Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Demons don’t bleed. Not really. Even the more physical manifestations just leaked a kind of…sludgy ichor when felled that smelled foul but it wasn't the right color, wasn't the right consistency. They were easy to cut down, psychologically speaking. It made doing the same to my first Templar that much worse, that much more jarring to see a splashy bloom of awful scarlet the day the rebellion came to the doorstep of the decadent College of Magi.

But the mind is a miraculous thing. Capable of acclimating to all sorts of new realities.

Darkness, for instance. With no mages to keep the thousands of Nevarran braziers lighted, no Tranquil to restock the oils, they all guttered out in time, and with the light went the heat. Cold halls of shineless gilt, artful statues in pieces on broken marble floors, the copper-tang of old violence clinging to the tongue with every breath. Scattered and soaked bookshelves toppled in the libraries. Classrooms empty of life. Full instead of broken desks and shattered glassware.

Hundreds of years of culture and exquisite expression of history, snatched away by this senseless war.

And all the apostates despised me for wanting it back.

We weren’t many by now. Just I, who’d never left, and a few holdouts who’d returned when they realized the defensibility offered by palatial stone and mortar, how labyrinthine corridors broke the disciplined formations of the Templar rebels, how halls built for the glory of mages favored the mages they were built in glory for. Obvious things, yet things forgotten in the chaos and fervor that came when standing on the precipice of a new world.

News still reached us, despite our isolation. Proximity to Cumberland’s sprawling wealth will do that. As the first year passed, apostates left, apostates joined, bringing truth and perceptions of the outside world. The deadlock in the southern civil war. The Divine Conclave and its temple explosion, the ripple of power that shook me from practice and sent a dread chill down my spine. That last one raced toward us faster than a rumor in a brothel, swept the college as a storm overtakes a sailboat, accompanied as it was by the indisputable proof in the sky. The end of days. A betrayal of our brethren. Theory and panic shook the others, and their suspicions did not diminish as I stood on the ramparts and watched that skyrending tear, that great green maelstrom of power and turmoil on the horizon.

But nothing diminished their suspicions of me.

All around, seams in the fabric of stability, and demons pouring endlessly from them. The veil, torn. Many rifts outside the college’s walls, though defenses meant to harry the templars worked just as well against these new foes.

A few unraveled inside, as well. For all their hatred of me, no other apostate could stand as stalwart as I against this incursion. None could buy the time I did to barricade the rooms, the halls, sealing doors and collapsing walls. Safety was paramount. Study would come with stability.

And study I did, for I had little else to do.

Mercifully, it did not last. Another pulse of spine-chilling power, and the greatest Breach began to stabilize. Some of the smaller seams stitched themselves back together a bit, and took their demons with them, but a number of larger rifts remained as threats. Slower came the news of a third faction, a neutral party allied to no nation but one that had conscripted the mages under former Grand Enchanter Fiona’s protection at Redcliffe, seeking martial peace to deal with this greater threat. The Inquisition reborn, and at its helm the Herald of Andraste, a man purportedly stepped from the Fade itself, blessed by the Maker to restore the sundered world.

Or so the rumors went.

The others debated quite a long time what to do next. So long, in fact, that the Breach was sealed, and Haven destroyed by forces unknown. So long that we all thought that very Inquisition gone just as fast as it had begun, right up until the moment it came knocking at the college’s doors, seeking to bolster its ranks further by conscripting us, too.

The apostates promptly surrendered. A decision I was neither part of nor party to. A decision whose implications I was only made aware of by the violent destruction of my study door, delivered to me on the point of a soldier’s sword.

“Surrender, elf!”

I made no move to threaten them. And yet a cry came from the flanks, the familiar voice of Mathias, my most staunch vilifier.

“Kill her! Now! Do it quick, she’s fast as lightning!”

And yet level heads prevailed.

My peaceful submission caused a quiet uproar among my former charges. Enough so that conditions were set. Chains both literal and metaphorical hung heavy from my wrists, my heart, my soul. Through lands more foreign than ever we were marched, and I saw the scars of war up close, the demon-ravaged wastes our rebellion had wrought. Up into the mountains, to the new home of the Inquisition, to Skyhold.

And promptly down into its dungeons, to await the judgment of the Inquisitor himself. This fate was mine alone. To Fiona went the others, or so I heard as I was led off. Once more a stranger among allies, turning heads and dropping voices to whispers as I and my steel-bristling entourage passed.

This, at least, was familiar.

The stranger part.

Not the criminal treatment.

The cell was small, of course, but warmer than the college.

And brighter.

And cleaner.

This could be home, I realized quickly.

Here, I could have purpose once more.

Chapter Text

Solas

Another batch of fresh conscripts for Trevelyan’s fledgling army. These mages, at least, seemed enthusiastic about their role, and joined the ranks eagerly, as though the Inquisition’s reputation was spreading faster than its reality. Fruits of the diligence of the Spymaster, one assumed, hard at work seeding favor with the common folk across southern Thedas, as was Ambassador Montilyet among the nobility.

No small task, given our leader's seemingly deliberately attempts to undermine them both, in speech and manner.

The prisoner brought in with this latest ensemble quickly caught my eye, or, more accurately, my ear. Whispers among her former companions rose to conversational volume when they realized there was no threat to speaking freely. I learned a great deal from simple proximity to their courtyard discussions.

A mage.

A Knight-Enchanter.

A terrifying assassin.

A danger to the cause.

A suspiciously quiet elf.

Such rumors piqued my curiosity enough to settle them in person. And, since our charming and pleasant Inquisitor had made well known that my advice and knowledge were, at best, uninteresting, I found myself with a great deal of free time between field excursions.

The trip to the holding cells was not far. A spirit-chill in the air did little to lift my mood. Old, dark history huddled in these shadows, leaking from the very stone. It was not a place to linger.

Gaoler Blythe, the Inquisition's jailor, directed me to her cell. An escorting guard remained close at hand. She sat on a thin wooden ledge that must have doubled as a prison bed, halfheartedly scattered with hay for some pitiable attempt at comfort. Knees crossed, hands folded in her lap, head bowed toward wrists still bound by crude manacles. Patiently waiting, she displayed only a short shock of straw-blond hair and the twin points of pale ears. Her clothing was simple but bright, silks in sapphire and silver. The flashy underthings of a noble’s wardrobe, cut to flatter an athletic frame. Well-worn, I noticed. Wrinkled. Loose stitching, frayed edges. Dark with dirt and other stains. Lavish excess turned to practicality, one might guess. Ornamental wear, but picked as though in absence of other choices.

At her hip, the tell-tale hilt of her specialty. Curious she should get to keep it.

There was a stillness to the air around her, as well. An appealing serenity, despite her formidable reputation.

The woman was meditating.

Andaran atish’an,” I offered. Quietly, so as not to startle.

A subtle ripple tremored across her sedate aura, as though I had gently set a pebble through the surface of a lake.

Aneth ara, falon.” She did not otherwise move. “Forgive me, but until your…” a pause, as she searched for the word in Elvhen, “...'One-Who-Questions'…has judged, I would—”

The sudden jangle of keys on a belt overruled her soft tone. “Oi. Trade, if y’don’t mind,” the guard growled, boredom stripping the teeth from his tone. “I need t’be able t’understand your conversation, or you're not havin’ one. Yeah?”

The prisoner raised her head. Like a great serpent breaking the surface of that very same lake, her power emerged as well, aroused from its meditative slumber. It did not do anything further and nor did she, but its mere presence and size placed into perspective the trepidation of her fellow apostates.

Her eyes were a rare green, bright and striking, like sunlight though a spring canopy of still-unfurling leaves. A light sprinkle of freckles dusted her cheeks, where the roots of a treelike vallaslin began. It wrapped her eyes and spanned her forehead, dozens of veinlike and interbraided branches, asymmetrical but subtly so, ending finally at the bridge of her slender nose. An homage to Mythal, and quite a complicated one at that. Great precision and great endurance would have been required for such extensive application.

She seemed surprised to see me, her quick gaze darting around my face as though searching for the vallaslin I did not have. With a lyrical accent of her people she repeated her words, in the common tongue, for our human friend.

"Forgive me. But until the Inquisitor has determined my fate, I am uninterested in..." again she paused, searching for the word or phrase, "...suffering the ogling of the curious."

Understandable. That, of course, implied that she might be more amenable to suffering the ogling of the curious were she to be judged unfavorably and remain here, but one doubted this was her intention.

"Just a few questions, if I might," I promised. "And I will leave you to your meditation."

Displeasure twisted her mouth. She glanced at the guard, then returned her attention to me through a narrow gaze. I waited for permission, but none seemed forthcoming.

"You arrived with a group of apostates." I clasped my palms before me. Unthreatening, I hoped. "They call for your blood, yet not a single one has named a crime worthy of spilling it."

"I support the reinstatement of the Circle," she replied tersely. "That is a heresy of the highest order in these new times."

Yes. But was it so simple?

"Why did they not kill you themselves?"

"They have not the power."

Judging from the tight coil her serpentine aura was wrapping around her, I had no trouble agreeing.

"And why did you not kill them?"

Instead of an answer, her inked brow flinched, condensing the branches of Mythal’s tree.

"...Did the Inquisitor send you?"

I shook my head, pleased by her suspicion. She would make a fine ally if a shrewd mind commanded that power. "No. I am here simply to understand the truth." I dipped my gaze respectfully, offering a slight, concessional bow. "And I shall try not to ‘ogle’."

If the lighthearted comment affected her, she did not show it.

“Then you ask a foolish question. Or you’ve come here with a closed heart. How can I answer that honestly, ser? ‘Why did I not murder them?’ What makes a decent being?” Venom laced her words. “What stops you from murdering? Morals? Gods? A desire for peace? Take your pick. I will not suffer accusations. Begone. I was wrong to believe that a fellow elf might treat me kindly. Dareth shiral. Your prejudice betrays you.”

The guard jangled his keys in tacit threat once more at the sharp string of Elvhen she’d slipped into. I met his scowl with a palm, begging silent patience.

“I am sorry,” I replied, returning to that sparkling glare. “My words were careless.” It was not uncharacteristic of the Dalish to be defensive, and she seemed no exception. “I simply wish to understand—”

“You wish to accuse,” she interjected unkindly. “Begone. I’ll not answer more. You’ll seek your ‘understanding’ from the men who wish me dead, if you must slake your thirst for scandal, hound of rumors.”

And she looked around herself at the pitiable ledge and rose, and walked to the far corner. There she sat, facing the darkness, back turned and legs crossed, and submerged that great coiled beast that had not stopped glowering at me since I had interrupted her reflections.

It left me strangely hollowed, unprepared to answer more than just her words in essence, but their cadence, likewise.

Further pities in this dour place. And perhaps just simple coincidence. I left to seek her maligners, as she had so caustically suggested. I did not expect truth from any of them, but a seed of understanding might yet be plucked from the brambles of that wild garden.

I returned some hours later, to find her in roughly the same location. However, she was no longer meditating. On her knees now, both wrists still chained and working together to deliver spoon to mouth, she was hunched over and gracelessly devouring the contents of a bowl of what might charitably be called stew. I frowned at my escort and looked around us, but no other prisoners could be seen from this particular spot.

Were they always fed this late? Her companions had been offered a meal nearly the moment they had arrived.

The woman gave no indication that she had noticed her visitor. Whether her involvement with dinner remained her sole concern, or if she was simply ignoring me, I could not say. She ate like a starved mabari encountering its first hot food in months. Given what I had learned of their prior circumstances, this might not be far from truth. I leaned against the stone just beyond the bars of her cell and allowed her to eat undisturbed, and listened to the sounds of flatware and the subtle rustling of the armor of the guard.

The guard himself gave a portly snicker as she finished and thumbed at the edges of her mouth, cleaning herself as best she could. After a brief search of her own person she wiped the remnants on the nearly-black cuff of her left leg, pushed herself to her feet, and delivered the empty bowl through the bars to his outstretched hand.

“Di’n’t think elves could eat like a dwarf,” he laughed. “Want another round?”

Surprise widened in her eyes. Clearly, she was still hungry. But the man gave another, crueller snicker as he set the bowl on a table to be collected.

“Too bad. Down ‘ere, y’get what we give ya.”

That nascent hope promptly guttered out, a half-stricken torch plunged into cold water, quenched before it could catch. What a petty tyrant. And how needless the tyranny. The guard found amusement in his little torments, but met only a cold stare when he looked to me for a kindred spirit.

I straightened and stepped closer.

“Rebel.”

The guard hawked something wet out of his throat. “Didn’ I say t'use Trade, elf?”

“It is her name,” I corrected, eyes still on her. “Harellan. Or, perhaps, Harillen. Or Hellathen?” I offered a slight smile. “The nuances of Elvhen can be lost on clumsy, fumbling tongues of humans.”

“Harellan,” she pronounced for me. Quick. Unambiguous. Rebel. Traitor. Trickster. Her eyes betrayed no knowledge of the game I might be playing, but her silence left a space for my suspicions.

“A name chosen for yourself, yes?” I asked. “One assumes your companions would not know—”

“It was bestowed upon me by my clan.”

"Ah." Was it? Quite a fiery brand, if true. And a remnant of an old custom. Surprisingly old, to have survived in some form in some clan at present day. “May I ask why you left them? You are a mage, formerly of the Circle. Unusual for one who remained with the Dalish long enough to receive a vallaslin.”

“You may ask. I will not answer, though,” she replied. Her prior animosity seemed to have calmed, though her wariness was still quite present. “My people do not share their customs with outsiders, stranger. And to explain my motivations would reveal too much.”

I conceded the point. “Some of the men who brought you back explain that you are here to seek the Inquisitor’s protection.”

No reaction. She just looked at me. When I lifted an expectant brow she scowled impatiently.

“That is not a question.”

“Is it true?” I clarified.

“Yes.”

“Protection from what?”

“Attempts on my life.”

Ah. While none would succeed, I could certainly understand the tiring vigilance of anticipation.

“This is why you were allowed to keep your blade?” I guessed.

Harellan tensed, fixed her gaze on the guard, stepped closer to me, and dropped her voice.

“It is unclear to me if our liberators were aware of its significance, and a kind man would not alert them,” she rattled off in rapid Elvhen, causing my escort to glower and let out a very loud, very impatient sigh.

“Look, elves, it’s almost bedtime, and I’m doin’ ya favors by lettin’ ya chat. Don’t push it.”

At that, Harellan shifted her weight very suddenly, and looked around her cell as though seeing it for the first time. “Is it late?” she asked the guard. “Will the Inquisitor not see me today?”

There were no windows in her cell. No way for her to know how long she had been here.

The man puffed air through his lips. “Lady, he might not get t’ya all week. The Herald of Andraste’s a busy man.”

Stone etched the woman’s face into a mask. Her aura trembled, stirred, responding to the unpleasant revelation. Her eyes returned to me.

“Will you introduce yourself, lethallin?”

Oh, where were my manners? Waiting for a more dramatic moment than this, perhaps. Foolish.

“I am called Solas.” As expected, immediate recognition. A number of emotions warred behind her eyes but she settled for practicality, a return to the course she had set herself on.

“Do you carry any import or influence here…Solas?”

“Less than I had hoped for,” I confessed, “but about what I expected, given the circumstances.”

“Are you capable of procuring supplies?”

“—Like what?” the guard cut in suspiciously.

“Inkwells,” Harellan replied. She turned slowly, magic stirred, gathered within. Lines described themselves along the stone, curving arcs, protective wards, interlinked circles and script forming a great guarding chain lining all three walls. “Five of them.” She looked from the guard to me and back. “And a stout paintbrush.”

I too looked at my escort. The man seemed to take the moment to tiredly contemplate his pay grade before answering.

“You’re asking for ink t’do magic? You’re kiddin’, right?”

The wards dispersed, cascading down the stone in a fading shimmer as she spoke. “I submitted myself to the cells under the expectation that Inquisitor Trevelyan would decree a formal acceptance for me. Without his protective word, I remain in danger. You would have me sleep one night, several nights, an unknown amount of time here, in this cell, and trust your men to protect against a cabal of mages who have been plotting against me for months? Please. I will remain a model captive should this one request be granted.”

The overtaxed gentleman ran a palm down his face as though he could wipe clean his brain for more ability to process this complication.

“How much damage could she possibly do with ink?” I offered brightly. “I assume she will use the medium to hold her spells for her while she slumbers, in which case I or any number of trusted magical advisors could inspect the obvious marks for intent.”

“The Inquisitor’s not gonna like this,” the guard muttered.

“If the Inquisitor had anything to say, he could have said it earlier,” I replied, maintaining a subtle cheer. “Our friend cannot be blamed for mistrust, given the circumstances.”

The man flung his hands dismissively. “Fine. Blythe's the one’s you gotta convince, not me. You get your five bottles of ink past him and I don’t care. My shift’s up soon anyway.”

Well. That settled it, then. I exchanged a nod with Harellan and took my leave, off to procure for her the means she felt necessary to survive her first night in Skyhold.

Chapter Text

Harellan

The attempt came as though scheduled. The door of the cell was picked, and in that moment the magic triggered, shattering with a silent glow and waking me immediately.

Swears, in a familiar voice, as I rose and watched them. Mathias of course, with a few old friends he’d convinced to join him for arcane muscle. And with her hands in the lock itself, a young elf woman with short, roughly-cut yellow hair I didn’t recognize.

“Aw, shit, you said—”

The coward fled immediately, and his entourage followed suit. Beyond the walls came the telltale flumph of two bodies colliding, and another of Mathias’s curses.

The abandoned elf backed away nervously, looking at someone I couldn’t yet see.

“Sera? What are you doing here?”

Well. I recognized that voice, too.

“H-hey, don’t look at me, elfy, they just wanted a cell opened. I didn’t know it was gonna be all this…magic shit, yeah?”

Solas stepped into view, rubbing his jaw with one long hand and dragging Mathias by the wrist with the other. The man was white as a sheet, caught between horror and rage at his failed plan.

“I see your concerns were warranted, lethallan.”

Mathias swore a third time, and louder as the clomping of heavy boots echoed down the halls.

“All you damned fucking knife-ears,” he spat, wrenching his arm free but not running. He licked his lips and looked toward the noise. “You set me up, you thieving bitch.”

“Oi. You lied, you little shit-weasel,” the woman spat back. “And I ain’t stickin’ around for this.”

She backed into the shadows and slipped away. No one made an attempt to stop her. The night watch arrived moments later, torch ablaze, glaring at all present, including my still-ajar cell door.

“All right, everybody’s got three seconds t’tell me what’s goin’ on here.”

“An attempt was made on a prisoner’s life,” Solas informed him before Mathias could even take a breath. “This gentleman has history with her.”

It didn’t take long to sort things from there. Mathias’s entourage—arguably even more cowardly than he was—corroborated Solas’s story in the hopes that their new home would let them off easy, and, once my door was securely locked, the whole group was carted off, possibly to another cell, from the sound of it.

Solas himself lingered behind. The pair of us watched and waited for the midnight cacophony to settle.

Finally, he broke the silence, speaking soft Elvhen unshackled by a watchful eye.

“May I ask your paired history?”

“The common things that drive the quick.” I inspected the broken ink, lighting a small flame to see by. I was glad for his company. “Jealousy. Fear. Prejudice. His own words condemn him more than I could.”

My audience adjusted his vantage point to watch me freshen the lines. I caught him tonguing his jaw in the same place he’d rubbed earlier, and he offered a slight smile. “The quicklings’ heads share much in common with dwarven stone. His imperceptive flight caught me by surprise.”

Ouch. Taking a bone club to the mouth would hurt. Even one as hollow as Mathias’s skull.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

His head tilted. “Curiosity. Five wells of ink raises strange questions. I came to see if they had been of use.”

I didn’t quite believe him. But I could think of no less noble intentions, given how quickly and decisively he had come to my defense both in word and action. I wanted to believe I had misjudged him, as well. Certainly few else had treated me kindly in quite some time. And his Elvhen was so beautiful, so soft and poetic. I hadn’t spoken the language of our people in many years.

I wanted him to be one of us. Very badly. I wanted him to be Dalish, wanted to ask about his clan, his customs, his ways. To share with him my own, as well. To teach, and to learn. But his bare face remained a stark reminder. He was a city elf, a flat-ear with no Keeper, no history. Nothing to offer but half-remembered lies.

“Back to bed with you, then?” I asked, turning away to fill the rest of the lines with magic. It slipped between the ink and wall, illuminating a few more cracks and fissures to repair.

“I thought we might speak without hindrance,” he mentioned over my shoulder. “No guards listen at present.”

I daubed at the stone, so shamefully clumsy with both hands together, wondering when they’d notice and correct this oversight. Neither of us was speaking very loudly, and the night guardsman might be…busy with paperwork, if the Inquisition was anything like the College had been when infractions occurred.

“What else would you know of me?” I asked. “I promise no answers.”

A brief pause, perhaps to consider.

“You support the Circle.”

Oh, Lethanavir, lead me to my rest. He already knew this. I waited for him to ask a proper question.

“...Do you also support the templars?”

“Yes.”

"And their injustices?”

Such powerful disappointment caught me off-guard. Of course he was one of them. The gleeful apostates. That made this significantly easier, at least. I finished the calligraphic repairs I was making to that particular area and glanced back, returning to the percussive growls of Common.

“I must ask your forgiveness again, lethallin, but I am not interested in debating the merits and pitfalls of the rebellion. Trust me, few more than I are aware of the injustices of the templars. Still, order is preferable to chaos.”

"Slavery is preferable to freedom?”

Oh, there were many ways to answer that, and I could tell from his piercing stare that he meant to rankle me, or force me to backpedal or clarify. To offer him an opening to needle at until it cracked and bared hypocrisy he thought within me. But he was fool to think such clumsy accusations would slip through defenses and upset a Knight-Enchanter. I said not a word back to him.

Just looked down at my still-shackled wrists.

And looked back up at him expectantly.

And let him draw his own conclusions.

The snarl that flinched the man’s lip was unexpectedly vicious though brief. He mastered himself quickly enough, but his mouth remained thin. Ironic that a flat-ear would seek to lecture the Dalish on the finer points of freedom. As if an alienage wasn’t the farthest cry from the noble wilds.

At least it put sense to his name.

Pride.

I returned to my ink repairs and listened for footsteps when he did not speak again. But I didn’t hear them, not right away. He remained where he stood for quite some time before the rustle of fabric finally heralded his retreat.

“You and Madame de Fer will have much to agree on, when you are freed.”

It gave me pause as he walked away, a quick pace almost too quiet to hear.

Madame de Fer. Vivienne was here?

Orlesian Imperial Court Enchanter Vivienne?

No other would dare assume that particular moniker. Not if they valued their reputation. Or their head.

Or their ability to produce heirs.

I pondered her reasons for being here as I finished my touch-ups. Was the Inquisition that important, that she would see to its successes herself? The woman had a hand in everything across Orlesian Circle politics. I would have guessed her influence would be best leveraged from within Halamshiral.

I let the thought carry me back to sleep. I was not disturbed again.

In fact, three more days went by without a visitor. Solas did not reappear, no further attempts were made on my life, and I was still not called to the throne. Three days of pacing a cell, three days of troubled meditation, three days of “elven rations” and filth. I could feel myself beginning to slip. Feel myself losing my edge.

And my wrists were beginning to bleed from the irons.

By dawn of day four I asked if someone might send word to Madame de Fer. I had not considered the idea that I would be languishing here for nearly this long. If she did not respond, I intended to beg Solas for an audience next, as the two of them were my only contacts in this entire stronghold. I would give the Madame one day to respond before changing tactics.

To my great relief, it took her only a few hours to pay me a personal visit.

Sharp heels clicked against the stone. Scornful commentary about the decor, the smell, the imprudence of it all, and all in a honey-wine tone I hadn’t heard in far too long. A balm to the troubled mind, every word. I rose to greet her as the last person I would have expected to join the Inquisition personally strode into view, majestic as ever in her flat violets and shimmering grays.

And, judging from the lengthy silence I was met with, the feeling was mutual.

“...Fellavhen?”

I bowed. “An honor and a great relief to see you, Madame de Fer.”

“What are you…?”

Vivienne’s power swept mine like a thunderclap through the soul. She beckoned me closer as I straightened up, and took my chin with sharp nails to study my face.

“Darling, how ever did you survive? And you’re still ‘intact’…”

“Intact and prepared to serve, if the Inquisitor will have me,” I promised her. “As for how I survived, that story might be better told in a different setting.”

Her touch softened, but she continued her inspection. “Agreed. What have you done? Why are you here? Your summons was intentionally vague, but it cannot remain so if you expect my assistance…”

The explanation was quick. Quicker still was her disgust, though not with me but with Trevelyan’s neglect of the brilliant pawn he was simply leaving on the sidelines while his Inquisition, apparently, struggled to maintain its hard-won footholds.

She departed quickly, leaving behind a promise to pull the right strings and an unspoken expectation that I would owe her a favor for it. Within the hour I was released and escorted from the jail, up and down a maze of stairs and corridors that ended in a brightly-lit private bath. Vivienne’s, judging by the hints of Orlesian decor and the fact that her tastes hadn’t changed at all since the last time I saw her. Given a choice between bathing alone or with assistance, I requested the former, and only then were the shackles removed and I left to my own devices.

How unbelievable it felt to sink into that warm water. To breathe scented air, to draw my hands through filthy hair and scrub it clean. My blood-raw wrists burned and swelled, and my feet were not much better, pressure points left untreated in the same boots for days on end. The full extent of the damage was unpleasant to look at, but it was a small price to pay. And nothing could surpass the sensation of spreading my arms so wide, stretching my chest in ways denied to me for the better part of a week.

My own growling groan masked the approach of sharp heels.

“...That sounded satisfying.”

Vivienne’s amusement died at the sight of me, though. Twice in the same day. Not even close to the record of times I’ve disappointed another by simply existing. I was not ashamed of myself, though. To many, elven nudity didn’t even count as obscene. Not that Vivienne numbered herself among them. She looked down on shame of the natural form for entirely different reasons.

“You’re wounded, darling.”

It was the injuries that offended. She hitched her dress enough to sink into a graceful crouch at the lip of the bath behind me, and took one of my arms at the elbow and palm. “Have you been in chains since the raid on the College?”

“I have.”

She sucked her teeth in disappointment. “Our dear Inquisitor shows promise as a figurehead, but those Free Marcher nobles just aren’t bred for the full panoply of the duties of leadership.”

“Fortunate of him to have you, then.”

The response was almost thoughtless. Conditioned, more like. Madame de Fer had taught me everything I knew about The Game, and though I wasn’t particularly talented at it, I was passable enough to understand what was expected of me.

“And fortunate of me to have you,” she purred, releasing me delicately and rising. I looked up at her towering over my shoulder, more than happy to extract another subtle stretch in the process. “We'll find something gentle for your wrists, then,” the woman promised. “They will be wrapped before your audience with the Inquisitor. Any other afflictions I should be aware of?”

I still remained flexible enough to raise a foot from the water, allowing us both to inspect the handful of broken blisters that had become open sores mottling my ankle and the swelling in a few toes.

“Both legs?”

The heat stung as I submerged the wounds. “Yes.”

More quiet tutting.

“You'll be back in fighting shape in no time, darling. I’m sending servants in to collect your…things, to find you suitably-fitting replacements.” When I looked up, she was staring at the pile of extravagant, smelly rags I’d been living in for weeks. “They’ll have to do until we’ve acquired a suitable tailor. You were never fond of dresses, if I remember correctly?”

“You do, Madame.”

Vivienne nodded. “Good. Take your time, Fellavhen.” She started off, calling her final words over one shoulder. “The Inquisitor made you wait on him. It would do us all good to make him wait on you.”

Chapter Text

Vivienne

At least some constants remained in this upheaved world. Fellavhen’s unbreakable will being one of them. The little knight-errant didn’t flinch at all as her wounds were disinfected and wrapped, and sat for a haircut and a fitting without fuss. I made some circumspect inquiries into her methods of survival during the turmoil of the past year, but the closest I could get to a straight answer involved bidding me to use imagination to fill the gaps she did not want to confess to.

Oh, darling. I know what you’re capable of. And I know what you must have done to preserve your life. And your magic.

But she’d always been better at The Game than she let on. A fact I’d recognized in her rather early.

The finished product was a dramatic change from the scruffy little forestling languishing in the dungeons. Gone were the dirt, the smeared skin and limpid locks. High-necked lavender under a padded white-and-gray vest suited her well, with a single glimmering epaulet crowning a sweeping silver sash to hide the hilt of her spirit blade, easily associating the two of us in any perceptive mind. Dignity lifted her chin, confidence set her inked Dalish brow. Trevelyan’s brutes attempted to shackle her once more when we emerged for presentation, but I blocked their approach, and was in fact so affronted by the attempt that I had her remove the gray gloves that matched her calfskin boots and cuff her sleeves to the elbow, crisply revealing every inch of bandage. A subtle reminder to the Inquisitor of the costs of his careless oversight.

As if the man cared for subtlety at all.

Trevelyan himself lounged on his throne with uninspiring gracelessness. A stout build, pale yellow hair, blue eyes, and a strong jawline under a few days of stubble marked him as the kind of handsome that often carried those sorts through most of their lives. And he wore his attraction well, all things considered. The man was fine enough for the public displays—the speeches, the toasts, the sees-and-be-seens of leadership. Anything to put himself ahead, and doubly so if it reinforced his glory in the people’s hearts. There was a use for that sort of behavior, certainly. But the grease and soot required to actually run the Inquisition had him checking his cuticles with fastidious displeasure.

“Harellan Fellavhen.” Ambassador Montilyet’s crisp tone rang through the halls. “An elf from the College of Magi. With personal sponsorship from Imperial Enchanter Vivienne.”

I approached the throne, Fellavhen lockstep at my side. Maxwell looked from us to Josephine, waiting for more. The ambassador’s eyes dropped back to her candlelit writing board.

“And what’s this one accused of, then?” the Inquisitor asked boredly.

“...Well, nothing, Your Worship,” Josephine admitted, shifting her hips. “She seeks…protection. She has committed no crimes…and…only wishes…”

“Official sanction from the Inquisitor to serve,” Fellavhen finished when Josephine did not.

The corner of my lip twitched in approval.

Trevelyan stared as though not quite sure it was that simple, then flicked his fingers at her. “You have it, then. Is that all?”

Another uncomfortable hip shift from Josephine, this time accompanied by a quill-twirl. “...Yes, I believe so.”

The Inquisitor frowned dubiously, then sighed and rested his cheek on a fist. “Easy enough,” the man muttered. “Next!”

And just like that, we were free to go.

As we turned to leave, Solas’s quick departure for the rotunda caught my eye.

Interesting.

I let the little elf take her first lungful of fresh air out on the grounds in peace, face upturned to the sun. Neither of us spoke on the simplicity of the proceedings, or how deeply she’d suffered to acquire those fifteen seconds of life-changing approval. And we especially did not mention how irritated I was that my endorsement had been, essentially, overlooked. Trevelyan had no concept of The Game whatsoever, a blindspot that worried me for our involvement in the upcoming Orlesian peace talks. But, regardless, the world simply happened that quickly, some days. Lives changed in a blink. Empires rising and falling on the subtle glance of a nobleman, the quiet smirk of a lady. A turned shoulder. A flick of dismissive fingertips. What mattered now, of course, was that it was done.

And that Fellavhen owed me a hefty favor.

“Go on, darling,” I told her once she’d had her elven fill of the outdoors, “familiarize yourself with Skyhold. The infirmary has been made aware of your injuries. You’d do well to check in with them from time to time. And settle yourself into the barracks in peace.”

With that, we parted ways.

I continued to watch from afar, of course. Where Fellavhen went, rumor tended to follow, and Skyhold was no exception. A quiet Dalish mage with all the hallmarks of classic Nevarran chivalry? Even with this nascent organization adding unusual allies every day, such things stood out. She didn’t fit in, but as long as I’d known her, the woman never had. Her natural state seemed repellant to elves, humans, mages, and soldiers alike. Even Solas, whose interest I’d thought would play a larger part based on his presence at her mock trial, seemed to keep his distance.

But nor did he stray too far.

Fellavhen was quick to recover, and within days she was out training on the grounds, further alienating her would-be allies with the blinding speed of a Knight-Enchanter’s strikes against the straw training dummies. At a glance I couldn’t tell if her skills had slipped from underuse, or she was simply holding back, but nevertheless, I planted a seed in Cassandra’s and Cullen’s minds that she might be ready to integrate into the main bulk of the Inquisition’s army.

At least they were properly pleased by their newest plaything. Something about the third soldier she put to the dust seemed to truly inspire them. It could have been how angry the man was, but I suspected it might have been her boot on his chest and the silver-gold glow at his ear from the tip of her spirit sword resting lightly against his neck.

“Let him up.”

Crisp obedience followed Cassandra’s order. Fellavhen’s magic blade slipped back into its hilt and disappeared under her sash. Her offered glove was ignored by her downed opponent, and the elf stood silent, awaiting judgment and ignoring the sneer directed at her by the lumbering brute as he staggered to his feet, snatched up his disarmed weapon, and dusted off the backs of his trousers.

“Dismissed,” Cullen added, to him.

The soldier stormed off, spitting at Fellavhen’s heel. The gob slid down her dyed leather and I frowned at it just long enough to acquire an acknowledging nod from its target.

“So, darlings?” I prompted of our audience.

“Impressive,” Cullen admitted. He seemed a bit uncomfortable in his heavy furs.

“I wouldn’t mind taking a crack at her,” Cassandra added over folded arms.

“Has she any command experience?”

I exchanged a glance with the elf, amused that he would address me over her. A lifted brow transferred that misplaced authority. All gazes followed my own.

“Formal study, ser,” she replied, characteristic Dalish lilt to her tone. “None in practice.”

“Perhaps it’s time we changed that,” Cassandra suggested.

My little pet, rising to her station.

Cullen agreed. “Where can we try her out? I’m loathe to banish such a…” He looked Fellavhen up and down and cleared his throat, rather obviously changing his mind. “The Fallow Mire still needs addressing. Our men continue to languish in Avvar captivity. Though, swamps are hardly a glorious endeavor…”

Cassandra seemed unbothered. “War itself is a less glorious endeavor than the bards would have you think, Cullen. I’ll take her out with me. We’ll see how she does in the field.”

“Has she fought undead?” Cullen added as the three of us turned to walk off without her.

As always, Fellavhen accepted slight after slight with grace and dignity.

In the war council strategy room, the three of us drew up our plans with Josephine and Leliana. A small force would be committed to the task, both to minimize loss of morale and because marshes and horses did not mix. Varric would complain about the assignment, but Varric liked to complain about any assignment that wasn’t next to a warm fire with a strong drink and a few gold on a round of Wicked Grace. It was my suggestion to send Solas alongside them, under the pretense that the underutilized apostate’s esoteric knowledge might be useful in handling the Fallow Mire’s little corpse problem.

The others agreed that he needed something to do to keep him busy and out of trouble. Truthfully, I was seeking to learn just how deep his interest in Fellavhen ran. Although Cullen had tipped his hand rather tellingly out on the training grounds…

My little rabbit might have handed me more strings to pull than even I could have anticipated.

There was little need to involve the Inquisitor; Trevelyan was more than happy to hear that he himself need not sully his parade boots in the southern bogs. The man barely glanced over his advisors' meticulous plans before approving them. I did not mind our Herald’s lack of involvement, despite the feathers it ruffled among the others.

As far as I was concerned, the less he turned his eye toward me, the more freely I could move.

Chapter Text

Cassandra

        Fellavhen was quiet on the journey to the Fallow Mire. Everyone was, sitting in their wagons, watching the wilds pass us by. Everyone except for Varric, of course. He couldn’t be shut up with a needle and a skein of stout thread, trying his best to get a laugh from the soldiers who would be fortifying our camp. Privately, I appreciated his attempts at humor, terrible as they could be. It took my mind from the uncertain direction of the Inquisition as it stood.
        Not that I’d admit this to the little rogue.
        But even he began to lose his fortitude as the weather took a downturn and our sunny passage darkened into a miserable, constant bog rain. It was the sort of gloom we’d all have to get used to, and the sooner, the better. I tried to be discreet in my glances toward our untested recruit, but I could gain nothing from what little I spied. She just sat in the wagon’s corner and waited, impassive and endlessly patient, no different in the rain than the sun.
        Maybe a little smaller, with all the water slowly soaking her to the bone?
        How Leliana did it -- how she gathered so much from a single look --I would never know.
        "Forgive me, Seeker," Solas said when we neared the forward camp, "but may I ask how we intend to resolve this situation without the Inquisitor?"
        “We don’t need Blondie 2.0,” Varric chimed in, more than happy to do so now that someone else had said more than two words.
        “Quite the contrary. He has a point,” I corrected. “The Avvar chieftain requested a duel with Trevelyan, to prove the worth of the Maker against his own gods.”
        Blessed Andraste, that shut the dwarf up.
        Almost.
        He stared at all three of us just long enough for me to appreciate the screeching of bog frogs and crickets before rounding on Solas. "You knew about this? Didn't think to ask that before we got all the way out here, Chuckles?"
        "Would it have mattered if I asked before we set out?" the apostate challenged softly. "Or earlier in the journey? It is clear that some plan must be present. I was merely waiting for the Seeker to offer it before I asked."
        Varric wasn’t done there. “Oh great, sure. How about you, Chatterbox?” he poked at Fellavhen next. “Did you know that the mad barbarian war chief wanted a one-on-one with Maxxy?”
        Instead of addressing him, though, Fellavhen turned to me. “Did only some of us receive copies of the scouting report?”
        I smirked at that. The woman had a bit of cheek to her. “Oh no. Everybody was provided one.”
        “What, you think I’m gonna read every report that lands on my…” Varric sighed, leaned an elbow over the back of the wagon, and scratched at his wet chest hair, ignoring Fellavhen’s expectant gaze. “I’d have thought something that important would be talked about in person, not just left on a piece of paper somewhere.”
        “The plan, then?” Solas repeated brightly.
        The plan, as I shared with them, was to make our approach and establish closer footholds than the forward camp. There were more than barbarians in these swamps. If we could do this, and if our men were still alive at the overtaken fort, then we would attempt to threaten the chieftain and his men into freeing their prisoners.
        If they were dead? Then the barbarians would join them. The Inquisition did not have time to entertain petty challenges from every tribe of a few dozen Avvar or Chasind or whoever else thought they could rattle a bone cudgel and some sacred feathers our way.
        We were here to set an example.
        Scout Harding met us at the forward camp, but her smile dimmed when she did not see the supposed key to ending this stalemate.
        “Ah…Good afternoon, Seeker,” she greeted evenly. “Good to see our position here isn’t forgotten.”
        “Good day, Harding,” I replied. “Not just remembered. The Fallow Mire’s problems will be resolved.”
        “That’s…” Harding looked understandably uncomfortable. “That’s good to hear. I don’t suppose you’re hiding Inquisitor Trevelyan somewhere nearby? Maybe in disguise?”
        “He will not be meeting the Avvar.”
        Her confidence did not improve when I re-explained everything, but there was little more reassurance I could give. Trevelyan simply did not want to march through swamps and disease when he had Skyhold to run and a hundred other issues clamoring for his attention. In this, I could not blame him. He was not settling easily into the role of Inquisitor, and needed more time to get himself used to the idea of leading with wisdom and patience.
        “Alright, well…you’ve heard about the undead, right?” Harding asked as we geared up.
        “We have, yes.”
        “The what?” Varric asked, as if on cue.
        Harding offered him an apologetic smile. “Just…stay out of the water, and you shouldn’t run into too much. They don’t seem to bother people if you stick to the paths.”
        “Oh great. Let’s hope there’s corpse-approved paths everywhere we need to go, then!” the dwarf sighed.
        We gathered our supplies and the four of us set off. The camp was established on the edge of what was once Fisher’s End, a tiny village full of nothing now but vacant cottages. The resources committed here did not include the supplies to clear them of the plague that had ravaged the population, which was largely why the camp was where it was and not better sheltered from the elements. Varric continued to grumble a bit, but settled down when he seemed to realize that complaining would do little good.
        This wasn’t even the bad part yet, after all.
        “So it is to be brutality, then?” Solas asked over the creaking and chirping when we were far enough from the camp. “Strongarm the locals into compliance?”
        The sigh I gave seemed rooted in my soul.
        “As we must,” I told him, shoring up for a verbal spar against the apostate I never seemed prepared for. “Unless you have a better plan for using the Fade to charm them into giving up our troops that also doesn’t involve the Inquisitor…”
        I’d have preferred two Varrics complaining at each other to any grievance Solas aired.
        “Not yet, though, now that you’ve tasked me with it, I might consider options,” he replied. “I ask only because I am still uncertain what my role is meant to be here, Seeker. I hope it is not retaliatory action from our brave and steadfast leader for my disagreements with him.”
        “It was Vivienne who suggested you be invited,” I countered, picking my way through half-uprooted cobblestone slick with moss and other slime. On the rise beside us loomed a great, weathered statue to Andraste, and Fellavhen slowed to read the plaque at its base.
        “Ah,” Solas continued, looking from her to the statue to the inscription as well. “Retaliation for my disagreements with Madame de Fer, then. Of course she and the Inquisitor would be bedfellows.”
        “Don’t dawdle,” I told the elves when they fell behind. Fellavhen promptly herded herself back to my side. Solas’s return was less expedient. “You were asked to come along to deal with whatever magicks may arise along with the undead around here. This place is not well-charted, for obvious reasons. Who knows what we might encounter.”
        “No one’s forcing you to be here,” Varric reminded him. “Pretty sure this was a voluntary assignment.”
        “Point taken,” the apostate replied. “I simply wish to ensure my aid is applied where it will be most useful.”
        Fellavhen said something in Elvish that mercifully stopped his grousing. Solas nodded once and looked around, and gave a reply that she also nodded at.
        Varric laughed. “No, no, you two don’t get to do that around me. Come on, out with it. Unless you want me to start speaking only in Dwarven to people like Harding.”
        The elves exchanged a glance. Solas was the one to reply.
        “She was commenting on the aura of this place,” he translated. “And I happen to--”
        “‘She’ can speak for herself, Chuckles,” Varric reminded him.
        The apostate frowned at the interruption. Both of them looked at her, and I did as well. Fellavhen immediately directed her attention to the quickly-approaching edge of the village.
        “He’s right,” she said quietly. “I said this place feels strange.”
        “And I agreed,” Solas replied flatly.
        Splashing and groaning cut short any further conversation. The path narrowed ahead, fetid swamp and thick wetlands vegetation quickly crowding on both sides, and out of the rain and gloom a pair of rotting foes staggered our way. Black flesh on black water made them hard to see, and only one continued to advance onto the shore. The other, I almost noticed too late, was aiming a decrepit bow from a distance.
        “Archer!” I cried, readying my shield. I heard the creaking thwang of the bowstring and a curse behind me from Varric as he loosed Bianca’s mechanical triggers. I feared for his injury but the first was already upon us, though I didn’t hear the dwarf fall as I drew my blade to meet its lethargic slash. A quick burst of light from one of the elves felled the far creature, and I cut down the remaining one and turned.
        No one seemed hurt.
        “Shit, kid, I didn’t know ya could move that fast. I almost took your ears off,” Varric was saying to Fellavhen. “Gotta put a damned cat bell on you or something.”
        “What happened?” I asked them both.
        Solas circled the end of his staff through the air, eyes raised to watch it. Glimmers of light like glowing ribbons flashed into existence and seemed drawn to the metal tip.
        “Fellavhen’s blade intercepted the arrow meant for you, Seeker,” he informed us. “Varric’s return fire may have grazed her shoulder.”
        “Did it?” I turned to her.
        The elf shook her head, attention switching between Solas’s staff and her own. “He wasn’t close.”
        “Like hell I wasn’t,” Varric argued. “If I’da flinched even one inch…” The dwarf sighed and waved a dismissive hand and slung Bianca across his back again. “Nevermind. Just remind me to set up a crossfire with Chatterbox if that happens again.”
        Solas finished whatever little spellwork he was doing and looked on expectantly. Nobody seemed rattled by the living dead, least of all Fellavhen. That was good. Promising. Vivienne’s high expectations seemed justified.
        I glanced at the remains to find something worth bringing back to Helisma, but nothing stood out, and I had a feeling it would be the first of many encounters with these foes. We regrouped and started off, leaving the main bulk of the village behind.
        “At least the paths are marked,” I noted, looking up at a lit brazier as we passed the pole it was hanging from. More were staggered along the earth ahead.
        “Scout Harding’s advice rings true,” Solas agreed.
        Magic, no doubt, to stay aflame in all this rain, but if neither of our resident mages seemed bothered by it, and it kept the undead from attacking, that was good enough for me.
        There were still a few houses scattered on any ground large and flat enough to support them out here, though it seemed that distance did not matter to the plague. Their presence seemed to interest Fellavhen, who studied every structure we passed, but if she had any elven thoughts or magical insight, she kept them to herself.
        “Hey, Chuckles, look, something for you to do,” Varric piped up suddenly. We all followed his pointing finger to a blue glow in the distance. “That doesn’t look ominous at all.”
        Up on a hill the narrow ground led us toward, that light resolved into a handful of bright braziers and some sort of carved stone obelisk. Pale blue flames cast an eerie pall over everything here, and, like the pathmarkers behind us, still burning despite the constant rain.
        “What is this, some kind of beacon?” the dwarf asked, trailing behind as Solas approached.
        “Possibly,” the elf replied, approaching the only unlit brazier in the clearing, a cagelike sconce mounted from the obelisk’s side. “Though it may be more warning than guide for the weary traveler.” He traced the wet metal with exploratory fingertips, and circled the stone to look at something on its opposite face. “Perhaps these strange runes have something to do with it.”
        Fellavhen caught up to and lurked behind him, peering at the same thing from a short distance. A few steps to my right and I could see it was a plaque of some sort, darkly glazed, strangely recent, mounted to the stone and shimmering with some sort of obviously magical and indecipherable engraved script.
        Indecipherable to me, at least.
        Solas completed his ring of the structure and returned to the sconce, again touching the metal speculatively. “This may be Veilfire,” he announced.
        “And what’s Veilfire?”
        Varric had decided to keep his distance after all. I was glad he asked, so I didn’t have to.
        The apostate gave a small smirk, though he directed it toward no one in particular. “It is a form of sympathetic magic, a memory of flame that burns in this world where the Veil is thin.”
        Fellavhen’s short exhale caught everyone’s attention. “It’s Tevinter magic.”
        “Tevinter?” I repeated. “There have been no signs of the Venatori here. Not according to Scout Harding’s reports…”
        Solas gave a derisive chuckle. “Is that what the Circles teach?” he asked Fellavhen snidely. “Do they teach that ice is Tevinter as well? Or lightning?” He abandoned the sconce to fix her with a steady gaze. Even in the blue glow, I could see her cheeks darken. “Veilfire is a state of the world,” the apostate lectured pointedly. “A confluence of circumstance and location. The Tevinter Imperium may have harnessed some uses for it, but the magic itself is hardly theirs to ‘claim’.”
        “And where did you learn this, then?” the woman fired right back, judgment dripping from her tone. “Did your city hahren sing you songs of old Arlathan? That everything was the wonders of the ancient elves? Or did your alienage actually have enough of you who could read to warrant opening a library you were allowed to visit once a month?”
        “I have learned a great deal of the world through techniques your traditions could never begin to grasp,” Solas replied darkly, staring her down. His humor was gone now, even faster than it had arrived. “From sources you might never think possible.”
        “Enough! This is getting us nowhere.”
        Varric winced as I drowned them both out. Solas briefly rounded his glare on me. Fellavhen turned her scowl to the obelisk.
        What in the Maker’s name had them both at each other’s throats so suddenly?
        “Decide what to do with this….thing, or we move on,” I told them both, undaunted. “We have better things to do than stand here in the rain and listen to you two argue over it.”
        After a tense second of silence, Solas relented, backing away from the obelisk and gesturing openly.
        “By all means, Knight-Enchanter,” the apostate invited. “Show us the wonders of Tevinter.”
        Fellavhen looked from him to me and back, awaiting my judgment. As though I had any idea about any of this.
        “Somebody do something,” I ordered.
        Solas reaffirmed his grandiose offer toward the unlit sconce.
        Fellavhen narrowed her eyes at him. “Since you’re so confident, go on, then.”
        “Oh for cryin’ out…” Varric slicked rain out of his hair and shook his head. “Solas, take a breath. Chatterbox is new around here, and we’re all tense about the mage situation and miserable in this wet swamp. If you know what you’re talking about, go ahead and do it. You’re here as the resident expert. She’s just getting the training wheels taken off.”
        Miraculously, it did the trick. Both elves lowered their hackles, with Solas offering the dwarf a grateful nod and Fellavhen backing away to clear space.
        “Thank you, Varric,” the apostate replied, resuming his place at the obelisk. “It is enough to be ignored at Skyhold. Such offenses need not be repeated outside its walls.”
        He raised a palm to the sconce. With a circling gesture it ignited, flaring a greenish teal flame brighter and a few shades off from other braziers around us.
        Fellavhen flinched. At first I thought she was waiting for something terrible to happen, but it was the runes that had caught her attention. Something about them had been triggered by the Veilfire. They glowed more brightly now, and with the same greenish teal light, reflecting off her pale skin.
        All around us, groaning and splashing rose from the swamps.
        “Brace yourselves,” Varric warned, readying Bianca again.
        Undead erupted onto the shores, dragging themselves out of the water dripping and rotting. Six, eight of them this time, and ahead of their advancing circle, portals appeared on the ground. A pair of lanky Terrors sprang forth, though the feet of one had barely touched ground before a gleaming slash sheared it in two, shoulder to whatever its excuse for a hip was.
        Bianca sank a bolt between the eyes of a corpse behind it, dangerously close to Fellavhen’s outstretched sword arm.
        “Crossfire, Varric, crossfire,” the dwarf reminded himself through gritted teeth, backing away to reposition elsewhere.
        Again I drew my sword and engaged a number of them, cutting through sagging flesh and crumbling rancid bone. The stench was most unbearable; months or years of decay in this place, all unearthed at once. It took quite a bit of willpower not to retch at the foul fluids they sprayed into the air.
        At least the rain would wash it off. Once again, the creatures put up little fight. I caught Solas eyeing Fellavhen closely when it was over, academia in his keen gaze. I vowed to pay closer attention to her, myself, during our next scuffle. She seemed to vanish the moment the battle started, but her ichor-stained armor told a much different story.
        She’d been fast on the training grounds at Skyhold. But not that fast.
        “Any more of them?” Varric called, looking around the marshes.
        “No,” the Knight-Enchanter replied. “We’ve stricken down everything revived by the Veilfire’s activation.”
        Solas nodded a silent confirmation.
        “I do not believe that encounter was a function of all Veilfire,” the apostate clarified, drawing a portion of it into his palm once more. “In fact, quite the opposite. Whatever power holds sway over this place may have overcome the protective measures against it, without villagers to maintain the beacons. The appearance of demons suggests this. We may even have found the source of the Mire’s curse, or at least a way to suppress it.”
        “Yes, intuit all of this with your ‘ungraspable techniques’,” Fellavhen muttered, looking at the obelisk’s far side. If she saw Solas’s narrow-eyed sneer, she gave no indication.
        “If you've a different--”
        “Well, we seem to have cleared everything out,” I declared before another elven fight could begin. “If the beacons draw out the undead, we could use them to concentrate the enemy and fight on dry land. This place might be safe, now.”
        The apostate nodded again. “I would agree, Seeker.”
        “Demons. Could be that Tevinter influence, eh?” Varric joked, slinging Bianca across his back as he rejoined the group and looked from elf to elf. Fellavhen gave no reaction at all, but Solas, at least, offered a concessional smile.
        “Doubtful. More likely it is simply the Breach’s effects, weakening the veil, or the work of whoever--”
        He’d started to circle the obelisk again as he talked, still palming a tongue of Veilfire. The moment he rounded the far side, though, he flinched, not unlike Fellavhen had done just before the fighting started. And, like her, he recovered just as quickly.
        “...We may have found our culprit,” the apostate mused, peering at the plaque.
        I braced myself and approached. The moment I sensed magic assault my mind I shut it out, forcing away echoes of a panicked hand scribbling notes and formulas.
        “What is this?”
        The attempted incursion did not last long, mercifully, and only seemed to come to me if I looked directly at it. The runes were still as unreadable as before, but something about them was reaching out, aching to form an impression and force it into my brain.
        “It seems part of a larger message,” Solas reported, answering no questions as he turned to glance at the path ahead. “Perhaps there will be more beacons, more obelisks, more pieces to uncover.”
        “And more ground to cleanse of undead,” I added, deciding against asking for further information. Fellavhen, if she knew more, seemed uninterested in speaking up, and I didn’t want to risk triggering another spat, if I could help it. “If we’re done here, let’s move on.”

Chapter Text

Varric

        I might have to think of a different nickname for Chatterbox, at this rate. Although I gotta admit, if you’d given me a hundred guesses, I probably wouldn’t have landed on “nothing nice to say” as the reason she was as quiet as she was. Somethin’ about those big green eyes and that pretty tree tattoo just screamed innocence at me.
        Serves you right for underestimating an elf.
        Yeah, yeah, Ferris. The gloomy bartender flashed me a disapproving glare from the back of my mind. As if I hadn’t learned my lesson from Chuckles.
        I didn’t try to make much smalltalk on the road again, and neither did anyone else. As we pushed deeper into the Mire, a couple pathside torches guttered out and called up a corpse here and there, but after the second or third went up in an elven fireball, I didn’t even bother readying Bianca. She was gonna be a hell of a mess to clean once we were done here, anyway, so the less I had to use her, the better. And Fellavhen seemed more than happy to take care of any threats long before they got close enough to make problems of themselves. I’d thought it was strange that she carried a staff and a blade, but the more I saw of both, the more I understood the importance of coverage at all distances.
        I think the Seeker was getting impressed with her, too, despite all the butting-heads with Solas. She was payin’ closer attention, at any rate. Cass was great at what she did, but she was no leader. Not too good with the hard decisions, and she seemed to lose the bigger picture in a solid group fight. Didn’t look like she’d much noticed the way her co-warrior practically danced around her, sword and staff all over the place like they weighed nothing at all. And maybe the blade didn’t, what with the way it vanished when she wasn’t using it to rip through any undead idiot that thought it had a better chance up close than from a distance.
        There’s something about her I just don't like.
        Who, Guardsman Donnen? The Seeker? Or the Knight?
        The fictitious hero of the Kirkwall Guard didn’t even crack a smile. You know who I mean.
        Sure. That’s why I’m askin’.
        The second beacon-on-a-hill went much the same as the first. Solas lit the Veilfire, it drew out some demons and corpses, we kicked their teeth in, Fellavhen stared at the activated runes on the second obelisk but didn’t say anything about them. Chuckles picked a book out of a dry crevice in a rock though, and thumbed through it before joining her to study them as well. The Seeker decidedly didn’t bother with the weird glowy plaque thing, and I didn’t blame her, but Solas made mention that the demons might not actually have anything to do with the runes after all, now that he had a second set to look at. It was a comment that earned him another rough glare from his favorite new friend, but Fellavhen had the wherewithal to keep it to herself, this time. I didn’t get what was pissing her off, though. The guy didn’t really have a track record of spewing bullshit. I mean, it might sound like bullshit, to someone who didn’t know magic, but it was usually right, and she was even a mage, too! If he was wrong, she could speak up, and if he wasn’t…
        Don’t bother trying to figure them out, Guard Captain Hendallen muttered at me. Maybe it’s some Dalish thing.
        Or a Dales versus City Elf thing.
        But Solas wasn’t from any city, right? Just some ‘village to the north?’
        Ah, whatever.
        Above your pay grade.
        At least he handed her the book when she scowled long enough at it. And he even asked her for insight when she’d flipped through a few pages. A nice little olive branch, I thought, from one elf to another.
        Whatever she said back to him in their language caused such a bitter glare I didn't really wanna know what it meant.
        We stopped to establish a camp a little further down. Just a few soldiers and a tent or two for now, mostly to keep an eye on the beacon according to the Seeker and observe if it really was as safe as it seemed. If it was, Harding and the others could move in and close the gap between us and the Avvar a little more. Fellavhen was sent to bring the orders back, as the fastest and likely safest of us to travel alone in the swamps. It gave Chuckles a chance to sit down and assess his life choices, at least. I made an attempt to cheer him up and it got the faintest ghost of a smile from the elf, but he deflected away any attempts to ask or understand what was really going on between them.
        He might not even know, Marielle suggested softly.
        Good point, my lady.
        The elf did conjure a small fire for us to warm ourselves around while we waited, at least.
        Don’t ever let anyone tell ya magic doesn’t have its uses.
        The third beacon was where things got interesting. Chuckles didn’t light this one, not right away. Instead, he invited Fellavhen to. Surprised the hell outta me, and I could hear the leather stretch under the Seeker’s armor as her whole body tensed in prep for a fight.
        “Why?” the Knight-Enchanter asked.
        Might have been the most neutral syllable I’d heard out of her yet.
        “Knowledge? Experience?” Solas replied, just as even-handedly. “The rest of the area reacts to it, and I’d like to observe how. Such things are easier to study when activated by another.”
        Looked like it did the trick. After a second or so Fell stepped up to the brazier and raised her palm to it without any more fuss, but she watched Solas first. Waiting for him to give the call, I guessed. The apostate backed away and looked around at the other flames.
        I readied Bianca. The Seeker drew her sword.
        “Go on,” Solas beckoned.
        A few heartbeats passed before Chatterbox moved. I watched her gather magic first, like she was teasing the sconce, or something. Testing it, maybe. Shit, I dunno, whatever mages do to these things. Eventually though, a soft teal-aqua flame erupted, same as when Solas activated the others, and another little glowing mote of something wandered off and sank into the ground.
        And a bright circle formed where it touched, and out popped a Terror demon.
        Just this one it looked like, and Fellavhen’s weight shifted tellingly before she vanished. A flash of silvery light cleaved the monster in half, and she showed right back up at the end of it, little sparkling mists around her boots like the aftereffects of whatever spell let her move that fast. I think this time Cassandra finally figured it out, and we all got a bit of a shock when the splashing undead, still dragging themselves out of the bog to fight us, fell apart on their own.
        The Knight-Enchanter looked at Solas, her magic blade fading as she sheathed its empty hilt. We all turned to him, like he had something important to say.
        “It seems the demons lead these brigades,” he concluded, looking up and around. “The corrupting magic appears to come from them. Fell them, and the wards are restored. The other flames changed color when the Terror was destroyed.” He pointed with the tip of his staff.
        “Well, shit, look at that,” I realized aloud, following his gesture. I hadn’t noticed before, but the blue flames were definitely a lot more greenish now.
        “More evidence that we’re forging a safe path, then,” the Seeker almost asked, loud enough that I almost missed Fellavhen’s short exhale. The elf had turned to the third plaque mounted on this obelisk by the time I glanced at her, though. Almost thoughtlessly she reached out and pulled some Veilfire from the sconce to activate the runes. She held it for Solas to study by as well, but turned away to look ahead, and neither elf said anything to the other about any of it at all.
        I still didn’t get what was going on with them. Did they hate each other or not?
        Just be thankful they’re quiet, Captain Hendallin muttered from somewhere behind my right ear.
        Yeah, she was right. Gift horses and all that.
        “That might be the keep,” the Seeker said, following Fellavhen’s distant gaze to a stone spire cutting the low moon in half. “We’re getting close.”
        Maker’s breath, finally some good news around here.
        Cassandra stopped us to cut some claws from the Terror before we moved on. For research purposes back at Skyhold. Once they were cleaned, Solas volunteered to carry them in his pack, and we set off deeper yet into the Fallow Mire. A couple skirmishes with some ghostly Wraiths and a few more corpses got us to the fourth beacon. Fellavhen waited for Solas to activate it, but he gave her another chance, instead.
        “You mean haven’t figured it all out yet?” she sniped quietly.
        Cassandra’s guttural impatience cut the humid air, but neither elf acknowledged her.
        Solas scowled. “The chance to interact with this sort of magic may be rare. Such opportunities should be taken where they can.”
        I winced, waiting for her to spit some kinda haughty Dalish venom back at him. But she didn’t. She did stare for a long few seconds, mind you. I could practically see the cogs working behind her ink. But just as Solas seemed about to give in and take care of the sconce himself, she stepped up and examined the metal carefully.
        We all watched her feel its edges, kinda like Chuckles did way back at the first one. He was lookin’ a little too hard at her for my liking, but whatever was going on in that smooth dome of his, far be it from me to try to figure him out.
        Looks like murder to me, Jevlan muttered.
        Yeah, it would, to you, wouldn’t it? Bastard.
        Chatterbox struck up a teal-green flame, and the hordes were upon us.
        “Focus the demons,” Solas called. Three of them led their undead armies after us this time, but I had to leave that to the blade-wielders. Like hell I was gonna bother trying to hit those fast, gangly beasts at this range. My concern was a little more with the bows in the background. Making sure none of them snuck a rotting arrow into any of us. I hated that Fellavhen was a blur in the gloom, though. Every bolt I loosed I had to pray she wasn’t just gonna step in the path of it, not that I got too many off before the Terrors were cut down and their gruesome groupies sank back into the mud.
        A pulse of something swept the beacon’s hill, and the fires all flared a little brighter, looking, for once, less eerie and more…I dunno, charmingly green-blue? Merrily?
        Merrily! Like happy little hearths.
        Not the time, Maysie. Not the time.
        “Perhaps that was all of them,” Solas offered. “Our path might now be clear.”
        The Knight Enchanter’s lips parted, but only air came out, loud and impatient.
        “What’s got you so bothered, Chatterbox?” I finally asked.
        “He doesn’t know any of what he’s saying,” Fellavhen practically heaved at me. “He’s just guessing.”
        “Which is more than I hear from you,” the Seeker countered icily.
        The elf narrowed her eyes at Solas’s staff as he wiggled it around, doing something small and flashy with the end.
        “My insight would be no more helpful,” she started in her dark Dalish lilt. “Of course the plaques had nothing to do with the sconces, they were placed much later than the stone carvings and all these warding flames. The curse on this place is ancient, a product of the very earth itself, like the Veilfires guarding against it. It isn’t from some scribbling apostate leaving clues to her own forgetful journals. The energy here accumulates decay, and anyone with the power and knowledge to inflict or exacerbate it deliberately wouldn’t be the same person pasting clues to the backside of a stone slab to remind her what plants she needs to gather for her alchemical shopping.”
        “She could be deliberately guttering out the fires to protect herself and her work,” Solas countered, tapping his staff on the ground a few times as though settling whatever spell he’d cast.
        “Or it could be they went out from the plague that ravaged the place before she got here!”
        “Or both.”
        Fellavhen glared. “We don’t know.”
        Cassandra tried to step in. “All right--”
        “A mage with knowledge and ability would be needed to extinguish this Veilfire,” Solas cut over her. “With all of them ignited and working together, the wards are strong enough to resist natural incursion. Surely you can sense this. This village was likely too small to house even a single person capable of such a feat.”
        “Or it was remote enough to hold several. A mage could have been responsible for the plague itself. Perhaps our paranoid alchemist friend. Perhaps apostates fleeing Templars.”
        Solas regarded her narrowly, head tilting in consideration. “These are all fine theories, lethallan. Volunteer them more often. I would welcome a diverse view.”
        Fellavhen practically bared teeth at him. “Oh, would you? Is that why you laughed me down when I suggested that Veilfire was Tevinter?”
        It seemed to trigger something in Chuckles’s memory. Both hands traced his staff thoughtfully for a moment. Cassandra caught my eye, clearly looking for a way to end things, but I raised a subtle palm. This felt like it was going somewhere, finally. Like these two were working out their differences.
        “If it is an apology you call for, you will have it,” Solas finally conceded. “It was unkind of me to speak so harshly before. I have only recently waded into the waters of modern academia, and I find them muddied with so many conflicting views, with so many prominent scholars proposing theories that flatter only themselves and their countries while ignoring or obscuring older sources, or evidence to the contrary. It is…trying, at times. Forgive me for assuming a poor opinion of one from the Circles who so confidently espouses disputed knowledge as truth.”
        “Hard to think an elf gains much ego from propping up Tevinter,” I commented with a hopefully-disarming smirk.
        “...Yes,” Solas agreed regretfully.
        He and Fellavhen watched each other for a second or two, like she was thinking and he was waiting. But instead of an answer she just exhaled softly and turned Cassandra, then looked ahead to the keep.
        “Is this not enough?” Solas pressed.
        “You also insinuated I’m too stupid to understand your source of insight,” Fellavhen muttered. “If you do not accept mine when you know of its questionability, how can you expect me to accept yours when you reveal nothing at all of it?”
        That charge seemed to take Chuckles a bit longer to address. Long enough that Cass started cutting up more demon bits for study back home.
        “...I would ask you to remind me of this topic when we return to Skyhold,” Solas told Fellavhen eventually. “A more complete discussion may be had in the safety and privacy of its walls.”
        “Awww, and here you two were just getting to the good part,” I sighed. “I was hoping to see somebody kiss and make up.”
        All three of them shot me looks of varying disgust, uncertainty, or bewilderment for that comment. I just smirked and started walking toward the keep, basking in the glory of my own genius.

Chapter Text

Solas

        Patience seemed a rare commodity these days. But this was not an excuse for my poor behavior, and no manner at all in which to learn more about Harellan.
        I thought I’d understood her well enough in Skyhold. Her technique, her abilities, scholastic and theoretical. Circle magic, Chantry magic, like so many of the cowed rebellion in the keep’s walls. A reserved militarism only faintly resembling the dirth'ena enasalin of old. In her many hours of sparring practice I’d only seen mirrors of Madame de Fer -- student, as master, driving captured spirits like oxen under yoke. But out here, cutting down real enemies with tight grace, with crisp intuition, her movements and style took on a distinctly Elvhen flair. When casting spells she touched the Fade with something resembling reverence, never drawing more than necessary, leaving no wasted power, no ambient trace. But more remarkable still was her true relationship with her blade, and the spirit bound to its hilt. Just as Harellan herself seemed to abandon her Skyhold rote in the face of a true threat, the spirit that fought alongside her did not do so through bidding or demand but by choice, reacting to and enhancing the intent of the woman guiding its path.
        There was much more to her than met the eye. And I could ill-afford to lose composure when seeking answers.
        I and the others pressed on with little discussion. I regretted that my disagreements with Harellan seemed to take center stage throughout our journey, but all had been done to make reparations, for now. Hargrave Keep, when we came upon it, had seen better days. Entire swaths of it lay in ruins a great distance from what remained. The Veil was even thinner here than the swamps themselves, spirits no doubt tracing the histories of the great battles that had cracked its foundation, felled its stoneworks, torn walls and broken chains and thrown them into the mire, along with the men and women defending and assaulting them over the ages.
        To dream here would no doubt be fascinating. Though, finding a safe place for my waking body might prove unusually challenging.
        A rusted portcullis emerged from the rainy mists in the distance. Open. Inviting. The Avvar were expecting visitors, of course. But between us and the inner courtyard of the Keep were several yards of gathered undead, fallen soldiers puppeted by frightened wisps pressed across the Veil by the greater spirits filling the Fade, as though the Fallow Mire itself had one final test to administer to unwilling pilgrims.
        “So many…” Seeker Pentaghast nearly whispered, stopping to doubtless assess the daunting task before us.
        “The Veil here is exceptionally thin,” I replied, “and I suspect that cutting down our foes will not be enough. They will not stay dead long, and more will join their ranks.”
        I met her gaze. “I suggest we attempt to forge ourselves a quick route, Seeker. They are not faster than we, and perhaps the Avvar have some manner of repelling those we leave behind. If they were a threat to the keep, it would not remain open and waiting for us.”
        She nodded, convinced. Varric grumbled audibly at the idea.
        “Yeah, sure, let’s all run. Easy for you to say.”
        “We would not leave you behind,” the Seeker swore.
        “Oh, don’t worry about me, I’ll be just fine,” the dwarf added with forced cheer.
        “I will protect us as we push through,” I promised them both.
        Harellan eyed the piles of crumbled stone and slime-covered walls lining the way forward. “Then I will draw them away.” She started off to her left, pointing her staff behind her. “Take a wide path.”
        Before I could protest, the great coil of her power began to stir once more. That thing I had encountered in her cell in the dungeons reawoke, and the Veil trembled in her wake.
        Rocks fizzled where she began to climb, a trail of charred hand- and bootprints likely ensuring that she did not slip on the slick surfaces.
        “Should we let her?” the Seeker asked.
        “While I dislike the idea of leaving an ally behind, the Knight-Enchanter does not seem the sacrificial type,” I appraised. She leapt from a crumbling pile to a taller, stabler section of wall and continued up its sloping rampart, steady and methodical. Swirls of power gathered around her, a beckoning call to reanimated hordes. “Her comfort around the undead suggests a familiarity and capability I would not doubt. And her prowess in battle leaves little fear for her safety.”
        I glanced at the path ahead. As expected, the corpses were responding to the subtle summons, beginning their shambling approach. But their eyes were not on us. Harellan dragged them away like moths to a torch. Concentrating them along one side of the narrow stones, and into the water around her.
        I cast three Barriers around the rest of us, and started off. “If we are to take advantage of the opportunity we have been afforded, I suggest we do so now.”
        With a reluctant nod Seeker Pentaghast followed quickly, then pushed ahead, sword and shield prepared for any stray foes.
        “Yeah, I really don’t like this,” Varric muttered, jogging after as best he could.
        Nor do I, Child of Stone, I agreed tacitly, herding him before me.
        Nor do I.
        Avvar archers perched on makeshift wooden ramparts and greeted us with drawn bows as we stepped through the gates and into the castle.
        “Does the Herald stand among you?”
        Seeker Pentaghast drew a breath. “The Herald is not--”
        I thickened our Barriers, and not a moment too soon, as two arrows clashed against the Seeker’s and mine. Bianca struck true between the eyes of the left sentry, and I froze the other where she stood. It was not my intention to kill, but Varric had no such qualms, and she too was felled with a second bolt.
        “I suppose that eliminates a peaceful resolution,” I lamented, looking around. Up an incline opposite the entrance to the courtyard, another, closed gate awaited.
        “We are not here to make friends, Solas,” the Seeker reminded me, pressing further into the keep with cautious eyes.
        Yes. Of course. Another casualty of Inquisitor Trevelyan’s clumsy disinterest in diplomacy.
        No obvious mechanisms to open the path forward presented themselves on or about the gate. Three more Avvar came thundering down the scaffolding and were cut down after a short scuffle. Seeker Pentaghast took a worrying blow to the shoulder and allowed me to inspect it, but it seemed that the Avvar’s blade did not cut through her armor. No injury is ideal, but it was good that skin remained unbroken. Open wounds in this place would be vulnerable to infection and decay.
        “Perhaps the ramparts hold a clue,” I suggested, tracing the path our attackers had taken to meet us at ground level.
        Sure enough, a lever awaited. And while pulling it did open the portcullis behind us, it also began to close the one in front.
        Varric shifted noisily and said a variant of what I hoped we were all thinking.
        “Uh…We waiting for Chatterbox?”
        The Seeker tried to force the lever back up, but it seemed the mechanism could not be interrupted until it had finished. To everyone’s surprise, a blue streak that seemed more magic than elf skidded under the last few feet of spikes just before they sank into the soft earth, and Harellan Fellavhen staggered out of the spell, took a knee and one palm, then picked herself back up.
        “Nice timing, kid!” Varric practically celebrated. His cheer was short-lived, however. “Are you okay?”
        She was clutching her staff arm tightly, and much of her was coated in a layer of undead effluvium. We hastened to join her, and she uncovered a wide gash in her cloth gauntlet, and the small mess of blood and ichor beneath.
        “The wounds are not deep, but they are filthy, and require treatment,” she informed us, correctly. The Knight-Enchanter raised her eyes to Seeker Pentaghast, the latter wrinkling her nose at the stench. “I request leave to return to camp. If left untended, they will become infectious and sickening.”
        They seemed already well on their way there. I dried a stone ledge nearby and set my traveler’s pack on it.
        “If you would trust me, I have medicine,” I promised her, extracting a bundle of herbs for exactly this contingency. I’d had them prepared the moment I’d accepted the invitation to resolve the Fallow Mire’s hostage problem, and I was rather pleased we’d made it this far before needing any.
        The skepticism that promptly draped Mythal’s inked boughs was expected, but Harellan was kind enough to wait until I’d showed her my offering before rendering judgment.
        A flash of understanding widened pale eyes before suspicion narrowed them again.
        “You recognize them.”
        “These are Dalish herbs,” she replied darkly.
        “They are Elvhen herbs,” I corrected.
        Her lips thinned disappointingly.
        “No no, what did I say, you two?” Varric interrupted, closing the gap to peer at us. “This is important stuff, we need to know if Fell’s gonna be okay.”
        “I will be fine, thanks to Solas,” the woman replied stiffly, leaning her staff against the stone nearby to tug her gauntlet off finger by finger. Her hand slipped free with a wet squelch, and she conjured a ring of clear water to run the length of her arm, elbow to nails, and displace the browns and blacks staining her skin.
        Four gouges of varying depth were left behind, and promptly resumed bleeding. I spotted a marring ring of scars around her wrist as well, raw and slightly inflamed and not quite as healed as I’d assumed. I did not forget the bandages she’d been seen in for days after her release.
        She called forth more water for me, though I was quite capable as well. Together we mixed a salve for her wounds, and she allowed me to apply it without a flinch. The grassy serum darkened as it drew toxins from her veins. With a few spells I closed the rends until only tender pink lines remained.
        Her eyes lifted from the wounds to mine. “You’re a healer.”
        “I’ve picked up the basics, in my travels.”
        “And is that where you learned of this treatment? ‘In your travels’?”
        Derision dripped from her tone, but I was prepared. “I have met and exchanged knowledge with several Dalish clans. Those who were willing to learn, also taught me much.”
        No answer. Harellan made an attempt to clean her damaged gauntlet and slipped it back on, then picked up her staff and looked to the Seeker. I wrapped up the rest of the herbs and packed them away as well.
        Varric leaned around the Knight-Enchanter to peek at her arm. “Gonna be all right, then?”
        “Yes. Ma serannas, Solas.”
        You’re very welcome, da’len.
        “Great. And since no one else is gonna bother saying it, thanks for taking care of the nasties for us,” Varric added. “Sorry we almost shut you out there with them.”
        Elf and dwarf exchanged a glance. Varric flashed her a wide, toothy smirk.
        Harellan gave a small nod. And, I spotted, a faint smile of her own.
        I could find no fault with the dwarf’s talent for lightening the mood.
        His gentle slap on the small of her back pulsed through her wiry frame as he passed.
        “Alright, let’s get going, then.”
        The path rose from here, weedy cobbles leading from one set of stone stairs to another. At the top, surrounded by narrow roofless walls in what had clearly once been a grand throne room, awaited our final foe, a bear of a man in furs and horned helm. Scattered kinsmen milled about, but all stopped to draw their weapons upon approach.
        “Where is the Herald of Andraste?!” the barbarian bellowed the moment the Seeker came into view. “I was promised a duel!”
        “You were promised nothing,” Cassandra countered, already assessing threats. “Where are our men?”
        “You’ll get your men when I get my duel! I am the Hand of Korth himself, and I will not be denied!”
        The Seeker readied her sword and shield. Varric unslung Bianca. I gathered the Fade.
        No less than five Avvar archers flanking the Hand of Korth himself nocked an arrow and drew their bows. Doubtless more hid in other crevices and atop the ledges that now surrounded us.
        The dwarf’s trepidation mirrored my own.
        “Uh, Seeker…”
        Her grip shifted restlessly on her sword. I could tell she was trying to calculate how best to close the gap, without turning herself, any of us, or our men nearby who may still be alive into feathered Avvar decorations. My barriers would only stave off so many of their missiles. Several glances were exchanged with Harellan, clearly the fastest of us and likeliest to open the battle bloodlessly. Cassandra stared as though willing her to do something, but instead of drawing her blade or readying magic in any discernible manner, the Knight-Enchanter took the moment’s tension to step forward, unarmed and unthreatening.
        “Hand of Korth,” she called in her Dalish lilt, with a volume that belied her size and echoed from the open walls. “Andraste speaks through us all. Her Herald will not entertain just any challenger the wind and the waves and mountains and the snows throw at him. Face his champion first, face me, and prove that Korth is worthy to stand against the Maker himself.”
        At my side, the Seeker’s lips parted.
        “And who are you, ‘champion’ of the Herald?” the Avvar bellowed. “Are you a speaker for your god?”
        “I am.” Her unflinching fearlessness was, admittedly, inspiring. “And I will face you alone.” She drew her blade, its glimmering edge sending a ripple of uncertainty through every Avvar currently bristling at us, and pointed it up the few stairs toward the ruined throne and the barbarian standing before it. “Kill me, and you will send a message to the Herald himself that your threat is real. Or you may name a champion of your own if you fear an elf with a stick and some fire.”
        Quite the gambit. And the bait was eagerly swallowed. With a wave of his hand the Avvar disarmed his archers. The warriors who stood at the base of the stairs parted as he descended behind them, hefting a battle axe that likely weighed more than Harellan and her armor combined.
        “Step forth then, Champion of the Herald, and face the Hand of Korth.”
        Harellan crossed the open stone between us and him. The closer she drew, the taller and broader he seemed by comparison.
        “This is a baaad idea,” Varric sing-songed in a low mutter, watching her walk off.
        “We cannot face them all,” Cassandra replied grimly, clearly unhappy but unable to propose a better solution. Both human and dwarf looked to me, but I had no better advice. Twice in fifteen minutes the Knight-Enchanter had now volunteered herself to face danger in our stead.
        Either she had a hero’s complex I did not detect before, or else a martyr’s.
        The battle began with an Avvar shout. The barbarian dropped his axe with a ringing clang to the stone on which Harellan had been standing moments before. She reappeared behind him, lashing out with a low slash to the meaty ankle.
        Her glimmering blade splashed around his furred boot as though made of water.
        Still the Avvar flinched back as though struck, but only in pure reflex. When he realized he wasn’t hurt, he bellowed out a laugh.
        “Is this the magic of your gods?! Korth protects his Hand!”
        And he swung at her again, or where she’d just been. I caught another watery slash painting his forearm as she passed.
        She wasn’t seeking to injure him.
        Was she measuring his capabilities?
        The Knight Enchanter danced around her foe in this manner for quite some time, dodging wide slow swings and tagging her prey ineffectually, while the barbarian became more and more emboldened with each deadly attack that failed. On occasion they clashed directly, her sword catching his axe before it could swing, her staff pinning it after the bulk of its arc was through. Her boot stomped the flat of its blade once, nearly wrenching the grip from the barbarian’s hands, but when he readjusted she leapt from it, up to his shoulder to perch like Falon’Din the Owl himself and splash a cut right through the Avvar’s thick neck, then dropped to the stone as he turned to knock her away.
        “She is toying with him,” the Seeker half-whispered, bewildered at the performance. “Why?”
        “Look around you,” I invited just as quietly. “The Hand of Korth may think himself blessed, but his men are less convinced.”
        Their gazes followed my own. Half or more of the painted tribesmen around us were exchanging uncertain glances, disappointed or otherwise disheartened. And it seemed that Harellan's embarrassment of their leader was beginning to bear fruit within the conflict itself. The barbarian was slowing, tiring, his breaths coming with more and more labor to them as he swung and missed and swung again. He bellowed once more with rage and shouted insults at this nimble elf to strike true and stop fleeing the bite of the Gift of the Mountain-Father.
        And he hefted his chipped and dented war axe, and aimed another devastating blow.
        Harellan's power uncoiled like a great snake as she stood her ground to receive it.
        A blinding barrier erupted between the axe and her head. It enveloped her completely as a thunderous crack split the stone beneath her feet. The impact jarred even the Hand of Korth himself, and the Knight-Enchanter dissolved her defenses and drove her shoulder and all of her weight just below his painted ribs. She knocked the warrior up and off his feet and onto his back, another crack resounding as his skull bounced off unyielding rock, and there he lay dazed and panting as she crouched on his great, heaving chest.
        Her magic blade pressed itself beneath his jaw, no longer fluid but sharp enough to drive his head up and away from its deadly glow. Not a breath was taken by any of his tribesman as the moment lingered, a tableau stretched for even the slowest of the mountain-people to realize and understand its gravity.
        “Do it,” the felled Hand hissed. “Or are you a coward?”
        If the insult affected her, our Knight-Enchanter gave no indication. She continued to crouch where she was, balancing perfectly on the toes of her boots as she swayed up and down and up again.
        “Andraste is a prophet of mercy,” the elf began, dropping Cassandra’s jaw a second time. “She forgives those who speak against her, and welcomes them back into the light. Will you release our men peacefully, Hand of Korth?” she asked, setting the haft of her staff between his splayed legs, “or will I end the bloodline of the tribe’s chief right here?”
        Though Varric and I have had our differences, and the dwarf’s brand of eloquence often diverged from my own, I found myself just then, in this very rare occasion, agreeing with him in both sentiment and expression when he gave a low, nervous whistle and a very quiet, marveling…
        “...Shit.”

