, at the very least. Anyway, she sits down, shoulder to shoulder, resting her head on the Spirit’s.

“You should tell him. He likes when you tell him things. He likes the sound of your voice, and how your eyes light up when you’re enthusiast about something. He finds it contagious.”

“It’s more complicated than this, Cole.”

He hums, not convinced and still musing by himself. He bends his head sideway, anyway, resting his cheek on top of her head. They stay like that, silently watching the stars and the moon out of the open window, so crisp and bright so high in the mountain it almost looks like you could pluck them out of the night.

“Stars, shining bright around a full moon. The hallas are all around, and she smells like the woods. She moves slowly and kisses you, and you feel like you’re flying. Except, the memory is bad, it’s tinged, what came later made it bittersweet. You saw that when you looked at Cassandra, before. When you look at Cullen now, there’s just him, and he’s all around.”

“I know.”

“For him you’re not really there, when you speak to him.”

“That’s the problem.”

---

That really won’t do.

The morning’s War Council has been a disaster. Josie was talking about the preparations and uniforms for the Ball and how everything was ready for the fittings, and silks and whatever and guests- And Aisling didn’t listen to one word. She couldn’t, because Cullen was frowning at a pile of reports, brows furrowed in concentration and eyes intent, focused on the task ahead. He looked good, his cheeks seemed fuller and he wasn’t that pale. Maybe the last brew she gave him worked better, she should ask him. Go back in professional mode, yes, that she could do. As long as he was healthy and she could keep him so, maybe make him smile and laugh once in a while, it was ok if he thought she dislikes him. It didn’t make him less kind towards her, less of a friend. And yet, she was longing for more, the very word “friend” is too little, getting stretched more and more. She was longing to just cup his face and yell at him that she didn’t care, she never cared if not in a foolish moment when she thought he was scared of her, and she didn’t want him to be afraid or uncomfortable, not anymore and not with her. She was too concentrated on noticing how his hair almost looked silver when hit in full sunlight. She was wondering how that scruffle would feel under her hands, rubbing on her cheeks and under her lips. And-

- and, she was brought down back to earth from her reverie by a smirking Leliana who made a too witty, too knowing joke about her daydreaming. Aisling grumbled that she was just tired, she slept little the last night, and Leliana just -smirking horribly- suggested her to count lions before sleeping. Josie snorted a laugh, and Cullen just sighed, begging them all to please go back to work, too concentrated, luckily, on his reading to mind that Aisling just turned the exact shade of red of the velvet Josephine was favouring for their uniforms.

This really won’t do, not at all, she couldn’t go on like this. She refused to start blabbering.

So, she decided to do what the grown-up, responsible First of Keeper Deshanna Isthimaetorial Lavellan would do. Open up and confess, come clean and start again. Whine a little over it, cry, get drunk with Dorian, Sera and Bull and get on with her life. She and Cassandra were friends, now, it hasn’t been easy, but they made it. She will make it with Cullen as well.

The plan is simple: go to his office, ask him for five minutes alone. Tell him that she has this stupid crush on him and please, ignore any weird behaviour from her, and please, let’s stay friend and keep things just as they were before because I cherish our friendship so much. Assure him that she never disliked him on principle, she would never have approached him. Now that she knows, she just admires him greatly for realising his situation and acting towards a real change, change is never easy. And then, once everything would be out and she would have nothing else to hide and overthink about, she would have just got on with her life, less uneasy from all those secrets and fighting for him not to notice.

On paper, it looks easy.

On practice, she’s standing there, staring at his door with a raised hand, stalling before knocking, and it’s one of the most difficult think she could think of. A part of her mind is screaming to just… run for cover, take her horse and spend the time until the Ball with Keeper Hawen’s clan. Dig a hole in the garden to bury herself into, become fertilizer for the elfroot, it would just be fitting for her.

The other part, tho, knows better. The other part has the voice of Cole and of Radha and knows she needs to spit it out for it to go away, and go on with their lives.

So, she takes a deep breath, checks another time she’s in good order, fixing her doublet -the nice one, the one in teal velvet and golden buttons and pointy shoulder pieces that matches her Vallaslin- on her trousers, combing her hair more tidily behind her ears- Or maybe not? Are they too big? No, no, ok, that’s a stupid doubt. Combing her hair more tidily behind her ears. And with a big breath and a small prayer to Mythal for strength, she knocks.

He seems surprised to see her. It’s not lunch time, and he’s a little confused to see her so early. Asks her if something happened, jumping to emergency mode and leaving his desk, reaching for his sword instinctively. At least, seeing him so full of nerves helps in calming her down. A little, at least. Just enough to ask him, after some formalities and small talk about health and the situation in the Keep, if he has some minutes to speak with her.

Alone.

She puts emphasis on the adjective, bracing herself for a refusal, some frowning, some scolding because he has evidently, by the amount of paper piles on his desk, a lot of work to do and no time to lose with a silly elf that should be working and isn’t. And yet, he just fumbles more, puzzled by the “Alone”, and… And just leaves everything as it is and opens the door for her, leading her to the battlements and walking by her side.

Silence, between them, has always been comfortable, it has been from the start of their friendship, none really needing to fill the silence or force the other to speak at all costs. Which is something Aisling never likes to do, if she hasn’t anything to say. Cullen never required words, never expected her to speak and put her at ease. Now, their silence is charged, both embarrassed by a single, decisive word that the elf is now rethinking and reconsidering again and again. They pass the second tower. And the third.

“It’s… A nice day.” It’s Cullen, finally, to break the silence.

Except that Aisling is yet again in her own head, screaming internally as words elude her. And, allegedly, realising he’s speaking to her with half a minute of late. Enough that she just has to ask him: “What?”

Another pause, they both look at the other not knowing what to do.

“It’s…” He starts, rubbing his neck, but decides better right away, shaking his head and looking at her, instinctively straightening up. “There was something you wished to discuss.”

She nods, nervously. Here. That’s it. Moment of truth. Mythal have mercy, or tell Elgar’nan to open the earth and swallow her whole.

“Cullen, I care for you, and I-” She stops, words dying in her throat again, realising that he’s looking at her in the eyes and she really has not the guts for it. So, Aisling groans, averting her eyes and sighing, looking down.

“What’s wrong?” And now he sounds worried. Great.

“You left the Templars… But you wrote in your letter implying that the majority of people still dislikes you on principle. And…” A pause, trying to recollect her thoughts. “… I wanted you to know that I never disliked you on principle. And that I’m very sorry if I ever gave you this impression, really. But…”

He tries to reply, but she raises a hand, signalling to no, please, let her finish. He gets it. She’ll be damned because he somehow always gets what she’s saying, is probably the only one that had never troubles understanding her messy cursive, and right now it makes her heart clench because she’s about to ruin everything.

“… but I know we’re friends, and… Well. I also know that you don’t have the best experiences with Mages… But-” She swallows. Spit it out, da’len, don’t let it poison you. “… Could you think of me as anything more than just that? More than an Apostate and… And more than a friend…?”

There. It’s not direct. It’s not blunt, because right now she can’t deal with directness. She hopes it’s enough, as she shily turns her head to-

“I could.”

He blurts out, abruptly and very quickly after she stops speaking, without a hint of hesitation in his voice. Aisling perks up, mouth open and eyes big in surprise and wonder at his admission, looking at him in the eyes.

"Wait... What?"

Wrong thing to ask, apparently, even if it burst out of pure surprise, out of needing a confirmation that she, indeed, has understood correctly and it's not just her brain deluding herself. The result, all in all, is that Cullen shies away immediately, a hand coming up to rub his neck and turning away. He starts to walk again, as he fumbles with words again. Aisling just follows him, hope blossoming in her chest and butterflies doing evolutions in her stomach.

“I-I mean. I-I do.” A pause. “Think of you.” He starts to massage his temples. “… And what I might say in this sort of situation.”

She trots after him, heart hammering fast in her throat.

“What’s stopping you?” She asks, managing to slip in front of him and turn to face him, arresting his steps. The irony is not lost to both, and they exchange a smile as he, indeed, stops.

“You’re the Inquisitor, and we’re at war.” He states with a note of regret in his voice. “And, you’re my friend. My best friend, before everything else and I… I don’t want to ruin what we have. Also I…” He sighs, shaking his head. “…I didn’t think it was possible.”

“And yet I’m still here.” She smiles, encouragingly. She can’t help but smiling, as she steps back to rest against the wall in a crenelle, both hands propped on the border. Heart full and near to bursting.

He smiles back, cheeks flushed pink as hers, stepping forward slowly to get closer. And closer.

“It seems too much to ask…”

“I’m your best friend, right? I don’t mind doing you a favour. If you want it too, we can try...” She banters, half that and half fumbling herself, speaking too quickly and with not much sense, tying strings together just to fill the silence and vent out some restlessness.

“… I want to.” If she’s restless and hyped, he’s soft and delicate, placing a hand over hers on the stone, looking at her right in the eyes as he gets closer and closer.

She’s pinned in place, she can just nod when he furrows just a little, to silently ask for permission, the way he does when they play chess, words are over and he asks her if he can move. The same way they ask and answer if they’re all right from one side to the other of the War Table. Aisling closes her eyes, floating in anticipation, feeling his breath -delicate, he must be keeping it, smelling faintly like elfroot and the herbs she put in his brew- she’s leaning minutely forward and their lips brush against each other, very tentatively before-

“Commander.”

He draws back, inhaling sharply through his nose. Aisling, on her own, thrown back to earth too abruptly, lowers her gaze and turns her head away from the newcomer, clearing her throat and straightening her spine.

“You wanted a copy of Sister Leliana’s report.” The Scout continues, and as Aisling looks at him, he has his head bent down on a writing board, not looking at where he goes or his surroundings.

She is grateful that he doesn’t, because like that he probably missed the Commander and the Inquisitor being far too close for propriety’s sake, and at the same time she knows that Cullen will get absolutely pissed by that attitude. He surely barked against her enough times in drills to always, always, mind your surroundings, how many enemies are around, terrain.

“What?” As on clue, Cullen barks, seething in irritation as he turns from her and marches to the poor, still incredibly unaware Scout.

“Sister Leliana’s report, sir, you wanted it delivered right away.” The Scout seraphically goes on, calm as if it was asking a friend to pass him the salt during a picnic on a sunny day.

Finally he raises his head, and Aisling can see all colour draining from his face. She’s trying her best to merge with the surroundings and pretend she’s not there, or she’s invisible, but she can’t help looking. Looking as the Scout suddenly realizes that he manages to push at least three buttons of Commander Rutherford, enough to have him silent and most likely with a murderous expression on his face - again, Aisling knows that look he has with the particularly arrogant recruits that have him repeat very simple questions twice, explaining his work to him. The Scout looks at her, finally, and before Aisling snaps her head and eyes on the other side of the battlements, clearing her throat eloquently, she spots him absolutely terrified, putting 2 and 2 together.

“Or… Or…” The poor boy swallows. “… or to your office! R-right!”

It’s almost comical how he retreats walking backwards, not leaving Cullen’s eyes as one would do with some sort of wild animal very angry at you. As if he was afraid that by turning and running, the Commander would have understood that he was prey to run after, and jumped at his throat.

As the door to the guard tower slams behind the Scout again, Aisling speaks.

“Cullen, if you need to- oomph!”

He’s on her abruptly, heavily and roughly. He doesn’t really centre her mouth at first, and needs to readjust. But like that, he scrubs his beard against her face, slightly, and it’s rough and blissful and very weird in a good sense. He cups her face, keeping her close and moving her slightly for a better position. She closes her eyes and kisses him back, not knowing where to put her hands. Tentatively, she decides that his ribcage, on his sides, is a good position. He doesn’t seem to mind, at least, when he moves away, red till the point of his ears, smiling goofily at her, eyes sparkling.

“I’m- I’m sorry. That was… Uh, that was nice.” He sounds not really convinced. It could be shyness, or not, she needs to know.

“… You don’t regret it, do you? I mean, we can always pretend it never happened, go on as before…” She prods, offering him a way out. She wouldn’t be able to go on as before, but she can try.

He just looks at her, tho, awestruck as if it is the first time he really sees her. Sees her for real, eyes shining and a smile not leaving his lips, bending his scar just so in that way she likes. She really hopes he doesn’t regret it, tho, because she now can make sense that Cole misspelled: it’s not that Cullen doesn’t think she’s really there, it looks like he can’t believe she’s there, and noticing that she actually is makes for a great surprise. She doesn’t want him to look at her in any other way than this, and moreover it makes her really, really want to kiss him again. Kiss him better. Longer.

“No!” He answers her, and they both smile wider, one following the other. “No, not at all… Do you?”

“Mh. I’m not really sure. Care to try again? For science?”

And yet, she moves slightly closer, not going the full way, but making it clear that she’s up for it. He laughs, shaking his head and resting his forehead against hers, thumbs gently caressing her jaw where they’re still placed.

“Yes. Well…”

They try again. Slower, more tentatively, exploring and savouring the moment. Aisling hugs him properly after a minute, bringing him closer despite his armour and cape. It’s really different than Ydun, it’s less soft and less delicate, movement less precise. It’s ten times better – more heartfelt, for once. She manages to shift a little and indeed kiss his scar, humming in contentment, before Cullen seems to remember something and moves a little back, concern on his still flushed face.

“I- I wanted to say, forgive me for what I wrote. I never… it came out wrong.I’m awful with letters that aren’t reports, I didn’t mean to say that I think you disliked me on principle, I don’t think that. It’s just that… I mean-”

He’s fumbling so much, looks so concerned even if he still is blushing madly, ears deliciously pink. He’s fumbling so much that she starts to laugh, slipping her arms in front of him, her turn to cup his face and bring him back for another kiss - regretting she did wear gloves today, but she guess it would mean they’ll have to do it again.

“Shut up.” She tells him, giggling as she kisses him again. And again.

When that evening she joins the other in the Herald’s Rest -they both do, not holding hands because they settled on keeping thigs between them, for now, but smiling knowingly at each other- she gets drunk because she’s happy. Because Bull is happy and wants her to try some Qunari spirit that taskes like it’s explosive, and is very fitting to celebrate slaying a dragon. The whole tavern is happy, Mariden starts playing and everyone starts singing, and she’s high enough to grab Sera by the hand and start dancing, with cheers and claps. When she turns and meets Cullen’s eyes on the other side of the tavern, just to find him smiling at her, so fondly her heart melts a little, it feels just like flying.

Chapter Text

Music

Aisling loves to dance. She’s always had, ever since she was little and Pavyn made her hop on his feet and dragged her around the fire in the clan, whenever there was something to celebrate. As a child, it made her happy doing so, it felt like she was his little sister for real, and warmed her up greatly in the first months. She went to dancing with Radha, who was never that keen in accepting dance partners, but always said yes to her if she played the cart of the cute little sister; Vyrina when Fionn was tired, and Ydun later. Ydun who danced like she hunted, with grace and decision and always wanted to lead. It was nice.

Dancing at the Winter Palace, tho, is a whole other task. She could share one dance -her first- with Dorian, which was good. Not as good as she hoped when Leliana told her that one dance could make her look better in the eyes of the court after she disappeared to explore the Library, and disappeared again to bring some of that -honestly too delicious- lemon cake to poor Cole that was closed in there, scared and overwhelmed. Aisling felt incredibly guilty to have asked him to come. After that, her first choice of partner would have been Cullen, of course. But he refused her, too abruptly. So abruptly it stung a little, honestly, even if he apologised and told her he didn’t want to dance in general. Dorian had been her second choice, and the perfect one to lick at her wounds. They had made a good show of it, flowing effortlessly around the dancefloor, her loose skirt flying in their trail with his half cape, taking more space in the lowered ballroom than necessary and, as a direct consequence, dragging all eyes on them. She heard some nice comments about her, finally, after hours of hearing people call her rabbit as the nicest things, at least. People had clapped at them, and one Comte even invited her to dance right after. She thanked him and accepted it, and it was worse than with Dorian, but tolerable, and he let slip some useful pieces of informations.

Dancing with Florianne, after the visit to the Servants Quarters, with a nasty bruise on her hip that made certain movement really hurt, is… Unpleasant. There’s something about the woman that just leaves her with a bad feeling in her guts. They dance, Aisling leads and the Grand-Duchesse follows, elegant and light, but with a sharpness to her tongue, making questions. She answers, one by one, with other questions, prodding without letting everything slip, as Josie and Leliana told her to. Creators know if it’s enough, and from how the Duchesse is smirking under her mask, she couldn’t say.

She makes her turn and float, is quick on her step around the other woman, white skirts flowing around her more freely, just kept in place by the long front ending of her bodice in the front and back centre. She chose an elven cut for her dress, had been pretty firm on that choice… with the unplanned approval of Leliana in sending this particular message. It was Leliana’s idea to braid her hair, leaving her tattooed brow free: after the de Mourny, Aisling didn’t know exactly what good it could make but… As she parries yet another nasty question from Florianne and catches her in a casque, letting the woman lower down deeply, there are oooh-s and aaah-s all around, in delight, even if she’s distinctively Dalish in her clothing choices. Even if the big chest piece in volcanic aurum, a big eye covering the front of her bodice with flames, screams Inquisition in an event that was supposed to be apolitical. Even if they stand on ground that should have been the home of her people and everything around her screamed of the betrayal of old, of a life travelling and hiding and fighting for every meal that could have not been.

She helps the Grand Duchesse up and curtseys to her, when Florianne does the same with a compliment that had a sharp edge to it, as every single word they had exchanged. She stays polite as ever, but she knows something is up and her dance partner knows more than she lets on.

She hates this place and she hates politics and the Game, she hates how even Josephine, who is in her field, looks on edge and nervous. She hates how Cassandra is evidently dying from the wish to punch someone -and Elgar’nan, Aisling understands her more than ever, as she told the woman when she came check on her and they chatted for some time, taking some respite in the familiar presence and conversation of the other. She hates how Dorian has one façade up more than his usual, all pleasant smiles and witty, charming remarks, and always a full glass in his hand, enough to signal her that it’s all pretence. She hates how Cole is curled up in a corner in the library, shaken and overwhelmed, and that she cannot slip to bring him cakes and hug him as much as she would like. She hates how a Comte groped Cullen and wasn’t even sorry for it when she intervened to take him away and they hid a little on a balcony, enough for him to stop hyperventilating.

She hates how she herself is a whole other person. Pleasant and complying, all nice smiles and coyness and sweet demureness, answering in half-saids as Josephine told her. It worked, somehow, even Duchesse de Mourny, that horrible woman, kept her jabs in check and even spoke to her, tho briefly.

What she wasn’t expecting, tho, is for Gaspard to stop her right before walking away from the dancefloor. She is already lifting her skirt up -just a little, hand light, just so as Josie taught her- when the Grand Duke descends the same stairway and stops in front of her, offering his right hand, palms up.

“Would you honour me as well of a dance, my Lady? Such grace deserves to be shown more.”

Sweet smile, coyness, humbleness, don’t think about the documents you found about him, don’t think he brought the army to a peace talk, don’t notice he is two steps above you and looking down.

“Of course, my Lord, I’d be honoured to.” She smiles up at him, with a courtsey, gracefully placing her fingers on his palm and letting him guide her back on the dancefloor.

With a side glance to the railings above, Aisling can see there’s quite the crowd staring at them. Great. She feels uneasiness rise in her throat, as Gaspard walks to stand before her and gesture to the orchestra to start playing. They start a courante, the rhythm starting slowly and giving them a little time to adapt to the other, fall into the steps. It’s a little like dueling, Aisling can’t but think, feeling the Duke’s eyes on her, and the pressure of getting the steps just right. Stupid heels make it difficult, but she steps on the ball of her feets, raising her heels. It’s more tiresome, sure, but at least she won’t risk unbalancing herself. Step left, step right, turn, go back to face him, don’t scrunch your nose because he’s smiling at you.

“You’re faring incredibly well in this den of vipers.”

“You sound surprised, my lord.”

“Not at you. I’m surprised they didn’t kick you out for how openly Dalish you look.”

“It’s well known where I come from, it’s hardly anything surprising.”

“You’re right.” He chuckles. “It’s not surprised, but unexpected. You didn’t bow to our uses and fashion, as most people expected, it’s… Something new, here.”

“I’m Dalish. We do not bow.” She points out, carefully avoiding to add that they do not bow in particular there, in Halamshiral.

No, she keeps silent, placing her fingers on his palm again so they can turn together in a wide circle, steps quick and light as the music paces up and the intensity increases.

“I noticed. I guess that’s what made you such an influential part of the political scenario so fast. Complying and be pleasant but still doing what you want? Many people here would kill to learn to do it with your grace.”

“You flatter me, my Lord.”

“Please.” He counters, closing his fingers on hers and spinning her around and too close to him, his other hand placing on her waist, hers raising to his shoulder. Not proper for this kind of dance - Aisling can hear some gasps from above and hoped it isn’t Josephine. “We won’t be overheard right now. Just Gaspard, for you.”

Wait, what? His touch on her waist, even blocked by a structured, boned bodice, feels wrong, but she endures, forcing herself to smile and not to voice out one of the at least ten excuses she could think of to flee from that dancefloor, out of his arms and back in the Servant’s quarter. She could use a band of Venatori to barge in the room and force her to action, instead of turning around and around under the Grand Duke’s lead, his touch unwelcomed and unasked for -it was a courante, not a waltz!- hands clasping on her own and pressing on the small of her back not so hard to hurt or be rude, but firm enough to clearly communicate she was to stay there, that he may support her, but only if she did what he asked. And after all, he threw a whole Empire in chaos, and for what? She may have been fooled, two months prior. Unfortunately, she’s seen the Exalted Plains and the destruction he left in his wake and thirst for power, she found his documents and letters and had a clearer idea of whom she was dealing with than he thought. It was her advantage. Play demure, play innocent, let him talk, let him reveal what he wants. Leliana taught her well but Creators if it makes her nauseous.

“Why did you invite me here?” She asks, avoiding to address him at all, and lowering her eyes.

“I was curious.” He admits. “A Dalish elf, come from nothing, suddenly walks in and Thedas shakes under her feet. You caught my interest.”

He steps back, using his grasp on her hand to make her spin on her spot, chiffon skirt flurrying around her for a moment, until he drags her back in his arms.

“I thought you could be an ally. After all, you defied expectations and authority to pursue your goals and ideals more than once, I think we’re like-minded like that, and could work well together.”

Fat chance, she thinks, gulping down a snort and biting the inside of her cheek not to reply anything.

“But, knowing you personally, seeing you move around here… Just like the Cinderella of the fairy tale, made me think better.”

“About an alliance?”

“On the contrary. I’m still very keen on that. The Inquisition could do wonders with the Empire at its back, and Orlais would only benefit from what the Inquisition is doing. We could help each other greatly. But… Why keeping it on a war table? We could do great things together. We could do more. Shake Thedas from the ground up, and re-shape it as we’d like.”

He pushes on her waist and drags her closer to him still, pace quickening. She resists it, instinct kicking in a little, not wanting to get any closer to him. Not now, not ever. She is still considering what to do, sure… Celene did horrible things that makes her want to puke and stab her herself just thinking of them. But this? He’s saying he respects her power and still pushing to get her chest to chest even if she’s resisting it, not listening to her. He has soldiers on the door. He casted a country in war and now…

“Would you marry me, Lady Lavellan?”

---

Music || Music 2 (Cinderella theme keeps up)

The music comes tuned down in the balcony, along with the crystalline chit-chat of too many voices conversing and plotting and backhand insulting. A song stops, people claps loudly, there’s some sighing whispering behind the glass doors of the balcony, but all the words are left in, keeping the space as private as the Winter Palace allows. It’s apparently an unspoken rule that the balconies are a liminal space for a little bit of privacy and respite from the Court, where people are not to be disturbed, but still considered polite to be alone in. At least one good thing to make this evening not so horrible in this Maker-forsaken circus.

Cullen is leaning on the corner of the balaustrade of one, right against the wall, hidden from the door and anyone who will peek out casually, both his forearms resting on the marble and breathing deeply the fresh night air. Relishing in the quiet and how the nasty group of people that has been vulturing around him all evening has blissfully chosen to leave him alone and not follow him out there. He doesn’t fool himself in thinking he managed to lose them all in the crowd, no. He’s visible enough in the blasted red velvet uniform and without a mask on. But, he’ll take what he can get, and will just stay there until Josie will come to look for him, or… Well, 10 minutes more, hoping it will be enough for his headache to subside a little, free of invitations to dance and to visit this or that estate in the summer, come to dinner, hunting, walking and whatever futile activity that cared not for ongoing wars. Stupid Orlais.

He managed to carve some blissful minutes of quiet he carved out after watching Aisling dance with the Grand Duchesse, feeling a sharp pang of regret for having turned her down so abruptly when she took courage and asked him for a dance. It came in automatic after at least ten similar requests, not taking into consideration who was asking him right then until it was late and she was looking at him with a smile that turned strained at the corners and the glimpse of hurt in her eyes. He felt stupid. He should have said yes. Maybe that would have shooed nobles away and… And she liked dancing, that was clear. She always laughed when Josie taught her and Dorian in the great hall and they spun around, inventing their own steps at times so Josephine had to grumble and try to keep the pair in good order. It was such a little thing and- He felt stupid. Maybe it was, after all, a bad idea. A Templar and a Mage, a human and an elf, he believed in Andraste and her in her Creators -that he knew next to nothing of-, she loved dancing and he hated it and she took care of him and he didn’t. She was healthy and stable and had time, he was not and his time was a big interrogative point. It was bad and he should never have kissed her, he should have turned her down, she would have been sad and hurt, he knows her well enough to say, but in the long run, it maybe would have been better. He should have-

- Unspoken rules aren’t apparently always respected, as he’s abruptly dragged out of his head by the clinking noise of the balcony glass doors opening and closing, slamming heavily, stomping feet and an angry click-clack of heels on the tiles. He turns around abruptly, ready with an excuse for being there, fearing the worst… and instantly relaxes, seeing that the newcomer is none other than the Inquisitor, facing forward with a frown, a hunch in her shoulders that communicates anger, and marching very unlike how Josephine instructed her to walk, to the small loveseat in the corner opposite to where he’s standing.

She grabs a pillow, drowns her face in the plush blue velvet and starts screaming into it, the sound muffled by the stuffing and her whole body participating in the vent, shoulders sagging and back curving forward, as she takes little steps backward.

It goes on for a full minute, and she emerges flushed red just to take a large gulp of breath, and starts pacing furiously back and forth, eyes frowning and fixed on the floor, so much that she doesn’t see that she’s not alone on the balcony.

“That pompous, shit-face, absolutely revolting idiot-”

Cullen had never seen her so angry before. Not when she got back from Redcliffe and he opposed fiercely -too fiercely and out of prejudiced fears, in hindsight- her decision to grant an alliance to the Mages without consulting them first. Not even at Adamant when she jumped out of the Fade and faced Erimond, who had succeeded in the titanic deed of having Aisling Lavellan order -and perform- an execution. She had been stoney there, all cold logic and sharp arguments. Now she’s all fire and thunder, walking back and forth and heavily gesticulating as she continues to grumble insults after insult. It’s a rare sight, and even if Cullen’s praying that he’s not the recipient of her fury -he doesn’t really want for her to notice he’s here and zapping his butt, thank you very much- it’s endearing, in a way.

“- oblivious, self-centred, warmongering poor excuse of a fucking ASSHOLE!”

She hisses loudly, raising her voice on the last word and, in her rage and frustration, throwing the pillow she’s still holding in her right hand, right out of the balcony with force. The pillow takes flight, rolling on itself in a twirl of gold tassels, and as it flies over the balaustrade, the elf seems to suddenly realise what she has just done. Her face drops in horror, she yelps and runs to the railing, balancing on it with both hands as she leans over to see where the pillow is falling.