Chapter Text

Harellan

        Extracting the Fallow Mire from my armor was taking a lot longer than I’d hoped it would. Thankfully nothing more was expected of me, and I only half-listened to Cassandra brief Scout Harding on our successes while I sat on the edge of a supply crate and sponged at my boots and cuffs.
        “Y’know I tend to think of magic as one giant hassle,” Varric commented beside me, Bianca in pieces in his lap, “but some days, I kinda wish I had some.” He nodded at the water flowing between my fingers and the cloth I was trying to work browning stains out of. “I could probably use something like that.”
        It was another reason to smile, at least. I was beginning to like the dwarf. Nothing about me seemed to bother him, unlike most everyone else at Skyhold. He just sort of accepted what I was, much the same as Madame de Fer. It was refreshing, to feel as though I wasn’t actively bothering someone with my proximity.
        Although most of the soldiers were more worried about our new Avvar friend. After the chieftain’s son released our hostages, an older tribesman approached, introduced himself as Sky-Watcher Amund, a shaman of their mountain gods, and asked about the Herald. Cassandra had confirmed that yes, Inquisitor Trevelyan had closed the Breach and yes, he could seal smaller rifts. A sight I had yet to see. The shaman walked with us and the other soldiers, and, while he and the Seeker spoke, the Avvar who might have otherwise opposed our retreat seemed to respect and defer to him. When we arrived at camp, Amund offered his services to the Inquisition. Whatever good they would do, Cassandra seemed comfortable accepting more volunteers from strange backgrounds.
        As one who fit that description myself, I could not rightly mind his presence.
        Dinner consisted of some portly local beast called a bogfisher, an animal so large several soldiers had to work together to kill it, haul it back, and attempt to slice it up. Not many of them seemed accustomed to butchery in the wilds, so I made myself useful carving flesh from bone and passing large cuts of meat to those who knew how to cook it, or were willing to try. It had a watery, salty consistency that wrinkled plenty of noses, but meat was meat and I’ve never had the luxury of picky eating. Some local mushrooms paired rather well once I realized what they were, though few were willing to trust a Dalish elf who couldn’t even name the spore cap she was dicing over her own roast.
        But Varric gave it a try, and so did Solas, both of whom agreed it was an improvement.
        The Seeker made a point to sit beside me on the wagons back to Skyhold. She was quiet for a time, possibly resting from the unpleasantness of it all. But as we left the murk of the Fallow Mire and remembered what the sun looked like, low on the horizon now and spilling golden dusk across the landscape, she raised what was on her mind.
        “Forgive me if I offend, but…I did not realize you were an Andrastian.” I could feel her eyes as I watched Thedas bump and rumble by. “I thought all the Dalish…”
        Across the cart, Solas glanced our way. He looked off into the distance fairly quickly, but still seemed to be listening.
        “I’ve spent many years in the Circle, Seeker,” I replied, watching him more than the mountains. “Of course I converted.”
        She nodded uncertainly, looking up at my vallaslin. “Of course…”
        I traced the upper edge of my cheek, where I knew part of it began. “This cannot be removed. But it can be renounced.”
        “I…never thought one who did not grow up with the faith could speak so passionately of Andraste,” the Seeker finally confessed. “You must be honored to fight for her Herald.”
        “Greatly.”
        Another glance from Solas. This time, I met his gaze and held it.
        “You renounced the Protector?” he asked in that soft, beautiful Elvhen I hated so much.
        “‘Belief and lies’,” I quoted back, with a nod to ease the Seeker’s suspicions.
        Understanding came with a subtlety I appreciated. The words were shorthand for an elven expression whose reach I did not know outside Dalish clans.
        Belief and lies, in equal tone, convince.
        Of course I had not abandoned Mythal. I had embodied her with every step taken in that gods-forsaken swamp. But the Chantry did not tolerate Dalish gods, and the templars had not been not kind when I’d slipped. I knew the chants. I’d learned the faith of the Maker. Of course I could speak for their god, and his prophet, with passable fervor. It was in my name, flat ear. Harellan. The deceiver. The trickster. The liar. And I had been refining and rehearsing that performance ever since the Seeker had told us her “plan.”
        Truthfully, I could not believe it had gone so well. That the others simply allowed me to speak, that the Avvar did not attempt to strike me down for bluster or blasphemy. That no revenge was demanded from their tribesmen for my grave insults to their gods.
        And that I had left the barbarians alive.
        I knew that not all the Avvar had survived contact with the Inquisition. I’d seen the bodies in the courtyard. More food for the swamps, more soldiers to reanimate and defend the marshes and bogs from all that tried too hard to tame them.
        But it was not by my hand that they’d died, and this was enough for me.
        The Seeker pressed me on faith and the Chantry, quickening the journey back to Skyhold. She asked what I thought of the Herald, of his choices, of the conscription of mages and the rumor that he was considering walking the path of the templar himself. What I did not know I confessed my ignorance of, and what I did know, I praised the Inquisition for doing. Yes, it was good to leash the mages again. Our people are dangerous without oversight, and the instability of the Veil did not make magic or mages safer. I knew little of the Herald himself, beyond my personal experience with him and his choices, and I did not mention at all the dungeons or the wounds that still stung beneath rough gloves, the soreness in my tired joints. No, I had not heard he might walk the path of the templar, what did this entail? Asking her a question opened the floodgates, and I was able to listen and gather information with little further encouragement. Lyrium, religion, control, brotherhood. On and on she went. What worried her and how greatly she approved. Her visions of the Chantry and the future of Andrastianism. She started to say something about Commander Cullen as well, but stopped herself short, and I drew no attention to the stumbling block as she spoke around it.
        I did not expect Seeker Pentaghast to be so conversational. But her faith seemed to mean a great deal to her, and the Dalish adage rang truer than I’d ever thought possible. I suspected, as well, that she was also simply passing the time, and had discovered what she thought was a kindred spirit -- a fellow “warrior of the cloth,” so-to-speak -- in a world of broken chaos.
        As with Varric, I began to find her enjoyable.
        Every now and then Solas tossed out a question in Elvhen, testing my lies, probing the depths of deceit. To him I spoke some truths, quick quips the Seeker would not suspect. He was requesting clarification, I told her, when she asked. Perhaps a city elf knew little of Andraste.
        “He is not from an alienage,” Cassandra revealed to me, turning the apostate’s head and uncrossing his arms. She addressed him with a nod. “You said that you hailed from the north.”
        “So I do.”
        I waited for more, but he volunteered nothing.
        “‘The north’?”
        “A small village.”
        More staring. Expectations unanswered.
        “An elvhen village? A quickling village?” I pressed. “Fereldan? Nevarra? Rivain?”
        “Will you reveal to them the hunting grounds of the Fellavhen clan?” the apostate countered swiftly. “How near they may be in these times of war and conquest?”
        …Ah.
        That dropped my gaze. I gave an understanding nod. No, I would not say, if asked. To reveal my clan’s home would invite unwanted scrutiny, and cast their safety into question. A village, of course, was less hideable. But “the north” was a large stretch of the continent, and perhaps he too had family to protect.
        Night fell and Skyhold awaited, as did a handful of answers promised by the apostate, but not before a change of clothing and a bath. Madame de Fer sent for me in the middle of a good soak, interrupting my evening plans. Silks it was, then, back into her lavenders and grays, and a touch of some arboreal perfume she’d procured the other day so I could avoid “stinking like the other soldiers on the training grounds, dear.”
        But it reminded me so much of home I couldn’t tell if she knew where my clan came from, or if she’d just made a shockingly accurate guess about what she thought Dalish elves should smell like.
        “Enchanter,” I greeted with a bow. Vivienne reclined on the balcony above the entrance, watching the inner workings of the Inquisition bustle about. The starry mountain sky glimmered behind her through the great window to the courtyard as she dismissed the page sent to fetch me and gestured to an open seat.
        “Fellavhen. Welcome home. Your first Inquisition sojourn, and you’re still in one piece, darling. Not that I expected less…”
        I settled in, and politely refused a glass of wine. I was not expected to drink, but the offer would have been rude to withhold.
        “And how were the swamps?”
        “Quite a change of scenery, Madame,” I replied, studying the ground floor. I knew the Enchanter wanted to be seen with her pet. This angle seemed sufficient. My face and silhouette tended to be unmistakable, even from a distance.
        “I’ve heard the news. A successful venture. Our men, bravely rescued, and you, playing a starling role, according to our dear Seeker’s reports…”
        “As peaceful a resolution as I could have hoped for.”
        Vivienne gave a quiet laugh over the rim of her glass, eyeing me up and down. “I hear tell not all was peaceful…”
        My first thoughts were on the few Avvar casualties, but she couldn’t mean that.
        “...You and Solas?” she prompted, a touch disappointed in my slowness. “There are whispers of an elven clash, darling.”
        An elven clash? Just how thorough were those reports? I was beginning to regret paying closer attention to the grumblings of the men over the Inquisitor’s failure to appear for a rescue than whatever the Seeker had been sharing with Scout Harding.
        “We have some differences of opinion, Enchanter,” I confirmed. “The thoughtless idlings of an apostate against the teachings of the Circle.”
        “And the Circle prevailed?”
        A glance away was all the answer I needed to give.
        “You failed to represent us,” Vivienne guessed icily.
        “It was less my knowledge than my station.” I realized all of a sudden I could use a glass of water. Something to toy with, to sip from, as she did. “Solas is an established figure of the Inquisition. My importance will grow in tandem with my list of accomplishments.”
        “Truth ought to stand on its own legs, darling.”
        So it ought to. And yet rarely did it.
        I admitted inadequacy, when pressed. She wanted to hear the confession from my lips. Somehow the words tasted less bitter for her than they had in front of him. In front of all of them, out there, in the Fallow Mire, confronted with strange magic and unknown wards.
        With the First Enchanter, it was all a performance. A toll to pay, a reminder of my place. But out there I was still earning my keep, seeking to impress, to gain trust and prove reliability. Any stumbling was less forgivable.
        In a sense.
        “What of your opinions of him?”
        “Of Solas?”
        Who else? said her flat glare, sharper than any words could have. But what did she want to know? Had I not told her enough? An apostate, an unfounded theoretician, a man whose prior contributions clearly lent some sort of credence to his words that I failed to see. What did my opinions matter to Vivienne? What was she really asking?
        “I’m afraid I don’t know enough about him.”
        “What has he told you?”
        “Little.”
        Still, the First Enchanter waited impatiently.
        “I know only that he is neither from the clans nor the alienages,” I finally offered. “He comes from somewhere else, as does his knowledge.”
        “And what do you think of him personally?”
        Personally?
        Was she worried about something more elven than a clash between us?
        “I think very little of him,” I promised, with appropriate venom.
        She tutted at my answer.
        “He clearly thinks something of you, Fellavhen,” Vivienne revealed over another pointed sip of wine. “Or haven’t you noticed him skulking about the shadows of the training grounds?”
        Skulking about…?
        No. No I hadn’t.
        “...Many eyes follow me, Madame de Fer,” I conceded, disquieted.
        She remained nonplussed. “Welcome to The Game, darling. I recall you detest disappointing your little Vhenan’Then, don’t you? Pay attention not just to the number of eyes pointed your way, but to who’s looking through them, next time.”
        I would. And she was right. Such clumsy oversight was bound to cause dissonance.
        Her head tilted tellingly toward the bannister. I glanced over its edge to see Solas there, face upturned, by the door to the Rotunda. He wasn’t the only one watching, but his was the only gaze that did not turn away when I met it.
        “Is he expecting you, darling? He’s been standing there for quite some time.”
        He was?
        “He is.”
        A flare of interest painted Vivienne’s crisp face. “Oh? Well. Far be it from me to keep him waiting…” Her scrutiny narrowed. “...Over?”
        “I disputed the source of his intuition and magical guesswork earlier. He promised a private discussion when we’d returned to Skyhold.”
        “A private discussion…”
        I crossed my knees restlessly. “I assure you, his interest is not personal. And it’s possibly not even academic. I suspect it’s a matter of pride, Madame.” I hadn’t forgotten his distaste for me in the dungeons. “The wild freedom of apostasy against the careful, measured progress of the Circle.”
        “Well.” Vivienne finished her wine, and accepted my offer to pour her another. “Be sure that yours is the side that wins, this time.”
        “You have my word, Madame de Fer.”
        We watched Solas quietly return to the Rotunda, but despite her theater about not keeping him waiting, Vivienne retained me for some minutes longer, warning me against his opinions of the Fade and his rather lax views on demons. It was quite the tell, and one I wished she’d opened with; it would have saved us both a lot of time. Never one to miss a moment to remind me that spirits were not partners but tools to be used, she happily subjected me to a lecture she’d likely had prepared for quite a while. My practical performance on the grounds at Skyhold was all well and good, according to her, but the reports detailing my so-called “imaginative” duel with the Avvar spilled more truth than I cared to admit.
        “You’ve been away from the Circle for over a year now, dear,” she finished tersely. “Don’t slip back into old habits.”
        Old habits.
        Elven habits, she meant. The roots of my abilities, mastered long before I’d ever set foot in a Circle. Madame de Fer, from the moment she’d spotted my talent, had spent considerable effort over the years re-educating me on the true techniques of modern Chantry Knight-Enchanters. Honing me into the masterful weapon she knew I could be. Chipping away at the edges of Dalish techniques.
        “I will endeavor to recall your lessons,” I replied distractedly.
        The moment it was off my tongue, I wished I could take it back, or at least have said it differently.
        Vivienne stiffened as though chilled, her face freezing into an affronted mask.
        “You would patronize me, Fellavhen?” Ice laced her tone. I could feel her power curl around my boots, wintry teeth sinking needles through soft leather. I dared not resist.
        “Of course not, First Enchanter,” came the quick oath, deference and nerves playing fretfully with my gaze. “I beg forgiveness. It has been a tiresome day. And I am long out of practice.”
        Practice of what, battle? The Game? It didn’t matter. What did matter was Vivienne’s unimpressed exhale and the crisp withdrawal of her creeping brumal magic. Feeling would take a few minutes to return to my tingling toes.
        “Mind your tone, darling,” she warned darkly. “You play on the grandest stage yet. I’ll not suffer poor treatment, if you intend to keep my favor in this burgeoning Inquisition.”
        “Understood, Madame.”
        She sat back and swirled her wine. Frost glimmered patterns across the glass.
        “Go. Pay the apostate a visit, if you must. Turn that flippant disrespect on him.”
        It was as kind of a dismissal as I was going to get, and likely more than she thought I deserved. I rose and bowed in silent gratitude, waiting at least until she waved me off to straighten and turn. I knew the mistake would not cost me everything, but I did not yet know how thin a knife’s edge she demanded I dance upon, here.
        How tapered the dagger’s point.

Chapter Text

Solas

        Harellan brought with her a sedate peace to the rotunda. She faced the wall, contemplating the great murals painting the ancient stone. Torchlight reflected in the silk weave of her clothing, subtle variance in flame edging her pale hair with slivers of orange and gold. Memories of a forest curled through the air, twirling on the occasional drafts from the doorways. No trace of the southern swamps clung to any part of her. I’d expect no less from one who took audience with First Enchanter Vivienne.
        “She is close to knowing the old song,” Cole said, crouching on an edge of the table I’d cleared for him and watching her with me.
        “Closer than many,” I agreed.
        Her ear twitched whenever I spoke, but Cole gathered the words away.
        “She sings, but it’s off. Melody, but no beat. Cadence out of tune. A pitch too high, a pitch too low. Rhymes, rhythm, reason, writhing in rayless dark, reaching for radiance, far away…”
        The spirit tilted his head.
        “Why is she angry? You don’t think she is stupid.”
        I considered how best to phrase the answer, but he pulled truth from me faster than I could from myself.
        “She makes you young,” he read. “You said it wrong. Quick, quipping, tripping tongues, boasts and pride…A competition, or maybe a game to play? But she doesn’t know the rules. Your laugh was the shape of an old thing. A sharp thing.”
        Boasts and pride.
        “Much of her reminds me of that which I would rather not consider.”
        “She is almost right,” he insisted. “But she does not believe it. New ways cloud the old, a cloak of circles, canines coursing at the copse. Cracks in confidence, crumbling away…”
        It was wrong of me to keep him here, but he had come to visit not long after my return, attracted, no doubt, by the state of my mind following the events of the Fallow Mire. And as long as it had taken her to join us, I had been glad for his presence.
        “So many things she thinks you are, you are not.” He peered at me under his hat. “So many things she thinks you’re not, you are.”
        “We both struggle with misjudgment,” I agreed again, watching her study the walls. Considering how much to tell her. Wondering how she might react.
        “I like her friend,” Cole added, still looking at me. “He keeps tapping her on the shoulder, trying to tell her I’m here.”
        “Then perhaps you should introduce yourself,” I invited with a smile and a small gesture.
        That, at least, would settle my conscience. It would feel less underhanded if she knew he was reaching so deeply inside her.
        The spirit clambered off my desk and straightened up. Harellan turned quickly. The serenity in her aura evaporated when she realized she was not alone.
        “Hello!” Cole greeted brightly.
        “Beg pardon,” she answered immediately. Her eyes darted between us. “I did not know you were with company, Solas.”
        “I’m not company, I’m Cole!”
        She faltered, suspicious. Always suspicious. As she rightly should be.
        The spirit frowned at me. “No she shouldn’t. You’re trying to be nice.”
        Harellan hesitated a moment longer, then gave a small bow and looked toward the back entrance, and the stairs it led to. “The hour grows late, and I’ve clearly interrupted something. I will return at a--”
        “No, don’t go!” Cole half-declared, suddenly worried. “It will make everything harder! I’m sorry. Please stay. Solas wants you to stay.”
        He looked to me for guidance. I stepped around him to take control of the situation.
        “Harellan.” That name, so sour on the tongue. “I don’t expect that you two have met, but have you heard of Cole at all? He is a spirit; on occasion the soldiers speculate about him…”
        If and when they remember.
        “A spirit?”
        Cole stepped forward. “Like Vhenan’Then!” A pause, to think. “Well…sort of like him. Not…really at all like him…”
        The name paused us both in turn. Vhenan’Then?
        The Woken Heart?
        “Who?” Harellan asked neutrally.
        “The spirit in your blade.”
        Ah.
        Her narrow eyes darted from him to me and back. “...You’ve spoken with Madame de Fer.”
        Cole shifted uncomfortably. This was always the part he struggled with. So unpracticed with lengthy interactions. But he was trying to learn. “No. I heard it from you. Out on the training grounds. You called to him. Heart, harrowed, harnessed, handled with hostility and regret, ridden too hard. Blow upon blow. You apologized.”
        Apologized?
        Cole turned to me. “For the way she treats him when she trains. She has to. She has to do those things, or else—"
        “Who are you?” Harellan demanded, a full scowl gathering her vallaslin. “Where has all of this come from? Are you both spying on me?”
        “It comes from inside you,” I endeavored to explain. “As a spirit, Cole can sense things others cannot.”
        Silence. Unreadable silence. Even Cole made no effort to interpret it.
        But he did shake his head after a moment. “No, I haven’t merged with anyone. I just…am. I am me. I am Cole. There is no one else here.”
        More silence. Cole glanced nervously in my direction. “You should talk. She wants to hear it from you. She won’t believe you, but she doesn’t believe me either…”
        A difficult situation. One that, perhaps, ought to have been avoided altogether. But Harellan would have met Cole eventually, and I would much prefer to be there, whatever form the introductions took. The woman was clearly in the grips of her Orlesian mentor and what remained of the Circle, and she was unlikely to take kindly to the concept of a self-manifested spirit wandering Skyhold freely.
        Though truthfully, I had little ability to predict her reactions. Too much about her I did not know. And what I did know was likely more than half deception, and even which half that was remained indeterminate.
        It was unfair, to use Cole as I was. But greater concerns weighed heavily on my mind, and the sooner I could detangle her, the sooner I could set aside this distraction and return focus to my goals. I was not above masquerading interest as attempts to assist, particularly when the spirit knew how she troubled me and sought to help in any way he could.
        Explaining him to her took less time than I’d predicted. What sort of spirit he was, how he’d come to the Inquisition, the abilities we knew about and the manner in which they were applied. Cole himself offered several of his best attempts at clarity where he could, with minimal wandering and the occasional backpedaling struggle. While Harellan did distrust us at first, her questions over time became less skeptical and more pointed. She did not believe that a spirit could simply manifest a body without possession, but she seemed pleasantly open to the idea of a benevolent partnership between two beings working as one. Mentions of her own blade spirit, this Vhenan’Then of hers, drew ire, however, and while they were useful comparisons, Cole learned quickly to avoid them.
        "It shames her," he explained before I could stop him. "She does not know what is right, here. What is safe. Uncertain unknowns, unwelcome, upsetting unprepared understanding—"
        "Is he like this with everyone?" Harellan asked.
        "Some more than others, yes," I told her.
        "And how do 'some' take his intrusive 'assistance'?"
        "Not well," Cole admitted. "They do better when they forget."
        "And will I forget?"
        Cole shook his head. "Not unless you want to."
        "I do not."
        Her stare was so cold, so guarded. She accepted Cole's presence, but she did not welcome him. For a woman hiding so much, his indiscretion must no doubt be a threat.
        And the spirit knew this, too. His discomfort was obvious, and it was given no solace by that great coil of power seething quietly at him with eyes that just barely broached the surface of the glassy lake Harellan’s aura had become.
        "If you would excuse us, Cole, I would speak with the Knight-Enchanter in private," I requested.
        The spirit nodded and backed away, turning to escape and likely grateful for it. But before he left, he paused at my side, thinking, or else reading something in one or both of us.
        "She is thirsty," he mumbled in my ear, looking at the pitcher of water on the table. "She wants you to offer her a drink."
        He glanced also at Harellan, and whatever transpired between them caused her to look to the pitcher as well and thoughtlessly wet her lips.
        And with that, he was gone.
        The woman eyed the space where he’d been and crossed a few steps to look around me at the door he didn’t take.
        “...So is he your responsibility?” she asked quietly.
        “In what sense?” I picked up the pitcher and topped off my glass, and poured a second as well. “I look after him and check in on him. He comes to me for guidance and understanding when things about our world confuse or challenge.”
        It seemed to satisfy her.
        “But I do not own him,” I added, for clarity. “He is responsible for himself. His actions and words are his own. He is not bound to my will, nor any mage here.”
        “He’s bound to Cole.”
        I did not belabor the point.
        “Are they the source of your ‘ungraspable techniques’?” she continued. “A spirit extracting secrets from any who catch its eye, and the host that spills them freely?”
        How to even begin addressing such…
        The weight of my own indiscretion pressed upon my shoulders. I took a seat, and she took the other when invited with a gesture. “Not exactly. Though...there is a tangential relation between the two. When I speak of the Fade, what image does it conjure in your mind?”
        I did not expect an immediate response, and I had hoped she might take a moment to answer. While she thought of ways to express what many mages considered the inexpressible, her attention wandered my table and all the esoteric curios I’d acquired, or that had been sent to me for further study. My books caught her eye as well, some with spines pointed her way, others still open to things I’d been researching before we left. Whatever she thought of the diversity of topics and authors before her, she made no mention at all.
        “Why don’t you tell me, since you promised the truth,” she finally suggested.
        But no such promise had been made.
        I’d only invited discussion.
        Her gaze lingered a moment on our untouched water before rising to mine.
        She wants you to offer her a drink.
        I picked up my glass, and leaned forward to push hers an inch closer. “That is for you, if you’d like it.”
        Another long moment of contemplation before she accepted.
        “Ma serannas.” For a woman who made such quick, commanding decisions on the battlefield, she took her time with even the simplest choices elsewhere. And she did not take a sip until I had.
        But she had made a request of me. And though I wished to know her own opinions first, an open exchange of knowledge seemed to disarm.
        “The Fade, to many mages, is a place of fear that plagues our sleep, but it has always filled me with amazement. For in my dreams I see a world of history and legends and the chance to understand a past perspective. As a young boy with a rare gift, I sought more than a villager’s life.”
        She watched the water in her glass, with gentle fingers on its rim, and subtle, restless tapping while she listened. I wondered, could she hear the verse? Her aura rippled quietly -- a silent struggle to detect the chorus? I’d heard glimmers in the dungeons. But had new chants chased old songs away?
        “You walk the Fade unfettered by the caution that must drive us all to guard against the demons that would take us? This spirit that you say is Cole, is he a product of your path, or merely just a victim of your folly? Are there others in the castle like that poor marionetted mage?”
        Unmistakeable. I couldn’t even be angry.
        “He is the only one,” I replied, still breathless from her response. “And there is so much more to the Fade than its danger, lethallan. You’ve met spirits. You fight alongside one.”
        The old ways were in her. A purer blood thrummed through Elvhen veins. Whatever the Circle had taught her, whatever she did or did not believe, the Chantry had not yet wrung everything from her soul. But how to change this? How to make her see? How to shed her of modern fears, to guide her toward ancient ways, without triggering that quick suspicion?
        And was it even possible, in this broken, muted world?
        I began to regret sending Cole away.
        “I did not wander the Fade to find Vhenan’Then,” Harellan replied. “He came to me as I walked the vir enasalin, he answered the call of my blade. To stray in the Fade is to invite unwanted attention, and you are a fool and a danger for doing this. Do you consort with demons, Solas? Answer honestly. I have no voice or intent to discredit, but if I am to protect you outside these walls, I must know the dangers at my back.”
        Understandable caution.
        She is almost right.
        Cole’s words rang in my ears.
        But she is afraid.
        “I do not consort with demons,” I promised her. “When I travel the Fade, I avoid aggressive spirits, and only engage them when I must. But I seek out those of gentler natures, spirits of wisdom or curiosity.”
        “And these are your ‘ungraspable’ contacts?”
        “Yes.” I nodded, and took a sip to gather my words. She too took a drink, the deeper quaff of a woman steadying herself. “Spirits remember much of the world as it was,” I promised her. “And the Fade echoes of history that the passing ages have long since washed away.”
        I knew I would not convince her. She was not asking these questions to believe a friend. She was asking them to understand an enemy.
        “And what you gain with these sojourns is worth the risk?”
        “There is no doubt in my mind that it is.”
        Conviction gave her a moment’s hesitation. But only a moment’s.
        “Belief and lies,” she sneered in melodic Dalish.
        “I could show you,” I insisted, too quick to stop myself. “The hour grows late.” I rose. “Tonight. Let me come to you as we sleep.”
        She was on her feet even faster, straight as a blade, a chill in her eyes like spring frost. “Absolutely not. Penetrate my dreams and you will know regret, Solas. I do not lay unguarded in that place, any less than I protect myself here.”
        Fenedhis.
        The silence lingered, her threat curling between us, weaving around subtle hints of timber and grove.
        It was enough, though. Or, perhaps, too far already. I had shared as much as I was willing, and further argument risked spilling that which I could not afford to reveal.
        The battle was conceded with a head-bowing nod and a small sigh.
        “Of course. It seems you’ve earned another apology, lethallan. I will not trouble you further.”
        How long she studied me with those sparkling emerald eyes. How the branches of Mythal’s tree danced and swayed in the breeze of her judgment. Whatever verdict was rendered, I would not yet know, for she simply picked up her glass and drained it completely, and set it down with a steady, slow exhale.
        “Ma serannas,” she repeated, quiet, controlled now. “Your honesty is appreciated, lethallin. I don’t know how much of this you consider private, but I will assume it all is, and I will keep your secrets accordingly.” She drew a breath as well, and passed a single, final glance over my scattered table, and moved the glass to rest beside its pitcher.
        “Am I dismissed?” she asked.
        “You need no permission to leave.”
        With a nod and a quiet “Dareth shiral,” she was on her way.
        How the silence deafened.
        She makes you feel young.
        Young, and filled with those flaws I’d worked so long to temper. Quick, brash, hot-headed. I watched her leave, and she paused at the door to meet my gaze. Her eyes traveled my length, sizing me up, assessing everything I was. So vastly different, she and I. Her crisp stance and unwrinkled silks. My thoughtless slouch and simple, roughspun fibers. A living weapon. A peaceful wanderer. The world itself between us, and yet I knew she felt that connection. The ancient pull. That whisper of a thing I’d thought all but gone from this world, from these remnants, these dying embers of our People.
        The door opened with a rusted creak. She closed it behind her, and through the gap before the click of the catch I spotted her attention drawn up and away to the balcony.
        Perhaps to return to the stifling embrace of Madame Vivienne de Fer.
        I shook my head and sighed, as though the simple act could clear these clouding thoughts. Have patience, Solas. There is time yet. This world, its people, may be fleeting, but so many matters beg attention and you must permit her distance.
        Do not chase her through the brambles.
        You must remember how the wolf hunts.

Chapter Text

Vhenan’Then

        Taren’Elgar. Restless. Troubled, tonight. The bluish barrier quivered with every shift. A gentle rock, to and fro. And I, coiled atop, swaying in time, as a captain guards its crew from crashing waves.
        “Reveal her, Sentinel.” Despair. A voice like rags on the wind.
        “She cries for comfort.” Anguish, with a far-off, hollow whistle.
        “You deny her wishes!” Despondence. Dry leaves crackling underfoot.
        Three assailants tonight. They grew in number as days passed.
        Only Anguish seeped toward me, cold and draining. Repelled, rebuffed, with steadfast ease. But not close enough to strike down and disperse.
        Never close enough to strike.
        “Begone! You’ll not have her. Now or ever.”
        But they did not go. From a distance they taunted. Rasping pleas lamenting impotence. Yearning to taste her troubled sorrow. This place she called home was populous. Even now, the clamor of battle rang around us. Somnolent mages. Stumbling. Frightful. Hounded by those who would consume them. Beating back. Lashing out. Banding together. Carving safety through clumsy violence. The greatest of them lead the charge. When I could, I stole glances her way. Watched her dissolve and disperse demons, much as I longed to.
        Rebellion leader Fiona.
        Nightly, these clashes occurred. The mage quarters of Tarasyl'an Te'las shimmered and shattered with fire, ice, fear given form. Ephemeral things she named Wisps and Wraiths dancing through stone and mortar. Keeping to the brutal periphery. So many of her kind here. Uncertainty. Doubt. Thick in the air. Shaping the magics. Coalescing current into intent. Awareness. Beinghood. I counted myself fortunate that Taren’Elgar understood so much, and lent me her context so freely. This war. This rift. This “Inquisition,” and the manner in which it shaped her world. And, in turn, ours.
        Ceaseless were the begging cries, this trio of mendicants nipping at my discipline. Her barrier quivered. Response to their call. But I was no stranger to their desires. And I would hold them at bay, as the battle roiled around us.
        His approach was like unto a candle in darkness. A soft and steady flame. Indelibly bright, yet bending to the whims of the wind. I have not seen one of their kind so still, so defined in this place. One who strode without fear or concern. The Fade itself, submitting to his will. Damaged paths mending beneath quiet feet. Stones remembering the ways they had been. Tumult eluded him as though the very concept of chaos could be bent in its ways to allow safe passage.
        And I knew him at a glance.
        I knew him as Taren’Elgar knew him.
        The one she named Pride.
        Anguish, Despair, and Despondence flocked to harry him. But self-serving elegies fell away. Luminous peace outshined dark distress.
        He spoke with them in quiet tongue, in ancient phrases faint to hear, to shape, from curiosity, assistance. Their troubled hunger gnawed but found no sustenance to feed upon, and in his patience he discovered purpose.
        With a few words, they were silenced as the trappings of Hope glimmered through.
        Taren’Elgar stirred again. Her dreaming soul, reactive.
        Renewed of intent, the spirits glided off. Slipping through walls. Skirting the edge of the settling maelstrom. Memories of the old song trailed behind. Echoes that rippled the currents.
        “I have doubt they will succeed, but,” their savior lamented softly, “I have given them a chance to try.”
        I coiled tighter atop my charge, steadier now that she had begun to settle.
        “Hold and declare, Solas.”
        The soul of the living elf smiled, surveying all that I was and all that I guarded.
        “You must be Vhenan’Then.” He nodded at the barrier. “Harellan is looked after, I see.”
        “She will not speak with you,” I warned. “She does not welcome you in this place. Declare your intent.”
        “It is not her I wished to speak with, but you, spirit,” he replied. “May I approach?”
        He remained some paces away, but his voice projected clearly over the discord.
        “You may not,” I decided, testing his willingness to obey.
        The rejection did not upset. Instead, he took a seat on some other mage’s bed near him, no closer to me than before.
        “Then I hope we may speak from here.”
        He was sharp of edges. Defined with unwavering clarity. Unlike others who quivered dimly, indistinct, never fully here, never fully aware. Bits of themselves loose and stringing behind. Fiona’s presence was the closest to complete. But her light, her shape, paled in comparison to his. And there was something large in his silhouette. Something old and provident. Circumspect.
        “Be brief.”
        The elf’s head inclined, tremors of delight shaping the current around him. “Brevity has never been my strength,” he admitted. Smiling eyes fell to Taren’Elgar. “Is this how she passes her dreams in Skyhold? Sealed away from the war?”
        Do not ask of her, Solas. She is not yours to know.
        But the words did not come. As with demons, she responded to his presence, as well. His subtle joy in this violent place. Stirring. Gathering. Curiosity and intrigue beneath me. My warnings of tricks went unheeded.
        “It is how she survives every night anywhere in your world,” she answered through me. “Demonkind is not limited to Tarasyl'an Te'las.”
        Pleased surprise brightened his gaze. “You know of this place? Its ancient name?”
        “The walls name themselves. They remember what they were.”
        A crackle of lightning jolted between us, crashing through stone and dispersing a demon to hundreds of sparkling, fleeting wisps. He surveyed the glowing aftermath with rueful melancholy and lifted a hand. At his gesture the damage repaired. Motes of impression and interest drew near, swirled around, laced themselves through his fingers, nuzzled his cheek. He regarded them as a father regards playful children.
        “So they do,” he agreed. “By what intent do you name yourself, Vhenan’Then?”
        His voice unsettled with its gentleness, with its placid invitation. He spoke as though he was one of us, but he was unbound from our ways. A full, living elf, with the parlance of a spirit. I did not like how he drew me to him. How he beckoned my ease, as he did the unthinking wisps of this world.
        “I am a spirit of Vigilance.”
        “Ah…” His strange cheer continued to broaden, lips parting with a relaxed grace I had not once seen through Taren’Elgar’s eyes. “It is a pleasure to meet you, then, friend.”
        I could not say the same.
        Glowing wisps followed his arm as he drew attention to the fracas around us. “You would stand as watch and witness, but not aid the defense of Harellan’s fellow mages?”
His tone was not unkind. No accusation weighed his words. An unjudging request for information.
        “Taren’Elgar is my only charge.”
        “Taren’Elgar…” he echoed speculatively, eyes dropping to her barrier, and the silent woman within. He knew us by half already. No more damage could be done by sharing the other. "She seals herself away as an answer to Fade demons?”
        “Yes.”
        "Anguish, Despair…?"
        "Yes." I had not forgotten the simplicity with which he had altered their natures.
        "Are these common threats?"
        "Nightly."
        Solas nodded.
        "Has she never fought them here?"
        "The risk is too great."
        He looked around us, watching this latest round of battle conclude. The last of the foes overcome. Dreams of mages picking themselves up. Dusting one another off. Gathered and shivered and rallied, chasing and harrying anything that was not them. Even the harmless, they considered enemies. The wisps and other proto-spirits drawn by their relief, by alluring victory, to celebrate and coalesce. One by one dreams turned the tides, destroying those peaceful things that could have been, that sought to fill the void with joyous triumph.
        And Solas saddened for their loss.
        "She fights demons without fear in the living world. One assumes none can threaten her here. Is this realm not worthy of protection?"
        His words were pulling Taren’Elgar closer. Cohering within her barrier. Thoughts took greater shape, length, complexity.
        “This realm is not ours to defend,” she warned with my voice. “This realm is not of real things. Transience rules this place. Impermanence. It flexes and buckles at the roiling of your world. The waking world. There is where action matters. There is where change takes root. Holds fast. Remains.”
        The living elf studied me intently. Taren’Elgar stirred beneath his scrutiny. Her restive shifting rocked and swayed us both.
        “I would disagree, Vigilance,” he began with words so soft. “This world is very real. I would argue the Fade is more real than the living world ever could be. The living world is but one thing. The present. This moment, the burden of ‘now.’ But the Fade…”
        Over his shoulder drifted the impression of a mage. A sputtering, shiftless flame. Scrutinous of intruders. Peering at me. Uncertain if friend or foe.
        Solas regarded it briefly. The currents of magic shifted at his whim, sweeping it gently away.
        “The Fade holds everything that has ever been,” he finished remorsefully, drinking in the carnage inflicted on the sleeping quarters. Broken beds. Rubble and dust. Spilled bookshelves, displaced tables. Flickering mages, gathered to Fiona. In the vacated corners, magic pooled and gathered.
        Responding to fear.
        Restarting the cycle.
        “Does it satisfy you to regard your home with such disdain?” he asked.
        “My home is beside Taren’Elgar. I reside in her Spirit Hilt. You speak now with but one small aspect of me. Much more exists in your world.”
        Wonder edged his gaze as he observed me anew. I suppressed Taren’Elgar’s quiet, swelling pride. Self-regard had no place in pitched battle, whether the duel be of word or of sword.
        Fade shadows began to stir. Dark things, clawing themselves from the currents. Built of those still reeling from combat. Seeking their makers.
        “There are more peaceful places than this to converse,” the living elf suggested. “I know of several, if you would join me there.”
        “You would ask a spirit of Vigilance to abandon his post?” I sneered.
        Solas rose. “Bring her along. Is this all she has seen of Tarasyl'an Te'las?”
        Of course I wished to reject him. His welcome had long been overstayed. But Taren’Elgar belayed my strike as he approached, abandoning the permission he had been denied. The currents around him bathed us in peace and invitation. I had but moments to spiral down her barrier before it dissolved and she hatched for him like a cracked egg, piled into disjointed, longing impressions upon the floor.
        No…
        But it was too late. She — we — wanted this. I gathered her up as I knew her. Assembling coherence. So raw she was here. So tender, unpracticed in this realm. What bitter elation, to handle her soul directly. To feel the places we mixed, those rapturous edges blending together. A distressing bliss, to caress that living thing, to feel that call we all felt, that desire to exist in places we were not welcomed.
        My resistance was made no easier by her response. This open solicitation to shape her, to amass her. How long had it been since we’d touched?
        You dream, Taren’Elgar. This is folly, not truth.
        Again she would not heed my warning. She would not trust me over his offered hand. But I could not fault her. The lure of his serenity was so powerful.
        I laced her form with my own body, defining her by the bounds of what she was not. Solas took her ephemeral fingers gently and led us off, a slow pace through the Fade, teaching her to walk as a child does through this evanescent realm.
        His palm in hers tempted me more than I wished to admit. But no. I could not near it. Even as others danced freely against his skin. Even as privileged wisps slipped and swam around us, helping to keep her shape, seeking to adhere to his.
        The halls were quieter than her quarters. Older things lurked here. Passive things. Faint, indistinct things. Things that turned their heads as Solas passed, and things that turned his head as well. A few he regarded with a nod. Others inspired in Taren’Elgar a desire to press herself to his side when and where she noticed them.
        Do not.
        A command, this time. No mere warning.
        My will in this form is only so great.
        We came to a crossroads. The living elf chose one path, but hope flooded us for another.
        “This way, Solas,” I bade, tugging him elsewhere. He looked from me to the stairs beyond, the stairs she longed to climb. Up we went, a wide spiral, careful step by careful step. I watched her formless feet, guiding the Fade beneath her. Placing solid ground where it was expected to be.
        “You care deeply for her,” our company commented from below. “The currents sing with your diligence.”
        I know this, Solas.
        “Then do not distract me.”
        I am no more practiced at this than she.
        The stairs were not endless. A door far older than that which we knew opened to gentle pressure. Outside it led, to bright light and warm air and magics so thick they glimmered, shining rivers of power snaking between sparkling clouds. A sky ablaze with ancient beauty, rent through with subtle fissures, with the crackling aftermath of the sundered and weakened Veil.
        She led him onto the open parapet walk, a path atop the walls that followed the arc of a corner tower. We stopped around the farther curve, and approached the lip of stone. Rock fell away below; plunging into misty valleys. Distant, younger mountains strained toward that hoary canopy, jagged fingers from a taller time, as snowy and regal as they remembered themselves to be. Before the ages wore them down. As breathtaking a sight as this place was in her world, I could not put to words the majesty unfurled before us here.
        The Fade holds everything that has ever been.
        …Was he right?
        Her doubt perfused through me.
        Did this place remember in a way that…mattered?
        In a way that was worth defending?
        “A favorite of mine,” the living elf commented fondly. “Can you feel the old course of history here? It flows around this place magnificently.” He laid both hands on the edge. Charged wind rustled at his simple clothing. “Under deeper layers than this, human soldiers march these walls. Further back, and the guard becomes Elvhen…”
        “Is this how you know?”
        The words slipped from both of us, simultaneous realization.
        He regarded us with warmth. “I would show you, if it were safe, as you are not in the habit of taking me at my word. But older dangers lie hidden between timeworn pages. You must be able to defend yourself, in those places deep in the Fade.”
        Her attention turned his way. “Vhenan’Then can—”
        “I cannot, Taren’Elgar.” I knew what he asked of me. “Not as I am.”
        Not with so much of me elsewhere.
        Solas tilted his head in quiet agreement.
        “With practice, such things become possible, if you wished. In the waking world, she possesses indomitable focus and a high degree of discipline. Two characteristics that would serve you here, if you turned your interest toward exploring this place, and others like it.”
        “Indomitable focus…”
        The flattered echo flowed from her like a thought between us. I was not certain she meant to say it aloud.
        “Presumably,” he replied, regardless. “You may play the timid mouse among certain company, but we all witnessed the lion roar in the Fallow Mire. I have yet to see your will truly dominated, Taren’Elgar.” His smile took on something impish. “I imagine that sight would be…fascinating.”
        Taren’Elgar.
        The current pulsed with shock as our name slipped from his tongue. He turned away, gazing out over the mighty Frostbacks. The action failed to fully hide a wider, expectant smirk. At least from my vantage point. Fingers fidgeted together, still resting on the waist-high lip of the parapet.
        She trembled within my bounds, struggling to solidify and respond. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps he should not have known her as I did. I lent her what aid I could, pressing nebulous edges away from my own. Squeezing. Tightening her into a waking shape. Inexact boundaries condensed, however slight their improvement. Noticeable, but far from Solas’s own clarity of self, or even my admittedly lesser lucidity.
        “I much prefer this name for you, if you would allow it,” the living elf added when we did not speak. “Spirit’s Mind. A more charitable epithet than Deceiver. And you, Vhenan’Then. The Woken Heart…”
        “The Sentry’s Heart,” she corrected through me.
        He considered the altered meaning. “And she is the sentry?”
        “Yes.”
        A contemplative nod. A restive silence. A glance our way.
        “Referential appellatives. Another rare custom.”
        “Are you familiar with the twins?” I asked at her bidding. Integration consumed too much of her focus to speak.
        He gave a rueful smile.
        “I understand far more of our shared culture than she believes,” he replied. “You pay homage to Dirthamen’s shadow and Falon’Din’s reflection?”
        How.
        How could he accept so easily what others thought repulsive?
        “In what small ways we can.”
        We paid homage to all of the pantheon, whenever possible. Our guiding star was Mother Mythal, but her husband and children were no less worthy of faith.
        He lifted his gaze to the shimmering sky.
        Introspective Elvhen whispered through the flowing winds.
        “So near to truth, Taren’Elgar…”
        Her sharp disquiet rippled the Fade. His chin bowed, as though in acknowledgement.
        “This name is not for you to use, Solas,” I decided for both of us. “And nor is that which she calls me.”
        He did not protest. Currents altered around him, gathering the wisps still idle nearby. They bounced and twirled around one another, some of them nestling together as though wishing to merge. He watched them for a moment longer before shaking his head and whisking them all away. Flotsam in a stream, they spiraled over the edge of the parapet and soared off into the valley below.
        “There are better places than this to awaken,” he sighed, turning finally to face us both. “I see Harellan seeks to manifest here. I hope you will continue to assist her, Vigilance. The process may be arduous and requires practice and great focus, but it is worthwhile. The Fade is so much more than she believes it to be. However, I have taken enough of your time. Thank you both for speaking with me here. I would like to see her again, more fully realized.” He smiled, and clasped his hands, and squeezed. “Some day.”
        One of us wanted him to go. The other did not.
        And neither knew for sure which half they were.
        “By your leave, friends,” Solas bade quietly.
        We watched him go, and the Fade brightened as he did. Magic tremored and rippled, a swelling glimmer until he was but a shining aura of thought and memory, a midday sun we squinted into.
        The currents took him before he’d rounded the curve.

Chapter Text

Leliana

        Harellan took her breakfast in the corner of the barracks, alone. I was surprised to learn a while back that she didn’t eat with Vivienne, but my men were still struggling to piece together their relationship, here. It wasn’t that we didn’t know the facts surrounding the pair. We had quite the complete picture of Harellan’s time in the Circle and specifically her latter years in the College of Magi. But all history between the two suggested that Madame de Fer ought to have brought the elf back under the tight leash she used to have in those days. Tighter than any of her current loyalists, at least.
        It was somehow a part of The Game, of that I had no doubt. Something about the Inquisition was too different from the Circle for Vivienne to hold Harellan as closely as before. I suspected it was the First Enchanter’s attempt to project strength here. Independence. Capability. Things she hadn’t needed to prove before the Circles fell. Things she’d already proven by her young rise through their ranks. Perhaps she didn’t want to be seen relying on an unknown elf too heavily for assistance anymore. Both of their reputations had been lost in the rebellion, after all, or at least dramatically changed. And as well as I knew The Grand Game, and with how little the Inquisitor cared for mage politics, I knew they’d both have to prove themselves all over again before either one was a public asset to the other at Skyhold.
        But I couldn’t be sure just yet.
        “Oh, there she is. Maker’s breath, she just blends right in, doesn’t she?” Cullen asked, finally spotting her over the seated bustle.
        Not really. That bright, well-kept puff of yellow-ivory hair and those pale ears were fairly unmistakeable. She just happened to be wearing the earth tones of the typical soldier’s fare at the moment, instead of her eye-catching Orlesian finery.
        “A common trait of their kind,” I teased with a small smirk, following in his crowd-parting wake.
        The commander glanced back at me. “Well, I…didn’t mean anything against—”
        But I took his elbow to stop him. He followed my gaze to Solas, of all people, approaching from an entirely different angle, a very unusual sight among the common men and just a few paces from beating us to our goal.
        “...Maybe you’re right about them,” Cullen reconsidered with a frown. “What’s he doing here?”
        A good question. One I’d rather like to find out discreetly, if possible.
        “Ser!”
        As though on cue, a soldier bustled through the long tables toward us, one of the many always clamoring for our industrious commander’s attention, writing board in hand. Cullen began to dismiss him but I shook my head and waved the messenger closer, instead.
        “Look busy, Commander,” I bade, using the cover of whatever business needed addressing to carry us a few seemingly aimless steps closer. While Cullen conferred with the soldier and studied his information, I left my gaze on the papers but listened for elven conversation.
        “Sleep well?”
        “No.”
        “No?”
        A glance snuck their way showed Solas’s surprise, and Harellan’s ardent focus on her food.
        “...You are angry with me,” he guessed.
        “I am not,” she assured him. “But I must ask you to leave me alone. You’ve become a danger I can no longer entertain.”
        Before he had a chance to respond, I might as well have called her name, with how deliberately she looked our way. Sola’s gaze followed hers, and he removed his hand from the back of the chair opposite her that he seemed to have considered taking.
        I tugged Cullen’s attention from the papers and hid my disappointment under a smile. This was still curious information to obtain, however incomplete it was. What sort of danger did she think she was in around the apostate? Vivienne wasn’t the only one with a complicated relationship to Harellan but, unlike her, Solas had absolutely no prior history with the Knight-Enchanter at all.
        At least, none that my people could uncover.
        Harellan abandoned her meal and rose as we approached.
        “Commander,” Solas greeted. “Spymaster. Good day.”
        “Good day, Solas,” I returned with a smile. A subtle introduction, and one Harellan noticed immediately. She gave us both a small bow and a cross-chest salute as well.
        “Ser. Ma’am.”
        And looked to her company as though expecting our business to be with him.
        “At ease, Fellavhen.” Her eyes snapped back to Cullen as he addressed her, but if she intended to follow his orders, her ‘at ease’ was identical to her ‘at attention.’ “Fine work in the south, soldier,” the commander continued regardless. “The reports of our success paint you in a rather glowing light. The Inquisition has a new assignment for you if you’re prepared…”
        A rippling hush started by the far doors, and quickly overtook the entire canteen. It drew my attention and Solas’s as well, but it wasn’t until whispers of “It’s the Herald!” swept our way that Cullen himself noticed and turned.
        Inquisitor Trevelyan was making his way toward us.
        It seemed the barracks were a popular place this morning.
        “Cullen! There you are, you’re a hard man to find,” he laughed, running a hand through still-wet hair from his morning soak and shaking the water from both. More than a few nearby soldiers behaved as though they’d been anointed.
        “Ah. Forgive me, ser,” Cullen responded, “I was recruiting to shore up fortifications in the Hinterlands. Following our success in the Fallow Mire, we’re prepared to increase our presence and reinforce our position there, and to further test a recruit with rising promise.”
        He flashed Harellan an acknowledging smile. It faded quickly when she stared at it, and him, without reaction.
        Trevelyan stepped up to us, dressed in his typical expensive paradewear. Royal blue with silver trimmings, today. “Ah, yes, I read the commendation about my self-titled ‘Swamp Champion.’ Let’s get a look at her, then, I hear you did—” The Inquisitor stopped himself with a frown as he sized up the diminutive Knight-Enchanter. “Oh. Really? You? I know you, aren’t you that elf criminal?”
        We all looked at him. He made a face back at us. “Wasn’t she? She was in the dungeons for some reason; I remember presiding over her release.” He peered at her. “What did you do, again? Petty theft? Get mad about humans hunting your halla? The usual Dalish something-or-other, I assume?”
        “I believe that is irrelevant, Inquisitor,” Solas piped up with terse courtesy. His attention shifted from Harellan to Trevelyan. “Clearly her past was unworthy of further confinement.”
        Diplomatic, to say the least. Particularly with the woman herself offering nothing in her own defense. She seemed neither frightened nor star-struck, however. Simply wary, and silently so.
        The two men exchanged a narrowed glance.
        “Cheery as always, Solas. Shouldn’t you be too busy fretting about the Fade to do anything useful around here? Go…study the Veil, or something.”
        Solas ignored the limpid, dismissive brush of his fingers. “With regards to the Veil, Commander,” he began, turning to Cullen, “you’ll recall that I was able to locate a ruin possibly containing an elvhen artifact I believe to be of importance to strengthening it in the Hinterlands. Time constraints and…lack of support or interest prevented its prior study when we were last there. But if you are sending reinforcements that way, I would volunteer to join them, for a time.”
        “Oh, yes, do,” Trevelyan agreed quickly. “Whatever gets you out of my hair.” Did Harellan manage to stiffen even further? The Inquisitor turned to Cullen. “In fact, why don’t we send a few more of the mages with them all? I’m sure Dorian would be happy to stretch his legs, and Vivienne…”
        He couldn’t even think of a justification to dispatch the First Enchanter. But it seemed that wasn’t about to stop him from trying.
        “That…might be excessive, ser,” Cullen suggested gently as the silence stretched. “I’m certain Solas is capable of handling his excursion with a smaller detachment.”
        I couldn’t agree more. “The Hinterlands have seen quite a bit of the rebellion’s destructive effects, Inquisitor, and sending too many of our more prominent mages back there might be seen as an aggressive act.”
        “Nonsense,” Trevelyan argued. “Send Cassandra with them! If they start getting too uppity, have her shut them down. That’s her specialty, isn’t it?”
        Cullen looked to me for more help.
        “Dorian is also in the middle of his research on the Venatori,” I reminded the Inquisitor. “His services would be best kept in the libraries at the moment.”
        The commander nodded. "Indeed. To delay those reports would set us back some—"
        Trevelyan waved him off. "Fine, then. Keep him buried in his books."
        “And Madame de Fer does not specialize in elvhen history," I added, as gently as possible. Still, I could see his growing ire. “She and Solas may disagree unproductively on—”
        "Well, if you're all going to gang up on me, why am I even here?" the Inquisitor nearly growled. Mercifully, he sighed and let it go. “All right, all right, fine. Talk me down, why don’t you. Wouldn’t be much good as advisors if you weren’t giving advice.”
        Visibly relieved, Cullen glanced from Trevelyan to Harellan and back. “We could certainly ask Cassandra if she’d be willing to accompany the contingent, ser. More observation of Fellavhen would be useful.”
        “I would be honored to assist the Inquisition’s efforts in the Hinterlands,” Harellan piped up with a rather attractive grace.
        Trevelyan frowned at her. “Sorry, did you think that was a refusable suggestion? You’ll do what we tell you to, soldier.”
        The elf’s glimmer of personality promptly blanked.
        “Yes, ser.”
        Our charming Inquisitor smirked, and clapped Cullen on the back. “Now that’s what I like to hear. Finally, an obedient knife-ear.” He smirked at his commander. “Just make sure she keeps her hands to herself, eh? Or at least on the enemy’s things, if she can’t help taking something. Was that all you needed, Cullen? Because I’ve got some…”
        He led the uncomfortable commander off, pointedly ignoring a seething Solas as they passed. The apostate’s mouth was so tight I feared it might fold in on itself, and his eyes were narrowed to ice-gray slits. I didn’t need to see his hands behind his back to know he was hiding fists. I shifted my weight and watched them go, then turned to regard the pair of elves left behind.
        “I am sorry.”
        I wished there was more I could say.
        Solas shook his head and scowled. “The apology is not yours to make, Spymaster. You at least have made your sympathies to the plight of mages known. And you’ve not been less kind to the elves, either. I will be allowed to join the area reinforcements, then?”
        “Of course, if you wish. They will not leave until tomorrow.”
        He nodded in crisp acknowledgement.
        “And we will be sure to allot time for your field studies,” I added.
        “Thank you. Despite our leader’s deliberate ignorance, investigating these ruins may strengthen the Veil there and elsewhere. A key defense against the instability threatening so much of Thedas.”
        “That would be very helpful,” I agreed. I was certain no one would contest him, with the Inquisitor remaining at Skyhold this time.
        “And if I may offer another suggestion?” Solas continued, already calming. “Your intent is to increase the presence of the Inquisition, and fortify our reputation in the area?”
        “It is.”
        “Then Cole would make an ideal addition to the assigned forces.”
        Cole? The spirit assassin? We still knew so little about him and his abilities, but a quick back-and-forth with the elf explaining the creature’s desire to help and his unique ability to touch those suffering from the various plights befalling the region left me convinced that his inclusion would indeed be a welcome asset.
        “I will see to it, if he is willing,” I finally agreed.
        “He would be happy to assist,” Solas promised.
        “Good.”
        The Inquisition certainly needed as much support from the common folk as possible, and no amount of gold thrown at the management of a problem turned the hearts of people in a war quite like simple, direct aid.
        I turned to Harellan, still stiff and quiet across the table. “I have another request to ask of you as well. The Inquisition has its eyes on many brewing troubles. One of them is the disappearance of the Gray Wardens from Fereldan. My people have located one of their men in the area, not far from a few of our camps. We would like you to speak with him. To find out what, if anything, he knows.”
        “Another avenue our brave Inquisitor has failed to investigate?” Solas quietly mocked.
        “The Inquisition is more than just its leader,” I reminded him, watching Harellan’s attention shift meaningfully between us. “He can only be in so many places at once.”
        “Only one, presumably. Unless his Anchor gives him powers I’ve yet to see. And yet even this simple decision continues to be made without the barest hint of wisdom or intelligence…”
        “Is this Gray Warden fond of elves?” the Knight-Enchanter asked suddenly.
        The question caught me a little. “In what manner?”
        “Any,” she replied. “A lone Dalish mage appearing without forewarning does not inspire trust.”
        Of course.
        “You will not be alone,” I assured her. “We will approach Cassandra to join you, and perhaps Cole may be of use. As well as Solas if he wishes, before or after his field studies?”
        The apostate tilted his head in consideration, but he offered neither confirmation nor denial.
        Harellan continued in his absence. “What would you like to learn?”
        I smiled at her, and looked around. The din of the canteen had resumed not long after Cullen and Maxwell left.
        “Perhaps the details may best be discussed in private. I will work with our Commander to send you a brief of our expectations. It is enough to know that you are willing to assist in this matter. Thank you.”
        A sharp frown creased her decorated brow, but she did not voice whatever caused it.
        I took the silence as a chance to change the subject, and circled the table to lower my voice slightly.
        “That concludes my official business. But I also wanted to know how you are settling in here, Harellan.”
        She watched me approach as a trapped rabbit does a trained hound. “Well, Spymaster.”
        Spymaster.
        As much as I took pity on Solas for the way he’d been treated lately, I wished he hadn’t tipped my hand for me. She was already a naturally suspicious woman, and, if she hadn’t before, knowing now my position within the Inquisition was not going to relax her at all.
        “And are you sleeping all right? I hear the Fallow Mire held some unpleasant surprises…”
        “I’ve had no troubles.”
        A lie so effortless I nearly believed it. The apostate glanced her way with mild curiosity, but she did not take her gaze from me.
        I nodded, fully intending to reassign a few more assets to explore whatever they were hiding.
        “I hear from Cassandra you’re quite faithful to Andraste,” I added warmly.
        “Her Herald deserves devout followers.”
        Another quick answer. Another easy lie. If she could be trained to smile and hold a lute, she would make a fearsome bard.
        It took a supreme effort of will not to smirk at Solas’s flat displeasure.
        “Well, the Inquisition welcomes all kinds, from all backgrounds,” I promised regardless of her dishonesty. “If you have any concerns or experience mistreatment, I am often working in the loft above the libraries. You’ll find a sympathetic ear up there.”
        And I meant that. Just one operation completed and she had revealed a powerful arsenal of capabilities, if the reports were to be believed. Capabilities the Inquisition could ill-afford to relinquish or allow to wither from lack of opportunity. Not every elf held Solas’s determination and fortitude to endure Maxwell’s abuse, after all, and not every mage possessed the helpless indigence of the rebellion’s conscripts. And if she discovered a closer family among the spies than the soldiers during her visits?
        Well, I could certainly put her speed, discretion, and natural silence to excellent use.
        “I will be of no further trouble,” the Knight-Enchanter promised tonelessly.
        No further trouble? Was she referencing her arguments with Solas in the Fallow Mire? Or the manner in which she had joined the Inquisition, via the dungeons? The mages she’d been hiding from had been brought to heel by Fiona after their leader’s attempt on her life, and I’d heard no word of any interactions from them since. Or was she taking the burden of Maxwell’s racism a little too personally?
        Perhaps it was better not to press the issue. I had the distinct sense that Harellen needed a very gentle hand and a very patient one as well, if I was to get anything but service from her.
        “Thank you. We will be in touch,” I promised with a smile. I bid her and Solas farewell and started off, to leave the pair of them to conclude whatever business they’d had before my arrival, but I wasn’t five paces from the table when the apostate called after me and caught up.
        “Beg pardon, Spymaster,” he began, ushering us away. “I’ve just remembered a few things I wanted to speak with you about…”
        But he didn’t elaborate. He seemed to be listening for something, and glanced behind himself as we neared the canteen’s exit. We stopped at the door together and I likewise had a chance to look back. Harellan had returned to her seat and was poking around the latter half of her breakfast, but her eyes were still firmly on the pair of us.
        “Forgive me,” the apostate confessed in a low hush. “I have no business with you at the moment. I simply did not wish to cost her a meal, and the moment you left, she began gathering up her plate to leave as well. I would not have her choose hunger over my continued presence…”
        The wary elf ferried a forkful of something to her mouth. Only then did Solas’s shoulders relax. Another curious complication in their relationship, it seemed. Although I could not help but feel a little warmhearted over the gesture. Few among the Inquisition seemed to think of others before themselves in matters of any size, but the triviality of this in particular seemed…sweet of him, in a way I would not have expected.
        “Yes, I hear whispers of disagreements between you two?”
        If Solas was willing to talk about them, of course.
        “They are more than whispers, one assumes,” he confirmed. “She holds a common animosity for me, of the sort always held by the Circle for apostates.”
        “Another of us to challenge your unique expertise?”
        Solas smiled, and tilted his head in acknowledgment. “You phrase it kindly. Thank you. But I won’t keep you, Spymaster. I assume we both have other matters to attend to…”
        I considered letting him leave without pressing for details, but there was a way in which he cast one final glance Harellan’s way and his eyes clouded with unease that I couldn’t let go.
        I kept pace with him as he started off. “Just one final question, since I have you, Solas.”
        “Yes?”
        “I apologize that I must confess to eavesdropping, but I overheard her mentioning danger between you just before Cullen and I arrived. You’ll understand my professional concern, I hope, but I have to ask what she meant. If you two are to work together, the Inquisition must be able to anticipate trouble, particularly from within the ranks…” I offered a conciliatory smile. “And perhaps we can take measures to mitigate the risks.”
        He slowed to a stop in the corridors, and gazed out one of the windows overlooking the gardens we were still working to tame. I came abreast of him and waited patiently for a response that was not quickly forthcoming.
        “Truthfully?” he replied after quite a bit of thought. “I do not know the answer to that.”
        “Does it relate to your conflicts in the southern swamps?”
        “I don’t believe so.” He sized me up quietly, no doubt considering how much to share. His tone softened, and took on a quality of honesty I found difficult to judge. “I have suspicions concerning what might be worrying her…but if they were true, I posit she would be far angrier with me now than she just was. Either she is a master of her own emotions, which is not beyond the realm of possibility given her previous behavior, or something else bothers her. It is something I was hoping to ask about, both before you’d arrived and after you’d left. But not at the cost of her welfare.” He regarded the gardens again with a small nod. “I understand the importance to your position of collecting and understanding interpersonal relationships among the members of the Inquisition, Sister Nightingale. But I can offer no more than speculation, in this regard.”
        “And what is that speculation?”
        His lips parted again as though to answer, but after a small pause he smiled, almost to himself.
        “My apologies, Spymaster.” He turned to me. “Upon reflection, I cannot even offer that.”

Chapter Text

Sera

        Restless. That’s what it was. Couldn’t sit around cooped up with all those arse-stuffed soldiers any more. Hinterlands wasn’t really where I wanted to go — too woods-y, for one, and too village-y, for another — but until the Inquisitor punched his ticket to that big Orlesian party with all those fathead nobles at that fathead palace, I was kinda stuck with what I got.
        It was easy gettin’ on the wagons leaving for the Crossroads. One o’the cooks slipped me some good info about all the provisions they were sending, and off I went. According to her, we were out to help people this time, which was good enough for now. Beats waiting around for something better to happen. Maybe there’d even be some new friends to meet. Jennies popped up in all kinds of weird places, after all.
        I stole some bits from the soldiers on the way. Books, daggers, charms. Anything hangin’ loose that someone wasn't lookin’ at. Stuck ‘em around others and watched everyone fight it out, for laughs. Moved onto another wagon when they figured out it was me. Did it all over again. It passed the time until we got there and everyone got off to unload and set up with new supplies.
        The Herald wasn’t with us. Of course he wasn’t. Glowy-Hands always had better things to do than his own work, not that I could blame him. Much. Yet. Runnin’ a mess this big had to be shite, even on a good day, yeah? But I went for the leader tent anyway. Had to figure out who to book it back to if things went pear-shaped in the middle of forest-y nowhere.
        I peeked through the flap. Went cold at the sight of who was in there. The group around the table with Harding was good news, and bad news, and boring news, and really friggin’ bad news, in that order.
        In fact that last one was so bad I changed my mind, and decided not to go say hi, after all. Only the bad news saw me, I think. And it kept its stupid mouth shut when I got my arse outta there right quick.
        The good news was the Seeker. I was happy to have her around. She was good at chasing magic away when it got too flashy and spark-y. Okay in my book, far as I was concerned.
        The bad news was Creepy. What pissball had decided that thing was a good idea here? Did some war orphan need killin’, now?
        Solas was the boring news. Of course Elfy would wanna be out here, in the trees ‘n shite. If he had hair, he’d probably always have some stupid twig stuck up it. Better there than up his arse, woulda been. Hah. Wood. Overheard some of them men outside flappin’ on about some ruins he wanted to poke around in. Because we hadn’t done enough pokin’ around in old magic already, right? Real brains on these loonies.
        The really friggin’ bad news was the scariest one. What was her name? Don’t think I ever knew it. But I knew her all right. Flashy McSlash-Pants, the tree-faced extra-elfy elf with the green eyes and the big...thing around her, all locked up in the dungeons not too long ago. The one with the door I picked for her mage friends when they asked me to. Thought it was gonna be a nice, funny prank, at the time. And then all those stupid friggin magic lines went off like a rubbish dwarf bomb. Didn’t do nothin’, but scared me shitless anyway.
        I didn’t know she was gonna be around.
        The Crossroads didn’t have a tavern to hide in.
        I got to talking with some of the sad sack locals to take my mind off it. Most was bellyaching, what with the cold and the hunger and the, I dunno, wolves? Shit place, this, but they were stubborn, and didn’t want to leave. Even the ones who could go. Somethin’ about not wanting to give up home, I guess. I didn’t get it, though — if home’s a big smokin’ pile of rock and magic dust, why bother keepin’ it? This rubbish mage war had done a right job of the place. I didn’t see much left worth saving.
        Nicked some apples for some of the kids, though. Hunger’s a friggin bitch.
        Ugh, I was so sick of everything bein’ not-normal, still. The whole area was too broken to do anything fun in. And the air felt…weird. Wobbly. Like whispers under your skin. The soldiers didn’t really seem to know what to do either, aside from makin’ everybody nervous with their swords, so I stole more bits from ‘em and tried to blame it on other people while I waited for something to happen.
        Found a bloke what seemed to be in charge of knowing what needed doing eventually, up a hill lookin’ down at it all. Corporal Vale, I heard someone call him. Got a good long look at his papers while his back was turned, just to see if there was anythin’ worth tryin’ at on any of it. Food, blankets, meds. Normal boring war stuff. Needed a lot more people to do it than he had, though. But the Inquisition was givin’ ‘em all some hope, now that we’d brought in the cavalry. Wasn’t long before Creepy and Really Friggin’ Bad News came marchin’ his way, turnin’ heads and shuttin’ people up. All the other news was with ‘em too, and they all had a little chat about his plans for the place, and I guess the people who needed to be doin’ those plans.
        That was about all I wanted to risk though, so I left to go find a new place to hide. If I played it right, I could probably get through this whole mistake without the slashy magic elf even knowing I was here. Hop the first cart back to Skyhold. Try again somewhere else. Or see if any of the Jennies had another idea for Glowy-Hands to ignore.
        Team News all came back to the wagons and tents soon enough, and started gatherin’ people to issue orders. “You get blankets, you hand ‘em out, you go get plants from the forest” that kinda thing. I hid behind some trees to see if any of it sounded worthwhile. The Seeker and Creepy kept bickering about stupid stuff like what was most important, but when they all started leavin’ I tossed in with the hunting party to go gather some meat.
        Rams, I guess they wanted. Whatever. My arrows were for people, but I could deal with sheep, too. As long as I didn’t have to drag ‘em back myself. Didn’t like the outdoors much, but at least trees didn’t throw fireballs at anyone for lookin’ at ‘em funny. Didn’t take too long to do, either, the huntin’. Worst thing was a wolf or two trying to steal what we killed, but they ran off when enough of the others shouted and banged shields at ‘em.
        Fat lot of cowards. The wolves, not the people.
        Maybe the people too.
        Who cares.
        I kinda thought Really Bad News was gonna hang around the leader tents when we got back with all the dead rams. Keep her hands clean of all the hard work. Sit back, boss everyone around. Like Glowy. Like the nobles always did. But she was out there in the thick of it too, tits-deep in whatever Creepy was pullin’ from people’s heads to “help” them. I hated that thing, hated the way it dug around in…
        Whatever. At least the two of them were together. Fightin’, but together anyway. Made ‘em both easier to keep away from. Didn’t expect her to be workin’ so hard, though. She didn’t look half as fancy pants out here and covered in mud, away from that uptight pucker-butt she hung around with in Skyhold, though.
        I knew we wanted to find some Gray Warden in the area, too. Heard some good info while the hunters were rippin’ up rams for lunch. Up around some lake to the south, someone spotted him. I waited until Slashy McTreeFace was off botherin’ some poor farmer’s sick wife with Creepy to go find the Seeker and let her know. She and Elfy were surprised to see me. Yeah, whatever. I wasn’t making that much trouble.
        Not this time, at least.
        “A lake to the south?” Elfy repeated, eyes on the big map staked to the table in the tent.
        “Yeah. I dunno, that one?” I stabbed where I thought it was with a finger.
        “Seems likely.”
        Of course it ‘seemed likely,’ it was the only damned one nearby. Made things easy, at least. Seeker asked if I wanted to come with them to chat him up. Not a friggin chance, that. Nothin’ against Gray Wardens. Didn’t care one lick about ‘em. Far as I was concerned, it was good they were all gone. Means no Blight, right? But Creepy and Slashy were going when they got back. Which meant I wasn’t.
        The Seeker asked me to go bother some horse farmer about his horses up north, instead. Stuck me with a small group of jackboots as cover for ‘em. We plowed through a coupla rubbish bandits on the way and some mage holdouts what didn’t know the rebel war was over, which felt pretty good if you ask me. When we got there, horsemaster and his help stuck us with a list of stuff to do before he’d send his horses our way.
        Why did everybody need a shite favor to help out? Makes me think I shoulda asked Glowy for an arse-pat or somethin’ before joinin’ up.
        Nah. Shoulda asked him for an arse-pat from Josie. Or the Seeker. Or both.
        I made a face at the tits who looked at me funny for gigglin’.
        I got stuck with deliverin’ the news to the Seeker. Handed her Dennet’s list and was about to leave before she could make me do any of it when my gut squeezed real bad.
        That thing was back. The giant thing coiled around Really Friggin Bad News. It was back and so was Creepy and there was nowhere to go but toward ‘em both if I wanted to escape.
        Frig. Friggin shite.
        They opened the tent and marched in like they owned the whole countryside. Tree Face barely glanced my way before turnin’ to the Seeker. Don’t think she got a good look at me. Fine by me. Creepy had no problem starin’ while she made her report about some culty rift shite to the northeast, though. Somethin’ about a group of ponces worshiping the demon-spewin’ cuts in the sky. As if people weren’t stupid enough before Coryphee-nuts broke everything.
        I tried to scoot my butt out while they were talkin’. But Hat-Thing stood right in front of the tent flap and only stopped lookin’ at me when Slashy was done.
        “The Inquisitor needs to address their concerns,” it told the Seeker. “He needs to close the rift in the courtyard, to prove it can be done. The people will trust him, then.”
        She nodded and shuffled some papers around on her desk. “I’ll add this to my report. Thank you both.”
        It got me out the door. I was about three steps from freedom when Slashy picked her head out of her own arse and noticed. That poncy Dalish voice called out to try to stop me but I pretended not to hear. Didn’t help a lick, though. Felt a chillin’ rush of somethin' and there she was, poof, magic, showin’ up on the side of the path like she’d always been there.
        Almost needed new breeches.
        “Cut it,” I snarled. “What?”
        One hand behind my back grabbed my bow. Just in case. Pissed mages were ripe for demons. She saw it. Stared at it. Stared at me. Her stare was almost worse than Creepy’s.
        “Peace, please.” Ponce raised an empty hand like it would help. “I won’t take much of your time. Were you giving out apples earlier?”
        Apples?
        It got me.
        “Get off, was I what?”
        “Apples,” she said again. “Fruit.” Like I didn’t know what they were. “It occurs to me that you might be the one I’ve been confused for all day.”
        I looked her up and down.
        “Who the shite couldn’t tell you from me, yeah?”
        She had a big freakin’ tree painted all over her face!
        Her slitty glare made my knuckles tight. “Starving young children who heard that an elf with yellow hair was giving out apples. I’ve yet to see another blond elf here. Where did you get them?”
        Hard to hear her through that stupid accent. But I got the message. Kind of.
        “Nicked ‘em from one of the wagons. Off t’string me up for it, are ya? Fat friggin’ chance—”
        I didn’t even get the rest of it out before she was gone. Not magicky-gone, just turnin’ right on her elfy little toes and marchin’ off toward the wagons, no g’bye, nothin’.
        I watched her go. Was she pissed at me or what?
        Not a friggin’ clue.
        I worked out my sore shoulder while I tried to find something else to do. Couldn’t help but be nosy about Slashy, though. If she was puttin’ more lock-ups on the food carts ‘cuz of me, I wanted to know what they were and how to break ‘em. By the time I got there, there was a whole mess of kids all over, though.
        Well, I’ll be a tit’s…tit.
        There she was in the middle of it all, handin’ out more apples. The Seeker was hoverin’ nearby, lookin’ none too happy about it, but she wasn’t making any moves to stop Slashy, either. Had another one of our belted-up goons at her shoulder tickin’ boxes on a paper, but even I could see he wasn’t close to keepin’ up. Tree-Face was doin’ a better job of it than either one of them, catchin’ the greedier sods tryin’ to nick a few more than they were given, and when one of ‘em made up some story about a little sister he was bringin’ it to, she asked him to send her here so she could have one herself.
        “But…but…”
        Slashy got down on one knee and touched his shoulder, all gentle-like.
        “If I gave you an extra, everyone here would very suddenly remember a little sister of their own, and we would run out of apples,” she said.
        Well, she wasn’t stupid, at least.
        Made me feel weird, how…motherly she sounded about it. Soft. Friggin good fake, if it was one.
        “Bring your family here for dinner if they have no food at home,” she kept up. “The Inquisition has plenty for all.”
        Half the kids ran off right then and there to tell their mums.
        I stuck around after it was over, too. Hid behind the wagons. Wanted to find out if it was real or just some poncy act. I still didn’t trust her. She was still too…noble-y, for me to believe it. Still stuck her nose a bit too high. A coupla kids did come back hand-in-hand with their littlest, and when they were cleared out the Seeker asked the right proper questions I wanted to know.
        “I did not expect you to be so comfortable around young children,”she admitted.
        “Does Andraste not teach that we are all children of the Maker?” the elf replied. “Was not the Maker’s Bride a mother to sons adopted and daughters true? All aspects of her life deserve to be mirrored in our own paths. Not merely her valor and bravery.”
        Hang up. Andraste? Slashy was Andrastian? Thought she was Dalish. All the elfy gods and whatnot.
        Seeker waffled a bit at that. Didn’t really say much this way or that about kids and how to handle ‘em, until Slashy dropped this gem on her:
        “Children deserve better than the world we intend to leave them. They’ve done nothing to earn the torment of our legacy.”
        Stopped me in my tracks, it did.
        Well.
        Wasn’t that stupid dramatic.
        And it was about all I could take of ‘em both until dinner.

Chapter Text

Harellan

          Cole was a remarkable man. It unsettled me to work alongside him, but I had made an ally of stranger things than a possessed mage before. Whether it truly be spirit inside him, or simply a clever demon, I couldn’t tell, but so long as he worked toward the betterment of the world, I couldn’t rightly fault his efforts.
          And the boy was tireless in his exertions. And he tired me, too. I couldn’t remember a more satisfying meal than that evening’s stew, sitting alone once the little ones were fed, thinking about the day’s accomplishments. Clothing. Meals. Fires. Safety. I don’t think I’d ever been so helpful. Even now I could almost feel it, a practically palpable sense of hope and relief in the air. Families kept coming up to me and my little pile of burning logs for thanks and praise before wandering back off again. I just told them it was the Inquisition, not me. We’re all here to help, ma’am. Ser. It was…strange, to experience such gratitude. Such acknowledgement.
          It was warming.
          “So. Here’s the trade, yeah?”
          I couldn’t help a wince. I didn’t much care for her voice, that other elf, the tall one with the straw-yellow hair and the uneven bangs. Something about it grated the ears. She crept out of the woods like I was a sleeping wolf and she a nervous fox hoping to scavenge something from its den.
          “Beg your pardon?”
          She tossed her chin at the latest widowed mother to walk away after thanking me. “All these gits, bein’ so nice at ya. S’why you’re doing it.”
          “Why I’m doing what?”
          I didn’t quite look at her. I didn’t quite want her to think she was welcomed here.
          “It,” she repeated, more insistently. Even from the corner of my eye, I could see that her gestures were incomprehensible. “All of it. The…stuff.”
          She was spoiling a rare good mood. I felt my shoulders start to tense. Glared down at what was left of my stew.
          “Does sense not come naturally to you?” I sighed, “Or are you actively fleeing its presence?”
          “Oi. I don’t speak Elfy.”
          Of course not. Not with a Fereldan cockney that thick.
          “What do you want?”
          It flinched her, slightly. “Just...tryin’ t’get what you’re on about, yeah?”
          What I was…what?
          I lifted a reluctant stare her way. “Could you try that again?” I asked slowly. “I don’t speak alienage.”
          Around me, Vhenan’Then stirred, not-quite-woken from his not-quite-slumber.
          In the firelight, something shifted behind her eyes. They flickered nervously around me, but it was anger, not fear, that won the day.
          “Well, screw me then, ay?” she snarled, one hand behind her back again. Always ready to fight. Ready to kill. Like I was a danger that could snap at any moment. “Drop me nose in t’say sorry 'bout the jail thing but y’know what? Betcha there’s a good reason you was chained up. Get tossed.”
          “The jail thing?” I asked, stopping her mid-heel-turn.
          “Yeah,” she spat over half a shoulder. “‘The jail thing’.”
          What jail thing? Was she also mistaking me for someone else? I could understand a shem not recalling any differences among our kind, but another elf? Did she not notice the face-tree?
          The woman stared right back, looking for something. Trying to read something in my eyes. I didn’t know what to feed her. What to lie about.
          “You…Y’even know me?”
          “Haven’t a clue,” I responded, fairly certain I understood what she was asking, for once. “I tend to be the standout among the company I keep, I’m sorry to say. Although I struggle to imagine I’d forget someone as distinctive as you.”
          It certainly wasn’t a mistake I’d make twice.
          She seemed to relax, surprisingly enough. Didn’t quite take her hand from her bow, though.
          “No shit,” she realized, slowly. “Not really somethin’ you’d get much from fibbin’ about. No hard feelings, then, yeah?”
          “About what?” I asked, wanting nothing more than solitude. “This event I don’t remember?”
          Sarcasm thickened my tone, and emboldened her to anger. Whatever she was hoping to get from this exchange didn’t appear to be manifesting itself.
          “Fine then. Tit. Elfy tit. Magick-y…elfy…Tosser. Ugh.”
          She stomped back off into the night, muttering a few other unintelligible insults into the darkness that quickly subsumed her.
          I coaxed Vhenan’Then back into calm. A bizarre ending to an otherwise exceptional day.
          I’d wanted to hunt down the Gray Warden as soon as word had reached Seeker Pentaghast of his whereabouts, but she convinced me to wait until morning. If he required persuasion to meet with us, a tired mind would only thin patience and quicken tempers. The night passed uneventfully, save for the strange peace I felt sleeping in the forests once more.
          A privilege I’d not enjoyed in many years.
          Morning came, and with it, a few loose ends to tie up in the Crossroads. A few more refugees to feed and a few fresh volunteers to divvy work to or send for training, and the four of us were on our way. Wild terrain gave our horses a fair bit of trouble so we took things slowly, the Seeker and I passing the time, as before, with discussions of faith and Andraste. She remained ever impressed with my academic understanding of the Chantry and its professed religion, expressing at multiple intervals how refreshing and unusual such depth of conversation was. By the so-called prophet’s mercy, Solas and Cole kept to themselves a few paces behind, lost in some enigmatic subject matter of their own. Saved me the trouble of balancing two conversations with each of them, and lying about both to the other’s participant. An Inquisition scout camp nearby allowed us to leave our mounts in safe care when we arrived to continue on foot for the final leg of the journey, and offered more details before our confrontation.
          The cabin he’d been working out of was easy to spot once we’d crested the rise toward the lakeshore. He seemed to be busy with a training routine, calling rough commands over the hesitant thunk of steel on wooden shields. Amateurs, his three soldiers seemed to be. Uncomfortable with both the armor they wore and the “weapons” they wielded. Farmers’s sons, according to reports, armed with woodcutter’s axes and pot lids, if I squinted hard enough. The Warden was attempting to whip them into shape.
          The lake’s size forced a wide path around its shores, affording us plenty of time to study those we approached. Something in the water kept distracting me, though. Something that pulled Vhenan’Then’s attention, as well. A subtle and familiar call from the Fade itself.
          Worrying.
          A thing lived in there.
          And it was interested in us.
          “Blood Lotus!” Cole blurted. I flinched at his nearness, still unaccustomed to the sudden surprise. “It wants you to leave it an offering. It likes you. And it likes that flower.”
          “What does?”
          “The spirit.” He pointed off toward an unused dock we were just a few steps from reaching. “The girls of the Crossroads think it’s a spirit of love, but it isn’t. It calls itself a spirit of Valor.”
          Of Valor?
          Vhenan’Then’s investigative curiosity became my own, but I had a different idea. A safer idea. The Seeker seemed unaware of Cole’s intrusion, but she noticed well enough when I stepped off the pebbled shores and into the shallows to pluck up a small bouquet of crimson waterflowers. The Lotus’ heady perfume teased the senses, but such a low dose would not severely affect my judgment. Nor Seeker Pentaghast’s, when I handed them to her.
          “The Maker’s First Children were the spirits,” I reminded her, leading us onto the creaking planks. “We would do well to remember them in times of need. Cole tells me one dwells here. A spirit of Valor, he claims. Perhaps you might honor it, that it lend us its aid.”
          We approached a large dish at the pier's end filled with trinkets and trifles, bits and bobs from village girls hoping for romantic fortune. Everything but Blood Lotus, it seemed at a glance. I watched her face closely. If magic and mages were looked down upon among the faithful of the Chantry, such sentiments were often felt doubly for things of the Fade. But the Seeker’s faith intrigued me, and she’d been an open and trusting conversationalist thus far. I expected resistance, yet she knelt as directed, and set the flowers into the offering plate. The world stirred at her silent prayer, sealing itself into thick reality and nudging Vhenan’Then aside in a manner reminiscent of the Templars, but not quite the same as their lyrium powers.         I stepped back to afford her some measure of privacy.
          “It wanted you.”
          Anduil’s singing bowstring, could the damned shem stand any closer?
          “But it is happy with her, too.”
          His ridiculous hat grazed the edge of my ear. I suppressed a responsive shiver.
          “Her valor surpasses my own.”
          I spoke quietly to avoid interruption, but the moment I did, I knew there was no need. The creature’s power was like wind in autumn leaves, sweeping my words away from the Seeker and into a spiral of sunlit nothing. I didn’t like it. His abilities seemed designed to unsettle. A frustrating pity, how little has been written about their kind. The fused mages. Those who survive possession without becoming abominations.
          Whatever he may have intended next was interrupted by a small, startled noise from Seeker Pentaghast and a blinding eruption of light. It swept a sense of bravery and determination through my soul and left behind a gleaming sword where the Blood Lotus, the bowl, and every other moldering little village curio had once been. Cassandra lowered her eye-shielding arm to behold it with silent awe.
          I stepped up to take quick advantage of her wonder. “The Maker’s First has judged you worthy.”
          She looked from her gift to me, and back at the others behind us.
          “I…” Words seemed to fail her. Only when she picked up the sword -- and herself -- did she find them once more.
          “Thank you, Harellan.”
          “It wasn’t me,” I reminded her, tucking away surprise at the direction of her gratitude, as well. Why did everyone here think any of this was my doing? “Cole’s intervention gifted you this opportunity.”
          Again she looked from me to him behind us, and stood in thought for a moment. A slow nod seemed to shore up her confidence. Sun glinted off the keen edge as it tilted in her hand.
          “A fine blade,” she commented, drawing her own battle-worn weapon and comparing its handful of nicks and chips. Her brow creased as a critical gaze slipped from one to the other. She seemed to notice their similarity in shape and weight. With curious uncertainty she teased the throat of her sheathe with the new sword’s tip and slowly slid the rest of it into place. The pair clicked together as though they’d been forged to.
          “A perfect fit?”
          I smiled and touched a glove to her elbow. “The Maker’s First were noted not for their creativity, Seeker, but their mastery of imitation. His Shining Grace may have wished more from them in Ancient times, but he did not destroy that which came before man. All things in this world have their place.”
          I was beginning to feel like Solas, presenting such a growing pile of halla droppings as truth.
          And I ignored his approving gaze as it followed me off the dock and back onto dry land.
          “Well-handled,” he began, keeping pace at my side as we resumed our approach. “The blade would be of little use to you, but that spirit has longed for a worthy champion to--”
          “Trade, Solas,” I reminded him quietly. “I’ll not be having you speaking Elvhen around those who cannot understand it.”
          Or around me at all, if I can excuse it.
          Yet he had nothing to say in the common tongue. Suited the moment just fine. His presence was a danger to me -- and by proxy to everyone around me -- in a way that I couldn’t allow him to learn.
          Bits of the Warden’s encouragement floated our way as the apostate fell back and we carried on.
          “They will make this a fight. Not us. Line there, and there. No gaps.”
          A narrow bridge over the mountain stream that fed the lake creaked under Cassandra’s boots. The noise attracted our quarry’s attention, and all four of the men lowered their arms to watch us approach.
          A nearly fatal mistake, as the thwang of an archer’s bow rippled across the water.
          He was quick on his feet for such a stout build, bodying one of the trainees aside to catch the arrow against his shield. Bandits spilled from the rocks uphill and charged with a roar, not quite able to make an opening of our distraction, but more than willing to commit themselves regardless.
          “We have to help them!” the Seeker announced, breaking into a run as Solas’s gathering spell whispered over my shoulder. His magic wrapped an assailant’s ankle in ice, sending one of the men into a nasty fall and two more tumbling over his graceless descent.
          But it was Cole’s contribution that chilled me to the bone.
          I never saw the man pass me by. And nor did I see his strike. But I saw how it ended, with the glint of a dagger in hand and the arc of crimson behind it, so fast that his victim hadn’t even the chance to cry out in surprise or pain before falling to the blood-slickened grass.
          A second was down by the time the two sides clashed, just as the Seeker met the bandits’ cheap iron with her fresh, gleaming steel.
          I lingered back, fighting the frost in my own veins, counting nine among the enemy’s ranks, minus two already. By Andruil’s grace alone was this not a battle in need of all arms. Not with the Seeker at the forefront, and particularly not with Cole slipping death so cleanly between rib cages and through spines, so quick and thoughtless he seemed almost mechanical, a thresher of wheat, but for souls. True embodiment of “a man possessed,” and he gave me no doubt that the thing inside him was no spirit. No conscience drove that creature’s decisions, no morals guided its hand. By the time I stepped from the bridge all our foes were downed, and the Warden was arguing with Cassandra while his conscripts looked on with knock-kneed relief.
          “I was teachin’em to take back what the bandits stole!”
          “Then send them to the Inquisition! Send them to the Crossroads for proper training and real weapons!”
          “And then what? Send them off to war? They need to stay here, with their families!”
          A light touch at her sword arm turned both their heads my way.
          “Blackwall?” I asked him. “Warden Blackwall?”
          A flicker of panic doused the fire behind those deep-set gray shem eyes.
          “You’re--How do you know my name?”
          “Our scouts delivered it to us.” I watched closely for reaction, predicting a thick guard based on their organization’s historic reclusiveness, but the revelation only seemed to calm him, albeit slightly. “We represent the Inquisition, and have a few questions about the withdrawal of the Gray Wardens from Fereldan. Are you willing to speak on this matter?”

Chapter Text

Cassandra

          The elves had quite the reaction to Blackwall’s presence. Solas, usually so talkative about obscure topics and rare magics, was all but silent as questions were asked and answered, and the traditionally-taciturn Harellan conducted an interview so thorough it made the man visibly uncomfortable.
          What we’d come for revealed itself quickly enough -- whether or not Corypheus’s rise was tied to the disappearance of the Gray Wardens, Blackwall did not know. With no Blight to gather and defend against, he had split from the order’s main bulk and gone his own way for some time now, and had heard of neither event, save for the sighting of Corypheus’s dragon and its resemblance to an Archdemon. Beyond that, he had been spending his days conscripting the locals into basic training, in an apparent attempt to help them help themselves against the opportunistic bandits in this war-torn area.
          To that end Warden Blackwall had revealed the existence of their order’s treaties, and the vast power they gave the Wardens over anyone deemed necessary to aid them in times of crisis. It was these treaties -- and their limitations outside the Blight -- that caught Harellan’s ear and guided her curiosity into sharper and sharper lines of questioning, until I stepped in to remind them both that it wasn’t the Wardens themselves who were on trial, here.
          Solas snickered at the sentiment, and it seemed to break some sort of spell over the Knight-Enchanter with the way Harellan returned to her customary reticence. She looked Blackwall up and down, reorganizing her thoughts.
          “Then why are you still here, if the rest have gone missing?”
          The Warden looked my way, as if I would be any easier on him. “Well like I said, I’ve been gone a while. Maybe I was going to leave soon. Or maybe there’s a new directive, but a runner got lost or something.”
          “Have you any idea where they went?” Harellan pressed.
          Blackwall shook his head, still mostly addressing me. “No. Maybe they returned to our stronghold at Weisshaupt? That’s in the Anderfels, a long way north…”
          “If we were seeking idle speculation,” Solas added suddenly, “we could have saved ourselves and our horses an hour’s journey and stayed home.” He, too, turned to me. “It seems our Warden friend has few answers and little understanding of current events.”
          Harellan’s silence concurred, and, as much as it disappointed me to, so did I.
          “Now just hold on a minute,” Blackwall added, stepping closer. “Look. What’s your name?”
          “Cassandra Pentaghast. Seeker.”
          “Seeker,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Aye. You said you’re Inquisition, right? I’ve been hearing about you, at the very least. Setting up camp around here, helping people. They say the Wardens inspire men to great heights, and it sounds like you’re doing the same. I may not know much about Corypheus, outside the fact that I want to kill him if he had anything to do with the death of the Divine, but you’ll want a Gray Warden on your side if he has anything to do with the Blight. And if I’m one of the last, then I should help.”
          “And what would one lone Gray Warden do?” Solas scoffed, so unimpressed that even Harellan frowned his way.
          Blackwall met his challenge like a griffon meeting a bear. “Save the fucking world, if pressed.” He folded his arms and tucked his chin. “Look, maybe fighting demons from the sky isn’t something I’m practiced at, but show me someone who is.” He turned back to me. “And like I said, there are treaties. Maybe this isn’t a Blight, but it’s bloody well a disaster. Some will honor them. Being a Warden means something to a lot of people, and having us on your side can change a lot of minds.”
          Harellan murmured quietly in Elvhen just then, words not quite addressed to Solas. When the apostate asked a question of his own she shook her head as though surprised he’d heard and returned her attention to me. Blackwall’s eyes darted between them, prompting the elf to speak.
          “The decision is yours, Seeker.”
          That settled it, then.
          “I see no trouble accepting his offer,” I replied, looking from her to him. He shook my hand when offered. “The Inquisition needs all of the assistance we can get. Welcome, Warden Blackwall.”
          “Aye. Glad to be on board, Seeker Pentaghast.”
          And we were glad to have him.
          It wasn’t what we had come for, but it was better than nothing at all. Of course, this left us with one less horse for every rider on the way back. Blackwall offered to ride with Harellan as the smallest of us and, when she refused, Solas was quick to repeat the suggestion himself. The woman simply insisted that she would keep up on foot, much to my -- and everyone’s -- chagrin. None of us wanted to tax her in that manner, but, as if to prove a point, she retreated to a sturdy tree near the scout camp. With a leap and a swell of magic she was up in its branches, crouched and eyeing us all impatiently. Another leap and her flash of power carried her down the path, leaves rustling under the wind and her weight.
          “Elves,” Blackwall chuckled, hauling himself into the saddle she’d abandoned. “They’ll always keep you on your toes. Never thought I’d see the Dalish do much of anything for anyone besides themselves. You must be a persuasive lot.”
          “Corypheus threatens us all,” Solas replied neutrally, mounting his own steed. “It is a wise woman who sees beyond her own needs to the greater good.”
          “Aye,” the Warden agreed. “She’d make a good Warden, like that.”
          There was a measured pause while I saddled up and started off. Whatever Solas said back was in Elvhen, and didn’t sound particularly approving.
          Thankfully, the two of them didn’t get into much more discussion on the ride back. I was beginning to understand why Solas didn’t seem the type to travel with company, though I wasn’t certain what lay at the root of his distaste for Blackwall in particular. I may have disagreed with the man’s methods for assisting the people of the Hinterlands, but I could at least see his heart was in the right place. And he was likely working with all the resources he thought he’d had at his disposal.
          Another group of passing bandits thought to make victims of us before we reached the Crossroads. Cole had half of them on the ground before I was even able to dismount. Neither Solas nor Harellan joined us in cleaning them up, though the apostate took a look at Blackwall’s shoulder after a heavy blow and seemed to find something to mend with a touch of magic under his padded armor.
          “Not much of a fighter, are ye?” he asked the Knight-Enchanter as she joined us at the stables. “Must be a healer too, like the other one?”
          “‘The other one’ has a name,” Solas interjected, slipping from his horse with a light footed grace. “I am called Solas. And she is Harellan.”
          “Right, sorry.” Blackwall nodded. “Bit tough to ask when you all knew my name first.”
          “Funny, I don’t recall you having any trouble asking Cassandra for hers,” the apostate countered, passing him with a sense of finality.
          The Warden bared teeth in a bushy half-sneer, but seemed to think about it instead of giving a reply.
          A floppy hat popped up beside him, startling both of us.
          “You didn’t ask mine, either! I’m Cole!”
          “Who--Oh. Right. You’re the one who’s deadly with those daggers. Glad you’re on my side.”
          The spirit frowned. “Most people prefer me in front of them, where they can keep an eye on me.”
          Harellan had started to follow Solas out, but I extended a hand, pausing her.
          “Don’t stray too far,” I warned. “I’d like to clear the wolves before lunch, if we can.” When she nodded, I turned back to Blackwall. “I’ll send for someone to introduce you around. We’ll have you settled in no time.”
          “That’s mighty generous of you ma’am, but I wouldn’t call it necessary,” he replied. “I’ll do just fine if nobody knows the name of the Warden helping ‘em. What’s this about wolves?”
          I realized that would be a good use for his talents. “Horsemaster Dennet’s stables are to the north, and he’s agreed to lend his horses to the Inquisition if we accomplish a few tasks for him. Clearing the wolves from the region stands at the top of that list, currently.”
          Blackwall nodded. “That’ll make the wilds a lot safer for the refugees. I’d like to join you, if there’s room.”
          Of course there was.
          “How large is the pack?” called Solas, lingering by the stable entrance.
          I hadn’t even realized he was still here. “We’re not certain. According to Dennet it seems to grow by the day. Also there are reports of suspicious behavior from the animals.”
          The apostate nodded. “If they’re the same as those we encountered in our first excursion, I’ll advise caution. And I’ll lend my aid as well, if you’ll have me.”
          The more the merrier, as far as I was concerned.
          “A wolfie hunt?” Of all people, Sera dropped from the rafters, wearing an ear-to-ear grin. “Sounds good t’me. I need to get away from all these sad-faced refugees millin’ about. Gotta do somethin’, yeah? I’ll help kick some wolves around. Chase ‘em away.” She kicked at some straw illustratively and dropped her voice to a growling, mocking huff. “Boom. This is our turf, ya smelly mutts!”
          Blackwall had finally recovered by the time she loosed a burst of manic laughter.
          “Quite a motley crew, this Inquisition, eh?” he half-laughed, himself.
          “Oi. Who’s Beardy?” Sera asked.
          “Warden Blackwall,” he replied, offering a hand.
          The woman looked from it to him like he had a disease. “...Right.” She started off in the other direction. “Anyway don’t bother nosin’ me out, I’ll join up when you’re off to kick some mutts.”
          And she was gone, almost as fast as she’d appeared.
          Honestly, all I could do was shrug when Blackwall met my gaze.
          Even Harellan seemed to understand the absurdity of it.
          “Elves will keep you on your toes,” she half-sighed, ignoring Solas’s trailing gaze as she passed him and headed for sunlight.
          The apostate followed her out, leaving the two of us with the stablehands. I checked the roof for more stowaways, but no one else seemed to have Sera’s bright idea.
          “I meant no disrespect,” Blackwall commended, stepping closer to lower his voice. “I’ve got nothing against their kind, I swear…”
          I offered him a smile. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Solas has…some curious quirks. And Harellan is usually pretty quiet, unless you can get her to open up about her faith. And Sera is…”
          Well, Sera defied explanation. Even more so than Solas or Harellan.
          “Her faith?” Balckwall echoed, keeping pace as I started for the command tent. “The Dalish gods, you mean? I thought they were pretty tight-lipped about--”
          “She’s Andrastian.”
          There was something bug-eyed about his stare between those bushy eyebrows and that thick mustache. “You’re kidding.”
          “Ask her yourself, sometime.”
          “But she’s got all that…” He gestured at his face and forehead.
          I shrugged. “Apparently she converted. I haven’t had such enlightening conversations with anyone else outside the Chantry.”
          He paused to think about that one, a moment.
          “Is everyone here Andrastian then?” the Warden pressed. “Every now and again one of the farmers spouts something about ‘her Herald’…”
          “That would be Inquisitor Trevelyan.”
          “Your leader.”
          “Yes.”
          “Is he here?”
          I shook my head. “No. He’s back at our stronghold. Focusing on defeating Corypheus, while we’re doing work to spread the Inquisition and help people and gain allies.”
          At least, I hoped that was what he was doing.
          Blackwall nodded. “Aye. Sounds like he’s got his work cut out for ‘im. I’m glad to help here, until you need me somewhere else.”
          It was a good thing to hear. “I’m certain you will be a valuable asset. And no, not everyone is Andrastian, we do take all kinds. Some dwarves, for instance…”
          But being of the faith certainly helped.
          The conversation carried us through the Crossroads. I excused myself to make a quick report on our not-quite-success for Leliana -- and Cullen, whom I suspected would appreciate acquisition of another martial trainer -- and by the time I was done, Harellan, Solas, and Cole were waiting outside for me. The apostate lounged against a tree trunk, deep in some Elven conversation with the spirit that I would have paid no mind to save for the effect it was having on the Knight-Enchanter. She sat on a rock across the path, her back to them both, but even in profile she was red as a cherry and staring at the dirt while Solas smirked at her and Cole frowned.
          Whatever question Cole asked next seemed only to make things worse.
          The woman rose quickly and expectantly, her emerald gaze flickering briefly toward Solas’s quiet mirth.
          “The wolves, then?” she asked me, quickly enough to suggest that she didn’t want to discuss whatever I’d just walked in on.
          “Yes, if you’re ready. Is Blackwall nearby?”
          “He’s at the armory,” Solas informed us, striding closer. “Inspecting the quality of our war apparel, one assumes.”
          Harellan shifted a few half-steps away as he neared. “Shall I fetch him?”
          I could tell she just wanted an excuse to leave. The moment I nodded, she was off, short legs managing the longest strides they could to carry her away from the situation as quickly as possible without invoking her magic. I stared down the apostate with a raised brow. Solas acted innocent as he watched her retreat and ignored me until I spoke.
          “Were you flirting with her?”
          “...No.”
          Unconvincing.
          “That would require her participation, would it not?” he clarified, reading my doubt at a glance.
          “Solas is playing some kind of game. With words,” Cole volunteered, widening the apostate’s smirk. “I don’t really get it, though. But Harellan does. Her face goes red when he says certain things in certain ways. Like a flower in winter, bright bursting beauty, a bouquet of crisp color in cold comprehension. I think it means he’s winning.”
          “Not many speak fluent Elvhen in the Inquisition,” Solas added, gaze lingering in the distance as she rounded a bend out of view. “Comprehension levels vary among all elves, even among the Dalish clans, and fewer still understand its ancient nuance.”
          “And Cole knows it?” I asked.
          Solas smiled at the spirit. “Cole knows what I know. He may not understand it, but he learns enough to respond appropriately. Enough to play the game.”
          “But you’d rather play it with her,” I guessed.
          A bowed head and a conciliatory nod replaced his answer.
          That was…sweet, somehow. I didn’t expect Solas to try to charm anyone in some special Elven way. He had alway been so isolated before. So wrapped up in his studies at Skyhold. So defensive and guarded in Haven, even among his own kind.
          And Harellan was the last person I’d expect to turn his head. Or any man’s head. Not in that way. I wasn’t certain that woman had a feminine bone in her body. Even her formalwear accentuated her warrior qualities, not her ladylike ones.
          But then again, many could say the same about me.
          “I thought you didn’t like each other.”
          Solas tucked his hands behind his back and surveyed the Crossroads. “What do they call it? Vir Bor'assan, the ‘Way of the Bow’?”
          “‘They’?”
          “The Dalish,” he dismissed. “A roundabout metaphor concerning the simple concept of flexibility.”
          I studied him anew. “And you’re trying to be flexible with her?”
          He nodded, once. “There is much more to Fellavhen than meets the eye. And I say that, of course, acknowledging that there is already plenty to her that does meet the eye.”
          So he was chasing her. I could see it. The two of them walking together, in some forest somewhere or out on Skyhold’s walls, watching the sun set over the Frostbacks. It was quite romantic, in fact. Two elves finding love in war. Apostate and Circle mage, Dalish and…wherever Solas was from.
          It tugged warmly at something in my chest.
          “Well, I wish you luck,” I replied. “She seems like a tough nut to crack.”
          He studied me carefully for a quiet moment.
          “Your approval is the last thing I might expect, Seeker,” the apostate confessed.
          I just smirked and turned back to the path. “There is more to many of us than meets the eye, Solas.”
          I pretended to ignore his continued curiosity in entertained silence as Harellan and Blackwall rounded the bend and started back up the path toward the command tent and toward the three of us.

Chapter Text

Blackwall

          What have I gotten myself into this time?
          That elf, Harellan, said almost nothing on the whole walk back to the Seeker’s tents. After all the questions she demanded of me back at the lake, I had a feeling I’d upset her somehow. Some stupid thing outta my mouth that she wasn’t meant to overhear. Just wish I knew which part of it was sittin’ between us. Maybe I could try to fix it.
          I didn’t really want my first impressions in the Inquisition to go poorly, after all. These people were doing good; I could see that at a glance. Plenty of men and women out here helping the locals pick themselves back up, finally. And plenty of ‘em recognized me for the good I’d been trying to do, too.
          Warmed the heart, it did.
          When Harellan and I arrived, the Seeker gathered us all back to the stables to track down the source of the wolves. As promised, Sera just showed up where she needed to be, ready to go and halfway on a horse already. We took our mounts west across the river, then up to some scout camp near Old Dennet’s farm, where we left ‘em to double back and follow the current even further north on foot.
          “Stay on your guard,” Seeker Cassandra warned as the sounds of water rippled toward us. “Our men have reported an unclosed rift still in this area.”
          “Ugh, where’s Glowy when you need him?” Sera complained. “I wanted wolves, not demons.”
          “Glowy’s the Inquisitor, you mean?” I guessed. “The one who can fix the…ah…”
          Rifts, they’d said?
          “Yeah, if you believe it. Not that I’ve seen him do his close-y magic thing yet,” the elf replied with a shrug. “But everyone who has ain’t shut up about it never.”
          “It is…inspiring,” Cassandra admitted, drawing her sword.
          I didn’t see it until we were fairly close. It was over the edge of a waterfall, just sittin’ in the air, eerie and green and…like it didn’t belong. It twisted space, warping everything around it just a little, and every now and then it disgorged a new flash of light, and out popped another demon, staggerin’ about, lashing out at the others and tearing into its friends like none of ‘em realized they were on the same side.
          I’d never seen anything like it.
          “They want to go home.”
          I glanced at Cole when I heard his voice, but he was lookin’ at Solas, who seemed visibly perturbed by the infighting and the way it was gouging out the river and the rocks around it.
          “We cannot fight them,” Cassandra reminded him. “They are endless without the Herald’s ability to seal the rift.”
          “I know,” the mage replied tersely.
          I smirked his way. “Got a passion for striking down evil, eh? Sounds familiar.”
          Demons and darkspawn, practically two sides of the same coin.
          “They are frightened,” Solas replied, no less tense than before. “Confused. This world is strange to them. They are in pain.”
          In pain?
          …Maybe I wasn’t getting a good read on the elf. “Sorry. You’re sympathizing with demons?”
          “Friggin’ daft, innit?” Sera muttered.
          “Enough." The Seeker's tone was sharp.
          The path dropped steeply, and getting down safe took more concentration than we could talk over. Harellan beat us there and stood watch at the water’s edge, though how she did it I couldn’t figure out, since I coulda swore she was at the back of the pack last I checked. Steam hissed around the feet -- foot? Lava column? -- of a rage demon, likely the loudest thing there and the best reason a whole mess of ‘em didn’t turn our way as we slunk past. Can’t say I’d seen too many up close like this, and nor did I want to again, if it could be helped. But we got past it with little incident, and downstream we went toward the source of the wolves we were here to dispatch.
          Didn’t take ‘em too long to show, either. We followed a narrow path on the far bank under a rocky overhang, and Harellan seemed to spot every dog that peered down at us and disappeared to go find its mates. I didn’t like how much advance warning we were givin’, but neither of the mages nor Sera seemed keen on preemptive strikes.
          Woods gave way to gray basalt columns far enough north, and the path widened out into a clearing as the river carved its way through a rock arch and flowed off elsewhere. It was here that Harellan stopped short and held out an arm, and the rest of the group stopped to watch her as she stepped forward without us.
          “There’s something strange here,” she reported softly. But before she could say any more, pairs of eyes flashed from the darkness of a cave we seemed headed toward. They glowed without reflection, an evil green over sneerin’ muzzles pulled back to bare some pretty nasty teeth. I couldn’t see much more in the shadows than that.
          Orange power spiraled down the tip of the woman’s staff, and with her free hand she described a quick sweep along the ground, cutting a sparkling line like a lit fuse between us and them. As her palm rose so did a wall of fire, taller than any of us, bathing the party in light and heat and silhouetting her skinny elf body.
          Sera hissed somethin’ vile behind me. I may not have heard it completely, but I didn’t disagree with the sentiment. No need for flashy tricks like that out here, far as I was concerned.
          “There is abundant food in the Hinterlands,” Harellan announced over the crackling flames. “If we frighten them enough, they will seek new hunting grounds.”
          Ah. Not that I wanted to admit it, but maybe she had a point, if we wanted to do this without bloodshed. The Dalish and their love of nature and all.
          Still, a howl rose up from the other side of the wall. Sera nocked her bow and I drew my sword. Cassandra loosened hers beside me. Harellan stood unflinching before us, even when others in the pack joined the cry.
          I was just about to commend her bravery when black fur parted the flames and a wolf landed paws-first against her chest. The elf went down and so did her spell, and the beasts were upon us.
          “Harellan!” Cassandra made a dash for the woman but Sera’s arrow was faster, and so were the wolves who got between her and us. I counted at least a dozen of 'em at a glance, and staggered under the weight of a second one’s leap as I caught it on my shield and shoved it to the ground. These things were big and fast, and they didn’t look like any wolves I’ve dealt with down south, once we got a good look at ‘em. That glow in their stare wasn’t natural, and nor was the fervor with which they laid into us. I had two down by the time a third found my leg, and Sera was loosing’ curses almost as fast as arrows over my shoulder, putting them into eyes and down throats with a manic frenzy and a rather colorful vocabulary to boot.
          I buried my blade in the fur of the one trying to make a snack of my ankle and the Seeker pressed her back to mine as the rest circled us, snapping and slavering and lunging between our slashes and stabs. I spotted glimpses of Cole among the ones still loping out of the cave, takin’ some down before they even realized there was danger. Maker’s balls, there were more on the way. Solas’ ice and lightning kept a few of ‘em staggered as swing after swing from my sword cut down beast after beast and turned barks and howls into yelps and whines.
          I didn’t like that I couldn’t see Harellan though. I don’t think the elf got back up. That first jump had taken her by real surprise, and these bulky monsters probably weighed more than she did by half. Why a mage had put herself on the front lines was gonna haunt me for a long time if she didn’t make it.
          Not much I could do about it right now, though.
          The fight was less like a pack and more like a damn swarm of bees. Old Dennet wasn’t kidding about how fast it had grown. Wolves were never seen in groups this big, and I had seven, eight, ten on the ground before I lost count, and I could see at least three times that around me by the time the onslaught started to slow.
          I’d hoped the last few would give up when they saw so many of their friends bleeding out but they fought to the last wolf, desperate and driven to the very end, when Cassandra drove her blade through the final skull and the creature went limp around her bloodied steel. She planted a boot on its shoulder to slide the weapon back out and looked around for more. Only when nothing else moved did she lower her shoulders and straighten her back, and shifted from gauging the enemy to assessing the state of the rest of us.
          “Is everybody okay?”
          ‘Okay’ was a bit generous, but I was still standing, at least. I’d rather make sure everyone else was, too, before whining about the bites and bruises under my armor.
          “Where is Harellan?”
          Solas’s question lingered in the deafening silence. All I could see was a sea of black fur and lifeless teeth.
          “Oi, Elfy!” Sera motioned us over and pointed around a corner. “She’s not lookin’ too good…”
          Cassandra double-timed it over and long strides carried Solas hot on her heels. I followed after at my own pace. I knew there wasn’t much I could do for whatever I’d find, and the Seeker seemed to agree, with the way she stood back and looked on with more than a little concern.
          Solas had disappeared entirely, and he was down on one knee by the time I’d circled around enough to see ‘em both.
          Well. Sera wasn’t wrong.
          That was an awful lot of blood for one skinny body to lose.
          Harellan looked right chewed up. Her left shoulder was a mess of teeth marks and torn leather, and so was her right forearm where she was fighting Solas to keep cradling it in pain. Her mage staff was a splintered dog toy nearby, and her stiff boot made it hard to tell, but I wasn’t sure if that one leg was supposed to bend quite that way.
          She hissed something nasty in Dalish at the mage as Solas continued to pry at her curled limbs. Whatever he said back seemed to put the fire of Andraste in her, and the two of them kicked up some kind of elven spat, with Solas’s tone increasingly desperate and Harellan’s winding up into something iron-hard.
          “Is she really gonna fight herself to death?” Sera gaped, watching the two of them go at it in disbelief.
          “She’s angry. With him,” Cole unhelpfully added.
          “Yeah, I reckon we can see that ourselves, kid,” I sighed, trundling closer. Maybe a bit of dumb brawn could hold her down, and Solas could do whatever he needed to with whatever he’d abandoned her briefly to dig out of his pack, instead.
          “No. She blames him. She thinks it’s his fault. His necklace…”
          Solas fixed the assassin with a warning glare. “Cole. Enough. Her physical well-being must be tended to, first.”
          “Aye. Come on, then. Y’gotta lie flat,” I urged, gettin’ down on my achin’ knees. I fished a leather strap from my pocket with one hand, and wrapped the other around her slender wrist.
          Solas had pulled free some kind of medical wraps and was dousing them in enough alchemy to turn them pinker than an Orlesian rosy tit. The bird, not the…well, I guess the body part, too. As I tugged at her arm and muscled it away from her worst wounds, the poor elf grimaced in pain. Shallow breaths did her no good, either.
          “Open up,” I told her, wiggling the strap near her pale lips. “It’s kinder on your teeth to squeeze somethin’ between ‘em.”
          Harellan stared at it like I was insultin’ her entire Dalish clan and their mothers’ mothers, but she almost took a couple fingers off when she grabbed it. Only then did she let me unfurl her onto her back and closed her eyes, and stopped fighting Solas long enough to let him peel away her armor and press medicine into the mangled flesh beneath. Those markings across her wet brow looked mighty dark against such ghostly skin, but if Solas was afraid of losing her, he was doing a fine job showing grim urgency instead of fear.
          He worked fast, with no doubt or hesitation. A few times Harellan tried to move on him, but he showed me where to hold her to steady everything he needed to treat. That white thing was bone I saw deep in a gash in her arm, though a full bottle of healing juice poured directly on open tissues set to work coverin’ it pretty handily. Magic joined a fair bit of it too, fizzlin’ and sparkin’ around his hands, as did plenty of quiet muttering from the man whenever Harellan flinched and hissed under my palms. I caught a lot of something that sounded like ir abelas, da’len over and over, and I hoped it was some fancy way of promising her it would be over soon.
          He was struggling to pull her boot off while the woman cried out in torment and I held her leg steady when Cole showed back up with no less than four Inquisition soldiers from the scout camp.
          “I’ve brought help!”
          Andraste’s tits, I hadn’t even noticed he was gone.
          The “help” had brought help of their own -- more medical supplies to bolster what Solas had, and the knowledge to assist him in applying them. Between the five of them I wasn’t needed much anymore, and I stood up and backed away to give everyone the room they needed to work.
          I almost wiped the elf’s blood on my own shirt before I remembered there was a stream in the channel nearby, and made my way down the slope to rinse off my hands and my sword and try to clear my head of it all.
          I found Cassandra sitting on the bank above me when I finished up, and joined her.
          “Thank you,” were the first words out of her mouth. “Harellan is…she can be very stubborn.”
          I nodded. “Aye. Most soldiers are when they’re hurt. What in the Maker’s name was she doin’ out in front of us?”
          It came out harsher than I meant, but I stuck by it. That elf was the smallest thing here and I didn’t know if she was gonna make it back to the scout camp in that condition, let alone how we were gettin’ her back to the Crossroads.
          The Seeker sighed and shook her head, and gazed downstream. “I don’t know. This isn’t the first time she’s placed herself between the rest of us and danger, however. But it is the first time her ideas backfired so terribly.”
          “Magic can’t solve everything,” I told her, looking over my shoulder at the mound of bodies still surrounding the elf. Cole hovered fretfully nearby. Sera looked kinda down about it too, but also just generally uncomfortable and restless. The stench of dog blood was getting thick. “And frankly,” I added, “between you and me, I don’t really think it should be solvin’ much of anything at all.”
          “Finally, someone makes sense,” Sera muttered, shifting from foot to foot.
          “She is more than a mage,” Cassandra argued, digging her boot heel into the wet silt. “She is a warrior, and a damn fine one.”
          “Is she? I’ve yet to see it. She doesn’t carry a weapon.”
          “She does,” the Seeker insisted, looking over her shoulder. “It’s some sort of magical blade. She does incredible things with it…”
          “Yeah, well, she’s done nothing but get herself incredibly hurt, far as I’ve seen,” I sighed, shaking my head. “Call me old-fashioned but I don’t much care to see a woman injured. Maybe keep her behind people like you and me from now on.”
          I didn’t think the Seeker would take too kindly to that, and her narrow stare confirmed it. But if she had anything else to say, she kept it to herself, leaving us all to sit around and wait and hope that Solas and the other medics could get Harellan in a good enough condition to bring her back to camp.
          And I just hoped this wasn’t an omen of how the rest of my time in the Inquisition would be.

Chapter Text

Solas

          The Inquisition had done a fine enough job reinforcing the areas of care first established by Revered Mother Giselle. What were once mere tents draped in Chantry heraldry and cots open to the elements had become a handful of makeshift buildings erected on the edge of the Crossroads to shelter the sick and injured, as well as supplies and the healers to care for them. As an apostate elf among their ranks I could ask for little more than tacit respect while I monitored Harellan and tracked her recovery, and the others gave a wide enough berth to do so without interference, though it left me with the distinct impression that they considered her my charge and mine alone. Not one Andrastian brother or sister stopped by to confer with me, and only those scouts sent by Seeker Cassandra expressed any interest in the Knight-Enchanter’s state, or sought ways that they might help.
          Fortunate for her that I was accustomed to working alone, then.
          “Fen’Harel, Fen’Harel, open your jaws.”
          Well, “alone” was not perfectly accurate. Cole had yet to leave her bedside. The fitful restlessness with which she struggled to sleep presumably kept him rooted here, crouched on a stool near her pillow.
          “Fen’Harel, Fen’Harel, sharpen your claws.”
          I had heard that correctly. The spirit met my gaze with an uncertain stare under his wide hat, and continued what sounded curiously like a Dalish nursery rhyme, though the words were Trade, not Elvhen.
          “It’s time for a meal, and we’ve readied your prey.” He turned back to her, but finished the couplet loud enough to hear.
          “For another one’s shown us her magic, today.”
          I drew a second stool closer and sat beside him, aware that any conversation would be guarded by his power.
          “What does it mean?” he asked, frowning at her.
          “Where did it come from?” I queried back. She seemed lively, as though on the cusp of waking. Perhaps this was why Cole had so suddenly become capable of looking into her.
          “The children yell it through the trees,” he told me. “At first, they were older, and scared, and they believed it. But now they are younger, and mean, and some of them don’t. They know it hurts her, and they want it to hurt her. It’s the only way they can hurt her back.”
          “Dalish children?”
          The spirit nodded. A strangeness glazed his eyes. His soft voice softened further. “My whole clan hates me,” he pulled, slipping deeper into her mind. “I wasn’t supposed to live. I wasn’t supposed to be the one that came back. The wolves took the wrong elf.”
          The wolves took the wrong elf.
          “Is this what she dreams of?”
          Cole returned to himself, and his head tilted. The edge of his brim nearly struck me. “It’s stuck in the back of her head. Surrounded by so many eyes, and shaped like so many teeth. Fire chases them away. They’re supposed to run and not come back. But not this time. This time they weren’t scared.”
          The wolves, or the children?
          Straight answers from the spirit were about as simple to extract as from Sera. But unlike hers, his were clouded with a layer of morality I wasn’t certain I should breach. My relationship with Harellan was still notably tenuous; I did not need Cole feeding me more of her least comfortable secrets when she was not capable of granting permission to hear them.
          “That is enough,” I warned gently, touching his shoulder. It was ephemeral against my fingertips, brimming with the indescribable quality of not quite being fully here. “Let her sleep, and let her wake in her own time. She may not be ready to heal the wounds within until the wounds without are closed.”
          “But they are so fresh now,” he mumbled. “Fright, fleeting, fleeing on foot, flames so tall and bright, bumbling, stumbling over tree roots and slippery moss, back to her parents and the shock of the whole clan that was never supposed to see her again…”
          I squeezed, but instead of quieting he started another verse of that strange Dalish Trade rhyme.
          “Fen’Harel, Fen’Harel closes his jaws. Fen’Harel, Fen’Harel licks at his paws…”
          Harellan stilled in the cot beside us. Her eyes opened, tight with pain.
          “He’s eaten his fill, and he’s gone back to bed…”
          They widened in recognition. There was nothing more I could do to quiet Cole.
          “But dreams of the next one are filling his head.”
          Mythal’s tree twisted in knots as the Knight-Enchanter bravely attempted to sit up and every wound she’d suffered reminded her of its existence at once. I made no move to guide her back down, but I was relieved when she relaxed of her own accord and stared up at the rafters in hollow silence.
          “These weren’t the same wolves.”
          “Go away.”
          Her words were voiceless, a labored, breathy exhale.
          “Get out of my head. Or you will regret it, Cole.”
          The spirit shrank back and stepped off the stool, but he remained in the shadows, just at the periphery of my vision. I had a feeling he was withdrawing from her memory as well, particularly when she seemed to blink and see me anew.
          “Ma serannas, Solas,” she half-whispered. Beads of sweat decorated her vallaslin. “You saved me.”
          “The journey before us is long,” I replied, watching her eyes close in strained serenity. “I’ve little doubt the favor will yet be returned. It is good to see you awake, lethallan.”
          Vhenan’Then did not wake with her, however. The spirit seemed to have withdrawn entirely to the Fade either during or immediately following the attack, and her guardian had yet to return, from what I could -- or, rather, could not -- sense.
          I made no mention of it. At my suggestion, she agreed to a glass of water, and allowed me to dry her inked brow without protest. She steeled herself well against pain, a behavior I was not at all surprised by. The woman did not give the impression of one unused to bearing hardship with stoic grace.
          “Ir abelas,” she added after a moment. “I was unkind. Your charm. That bone…I thought it…”
          An eyelid cracked to peer at the piece of wolf’s jaw hung low against my chest. Both eyes opened and lifted to mine. “What is it? Why do you wear it, if not for protection?”
          Fen’Harel, Fen’Harel…
          “It is a warning,” I told her. “And a memory. And a promise.”
          I worried she might ask more, but she seemed to leave it at that. Quiet contemplation flexed Mythal’s boughs.
          “Do you believe in the Dalish gods?” she asked. Her voice was still so strained.
          How to answer that…
          How much to confess…?
          “I believe they were People who existed,” I began. “People who lived lives, became powerful, gathered myths and followers. I believe they were People who did great things, and terrible things, but I do not believe they were gods.”
          The barest rocking of her chin signaled a weak nod. “Do you believe in the quicklings’ Maker, then?”
          Acceptance came faster than I’d predicted. Anguish seemed to temper her Dalish obstinance. It drained the fight from her, or else redirected the bulk of it to where it was most needed, and left this quieter, tenderer Harellan behind.
          “Not as such. Not in the manner of the Seeker, or the Herald. But I do appreciate the idea of a being that need not prove its power.”
          “Then what do you believe in, Solas?”
          Ah. An age-old question.
          “Cause and effect. Wisdom as its own reward, and the inherent right of all free willed people to exist.”
          That last one lingered behind her springtide eyes. I wondered if she remembered saying it to me in weeks past, that day we first met, with a set of prison bars and a gulf of suspicion between us. I wondered if she knew where the sentiment came from. From which “god” the Fellavhen clan may have passed it on.
          My whole clan hates me.
          Of course they did. They named her rebel, after all. Harellan, the place of deceit, of trickery. But what had happened? Now seemed so close to the correct time to ask. What was it about wolves that brought to the surface the sort of wounds that attracted Cole? Did she simply fear the facile Dalish folktale of the Dread Wolf, or was there more to it than this?
          And which of the others had been taken in her stead? 
          Breath escaped the Knight-Enchanter in a silent surrender. Whether she’d given up some attempt to muster the strength to argue or simply to continue talking at all, I could not say. She tried to shift again and grimaced, but it seemed to accomplish something as she relaxed into the cot and closed her eyes once more.
          “No being or belief shapes your path, then.” Elvhen flowed from her, tired and thoughtlessly so and all the more lyrical for it. “I could have guessed this, perhaps. It suits you, to wander guideless through this world and its dangers. Nothing to fret about, nothing to fear. No need to look over your shoulder. No guardian to disappoint. How freeing it must be, to be you, apostate wanderer Solas.”
          I did not care to engage with the bitterness in her tone. Not now, while the ache of wounds played havoc with her temperament.
          And yet, “I choose to think of it as accepting responsibility.” When she opened her eyes, I met her gaze. “I did not miss that shot with my arrow because Andruil disapproved of my prey. My Aravel did not fall to pieces because I failed to honor June with suitable fervor. I did not suffer a wound because Andraste’s head was turned elsewhere as the blade fell, and nor did misfortune strike my family because we allowed Fen’Harel into our home to lay at our hearth.”
          “Speak not of the Dread Wolf, you who knows not the danger of invoking his name,” Harellan hissed breathily. Her glare returned to the talisman at my chest. “Whatever that memory and that promise are to you, the symbol you choose to carry them with is, at best, bad luck to the Dalish. At worst you’re inviting a dark deceiving spirit to stalk your steps. I thought it was a charm of some kind, protection against the Dread Wolf. Why else would you wear it? Ir dirthara. You may not believe in him, but it's quite clear to me how he guides your path, Fade-walker. Demon consort. That is what you will be responsible for.”
          Ir dirthara.
          I have learned.
          I shook my head and rose from the stool. Her strength needed focusing elsewhere. “It is not these dead ideas that guide our paths, Slow-Heart. Do the Dalish not teach that your gods were sealed away? That they cannot reach or watch over you?”
          “All but one,” she swore hoarsely.
          “And what makes you think you would recognize him, should he ever stand before you, child?”
          Stop it, Solas. This is unproductive. And cruel. But the dedication with which she espoused her false logic needled at me. That confidence in her ignorance begged a challenge.
          “I would do better than you, you who dresses himself in the trappings of the trickster to taunt him!”
          “And you think his ear does not perk every time your name is called?” I shouldn’t have turned back, but there I stood, facing her once more. “Your own clan invoked a deep curse to cast you out, and you wear it with pride befitting his nature.”
          “Only one of us wears our Pride befittingly here,” she spat back. “You who think yourself above the gods.”
          Yet none more than you acts the part I have been accused of for all these thousands of years.
          Cole caught my eye just then. Still lurking in the shadows behind her cot. Listening. Worrying. Watching me fight ancient battles of dust and ruin with a wounded woman who knew not her opponent’s prowess or relevance. Layering purposeless insult on real injury. Learning from me, and my poor example, and my even poorer manners.
          She makes you feel young.
          “Return to sleep, Harellan,” I urged in Trade. “Disagreements do neither of us good.”
          I set to work at the table nearby, crafting a tonic to calm her unsettled mind. She struggled valiantly to drink it herself, but no amount of unbreakable will could force either hand to hold the cup steadily enough without my assistance.
          It was, perhaps, a bit stronger than I should have made it, for her weight. Her fight drained to exhaustion when the medicine took quick hold. Babbling whispers betrayed truth as she slipped back off to the Fade.
          “Ir abelas, Solas,” as she drifted away. “Ir abelas…abelas. Ir…ir enfenim.”
          Enfenim.
          She was…afraid?
          The woman was gone by the time I’d turned, lips parted and brow unwrinkled. Cole had discovered a hand towel, and was gently dabbing tears from her closed eyes.
          “She wants you to be a safe thing,” the spirit said, looking from her to me. “But she is afraid of you. You are so close to everything she wants, and you scare her so much.”
          “It is complicated, Cole.”
          “She doesn’t mean it,” he pressed, drying the rest of her face, too. “Why does she say things she doesn’t mean? She thinks herself like the others, like the other Dalish children in her clan, all saying things to hurt each other. They’re all so scared…”
          “Superstition breeds fear,” I sighed, cleaning the cup to busy my hands. “If her belief in the Dread Wolf is so strong, if she believes his spirit resides in the wolves of the Hinterlands, the wolves around her clan’s home…”
          “But it doesn’t,” Cole argued, staring through me to see that which hides behind my eyes. “He isn’t there.”
          I held up a hand to silence him, and shook my head as I set the cup down. “Be thoughtful in your pursuit of her pain, Cole,” I warned him. “If she reacts to those who tread too closely by lashing out harder and faster, I would not see you hurt.”
          “Oh, I don’t mind,” he promised, eyes so wide and innocent. “It does not matter if she tries to hurt me. She can’t. Not in a way that lasts. And it makes her feel better.”
          “It doesn’t,” I promised. “It makes her worse.”
          “Not forever.”
          I didn’t have an answer for that. Was it worth pulling at pieces of the poor woman until they unraveled? Cole touched something deep when he reached for her. Something profound. Something I wasn’t certain he had the ability to heal, something she may not have the ability to recover from. Not all scars could fade, after all. And not all scars should.
          Not the ones that shape us. Not the ones from which we draw our determination.
          “Let her recover,” I just asked, again. “Presumably there are many others in the Crossroads who need your help still.”
          “Not like her,” Cole argued, but he looked around anyway. “No one is as loud and bright as her, right now…”
          And yet he started off, wandering through the other sick and injured, slipping unseen between the Chantry brothers and sisters tending to them.