It is too much for Cullen. He tries to resist it, but he can’t help laughing, covering his mouth with a gloved hand in a poor attempt at masquerading and keep silent. She hears, and freezes, turning around slowly, eyes wide in fear, mouth opened in horror, no doubt thinking she’s just been caught red-handed. They exchange a glance, and when she realises it’s only him, she grows as red as her dress and stretches her mouth in one thin line.

“…I thought I was alone.”

She excuses herself, embarrassed, crossing her arms on her chest and lowering her eyes. Cullen manages to stop laughing -the first laugh in a while- to reply.

“I’m sorry. It’s just me.”

“Please, don’t tell Josephine.”

“I’ll stay silent if you will, I should really be inside.”

She laughs a little at that, nodding her assent and relaxing a little, shoulder lowering a little. Then, remembering she had just thrown a pillow out of a balcony, she groans loudly and gets back to lean over the railings, looking down to the gardens below.

“Oh, tell me I didn’t hit anyone, please…”

She mumbles, grumpily, as he crosses the balcony to stand by her side, looking down himself in search of the makeshift ammunition. Which is now lying mournfully on a lawn between two topiaries, covering torn and loose white feathers scattered all around on the grass.

“The only casualty was that poor pillow.”

“Mh.”

She keeps staring down, and he could swear he can hear the thoughts running fast in her head.

“Are you all right?” A rhetoric question, it’s clear that she’s not. “What brought this on?” He asks, lowering his voice and turning to face the glass door to the ballroom, propping on his elbows behind him, ready should anyone else enter. She shrugs.

“Nothing. A stupid proposition I already turned down. You’ll be glad to know that if I won’t find anything else compromising in the Royal Wing, I know what to do.” She doesn’t seem convinced at all.

“I’ve never seen you angry before without any psychopath Magister around, it doesn’t look like nothing.” He prods a little, worried. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He asks, still unsure. They’re friends. Best friends at that, and he knows she can be overly closed off when she wants. But… Well. They kissed. Whatever it was that they were doing now, he thinks -he hopes- that it’s enough for her to confide in him a little, to trust him and opens up more, enough to speak and vent. He keeps on feeling that he’s relying on her too much, and even if she keeps saying it’s ok and not to worry about it, Cullen’s a professional worrier, and being the one to rely on the other so much doesn’t sit right with him. He wants to do something for her as well. Even if it is just listening. Anything, really. She considers his offering, at least, mulling over it for a full minute before breathing deeply and speaking.

“Gaspard asked me to marry him, should he be crowned Emperor.”

A short sentence, matter-of-fact enough. He freezes at the news. He knows the man is brash and bold, and never made it a mistery how much he despises the Game, but this? His mind begins calculating outcomes and turnabouts before he can help himself, switching into professional mode to ignore the emotional implications and what it could mean for him. The most deprecating part of his brain tells him that it would have been a great chance for her to do something really substantial, consolidate her position as a major political influence. It would give the Inquisition more scope and relevance, for sure, and she could balance and temper down de Chalons’ warmongering tendencies.

She surely deserved the chance to do so much good. He wasn’t important. He couldn’t offer her anything of sort, he needed to step down and let her go, if she so wished. Not like anything major happened. He pined over her for months. They kissed on the battlements. They kissed at every given chance, stealing moments here and there whenever they found themselves alone or made excuses to be so. Kissed in his tent on the way there, late at night when she slipped in just to bid him good night and good luck, and he had stopped her before things grew too much, too soon, he wasn’t ready and she hadn’t batted an eye, just nodded, kissed him one last time and slipped away. Kisses. Good kisses at that and he never wanted to stop. But were they enough to counterbalance an Empire and such a chance?

“Please, Cullen, say something.” She pleads, and it isn’t anger anymore that tinges her voice, but sadness.

“I… Ah-” He swallows, not sure about what to say, how to order his frantic thoughts up. “I-it could be a chance?” He probes, trying and failing to sound encouraging.

“It would be a shitshow!” An absolute, monumental shitshow with fireworks of manure flying around!” She declares, loudly and going back to anger, pushing herself away from the railing, arms tossed on her sides and starting to pace again. “Can you imagine? This den of prissy little nobles too preoccupied of their dresses to do something substantial for their subjects, with a Dalish elf as an empress! All faking they haven’t called me rabbit all evening without even be discreet about it, until I fucking had to dance with that slimy and suspicious snake of Florianne, who I suspect would be my sister-in-law and- UUUURGH.”

She concludes her tirade by pressing the heels of her hands in her eye sockets and slouching on herself, groaning loudly. Cullen indeed heard many people calling her rabbit and savage and all kinds of nasty backhanded comments, at her back or in her face, and she never batted an eye, never stopped smiling and being polite and amiable. Apparently, she isn’t as unaffected as she seemed… And indeed, how could she be. Yet, the one that replies is still the self-deprecating part, the one now convinced that in a match between him and an Orlesian emperor, he couldn’t even compete.

“You could make a real difference, tho. You’ll have Briala at your side, and you two could seriously do some real good for this country, and with its influence, to the whole world.”

“Are you suggesting I should say yes?” She asks, turning to glare at him, now.

“I’m suggesting that you would be the best thing to happen to Orlais since a whole while. Strategically speaking, he’s making sense.” He can’t look at her, relying just on good old logic and word, swallowing every little feeling down. It’s a game of chess, just another game of chess, and feelings aren’t included. He can’t raise his eyes from his boots and look at her in the face as he speaks, tho.

She must notice something, because when she answers, all the rage has gone from her voice.

“Can I talk to Cullen, and not to Commander Rutherford, please? I don’t need a military advisor right now, I need my…” She hesitates, word dying in her throat as she catches up. “…my friend.” She adds, unconvinced. They haven’t called it anything, but is there anything to call?

Anyway, she approaches him, slowly -Cullen can hear her heels clacking and can see the flowy hem of her dress in his vision field. She gently raises her hands, placing silk covered fingers on his jaw and, gently and prodding, never pushing, raising his face up so she can look him in his eyes.

“Do you want me to marry for politics?” She asks, and it’s a plead, honest and direct as she can manage, through emotions, and kept in place as he is, he can see her green eyes full of worry, lower lip trembling slightly. His first instinct would be to lean in, nib at it and kiss her, but it’s not the right moment or time. So, he sighs, closing his eyes. It’s easier to speak without looking at her.

“I want you to choose what you want to do. We already imposed so much, and I know you want to help your people, and-” -and I’m not a good choice, I can’t help you as you’d deserve. “-and-”

“Do you want me to marry Gaspard de Chalons?”

“I-”

He starts but hesitates. Wrong move: after a while, when he’s desperately trying to find words and order his thoughts up, she misunderstands and lowers her hands from him, taking a step back. He can see her eyes watering up, right before she lowers them, with a frown. It’s a moment, but it’s enough to kick him out of his stupor, finally. Without really realising it, and before his brain can rationalise it and find other excuses to let her go -because she is a crybaby, she’ll cry at everything he knows, but those tears stings because they’re his fault- both his hands snaps forward and close on her wrists, stopping her from going away and, indeed, dragging her closer to him. A little too close for propriety, but Orlais can go fuck itself.
“Sorry, I…” He swallows. Now or never. “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to, least of all marrying. But… But you were angry and… I don’t know. Maybe you didn’t know what you wanted and… I mean- Ah-”

Maker, why are words so hard? He felt like a choir boy at his first crush. Even knowing that his first crush went awfully bad, and he did take some steps forward. A couple at least. But Aisling is special, to him, she’s her friend and he wants her best, without imposing his wishes and needs to her. More than he already did. Aisling, luckily enough, seems to read in his farfetched speech something more. He can feel her slipping her hands up in his grasp and coming to hold his hands, squeezing his fingers as she steps forward. She pulls a little on his hands beckoning him to bend down a little, so that she can press her forehead against his, nuzzling his nose affectionately.

“I absolutely despise Gaspard de Chalons. He may be a decent general… But that’s all there is to him. My people need more than a commander.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but she nods her head to stop him.

“My people need a good man as well. I want a good man as well. One that cares about me as a person and not as a title or political ammunition. One that won’t tie me over and lock me in a cage. A good man he is not, I’m very sure he just sees me as a title. I’ll marry Vivienne before I’ll marry him.”

She says, softly but very seriously, and he can’t but chuckle under his breath. It’s his turn to bend forward and nuzzle her nose, grateful.

“Besides…” She adds, a note of mirth weaving its way in her voice and eyes. “…I already have one Commander that I actually like a lot, we don’t need two. Particularly if one is Fereldan and the other Orlesian, I was told it’s the perfect recipe for chaos…”

She jokes, and his chuckle turns louder.

“Also! If I were made Empress, my very first decree would be to banish forever these horrible torture devices-” She moves her weight on her left foot, leaning on his hand as she moves the other foot sideways and out of the skirt, showing off one of the embroidered slippers she’s wearing. “- and I don’t think Leliana would ever let me live if I declared high heels illegal, you see.”

He laughs, loud and hard, imagining the scene. “You two would surely destroy the whole palace fighting.” His smiles, at the end, is wide and sincere.

“For sure, and it would really be a pity with all this nice architecture lost fore- OH NO, WAIT!” She stops herself snapping up with her eyes opening wide, mouth too in a surprised O, as she evidently has just had a big revelation. She moves back, facing him with this enlightened, exaggerated expression on her face. “If I’m empress, I could eat those tiny lemon cakes all day, every day!” She declares, in wonder. “On a second thought you were probably right, let me just-”

He can’t help but start laughing again, bot at the jest right now and at the imagine of her surrounded in lemon cakes and not eating anything else forever -and by the face of pure delight she made when Josephine ran to her presenting the cake and she tasted it, he could well believe she would have done it. She turns around and takes half a step towards the doors, for real, slipping just one hand out of his. He uses the other to close around hers and pull her back, fully against his chest this time, circling her shoulders in a hug. She joins him in laughing, hugging him back and squeezing tight. They stay there together, until laughter finally subsides and she sighs, contented, patting his back thrice after a while, to signal her to let her go. She’s still smiling at him, tho.

“Thank you, Cullen. I needed this.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’ll be all right when we’ll be on the road back” She grimaces. “But yes, I’m fine as I can be. Are you? No headache? I have some spare elfroot…”

“I’m fine, thank you. Will be better on the road back too, don’t worry about me.”

Aisling nods, content, and takes a step back, with a sight.

“Well, I have to get back. The Royal Quarters won’t inspect themselves, unfortunately. See you in a while?”

“I’ll wait for your signal.”

She smiles and nods again, and for a moment she seems on the verge of saying something else and where to put her hands exactly, hovering them in the air as she takes breath and doesn’t exhale. But it’s a moment. She shakes her head, huffs and turns back, striding towards the ballroom. But, just at the door, hand already on the handle, she reconsiders and stops on her track, head slouching a little down and fingers clenching on the brass handle.

“Before I go…”

“Yes?”

“… Can I ask you something…” She seems uncertain, hesitates, and shakes her head. “Urgh, nevermind, it was silly, it’s not-”

“Go on, please.” He stops her. He knows about fumbling and not speaking, he won’t let her do the same. “You can tell me everything.”

She considers it for a moment, sighing heavily. “Ok. It’s… It’s stupid, and I know it’s silly and it’s way, way too soon, but…”

Another pause. She considers, and he can see her profile now illuminated by the candlelight inside. Her cheeks turn red, as far as her ears. She doesn’t look at him, as she takes a deep breath for courage and contracts her shoulders, raising her chin high.

“Would you really have been ok with me marrying Gaspard? You as a person, not as… As my Commander.” She asks, turning finally to him with the hurt expression of before right on her face. The same she had for but a moment when he abruptly told her he wouldn’t dance with her. His heart does a painful leap in his chest, regret rushing back in.

“If that was what you decided…”

“Would you have been happy with it? For real, not just to support me?”

He swallows, his mouth running dry. For all the waiters bringing champagne and liquors being damn insistent and annoying in showing up unasked for every five minutes, he would welcome one right now. It’s not that he doesn’t want to answer her, it’s just that the matter trudges dangerously close to the intensity of his feelings, and to some vulnerable part of him. He doesn’t want to scare her off nor to get hurt. And yet, it’s Asling. Aisling who doesn’t have one cruel bone in her body, Aisling who is speaking and involving in research the Magister who almost killed her sending her in the future, because she could empathise. Aisling who’s seen him at his worst and all her reaction was flailing herself because she couldn’t do more. Aisling who is his best friend. And she deserves honesty. So, Cullen takes a deep breath and forces words out. One after the other, scared shitless but still doing it.

“I… I would have hated it. I would have hated him, and it would have broken my-”

She doesn’t let him finish, but grabs her skirt to pull it up to run back to him, three quick steps before throwing her arms around his neck and dragging him down for a kiss. Orlesian court be damned, he hugs her waist and kisses her back, hauling her up against him, and it’s passionate, thankful and loving.

“I’m not marrying the Grand Duke. Not for all the cake in Thedas.”

“Are you sure? You look so very in love with that cake, before…” He jokes, nuzzling her nose as she huffs another laugh and pecks his upper lip, right over his scar.

“It wasn’t that good.”

“Mh.”

“… Ok it was delicious, but I like you way better.”

His heart makes another leap, and it brings a smile on his face as she realises what she just said and becomes a shade of red dangerously close to her dress. He finds her utterly adorable, as she takes a quick step back, patting his arm with a shy smile as he tries to keep her there for one minute more.

“Well, then, now that it’s settled. I should get back before Cassandra murders someone. Ehr. Thank you, Cullen, take care.”

She grimaces again, shaking her head and turning her back with an embarrassed groan. She’s so easy to read, usually, that just makes things easier, and right now, heart full and not feeling like the evening is totally awful, he just can’t see it as a fatal flaw. Politically, it may be, but aristocracy be damned, he hoped they didn’t manage to ruin her.

“Aisling?”

“Mh?”

“Be careful yourself, please.”

She stopped at the door again, turning towards him to gave him another smile, sincere and full of affection.

“I will. Let’s hope Varric is right in calling me Lucky, uh?”

It was too soon for love. Really too soon, no matter the months of friendship and closeness before, countless lunches together and a lot of letters full of scratchy doodles he may not have replied to so often, but he still keeps in a drawer on his desk. It’s utterly soon, but… He’s alone in the balcony, now, she just told him he’s way better than a cake that made her squeal in delight, and for a moment, just one fleeting moment, maybe he can dream.

---

Music

Past the witching hour, three figures clad in red velvet barge out of the Empress’ private quarters, running back to the ballroom clutching weapons close. They turn corners and slip in fancy, dark corridors adorned in marbles and gold stuccos, plush carpets decorating the floors in bright colours and busts watching at them from dainty columns against the walls. The silence is tense, their brows are sweaty and hair starting to fall out of their coifs, as their eyes dart left and right and they move in a practiced formation: tall warrior woman in the front, shield raised before her, the other two armed with tall staffs trailing behind. They already bested so many ambushes that expecting another only seems natural. They are tired, not even Dorian could pretend anymore that he is having fun, and he stopped trying to lighten the mood up two rooms ago, after they slipped away from a window left open and walked back balancing on a balaustrade.

All is silent except for them: fretful steps echoing in the tall corridors, heavy breathing and clothes frushing as they run in a still, eery atmosphere. Aisling has some more determining documents that Leliana surely will find good uses for. Retrieving them would surely cause some gasps if she will not be overly discreet about it, but the priority at the moment is not losing anything in any fight or careless run, pockets just doesn’t seem secure enough. She has finally made her decision, the locket so crucial for her plans has been shown to the owner and the person who gifted it to her, and time is running out.

Aisling catches sight of Cole, appearing near a big door just in front of them, on their right, and she needs no further indication to correct her steps and fasten her pace, running ahead of Cassandra and then towards the spirit boy. She knows her friends will follow.

Almost to the door, the Anchor on her left hand activates, faintly visible through the cream silk of her glove, but sending a jolt of electricity in the nerves up her arm. She hisses in discomfort, stopping abruptly with a angry frush of her skirt as she clutches her left hand in a fist and holds it close to her chest, clenching tight and waiting for the mark to calm down. She can hear her heart thumping quickly in her ears as she catches her breath and waits for the pain to subside a little. It isn’t the constant itch of Haven, when the Breach was open and the mark was active all the time, but every time she approaches a Rift it still spikes and flares angrily, and burns pretty uncomfortably for a couple of minutes. Time enough to catch her breath a little, and think that if the Anchor just flared-

“Are you ok, darling?” Dorian asks, in a low panting voice as he rubs her back with a hand, soothingly. Not that she could really feel much with boning and laces in the middle, but she appreciates it nevertheless.

“Yes, I’m ok. But-” She replies, uncrouching a little as she shakes her left, still burning but in a manageable way.

“-but if there’s a rift, we found the assassin.” Cassandra concludes, looking at her. Aisling knows, by now, that it’s her way of caring: acting and doing things for you so you could rest, silently checking that you’re well. So, Lavellan turns and smiles at her, nodding in agreement and appreciation for her care.

“Well, saves us the trouble of slipping in yet another wing of the palace and get even more sweaty.” Dorian adds, shrugging it off.

“Pride, sneer, superiority. She thinks she has won, there’s a crowned head in a sea of blood, the sky is green, everything burns but she laughs at it.” Cole says.

Aisling huffs, fixing her dress better -the hem without the shoes is a little too long, but nothing major, it’s wide enough so she has a wide range of movement, and light enough so it just floats around her. It’s also painfully white, and she notices that all the fighting got it dirty and a little bloody. Maybe the Court will close an eye if she saves the day…

“I think I may have an idea of whom this she may be.” She concludes, grimly. At least, if she’s correct, she won’t be overly sad in fighting her.

She casts glances first to Dorian, who winks at her and nods, smiling sincerely. Cole is next, and he still looks even paler than usual, scared from so many people around and Creators know how many nasty feelings, but whose eyes shines in determination, as he clutches his daggers more securely. Lastly, she turns towards Cassandra, looking as pristine as ever and like a hero out of a fairy tale in her uniform -she has strongly refused to wear a dress- even after hours of sneaking and fighting. It’s the Nevarran who speaks, lips curling up with a smile, the glint of decision shining bright in her eyes.

“Ready when you are, Inquisitor.”

How this statue of a woman, unstoppable and formidable, can show her such respect, relying on her for guidance and instructions even when they disagree, is still something that baffles Aisling a lot. And fills her with trust in herself, trust that maybe she has indeed done a couple of good things in her life, to deserve this. She won’t let Cassandra down. Not this evening, not ever, and will fight to show she is worthy of her trust. So, she smiles back, straightening her spine and nodding.

“Let’s go kick some more asses.”

“Ready, eager, trusting in everyone and grateful, a last bout of energy. Let this end here.”

She smiles at them all, as Cole says everything that’s important. She’d love a group hug so bad, but the time is very late and it will have to wait, if they want to save the Empress. They need to get back to the ballroom and solve things up, and then she would hug them all, and won’t let go until the next midday. Right now, words will have to do, with a necessary addition.

“I’m glad it’s you kicking asses with me, my friends. One for all.”

“And all for one.” Cassandra replies, smiling with amusement at the quotation she just made.

And so, Lavellan straightens her spine, puts on her best Inquisitor face and marches through the doors, right in the little courtyard and to yet another ambush waiting for them. And to the confirmations of her suspicions.

Duchesse Florianne can’t stop smiling at her, even after doing some -very stupid- confessions about how she was the mastermind between the assassination attempt, her whole plan and goals. Aisling honestly can’t see why would she lose time in explaining everything to her and Seeker Pentaghast, the Right Hand of the Divine, of all people. Indeed, she turns to Cassandra, a question on her face, to be met with a disgusted noise and a shrug.

“Don’t look at me.”

And with that, the Duchesse, disgusted equally -finally in the open- by two people not taking her seriously, flicks her wrist at the Venatori mage behind her, who activates the rift, and leaves the Inquisition to fend off a Fade Rift and the consequent demons.

As on clue, as planned, reinforcements arrive from above, as the mercenaries Florianne left to die yells and scamper away: an arrow in the terror’s eye jumping right at them, making it shrieks, and a black figure, falling right at its back and chopping its head off with one single precise slice.

“You’re late, Gutter Rose.” Radha beckons to her, lowering the scarf that was covering her face and nodding to the side.

“I know, Vespertilia, this stupid dress slowed me.” Aisling shrugs, keeping to code names just for fun, stomping her staff down on the ground and sending one precise shock of lightning to hit a Shade right between its eyes. No more difficult than hunting rabbits for dinner, back in the Marches, a precise stab of two daggers from Cole in the right points and the Shade shrieks and crumbles to dust.

It is time for another dance, then: this time, tho, it’s Aisling’s favourite steps, and in the company of some of her favourite people -but not, as previously established, the current number one, sorry Dorian. She raises her staff, concentrates, and lets thunder and lightning dance with them all.

---

Music 1 || Music 2

It’s growing late. It’s growing late, the atmoshphere is relaxing and there are few people dancing anymore. The Empress is alone, getting ready for her speech, everyone is growing tired, and the Inquisitor is nowhere to be found.

Cullen is pacing, finally some of the groups of mosquitoes that’s been following him all evening has relented, and he’s walking around the room, looking left and right and trying to look perfectly casual about it.

“Any news?” He asks Josie -Leliana is in the foyer or who knows where as he reaches her.

“Nothing.” She is nervous as well, fidgeting by making a ring turn and turn around her index finger. “I don’t know where she is, it’s a miracle that the Court is so quiet about it. She’s taking too long.”

Cullen knows. He sympathises with Josie, looking a nerve wreck as she frantically moves her head between the doors, in turn, and Celene in her corner, discussing with a Duchesse. If anyone wants to strike, it’s the perfect moment, the Ambassador realised too.

They both snap towards the entrance door to the grand ballroom, as it opens, catching their breaths… But no, it’s just Grand Duchesse Florianne walking back in, a flute of champagne held elegantly in her hand as she reaches her brother and walks with him around the room, looking haughty as her usual.

“Have you heard of our Gutter Rose?” Josie asks him.

“No.” He snaps. He hates that code name. “The guards are all in position and ready, tho, I already alerted them…”

“We still don’t know what she chose!” Josie protests.

“I know.” He says, absent-mindedly, and the moment it’s out of his mouth, it’s the moment he realises he made a mistake.

“How about- Wait, what?” Josie asks, squinting at him with suspicion. “How do you know and me and Leliana don’t? You have seen her, then!”

How someone could think of dragging peace talks so late in the night without reconvening… Cullen swallows, shaking his head.

“Not after she slipped in the Royal Quarters and-”

“There was a commotion not so far from here. Our Jenny just checked in.” Chimes in Leliana, resting her back, casually, on the railing, a pleasant smile on her face. So lovely and happy that it’s scary. Cullen was never as happy to see her than now, even if Josie still casts a suspicious glance at him.

“Get ready, she’s almost-”

As on clue, the east door, close to them, opens up to the Inquisitor, Lord Pavus and Seeker Pentaghast, causing a couple of whispers, but not so many. Aisling’s skirt is dirty on the hem, and torn in a couple of spots, and she looks tired and determined, hands gracefully clutched one over the other before her belly, as she walks leisurely in the ballroom, nodding and saluting nobles she has talked to before. Nobody notices a tall figure dressed in the servant livery slipping out right after them, elegant, stern face tattooed in purple as she marches to a table of food and picks up a tray, mixing in the crowd and following over Florianne, without really stopping for every single guest as it would be customary.

“Thank the Maker you’re here!” Cullen utters, before he can help himself, and maybe with a bit of emotion more than necessary, as she approaches them, Dorian and Cassandra casually starting conversations on opposite sides of the ballroom. “What should we do?”

Three pairs of eyes watch her with expectation. She takes a moment to reply, casting a sideway glance to Florianne and Gaspard on the other side of the raised corridors around the dance floor. The minute frown on her brow, a line crinkling her Vallaslin, the bent of her lips. Something happened and she’s reaching her limits, it’s masked well enough but plain to see. She turns to Cullen, some hidden emotion in their depths, as she speaks.

“Wait here, Cullen. I am going to have some words with the Grand Duchesse.” It’s her serious tone, it’s the voice that admits no disagreement, meaning that whatever she saw, she has decided.

“What? But there’s no time!” He counters, anyway.

She doesn’t listen, getting closer to Leliana and Josephine so they can cover her as she slips a hand down her cleavage, discreetely, to slip up and out from her dress some more papers, badly crumpled but still readable, handing them to Leliana.

“The Empress will begin her speech any moment!” Cullen continues, but all the answer he gets is a tired look from her.

“Then I should hurry, shouldn’t I?” She sighs. “Be ready for the worse. Vespertilia is protecting Celene.”

She informs them, walking past the trio towards the stair. As she passes, she leaves a fleeting caress on Cullen’s inner elbow, more a calming gesture than anything else, but calming for whom, he wouldn’t be able to say. The other two women, tho, don’t fail to notice. It isn’t weird for Aisling to be touchy. It is, unfortunately, weird for her to touch Cullen in particular and just him.

“What’s going on?” Josie asks, but there really is little time for anything else.

Aisling is engaging Florianne, and the Court snaps at attention right away, breath catching and murmurs raising loudly as Aisling voice booms in the room, loud and firm. The Inquisitor -because right now she’s not Aisling Lavellan, she’s not the First of her Clan or the horse enthusiast, she’s the Inquisitor- exposes the plan, all the details, all the little connection that she uncovered in the evening, circling around the other woman with her hands crossed behind her back as Florianne visibly loses her composture more and more.

There is an attempt to defend herself, but it falls so weakly, and Lady Lavellan has managed to sneak her way in the good graces of the whole court so much, that as the Grand Duchesse accuses her of falsity, and pleads not to believe her words, her brother all but turns his back at her, marching out and up the stairs. He launches a meaningful look at Aisling, but she is still fixed on Florianne, not deigning Gaspard of any attention. She does, tho, exchange a look with Briala, gifting her of a brief nod of her head before the elf leaves as well.

A couple of Inquisition guards march down the stairs, ready to imprison the culprit, with Celene’s approval that’s granted a little too quickly for good taste, the Grand Duchesse launches a curse, and a smoke bomb she sneaks out of a pocket, right at the Inquisitor.

It should be chaos, but it’s not: evidently Aisling was expecting something, because she jumps behind, skimpering down the stairs as she crouches down, one hand raising her skirt up -she’s barefoot, Cullen notices- and the other blowing a loud whistle. She sneaks a dagger from the garter on her belt, right in time to parry Florianne, equally armed with a couple of daggers, starts running after her, cursing her.

It’s a rush: a barrier gets raised to close off the side corridors, funnelling the two women to go to the Vestibule, Aisling retreating and luring Florianne up the stairs and out the room, Cullen barks orders to the soldiers, telling Josephine to stick with the Empress too, as he steps forward to follow the Inquisitor, elbowing his way with Leliana at his heels between scared and outraged nobles. It’s at least a small mercy to hear them all speaking in derogatory terms of the Grand Duchesse.

He secures the perimeter, giving instructions to their soldiers to not let anyone exit the ballroom, guard doors and windows, before walking out in the Vestibule: the doors to the Gardens are already open, some arrows are planted on the stairs, and he has to stop to give orders to other guards for them to evacuate the gardens and bring everyone in the Ballroom, nobles and servants alike, he doesn’t care if the aristocracy will protest. Organised the emergency as best as they can, tho, Radha runs out in time to stop both him and Leliana from descending the stairs to the garden.

“No.” She just tells them, and at their questions on the why, she just nods with her head at the furthest end, where there’s a figure in a weird spiky hat going from window to window and casting magic. A turn of the head reveals that it’s Solas, smiling politely at them, with a nod of his head before he resumes working, tracing glyphs on each frame.