Chapter Text

Harellan

          Silence reigned beyond the barrier’s blue glow, but echoes of war rippled against its surface. Vhenan’Then’s power, loosed to drive off and destroy those things attracted by weakness, allowing me to rest in the Fade as I rested in the waking world.
          You are beginning to calm, Taren’Elgar.
          I am, Vhenan. And you are stable once more.
          The spirit wound around me, blending our relief as one. Not in many years had we suffered a dissonance this powerful, if we had ever done so at all. My fear had crashed as a blow unto him, a great altering tide of terror clouding our path and scattering darkness. In such blinding panic no decision could be made, no judgment trusted, no instinct reliable, and yet he had borrowed my shame for his failure to act. I could not wrench it back before now. Not until we were safe at the Crossroads.
          And as I continued to calm, so too did the ripples beyond. Indistinct shapes thinned in number and size, opposed by the great coil of Vigilance gathered fully in the Fade, withdrawn from my spirit-hilt to this place where all of his coalesced fortitude had been needed to resist the enemy on both sides of my protective shell. Twin barbs of regret sank a fang into each of our necks, matched only by mutual contrition, by coupled oaths to do better. Interlocking promises toward deeper resolve, to improve, to understand, to gild our determination in fire and steel. This place was not home. It was not the Dalish forests, familiar and predictable, and nor was it the Circle, insular and protected. This place was war, inglorious and brutal, and I had faltered at a critical moment, and nearly brought him down with me.
          I still stand, Taren’Elgar. I remain unbroken.
          And how fortunate we were that he did.
          Only then did I disperse my ward. Only then did I allow the currents of the Fade to surround me. A dread chill whispered through soul-skin, the bitter taste of weakness yet uncleared, and the strange things drawn to examine and reflect it. A slough of might like a brief sigh scattered them, and Vhenan'Then curled inward to regard me with one shining, milky eye.
          You need not, Taren'Elgar.
          But I did need to.
          And we both knew it.
          Coherence was not easy. But too deeply did we want it. Too deeply did we yearn. A touch, a taste, a brush of intent, I willed fingertips from the indistinctness and they nearly formed, a proto-limb of resolve and persistence. His great eye closed, glassy scales like silk between us, hardening to keep me out, to keep us apart and distinct.
          An arm. A chest. These things manifested from the mists and I pressed myself, exhausted, against his ridged cheek. Warmth flooded us both, spiraling cascades of palliative joy as he nuzzled his unpracticed excuse for a mage and I rested in the spaces he was not.
          You toy with danger, Taren'Elgar.
          We must learn together, Vhenan'Then.
          We two must support one another.
          Serenity and stability. Action and reaction. Push, and pull. Bend, and bow.
          A great glimmering wing flexed around us, and draped across what could have been my shoulder. His coils tightened, gathering those leaking edges that flowed their way. So inviting, so open we were, both staring down that thinnest line between us, that line we would not cross. Affection slipped from his scales, softening their edges, eddying those places I was not and teasing at the mists I still was. It would be so easy, to let him in. So simple, to part that thing I couldn't quite manage to be. Heart and mind as one, not two. Harmony of purpose. Melding that seam we must maintain.
          Cohere, Taren. I will not falter.
          How fortunate I was, to have this dear companion.
          It was dark when I woke. The pain felt older, shallower now. Solas was still here, edged by lamplight, seated at a table cleared for eating. I made no noise, to let him finish, and my attention took him by surprise as a glance over his shoulder turned into hasty napkins at the mouth and a rinsing and drying of hands.
          “How are you?”
          “Improving.”
          No malice lingered in his tone. But I would not endure that lovely Elvhen again. I could not let myself slip.
          He poured more water and carried it over. “You heal well, lethallan.”
          “Ma serannas.”
          No.
          Trade, Harellan.
          Focus.
          I had strength enough to endure the ache required to steady the cup. He kept careful fingers at its edges and bottom for support, but relinquished direction and control in a small display of trust. Or perhaps a test to pass, and one that I did, with minimal fuss. I wouldn’t let him dry my lips, though. I fought for the towel and won the right to prove myself capable of this, as well.
          I tried again to sit up, and this time I knew that I could. Fingertips touched my spine and magic gathered where Solas guided, a gentle rush of power as the Veil bent to carry me forward. The apostate busied himself transferring a pile of pillows from a cloth beside us to the end of the cot before his spell could fade.
          “Thank you. Have you been here this whole time?” I asked, relaxing into them.
          “It’s only a few hours,” he replied, finally willing to match my tongue. “I expected you to sleep the night.”
          I likely would, soon enough. But how long had he intended to stay, then?
          “Don’t other things call your attention?”
          “They do.” His eyes wandered the bandages at my shoulder, the wraps encasing my arm. “But they can wait. I would see you well again before I attend to other business.”
          A bothersome answer. Why? I was not that important. And my wounds were well-tended. Why spend an afternoon here that he could have used to gather a party to visit those ruins he’d come along to investigate? Or see himself to Winterwatch Tower to study the rift there, as he’d voiced interest in doing yesterday? Time was not on our side. We could ill afford to be idle. And I had been so cruel to him, as well. Why aid such ungrateful misery?
          It hurt to turn too far, but I forced a glance beyond him, at the scattering of Chantry volunteers. He followed my gaze.
          “There are plenty to look after me,” I pressed. “You need not waste your days.”
          A long few seconds stretched between us before he turned back.
          “You may trust the quicklings’ care, if it suits you,” he replied with the slightest smirk. “I, however, remain unconvinced.”
          I…could not fault that, if honesty was demanded. His observations matched my own. I wanted to hope that the primitive nature of practicing medicine here arose from the difficulty of bringing supplies to the region, but even in Skyhold, the Fereldan and even some Orlesian medical knowledge seemed…less developed than I was accustomed to.
          Not that I should be much more comfortable trusting a wandering apostate’s “education.” But he was right -- I seemed to respond well to his treatment, and this was not the first time he had proven himself capable of wound care. I peered down the cot toward his table of equipment. The lantern wasn’t bright enough to discern details in his methods.
          “What have you used, then?”
          “Elvhen herbs.”
          Again he followed my gaze. Did his answer harken back to the Fallow Mire? Or was I imagining that playful edge to his tone?
          “...Dalish herbs, you mean,” I teased, testing the theory.
          His gray eyes twinkled hopefully.
          “If you prefer.”
          It seemed confirmation enough. He was trying to set a lighthearted tone.
          Alright. My tension eased, and took a small measure of pain with it. I could play his game. A touch of levity would not be unwelcome, if we could manage it between us. I offered a conciliatory smile, one that seemed to take him by surprise. Truthfully, I was quite relieved that his anger had not hardened to a grudge -- I did not want to keep fighting anymore over foolish things. Meaningless things. I hadn’t the strength to speak more sharp, empty words intended only to alter our opinions of one another for the worse. Whatever danger his choices and affiliations may ordinarily be to those around him, he had chosen in this moment to aid me in ways that I needed.
          I could play the part of a tolerable patient.
          “I’d like to apologize, for before,” I told him, remembering my language this time. “I make no excuse for such malice, Solas. But I will strive to act pleasantly.”
          He nodded once. “As will I.”
          His quick words paused me. As will he? What had he done but respond in kind to a disagreement I had begun?
          “Are you hungry?” he asked.
          I wasn’t, but I accepted food nonetheless. Another simple, meaty stew in a bowl he held while I spooned its contents into my mouth. It would aid recovery, and it was better to eat now when a meal was available than to awaken later when one was not.
          He was an attentive caregiver; so much so that it unsettled. When I’d finished he examined each wound, pressing investigative magic through the wraps and bandages at my shoulder, my shin, my forearm. Bouts of healing further lessened the pain here and there, and continued to stitch up that which had been torn apart and fractured. He offered to craft another tonic to help me back to sleep, but this one I refused. I would not waste his supplies when natural exhaustion already crept back in.
          “I’ve something that may interest you, then, before you’re off.” Solas crossed to his table and sorted through things there. “Cole, I, and two of our soldiers returned with you after the attack. Cassandra and the others pressed on to be certain the cave was cleared.” He returned with something in hand, though I couldn’t see it was a necklace until he was near enough to sit again in the lamplight. “They brought this back with them, alongside a journal from an unlucky traveler, perhaps from Redcliffe.”
          He passed it over to see for myself. I found the thing repulsive immediately. It was magic, but the sort of magic it was felt familiar, and called to mind the wolves that had done this to me. And not just these -- the very concept of the wolf itself seemed to slip from the smooth talisman. A relief carving of the beasts howling at a full moon adorned one side, and I had an abhorrent feeling that were I to wear it, I would become the focus of yet more unwanted attention.
          “The Token of the Packmaster,” Solas informed me, taking it back when I offered. “According to the traveler, it is meant to control the wolves in the area. To pacify them, though it failed to repel his true demise.” He bowed his head in quiet contemplation. “The Seeker found a Terror demon in the cave the pack had emerged from, along with the journal and the traveler’s remains. Its corruptive power had infected the amulet. This was likely what was calling and transforming local wolves.”
          “Likely,” I echoed dubiously.
          Again he held it out. “You may speculate otherwise, if you wish.”
          I’d prefer not to speculate at all, and it must have shown in my face. He lost a bit of cheer and laid the token on my leg when I did not reach for it. A distant baying tickled at the back of my neck.
          “Harellan. How do you know the world?”
          He must also have known how strange the question sounded. My suspicion didn’t seem to surprise.
          “If I may presume,” the apostate continued, “the Dalish take much of their understanding from their Keeper. Oral traditions passed down from one generation to the next. And later you learned instead from books in your Circle libraries, when you left the clan.”
          And? What was he getting at?
          “Is this true?” Solas pressed.
          “Mostly.”
          “Enough to be illustrative, I hope.” When I nodded, he continued. “You’ve been taught from authority, then, and later taught to reject that authority, in favor of a different one. How do you reconcile these two sources?”
          Easily enough.
          “By replacing ‘truths’ which were simply insisted upon with those supported by fact, argument, and foundation.”
          Of course there was more to it than that. But there was always more to it than that.
          He nodded. “And is it these facts and foundations that make written authorities greater than oral ones?”
          I stared him down, piecing together suspicions. “If you’re making some lengthy argument about how I should just take you at your word because I used to blindly believe my Keeper…”
          “Not at all,” he insisted. “I’d like you to examine what gives these sources their authority. Your Keeper may have done a poor job of explaining the roots of your clan’s knowledge, and may only be parroting the poor explanations given by their Keeper, but one assumes that at some point in the distant past, these foundations existed, in some form.”
          It still sounded like he was advocating that I abandon Chantry learning. An apt side to take, for an apostate. But to what end? Did this relate to our disagreement earlier? That I should not believe in anything at all?
          The Token of the Packmaster glinted at my knee. I set it on the edge of the cot, far enough to stop the whispering pull of the forest, the subtle longing to run through trees.
          “Have you an answer?”
          “An answer for what?” I asked.
          “For these foundations.”
          For what foundations? The Keeper’s knowledge?
          “I didn’t ask.”
          That was the point of the Chantry books in the Circle’s libraries.
          “Am I correct in presuming you were never taught to?” Solas pressed. “Or perhaps you were punished for challenging your Keeper?”
          “I didn’t ask,” I repeated.
          Brief scrutiny creased his inkless brow, threading studious lines through clanless skin. He saw it the second time. The lie, couched in insistence.
          “What of the books you’ve supplanted this knowledge with?” he forged on, regardless. “Have you considered their sources?”
          “To what end, Solas?” Impatience grew difficult to rein in. It seemed that he could bother me in Trade just as well as Elvhen. “I can’t ask their authors, not unless they were alive, and visited the Circles. They make their arguments in the pages. If you find them convincing, you may accept the information they have to offer.”
          “Have you ever found them to be unconvincing?”
          He seemed determined not to make this conversation easy. Perhaps he was simply impossible not to be annoyed with.
          “What are you trying to say?” I sighed. The pain wasn’t worsening, but I felt less willing to tolerate it while this conversation ambled about like a self-important halla pretending it wasn’t lost. “Which are you advocating for, oral traditions or proven knowledge?”
          And why?
          “Neither.” He had a talent for saying the most irritating thing at any given moment, didn't he? “Neither source teaches you to think. Neither teaches you to look at the world and draw your own conclusions.” He sat back and picked up the Packmaster’s Token from the edge of my cot. Smooth carvings flashed in the lamplight. He studied them quietly before he continued. “You’ve a demonstrated distaste for the manner in which I explore and understand magics that are new to me, Harellan. I ask you to consider what about your Chantry books is so different from this. To consider by what authority every claim to knowledge is made. All of history, and all the world’s information, is derived from a single source, after all.”
          He paused and lifted his eyes from the amulet. I let him have his moment of theater. So long as it meant he was finally nearing the end of his ever-lengthening chain of questions.
          “Lived experience,” the apostate revealed softly. “All true knowledge derives from this.”
          The sentence hung between us, and he dropped the token to hang from his fingers. It swung on its braided string as he watched and waited for the effects of his words on his captive audience. His stare was so keen. So focused, attention like a spotlight and I the sole performer on his little stage. Fortunate for me that such a place was familiar, and a mask of neutrality easy to maintain.
          Lived experience, was it?
          It made a certain sense. Not that he’d needed all that build-up to say it.
          Again he offered the Token, and again I did not take it from him. But it stayed between us, pendulous as his elbow rested on his knee. “It was lived experience that allowed me to name the Veilfire in the Fallow Mire. And lived experience of that traveler to confirm the function of this Token he commissioned, or inherited. It is lived experience that the Dalish attempt to keep from vanishing in their stories and legends and fables. And it is lived experience that Circle scholars reference and rely upon as foundation for their histories and knowledge. Either their own, or those they speak to in their travels.”
          A third time he gestured with the Token, but when I still made no move to receive it, he gave up and returned it to his own lap. Lamplight reflected in those gray eyes, their steady gaze pointed and shrewd.
          “You play the part of a capable warrior, Knight-Enchanter, and you play it well. But you are out of your customary depth. The Dalish clans, though nomadic, do not stray far from their chosen hunting grounds, and even more sealed away were the Chantry Circles. You’ve a limited world experience, Fellavhen, and you defer to the authority of trusted sources over your own judgment. But an ideal opportunity to change this awaits.” He freed me from his pinning stare, albeit briefly. “Disparage me for my ‘freedom’ if you must,” the apostate continued. “For my ‘wandering.’ For my unpledged loyalty which you find so distasteful. But they have led me to experience. And from that experience I have gained knowledge. And so can you. Knowledge owed to no god or Keeper. Knowledge that relies on no faith or trust but your own eyes, your own hands, your own soul.”
          “So I should ignore everything I’ve ever been taught, and start anew? A child, stumbling about this world, relearning everything?”
          I felt like playing Fen’Harel’s Advocate with him. It seemed a rather obvious flaw in his logic.
          “Of course not.” He seemed pleased to receive the challenge. “I only suggest that your own judgment is no less authoritative than those you’ve already trusted. I encourage you to do your own wandering. To explore the world, and to create your own knowledge, by experiment and experience. There is no difference between any one of us and Brother Genitivi, lethallan. Save that he has put pen to paper, to share his traveler’s knowledge with those unwilling or unable to trace his footsteps. And you are far from unable.”
          Once more Solas held out the Token of the Packmaster. Finally, a point. A purpose. An end to this ceaseless, meandering chatter. I looked down at the amulet this time, watching the wolves howl, watching the lantern’s glow edge the carving in slivers of yellow and orange.
          Lived experience, was it?
          I didn’t have to take the apostate’s word for what happened up north. For why the beasts behaved as they had. And nor did I have to take the traveler’s journal on its face. I could confirm these things for myself, he was trying to tell me. I could take the amulet and study it, and teach myself its functions and effects.
          Fine, then. What further damage could be done? Solas was a healer, a practitioner of the arts of Sylaise whether he believed in her or not, and he did not strike me as fool enough to endanger a patient he had poured so much precious effort into restoring. I took the amulet, and unwound its braided string from his long fingers, and smoothed my own thumb over the curve of the full moon. The eyes of the pack promptly fell upon me.
          Not as foes, hideous as their attention felt.
          But as followers. Attentive. Obedient.
          As you wish, then, Fen’Harel. You’ve a clever agent on your side.
          Tempt me as you must.
          Solas left me to think on his points. Sleep was soon to follow, and I didn’t wake until dawn. Cole prowled among others who seemed to have had a more restive night than I did, and it occupied him enough to keep his distance. The apostate himself arrived in due time and again checked my wounds, though he fed me a warm blend of something bitter that filled my limbs with weakening fuzz before removing the bandages. It gave me my first good look at what had happened, at least. The aftermath, though swift in its recovery, was not a graceful sight.
          Fizzling alchemical solutions stung my arm but faintly, distantly, like needles pressed through wool. He asked how badly it hurt and I lied for him, told him I could feel nothing at all. It seemed to embolden his care; he watched my eyes very closely as searing magic poured itself into open tissues and raw wounds. A test of my tolerance, if I had to guess, and as it sharpened, so too did his suspicion. But I let him work unfettered -- the more he did now, the faster I would heal, and he could not inflict a restorative pain as deep or as tormenting as the Templars had in punishment.
          He seemed to want to speak as the process repeated for my shoulder, but I picked a spot in the grass by the entrance and watched the morning breeze tickle the blades, and gave him no reason to make commentary or question my resolve. It was my leg that I slipped for and grimaced at, as lances of fire bit deep into bone, though this seemed to satisfy more than disappoint. Not that he wanted to hurt me, I hoped. But by showing the limits of tolerance, I proved their existence at all.
          Around midmorning Cole showed up again, this time with a gift, and argued with Solas about whether or not to give it to me. It was a crude wooden crutch, they eventually revealed, something the apostate seemed convinced I was not ready to use. As one might expect, I agreed with the side that advocated for more autonomy, and besides, Solas, what was I going to do with it, re-break my leg? Of course I would be gentle on myself. Movement would do me good.
          Dirthamen’s darkest shadows, how it hurt to walk, though. I couldn’t put weight on that foot at all, splint be damned, and my arm wasn’t handling the extra strain too well, either. It was almost entertaining how quickly Cole regretted what he’d facilitated, but by then it was too late. By then I was already upright and hobbling about, and neither one of them was going to stop me unless they wanted half a dozen witnesses to their attempts to physically wrestle an obstinate cripple.
          And out the door I went, to enjoy the sunlight and a fresh breeze of something that wasn’t sickness and stale bandages.
          Eyes and heads alike turned as I made my labored way around the Crossroads. But it felt so much better to be up and in pain than lying feckless on a stiff cot and also in pain. Cassandra was the first of any merit to spot me, and we took lunch together while she asked after my health and I apologized for the circumstances that led to my current state.
          “Are you certain you should be out?” she worried at me.
          “I did not march from the medical tents without Solas’s approval,” I lied. “He is a very knowledgeable and skilled healer.”
          Yet the Seeker remained strangely inconvincible. She could not easily name what was bothering her, and said as much throughout our meal. Yes, I was walking without assistance. Yes, I seemed capable of taking care of myself. But it was an offhand remark that offered a clue to her deeper trepidation.
          “...I do not mean this as an insult, Harellan, but you seem…smaller, somehow. Perhaps it is strange to even mention…”
          Ah. I knew immediately what she meant. But I smiled and poked at the last few pieces of meat still floating around in their own gravy.
          “Some find me deceptive,” I replied, wishing these Fereldans knew what a vegetable was. “It is unusual for an elf to carry herself as a human warrior. Confidence and faith can alter perception, and when that confidence is stripped...”
          But it wasn’t really my stature she was commenting on. It was Vhenan’Then’s absence. I’ve no doubt her Templar-like abilities could sense that.
          I did not just seem smaller in the wake of the attack.
          Without the spirit, I was smaller.
          And dangerously so.
          His return would have to wait, however. It was not a simple thing to recall Vigilance back to my hilt. His bindings were breakable at his own discretion, and he had slipped them as a matter of mutual safety in the wake of such overwhelming panic. I would need more strength than I had at present to draw him back from the Fade, particularly to segment him into the two pieces we both were accustomed to.
          And it would take other tools as well. Like a new Mage staff. One that better suited me than the Inquisition’s standard-issued fare. Three more days of recovery passed before I trusted myself to venture to the edge of the woods for raw materials, and when I did, the Token of the Packmaster hung from my neck, though through its power I sensed no wolves to command. A few passersby asked my business when they saw I was hobbling away from the safety of the community, but I assured them I would not be gone long.
          A stout branch was all I needed. Of medium length. And relative straightness.
          A decent candidate was not difficult to find. Birchwood, as the bark stripped easily and had few twigs to cut off. My damaged shoulder was not pleased with the load but I didn’t have to drag it far. A stump by the edge of the refugee tents made for an adequate place to rest, and I drew the end of the limb into my lap and laid into it with a stout whittler’s knife borrowed from the armory supplies.
          It was about an hour or so before I realized this might take longer than anticipated. I only had it about a quarter stripped when a distinctive Gray Warden voice cut through the early afternoon warmth.
          “I didn’t know you were a woodworker, Harellan.”
          His big shem frame blocked the sun, but I had a feeling my thin patience was due more to pain than inconvenience. Repetitive motions wore on my joints.
          “The Dalish craft their own staves,” I replied, deciding now was as fine a time as any to pause. Blackwall looked about as I remembered him, tall and wide and commanding. Though his beard could likely use a trim. And a comb-through. “I lost mine the other day, and I’m not capable of much else just yet. In this manner I can keep busy in a way that will benefit the Inquisition.”
          The Warden eyed the branch anew. “You’re makin’ a mage staff, from that? Isn’t that just a piece of a tree you picked up in the forest?”
          “That is where most wood is found, yes.”
          The better part of a week with Solas seemed to have left its mark.
          “I realize that, thanks,” Blackwall countered flatly. “What I meant is I figured mage staves were made of something a little more special than whatever the last storm brought down with it.”
          I glanced off toward the heart of the Crossroads, and the ever-growing populace bustling around. “Perhaps in cities and elsewhere, special types and trees are used. But at its foundation a staff is just wood, carved through and treated, and fitted with caps at the crown and haft. The Dalish don’t generally have access to the forges and mills of sh--of human cities. So we make do with what’s available.”
          Blackwall folded his arms. “And you’d rather do that than just get one from the armory? Or buy one from the merchants?”
          “Shemlen staves are too large.” I shouldn’t have used that word, but he didn’t seem bothered by it. “My fighting style requires agility, and I prefer a shorter, lighter staff than the ones available.”
          I didn’t like the way he sized me up. “Your fighting style. Meaning…?”
          I allowed myself a quiet exhale. “You did not see me at my finest when we first met, Warden Blackwall. I am a more capable warrior than my recent performances would indicate.”
          He nodded, but the twist of his mouth made no attempt to hide skepticism.
          “The Seeker tells me you wield a blade, too. Well, if you feel like company, I do a bit o’ woodwork, myself,” he finished, unfolding his arms. “Stop by the stables in the evenings. A proper workbench might ease your troubles.”
          It wasn’t a terrible idea. But his doubt bothered me. I felt no need to prove myself to the shem, and nor was I in any shape to, but I’d rather not deal with his judgment, if it could be helped.
          Instead I dragged the limb back to the medical quarters when I tired of sitting on the stump. Solas had some choice words when I showed up with a filthy tree branch and a worsening limp, but it lifted my spirits to engage him in a bit of a verbal duel before dinner. After all, he didn’t have to be here, tending to me, ignoring his other interests day after day. And especially not now, when I was well along the path to a full recovery. And besides, if I worked here, I could rest more frequently, couldn’t I?
          It amused me that Cole was on my side about the whole affair.
          I’d thought it would take a few hours, but it ended up taking the better part of two more days to finish the staff. Whittling the finer glyphs and lines was even harder than I’d remembered, and procuring ingredients for lacquer took a bitter argument with the newer Inquisition suppliers who didn’t believe an injured Dalish elf looking for unusual materials was anything but an opportunistic thief. A haft cap was, oddly enough, the easiest part of it, and Cole -- of all sources -- procured for me one of the largest banded-quartz crystals I’d ever seen, and I did not ask where it came from or how he’d gotten his hands on it. The rock was about half the size of my head and fit very neatly into the branches I hadn’t cut off, and some clever winding with a leather thong and a few sticky daubs of pine sap fastened everything together quite snugly.
          It wasn’t the greatest Second’s Staff I’d ever seen. But it would do for now. And it measured a few inches below the shoulder rather than towering feet above my own head, making it much more manageable in a fight and far less likely to catch on obstacles or enemies with the speed at which I was accustomed to engaging them.
          It was good to have a focus for my power once more. I spent much of an afternoon just practicing with it, breaking it in, “training” it to respond as I wanted. It did my recovery good, and even Solas remarked on my energy levels when I returned to the medical quarters that evening.
          The first of two goals, crossed off my list.
          The other was reclaiming Vhenan’then.
          With staff in hand and at least one-and-a-half weight bearing legs by now, I was much more comfortable straying further into the woods to harvest the plants I needed, or to search for a few suitable trades. The Crossroads market sold some of the remaining requirements, but Redcliffe held the majority of those ingredients not native to these particular southern forests. Caravans were becoming daily occurrences as the region stabilized, and it was a simple matter to follow one out in the morning to haggle.
          I’d already had my suspicions about the manner in which Solas recreated during his free time, but commentary from the village's merchants confirmed it. Several remarked to me that they’d sold similar nuts, branches, and mushrooms to a different elf earlier in the week. A bald mage with gray eyes and simple clothing in muted earth tones.
          The apostate, restocking his own “Dalish herbs.” Or Elvhen herbs, as he continued to insist.
          As if such things were known to the flat-ears of the cities.
          On the road that evening I heard tell of a dragon settling in the north, and rumors that the Herald of Andraste was en route to visit our area and survey the progress made. I wondered if I’d be well enough by then to see him close a rift in person.
          I kept my acquisitions to myself and waited until nightfall to filch a mortar and pestle to prepare the ingredients, long after Solas had left. The smoke would be quite pungent and I could ill-afford distractions, so once I had the powders wrapped it was off to the edge of the settlement by shuttered lamplight, and a few steps into the trees downwind to avoid attracting attention. I burned some wards into the loamy earth and thought the apostate in bed by now, but I’d barely struck a fire and set the bundle aflame before telltale footsteps compressed the leaves and those familiar gray eyes smiled curiously at me.
          Of course he’d figure it out.
          I couldn’t be disappointed either, as that would imply even a sliver of hope that I might have dodged him. And it was too late to stop the process.
          “Retrieving your guardian?” he asked, hands clasped at his waist and bare toes flexing just inches from the edge of my spell. I deactivated the barriers and he stepped across their threshold, careful not to disturb any lines.
          “This smoke will put you deep into the Fade, Solas,” I warned, sealing us in together.
          “So it will.”
          The buoyant green-ear, predictably, seemed quite keen on the idea, and took a seat nearby, rather closer than I might have preferred. Doubtless he was pleased that he’d found himself a free night of mental emollient, as these trades did not come cheaply. Thick incense began curling its way around us, specks of purple and mossy browns hazing the dome of air trapped by my magic. It wasn’t so much a scent as a taste in the back of the throat, a curling mist of memory and idea that slipped beckoning peace through the senses.
          Morning dew on a spider’s web. The wet fur of a halla in a rainstorm. Cedar chips and fruit peels making aromatic ash of a small autumn fire. A butterfly pulling itself from a split cocoon.
          Summer sun through a Chantry window, next. Stained-glass spilled across an inked brow. A desilvering mirror reflecting these both, and the ill-fitting robes of a new sequestration.
          “It is kind of you to share this experience,” the apostate remarked, pulling me from the past. “I wasn’t certain you’d be willing. And nor was I certain when you planned to return Vigilance to your side. What day, or time.”
          “As soon as I was able.” Sedate calm spread through my chest. I didn’t want to talk. Why couldn't he just enjoy wherever the smoke took him? “Is it worth asking how you knew I’d be here? Or shall I just assume your ‘lived experience’ led you to the most obvious conclusion?”
          His head-tilt and smile would have been enough. “I may have studied your hilt while you slept,” he confessed, leaning back on one elbow and watching the flames crackle and pop.
          Of course he could read Dalish glyphs. Why not?
          “I am surprised you were able to acquire the necessary ingredients,” the apostate added, voice softening in the dry mists.
          “Lucky the merchants in Redcliffe had any at all, after you beat me to most of them.”
          He raised his eyes to mine and offered an uncomfortably handsome smile. “And how did you learn this?”
          “Lived experience.”
          He chuckled. He actually laughed at my snide little riposte. Keeper Junnarel and half the Templars in Orlais would have slapped me for cheek like that, and I’d have deserved every stinging second of it, and the penance demanded once I’d picked myself back up. But Dalish soporifics loosened tongue and judgment alike.
          Elvhen soporifics, I could almost hear him say.
          “I lived the experience of every shopkeep in the village telling me they’d sold exactly what I was buying to someone fitting your description already.”
          Solas stretched out his legs, sleepy cheer dancing behind his clouded gaze. “I was hoping to surprise you,” he admitted softly. “I didn’t expect you to travel so far, when you found yourself luckless in these forests. A fool’s assumption, given your determination and the stubbornness of your self-sufficiency.” He tucked one palm behind his head. Cold leaves and wet needles couldn’t possibly be comfortable. “Though the door remains open for other nights of shared repose. Nights unfettered by duty or task.”
          Was he propositioning me? A charming thought, flat-ear. But under no circumstances would I ever take up that particular offer. I rested my back against the trunk of a nearby tree and laid my staff across my chest, to prepare the magic needed for the evening’s “duty and task” I was so very fettered by.
          Another breath carried with it the soul-joy of a little Fade serpent, winding its way up a misty, nervous arm. The first gleaming slash of a blade, and the Elvhen hand that nearly dropped it in shock.
          “And just how do you know how Knight-Enchanters claim their spirits?”
          “Lived experience.”
          “Halla shit.”
          I knew he’d say it. And I was ready with the challenge when he did. Half-lidded eyes blinked and cleared and found mine, and I stared him down with a smirk. “You couldn’t possibly know that. Such things are a secret of the Dalish."
          “And yet I do,” he countered, matching my Elvhen in a way I regretted immediately. “I know how your arrangement must be performed. The dirth’ena enasalin may be as unique as those who walk its path, but some traditions stretch for thousands of years.” He filled his lungs with thick Dalish smoke, and closed his eyes as it slipped from his lips. “Dareth shiral, Slow-Heart. To you and to Vigilance, alike.”
          Slow-Heart. Fellavhen. I couldn’t say my heart was particularly slow at that moment, as the incense had long ago whisked away remnants of pain. Scattered hay on a prison bench. Colossal murals lining a great stone rotunda. In the silence that fell it occurred to me that despite everything I was happy that Solas was here, and concern forced its way through the thickening haze. His presence was still a danger. This easy familiarity, making me slip. I watched the apostate smile and breathe as he waited for sleep, content with current affairs. What was he, I wondered, and why was he that thing? A floppy hat, perched on the edge of an academically-cluttered table. A merged mage and his apostate ally, both claiming no possession had taken place. How did he feel so real, and so false, all at once? He caught me staring with a supine glance upward and gave an impish little smile, and seemed to decide something right then and there.
          With an ambling little scoot, he crossed his ankles and folded his hands across his waist, and laid his heavy head against my good leg, instead of the ground.
          Fenhedis.
          I wasn’t going to stop him. How much had he done for me in this past week alone? I could almost feel the moment he slipped off, and when he did, the apostate I knew was gone. His entire body slackened in a powerful display of trust and faith, and he did not stir at all when I traced his unmarked brow with lazy fingertips.
          Well, not completely unmarked, I noticed on close inspection.
          He had a small scar just above one eye. A remnant of…something.
          Some lived experience, no doubt.
          Copper-tang blooms in the mouth of a grinning elf, tongue testing bloody teeth in a swelling jaw. Go ahead, her stare spits. Exact your revenge. She can take it. She has to.
          She has to be stronger than your hate.
          How I wished he was Dalish, as the vision faded. How I wished to know what he knew, and how, and from where he had stolen this knowledge.
          “Dareth shiral, unfettered Solas,” I sighed, relaxing my power into the staff against my shoulder. “Faithless apostate, wandering a free world, beholden to none but your own will.”
          I closed my own eyes as warmer memories carried me into the Fade, to perform those ancient duties and tasks required to open Vhenan’then’s path to my side.

Chapter Text

Trevelyan

          Well well, what a difference a few weeks makes. This shambling little excuse for a commune was finally beginning to bear some faint resemblance to civilization. I’d have to thank Cullen when I returned; he’d been quite right about the need to bring Andraste’s light to these huddled refugees.
          Though he hadn’t phrased it in quite that manner.
          The huddled refugees themselves were pleasantly adoring, and word spread quickly of my arrival. Of course, it helped to have The Iron Bull’s hulking frame turning heads as he trailed a step behind. That Qunari had a lot more uses than a cursory glance might suggest.
          “Report, Cassandra,” I ordered at the assembled elites once we’d arrived to the command tents.
          I would never tire of that.
          The Seeker read from a list of accomplishments and tasks yet to be fulfilled, and added flavor here and recommendations there. The discovery of extra rifts in the area certainly topped my personal interests, especially the one that appeared to be surrounded by a cult of soon-to-be converts to the cause…
          “Please tell me we’re going to kill the dragon, boss?” Bull begged when she was done.
          “In time,” I promised, smirking at his eager enthusiasm. “First, we’ll need to make passage to it safe.”
          “The rifts, then?” Solas guessed, deflating my cheer with his insistence on being right all the damn time.
          “Yes,” I sighed. “The rifts. And how did your little ruins excursion go? I didn’t hear it on Cassandra's papers.”
          “Because it’s not yet happened,” the apostate replied. “Unexpected events took precedence.”
          The other one standing between him and the Seeker, the little Dalish thief who’s name I was probably never going to remember, glanced his way.
          “Hey.” I snapped twice at her, pulling her focus back. “Eyes over here, elf. You want to be part of the inner circle, act like it.”
          It was satisfying to piss Solas off so easily. I fixed the scowling apostate with a hard stare. “The only reason you were allowed to come along was so you’d stop whining about this little side-project, and you’ve had a week to do it and you need more time? Do you think Corypheus is out there just sitting on his ass too?”
          “I did not say I was idle,” he fired back.
          “Get it done, or get back to Skyhold,” I ordered, pulling from him a pinch-mouthed sneer. “You’re lucky you’re getting this chance at all. The other mages long for the kinds of freedoms I’ve given you.”
          “When the other mages acquire such unique knowledge as I have, perhaps Andraste’s great Herald will feel a touch of generosity toward them, as well,” Solas countered icily.
          I fixed his little friend with a pointed glance. “Or perhaps we’ll take away some of the freedoms of those who’ve yet to prove themselves.”
          “You would punish her for--”
          “Solas.”
          Cassandra shut the damned elf up. They exchanged a nasty little glare, and he released a breath and pouted into the distance.
          “And what of you?” I pressed, rounding on the dispassionate thief. “Swamp Champion.” Time to see for myself just what all the fuss around her was. “How do you feel about a dragon hunt?”
          It struck a nerve, but not with her. Solas’s glare snapped back to me and the apostate bared teeth, but he had the brains to hesitate long enough for another voice to cut through the ever-thickening cloud of elven indignation he was exuding.
          “Inquisitor. Ah…Herald?” It was the Warden, this time, taking a small step forward from Cassandra’s other side. “That might not be the best idea. Harellan got herself pretty chewed up the other day…”
          “I will be ready,” Swamp Elf countered, eyes not once leaving mine.
          “You better be,” I told her, turning from her to her Gray defender. “It’s time I saw her earn her keep. The mages aren’t our allies, they’re our conscripts, and she’s been promised to me as a capable warrior. If she can’t pull her weight, she’ll be sent back to Skyhold as well, until such a time that the Inquisition can decide what to do with them all.”
          The man’s eyes darted toward Solas, but whatever subtle gesture the apostate made, I wasn’t going to grace it with my attention. Instead, I crossed to the man and offered a hand.
          “Inquisitor Trevelyan, by the by. Herald of Andraste. It’s good to have a Warden among our ranks, Blackwall.”
          He nodded and shook with a firm grip.
          “Aye. Pleased to be aboard.”
          “How do you feel about dragon hunts?” I asked him as well.
          He rested his wrist on his hilt. “Can’t say I’ve ever faced one, but it looks to me like you’ve got plenty of muscle.” He nodded at The Iron Bull behind me. “I’d be happy to stand and fight.”
          The Qunari gave an approving little hmph.
          “Good man,” I agreed. “We’ve got some demons to clear up first, and then we’ll get to it.”
          The Qunari gave a disapproving little hmph.
          I had half a mind to forbid Solas from joining us when we visited the rifts in need of closing, but if something went wrong, his knowledge of demons and the Veil were, unfortunately, too valuable to preclude over petty spite. Cassandra, Blackwall, and Bull rounded out our party for the venture. The swamp elf -- Harellan -- demonstrated some interesting mastery over the local wolves as we rode to the scout camp nearest the rift by the Horsemaster’s farm. Some Dalish trick, no doubt, but a useful one. It kept the journey quick, and we were to the waterfall in no time.
          “Go on then, let’s see what you can do,” I encouraged the wee little warri-ette once we were down at its basin. She had the shortest, crudest mage staff I’d ever seen, and it accompanied an emotionless confidence bordering on apathy for her own life.
          Blackwall was quick to keep pace, sword and shield at the ready, and the Seeker kept close as well, protective and nervous, as though their prized Dalish sword dancer wasn’t everything she was cracked up to be.
          “Sightseeing?” I asked Bull when he hefted his blade across his shoulders beside me instead of joining the fun.
          “Give me a minute to figure these three out, and I’ll handle what they can’t, boss,” he promised, surveying the demons with obvious distaste as the trio approached. The horde was beginning to notice us, too, and a few stray wisps were gliding their way.
          A rush of magic rustled my collar. Solas’s spell slipped through the air and raised shields around our motley vanguard. Particular focus seemed to remain on Harellan at the forefront.
          “If she’s a liability, we send her home,” I reminded the apostate.
          He wisely had nothing to say.
          The air seemed to quiver when the swamp elf stopped her advance, but before I could offer any pithy encouragement, I blinked and she was gone. Vanished without a trace, causing Blackwall and Cassandra to exchange a worried look across the space she’d recently vacated.
          A blue barrier popped up behind the Rage demon winding back to throw some molten missile at the others. The elf dropped low and touched the crystal of her tiny staff to the steam clouding its base. As she rose so did the blue glow of its tip, forming a thick cylinder of ice around the monster’s…feet? Foot? Stump? It crackled and squealed with unholy volume, not at all helped by the thing’s bellowing roar when it tried to round on her and couldn’t quite twist as far as it needed to. A rainbow of flames danced between volcanic arms, obscuring whatever the elf did next that sliced it cleanly in two, dissipating the entire display before it could start.
          The demon’s top half plunked lifelessly into the water with a searing hiss and a billow of warm fog.
          Well well.
          Maybe my Dalish Swamp Champion was as good as everyone said.
          A few wraiths had made it to Blackwall and Cassandra by then, and the Warden and Seeker cut them down with a fair bit of their own trouble. Blackwall in particular seemed unsettled by the otherworldly things he faced, and Cassandra of course had to deal with snuffing the spells they were attempting to pepper us with. Solas’s barriers held strong, at least, and I caught him performing some sort of fancy magework on the rift itself, perhaps shoving some new specter back into the hole before it could join its friends and add to the threat.
          Smart of him to stay useful. It almost made his presence worth the irritation.
          “Come on, then!” Blackwall motioned Cassandra closer, and deeper into the water they splashed, to join Harellan when they realized most of the pack was converging on her.
          “That seems a good enough cue,” The Iron Bull added, reluctantly lifting his blade from his shoulders and wading in after them.
          It was an entertaining fight to watch, once it really got going. A few chilling ghostly things that seemed made more of rags than flesh kept hurling ice at the fracas from the periphery, but the flash of steel and magic really was something to behold. I couldn’t quite figure out what sort of weapons Harellan wielded, as she did so almost too fast for the eye to behold, but it was likely the most effective deterrent to the terrors, wraiths, and other Fade bastards trying to lay into them all, and that included Bull’s massive horse cleaver.
          “Not interested in showing off your war prowess, today, Herald?” Solas taunted beside me, casting a crackle of lightning at one of the last despair demons, to lock it in place. Harellan was at its side in a flash, her bright magic arcing a clean diagonal through whatever was under those tattered scraps.
          “I’ve an interest in learning our allies’ capabilities,” I told him, watching them all look around for more. The rift itself appeared to tremble and twist, and Solas again snuffed whatever seemed about to come through before it could. “Since we’ve been gaining so many, I need to know what they can do.”
          It was just barely possible to reach the unearthly rip from the very edge of the shore, and, once the demons were dispersed, it was my time to shine. Literally. I tugged off a glove to bare Andraste’s Mark and raised it to the tear in the sky, and loosed the power within.
          It sucked at something deep inside as the green flow of light connected to the rift, and the quick zip of threading power rocked at the edges of my mind. But I was getting better at handling it by now. I knew what to expect, and how to fortify myself against the dizzying expenditure. How to ignore the tilt and heave of the ground under my boots.
          I had no idea how mages dealt with this stuff daily, though. How they didn’t trip over their own damned feet as soon as they’d cast even the simplest spell.
          All at once it was gone, the Veil sutured back up and fastened tight, or so everyone claimed. Nothing but placid air now, and a light breeze, and a dozen and a half dead demons fouling the water downstream.
          And a bit of birdsong, far enough in the distance.
          The Warden was the first to speak.
          “I see your point, Seeker.”
          Blackwall bathed his sword in the river and shook it dry, eyes flickering from the space where the rift had been to my hand, to me.
          “Impressive?” I teased.
          “Sure.” He smirked through his beard and splashed toward the shore. “You’ll have to tell the story of how it came about.”
         “I’d be happy to,” I told him with a grin as I replaced my glove. “We’ll strike up a nice fire, get ourselves a couple rounds of ale, and I’ll tell you all about the Divine Conclave and the explosion that killed everyone present.”
          It wiped the cheer right off the man’s face.
          “Well I liked most o’ that,” he admitted after a moment. “Maybe we can stop at the ale.”
          I was going to like Blackwall. I could tell already. He seemed a good man, and a better one to have on my side than against me.
          Cassandra called from the river. “If you’d let us, Inquisitor, Helisma would be happy to receive these creatures for research.”
          I waved her off. “Sure, sure. Cut up the monsters. We’ve time to spare.”
          I took a seat on the driest rock I could find while the Seeker and the swamp elf butchered their prey. Blackwall seemed caught between helping and staying out of the water, but eventually he joined me, Solas, and Bull in watching the two women work.
          “A decent fighter, that elf,” I commented to no one in particular.
          “Aye,” Blackwall replied. “I’m glad for it. I was worried about her. The Seeker claimed she was a good warrior, but that’s the first I’ve seen of how she fights. Never seen anything like it.”
          “She walks a rare path,” Solas offered.
          “I have seen it before, somewhere,” I realized aloud.
          “It bears striking resemblance to Madame de Fer.”
          I snapped my fingers in recognition at the apostate’s words. “That’s it. She uses one of those Knight-Enchanter magic swords, does she?”
          “Yes.”
          “Can’t imagine Vivienne soaking her expensive dresses in rivers and demon blood, though,” I added with a grin.
          Solas tilted his head. “Presumably, the First Enchanter’s technique is mostly for show. As I understand it, there are few instances of true combat in the Circles. Harellan’s experiences among the Dalish are likely far more practical.”
          I watched her wring dry some rags from one of the despair demons. “How do you suppose a Dales elf learned Orlesian techniques?”
          “The techniques have always been Elvhen. Humans simply adopted them, likely when your kind saw their efficacy.”
          I couldn’t help a snort, not that I’d have wanted to. “That’s quite the fantasy, Solas. Perhaps if you stopped dreaming in the Fade all the time, you’d realize how ridiculous you sound. Dalish elves, wielding magic blades like Orlesian warriors? They’re not capable of the kinds of chivalry required.” The two women conferred over some rage demon rock, maybe whether to take it with them or not. I studied the hilt hanging from the elf’s hip. “I wonder who she stole it from.”
          The apostate had no answer for that.
          And neither did anyone else. Blackwall and The Iron Bull pulled off a brief chat about the relative sizes of their swords that passed the time entertainingly while the Seeker wrapped up her gruesome goodies. Our Tranquil researchers were going to be thrilled with this haul, I had to imagine.
          Whatever kept them happy.
          Or…happy-adjacent.
          A silence fell as we made our way back to the scout camp. Bull and the swamp elf took up the rear, and I heard him attempt a conversation with her, next.
          “You favor your left leg.”
          When she didn’t answer I glanced back, as did a few of the others. She met every one of our gazes in quick succession, but didn’t speak.
          “She injured the other one,” Blackwall volunteered for her.
          “Did she?” the Qunari asked, still eyeballing the wordless elf. “How did you manage that?”
          “Wolves.” The Warden exchanged a glance with him, and both looked at their subject, but she clearly had no intention of defending herself in any way. She barely glanced from one to the other before looking at me, and keeping her lips sealed.
          “We all got into a nasty brawl with ‘em a couple days back,” Blackwall continued. “I’m surprised she can still fight, with how bad she’d been…”
          “Wolves?” I echoed. “The same ones she’s been pushing away from us?”
          “Not quite,” Cassandra replied. “These wolves we encountered before were…controlled. By a demon.”
          A demon?
          Hmph.
          “Well, we can’t have two people fighting over the beasts. All the more reason to close the rifts, then.”
          “And stabilize the area,” Solas added thinly.
          He was talking about his pet project again.
          “If you can take the time out of your busy schedule to get it done, apostate.”
          I caught his scowl from the corner of my eye and just smirked at his little exhale.
          “Was her shoulder injured, as well?” The Iron Bull added.
          “Aye.” Blackwall seemed to have no trouble answering for her.
          “The one that holds her sword?”
          That got a response. The elf lifted a narrow glare to the Qunari towering beside her, and widened the gap between them by an extra foot or two. Solas and Cassandra both turned toward her, exchanged a glance, and looked back again. The apostate drifted to her side, but she ignored him, and rebuffed his attempt at some kind of gentle elven elbow-touch.
          “You can tell that just from watching her fight?” Blackwall asked, looking Bull up and down, too.
          “Most elves are a bit more limber than I saw from her,” he explained, apparently undaunted by her discomfort. “She seems to be in fit shape, and ought to have more flexibility than she showed. She’s still hurting.”
          He was smirking as he spoke. Enjoying this little slip of observation, and the reaction it was producing in our quietest party member. The tiny Dales elf was turning quite red, not at all happy about the attention the entire party was aiming her way.
          “She knows what happens if she can’t pull her weight,” I reminded all present.
          And all that color drained to white.

Chapter Text

Cassandra

          Solas and Harellan deserved better. Maxwell may have been the leader that the Inquisition needed, and he could become a shining symbol of unity in a world rattled by Corypheus, but his treatment of the pair -- and of many elves under his command -- was far too often unmerited.
          I could not fault his ability to inspire, however. Confidence carried him through the gates of Winterwatch Tower, leaving no doubt of identity or purpose. As men and women alike gathered on the grounds and atop the keep’s balconies to hear his conversation with Speaker Anais, he quickly slipped into a practiced speech to address them all. Loudly-proclaimed themes of unity and peace rang with subtle irony, and frequent gestures to our new Warden, to The Iron Bull, and to both elves sat disquietly in the back of my mind, but the Qunari at least seemed amused by all the curious glances in his direction, and Harellan conducted herself with familiar Nevarran nobility.
          Though…the more he spoke, the more I found myself agreeing. We had brought together many disparate parts of the world, after all, and in such a short time. Orlesians, Fereldans, Nevarrans, Free Marchers, and even Tevinter all called Skyhold home. Four races as well coexisted in harmony. As I looked around at us, I could not help but appreciate the diversity. And that did not even include Varric, or Harding. Or Sera.
          Or…Cole.
          “He’s got a way with words,” Blackwell commented quietly. “He’d make a good Warden, heartening the people like that.”
          “Do you suggest that of everyone?” Solas asked, his tone disinterested but thin.
          “Only the worthy,” Blackwall fired back.
          I braced to interrupt another fight.
          The apostate’s eyes flickered my way. “I suppose we all must find something to believe in,” he replied instead.
          “...I’ve heard worse causes than his,” the Warden conceded with a nod.
          “As have I,” Solas agreed, turning away.
          …Good.
          Now why couldn’t every conversation end so amicably?
          I stepped up to Harellan, statuesque in her focus, and lowered my own voice.
          “How are you feeling?”
          She seemed…complete, once more. I still could not name what had unsettled me so about her the other day. What it meant to feel that she had…shrunken. As if her wounds and the wolves had stolen so much more from her than simple mobility and comfort.
          But that piece of her had since returned. And whatever it was, it had stirred quite clearly when Iron Bull began listing her weaknesses before, as though reading them from Solas’s medical report.
          Like a stricken match, she smiled up at me. “Well, Seeker. I am stronger than the Qunari suspects, I promise.”
          “That would be impressive,” Bull mumbled at us. “I already think you’re pretty damn tough.”
          She didn’t reply immediately to that. And when she did, I didn’t catch what she muttered back. But when Solas gave a quiet chuckle, I realized it must have been elven.
          “I mean it,” Iron Bull insisted with a smirk of his own. “It isn’t easy to fight when--”
          “Do you all mind?”
          We turned. Trevelyan was glaring our way, interrupted from his performance. Harellan was the only one who snapped to quick attention.
          Undaunted, Bull hefted his sword. “What do you say, boss, why don’t we show these people what your Inquisition can do for them?”
          Irate arm-folding and a long, pointed silence greeted his suggestion. But the Inquisitor nodded nonetheless.
          “Very well. I suppose words will carry far more weight when they follow action.” To Speaker Anais, he added, “show us the way to this rift of yours, then, and we’ll close it and prove the Maker’s favor is with us.”
          She gave an enthusiastic nod and bade us follow her through the keep and toward a chamber lined with statues bearing torches that gave way to a short natural tunnel at the far end of the courtyard. The crowds closed in behind our party, though the berth they left widened noticeably as we approached the stairs down to the hollow and the eerie greenish glow spilling up their edges.
          “It is there,” the Speaker explained, gesturing downward.
          I stepped forth with the others. Perhaps it was strange to react in such a manner, but I felt something nearly akin to relief at the sight that awaited us. The clearing was a small one, and so brightly-lit that the rift itself was difficult to see, but only a few lesser Terrors milled about in the sunlight that spilled through open rocks and painted a handful of stranger, less Andrastian statues down there that may have been the remains of an ancient shrine or some small graveyard. Iron Bull exhaled again but Harellan did not hesitate at all when Maxwell pushed her forward to engage.
          “Please be careful,” Speaker Anais bade. “The creatures may seem--oh!”
          She flinched as the Knight-Enchanter took a stance, braced, and disappeared. Solas’s protective spell was a second too late to catch her. It splashed into the wall instead and the apostate swore under his breath and charged up another, and crossed nimbly to the top of the flight to search for where she’d gone.
          Bull muscled past me and took the stairs in twos. “Oh no, you’re not facing this one alone, not with a shoulder like that,” he declared to himself, breaking into a thunderous charge as soon as he hit level ground.
          Blackwall and I were quick to follow, but the elf already had her first Terror split in three on the stones below, and most of the others pouncing and scrabbling with long claws and shrill cries at a barrier I don’t believe Solas had given to her. Bull had a demon of his own pinned at arm’s length to the rocks nearby, but even it seemed more interested in the elf than the Qunari’s blade glinting above.
          And so did I, for reasons I didn’t quite realize until I recognized them as techniques she’d utilized in the Fallow Mire to draw the undead there away from the rest of us. That same strange, luring call that hooked like a musical performance, a subtle melody that bypassed the ear and beckoned instead to the soul.
          Blackwall and I laid into the swarm, but we’d hardly taken one apiece by the time the rest fell apart nearly of their own accord. Swift whispers of magic I sensed more than saw parted the monsters as easily as air. It was over before it had started, and the silence that fell almost seemed…eerier than the rift itself, twisting and flexing overhead.
          “Well…Behold my Champion,” Trevelyan marveled, breaking the quiet to parade-marshal Speaker Anais and the timid but curious crowd down the stairs step by step. “See how bravely even the reclusive Dalish fight for our cause!” His eyes followed the elf in clear approval, and she, as though practiced, turned her gaze from the rift, straightened out of her guard, and gave a flourishing warrior’s salute. Her gleaming blade trailed sparkling power as it danced through the air and slashed to her side, long enough to brush the very tips of the grass struggling its way between the clearing’s stones. She remained at attention as the Inquisitor strode to the seam, ungloved his left hand, and raised it to seal the unholy thing with a bright, familiar beam.
          “And behold the power of Andraste’s Herald, to heal the sky and restore order to a world sundered by pride and lust for power,” Trevelyan added, drawing every eye to his inspiring display.
          Faith filled me at the sight. Every time. That holy glow, gently healing a broken sky. I could not help but marvel.
          For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light,
          And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.
          The Canticle of Trials, Chapter 1. Verse 14. Only when Solas glanced my way did I suspect that some of it might have slipped from my lips. But though the apostate crossed to stand beside me, he did not speak.
          Trevelyan was more than happy to. He filled the cavern with the Inquisition’s achievements and his own, and led the crowds back up the stairs to the drumbeat of his growing influence. A familiar touch of awe curled through my chest. I had seen despair turned to hope and doubt to certainty thrice now, once at Haven and again at Skyhold, and each day more and more came to the Crossroads on promise and rumor alone. But the wave of faith that filled these once-frightened people only steeled my resolve that we had done right. That I had done right. That in calling the Inquisition, flawed and fledgling as it still was, I had made the correct choice.
          “Suck-up,” Blackwall taunted at Harellan with a wink as we all climbed out after them.
          The elf’s lack of reaction left me doubting whether she heard him at all.
          Maxwell left the people of Winterwatch Tower with orders to spread word of our Inquisition, and gave them directions to the forward camp to the north of the keep should anyone wish to assist our efforts more directly. Speaker Anais promised to meet with the soldiers there and render aid how and where she and her followers could, and we were on our way.
          …Or we would have been, if, in the open air outside the keep’s gates, Harellan could mount her horse.
          Blackwall and Trevelyan were already in their saddles, and I had one boot in a stirrup when Iron Bull’s snicker drew my attention his way.
          “What’s the matter, too tall for them?”
          I followed his gaze to the pair of elves bickering quietly between their horses. Harellan was leaning heavily on her left leg. Her mage staff seemed to be bearing more of her weight than it ought to, and she was clearly struggling to pull herself up atop the patient beast beside her.
          The Inquisitor brought his around to face them and watch. “She’s not had trouble yet,” he commented. Louder, to them, he added, “Did she just realize it’s not one of her halla?”
          The bickering sharpened. Harellan tapped her staff on the ground a few times as though she was feeling something out. She turned her back to Solas more fully and with her left hand she searched for a grip anywhere on the beast's tack to make a few more cursory pulls here and there. But the pale sweat on her marked brow betrayed a truth that her determined eyes did not.
          She’s still hurting.
          “Can’t she just do that magic thing that got her into the trees last week?” Blackwall asked.
          “It seems not.” I offered my reins to Bull and crossed to the both of them. “Do you need help?”
          Harellan only seemed more upset by the growing scrutiny. Solas tugged his own horse around to me.
          “Could you lead her away, Seeker?” he requested. “Just a few steps.”
          “You will help me and he will banish me to Skyhold,” I heard the Knight-Enchanter hiss at the apostate as I turned with his mount to give them space.
          The chill of realization settled between my shoulder blades.
          Was this what she feared?
          No, he will not, I wanted to tell her. I would not allow it.
          Was she hiding her pain to avoid the punishment of unfavorable scrutiny? I could not be surprised; the Inquisitor had made his crueler intentions rather clear. But I have protected Solas from those who would cage him out of ignorance and mistrust, and I would protect Harellan, as well. They had both been critical to the recent success of the Inquisition, and Trevelyan’s less mindful judgments would not inhibit their work. Now would be a poor time to promise her this, but I resolved to do so as soon as such things were safe to say.
          A tremor of magic along the ground caused an uncomfortable snort and a few whinnies from several of the horses, Solas’s included. When I calmed her and glanced back the apostate’s hand was to the earth, and as he rose so did steps of stone and scrub. Harellan’s horse dragged her a few nervous trots away but the apostate took the bridle and led her and the creature in a circle around and back toward the sculpted incline.
          It was clear that the woman did not want to take his hand. But she did, and allowed him to walk her up the steps and help her into the saddle.
          I did not like how quickly her breath came as she steadied herself and settled in.
          Solas crossed to me and took his horse back. “Thank you, Seeker.”
          “Is she alright?” I asked him privately.
          His grim silence did not inspire confidence. But the apostate mounted and bade me return to my own horse, and eventually we were on our way back to the Crossroads.
          “I don’t understand,” Trevelyan announced a few paces in, at seemingly nobody in particular. “You’re a mage, aren’t you?” Only then did he glance back at Harellan, who flinched under his attention as though stricken out of a reverie. “Can’t you just heal?”
          “I am not allowed, ser,” she replied, shaking her head. I had never heard such exhaustion from the elf.
          “Not allowed?” he repeated, asking the question I’d immediately wanted to. “By whom?”
          It was something we were all keen to learn, based on every turned head.
          The woman’s face very quickly lost all emotion, even fatigue. I did not have the best angle to see her, and could not judge her reaction very well beyond that, but her attention seemed to lower slowly back to the mane of her horse, brow drawn as though she might be thinking.
          Trevelyan’s impatiently snapping fingers lifted her eyes again. “Elf. Focus. Who isn’t letting you heal.”
          She blinked and drew a steadying breath.
          “No one, ser. Ir abelas, I…was never taught.”
          The Inquisitor continued to frown at her. “Well, have someone teach you, then,” he ordered, as though the command was both simple and obvious to carry out. “Solas knows these things, doesn’t he?” He glanced the apostate’s way. “It’ll keep him occupied and out of everyone else’s business for a few hours at least.”
          “Yes, Keeper.”
          Keeper?
          Harellan shook her head as though to clear it, and tried again. “First Ench…Inquisitor.”
          Another quickening breath followed the first few as Trevelyan’s stare narrowed.
          “Did your head get knocked around by the wolves too, elf?”
          “No, ser.”
          “Well, have it checked out anyway.”
          “Yesser.”
          He turned away. “I won’t have my Champion slaying dragons while confused about her commander’s identity. We’re not in the Dales anymore.”
          She looked seconds from losing consciousness.
          I kept my horse close to catch her if she fell and Solas flanked her far side, but the stubborn Knight-Enchanter made it all the way back to the Crossroads, awake and at least somewhat aware. Extensive use of the stable’s inner structure allowed her to refuse our help as she climbed out of the saddle and to the ground, where she leaned rather heavily on her staff for support and balance again.
          Solas promptly began herding her away, but they hadn’t taken more than a few steps toward the exits when Trevelyan’s questions cut through the smelly air.
          “Where are you going?”
          “To begin lessons,” Harellan replied swiftly as she turned, preempting whatever the apostate had opened his mouth to say. “As ordered.”
          “Not right now, come back here,” the Inquisitor told her, pointing to the ground in front of him. “I’d like to discuss tomorrow’s dragon hunt.”
          “She won’t be joining you.”
          Solas’s tone was final. But Harellan straightened her sagging shoulders, and refused to look at him.
          “Yes, I will.”
          She added something in elven, something quiet and quick. His reply narrowed her eyes, but whatever she said next seemed to offend him personally. I swore I could sense a flash of lightning spark from his wide stare to the stone-carved side of her face.
          “You won’t be joining us,” Trevelyan informed Solas, crossing to scowl at the apostate in her stead. “You will be taking care of your little magical pet project. Let her go.”
          Solas hadn’t been holding the woman exactly, but he’d kept a hand at her lower back for support. The apostate withdrew his arm peevishly, and his stolen patient made her labored way over to a visibly uncomfortable Blackwall and a keen-eyed Bull.
          “Maybe she should rest,” the Warden offered quietly.
          “There will be time later,” the elf argued.
          “She’s right,” Trevelyan agreed, dismissing Solas with a turn. “We start the hunt tomorrow. Come, Seeker. I’d like your opinions as well, and that keen, strategic, dragon-killing mind.”
          Me?
          I…
          I…
          I had no choice. I crossed to join the others. In passing, I could not meet Solas’s hard stare as it followed my every move. Trevelyan led us toward the command tents. The uneasy silence did little to chase the uncertainty from my mind. How could the Herald of Andraste be so inspiring in one moment, and so heartless in the next?
          I should not feel ashamed for serving the Inquisition I had worked so hard to create. The Inquisition I had been so proud of not two hours earlier.
          But nor could I deny Solas’s unspoken censure of Maxwell Trevelyan’s almost…deliberately cold command.

Chapter Text

The Iron Bull

          If I could pick those two elves up and put them on opposite ends of the camp just to shut them up for a few minutes, I would. They’ve been fighting all throughout dinner and it’s started to give me a headache.
          Not that I couldn’t physically pick them up. That would be the easy part. Just that I didn’t really think it would help. I had a feeling they’d only shout louder at each other to make up for the distance if I tried. Maybe Harellan would pass out from pain, eventually.
          Actually, that idea was beginning to sound better by the second.
          The worst part was that I didn’t even know what they were fighting about. If I did, at least then I could learn something useful to report back. But it was all in their language, and Harellan’s half was around wet mouthfuls of slowly-chewed and clearly under-appreciated meat, like she was trying to be as repellant as possible to drive Solas away. Not that it was having a particularly great effect; elf grace and long years of behavioral obedience weren’t really working with her here, and any one of the Chargers could easily teach her a thing or two about really being disgusting in a pinch. I had my suspicions that they were arguing about her wounds, but I wasn’t about to get into the middle of it to find out. The noise briefly let up when Solas suddenly stalked off, but he was back about fifteen minutes later with a flask of something purple that I think was glowing a little, unless the firelight and the ale were playing tricks with my eye.
          And they fought over that, next.
          “Do they ever stop?” I asked the Seeker, sitting beside me on one of the sturdier logs I’d figured would hold my weight while we rested with some of the soldiers around the evening’s campfire.
          “Sometimes,” she replied, watching them over sips of her own cup. The pair were across from us, a bit apart from everyone else, so the fire drowned them out a little. I felt Cassandra’s sigh almost as much as I heard it. “I wish she would let him help. Solas was not pleased by her state after Winterwatch.”
          “Neither was I, if we’re being honest.”
          The Seeker nodded. “She needs to continue resting. She had no trouble allowing him to aid her before…”
          Did she? That made sense. “The problem is that people around here like their freedom, and the boss is threatening hers,” I explained, swirling the ale in my tankard. “I wouldn’t let any healer touch me either if I thought it would cost me my usefulness.”
          Well, maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration…
          “But Trevelyan isn’t here,” the Seeker argued. True; he was off basking in the gratitude of the refugees, as far as I knew. And probably basking in more than that, given that one farmhand’s stoutly-built sister he’d been exchanging meaningful looks with ever since we’d gotten back. Lucky dog. “She should be willing to accept assistance.”
          I shrugged. “Word could get back to him.”
          It drew a scowl. I almost promised her that I wouldn’t be the one to tattle, but something else seemed to come to mind as she shook her head.
          “I should have…”
          She pushed herself to her feet before finishing the thought, and circled the fire to speak with them. I strained to hear her as both elves quieted to listen, but I couldn’t make out whatever she muttered in Harellan’s ear. I half-expected the two of them to start fighting next, but there was barely an exchange before Harellan said something that widened Cassandra’s eyes and parted her lips in silenced wonder.
          The injured elf took the opportunity to leave, gathering up and hobbling off. She paused to pawn the remains of her stew off on one of the skinnier kids who liked to hang around the outskirts for scraps, before vanishing entirely into the night. Solas watched her go, but left a different way, purple glowy potion untouched in his white-knuckled fist. I didn’t get a great read on his face, but the rest of his body language seemed just as stiff as his hand.
          Reluctance and disappointment carried Cassandra back to the log beside me. She picked up the drink she’d left by my ankle and stared down at it.
          “Looks like you sure convinced her,” I teased with a grin.
          Solved my problem, at least.
          The woman just glared and drowned her irritation in her flagon. It was a long few minutes before she spoke again, and I cracked some jokes at some of the nearby soldiers staring my way to pass the time and put them at ease. The only thing Cassandra muttered, so bitterly and so to herself that I almost didn’t catch it, was a quiet “Andraste’s sacrifice should not apply to those who have the opportunity to seek help.”
          I wasn’t completely sure what that meant, but I had my guesses. It confirmed, at least, the rumors that the Dalish elf didn’t strictly follow Dalish ways. Made sense, if she’d done time in their Circles, as I’d found out from one of the Spymaster’s more loose-tongued agents in the tavern the other night.
          But at least the fire was quieter and happier now. Though I did feel bad for the little warrior’s predicament. I wasn’t lying before. She was pretty damn tough, fighting through a handicap like that. Nerves steelier than most of the damn Chargers, I’d say. I’d hate for her to go down so soon after we’d met, and for such a stupid reason. She’d make a good addition to our crew, if she didn’t have any plans after this Corypheus business was over. And if she made it that far. Dalish would probably like her. My Dalish. Skinner too, after enough drinks.
          Might save her from the tower the boss was probably aiming to throw her and the rest of the mages around here back into.
          Blackwall joined us eventually, and I quizzed him on Wardens a bit until the Seeker reminded him I was a Qunari spy and he told me to shut up and drink. Didn’t seem like a mean thing, though. They were all tired from the demons and the couple hours of riding to get to them. Fair play to want to rest up before a big day.
          But there was something off about him.
          Something I was close to figuring out.
          Harellan looked much improved the following morning, or at least she’d gathered enough wits overnight to better hide her pain. Based on the boss’s busy night, I wasn’t surprised that we all beat him to the stables. Me, Blackwall, Cass, and the elf were all here, bright and early. The Red Jenny, Sera, was lurking around the rafters, and we pretended not to notice each other while I wondered who she was expecting to surprise.
          I also pretended not to notice Solas popping up in a few different stall windows here and there to eyeball us until he seemed satisfied with all of the angles he could get to and strode through the main doors, instantly worrying Cassandra.
          “I believe the Inquisitor was serious about your duties today, Solas,” she opened warily as he approached.
          “I would agree, Seeker,” he replied, slipping an overstuffed satchel from his shoulder to his elbow to his palm. “I don’t intend to linger. But I’ve packed a few things you might find helpful after the fight. Hopefully, none of them will be necessary.”
          “Medicines?” she guessed, taking it from him. The weight seemed to surprise her.
          He nodded. “Yes.”
          “Thank you--” Cassandra started. She cut off when I crossed to offer a palm.
          “I’ll carry them,” I volunteered. When a mix of suspicion and curiosity met my suggestion, I grinned at the pair. “Looks heavy. Wouldn’t want your weight thrown off. A dragon isn’t going to be polite about bad footwork.”
          “I would prefer someone with a shield to protect them,” Solas countered.
          “How about someone who doesn’t need a shield?” I pressed. “A piece of metal isn’t going to do much against a swing from a muscled, scaly tail.” Ohh, even just saying it got me going. “Don’t worry, Solas. I’ll keep your glassware nice and safe.”
          He wasn’t thrilled with the idea, but he and the Seeker let me take the pack. I loosened the straps up as far as the knotwork would allow and slung it over a shoulder. There was still plenty of time to crack his shell. When his demon-ass-kicking girlfriend wasn’t about to be mauled by eighteen tons of sleek, beautiful, fire-breathing--
          “I’ve left instructions as well,” the mage volunteered unhappily. “You’ll find them in one of the pockets.”
          “‘For elven use only,’ right?” I smirked as he gave a tell, eyes flickering to Harellan.
          “They are for anyone who requires them,” Solas insisted, looking me up and down next. “You would only need to double the dosage, Iron Bull.”
          “So, don’t get hit, gotcha. Solid advice.”
          “One assumes the Qun tells you this already.”
          Damn. He really had a hardon for that, didn’t he?
          The boss’s boots crunched up the path toward us, and Solas nodded a quick farewell and took his leave.
          “Dareth shiral,” Harellan half-called out of the blue, freezing the elf on the threshold. It was the first thing she’d said all morning, and she sounded as good as she looked, which was very promising.
          “Ma serannas,” the mage returned with soft concern. “Dareth shiral, da’len.”
          And he was gone. It was cute, how much he worried for her. I’d be worried too, in his…well, he didn’t wear shoes, but the point still stood. In fact, I was worried. I wished I didn’t have to, though. I didn’t want to worry about her in his stead.
          I wanted to just focus on the glory of that magnificent, savage, untamed--
          “Good, you’re all here,” the Inquisitor announced, looking around as he arrived, bleary-eyed but in high spirits. “Let’s get to it, then. Saddle up.”
          A blond and red blur dropped to the ground. A dull thump followed as the man’s back hit a wooden support beam.
          “Oi, didn’t think you’d be leavin’ me outta this, right?” Sera asked, dusting off a shoulder.
          Maxwell glared. “Andraste’s tits, Sera, did you really just…”
          He looked from the rafters to her and back, as if searching for any other elf archers hiding up there.
          “Yeah, and? What of it?” she asked. “Let’s go, let’s stick some arrows in a big ugly dragon’s eye!”
          “Hey.” I pouted at her, glad to have that little mystery solved. “They’re not ugly.”
         “Not ugly as you,” she fired back, quick as a dagger.
          “That isn’t a high bar to clear,” I admitted with a grin.
          She gave a bubbly giggle and started off toward a horse.
          The rest of us glanced at the boss to make sure he was okay with it. Trevelyan shrugged and waved her off and started for his own steed, and everyone else dispersed to mount and head north.
          I had yet to figure out why some elves escaped his condescending wrath while others drew it like flies to shit.
          I had plenty of leads, though. Just needed the time to investigate.
          We were about two hours from camp when Harellan faced down a roving pack of wolves and cowed them with a stern glare. The boss looked from the tail-tucked beasts to her and back with a frown as we slowed to ride more carefully past.
          “How are you doing that?” he asked. “What kind of Dalish trick is it? Do you get into their minds? Freeze their muscles with magic? Turn their hearts against us or some such?”
          “It is this amulet,” Harellan revealed, crossing her staff over her chest to nudge a necklace hanging there with a knuckle.
          “An amulet?” Disappointment thickened the Inquisitor's tone, like he’d really expected the Dalish to just be able to talk to forest creatures or something.
          Which, now that I thought about it, maybe some of them could?
          “The Token of the Packmaster.”
          “Let me see it.”
          The request surprised the little elf, but the wolves scattered at her gesture before she took it off and passed it to him. Boss’s eyes went wide as dinner plates as soon as it was in his palm, and he reached out with it as though to “catch” some of the fleeing pack. All of them stopped and looked back, and in such unison that Blackwall grimaced and Sera shuddered and bumped the Seeker’s horse with her own to try to get away.
          “Yeah how’s it if we don’t play with the magic wolf thing?” she begged.
          I admit, it was a bit creepy to see a dozen or so yellow eyes all turned your way at once, and even creepier when they all trotted back over.
          “You were cheating this whole time,” Boss declared, ignoring Sera and scowling at Harellan like she’d done something wrong. “I thought you were performing some spell on them.”
          I didn’t know what he considered “a spell” but I was pretty damn sure that that talisman counted.
          “This is brilliant,” the boss added, settling the thing around his own neck. “We’re taking these beasts with us.”
          We were what?
          No one else seemed happy either as the wild pack flowed around and between our horses, and that included the horses themselves. Several whinnied in protest and stumbled their steps with predators so close underfoot. Blackwall was the best at getting his back under control, and he was even able to calm Sera’s, to an extent, but Harellan in particular went very tense about the whole thing. Her mount started acting up worse than anyone’s, snorting and rearing in a way that the Inquisitor seemed to find…funny.
          “So much for the nature-loving Dalish, eh?” he taunted as Cass raised her shield against flailing hooves. “Too much for you, Swamp Champion? Longing for your sacred deer and your little aravels?”
          It was only when the creature nearly flipped and I caught the elf from sliding off its hindquarters with a palm to the lower back that the Seeker made the suggestion to keep the pack on one side of us, a thought the boss soured on until he realized it meant he could play with his new toy a little more.
          Once again I was reminded that the human was a strange choice for the Inquisition’s leader. Granted, the Seeker had already confessed to me that pickings had been slim at the time. And his mark gave him an advantage that most would struggle to overcome, given the lofty goals this group was trying to achieve.
          But their Andraste must have had a very specific taste in men, if that was the one she’d supposedly granted her boon to.
          “What do you think, Sera?” he asked, watching the pond of fur and teeth keep pace at his right. “They’d make a hell of a prank, no?”
          Her nose crinkled behind his back. “Ehh…wolves? Bit too…danger-y, for me. Bees? Sure. Spiders? Catch’n ‘em’s rough, but yeah. Wolves? Wolves’ll…hurt someone.”
          He eyed her over one shoulder. “Isn’t that the point?”
          “No?” He might have grown a third ear with the way she stared. “Point’s t’laugh, not to get blood ‘n bits all over. Messy. Hate bits. Bits are gross.”
          “All the more reason to loose them on our enemies.”
          She shook her head. “Not sure you’re gettin’ what a ‘prank’ is, Glowy.”
          The boss hmph’d at her. “Or you just don’t know what ‘fun’ is.”
          Sera glanced at the Seeker, then at Harellan. Cassandra’s eyes followed the archer’s, and so did Blackwall’s. The other elf didn’t meet any of their gazes.
          “Already seen wolves,” Sera mumbled. “Not fun. Not my kind.”
          “Aye,” the Warden added soberly.
          Must have been a hell of a disaster, for that sort of attitude about it.
          “Well, I’m still keeping one,” the Inquisitor announced to all present. “As a pet. Better than a slobbering mabari by a mile.”
          Pretty sure I saw Harellan’s throat writhe as she struggled to swallow. Her eyes hadn’t left the pack for more than a second, even with two horses between hers and them. I suspected there was something even deeper there than a recent battle gone badly, though. She looked about the way I felt around certain kinds of demons. The really wispy ones, the ones made more of air than solid…stuff.
          Hittable stuff.
          I’d have to figure out a good way to ask.
          Boss had a talent for putting a damper on a group that made it tricky to lift anyone’s spirits. I threw out a few names for his new pet to try to lighten the mood and he settled on Fang, which was about as creative as I’d expect anyone in Par Vollen to come up with, so I couldn’t blame him there. But when he started speculating about its duties in and around Skyhold and included the idea of “mage corralling” just to glance back and laugh at Harellan’s pale-faced reaction, even I gave up. Talking to him with her around was giving me that same feeling of stonewalled stubbornness I got when talking to Solas about the Qun. He seemed hell bent on tormenting her in a way that Sera somehow escaped, like maybe he had something against “elfy elves,” as the archer liked to call them.
          Or maybe it was mages he hated, based on his treatment of Solas, too.
          But Dorian wasn’t getting that quite yet.
          And lucky for me he didn’t have anything against my kind.
          Yet.
          Quiet carried us pretty far from there. The signs of dragon occupation spread much farther than the dragon herself, and Cassandra spotted them at about the same time I did. Not that broken trees, scorch marks, and trampled skeletons of nearby livestock were particularly subtle. I couldn’t help that deep thrill that clambered its way up my spine at every passing cloud’s shadow, just waiting for one of them to be her.
          And then we all heard it.
          That distant, unmistakable roar.
          “Oh, this is gonna be good,” I muttered, grinning at the Seeker and Warden when they glanced my way. “Tell me you’re not getting excited.”
          “We should be cautious,” Cassandra warned.
          “Well, yeah,” I agreed. “But we can be cautious and excited.”
          Sera snorted and Blackwall smirked, but it was the boss who flashed a real grin.
          “That’s what I like to hear, Bull!” he cheered, glancing back before snapping his reins. A few of the wolves he was still dragging along beside us rumbled and bared teeth, as though his distraction had cost him some focus from that trinket. The crystal on Harellan’s staff flickered like a sputtering flame, but if he noticed either event, the Inquisitor didn’t give much indication.
          “Let’s go!” he called instead, urging his horse into a cantor. “We’ve got us a dragon to kill!”
          Well.
          Couldn’t argue with those orders. I could already feel my blood warming.

Chapter Text

Harellan

          This is why we don’t listen to Solas.
          When we listen to Solas, we get wolves.
          I couldn’t be angry with him, though. Well, I could—and I was—but it wasn’t his fault. It was myself I should be angry with—and I was—for thinking it had ever been a good idea to wear an amulet stolen from a corpse in a demon cave to begin with.
          “Lived experience” my broken leg. I wouldn’t have minded never living the experience of riding alongside seventeen wolves under my superior’s command. And yes, there were that many; I’d counted, several times, which was likely why they’d even thought themselves bold enough to go after a herd of horses and the predators atop them in the first place.
          And the Inquisitor had already slipped once in parading them around.
          I was facing a damned dragon. Did he really have to complicate things with wolves, too? What were they going to do, bark at the thing? Howl and get crushed? Senseless slaughter for a shemlen ego.
          And a bit of bored amusement at my expense.
          As always we left our mounts at the camp that had first sighted the beast. The uncomfortably-keen Qunari laughed off bizarre looks from scouts when we arrived with our feral entourage, but the Herald praised the mangy beasts’ presence as the blessing of Andraste, proselytizing as though the Maker’s Bride herself had stepped from the beyond and personally gifted them to us, much to the wonder of those maintaining this little outpost. He’d tucked the amulet somewhere deep inside his armor on approach, something I should have done about three hours ago, if I’d woken up with even the dimmest flickering of a single wit this morning.
          Cassandra’s silent shock at his words hardened to bristling suspicion. I could almost sense her desire to challenge him, to counter his little lupine blasphemy, and I stepped closer and lowered my voice to offer an alternative.
          “Is not every treasure of the Inquisition a blessing upon the faithful?”
          Including the amulet, I hoped she could infer.
          Her scowl faltered, but briefly.
          “This is not what he means,” she hissed.
          “Are you sure, Seeker?” I pressed, holding her narrow gaze.
          She wasn’t, and it showed as she lowered her hackles. She still wanted to believe in him, despite…everything. And I had a vested interest in keeping her loyalty, as well. In keeping her faith steady. I may have dismissed her promise of protection last night around the camp’s fire but it had touched me nonetheless. She was kind to elves. She had no trouble with our people. And if she was to be believed, if she was to be the ally I may need in a pinch one day, I needed her trust, as well. In this way, by reshaping the framework of her belief, she would not have to choose between religion and morals. Saving me, should it come to opposing the Herald, would serve both masters.
          “Thank you,” she sighed, unclenching a fist. The warrior shifted aside in a way I wished she hadn’t. To give me space I did not want. I’d hoped privately to use her presence as an unspoken shield against the fen circling us, a flat-eared little da’len with her brave hahren, anything to calm Vhenan’Then. The spirit’s claws were bared against foes we were forbidden to oppose, foes that pounded a dull, aching throb into every wound in time with my racing pulse, and his iron guard clenched us both like a breath-choking fist about my throat.
          Look on the bright side, Harellan. With all this terror about the wolves, you’ll have little room left to fear the dragon.
          A crackling rumble caught Iron Bull’s attention, visibly elating the Qunari. Plumes of smoke erupted from the north. At his urging we were on our way, water skins sealed and passed back to the men who had so graciously offered them to us. Customarily I took up the rear, but so did the pack, and I could not have those things behind me, breathing down my neck. And yet when I drifted to the left they followed, and followed again when I slipped behind the others to the right.
          “They like you,” the Inquisitor baited, drawing everyone’s attention to the game he was playing with me. “They miss when you had the amulet. Pick one out for me to take back to Skyhold, won’t you, Swamp Champion?”
          “I really think we ought to be focusing on the dragon,” Blackwall interjected.
          “What’s a bit of levity before the brawl?” Trevelyan challenged. “Some of us understand the concept of fun.”
          “Ponce,” Sera spat, so quiet and fast he didn’t catch it.
          “Harellan’s role is critical,” the Seeker pushed. “Distracting her will—”
          The Inquisitor gave the loudest, most dramatic sigh I’d ever heard from such big shem lungs.
          “What’s the point of being the leader if you’re all going to tell me what I can and can’t do?”
          “We’re a team, boss,” the Qunari offered with a grin. “Tease her at the tavern later. Let’s not fight each other here, when we’ve got a really big…”
          Wingbeats and a rush of wind slowed his words to an awe-inspired silence. Parted lips stretched into a grin as the High Dragon sailed overhead, her scales a bright orange in geometric patterns over dull browns and mossy green. I hoped she hadn’t spotted us—the terrain was uneven and wet here, with plenty of high ground for her to stay out of reach of our warriors’ blades—but a midair thrash sent a fireball our way, and the rest of the party froze and backed up to run.
          “Watch it!” Bull called, but I stayed the course as the others spread, giving me room to work. Power flowed through my staff, quick and agile, primitive but responsive, and I formed and cast a barrier high above, sending it up to meet and test the missile’s might.
          It crashed against my shield. A mushroom of smoke and splintering fire cascaded to the ground, well short of its intended destination.
          Us.
          The shock was unpleasant, but my leg held. Hard to tell if adrenaline steadied me, or satisfaction at a suitable target for releasing the tension in wire-tight nerves.
          “Its nest is beyond. I’d rather fight it there,” I advised, thoughtlessly.
          “Yes, we know,” the Inquisitor drawled, pushing past. His palm caught my bad shoulder and I recoiled right into one of his damned wolves as they padded past. The beast growled and snapped and the ground rushed up in a flash of white panic, but I stuffed it right back down and picked myself back up, ignoring all the hands reaching to help.
          I didn’t need them, I told my shaking limbs.
          We had a dragon to slay.
          “Go,” I mumbled, sick bile coating the back of my tongue.
          They went, following their leader already paces ahead.
          I coughed, caught up and calmed down, and kept an eye to the skies. Another fireball was snarled our way and its angle was tricky to intercept, but not impossible. This was good, good practice, to judge her power and adjust accordingly. I’d never fought a dragon before. I’d never even seen one. I could understand the Qunari’s wonder as we pressed on and her aim went wild, shattering a spire of nearby stone and blasting rock and dust off our flank. I could understand his wonder and even, perhaps, his enthusiasm at the spectacle and majesty. But I could not feel them, myself.
          I did not want to kill the beast.
          I had no greater claim to this world than she.
          The dragon-trampled pass opened to a wide bowl of flattened ground. She’d done a fine job of preparing our battlefield, a basalt-lined plains of broken stumps devoid of rocks to hide beyond or couch upon.
          Trevelyan ordered the wolves at her first, with some savage shemlen war cry. A loping run sent them across no man’s land, where they were promptly immolated by a geyser of fire so bright I could feel it from here.
          Most of us watched the slaughter in what I thought was accepting dismay.
          But after a moment, Iron Bull just started laughing.
          The Qunari charged without orders and I followed, casting Barriers around the both of us as vanguard. I could tell he wanted first blood but I had to beat him to her; my part of the strategy was critical to trapping her here and ensuring the kill. Magic quickened my steps as I bent the Veil to carry me forward, power tinting my silhouette blue. In the time it took her to decide whether the bellowing oxman or the strange azure streak was the greater threat I was upon her, momentum and magic carrying me skyward in a leaping arc aimed to land between her shoulders, at the great meaty base of her powerful, leathery wings.
          And there I perched, boots on scales, insect on eagle, aiming to be forgotten as I studied and understood this creature preparing to rampage. As I waited for the others to catch up and distract her. As I watched the High Dragon assess these threats to her home.
          From here, the view was marvelous. The Qunari looked so small below, and the others smaller yet. A wide, cloud-speckled sky overhead, charred silhouettes of distant trees clinging to towering rock columns lining the basin. The stenches of rotten meat and burnt wolf hair could be improved, but the dragon exuded a kind of magic I’d never encountered. A primal power that coursed through her veins and rumbled deep within as she gathered and blasted another stream of fire at Iron Bull. It skimmed the Barrier I held for him, but I imagined the Qunari was not in the business of trusting magic, and dodged accordingly.
          Vhenan’Then stirred, as fascinated as I was if not even more so.
          Bull got his first blow in when her head dipped to snap at him, and she took a slice to the cheekbone that drew an ear splitting roar, a quick recoil, and a flat stretch of her wings. As she beat them to whip up winds I studied their movements, how the joints flexed and swung. My part in this strategy was to ruin them. To cut through their webbing and sunder her connection to that sapphire sky, and ground her for the rest of her short life.
          Neither one of us wanted to. But I drew my sword, and Vhenan’Then’s power slipped the glimmering blade through its anchored hilt.
          A keening whistle sailed through the air, cutting more than just wind. Sera’s arrow, glancing off her horn and clattering away. I stared, distracted, and fastened myself to her scales as she roared again and swiped at Bull. What was that? What had that been? It was like her bow sang, a haunting note, nails on the slate of my soul. And she nocked another and let it fly, lodging into the soft tissues where foreleg met body.
          Another roar. Another rear. Magic held me to her, and a warm chill swelled beneath my boots until it welled up and blasted out as fire, hot and bright and smoky.
          Perhaps I was beginning to understand Bull’s enthusiasm.
          Again she flapped at the air, this time drawing her foes closer. Cassandra held her ground but Blackwall took a knee, and Trevelyan stumbled forward and onto his chest. Sword in one hand and staff in the other, I traced ice along the base of her right wing, calling to the Fade to soften this world and thicken the cold. I did not want to be her focus, but I could not walk the limb without a steadier foothold. She twisted to reach me but Bull slashed at her leg, a blow that sounded deep from the screech of pain it produced. Her chilled wing spread skyward and I spread my spell along it, frost lacing scales with glistening patterns to slow it and freeze it in place.
          The Veil carried me skyward, to the upper joint where everything connected. In went the blade, Vhenan’Then’s power sharper than any steel. Like a dagger through cotton the leather parted, tip to hem, blood filming a lengthwise tear in the first of many goals.
          A quick hop off a Barrier brought me back to her body, and I stuck myself to her once more.
          I did not know how thoroughly a dragon’s wings must be destroyed before the beast can no longer fly. But if she were to escape us, it would not be from my failure. Her clamorous screech dug teeth into my skull, lancing pain between my temples. Its volume was almost dizzying, an anger that rocked the world itself and blurred my vision. I could feel its vibrations rattling my very bones; why were we doing this? Why kill this creature with such savage sloth? Its death would elevate the Inquisition to the status of a capable ally but I knew the Herald just wanted a taste of triumph, of glory, with no regard to the ways of the world and its cyclic order.
          Steady, Harellan. The faster you work, the faster she’ll die.
          But with a crash like glass and a cascade of snow, she’d already broken the spell.
          The creature’s head reared back and her wings folded tightly, protective. I thought she was merely thrashing but her great split-crest horns reached my way, seeking to crush the bug on her back. Sloppy steps down moving terrain carried me toward her hips and away from the threat, and another singing arrow found a home just behind her jaw.
          And there I sat, and fastened myself to her scales, and formed a cast of ice around Solas’s loosening splint.
          What am I going to do, re-break my leg?
          Fenhedis, Harellan. Your name is your destiny, and your own words condemn you, just as surely as your Keeper’s.
          The whispered curse didn’t do much for the pain, but I could pretend that it helped. Better a twice-broken leg than a life sealed up in the mage quarters of Skyhold.
          Right?
          The battle continued around me, or rather behind. Nonsensical orders from the Inquisitor mixed with Blackwall’s warnings and Cassandra’s battle shouts. No one sounded hurt or worried, though. Not yet. It was a foolish thing to leave Solas behind, I thought, wishing I were in two places at once. Were I a better warrior I would be up there, back at the dragon’s shoulder, protecting them all as he did. Overseeing the battle. Ensuring our victory with quiet influence.
          She forgot me again. Wings snapped back open. Magic gathered below. Fire bellowed a fresh scar into the earth, and she beat at the sky to whip up another gale.
          I pushed myself into a crouch and dashed up her spine. Left or right? Even the damage, or disable one wing first? That latter choice sounded better. Faster. More likely to keep her here.
          No. Too slow. I spotted the others knocked off their feet and she jerked back, jolting me atop her, to bound across the basin. With a great leap the world fell away, and my stomach went with it. She was taking off. She was taking off. I was too late. Her great body heaved beneath me, wingbeats slow and immense, magic and mechanics powering her into the sky with raw, breath-stealing might. Another arrow slithered through the Veil and missed by inches. I dropped to my knees, sword and staff flush against her to keep balance as the clouds swelled above and the ground shrank below. Her roar and a thrashed fireball rocked through my boots, and she turned away to flee her home.
          In seconds there was nothing but us.
          Us and that bright, open gulf of endless blue.
          Us and the wind, howling in my ears.
          Well then.
          I’d been in better situations than this.
          Calm threaded my focus. I’d always been good in a crisis, provided that crisis wasn’t wolves behaving unpredictably. Unbidden, Solas’s words in the stables last night came back to me here, louder even than the ceaseless rush of colder and colder air tearing at my chest and slowly burnishing my cheeks.
          Stop me and he locks me away, I’d reminded him, when he’d tried to oppose the Inquisitor’s orders.
          The beast will kill you, if you go, he’d cautioned, and the phrase he’d used for beast had been ambiguous, referring either to the dragon herself or to our callous leader, a grammatical choice I’ve no doubt was deliberately made.
          Then I die a free woman, I’d countered at the time, an empty cruelty I’d correctly guessed would silence his dissent.
          But I would not die today. The apostate’s warning spurred me on in ways I doubt he intended. A stubborn refusal to perish on command marked every step of my life after all, and had guided my path since childhood despite the best efforts of many to cut me down. My stomach might be gone, but my nerves were not, and neither was my capability. I watched the High Dragon’s wings flatten into a glide, and made my plans to walk them.
          Left it is, Vhenan’Then.
          My conviction was the spirit’s, ever-ready to aid us both.
          We’ll bring her down gently, I promised him.
          Gently, and carefully, and with a slow heart and a steady hand.

Chapter Text

Blackwall

          So, the elf was dead, right? She had to be. If she hadn’t fallen off by now, she was about to. No one was gonna survive a bucking dragon that high up, or a one-on-one with her wherever she landed next.
          And even if, by some slim miracle, Harellan did make it back down in one piece, the Inquisitor seemed next in line to try his hand at killin’ her. His sword clattered against a rock as he failed an attempt to stick it into the ground, only adding to his red-faced frustration.
          “That DAMNED knife-ear had a SINGLE job!”
          He wasn’t shouting at any of us, mind you. We could all hear him just fine.
          “Keep the damned dragon here!”
          The man looked around for support. But everyone’s eyes were up there, at that great monster slithering away into the azure ocean above. Sera lowered her bow with a defeated sigh. Bull flexed restlessly behind his wild, bloody grin. I hoped more of that blood was the dragon’s and not his. But he had taken a pretty nasty swipe to the arm. Solas’s satchel was still intact, though. Good on him for that. Cassandra’s lips were running a mile a minute; a prayer if I had to guess.
          “Sera, shoot it!” Trevelyan yelled.
          “With what, Glowy? Birds?” she fired back, still watching our escaped prize heave its way into the heavens. “Arrows ain’t flyin’ that far. Not straight up like that.”
          “Well, try, won’t you??”
          “And waste ‘em?”
          The Herald picked up his blade and kicked at the ground until he found a soft spot to thrust its tip into. “Fucking useless elves, the lot of you. Maker’s balls. Can’t do a damned thing.”
          Fine way to ruin his edge, that.
          Sera just flipped him off while his back was turned. But distant movement caught my eye, and a lot of it. Restless slithering too, as dozens of little dragonlings about the size of a winged mabari each came pouring over the rocks and out of underground holes I hadn’t noticed before.
          “Brace yourselves, we’ve got extras,” I warned, pulling Bull and Cassandra out of their respective reveries.
          A few of the lizards coughed smokily at us when they neared, showing rows of very sharp teeth and at least some burgeoning ability to breathe fire.
          Kinda wish we had those wolves back, now.
          I had to knock the Inquisitor’s sword sideways with my shield to loosen it up enough for him to pull it back out. The Seeker met my gaze and nodded, and we pressed our backs together to let them circle us. Iron Bull taunted them all and waved his blade around like a madman, a tactic I thought was more about excitement than utility until a bunch of the beasties peeled off and decided he was the bigger threat to take down. He and Trevelyan laid into that particular river of scales and snapping jaws while Cassandra and I took the rest on in the same way we’d faced the demon pack before.
          Not sure I’d ever seen Sera shoot that fast.
          The fracas was over in I don’t know how many minutes, but the real miracle was the High Dragon still circling overhead. Seems she wasn’t interested in abandoning her home after all, though she was about to have a nasty surprise if she thought her family’d fared well in her absence.
          “Maker preserve us…”
          Cassandra’s disbelief turned all our heads to her, and then up to the creature above.
          “You’re kidding,” Bull declared, jaw hanging. “Is that Harellan?”
          “Where?” Trevelyan demanded.
          He and I both squinted to see what they were seeing. The monster thrashed and roared above, three pieces of its wings slit cleanly against the sunlight. Every now and then I caught a glimpse of bright blue ribbon trailin’ off one wing and looping back onto her, like a sparrow attackin’ a damned hawk.
          The Qunari let out a long, low whistle. “Definitely thought she was dead by now.”
          “Aye,” I heard myself agree.
          “Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.” The Seeker was promptly back to it, louder than before and even more incredulous. “Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.”
          Benedictions, I think. I could probably brush up on my Chant, truth be told. The more common parts, at least.
          “Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.” Not much else we could do but look on and listen, from here. Sera crossed to stand beside her. Cassandra’s voice dropped to a near whisper again as that blue ribbon wound its way through the air and I winced nervously. “In their blood the Maker's will is written…”
          The dragon snorted another blast of flames, twisting around herself and engulfing the aerial ballet in black smoke.
          “For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.”
          Was it just me, or were they getting closer?
          A little puff darted out and back into the cloud. Andraste’s tits, the elf was doing it. She was taking on a Fereldan Frostback in the middle of the damned sky.
          Trevelyan spat, turning several of our heads.
          “If she kills it and I barely got to touch the Maker-forsaken thing, no one will hear of this,” he swore.
          Bull laughed, but the Seeker’s eyes hardened. She straightened up and raised her chin and voice alike.
          “As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, she should see fire and go towards Light!”
          The puff darted back out into the open sky again.
          The Frostback herself erupted from the spreading cloud too, four tears now across both wings. She was starting to trail crimson, and her eyes were set on home.
          That little smoke puff was dartin’ the wrong way, though. And it went right back into the thinning smoke instead of after its prize.
          Bull said what we were all thinking.
          “Oh that’s not good.”
          No, it wasn’t, not at all. She was hard to see in the sunlight but Harellan had definitely made some big mistake way up there. Cassandra gasped as the streak’s tail caught up to itself, disappeared for a heartbeat or two, and a little speck started trying to chase a target that was putting too much distance between itself and her. The dragon's wings were tucked and she was headed right for us, and the space between her and Harellan’s trailing spark was growing wider and wider.
          “The Veil holds no uncertainty for her, and she will know no fear of death!” Another roar echoed our way, and we all readied our weapons as the Seeker’s prayers turned desperate and determined. “For the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword…”
          Harellan was sputtering, though, prayers be damned. Her streak of blue broke here and there, each dash shorter and less steady, like she was runnin’ out of magic.
          “Don’t suppose she took a lyrium potion with her,” I volunteered through my own amazement.
          “Doubt it,” Bull replied.
          The dragon was the bigger issue, though.
          “Spread out,” I ordered, getting a real bad feeling she was going to give us a fly-by blaze before landing. “We group up and she’ll hit us all with a single blast.”
          I was already finding my own patch of freedom while I spoke, and Cassandra chose a different way. Sera didn’t need to be told twice and put plenty of steps between herself and the rest of us and raised her bow. Even the Inquisitor didn’t throw a fit as he double-timed it elsewhere, leaving only the Qunari to stand there and brace for impact like a grinnin’ lunatic.
          Twang.
          “...Got ‘er.”
          The archer called her shot before it landed, and sure enough, an arrow sank into the beast’s right eye. Whatever the dragon was planning vanished in a wild bellow of rage and pain as she twisted away and flared her wings.
          If she’d meant to stop her dive though…
          Well, that didn't happen.
          The ground itself rocked as the Frostback slammed it and tumbled. Harellan’s mid-flight modifications putting themselves to work, I had to guess. Trevelyan was already off and sprinting as she skidded into the basalt towers around the edges of our little arena and they cracked against her bulk like thunder. Bull gave a cursory glance at the sky before starting to follow, but he only got a couple steps before really seeing what the rest of us were fixed on.
          Harellan was gettin’ bigger, tumbling in a limp spiral now. I couldn't tell if she’d given up or passed out.
          But somethin’ was happening to her.
          “What is…?”
          The Seeker couldn’t finish her question. Not that any of us had an answer. A white-blue halo glowed around the elf and it didn’t turn as she did, like a starburst on oily glass. All at once she seemed to come back to herself, still speedin’ toward the ground. But she twisted with purpose now, fighting the air to gain control, as if she had any chance of surviving a fall at that speed.
          Cassandra flinched. Sera swore. I didn’t see what they were seeing until a second later, when a series of…crystal shards started tumbling free of the elf’s back and trailing behind her.
          They unfolded into a pair of glimmering, sparkling wings, and flared wide just like the Frostback’s. Unlike the dragon’s though, these actually caught the air and slowed the elf with seconds and feet to spare by the end of it. Ethereal grace crowned her as she alighted not far from the Seeker, and raised her face and her right arm back to the sky. She didn’t really catch her staff so much as guided it into her hand, and lowered both to regard us all.
          I didn’t know what the others were thinkin’, but I didn’t much care for what I saw in that moment. Her armor was slicked red. It coated her left hand all the way to the shoulder, and her empty hilt was clutched in a tight fist. Her eyes glowed an unearthly blue, shinin’ at us like holes in her skull that her very soul was trying to spill out of. The halo of light and her shard-shaped wings quavered with rainbows and flapped and folded behind her as she “looked” between all of us. A pleading string of Elvhen spilled from her lips in a strange, deeper timbre that I almost felt in my chest as much as I heard it in my head. It was like somethin’ else had a hold of her. Like Harellan wasn’t in there anymore.
          The elf blinked, looked down at her sword and staff, and looked up at us again.
          “I am sorry,” she added in Trade. Her whole body began to tremble. “I had no choice. Taren’Elgar was going to die.”
          Before anyone could say anything or ask what was happening or how, the light left her eyes, the wings and glow retracted into her back, and she crumpled into a pile of elven limbs.

*** 

Solas

          The clatter of wood on stone echoed alarmingly through the ruins, but neither I nor Cole paid it much mind. Both of our heads had turned from the glow of the artifact beneath my fingertips and the staff I had just dropped toward the tide of power that swept us both.
          “She’s done it.” The spirit’s voice was breathy as always. “Heart, beating, brave. Mind, fearless, focused. Two have become one.”
          And the ripples of their union had trembled the Veil itself.
          No. It was more than that. Much had happened in a short span, and had muddled together by the time its distant echoes reached us. The death-throes of the High Dragon as well, presumably, her primal might flinging desperate energies through both halves of the world.
          Gossamer power touched my elbow.
          “She wouldn’t have wanted you to see.”
          Disappointment even I didn’t notice unwound from my chest. I looked from Cole’s hand on my arm to the spirit himself, ever seeking to console even the slightest disquiet in a mind that did not rest easily.
          “What she wants seldom seems to align with what’s best,” I replied, but I was uninterested in further argument on the matter. I only hoped once more that my preparations for whatever had occurred to the north were sufficient.
          Or else entirely unnecessary.
          And yes, I had wanted to witness the rare spectacle.
          The Inquisition’s conquering heroes did not return to the Crossroads until nightfall, long after I’d completed my study of the ruins and the Veil-strengthening artifact within, as well as the types and manner of demons that Cole had protected me from upon unsealing its entrance. Such things revealed much that would aid us in restoring this world’s stability in the interim, and I busied myself writing down what I had learned and puzzling out possible implications elsewhere, all while the spirit engaged me when and where he could in his ceaseless attempts to soothe. The direct aid of his efforts was often marginal at best, but I found his attention useful as an emotional augur, helpful when it waxed for nipping early those thoughts that would otherwise have distracted me.
          “Why do you run?” he asked me once. “You want to worry.”
          “I want to know,” I corrected, uncertain which of our statements was closer to truth. “And I will not know until they have returned, when I may see her for myself. Until then, hand-wringing and fretful speculation serve little purpose.”
          “And so you run to books and writing. Toward that which is, and away from what might be.”
          “Yes.”
          For now.
          I suppose I should have expected her frightful state, but Cole’s most dogged ministrations could not prepare me for the manner of cold that gripped my chest at the sight of Harellan Fellavhen, limp in Iron Bull’s arms, looking as though she’d been dragged from a river and bleached by the drying sun. The masses flocked to the Inquisitor and the remainder of his entourage as he whipped up celebratory cheer for their apparent success, leaving a quieter space for the Qunari to speak with me.
          “She looks worse than she is,” he promised with a smile that didn’t reach his eye. “Where do you want me to put her?”
          I led him back to the medical encampment that had been our home before Trevelyan intervened, and he was, admittedly, gentle in lowering Harellan back to her old cot.
          “I checked her for new wounds, and so did the Seeker,” Bull added, scratching at a horn now that his arms were free. “Pretty sure all of that’s dragon blood. We couldn’t find anything you hadn’t already treated.”
          A strange miracle, that. Something fresher than scars on his left arm caught my eye as he lowered the pack I’d sent them off with to the ground beside him, stained but not visibly lighter.
          “Does the Qun demand only Qunari treatments?”
          A few different emotions seemed to war for dominance before the oxman settled on confusion.
          “What do you mean? I said she didn’t--”
          “Not her.” I nodded at his arm. “You.” The three brutal-looking rakes through his flesh were raw, but old, as though they had stopped bleeding hours ago.
          He looked down at them, and cracked a wide grin. “Oh, this scratch? It’s--”
          “--Are you hurt?”
          “We can help!”
          “Yes, let us help!”
          Three women of the Chantry who had been eavesdropping for quite some time caught our attention as they hurried closer, marking the first time in a while that any of their faith had acknowledged the existence of this half of the field infirmary. Bull seemed torn between this generous and presumably attractive offer and ensuring that Harellan had been passed into safe care, but it did not take much in the way of a dismissal to persuade him toward a decision.
          “We’ll get you cleaned up.”
          “Oh yes, we’ll give you a nice bath!”
          “A bath? If you insist. Hope you’re thorough,” he laughed at their excited tittering.
          The volume of the childish giggles that followed dropped sharply when the four left. Only then did Cole allow me to notice him, standing at her bedside, watching intently.
          “Thank you.”
          I did not need to hear what followed.
          “They're not one,” he announced, the brim of his hat flopping as his head turned to her. “Touched, twisted, tangled, torn away, a temporary tie now severed, split.”
          My gaze followed his. Her face looked aged, like tarnish on weathered bronze, darkness making harsh lines in the crevices of her features where old blood had not yet been rinsed away. But Cole was right, and his observation was not difficult to verify. Vhenan’Then’s presence curled around her, sedate in her stilled aura but very much separate from her. The woman’s own power was greatly diminished, so much so that the spirit seemed only half-submerged, or less.
          Cole shook his head. “But I was so sure…”
          “You were right,” I promised him. “They had merged.” I touched her windburnt cheek, rosy and warm beneath my fingertips. “Peer closely. There is damage to her soul.”
          As though listening, Vhenan’Then stirred, but only slightly. A shift of the head, or, perhaps, a settling of some other part of him around her.
          I crossed the space to gather supplies for examination, and cleaning, and treatment. After a time, the Seeker stopped by to deliver Harellan’s staff and to ask about her state. I would have preferred to offer better news, for once. But I had only just begun to assess the extent of the aftermath.
          “Grim” was the first word to come to mind. Particularly if she was to be forced again and again to return to premature service at the Inquisitor’s ill-informed or intentionally cruel behest.
          Cassandra renewed her oath as protector and advocate, filling every word with persuasive conviction. But until speech and deed aligned, I could not be grateful for empty promises, and made no effort to behave otherwise. Disquiet lingered long after she left, and Cole did his best to argue her point at me, to distract my mind from the work of my hands.
          Silence reigned in the spaces between our words. The Veil rustled with Vhenan’Then’s quiet, Fade-touched regret.

Chapter Text

Vivienne

          The Hinterlands caravan could not arrive soon enough. Fellavhen was in grave need of medical assistance, and the treatments had been prepared. Many of us were out in the courtyard to receive the Inquisitor and his entourage, and a fair few seemed surprised by my self-inclusion. Josephine, Cullen, and Varric all loitered about making smalltalk or acting their parts, but only the foremost of these braved the few steps to make her approach.
          "Eager to receive our dragon slayer?" the diplomat opened with a practiced smile.
          "Hardly," I replied, not even gracing her with a glance. "Though I imagine the news is quite welcome for your efforts, darling."
          "Of course. Any great deed to reinforce our reputation brings us another step closer to legitimacy."
          It took effort to suppress exasperation. "We are legitimate," I reminded her with a frown toward the gates. "As inspiring to allies and intimidating to enemies as the mounted head of a dragon will be, however, my concern is for the cost incurred. I assume you've read the reports about Fellavhen's condition?"
          Josephine shifted her hips and gave a thoughtful little quill-twirl. From the corner of my eye I spied her glancing at her ever-present writing board.
          "Yes…Solas and the Seeker do not paint a promising picture."
          "Not in the slightest, darling, which is why I've taken the initiative to prepare a more personalized recovery routine." Finally, I fixed the noble with a glance. She flinched satisfactorily. "That elf is worth ten dragons, if the Inquisitor can be bothered to take notice. I trust, as his advisor, you will advise him to treat his greater assets with a little more care?"
          She sized me up before replying, that painted Antivan mask slipping to show a glimpse of distaste. Go ahead, darling, judge me as you please. I am not the one failing to perform.
          "We work as closely with the Herald as possible," she replied, her tone entertainingly thin. "But his hand cannot be forced. Only guided."
          I allowed myself a small laugh, and returned my attention to the gates. A bit and bridle were not guides, when fitted and properly utilized.
          "And what of you?" she challenged, apparently unsatisfied with her first defeat, and seeking another. "I have hardly seen much of the First Enchanter's fabled prowess."
         "I exert my power and influence in subtler ways," I told her, resettling my staff in the grass. "But if that is an invitation for change, I would be happy to accept, darling." I smiled at the horizon. "Solas has made a brave attempt at magical advisor for some time now. Perhaps he might step aside and allow the experienced to hold the reins."
          A lone scout jogged through the raised portcullis, and seemed uncertain whom to address before Cullen waved him over. Soon after, the faint sound of voices carried on the wind. Our stalwart leader was not long to arrive, and the commander promptly whipped his reception into shape.
          "More than the apostate may benefit from a demonstration of how a proper advisor behaves," I added, making way for the columns of soldiers forming at the gates.
Cheers and pompous trumpeting greeted the wagons as they rattled up the mountain path and into Skyhold's courtyard. The Herald returned with a significantly larger entourage than had accompanied his departure. Many unfamiliar faces looked around in wonder at their new home and soon-to-be comrades, and horse after horse after horse passed us by. Master Dennet's herd, it seemed, acquired and delivered. Out of place in any Orlesian ceremonial parade, but suitable for the war effort, for now. Louder cheers swelled fresh as Maxwell himself promenaded past on a white steed of his own, flanked by the Seeker and other more prominent members of the Inquisition. A rather tastelessly unworked dragon-leather…excuse for a cape, I had to assume, draped his shoulders, and he seemed to have picked up some sort of black-furred beast on his journey, as well. The creature padding along at his horse's side resembled a shaggy mabari, though I couldn't be certain through the sea of soldiers between me and it. Josephine left to follow and intercept him when he'd finished basking in the adoration of his admirers.
          The tedious length of the proceedings had to nearly complete before I spotted my prize. Solas sat in one of the last wagons to arrive, along with that disgusting demon he insisted on looking after and a handful of Chantry medics who likely didn't know better. The wounded were diverted from the parade and brought one by one to the corner of the courtyard reserved for their treatment, and I intercepted those who were loading a worryingly unconscious and dreadful-looking Fellavhen onto a stretcher when I spotted her.
          "This way, if you please," I instructed as they stepped from the wagon. Solas lifted his gaze as though only just now aware of his surroundings. "I will be overseeing her recovery."
          "You are aware of her injuries, Enchanter?" The apostate seemed surprised. Did he not realize his every report had made its way personally into my hands?
          "She is a mage of the Circle, darling, and a favored student of mine," I replied, guiding the transporters toward the castle. "I've kept an eye on her from afar."
          He wisely chose not to challenge my claim as he slipped from the cart and matched my stride. "What are your plans for her, then?"
          "Come along, if you'd like," I invited. He’d proven himself somewhat capable, if his writings were to be believed. I tossed a scowl over his shoulder, though. "But leave that thing behind."
          The creature following us in the threadbare hat disappeared before his handler could protest, unsettling as that was for all present.
          "She requires specialized care," Solas warned, once he'd recovered himself.
          "So kind of you to trust me with her convalescence, then, darling."
          The suspicion in his eyes amused, but he made no further protests. Negotiating the stairs troubled those who were carrying our charge, but a sharp warning ensured her safety and comfort. I asked the apostate more details about what had happened in the Hinterlands, seeking a direct account of events, if he was feeling conversational. He spoke of the wolves and of Harellan's unusually-panicked reaction to them, and confessed a rather interesting account of Trevelyan's behavior upon arrival.
          “He was aware of her injuries?”
          “Yes. And he disregarded many warnings,” Solas replied, following us into my private baths, where one table had been cleared for her arrival, and another filled with treatments and medical tools.
          “Of course he would take an Orlesian approach to elves,” I sighed, directing the medics to place Harellan on the table. An examination and a cleaning would see her to bed. “I’d hoped that her practical performance would sway his judgment.”
          The apostate crossed to the array of tonics already prepared for her, and the ingredients and clean glassware that awaited unanticipated requirements, should they arise.
          “I’ve a feeling very little can sway his judgment of our people, Enchanter,” Solas confessed, fingering bottles and studying labels as my attendants descended on their patient.
          “Yes, I’d expect that impression from you, darling. But Harellan’s militant capabilities speak a language closer to his heart.” I closed the gap to swat away his elbow with the tip of my staff. “Would you mind washing before handling pristine supplies? I understand you itinerant types may be used to the filth of the field, but I maintain a higher standard for medical care…”
          His scowl meant nothing to me, but the silence that accompanied it seemed strange. The elf was usually full of sharp quips and mannerly linguistic incision. Amusing regardless was his glance at our patient, the shock in his eyes at her state, and the polite speed with which he averted them when he realized she was being rapidly and completely undressed behind us.
          “Shame has no place here,” I informed him coolly. “I will see for myself whether Fellavhen’s successes despite her injuries were due to your skill or her determination.”
          Truthfully, I suspected both. Solas was a man of hidden talents.
          I was able to pry a bit more information from the elf before he excused himself to other duties, trusting her to my care with a few compliments about the rarity and extravagance of the tonics at my disposal. Amrita, Prophet’s Laurel, Royal Elfroot. No expense would be spared. His parting words left me with deeper concerns for Maxwell’s judgment than I’d had before, however. Taking a broken soldier on a dragon hunt, teasing her with wolves, forcing her to fight demons in his name. Perhaps I’d oversold my little field asset too well, or our Herald possessed an unrevealed sadism where certain elves were concerned. Trevelyan may have little love for the mages under his care, but such needless cruelty would have to be massaged away gently, if he was to be worked with at all.
          Most of Fellavhen’s wounds matched what I already knew. Her shoulder, her leg -- though the latter was worse than previous reports, suggesting the dragon encounter had not done her many favors. More curious were a pair of long red marks down her back, oblong welts or burns parallel to her spine and spanning shoulders to hips. A strange magical echo accompanied them, and I examined this closely as the medics worked on more mundane treatments.
          The elf seemed to be leaking power.
          Not much. But enough to detect.
          Something had weakened her soul. I wondered if she was finally paying for the freedom she’d given her spirit blade. Irritating, that Solas would fail to mention this. It was a subtle emergency that no one seemed to have realized the gravity of. Or perhaps this was the source of his unusual reticence earlier...?
          A weakened soul opened the way for demons.
          And if her little Fade friend could not protect her while she slept…
          Well, that was a worrying development, indeed.
          The decision was quickly and disappointingly made.
          The elf would be quarantined, for her protection.
          And guarded and restrained, for ours.
          I sucked my teeth quietly, tracing that painted brow with gentle nails. A shame, if this was the way she died. But heavy precautions would be necessary, for the good of all. Fellavhen the Abomination, if left to roam free, would cause significant damage to Skyhold, and death to many who called it home, before she was overcome and put down. We simply couldn’t have a stain like that on our half of the mages’ legacy. I still walked a delicate line after all, and Fiona continued to stare me down across our ideological battlefield. I’ve little doubt the Inquisitor would attempt to call a Rite of Annulment the moment the chaos was quelled, and I’d have few avenues by which to challenge or talk him down.
          Secrecy, then. I remained with the medics until she had been treated, bathed, dressed, moved to another room much deeper in the wing of the castle I’ve slowly been annexing, and subjected to these precautions. Rumors would not leak. The public would not know her state. Not until she was prepared to rejoin them safely.
          Trevelyan’s new pet revealed itself to be an onyx Hinterlands wolf when I cornered him in private chambers of his own. The man was petulantly stroking the animal’s coarse fur while reclining on a long couch and frowning at some report he was clearly bored of reading, and seemed more than happy to receive a distraction. His length of hacked-off dragon skin hung limply over the back of the furniture. As dreadful a waste up close as it had been from a distance. He preened over the scruffy beast laying at his hip the moment it had my eye, and showed off the trinket he was using to keep it docile. Something he had stolen from Fellavhen, it seemed. Difficult to assess what he was more proud of -- the animal itself, or the fact that he thought he’d robbed the elf of some mystic power the Dalish kept secret from the larger world.
          Not a thought in his head for the lengthy interim she’d not been among the Dalish, or the idea that the Circles would never have allowed her to keep such a thing. I’d have to ask her the true story, then. If she survived her current ordeal.
          The man had nothing but complaints about Fellavhen herself, to my dismay. But his tirade was, at least, illuminating. He ranted at me the moment I asked after her field performance, calling the woman both “excessive” and “glory-stealing,” and, when pressed for detail -- though “gently nudged” may have been more accurate, so ready he was to spill ire my way -- he laid out the entire High Dragon fight quite neatly at my feet. Their strategy, its failures, and the Knight-Enchanter’s aerial performance all tumbled from his lips, though discerning truth resembled cutting through a verbose jungle overgrown with disdain and arrogance. At length he insisted that he alone had delivered the killing blow, with minor assistance from our resident Ben Hassrath spy while the others “looked on in wonder and amazement.” I smelled the beginnings of another grand legend he was drafting at me, to weave for the appetites of the masses. No word on how Fellavhen survived her apparent dragonflight, or clues as to the origins of the welts on her back. I chose not to needle for too much information, and simply fed his ego a bit, suggesting that Varric hear his version of things, to inspire a tale of glory to be shared with ally and enemy alike.
          It seemed to please.
          “One more thing, Vivienne,” he added, seemingly unprompted. “I’m considering a change of specialty. What do you think of an Inquisitor who’s also a Reaver?”
          A…what?
          He slays one dragon and wants to confuse its blood for dinner wine?
          “A Reaver, darling?” I repeated with a carefully unconcealed laugh. “Absolutely not. Now why would you want to be one of those messy things? A Templar would be more inspiring to your people..."
          And much more useful to me.
          “Cullen’s been talking me out of it,” the man revealed disinterestedly, straightening his reports with a flick of the wrist. “He worries over the effects of lyrium, should I begin taking it. Especially with his own recent attempts at abstinence.” The Herald lolled a lazy gaze my way, head still propped on the arm of the couch. “Add that to the fact that Iron Bull was like a machine in battle. Inspiring, in the way I want to be. That dragon sliced up his arm with a swipe and I thought he was going to climax right then and there. I thought I wanted power greater than mages, but I’ve the Seeker for that, now don’t I? And she’s faithful to the grave, if duty calls her to it. I think I want Bull’s power. Blood power. Dragon power. What do you think?”
          It pleased me immensely that he’d even ask. Not that I let it show, of course.
          I conceded his shrewd reasoning. At least something about him was redeemable yet. A slow pace brought my wide circle to the back of his chair. Fingertips traced the patterned leather. Gratifying, the way his eyes followed every move.
          Something grand could yet be made of this tattered scrap.
          “I don’t believe Bull is a true Reaver, darling,” I suggested softly, performance in every shift. “But that is beside the point. As the Herald of Andraste, I suggest you continue to present yourself in alignment with the Chantry. A Templar would naturally support your image, and reinforce your commitment to the people, in their eyes. A Reaver is simply a warrior made for battle. And we have plenty of those already…”
          Trevelyan had dropped into a petulant little pout a few seconds into the speech -- the moment, I imagine, he realized I was disagreeing.
          But he hadn’t stopped me from speaking, yet.
          “Do you want to bloody yourself on every battlefield, darling? To sit and be patched up after each conflict, however minor? Or do you wish to emerge spotless in victory? To gaze upon the chaos ravaging the world and, with a wave and a clenched fist, declare it obscene? A Templar negates magic, remember. A Templar holds power over the forces that have sundered the world. A Templar will snuff the fireball cast his way. A Reaver will take it on the chest.”
          “Perhaps I like taking things on the chest,” the man countered, but he wasn’t even concealing his faltering commitment from himself, let alone me.
          “Better not to take them at all, darling,” I insisted, catching and holding his gaze. “A man on his back in the dirt coughing up smoke hardly inspires. What a miracle you would be to the people, to instead face down forces that sunder houses with lightning and burn acres of farmland and exert your will to prevent it. Templars alone can learn the power to remake this world in their image. To restore it. To impose their will upon reality, and walk away untouched. You’ve already done this with Corypheus and your Mark. Now take the steps to expand your instincts.”
          He didn’t reply. But thoughts swirled behind those malleable blue eyes. I took my leave with his dismissal, knowing that he would weigh my words carefully rather than return to whatever document or policy demanded his reluctant attention at present.
          And I offered the suggestion that he get his dragonskin tailored into something befitting his station. A striking mandilion perhaps, or a surcoat bearing the Inquisition's standard. With gold trim, to accent his figure. No need to be barbaric about conquests.
          “Oh, and, Inquisitor?”
          I laid delicate fingers on the threshold as I glanced over one shoulder.
          “Yes?”
          A pause. A fixed stare. Calculated precision.
          “Consider a replacement for magical advisor. I do believe other candidates than Solas would be willing to serve.”
          And a click of the door, as a final full stop.
          I admit, I was pleased with my performance. So pleased that I nearly tripped over that Red Jenny the Inquisitor had seen fit to welcome to the ranks. She stood in the center of the hall, Maker only knows for how long or how much she’d overheard. I moved aside to pass, not at all expecting a woman of her station to understand the political etiquette involved, but when she backed up to keep stride I realized I was somehow her intended target, not Trevelyan.
          “How’s Slashy?” she asked, only ending her retreat when I stopped.
          “Who, darling?”
          “Slashy.”
          As if I hadn’t heard her.
          “Who?”
          As if she hadn’t heard me.
          Sera expressed her frustration as some sort of barbaric grunt and perched a fist on her hip. “Slah. Shee. The sparkly elf. The prancin’ git with the blade and the…” Grandiose waving gestures were somehow even more incomprehensible than her words. “She’s got a fancy magic-y sword and a big dumb tree on her cheeks? Her face-cheeks, not the…well, I guess she could have a tree there, too.” I stared down a bubble of laughter, unimpressed while she attempted to master herself. “Big pale stupid puff o’hair?” she continued, finally. “Spotted you poppin’ away with her an’ Elfy when we got back. Looked pretty bad still. Where’s she now? She’ll be right, yeah?”
          Did I have time for this?
          I certainly had little patience for it. But Sera’s questions piqued my curiosity.
          “What interest could you possibly have in Fellavhen’s condition, darling?”
          “Yeah.” She nodded, as though pleased I’d extricated some form of understanding from her barely-Trade ramblings. “Just lookin’ t’know.”
          “Then you’ll find out when everyone else does.”
          I resumed my pace down the corridor, but she backed up again, keeping stride without a glance to see if anything was about to be in her way.
          “Wait. Wait. Fine. Just want her t’be okay, yeah? She did…good stuff out there. Be real dogshit if she did all that ‘n kicked it.”
          I had half a mind to put something at her heel. Just the tiniest piece of ice, to send her tumbling.
          “That is a risk one takes when facing a dragon, darling.”
          Sera shook her head. “Not talkin’ about the dragon. Different shit, that. I mean before. With the kids. She gave ‘em apples. Thought she was gonna piss at me about givin’ apples n’ she gave ‘em, too. And the rams, and the blankets. And the heal-y bits. Y’know, for sick people.”
          With great reluctance, I once again stopped to stare at her and attempt to comb some sense out of the unwashed tangle of words unfurled my way.
          She wasn’t done. “Reckoned from her fancy breeches she was you, but shorter. An’ lighter. But she’s not. She’s us. Kinda. Helps the little guy.”
          Lighter? In what sense?
          “Fellavhen is many things, darling, but I would advise against confusing her for your kind. Maker knows you confuse yourself enough,” I sighed, resuming my pace.
          A grubby hand dared to seize my elbow. Sera had the gall to glare right back at me.
          “So’s she fucked or what?”
          I ripped my arm from hers and flashed a warning spark of lightning between my fingertips. She flinched and promptly remembered who I was.
          “You will find out along with the rest of Skyhold,” I repeated coldly, allowing anger to mask the truth.
          I took my leave. The Jenny finally remained behind.
          I had no idea Fellavhen’s fate, this early in her recovery. She was far worse off than I’d anticipated. We would do what we could for the woman, but ultimately I could only hope she had strength enough to recover alongside our efforts.
          My heels echoed down the stone steps. Irritating as it had been to endure, I would not forget Sera’s insistent concern. Further evidence that Fellavhen was continuing to do precisely what I’d hoped she would. Turning hearts to her cause.
          Turning hearts to my cause.

Chapter Text

Solas

          Where was she?
          Where had Vivienne brought her?
          The Fade rippled quietly, offering no answers.
          Seeking wisps returned fruitless, when they even survived the journey at all. I was reluctant to gather too many as aides in this disagreeable era of Skyhold’s history, as I knew they would be attracted to and likely corrupted by the concentration of misery and stricture the Inquisitor had levied upon his conscripts.
          But time was ticking. And those same threats upon my spirit-scouts would bear down upon Harellan, too.
          I rose from my desk and gave my sleeping form one final glance. My greatest comfort, as I paced the muted castle and passed those echoes of history strong enough to resist the turbulence of the present, was in knowing that the opportunistic predators of the Fade would share the difficulty I and the brighter spirits of this place encountered when searching for her.
          A few more wisps returned as I ascended stairs, retracing the route my waking body had taken alongside the First Enchanter. None could offer better guidance. I passed through a handful of locked doors with simple ease, but the deeper I pressed into Madame de Fer’s claimed territory, the thicker the currents of the Fade became. Wards and glyphs mottled the walls, acting as traps and pitfalls to avoid or circumnavigate. The air glimmered with remnants of my helpful friends -- those who had not survived their encounters with this sharper sort of magic. Frustration coiled at every fresh shimmer. More than mere circumstance had made a dangerous place of their home.
          Again I wondered if leading the Inquisition here had been another mistake.
          I searched for the Madame’s baths, the last place I’d seen my quarry, hoping to find a trail from her percolating injury. Shifting movement and a muted slither of metal on metal raised my eyes toward the deeper end of the corridor, away from a door whose most recent purpose I’d been struggling to recall.
          Sentries? At this hour? In this place?
          No.
          Templars.
          A pair of living men, unremarkable soldiers of the rank-and-file in Trevelyan’s army, stood guard before yet another closed door. Again the Fade thickened as I neared, careful in my approach despite arcane currents clearly intended to drive back the aimless and weak. It was not the Templars creating this flow, however. Their powers would not reach me here. But, if alerted, they certainly had the ability to thwart my efforts to affect their side of the Veil. And affect it I would have to, for it was the inside of the door that had been Warded, this time. Though the lock seemed to be pointed in the wrong direction.
          It was not merely keeping me out.
          The bulk of its power was intended to keep something inside.
          A brief chill seized me -- the awful realization that I may be too late. But no, if she had been taken by aggressive spirits, Madame de Fer would have had her killed, not imprisoned. Abominations were of no use to the Inquisition…
          …Or so one hoped that Maxwell’s depravity hadn’t yet sunken this far.
          It was tense work, undoing the First Enchanter’s painted spells like a thief at a palace lock, coaxing away those energies gathered to hold fast against my will. Every glance, every shift of the Templars I stood between flinched my hands. I was still so unused to them; so uncertain the powers and sensitivities they commanded. But if they detected anything at all, neither one gave a single indication.
          After a time, I began to relax. Tension turned to focus.
          I had seen this before, after all.
          In Harellan’s dungeon cell, the very day we’d met.
          The wards resisted tampering quite well. The leashed power of the Lady of Iron, efficient and well-cast; its mistress aptly named. I closed my eyes to oppose and undo it. Pried at those braided wisps, worked free the bindings that held them. Pressed power as delicate needles through Veil and wood alike.
          Both shivered as the spell gave way. The currents around me calmed. I stepped back, quick to withdraw when the two men finally exchanged a suspicious frown. It took longer than I would have wanted it to, but I’d had patience, time, and determination on my side.
          It was experience I lacked. A lack promptly demonstrated by the wall of reality that struck like a brick when I attempted to pass through the freshly-unlocked door between the soldiers.
          Lived experience, I thought, pinching at my smarting nose. A painted brow in soft lamplight over pain-muted green eyes flashed through my mind. These were not the experiences I’d have wished upon her.
          I began to seek alternate routes. A place beside the pair, where their attention was not, or else deeper into history where the Templars themselves were not. With the wards removed, any point of egress became accessible, but before I’d made my decision, familiarity whispered around me. Both Templars with little warning relaxed their mistrust and returned to an easy, distractible watch. I glanced over a shoulder to the source, to the dark corner I’d thought empty upon approach. Cole, unsleeping, ever ready to help, stared from beneath the wide brim of his hat, blue eyes piercing the Veil from the waking world and his own flopping hair to see and aid my dreaming form.
          “Please go,” he urged, his soft voice muted but reverberant. “She’s still bleeding. She needs you.”
          “Thank you,” I half-whispered, sending my words back through the Veil as I slipped between the wood and its unraveled ink.
          A nearly unfurnished chamber awaited. Four gray walls in the waking world, black darkness, and a single bed across the way, visible only from the soft underglow of yet another set of wards painted upon the stone floor. Madame de Fer had spared no expense to protect the castle from her trained elven pet. These, at least, seemed designed to contain her physically should she become compelled to escape, and held little sway over the mutability of this realm. A small table of spindled wood had been set beside, holding an unlit lantern, a pitcher of what was likely water, and a single folded towel.
          Upon the bed itself laid an oblong shell of magic.
          Fellavhen. Slow-Heart. Locked in her robin’s egg barrier. A pile of wary impressions balanced atop, head lifting to lock two dark eyes on me.
          Vigilance. Sentry’s Heart. A marvel of the Fade in himself.
          As a small mercy, nothing else appeared to occupy the room.
          Little could prepare me for the cascade of relief that unwound my shoulders and unbanded my chest.
          I was not too late to help her.
          “Halt and declare,” the spirit called, his voice tinny and soft. So much of him was elsewhere. “You will come no closer.”
          “Peace,” I bade, raising a hand. “I seek to aid your charge. One hopes you’d remember me, Vigilance?” I had confidence in his understanding, but the capabilities of modern spirits were not always easy to predict. Particularly one as rare and unusually segmented as Vhenan’Then.
          “We remember you, Solas.” But there was something strange in the way he said my name. “You will come no closer.”
          Again with this? Admittedly, he would not be much of a guardian spirit if an abundance of caution did not rule him. But with Vivienne’s wards removed and her currents quelled, all that time and patience from before were no longer mine to enjoy. Other things may soon follow in my wake. I clasped my hands before me and smiled.
          And called upon the old song.
          It slipped through soul and voice alike, a subtle beckon through the Fade, to resonate through ancient threads that bound us. He gathered up as I drew near, undaunted by the fangs he bared, and promised through his threats that I could help her.
          With an empty palm I reached out.
          Then he sank sharpened teeth through my hand.
          It nearly jarred away the melody but I recovered quick, and pressed a palm upon his head to trap him. The power he had gathered dissipated, as astonishment replaced protective violence and caution.
          I anticipated struggle, but the spirit was quick to relent.
          I stroked his glassy scales to keep him calm, and willed him to submit, but something in his antiphon concerned me. Between us his enshielded charge awoke and shifted restlessly. I let him pull away and coil around her. What they whispered I did not hear, but her caging arcana dissolved.
          Much of Harellan herself spilled out with it. A quiet exhale broke the song, and I took a seat beside her, relieved to have reclaimed Vhenan’Then’s trust so easily. The spirit curled between us, placid now, settling himself into a shallow of her magic as it pooled around me. His eyes were painted with guilt.
          “...You can save her?” he asked in a small voice.
          I studied the elf arrayed before me. She was barely here, arguably even less so than our first meeting. Reluctant. Frightened. Clinging to the waking world. “Scattered” would be an understatement. Nothing about her resembled the proud Knight-Enchanter I knew, so distant and ill-defined she was. The clearest thing about the cloud of soul and power simmering atop the mattress were her wounds. Twin stripes cleaved through a morning fog, sparkling with untapped might, a beacon to turn the eye of the opportunistic.
          “Yes,” I told the spirit. “But I can only assist as much as she is willing to allow.”
          Some part of her reacted. A piece of something that could be her head gathered, twitched, turned. I sought her eyes in the indistinctness. Presumably those two slightly brighter masses?
          Vhenan’then’s tail nudged a lower part of her, perhaps an arm or a hand. Intention flowed between them, a rare and private form of conceptual exchange I’d thought all but lost from this world.
          Incredible.
          Unlikely they knew how extraordinary they were. Not with Harellan’s limited worldliness.
          I monitored the door while they conferred. After a short time, Vhenan’Then’s attention returned to me.
          “You may begin, Solas.”
          Ah.
          Not quite so simple, unfortunately.
          “The first step must be hers to take,” I explained softly to them both. “She must gather herself here, in much the same manner as when we last met.” But even more so. More, I suspected, than she had ever immersed herself in the Fade. I chose Elvhen to speak to her directly. “You cling to the waking world, Slow Heart. It makes an untidiness of your injuries. I am able to guide you, but you must be the one to let go.”
          Suspicion threaded the Fade, so much more powerful through her weakened soul. Vigilance quieted sharply and looked from her to me, dark eyes quick to narrow.
          He felt as she felt. I could not protect him from this.
          A delicate thing, it had to be.
          “Please, child,” I entreated, enforcing calm. “Your fear is understandable, but you are in particular danger. It is paramount that you heal quickly and correctly, and to do so, you must learn and practice control.”
          Something resembling her voice responded, but it was not complete, not coherent. Vhenan’Then wound away from me and curled instead around those upper parts of her.
          “Commit yourself to this place, House of the Rebel,” I pressed. “You must become more here than you have ever dared to be.”
          Something tugged at the spirit. Indecision, and…distaste? I willed him to stay strong. Traced his prismatic lines with comforting fingertips. He was a small joy to interact with, despite my still-stinging hand, and he was trying to help. He was doing his best to assist her in ways they could both only guess at. In ways, one assumed, they had been dissuaded from exploring for years.
          How broken, this world, to fear the gentler home of magic and wondrous possibility.
          Harellan stirred beneath him. Intention rippled the tides, a portent of the determination she had begun to gather. Her guardian's eyes followed my hands as they moved from his edges to hers. I shaped shoulders from the clumping mists, then elbows, and what would soon become hands of her own.
          A delicate thing it would be indeed, to guide her here.
          Sounds through the far wall turned my ear. A muted jangling of keys echoed across the Veil. Swift commands, angry tones. The Iron Lady, awoken no doubt by my meddling and rebuking the failure of her hapless guards.
          And she was not alone.
          In their world, the door burst open. I rose quickly, not to address the First Enchanter sweeping in with a blaze of fire to drench the room in light, but the spirits her presence invited. Fearlings flanked her steps, little scuttling creatures of darkness whose forms were not meant to be viewed kindly. Three of them I counted, and eager they were to abandon their current host for a far more enticing target.
          With time and safety, I might have saved them. Turned them to some new purpose. But too great was the risk. Already Harellan’s reactive terror spilled into the Fade, overwhelming my serenity and feeding their drive to seek more. Swiftly I was forced to cut them down, to dissipate their energies across space and scatter it to history’s pages. More collateral damage in this second, hidden war, a war the quicklings barely knew they participated in. A war they knew not at all the depth of their influence upon.
          Vivienne’s physical wards dispelled with a wave. I barely dodged both her reaching hand and the echoes of flame from her staff, siphoned through the Veil and reflected back into the Fade itself, as she seized and turned Harellan’s sleeping body. A rough grip of the limp elf’s cheeks and chin, an eyelid pulled up, then down. Checking for subtler signs of possession, presumably. A demon strong enough to do what I had done would doubtless be clever, and the Iron Lady had arrived far too late to stop it.
          Her face swam in this place, body and soul layered together, the former obscured by the latter’s shine. I could read only scrutiny from her glimmering, tightly-drawn eyes, and nothing at all from the words she did not say.
          Over her shoulder, Cole allowed only me to notice him, fidgeting near the door and the two Templars peering across its threshold. He did not ask but I knew what his steady stare sought, and I shook my head and raised a palm. To alter events now would invite far too many questions later. Best to allow the Enchanter to sate her suspicions and return to sleep. Should she freshen her spirit-wards, I would find a different way from this place.
          Strangely, she did not freshen them. I had my suspicions why, and they proved true soon enough. Only those physical deterrents were reactivated when the woman left, and she did so as brusquely as she had arrived. I encouraged Vhenan’then to abandon our efforts for the moment, then receded into history to wait. Mere minutes later the Lady returned, her shuffling, ill-defined, dreaming form rippling through those layers of time I had placed between us, and inspected the Barrier Harellan had recast around herself in this place. I did not see the details of their interactions, but if her guardian had anything to say to his charge’s mentor, he did not speak it.
          Dream-Vivienne peered through that cornflower shell for quite some time, but gave only a few sympathetic scoffs at what she found within. A quick and careful inspection of the room itself confirmed its spiritual sterility, and the First Enchanter departed once more with little fanfare.
          I was cautious in my emergence. Madame de Fer was a fearsome foe, and more disastrous still would be her actions should she discover me here, meddling with her cut and polished jewel. The Fade roiled where she had been, sparkling power and restless unease lingering like smoke after a line of fire.
          Fellavhen’s spell shimmered away at my touch, though not of my doing. Despite the interruption she looked vastly improved, and far more elf-shaped than before. Vhenan’Then remained wrapped around her, lifting dark eyes full of heart-wrenching hope and stalwart duty to mine. It explained why he’d said nothing to the First Enchanter. Doubtless they had a lengthy history I was unaware of, and she would have few kind words for him, were he not hiding from her. Vivienne made no secret of her opinion concerning Cole, or any other Fade-born being. I had yet to met her own spirit-partner, and presumed I never might. He or she would likely live and die within their prison, at her discretion, and trapped under her thumb. I could only hope they were the sort to be satisfied by this narrow existence and singularity of purpose.
          A sweep of magic flinched me. The Iron Lady’s spirit-wards, reactivated. I would have to devise a subtler egress, after all.
          But this was still a positive development.
          It meant I once again had time to spare.
          Back to Harellan, then, still coalescing with reticent and anxious determination. Even in my brief absence, she had made impressive progress. I resumed my seat beside her, and took her hands in mine.
          “Just as you are, Slow-Heart. Join me here,” I beckoned, massaging cloudy fingers into sharper, slender forms. Calling to her in word and will alike. “Come to this place.”
          Her eyes were defined enough now to lower, and tighten, and close.
          “Separate yourself into the dream. Your waking form will not be lost to you. The more fully you are here, the cleaner your wounds will be. The swifter they can be treated, and the sooner they will begin to heal.”

Chapter Text

Harellan

          Little could prepare me for what happened when I cut that final string. The hollow terror of a mind adrift, and the chain-reaction of flinch-thrash-panic that followed, powerful enough to furrow the Fade, to rouse Vigilance and force his retreat. Solas wrestled me to the mattress, pinned my flailing with steady hands and words I did not remember, quick Elvhen urging that spoke to something deeper, something simpler, and demanded that thing be still. It collapsed into a hushing obedience and I laid there, staring, not-quite-panting and not-quite-shaking but feeling very much like I should be. Everything burned, everything, raw and frayed, ripped away. It couldn’t be right. This couldn’t be right. Wet magic simmered around me, warm and sticky, a splattering aftermath spilling over the edge of the bed. It stained the soulstuff of the apostate’s knee, now supporting his weight somewhere beside my hip. His stoic eyes did not blink.
          “Master yourself, Slow-Heart.” His words were loud, but not in my ears. “This place is not kind to the quick-tempered.”
          I…know that.
          I knew that.
          But pain was pain, and this was a fearful thing, a tearing dread the likes of which I’ve never known. I needed him to be unkind. I needed him to force inaction on me, to fight me and win. Someone had to do it. Someone had to calm me.
          It had to be Solas.
          Vhenan’Then could not.
          And he did it. Steady. Easy. Like he’d done this a thousand times, with a thousand other Fade-torn elves and their unpracticed spirit-partners. A statue we were, two figures frozen in the dwindling gales of an undersea twister. His grip was solid and patient, a rock weathering my tempest. Disrupting its colorful currents. Defying those howling winds.
          Settling me with patient serenity.
          The Fade-storm was slow to subside. Near its end, a scattered serpentine head rose over the apostate’s shoulder.
          I closed my eyes and turned away. I couldn’t face that nervous timidity. I was supposed to be the strong one.
          Echoes of reactive fear teased my cheek.
          Solas’s weight withdrew from my wrists.
          “You’ve done it.” His voice was quiet. Pleased. He sounded as though he’d resumed his prior seat. “You’ve set yourself free.”
          An unrealized chill marked the truth of his statement. “Complete your commitment, Slow-Heart. Sharpen your intention to stay.”
          Sharpen your intention to stay.
          He shouldn’t have let go. I couldn’t feel anything, now. Not the bed, not my body. Nothing. Only pain and the brushing flow of the Fade. Current like feathers on skin. Purpose like slime in a lazy river. Like the sloppy aftermath of a clumsily-cast spell. No weight, no sense of up or down. Dizzying absence, a spiraling void. I felt weightless, like I was falling, falling off that dragon again--!
          But when I opened my eyes, nothing had changed. He was still there, still waiting. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, back turned, radiating trust and peaceful composure.
          This…this can’t be right.
          Still, I lifted an arm. Formed a hand. Fingers. Like he’d done for me. Like he’d shown me how to do. I even clenched a loose fist. Things I had never done before in this realm, with parts of me never before so well-defined. There was a sudden ease to it. An ease that those binding tethers had been holding back. Years of discipline making intuitive understanding of foreign things, as though the prior orders of my many magical taskmasters had not been rooted in practical wisdom.
          With careful patience, I drew my own misty excess into familiar forms. Into something resembling an elf.
          “Can you rise?” Solas asked, watching me keenly over a shoulder.
          Could I? This implied it was safe to attempt, a thing the blades in my back would not have me believe. But I tried it, unmoored and buoyant, forcing a slow elbow beneath me to push onto one side, and unglued myself from the thin film of arcane blood still pooling around the bed.
          My wounds did not suffer more for this effort. This pain did not behave as I would predict. There was a constancy to it that quickly became freeing, since nothing I did seemed to warn me that I was, in any way, worsening. The apostate himself made no attempt to assist as I patiently struggled upright and gathered my legs beneath me. Legs. In this place. A test of self-mastery, I assumed, but the change in perspective revealed that both of Solas’s hands were busy elsewhere -- apparently reducing my spirit guardian to a pile of Fade-mush in his lap. The apostate’s long fingers threaded through and around Vhenan’Then’s half-spooled essence, and the spirit was practically asleep with contentment, eyes all but closed in the crook of the elf’s left elbow.
          Amusement twinkled as his gaze followed mine.
          “Spirits crave the living,” he explained, stroking something that might have been the underside of a jaw. Vhenan’Then rolled into his touch, belly-up to expose a softly-glimmering throat, and Solas obliged with a careful thumb-and-forefinger massage. “We are a curiosity to them. Our will and complexity are novel in this place, as well as our understanding. It is instinctual for our kinds to be drawn together.”
          Instinctual. I knew that, as well. That was why demons sought us. And why we could be so tempted by them.
          His smile was warm. “And, of course, Vigilance too requires gentle care after such an ordeal.”
          …Care?
          I watched the pair in silence, putting two and two together.
          How? How did Solas always know what to do?
          What lived experience could this possibly have been?
          The apostate gathered up the tangle of concepts sprawled across his legs and set them gingerly beside us. Some part of Vhenan’Then expanded with hopeful lethargy toward me next, to lean himself against my leg. I laid an exploratory hand of my own atop the spongy spirit-heap, and much of the rest of him eagerly oozed closer.
          T…aren’Elgar…
          He could barely speak. Contentment radiated from the creature, warming me all the way up to the elbow. I had never before seen him behave this way. True, our interactions in the Fade had been defined for decades by the Barrier I kept between us, but I’d never known him to be so…reactive.
          “I sensed his desire for nearness when we last met,” Solas continued. At his gesture my loose magic gathered into an iridescent sphere. The apostate rose, and a bit of graceful repositioning settled him behind me. “Out of respect for your journey together, I did not touch him then. His responses to you were telling enough. Abstinence rules your interactions. A restraint born, one assumes, of fear and ignorance.”
          “It is born of caution,” I corrected, shocking us both with the strength and clarity of my words. His approval broke like a smoke ring across my spirit-spine.
          “...It is good to hear your voice, Slow-Heart.”
          …Yes.
          It was.
          An indescribably bizarre sensation robbed me of response until I realized he was pouring my power back into me, tipping magic as one tips a bucket into a basin. It did not feel correct, but I had no better words to explain it in either language. Arcana sloshed around places it had no business in, rinsing what should have been organs and bones with prickling awareness. The best I could say of it was its haste, that it ended as abruptly as it had begun.
          Wasting no time, Solas laid his palms behind my shoulders and pushed.
          “Arch, child.”
          Arch? I leaned forward for him. Again it did not exacerbate the pain, though everything within me tensed in anticipation. The apostate tugged and prodded at whatever I was made of, and repeated his instruction when I caught myself correcting my posture. To maximize flexibility, he explained. If I were to straighten as the wounds were closed, they might tear elsewhere under too much tension.
          Understandable…as much as any of this was.
          “It is not a perfect mend,” Solas warned while he worked. Careful haste suddenly ruled him, bits and pieces of me tightening as he pulled. Inch by inch the pain shrank. Like I was being buttoned into a brace. “You may liken it to a patch in a woven blanket, or tunic,” he supplied as well. “My efforts will keep your power from leaking a trail through the Fade, but your soul must still naturally rebuild, and until then you will need to reduce your expressions of magic.” His words paused, but only briefly. “This is not a suggestion to be ignored at the Inquisitor’s behest, Rebel.”
          Yes, hahren.
          Not a minute into his care and he was back to his lectures.
          I couldn’t fault him for his admonition, though. He had worked so closely with me in the Crossroads, only to watch his efforts flung away the moment our leader arrived. Truthfully, his patience and forgiveness were remarkable. Far beyond what I deserved.
          “I imagine the Inquisitor has little expectation of any performance from me until I’ve recovered,” I replied, watching Vhenan’Then’s less-than-subtle migration over my leg and into my lap. Both hands massaged the spirit now, his blissful insubstantiality difficult to ignore.
          “One might have assumed that several days prior,” the apostate argued behind his busy fingers, “and yet, with a healing shoulder and a damaged leg, he sent you before him to face two rifts in the Veil and the aggressive spirits tumbling from them, and a high dragon soon after. His actions have not yet suggested an end to the depths of his cruelty, nor a lower bound to the quality of his judgment.”
          A fine thread of cynical distaste colored a strand of the Fade.
          For it, I had no answer.
          He was right.
          Even here, in this burgeoning defense against a brand new evil, indifference ruled the heart of its leader. And it chilled something in me, I realized. I still did not fully understand the place Solas occupied in Skyhold, and my life was not protected as his was. I had escaped the fate of Grand Enchanter Fiona’s conscripts, but I did not share the apostate’s luxury to enjoy these freedoms without requisite. What if the Herald demanded more from me before I was prepared to give it? I could not refuse him. No matter the danger.
          Vhenan’Then swirled and resettled. He made another attempt at private speech, but managed only to communicate a sense of placid determination. A silent promise that we were still a team, and we would work together, come what may.
          It warmed me, this undiscovered aspect of his existence. This ability to soothe I now had, kneading formless bits and shapeless pieces, massaging those parts that slipped and slid between my hands, those misty edges that filled the spaces I was not.
          We’d swapped places, it suddenly occurred to me.
          Because I could be so defined, so substantial, now he was now free to diffuse. To exist in a simpler form.
          To rest, after so much diligent work.
          It was enough to confirm Solas’s knowledge. To confirm yet again that this stranger, not Dalish, not Chantry, knew exactly how to teach and render aid.
          The apostate finished his work wordlessly. As the last of my wounds were patched and the pain fell away, quiet relief flooded the Fade, mingling with his own lingering upset, and Vhenan’then’s radiant delight.
          “Thank you,” I offered, wishing there was more I could say. A deeper way to express it.
          Behind me, an exhale. Pure emotion, as we did not need breath here.
          “I would see you treated more kindly, Slow Heart,” the apostate volunteered, apropos of nothing. “Worse than Maxwell’s abuse is your response. You deserve better than complacent acceptance of tyranny.”
          No.
          Not this again.
          It was a quick, easy no, at least. And a sharp no, at that. Sharp enough to remember myself, to counter our growing serenity and watch my edges crisp. Sharp enough to recall that there were still things Solas spoke about that he did not understand. Sharp enough to lift some part of Vhenan’Then and turn it my way, towards the chill of rejection I could not stop myself from cooling the Fade with.
          “Enough, Pride. It is not for me to decide how I am treated by others.” I wished this place did not betray my heart. It was not as simple as wearing a mask, here. “It is not for us to decide who rules this world.”
          Or how.
          “Isn’t it?” he challenged, emboldened. “Is this not our goal? Corypheus seeks to dominate. And we stand in opposition.”
          "The Herald stands in opposition," I corrected. "We stand at his behest."
          The lesser of two evils.
          Stop this, I willed. Please. I don’t want to fight. Just let me be grateful.
          He is…not wrong, Taren’Elgar. Vhenan’Then, stirring from his serene lethargy to respond to sentiments not intended for him. You…deserve…
          “And you stand among the forefront.” Solas circled me to sit nearby, interrupting the sleepy attempt at communication and mercifully intercepting a rebuke I did not want to give. “In a short span, you've peaceably settled disagreements with the Avvar, led public works efforts to restore the Crossroads, and aided the removal of threats from Fereldan homelands. Your efforts influence this world."
          Vhenan’Then’s assent glowed through the currents, making a greater challenge of disagreement.
          As if the number of my foes had ever stopped me. "They are the Herald's efforts. He and his commanders direct us."
          But I didn't meet the apostate’s keen stare. Whatever he was reading, whatever team they were trying to form against me, I did not want to aid it. He didn’t know the sins I was atoning for.
          But Vhenan’then did, and Vhenan’Then had no right to pretend I was a good person. He knew the bitter truth already poisoning the Fade around us.
          I forced a topic change.
          “What have you done to Sentry’s Heart?”
          I did not want to talk about the Inquisitor. Or myself. I could not lie easily here. I could not misdirect my intentions. This place was too open. Too shadowless. Clear-eyed.
          “I offered a taste of compassion,” came the answer. “Respite. Forgiveness. A manner in which to remove the guilt from his mind. As a spirit of Vigilance, his natural state is a guarding suspicion, and unhelpful fretting only clouds his purpose.” Solas rose and my gaze lifted with him, met his as he watched us quietly. Speaking about spirits seemed to settle his own. “This strong reaction is not of my doing, however. Your kindness has primed him to long for you. And, by extension, to long for any contact. I could not, in good faith, continue to ignore his simplest wishes.” Complexity permeated the Fade, a tangle of something I couldn’t interpret. A mix of good and ill. “I encourage the both of you to explore one another further.”
          Another quick denial slipped from my Fade-skin.
          I could not do that. I could not become Cole.
          He shook his head, reading me like a Dirthamen-damned book. “There are many ways to coexist with spirits, Slow-Heart. Combining yourselves is only one of several paths to choose. These beings will surprise you in unexpected ways if you treat them well. It means much to see you care for Vigilance in this manner.” A sorrow that seemed older than he was thickened the air. “Too many of our own kin and the quicklings see spirits as frightful enemies at best. As mindless, exploitable slaves at worst.”
          Vivienne’s many admonitions came all too quickly to mind.
          “To see him free and willing, a beloved partner…” Solas paused for a long time, watching Vhenan’Then melt and flow against me. The spirit watched him back, a puddle of grateful curiosity spilling across my legs. Slowly, he drew another needless breath. “It is…correct. Imagine if all people behaved as you did, Slow-Heart. If as you are now was the common order of the world.”
          His words lingered long after they were spoken. I had nothing to say to them; I did not trust my own sentiments against the growing warmth he beheld us with. It was not right, his approval of me, but I could not say why, and Vhenan’then’s emotional haze was of no help, either. No reason to deny him came to me, only a lingering insistence that I was no model of behavior, as my Keeper and First, as every Templar and senior Enchanter in the Circles had been happy to remind me, and even that seemed to crumble and slip against such aspiring insistence. Solas’s sagacity made me feel small here. Made me feel like the da’len he kept trying to call me. His realm-spanning speech, his bright wish and longing for a better world could be inspiring to those who dared stand at his side. And I too did not know why we were such cruel people. Why others who visited and borrowed from this place could not see the nuance of spiritkind, could not find and nurture their own partners and protectors, friends and guides.
          After a time the apostate smiled and turned away. He crossed the space to regard the resealed door, and emotion blossomed from his form, trailing in his wake like colorful ribbons in a windy Orlesian market. Serene melancholy and rueful hope, and others yet more subtle and complex. Some of them were strong enough to twist into wisps that gathered at his neck and cheek. They twirled through his fingers as he raised a palm to greet them without fear or hesitation.
          “You’re leaving?” I blurted clumsily through the stunning spectacle. Vhenan’Then stirred just in time to free me to rise, winding his way up my waist and across my painless back to settle around me in a chiffon spirit-sash.
          The apostate’s dancing friends illuminated his merry eyes as he glanced back. “You would have me stay?”
          I…
          The question was sharper than any rebuke, somehow. A mirror held unflinchingly to a part of me I hadn’t noticed. It afforded a clarity of mind like nothing else here could.
          No.
          He had other things to do.
          “Not if further tasks call you,” I replied, approaching with intuitive ease. None of this was like it had been. Will and intention carried me now just as surely as it did in the waking world. “I should just like to thank you again, for the entirety of your efforts, before you go. I know I can be abrasive.” The Elvhen word translated to a litany of negative traits, and there was no need to clarify which one I meant. All were true. “And I apologize for these fragments of me I cannot help. Please know that I am appreciative of your tireless labor, respected healer.”
          Every now and then, throughout this entire exchange, he’d slipped in a word of Elvhen here and there that I’d never heard before, one whose meaning I had to glean from context or take a simple guess at, and each carried a strange air of weight to it, like they came from a deeper place, an older time. I might not win any poetry contests with my own conversational grammar, but I dusted off a few more archaic terms of my own to thank him with. A flashy bit of rare knowledge I hoped he’d appreciate, and the piercing focus that sparkled in his gaze suggested he did.
          “Slow-Heart, you deserve a greater kindness than this world is capable of giving you…”
          He crossed to close the gap between us, releasing his generated wisps. Aimless, they capered about the room in a small spectacle of sedate fairylight. Skittish regret slipped from me almost immediately, not at the wisps but at his nearness. Amusement colored the apostate’s curious scrutiny and I searched for something else to look at, anything but that spotlight of attention I suddenly felt myself drenched in.
          “So nervous, Trickster…” An impish smirk sharpened the edges of his lips. I knew that look. But never once had it been directed at me. I backed away but he followed, his still-raised fingertips trailing a sparkling curve down my cheek. Flushing warmth bloomed from his touch and perfused through my spirit-skin like it wasn’t even there, filling the currents with nameless desire, embarrassing in its power and undeniability. But desire for what? For him to stay? For his company? To do what? What could I possibly offer him? To fight again and again over things we couldn’t change and people we couldn’t--?
          In a fit of courage Vhenan’Then contracted, pulling my neck forward and touching my lips to Solas’. Shock electrified the air. I drew back to apologize, but his hand caught my rising wrist and his mouth found mine again, and again, the third kiss held so long as to banish any thought of doubt or accident.
          Sylaise’s roasting hearth, I couldn’t believe it. His arm found my waist and mine took his shoulders, soul against soul, ardent intent intermingled. Not ten minutes ago I was a barely-conscious mess of pain and reticence and now here I stood, a fully formed Fade elf expressing appreciative gratitude in the wrongest way possible to a captivating man I barely knew.
          He broke the kiss first and I opened my eyes to the cheekiest smirk I’ve ever seen. Vhenan’Then all but dripped between us, having taken the opportunity to slither at least part of the way up my arm and around to the apostate’s far side. They both stared me down across the gap, a pair of smug, self-satisfied treasures happy about their collaborative conquest.
          And in an instant, it was gone.
          Before I could even attempt to gather my thoughts, something inside Solas seemed to close itself down. His brazen smile lessened and he thickened in a strange way, sealing off his half of the whirlwind of yearning around us.
          “We shouldn’t,” he warned almost breathlessly, eyes still glittering but impossible to read.
          “Tell that to my spirit-partner you ensorcelled.” It was the first thing that came to mind.
          The ensorcelled spirit-partner in question chuffed disapprovingly.
          “The idea was yours, Taren’Elgar,” he pouted, his voice distant and as watery as he looked.
          That is very beside the point, Vigilance.
          But I was glad for the apostate’s change of heart.
          I certainly had no idea what to do next.
          It took a bit of maneuvering to unglue ourselves and pick Vhenan’Then’s goopy reluctance off his new best friend’s shoulders. Endless waves of unstoppable embarrassment didn’t make any of it easy for me, but Solas was quick to be kind and understanding and he filled the silence with plenty of praise and polite apologies. On and on he went about my vast achievement and mastery in such a short span, how accustomed he was to walking the Fade alone, how such a thing had caught him off-guard. To perhaps both of our surprise he pulled a grateful smile from me as he sat me back down on the edge of the bed and stayed out of arm’s -- and Vhenan’Then’s -- reach. He may no longer have been projecting his own emotions into the currents simmering around us, but something within him still seemed a bit flustered. Unsettled. Coy.
          I had a feeling he’d kiss me again, if I tried for it. A feeling that became a clear certainty when that damnable inability to stop the intention wafted his way, and he rose to put further distance between us.
          “Your focus should--”
          He paused, gathered himself, and switched meaningfully to Trade.
          “Your focus ought to be on healing, Harellan.” Clever of him, to do that. “You’ve a space of perfect safety here to convalesce in body and in spirit. Considering the First Enchanter’s efforts so far, Vivienne will presumably continue to protect you while you do.” As he spoke, he gestured at the many wards between and around us, before returning his attention to the significantly more defined spirit coiled gloomily against my leg. A charming smile graced his features. “I suggest again you also spend this time with Vigilance. More aspects of his essence may be explored together now that you’ve achieved this state of freedom. And it will give you quite the excuse to practice this new ability.”
          Somehow I wasn’t nearly as opposed to this as I had been before.
          “Thank you, again,” I repeated with a nod. “I owe you so much, Solas. And I am sorry for what happened--”
          “No. Don’t apologize.” His rejection came swiftly, from still-smiling lips. “For what it’s worth, I found it enjoyable.”
          More approving heat puffed from my skin, followed immediately by even hotter humiliation.
          Dread Wolf take me.
          “I’ll take my leave then, before worse happens,” the apostate laughed. “Please have no shame, Fellavhen, the Fade is a place of passion, shaped by intent. Such things can feel…natural.”
          Natural my hindquarters.
          Mercifully, we managed our clumsy farewells, and he and his dancing little wisps disappeared in a swell of light and a pucker of power.
          It wasn’t until I woke hours later and returned to the pain of my body and the clarity of a living mind that the sickening realization sank icy teeth into my chest -- that I had, once again, fallen for the charms of a Desire Demon.