“What’s going on?”

“Nobody should get out, Inquisitor’s personal order.”

“Why? Whats’s going on?” Cullen asks, frantically.

“Front door is closed, Droopy Ears.” Sera informs them, stepping up gingerly from the entrance and pushing up on tip toes to see further out of the windows.

She surely never informed him of this particular detail of the plan, not of the closed palace, nor of the protections on the glass?

“I’m sorry Commander, it was very last minute and a worst case scenario, it-” Solas stops, blinking once as the smile on his face grows from polite and circumstantial to real amusement.

“Can we know what’s going on out there?” It’s Leliana, this time, to prod for an answer.

“Oh, nothing. The Inquisitor and Master Pavus are doing what they’re best at.”

A thunder booms out there, followed quickly by another and a third one, it makes all the glass rattle but it sounds tentative enough. Even if the glyphs shine faintly in response.

“They’re making a ruckus.”

And all of a sudden, there’s a whole thunderstorm in the garden, air buzzing with magic that makes Cullen’s skin crawl and his throat close a little in response. A whole shower of lightnings, falling one in brief sequence from the other, their noise almost deafening, cascades on the garden, lighting the space and even the inside as if it was day. The glyphs shine bright, blue tendrils of magic spreading quickly from them to the rest of the glasses in a magical barrier that prevents everything to get shattered in the extent of the spell.

And after minutes that really seems longer, everything gets quiet again, just as before. Not a statue fell from its pedestal, the carpets are still in their place, not a soldier is out of place or hurt.

The Inquisitor marches back in after a minute, leaning over Dorian, both pale and panting but smiling, and orders the guards to go collect Florianne and drag her to the dirtier cell they can find, please. As the Commander and the Spymaster ask them, the two mages smile, brightly.

“Did you really think we settled for rain?”

---

Music
Gaspard, of course, doesn’t settle for her decision. No matter the fact that she has proofs and documents to prove him guilty, plenty of them, showing how if not of his sister’s plan, he perfectly knew of the soldiers around the palace, had paid them personally, and not even well. No matter the captain of his mercenaries there to act as witness. The Grand-Duke won’t go down without a fight.

Not that Aisling ever expected him to, but it just convinces her that, even if the idea of letting Celene on the throne frankly disgusts her, thinking of what she did to the Alienage… The alternative isn’t better, and she doesn’t really trust the man to stay put and quiet all his life as the public face of Briala behind his back. It would have been her preferred option, but she doesn’t trust at all the man to comply with it: Briala is intelligent and clever, but she can’t have the public opinion, and if anything happens, she would be the first to be hold accountable, against all odds.

Aisling hates politics. Hates it with a passion. Hates to be left accountable of doing these decisions where there’s no right choice: she’s just one person and yes, she have been educated to lead after all, but… It shouldn’t fall on one person’s shoulders.

And yet, she plays the Game, plays the role she has accepted, and lets Gaspard do a frankly embarrassingly long tirade, for a man who has been proved guilty, without flinching or lowering her eyes. So much for her wannabe fiancée.

“-You can’t be seriously thinking this is the best solution and charge me!” He concludes, red in face as far as she can see behind his mask. Both Celene and Briala scoffs at him, and honestly, she can relate.

“I am sorry, your Grace.” She is not sorry, not even in the least. She’s just tired. “But I’ve seen the Exalted Plains and the destruction you caused with your war. Thedas does not need another war, and my decision is final.”

“What about my proposal? Are you seriously throwing away a better position than one of your kind could even dream of?”

Strike three. Aisling frowns at him, all coldness and firmness.

“You wished for a Cinderella, your Grace, but I am a bad one. You would know if you ever had paid more attention to anyone that’s not yourself.” She states, a freezing calmness to her that manages to stop the Duke. “As my kind uses to say in these cases and to people such as you: dirthara-ma.”

Aisling is, officially, tired. So tired that she cares little if she pays more respect to Briala than to Celene when she salutes them, as they pass. She’s polite enough with the Empress, but all she had discovered prevents her to be warm or amiable again, and she holds her gaze with a silent reproach. Leliana has all the documents, they won’t have a problem using them in the future, and both women knew. Hopefully, it will be enough. Hopefully, Briala reunited with her and the title she’s been just granted, five minutes later, will be enough. To Briala she gifts a smile, and a good luck. The Marquise won’t need it, she has brain enough, but it can’t hurt. Aisling bows to her in respect and not in pure politeness as she does for the Empress.

It will have to do.

She doesn’t care to go and retrieve her shoes from wherever she has left them, she doesn’t recall. She doesn’t care anymore if her skirt is torn and the hem dirty, or if she feels the pin coming loose on the back of her head, and the complex updo of braids coming loose and starting to slide down her head, the ribbons that decorates it tickling the back of her neck. It’s almost dawning, the band has started to play yet again - how they go on, how everyone is still willing to go on with the show is something that’s beyond her comprehension.

Surprisingly enough, as she walks back from her speech towards a balcony, there’s Vivienne intercepting her, with a smile and a nod of her head under her mask. Aisling is tired enough not to care anymore or invent an excuse to prevent herself from hearing yet another set of sweet words highlighting exactly how poor her behaviour or her look was. She knows she’s falling into disarray, and the Enchanter won’t like it. But, it’s 5 in the morning, all that Aisling wishes for is a corner to curl up and sleep, she can fit another conversation. She stops, nods and curtseys, automatically by now.

“Lady Vivienne. I hope you enjoyed the Ball.”

“Quite so, my dear.” The woman tells her. She’s masked, impeccable and pristine in silk and as if she just exited from her room, but her eyes are visible enough for Aisling to notice some glint behind her irises. “It was entertaining seeing you act so deftly, one would never have thought a gutter rose to look so dashing in a greenhouse full of orchids.”

“I can’t take merit for Josephine’s hard work.” She nods, smiling through the stab. She chose “gutter rose” as her code name for this evening to reappropriate the insult, but it’s still to soon for it not to sting a little, even if the comment is as praising as Vivienne probably could go. But it’s late, she’s fed up… So maybe she can launch a jab of her own. “Some sincere friendship, acceptance and gentle support work wonders, I’ve been told.”

“Indeed.” Vivienne laughs, as poised as ever. “Who would have thought, she really is exceptional.”

“She is, I’m glad and lucky to have her by my side.”

“I’d be worried if you weren’t, Inquisitor.” In her nod there’s maybe the faintest sign of approval. “If she’ll also manage to teach you whom to trust and whom to shun from your graces, there may be some hope for you.”

And with that, Madam de Fer bows her head just so, with something that could also be mistaken for respect, for once, and walks back into the crowd, stopping by the Dowager and going back in the conversation effortlessly, perfectly in her environment.

What exactly she meant with the hint to people to trust, is revealed right after: Lady Morrigan approaches her and informs the Inquisitor of the consequent plans of the Empress for her. It comes as a surprise, but, as much as Leliana had but words of suspicion and Aisling has heard enough scorn to her around the ballroom and the gardens, the Witch seems level-headed enough, and surely an interesting addition. To be kept at arm-length, at least at first, but… But, her sharpness and directness feels like a gust of fresh air, after that whole ordeal, and the impression she makes, is a pleasant one.

It surely bodes to be some interesting few months. Possibly not as tiring as the almost passed night.

Left alone on the balcony -the same one she found Cullen in, before- she’s finally -finally!- alone with her thoughts. And alone to feel all the emotional and physical tiredness, stepping a little out of the Inquisitor’s shoes. Instinctively, and feeling a lot in need of a hug, she looks for the corners of the balcony close to the walls. But, of course, they’re empty. Cullen must be still inside, somewhere, dealing with the ruckus they caused beforehand no doubt. Oh, she’s grateful that he is doing the work: he finally has something to do and won’t look so much like a caged lion munching on the bars, and it gives her a moment to breathe and recollect. Still… Still, she really needs a hug, and she really needs him.

But maybe she is running too much and too fast -she always did- and he… He needs things to go slower, that much is very clear to her. So, this time she won’t run after him, she won’t impose, not grow gardenias and push him into something he’s not ready for. She just sighs, deal with it and rests on the railing, relaxing a little and dead-set to wait there until someone will come to tell her that the torture is over and they can go back to their room and sleep.

Mythal must be smiling over her, nonetheless, because not two minutes after, here Cullen is, asking how she’s feeling, providing some comfort that she desperately need -not quite like that but she’ll settl- and inviting her to dance.

She looks at him puzzled, not fully understanding. But he stays there, that shy, lopsided smile on his face that she likes so much, a hand outstretched towards here. He bows a little down, so their eyes are at the same level. The comparison with Gaspard, when he invited her, is stark and fills her heart with warmth.

“I thought you didn’t dance…”

“For you? I’ll try.”

And try he does, putting all his effort into it. She’s free to step away and put distance if she wants to, but she steps in anyway, really glad for once. It doesn’t matter if he’s counting steps under his breath, looking purposefully at his feets and looks like a fish out of water: she laughs and tells him to just let her lead, and starts counting steps for him, guiding them both around the balcony. It doesn’t matter if, just once, he steps on her foot and spends the next minute profusely apologising when he realizes she’s still barefoot.

It matters not. She just leans on him, places her cheek on his chest and sighs loudly, appreciatively, as they spin around, slowly and clumsily, another couple of times before stopping.

“I want to go home.” She tells him, at last, relaxed and grateful enough to open up. Just a little, just for him.

“…” He stops a little, she can feel him catching his breath. “Me too. We’ll be back to Skyhold soon?”

It sounds uncertain and, thinking better of it, Aisling can say why. They’ll need to have a better conversation on how to make this work, to talk about faith and differences, more than her asking if her being Dalish is a problem and him replying that it’s really not, if it’s not for her, without thinking about it. The discourse needs to be expanded, outside the warming feeling… But not now. Right now, she nods, hugging him tight.

“Never too soon. I miss Cabot’s scones.”

And, surprising her as well, it’s true. She wouldn’t know when has “home” become “Skyhold”, precisely, and the realisation frightens her a little. But, right now, as Cullen circles her shoulders and kisses the top of her head, maybe she could be ok with it. Maybe.

Chapter Text

It’s all wrong.

It’s all wrong and she wasn’t ready.

There are giants on the Emerald Graves. Actual Giants, stomping mindlessly between tall oak trees and gravestones. The few ruins that are there are getting more ruined in the wake of creatures that maybe would be more graceful if it wasn’t clear that they weren’t there on their own volition.

She’s sulking, in the evening, and she knows she shouldn’t be, as Solas, equally somberly, treats her leg. She got badly injured, and that’s another reason to sulk about. She lost her footing on a root springing from the dirt. She’s never lost her footing in the woods before. She grew up in the woods. And yet…

“You shouldn’t have done it.” Solas scolds her.

Aisling’s happy that he does. So she has someone to direct her frustration against. She instantly jumps at it and frown at the older elf.

“And what I was supposed to do? Just watch and let it step on my ancestors’ graves?”

“Lethallan-”

“No.”

She stops him, stubbornly, cutting the discourse on the start. Oh, she knew that running at a Giant on her own, when everybody else was distracted and still not here, was incredibly stupid. She perfectly knew what she was doing, when she charged and sliced at its ankles, trying to cut his movements down. She perfectly knew that for the big creature it was just a scratch, and that her spirit blade wasn’t enough to pierce the skin deep enough, and that her gesture only made it angry. She couldn’t care. She had its attention and could lure it away, spitting curses. She managed to blind one of its eyes with a well-placed lightning, making him growl angrily at her and start running. She backed, hearing more than seeing Bull shouting at her that she was crazy. She maybe was, since when she got her foot stuck into a root and fell behind her, she didn’t try to stand up, and just… For a moment, when the Giant reached her and stomped on her leg, she thought it wouldn’t have been half bad, going like that. Defending her heritage, something she couldn’t do in the Inquisition. Show the world she didn’t forget.

In the end, Bull reached her in time, and the other too, and she got back to camp on Bull’s back, again, with a badly broken leg, bruises all over and a very grumbling Qunari complaining she got him scared, Radha in thow just looking at her with that look.

She doesn’t need, right now, Solas reminding her what went wrong: she knows perfectly well. At least he doesn’t insist too much, just sighing at her, disappointed.

“I’m just saying that any ancestor worth honoring shouldn’t wish you dead.”

“I’m still breathing.”

Another scolding look.

“What’s the real problem?” He asks, trying to delicately move her thigh on the side.

“N-nothing.” She hisses through her teeth, as the movement sends jolts of pain through her whole body. “Nothing th-that would interest you, Lethallin, don’t mind it.”

“Stubborn.” He sighs, letting her thigh go and pressing his fingers on its sides, blue light encircling them and pulsing with her blood as he heals her.

“It’s… I feel like I’m slowly forgetting my people and… This place, this graveyard, it’s our last stand, it’s what made us and broke us and… Venatori captured those poor creatures and freed them here. And nobody else cares.” She groans, letting her back fall on the cot in her tend, crossing her fingers on her stomach and staring at the cloth ceiling. It’s doesn’t hurt too much. “They would have left them there if we hadn’t arrived and if I hadn’t been me. I… I left them alone, I couldn’t betray them further by turning my back.”

There’s a pause, just silence and the faint rustling of leaves in the evening breeze, the crackling of the fire and the occasional chat coming from outside. The spell helps some with the pain, but not quickly enough: Aisling knows that broken femurs take a lot to heal. And they do nothing for internal ailments such as the frustration she’s feeling, the dull pain, and the regret in choosing Solas of all people to vent instead of waiting till he’s done and looking for Radha and mourn together.

“I understand, Lethallan.” Solas sighs, in the end, and something in his voice tells her he’s sincere, he does. Weird. “Yet, throwing yourself at a Giant is not a wise course of action, if you don’t wish to join the Knights in more than sword practice. Please, stay still.”

She does, frowning hard and preventing herself to cry. It doesn’t come so difficult, weirdly enough. She’s past crying, right now. This mission is being… The place is beautiful and she’s deeply grateful to be there. And yet, between the horrible, dirty feeling that every Red Templar she falls is another Cullen, in another time and turn of events. Beside the usual difference between what she sees and what the others sees – she and Radha stopping by for every statue and painting on the rocks, small ruin, everyone else… Not. Cassandra huffing, out of patience. Beside all that, it’s a stab to the heart seeing it reduced in this state. The atmosphere in the group is tense -she doesn’t feel like acting kind and easying everyone as per usual. No, this place smells of betrayal and sadness, and she’ll clinge to them, to the remainings of her past and what it meant. It may be stupid, but miles and miles away, and a sea across, her Keeper, her Mother, is entering Wycome hoping her help will be welcomed and not exploited, and she had to beg Cullen to agree and trust her, because he thought it was madness and jumping face first in a trap and… And she is praying her bet will pay off. She can’t play the Chantry-friendly elf that she is not, never was, never could be after all she’s seen. Not there.

Thinking better about it, maybe she has some tears to spill, but first, there’s a question that’s burning into her throat.

“Solas?”

“Yes?”

“You know that if you feel that you’re turning your back at someone you left behind, I can help you fix it, right?”

He stills, and in the silence of the woods, only the crack of the fire outside coming muffled from the cloth, Aisling can hear him sharply inhaling, as his fingers contracts more on her thigh. His spell waver and still… And a moment later, a single fleeting moment later he lets go, getting back to work.

“Thank you.” It’s strained, she doesn’t really understand why.

“Or I can listen, as you listened to me. That’s what friends do, right?”

“I suppose so.”

“Will you tell me?”

He sighs, corners of his lips bending up in a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Maybe one day.”

When he’s finally over for the evening, he makes her promise she will stay calm and put and not move too much around. Aisling crosses her heart and solemnly swear she’ll stay quiet as a mouse, at least until next morning, making Solas groan. She’s out of her tend with a smile, her leg is still hurting when she puts weight on it, but it’s not the unbearable pain of before. Her bone was shattered badly, apparently, and it will take more than one session to heal it completely. In the meanwhile, absolute rest and little to no movement.

“You’re not to go out of the perimeter of the camp!” Solas scolds her, slipping out of the tent as well, after her, back to the friendly grumpiness she’s used to.

“Yes, yes, I’m just getting dinner!” She assures him, waving her hand and, subsequently, pretending hard she doesn’t see him slipping in Radha’s tend. She giggles at it, covering her mouth with her hand. At least someone is happy, here. Or well, less grumpy and miserable.

She sits down by the fire, releasing breath through her nose in a huff as she finds a comfortable position that doesn’t pull at her leg too much. She manages, and Bull passes her a plate of food, silently. She thanks him with a nod, he grunts in reply, and that’s it. Nobody is really in much of a mood to speak, right now, the tension palpable. Unfortunately, they still need to clear the Graves and close some Rifts before they’ll be able to get back.

What a weird turn of events.

Weirder still, when Dorian sits down beside her, and after dinner their conversations turns, abruptly, bitter.

---

“You’re kidding me.”

“Boss, maybe it’d be better to-”

“Better to what, Bull?” She snaps, turning towards the Qunari abruptly, fire in her eyes. Her leg hurts as she does this, and she whines in pain, but refuses help or to sit down. She just moves her weight on her left foot and that’s it. “To just accept that oh, yeah, slavery is not the worst option you get in life? That just because some slaves are “treated poorly” then other doesn’t fare all that bad, surely no worse than elves in alienages?”

The whole camp is deadly silent, looking at them. Bull, actually, is the one that rose to try and stop them, when he saw the situation was getting tense and the voices of the two mages rose. Aisling’s aware that everyone is staring, but she is too tired, too frustrated to really act on it.

“As if you knew how elves fare in both of those situations, too.” Dorian spits, in offense that isn’t mocked, isn’t a game. No, he got angry, and that makes Aisling angry as well.

“Perhaps we should all discuss about this in the morning-” Cassandra tries to intervene as well, glaring daggers at Dorian. Unfortunately, he noticed.

“Why? I say the magic word, remind you all where I come from and suddenly I’m the villain? She knows next to nothing about living in alienages or in my country either!”

“You are in no position to talk about slavery!” Aisling shouts, filling the three steps that separates her from Dorian and pushing at his shoulders. Her leg is screaming at her, but she ignores it. “You of all people should know that belonging to another person is wrong.”

“What-” And now, he’s livid. “-Are you- I never said it’s right!”

“No, you just said there are worse things!”

“Don’t put in my mouth words I never said! My point was another one, if you think about it-”

“Think about what, Dorian? About how personal freedom is a rightful price for some economical security?”

“If you put it like that…”

“How should I put it, then? Try to sell this to anyone that’s not Dalish, maybe.”

“Why, because you’re too self-assured to consider other options?”

“Scisne quare Tevine loquar? Scisne?!” (1)

They both stop at that. The silent knowledge they share, what they never spoke about not to trigger this exact discourse, is sitting heavily between them, even if they are, by all means, too close to each other, glaring at the other with fury. Aisling stays there, refusing to lower her eyes first. She fights it when Bull places a hand on her shoulder and gently, too delicately for his size, pushes her away.

“Come on, Boss, that’s enough. We’re all tired and your leg-”

“No. She protests, snapping her shoulder back as she steps back some. Her leg gives out under her, throbbing painfully and eliciting a whine of pain she can’t contain. Dorian steps forward, instinctively, but it’s Bull who catches the elf before she falls, and, tho begrudgingly, she leans on his arm not to fall on her knees.

“I learn it because we’ve been chased by slavers for weeks, Dorian.” She concludes, looking at him. “Nobody slept for more than five hours in a row for weeks, food was scarce because we didn’t dare hunt more than the strict necessary and lose the protection of numbers all that often. You never had to explain to children why the boogeyman is real and will actually snatch them if they set foot out of the camp. You never had. And no, still it never crossed my mind to give in just because maybe I would have been lucky and found a decent owner. Never once.”

Silence. Perfect, still silence all around. Aisling doesn’t look around at anyone. She just looks at Dorian, still glaring at her but not daring answering. He still has some basic decency at least, she thinks, bitter bile raising in her throat. More bitter still because it’s not any person she’s explaining something she thought basilar. And yes, she knows he’s just ignorant and lucky not to have ever needed to think about it seriously. But she’s not sugar coating it, not today, not even for him. So, she stands her ground and sustain his look.

“So now you believe every tale that’s said of Tevinter?”

“You know it’s not true.”

“No, it is. It is, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Dorian, that’s preposterous, we’re having this conversation because you-”

“-Because I did an observation you didn’t like, and you’re touchy these days?”

“I’m touchy because this place-”

“Yes. Because this place. You want to go the stereotype way? Well, we’re all tired of you sulking because how history went centuries ago. You can’t accept the past and you’re making it everyone’s problem.”

“You don’t understand –”

“No?!” He scoffs, yelling and throwing his hands to his side, with a step back. “My ancestors did some horrible shit, I couldn’t get up from the bed if I took it how you’re taking it here. Someone got to tell you, you’re free to get yourself killed in a very stupid way, Aisling, if you think that would honour your ancestors. Don’t drag us along and don’t pick it on me.”

And there they are. Tears, hot and scorching, that she refuses to let fall. Because oh, Dorian struck a nerve: they spent enough time together that they both know where to push to hurt. Except, Aisling didn’t.

“Go back.” She says, coldly.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s enough, you two, we should sleep on it.”

Cassandra steps between them, glaring at both of them, now. The elf, tho, is past any calming attempt.

“I said-” She repeats, straightening her back and clenching her fists to her sides so tight they become white, glaring at Dorian. “Go back to Skyhold.”

“You’re not making sense.”

“You said it. You don’t want me to drag you down? Fine. Go back. Wait the morning, take your horse and go.”

Another pause.

“Boss… maybe you should think about it.”

“Why? Because I’m not making sense? Because he’s the one who’s right? He doesn’t want to be dragged on, that’s fine with me, nobody’s forcing him to stay.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” Dorian says, barely keeping polite about it.

“No, I’m being the Inquisitor. Go back, I’m not staying here of all places with a person who questions slavery. I shouldn’t have asked you to come along in the first place.”

“No, maybe you shouldn’t have.” He says, and it’s a glimpse of emotion in his eyes, a harsh bent of his mouth, before he turns on his heels and leaves the fireplace, marching in his own tend.

Nobody speaks anymore, Bull just picks her up and deposit her in her tend again, just saying this place is a green shithole, as Cassandra goes to call Solas.

The next morning, when she wakes up and carefully hops out of her tend -her leg still hurts acutely if she puts weight onto it- Dorian is already gone.

They go on, but the morale doesn’t improve.

---

The messenger reaches them at the gates of Din’an Hanin, when Aisling is conversing quickly with Taven, trying to convince him to wait for reinforcements before entering the site, or at least allow her and her party to join them, just to have some more chances.

Aisling is almost to the point of invoking the Vir Sulevanan to convince the other First -a stubborn, very self-assured young man convinced the Tomb will be left in peace just because it’s a sacred place- to let her come with him, when she is starkly reminded that she has a role with the Inquisition too.

She tries to send the messenger back, to convince her that she will address the matter when she’ll be able to, which isn’t now. The woman, tho, insists.

“It’s urgent, Milady.”

“Can’t it wait?”

“No. Orders of the Commander, I’ve been told.”

That stops her. She looks at Taven and at the envelope the messenger is offering her, and wonders if there’ll come a day when she’ll stop feeling so torn in two. She feels everyone’s eyes -Radha’s, Solas’, Cassandra’s and Bull’s- fixed on her. It’s a pang of irritation that meet the fleeting thought that Dorian would know what to say to cheer her up. But Dorian is gone since ten days, and he hasn’t written a single letter, nor is she ready to swallow and apologize first.

Her heart is bleeding, but if it’s urgent… Cullen wouldn’t order anything if it wasn’t really so.

“Thank you for your effort, soldier.”

She says, with some seriousness that doesn’t really belong to her. Her fingers are heavy as she breaks the seal and opens the dispatch. Every word falls in her stomach like molten lead.

Aisling,

Skyhold is under siege. Corypheus made it this way with an army of Red Templars and Venatori. I am holding up as best as I can. We are defensible, even if taken by surprise.

Don’t rush back, please. Gather allies, write to Celene (Josephine has already, but we don’t know if the raven made it out), you need to have forces at your back if you want to make it.

I should write… I should write that I cherished every single moment I spent with you. Good and bad. If this is the last you heard of me, please know that you made me happy, in friendship and in everything else.

Forever grateful,
Cullen

---

Aisling – no, the Inquisitor, because Aisling would be crawling in a corner and cry, and she can’t allow herself the luxury now – the Inquisitor hops down her overtired horse, patting his fuming, sweaty neck lovingly with one hand as the other nuzzles his nose, grateful.

“Ma serannas, Isa’ma’lin.” She tells him, and he snorts, bumping her with his big head. “You’re the best horsey in the world and I couldn’t ask for a better friend.” She reminds him, scratching him some more and stealing one more moment before facing what needs to come.

Because up the last slope and right across the bridge, Skyhold is under siege, and with a dragon flying over it and vomiting fire on the battlements. Black smoke is rising from the Fortress, illuminated by fires in the night, and the bridge is filled with soldiers.

She gulps down bile and regret and terror, and straightens her back, turning to her party and the officers and figures in charge she managed to rally on her quickest way there. They’re few, a little more with the soldiers that stayed in the valley and couldn’t make it inside, and some that were successfully called back. She rallied some of the Freemen Fairbanks could spare, and stopped in the Exalted Plains, on the way there, to hire some mercenaries still there after the war, and managed to convince Keeper Hawen, somehow, to send some of his hunters with her. Aisling gets told of numbers and contingents still there, and they’re not so few, but still… still, there’s a zombie magister flying on a dragon up there, and if she leads the soldiers on the bridge sure, they’ll trap Templars and Venatori alike, but they’ll be a fixed target for the Archdemon.

She feels a pang of regret, guilt and fear.

Dorian would have an idea, now. Something absolutely bat-shit crazy, and genial.

But, she sent Dorian home.

She gulps down and ask how many mages there are down here, if there are some siege machineries, anything that could give them an edge or at least keep the damn dragon away enough. Bull doesn’t have many ideas either: they’d be on bad ground, with no mobility, it’d be better to lure it down there, but it would be nearly impossible if the beast obeys to Corypheus: assuming he would follow Aisling to a trap abandoning Skyhold would be too wishful thinking.

The Mages present are brought forward: just three, one enchanter and two recruits, adding Aisling and Solas, four. Not enough for a combined spell powerful enough to stun at a distance, not even using the Anchor. Communications with the Keep have been totally cut out two days ago and-

“Inquisitor.”

Aisling snaps out of calculations and plans running one after the other at breakneck speed in her head to look at Solas, in front of her with a serious expression.

“There may be a way to counteract both the army and the Dragon.”

“A spell?”

“Yes, a sort of.”

“There’s a but.” She doesn’t need to ask: they worked together for enough time that Aisling can make an educated guess about when the elf is being cryptic and refusing to say more. And indeed, as on clue, he nods, gravely. “But…?” She prods him.

“… But, we need to enter the Fortress.”

---

“Fireball!”

Comes the warning, a moment before the fireball strikes. It’s a well-practiced dance, by now, a full week of siege got every soldier, mage, scout and not all too used to the sequence. The Dragon flies over the Keep, very rapidly, arches his neck behind. The alarm gets shouted, everyone runs to cover, or mages casts barrier as the fireball falls and hits.

Right not, it hits the staircase that connects the two baileys, crumbling the sides of five steps with a crisp sound, dust and smoke raising up.

None is hurt, at least, and it’s a small joy that allows Cullen to turn and get back to work and direct the soldiers at the barricade. Low, regular thuds make the two huge wooden doors sway inward. The door bar, at least, is still up, for now, but judging from the dust falling from above and the low creaks of the wood, it won’t hold much longer. He barks orders, asking scouts to find more to barricade the door: furniture, planks, loose masonry they collected to repair the battlements, anything. It’s a frenzy and it’s been ever since it started: his throat is raw and he doesn’t remember the last time he slept for more than 20 minutes in a row, but he can’t stop, not now. They need to give time to Aisling to… Honestly, right now, he hopes she will be away for enough to save herself. At least that.

A louder crack of wood and squeaking of hinges, straining: they’re close. From the slight opening between the doors, a lick of flames spurs in, illuminating them. Another hit of the ram, united with magic. Splinters sprouts from the bar, the opening gets bigger: there’s fire outside, and shouting, and the noise of thunder.

“Away from the door! Stand ready!” Cullen barks, unsheathing his own sword. Everyone does the same.

He looks at them, on both sides, one after the other. People he trained, he knows how they fight, knows where to read fear and braveness and-

“…For the love of the Maker, Jim, put that helmet on properly.”

Jim, at least, ha some decent hearing, and rushes to fixes his helmet so the nose guard doesn’t point towards the enemy. It wasn’t the motivational speech he intended, but it serves to break the tension: some snickers, he sees some smiles. There’s that, at least.

“Good people, it’s been an honour.” He just says, simply, lowering the visor over his head and raising the shield high.

One… Two… Another hit almost opens the door. Three… Four… Five…

BOOM.

There’s a cloud of dust as the thunder settles down in the baily. Cullen shouts to stand their ground, get ready to-

There’s a loud cheer raising from his left, and his right, and when he opens his eyes…

… There’s Aisling, walking back towards them as she waves her staff left and right, shooting lightning after lightning, each hitting a Templar trying to enter the Keep from a pair of doors opened towards the outside. A small door is opened in, right beside the portcullis, one he never noticed before. There’s Solas by her side, and looking up he can see the quick flash of black and purple that must be Radha here and there as well, and the Iron Bull swiping his axe enough to keep enemies at bay.

“Forward!” Cullen shouts, after a moment. “Help the Inquisitor!”

The contingent spurts forward, shield to shield, breaking just to make space for the two elves and keeping them at a distance. They don’t even flinch. Soon, there’s a line of soldiers keeping Templars and Venatori out of the doors, standing fast. It gives Cullen, at least, some time to…

Aisling turns towards him, a hard expression on her face that softens a little as she sees him.

“Commander, how’s the situation?”

“Not good. But manageable. We weren’t expecting you here before-”

“Later. Cassandra is leading our soldiers on the back of the army, they won’t be able to hold them on their own.”

“That’s why-”

“Can you-”

“FIREBALL!”

Cullen hisses through his teeth, grabbing Aisling by the shoulders and holding her close as he raises his shield over them both. Ozone smell in the air, and the flames hit a blueish barrier forming in a bubble around them. A quick glance, and there’s Solas grimacing before them, letting go abruptly and exhaling loudly as soon as the fire’s out.

“Lethallan…” He chides, with a stern look.

“I know.” Aisling answers, from below, pushing to stand up again. “Cullen, we got a plan, but we need to enter the Keep.”

“The doors are-”

“That’s not a problem, can you give us some time?” She asks, looking at him in the eyes.

He thinks. They were ready to stand without her, and tho she could give them an edge, the both of them could… She gives him the numbers, of both the forces they’re facing, and the soldiers in the back of the bridge cutting them off and attacking from behind. Numbers aren’t still on their advantage, particularly with the Archdemon, but-

“Go. I’ll keep them.”

“Thank you, Cullen, I…” She smiles and stops, words dying on her lips. Her strong façade cracks a little, face filling with emotion. She doesn’t finish the sentence, doesn’t express what’s going on. “…I’ll see you on the other side.”

It’s a wish and a curse, and he has to let her go. No time for a goodbye and Maker, he’d want a last kiss. Just another one. But there’s no time. So, he just nods and watches her run away, following Solas towards the stables.

Time, time, they just need time, and if they’ll slip out of this as well, he swears he’ll find it.

He can’t wait.

---

There’s no time for much of anything, after the stop at the gates. It’s a bet, a wild one, and being quick is key.

So, Aisling just swallows everything down, sweeping everything under the carpet and running after Solas past a barricade that’s been raised before the stables, up the stairs to the kitchen, Radha covering their back. No time to think whether Cassandra will manage to hammer the enemy down in time. No time to think if Cullen will manage to keep the soldiers out and- No time to think about Cullen in any way, particularly not the poor figure she did and horrible farewell. She must trust they will all do their best and survive, without her.

Concentrate on the task ahead: Fade-step through the door as Solas can’t open it, open the bar that’s been stuck inside, take the chairs away, let the other two enter. A mad run down corridors and cellars, through rooms filled with nobles and servants and people who can’t or don’t know how to fight.

“Aisl- Lady Inquisitor!” Comes Josephine, surprised from one corner.

Aisling can’t but glance at her, an apology on her face as she runs away. “It’s going to be all right!” She just tells her, not stopping.

A corridor and the next, and then Solas stops in the little library-studio. He waves a hand loosely and all the candles and torches light up, as he starts to look frantically at the backs of the books. A lout thud echoes in the wall, rattling the shelves and making a faint spray of dust fall on their heads.

“Can I help you?” Aisling asks, stepping closer.

“No, the title changed, I wouldn’t know which one to look for.” He says, pulling the top of the book towards him. One after the other, frantically and growing more irritated the more books he tries with no result.

“Changed? So these books change their titles in what, two weeks?”

None the wiser, Aisling tries to do the same, on the opposite wall, back to back. Radha soon joins them, going quickly from book to book as well, without a word.

“… Yes. If I just- Ah!”

He exclaims, and the last book – an unassuming brown cloth-bound volume, the title on the spine is faded, and all it’s still distinguishable is a silver waxing moon on the bottom- gets pulled less easily. As Solas weaves a little tendril of magic into it, something clacks behind the bookshelves, and with a loud, raspy noise of poorly maintained mechanisms, the library opens to a dark corridor full of spiderwebs as long as the light reaches. A gust of wind and stale air puffs in the private library, pretty ominously.

“How did you know of this passage?”

“I explored. It… There’s no time, Lethallan, we must go.”

She frowns, dubious about it. It’s not like him not to explain and…

“Venhan, can you stay here and cover us?”

“Can’t I help you, down there?” Radha replies equally uncertain as she peers to the dark corridor.

“Not this time, I’m sorry.”

There’s a look between them that makes Aisling want to either puke or coo at them both, push them together and yell “and now kiss”. But there’s also a pang of regret, so she just… Turns and give them a moment, concentrating on the spines now before her.

“Be quick.” Radha sighs, in the end, pecking Solas on the lips before quickly stepping away. “And be careful.”

She and Aisling exchange a hug, tight tho brief. A single glance and a nod from the blonde, it’s all they really need to say to one another. As the rogue unsheathes her daggers and plants herself to guard the entrance, Solas takes Aisling’s wrist, gently, and leads her in the corridor, a torch he slips from one holder in the other hand.

Down, down in the belly of the Fortress.

There’s a spiral staircase running down, down and down some more, the roof is low and the steps narrow, not a window illuminating the space. The air is stale and it grows warmer and damper the more they descend, their steps the only noise beside the pluck of some loose moist drops falling on the stone. Solas at least seems to perfectly know where he’s going, which makes the road less creepy than it would be otherwise. The stair leads to a corridor, that leads to more stairs, a big cavernous room full of columns and more stairs, ending in a T corridor, Solas takes the left without even a doubt, still spurring her on with his hand closed on her wrist.

Finally, after what seemed contemporary like five minutes and five years, the corridor seems to be a dead end. Solas stops, abruptly, right before the stone wall that closes the corridor down, and turns to her. With the only torch they have for light, his face takes some sharp angles, as he stares gravely at her.

“You have to promise you won’t say a word of this.”

“You’re serious.” Comes the constatation of the obvious, not ironical.

“Not a word with a living soul or spirit. Not to Radha, not to Cullen, not to Dorian or Cassandra, not to Leliana or even to Cole. This stays between you and me.”

He’s deadly serious. There’s a thousand things Aisling is failing to understand, why are they here, how did Solas know, what is he planning on doing. The only thing that Lavellan can say, tho, is one. “Why?”

“Because this must not be tainted by the Chantry. Not stolen, not exploited, not studied or imitated. Promise me, Aisling, or get back to the battle.”

She considers it. She never saw Solas that serious, there’s some urgency in his voice, and some fire in his eyes that she… She honestly didn’t think could possibly be there in the first place. The air grows heavy and poignant, not only for the damp heath coming from the stone walls. And she…

“Ar sul’ema ma dirtha’var’en.” (2)

She promises, solemnly, and Solas… Solas seems to hesitate, as if he wasn’t expecting her to actually trust him and do as he asked. It’s fleeting and it’s a moment: he nods and turns, releasing her wrist and placing the hand flat on the stone.

“Is everything all right?” Aisling asks, as the spaces between the stones starts to glow in green, and a glyph on the stone appears, some signs and formulas she never saw before.

“Yes, it is.”

Aisling know it’s not true, by now, but what happens distracts her momentarily. Stones starts to fade with the spells, leaving place to light, more and more, and a wide corridor- No. It’s not a corridor, it’s a wide space.

Cellar wouldn’t be enough to describe it: No, it’s a proper cave, full of water -there’s noise of running water- and covered in crystals in pale blue and purple, glowing faintly. They’re so many that the faint light is enough to illuminate faintly the whole space, its cavernous roof, all the stalagmites and stalactites casting shadows. They step inside, and Aisling can’t do much else but stare at it, nose up in the air as she turns her head around, full of pure wonder. Solas leads her through a central pathway, cutting the pool in two and leading to a small island with a stele in the middle. The water is so clear and transparent that it almost doesn’t seem present.

“What is this place?” She asks, amazed.

“The heart of Skyhold, and the monolith is the core of the weather enchantment.”

“It’s beautiful…” She whispers, feeling as if speaking too loudly could desecrate that place. The quiet presence that is Skyhold feels, indeed, stronger there, surprised to have her here… Scared, worried. Welcoming to her.

“How did you know of it?”

“None of us has as busy a schedule as yours…”

It’s not a clear answer, and nothing that really answer the question she posed. The big pile of questions and doubts about the older elf is rising considerably.

“It’s not an answer.”

“We have no time for questions, right now.”

“You’re gonna ignore what happened here when we’ll get out?”

“You have to use the Anchor to shape the enchantment on the Fortress. Feed it, expand it, make him repel the enemy. You’re not the most powerful spellcaster, but you’re precise, all you need is that precision.”

It’s as clear as any affirmation, she knows. She learnt his way of dodging personal questions well enough, by now. The way he’s looking at her, expectantly, speaks well enough. She sighs, nodding along. It’s true that they don’t really have time for long conversations and explanations, not if they want to avoid more casualties than they would already be. So, Aisling nods, approaching the stone in the centre without another word. It buzzes with magic. If she closes her eyes and concentrates, she can feel it, starting from some carving on the side she’s facing, in a whirlpool, and flowing down and up, encompassing all the Keep, every tower, wall and stone, so ancient and powerful it’s now one with everything. Morrigan was right, saying that old magic seeped in the building, and Aisling wonders how much she understood by herself without being here.

“It’s…”

“I know. The Anchor, Lethallan.”

She gets reminded, patiently. And, she does.

The Anchor flares as soon as she focuses and activates it, latching on the magic instantly. There’s some underlining echo between the two, some stark similarities she can notice right before the mark on her hand starts to burn, distracting her. She hisses through her teeth, keeping up with it and trying to get hold of the spell, ignoring the pain. Her right hand comes to clutch on the opposite wrist. Rein it in, don’t let it flare, control, she repeats like a mantra: it seems to work, as she opens her eyes and sees green light encircling the stone, flaring around wildly in spikes and spurts, buzzing like electricity and slowly running down, filling the gaps between the stones that forms the pavement, lighting the water from below and running to the walls and up, up and around. It's a lot, it’s too much and she’s struggling, her hands seems like it’s on fire, whatever she draws from the Fade runs through her arm and is sucked in the Anchor, more and more.

“H-hurts-”

“Keep it up, you’re doing good. Expand the spell, focus on protection like when you evoke barriers.”

“It’s…” She tries, she tries hard, grunting in pain and not letting go as her body is screaming to do. The pain rises up to her wrist, all muscles contracting painfully as her nerves flare. The spell that permeates the Keep is huge and powerful, and controlling it feels like trying to hold running water into her fingers. It slips and drops and she’s barely holding on.

When she feels -the pain is up to her elbow- like she has the whole Keep under her hand, sharply feels every stone and crevice and turret, she tries to expand it. Slowly, carefully… And screams, stopping abruptly as she feels the spell growing to fast, slipping more through her fingers. More pain as she tries to undo, rein it in, her knees start to tremble heavily and-

“I-I can’t! It’s gonna-” Some of the spell flares back, sharp pain running up through her hole arm, making her scream.

Her knees give out, and she constates with horror that if she lets go of the stone, there won’t be nothing to keep the spell from leashing out violently to friends and foe nonetheless. It’ll prevent Corypheus to conquer the Keep, sure, but it will also kill everyone there, in another Temple of Sacred Ashes.

Before she can hit the ground, tho, there’s Solas catching her, hissing through her teeth something in Elven, in an accent so strict and weird that she fails to understand exactly what he’s saying.

“Hold on.” He just tells her, before pressing his hand on the back of her left and letting go.

Back in Haven, when channeling more mages’ magic into the Anchor had been the plan to seal the Breach, Solas never participated. He directed her and Dorian first, Fiona and all the others later, explaining what to do and how. He never joined in, never once, never later, when she and Dorian kept on leisurely dragging magic one from the other for experiments, empowering their spells and making it easier for both to maintain them. Even when Solas participated, he always restrained.

Aisling never fully understood why, until now, as he channels his magic through the Anchor and she feels it.

It’s deep, it’s powerful, more powerful than she thought it would. Too powerful, even if… Even if his help makes the pain slowly subside, and together they manage to keep the spell under check. She can see him frowning and grimacing, as she finally breathes a little, and her legs don’t feel that unstable anymore.

“Sol-”

“Not. Now.”

He hisses her, with a scolding look. He’s right. She nods and get back to the spell, putting more effort into it, directing the spell, expanding it in a controlled way, slow and steady-

---

Aisling, Radha and Solas have disappeared since almost a hour that had seemed infinite, way longer than it really was. They’re still fighting in the lower bailey, struggling to contain the tide of enemies, and Cullen is barking to the soldiers to fall back, fall back to the stairs, maybe the chokehold will help them contain the tide. Cassandra on the other side of the enemy army is doing her best, and he can see arrows hitting soldiers in the back of the line, skipping through barriers or in the space between spells. There’s still hope, but it’s growing fainter every minute more, every soldier falling. They need something, and soon and-

Skyhold starts to buzz, the pavement vibrating under their feet, more and more.

At first, it’s faint and it can be ignored, but it grows stronger and stronger by the second. Everything shakes, so much that everyone, friends and foes alike, stop fighting, looking around with a question in their eyes. Someone screams from under the portcullis, yelling at an Earthquake, and Cullen shivers, thanking the Maker to be relatively in the open, if too close to the library wall it’s still better than being under the gates.

Except it’s not an earthquake: he feels it before he sees it, the faint buzz of mana making his blood itch, his heart beat faster. It’s everywhere, it’s stronger than all the Venatori together or the Magister flying up above, it’s around and below and thick as a blanket in full summer, the air growing hotter and hotter, weeds and rampicants growing in the stones… As the spaces between the stones starts glowing in green.

The whole of the Fortress lights up in green, buzzing and vibrating, loose tendrils of magic sparkling up.

None move, everyone stays perfectly, blissfully still for a moment as they try to assess what’s going on.

And then-

-And then, there’s a loud hum, like a string being plucked from the world’s greatest lute, humming loud and powerful as the light shines away and up in a glowing film of sparkly green following the noise wave.

It happens quickly, very quickly, but it’s like Skyhold expands, growing a barrier in green and gold speckles.

The dragon screeches, high above, and the Templars before them starts screaming, pushed back by the force of the spell and with red lyrium incrustations starting to actually burn.

It’s haunting and disgusting and Cullen can feel a shiver of horror and pain running down his spine. It could have been- Maybe he knows-

“Commander!” Someone calls him, enough to make him wake up from his reverie.

“Yes- Forward!” He barks, spurring the soldiers on.

Somehow, none of the Inquisition soldiers has met the same fate of their enemies, the spell passed her like a gentle stream.

The battle, from then, it’s a considerably easier win.

---

Skyhold lays, strictly speaking, in shambles. The walls are still up, at least, but all the hard work they put in the last months has been severely backtracked.

Rubble all around, signs of dragon claws digging through walls, fences on fire, the north-west guard tower lays in shambles, blocking the walk through the battlements, part of the Herald’s Rest roof has collapsed, leaving a big hole still fuming from fires, the tower she assigned for the mages is now exactly as they had found it at first, and Vivienne’s space has now an enlarged window, as well as the upper story of the library. Amongst the others. Greeneries and weeds met a sudden growth spurth, rampicants dwindling down the walls and leaves growing up, the grass before the stables high and dancing in the breeze. The stables, at least, are still intact, and the horses safe, she gets told by a battered but not severely injured Dennet.

Aisling nods, not really listening, patting his arm and walking her way back. Poor Bonny’s stall is covered in debris and rocks fallen from the upper battlements. She is reached by scout after scout reporting damages and numbers, hearing and replying, accepting the reports, but not really listening. She should sleep, Solas has been pretty adamant in his instructions -and avoided her every question by replying in more recommendations-, and she feels every weary mile she ran from the Emerald Graves, and her left arm is still a little numb

.
They have started to gather the deads in the lower courtyard, placing them delicately one beside the other. Carriages are brought up from the valley to bring the fallen ones down and burn them, and no one is really in the mood for speaking anymore, not now. She nods to officers and soldiers still standing and working, silently, and stands to look. The scout that has been reporting to her call her from behind.

“Inquisitor?”

She nods and stays where she is. She doesn’t want to look but she needs to. She must. She has to commit them to memory, good people who died because she was away. She hasn’t gotten back soon enough. She recognizes some faces, distorted in pain, or perfectly still as if they’re just sleeping. She remembers sparring with one, she was always so powerful in her hits, but left her left side open constantly. Cullen grumbled every time, often interrupting them to show her himself where she was getting it wrong. She remembers her being shy about it, and Cullen probing her until she looked back up again, at him saying she did nothing wrong, she only had to learn, but she needed to listen for it. She remembers the girl -Gabrielle, that’s… that was her name- listening, putting some effort and learning. There was, indeed, a deep gush in her torso, but on the right.

She says her goodbyes, murmuring a prayer to Falon’Din for each and every one of them she can name, and also for each one she cannot. One by one, not in a group. They would be burnt in a group -such is the necessity of war, if they don’t want illnesses to spread- she thinks they may appreciate her treating them one last time as individuals.

It takes her considerably long, but she spends the time she doesn’t have gladly. Sleep can wait a little more.

Cullen reaches there. When she turns, he’s right there, looking at her as he didn’t really believe his eyes, and a weird mixture of a frown. She couldn’t tell him what she wanted to, and is very grateful to have the chance to. Her lips start to tremble, but she manages to smile, just for him, happy that they got the time for him to scold her.

“Inquisitor.” He says, clearing his throat. “May I have a moment?”

She nods, and follows him in the guard room, hopping up the stairs and entering as he keeps the door open for her. He’s on her in the next seconds after he closes it, his hands close on her upper arms, just below her pauldrons, and he shakes her lightly.

“Why did you get back? I told you not to!” He complains.

“I needed to help.” She has no strength left to raise her voice.

“You jumped head-first into a trap!”

“Yes. And Solas and I turned it back around.”

Almost, but she does not tell him that if Solas had not been there with her, she would have made the Keep explode, as the Temple of Sacred Ashes did. That could be omitted, or told another day. In 30 years when they could laugh about it. Maybe more, from how he’s still glaring at her, eyes shiny.

“You could have- You-”

She sighs stepping forward and snaking her arms around his chest, inside his cloak to hug him, pressing her face against metal. Armour to armour it’s too far and not enough to satisfy, she’d need to feel him closer and warm, but he’s still not ready, and this will do.

“I’m sorry. But I can’t leave you all behind. I can’t leave you behind. After my clan… And Stroud… don’t ask me to do the same with the Inquisition. Please. You can’t ask me this.”

She would be shy about it, shy about pleading, but she is at her bottom, honestly, and tiredness make her fail to care or be more delicate about it. He seems satisfied tho, as his hands come to hug her closer and he presses a long kiss on the top of her head. He smells of smoke and dust, and Aisling noticed how dark the circles under his eyes are, and how he limps heavily on his right. She doesn’t ask, tho. There will be time. They have time.

“There you are.” He tells her, softly against her ear, after a couple of minutes.

“You’re terrible with letters, has anyone told you?” She tells him, waterily, as she squeezes his bust.

“I’ve been told.” He chuckles, bending down and dragging her up to kiss her properly. “I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head, resting her forehead against his.

“No, I am. Thank you for holding on so long. I’m sorry if I got late.”

He scoffs a little, grumbling something about her not listening to what he said. He lets go first, hands coming to cup her face, thumbs wiping tears away from her cheeks, gratefulness and affection making him smile. That sweet smile she likes so much and makes her want to kiss him. She hops on the balls of her feet and does just so. Too briefly, but it has to do. They’ll have time.

“I need to go. May I see you later?”

“Please.”

She holds his wrists, rubs her thumbs in the leather of his gloves a little harder than usual, hoping he can feel her, and they get on their ways, back to duty.

Climbing up the stairs is painful, she is sore all over and in more ways than physical. The scout -Irma- speaks on, listing numbers and damages and reporting what needs her attention urgently. It’s all immaterial and hazy, right now, but she does her best, going on self-drive. She directs resources to the infirmary, reparations can wait a little more, priority to healing for now; a detailed report of their food storages and the situation of the wells and the water is requested as well, with urgency. She orders to send scouts down the wells, to check the water is still drinkable, and close any that may be tainted.

It's hours since she can rest. Requisitions, people to check on, Fiona is still there to tell her she didn’t wait for her order to send her Mages to the infirmary to help. She nods, grateful for the initiative.

“Do you need some healing too, Inquisitor? That spell was-”

“I’m fine, Grand Enchanter. Thank you for your concern.”

“Mh” The older elf isn’t convinced and squints at her, placing one hand over her cheek and pushing her face so they can look at each other in the eyes. She quite likes Fiona, she has a way of looking at you and seeing you and taking no shit. “Listen to an older woman: you should rest. Plenty. That was no small feat that you accomplished, you must be exhausted.”

“I didn’t do enough.”

“You did, Inquisitor. It’s a war, there are casualties, but we were all ready. This has not been Haven. Please, go and rest.”

She nods and thanks her, but she doesn’t really feel it.

Where she turns, there’s destruction, screaming at her that it is her fault, she should have run faster, she should not have left. What kind of General leaves the place to fight on the field? All of Cullen’s books were clear. Playing chess with him made it clear. The King needs to be protected and secure, commanding his troops.

Bull pats her shoulder, firmly and delicately and squeezing a little, informing her of whom of the Inner Circle he saw around, and telling her she did very, very good, that last trick was creepy as few things he’s ever seen, but he’s proud of her. She smiles at him, sincerely grateful, and he smiles back. She likes to believe he’s really sincere with her, not faking friendliness to spy on her better. She can’t think of it, right now: she likes Bull, a lot, she likes how motherly he can be at times and she can’t believe it’s all pretense. But, there’s one big missing in the names of people he spotted, and…

She signs a report, orders another messenger to go that way. She is standing in the threshold of the Great Hall -mostly intact, tho drapes fell down, there’s rubble all around in the first half, statues were upturned. People are digging. She was automatically going right, in the library and up the stairs to… But there’ll be no one there, and she stops.

She was too prideful to write back, after she ordered Dorian to get back. She got a message that he arrived, before… it must have been before. She hasn’t seen him all day, she has but glimpsed at him -clad in white and distinct, who wears white in a battle?- during the battle, hours and hours ago. If he’s… She never… She was too prideful, and now…

Someone calls her from the other side of the room, but she shakes her head violently and sprints to the left, not running but almost. Her armour suddenly itches on her, it’s too tight, she can’t bear to have it on her skin anymore. The rotunda is dusty and there’s rubbles around, but hopefully the frescoes won’t be ruined. She doesn’t really care tho, Solas is safe and he can paint them again. She rushes up the stairs and…

His nook is empty and desolate, the armchair got upturned and there are books fallen all over, a bookshelf fell down. There’s sunlight peeking through the hole that the dragon has carved in the opposite wall, and dust dances in the sunlight, painting the upturned armchair in hazy, milky gold. Empty. Empty. No Dorian peeking up at her and patting the pillow so they can get stuck together again. She never ordered a bigger couch to fit them both properly. She should have. Maybe if she had… They would have discussed it sitting on a couch and on more friendly terms, and not in the middle of a Forest, with her upset because there were Giants trudging on the graves of the Emerald Knights. Him tired and snappy from the long day.

Aisling blinks tears away, inhaling sharply as she rushes to the armchair and brings it up again, dragging the back feet a little on the stones with a screech, before she’s able to put it back together. She’s alone in the library, anyway, Sir Morris told her they needed to assess how the roof was faring with the hole, and if the building was stable before allowing people in. She cares not, right now, as she unfastens the belt on her waist in a frenzy and unbuckles pauldrons and breastplate, elbow protections, tosses everything on the floor in no order forcing herself not to sob, not yet.

All she cares, is that she quarrelled with Dorian, chose the worst possible time to answer to a nasty comment she could have ignored or faced calmly, but didn’t. She said things, and he rose his voice, and they were screaming at each other. She sent him back to an ambush, a siege, and possibly…

She falls on his armchair, curling herself up and making herself as little as she can, tucked in the corner between the armrest and the back with her knees up to her face. She hugs her thighs hard and then, just then, she starts bawling, loudly and hard. She’s alone, anyway.

Cullen is fine, all her friends are, a little battered and worn, she’s very grateful. But she hasn’t heard about Dorian. Nobody told her anything about him. Radha would have told her, if she had seen him dead. Radha would have, so… Radha has not found her yet since the morning, busy in her own, probably helping Leliana rearranging her base of operations elsewhere.

Ten minutes later, when the big of her tears have fallen and she’s just crying somberly, hiccupping here and there, there are steps on the stairs, echoing loudly in the big, empty building. She snaps out of her ball, feet instantly on the ground and rubbing her eyes with the back of her hands, angrily.

“What is i-”

She starts, in automatic, but words die in her throat as she opens her eyes and finds Dorian before her, looking back at her. He’s not good, his left arm is in a sling against his chest, he has some white bandages covering the left side of his face, there are bruises all over where she can see, and his right hand is pressing on his side, probably to fend off pain. But, he’s there. He’s breathing. He’s alive and looking at her with the same dumbfound expression she feels on her face. Nobody says anything at all, and after a minute, the big glomp in her throat raises up and though she tries, she can’t but start crying again, in earnest.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I should have been here, it is my fault. It is all my fault. I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.”

She can’t stop vomiting words, between a gasp for breath and a whine. She can’t look at him, so she just folds on herself, bending her bust over her thighs, hands on her face and breath coming difficultly and ragged.

“Stop it. Just-”

He groans, as he steps forward and kneels before her, his good arm circling her back as he rests his head on her shoulder, clutching her closer as best as he can. Smoke and dust, and the balmy smell of elfroot, they can’t quite cover the sandalwood of whatever product he uses, still faintly distinguishable under everything else. She wonders, not for the first time, exactly how strong it is that product, or how much does he use. Right now, tho, it’s comforting, and it makes her cry more, whining pathetically against his shoulder.