Chapter Text

Dorian

          The writing itself was rather shaky, but the clarity of each letter despite the tremulous hand spoke to the care and effort of the man who had penned them, and to his many prior years as a crisp mathematician.
          If you are reading this, Dorian of House Pavus, then I am no more.
          Each word, in his voice. Felix had finally passed on, and this private letter had been sent to me accompanied by a more official decree of the regrettable news. The closing chapter of House Alexius had been written, its ink dried on the page, or at least that particular limb of its family tree was unable to bear further fruit. Another mind lost too soon. Off to join his mother and father he was now, after the darkspawn took one and the Inquisitor took the other.
          I’d tried to save Gereon. He’d been a good man too, once. His work, redirected, could have been of great benefit to this attempt at peace that Trevelyan was forging from the chaos. But Maxwell was a Southerner through and through, which meant that he was skittish about magic and those who wielded it.
          A damn shame.
          The incessant cawing of those messenger birds the Orlesians used was beginning to irritate me less, at least. Leliana’s upper floor menagerie muddled much of the library’s quieter conversations—a handy tool for those of us who tired of hearing such incorrect speculation and whispers about the other Tevinter “magister” in their midst.
          By design, perhaps.
          What they did not drown, however, was the attention of that little Dalish elf with the expensively wrought silverite cane around the corner, looking for what I was certain were books on demons. Every time I glanced her way, she glanced right back, like she could hear the muscles creaking in my neck, or sense the twitch of my eye as it flashed in her direction. It was almost a game we were playing, she and I, and I could not figure out how she was doing it, though I suspected it had something to do with that enormous thing invisibly cavorting about her—a creature that had caught my notice near immediately upon entrance and kicked off this whole diversion of interracial cat and mouse.
          It was quite the spirit, whatever it was, and I wasn’t the only one aware of its presence. The Tranquil researchers gave no indication or reaction, but Grand Enchanter Fiona and her handful of aides seemed happy enough to keep well clear. The Dales elf appeared content with this arrangement as well, and had spoken to no one since arriving. About twenty minutes or so I estimated she’d been searching, and to absolutely no avail.
          I did want to help, but could think of no suitable manner of approach. Good afternoon, I couldn’t help but notice you were looking up demons, could I, your friendly neighborhood Vint, make some recommendations?
          Hardly.
          But that trick of hers was fascinating. Eyes on the letter, she went back to her searching. She steps out of view, I cross to lean against the central banister, look up, she turns and spots me. If it was her spirit-friend nudging her each time, quite a bit of mystique would be taken from those complex clan tattoos.
          A ripple of movement among the others drew both of our gazes as Commander Cullen himself stepped out of the stairwell and looked around. Fiona seemed to be his target, though the finer details of their chat were lost to the ravens above. A packet of papers was passed from him to her, orders if I had to guess. Curious that he would be the one to deliver them, and not some messenger boy at his behest.
          Important, then.
          Cullen surveyed the rest of us, paused for a long time on the Dalish elf—long enough for her to turn away—and settled finally on me. I awaited our brave commander with a faint smile, though he looked anything but pleased to be here.
          “Are you with Fiona, or Vivienne?”
          His exhaustion tired me just to hear it.
          “Good afternoon to you too,” I returned cheerily. “Neither, though from your tone I gather you’ve lost track of us all. Internal divisions already have you at your wit’s end?”
          His billowing sigh could have scattered a desk full of loose leaf, and he lowered his voice when he spoke next. “Maker, there’s only two halves to it and I can’t keep them straight. I thought the Circle of Fereldan was…” He shook his head, stiffened up, and seemed to regain some measure of composure. “You might get your orders separately then, Dorian. We’ve received word from Orlais. Both sides of the civil war have reportedly lost contact with their men on the Exalted Plains, and they’ve asked us to investigate.” He glanced briefly at a writing board he always seemed to carry with him. “Preliminary reports suggest some sort of magic is ailing the ceasefire there, and the Inquisitor has ordered our conscripts to investigate.” Eyes lifting, he sized me up in a way I rather liked. “I realize you’re not among them, but I’m sure you’ll be asked to assist as well.”
          “The Inquisitor would be a fool to overlook me,” I replied, “as, of course, would anyone.”
          “Good man.”
          The simplicity of the exchange seemed to revive a measure of his strength, and he left me to my thoughts on the matter. Magic ailing the ceasefire? Hardly narrowed it down. Not that I could have expected much more from Trevelyan’s battlemaster. For all their supposed dealings with the mages under their command, the Templars around here didn’t care much at all to learn what their former charges had been accomplishing under their not-so-watchful eye.
          Assuming Fiona and her packet held better answers, I folded Felix’s letter and its accompanying notice and slipped them into a pocket, then started for the Grand Enchanter and the flurry of activity she was beginning to whip up around the far bend of the library. One final glance at the Dalish elf gave me pause, however.
          She wasn’t looking for books anymore. And nor was she looking at me.
          Her eyes were upturned, toward the rustling menagerie of cages and feathers and the Spymaster above, who was peering down my way.
          A note runner for Sister Nightingale popped out of the upper stairwell next, with no written message but a single request—that I meet with my current theatrical spectator at my earliest convenience. I had half a mind to keep her waiting for pure sport, but followed the young woman back up the stairs and toward those cheerful and excitable birds.
          The Spymaster lingered by the central stone ring overlooking her little multi-tiered queendom.
          “Good afternoon, Sister,” I greeted upon approach.
          She waited for her errand girl to depart before replying, taking in the hustle and bustle below. Her careful eyes looked almost gray under that ever-present hood, shaded from the rookery’s circle of sunlight above yet free to reflect the nearer candles illuminating the otherwise oppressive stone corners around us.
          Such cleverly wielded darkness, so carefully crafted to intimidate.
          Not a woman I wanted arrayed against me, that was certain.
          “Good afternoon, Dorian. I am sorry for your loss.”
          “Ah. Yes.”
          Of course she would have heard the news.
          “I understand you and Felix were close.”
          I tilted my head in consideration, and rested an elbow against the banister. “Well, not like that. But yes, he was a dear friend, and the family deserved a better…” The word did not fall easily from my tongue. “...Legacy.”
          Fiona had finished marshaling her few present troops below. They gathered up their books and other study materials and began shepherding themselves out to rally the rest. It was a fine enough thing to rest my gaze on while I waited for a response. I assumed Sister Nightingale had other topics in mind than Felix’s passing.
          “Difficult decisions must be made in difficult times.”
          …Or perhaps not. A flash of the awfulness her future self had been put through battered my brain.
          My smile was thin. “Forgive me, Spymaster, but I’d rather keep my grief private.”
          Not that I wanted to; I simply had few avenues for recourse in this suppressive castle. But I did not want to debate Trevelyan’s politics or offer opinions on his incorrigible handling of matters he barely understood. Much less with a woman who likely kept Cullen Rutherford’s balls in a polished little bell jar on her nightstand. The Inquisition was a large and unwieldy beast, and only grew larger by the day. Its littlest toe could not trouble the brain and expect kindness when so many other parts demanded equal attention.
          Priorities, I supposed.
          “I understand the mages are to be mobilized,” I probed. The library was quieter without much of its attendant staff, and the birds had likewise settled.
          Small mercy, that.
          “They are,” she confirmed.
          Our attention turned toward the lower stairs, as First Enchanter Vivienne emerged into the semi-vacated stacks, spotted her quarry, and started off. The Dalish elf hobbled toward her without being called, heavily favoring her left leg with that gleaming, etched cane, and turned her back to us when they met. Papers not unlike Fiona’s were passed between them as they conferred in voices too quiet to hear. The other half of Cullen’s headache had also been informed, it appeared.
          “My scouts report corpse harvesting activities in the Dales.”
          The Spymaster’s words cut like a blade; a rather impressive little trick from such a lovely voice.
          “And as the Inquisition’s resident expert on death magic, you’re seeking my advice?” I guessed.
          “Anything you know will be of assistance.”
          Now that turned my head. I hadn’t expected my guess to be correct. How refreshing, to be consulted rather than accused or suspected.
          “Well, I certainly have plenty to offer. Did you have specific questions in mind regarding these corpse-harvesting activities, or shall I start work on a general dissertation of my scholarly expertise to be browsed at your leisure? I warn you, brevity is not among my finer points.”
          I couldn’t tell if her quiet chuckle was natural or calculated. The mark of a talented bard, no doubt. But we enjoyed a surprising repartee about magic and what could be afoot in the Dales, based on her scouts’ observations and my theories thereof. Of course, so much of my advice was admittedly speculative, not only because I could not observe the corpses harvested, but also because I was not acclimated to Orlesian magic.
          But the more we talked, the less unfamiliar these activities sounded. So much less that I wondered if they were Orlesian magic at all, and confessed a suspicion regarding Venatori infiltration of the area.
          “Venatori. Will you join the others when they leave for the Dales, then?” Sister Nightingale asked.
          I feigned shock. “I have a choice in the matter?”
          For most of our little chat, she’d been gazing down at the floors below, watching Vivienne and the Dalish elf consult, but my performance lifted her head.
          “Of course you do, Dorian. You are not among the conscripted.”
          I continued the charade into a disappointed sigh. “And here I thought I was part of something special. Trevelyan orders all of his Southern mages to the Dales, but my expert participation is optional? Was he hoping to just throw magic at magic and hope it didn’t backfire spectacularly on him a second time?”
          I still hadn’t worked out how he’d managed it on the Breach.
          It was a bit of a gamble, to insult the man so openly, but the Spymaster was quite skilled in lowering the guards of those she needed. Far from the laugh I was hoping she’d offer, however, an unexpected sadness weighted the woman’s face.
          “I share your wish that the Herald possessed a more delicate touch concerning the plight of the mages,” she confessed softly, turning away once more. “I wish he thought of you as more than dangerous battlefield tools.”
          I smiled cordially at her. “I won’t start worrying until he has us compete for public spectacle and private political jockeying. But then again, that would be a comforting taste of home…”
          Another failed attempt at cheering her mood. The woman’s heart really did bleed for the rebels, didn’t it? Though I couldn't read any reaction at all through the sliver of face her hood didn’t cover from this angle.
          I followed her gaze back down to Madame de Fer, and wondered if she had anything further to discuss. I certainly now had research of my own to conduct while the rest of the magical troops were gearing up to be marched west.
          Vivienne left her elven charge with a crisp flourish and an echo of clicking heels. I finally put two and two together as the tattooed elf eyeballed us one final time and hobbled her way under our overlook and firmly out of sight.
          “Say, is that the dragon slayer whose praises The Iron Bull hasn’t stopped singing for days?”
          They’d all returned about a week ago, and the Qunari brute was still waiting for her to emerge from wherever she’d been hiding all this while to squeeze the truth free over a pint of that swill the tavern inflicted on everyone who had the misfortune to find themselves sitting at its bar.
          Of all things, that drew a smile. “She is. I am pleased to see her up and walking finally. Were you confusing her with the many other Dalish elves under the Herald’s command?”
          It made me chuckle as well, but also gave me pause. “You know, speaking of that, where are the rest of them? Don’t her sort usually come in packs? Odd for only a single one to show up here. Is she an ambassador of their people?”
          Sister Nightingale shook her head. “Not unless they are happy waiting the better part of a decade to hear back. Harellan left her clan to join the Circles around six years ago.”
          “Did she, now?”
          A nod. “She’s never said why.”
          “But you know, of course.”
          Another guess, though a notably less accurate one.
          “I don’t. We have not been able to figure this out.” The Spymaster retreated from her wraparound balcony and crossed to a table sparsely strewn with papers.
          I remained where I was, and simply adjusted my lean. “Trevelyan’s legendary Spymaster, showing a glimmer of weakness. How hard could it be?” I teased. “Don’t you have eyes and ears all over the South, Sister? Just find her clan and ask.”
          More smiles. Lighter topics seemed to be her bardic forte. Important to know, in case I ever found myself wading into darker ones. “It is not so simple, I’m afraid,” she countered. “The clans we have been able to contact know almost nothing about clan Fellavhen. Where they are from, how many are left. Most had never heard of them, and the only one that had claimed they haven’t seen her people in generations. The Fellavhens do not participate in the great gatherings of all their clans, apparently. There was speculation that they had been wiped out.”
          Interesting information. “You know quite a bit about the Dalish.”
          I’d been under the impression that nobody down here knew much about them. Tevinter certainly didn’t, and nor did we care to learn, for the most part. The feeling was quite mutual, as I understood.
          Another smile. “Some clans are friendlier to humans than others. I have found that medicines and spices make helpful offerings to people in places where both are difficult to come by, and the wild elves are no different, when they can be found.”
          Reasonable. Not every scrap of knowledge needed to be carved off a tongue by the tip of a knife, after all. I cast a glance down over the central well once more to spot the little elf returning to her fruitless search.
          “Alternatively, you could just ask her.”
          Right on cue, she raised her eyes and stared me down.
          I wondered how long she’d be at it, until she figured out that the Inquisition barely had any books on demons at all, and the few that I and Solas had managed to procure we kept rather close to our respective chests. The Spymaster was also watching me when I turned back her way.
          “Perhaps,” she agreed, delivering yet another surprise. Sister Nightingale hadn’t asked the elf why she’d left her clan? On thought, it would tip the Spymaster's hand rather blatantly. “Between her frequent dispatches and her lengthy recovery, I haven’t found an appropriate time for an informal chat.”
          Elbow still on the banister, I rested a palm on my wrist. “Send her a messenger. She seems free right now.”
          The woman smiled. “It is not so simple.”
          “It was for me. Are you saying I’m easier to approach than an elf?”
          Sister Nightingale's laugh had to be genuine at that. She crossed to rejoin me once more, and leaned against the central well to gaze beyond the library ring, down into Solas’s colorful little mess of artifacts and academia on the ground floor.
          “There is less at stake between you and I.”
          No cheerful quips for that one. I was genuinely curious.
          “Do you know much about her?” the Spymaster asked.
          “Only that she’s survived a high dragon, has a bad right leg, and can’t find a book she’s looking for.”
          Experience with the soporati back home told me that Sister Nightingale, for all her frighteningly personalized intelligence, was unlikely to know anything worth acknowledging about that spirit hunkered around the elf. Or maybe she did. But I wasn’t about to be the one to rat it out, if not. I’d much rather ask its primary source, first.
          “Her style of combat magic is exceedingly quick and relies on stealth and untrackable speed,” the Spymaster began, not really looking at much of anything. “I have asked her to consider joining my men, but I do not believe she has put much thought into the offer since. She would do very well as a spy, and I would be certain to treat her well.”
          “She’s a soldier, technically, yes?” I asked. She wasn’t Fiona’s conscript, and she certainly wasn’t a Chantry healer. “Doesn’t Cullen treat his own men well?”
          “He does. But his forces grow faster than any of the Inquisition’s other branches. A single elf is easy to lose in the shuffle.”
          Even one as distinctively Dalish as her, eh?
          “And why are you telling me all this, Sister?”
          A rueful edge curled her smile and glimmered in those almost-gray blue eyes of hers.
          “I suppose I just wanted to talk to a mage about a mage, Dorian. You were right, before.”
          “Was I?” Of course I was.
          —About what?
          “You are easier to approach than most.”
          Well.
          High compliment, that. I hoped.
          “You want me to speak with her?”
          Another quiet little chuckle. I still couldn’t tell whether they were real or not.
          “Forgive me, but I am not certain a Tevinter mage would be the ideal candidate to recruit an elf with.”
          Good. Neither did I.
          “I’d just as soon get her down to The Iron Bull and his Chargers, first, anyway,” I mused.
          Another glance her way. This time, she openly glared at me over a shoulder and hobbled off completely toward the stairs, to make her laborious way out toward Vivienne’s entrance hall overlook.

Chapter Text

Varric

          Skyhold could have rivaled The Hanged Man for how fast gossip swept its halls. Sometimes I swore I could feel the wind of it passing me by, and the growing number of Orlesians prancing around the entrance hall only sped its passage. At this rate, I was gonna have to buy myself a mask, just to fit in.
          Ever since Maxxy brought back that big dragon skull and turned its bones into his new bed frame, the Inquisition had been the talk of the town. Josie’d jumped on the opportunity to spread swatches of lizard leather to nobles across the south, capitalizing on our competence with undisputed proof. Couldn’t have written it better, myself.
          What could have been written better, though, was Maxxy’s version of the story. It was a version that didn’t really seem to play nice with anyone else’s, but then again, no one seemed to know what had really happened out there in the Fereldan backwoods. I’d heard everything from fire breath to flying elves, and it was a damn shame Max pressed me to dramatize and disseminate his side of it before I’d gotten to talk to the real star.
          But that Orlesian breeze had blown through, and Chatterbox was finally back on her feet. I didn’t even have to go too far to confirm it. All kinds of heads were already turning up toward the First Enchanter’s overlook, accents hushing to a dim murmur. Madame de Fer had left not too long ago, but that dramatic rose window had found something new to silhouette—the quickly-growing Dalish legend caning her way across the stone. Chatterbox seemed a lot worse for the wear, but I’d be more scared of anyone who tangled with a high dragon as intimately as she seemed to have and didn’t walk away with a few new bumps and bruises to show for it.
          The elf didn’t stop for anything, and the backlit glass behind her hid whether or not she noticed all the attention. She just limped off and disappeared down some hallway, but it was plenty enough for me to head out and try to intercept her before Bull tucked her under an arm and carried into the Herald’s Rest to plunk her down at the bar.
          “Kid. Hey, kid!”
          It was like there was a delay between her hearing and her reacting. I caught her on some stairs—not ideal, with the way she was struggling down ‘em—but she stopped, listened, thought about it a bit, and finally twisted on her cane to glance back up at me and smile.
          “Varric.” Up close, she looked better. Not too pale or flushed. Like her patient walk was out of caution, not pain. Of course, I’d heard all about how she’d taken on a dragon with injuries, so I couldn’t rule out that she was just really good at hiding it. She was made of something tough, that was for damn sure. “Thank you for your letters,” she added as we made our way down the steps together. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to respond to them. But I enjoyed reading them. It was very kind of you to send them.”
          I knew it would be helpful! Maysie smiled at her from the back of my mind.
          “Hey, no problem,” I dismissed with a wave and a smirk. “I figured after the first went unanswered that somethin’ was stopping you. Pain, focus, whatever. Glad to hear you got ‘em at all.”
          I’d been sending some writing her way all week, a couple pages every morning. My first had been the day after the troops had all paraded back, a handful of paragraphs to try to coax out the truth once I’d figured out who to send them through and why she wasn’t wandering around with the rest of us anymore. Viv had said that Chatterbox was getting and liking them, but I still wasn’t sure how much I trusted the former First Enchanter at her word.
          Most of the rest had just been attempts to cheer her up, little stories or keeping her up on the goings-on at Skyhold while she was healing in isolation. With Viv’s no-visitors policy firmly in place all that while, I’d figured anything to help pass the time would be welcomed. Seems I was right. We talked a bit about the letters and I tried to get that truth out of her after all, but she made me tell her Maxxy’s version of things first, and listened carefully while I recounted it. Why, I wasn’t sure—I’d already sent her the same story everyone else got from me—but the way she filled in and followed along seemed to further confirm that she’d read my stuff, and wasn’t just bluffing for whatever reason.
          “I’ve got it on good authority that you played a bigger role, though,” I baited, letting her lead us outside and toward the training grounds. Blackwall and Cass were running some recruits through drills, and hadn’t noticed us yet.
          “My part was to keep her from taking flight,” Chatterbox replied. Her eyes lifted skyward as bright sunlight bathed us and gleamed off her gray silks and painted face. “A task I failed, as your stories correctly report. The Herald’s battle with her was an inspiring spectacle. The glory is rightfully his.”
          I couldn’t help the look I gave her. “You’re kidding, right?”
          It interrupted whatever bliss the bracing mountain air was filling her with. She frowned down at me. “Of course not. You told the story well, durgen’len.”
          “I told a bunch of nug shit, and everyone knows it,” I argued right back. Her expression lost all its warmth. The most unreadable scrutiny this side of Chuckles studied me with narrow eyes.
          “Everyone?” she echoed neutrally.
          Watch her, Ferris warned. There’s something strange about the both of them.
          I shrugged and smirked, hoping it would brush off the chill. “Sure. Everyone knows the official story. But everyone knows the official story isn’t the real one, either.” I added a wink, trying to lighten her up at all. “I was just wondering what that real one is.”
          Her guard seemed to soften a little.
          I wished her cane wasn’t between us. I woulda nudged her a little if I knew what was and wasn’t hurting. “I’m just saying, we all know that a high dragon took you for a ride, and you cut her back down to earth. If you don’t want to talk about it, I get it.” I spread my arms and shrugged again, for the drama. “Woulda scared the piss outta me, too. But you’re probably gonna have to say that to a whole lot of people over the next few days, kid. We all wanna know how the hell you survived.”
          If she had anything to say to that, it was lost to the Seeker’s quick approach. Cass had finally glanced our way and pulled herself from her drills to jog over, bright gratitude and relief in her wide eyes.
          “Thank the Maker, Harellan, I did not know you were released from care.”
          “By Andraste’s grace and Chantry efforts, I am recovering well,” the elf replied.
          A little too quick for my tastes, with a smile too smooth and soft. Ferris was still keen at attention through my own eyes.
          Cassandra looked her up and down. “How is your leg?”
          Chatterbox tapped her trousers with the tip of her cane, just above the cuff of her gray boot. It gave a muffled clang of cloth over metal and the cane and her leg both glowed the telltale blue of Lyrium runes, and she looked up and resettled her weight as the light faded. “Madame de Fer has had me fitted with a padded brace. I understand the mages are to be deployed to Orlais very soon, and I came down to test it in drills.”
          “You…” The Seeker’s eyes darted between hers, and she started to shake her head. “No. I can’t have you…” Blackwall came astride of us with a greeting nod that the elf returned, but Cass was the one who kept talking as she looked from him back to her. “No. You need to heal, Harellan. You must rest.”
          “I will be gentle, Seeker,” the elf argued softly at her. “I just wish to know how to adapt my style.” She started around the pair, still placidly smiling as their heads turned but nobody stopped her. “I am not asking to raise a blade against a second Fereldan Frostback, I promise. But exercise will do me good.”
          The three of us kept pace.
          “Plenty o’ways to stay active without stressin’ yourself,” Blackwall countered. “I think startin’ with regular walks, if you really insist on it.”
          “That’s what I intend to test, ser,” Harellan agreed. “‘Let me be the vessel which bears the Light of your promise to the world expectant, O Lady of Perpetual Victory.’ A vessel must know how much it holds.”
          Our Warden friend didn’t have much to say to that, and the Seeker seemed only annoyed.
          “‘All things in this world are finite,’ Harellan,” she pressed. “That includes you.”
          Finally, something with a little more personality came to the elf’s eyes. “‘I have faced armies with You as my shield’,” she fired back, triumph glimmering in those big, skyward-lifted elven emeralds, “‘and though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing can break me except Your absence’.”
          I fell back as the Seeker clenched a fist and pursed her lips, and nudged Blackwall from the far side.
          “They having a poetry slam or something?”
          The Warden snorted. “Yeah, I guess a dwarf wouldn’t recognize the Chant, eh?”
          “Is that what they’re doing?”
          Blackwall tilted his head. “Bits of it, I think.”
          Cass fired off some other two-line about pride and its limits after a couple beats for some thought. I remembered it now, how they’d entertained each other on the way back from the swamps, the two of them having some debate about Andraste and the Maker.
          Harellan’s grand riposte about sacrifice and overcoming some kind of trials carried us over to the other soldiers, where I was saved a bit more angry proselytizing by the clang of steel and Blackwall splitting off to holler at a recruit not holding his shield properly. I gave up as well and left the Seeker and the elf to their religious catfight, but I wasn’t intending to go too far. Just to the castle wall to lean and look on. The way I saw it, faith or not, Chatterbox was either going to break immediately or twirl around a training dummy until she tired herself out, and I didn’t see her lasting that long either way with a lean like that.
          What I did see was Krem stealing off to the Herald’s Rest, and I didn’t have to be a genius to figure out why.
I thought Bull was gonna break that old door down with the way it slammed back against its hinges. Turned every head in the courtyard, at least briefly, as he and half the Chargers spilled out and trampled over like a pack of excited hounds.
          Their target backed away like a skittish cat.
          “Har! You’re alive!”
          I wasn’t the only one who winced when the Qunari clapped a palm as wide as her back against one shoulder. Chatterbox took it like a champ, though it was probably easy to hide a flinch under the full-body jolt that rippled through her.
          Bull leaned in with a grin. “I was sure you’d be down for the count for another week at least. Viv kept you locked up tight, eh?”
          I pushed myself off the wall as the elf looked from him to his boys and back.
          “Did everyone know where I was?”
          “Sera’s not exactly the quietest at spreading rumors,” I answered, sauntering back over. Bull patted his captive a couple more times as he glanced up at the tavern’s turret and the Jenny peering down at us all. Sera thumbed her nose up into a nug snout and blew a raspberry so wet it coated the inside of the glass before wiping it away with a sleeve and disappearing from view.
          “Varric’s not wrong,” Bull laughed, turning his and everyone’s attention back to Chatterbox. There was a glassy absence to her eyes now, and that nervous prey thing hadn’t gone away just because she’d survived being caught. “C’mon into the tavern, kid. You need a drink, and I need a story about how you rode a freaking dragon!”
          Not sure anyone but Bull coulda wrangled her into the Herald’s Rest so easily. He certainly accomplished by weight and enthusiasm what the Seeker couldn’t manage on Chantry faith alone. Having the Chargers around to cut off retreat points certainly helped, though.
          “Think that uptight elf’s ever had a drink in her life?” Blackwall asked, watching the party march off.
          Cassandra sighed and started after them. “Not a chance.”
          She shot me a signature death glare as I laughed and followed after. Blackwall gave a few more orders to the recruits and brought up the rear as we all stepped into the tavern together.
          Chatterbox had already been bundled onto a stool amid a growing crowd. By the time I elbowed my way through hips and knees and dragged over a seat of my own, she was staring down a flagon to rival Bull’s, and swirling whatever Cabot had poured in it.
          “Drink up, Har,” the Qunari laughed, pushing it closer with the back of a wrist. “It’ll help your leg feel better.”
          A ripple of hushed questions almost physically coiled around the elf. She stiffened as they squeezed.
          “My leg is fine, thank you.” She looked around for someone above the masses.
          “Sure it is.” Bull didn’t believe it one bit.
          Part of me felt for the kid. No doubt this was so far outta her comfort zone we might as well be on another continent. But an admittedly larger part of me just really wanted to know what went down with the high dragon last week, and I don’t think I was the only one curious what would happen when she had a few gulps of house ale in her, either.
          Whoever she was looking for, she didn’t find them.
          Back to contemplating that oversized mug, then.
          I’d be nervous too, Maysie giggled behind my ear.
          I kinda expected Chatterbox to do one of those comical spit-takes all the theater troupes liked to ruin the stage varnish with, but she downed her first mouthful with the heroism of a kid dared to eat a raw lemon wedge. It didn’t agree with her in the slightest, but Bull pounded the bar with a fist and called for a cheer, and it was around that moment, when the crowd responded and the elf managed a sour-twisted smile, that I finally realized what he was doing.
          He was doing that Ben Hassrath thing on her.
          Every second of it, from bowling the elf over before she could say no to clapping her on the shoulder outside as a test of her resolve to dragging her in here and surrounding her with eager, inescapable onlookers, were all meant to take control of the moment. Iron Bull knew what he wanted, and he was gonna get it come hell or high water. Pulling-out-truth stuff. Spy stuff. Not exactly Leliana’s tactics, but they seemed effective, so far. More effective than Cass's interrogation attempts had been on me, at least. Chatterbox wasn’t an easy one to work with—I knew that from how she’d treated Chuckles in the swamps—and I wouldn’t be surprised if Bull had figured it out twice as fast as any of the rest of us.
          And he’d still cracked her shell.
          The Qunari lifted his own flagon, stared her down until she hauled hers off the bar again, and knocked ‘em together, forcing another drink into her.
          I was glad to be nearby, and refused an offer from Cabot, myself. Someone here ought to be on the elf’s side, and sober while they were doing it. I had a feeling she was getting into something she wasn’t about to know how to get herself out of.
          And still Ferris stared.
          “So,” Bull boomed at everyone present. “How’s about that story? We all wanna hear how the Inquisition took down a high dragon, yeah!?”
          The crowd cheered as he raised a hand to encourage their noise.
          Chatterbox smirked at him, held up a palm, and looked around the revelry. She spotted me at least, and took a second to think. Both hands on the bar, she walked them one over the other my way, stretching into a long, lithe elven lean and spoke as quietly as the pressing audience would allow.
          “Varric?”
          “Right here, kid.”
          “Can you find the Seeker for me?”
          “Cass?” I leaned around the edge of the crowd until I spotted her, slouching in a corner with folded arms and a narrow glower, then nodded at Chatterbox. “What do you need her for?”
          The grave stare Harellan fixed me with over her frozen smile pinned half the cast of Hightown dead in their tracks behind my eyes.
          “For safety, durgen’len.”
          Her left hand was already wrapping itself around the mug’s hefty handle.
          Aaaand it was right about then that I realized Bull hadn’t wrenched the situation completely from her slender elven grip.
          Safety. Yeah, fair. Better the Seeker than me, I realized. Magic and alcohol? Only so much I could do if the spells started flying. I waved down Cassandra and motioned her closer. Several heads turned to follow and the crowds parted as she unlaced her arms and crossed to join us with neutral displeasure.
          “Yes?”
          Chatterbox touched her arm and widened those big green eyes of hers and pinched that inked Dalish brow into the picture of hope.
          “‘And His Word became all that might be’,” I heard her say over the Seeker’s shoulder. “‘Dream and idea, hope and fear, endless possibilities.’ There is power in stories, ma’am.” She dragged her mug over, tossed it a worried glance, and lifted her eyes once more. “As I tell this one, will you protect us?”
          Coulda sworn I heard the woman’s shoulders unwind.
          “O…Of course, Fellavhen.” She looked from the elf to the drink and back. “Are you certain you should…?”
          Chatterbox glanced around them at the eagerly-restless crowd, then smiled warmly at her. “I place my faith in you. ‘There is but one Truth. All things are known to our Maker.’ Thank you, Seeker.”
          Beyond them, Bull was staring intently. Something much deeper was going on here than half of us could tell. And I wasn’t sure which of us even knew we were playing games, anymore.
          But one thing I did know.
          At this rate, I was gonna have to think of a different nickname for Chatterbox.

Chapter Text

Solas

          So. All the mages to the Dales, it was to be? A bold move from Trevelyan, but I was pleased enough for an excuse to establish ourselves as worthy of invitation to the peace talks. The Inquisitor had been assuming his confirmation for weeks now, but, at the pace of our growth and influence, I was beginning to worry they’d pass us by, further limiting my paths forward and distancing me from even my shorter-term goals.
          Patience, Solas, I willed, rereading the orders sent by runner to the Rotunda. You have none to blame but yourself.
          Details were scant in the missive. I would have little ability to prepare. Our destination interested me, however—I was morbidly curious to learn just how disruptive the Breach had been to such history-soaked battlefields; how much worse the Exalted Plains were now compared to the Hinterlands.
          Another specter tugged at some part of me as well. What would our injured Knight Enchanter think of the place of her people’s most recent betrayal? Her clan did not call Orlesian territory theirs. She may only have heard stories of the plains, and what little I’d pulled from her during my care in the Crossroads seemed to indicate a romantic misunderstanding of Elven history typical of the Dalish. Doubtless such a visit would leave a profound impact.
          …I wished my thoughts did not slip so easily to her. I had not visited a second time, and yet I was all but certain by now that Harellan had confessed our Fade encounter to Vivienne. The First Enchanter teased me too often in passing, letting slip bits and pieces of her patient’s condition, likely to study my reaction. I had little doubt that she was simply waiting for an opportune moment to create some devastating confrontation between us, or else a scandalous reveal of truth to as many of her ever-growing allies as possible. With little to do but wander and study, I felt often on edge and irritable, restive and impatient with Trevelyan’s leisurely strut and unearned self-regard, the perfect target for the Iron Lady’s frippery. I was making few new friends and losing those I had, and even the news that Fellavhen was released from her isolation brought no relief, bitterly as I suspected it was timed to coincide with our new orders to march.
          Was she ready?
          I did not know.
          And nor would my opinion or advice matter in the slightest, should anyone even think to ask it.
          It was in this state that Cole found me, though I was not the reason for his arrival.
          “Vhenan’Then is worried!” he blurted, staring me down with blinkless eyes. “He says Taren’Elgar is sick! He thinks the big bull is poisoning her!”
          A welcome distraction. Within minutes I had something resembling truth from the spirit, that Harellan had found her way into the tavern and was drinking. I was devising a manner in which to explain this to Cole and Vhenan’Then, if possible, when my company stumbled as though dizzy. By reflex alone I caught and straightened him but no words were needed between us. I had felt, to a lesser degree, the sudden upheaval that had thrown his balance.
          It wasn’t our world that had quaked, however, but the Fade.
          Cole was kind enough to hurry me to sleep. If the tremor was my first clue, an easy second greeted me the moment I pulled free of my waking form. A tree root across the Rotunda, pressed through the wall and into the floor, not cracking the stone’s memory but simply existing in the same place, overlapped in the manner of two timelines, a child’s first attempt to rearrange a malleable world. High above, distant branches speared the sunlight, shading the rookery’s open roof in a loosely swaying and physically impossible crosshatch.
          What had she done?
          Wonder widened my eyes and lips alike as I slipped from the Rotunda, flowed between those wandering the grand hall, and stepped out into the courtyard.
          If I’d had a breath to steal, it would be gone.
          Forest blanketed the tableau, overriding the outer walls of Tarasyl'an Te'las. Two suns in the sky, one low and draping evergreen boughs with a golden gilt. Motes of dust danced in the twilight, floating between shafts of dusk or dawn filtering through trunks. Needles rustled in a brisk arboreal wind.
          And spirits were already gathered to explore their curious new home.
          I joined them, crossing to that quavering edge where the memories of pines and firs melted into the steady truth of the Frostbacks. Where the mountains fell away beyond the portcullis, a muddied vortex tried and failed to resolve the discrepancy in ground height, resulting in something akin to a cliffside limned by rivers of dirt and the eddying oranges and yellows of half-melted leaves.
          Into the forest now, its floor was solid beneath my feet, spongy and a bit wet, as though from a recent rain. More water dripped inconsistently from some trees but not others, casting a smattering of prismatic spots onto the left sides of whatever the light first encountered, myself included. On closer inspection, some of the branches were their own water, greens and browns dripping pools of themselves onto rubbery roots, struggling to maintain the shape of a mind not prepared to hold them, of a recollection powerful but not adherent to detail.
          At the crossflow of intention, spirits gathered, forming squirrels and songbirds of themselves, a shimmering fox here, a glistening owl there. Iridescence chased a bounding rabbit, warming my heart at the freedom and thrill of the spirit exploring its new concept.
          What a marvelous little scene.
          “Pride!!”
          And there she was. Harellan, reinvented. At a glance she had been practicing the techniques I had taught her in isolation. A complete spirit-elf hung from the branch of a particularly well-defined tree not far off, one leg and one arm hooked around it, a bare foot braced on the trunk, a hand waving low to catch my attention. Gone were her Orlesian silks, gone were the soldier’s tans and yellows. The earth tones of the Dalish draped her, rich greens and deep browns, simple trousers and a sleeveless, long-hemmed tunic under a rough-stitched vest and a wide leather belt buckled in silver. The furred pauldrons of a wild elf mage hung from her bare shoulders. Complicated wraps laced her shins to the knee and her forearms to the elbow. Vhenan’Then glimmered around her collar and anchored himself under one arm.
          And I had never seen a smile so genuine.
          “Pride! Come here! I’ve something to show you!”
          She was a ways off but the Fade carried me faster than my steps should have, warping space to suit her will. She seemed wholly unaware of the strangeness of these events, a state I wasn’t surprised to discover considering she must have drunken herself unconscious at the bar.
          “Come climb this tree!”
          She righted, deft as an Antivan tamarin or so they say, and watched me watch her with eager hope. Whatever had happened to her body, her mind was unbound from it but not sloppy, and she did not suffer a drunkard’s discomposure here.
          Interest overruled caution, and I reached for the lowest branch to draw myself up.
          “What have you to show me, Slow-Heart?”
          Her teeth flashed but instead of an answer she turned and leapt upward, reaching from bough to bough as though following a memorized path. I started after, appreciating the flattering angle, but the moment my foot missed a branch I looked down to realize the tree itself was morphing around us, and my footholds were fast-disappearing as she left them behind.
          It became a balancing act and a memory test to stabilize our climb. None of it was necessary, she only glanced back a few times and I doubt she would have noticed that I was not following in her footsteps, but the adventure of it amused enough to be worth the work. The better part of a full minute passed, by my estimate, before I had to prompt her to notice she wasn’t exactly going anywhere, either. She was not ascending—the branches were descending the trunk around us.
          “Rebel, how tall is this tree?”
          It was all I could do not to chuckle at her youthful inexperience.
          She stopped, looked around, frowned at the limbs nearby and below at me.
          “It…shouldn’t be…”
          Around us the world rippled, the Fade making truth of expectation. Trees thinned and shrank, and the unsinking sun brightened as we were carried aloft, to a height more in line with intention and the uppermost fingers of the pine’s reaching hand.
          “Up here!” Excitement again, a non-sequitur of joy and innocence. Harellan hoisted herself to the last of the standable boughs and offered a hand for me to join her, and, as I took my place beside, we stood together at the top of the world.
          Below, a patchwork of greens. Above, a sky struggling to shine a blue-gold, bluer than the fissures behind it. The Frostbacks warred with what Harellan thought they should be, painting themselves olive in a compromise, and Skyhold remained intact only by the grace of its longevity and the fact that the Knight Enchanter hadn’t yet looked behind her.
          “Home?” I presumed.
          “Isn’t it beautiful?”
          Was it? A sentimentality casting soft focus and fanciful glamor lent the view a peaceful and alluring air, but I had my doubts the original was quite so romantic. Far more impressive than the sight itself was her ability to conjure it at all, her deft expense of power and singularity of desire to return there, a desire to spend her moments in a familiar place, and to beg the Fade to make it so and bring it here.
          I touched her back, checking how she’d healed in my absence. She leaned against me, laying her head on my shoulder. Vhenan’Then wormed his way between us, pressing himself bodily against her cheek and throwing a narrow eye my way as he provided the cushion she sought from me. So long as he didn’t bite me again, I did not mind his caution. He thought her sick, after all, and suddenly she was here, slipped unconscious and pouring herself into his realm.
          All said, the spirit displayed remarkable patience.
          Her painted brow gathered again after a time. She picked her head up, looked around, searched for something.
          “This isn’t right. Where is the lake…?”
          She looked up at me. “This isn’t the tree.”
          And down she went, so quick I thought she’d fallen. I could not dawdle either, as the pine began to decompose in her wake. A rush of branches and crackling of bark brought us back to the loamy ground far faster than we’d climbed, and she set off to find whatever lake she knew had to be nearby in the endless repetition of melting trunks and glimmering scrub.
          I sensed our stalkers before they came into view. Three spirits taking the shapes of wolves slipped through the trees behind us, red eyes and yellow teeth. I wanted to chase them away gently but the moment I paused Vhenan’Then turned Harellan, and the bark blanched white when she staggered backward and pressed herself against a stout oak.
          Vigilance unspooled himself from his charge and slithered through the air, scales of diamond catching the golden light.
          “Back, foes,” he commanded, baring icy fangs. “You’ll not have her.”
          “Peace, friend,” one of the wolves bade in a familiar but unplaceable voice. “We are but humble fish seeking a new stream.”
          Another fixed its eyes on me. “Seeking new tales to tell—”
          “—And new tails to wag!” the last added, every sharp tooth in its grin belying the innocence of its hindquarters' illustrative demonstration.
          “Will you not be as a candle in the window?” the first asked. “As the coals stoked at the edge of the camp, a warmth to welcome the weary?”
          “We welcome nothing from you,” Vhenan’Then hissed. Power swirled at his edges. “Begone.”
          The second wolf continued to watch me. “One here has already been so welcoming. The elf who ‘found’ the castle, finds himself regretting his graceless guests. What manner of care has left his home so full, and his heart so empty?”
          Ah.
          Now I remembered them. Impressive still, that these three would heed Fellavhen’s call. What depth of Skyhold’s history had they emerged from this time? I smiled at old friends taking new shapes, and stepped out of the suspicion Vhenan’Then’s narrowing gaze was leering my way.
          It was a dangerous situation to be in, considering our current audience.
          “Spirits—”
          Harellan gave a wretched hiccup I thought might be a sob of fear, and I paused my address and held our visitors at bay before turning back. On her knees, she seemed about to be sick, but even Vhenan’Then’s rush could not bring him to her side before she was gone. The spirit found only a quavering tree as her living body violently woke and snatched this piece of her back to it.
          Vigilance looked from the space she had been to me.
          “She is ill,” he reported tonelessly, uncertainty draining his reaction.
          “Be with her,” I bade, gesturing toward the direction of the tavern. “I will handle these three.”
          The spirit slipped off, twisting and winding his way through trees until even his glimmering trail had dispersed.
          In their absence, the trio took on more familiar forms.
          “The wolf’s bark has softened, as age and weather split the wood,” the third of them taunted. “The stage is bare, the curtains drawn. Will you play with us?”
          Not quite elves, they were now. I knew what appearances they traditionally took, but they seemed slow to assume them, shifting to something still half-lupine, with patches of fur, with limbs too long and oddly-jointed.
          “What part have you in mind for me?” I asked, lowering my wards. All three rose to their hind legs, towering above. I did not fear their approach.
          “Would you be as the owl who watches the mouse?” the first asked. “As the child entranced by marionettes? As the general who presides over battle?”
          “Two curious elves greet three stewards of cunning,” the second continued. “Four meet as friends, one flees in fear, and three promise one they’ve a memory to share, if he calls them by name and by nature. What does he do next?”
          A memory to share?
          “Did you think I’d forgotten you?” I asked with a smile, nodding at each in turn. “Metaphor. Riddle. Pun.”
          “Wordplay,” the last hissed under a chuckle. “Well-played.”
          “Run with us, Pride,” Metaphor bade, side-stepping to start off into the sun. “As wolves do.”
          “Pack yourself with anticipation, you’ll like this one,” Pun jested with another toothy grin.
          “And who’s memory will you show me?” I asked, joining the three of them as they guided me deeper into the trees.
          As we walked the others continued to lose their wolfish parts, settling into a different kind of threat. Old haunts, long gone, their elven faces pulled from my own mind now, an overt reminder that, while interesting company, these were not kindly creatures.
          Riddle was the one to answer, in a sense. “A sickly elf who called our names, who bade us wake from history, she knows not what she’s done and never will she…”
          Already they were pulling more from my head than I wished them to.
          “...The nascent gift you’ve given her already put to splendid use, a thousand possibilities unfolding. You have found her worth her trouble. And her name..?”
          Harellan Fellavhen.
          It wasn’t right to be smiling like this. I’d barely seen her in a week and these three were tapping into dangerous things. I should not be this distractible. She should not command this much of my attention.
          And yet, my eyes lifted to the forest around us. To the lesser spirits of play and glee filling this quavering moment. If she could learn to master this sort of power, to shape the Fade with purpose and precision…
          “She could be the sword in your sheathe,” Metaphor finished, responding to words I did not say.
          “Or the sheathe to his sword,” Pun snickered. “A Night Enchanter, alr—whoolgh!”
          With a palm I’d gathered the currents and sent the crassest of them tumbling backward. His consequent swear was, admittedly, an entertaining ancient elvhen turn of phrase relating genitalia to a thin-shelled tree nut long extinct from this land, and Riddle teased him with questions through his and Metaphor’s snickering as he caught back up.
          I continued to avoid direct engagement, lest they lead me into some linguistic trap or a confrontation of self I did not want to experience. Spirits of Cunning were a weakness of mine, and I endured their many lighter japes in amused silence. It did not stop them, for they pulled the answers they sought directly from my heart and toyed with this knowledge as they pleased, but they remained shallow in their topics, and their conversation passed the time until other voices echoed through the trees, until the sounds of rustling and the crackle of campfires and the creaking of aravels hushed the birdsong and animal chatter.
          “Fen’Harel, Fen’Harel…”
          “...Open your jaws.”
          “Fen’Harel, Fen’Harel…”
          “...Sharpen your claws.”
          My companions quieted too as a haunting call and response chilled the air. It came from children, teasing as though at play, but I knew those words, that strange Trade rhyme.
          “It’s time for a meal…”
          “...And we’ve readied your prey.”
          “For another one’s showed us her magic today!”
          Riddle eased into the edge of my vision. “The place where one path fractures,” he urged, too many teeth still in his smile. “Where a young Inquisition may stop, to rest and grow. Where goods and deeds exchange themselves for news and hope.”
          The Crossroads.
          Cole had pulled the rhyme from Harellan while she slept off her injuries.
          In a clearing by the shores of a great lake, some sort of tribunal appeared to be taking place. Spirits approximating a Keeper, a First, and a little Dalish girl of no more than seven or eight faced a Second, surrounded by a smattering of others, impressions of a clan that must have been Fellavhen’s. More on the outskirts examined their spectral aravels and watched, some with disinterest, others with rapt focus. And just inside the trees were the children, bunched in two halves on either side of a distant trail.
          “Fen’Harel, Fen’Harel,” one half began again.
          The other was silenced by the Keeper’s raised palm.
          “Nehnalani,” he began, bold and powerful in tone. “The Dread Wolf calls.” At times pieces of him seemed to grow and tower over the rest, and other spirits cowered and whispered, a wordless susurrus meant only to approximate awe. At others it was the crowds who swelled, tall as pines with hands like claws, with eyes like lanterns in fog.
          The hallmarks of an emotional recreation.
          The Second stepped forward to receive the child.
          “Noooooo—!!”
          The girl’s sudden wail scattered Fade-birds to the sky. All at once she was blue, her little body twisting and flinching into the first echoes of a Despair Demon.
          “Don’t make go!! I’m sorry!! I don’t want to go with Nehna!!”
          The da’len backed away and fell, the hard tumble of a figure with bound hands. She kicked at the ground to scramble further, but back to her feet she was hauled, the Second steadying her shoulders.
          “The Dread Wolf hungers, child.” Again the Keeper flared, his cloth and leathers tattering and restitching as he, too, struggled to play the scene, struggled to examine the anguish of this moment without losing himself to it. “He has called to you. He must be fed.”
          “He didn’t call!! It was an accident!!” Still she screeched, the little one fighting through tears. A bolt of lightning snapped around her, its percussive boom cowering all but her captor. The Second alone, Nehnalani, stood strong and unafraid. Another bolt blasted dirt and old needles into the sky.
          The Second’s staff stretched to the ground, and slowly it rose. An electric cage wrapped them both, sizzling against the air and muffling the girl’s frightened cries.
          Within, the pair jerked themselves towards the woods, toward the other children waiting with fog-lantern eyes and smiles baring too many teeth.
          “Fen’Harel, Fen’Harel closes his jaws…”
          Not a single adult elf moved. All heads simply followed the cage and its captives.
          “Fen’Harel, Fen’Harel licks at his paws…”
          Something terrible was taking place here.
          “It is for the safety of the clan, child,” the Keeper sighed, smaller than he had ever been.
          I circled the scene, following my three companions as they dropped to all fours. Fur rippled along their shifting limbs and lengthening snouts.
          Bolt after bolt struck the blinding bars of our quarry, crashing through tree limbs and scattering scorched leaves, scarring black marks into the earth as they discharged. Not one of them struck their target, the silent Second dragging the clan’s own daughter deep into the woods. The da’len’s screaming tore at my heart.
          Harellan…
          Displeasure clenched at my gut. Is this what they do to each other? Is this truly what has become of the People?
          Metaphor, Riddle, and Pun weren’t the only wolves stalking their prey. All of the children had followed us, chanting their jeering rhyme. Fur rippled along skin as they, too, dropped into loping crouches, taunting mouths stretching into ravenous muzzles. I quickened my pace to keep up but the trees seemed to slip by too fast, a blur of trunks and blending branches. Snapping teeth and screams, barks of lightning and squealing ice. Howling glee haunted the forest, filling the whipping wind with hunger and the anticipation of a fresh kill.
          And all at once, it stopped. A single moment, stilled in time. The trees still muddled, the wolves locked mid-bound, bolts of lightning frozen mid-strike.
          At the center of it all, a frightened da’len and her silent hahren, standing in their electric cage as though none of the chaos around them existed.
          “Nehna, why?” All fear, all terror gone from the little girl’s voice. “Why do you make the Dread Wolf come? If he likes you so much, why can’t he take you?!”
          A thunderous echo, those last two words. Time crashed into sequence, the howling, the whipping, the lightning and raging blizzard, so violent it twisted the Fade and forced a Barrier from me just to witness it. Hail and sleet pelted my ward, twigs bouncing off stiff magic and rolling away. All around them wolves gathered, so many more than just the children and their three leaders now. A sea, an ocean of fur and eyes and bloody teeth, gathered by the magical maelstrom, coats rippling in the endless gales.
          The wolves took the wrong elf.
          They closed in, squeezing the scene, crowding the trees closer. The Fade itself puckered and bent, Terror and Rage flickering strange limbs and glimmers of molten red among ravenous performers. The moment the cage dispelled the wolves leapt, burying da’len and hahren alike in fangs and claws and merciless gluttony.
          I called a pine’s branch lower, asked it to carry me toward a better vantage. I knew what I would see, however.
          I would see a little girl left behind when it was all over. Alone and afraid, limping somehow back to her clan. I would see truth and desire muddied as one.
          And then the inferno erupted.
          A burst of roaring flame bathed me in orange light and yellow heat, a bubble of power lifting and throwing the slavering piles of wolves. Some of them twisted through the trees into darkness, trailing burnt fur and writhing midair for balance, others slammed into trunks and dispersed to glimmering wisps with a strangled yelp. The bubble became a fiery ring, tall and crackling, expanding outward as it swept away the rest, leaving the clearing empty of all but two figures.
          The da’len, a tiny elven ball sobbing on the ground. And her hahren beside her, staff aloft and still ablaze.
          Black claws clambered at my feet. Riddle, Metaphor, and Pun surrounded me, smoke curling from healing spirit-skins.
          The Second’s arm was slow to lower. The staff quenched with a hiss. Slower still was the child’s lifting head, her heaving shoulders trembling and bubbling as the spirit forming her struggled again to contain the performance.
          Hahren knelt, picked up da’len, and began to carry her back.
          “An undercooked turkey,” Metaphor offered, stinking of charred meat and wolf’s blood.
          I searched his eager gaze, but it was Pun whose wild eyes met mine. “Not done yet.”
          Their greedy laughter rang hollow in my ears.
          The three dropped to the forest floor and I joined them to follow our final two actors. Back to the clan they returned, the journey twice as long, silent save for the little girl’s sobs. A ripple of shock overwhelmed and dissolved a few of the spirits still posing as Fellavhen elves, but most of the rest held their place on the stage. I wondered at what point fact had given way to complete fabrication.
          This was not the story I knew. Not the tale I had pieced together from Cole’s mosaic of intrusion. Wishful thinking, perhaps. An account of what Harellan had hoped or dreamed for, in a different life, born to a different clan.
          A shame she was not here to witness what could have been.
          “Nehnalani.” The Keeper seemed small. “The child remains alive? What has happened?”
          “I cannot do this, Junnarel.” Her voice startled me. The spirit depicting her had not seemed female. “I cannot bear this weight again.”
          She set down the little girl, who sank to her knees and curled in to weep.
          Junnarel was before them in an instant, swollen but sputtering, fractures of rage flashing orange through splits in his skin. “You must.”
          No answer was given. The Second’s head stayed down. She did not flinch, even when her Keeper’s staff appeared.
          “There can only be three, Second.”
          Nehnalani nodded at the earth.
          “The Dread Wolf must be satisfied,” Junnarel demanded, arching over her shrinking form.
          Tatters of Despair tore her skin and clothes and stitched themselves together again. “The Dread Wolf will never be satisfied,” the Second mourned. “I cannot feed another of our children to his endless hunger.”
          Again time seemed to pause. I could feel the Fade clenching at me, bidding me to slow, too, as Keeper and Second stared one another down.
          Bidding the moment to freeze.
          “...Then she must take the child’s place.”
          It was the First’s words which shattered the moment. From Nehnalani swept a shockwave of emotion, strong enough to burst more of the onlookers and send them swirling off to rediscover other, kinder aspects of the forest. The spirit’s own elven edges bubbled and split, bits of her melting and dragging themselves back into shape.
          “I…cannot.”
          But she was shrinking still, as the First and Keeper grew. Both held their staves aggressively, ice and lightning dancing around their shafts.
          “To refuse your clan’s duties is to forfeit your place in it,” the First snarled, purple scales rippling down his arms and sinking back into Elven skin.
          “The Dread Wolf must be satisfied,” the Keeper repeated, raising a beckoning hand. “If you are to be his, surrender your blade.”
          Frost plumed the ground. Wisps raced to reinforce the dissolving Second at the center of it. They propped her up, drawing her into herself, lifting her head and backing her away.
          “No…”
          The First snarled and leapt, the Pride Demon bursting from his shell to descend upon her. A scream and a flash of blinding light forced me to shield my eyes and I prepared to defend myself from this danger as well, but as I lowered my arm there was no need. Cleanly split, the creature tumbled along the ground, slain in an all-too-familiar way. A shimmering power surrounded the Second, her spirit-blade completing its arc and resting by her side.
          All was silent as the Keeper, too, transformed. Blue-gray rags overwhelmed his elven body and draped miserably from heavy limbs. The Despair Demon released a haunting wail as the Second cowered in trembling fear.
          “Go!” the demon cried, a thrusting skeletal finger at the forest. “I cast you out, Nehnalani of clan Fellavhen! By my oath as Keeper I strip you of title and name! No longer shall you be welcomed as our sister, no longer shall you stride these forests safely! Sow the Dread Wolf’s seeds here no longer, outcast! I hang the tail of the wolf around your neck and name you Harellan, betrayer and deceiver! Consort of the Dread Wolf! Let all you meet know the ill omen of your presence! May he take you, and, in your exile, may you learn.”
          The Second was already fleeing, through howling child-cubs and the rattling of drying leaves, her own body contorting into the long green shapes of a Terror. All around, the trees began to brittle and blacken. As elf-spirits slung their hunting bows and slipped off to follow their quarry, the memory, the moment, and the entire forest curled to ash and spiraled away on the currents of the Fade, leaving nothing but myself, my three friends, and the quiet of Skyhold’s courtyard.
          And beyond, the Frostbacks, painted once more in their noble blues and resplendent, solemn whites.

Chapter Text

Cassandra

          How kind of the Herald, to put me in charge of the mages. Certainly I and the paltry handful of Templars who had joined our cause would be able to handle whatever they and the Dales had in store for us, right?
          Maker save us all.
          At least Fiona recognized the difficulty of the situation, and had promised to keep her followers in check. Vivienne had not been so vocal about her own support, but it became apparent that this was by design. The Grand Enchanter spent much of the caravan to the Exalted Plains placating her rowdy mages, reassuring them, admonishing any errant celebratory fireballs or tricks with perception now that they’d been let out of the castle for the first time in…well, since we had arrived there. The First Enchanter’s wagons were practically a tea party by comparison, her smaller contingent significantly more civil and behaved.
          Dorian and Solas made conversation of their own in my wagon. From what I could hear over the bump and jostle they were mostly taking potshots at the various countries and their treatment of magic, Tevinter included. More than once I had to settle them with a warning to play nice with each other, while Bull and Blackwall snickered uselessly at the show.
          Trevelyan’s wagon led the caravan, filled with the giggling of the Chantry women he was…entertaining. Varric was the only one of us who kept glancing at it, though, mercifully, he had stopped with his comments a few hours ago.
          Leliana’s briefing fluttered in my hand, read and reread until it had practically been memorized. A ceasefire between Orlesian camps. Deserters. Silence. Rifts. Demons. And rumors of foreign magic on a battlefield full of corpses.
          I could not blame our Spymaster for the questions she begged of Andraste.
          When the caravan rolled in, Scout Harding greeted us with her long-suffering cheer, as always.
          “Inquisitor.” She gestured around herself at the camp our forward scouts had begun establishing on the outskirts of the fighting. Tucked into a grassy alcove among some of the sparse rises in terrain and surrounded by broken lengths of stone arch, it was a defensible position, but left little room to grow. More operational bases would be needed elsewhere, and hopefully of a permanent variety closer in style and layout to that of the Crossroads, once we had a better lay of the land. The faint sting of ash curled through the air, drifting our way from the smoke rising over the flat dales and distant, smoldering ruins of forts and outposts constructed, sieged, and abandoned in the chaos of the Orlesian civil war. The sun itself seemed to have little business shining so brightly over such a dismal and foreboding tableau. Harding’s hand fell back to her side with a soft slap. “Welcome to the Exalted Plains, a place with a long and bloody history.”
          While she took the Herald and his Chantry entourage around to tour the meager amenities, I rounded up the mages and the Templars and gave them marching orders of their own. All foes were to be called out. Demons were to be killed on sight, as were any walking corpses, aggressive beasts, or anything else nonhuman that we came across. We weren’t here to take sides, I reminded them, only to enforce the ceasefire and restore communication between the battlefield and its Orlesian commanders. Soldiers were to be treated as neutrally as they received us. Even the deserters from both sides should not be considered enemies unless they drew their swords first.
          “By ‘non-human,’ one assumes you are not excluding elves from this attempted armistice?” Solas asked quietly mid-speech.
          “We will treat any elves we encounter as we treat the humans,” I answered him, tamping down annoyance at his incessant pedantry.
          “I would prefer if you said it for all to hear, Seeker,” the apostate pressed, his smile stiff. “Our brave Herald has not made a strong example by his actions on the matter.”
          That…was not an unfair assessment. I begrudged him the point, and made myself clear that all living people—human, elf, dwarf, or even Qunari, if they were here—were to be handled as nonlethally as possible. It seemed to satisfy him, and I began to break our forces into more manageable teams and assign a templar to each one. The staggering ratio would not be enough to contain magical misbehavior, but Fiona seemed to understand that this was her chance to prove that her people could govern themselves without external policing, and was quick to impress this on everyone.
          Vivienne approached when the dust was settled.
          “My dear Cassandra, do you have a moment?”
          Harellan was at her heel, and had been since the pair disembarked the wagons. The elf still walked with a cane but her limp was significantly less pronounced than in Skyhold. I was not certain whose decision it had been to bring her along. I would have left her behind to finish healing, had the choice been left to me, but she seemed completely recovered from her drunken mishap in the tavern, at least. The pair’s outfits matched, gleaming grays with white trim, like sisters at a noble dinner party rather than soldiers on a field deployment.
          “What is it?”
          The First Enchanter eyed Fiona a few paces away and strode off, toward a secluded area behind some of the tents, her Dalish shadow in tow. Vivienne teased the length of her staff absently while she waited for me to follow, and did not speak immediately when I joined them.
          “...As you know, the Grand Enchanter’s rebellion spanned much of the countryside,” she began, fixing me with a direct stare. “It stumbled its way across the Dales as well.”
          I watched her carefully. “Are you suggesting the strange magic may be a result of the war with the templars?”
          Her painted brow arched. “Not in the slightest, darling. I hear tell from Dorian that agents of the Venatori might be responsible for that. My concerns lie closer to home. You are familiar with the Circle practice of magical phylacteries?”
          “I am.”
          They were a way to track rogue mages, should one escape. Or at least, they had been.
          “As you might expect, vaults containing such vials were destroyed and their contents scattered. Templars claimed some, mages claimed others. Neither side was particularly careful in their handling of such potent magics, particularly when the fighting ceased.” Vivienne cast a pointed glance somewhere beyond me. I followed it toward the Inquisitor as he disappeared into the largest pitched tent at the camp. “It would be in the Inquisition’s best interest,” she continued, pulling my attention back to her, “to search for and recover these phylacteries, Cassandra.”
          “To rebuild the Circle with?” I guessed.
          Her blade-sharp features were unreadable. “To bring peace of mind, darling. Should a vial belong to one of our mages, they will be happy to know where it lies. Should it belong to a mage not yet under our command, we can use its magic to locate and conscript them, and perhaps others they have banded together with. And, should its subject be deceased, a sense of closure can be offered to friends still holding hope.”
          A runner approached nervously from the tents, uncertain whether or not she was allowed to interrupt. I took her papers with a nod, but did not yet look at the message she had sent.
          “Why ask me, rather than approaching the Herald?” I asked, already suspecting the answer.
          Vivienne’s smile could have chilled a dragon’s blast. “Don’t you think he has enough to worry about? Surely such a simple task need not also weigh on his mind.”
          Somehow I did not believe her. “You are afraid he will destroy them.”
          Another surprised brow-arch. “Deliberately? Of course not. Whatever would that gain anyone? I merely suggest that solving some of the Inquisition’s smaller concerns might be contained to those most affected by them,” she explained, as though the answer were clear as day. “You wish to see order restored among the mages, don’t you? I saw the way you watched those conscripts on our journey here. You also recognize that Fiona’s grip is tenuous at best. Recovering phylacteries is but one of many steps toward rebuilding the Circles, and, like dragon-slaying, it shows the people that the Inquisition is capable of containing the threats they fear.”
          Her steady gaze was pointed and expectant. I glanced at Harellan beside her, half-expecting some Chantry verse as punctuation, but the elf did not speak.
          I still did not believe she answered my question. But nor did I think she would, if pressed again. I simply agreed, and that seemed to be the end of it as she walked us back to the others and herded Harellan off in some other direction.
          Trevelyan’s papers simply bid me to join him. We laid out in more detail what was to be expected of the area, and I reported on my division of mages and their templar overseers. I could not say why, but I did not mention Vivienne’s request in my briefing. Perhaps because, in truth, she was right. The Herald could not be hassled with every member’s smaller worries.
          Tasks were assigned and handed out. Blackwall was to stay at camp and help with more permanent constructions until his muscle was needed. Varric and I were to ride no man’s land between the camps, to acquire a better lay of the land and a sharper idea of what we might be up against, and Bull and his Chargers were to do the same, in a different direction. Vivienne was to take her Circle cohorts toward Celene’s encampments and establish communications there, and Treveylan himself had chosen to accompany Dorian and a handful of soldiers and mages to investigate Gaspard’s fortifications and the difficulties they might be dealing with.
          “Scout Harding mentioned Dalish in the area,” the Herald added to Solas, as others trickled out to begin their assignments. “Why don’t you take our Swamp Champion and make contact? See if they can be of any use. Or keep them out of the way, if not.”
          “An unusually prudent suggestion, Inquisitor,” the apostate replied quickly with an acknowledging head-tilt. He left the tent before anything else could be said, either failing to notice or deliberately ignoring the Herald’s narrow stare and head-shaking exhale.
          “I send him off to find his people, and he’s still not satisfied,” Trevelyan sighed, turning back to the crude maps Harding had provided us. “Elves.”
          I chose not to respond.
          The parties were gathering by the time Varric and I were dismissed. Bull and his men were already on their way out, and Dorian seemed to be struggling with a thick crowd of volunteers climbing over one another to be selected. When I enquired, it seemed everyone wanted a chance to ride with the Herald.
          Blackwall was meeting with a few field architects and Scout Harding to plan better accommodations. Vivienne and Solas were mid-conversation by the time I spotted them, and Varric snickered at my side and nodded their way.
          “I bet you two pints they’re playing tug of war with Chatterbox.”
          As if it could be anything else.
          “Cassandra, dear, please,” the First Enchanter bade as we approached, Harellan all but fastened to her side, “settle this. Is it true, Trevelyan asked Solas to take Fellavhen with him?”
          Her face hardened to ice when I confirmed the Herald’s orders. They were to investigate the Dalish camp sighted to the west. The apostate made some Elvhen comment to Harellan and we all paused expectantly for her response.
          “...He is also expressing displeasure with the situation, Madame,” the elf translated to the Enchanter after a moment.
Hardly a surprise.
          “Thank you, Seeker,” Vivienne added sourly, returning her attention my way. “I trust you have duties of your own to attend to.” And she swept off, Harellan obediently in tow. “Come, Solas. I have crucial information for you, if Fellavhen is to be parted from my side.”
          “Certainly nothing I could possibly deduce myself, one assumes,” the apostate muttered, following at his own pace. “We all recall it was the First Enchanter present when Fellavhen suffered her wounds, and the First Enchanter who nursed her back from the worst of them.” His exhale turned several heads. “Ah, memory fails. That was me.”
          Varric grinned beside me. I did not return it.
          “Oh, lighten up, Seeker. It’ll be just like old times,” he teased as we started off. “If only the Spymaster could be here too, and you had a cozy, dark room to lock us all in—”
          “Please do not make this any more insufferable than it has to be,” I begged.
          “Insufferable? Me?” the dwarf asked with entirely too much innocence. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Chapter Text

Trevelyan

          Well, the Lions had made quite a mess in the Dales, now, hadn’t they? Once the soldiers and mages were sorted, Dorian and I saddled our horses and led our volunteer vanguard out to see the devastation for ourselves, and it did not disappoint. Much of what lay beyond our sheltered starter camp opened quickly into a wide expanse of untamed grassland and broken trees, lousy with foes and hazards. Broken supply wagons lay where they’d fallen, draped in this minor noble’s standard or that one. Cracked shields and chipped swords bent the grass around them, their former owners captured, fled, or, if rumor proved true, possibly even reanimated. Vultures and other carrion feeders cawed and croaked as we disturbed their repulsive meals, and took to the sky in great black shadows or scampered off to a charred stump when we came intolerably close. The place was hideous when one really stood in the thick of it, all battle scars and burning muck, and the elves hadn’t seemed do much better with it based on how littered everything was with their own decrepit ruins and the slime-covered statues to their owls and deer in nonsensical places. The smell of it was indescribable, as well. Smoke, rot, and fear filled the air, pushed around by occasional, limpid breezes. Little more than the crackling of distant fires and the sooty swish of burnt-leaf trees and ash-dry branches to distract the ear.
          And here I’d thought the Hinterlands were bad enough. Hell, the rebel mages and their sputtering attempts at resistance couldn’t hold an ensorcelled candle to a proper Orlesian civil war. Out here was where boys became men.
          And where men became traitors.
          Yes, yes, I’d heard Cassandra’s pithy attempts at peacekeeping. “Don’t strike the first blow” and all that noble wash. It didn’t take the Freemen turncoats very long to sort out whose side they were on, however, and I could claim all the innocence I cared to as I led a charge to cut them down when they poured from their makeshift holes and an arrow was volleyed our way. Teach them all a damned thing or two about loyalty to a proper cause.
          And set an example for our troops.
          The demons were a fair bit trickier, particularly from atop horses still somehow not used to seeing the damn things. Mostly Rages and some Wraith-bastards about, with the occasional Despair frosting the ashes here and there. Had to rely on Dorian and his lot for most of those, but even the acclaimed Tevinter not-magister failed to live up to his flourish out here in no-man’s-land.
          “Yes, would you believe that for all its advancements in the field of arcane combat, Tevinter doesn’t exactly train many mounted mages?” he simpered, struggling with his staff and the reins as a lightning bolt went wide.
          “Feel free to walk the horse, if it helps,” I called over, steadying my gaze on a rift they were pouring from a few paces off. “Or trot it back to camp and come back on foot.”
          “I’ll make do from up here, thank you,” came the mewling response. “Wouldn’t want to be left behind in a place like this.”
          At least he was smart. And fairly entertaining, at that.
          The world rocked around my headache as I ungloved Andraste’s Mark and stitched together the sky.
          The undead were more of a nuisance than a threat. Their best weapons seemed to be their sheer numbers, considering they had neither strength, nor speed, nor attractiveness at their disposal. And they hardly paid us any mind at all when and where we found and ran them down. If anything, the smelly revenants made adequate wayfaring markers—we could nearly tell how close we were to the warfront by the increasing number and determination of their attempts to reach Grand Duke Gaspard’s battlements.
          The battlements themselves were almost noble. Certainly an immense amount of manpower had been invested into their construction. With its back to a swell of rocks behind, Gaspard’s entrenchment spanned an impressive percentage of the approaching horizon. Tiers of long ditches, scaffolded walkways, and raised ramparts emerged from the smoke and haze as we rode to greet them, all crafted of and reinforced by thousands of local timbers supporting a scattering of tipped trebuchets and the once-regal fans of splintered ballistae. Under draping banners of chequed yellow and gray bearing the Grand Duke’s standard—a green lion in stained-glass roaring at the sinister—the flat fort’s outermost edges were bordered by sharpened limbs and branches tilted outward like bristling spines or beastly jaws to keep out the bright ideas of traditional melee chargers.
          One Corporal Rosselin was tiredly swinging some battered steel at a handful of animate corpses close to overwhelming one of the few plank bridges into the place. We relieved him and his weary men of these pressing concerns as an offer of peace, and he thanked us for our aid and introduced himself once he’d caught his breath.
          “Well met, Corporal. Maxwell Trevelyan, Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste.”
          A pause for recognition.
          …No?
          Maker, how isolated were these poor sods.
          “We have been cut off for weeks. Look at the plains, Monsieur, what runner could possibly chance this?” he begged when our collective disappointment was conveyed.
          “A braver sort than you lot have,” I answered easily enough, dismounting and signaling the others to follow suit. “Have you a stables at all?” I eyed the narrow walkways and rickety bridges. “Your glorious Orlesian military construction seems unsuited for hoofs and horseshoes.”
          They did, though standing between us and it was the ugliest revenant I’d yet seen.
          “Herald, might I advise caution,” Dorian volunteered, handing his reins to some other soldier as he readied his staff and gestured the other mages to his flank. “Arcane Horrors are a bit…sturdier than their minions.”
          “Can you kill it?” Rosselin begged, looking as though he was about to become rather unhelpful very quickly.
          I looked the thing up and down. It seemed more interested in terrorizing a splintered door than any of us. Tattered crimson mage robes draped from a sinewy frame. It hovered significantly above the ground, towering over its inert prey. A handful of lesser minions groaned and creaked as they pulled at timbers
          “Their numbers grow night by night,” Rosselin half-whispered. “Our only defense is to outwit them. Trick them into believing some other target is more important than we are.”
          “And just how did you manage this?” Dorian probed, sizing up the monster.
          “I…do not know, Monsieur,” Rosselin confessed uselessly. “Some of our mages, they…crafted some sort of spell or beacon to keep the things at bay.”
          “A beacon? Either that, or they’re staging the creatures and intend to release them all at once for a slaughter,” Dorian mused, tracing his chin with a thumb and forefinger. He glanced my way. “It’s what I would do, had I the trust of an enemy in my midst.”
          “Let’s keep your cleverness pointed at the solution then, not making further problems,” I fired back at him. “I’ll remember that the next time you claim ignorance of a magical endeavor opposing us.”
          “Delightful,” the mage sighed, and readied his staff. “I’ll have to redouble my efforts to make nice with Solas, then. If the difference between trust and betrayal is a matter of knowledge, open consultation with diverse views will be—”
          “Just kill it!”
          The Tevinter really could blather on, couldn’t he? My loud order had the intended side-effect of catching the creature’s attention. Mostly I wanted to see if whatever this beacon was could override a freshly-presented target.
          I had my answer when the revenant raised a spindly gray hand our way and began to gather energy.