“… Ir abelas, Aisling.”

That makes her stop.

She spoke a little Tevene when she got there, and was eager to get it better -all in all, she really likes how the language sound, and the poetry he passed her to practice is, indeed, beautiful and musical. He helped her and he taught her better but… He never expressed any wish to learn Elvhen, and she didn’t suggest it. Hearing him apologizing in her language is weird and… She moves back, enough to look at him in the eyes. He’s crying too.

“Ir abelas, it’s not your fault. I was an asshole and I shouldn’t have said the things I said over slavery. They were cruel and ignorant. You were right, and I’m sorry… and I thought I never would have the chance to apologize and…”

He shakes his head and she’s lunging forward, hugging his neck tight and slipping down the armchair, straddling him. Every brave person passing there can go fuck themselves with propriety and whatever. She hugs him as tight as she can against her, sobbing into his neck and letting go just a little when she hears him groan in pain.

“Easy, tiger…”

“Sorr-”

“Say that you’re sorry again, I dare you.”

He sighs, melting a little against her and shifting her a little more on his left side, before holding her tight as well, his head resting against hers.

“I sent you back.”

“You couldn’t know.”

“Nobody saw you, nobody told me where you were… I thought you were dead and I… And I…”

He hushes her, shaking his head and caressing her back.

“I’m too pretty to die. The hunters you brought from the clan agreed, tho they had very eloquent ideas about how to finish the work when they picked me out of some rubbles, you see.”

She stops, and would say something else, most likely, but he just clutches her closer, leans on her head more insistently and goes on speaking.

“You should have seen their faces when I just jumped in and casted a barrier around them and fought with them. Nobody could tell me where you were either, you see… I got quite worried, but then I got thrown to the side by a tail and Skyhold started to buzz and… Well, you know the rest.”

“You-”

“I stayed there, yes, they could use a mage. And well, at first they weren’t exactly enthusiast about that mage being me… But they took me out of the rubble and helped me to the infirmary, and even told me how to say Ir abelas. Laughed at my accent too, it’s not that terrible, is it?”

How he manages to make her laugh when she’s crying and sobbing is totally beyond her, but it works. Still, she collects herself just enough to push on his shoulders and frown at him. It’s difficult when she’s still fully crying, but with a trembling lips and some effort, she manages.

“You know you can’t just jump to help the first group of elves you find, learn a couple of words and hurt yourself every time I get angry, right?”

It’s not as scolding as she would like it to be, even if she bends her head sideway eloquently -she’s still blinking tears away from her eyes. But, he stops himself from laughing, nodding solemnly.

“I know, honey.”

“I’m still angry for what you said!” She remarks, sobbing a little.

“Yes, it was a privileged and thus insensible, offensive opinion. Please get angry and call me out when I say some shit, I didn’t realise it was shit.”

“I know you didn’t. That’s why I got angry, you didn’t listen to me.”

“I know. I was… too prideful. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you, and I’ll do better next time, if…” He sighs, bringing her closer again, tentatively. She lets him, and it’s him this time who rests his forehead against her shoulder. “Are we ok? Will we be ok? I get it if you don’t think we can.”

She hugs him closer, squeezing him enough to make him oomph again and nuzzling him past the hem of his stupid shoulder-less shirt.

“Yes. I’m not saying you’re a horrible person. I’ll never say you’re a horrible person. But you don’t know everything. Just trust me on certain things, ok?”

“Nonsense.” He scoffs, holding her closer too. “Of course I’m a horrible person.”

She giggles, again, in all answer, and he answer in tow, chuckling a little.

“And I do trust you. I’m just an ass sometimes.”

“That’s ok.” She says, sighing. “I like donkeys.”

Chapter Text

Aisling looks at Taven’s dead body, left to rot in what must have been a pool of his own blood, now dry on the stones, a little less than two weeks since she saw him.

She hears someone behind her saying something, but can’t bring herself to answer, and just stares at the bodies of the elves. Young, too young to be there. Too young and arrogant. Maybe if she had stayed, they would have…

As she turns and asks for help to bury them, directing her friends to the proper rites and procedures for a Dalish funeral, she feels detached. Floating above her body, somewhere beside the flapping sail of the abandoned aravel. She feels her body moving, as it goes to look for loose oak branches and cedar ones. She feels empty and, Creators, like she is two different people at once. Like the Inquisitor and Keeper Deshanna’s First couldn’t possibly be alive at the same time, not with one killing or severely impairing the other.

The middle between the two of them is tearing her apart, but the sensation that she will have to choose one over the other is too terrifying to consider.

She buries Taven and the two hunters with him with all the necessary, recites the words and prays Falon’din to guide their souls. It feels ironic that the words still fall on her lips so automatically, that she doesn’t struggle to remember them. Her audience doesn’t join in the chant, save for Radha. Save for her, everyone is assisting out of sympathy and respect. She is grateful, but it isn’t quite nearly enough.

When they get out of Dinan’Hanin, the sun is setting and painting the leaves in gold. It has been a success, as the scrolls in her arms testify, but her heart feels heavy, and it feels nothing like it.

“We should give those scrolls to the Chantry. If they knew-” Cassandra suggests, walking at her right, hope in her voice.

“We’re stopping in Halin’sulahn on our way back.” She all but replies, not ready to have that conversation now.

Or in the foreseeable future, if she could help it. All she knows is that she isn’t giving documents about her people’s history to the Chantry, to be exploited and twisted around. They can have her, use her as their problem-solver, toy around with her: they won’t have nothing more.

"But, Aisling, consider the fact-"

"I'm sorry, but no. I took their First, I'm not taking their history as well."

She ignores the frown of the Seeker, tells Radha to stay in the ruins as long as she wants, to study and retrieve all the scrapes of information she could. The rest of them could explore the nearby Villa the next day on their own, without her around if she found something interesting down there. She was always the most interested in history anyway. And then she makes her way to the camp and the privacy of her tent. She’s learnt her lesson in the last trip, she now mourns on her own, trying to be as discreet as possible. Nonetheless, she wouldn’t have given to the Chantry any more than she was strictly required to.

Creators, she feels tired.

---

“Are you absolutely sure you want to leave the scrolls here?”

Allegedly, stopping by the clan to rest and sleep with her party, instead of in the Inquisition camp, wasn’t one of her best ideas. But considering what happened and what Aisling was there to refer, she felt like stopping by and mourning with them was the best option. It was just a night, after all, just a stop and they all would have left for Skyhold come morning. Requisition officer Grenoble could send for her quickly and easily if she was needed. She could spare one night amongst her people, without running away right after communicating that their first was dead, because she didn’t insist enough for him to follow.

And yet, if Dorian had been cautiously acclimatizing with the elves, Bull fell into easy camaraderie as per his usual, and Radha and her really had not a problem, Cassandra had been a quiet but detached presence during the rites, observing from afar and not questioning, with an air of indifference about her. Aisling thought it was only natural: she was very religious, after all, and she never expected her to really join in.

After everything was done and dinner was distributed between the clan members and their guests, tho, the Seeker sat beside her and whispered that single, decisive question, hands clenched on her bowl of soup between her thighs, without eating it yet.

“Cass, we’ve already discussed this.” Aisling sighs. “Yes, I’m absolutely certain. What’s the problem?” She asks, taking a spoonful of stew and turning towards the other.

“I don’t have a problem, it’s just… I think it would be better for the Chantry to have them. Think of how many more people in Thedas they could help, if they knew.”

“My people deserve that knowledge as well.”

“We could have copies made.”

“That’s a good idea.” Aisling nods, appreciative, ignoring how the very topic annoys her. “Speak with the Keeper about it, if they really want to travel with us to Skyhold, some of our scholars could copy the scrolls, if Hawen is willing to lend them.”

Some head turns in their direction, and Aisling hears Cassandra grunting at it, and scuddle a little closer to her on the bench, so much that they’re side by side. It’s a little amusing seeing how the woman thinks that privacy is something actually obtainable in a clan, and endearing to see her so out of place. Yet, she knew better than this, and it’s not a surprise when she leans in and starts to whisper in her ear.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know. My answer still stands, I’m not changing my mind, but you’re free to discuss it to your heart’s content with the Keeper, and find a solution. The scrolls are his, now, and I won’t be the one to ask them back.”

“You know their uses more than me, tho.”

“Yes, I know our uses pretty well. He’s a person like any other, we don’t follow aristocracy rule. And he’s a kind person, just think to be talking to me.” She shrugs, not worried at all. “Maybe he’ll swoon over your eyes as well, who knows.”

Oh, that elicits a proper disgusted noise, and an elbow right in her ribs. Aisling laughs at that, elbowing her back, grateful for the moment of levity that serves her as an anchor to switch the topic and remind her to eat until the soup is warm. Nissa giggles behind them, asking for what happened with the Seeker’s eyes exactly. And as Cassandra turns three different shades of red, Aisling starts to tell the tale and Dorian and Bull joins in, with a Radha that suddenly turns incredibly interested, the atmosphere around the fire is instantly as Aisling remembered it from her childhood.

Easy-going, warming and homey, home is not a place but it’s people and it’s that sense of community, everyone knows everything of everyone and still they all laugh at the same stories, share the same things.

It’s still warm, even if so much has changed, and for a moment, forgetting discussions, forgetting the possible impending doom, forgetting the Anchor and the Fade Rifts, she feels whole again, and almost like home.

She wondered with guilt how her original home would feel like, if she’ll ever could return.

---

Da'len,

Thanks to the efforts of your Inquisition, Clan Lavellan is safe within the city of Wycome, and Duke Antoine's mad efforts to destroy us have ended with his death. For now, I lead both our clan and the elves of this city, while the human merchants have formed a group that deals with us fairly and honorably.

The other cities of the Free Marches listen to the false stories of the nobles who fled. I fear they will retaliate, but I am loathe to flee this city, as that would effectively leave the city elves to die for our actions.

If you have a path that leads to safety for our people, I welcome your advice.

Dareth shiral,
Keeper Istimaethoriel Lavellan

“Send Chambreterre, fortify the city.”

“It will make them appear as a threat! We don’t need the Free Marches start a war because they felt provoked, we need diplomacy! Let me write to the rulers of the cities, I’m sure this can be de-escalated.”

It’s not even heartbreak what Aisling feels, observing the letter between her hands, propped on the map. Deshanna’s handwriting is wobbly at the loops, and she knows her fingers must be bothering her. She wonders what else and how much is she going to resist. What would have happened if she hadn’t left.

Weirdly enough, it’s Josephine today who’s raising her voice and stubbornly insisting on her ideas, explaining in details and anecdotes why she is sure that she can talk to Viscounts and Princes.

The same Prince who threatened to invade a city because they refused an execution.

She can hear the both of them, and she can hear Radha giving her opinion, prodding questions to both to test how sound their convinctions are, how well-thought their courses of actions. Aisling would like to jump on the table and kiss Cullen just because for once he’s sure of himself, and so much so that he’s not raising his voice or quarrelling.

But, they’re all waiting for her, as Leliana reminds her, placing a hand on her shoulder.

So, Aisling, the Inquisitor, raises a hand, silencing everyone in the room. It’s now or never, the moment is severe and the post on the table is the lives of her clan and the elves of the alienage as well. It’s not the time to take crazy bets. They all know, and the air grows heavy and tense, as she walks around the table and stops in front of Cullen. She has to tilt her chin up to look at him in the eyes, serious and grave.

“Are you sure the city can be fortified in due time?”

“Yes. I told Chambreterre to move the camp closer to the city a month ago, just in case. Their entrance in the city can be sold as help to rebuild.”

“Would you suggest the same if there was your own family, there? With the same resolution?”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t fumble, doesn’t avert his eyes from hers. He’s standing there, firm in his convictions as Aisling: he’s not faking it.

Aisling trusts him, and bets against an Antivan.

---

Keeper Hawen insisted on following her back to Skyhold. He wasn’t to be swayed, no matter how Aisling insisted it wasn’t the case. The old elf just told her they needed to move anyway, and that the path across the Frostback was not only open, right now in the late of Spring, but it would have been safer, for them, to travel with the Inquisition.

And, that they needed to repay her kindness somehow, and helping rebuilding seemed a good way as any.

Aisling smiled and nodded, couldn’t find a way to deny him without offending him.

She felt like a ruse, every time the clan called for her and welcomed her around the fire, for dinner. Her and her friends, they all were invited to join for stories and food, if they so wished.

Looking at Bull and the Chargers taking place around the fire, Dalish pretending she never was at any Arlathven, she was but a humble archer and surely they all must be mistaken, she never performed no rites for Mythal. Looking at how Dorian was interested and, though a little clumsily, tried to coax everyone in teaching him words, her included, and making everyone laugh with his pronounciation. Varric who wove stories as good as any Hahren. Cassandra who simply set to work, distributing food and caring for the pot.

She should have felt relieved and good that the two halves of her life could, apparently, combine. And yet, she didn’t.

She doesn’t, when in her spare time she’s around the Keep, in working clothes, finally not on her own to show off tattoos on her bare arms and brow, walking beside the Keeper to perform spells, levitate rocks, direct the other members of the clan and Inquisition scouts and soldiers and mages alike. Falling back in the role of First was all too easy, and it leaves her feeling more and more like a ruse. A balance with the Inquisitor is found, and what appears to others is a calm respect between the two mages.

“The next Arlathven will be the next year.” The Keeper tells her, as she offers him her arm to help in walking up the stairs to the ramparts.

“Yes. In the Brecilian forest, if I’m correct.” Speaking elven is soothing by itself. Or it would be, in another moment.

“You could come with us. I’m not your Keeper, but if you wanted to substain the rites… This Inquisition is a clan by itself.”

Ah.

Aisling freezes, looking down to her feet. She says absolutely nothing at the suggestion. It is generous, it is kind… And it denotes at least two things she isn’t ready to face. Not yet. They looms at the back of her head, and she is afraid to see them.

The first is that the Lavellans won’t make it south. With everything that happened in the last year, even admitting that Chambreterre will manage to defend Wycome… They are a small clan, and there were casualties. It is likely that Deshanna won’t face such a long journey the next Spring in the best of outcomes.

The second, is that Aisling will not be back with them. And she will need another Keeper to vouch for her and name her Keeper by herself. As Deshanna should have had in that same Arlathven. Hawen said that her clan is the Inquisition.

It is a generous offer, from a Keeper that doesn’t really know her all that much. And yet it feels wrong. It feels like giving up and choosing one thing over the other. It feels like admitting the Lavellans are lost to her, and she won’t ever take back her life. It feels like she’s a stray, needing to be picked up and granted some favour from her own people by the first kind person she meets.

It makes her nauseous.

“I…” She swallows. “Thank you, Keeper. I… I don’t think it will be needed. Maybe my clan will make it.”

“The offer still stands, if you’ll need to. I know it must feel lonely, but I want you to know the People is still with you.”

“I will keep it in mind. Thank you.”

She is unfocused when they get to work, raising stones to rebuild the part of the Mage Tower that’s been destroyed. After an hour, she excuses herself, pretend to be needed elsewhere, and walks away.

The child finds her behind the gazebo, curled on herself with her face hidden between her knees. She doesn’t even notice him coming, until he speaks to her first.

“You’re the Inquisitor!”

She jumps her head up, puzzled, and meets a pair of happy eyes, hazel speckled in gold, looking at her with curiosity. He must be around ten, tall for his age and broad-shouldered.

“Mother never told me the Inquisitor was an elf.” He announces, very seriously.

“I-” Aisling swallows, a little taken aback. But he seems innocent enough, not accusing. So, she just smiles and shrugs. “The ears gave me away, didn’t they?”

“No.” He says, shaking his head. “Your blood is very old, I saw it right away.”

“Is it? I must look like a granny, then.”

She smiles, and the boy smiles back. Morrigan reaches them, and introduces the boy, Kieran. It seems weird that she hasn’t meet him already, but it’s not the time or day to question it. She stands up and they chat, introductions are made, and it’s a corner of peace and tranquility, and something normal, and something that states that somehow Morrigan trusts her enough with introducing her his son. She doesn’t ask about the father: she’s the first to know that blood relationships only matter up to a certain point.

Leliana can go on all day telling her that the Witch of the Wilds is not to be trusted, is duplicitous, her goals are obscure. Aisling is not so blind as to believe she’s there out of her good heart -the last months have taught her better-, and yet… And yet, there’s something about the woman that just resonates. Maybe it’s the fact that she treats her as an elf, doesn’t shy away from her culture and the one time she called her “Herald of Andraste” was with a sneer of sarcasm for the title.

Thus, she believes her when Morrigan shows her the Crossroads and explains why they must get to the Arbor Wilds before Corypheus. She believes, and she wonders how many possibilities the mirrors hold. How many new spells and things could be done, just pushing a little what they know. How much history was lost to them, and how much more was lost because they were too afraid to really look.

It comes with a pang of pain the fact that she’s at the same time the closest to a breakthrough in history, her that always struggled a little with dates and history, and at the same time on the verge of being an outcast for her own people. By all means she should get to that Arlathven… But how, and moreover: with which clan?

In that moment of stillness, of rebuilding and waiting, repairing and checking daily if there are crows from Wycome to inform them of the result of the battle, Aisling wonders, on the edge of Dalish and not, Inquisitor and ruse, Elf and Chantry-friendly aristocrat.

Solas doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t actively avoid her, not in the way he did after Adamant, but he’s slippery as an eel, always busy with this or that. Warm, but keeping his distances and preventing her from asking anything. He participates in experiments only when they’re not alone, and excuses himself when they are. He’s kind and polite and proactive in them, but always theorizing and correcting them, never casting spells himself.

So, Aisling convinces Dorian to move from the library to the Gardens.

Morrigan doesn’t shy away, even if she’s prone at bluntly telling the pair of them that some ideas are totally nuts (like trying again at flying donkeys). And Kieran is good, relaxing company.

It almost seems normal, but deep down, Aisling knows.

She doesn’t want to see, but she knows, the minute Morrigan asks her to teach Kieran her lore and her magic, and she smiles and feel honoured by the request. It’s slightly less frightening than Hawen suggesting to make her a Keeper of her own, outside her clan. But still, the result is the same.

Just, gentler.

---

It’s subtle, but it is there.

Cullen noticed after the latest news from the Lavellan. Or well, he saw and understood that Aisling had been upset by the news and imagined it had been hard for her to choose, one thing or the other. All he could have done was giving her some sureness and not hesitating -and it wasn’t difficult, from the reports of Leliana’s agents, it was clear what’s going to happen, and years in Kirkwall taught him one or two things about nobles and how their promises are good until it suits them, and not just in Orlais.

So, it wasn’t a surprise when Aisling spent the rest of the Council visibly down, not reactive as per usual and leaning heavily on all three of them for any other reasoning. Leliana called the Council off and she walked out relieved, but a little mechanically, her spine a little too straight to be relaxed and natural.

It was a surprise when Radha stopped by with him, exchanging some words with Josephine, in way friendlier terms than the first times she had participated in those meetings. After the Antivan too left the room, the Rogue approached him, turning around the table. She’s tired as well, it’s evident.

“Keep an eye on her.”

Cullen didn’t need to ask whom she was talking about.

“The Graves have been hard on her, and now…”

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes. She just needs all the support she can get and… Something happened during the siege, but she won’t tell me.”

He doesn’t need to be told that, as he tells Radha and it earns him a smile and an appreciative nod from the elf. But it’s a reminder nonetheless. And thus, Cullen pays attention more closely to Aisling.

By dinner, she shows up and she’s normal. Or at least, she looks so, smiling and laughing and being kind and conversing normally. But looking closely, it is there: an underlying sadness, showing up every time she thinks no one’s looking.

It’s there when she’s on her horse and Dennet is talking to other people: she slouches forward, in spite of all her corrections to Dorian and whomever needs some practice and advices on riding to keep the back perfectly straight.

It’s there when the elves of the clan are talking between them, and Cullen notices she stays always on the sidelines, falling into rhythm with them easily enough, but knowing her visibly keeping at a three-pace distance at least.

It’s there when she opens a state dinner and quietly finds her way out of the Great Hall all too soon, and without even waiting for Dorian as per her usual.

It’s there when she’s in the garden with the Occult Advisor’s kid, Kieran, teaching him elvish and some magic. And observing him try to recreate what she just did with distant eyes full of melancholy.

It’s there when they agreed to meet on the ramparts and Cullen arrives after her. A coat of sadness so thick it engulfs her, stealing the light from her eyes and keeping them down, shoulder slouching forward and fingers tapping against each other in a sequence that by now Cullen recognizes as some sort of mannerism she always does when she’s nervous or upset.

It’s stolen moments he catches only because he is looking for them: when he reaches her, she instantly lights up again and returns her usual bubbly self, smiling broadly and making conversation and keeping some sort of physical contact all the time they’re together, and making him forget that he’s not working.

And yet…

“How are you?” He asks, after a while that they’ve been sitting in a crenelle and looking up at the stars, her head resting on his shoulder, hands interlaced on his thigh.

“What an odd question.” She giggles. “I’m perfectly fine and warm.”

“No I mean… Ah, not now now. In general? With everything- and your clan…”

A pause.

“I’m fine, just a little tired.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I…” She stops, and Cullen can feel her fingers contracting between his. “… It’s nothing, really. It’s just been a difficult set of weeks, and my leg still bothers me a little.”

“Have Solas seen you?”

“He…” A pause. Weird. “There are so many wounded after the battle, I’m ok, I can wait. It’s almost good.”

“Have you two quarrelled again? You seem weird around him.”

“it’s all right, Cullen, really.” She snaps, a little on the defensive. “Thank you, but really, it’s just been a harsh couple of weeks and I can’t really stop and rest. It’ll be better.”

“Mh.”

Stop and rest, eh? Well, that he can do. His heart starts beating a little faster as an idea starts to form in his mind. She needs support, for once it’s her needing it and… Maybe it’s soon. But it’s her and she’s shown him time and time again that nothing bad will happen if he’s a little bold.

So, maybe…

“There you are.” He tells her, three days later when she walks in his office, a proper basket with lunch in the crook of her elbow for the first time since she left for the Graves, and a surprised expression on her face at the thrill in his voice.

“Is everything all right? What happened?”

“What?” Good start, Rutherford, you alerted her. The coin seems to burn in his pocket, as he turns it between his fingers. “No! N-no, I’m sorry, I-”

She gets closer, a fond smile on her face and worries melting in her eyes, as she places the basket on his desk and patiently waits for him to collect the right words.

“-I meant… I was waiting for you.”

“Hungry much, uh?” She giggles.

“Yes. But also, not for lunch.”

She freezes, taking in a breath and widening her eyes, red spreading on her cheeks.

“Maker, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean-”

She deflates and looks down, still flushed -it reaches the point of her ears, now.

“No. Wait- ah, let me start again.” He feels quite flustered as well, but ignores it and clears his throat. “I… We have some dealings in Ferelden. I was… Hoping you could accompany me.” There, professional. Put it on work… But also, not quite. “When you can spare the time, of course.”

“I… Is something wrong?”

“What? No!” He should have written her. It should have been a letter. “I… Ah, I would rather explain there… If you still wish to go, that is.”

And at this point of fumbling and being particularly incapacitated to put his thoughts in words, he has doubts she will refuse the suggestion. There’s too much to do, and the timing is all but ideal, and she’s leaving for-

“Ok.”

A pause.

“What?”

“I said, ok. I would love to. I can make a deviation there before heading north to the Storm Coast, if that’s all right?” She says, and for the first time since she left for the Emerald Graves, there’s a real, bright smile on her face. “I mean, if it’s not too soon, I can also stop returning, or well, later, if-”

Her turn to start fumbling, and it just serves to make Cullen instantly more at ease. He circles the desk and cups her face in both of his hands, tilting her up to kiss her.

“It would be perfect.” He tells her, right after. “I will make the necessary arrangements.”

“But I’m taking care of the gear if we’re camping.”

“What? No, you just relax and-”

“-and I have experience camping.” She giggles. “Let me care for that, it’s no trouble, I swear.”

---

Her heart beats faster and hard against her ribcage, like a caged bird wanting to be set free, as she stares at the round coin in her hand, dumbfounded. The serene face of Andraste smiling gently up. She wonders if Cullen knows that this could be considered a perfect bonding gift. She thinks he really doesn’t, and it makes her mind go on haywire between elation -because if he chose to gift what could as well be his most prized possession, she must be important for him, bonding gift or not- and a little bitterness, because he doesn’t know why this is so important and makes her feel so happy, and maybe he’s on a different line of thought and it’s just pity and it’s been a terrible set of weeks and maybe she’s just desperate for one thing to go right in her life that-

“I can’t accept this.” Aisling utters, and she instantly regrets the words, as soon as they slip out of her lips. She can’t look up.

“Why not?”

“It’s… It’s too important, I can’t- What if I lose it, what-”

She moves to give it back, but he just takes her hand and closes her fingers, gently, over the metal. The edges are rounded from time, there’s just an indentation on the border that’s still pretty rugged. And it’s warm on her palm.

“I want you to have it exactly because it’s important.”

And what are you supposed to do when a person you really, really like, closes your fingers on his heart, which he just all but bared in front of you? Beside realizing that you should be afraid of the fall, afraid of feeling slipping more and more quickly in a moment of fragility all the most. But that earnest reply makes you just giddy and horribly happy of jumping into the blue, trusting that the landing will be soft as the fall is being. It’s still way too soon to tell him, tho. So, she just smiles and looks up, finally, resting the fingers of her free hand on his.

“I’ll keep it safe, then. Thank you.”

He leans in to kisses her, and she hops on the balls of her feet to meet him mid-way, closing her eyes. It’s sweet and it’s heart-felt and it makes the butterflies in her stomach flutter and fly around, swelling her heart. She forgot how it felt when love goes well and it is new. The expectation, the enthusiasm. They have so little time together, between running the Inquisition and recently rebuilding Skyhold for the second time, leaving them both exhausted in the evening. They’ve had stolen moments, lunches together as their habit, on the go, sitting outside shoulder to shoulder and telling the other how the morning went and what are they doing in the afternoon. The occasional kiss stolen in his office or when they were the last ones in the War Room. There is a lot to do, these days, and she understands. This trip just the two of us has been a respite she had needed so badly, and welcomed in a heartbeat.

And so far, it has been perfect. A long ride chatting of this and that, exchanging anectodes, bickering about saddles or just enjoying the quiet of the late spring woods. And then Honnleath, or what was left of it -someone has stolen a statue, apparently- and Cullen’s anecdotes about a golden childhood, that filled her with warmth. The lake. And the gift. It just needed… Well, she hoped…

She breaks the kiss and looks at him, not able to keep smiling. Flustered and happy, the same look of slight surprise on his face, lips swollen from kissing and ears that delicious shade of pink that made her want to nib them and see if they were as sensible as hers. But…

“It’s a warm day.” She whispers.

“I- Ah, it is?” He’s confused, and it makes her giggle.

“Let’s go for a swim?” She proposes, nodding towards the lake.

He looks at her. And at the lake. And at her again.

“I- Ah-”

She can see him turning red as a cherry in seconds, and it makes her laugh. She hops on her toes again, smacking another kiss on his lips and nuzzling his nose with hers, affectionately, trying to sound reassuring.

“I meant just a swim, don’t worry.” It’s half a lie. “No dangerous wild mage is jumping at you today!” She chirps, cheerfully as she steps back and starts unbuttoning her doublet, focusing on the buttons and not on… Well, her expectations blowing off like steam. It’s ok, she repeats herself, he needs more time, it’s ok, she’ll wait. She can wait, she’s patient, she’s known for her patience.