***

Vivienne

          Soon, Vivienne. Very soon.
          And yet, not soon enough.
          The Orlesian peace talks loomed just beyond the horizon. Then would come my chance to shine. To show Trevelyan the importance of my reach, and to educate the man on the finer points of the power he could be wielding.
          The power he had not even begun to tap.
          But today was, unfortunately, not that day.
          Today was the day we began our purchase of a ticket to the Winter Palace, and earned ourselves that Grandest stage and spotlight.
          I ought to be flattered. Leading a cadre of Inquisition soldiers alongside my Circle loyalists was certainly an achievement of note. A mage, a First Enchanter, back in charge and commanding more than her arcane peers and juniors. It was a distinction even the Tevinter altus in our midst could not yet claim, and certainly not any sort of accomplishment our apostate Fade “specialist” had attempted to aspire to.
          But the ease of it left a sour taste on the tongue. A lack of pomp or circumstance for such a monumental thing, as though Trevelyan had chosen me out of convenience rather than proven merit. Of course, opportunities to prove such merit had been rather scarce since joining the Inquisition. But this campaign in the Dales would see that changed.
          The ride was horrendous. Hundreds of acres of fertile land, wasted by folly and fire. Attempts at settlements, battered and ruined. A pile of bricks here, a smoking foundation there, and the aspirational homesteaders who had built them, hopefully, long since evacuated. Wild beasts and worse roamed the abandoned aftermath, making skittish mockeries of our stalwart Fereldan chargers. Men of means might glorify such a thing, such wanton destruction and crude displays of force, but they did so from the comforts of their armchairs in the safety of a mansion far removed from these messy warfronts. The idea of conflict dazzled far more than its practice, and that was as things should be—true war only happened when the Game failed. When those who lost the battle of words and wits could not accept their fate.
          One could argue that the demons and undead were to blame, as well. I would counter that this petty civil strife merely opened the door for foreign enemies to exploit a proud and powerful empire. Our warriors and mages cut the monsters down and with steel and spell, but each curl of ash or bloom of rotting blood only reinforced this truth—that Orlais united could easily have withstood and repelled these mindless creatures for as long as Trevelyan took to defeat Corypheus, and could have positioned itself as Thedas's preeminent bastion against the darkness. Instead, Gaspard insisted on strike after strike at his own country's heart, in some mad gamble to steal back a throne he'd long since been usurped from.
          I would keep this in mind at the peace talks, should he claim to care for his people at all.
          The Game did not tolerate poor sportsmanship.
          "Mind your strength, darlings, the demons are endless," I called, watching my Senior Enchanters sunder their foes. A terror sprawled before my horse and I finished it with a spike of ice. "Aim to corral them safely away from us, until the Herald can seal their passage.”
          Thankfully the rifts themselves were simple enough to avoid, and the undead seemed, frankly, uninterested in our approach.
          The ride to Celene’s encampment was otherwise long and monotonous, leaving plenty of time for speculation and reflection. Another bitter pain point of Trevelyan’s “plan” was the sudden departure of Fellavhen from my side. While pairing her with Solas intrigued, I would have preferred a far more visible role for the woman than this. By sharp contrast to my station, the elf had proven her heroics, and her name slipped from tongues more and more frequently as one of the burgeoning heroes of this crusade for stability. Her competence had been thoroughly proven, between the Fallow Mire and the Fereldan Frostback, and it was past time our public relationship was as cemented in Skyhold as it had been in the Circle. And yet again, the Inquisitor’s motives remained inscrutably ambiguous for sending her away. Was it meant as subtle punishment for the truth of her dragon-conquest slipping out in the Herald’s Rest, or simply another example of his brand of inexperienced carelessness? Most still held Andraste’s Chosen in the highest regard, but I had come to understand that whim drove many of the Herald’s choices. Another manner by which he behaved in a distinctly Orlesian fashion. Desire disconnected from reality.
          Still, steerable, with the correct words whispered at correct times.
          I need only have patience for opportunities such as this.
          The empress’s battlements lay in embarrassing shambles. Hastily-lashed woodworks and shattered siege weapons suggested nothing of the glory of the Imperial banners that claimed them.
          But one glance at the soldiers manning the battlements suggested those banners should not even be flying.
          “Slow,” I directed, bringing my own horse to a halt. The terrain here was broken stone and uneven mounds of grassy earth, making mounted travel difficult. I slipped to the ground and handed my reins to an ally, and called forth a staircase of ice with a swirl of the staff. “Something about those uniforms bothered me, darlings. Come see.”
          A handful of Senior Enchanters followed suit, climbing the rocky swell to survey Celene’s forces.
          They were not Celene’s forces.
          Antoine, a thin and well-kempt older mage with an even thinner and more well-kempt mustache, adjusted his feathered riding cap and traced the patterns on his staff restlessly as he surveyed the soldiers in attendance below. “Who’s heraldry do they wear?”
          I waited for an answer. None of my enchanters volunteered knowledge, suggesting only one possible truth.
          “The Imperial Army has conceded ground to the Freemen, it seems.” A tight grip on my own staff pulled several sets of eyes. “Perhaps we should correct this failing.”
          “With force, Madame?” asked Colette, a keen-eyed but soft-spoken young addition to the Circle’s leadership. “Seeker Pentaghast suggested—”
          “With words, dear,” I corrected, silencing her dissent without a glance. “These Freemen fools are Orlesians, after all—as confused about their true ruler as the Grand Duke and his rebels.”
          “We were not meant to involve ourselves,” Antoine argued, tapping a brown boot ponderously. “Only to establish—”
          “And what good would it do the Herald to report such developments?” I pressed. “Inquisitor Trevelyan expects results, darlings, and we’ve been presented a perfect opportunity to deliver them, and to prove the worth of a well-disciplined Circle of Magi. We will remind these cowardly deserters where their loyalties ought to lie, and we will strive to spill as little blood as possible in demonstration.”
          I turned, and started down my frozen steps. The others filed out close behind, lest my spell sublime beneath their feet. We returned to our horses.
          The plan was crafted and the details smoothed along the way. We’d take a wide path around toward the front of the wooden garrison, to approach from an expected angle in a show of fearlessness. I and my enchanters would form our forward vanguard, with our two templars at the flank, and the rank-and-file in formation behind.
          “Halt!” came the predictable call as the Freeman rabble organized themselves into some sort of pitiable defense. “This entrenchment is no longer under the control of the Orlesian Imperial Army!” I counted few mages among their kind, precisely as hoped. So little value was placed in our battlefield worth. But such a thing would be used precisely to our advantage.
          As one, we readied our magic. In the space between our gathered parties a series of cacophonous explosions of rock and dust propelled themselves into the air as a wall of flame sent a curtain of black smoke skyward. I slipped from my horse and strode through the ash, parting it with all the drama of a brief but flawless tour de force.
          “You may wish to rethink your offer of diplomacy, monsieur,” I responded, pleased by the flinching tremble our simplest display had invoked. “I stand as First Enchanter Vivienne of the Circle of Magi. The Inquisition has arrived to the Exalted Plains to see the terms of the ceasefire enforced. Invite us in for a little chat if you’ve any wits about you, before this entire woodworks is set ablaze, with you inside.”
          Uncertain silence fell over the Dales. But when the clearing smoke revealed the rest of my Circle mages, and first It’s the Iron Lady slipped from one of the Freeman’s lips in fearful awe, we had them by the throat.

Chapter Text

Harellan

          The Dalish camp was last spotted to the west along a nearby river, so that was where we headed. The quickest and safest route was through a narrow pass mapped by Scout Harding’s people, and led deeper into the rises and swells of the terrain protecting the Inquisition’s camp. Winding rocks mottled with manageable vegetation would provide shelter from the many threats otherwise scattered about the more open areas of the plains, or so I hoped. No rifts had been reported back here, yet. The cramped terrain was not too much of a challenge, and well worth the afforded protection.
          Of course, this security left me almost too free to fret about other things, instead.
          Why Solas, for instance.
          Why Solas??
          Throw the elves together, sure, send them off to find the other elves. Perfect plan. No drawbacks, no politics. Nothing at all to be seen from way up there on those stilty shem legs, right? Hop to it, rabbits. Chop chop.
          A quiet sigh escaped me as I picked my way patiently along the rocks. I wasn’t meant to be out here alone. I was meant to be fastened to the First Enchanter’s side. Implied threat only. That was the whole purpose of bringing me along in the first place. Madame de Fer clearly wasn't commanding the authority she was expecting to around here, or else I wasn’t working hard enough to give it to her.
          Not that I was in any sort of shape to be doing much more, unfortunately. Not with a bone fracture and a spirit wound. Listening to Vivienne rattle off my disabilities had done my pride no great favors, and none of us were in any sort of mood to be kind about the situation. She hadn’t expected me divested from her safety, Solas thought himself a poor candidate to approach the wild elves at all, and I could neither perform magic safely nor move with any of the speed required for our effective defense on the way over.
          And, of course, not a soldier could be spared for our aid.
          "That's why I'm here!"
          Cole's suddenness flinched me, sending my shoulder into a nearer cliff and narrowly missing some rashvine hanging from the stone. Anyone else, I would have offered a tacit stare while I caught my breath and steadied up.
          Instead, incredulous relief unclenched my chest.
          “You’re here?”
          I looked to the apostate for answers.
          “No, he didn’t invite me,” Cole replied, unblinking eyes not leaving my face. “Nobody invited me anywhere. But your worry was loudest. So I came to help.”
          …Ah.
          Well.
          Far be it from me to count the curves in a halla’s antlers.
          “You’ll have to do much of the fighting, then,” I told him, carrying on. I tapped my cane for emphasis before leaning on it, willing the pain in my leg to settle back down. “I’m in no shape to assist.”
          Solas nodded from his far side, just as unperturbed by these developments. “We will handle any opposition.”
          Elgar’nan enaste, what a weight from my shoulders. If they could deal with the threats along the way, I could focus on the Dalish when we got there.
          Changed everything, really.
          “You’re welcome,” the demon chirped.
          Yes.
          Thank you, Cole.
          Mercifully—and, as hoped—nothing harried us along the narrow path. We carried on in pensive quiet, following the ravine for a number of peaceful minutes. The air here felt strange, even stranger than the Hinterlands, I came to notice. I could feel the death in it. The war. The brutish shem, fouling this noble place with their blood and their careless arrogance, thick in the Fade and clawing through Breach-weakened snags in the Veil.
          “More than the Orlesian strife strains these lands,” Solas agreed idly. “Their memory runs deeper than recent conflicts.”
          I eyed him. He returned the look with mild surprise. For a moment I assumed he was simply sensing the same things I did, but as I considered whether or not I wanted to converse about a place more sacred to me than he could ever care about, his gray eyes flickered Cole’s way, and he gave an understanding nod.
          Ah.
          That wasn’t a coincidental remark.
          “You’ve been talking about me,” I realized.
          Or talking without me. And covering it up.
          Was that why I very suddenly did not remember whether or not my leg had been hurting for the past few minutes?
          “We’ve been speaking about the history of this place,” Solas corrected, attention shifting from me to Cole again. “You choose curious moments to withdraw your abilities, friend.”
          “Harellan was thinking it, too,” the assassin promised him.
          Was I, now?
          The earnestness in the creature’s voice did not win him any favors. Still, I kept my tongue in check. Conversations at Skyhold and elsewhere had forced me to accept that this thing, this barely-controlled abomination, could pick and pluck some truths from minds at will, and erase others entirely, and no one yet had devised a manner in which to stop him.
          “Please, Cole. Stay away,” I urged gently instead, focusing on the path. “I do not wish to be unkind to you.”
          I need you, in ways I wished I did not.
          “Don’t worry,” he urged, his floppy hat catching the edge of my vision. “You can’t hurt me.”
          Not ominous at all.
          I certainly can, I could not stop myself from thinking anyway. I still had Vhenan’Then in my blade, after all, independent from my own weakness. Determination and fear were incredible anesthetics, should he decide to push me to them.
          If the creature “heard” any of that, he gave no indication.
          I focused on navigating the rugged terrain, and endeavored to empty my mind in the hopes it might feed fewer things to the demon beside me. Birdsong and distant smoke occupied my attention instead, returning with them the agreeable peace of simply existing in the wilderness. I named the plants as we passed, mostly more rashvine and some bright pops of embrium stalks that separated themselves from the typical arboreal scrub and evergreen brush. In the shade underfoot grew a spongy moss that filtered the rain, and could be applied to the skin on a hot, dry day, or squeezed for a drink in a pinch.
          Small game creatures hopped and clambered about the ridges above us. Some of them I could name in Trade. Others only in Elvhen.
          What had this place been like, when the Dales belonged to the Dalish?
          Foulness wrinkled my nose. The familiar creaking and snapping of rotting flesh and stiff tendons preceded a pair of undead soldiers, ambling about the ravine ahead. One of them glanced our way but neither seemed interested in our distant approach just yet. Of more concern to them was the sheer cliff wall they seemed to be puzzling out how to overcome, listlessly clawing at smooth rock like a pair of mindless beasts that had fallen from above.
          We slowed our approach, and I looked to Cole to take care of them. But the man wasn’t acting. He just kept pace at our side, strange eyes focused on the path beyond. At least Solas seemed to be gathering magic in lazy swirls around his staff, though he too held back from casting any spells.
          I was seconds from encouraging someone to do something when the head of the further foe jolted with a percussive note. It fell to reveal a feather-tufted shaft, impaled through its dented helmet.
          I drew my blade to rebound another arrow, should it miss what I hoped was its intended target. But with another, single thump, the other undead collapsed much as the first. Beyond the exit to the pass, their graceless second deaths revealed a distant bowman, or at least his arrows, pointed our way.
          “Are ye living men?” a Dalish voice called in accented Trade.
          “Andaran atish’an!” I called back, recalling Vhenan’Then’s blade and spreading a hand to stop my companions.
          The bow lowered immediately.
          “Andaran atish’an,” the elf returned, surprise in his tone.
          Good.
          We had found the Dalish, it seemed.
          And they were friendly.
          It was as much an invitation to approach as it was a greeting, but I took the lead and we picked our way through the remainder of the narrow passage, over the corpses, and out into the widening path slowly, so as not to appear threatening. The effort did not much seem to matter, however, as the hunters’ arrows were quivered and their bows slung long before we came close. There were only two of them here, a pale-skinned older male with a brow marked by Falon’Din’s grace and a scalp as smooth as Solas’, and his younger, tanner-skinned companion, also male, also bearing the great owl's standard, with close-cropped black hair shaved on each side. I wrestled down a knot of nausea at the familiarity of their matching vallaslin and their earth-toned elven wear. How many years had it been, now? Four? Five? An aravel and a grazing halla stood not far off, a strange sight for only two, which left me suspicious of more nearby. The whole of their clan should not be this close, however, not unless they were suddenly on the move. The one who had called out awaited with a smile.
          “Mythal’enaste, friend. The dead should stay dead, don’t you think?”
          Trade, not elven. Mostly. Solas’s bare face and Cole’s presence likely drove the decision. I had read in the Circles that many Dalish clans who lived close enough for shem to study demonstrated a lack of knowledge of the old tongue. Ploys, I assumed, to fool the quick. Still, such guttural grunts were jarring to hear from noble hunters.
          “These times are strange, friend,” I agreed in Elvhen, nodding to him. “We represent the Inquisition, a force for peace and stability, and humbly invoke the rite of petition to approach your people with kind intentions.” A less injured Harellan would have managed a deeper bow than the one I gave, but I hoped sincerity carried what performance could not. I wanted them to know they could speak freely to me, in the People's true tongue.
          Wonder widened both hunters' eyes.
          “Ah. Hahren." The old elf's voice stuttered with uncertainty. "You’ll have to forgive us. Our clan’s lost a bit of the old ways,” he admitted, exchanging a glance with his clanmate.
          “Is she a Keeper?” the other asked, looking from Solas’s staff to my sheathed spirit-hilt. "I didn't know our People had joined their cause."
          “Do you know the common tongue?” the first asked.
          "We do," I replied, keeping my tone light and neutral. Common? Surely the Chantry scholars couldn't be…right. I had thought other clans merely hid their knowledge, as jealously as we had guarded ours. But here, in the heart of the Exalted Marches, had the shem taken their language from them, too? Or were my companions still excuse enough for deception?
          “I am no Keeper, friend,” I assured them. “Merely an envoy of the forces hoping to settle this chaos and bring stability and peace to the Dales. Will you permit us safe passage through these lands?"
          The hunter smiled again, in convincing relief. "I see no reason not to. You speak with respect and patience for an old man who knows less of the Ways. And a Dalish face is always a welcome one in these times. You'll have as safe a passage from us as the land itself permits, respected elder." His laugh wheezed a bit with age, despite the title he'd bestowed, unbidden, on me. "We too have been searching for safe passage for our clan. The war between the lions has made travel through the Dirth difficult. Damaged some of our aravels."
          Some of them? Perhaps the bulk were still elsewhere.
          "Quite a bit troubles this place," I probed with a nod. I had not expected such open conversation.
          Another good-natured chuckle. "That’s putting it mildly. The war itself has stopped, but now the dead are walking, to say nothing of the demons." He nodded behind us, at the corpses he'd put back to earth, for now. "Funny, though. I’ve been watching these undead and they seem…focused on the shem armies. As if…well, why wouldn’t someone want to kill humans, huh? Still…poor fools." He shook his head. "By what may we call you, hahren?"
          My surprise at their casual bloodthirst was quickly overridden by the question itself.
          The moment of truth.
          "I am called Harellan, of clan Fellavhen," I introduced, pain pinching my leg as I tried not to tense.
          No glimmer of recognition passed through either set of Dalish eyes.
          "Well met, Harellan. You may name me Olafin."
          Neither Solas nor the other hunter exchanged greetings of any kind.
          "Follow this path west to the river, if you're seeking parlance with our clan, hahren." Olafin pointed behind them, through a distant, towering pair of stylized stone archers. "We've been camped a bit upstream from there for weeks now. And tell Keeper Hawen I will continue the hunt, and perhaps find a safer route through the plains. He too will be pleased to see one of the People with the Inquisition. We know of you, friend. Seen your scouts at the water's edge. Our Keeper is uncertain of your intentions, and I'd like to think you'll ease his mind with a peaceable visit."
          It…couldn't really be that easy, could it?
          "Thank you, follower of owl's flight."
          His reticent smile suggested that even those simple words of Falon'Din's blessing were lost on him.
          "...Perhaps you might share some of your clan's culture with ours, as well," Olafin admitted with wistful admiration. "A comfort, to know others keep the Old Ways."
          Of course we did. But apparently it would be an advantage I hadn't realized I'd have.
          We bade farewell and parted ways. True to their word, the two elves allowed us to pass unharmed, though their halla ambled closer as I neared. A pain-quickened gait outpaced its advance, and it lost interest soon enough. I loved the beasts, I thought them beautiful creatures and darling gifts from Ghilan'nain, but they have never been kind to me. I did not want to make myself a threat to it or its aravel.
          Solas spoke only when we had passed between those great statues. My eyes traced every curve, right up to the points of their ears, wondering how old they were. Wondering what sort of society had crafted them, and the broken ruins littering the area.
          "They seemed happy to receive you, lethallan," the apostate volunteered.
          "It is a surprising thing," I agreed quietly. Something about this place begged reverence as well as mourning. "Truly, I had thought this assignment might go disastrously wrong, or worse."
          "You hold a low opinion of your fellow Dalish?" he asked.
          A realistic one, more like.
          "The shem believe that we are an aloof and distant people, and for good reason," I explained. "I've never known a clan elf to be so friendly."
          "The promise of knowledge is, presumably, persuasive to a people who have lost so much. One hopes the rest will be so open as those two were," Solas replied.
          One hopes they will be, indeed.
          Though I had not expected the Old Ways to be among my gifts.
          A freshness cleansed the air. The river glimmered in the distance. Upstream, Olafin had told us, and so we followed its pebbled banks. Spindleweed dotted the shores on both sides and frogsong joined the distant birds. Ahead, the sheltering rocks fell away to reveal the plains and all their shattered glory, but here was still a subtle serenity guarded by this natural boundary.
          Solas drew a measure of clear water from the flow and separated it into two sparkling globes. One was offered to me, though I had no means by which to hold it.
          "These lands were once a monument to elven ingenuity, in ages long before the quicklings claimed them."
          Oh, don't start this, Pride.
          He passed his staff to his left hand, and lifted my nearer wrist to the orb with his right. As demonstration he balanced his own water between three fingertips and sipped at the curve, a gesture uncomfortably close to a kiss for my tastes.
          Still, a drink was a drink and I'd be fool to refuse one. Our sudden change of plans had not afforded me the time to pack appropriate provisions. I mimicked his movements and pretended not to notice his keen gaze. Concentration, I pretended it was, as his power carefully guided the globe to my own lips under the illusion of following my autonomy.
          It was cool and crisp on the tongue, and deeply refreshing in the rare manner that only spring water could be. Of course he would know the manner in which the Dalish purified their sources.
          About half of it was enough, for now.
          "Thank you."
          "Does this place speak to you, Slow-Heart?" he asked in an Elvhen the Dalish hunters could not replicate. Both globes merged and slipped back into the streams. "Do you feel your history here?"
          Did I?
          Well…not mine, exactly.
          More importantly, did I want to have a conversation about this?
          "We walk a broken land within a desolate and broken world. What history it offers has been long lost. Even those who call this place home have admitted their failure to Keep."
          Cruel, yes. But somehow not cruel enough. Solas all but glowed with approval, in a way I had to work to ignore.
          "Would you like to know it as it once was?"
          Yes.
          "It's gone, Pride. Let it go."
          You can't understand how much it matters to me.
          "And if it wasn't?"
          If it wasn't what, Solas? Look around you, clanless. There's nothing but ruins and shem fortifications.
          "There's the camp." Anger did my leg no favors, but pain made for a fine motivator. I lengthened my gait to punctuate the end of the conversation. The Dalish encampment was sprawled along the far banks. Elves milled about their aravels performing the daily rituals of their continued existence. The sight of those markings and their stately, red sails brought back uncomfortable, fractured memories even deeper than the hunters had inflicted on me. I scanned the water for a suitable place to cross.
          No path presented itself.
          A figure emerged from the camp and stood at the river's edge. Garbed in a magnificent Dalish duster of pale green with brown trim and white scale patterns, he gripped a staff with the unmistakable authority of a Keeper.
          "State your intentions, strangers!" he called.
          Trade, again. The common tongue to address the unknown.
          "Andaran atish’an, hahren," I called back, after a glance around to be certain no others accompanied us or would be attracted by the noise. "The Inquisition seeks peaceful parlance by rite of petition."
          "May we approach?" Solas added, surprising me.
          The Keeper considered our words for a moment longer, then tapped the ground with his staff. Power flowed from it, sinking into the riverbed and snaking toward us. Flat columns of earth parted the water as they rose to form a dotted bridge, silty, but smooth.
          "Andaran atish’an," he beckoned.
          Enter this place in peace.

Chapter Text

Dorian

          Whatever parties were responsible for raising the dead around here were lucky so few knew how to oppose them outside of Tevinter. These individuals certainly knew what they were doing, to conduct spells that spanned an entire battlefront like this—a thought I wisely kept to myself, given Trevelyan’s unkind reaction to my last ill-considered opinion—but counters such as the corpse anchor runes were practically elementary to the average mortalitasi.
          The Horror had put up quite a fight, and killing it had taken quite the toll on our men. I admit, my own tactics were less than psychologically helpful to these Southern bumpkins, re-reanimating the most intact of the twice-fallen to aid our attempts to turn the tide, but I liked to think that those who cut down my allies extracted some measure of pride from felling what they perceived to be another, albeit easy, foe.
          I examined the etched Veridium under a tattered tarp as the others boarded our horses in Rosselin’s stables and tended to wounds mundane and magical, and Trevelyan conferred with the Corporal and his survivors a few paces down the woodwork. About the size of a tea saucer, its runic language was of Tevinter, but this alone did not guarantee the traitorous allegiances of our field saviors. A perfectly Orlesian mage could simply have studied Tevene necromantic techniques over Nevarran, or applied the spell from the reclaimed book of a fallen Venatori. Certainly Vivienne and her cohorts would have possessed the intelligence to engineer such a facile solution, and necessity might even have overridden an obvious distaste for death magic from the woman herself.
          “That controls the undead?”
          “In a sense,” I replied, looking up to address the curious. “In much the same way a stick marinated in runoff from the cooking fires would ‘control’ a Fereldan mabari. Leave it somewhere impossible to reach or toss it across a river and those trained war hounds are slinking their way back to camp drenched at dusk.”
          He was a younger mage, not one of Fiona’s original lot from Redcliffe, if I remembered them all correctly. His brown hair was getting a bit bushy around the ears and there was a hunger edging his dark eyes I’d seen all too many times in Minrathous. The recent fighting had kept me rather preoccupied with my own participation, but even I recall his spellcasting as particularly standout. Bright, brutal fireballs turning corpses to charred husks, with the afterthought to dissipate their tremendous energy before it could set the scaffolding aflame. I was fairly certain one even left nothing but a pair of smoking boots where a distant archer had once stood.
          A chaser of magical power, he was, with glimmers of the sort of careful cunning that might not get him killed pursuing it.
          “And you are?” I asked.
          “Mathias,” he answered.
          I waited.
          “Just Mathias,” Mathias confirmed, folding his arms as though daring me to pressure him for his lineage. I did—far be it for me to stand intimidated by a South Country child—and he confessed that he’d renounced his family when they allowed the local Templars to drag him away to the Circle in his youth.
          Such barbaric practices. I admit a touch of sympathy for the man, and invited him closer to explain how the rune worked. See here, and here? The way they resonate with the Fade? It tugs at the Veil and replicates a living energy, drawing the spirits within the corpses to attack them and not us. Add a few tiny drops of lyrium to power it all, carefully applied so as not to require a dwarf or, Maker forbid, a Tranquil’s inert touch.
          He seemed appropriately fascinated.
          A great number of them did, in fact, once the dust had settled, and I enlisted a handful to join me in a deeper analysis of the magics we’d encountered thusfar. Most of Fiona’s horde were barely worldly, and relished a chance at practical application of exotic theory. I taught them to examine the dead around us and trace the power still lingering about them, and those with the constitution to do so all helpfully pointed in the same direction, concurring with my own findings.
          They were sourced from somewhere deeper within the makeshift fort.
          Trevelyan produced some useful information after a time, returning from his conference with Rosselin to inform us that turncoat Freemen had harvested fallen combatants into a handful of pits around the battlements, protected by some sort of strange magic, and these were producing the endless hordes that had driven his men into defensive positions.
          Some sort of strange magic, was it?
          Well, wasn’t that my specialty.
          Trevelyan led the way, but the mages flocked to my side as we set off. It was just as well—more corpses awaited in shadows and around corners, so what the soldiers didn’t put back to earth with their ringing steel and hollow thumps, we cleaned up with flash and bolt.
          It felt good to be among my kind again, simple as they may be.
          “What made the Horror?” Mathias pestered between the bouts of fighting. He seemed the apparent ringleader of a smaller subset of Southern mages.
          “Horrors are an unfortunate union of a stronger demon and a fallen mage,” I lectured back, “typically a demon of Pride.”
          “Why unfortunate?”
          The boy asked the correct questions.
          “Because they are all but impossible to control,” he was told.
          It silenced him for a few strides at least, and one more battle with another shambling horde groaning our way. The sky had no right being this cheerily blue.
          “Because of the corpse?” Mathias asked, shaking ash from his casting hand.
          “Because of the demon,” I emphasized, no longer so certain I liked where this was going. “The demon, its access to a mage’s repertoire, its agency and stability within a corporeal form…”
          “What if you bound the demon first?” Mathias pressed, drawing eyes.
          I dropped my voice and cleared the air of errant magic with a twirl, well aware that our conversation had veered sharply into the taboo. “Then bind the demon, no need to stuff it into a perfectly good mage’s corpse and give it more tools to resist you.”
          “I’m beginning to see Vivienne’s point,” Trevelyan announced loudly, frowning daggers at our merry band of theoretical blasphemers.
          Andraste’s Grace, it did the trick. A sour pucker squeezed Mathias’s lips but he at least commanded the control and maturity to keep a doubtless-scathing retort to himself in the face of the Inquisitor.
          If only I had a manner in which to tell him these things can be discussed later.
          Our first corpse-pit was aptly described. Some sort of strange magic squatted upon it like a glimmering orangeish dome, warping and twisting the Fade and visibly tearing at the Veil. Another Horror haunted its perimeter, listlessly drifting from corner to corner in a slow patrol, followed by the tireless march of a handful of flanking attendants. Even in the short span it took us to arrive at the scene and gather upon a higher wooden ledge for conference, three more bright sparks disgorged themselves from the contained maelstrom and filled a few of the upper-level fallen, dragging their damaged limbs back to a shambling facsimile of life.
          We watched the trio clamber out of the pit and pass through the barrier unscathed, and begin their shamble down the creaking plank paths.
          “Fire,” I determined simply, catching Trevelyan’s eye. “If we’ve no interest in turning the corpses to our use, they must be burned to prevent the ambient magics here from continuing to accumulate within them.”
          “But could we?” Trevelyan asked.
          “Burn them? Of course—”
          “Turn them to our use?” the Inquisitor corrected.
          I could almost sense Mathias and friends perking an ear.
          Well. So much for Vivienne’s “point.” Thinking seemed a dangerous pastime for those without the wits to do so deeply. The answer was, of course, yes, but the answer was also that seems complicated and counterproductive to your image, Herald.
          I could already envision Revered Mother Giselle’s face.
          In the span it took me to formulate an appropriate explanation, I clung to the hope that he would come to his senses and realize the obvious downsides to his dreams of commanding an army of the dead. I was already flustered enough trying to tamp down the demon-summoning appetites of the next generation.
          Maxwell did not come to anything resembling his senses about the plan.
          I began. “In theory, yes, it could be done—”
          “We’ll do it, then. Without the demons.” He fired another barbed blue glare at the lot of us, as if that was the only difficulty.
          Trevelyan, if you please…
          “—The problem is a matter of power, Inquisitor,” I finished despite his interruption. “Willpower, specifically. My own. You see—” I couldn’t believe I had to explain this, “—controlling the undead requires significant concentration, and the focus needed increases rather quickly per added corpse. If it were a simple matter, all of Tevinter could have sent Qunari fallen right back at their attackers and been done with the war a hundred and fifty years ago.”
          Although, now that I gave the matter some thought, I didn’t believe the magisters had explicitly attempted such a tactic on a grand scale…
          …Likely because it might attract some rather impressive and unruly wild spirits, upon further reflection. Or create new and exciting ones altogether.
          “What if you taught us?” Mathias chimed in very suddenly and unwelcomly. “Several mages, each holding their own…” he struggled to find the word, “undead unit?”
          Oh, it was said with such hopeful ambition. It was all I could do not to laugh aloud. Yes, boy, I’m certain years of diligent necromantic study could be condensed down into seven minutes or so of blood magic instruction on a thinly-Veiled battlefield with no consequences. Honestly, why did I know these people’s laws and customs better than they seemed to? And what happened to Trevelyan’s agreement with Madame de Fer from earlier? The man realizes what the undead can do for him and has a sudden blackening of the heart? Was this why he’d sent Cassandra’s prying eyes in a different direction?
          Talking them all down took willpower of an entirely different variety, and left me only with a disgruntled Mathias and a grumpy Herald. Only the soldiers and Templars seemed relieved that I stood as the last bastion of sanity against a rising tide of foolish intentions.
          “Fine. Burn them, then,” Trevelyan muttered, thoroughly put-out. “Seems a waste of good soldiers, to me.”
          Oh he’d fit right in at the Pavus family dinner-party, thoughtless hypocrisy and all.
          “To do that, we’ll need to destroy whatever is protecting them,” I announced, dragging the conversation back to sensible shores. “This includes the Horror and the barrier.” And with that, I produced the corpse anchor rune from my travel satchel and offered it to Mathias. The boy reached for it with suspicious wonder, but his eyes rose to mine when I did not yet let go. “Take your cohorts and lure the revenants away. Kill them carefully, and draw out anything else that crawls its way up while the rest of us siege the shield. I’ve seen your spellcasting; I trust you all can handle yourselves.”
          “...Yes sir.” Saddled with responsibility, the boy’s expression glittered.
          He tugged, but so did I, pulling him into a hissing whisper. “And mind the demon, Mathias. Prove to me you can resist its temptation, and we’ll have much to chat about when this little foray is over, hm?”
          He didn’t reply, but a spark snapped between the tines of his staff. I entrusted the rune to his white-knuckle care, and watched the lot of them herd themselves away like excitable puppies.
          Ah, to be ten years younger.
          My smirk, of course, couldn’t possibly last, when I turned to the others and promptly beheld a glowering Herald. A hundred and a half reasons wheeled about in my head, not the least of which was the potential death sentence I may have just handed a promising young mage I might just be overestimating.
          And yet, “I give the orders around here,” was all Max pouted at me, before surrendering the fight.
          “...I’ll take an order to arrange for the rest of us to siege the barrier, then, when the undead stumble away,” I offered brightly. It settled the man, at the very least, though he hid his amusement behind a pair of folded arms and a dramatic gaze into the middle distance.
          Never let it be said that Dorian Pavus was not a diplomat.
          Mathias and company were quick to settle themselves out of sight and reactivate the remaining magic within the rune. To my credit, I did look to Trevelyan for the final word as our Horror and its rotting reinforcements lumbered off, but his sweeping fingertips transferred authority my way—or so I hoped—and I crafted a staircase from the broken timbers to lead us down the ramparts and toward that arcane shell.
          A quick study revealed a simple conclusion: Inverse-elemental energies clustered about the pit, repelling anything of a mundane nature. It was a self-generative field as well, meaning that a much larger contingent of Templars than we currently possessed would be required to overwhelm and swallow it back into the Fade. Any small gaps the pair at our side attempted to create were subsumed as soon as their concentration broke.
          In short, the quickest route to negate it would simply be to bombard the barrier with concentrated magic until it fell.
          Inelegant, but effective.
          I led the others in a dance of flame and lightning, pummeling the field until it dissipated, and then a bit more for good measure after that, until the reeking health hazard resembled a Rivaini bonfire. A few of the soldiers had some words of Chantry encouragement for the fallen, and Corporal Rosselin had his final say about the solemn mess as well. I led a moment of Tevinter silence as a quiet disguise to ensure that nothing further would attempt to escape the charcoal, and only in that chilling calm did I hear the muffled screaming and squeals of crackling ice.
          Mathias and his cohorts.
          Impossible that they’d been overwhelmed.
          Uninterested in waiting for a Formal Inquisition Decree to Investigate, I dashed off toward the sounds. Up the mess of rubble and onto a cracked ballista, I had the height to see down into another distant woodwork trench what I’d hoped against hope would not be there.
          A ring of mages, several dead, and Trevelyan’s desired “army” of corpses closing in upon them from all sides. Far more than they’d led off, and far more than our assault had stimulated. Immediately I realized that it wasn’t the mages I’d overestimated, but the rune that I’d underestimated. Of course its reach would be magnified by that sort of eager power, how foolish of me to overlook! And now half the dead of the ramparts were bearing down upon a losing battle. Bolt after bolt barely kept the horde at bay, but of greatest concern was Mathias himself.
          The Arcane Horror lay lifeless and broken across the ramparts where it had fallen. But the mage who’d felled it clutched at his own head, his staff discarded, his body ringed in a sickening purple corona. I couldn’t possibly close the gap in time, and even if I had, it was likely already too late. I had strong doubts any Southern mages were trained in Tevinter resistance techniques, or any at all outside their Harrowings.
          Damn him. Damn him, I’d warned him, enticed him with the promise of knowledge—!!
          No, Dorian. You should not have handed them magic they did not know.
          A glance over my shoulder showed me the rest of Trevelyan’s men and Rosselin’s alike, faces upturned like birds in a nest, more than a few mouths agape. I flourished a swirl of fire to snap them to attention and reached toward the mages below.
          “Your power!” I cried, curling my fingers into a demonstrable fist, “To me! As you gave it to the Herald to close the breach at Haven!”
          It was a long shot, but I had to try. The spellcasters planted their staves and gathered their magic. I called to it, summoning their gift to craft one final spell.
          I couldn’t save Mathias from the vile distension of flesh and bone the man was already succumbing to. I wasn’t even certain I could save what remained of his friends, either, should he overwhelm them, too. But perhaps I could make him their only foe, if they were quick enough to realize what was happening around them, and turned their attention to the real threat in their midst.
          With a step and a twist I sent our arcane might across the ramparts. Purple energies snaked through the air as I sought to grapple the spirits within those distant corpses and force them all to obey a new master.

Chapter Text

Solas

          Fellavhen handled the clan well. A small relief, as she had not instilled confidence along the journey.
          One could not say who was more surprised, however—her or I. Their Keeper, a reticent and white-haired elder by the name of Hawen, knew of the Inquisition, as the hunters in the pass had said, but seemed unimpressed with whatever it was he'd heard. The man appeared to take most offense to the "Herald of Andraste" title Trevelyan paraded around wearing, as some personal affront to their "ancient People's Ways." But Harellan—Nehna, I longed to call her—reclaimed some measure of approval for our "cause" with her true grasp of the People's tongue and a few easy lies about the freedom with which Trevelyan allowed her to practice Dalish mythology in his stronghold.
          I, for my part, remained polite but deferred to my companion when attention was leveled my way. Silence would serve me better than knowledge here, and offering opinions of their clan’s purposeless transience dressed in the trappings of lost glory would serve neither party. Of greater concern to me were Cole's machinations, begun almost immediately the moment he set foot on their shores. The spirit had spent some time consoling a morose-looking young woman some distance away with words too faint to hear, and now he had in his grasp a small hand-bound book of some kind, stolen from atop a crate by their aravels, and was carrying it across the camp.
          Not a soul but I could see this.
          "What aid is this shem-led Inquisition prepared to offer the People?"
          Even Hawen had given up conversing in our tongue after a disappointingly short few sentences, though he'd made a more respectable attempt of it than Olafin had. Like so many of their kind, he failed to understand the complexity of intention and inherent connection required for true communication. His ability seemed limited to mixed-nouns and simple memorization of common phrases. Or, presumably, "ceremonial" ones.
          Harellan, for her part, accepted this failure with cordial grace.
          "If you would list the aid required, I will convey your troubles to the Inquisitor, that he may devote time and resources toward your cause."
          Her deception continued to impress—Trevelyan had no intention of helping this handful of itinerant elves beyond keeping them out of his bullish way, and one assumed the woman knew this, yet her earnest speech betrayed no hint of this truth.
          Hawen's seemingly permanent frown deepened. "The clan's woes are many. The Orlesian War has hindered our progress through the Dirth. The armies cause rockslides. They dig ditches that trip the halla and destroy the aravels. Our supplies are low, and we are unable to relocate or replenish them. If you would care about the Dalish as you claim, you'll speak with the others," he directed, gesturing with his staff deeper into the campsite. "You speak with respectful words and of peaceful intentions, Harellan of clan Fellavhen. Now speak with your actions."
          Unlike the hunters to the east, Hawen had recognized her given "name." However, Harellan had made no excuses for it nor offered any explanation at the conversation's onset. A private disappointment, as I'd hoped to gather more clues of her past from these scattered pieces I was slowly accumulating, and I had presumed she might be more open with her kind than she had been with me.
          "—She likes you, but she's afraid of you."
          Cole's pleading caught my ear. His wide hat stood among their halla now, attracting the attention of several black noses as he spoke to one in particular.
          "Thank you, Keeper," Harellan replied with a bow that pained her more than she let slip, if the tight grip on her cane was any indication. "I will speak with the People and ease your burdens as best we can. Dareth shiral."
          Hawen dismissed her in much the same manner, and I nodded a terse farewell of my own. Cole appeared to be leading that particular halla our way, and a significant portion of the herd had followed in its wake. We'd hardly taken a handful of steps when Harellan finally noticed, and froze where she stood.
          "Cole, what are you—Back away from them, halla are not pets!"
          "She is curious," he insisted innocently. "You are new, and smell strange."
          Harellan leveled a flat glare at the spirit. "Oh, you can talk to animals now, too? Put them back. Please."
          But he did not. She cast a glance around, including my way. No other members of the clan noticed the unfolding scene however, and I, too, quickly made a convincing act of my own ignorance.
          I admit, the halla was not the only curious party present. Cole never acted except in strict accordance with his Compassionate purpose, and I recalled Harellan's nervous behavior regarding the hunters' single, docile halla earlier. These creatures seemed no different, and yet their unsettling effect on her remained inexplicable.
          The woman returned her scowl to Cole and hissed another ignored warning his way, but she did not draw her spirit-blade, nor make any attempt to defend herself from the approaching beasts and their ersatz shepherd save for a hesitant step or two in retreat. I gave them space to acquaint themselves with one another, and watched the handful of animals slowly surround her.
          "They aren't horses, they're wild animals," she spat, still as a statue and visibly tense. A glance toward their herdmaster, another gray-haired elf in draping leathers over closely-tailored greens and blacks, told me the man was likewise still not yet aware that half of his charges had wandered off. I trusted Cole's judgment; the spirit would know long before any of us if the beasts' temperaments suddenly changed.
          "They're not going to hurt you."
          His promises fell on deaf ears.
          Fellavhen switched to Elvhen to whisper anxiously as their assumptive leader nosed at her hair. Others circled my way in their quest to investigate their newest arrival. A nearer pair sniffed once in my direction, the two of them sized me up, and one snorted dismissively and kicked a bit of dirt with a back hoof.
          The feeling was largely mutual.
          The sound of it startled Fellavhen, however. Her mounting tension snapped almost audibly as she twisted toward the noise and backed away, directly into the flank of another. The halla resisted her weight easily and leaned in to keep her upright, and she paled almost enough to match its silvery fur as it studied her and snuffled.
          The group closed in. Fellavhen's shoulders were in her ears and her left arm hovered an ineffectual defense around her head, yet she seemed determined not to make a scene despite the danger she clearly thought she was in. I took a few steps to my side for a better vantage as the halla began to block the view.
          In a clearly anticlimactic act, their leader licked a wet trail up the side of her face, and made a soft noise like a low, grunting moo. The other preventing her retreat likewise decorated her temple and restyled a few locks of short, yellow hair.
          Only then did the woman seem to realize they weren't a threat. Only then did her fruitless whispering to Ghilan'nain cease. Only then did she open her squeezed-shut eyes to see them as the personally-invasive but otherwise harmless deer they were.
          I might have sworn I felt the Fade itself ripple with her unclenched relief.
          Slowly, with a tense arm and strained gesture, she raised her left hand to stroke the bowed nose of the halla before her.
          It nuzzled her palm and lowed again.
          A whisper of spirit-magic released the scene’s privacy.
          "Hey! Where—what?"
          "Oh." Cole looked around as though buffeted by the surprise he hadn’t expected. Half the clan's heads turned in unison. The old herdmaster, who'd called out, stalked over with a hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip. A few of the halla regarded him as well, and Harellan's reaching arm snapped back to her own chest.
          "Ir abelas, Master of Halla! My spirit-friend stole half your herd in a manner I cannot explain and led them to me for reasons I do not understand, I swear this to you that I mean them no harm and wish only to see them returned—"
          The rapid Elvhen that poured from her cut abruptly as the herdmaster's overwhelmed stare finally forced him to abandon his weapon and raise both hands to beg silence. A clever tactic, artfully employed. I coughed as a poor excuse to cover a smirk with a fist; she fired a pleading glare my way.
          What, da'len? I, too, was ensorcelled by Cole's power.
          She cleared her throat pointedly, and inclined her head as best she could while still surrounded by halla. "Beg pardon," she began again. "Harellan of clan Fellavhen, envoy of the Inquisition, ser." The herdmaster shuffled his beasts aside as he approached. She continued to speak. "Your Keeper has granted us permission to interact, that we may offer assistance. Is there a task you would find helpful that I or the Inquisition might complete for you?"
          So easy, one might assume it practiced.
          The herdmaster looked her up and down, sufficiently distracted from the strangeness of the situation.
          "...I've…got something for you, if the Keeper's let you prove the Inquisition to us.” Bemusement layered his words. Given what little I had seen of Hawen and his heavy skepticism, I too might not have expected this revelation. “But not yet. The halla trust you…some…how. Surprising, considering they're not usually kind with strangers to the clan. But I don't, not yet. Follow words with actions, ey?" He began shepherding the animals back to their brethren, and glanced suspiciously over one shoulder. "If you want to be helpful to me, keep your Inquisition’s men away from the wild halla around here. Shem like to hunt ‘em for their pelts and their horns. And keep your distance from my herd. They might not mind you now, but they're…usually more skittish than this.” He shook his head and pulled the nose of a halla trying to slip around him back toward the others. “This shemlen war hasn't done anyone much good."
          A common sentiment.
          “Thank you for your generous forgiveness, Master of Halla, do you know of any among your clan we might seek to perform useful labor?” Harellan asked.
          She’d figured out quickly that the People’s True Tongue disarmed these Dalish children.
          The herdmaster nodded. "Nissa's got a list o'things that need doing." He tossed his chin toward a pair of Dalish leggings and a leaf-green knee-length hem leaning over a few open crates by a handful of the rocky formations that sheltered the clan's camp. "Start with her, she'll divvy your men plenty of work."
          "Thank you," Harellan bowed.
          The herdmaster gave something akin to a nod, and started to turn.
          "And your name?" I asked. "For when we intend to speak again."
          He looked me up and down before answering.
          "Ithiren, Master of Halla."
          "An honor," Harellan bowed a second time.
          A more pronounced nod followed that gesture.
          We pressed further into the camp, our destination set. Given her general demeanor toward other elves in the Inquisition, Fellavhen's sudden fit of obsequiousness to this clan surprised me. I was, of course, not unfamiliar with the misguided sense of superiority common among the Dalish, but Fellavhen also displayed a deference to humans her kind otherwise did not.
          I wondered if I would ever find an appropriate moment to ask.
          "Mythal'enaste, friend, I heard from Ithiren you're looking for work?" Nissa pulled herself upright at our approach and brushed the dust off her wrapped forearms. Orange-brown hair in a loose bun, her upper half was heaped with furred pauldrons, a piled red bandanna, and a leather sling bag. The Owl’s trappings fettered her pale, square-jawed face.
          "Falon’Din enaste, we are, if you've tasks to complete," Harellan replied.
          "Too many to keep up with," Nissa admitted, dusting her palms on her legs next. "I've got a ledger around here I keep…"
          She realized it was missing at about the same time I realized the identity of the book Cole had stolen from the crates nearby.
          "My ledger. It's gone. Oh, no no no, Fen'Harel's foul breath, where is it—"
          She plunged her upper half back into another crate. Harellan wrestled a strange horror from her eyes. I contemplated the efficacy of the swear with quiet amusement as the woman tore her supplies apart and I crossed the camp to retrieve the missing ledger.
          "It upset her," Cole explained, ever at my side. "Stocks sinking, storage low, slow to replenish and still not enough, never never enough."
          "She needs that book to keep track of her work," I explained to him. "It may upset her to have it, but losing it would be much worse."
          He frowned at me and tilted his head.
          "It is."
          Up on a rocky ledge, he had left it, though I doubted he appreciated the linguistic amusement.
          "Is that funny?" Cole asked.
          A ledger on a ledge?
          "To some," I replied, smiling faintly as I retrieved it.
          "To you," he realized, or read from my face or my heart.
          Yes, Compassion. It is amusing to me. We must find our humor where we can.
          "Is this yours?" I asked upon our return, pulling young Nissa out of a second—or, perhaps, third—crate. She looked from me to the ledger and back and took it with immense relief and gratitude, and flipped the hand-bound pages as though worried a few had come loose.
          "Where was it?"
          Cole pulled the question away nearly as soon as it was off her lips, sparing me the need to explain the impossible.
          Harellan continued to frown suspiciously, however. I simply offered her a knowing smile. Be kinder to more spirits than your blade, da'len, and they will feel comfortable sharing their machinations with you.
          The remainder of their interaction was without spectacle. Nissa listed off a number of supplies a kinder Inquisition would have had no trouble procuring, and copied the most dire of these to a page likely to be tossed directly into a cooking fire in an hour's time. Harellan reread it quietly with a nod, gave it a crisp fold, and slipped it into Vivienne's silver sash.
          It was a start.
          The Dalish diplomat performed a few more perfunctory greetings with other members of Hawen’s clan and seemed surprised by her quick celebrity and their many requests to speak and translate Elvhen phrases, but when it became clear that Nissa seemed to hold the most true need, we bade the clan farewell and took our leave.
          Keeper Hawen was kind enough to raise his stepping stones to aid our departure, as well. Fellavhen protested far less the second time I offered an arm to help her cross them. Much of the halla herd gathered by the water to watch us leave as well, and many Dalish eyes followed our retreat.
          I was almost loathe to interrupt her reflective contemplation as we stepped onto the far shore and the stones sank into the riverbed behind us.
          "...Well-handled, Slow Heart."
          Quietly, so our voices did not carry across the water.
          "The rest of the clan was as friendly as their hunters," she mused aloud, eyes still focused on her footing. "You spoke little, I noticed."
          A rare conversational mood.
          "One assumes the Dalish would be more receptive to their own kind," I suggested.
          "That's never stopped you from speaking with me."
          I smiled at her unexpected tease. "You were, and remain, an exception."
          The comment troubled her.
          "...Have you encountered other Dalish, in your wandering?"
          "I have."
          She nodded slowly, and paused a few paces from the river. Her eyes traced the war-torn horizon of the distant plains to the northeast.
          "What are they like?" she asked. "The ones you've met."
          Wind ruffled her hair.
          They are nothing like you, Slow-Heart.
          "Am I the better choice to answer that question?"
          A quiet exhale escaped her. "Yes. I've never met another clan," she revealed. "I only know my own."
          "And your people are different from these?"
          "Like night to day."
          I wanted to ask. I wanted to ask so powerfully Cole worried at me.
          "Even their halla liked you," I supplied instead.
          She frowned, and gave a slow, uncertain nod. "Halla have never liked me before. It must have been Cole's intervention."
          "They did not dislike you," the spirit said. "They were very interested in a new elf with markings like their friends."
          To him, she did not respond.
          "Did your clan keep halla?" I asked.
          "They did."
          She started off very suddenly, in that way she liked to when she no longer wanted to speak. I knew it would be wrong to ask about her people.
          But of greater importance was the fact that she was walking toward the plains, not the pass to return to camp.
          "Do you want to go back to another unexpected and ill-considered assignment from Trevelyan?" Harellan asked when pressed on this. "If so, you may take Cole with you and tell him I've established contact and will improve relations until dusk.” The woman released a deep breath and redoubled her pace. “For all I know he's found another high dragon by now."
          Ah.
          Perhaps she was wise beyond her years.
          "A reasonable assessment.” I kept stride. “How is your leg, child?"
          "Exercise helps," she replied. "I would prefer you not call me child."
          Well. I would prefer I not call you traitor, either, Slow-Heart.
          But concessions must be made.

Chapter Text

Vivienne

          The problem with traitors to a cause is inherent to the nature of betrayal. Once an individual or faction demonstrates disloyalty to their first chain of command, no other officer quite holds the same level of respect. Whatever it is that first disillusions any subset of men or women into rebelling against their superiors would work just as well against any substitute leadership hoping to take their place, and so it was with these “Freemen of the Dales.”
          Many of them, upon conversation, had simply broken rank over the very thought of fighting their brothers-in-arms, and seeing their proud country torn in half over something as supposedly frivolous as royal claims of succession. What these war-torn foot soldiers craved was strength, unity, and a commander who would see them safely home to their families when the fighting was through.
          Everything Celene and Gaspard, it seemed, were not.
          Everything the Herald of Andraste, I quickly realized, could be instead.
          Trevelyan was an excellent bargaining chip when not present to spoil his own image, and I myself was deeply pleased to see long years of careful self-cultivation come to fruition in these once-bucolic hills of Celene’s noble countryside. The Freemen’s recognition of the infamous Orlesian Court Enchanter Madame de Fer played right into my hand, making child’s play of a plan to convince their forward defenses to lay down arms and peacefully negotiate with a vanguard of mages capable of incinerating their entire fort.
          And what they had to tell me was positively enlightening.
          A turncoat named Gordian laid claim to this bulwark, now. Not a moniker I recognized, which spoke volumes to his and his family’s lack of station in the Imperial Court. It marked him as a man with little to lose in a war of wealth and everything to gain by seizing rank in the turmoil of a rebellion. More powerful than his inspiring words, however, were the allies he’d apparently introduced to the others—allies that not all who’d joined the Freemen fully agreed with. These “allies” were the ones responsible for much of the undead presence here, further destabilizing a situation already tenuous enough with the tearing of the Veil and the recent Breach over the Frostbacks.
          This and more our newfound friends revealed to us as we strode the ramparts freely at their side. Signals to others laid down their arms at our approach. Not much was known about Gordian’s supporters other than their actions and their origins. Mostly hooded, the few men spotted with him seemed to be Tevinter mages, based on accent, a revelation that more than justified the expenses of Sister Nightingale's network of spies. These outsiders alone were a bitter enough pill for the native sons and sisters of Orlais to swallow, but the bodies harvested from the battlefields and hefted into an unceremonious pit in the middle of the battlements were nearly more than most could bear.
          “War is war, Madame,” one soldier admitted tacitly, “but these men were Orlesians, too. To know that Tevinter interlopers are now decreeing what we do with our dead…”
          “They are reviving them, Court Enchanter!” another hissed. “Gordian tells us they’re piled irreverently to attract demons! This is not the way of proud Orlais. I do not care if they are meant to defend us or to assail Gaspard, these are unholy abominations of demon magics. Surely the Circle would have disagreed!”
          “The Circle does most certainly disagree, darling,” I assured both men, emphasizing the current tense of that particular verb. My attendants nodded helpfully. “The Inquisition will see to the destruction of this pit, and the remains comprising it will be properly memorialized.”
          Murmurs of assent warmed my spine.
          “The Inquisition is to be invited to Halamshiral’s winter ball, to engage with the peace talks,” I added, allowing my eyes to trace the wide fan of a shattered ballista as we passed. “We ask no price of you, but your pledge of loyalty to our cause would lend weight to our voice at the palace. We all wish this foolishness ended, darlings.”
          A chorus of agreement rang out from the Freemen and the Circle alike.
          So very easy to sway, these rebellious souls were.
          A problem inherent to the nature of betrayal.
          The Freemen opened passages hidden within the scaffolding to lead us to the safety they’d built for themselves when the dead began patrolling the walkways. Obviously unspoken among them was the knowledge that our arrival ought to be kept secret. Gordian and his Tevinter co-conspirators had established themselves far to the back of the ramparts, had not yet been alerted despite our dramatic appearance, and certainly would not take kindly to this development, particularly when I shared the Inquisition's current theory that the foreign mages were likely Venatori, a branch of extremists friendly to the creature that had torn open the sky and scattered the rifts about the dales. The Freemen seemed quite interested in this revelation, and shored up their commitment to our cause as its implications sank in.
          “Zey are ‘oping to keep Orlais weakened for zis Coreepheeuz to invade?”
          “Precisely.” Our Tevinter had been very certain of that when he and Trevelyan had delivered the rebel mages to Haven in weeks past. Runners returned with the construction plans of these sprawling ramparts, and spread them onto a lamplit table before us. “His goal, as I understand it, is to have the Empress assassinated. A goal we intend to disrupt, darlings.”
          A subtle glance from the papers told me that despite their disloyalties, many seemed appropriately unsettled by the idea. The Game reached far and wide and spared none who failed to play it well, but common soldiers would struggle to conceive that such apparent frivolity could touch even Celene.
          I expect you’ll be pleased, Cassandra. I smoothed fingertips across the paper creases, allowing the Freemen to lay out Gordian’s position, the location of the body pit, and manners in which to approach both. As requested, your enemies have been conquered, bloodlessly.

***

Blackwall

          We really had to go stompin’ right back to Orlais, eh? Fuckin’ hell. I ought to have guessed, I suppose, but damn if I didn’t wish I’d asked a few more questions before signin’ up for this field foray.
          I really shouldn’t complain, though. It wasn’t Val Royeaux, after all. I wasn’t too happy they found a better use for me as a construction director than as a soldier, but when my nearest competition was a Qunari the size of Bull and a Chantry Seeker as stubborn as Pentaghast, I could see how a regular old Warden left something to be desired. Particularly when our foes were demons and mages, not darkspawn.
          Building kept us busy, at least. We wouldn’t know how long we were here until the Inquisitor got back, so we aimed for something semi-permanent, for now. Most of the day was spent harvesting timber and scavenging for ropes, vines, and anything else from the forests and the fallen that we could use to tie logs into frameworks and fasten down tarps. Had a pretty good setup by the time scouts came stumbling home with word that the Herald was on his way back. Another handful of tents and two field barracks to keep rain off the men, as a start. Just about time for supper, I figured.
          And it was probably for the better that we all took our breaks, too. Trevelyan’s horse came thunderin’ in like a hellion on fire, and the Herald weren’t too happy with whatever he’d gotten himself into out there in the Dales. The man tossed his reins to a stablehand and stormed off to his maps and charts, leaving behind the rest of his field forces to be dragged in by a banged-up Pavus who just about fell off his own steed while the others dismounted. The mage limped off to the healers’ setup and sank onto the edge of a cot with the weight of a thousand battles, cradling a wrapped-up arm and wincing down at his badly-charred armor.
          More horses than men came back. A lot more. I ladled out some stew as an excuse and brought two bowls over to share while Dorian was getting a dressing-down from the brothers. He thanked me through the hiss of water being poured on a shining burn striping his shoulder, and winced at Trevelyan’s muffled yells behind closed flaps.
          “Remind me not to assume prowess from confidence,” the mage sighed, poking at dinner. “You may have gathered that we suffered a bit of a mishap out there.”
          Aye, plain as day. “I’ll hear the details, if you’re looking t’make a rough draft of your report.”
          He smiled at that; laughed even, a little. “Yes, a fine idea. Untangle my own thoughts on the matter, I suppose, and decide what ought and oughtn’t become official record…”
          The story came out in a jumble of nobility, speculation, and pain. Some kid named Mathias and a group of his friends gettin’ in over their heads. Corpses on the ramparts, demons, body pits, all sorts o’ nasty out there, it seemed. He had to retell some of it for the Seeker and Varric when they came parading back in a quarter hour later or so, mostly to prep Cassandra for what she was about to face when she wandered off to make her own field report.
          Varric thumbed a bit of drink from his lips and frowned as he listened.
          “Back up, Sparkler, you’re telling me a demon that already possessed a corpse went on to take over a living mage?”
          “Unfortunately,” Dorian sighed, looking from his right arm being patched up to the stew he couldn’t have any more of until the healers were done with it. Venom bared his teeth. “I warned that damned boy…”
          The dwarf pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “Doesn’t look too good for Fiona’s cause.” He cast a glance across the camp to where a bunch of the rebels were reconvening. “I just don’t get it, I thought they practiced this shit in their towers.”
          “He was asking some rather dangerous questions prior to the event.”
          “And y’still sent him off with that…whatever it was?” I asked. “That rune?”
          “His magic was excellent,” Dorian argued narrowly at me. “He and his fellow mages were more than capable of the task before them. It was their judgment that failed.”
          Cassandra sighed and finished her dinner and rose from the rock she’d been sitting on. “Well, it will be the Inquisitor’s judgment that matters for all of them, if these things continue to happen. I will speak with Grand Enchanter Fiona, and then with Trevelyan.”
          “It could have been worse!” Dorian called after her, stopping the woman three steps into her retreat. He leered sourly her way. “I could have failed to contain them. Do remind him of that, if you could, Seeker? That a mage handled a mage’s problems?”
          Something about that struck me as funny. “Didn’t think I’d hear a Tevinter mage advocatin’ for the Orlesians.”
          His fire and brimstone unleashed themselves on me, next. “I’m advocating for myself, Warden. I’ve found that Trevelyan is less likely to distinguish between the two.” Still, he sighed, pain draining his fight. “...Not without helpful diagrams,” the man muttered, turning his attention toward the next round of cavalry to deliver another group of us back from the field.
          Vivienne’s lot.
          And unlike Pavus’s, she came back with more men than mounts.
          The mage vanguard pranced daintily into camp, their leader drawing alongside us.
          “You,” she started, looking down at me from her high horse. “Blackwall. Dear. I’ve brought you men to aid the encampment’s construction.” A haughty glance across the day’s work didn’t seem to impress her much. “It seems you could use the muscle.”
          Two dozen or so Orlesian soldiers crowded around, in a collage of armors bearing minor noble standards alongside Empress Celene’s.
          Her sharp stare found Cassandra next, and didn’t leave the Seeker as she hopped off and landed in those graceful heels. The woman dismissed her entourage and they all paraded off toward the stabling nook without her.
          “Oh, lovely, I take to the Inquisitor’s side and lose half our mages, but thankfully Vivienne’s here to replace them immediately!” Dorian pulled his rebandaged arm out of Chantry study and back to his dinner.
          “You lost mages?” the Iron Lady snapped.
          “To a demon.”
          Viv took a second to think about that one. “...Fiona’s mages?”
          “Are there others?” Dorian sassed. “I believe all your loyalists went with you…”
          “And you lost hers to a demon…”
          The Qunari and his men piled back into camp then, and it was as good a time as any to figure out what to do next. I didn’t need to hear the story a third time, and fresh recruits needed settling in. I herded them off to find a less densely populated bit of the camp.
          A couple questions got the story out of the new faces, how the Orlesian Court Enchanter herself had shown up, infiltrated the ramparts, and disrupted their rebellion. None of ‘em were too surprised about it—she’d done just about the same with the Circle, what little she could hold of the Orlesian mages. Apparently the head of their leader, Gordian, was in one of the saddlebags, ready to be presented to Trevelyan, and so was evidence of Tevinter interference in the war efforts.
          A right mess, this had all turned into.
          But I took them all to get some details and sign them up for the Inquisition. With Varric’s help, of all things. Plenty of ‘em wanted to meet the Herald, and we promised that tomorrow would be a better day to do that than tonight. Cass and Viv had just strolled off to go calm Trevelyan down together, and I doubted he’d be up for many meet and greets after the day he apparently had.
          The elves came back after dark, preceded by a gentle glow from Solas’s staff to light their footing. Most everyone had hunkered down and claimed their places to sleep by then, and the last call for stew had gone out long ago. But if either of them wanted any food, they didn’t seem to be lookin’ for it, and neither seemed too worse for wear despite bein’ out there alone together all day. They parted ways quietly and Harellan hobbled off toward the encampment nook claimed by the First Enchanter and her entourage.
          Solas watched her go for a long time before he spotted me over the embers of the last fire still burnin’ itself to ash. I offered him a seat on the log next to me, but I was glad he didn’t take it. I was tired, and my vigil was done now that they’d made it back safely.
          A Warden’s always last to sleep.

Chapter Text

Cassandra

          I had never seen Trevelyan so angry. None of us had. The way he had screamed at Vivienne earlier unsettled me, and it replayed in my head as I awaited sleep that night.
          “Your mages became monsters, Vivienne! Out there in the middle of the Maker-Forsaken Dales!”
          Almost as discomforting had been her unshakeable response.
          “The mages sent with you were not my mages, darling.”
          How she could stay calm opposite such a red-faced…child’s tantrum, I did not know. “I don’t care whose they are, your people are dangerous beasts who need to be locked up—”
          “Perhaps it is time you started caring, Inquisitor.” A subtle chill had rolled off her glimmering silk field coat. Even now, I remembered the gooseflesh it had given me. I didn’t know who else had felt it. “I have advocated for a return to the Circle from the moment I arrived at Skyhold. You chose to listen to Dorian and Grand Enchanter Fiona over my recommendations.”
          The meaty plunk of the sack still echoed in my ears. The Orlesian head disgorged from its burlap mouth had silenced everyone in the tent.
          “My mages report unequivocal success in our field venture. The Eastern Ramparts belong once more to Celene, the Freeman leader lies dead, and his traitors now serve under the Inquisitor’s banner. In exchange for their labor, deferrals of punishment were bargained, with the opportunity to work off their crimes entirely in service to our cause. I recommend you not conflate my disciplined associates with Fiona’s unruly mob again, darling.”
          …How?
          The quiet dark offered no answers.
          But Madame de Fer held plenty.
          “Perhaps, Herald dear, had you not delayed your own Templar training, you might have effected the Western Ramparts more profoundly,” she had also said, circling the table as though no one else was present. “If you wish to hold power over monsters, it is time to become that which properly can oppose them.”
          He’d followed her pointed gaze toward me. I’d looked from him to her and back. No Seeker could be made of a man that intemperate, but I had seen worse Templars in my travels.
          Far worse.
          “I will draft up an enumeration of further means by which to properly leash the remainder of Fiona’s horde,” Vivienne had added, with just the right undercurrent of threat. “Mages can be controlled. The Circle can be remade.”
          Her conviction was inspiring. But…was this best for all? Or would replacing the very system that produced the events of Kirkwall merely run the risk of repeating them?
          Dawn came quickly, and, with it, the stirrings of the camp. Trevelyan could barely look at the mage quarters without sneering, and made plenty of rearrangements to his tactics over breakfast. I was to be sent out with Vivienne and Bull to clean up what was left to do on the Western Ramparts, while he brought Dorian and some of our Freemen along to test their mettle and close the rifts Varric and I and Bull had mapped out yesterday.
          Strange choices, and I worried that he only wished to berate Dorian further. But the Tevinter had few qualms and seemed well-recovered from his midday ordeal, and I was looking forward to a more thorough understanding of Vivienne’s success.
          It seemed the woman was more than happy to share it, as well.
          What I did not expect was the Iron Bull’s enjoyment of the tale. As we rode to Gaspard’s encampment, Vivienne detailed her dramatic entrance, her conversational strategies for winning over turncoats to one cause already, and the magical subterfuge involved in cremating the body pit found at the Ramparts, finishing with the swift and overwhelming violence her Senior Enchanters deployed to end Gordian and his Venatori assistants. The Ben Hassrath laughed right along with her, naming every tactic she employed, first in Qunlaat, then in Trade.
          The Orlesian mage had taken uncertain offense to his reactions at first, but seemed to accept his comments as flattery by the time we had reached Corporal Rosselin and his encampment. Gaspard’s men had retaken a significant portion of their own battlements back overnight, and presented a tarp-covered wagon for us with a grim expression when we dismounted to greet them.
          “Your fallen from yesterday, Mademoiselle.”
          It silenced us swiftly.
          They…had gathered our dead. The fallen mages.
          Men that Trevelyan had left behind, I realized coldly.
          Faith would not be faith without tests, Lady of Flame. But you choose painful moments to prod for weakness.
          A large number of Orlesian soldiers stared at Vivienne as we and our horses were guided toward their stables, and few with kind or welcoming eyes. Fear and disgust danced among those who scrambled to make way for us, and the First Enchanter wore them like a bridal veil.
          “Oh, she’s good,” Bull muttered in my ear, likely seeing everything I saw.
          The Iron Lady was certainly not a force to be underestimated.

***

Harellan

          Few of us had slept well that night. The news of Mathias succumbing to a demon and the deaths of several more mages surrounding his brutal possession weighed heavily on the rest. Coupled with tensions evoked by the Herald’s vicious reaction and his sudden, callous awareness to the plight of our kind, the Fade blanketing the camp had become a beacon for lesser monsters of all manner to drag themselves away from wandering the battlefield and toward our troubled minds.
          All night, the battle raged. It was Skyhold all over again. Grand Enchanter Fiona, First Enchanter Vivienne, and the Tevinter mage cut through and dispersed many of our nighttime foes, and we savaged the rest in our own ways, but all were left weary for the effort by morning’s light.
          I admit a bitter disappointment at Mathias’ unceremonious end, as well. I’d spent over a year guarding each and every one of their ungrateful, suspicious hides from Templars and demons alike, and the damned shem simply throws his life away in a fit of…of what, passion? Greed? Arrogance? And how many more had he taken down with him?
          Fen’Harel’s panting grin moistened the back of my neck.
          Even Solas had seemed worse for wear, though I did not remember him joining the chaos. Bereft of assignment, the man sipped bitterly at his tea while the others arranged themselves and left for the day’s duties. Bleary eyes darted briefly my way on approach, but the manner in which he was struggling to down his drink made me think something might be wrong with it.
          “It is tea,” he offered simply, when asked. “I detest the stuff.”
          Well, that answered no questions whatsoever.
          “I wondered if you might accompany me again to fulfill more requisitions for the Dalish,” I opened instead.
          He thought about it, choked a bit on another hard-swallowed sip, and wrinkled his nose at the whole endeavor. “I…cannot, Slow-Heart. I am afraid another task calls to me this morning. One I cannot ignore.”
          Ah. He was feeling particularly mysterious today.
          I sighed and gave the ground an illustrative few taps with my cane. “Well, there’s little I can do without your assistance. Are you uninterested at all, or might you accompany me after finishing whatever it is you need to do first?”
          Another long pause to hork down a tongueful of horrible, horrible tea. This one appeared to physically pain him. When he looked up again, it wasn’t at me.
          “You should ask her to join you.”
          “—Cole!”
          The man’s nearness flinched me, again, as it always seemed to. I was beginning to despise the manner in which he simply appeared at my side, our elbows nearly brushing. Those vacant blue eyes turned my way, next.
          “I’ve been here. You just haven’t noticed.”
          Thank you for that clarification.
          “You’re welcome!” He turned back to Solas, completely oblivious to the invasiveness of a conversation with my thoughts. “She can help. You know she can. You know she’ll care.”
          The apostate nodded once and abandoned his ever-so-foul beverage entirely, pouring the dregs into the grass and setting the saucer on the log beside him. “More than most,” he agreed somberly, pushing himself to his feet. He drew a self-steadying breath, and clasped his hands before him. “Slow-Heart. I have a favor to ask of you, then. If you would, one of my oldest friends has been captured by mages, forced into slavery. I heard the cry for help as I slept. I have been struggling to distance myself from my dreams this morning, but with your aid, we might enact a rescue.”
          A…slave?
          “Someone’s been captured? On the plains?”
          “Yes.”
          And they’ve reached out via the Fade?
          Did Solas have an entire network of Fadestriders he had his own nightly chats with?
          It would be the least surprising thing about the man, admittedly.
          “Strange for mages to capture an elf,” I probed. “What have they done, used blood magic of some sort?”
          Again the apostate’s eyes darted Cole’s way. If the other man responded, it apparently wasn’t for me to remember.
          “A summoning circle.” Solas squeezed his own fingers earnestly, youthfully, so very suddenly like a boy struggling to explain a story of great personal meaning and importance to an inconsiderate parent. “My friend is a spirit, Slow-Heart. Of Wisdom. And it is in pain.”
          …Oh.
          “Where, then?”
          “You’ll aid me?” Hope sparkled in his weary grays.
          There was that word again. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Pride, aid is a strong word for a lame elf with no magic.
          “I’m not certain how useful I’ll be—”
          “You would be of tremendous aid, Rebel.” That Elvhen tongue, so certain. “You could speak with them, convince them to release their spells.” He didn’t seem aware of the step he took my way, the manner in which his hands flexed at his waist. “You’ve a diplomacy I would almost certainly lack, when faced with those who have stolen my friend from the Fade and dragged a peaceful spirit here unwillingly. Please.”
          …That…could work. Yes. I could do that, for him.
          “You may come too, Cole,” Solas added once I had agreed. “Your protection along the journey would be most welcome.”
          That it certainly would.
          He took another thoughtless, hesitant step closer, and all at once I was gathered into his reaching arms, pressed to the apostate’s chest in a grateful embrace.
          “Thank you, child. This means much, that you would aid a spirit.”
          Cole’s words danced in my head.
          She can help. You know she’ll care.
          As far as hugs went, it was a fairly helpful one, considering the night we’d all had. I caught myself leaning in, resting a heavy head against his warm heartbeat. He didn’t seem to mind, and nor did I mind his cheek in my hair, his exhale warming the tip of my ear. I waited until he’d released me to reply.
          “We’ve little time to waste. I’ve asked you not to call me a child, Pride.”
          Instead of an answer, he pressed his lips together in a thin, rueful smile. I had no doubt he was underestimating my age. He certainly wouldn’t be the first.
          We packed a day’s provisions from the camp’s supplies, and were on our way. Vivienne had treated my leg a bit more last night, leaving it feeling significantly better. Another day or two might see her brace removed, if I continued responding well, and light exercise was doing me all the good I’d said it had.
          We retraced the path we’d taken yesterday, through that sheltered ravine and past the same pair of corpses, each with a second arrow now in its rotting helmet. Solas claimed his friend was even more upriver, well beyond the Dalish camp along its bank.
          “Imagine if Vigilance had gone missing in the night,” the apostate offered suddenly, apropos of nothing. “How strongly you might—”
          “Pride. You need not lecture me on the importance of spirits,” I replied, raising a palm to quell his fretting. I did not need convincing; we were already on our way. And even if I hadn’t had a blade spirit to empathize with his plight, I recognized that I owed the apostate much, and was pleased for a chance to repay his Hinterlands assistance, as well as his endless patience while I’d dragged him all over the Dales yesterday to gather herbs and strip branches from trees.
          He looked my way and for a moment I thought I might have offended him; when I matched his gaze his eyes were unreadable. His lips parted for a brief breath, but he released it and returned his attention to the river’s winding path.
          What he whispered next seemed to hold its own gravity.
          The Elvhen phrase itself could be directly translated as “How simple you are,” but its meaning was much deeper and not at all as insulting as it sounded. Closer to “Thank you for making things easy” or “This matter is less difficult when spoken of to you,” it was a profound compliment among friends, an expression of gratitude, an acknowledgment of resonance, that one could convey a complicated subject or exotic problem and be understood by another with so few words.
          The truth of it pulled uncomfortably at my thoughts; it was not the sort of informal, associative language I expected to hear from Solas. I had a feeling he was controlling a much greater upset than he displayed.
          He squeezed my hand when I slipped it into his.
          We will do this, Pride. We will save your friend.
          Much of the rest of our journey was made in silence, as quickly as we could comfortably traverse the plains together. The morning chill had warmed nearly to midday by the time we happened upon a grim harbinger of what was to come.
          Bodies, so far from the fighting that Venatori death magic had not called them back to service, and so brutally charred and butchered they may not have been capable of reanimation at all.
          Solas’s breath quickened at the sight of them, drawing us both to a stop.
          “These aren’t mages. And these claw marks….” He looked from them to the path ahead, frost dancing along the tip of his staff. “No. No, no no…”
          He was off again, redoubling his pace to a speed I forced myself to match. A foreboding roar swept the plains not long before we sighted a twisting, thrashing beast on the horizon. I had only seen illustrations of true Pride demons before now, but no natural animal came close to resembling one.
          “...No…”
          Breathlessly, the word escaped Solas’s trembling chest.
          The apostate began to run.
          He didn’t make it particularly far before uneven footing sent him tumbling to the ground, but he dragged himself up the side of a fallen boulder and clung to it as if weathering a howling gale. It was there that I finally caught up with him, and the full horror of the scene unfolded before us.
          A Pride demon it most certainly was, an enormous monster of glimmering purple scales and meaty limbs, wicked claws and savage teeth, long spikes and a constellation of tiny, glowing eyes. A binding circle had trapped it, with four pillars of ice forming anchors for shining arcane fetters it strained vigorously against but failed to break. Intermittent lightning crackled across its thick hide, and the beast convulsed with every forking spark. Around it lay more victims, some dead, others possibly still alive and wounded or simply catching their breath.
          “—Mages!” A stocky shem with dark hair, a thin mustache, and filthy mage robes of his own staggered out of the rocks in our direction. “You’re not with the bandits?”
          That solved the identity of the corpses behind us.
          “Do you have any lyrium potions?” he begged, looking from us to the scene over his shoulder and back. “Most of us are exhausted, we’ve been fighting that demon…”
          “Fighting it?” I asked, surprised.
          “You summoned that demon!” Solas’s wild outburst caught us both off-guard. “Except it was a spirit of Wisdom at the time!” Knuckles whitened around his staff. He took a step close, candle flames sputtering across his closed fist. “You made it kill! You twisted it against its purpose!”
          And the pieces were coming together.
          The shem raised both hands placatingly. “I-I-I understand how it might be confusing to someone who has not studied demons, but after you help us, I can—”
          Solas shook his head, teeth bared in a feral snarl. “We are not here to help you.”
          “Yes, we are.” His head snapped my way as I took firm hold of his shoulder. His anger might have been a shock, but I was well-versed in scathing cruelty from the least-expected places. “You brought me here for this,” I reminded him quickly, staring him down as I squeezed. “Let me handle it.”
          “Listen to me!” the mage begged, pressing his palms together. “I was one of the foremost experts at the Kirkwall Circle—”
          “Shut. Up.”
          If Solas could cast a spell with his eyes alone, I think the idiot shem would have been a statue by now. He loosed his barely-contained rage on me, instead. “They’ve made a demon of my friend! They’ve forced a gentle spirit against its nature!” He turned a snarl back toward the mage. “You summoned it to protect you against bandits!”
          Trade, Solas. I repeated his accusation in the common tongue, in the form of a kinder question. The man looked from Solas to me and wet his lips.
          “I…yes.”
          The apostate remembered his language. “You bound it to obedience, then commanded it to kill. That is when it turned!”
          The Pride Demon howled again, clashing sparks turning its rage to pain. Its torment echoed in Solas’s eyes as he stared with anxious longing at the chain-bound monster, inaction slowly crushing his chest like a vise.
          “Fellavhen, please!”
          “I can help. I’ll see what they’ve done to hold it down,” I assured him, hefting my cane to a lower grip and touching it to the shem’s chest when he looked about to interject again. “I’ve studied these things, Pride. Sentry’s Heart did not remain free for five years in the Circles on promise alone, I studied many spirit-binding rituals in my endless attempts to defer the edicts of the Senior Enchanters. More time, more time, more time, more time to study more versions, to find the perfect fit. I can free it. But what will you do once it is free?”
          The words calmed him, as best he could be calmed with a bellowing demon a few paces off. As if, for once, I did know more than he about some academic subject no apostate would have access to. His eyes darted as his mind raced, worrying me with this apparent lack of forethought. As if he’d not seen a single problem with loosing a Pride demon on the Veil-shattered Exalted Plains until this very moment.
          “The summoning circle,” the elf pressed, as though the idea had just come to him. “We break it, we break the binding.” He’d lost his breath somewhere in the frenetic chaos of his own emotions, and panted desperately down at me. “No orders to kill, no conflict with its nature, no demon.”
          The shem’s jaw practically hit the grass. “What?” He nudged my cane aside. “The binding is the only thing keeping the demon from killing us! Whatever it was before, it is a monster now!”
          The cane hit Solas’s chest next, stopping him before he could physically strangle the idiot with his bare hands.
          “Have you a book for this?” I asked, successfully distracting them both.
          “Yes! But we must—”
          “Fetch it, if you please. I’ve a feeling I know what went wrong, if I can see the ritual you used. You may have incorrectly applied the bindings, it is a known typographical error in many versions of common published tomes, and often leads to dangerous situations like this. I can stabilize the bindings, and help you control the beast.”
          The shem looked from me to Solas and back, before nodding and hurrying off.
          The apostate glared uncertain daggers down at me.
          “I’ve brought you here to help, and you’re going to—”
          Gentle application of the cane’s stylized head to the underside of his chin silenced the man.
          “I am going to reverse what they’ve done, once I know precisely how the demon is bound,” I explained slowly and patiently to the agitated elf. “You, however, need a better plan than ‘just let it go,’ and you have until I’m done studying the ritual to come up with one. I cannot simply free a rampaging demon on your word.”
          He knocked the cane away with tense knuckles. “Once it is free of their violent demands it will return to its true nature.”
          No, Solas. It doesn’t work that way.
          “Can you promise me that?” I dug my nails into his cloak to emphasize the danger if he was wrong.
          Still, he glared. “I know my friend.”
          And the elf stepped out of my grip and waited for our fool of a spirit-summoner to return, as if that was somehow enough.