So, she concentrates on plucking his lucky coin very carefully in a small hidden pocket in the inside of the jacket, right on her heart, close it with the button. Way more carefully than she would normally do, she folds the jacket over a stable enough crate, not so close to the water. She’s less careful unbuckling her leg wraps, humming lightly (in slight embarrassment for Cullen looking at her as he did when he woke up in her bed after that dreadful night of withdrawal). She leaves the leather on the pier, stepping back some and turning, in a urge for modesty that’s not really hers, as she unties her trousers.

“Aren’t- Ah, I mean… isn’t the water too cold for… for…?”

“This late in Spring? Not at all.” She laughs, biting her lower lip at how adorable she finds him and how much she wants to just turn and jump at him for a hug and to feel his hands on her with considerably less layers, if not just on bare skin. But, as much as she’d like, she has the feeling from the tone of his voice that right now he would just flinch back, overwhelmed. So, she stays where she is. “Dalish, remember?”

She giggles, swinging back and pointing at herself: the tattoos on her brow, arms and legs now bare out of a camisole and her smalls, surely can testify as such. He frowns, looking down at her discarded garment left on the pier with no order.

“Come on, Commander, it’s an order!”

She teases him again, stepping back until her heels feel the border of the pier and then turning to dive right in, arms circling quickly around her to give her more push and break the water right before her head.

The water is cold, indeed, more pungent than anything she ever experiences in the same season. Truth to be told, they’ve never pushed so much South -or at least, not when she was with them, they could have picked her up in the Korcari Wilds with her none the wiser. Winter water, that is, biting at her skin and refusing to warm up. She bats her legs and moves her arms to bring herself up to the surface, and quickly.

“Fenedhis, why it is so cold??” She exclaims, sputtering water as she re-emerges, some metres distant from the pier, batting her feet and circling her hands around her to stay afloat, the chill in the water pricking at her skin uncomfortably. “How do you people survive with bodies of water this cold?!”

She turns towards the pier, in time to see and hear Cullen laughing, hiding badly his face in one hand, but the jerky movements of his shoulder can’t really be mistaken for anything else. She doesn’t have to paddle long, moving in the water quietly, to get back on the pier and cross her arms on the edge of it, peeking up and smiling.

“I told you it was too cold!” At least he’s not embarrassed anymore.

“You also told me I should get a wooden saddle. The validity of your suggestions is not the best, right now.”

“You should, you can’t fight comfortably on yours.”

“Who was the one who had to go around the fallen log and who the one who easily jumped it?”

He scoffs, shaking his head in mock offense. He too can’t seem to shake a smile of his face tho, not even when he bends down to collect her discarded garments. Frowning at that, she snakes an arm down, to splash some water at him. Or in his general direction, she doesn’t really want to soak him in.

“Leave them and jump in, come on!”

“No thank you, I’d wish not to freeze to death if I can help it.”

“And you would leave me here to freeze on my own? I thought you were a gentleman!”

“I picked you up from getting frozen once, and I’ll do it again. But I need to not be frozen myself.”

He’s too solemn for the occasion, as he crouches down and sits with his legs crossed before her, nodding very seriously to underline that he isn’t joking. Ignoring all shivers and how uncomfortable it is having freezing cold cloth sticking to your skin, she rests her left cheek on her arms, crossed, smiling at him.

“You are the fun police.”

This time it’s said very affectionately.

---

The Storm Coast too, apparently, has forgotten it’s late Spring, and it should be warm. The constant rain makes the air chilly, and the wind blowing strongly from the sea really doesn’t help.

But it doesn’t really matter: the atmosphere matches the overall mood of this mission.

Aisling doesn’t like Gatt all that much, she didn’t even before he picked on Dorian. Even before he started pointlessly picking on the Iron Bull. Polite, compliant, but still undermining everything he said, and she doesn’t miss the condescending way he replied to her own questions. As if how Qunari dreadnoughts movements were a wide knowledge for everyone.

He’s no worse than the Winter Palace, all in all, and ignoring his jabs and sense of superiority is easy enough. And the fact is understandable, after hearing some scamps of his story, surely seeing a Dalish Inquisitor with a Tevinter Altus at her side can’t be easy, she’ll indulge on him for that reason, as long as Bull is ok with it.

What she can’t indulge for, tho, is the ultimatum.

The easy way he proposes a choice that is all but easy, and shouldn’t be treated as such. She feels a shiver down her spine, when Gatt starts insisting with Bull for him to not call the retreat, leave the Chargers to die to save the ship from a risk that could have been avoided if the stubborn elf had allowed them to bring some more soldiers. What she can’t indulge on, is that for him it’s not even a choice, and Bull hesitating is but a hindrance, a sign that he’s a traitor. He surely tells him as much, in spite of professing himself a friend.

No, Aisling doesn’t like Gatt. At all.

It’s still not enough to have her feel right when Bull just doesn’t reply and turns to her, a silent question in his eye.

A question she can’t answer for him, and particularly not now.

“I can’t choose for you, Bull.” She whispers, hopefully soft enough that the other elf can’t hear her.

“I can’t either, and you-”

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. They fought side by side enough that she can read him. The minute way he has in constantly checking everyone around him, and cover up for the ones that needs it, wait up if someone is left behind. In the Graves, when the Giant stepped on her leg, the first to reach her was Bull. Not Radha, not Dorian. Bull, barged right in and swung his axe with enough force that the Giant felt it and stepped back. Bull has saved her, in these last months, countless of times. She has seen him in close proximity, the easy care he has for everyone, and for the Chargers in particular. They were the thing most similar to a clan she has seen, and she’s been calling him for missions exactly for that reason. He must know, by now. And coming to think of it… He’s the one that is going through something similar to her. Lonely, stranded, not sharing anything cultural with anyone else in the Inquisition, other people mistrusting him just for whence he came from.

In his situation, Aisling wouldn’t want to choose either. Would not be able to choose. But maybe her too would turn to someone who could understand the situation.

It’s with her heart in her throat that she does choose for him.

“Call the retreat.”

“Don’t!”

Bull doesn’t need to be repeated. In a heartbeat, he does call the retreat. After a moment of puzzlement at the unexpected horn filling the valley, Krem starts to bark orders, gesturing to the others to retreat and step back, the first to arrive there and now the last to go away, right in time before the big of the Venatori force finished to climb the hilltop, and a small fraction of the weight on her shoulder is lifted. Not another friend left to die.

And yet, Gatt is still speaking, and blaming, and acting superior, picking on Bull and guilt-tripping it as if he took the decision, as if he was the one to make this mission-

“His name-” Aisling snaps, stepping forward between them, hands closing tightly on her staff. “- Is the Iron Bull.”

She remarks, underlining the article for good measure, with a final tone that dares the other to say anything else. They glare at each other, none ready to lower their gaze first.

“I suppose it is.” Gatt says, finally, with pure sneer, as he turns his back and walks away without another word.

Without even a goodbye for someone whom he called friend, someone who fought with him and, Aisling had no doubt because she had experienced it first-hand, saved his life. She wondered how many of his scars were for him.

“Was the plan getting close to me and using me as an instrument for the Qun?” She asks, drily, as they’re watching the Dreadnought burn.

“Boss, not now.”

“Was it?” She has to know. She tossed an alliance to the gutter, gladly so, and took another decision that wasn’t hers to take. She has to know.

A long sigh is all her reply, beside the noise of the rain plucking over the branches of the trees, over the gravel and the roar of the sea below. She waits.

“All I got told was to spy on you and convince you to accept this alliance. Not that it matters much, now.”

“I suppose it doesn’t.” She sighs. “Thank you for telling me, tho.”

“Mh. Come on, Boss, let’s get out of here.”

The dreadnought is gone, the alliance too. They made their way back to camp. Bull places a hand on her shoulder and squeezes her against his side in a hug, without saying a word more.

Is all the thanks she needs, and a little reassurance that it wasn’t all fake, after all, and that they could be ok. Maybe.

Maybe she could be ok as well.

---

The letter comes on a Monday.

She’s in the garden, helping Kieran with one lesson he’s finding particularly difficult with. She’s quietly explaining him a stance, correcting his posture, when Cullen barges in the garden, a grave expression on his face.

Aisling knows at once, and her heart jumps into her throat.

She leaves Kieran with Elan Ve’mal, and her steps is measured and elegant, as she makes her way to the War Room. It’s automatic and a response to fear.

Mythal, please.

Commander Cullen,

Our troops fortified the city of Wycome and flew the Inquisition banner. It is good that we did so, as the Marchers had soldiers ready to invade the city and kill every elf inside. They were not ready to make an enemy of the Inquisition, however, and when they saw our soldiers, they pulled up short.

The Inquisition diplomat, Lady Guinevere Volant, handled negotiations quite well. When presented with evidence of the red lyrium, which we made clear was an unholy tool of Corypheus himself, the Marchers backed down from their claims of a baseless elven rebellion and pledged to leave Wycome in peace. They have also donated generously to the Inquisition's coffers to make clear their support for our cause.

The Inquisitor's Keeper, Istimaethoriel, has been installed along with a city elf and several human merchants, on the new Wycome City Council, which will rule the city fairly for both humans and elves alike.

Lieutenant Rozellene Chambreterre

Everyone in the room starts to breathe again. Josephine is the most openly relieved, and she apologises to Cullen for opposing his ideas so much the last time, and laughing as Cullen just pats her shoulder with a smile and promising it was nothing. Leliana orders some wine to celebrate, and Radha smiles, tensions leaving her shoulders and making her joke with the others, eliciting laugh.

For Aisling, the victory is a bitter one.

Everything went all right, yes, but she can’t but think that it’s on her. Her fault, hers for pointing a neon arrow to them. All she ever did travelling south was to give them peace and respite in a war they had nothing to do with, and they almost got slaughtered like pigs.

And sure, she couldn’t have helped them better by being up there, the Inquisition wouldn’t have cared to much if there wasn’t her at its head… And yet, they wouldn’t have been in Wycome if it wasn’t for her. No Venatori would have any interest in targeting a little clan such as the Lavellan.

She excuses herself from the room, saying she is happy and relieved, they all did a great work and she is very grateful. She is just tired.

---

Something’s weird in the Keep, today: there are more scouts around, as if they’re looking for something. The stables are too quiet, and everything seems a little dull. Which is very weird, considering that just the evening before there had been a celebration for the success in Wycome, something improvised to celebrate it the day the news arrived. Sera spots the Commander in the tavern, asking to Cabot first, Bull and Krem second, and her third, if they saw Aisling anywhere.

“Why? Did you lose Quizzy, Cully? Already?”

“It’s not funny.”

Cullen just grumbles, with a glance that would have incinerated a glacier, before stepping away and up the stairs, briskly, without another word. Sera can hear him calling for Cole, up there, and she grunts.

She’ll give him funny.

Between the Herald’s rest and the Commander’s office, the Archer could hear at least three soldiers commenting on how the Inquisitor skipped the drills this morning, and that her horse was bores and bit three people that morning. Which was weird, because the Wiseshit could be found napping all over the place and at weird hours, but she never missed important stuff. She never missed working in the stables. Sera shrugged, tho, not paying the information much mind, for now. She liked her enough, even if she’s been too elfy in this last period and since the clan arrived, she’s been with them more often than necessary, but she was a good enough person.

Still, it wasn’t her business, until she ran off to join Corypheshit in his mission or became a tyrant. And since she saw her raking horse poop more often than not without one single complaint, the second option was unlikely. Quizzy could play hide and seek all she wanted, Sera had a mission. A petty mission.

She slipped in the Commander’s office as soon as she was on her own on the battlements, with nonchalance. The room was empty, which was good. She could act and not pretend she was just passing by. She started to look around herself, thinking of what could have been a good way to prank him. Turning all the books with the pages on the outside? Too visible and boring. Bees in one drawer? It was too much for the offense. So…. Desk.

Something to do with the desk, sure. The centre of the power, the thing he would have noticed… Something subtle he won’t notice right now. Maybe… sticking something under the table? Or… Something with the legs. Yes, that would do. Annoy him just a little, let him or his scouts have some fun. Jim surely will laugh.

So, she circles back, looking for something on his desk to put under one of the legs. The chosen item gets to be a piece of paper, as a first trial, that she folds in two, four, six. She kneels in front of the desk, pushing the chair back with her butt as she does it and-

- and there’s Aisling curled under the desk, legs collected against her bust and leaning in the corner between the cabinet and the back wooden panel she’s facing.

Cullen doesn’t usually sit at the desk until the late morning, after drills, Councils and the eventual problems keeping him outside. It’s midday now but… But he’s been looking for the elf in front of her in every place but the right one. The easiest one, and a clever one, no one would look for her hiding so close.

“Wiseshit?”

She wakes up abruptly, jumping up and bonking her head against the underside of the table, gasping loudly and then curling over herself again, rubbing her head.

“Piss, are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.”

It’s a snap and it’s abrupt, and she doesn’t turn to look at her. Very unlike her.

“Are you?”

“I am. Thank you. I just… I just needed a nap.”

That’s not true. She sounds groggy when she’s sleepy, and pouty. Now she just sounds… Blank. Her voice is hoarse as if she…

“You were crying.”

“I’m fine.”

“You were.”

“I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

“You don’t have to worry about me.”

Her voice starts to crack. She has seen Aisling crying, everyone did. She cried often and at the silliest thing. When someone told a story that was sad, she always cried. Sad song? Cry. When they had slayed the first dragon, she spent a lot of time beside the carcass, caressing its scales and crying, muttering that she was sorry. Aisling cried because she was sad, angry, sometimes even because she was happy. It wasn’t anything new. What was new was that she didn’t talk, she didn’t turn to look at her in the eyes, reassuring her with a smile, trying to hug her because she found her interest cute.

Aisling was the one that took care of others, in the camp. She always checked on their tents, always was the first to assure everyone ate, helped whenever she could. She never used magic without asking first, when she and Bull were around, because she knew they were not so much at ease. She stayed with her that time she fell sick, and they barely knew each other. She took care of everyone, and not because she was the Inquisitor.

Sera grunts, discarding the folded paper on the pavement and crawling beside her. She doesn’t know how to care for others in a sense Aisling would do, but it doesn’t take a genius to notice what she likes. Sera hugs her, dragging her against her shoulder.

“Go, Sera, there’s no need. I’ll-”

“You’re not fine and that’s ok. You told me people needn’t be alone when they’re not well, didn’t you? Cry, I don’t mind. Cully-Wully will eventually reach here and we’ll switch. D’you wanna talk ‘bout it?”

“It’s elfy shit, you’ll find it silly.” She replies, fighting hard against crying, audibly, and trying to push Sera away. She doesn’t flinch: her arms are stronger and she’s taller, she just clutches her tighter.

“Tsk. Told you they were too elfy. Don’t mind them, you’re not like them. You’re pretty elfy when you want, but you’re good.”

“Th-that’s the problem… I’m not like them. Not anymore. I’m the Inquisitor, I can’t be like them.”

Sera frowns, at that. She’s not sure she understands what she really means, but she understands that whatever it is, it’s something that she isn’t taking it lightly.

“So what? You’re still people, you’re like them ‘cause they are like all the others, they just act like they don’t, but they are.”

“Sera, please, go.”

There’s a sob, and a snort, her hands snake on her face and rubs angrily at her eyes, she’s all contracted under the Archer’s arm.

“You are people, if elfy elves don’t want you because you’re not elfy enough, they can stick it in their pants. You’re people, and a good one.”

She keeps on talking, and after little, Aisling starts sobbing, aloud, hugging her back and clutching as if she was drowning.

By the quantity of tears that she spills, she may as well have been.

Cullen finds them after a while, looking at them panting hard from exhertion, sweats beading his forehead and sticking loose curls against his temples. Sera grumbles something, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He just snorts right back at her, and with an oomph sit with them on the pavement, to switch for real. He thanks Sera, apologises for before.

Maybe he’ll be pranked tomorrow. For now, they stay there and chat and wait for Aisling to stop crying. It takes a while, but nobody minds much.

Chapter Text

Dear Pavyn,

I am sure you weren’t expecting to receive this from me. What can I say, I live to disappoint.

And on this matter.

I pray you to accept the role of First in my place. It’s always been yours, and I’m sorry. I should have told the Keeper no, that day, I should have thought about you and I didn’t.

Now, it’s only become clearer that I’m keeping it just out of habit and pointless hopes, and all the result was that you all were almost lost. The situation you just overcome is totally on me: I was too free in declaring my connection to you, and you all had to pay the price. Ironic, isn’t it? I left in the hope of easing your burden, and ended up doubling it.

There’s no real way for me to undo what I did and say, but what can I do is this.

The Inquisition will back you up in any way you may wish and need as long as you stay in Wycome. But please, before any other city decides to try again, take the clan and disappear North, vanish in the woods. I will never search for you again, and never attract more attention on any of you. Let me know before leaving if I can keep the clan name as my own, I will understand if the answer will be a no. In that case, this is the last you’ll hear from me.

I am sorry, for everything that happened. I am sorry we wasted years over a stupid decision on my part. You were right, you have always been right.
But after the apology, I would like to add a thank you. Thank you, from the deep of my soul, for being my brother. I am proud I could call you so. Whatever good I did and will do, the merit is on you, Radha, Deshanna and everyone. I am deeply grateful for that.

Give my love and my hug to everyone.
I will send Radha back as soon as she’ll accept to go back. I’m tied to the Inquisition, she isn’t.

Mythal’enaste, may Andruil’s eyes never fall on you ever again. Safe travels and good winds.

With all my love,
Aisling.

“Are you sure, Boss?” Bull asks her, not convinced, folding the parchment in three and handling it to her again.

“Are you regretting letting me choose for you?” She asks back, stopping sewing the cut he got from the Qun assassins to take the letter. She puts the envelope on her thighs, feet dangling lazily against the wall she’s sitting upon, and get back to work, one hand keeping the skin together, the other stitching it, as delicately as she can.

The Qunari, at her right, sighs deeply, looking in front of him at Krem and Grim sparring in the courtyard ring.

“It’s not an obliged choice, for you.”

“But I should have done it months ago. And you’re not answering my question.”

“You still shouldn’t send this, there’s no need to cut that bridge. And neither are you, technically.”

“Bull.”

“Boss.”

There’s something soothing about spending time with him. He just sees through lies and façades, so there’s really no need to keep them up. No wonder he was so good at his job. Aisling ties the last knot, when she’s done, and cuts the string freeing the needle. Putting it back in the chest of medical supplies, she fishes out a small jar of ointment next. The smell, when she uncorks it, is pungent and heavy, and it makes her scrunch her nose. Bull flinches, snorting loudly, but that’s all he does, not moving and letting her apply the thick pomade over the wound, to disinfect it and help the healing. They stay there, one sitting and the other leaning over the half wall that closes the upper courtyard, just in front of the tavern: they’re almost at eye level with each other like that. No one really says anything: after the assassins coming for him, there’s really not much to say on the subject. Except that one little question.

“I couldn’t have chosen on my own. Crap, that would have been the perfect time for a reconditioning with a Tamassran. But it takes more than a split second.”

“I know. I’m sorry I had to do it for you, but… I understand. It’s not a choice anyone should have to make, I’m sorry you had to face it.”

The jar gets closed again, and at last she starts to bandage it, moving his arm a little out from his bust. It’s not the first time -Bull always prefers her to tend to his wounds, and tends to shy away from Solas’ spells if he’s not really badly injured- they’re practiced. He complies to the movement she hints, and she settles to work quickly and effectively, rolling clean gauze around his upper arm, with no real hurry. It’s a cozy day, the sun is still shining, the birds are still chirping and everything goes well. Except, it doesn’t.

“It’s just… difficult to get used to it. But I’m where I want to be, regrets and all.”

“You can ask for help if you need it, you know?”

“Pft. You’re quick with that shiny toothpick of yours, but no offense, you aren’t the first person I’d ask to beat me with a stick.”

“Does it work?”

“Yes, but I’m not beating you with a stick, Boss, I don’t want you on my conscience. You stay with your talking and crying.”

“Mh.”

Grim staggers back and falls down, away from Krem and his training stick. Cassandra, propped on the fence and looking at the duel, barks some advices at them, quickly stepping into the fence when the two answer, and sitting down on the floor to illustrate how to parry an opponent when down. It’s homey as it gets, and it’s warm. Done with the bandages, she pats his arm to signal she’s done, and moves the supplies away, shifting on her sitting to move closer and rest her head on his shoulder, with a sigh. The warmth of the Bloomingtide sun seeps down in their bones, and Aisling feels herself quickly slipping towards sleep.

“Boss?”

“Mh?”

“It’s gonna be all right. Whatever you choose.”

She doesn’t reply to that, nodding softly against his shoulder.

“Worst it gets, when you get bored of being the Boss, the Chargers could use another archer.”

She can’t help but laugh at that, louder than necessary.

“I’ll ask Sera to teach me how to fake it.”

“Good.”

“Bull?”

“Mh?”

“It is gonna be all right.”

She doesn’t really believe it. But maybe, if she repeats it enough time, it’ll be true.

---

Radha stares at the parchment with a deep frown on her brow, not sitting down on the couch, the bed, or anywhere else in Aisling’s room. Aisling just stares at her, twisting her finger together nervously.

“Say something.”

The Rogue just snorts, shrugging sharply.

“You’ve had some stupid ideas in your life, Aisling, but this is probably the worst of them all.”

“I don’t want them to-”

“No? What do you think they’ll do? Just turn their back and what, disappear and take a relieved breath?”

“I hope they’ll go away and be safe from further danger!”

“Well, it’s too late for that, isn’t it?”

She crumples the letter into a ball and tosses it right in the fire, movement snappy and abrupt, out of her usual fluid grace. Aisling takes two steps towards the earth, calling on her magic to-

“Try to tame the flames and I’ll punch some sense into that thick skull of yours.”

The thing, with Radha, has always been that she never spoke, but observed. Observed, and learnt about people more than anyone else would have. They spent all their childhood together, friends and best friends and sisters, joint by the hip and telling each other everything. Fierce quarrels and fierce love, the same that now burns behind their eyes.

“What do you want? How much will you ask until you believe we love and care for you, that you’ve been one of ours from the start, it never mattered that you weren’t born with us, and that we won’t abandon you, that we’re your family? How much more, Aisling?”

This is a low hit, and the lowest she could go. Aisling tho, refuses to cry.

“Do you think it’s easy for me?”

“I think it’s not as difficult as it should be, if at the first impediment you just run away.”

“I’m not running away. You don’t understand. You can’t understand.”

“What now? I can go back but you don’t? It sounds like nothing we did has ever mattered!”

“I can’t go back!” Aisling yells, stomping her foot and unwillingly willing the flames to burn hotter and more.

Radha steps back, hissing through her nose and avoiding the fire lapping forward. A moment, and she goes back to face her, unbothered by the outburst and just glaring at her.

“I don’t know who convinced you of this, but-”

“You know it too. I will never be able to go back, I will…” She snorts, tossing her arms to the side. “The Inquisition will never let me go. I won’t ever be able to leave because I have this-” She shows the Anchor, pouring a little bit of magic into it, just enough to have it glow green. “- and so I will be needed here.”

“You could resign. Step back. You hate politics.”

“Yes, and then what?” She laughs, mirthlessly. “There’ll arrive another crazy overlord searching for this mark, and the clan won’t be able to stand the tide. I’m stepping back from them because it’s the only sensible thing I can do. Do you really think what happened in Wycome won’t happen again? Or that the next time it will all go smoothly as this one? Do you?”

Some of the fire is quelched, or she doesn’t have anything to say anymore. Radha just stands there, looking at her, stern face sterner in how the fire hits her from the side, lips in a thin line. They stand there, looking at the other for a while, none saying anything, none flinching from where they are. The fire crackles in its earth, a nice breeze blows in from the opened windows, and the air inside the room could be cut with a knife.

“The Anchor could be lifted.”

“It can’t.” She hisses. “Or well, according to Spirits in the Fade, it could…”

“Then why-”

“… With my death.”

A heavy silence falls over the pair of them, Radha’s anger cracking at the corner at that revelation. She hasn’t told anyone about what the spirit looking like the Divine told her about the Anchor. She cried her fair share already, and accepted her fate on that sense. It’s part of the reason they’re there to discuss.

“Maybe there’s a way. Maybe that Spirit meant something different.”

“Ask Solas about it, he’s the expert. Maybe he’ll tell you.”

“Don’t take me as a fool.” Radha sneers right back, and for once there’s grudge in her voice, her eyes squints in blame. “He tells you more than he’ll ever tell me. And you know it.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? He hasn’t spoken to me for more than two minutes since the siege!”

“What have you done during the siege? When you disappeared in that secret passage?”

A breath taken too sharply. She would love nothing more than to tell her, to confide in her and maybe together make some sense into what she saw and felt, and what she can guess about the elf’s true power. She’s been turning it in her head for weeks, now, and she can’t make up from down on her own. Yet, she promised. And avoidant, scared, annoying as she is, Aisling Lavellan prides herself to keep her promises.

“Aisling, tell me.”

“I…” Telling her that she promised him not to would only appear worse, right now, if feelings are involved. Would only redirect this quarrel. And as much as she is angry and hurt, she doesn’t want to ruin that for her. For both of them. “… nothing at all, Ra.”

There’s an apology in her voice, but it’s not enough to mask that it’s a lie. It’s not nearly enough, Aisling knows that in her place it won’t ever be, and can’t be surprised at the hurt she sees in Radha’s eyes, and at how she turns her back on her and walks towards the stairs, without another word. She knows it sounds bad and there’s nothing she can really do to fix this without breaking her promise, but…

“Wait!” … But, she still runs after her. She’s ready to step back from the clan if they’ll so choose, but she isn’t of stepping back from her. Not from Radha. She can keep one thing, can she? “Radha, please, nothing happened of what you’re thinking of, I swear, I know it looks-”

“I am glad Cullen doesn’t mind. If you ever deemed him worthy enough of knowing, that is.”

She storms off slamming the door behind her, Aisling is frozen on the stairs.

---

The letter is found by Leliana on her desk the next morning, alongside a hot cup of tea with sugar already added. None has seen who brought it, but the handwriting of the address is unmistakably the Inquisitor’s. There’s a single note saying to deliver this to Pavyn Lavellan, in Wycome, and be extremely careful not to let anyone else have it.

A raven flows north, Leliana, read the content of the letter and knowing what it means, is quick in bringing Josie in to move appointments for the afternoon and organize another pic nic in her studio.

But the Inquisitor doesn’t show up at the War Council. The Inquisitor doesn’t show up at drills, is nowhere to be found in the stables, Dorian hasn’t seen her, Frida reports that she wasn’t in her room when she climbed up to clean, Radha just answers that it’s none of her business. Which is weird, but the conundrum stands.

It’s Leliana to suggest the others to just get on with the day and wait, the Inquisitor will show up again. Keeping Cullen in is a feat by itself, but, worried as well for her, she manages. They have the Emprise du Lion to untackle, they can get on for a day and let Aisling mourn in piece. She doesn’t say anything to her colleagues, just that the elf needs some time to breathe, right now.

The evening, the cook storms out in the Ambassador’s room, heavily complaining that she can’t go on like this, the two elves have left the kitchen a disaster, and between them and the Tevinter Devil constantly complaining of her cooking and her choice of wines even if he can’t boil an egg to save his life, she’s not going to stay there much longer. She doesn’t care if Andraste herself is trying her through the Inquisitor, she’s at her limits, unless someone does something.

Between a complaint and more threats to quit the job, the Advisors, in Josie’s office to discuss some impromptu report just arrived from the Emprise, manage to make out that the Inquisitor, in fact, visited the kitchen that afternoon, and with Sera. They did something unspecified and left a total mess on the table and the oven -which will need to be cleaned thoroughly- before running away with a basket when the cook came to start for the dinner.

There’s a relieved sigh between them, which the cook doesn’t take particularly well. Some more help is allotted to the kitchens for the dinner, with apologies and the promise to keep Dorian well out of her view for the next hours, and they can go back at ease.

When Cullen returns to his office, after dinner, a pounding headache beating on his temples and every single muscle aching, he just wishes to crawl up his loft, somehow, gurgle down one of his brews and just hope he’ll get some uninterrupted sleep. But as he closes the door behind himself and looks up, there’s Aisling sitting on his desk, a book perched on her crossed legs.

She smiles, looking tired and lackluster when she looks up at him.

“There you are.”

“Here I am. I’m sorry if I-”

“No need, Leliana told us you needed some time.”

“Mh.”

She looks down, destituted, without another word. He hates withdrawal now more than before, but in spite of everything, he has to ask.

“Do you- Ah, do you want to talk about it? What happened?”

Knowing she relies in touch, he walks to her, stopping close and leaning his hands just up her knees, squeezing. Maybe he puts too much weight on his hands, forcing himself to stand for a little more, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

“Nothing, I just…”

She stops, sighing heavily and leaning forward, leaning her forehead against his breastplate.

“… It can wait until tomorrow. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“It’s not a bother, at all, if you want-”

“You’re not feeling well.”

“I-”

“Your brows furrow and your jaws always contract in a certain way when you have a headache. Your jaw is contracted and you’re frowning.” She explains, softly, not raising up to look at him. “Your hands are trembling and you’re leaning on me. You never do.”

It’s honestly endearing that she noticed, he honestly never put any attention to it himself. And she just… Can tell. And yet cannot tell that he does lean on her, even more than he would feel comfortable. It’s his turn to sigh, and circle her shoulders in a hug, resting his cheek on her head.

“I brough you some cookies.”

“What?”

She shifts on her spot, just moving her hand to place her fingers on the dish beside her thigh, turning it around on the spot.

“I baked cookies with Sera, today. They’re not… I think we got something wrong, none of us ever really baked, and I never saw a stove from up close, but… well. These are the less burnt one.”

Truth to be told their colour is pretty dark, and they’re not exactly inviting, the shape irregular and dotted with… something that was mixed in the batter. But-

“I’m sure they’re delicious. Thank you.”

“They’re not. But you’re welcome I… I felt like I needed to do something for you. I shouldn’t probably tell you and be here, but-”

She starts fastening the pace of her speech, the way she does when she’s excited or nervous. She’s not excited right now. He stops her, moving a little away from her and cupping her face in his hands, bringing it upward to face her. Her eyes are puffy and red, and she looks like she’s about to cry again, lashes batting quickly not to.

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it? Let me go up and take a drought and-”

“No, thank you. I’ll leave you to rest.”

“Aisling-”

“Really. I’m fine.”

A pause.

“I will be. I just wanted to tell you…”

She sobs, then, squeezing her eyes shut with two fat tears rolling down her cheeks. He rubs them away with his thumbs, waiting for her to stop crying. Offering her to stay the night would be improper, wouldn’t it? As much as his heart is breaking at the idea of letting her go now, evident as it is that something happened… Maker, he feels a fool for having waited for so long. Looking down, there’s the hint of a silver coin slipping down in the collar of her shirt, mounted as a pendant with a simple blue ribbon tying on the back of her neck. He feels even more like a fool: that’s his coin, and she’s wearing it. The only time he ever saw her wearing jewelry was at the Winter Palace.

“… I just wanted to tell you that I’m not considering anyone else in that sense, ok? I’m fine in waiting if you need to, I’m fine in staying like we are forever, really I am. I am sorry if I ever gave you the wrong impression, I didn’t mean to. I never meant to. I’m sorry. There’s just you.”

Cullen had no idea whence this comes from. Has he…? Not the right time to ask. Not again making it about him. Whatever caused this, knowing of walls and knowing that he wouldn’t react well to her making it about herself and redirecting, he just leans in and kisses her brow.

“I know. I never thought you did, don’t worry. I know. It’s ok. We’re ok.”

She props up and hugs his neck, tight.

“Come for breakfast here? I’ll get some cake and hot chocolate.”

“Thank you.”

It sounds like a plea, and she doesn’t really say anything else, for now, and refuses to steal any more of his time. A wet, very delicate kiss, and she hops down the desk, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands and promising she will make it to her room without problems, he doesn’t need to walk her. She still makes sure he doesn’t need anything -more draughts, more painkillers, more elfroot- before bidding him good night one last time and going out of the office, minding not to let the door make any noise.

---

The next morning, tho, Aisling doesn’t show up for breakfast, but left breakfast in her wake. When Cullen slips down the ladder, still with a headache pounding against his temples and just wishing the sun wouldn’t be so damned bright or so much in his face -maybe he should find time and resources to repair his roof-, all he found was his desk in pristine conditions, when he didn’t tidy before going to sleep, and a tray with breakfast right in front of his chair.

All the documents are neatly piled at the borders of the desk, divided per topic in an order that maybe isn’t what he would choose, but that is easy enough to follow. The books have been left in three small piles on the side, inkpots carefully capped and quills neatly placed on their side, already sharpened and ready to use. He’s pretty sure he left a bottle and a goblet there somewhere, but they are nowhere to be found. Instead, some fresh orange juice in a jug with a glass upside down on the tray, and a couple of covered dishes: soup, still warm, bread, and a wide assortment of fruits, already peeled and cut. A parchment is folded under the fruit dish, and he knows already, slipping it out and unfolding it, he would find a terrible cursive and doodles, and smiles at it, as he reads.

Good morning, sunshine!

I know you told me to show up for breakfast, but you looked pretty battered up yesterday and I thought to leave you some more quiet before another full day. It’s pointless to tell you to please, get back up and sleep in, you deserved it and I’m pretty sure Skyhold will not collapse if you take a day off… So, at least, you can face it with a full belly and lots of energy.

There’s a couple of new droughts in the usual drawer, I slightly fixed the formula. As per usual, tell me how it goes, I hope it’ll soothe some of the headache if it’s still there.

Thank you for yesterday evening. I mean it. I’m sorry if I was weird and I made you worry, I’ll be fine. I’m just feeling a little lonely and stressed, but I’m already better. I mean every word, tho… Maybe I could repeat it with less tears and it’ll be less pathetic. When you’ll be feeling better, tho, not before.

Have the nicest of breakfasts, I already told to the Inquisitor and she graciously agreed to allow her Commander to sleep in. Isn’t she nice?

Now, important: grab your left shoulder with your right hand. Do the same with left hand on right shoulder. Done? Squeeze tight, the tightest you can. And then some more. That’s my hug for you, you have another for today, but I’ll keep that in my pocket, you’ll have to find me to get that one as well.

With All my Sylaise, it’s awkward, isn’t it?

Well, with anything you’ll find proper.
A.

*a doodle: what appears to be Cullen, asleep under the cover of what with some imagination could be a bed. A small Aisling is floating over him, eyes closed, lips drawn as a 3 close to Cullen’s face, and a small balloon with a “Mwah!” completing the picture.*

He sits on the chair, smiling goofily at the piece of parchment, caressing the small doodle with his thumb, heart beating faster in his chest and spreading warmth all over. He had to ask her what was awkward to say, one day or the other. Maybe it was the same he felt.

---

The next day is better. After that one day of disappearance, the Inquisitor got back to work in full force, full of ideas, full of suggestions. She made it a point to involve Morrigan in War Councils, saying she would have been useful in offering an opinion more, particularly on such magical matters where the only mage in the Council didn’t know much.

And indeed, the Witch proved herself useful: she may not have known much of strategy, outside what logic and good sense could suggest, but she had, indeed, some insights over the old ruins in the area. It was her to point that Suledin Keep could be a centre of operation, since the fortress was agible and well-defended. She didn’t have any insights on the current situation, but anecdotes on what the ancient elves did there? Oh, those she had plenty. Which was more than enough, with an actual Dalish there able to interpret them and translate what they could expect.

Scouts and spies were sent to investigate over the state of the Keep, before deciding how big a force to send.

Aisling, all in all, looked better than the former evening. If busier than usual and full of ideas: which was, per se, an indicator that she wasn’t really good, just keeping busy as she licked at her wounds. She just dismissed Josephine proposing to take the Lavellan as allies in Wycome, or to assess the situation, for now, quickly explaining that they needed time to recover, it was too soon to really ask anything of them or anyone in the city. Cullen noticed how Leliana didn’t reply to that, but she just kept looking at Aisling, a minute frown on her brow, and offered another issue to discuss as soon as Josephine tried to push the topic any further. The argument shifted, Aisling sighed, relieved, and the issue was left for another time, still leaving Cullen with a sense of unrest about it, worried for her in spite of everything.

Life went on, and the day proceeded smoothly into the afternoon, as if nothing happened, as if the Inquisitor never missed a day.

Until a Templar silences someone in the training grounds.

For the most remarkable happening in the last weeks, it could have been something way better than that. A loud commotion from one of the fences, light, and that peculiar sensation of cold as the leftover wind reaches the other enclosure.

Cullen is running, fearing the worse. He knew joint drills were a bad idea, they were too soon, he-

- he stops in front of the back fence to assist at Lysette helping a trembling and very pouty Inquisitor up, knees trembling under her and head shaking as she leans in the Templar’s arms.

“I told you it was a terrible idea, your Worship!”

“Nonsense. Better done here than in batt- Uuuuurgh, down, down, put me down.”

The elf gets put down and dry heaves on the sand, back arching up with the gesture. The poor Templar patting her back and a distressed Dorian jumping up and around from a barrier of four Templar shields solidly planted in the ground. It looks under control enough, but as a crowd of curious people is forming around the fence, and just to be sure, Cullen must ask.

“Maker’s breath, what’s going on here?”

The trio perks up, Lysette jumping back up for a nervous and all too stiff salute, Aisling looking green, and Dorian just glancing up at him and going back to his friend.

“It’s an experiment, Commander, everything is all right. Lysette was helping us and following my order.”

“You ordered her to silence you?”

“I didn’t want to, Commander, but the Inquisitor insisted.”

Of course she insisted. Of course she did. Cullen sighed, entering the fence and crouching down too.

“At rest, knight.” He addresses Lysette, who takes a deep, relieved breath at the lack of scoldings. “Are you fine?” He then asks Aisling, worried.

“It’s like my bowels are upside down and…” She raises a hand, trembling, and clumsily snaps her fingers. Beside the clack, nothing at all happens. She does it one and twice more, frowning. “…No, nothing.”

“It’ll take an hour to reappear, it’ll be gradual and I think it won’t be particularly enjoyable.” Cullen sighs, and now both mages are looking at him, puzzled.

“An hour??” They exclaim, in chorus.

“Yes?”

Aisling turns to Dorian, frowning with reproach. He perks up, snorting loudly and puffing up his chest.

“How was I supposed to know? Templars back home aren’t able to silence at all, how am I supposed to know before Maevaris get us some books, if even there are books?”

“You told me ten minutes!”

“I said “fortisne”. It means that maybe but also that I don’t know!”

And there they go, starting bickering quickly, to quickly and in a language too mixed to really follow. But if Aisling has the strength for this, she’s not as bad as she could be, even if trying to stand up more than that, crouching on the ground, sends her back down with a grimace. Calmer and reassured that nothing major happened, Cullen, who still can do so, raises up and turns to the fence.

“Nothing to see here, get back to work!” Some huffs of protest raise in the air, but everyone slowly starts to disperse back to their respective task. In a minute, there’s again clamour of swords against sword. Not that it makes the science bros stop going back and forth in any way, but it’s something. As for the Commander, tho, he turns to Lysette, still there looking worried between him and the Inquisitor, unsure of what to do.

“Can you please explain what’s going on?”

“Ah… I understood that it’s for the Emprise du Lion, Commander. They want to see if there’s a way to counteract silencing in a safe and controlled environment, before leaving… Or I think so, they started talking science and I got lost.”

Meanwhile, Dorian is slowly helping Aisling up. She looks a little less green, and is more stable on her feet, even if she still leans heavily on the man, grimacing in annoyance at nothing in particular. It’s interesting observing her, without any filter Circle Mages may have, not hiding up her discomfort as she sits down on a sideway pole on the fence.

“How do you feel, hon?” Asks Dorian, sitting beside her and rubbing her back.

“Like someone opened my torso up and gave a good whisk to my internal organs. And took away one, it’s… Weird. I feel light and nauseated. Like a bad hangover, but my brain isn’t foggy? It’s weird. Doesn’t hurt, but it’s weird. How was it from your side?”

“We should do it again, the shields protected me from the blast, but they also made maintaining a magical contact difficult.

“You should not do it again.” Cullen grumbles, putting an end to it and catching both of the mages’ attention. “It’s too risky, you both should let this go. Dagna is working on armours-”

“Is there any long-term risk?” Aisling asks, as direct and calm as she can, looking at him in the eyes. There’s no reproach, there’s no judgement, she’s just asking.

“No one can know. The mages that underwent so many silencing in a row… I don’t know, Aisling. I can’t tell you it won’t.”

He doesn’t have to finish the sentence or express exactly what happened to them. A grim silence falls on the group, each looking at the others and expecting someone else to take the reins of the conversation first. Dorian frowns, looking at nothing in particular, lost in thought and not really listening, a hand twirling a moustache around his index finger. It’s Aisling to speak first, with a sigh.

“We’re here exactly because we know too little about it. I know it’s risky, but it will give us precious assets in the Emprise, if we’re to fight a massive force of Red Templars. I… I don’t think I would be able to fight in this condition, even with a sword with a metal blade.”

“I could have told you that.”

“You could have, yes. But I didn’t want you to worry.” She replies, calm as can be, ignoring the piqued tone. “But you couldn’t tell me how does it feel and what precisely it does, because you’re no mage to feel it. We must know precisely the effects to counteract it… Or just to I don’t know, avoid it? Find a blind spot? Minimise the effects?”

She goes on, quietly explaining.

“Can someone else do it? You’re-”

“-I wouldn’t ask another person to do it. Beside…”

“…We’re used to cast magic together, I know how her magic feels, I know how it’s being stopped. Technically.” Dorian concludes, shrugging.

“The only issue is avoiding him being silenced as well, that would be further the-” Aisling stops abruptly, paling even more. “Oh damn-”

Dorian jumps away with a yelp as Aisling bends forward and gets violently sick. Cullen and Lysette, tho, knows it was going to happen and are readier to help, jumping closer. Cullen gently holds her hair back, rubbing her back, Lysette checking that she doesn’t fall forward.

“That’s embarrassing, urgh…”

“No, Inquisitor, it’s a normal reaction. Nothing to embarrass yourself about.”

“Yeah, yeah, call me when you’ll be hangover and we’ll see how much you will be casual in me looking at you meeting back with your dinner.” She grumbles, accepting a handkerchief from Cullen with a thank you to clean her mouth.

When she’s calmed down some more, saying she’s better now that her stomach is empty, even if it still feels wrong inside, the crowd is blissfully dispersed for real, no one particularly interested in assisting to a very different kind of action. Dorian, then, starts to examine Aisling, pressing hands on her forehead and belly, glowing a faint lilac and making Aisling scrunch her nose more at the contact with magic. He frowns more, putting more effort in his spell after a minute, dissatisfied and growing nervous, from the way his moustache twitch minutely.

“So bad?” Lysette is the one to ask, worry tinging her voice.

“No but… I’m not a healer, this is past my field of expertise. Honey, you should really call Solas for help, he-”

“We already talked about it, I’m not calling him for this.”

“Be reasonable-”

“No. I’m fine. What do you feel, magically?”

Dorian frowns at her, clearly disapproving, and she frowns right back with the very same expression. Cullen knows that expression well, he has seen it in enough War Council to know she isn’t stepping back, no matter how much in shambles she may feel, without anything much to add to the conversation, tho, he let Dorian speak.

“It’s like you’re impalpable or slippery. When I try to reach out it’s… It’s like trying to catch soap with wet hands. It’s there, but it’s not, it slips away, I can’t connect, it moves and it shifts, totally not responsive.”

“Mh. Ok. Can you try the same with Helisma and see if it’s similar, if she’s ok with it?”

“Wait.” Cullen interrupted, at that, placing a hand on Aisling’s shoulder to stop her. She was, indeed, colder than her usual. “No. Silence and Tranquility are two different things. It’s not done the same way and-”

- and words die in his throat, replaced by a sudden burst of shame as he finds himself almost discussing the details of the Rite of Tranquility with two mages. Two mages he knows and are his friends, and have been always kind with him, even more than he deserved. He lowers his eyes, frowning at himself. Not that he ever put one into practice, but he never exactly protested or put up resistance assisting to one. And if Meredith, who was the one who took personal care of it, had asked him, he would have…

“Cullen?” Aisling asked, softly, placing her hand on his and squeezing just a little so he could feel her through the leather of his glove, breaking his line of thoughts. A silent grounding, loving and caring. He could love her for that.

“Ah, I-“ He cleared his throat. “… Tranquility is different, I would exclude the hypothesis.”

“I agree with the Commander. The stronger Templar couldn’t perform the Rite on the weakest of Mages and as far as my instructors told me, it requires much more resources and rituals, it’s not something light.” Lysette backed him up, quietly but still matter-of-factly.

“I’m sorry.” Aisling apologized, still not leaving her hand from Cullen’s. “I didn’t mean to imply anything, just that… Silencing could have a partial, very scaled down effect.”

“Soon to be verified: Are you still emotional?” Dorian asked, poking the elf’s shoulder with a finger.

“What?”

“Kittens.” Dorian kept on, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Little kittens in a box under the rain.”

Aisling scrunches her nose at him, not understanding. The two Templars beside her couldn’t understand either, honestly.

“Five of the cutest, fluffiest kittens in Thedas. In a carboard box. Their mama just died. The owner hates cats, so he put them all in the box and left them in the middle of... Of...”

“Seriously-”

“Ah! In the middle of the Emerald Graves. The poor little kittens are meowing desperately because they're very scared of the giants. No one is coming for them.”

“Are you trying to make me cry?”

“And it’s pouring! Absolutely raining cats and dogs! Well, not cats... Raining big and fierce dogs that would love to have some fluffy scared kittens as dessert!”

“Stop it!”

They start to banter right away, back at full force, Dorian heavily gesticulating to underline… Whatever he is saying, because he’s switched to Tevene almost automatically, without minding much. Whatever it is, tho, if Aisling is able to follow him up and answer him in tow, it’s clear that everything is all right, all that’s left to do is waiting for her magic to return. With a sigh, Cullen turns to a very confused Lysette, looking more and more like she’s a fish out of water, to check for the logistics of the said experiment. Things have been done for good: Fiona has been informed to keep every mage far away from the training grounds -all the training grounds-, and the shields has been requested with a regular report. One of those that Cullen has signed absent-mindedly, not finding anything weird and thinking they were just going to go in Dagna’s hands to be dismounted and examined. At least they haven’t decided to try to make them explode, he guesses.

As the topic shifted towards defining a way for Dorian to get closer without being silenced himself for the next trial, and the Tevinter started to discuss with Lysette, prodding her for details and technicalities she wasn’t really ready to answer but did her best too, Cullen sat on the fence beside Aisling, looking at her sideways and whispering.

“Are you fine?”

“It’s still weird, but better. I’m not feeling like puking again, that’s something, as for the rest…” She’s quick to answer, snapping a hand out to try for magic.

He snaps his as well and closes his fingers over her, stopping her from doing much of anything or keeping up from a train of thought.

“No, I… The more you push it, the more it’ll last, don’t try magic yet. I meant- Ah, did something happen?”

She lowers the hand, slowly enough that his can stay on hers, and places them on the wood between them, saying nothing.

“If you want to tell me- Ah, I didn’t mean to-”

“I wrote to Pavyn and told him to take the clan and disappear from the radar. That I won’t contact them ever again if they do.” She swallows. “I… I already got too much attention on them, I don’t want them to live through another Wycome.”

Silence falls over them, heavy and charged. She looks poignantly down at her feet, schooling herself not to show emotion, even if her lower lips is trembling slightly. The way Josephine taught her to. Cullen doesn’t know what to say or do.

“So, yeah.” She laughs, mirthlessly and out of circumstances, a way to deflect the topic if he ever saw one. “I’m on my merry self, now, free as a bird. I just need to get used to it, but isn’t it nice? No string attached, ready to walk my own path, isn’t it wonderful?”

It is all but wonderful, and for the first time Cullen wonders exactly how much her cheerfulness and bubbliness has been a façade. How much exactly has she lied, to herself included, in the months since they met, about her being nice and all right, how much did she keep hidden as she relentlessly helped others. Any other. He feels terribly underqualified, in the situation. As he sits frozen on the spot, guilt weighing heavy on his shoulders, she jumps out too quickly and tries to run.

“Well, now that that’s out… Back to wor-”

Except, her knees still are wobbly, her body hasn’t had the time to adapt to the silence, staying sitting and not easing the legs in holding the weight of the rest.

She stands up and immediately flops down, knees giving in. Cullen raises up to catch her, close enough that she doesn’t fall down so much before he breaks the fall and keeps her up. A good chance as any to hold her close without, hopefully, becoming too suspect.

“Easy, tiger, not so fast.”

“That’s horrible, you know it?”

“It’s not meant to be particularly pleasant, I fear.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

He keeps her there, struggling to find some words to tell her. Nothing seems really enough and probably nothing ever will be, in that kind of situation. It’s done, she chose, he can agree or not, can be sad she didn’t ask for his advice first but… Why would she have? It is clear that he’s been leaning on her in a way she isn’t, and it hurts. So, Cullen struggles for some words. Anything, before Dorian and Lysette return from the impromptu shield wall.

“You’re not alone, you know it?”

It is simple. And stupid. But he squeezes her a little, the way she told him to do with himself. And he feels her breath catching in her throat, her hands closing on the inside of his elbows where she rested them. She leans minutely forward, her brow resting on his breastplate, exhaling slowly.

“Thank you.”

When the other two get back, he lets her go with reluctance. It’s not the time to hold her close and do more to convince her, and he knows a coin and some words won’t do. He knows from experience that if she had just gifted him something and assured him with words alone that she wasn’t hostile, wasn’t pitying him, he would never have believed her friendship. He had needed time, and actions, so maybe she would need the same to. Time, in that situation tho, is not a resource they have freely.

And he hates it.

---

Two days later, Aisling takes a deep breath, and after she very casually watches Radha walk out of the rotunda, she waits it out. Slowly everyone starts walking away for dinner. The scouts step down from the rookery, the librarians bids her a good night. Fiona stops by to check with them how far their research is going, chatting a little and giving them inputs, as per usual with a patient but scolding look when Aisling tells her that she’ll need to get silenced one more time, most likely. The Grand Enchanter reads their notes, one eyebrow quirking up as she reads, the glint of interest sparking up. There’s still lots to do, but it’s a start. It’s some notes, and more than, apparently, has been collected so far, for most obvious reasons.

So, both the Inquisitor and the Altus reassure Fiona that they would have been extremely careful, Aisling gets a motherly check for her health -she’s fine, Cullen assured that she just needs not to overdo it- she tells them not to stay so late and get something to eat, and is out too, leaving the pair, as per usual, sitting on the ground, surrounded by books, reading and discussing and writing.

It’s not long when Dorian stretches out, grumbling that bookshelves so far South makes for poor backrests -Aisling rebukes that he’s just growing old, and he mocks offence, puffing up and throwing his nose up in the air. He leaves her like that, with a kiss on the cheek that, he says, is just to annoy her, and tsking all the way. He turns to wink at her one last time, before disappearing. Took a while to convince him to go before her, but now, here she is. Alone in the library, save for Solas, still down there painting the walls.

After five minutes, left there to make sure nobody’s still there, Aisling closes the book she was reading, very softly not to make any noise, and quietly pads out of Dorian’s nook -leaving all the books where they are, she managed two months prior to convince the maids to leave everything as they find it, in that corner. She just has to quietly tiptoes her way down the staircase, as silent as she can, until…

“Can I speak to you?”

She asks Solas, from below the scaffolding he’s perched upon. Right below the ladder, so he won’t be able to walk away briskly, as he has done in the last weeks after the siege whenever they’ve been alone. She’s met with a skeptical look, just one eyebrow raising up as he moves his head to peek from the platform.

“You are speaking to me on regular terms.”

“It’s about the siege.”

A moment of silence. She can see him closing off instantly, as he puts down the palette and turns to prop both feet on the first step of the ladder, casting a suspicious glance down at her.

“We have nothing to talk about, Aisling.”

“On the contrary, we have one thing.”

She corrects him, not flinching no matter how much reproach he puts in his eyes. She promised not to tell anyone, and she hadn’t. Didn’t plan to. No matter how much time she spent turning what happened in her head again and again, trying to find an explanation about why his power felt so deeper than she thought it would be.

“You can keep your secrets, Solas, I won’t pry them out of your mouth. Your past belongs to you, I can only stand and listen if you need to lean on someone. You’ve helped me again and again and I trust you for it.” And oh, she’s sincere. “But if you won’t tell me, you must tell Radha.”

“I’m not solving your prob-”

“I’m not asking you to solve my problems. As far as I know and remember, the one better with people is me, not you.” She stops him. Two can play at this game, and they both know that sociality isn’t really Solas’ forte. They both know from experience. “She asked me about what happened. She knows I’ve been omitting things.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does. Have you seen her tattoos? They’re for Dirthamen, and she was the only one in the clan the Keeper had absolutely no doubts. She craves in knowledge and grasping every scrape of it. Always has. That’s why you like her, that’s why she likes you. And I’m glad you found each other, I really, really am! You make her happy if you haven’t noticed!” She goes on, keeping her voice down as much as she can, but growing heated. “But fuck, Solas, you have to trust her. You don’t want to tell me? That’s fine. I got the message. But shit, if you do care about her, tell her. I’m not losing my sister to keep a promise, and she won’t like to know from me you had me promise to stay silent.”

She concludes, breathing heavily after her long speech. They keep sustaining each other’s glances, prideful thing against prideful things, both refusing to look down before the other. Knowing that it’s not her battle, and having said all she needed to, Aisling just steps back, lowering her eyes first.

“That’s all I had to say. Do what you want with that.”

She declares, turning towards the exit. With some luck, she’ll be able to walk to her quarters’ doors without attracting too much attention.

“Lethallan.”

He stops her, and she sighs, turning to face him. Still sitting on the verge of the scaffolding, looking at her with an expression she can’t really read.

“I’m not silent because I don’t trust you or because I don’t care.”

“That’s exactly why I insist.”

---

The letter is waiting for her on her pillow. Leliana stops her by the elbow as she’s walking out of the War Room, and whispered in her ear that a letter arrived for her, from the Free Marches. A personal one, that the Spymaster apparently had no heart to open.

Weirdly enough, she tells her that she convinced Josie in cancelling all her appointments for the rest of the morning, that they’ll both be in the Ambassador’s office with some tea if she needed it… And that nothing changed, whatever the answer was.

Aisling’s heart clutched in gratefulness at that, smiled -a real smile- and let her legs run up the stairs.

She hesitated on the door, heart pounding loudly against her ribcage. With her hand still on the handle, she closed her eyes and called him.

With a poof, he was beside her.

“There’s only love upside. You can’t see it, but it’s there.”

She sits with Cole on her bed, holding the Spirit’s hand as she opens the envelope and reads its content. She didn’t think she’d missed that handwriting so much.

Well well well.

If it isn’t the most flimsy, bird-brained, stupid Shrimp in Thedas.

Let me go with order, so maybe your bird brain will be able to understand what I’m saying and not piss me off with other shitty letters full of self-commiseration.

First.
Get back speaking with my sister, I received a letter from each of you and just: no.
Take your head out of the gutter, I’m not here to solve your problems and I would refuse to engage in such childish nonsense even if I was. You’re both adults even if right now it sure doesn’t look like it, act like such and don’t put me in the middle.

Second.
You whiny ugly cheek of a cuckoo.
Tell me again what I should do and I’m travelling there to kick some sense in that head. You had some sense once, it’s apparently time someone puts it back where it was.

What the fuck does it mean that we should disappear? Did you hire the mercenaries, did you pay for the Venatori agent to enter in Wycome, or for the other cities being absolutely shitty and even more bird brained than you are being right now? Fuck’s sake, Aisling, fuck you just for thinking we could ever do such a thing, Inquisition or not.

I don’t sincerely know who put in your empty head certain ideas, but I’ve seen cuttlefishes in the market that had cleverer eyes than that plan of yours. And at least they were tasty to eat.

Fuck them and fuck you, I refuse to do anything else than taking the title of First because you’re away.

I will not consider any of the other things you said, because they were stupid and written by a scaredy cat. I don’t like to speak with scaredy cats, but if my littlest sister could write, it would be fucking time already, before my hair gets white. Please send the message to her, maybe you’ll be good at at least one thing, I’d really like to hear back from her and not from you.

And please stop crying and blow your nose, you look like a mushroom.

Waiting for a letter that makes some sense,
Pavyn.

p.s.: mother says hello and Vyrina and Fionn too and yada yada. I’m not a parrot, write to them as well, we’re not “disappearing” anyway, just ship them all at once and I’ll distribute them around. What a stupid idea, Shrimp, seriously, one wouldn’t believe you’re clever.

p.p.s.: a Templar, uh? You kinky bastard, tell me all about it.

She felt it, crying on Cole’s shoulder as loud and hard as she hadn’t done in quite a while.

Love, deep and warm, even from the distance. Got sharpened by the distance.

She missed them all like air.

She would do everything all over again.

Chapter Text

Take a deep breath.

Guard your stance, spread your feet a little more. Call on magic, just the faintest of connections to the Fade. Take another deep breath, feel it expanding your lungs. Feel the lyrium tingling on your skin, the ground under your toes, the warmth of the sun on your bare skin, the distant noise of swords, the closer noise of people chatting and whispering together.

Get ready, stay in the moment.

One, two, three.

The air starts to humm low, the air stills and-

Aisling opens her eyes, in time to see the blast coming, blue and light.

She keeps the contact with the Fade until the last moment and lets it go abruptly, closing her eyes for impact: the lyrium on her skin sizzle and burns, making her grimace in pain. It’s light, but it’s there and it’s all over. The shockwave sends her staggering one, two, three, four step before it subsides, leaving her still on her feet, squinting down hard and breathing heavily, as if she just ran against a stone wall, hitting it with her face and chest. The burn on her skin, tho, has suddenly stopped.

When she opens her eyes, the crowd that gathered around the fence is catching their breath and looking at her, and she’s fuming. All the lyrium’s gone, leaving faint traces of reddened skin where the glyphs have been written but…

Everyone expects something: she closes her hand on her spirit hilt and tries to summon the blade. Nothing happens at first, but it doesn’t feel like before. She doesn’t feel the urge to be sick as she tries to draw from the Fade. So she presses on, taking it as a good sign. One trial, two and-

Swoop.

The blade of the rapier burst into existence, less smoothly than the usual, but still there. She smiles, swinging it once and twice, in front of her as the crowd cheers for her, soldiers and Templars and Wardens and Mages (at the distance they had calculated to be safe two weeks ago) together. Lysette as well, still in front of her waiting for her move, lets out a whoop of joy and rushes towards her, hugging her and swinging her around in the joy of the moment, after three weeks of trial, the involvement of Dagna, Dorian, basically all the Mages and Templars around, and a whole box of books sent south from Minrathous with a snarky letter from Magister Tilani sarcastically congratulating the pair of them for finding the most boring topic to research in the big library, and the one with less bibliography. And the precise request of keeping her informed.

Dorian gets dragged in the hug, and the Inquisitor, ignoring all concerns of angry skin in poor conditions, promises everyone to pay for the first round, that evening. She doesn’t care, she never spends her personal money.

She can allow to hear more cheers after a… Well, a first successful step that didn’t leave her violently sick on the ground with an overly worried Cullen tending to her like she was made of glass. Not that she minded terribly -she minded less that one time he picked her up like she weighted nothing at all-, but still it was embarrassing. Skin irritation was a definite step forward, if not anything much viable for combat.

“It’s still not the greatest of solution.” Dorian grumbled, coming to check if she was all right and frowning at the red angry lines on her skin.

“No, it’s only good if there’s just one Templar, but fuck Dorian. There is a way, Dagna could work on this.”

---

There is a way, and there is another. Because sometimes will power and some brains can’t solve everything.

Oh, sure, they can find a way to get a way into the Emprise du Lion, opening mountain passes in a valley so badly positioned it still had snow in late Bloomingtide, and fighting their way to Sahrnia amongst Templars and demons trying to keep them away and blocking passes. They can track caravans of red lyrium and have an idea of what is going on in the mines, in said Emprise, thanks to the documents and dispatches she recovered in the Graves, and slowly, tentatively, each scout deployed as in the tensest game of chess, plan an approach, plan an entrance, a way to sneak and hold a camp.

It is, all in all, a game of chess, that grows more and more urgent each passing day.

And leaves not much time left for much else.

Aisling is relieved. She wrote to Pavyn and to Deshanna, and if the guilt still weighs on her shoulders, it is nothing compared to before. At least she can sleep at night without staring at the ceiling and thinking she killed them and they hate them.

She still has to read an answer regarding the next Arlathven, but…

… But it is better. If lonely, right now, with Radha still being cold to her - expecting an apology Aisling isn’t ready to give, not right now, not before Solas would have spoken to her. But days are fuller than ever.

Untackling the Emprise is requiring everyone’s energies, leaving little time for much else. Cullen first and foremost. If she apparently hit something with the latest formula -he was feeling better and looked less pale than his usual-, he is facing the mission like the game of chess of his life. Concentrated and focused to the task, weighing every single option and defending his point with a passion. So much has changed from Haven, when he needed to explain and justify himself and overworked himself to outdo the other two Advisors, doing everything by the book. Oh no, now he’s sure of himself and knows what he’s doing, and more than that: he’s relishing in a job well done, working feverishly through ups and downs, but with a fire burning inside his eyes.

It's enthralling watching him like that, and as much as he always says he’s not good with public speech and railing soldiers up, he actually believes his words so much that there’s little left to do but give him right and follow, each report readied with the utmost precision. He’s into it, it’s personal, and it shows.

Or at least, Aisling sees it, and finds it absolutely fascinating in a way that, as Inquisitor, she probably shouldn’t. Not that she would tell him on the spot, but when he starts explaining movements and strategies in each Council, she finally sees why there’s people calling him a lion: precise and deadly and terribly beautiful.

Except, in the frenzy of the momentum and the flurry of reports coming and going, they have less time to spend by themselves. Lunches are always brief, stolen moments in between. Enough to remember each other that they’re there for the other, not enough to satisfy.

Can a person be missed so dearly even if seen often? Yes or no, it’s most often than not that Aisling finds herself thinking of him while playing with his coin, secured at her throat with a blue silk ribbon and a casing she asked Dagna to enchant to make unbreakable (or mostly so) - in exchange for some prodding at the Anchor that luckily was just itchy for a couple of hours, after the arcanist was done.

It’s not missing, it’s longing, and it’s trickier than that.

She puts herself to work, and one day, when they’re eating lunch sitting on the battlements to enjoy the sun and the warmth, she forces herself to ask him.

“Do you really not mind that I’m Dalish?”

It’s light-hearted and with half a thought to it, and when he turns around and frowns at her, very seriously, she almost regret having asked in the first place.

“Don’t mind it, it was a stupid question.” She’s quick to add.

“Have I done something wrong?”

“What?”

“Have I offended you somehow?”

“Wh- No!” She exclaims, lowering her bowl and shaking her head. “No, no, it’s just…”

She pauses, assessing the situation. Cullen doesn’t look upset, just a little worried, in the way he has of taking everything seriously. Overly so, mostly in this particular moment. A part of her brain tells her to just leave the subject alone, he really has done nothing at all to make her doubt… And yet the rest tells her, and it has the voice of Radha, that he also has done nothing much to make her sure that it’s not a problem. Sure, he wasn’t offended that she asked Ghilan’nain’s blessing for him as well, after Haven, but… But, it’s not a doubt that is going to go away, she knows, and it’s Cullen. He won’t diminish her, he never diminished her once, from day one. Opposed her when she diminished herself in those first drills when she barely could parry, told her it wasn’t true, she just lacked the experience. And they barely knew each other.

So, she takes a deep breath and speaks.

“… Do you really not mind that I’m not Andrastian? Didn’t you mind that I didn’t participate in the functions for Summerday?”

“I… We don’t need to do everything together.” He shrugs, but his voice is unsure of it. After a moment, he asks. “Or do we? How are… Ah, I mean- You are more experienced than me with- Maker, do you expect us to do everything together?”

“My experience was in a situation where personal privacy was a rare commodity…” She punctuates, shrugging. “… But I guess no. It’s not what I expect. I am wondering how ok you are with me not being Andrastian, tho.” It’s not the exact question she wants to ask but… But he has given her a bonding gift, and she’s not asking him if he knows that for her it was commitment and he hadn’t acted upon it in the slightest. Not even discussing the important things. Religion is a start.

“It’s not a problem for me, if it isn’t for you.”

“Cullen I’m serious. It’s… I don’t think I can ever bring myself to like the Chantry, particularly not after what they did to you. And… A Keeper is also some sort of priestess, it’s… It’s personal for me, it’s not something that will ease with time.”

“I don’t wish to participate in the Chantry anymore than you do. For the rest… Is that anything in particular that’s bothering you? Did I say or done anything? It’s…” He huffs, shifting closer and closing a hand over her wrist. “I’m sorry, it’s just a little abrupt. I don’t mind you believing in something else, I’m serious. As long as you don’t mind me doing the same. We’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah.” She sighs, nodding. “We will.”

She changes the topic, not knowing how to put in words that she’d rather have it figured it out sooner than later. That he never asked her about anything of the sort and she thinks he’s just not caring or interested in what’s still an important -albeit kept private- part of her life. That every time someone spots Andraste’s face on his coin at her neck and smiles with satisfaction, nodding and approving, she’d like to tear it away, and scream that it’s just a gift and something she considers important, it doesn’t mean she converted, she’s not their blasted Herald of Andraste.

They’ll figure it out. She doesn’t want to quarrel and maybe he’s right. It’s too soon and she’s letting her mind run further than what they actually are just because she’s misreading a gesture. She should stop thinking giddily that she left him a bottle of whiskey she found and that she was told it was a prized one, and he appreciated her gift very much and she…

She should stop reading too much into things. Talking to him about that was excluded: the last thing she wants to do, even if she’s frustrated, is quarrelling and scaring him away by telling him that for her culture, he accidentally asked her if she’s interested in marriage, and that by gifting something back, she told him that yes, she is. Too much, too soon, she just had that little fantasy and, again, her mind is running faster than the world around her.

So, when they’re over and Cullen asks her if she’s really ok and if everything’s all right, she just smiles, and hops on her toes to kiss him, sweet and slow. Yes, she tells him, everything’s all right. She just needs to slow down, but this she keeps it to herself.

---

Aisling listens to Cassandra in a trance, both sitting at the small table in her room at the Gulls and Lantern on their way back to Skyhold, not believing her ears in a mixture of horror and pure, unabridged elation.

“Are- Are you sure of it?”

“I am.” The Seeker answers, gravely, tapping thrice on the thick leather cover of the book with her right hand. “It’s all written here, black on white, with clear instructions. I can confirm you from what I remember: the Vigil is Tranquility, and the Seekers… The Seeker knows how to undo it. Had known from the start. It has been done to me and-”

Cassandra shakes her head, frowning hard at the idea as she snaps around and crosses her arms against her chest, looking out of the window at people passing by, going on with their days. Mothers with childrens in hand, launderesses bringing baskets of fresh linens, fishermens cleaning their hands stepping up from the small harbour. They discovered something that could shake Thedas from the ground up if it was revealed for good, this time, which revealed trauma no one suspected the Seekers to have, and yet life out there is going on as nothing happened. Nothing at all, just another normal, boring day in a lakeside town finally free from guerrilla in the nearby towns, a dragon in the close valley.

It’s livelier than she ever saw it, in stark contrast with the atmosphere in the room. They’re returning from Caer Oswyn, and the woman had spent the whole two days of travel feverishly reading the book they recovered from the Lord Seeker, and was even snappier than the usual. She went as far as briskly giving the reins of her mare to Aisling, as she kept reading, enraptured, absolutely ignoring the rest of the party that, slowly, started to chat and joke again. And a couple of hours after they took possession of their rooms in the tavern, Cassandra knocked on her door and asked if she could speak to her, in private. Entering with the book she got from Lucius and sitting down at her table, with a tiredness Aisling doesn’t think she ever saw on her.

All in all, Aisling muses after she got explained, she has been less snappy than she should have.

“I am sorry, Cass. Do you want to talk about it?”

She can’t offer resolution or a reason about it. All she can do is helping her coping. So, she circles the table and places a hand on her arm, lightly. Cassandra never reacted greatly on hugs, not when she is frustrated. They stay there, the elf leaves her space.

“Thank you. But no. I’ll be fine.”

“Want me to call Bull with his stick?”

That earn her a bad glance casted sideways and a disgusted noise that can’t really hide the smile below.

“Definitely not.” She replies, sighing and returning to look outside the window with a frown. “I just need some time to digest everything and… And think about what to do next.”

“What would you do?” She asks her, leaning on the wall beside the window and looking at her.

She’s focused, frowning, dark circles around her eyes and fire burning in them. Fire that keeps burning as she tells her what she’d like to do, about a new Seeker order knowing of the rites, with no more secrets, about her fear of repeating history. Aisling keeps asking, helping her refine her ideas, letting Cassandra paint a plan and a direction in front of her eyes: it’s not half bad, it’s not something wrong to believe in. She lets her speak and listens, and when she gets asks for her opinion, what can she tells her if not.

“You should do it. Rebuild the Seeker, make them better. They can do much good, in your hands.”

“If only that was so simple.”

“Was it simple to defy the Chantry and form the Inquisition? Look at how far it has come.”

Cassandra finally looks up at her, half a smile bending her lips and eyes squinting slightly.

“I hardly take responsibility, it was all your work. I just collected some people together, apparently the right ones.”

“And yet, none of us would be here if it wasn’t for you.” Aisling tells her, shrugging. “Cullen would still be in Kirkwall, Leliana in Val Royeaux and Josie with her. I would have ended up in some prison, or be justiced.”

“I was the one who imprisoned you.”

“Yes, and you also were the one who gave me a chance, dragged me up that mountain and let me take a staff and fight at your side. You may not lead us, but without you, there wouldn’t be an Inquisition. The world needs more people like you, who are not afraid of speaking up and reconsider their opinions, if you ask me.”

She melts a little at that, her smile widening on her face, softening her features a little. Relaxing for Cassandra Pentaghast seems an incredible feat, but her stance seems also to relax, feet widening and shoulders lowering.

“Thank you, Aisling. I am… I’m glad you have such a high opinion of me.”

“Don’t mention it. I’m glad I can call you my friend, and… And I quite like this life.”

Another disgusted noise, and a look of disbelief gets thrown at Lavellan.

“I do!” She laughs, shrugging and stepping away to sit on the border of the table, crossing her ankles. “There are days it gets overwhelming and I still think I’d rather just take my horse and run as far away as I can, but…” She sighs, looking down at her toes, suddenly serious. She never really allowed herself to think of that in many details, but right there and then it’s just the two of them, the tavern is still quiet, nothing is running after them. It feels a little like those hours with the Keeper, when she just let her talk and listened to her, and help her find solutions without judging. She and Cassandra haven’t known each other from so long, but from day one, the Seeker has been the person she could talk to without being judged. Or well, the worst was a disgusted noise, but she always listened with attention. So, she made a trust leap and kept on speaking. “… But then, even if I feel nauseous and I hate everything and I would beg you to just take the title from me, I can’t take it, it’s too much and I’m just me… Then I remember that if I had run, I’d never met any of you, and you’ve all become family, and… And I do believe that we’re doing something good to the world. And that’s… That’s enough when the walls seems to loom upon me and I think that I can’t shoulder another impossible decision that shouldn’t be mine to take.”

It feels just a word-vomit, and she doesn’t look up from her feet, furrowing stubbornly at them. Probably talking about it with Cassandra is the wrong choice. But it’s done and-

“I’m happy that it was you.” The woman tells her, moving to lean against the small table beside her, side by side. “I sometimes feel like it’s been just madness to do all this, and that it was too much, but… I’m glad it was you. And to be able to call you friend.”

The elbowing that follows is clumsy and inexpert, and comes a little too strong for its playful intents. And makes Aisling laugh, nonetheless, straightening herself back up and leaning on the other side, enough to circle Cassandra’s arm with hers and rest her cheek on her shoulder, sighing content.

“Thank you. I’m glad too. And I can listen to you any time, if you need.”

“Any time?”

“Just please send a note before showing up at my door with someone else dying, I’d like knowing before, next time.”

“Will you tidy your room, knowing?”

“Don’t exaggerate.”

They start laughing together at that, both feeling lighter and happier with the weight of worries out in the air and in the known, and with the other sharing it.

---

She traces the shape of Cullen’s hand with her fingers, touch feather-light and curious, finally with some time to explore better, away from urgency and desire.

The last hours has been a little bit of a whirlwind. She got back from Caer Oswyn, still hyped from the news Cassandra got from the Seeker book. After a Council where she was distracted by that, and grew even more distracted by looking at Cullen explaining the final plan on how to tackle the Emprise du Lion, visibly excited to have solved the puzzle and to be there and speak in surer terms of a solid strategy he was convinced upon. A silly thing, really, but she liked to see him good, his cheek with more meat upon them, energetic and not dragging himself in and out of meetings, frowning constantly at his own headache. It was a good day, and he was happy, and she was too. She was bound to leave again in three days, but if he was that happy, she was too.

So happy that she was restless through dinner, and rose from the table as quick as she could, noticing he wasn’t around and learning he was in the office to get ready for the upcoming mission. Cassandra had told her not to say anything about the Rite of Tranquility, but got her ok in telling at least Cullen. And so she excused herself from the table, and gingerly stepped in the rotunda and the bridge.

And from then it was a blur: he hesitated mid-speech when he saw her, smiling at her with that smile he had just for her. Got all the scouts back and when they were alone she told him. She told him, and he hugged her tight and spun her around in joy, some weight lifted from his shoulders the way she knew it would have that finally there was a way to undo Tranquility. When he stopped, he looked at her intensely and started to fumble about the future, what would happen after the Inquisition, and that he didn’t want to move away. Not from her.

Her heart took flight, and almost burst when he threw everything away from his desk and hauled her up the table, as if she weighted nothing. When he took his armour away, it felt special and thrilling, even if it wasn’t done seductively. But it wasn’t something he ever did if not forced, and now he was doing it and just for her - Aisling was sure she saw him without his armour just when he was particularly sick and that time at Wicked Grace. It wasn’t the best sex ever: too urgent and desperate, both too wrung up and shy to ask and communicate, too caught with sudden physical intimacy after long to really stop and take their time. It was special enough, and she couldn’t care less if she was too nervous to peak.

Right now, in the loft above after he asked her to stay -and she kissed him long and deep again- he doesn’t say anything, letting her play and explore. Following her movements, as she traces each knuckle with her index, delicately. When she slips her fingers under his, splayed on his belly, he bends his wrist first and shifts so they can be palm to palm, and she can snort, noting the difference in size, splaying each fingers over his and putting just enough pressure to make him feel she’s there. He slips his fingers between hers and squeezes, lowering both of them back where they were first, with a sigh, thumb lazily caressing the side of her index.

“Sleep.” He whispers, turning his head to press a kiss on her brow, the closest thing he can reach as she’s curled against his side on his bed, stars twinkling merrily above them from the hole –“Are you kidding me? I like it, it feels a little like an aravel! But you should really patch it up before it gets cold…”- head resting on his shoulder and, apparently, not asleep.

“Not yet.” She just replies, nuzzling in the crook of his neck. “Let me keep this five minute more.”

Cullen can’t but smile, because he was planning on doing the same. Not closing his eyes, stay awake for some minutes more, just five, to drag this further, commit it to memory, bask in this happiness for a little more. He doesn’t need to reply, he just turns slowly on his side, slipping his hand away from hers just to hug her and clutch her closer against his chest, skin warm and soft, as she shifts to accommodate herself better and slips a leg between his to press herself flush against him. So close, he can feel her heart beating fast in her chest, breath softly fanning over his skin, pressed flush to him and hugging him back.

“Can I ask you something personal?” Aisling asks, after a while. Leaving some space for her own insecurities.

“I don’t know how it could get more personal than this.” He chuckles. “But sure.”

“Are you disappointed that I’m a girl?”

Cullen shifts a little away -missing the contact already, but he has to ask her looking her in the face.

“What kind of question is that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you would have rather try with a male. Expand your horizons now that you realized. I don’t know, maybe…”

He snorts, shaking his head and bending forward to kiss her properly.

“No. I’m happy as I am, thank you. It went like this, and I’ve been pining over you for too long to turn back for expanding some horizons.”

“Oh, really?” She teases him, poking his ribs. “Since when, exactly?”

“Longer than I’d care to admit.” He chuckles, counting the bones in her spine, one by one.

“Oh? Like… From Adamant?” She prods, wiggling a little so she can rest her cheek on his shoulder and press against his neck with her forehead. “You kissed my hand… Was it…?”

“Yes, it was. Pathetic.”

“On the contrary, it was very romantic. I’m sorry I didn’t notice, with everything that happened… It kinda slipped away.”

“It wasn’t from then, tho.”

“Before?”

“Before.” He chuckles, happy in that game.

She humms, thinking about it a minute.

“The party when the Hawkes arrived? I thought you acted weird because of withdrawals and Raina…”

“Before.”

She stays silent, then, thinking hard about chances and occasions that occurred to them. She named a couple of others, but his answer never changed. They were all in Skyhold, after all.

“It couldn’t be from Haven!” She exclaims in the end.

“And yet...”

“What! But I- It was- When??” she asked, puzzled.

“The attack. You felt sorry for a man who had nothing but despise for you, and didn’t hesitate one minute in walking out to face Corypheus and an Archdemon on your own, as if it was the only possible solution. You felt… A little larger than life in that moment, like a heroine out of a book facing her destiny to protect everyone. You marched out of that door as if it was a normal stroll in the park, and I felt you were the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and terribly guilty for letting you go.”

She groaned, hiding her face in his chest and squeezing him the tightest she could.

“I’ve been so stupid…” She grumbles.

“You weren’t! And you…?”

“The dinner with the de Mourny. You defended me and told them off. I think I just realized right there and then that the word ‘friend’ was not enough anymore for you. But your words… There was so much respect and trust in what I do, you sounded so sure that… I realised that you kissed my hands in Adamant and that had been the first crack.”

“That’s why the letters were longer, afterwards…”

“Yeah… pathetic.”

“Takes one to know one. I gave you flowers and you took them as ingredients.”

“Ouch, I’m so sorry… I just didn’t think-”

They laugh, embarrassment made better since they apparently share it. By the time the laughs end, Aisling’s peppering kisses whenever she can. On his chest, collarbone, neck, hand roaming and caressing, exploring, scraping lightly in every little ridge and indentation.

“You’re not pathetic. You’re sweet and gentle and caring. And so, so beautiful.” She remarks, between kisses, as assured as she can be. Maybe if she repeats it enough, if she assures him with her actions enough, he’ll believe it. Sooner or later, even if now he snorts and cover his face with one hand. Not big enough to hide he’s smiling, tho, the other coming to rest on the small of her back.

“You are beautiful.”

“How was it that you said?” She pretends to think about it, pursing her lips together and looking at the ceiling, propped out with both hands above his chest. “Oh, yes. Takes one to know one.”

More laughter, as she trails up kissing her way up his neck and following the line of his jaw, shifting so she’s resting above his torso, crossing her arms to stay more comfortable and, after a kiss on his lips and a sneaky hand running up to caress his head, fingers treading through is hair -so curly, so soft-, and resting her chin on her crossed wrists, content.

“Can I- Ah, can I ask you a question?” His turn to ask, blushing faintly.

“Sure.”

“It’s… Ah, I don’t want to be indelicate or… I don’t know. I mean-”

“Cullen.” She giggles. “Just ask. I’ll tell you if I don’t want to answer.”

He snorts and smiles down at her, somewhat shily. After a moment, he raises his hand to caress her hair back from her brow, keeping his hand on the side of her head. She leans into his touch, with a sigh as he caresses her brow, thumb following one of the teal lines of her Vallaslin.

“Does it have a particular meaning? The tattoo, I mean.”

“Yes. It’s a sign of adulthood. When the Keeper deems you ready and mature enough, you get yours. There’s a ritual for them, and if you say a word or complains whilst the Keeper works on them, she stops.”

“I see. But… I noticed you and Radha have different one, but Loranil’s is similar to yours, just the colour is different… And I was wondering- That is, if you can and want to tell me.”

At that, she stops. Just for the fact that he never really asked her anything about the Dalish, more than just some explanations over some things she says or does that are particularly out of place. More than a little, and he never insisted and prodded too much.

“It’s not a secret but… Are you sure you want to know?” She asks, with a doubt in her voice.

“Of course. It’s something important to you and… And I’ve been meaning to ask you for quite some times, but it felt a little… Too personal, before.”

She smiles, shily, and presses another kiss on his collarbone, reassuringly. And then she tells him. Of how Vallaslins are shaped to honour their gods, showing the connection between an individual and one of the Creators. That Radha’s are for Dirthamen because she always thrived in gathering informations and scraps of knowledge, and hers are for Ghilan’nain, instead. For animals, sure, but also and moreover for guidance. She spins stories out of thin air, telling him of how the goddess was once a normal elf, how Andruil cherished her and her work and her faith so much that when she died, she kept her with her. The words spill out like a river, in a way she wasn’t sure they would have. It’s been so long since she told those stories to anyone, really, and Cullen is interested, asking questions and nodding here and there, letting her talk and listening.

It's soothing and it’s so relieving to be able to speak of her culture openly, and not to explain why she’s doing things differently, finally, that she just surges up and kiss him when she’s done and he thanks her and tells her he liked it. She doesn’t want to dwell more on how deep that “like” means. She just kisses him deeply and let her hands roam on his chest and body, straddling his lap with purpose.

They end up sleeping very little, in the end, and Cullen’s sleep isn’t that quiet either.

When they show up the next morning in the War Room, tho, knowing that he’s looking tired not because he was sick is a relieve by itself. Because in the end, Aisling shied up from saying grand words about her feelings, even if the word is on her lips and “venhan” slipped from her tongue a couple of times the night before, with him luckily none the wiser. But she feels them on the tip of her tongue, as he looks up from the other side of the table and smiles at her, as warm and sweet as a quiet summer day. She feels them on the tip of her tongue, and she can’t wait to tell him.

---

Three days later, when she walks down the lower bailey, travel clothes on and her staff in her hand, ready to be tied to her saddle, time seems a little closer.

She’s still greeting Little Brother, bickering with Dorian because he almost got bitten and she’s not scolding the horse, just reminding him that Dorian’s “not like those pesky, tasty Venatori, he’s good but not to eat! And he’s also wary of your prowess.”. Which just makes the horse all the more smug – and that’s one horse that really doesn’t need a boost to his self-esteem. Everyone laughs, because of course it just takes Aisling to turn her back at her animal for the stallion to take a couple of steps and snap his teeth and bite down on Dorian’s cloak, making the mage yelp.