Chapter Text

Solas

          This cannot be happening.
          Wisdom is not meant to be here!
          Every moment Harellan spent studying the quicklings’ book was a moment too agonizingly long. Every pained screech of the monster they’d made of my friend tore at my soul. Compassion sought to soothe me, but nothing could be done; he settled for guarding us from the other mages slowly pulling themselves to their feet and creeping from their cowardly hiding places.
          To do this to a peaceful spirit…it was unconscionable.
          But I had to trust Slow-Heart. I did not know their ways of spirit-binding. A barbarous practice, enslaving spirit-kind like animals—less than animals! A stablemaster ostensibly cared for his horses, but did any of these mages care at all for the beings they sought to steal from their homes and turn to hard labor?!
          No.
          And no one else in the entirety of the Inquisition would have assisted me, either.
          “I’ve got it.”
          Slow-Heart met my quick look with a knowing gaze and a nod, then turned to the cruel taskmaster fretting beside her. “A handful of your runes are incorrectly transcribed here; they allow the Fade creature to retain too much of its own will. I must reapply them to strip it of resistance. This will be dangerous work, and, if you are all too tired to assist, I would ask that you keep your distance.”
          Even her lies were a blade to the heart; how easily she spoke to their primitive understanding.
          “Have Cole keep them at bay,” she added, to me, in our tongue, closing the book and handing it off. “They may notice what I’m doing, and I cannot have them interfere.”
          “Don’t you need this?” the mage asked, looking down at the tome he now held.
          “No.” Slow-Heart shook her head, starting off toward my friend. She slipped her spirit-hilt from the Orlesian sash it was hidden within, and flashed its blade in a quick, demonstrable flourish before sheathing it again. “I am well-versed in spirit-handling, friend.”
          It seemed to satisfy him. Cole herded the man over to his two surviving friends and stood threatening watch over the trio. All three looked right past him, unaware of the deadly force I was far too close to unleashing upon them.
          Instead, I drew nearer the repellant scene, hoping to make some use of my restive mind. Harellan gestured me to her side, and asked for a Barrier to protect her from any magical backlash.
          “I understand you don’t know what they’ve done to it?” she asked, kneeling down.
          Not the specifics, no.
          “If you would share what you’ve learned?” My spell sealed us both in a rounded azure frame.
          But she shook her head and studied the runes along the ground, reading a language I had no interest in learning. “It is kinder to be ignorant.”
          How her words tore at me. On the one hand, Dalish romanticism of ignorance had always been a source of irritation, but on the other I recognized that she meant to safeguard me from the pain of truth. Which, of course, presumed that the truth was too painful to speak aloud—a terrible thing to know in its own right.
          I wondered how she might yet alter this circle with neither staff nor magic, but the woman contained more surprises. She laid down her cane and rested her hands, palms-up, on her knees. A breath filled her lungs; its release lowered her shoulders and bowed her head. Focus and fortitude swirled within, as though she was indeed about to cast without aid.
          A cooling serenity swept me…as her soul began to harmonize with the Old Song.
It started softly, reticent, with whispered, meditative notes; at first I wondered if she sought to soothe me. Arcana danced within our shell, the Veil, unfurled, in resonance, the Fade itself reflecting ancient cadence.
          Was she singing to the spirits? What did she think might answer her call?
          It wasn't to the Fade; I realized, as a sparkling glow spilled from her silken sash and stirred the air around us. Vhenan’Then cloaked her hands in shining gloves of crystal-sharded scale, and lent his power to her careful movements. The elf reached forth with his Fade-claws and re-scribed what the mages had drawn.
          A spirit’s power isn't to be wielded without consequence—the glowing circle stuttered, and resisted. Its backlash crackled violently against my ward, its lightning striking angrily at us as she reshaped it. But the woman’s will was greater, bending truth by her dragon-cloaked hands.
          Beyond our focused world my friend’s distressing snarling seemed to ease. The thunderstorm’s convulsions turned upon us. I weathered its momentous fury as the woman frowned and studied what she’d done, and altered one more letter.
Static discharge struck the pillars.
          And my friend slumped in tired relief.
          “Pride!”
          Harellan was back on her feet and nudging the edge of the Barrier, breaking me from my wondrous reverie, willing me to follow. I hurried after as she hobbled along, her eyes on the glowing runes searing the ground.
          “Here.” Again she knelt, a flash of pain showing in her gritted teeth as she did. She seemed to have outpaced the edge of Cole’s anesthetic influence over her, or else the sheer amount of magic between the two of them limited his reach.
          Three more runes were destroyed and painted over here, her deft fingers guiding Vhenan’Then’s careful claw-tips sheathing them. I could all but see the great spirit peering over her shoulder, his essence draping her, his concentration radiating through air and Fade alike.
          The columns cracked as more power seemed to be routed toward them.
          “This way.”
          Again she was up, cane abandoned entirely in her haste. Vhenan’Then’s power spiraled down her damaged leg, overcharging her lyrium brace until it shined through the fabric above her boot. My friend seemed to be recovering strength, but still thrashed for freedom, dislodging one of the farther frozen spires from the earth and tilting it out of place.
          I followed Harellan around another pillar, this one’s shards chipping away and subliming to mist, and here she stopped and stared the circle down.
          “Time’s up, Pride.” She raised her eyes to mine, a blaze of elven will and spirit-focus. “I cannot reverse the kill-command without releasing this creature completely. If you’re ready to bet your life on a demon returning to peace, I won’t be a part of it. I break this rune, the bindings shatter, and your friend is free. Vhenan’Then will take me to the riverbank, and across it if needed. I have no magic of my own. I cannot save you.”
          I was certain this would work.
          “Make your escape, then, Slow-Heart,” I bade her, turning my attention to the alien writing. “Show me what must be done, and put your distance between us.”
          As if I could overrule her stubbornness.
          The elf exhaled and dropped herself laboriously to her knees. I followed after but she did not instruct me. Instead she called to Vhenan’Then one final time, and watched the spirit slip his power over her skin, coating her in the reality-reshaping abilities of their kind.
          Their work seemed a gentle, simple thing to do. But those who know magic know also how dangerous ignorance can be when altering it. A few strokes, a tick here, a tally there. The circle seized, and flaked away on the wind.
          “It’s free!! Dear Maker!” one of the quicklings cried.
          Vhenan’Then and the Veil folded Harellan out of my barrier, passing her presence through my spell like a whisper. My friend bellowed as columns of ice crumbled away, as chains dissolved, as it clutched at and swung its great head. The sky rang with its brief and deafening rage, but it did not attack, as the quickling fools had feared.
          Instead, it sank to its heavy knees, slumped forward onto powerful palms…
          …And its great purple scales began to dissolve.
          “—No!”
          That was not right; this wasn’t the process of reversion! Leaping strides had before her as she sagged and struggled to maintain a degenerating form. I had feared the effects of the constant strain on her will; I knew now that they had broken her entirely. Essence slipped through cupping hands as her demon shell melted into flickering strands.
          My friend…was dying.
          Something small struck my shoulder and bounced to the ground; Harellan’s spirit-hilt, its runes radiant. I glanced back at the elf, prone on her side, propped up by her elbow at the river’s bank, one arm still in the follow-through of her quick pitch. Her gaze was not on me, and I followed it back to the missile, uncertain what was intended; what I was to do with it. Power spilled free without assistance; Vhenan’Then, threading careful spindles through Wisdom’s failing form. The gentle spirit opened tired but glowing eyes and stretched trembling, indistinct fingers, and raised a scattered face to meet mine.
          And it shattered my heart to see her smile.
          “My friend. I am sorry.”
          There was nothing I could do. No magic, no spell, no manner in which to aid her. Not as I was. Not stripped of my full power.
          And yet, “Do not be sorry,” she told me, taking my fretting hands in hers. “I am happy.” Such a beautiful voice; such a soft and careful touch. “I am me again. You helped me.”
          She squeezed, as best she could. Her form was barely a whisper against my skin. This was not right. She felt so distant. This cage of flesh, this waking body, this insensate sheath between us! How many thousands of years of insight and understanding were seconds from being lost, and I could not even properly comfort her??
          Still, her gleaming eyes sought mine, anticipating that tearing in my chest.
          “You must endure,” she begged. How well she knew me; better than I knew myself. Her shaking hand traced my cheek, flooding me with gratitude for the patience of Vigilance. Unspoken sentiment flowed between us—gratitude, regret, bitter anger and patient forgiveness. I could not protect her. I could not protect any of them. Not from the incivility of the quick.
          My only balm, her graceful appreciation that I had come at all; that I could be here to see her to her final rest.
          “Guide me into death.” Like the fading notes of an orchestral melody, her voice was, speaking to more than simply the ear.
          So many things to say, yet in that moment, none of them came to my lips. I thought, briefly, to take her into me, but her eyes knew my soul, and she shook her head. No. This was not the way of things. The person she was must be returned to the Fade. Wisdom deserved her home.
          I sent her off as kindly as I could. Her form dissolved around Vhenan’Then’s shimmering framework. A glimpse of something went with him when he, too, withdrew into Slow-Heart’s spirit-hilt, but it could not be more than an echo, a remnant, a wisp of everything my friend had once been.
          Was it wise to hope that some part of her might live on in him?
          The bitter irony of it coated my tongue like blood.
          “Dareth shiral.”
          I picked myself up, and gathered the smooth ironbark in my palm. It was so close to a familiar thing.
          “...Now I must endure.”
          Shuffling footsteps brought the quickling murderers closer.
          “Thank you,” their leader dared say to me. “We would not have risked a summoning, but the roads are too dangerous to travel unprotected.”
          Such...ignorant…monstrous, brutal fools.
          “You…tortured and killed my friend…”
          I didn’t want to look at them. But their sheer cruelty lifted my eyes.
          “We didn’t know it was just a spirit! The book said it could help us!”
          Just a spirit.
          Vhenan’Then strained in my fist, rebelling against my call. How I wanted him to cut them down, to feed the earth with their fluids. I begged him to, willed him to form the ancient blade of our People, to meld our strength as one. But he did not. No power came to the inert hilt, no passion of mine could overrule his discipline. Stalwart as his partner, the spirit was, but I would not be denied my revenge. I seized my own staff from the ground and dispatched them all in a swirling inferno to put Dorian Pavus to shame, rage and catharsis making scorching husks of the three brutal taskmasters.
          Damn them all.
          Cole sought my eyes but I would not meet his gaze. This was not a pain I wanted to heal from so soon.
          Harellan panted at the river’s bank, a line of disturbed stones telling the story of how she’d dragged herself to the boulder she now sat against. I retrieved her cane and returned it to her, along with her spirit-partner’s anchor. Anguish unknotted itself from the woman’s painted brow as Cole worked his influence, and she helped herself to her feet.
          “I’m sorry we could not save her,” she lamented, eyes on the geological mess left behind by dispersing magic.
          I shook my head, trying and failing to quell the roiling in my soul. “I will trust that you did everything you could. Thank you for…for making my friend’s…final moments…” I struggled to speak Our tongue; struggled to connect in the way the language required, “...possible.”
          She knew it wasn’t enough, and she knew no words could ease the ache of loss. Slow-Heart raised an arm in silent invitation, but I could not embrace her.
          I wanted to hurt.
          “I need some time alone,” I told them both, foregoing Elvhen grace for the barbaric simplicity of Trade. “Stay with her, please,” I asked Cole.
          His hat flopped in clear uncertainty. I willed him not to argue, and it was enough to hold his tongue, but I did not have such a luxury with Slow-Heart. The woman shook her head.
          “Go with him,” she insisted to the spirit, flaring my anger. “He needs—”
          “No.” The word spat itself from me with a venom I did not intend, but if the volume or force of my insistence affected her, she did not flinch in its face. “I would not leave you undefended, Fellavhen. Your safety is more important. I will see myself to camp when I am ready to return.”
          The Knight-Enchanter bowed her head in quick and silent acquiescence.
          I left her there and followed the river upstream. I was in no hurry, and perhaps, if I had been, I may have put too much distance between us to hear her quiet voice. But as I listened to Fellavhen’s boots crunch against the charred soil and contemplated how kind she was to care at all, I caught her words upon the wind.
          “Chase the owl, Dread Wolf; Falon’Din will not steal the dinner meant for you. These three are yours to take.”
          When I glanced back, she was standing over the shemlen corpses. Reciting the curses of her people.
          A bitter bile coated the back of my tongue.
          Wisdom would have been ashamed…

Chapter Text

Harellan

          Well. That could have gone better.
          Cole and I trudged the Dales at a pace best described as “reluctant.” Whatever influence he was exerting over me had chased away the pain in my leg, but I could still feel a muted swelling. We had the remainder of the day to fill yet, and a few more things to tidy up for the clan before sundown. There was no rush.
          Not anymore.
          “She was exhausted, exerted, emptied of energy and endurance. You could not have saved her.”
          Of course he wanted to talk about it. That breathy voice did my disposition few favors. “And you know that, Cole? Do you even know what I did?”
          Even as the words came out, I regretted them. Stop it, Harellan. You need him. He doesn’t deserve your ire.
          “You did your best.”
          Rage flared.
          My best? What sort of useless response was that?
          “And you know for a fact it wasn’t good enough?”
          His floppy brim tilted quizzically.
          “Save your words,” I sighed, shaking my head. Controlling myself. “Please. I’d rather you focus your attention on threats, not me.”
          “But you’re too loud,” he insisted. “Your heart, beating, bright, bleeding. You wanted to help him. You wanted to thank him. You wanted to do something nice. And it all went so wrong.”
          Ouch.
          “Don’t tell me what I want. And I’ll be quieter if the brace bothers you.”
          Not that I could hear any squeak or rattling of the metal…
          His hat flapped back and forth in denial. “That isn’t the part that’s loud.”
          Well, then I don’t know how to help.
          Cole’s pale nose flared. “I’m not the one…” His brim lifted enough for those vacant blue eyes to frown at me. “He’s grateful. No one could have helped him like you did. No one would have cared.”
          Why were we doing this? Why now? He’d been so quiet when Solas was around. The both of them had been.
          “You said that already.”
          “You didn’t remember, before.”
          Dammit.
          Shut up.
          “What part of me is loud, Cole?”
          Still, he stared. “I said that already, too. Your heart.”
          Well, I can’t quiet that. Enough people have already tried.
          The merged mage turned his gaze almost a full half-circle. “He’s this way.”
          Solas?
          “No, Valorin. Emalien’s brother,” Cole added, unprompted. “The elf who went missing. Passed up for promotion, passion pitting purpose against prudence. He left to prove himself and went this way. Emalien would like him back.”
          Ah. The missing elf. That sounded familiar. A task entrusted to us yesterday, after our delivery of supplies. I followed Cole away from the river and deeper inland. He drew his blades to threaten roaming predators into flight.
          “Your pain is always in the shape of a wolf,” he said, mind and body completely divorced. “Why is it always in the shape of a wolf?”
          This again? Why?? Why, why, why, why?! Shut up about it!!
          “A great black wolf stalks us all, Cole,” I hissed, stabbing my cane into the burnt grass, willing him to silence. Willing my own self—my mind, my heart, whatever—to silence.
          And failing.
          “Fen’Harel, Fen’Harel, sharpen your claws.”
          “Shut up,” I snapped. He could have forced ice into my veins and not chilled me faster. “Stop it. Enough. I don’t know what you’re doing, I don’t care what you’re doing, but if you don’t stop digging around in my head I will leave you behind. Get out. Stay out.”
          His brim dipped.
          Smoky air dusted my throat. The midday plains breeze tasted of ash and silt. Distant fires crackled under tentative birdsong and the cawing of well-fed crows. What was I doing out here, alone, without Solas? This place was full of danger, full of demons, and lingering undead. A distant rift twisted under its own power, sickly green warping the haze. Bright orange-red thrashed beneath it, another Rage demon setting fresh fires as it staggered about. The rubble of houses was scattered nearby, but not so near as to be threatened by the monsters from the Fade. Something about those ruins told me I was meant to go there, next. They held something I was looking for. Something Keeper Hawen’s clan may have wanted.
          I wondered which war had destroyed this little shemlen homestead as I made my way toward it, mercifully ignored by the local wildlife prowling about. Were these houses old enough to be laid low by elven armies? Or had the Orlesians betrayed themselves and destroyed their own attempts at civilization too, as they had betrayed us, and destroyed ours? The heavy history of the land touched me deeply, here. To see with my own eyes what I had only read about in the Circles, the devastated aftermath of the stories I’d once memorized from my own Keeper.
          The solemnity of it threaded me with quiet, muted reverence.
          A small monument—“small” only in that it was a single column of carved and polished stone; the thing towered over my head as so many shemlen crafts seemed required to—held the answer. A placard set a foot or so above eye level read Memorials of the Second Exalted March.

          Demetrius’s End
          Remember Lord Demetrius Aron, the only one of Andraste’s Champions to fall.
          The Forces of the Exalted March met the elves upon the field; our numbers far exceeded theirs. The Champions, kind and fair, gave the elves a chance for peace, but the elves would not lay down their arms. They slew Lord Demetrius in their charge. Maker take him to His side.

          Bitter, if inappropriate, pride tightened my grip on Vivienne’s cane.
          Our people, invictus. Destroyed and driven from our lands, but neither conquered nor cowed in the process. I wondered if Hawen’s clan was descended from those brave warriors. Or if they had returned later.
          The Western Ramparts were not far from here. Their long lines of wooden stakes made a jag-toothed mess of the horizon. I followed the path further from them, deeper into these ruins, picking my way around the charred trunks of what might have been a beautiful forest at one time. It was good that I had been separated from Madame de Fer for this assignment. I would not have been allowed the freedom to express and experience such pensive solitude, had I remained at her side.
          I missed my people. Not the Fellavhens, specifically. But the idea of the Dalish. What we stood for, what we stood against. I could feel it in the antiquity of this place. Dirthavaren. The Promise. The battles, the bloody quest to keep our home. Never surrendering to the two-faced shem, never bowing to their god. I wished I was one of them, as I walked the trodden cobbles loosely marking the old path. I wished I could have been here, fighting for something that mattered. Turning Vhenan’Then to a cause we could be proud of. A cause worth fighting for.
          A blackened tree held my weight for a moment. I sank down to its roots to have a quiet, private cry. I shouldn’t be alone out here. I shouldn’t be alone anywhere. It was a dangerous thing for a mage, especially wounded as I was, especially with the Veil as it was.
          Small miracle that no foes had found me yet.
          But it felt good to weep. To grieve. To bathe in silent sorrow, and shed a tear for the hundreds, the thousands lost. Legions of wild elves unmourned, valiant soldiers of a worthy cause, may Falon’Din guide you to your final peace.
          The world flinched, leaving me breathless, setting my pulse aflight. Sweat beaded my skin like the aftermath of a panic attack; my throat felt raw, as though from screaming.
          My body trembled in sudden weakness.
          The sky was filled with startled birds.
          Rocks.
          There were rocks here. A handful in reach, and more from the rubble a quick crawl away. I gathered a pile and made of them an owl in flight, right there by the path, as best I could. Shemlen boots would kick it over in time but for this moment, here and now, a little Dalish elf had made a monument of her own to the warriors of old.
          Dust and ash coated my lips from a kiss upon its imperfect head. The taste of death, ingested with the sweep of a tongue. I promised to carry their fight in me.
          And I dragged myself back to my feet, and plodded my way back down the path.
          Saccharine darkness teased at my soul after a time; the telltale spirit-tang of recent blood magic. The corpse itself splayed atop a brick pile didn’t stand out among the other recent rot, but the six snuffed candles around it and small Dalish-carved box nearby most certainly did.
          Inside was a journal, bloodstained and badly torn. But Valorin’s name had been inked upon the leatherbound cover, confirming the worst.
          I flipped through what little I could still make out without damaging the rest. Something called Lindiranae’s talisman. Wards. His writings spoke of a ruins nearby, perhaps an Elvhen one he was hoping to acquire some object from, to prove his worth to the Keeper. I didn’t quite understand the politics involved or the heart of the conflict between this boy and Hawen, but they did not matter. His clan was already so different from my own. What mattered were his things, gathered as best I could into the box, and brought with me out of the shattered home and back to the loose-cobbled path. They would have to do, as Valorin himself was so badly burned not even the shemlen death magics could puppeteer it, now.
          I whispered a prayer to Falon’Din, and begged the great owl for forgiveness. It was not right of me to deny those mages their deathly travels and to call instead upon Fen’Harel to devour them. Perhaps it was best not to linger here, if Valorin’s soul had not yet found its rest.
          Strange, how safe my passage across the plains was. This place did not feel half as stable as it was, and yet nothing harried my patient gait. The river glimmered in the distance, but darker stone nearby caught and held my gaze. Broken arches draped with ivy recalled the elvhen ruins nearer the Inquisition’s camp; perhaps these homesteads had been simply humans caught in their own empire’s crossfire. A traitor’s fate for stolen land.
          Conversation floated on the wind as I approached, Orlesian accents by the sound of them. Caution dictated stealth, and I was very careful to keep the tallest intact wall between myself and the ruin’s innards. Just a peek was all I wanted—something was drawing me here, something not quite of the Fade but unwise to ignore nonetheless. I only realized the chatter had stopped when my back was pressed to the outer corner, and I peered around it to see three corpses on the ground, around a blazing fire beneath a simmering stew-pot. The flames glimmered against their fresh blood, so fresh they were still bleeding it, three clean cuts to the throat spilling streams of crimson down the ancient stone. Again the world flinched and my body seized with a terrible panic, but there was no source for the assailant, no threat nearby, nothing to do this to them. And they couldn’t have done it themselves, either—no weapon was drawn in any hand, no blade fallen nearby.
          I hobbed closer, on high alert for this unseen assassin. The bodies were still warm to the touch. What bothered me most was Vhenan’Then’s lack of concern. The spirit ought to be doggedly tugging me toward safety and yet his demeanor had not changed at all. He remained comfortable in his vigilance; satisfied that there indeed was no threat to me. To us.
          But how?
          A bowl of stew sat at the base of a chunk of fallen masonry large enough to sit on. I took a seat there to steady myself and picked it up for a meal. Orlesians were a bit broader of taste than their Fereldan meat-lord field counterparts, and it made for a pleasantly full belly, so long as I did not think too hard about which animal had provided this meat. There were only so many to choose from out here, and most sported the horns of my people’s aravel-pullers.
          As I ate, the full weight of the day began to sink in. I pushed it right back out; there was still work to be done. A strange sconce caught my eye as I looked around the ruin. I’d seen it before, but the name of it took some time to come back to me.
          Veilfire. That thing I’d argued with Solas over in the Fallow Mire.
          Another example was here.
          Was I ready to wield magic like this? I oughtn’t try, but there seemed no better way to learn. The ruins themselves weren’t terribly large, a rectangle of ten to twenty paces per side, with a central dip, all too crumbled to fathom purpose. And yet this wall stood, with its ancient sconce, and I could think of no story to tell Madame de Fer tonight that would see me out here again, alone, able to make a private attempt at spellcasting.
          I left the bowl where I’d found it, emptied of contents, and rose as I hefted my cane to a middle grip. A gentle tug at the Veil, a quiet call to the Fade to aid me. Pinpricks of pain flanked my spine, raising nervous gooseflesh, but nothing seemed to tear or rend as the cane’s lyrium runes glowed and answered my arcane beckon. Pale green flames flared in the sconce and leapt willingly into my open palm. Almost immediately I became aware of a fresh source of power, reacting to the Veilfire, around the outer corner of the inner wall. Elvhen glyphs gleamed in the ethereal glow, impressing clear imagery onto my memory. Two ravens. One grips a heart in its talons, the other a mirror.
          Fear and Deceit. The ravens of Dirthamen.
          I searched every rock and pile of rubble after that discovery, but no further secrets remained, here. No doubt they’d been picked clean by Orlesian looters many hundreds of years ago; foolish of me to even hope I’d find something of interest. Though it would give me something to read back in Skyhold, refreshing my studies on the history of this place when we were through here. Perhaps scholars of an earlier era could tell me what I might have found, had I walked this path two hundred years ago.
          The sun was sinking. It was time to leave. Back to the river I hobbled, content at least in the knowledge that small spells were now possible. Another few days or perhaps no more than a week might see me fully healed, at this rate.
          Promising.
          The shadows were long by the time I arrived at the Dalish camp’s far bank. Keeper Hawen raised his riverbed bridge at my approach. He sent one of his men across to aid me, a fair-haired and bright-eyed young hunter who kindly reminded me that his name was Loranil, and who asked where my companion had gone.
          “A small tragedy befell us,” I admitted, unable to think of any better lie that would paint Solas’s abandonment kindly. “He wished to grieve alone.”
          “A tragedy?” The elf looked me up and down anew and reaffirmed his grip on my waist. “Are you well?”
          Well enough to not need such intimate assistance.
          “I am in good health, as was he when we parted,” I promised. “The mishap was to another.”
          “I see,” Loranil replied, steady in his aid as we walked from stone to stone. “This place holds much pain, these days. We wish him well.”
          “As do I. Ma serannas.”
          We stepped onto the Dalish shore together, and he smiled warmly at me. “Your comfort with the People’s Tongue is a great delight, hahren. Do you teach the Old Ways to the Inquisition?”
          A smile came easily to me, as well, despite his inappropriate honorific. “Teach them? To whom, lethallan? The shem?” They were a comfortable people, Hawen’s clan. I could even manage a laugh, and a shake of the head. “Our ways are sacred. I am free to live as I wish, but I keep the secrets.” Hawen, finished lowering the stones back into the stream, crossed to join us. Pleased approval glimmered in his eyes as I bent for a respectful bow, and lifted my gaze. “Were other Dalish to join us,” I added, “I would share what I know, and hope to exchange culture and history.” Others gathered loosely around us. “But of course, the shemlen world is a broken place. It is wiser for the People to protect themselves.”
          Loranil’s face fell. “You would not suggest we lend our warriors to your cause, hahren?”
          Again I shook my head. “We do not ask tribute, friend. Your clan struggles enough; we would not see you stripped of capable hands.”
          The elf and his Keeper exchanged a glance. “But you bring peace,” Loranil insisted. “Already, the undead have stopped rising anew, and our hunters report fewer sky-tears.”
          Good to hear that Trevelyan was keeping busy.
          Hawen stepped forward. “Some of the People have expressed a desire to join your cause, Harellan,” he revealed. “Your work and words have convinced me to consider their requests. If your men continue to restore the Dales as they have, the clan can spare a few warriors.”
          I held my shock as gratitude over their stunning generosity. But the thought of introducing more of our kind to Trevelyan horrified. What would Vivienne think? Would they even make it four steps into camp before seeing me as the liar I was?
          “—Beg pardon,” a young woman interrupted in mangled Elvhen, stepping through the thickened crowd. Her eyes were on the box under my arm. “Is that Valorin’s? Did you find him?”
          All attention turned to the field-scuffed wood. I crossed to hand it to her. “I believe we did, friend. And I am afraid I have grave news.” Not the best tonal shift, admittedly. “He was your brother, yes?”
          She was too quick to see truth. Her voice broke immediately.
          “‘Was’?”
          …Unfortunately.
          “He sought an artifact in the Dales,” I told her, softening my words. “The wild demons took him from us. If you’ve a cedar branch, I would be honored to perform rites.”
          No need to tell them what magic he’d truly been performing. I could not imagine their clan would be kinder about blood magic than mine or the Circles.
          Sorrow layered itself like a blanket upon the gathered elves. All bowed their heads and some crowded in for comfort as Emalien began to weep.
          “Loathe as I am to leave his remains, the day draws to a close, and we would not send you out alone,” Keeper Hawen decided. “I will send an honor guard to accompany you to retrieve him tomorrow. But for tonight…Would you say a prayer, Harellan?” the Keeper requested softly. “We are Falon’Din’s People; death is no stranger to us. I, too, will eulogize him, myself. But if you know any reverent words in the Old Tongue…”
          Face to face to face, I saw their pain. This clan was small, and their First was elsewhere. To lose a promising Second to impatience and youth, it was another blow to their already tenuous survival.
          Of course I could speak a prayer for their fallen.
          Loranil was kind enough to hold my cane, freeing my hands to spread, palms up, towards the earth, and to close my eyes, and to bow my head.
          “Gracious Owl, Dirthamen’s Twin,” I began, intoning the words of ancient solemnity, “hallowed guide of dear departed. Shroud our fallen brother in your blackest cloak, that he may be hidden from those who would guide his final footsteps astray. Lead his soul to peace, and may your gift to him be wings, to free him from the burdens of this life. Lethanavir, be praised.”
          Unbidden, the clan echoed Lethanavir, be praised, in near-flawless Elvhen back at me. The others seemed just as startled at themselves and surprised as I felt, but my solemn nod assured them that this was, inexplicably, the correct response to give.
          Tears glistened in many moist eyes. Everyone seemed to look to me for more. Something within tugged at me to offer a full service, to share the Fellavhen rites of final passage. But Hawen stepped in to thank me quietly, and Loranil handed me back my cane.
          “The evening waxes, hahren,” the Keeper began, unsettling me further with his reverent address. “Will you stay the night with the clan? Our people will see you to your camp if you prefer, but we would be honored to offer you the safety of the Dirth.”
          The proposal parted my lips. A night among my people? An evening on the legendary Dales? Such a thing should not be so alluring and yet I could not deny the quiet calling in my chest, the longing to accept.
          Vivienne would not understand. But I could make a thousand convincing lies of my absence. I thanked the Keeper and gratefully agreed, and the clan dispersed to their duties, and to make room for a new elf among their camp.
          “Hahren.” Another voice called through the thinning crowd. Another uncomfortably respectful address. I turned to see Ithiren, the halla master, making his way down the bank toward me. “A word, if you please.” He ushered me back to his herd, the creatures nosing curiously around one another to await my arrival. His eyes were on the distant horizon. An evening’s breeze ruffled his leathers. “I wanted to know we could trust you before sharing this knowledge. I hope you will understand my caution.” He blinked once, then focused me with an intensity I couldn’t quite read.
          “I would like to ask what you know of Hanal’Ghilan, the golden halla.”

Chapter Text

Vivienne

          Fellavhen was missing.
          She hadn’t returned to camp that night, and nor, suspiciously, had Solas. Neither one appeared by morning’s light, either.
          Private or otherwise indirect inquiries to Cassandra, Fiona, et al. revealed that no one knew where she was, nor when she had last been seen. No scuffles were reported. None remembered if or how she had left the area, or under what pretenses. The woman had simply disappeared from camp, potentially alongside her vagrant paramour, with no known orders to follow.
          Some of my loyalists snidely suggested she’d finally run off to rejoin the Dalish. The more intelligent remainder watched them pick ice shards from their teeth. The thought did cross my mind independently, of course, but little could be publicly done to discover the truth, for now. I could not be seen sending my people after her, nor could I sacrifice my own utility nor standing leading a wild rabbit chase of my own. And Trevelyan could not be bothered to check on the Dalish encampment, of course. The very idea was laughable.
          He had Orlesians to impress, after all, and a battlefield to continue stabilizing. I finished my drafts of a new set of rules, etiquette, and expected conduct for our magical conscripts to keep my mind from the woman, and shared them over a post-lunch tea with our Herald, who had spent his own morning touring his ever-growing troops and the Warden’s ongoing camp construction.
          “The phylactery system must be reinstated,” I insisted in his command tent. “I recommend consideration of some sort of reward for soldiers who wish to take their Chantry vows and become Templars, as well. An incentive, perhaps in pay or prestige. Significantly more than we currently have will be required, particularly considering how Corypheus absconded with so many, and you’ve an opportunity to inspire that I strongly suggest you not squander. The sooner you begin your training, the better, to blaze the path forward and set the Inquisition as a shining standard of a return to stability. No later than the very moment we return to Skyhold. If we are to tame Fiona’s horde, we must do so with force, and through the consistent application of order and discipline.”
          The man’s impatience could be worked to my favor.
          “Do you expect me to handle all of this, Vivienne?” he sighed, ruffling the papers with a scowl. “Haven’t I got enough on my plate?”
          It was almost child’s play, after the cutthroat of the courts. “I would defer the work to an even split between your commander and your magical advisor, darling, but—” a performative glance at the tent flap drew his eye that way, as well, “—the latter seems to have disappeared, and the former, well…his views on lyrium no longer align with what the world requires.” I locked eyes with the Inquisitor, offering a taut smile he marvelously reflected. “I, of course, remain both capable of and willing to enact these new policies. Policies that, I remind you, will tighten your reins on this untapped, untamed rabble. All you need to do is look the part.”
          “And take lyrium every day for the rest of my life.”
          …Yes.
          We’ve been over this, darling.
          But he wanted a challenge. He’d been thinking since we last spoke on the topic. That twinkle in his eye begged to be convinced. I traced the edge of his field war table absently.
          “A small price for power over reality itself, wouldn’t you say?”
          And there it was. A satisfaction that sank itself into Trevelyan’s well-bred features, deeper than any act of carnal flesh.
          He wouldn’t even have to attend another exploded Conclave.
          I was, of course, invited out on their battlefield excursions to continue discussing the details of our plans. Dorian attended as well, and took part in perfunctory arguments about his exemption from our “barbaric Southern blood collection,” but his interests lay much more heavily in the Venatori agents who had begun crawling out of their hiding places now that they’d lost control over both Ramparts and the revolting body pits so much of their efforts had been wasted collecting. Finding and purging their little nests seemed to fill him with glee, and watching our Herald purge the sky of rifts swelled the breasts of our new Orlesian foot soldiers with appropriate wonder and awe.
          Essentially, we were killing time. Riding about, exploring the land, stumbling across sobering reminders of the heavy history of the many attempts to tame this vast expanse of wilds. Enforcing the country’s ceasefire in public and obvious manners while waiting for the remainder of our field operations base to finally be established.
          The evening waxed. New shapes filtered through the wartime haze, neither demon, Orlesian, nor Venatori.
          “An elven scouting party?” Trevelyan sneered, drawing our advance to a halt. He tossed an unwelcome glance my way. “Didn’t I tell your Swamp Champion to keep them out of our way?”
          Truthfully I was surprised he’d remembered her at all.
          “Is that a golden halla??” Dorian declared, sparing me the need to reply.
          We all stared at the scene slowly emerging on the horizon. A handful of diminutive figures surrounded one of their wild deer. The beast looked hardly ‘golden’ to me, or at all different from others of its kind through the smoke-filtered sunlight, but Dorian seemed convinced by some glint of its antlers or stain upon its coat.
          “That would fetch a fortune in Tevinter markets,” he sighed. “I know a buyer in Minrathous who—”
          “Kill it, then,” Trevelyan ordered, startling the dreaming mage out of his reverie. It seemed an inconvenience had just become a gilded opportunity, and the Inquisitor was not above capitalizing.
          Dorian frowned, judging the distance between himself and the elven crowd.
          “They’re all a bit…close,” he wavered, threading uncertain lightning between his casting fingers. “Wouldn’t want to miss.”
          “Then scare them away first, if your heart bleeds for the elves,” the Herald quipped.
          “And who do you think will run faster, dear Inquisitor, the elves or the halla?” Dorian countered thinly, dispelling his magic.
          Trevelyan glared, but accepted the man’s refusal.
          “Archers?” He turned toward the three we’d brought along, instead.
          All three nocked arrows and took aim, significantly less concerned with their potential for collateral damage than our resident Tevinter.
          So much for Celene’s pro-elf policies. Or perhaps they were simply that eager to impress a new commander. The breezes cleared a swirl of ash away, and I very suddenly recognized a certain puff of yellow hair, as well as the Circle-crafted walking cane of one particular elf currently cheek-to-jowl with their intended target.
          “Lower your bows,” I commanded, drawing expected ire from our brave leader. I faced him with a cool resolve. “I spy Fellavhen out there, dear Herald, and if she senses an arrow loosed her way it will be returned with enough speed and force to puncture a breastplate, before she’s seen who’s fired it. I will kill the beast.”
          She would know not to interfere with my spells.
          “Well, I’m not carrying her home if you miss,” Dorian taunted as I brought my horse to the fore.
          “Behold the precision of the Southern Circles, then, darling,” I replied, turning away to cast.
          A figure stood there, before my horse, startling it into a snort. Solas’s pet demon, it was, with its patchwork leathers and ugly hat, staring at something behind me.
          “Don't,” the monster begged. “She loves it. It makes her so happy.”
          I looked from the thing to Fellavhen, the distant woman bowing in some sort of elvish mockery of civilization. The animal knelt and dipped its horns in response. She circled as though to mount it.
          Best to be quick, then.
          Frost dusted the grass, shimmering needles among the blades. My spell caught the beast’s bent forelegs and froze them to the ground. Rather immediately, the deer brayed and thrashed, and the elves drew weapons and shouted at each other and at us.
          Fellavhen froze, too, though not from peripheral ice.
          Our men bristled in response.
          With a squeeze of my fist, I stilled the halla’s heart, leaving its pelt unmarred by wounds. It fell, silent and lifeless, to its side.
          Quick and clean.
          “Subtlety has its places,” I said to Dorian, enjoying the flashy mage's pout as we rode closer. Angered horror gathered the Dalish between us and our prize, and one of their hunters stepped forward.
          “What have you done, shem?” he demanded, a snarl twisting his painted skin. “You’ve killed the Hanal'Ghilan! Why?!”
          “I beg your pardon, the what?” Trevelyan rolled his eyes Dorian’s way, clearly expecting sympathy. To the elves, he added, “We’re requisitioning this beast for the Inquisition. I recommend you stand aside, unless you wish to join the animal’s fate.”
          Another of them seemed to have a bright idea to challenge us, raising a curved Dalish sword our way. His guard was cut short, however, by Fellavhen’s magic blade flashing between them and us. She’d hobbled her way around the corpse and stood there now, left arm outstretched, weapon horizontal, facing her people.
          One of their fairer-haired touched her arm, pain in his eyes.
          “What is the meaning of this, hahren?”
          “You heard him,” Fellavhen replied. There was nothing readable in her flat tone. “This animal is now the property of the Inquisition.”
          She added something in their language, something that turned all of their heads and lowered all of their half-readied weapons.
          Trevelyan cleared his throat. “Beg pardon, rabbits, I’m the one in charge, here. She answers to me, and I am ordering you all to clear out.” He tugged his horse’s reins, causing the animal to snort and stomp and shake its mane.
          A quick command to his men shuffled a few of them forward to attempt to gather up the fallen Halla. Fellavhen hobbled obediently aside, as well. When the rest of the elves held their ground, however, the Inquisitor’s soldiers raised their blades.
          They waited for him to make his decision. Ice danced restlessly in my veins. I could frighten them away. But I could not be seen saving them. Not simply for Fellavhen’s sake.
          Though, she was doing a remarkable job of showing no emotion at all. No loyalty, to them or to us. Which meant that whatever she was feeling right now, she felt it so strongly that she could not enforce any more convincing a mask than absence.
          Curious.
          “Slaughter them too, if you must,” Trevelyan sighed. “If they wish to die along with their deer, we’ll oblige them.”
          “It was a sacred animal!” one of the elven women cried, drawing her bow, “Ghilan'nain’s guide, sent to our clan to—”
          “It was sent to make a decoration for my castle,” Maxwell corrected sharply. “Or a lucrative trade to Tevinter. Kill them.”
          A crack of thunder matched a blinding bolt of lightning, striking a safe distance away but startling all present and rearing several horses. The arrow went wild, flung into the distant sky. Panicked Dalish scattered and retreated to the west. Incomprehensible insults were tossed our way, the elves shouting about demons and dread wolves and traitors as they fled.
          Dorian scowled and lowered his sparking arm, a grim set to his mouth.
          “Little need for more murder, I’d say,” the man sighed thinly. He drew his horse around in a gruff tug of the reins and trotted off a few steps to wait in impatient silence.
          I retreated to join him, and turned to call Fellavhen to my side. That creature was there, the demon, facing her as though speaking. No words came from it, however. And she made no indication that she was listening.
          Fellavhen made no indication of anything at all, in fact. She simply stared at the ground, unblinking. Unmoving. Leaning heavily on her cane.
          “Thought you could run off with them, did you, Swamp Thief?” Trevelyan asked, drawing his horse astride of her as the soldiers hefted the limp beast onto another. “I knew your sort weren't trustworthy.”
          I dismounted and crossed to the pair. Fellavhen’s response was quiet.
          “Forgive me, Inquisitor ser. I mistakenly thought you wanted them as allies.”
          The Herald scoffed. “And what would I do with a bunch of wild elves? You’re barely trainable…”
          “I’ll handle her, darling.” A light touch to his knee turned the man’s head, and I directed his gaze back toward the rest. “I suggest you admire your trophy. Surely Dorian will be happy to regale you with suggestions for how to skin and prepare it for market.”
          It seemed about the last thing the other mage wanted to do. But perhaps he’d learn not to insult the Southern Circles a second time.
          The Herald nestled his chin in the crook of his thumb and forefinger, considering the Halla. “I don't know…” he started off, pulling his reins toward Dorian’s horse. “What say we keep it for ourselves, if it’s so very rare and valuable, Pavus?”
          The idea was an interesting one, but I had more pressing matters to attend to.
          Namely, Fellavhen. Shaking in a way I wasn't certain I’d ever seen her do before.
          “You didn’t return to camp last night, dear,” I began, keeping my voice low. “I do hope you weren’t planning to stay with that clan.”
          Just one of many questions I had for her.
          The elf flinched, as though woken from a trance. She was panting, I noticed, though hiding it well with closed lips and a taut jaw. Sweat beaded her forehead, pale under her branching tattoos, matting down her hair at the temples. Her eyes were glassy, and stared at nothing. When I touched her chin to raise her face, they closed in a tight wince.
          “Fellavhen, are you ill?”
          She could easily catch her death in a filth-ridden battlefield such as this.
          The wrong voice answered me.
          “Sick, sour, sore,” it said. “A rotting slime, a rancid stench, seeping from somewhere secret.” I scowled at the thing in the hat but it wasn’t looking at me. It, too, wasn’t looking at anything at all as it spoke in its horrid tones. “The wolf smiles through Herald’s teeth,” it added. “Dreadful glee dances behind shemlen eyes. He is here. He was called. It is my fault he is here. He follows me everywhere, stuck to my heels like a laughing shadow. And he...is always…hungry.”
          I glanced behind us, searching for something to distract it with, but the party had already gathered a few paces away, engrossed in the fruits of their hunt.
          “Where is Solas, Harellan?” Ignoring the thing often seemed to make it go away.
          “He is in pain, too,” it answered, instead of her. “He went to a far place, to find her again. He went to remember where they had met.”
          “Then perhaps you should find him,” I hissed. “I’m certain he’ll have better uses for the air you insist on wasting.”
          The demon raised its eyes to me. Such void-filled, vacant blue. My skin crawled every time our gaze met. Was it trying to possess Harellan? Was it trying to possess me?
          “He wanted to be alone. He said to protect her.” It turned to the elf between us. “So I tried to. But you wouldn’t listen. You hurt her, so badly. Why do you hurt her? You love her. You need her.”
          “Go away,” I ordered, tightening my grip on my staff. This time, I added a flaring threat to my words, spiraling bright and orange down the shaft. I would chase it away with fire, if need be. The monster promptly disappeared, leaving only its revolting unease behind.
          My nails left marks on the trembling elf’s pallid skin. A touch of healing magic smoothed the grip I hadn’t intended to tighten. Its words sank into my head.
          You love her. You need her.
          She leaned, silently, into my palm.
          “Let’s get you back to camp,” I urged, fixing a crease in her shirt. Something was very wrong, and here was no place to diagnose it. Fellavhen opened her eyes and followed me listlessly back to my horse. A staircase of ice helped her mount behind me, and we rejoined the Herald’s entourage riding two in the saddle.
          “Happy to have your wayward pet back, Vivienne?” Trevelyan asked as the group set off.
          “Fellavhen has always been most useful when no one is looking, darling,” I replied. “Have you decided about the halla? I know a tailor in Val Royeaux well-versed in natural materials, and fur is making a resurgence among the elites…”
          “I thought you wanted me in dragonskin,” he taunted with a smirk. “Now it’s to be furs?”
          “The Inquisitor ought to have more than one outfit to mark his accomplishments.”
          Dorian added to the topic just then, interjecting with potential magical properties for any garment made in part or in whole from a Golden Halla hide. I allowed the men to continue their conversation, as Fellavhen chose that moment to rest her weight against my back. A delicate elven hand gripped my shoulder, and I could feel her head weighing my collar flush to my neck.
          A thousand questions swirled through my head. But she was in no fit state to answer any of them. I took her arm from my shoulder and wrapped it around my waist, and secured her wrist against me. Partly to ensure she wouldn’t fall from the horse should she not make it back to camp awake and alert.
          But also because I suspected something more emotional than physical was happening behind those silent elven eyes, and she needed a familiar presence to draw strength from, after watching some clearly meaningful encounter murdered mere inches from her.
          Don’t. She loves it. It makes her so happy.
          Her tightening grip, shuddered breath, and the shift of her body against mine suggested I was correct.

Chapter Text

Solas

          Wisdom…was gone. In several manners of speaking. Bitterly, I realized how fitting it seemed, that ignorance would not only triumph, but vanquish entirely those better, gentler aspects of the world.
          It hurt. It always did. Every step seemed heavier than the last, carrying me back to that bastion of incognizance, the Inquisition for which I’d once held such high hopes. Night had already fallen and I’d hoped to steal back under the cover of smoke and stars, but activity greeted me from the camp, even at a distance. It was larger and more developed now, and dotted with fires ringed by soldiers.
          A concentrated commotion seemed to be happening by one of the ancient arches, lit from torches held by the few Templars to have joined Trevelyan’s ranks. The mages had been gathered there, and formed a flock of robes and hoods, obscuring their center. The sour tang of blood magic fouled the air. I searched for a manner by which to observe without being noticed, and doubled back to climb the rocks and creep my way carefully along the shaped stonework to peer down from its crumbling edge.
          First Enchanter Vivienne stood before a shallow stone basin by the ruin’s base. In one hand was her staff, in the other a small knife. Flanking her were soldiers, and flanking them were tables, upon which rested five or so dozen small vials, less than half of these glowing an ominous red, the others glinting blackly. Opposite the basin formed a Templar-kept line of mages, beside which stood Grand Enchanter Fiona, every eye grim and every mouth tight. The foremost of these stood with a hand outstretched, palm to the sky, sleeve drawn to the elbow. Flame snaked along the First Enchanter’s blade, a brief flash of yellow-orange to burnish its edge before the metal was applied to flesh. A clean slice across the palm, quick and decisive. Magic drew blood from the wound and pooled it into the basin below. Another flash healed the cut, and the mage was released to join the crowd. And to be, it appeared, reassured by friends and peers.
          A soldier passed Vivienne one of the blackened vials. Into the basin its contents were tipped, along with a swirl of magic and the sort of spell that thickened this world and enforced its rules. The sort of spell that, in other circumstances, turned the Chantry’s cruelest eye and invoked its sharpest rebukes. The sort of spell that called to the power of the veins, and swirled the sickly mixture into a deep, glowing crimson.
          Magic lifted the liquid from the stone, and poured it back into the vial. Magic melted the glass together, sealing the fluid within. Magic flash-seared any remnants left in the basin.
          The vial was passed to the other soldier, who, with a brush and ink, painted initials upon the glass, and set it aside with the rest.
          And another mage stepped forth, and glanced at Grand Enchanter Fiona, and drew up her sleeve.
          I clambered back down and avoided the crowd. Under no circumstances would I submit to this unspeakable new policy, and I found the Seeker nearby to insist upon my freedom from it. A sharp reminder of my contributions to the successes of the Inquisition was, thankfully, unnecessary, though Cassandra’s inability to detail precisely how she intended to protect me rang rather hollow. She seemed relieved that I’d returned, however. As though my absence had, in fact, been noticed.
          A darker sight caught my eye as I paced the shadows, seeking to orient myself among the camp’s expanded footprint. A dead halla, hung by the hind legs outside Trevelyan’s command tent, cleanly split and gutted. Its horns and pelt were of a rare color, and spoke to another stomach-turning tragedy this world had inflicted upon itself. Some sort of trough had been inserted into the tail-to-throat wound, still wet with its last few drops of blood. The animal’s lifeless black eye reflected the nearby fire, around which the brave Herald of Andraste himself drank and conversed with Iron Bull, Blackwall, Dorian, and a handful of the Chargers. The Qunari spotted me almost preternaturally, but he was kind enough to draw no attention to my cloak of darkness. Instead his gaze followed my own, to the beast, before returning to his drink with a boisterous laugh.
          The dissonance between the two halves of camp sickened.
          “It sang before it died. Sweet somber serenity, a guide to guard the path of peace.”
          The footsteps didn’t match Cole’s voice. Varric approached, walking beside the spirit.
          “Oh. Chuckles, you’re back. About time.”
          “I am sorry for your loss,” Cole added. Both were kind enough to keep their voices low.
          “Thank you,” I replied.
          “You got anything you wanna talk about?” Varric asked, looking from me to the spirit and back. He offered a half-forced smile. “Cole beelined right for you, which usually doesn’t mean great news, I’ve noticed.”
          A true statement.
          “Thank you, Master Tethras,” I repeated to him, as well. “Unfortunately this is not a subject I would like to speak about.”
          “A dull throb, a hole in the head, to match the one in the heart. Both will be empty for a long time, now. They’re not in the shape of a normal thing. But they are familiar pains.”
          They certainly were familiar pains.
          Varric touched Cole’s back, turning the spirit’s attention. “Alright, kid, let’s leave him be, he doesn’t want to talk, either.”
          Either?
          To me, the man added, “If you feel up to it, Chatterbox could use some company. I’ve been keeping Cole busy to keep him away from her. I don’t think she’s having a good night.”
          “Are any of us?” I countered.
          Varric laughed, which I had intended him to, but I could not join him, quickly ending his mirth. “Doesn’t really seem like it. I mean, sure, Maxxy’s having a good time, but Fiona and her mages…?” He waved me off, and shook his head. “Take care of yourself, Chuckles. This place…Well, I don’t need to be magic to know it’s grim here.”
          “Where is Fellavhen?” I asked, stopping his half-turn to leave.
          “Ah…” The stone-child frowned, then squinted through the camp. “Not really sure. I think she’s a little outside everything, you may have passed her on the way in. Got a little fire to herself somewhere around here, tucked away from all the, uh…festivities.”
          That was enough. I thanked him again, and bade him farewell. To Cole, I wished a silent apology, one I was certain he heard, based on the pause to glance back at me, and upon Varric’s insistent tug at his sleeve to urge him away.
          Perhaps when the rawest edges of that hole in my heart had begun to heal, I would be more willing to speak with him of my pain.
          I was not convinced yet whether I wanted to speak with Slow-Heart, either, but I ought at least to take stock of her. She might care, to see me well, or at least see me unharmed. And she, more than any, might truly understand the weight of my loss. I caught myself hoping she might even surprise me with her compassion, as she had surprised me with her handling of Wisdom’s final moments.
          I found her not far from a further set of broken Elvhen arches, seated on some fallen masonry, her single burning log obscured by stone from most angles. Her back was to the camp, and to me, and she seemed to be fidgeting with something.
          I could see only a sliver of her face as she turned to notice my presence. Her expression was too shadowed to read. I waited, for a greeting, or for any sort of recognition at all.
          She’s not having a good night either.
          The Pathfinder, I suddenly remembered that halla was called. Regarded as a reverent omen by the Dalish. What it was doing dead in the camp, I had little interest in discovering, but, presumably, its passing had sombered the woman.
          Fellavhen turned back to her fire.
          I decided against joining her.
          I could not offer comfort. Not while I still grieved.
          I returned to camp and stole a few pieces of firewood from the piles at its edges, and sought a private space of my own among the remains of Elvhen attempts to reclaim a lost glory. My intention was to listen for the activity to end, and the Inquisition’s soldiers, mages, and others to hasten to sleep.
          Slender boots stepped into my campfire’s glow, mere minutes after my spell took to the wood and became a mundane flame. Slow-Heart stood at the periphery of its flickering light, her Orlesian silks glinting along their edges.
          “Will you take company, Solas?” she asked after all. Her face and tone were neutral.
          I gestured to the scattered rocks as seats. “I am not in a conversational mood. But you may join me, if you wish to sit, and reflect.”
          Her eyes scanned the scene. She nodded ambiguously before slipping back into the cooling caress of the night. I resigned myself to solitude when she did not immediately return, but a minute or two later I sensed a subtle ripple in the Veil, as she quenched her single burning log.
          Moments later she reappeared, a cloth-wrapped bundle in her hands.
          Only then did I notice her cane was gone.
          And so was her limp.
          She crossed to me with no hint of injury, and stood before the fallen block I’d chosen as a seat.
          “May I join you here?” she asked, her Elvhen touching more than my ears. “Or would you prefer distance?”
          The stone was large enough to share. I rose and resettled myself to one side.
          She took the other, and unwrapped a set of small carving tools, of a finer quality than the ones I’d remembered her using in the Hinterlands to create a new mage’s staff. What she was carving did not immediately present itself, however, as she set the cloth on the ground between her feet and arranged the tools in a neat parallel. From a fold in her sash she carefully withdrew a small, glimmering golden stone, perhaps half an inch at its widest. She turned it in her fingers absently, studying its shape in the firelight.
          It was a spiral of some sort, its inner edge a smooth, rounded curve. Its outer edge was rough and jagged. If it was a talisman of the Dalish, its symbol was one I did not immediately recognize. At least not, one assumes, in its unfinished state.
          After another moment of study, she selected some tool, and began to knick the outer edges even more, slowly peeling strands of material away in a manner I hadn’t expected. Clearly, it wasn’t a stone. I knew no metal that soft and workable, however.
          “...You may refuse, of course, but…if you’d like to speak of Wisdom, I’ll hear any words you have,” she invited quietly after a few careful shaves.
          “...What would you like to know?” I asked, a bit despite myself.
          “Anything,” she answered, eyes and hands focused on her work. “Everything. Moments, memories.” She paused again, to thumb away the accumulate, and inspect her work. “I’ve not known another mage with a friendship to spirits.” She turned the carving to its opposite face, and began again to roughen the outer edge. “I know you know of Vigilance. I’d like to hear what Wisdom meant to you.”
          Slow Heart…
          This was…what I had hoped for. A kindred soul, with whom to share a dear friend’s life. It surprised me, somehow. Something else seemed wrong. But perhaps it was only Vivienne’s phylactery-crafting that troubled her, not Hanal’Ghilan’s death, after all. I checked the woman’s palm as she paused to study her work.
          Sure enough, a pink scar ran its length. Freshly-healed, though imperfectly so. As though the mark had been deliberately left behind.
          A declaration of loyalty, no doubt. Disfigurement in the name of belonging.
          Bitterly I realized a Dalish woman would have no trouble accepting this. I stole a glance toward her fire-limned profile. Her face would be so beautiful without so much blood-written ink.
          She returned to her carving, patient and rhythmic, sedately affording me all the time I wanted to respond. I chased away my darker disapproval of her present state and instead considered the proposal. The fire played kindly with Slow-Heart’s fingers and their dextrous work. I envisioned my friend as I’d known her, and accepted the woman’s invitation to memorialize a Fadeborn being as profoundly as she deserved.
          I thought back to our first meeting. To the mutual surprise and sedate joy of kindred souls. I thought back to the reflections of the world that had birthed Wisdom, the rare institutions and memories that stirred and shaped that part of the Fade. I thought back to a handful of difficult decisions and moments of uncertainty for which she had been more than happy to offer advice and consultation. And I spoke of how she had guided my life, how she had calmed my sharper anger and softened the bladed edges of my frustrations.
          All of these things, of course, had to be couched in careful language, to keep the secrets I could not afford to share. But they came to me lyrically, after a time, and the catharsis of Fellavhen’s respectful acceptance blurred the fire and her hands alike in the mists of a tearful gaze. She paused, once, to produce a handkerchief for me. I took it, to bury my wet eyes in, with a nod of gratitude. Why could more not be as she was? And how could even she be this way, with such blinding loyalty to Vivienne?
          It helped. It helped more than I could express with words. I dried Slow-Heart’s handkerchief and returned it to her. I thanked her, and she thanked me for trusting her with such a meaningful eulogy. A surge of willpower was needed to keep me from a fresh round of tears. By now both sides of her charm nearly matched, and had still not approached anything I could name.
          “What are you making?” I finally asked, as she turned the glittering item over and over for inspection.
          “It is a Wolf’s Tail,” she answered.
          A what, lethallan?
          Our eyes met, hers seeking mine with the intent of a woman expecting some response.
          Dozens came to me, most in the form of questions. Fen’Harel’s specter was more than a fairy tale to her, and that fear extended to all wolves. What sort of Dalish hobby or habit could possibly drive her to invoke and recreate such an ill omen?
          Whatever she read from my hesitation seemed to satisfy her. Slow-Heart nodded and inspected the talisman one more time. “Would you like it?” she asked, striking me into a deeper confusion yet. “A charm, to remember her by?”
          …A charm…
          I offered a palm and she passed it to me. It was light, almost weightless. Was it not a metal, either?
          “Is this a funerary custom?” I asked. “Is not Falon’Din your clan’s guide?”
          Slow-Heart felt around her sash and produced a second irregular oval of glittering gold, this one seemingly cut from a larger piece based on its nearly-teardrop shape. The woman selected a different tool from her assortment and set about scoring it.
          “I’ve come to accept that you believe in no gods,” she answered. “Falon’Din holds no meaning for you.” With the back of her tool she gestured briefly to my bone necklace. “Wolves, however, seem to. You called that a memory, among other things. I thought you might like another wolfish token, to attach Wisdom’s life to. Something to remember her by.”
          This was…just for me? To memorialize the passing of a spirit.
          …If she didn’t stop this, I might just need that handkerchief back.
          A tear did indeed fall as I thumbed over the textures, the smooth spiral, its rough edge. I saw it now. The pattern of fur, the flare along its tip.
          Fen’Harel, Fen’Harel, closes his jaws…
          “What will that one be?” I asked, struggling to steady my voice as I glanced toward her new material.
          “Another tail,” the woman replied. “For myself.”
          The smile came easily, at least. “A matching set?”
          But she shook her head.
          “This will not mean the same.”
          Darkness chilled her tone. Curiosity overwhelmed me. But first I spent some time mastering myself once more, and mulling over this gift. A little wolf’s tail, given by a woman willing to open her mind at least enough to recognize that different views existed, different people existed. It seemed a small thing but it spoke to so much more. Her Dalish beliefs, her performative Andrastianism, and now this. A mockery of her deepest evil, an idol of damnation, given, not in spite, but in understanding. In sincerity. In hope.
          I thought back to the Rotunda, when she first met Cole. How bitterly she had rejected me then, how many ills she had dressed me in. How close to truth she was, yet in all the wrong ways. The mien of the Dread Wolf, the devil dancing with demons, free as though from consequence and responsibility. She’d looked at me then as an orphaned sister looked at her wildling brother, playing with a box of stolen matches. Watching him laugh at the flame, angry at ignored warnings, helpless to prevent the tragedy she knew he would one day cause. Parentless, impotent, principled. And all-too-aware that when their house, their village, caught fire, she too would be assigned the blame, and she too would suffer the punishment.
          My talisman glittered. Another match in the box, perhaps. A resignation to our shared fate.
          “What will it mean to you, then?” I asked.
          No answer.
          I looked to her, wondering if perhaps I had spoken too softly. A scowl shivered Mythal’s branches when I repeated the query.
          “It is a Wolf’s Tail, Solas,” was all she told me. “Their meaning is traditional, for the Dalish.”
          Traditional.
          As though Dalish “tradition” wasn’t as variable as it was incorrect. Still, I strove to remain patient. I recognized that she didn’t want to speak of it. But that hardly stopped me from wanting to know.
          “...Perhaps you might remind me?”
          The woman’s carving stopped. Her lips parted, then closed. I waited for her to wrestle with something inside her, fully expecting some snapping barb.
          It would be an acceptable price. She had been kind to me. I was strong enough now, to endure her bladed edges.
          “Like the story,” Slow-Heart finally managed.
          That hardly helped. “The Dalish have many stories.”
          With many degrees of inaccuracy.
          Her scowl returned. Like pulling teeth.
          On a whim, I reached out. I couldn’t take her hand, occupied as it was, but I rested my palm on her wrist, instead.
          Please, lethallan. I want to understand.
          Teach me. I want to learn.
          She froze and stared at the contact between us, then sighed and rested her forehead against her uncaptured fingertips, threading her carving tool deeper between them.
          “It is not a kind story,” she told me. Trade crashed against my ears, guttural and barbaric, dissonant syllables of a primitive civilization. “It is the one about the hunter and the halla-carver. Do you know it?”
          I squeezed, and smiled. Another easy smile. The only two, in at least as many days. “Not yet.”
          Exhaustion crept across her silhouette. An arching of the back, a slumping of the shoulders. A heaviness of the head. I turned her arm subtly, watched her hand half-unfold, revealing that pinkish scar again.
          “I did not come here to talk about me, Solas. And I don’t want to taint your thoughts about that.” She tapped the back half of her tool in the direction of her gift to me. “The Wolf’s Tail is…”
          Again she stopped herself, to wrestle with something internal. A bitter whisper escaped her after a brief moment, too quiet under the crackling fire but most certainly a swear of some kind.
          “A Wolf’s Tail is a tainted gift,” she sighed forlornly, as though in defeat, shaking her head. “It’s not what I meant, and you can give it back if you want. Here’s the story, you can make your own decis—”
          Opportunity seized me. I shifted closer to gather her tired shoulders in my arm. Under no circumstances would I give back such an open-minded gift, but more clearly than ever was I now certain she was battling some pain of her own. This world was awful to her, and she had never seemed so fragile as she was right now. Even in the Hinterlands, those long days and painful nights struggling to recover, her fighting spirit had never faltered. Something was broken inside her. Something she was using me to ignore. Something that began to collapse the moment attention was drawn to it.
          All at once, she leaned against me, her carving abandoned in loose and limp hands. I tightened my grip, to allow her a moment of rest.
          Several more passed, in which she simply breathed.
          What a Joy she was. What a rare moment, for a strong woman to be weak.
          “...There once was a proud hunter.”
          Almost a whisper, her voice became, as it slipped back into the tongue of our People. She took on the cadence of a storyteller, reciting a nursery rhyme. “A bold braggart of his People, who claimed he could fell any beast. And he was in love with the most beautiful woman, a halla-carver of unmatched skill. People would come from far and wide to see the graceful art she wrought of living antlers. They called her blessed by Ghilan'nain, and this made her vain. She scorned the proud hunter and his bold claims, and she turned him away, just as she turned away others.
          ‘If you wish me to love you,’ she told him, ‘you will make the forest safe for my halla’.”
          Slow-Heart lifted the scored golden lump in her hand to regard it hollowly.
          “So he did,” she continued. “He hunted everything in the forest. All the wolves, and all the bears, and all the things that could harm the carver’s precious halla, he killed them or drove them away.
          But this was not enough for her. For new bears and new wolves would always come back. For such is the way of the forest.”
          Slowly, she began to carve.
          “So the hunter prayed to Ghilan’nain. And the hunter prayed to Andruil. But such was the way of the forest, and they did not answer his prayers.
          But Fen’Harel was listening, too. And Fen’Harel wondered where all his wolves and his bears and all his things that would harm the carver’s precious halla had gone. So the next time the hunter left to hunt, Fen’Harel came to him, to ask what he was doing.
          ‘You wish to marry the halla-carver?’ Fen’Harel asked, when he had listened to the hunter’s woes.
          ‘I do,’ the hunter said, and he raised his bow. ‘And what would make the forest safer than hunting you, Dread Wolf?’
          ‘I have a better idea,’ Fen’Harel told him, and plucked off his own tail. ‘Take this back to the halla-carver, and tell her that you have driven me from this forest forever, and I will take all my wolves and all my bears and all my things that would harm the carver’s precious halla, and I will leave.’
          And the hunter agreed, and he took Fen’Harel’s tail, and he presented it to the clan, and he called himself the greatest hunter that had ever lived.”
          It took effort not to smile a third time. There was a childish charm to such a…tale.
          “And Fen’Harel left. And he took all his wolves and all his bears and all his things that would harm the carver’s precious halla with him, just as he said that he would.
          And the hunter and the carver were married that fall. And the winter that followed was mild. Without wolves, there were no threats. In the spring, there were no bears. And the hunter and his carver-wife hung Fen’Harel’s tail on the front of their aravel for all to see.”
          Slow-Heart’s hands were hypnotic in their patient rhythm.
          “But such was not the way of the forest.
          Without all the wolves and all the bears and all the things that could harm the carver’s precious halla, there was no balance. More and more halla appeared, and so did rats, and mice, and squirrels, and rabbits. Without Fen’Harel’s monsters to eat them, they started to eat everything they could. They ate the trees, and the roots, and the fruits and the vegetables, and when they ran out of these, they even ate each other. Soon there was nothing left for the People to eat, or to gather, or to hunt, and they began to starve.
          And the hunter saw what had happened and he knew he was to blame, and so he took Fen’Harel’s tail off his aravel and slipped away to right this wrong. He met with the Dread Wolf in secret, and he gave back the Dread Wolf’s tail, so long as Fen’Harel promised to restore the way of the forest.
          And Fen’Harel did. That night, all the wolves and all the bears and all that would harm the carver’s precious halla came back. But they came back all at once, and they too found nothing to eat. And so Fen’Harel led them into the clan to feast there, to feast on the halla with antlers too delicately-carved to fight back, and on the elves who had grown too weak and too lean to defend their herds, or protect themselves.
          And Fen’Harel left. For the way of the forest had been restored.”
          Crackling flames punctuated the falling silence. Slow-Heart remained at my side, warm and busy-handed, shaping the grooves of a new spiral.
          “A Wolf’s Tail is a curse disguised as a gift,” she said, eventually. “To ‘hang the Wolf’s Tail’ or to ‘take the Wolf’s Tail” is to mark or be marked for misfortune. You don’t believe in it, so it doesn’t matter to you, but to me…”
          When she trailed off, I touched the back of her palm. “To you?”
          “It reminds me I am cursed.”
          She flipped the charm over and began to groove a spiral there. “Not many among Keeper Hawen’s clan knew what my name means. And none of the quicklings do, nor any flatear I’ve ever met in the Circle. But you do. You knew it immediately. And more people should. It is a Wolf’s Tail, a warning, meant to tell others that I am tainted, I am cursed. Harellan, Kin-Traitor, House of the Rebel. I am Fen’Harel’s home.”
          Again her words paused. She seemed to be listening. I could hear nothing but our fire, and the sounds of the Inquisition readying for sleep.
          “...What prompted this, then?”
          Slow-Heart shifted in my grip, resettling her weight. She held up her unfinished charm between us.
          “The carving?" the woman asked. "Inquisitor Trevelyan hunted a halla today. A…special one. A rare one.”
          “The Pathfinder.”
          Her eyes closed in a wince, as though I’d threatened to strike her. “It reminded me of the story. These are pieces from its horns. The First Enchanter was kind enough to cut them for me, as…” The woman struggled for words, and ended with something that could have been token, memorial, or gravemarker. She paused again, presumably to gather herself. “When we were unable to save Wisdom, when you…killed those mages who killed her. I…called on Fen’Harel to take them, not Falon’Din. I invoked the Dread Wolf’s name and brought him here, and he didn’t leave when he was done. He led the quickling-Exalted to us. To the Pathfinder, the halla I was helping Hawen’s clan safely lead back to their herd. And he took her from us, by Trevelyan’s order.” She closed her eyes and paused her work, passing the horn-tip from one hand to the other. Freed, her scar-marked palm sought mine, and I squeezed it gently, and her shoulders, as well.
          “Mock me if you must, but I carve this Tail to remind myself that his presence is absolute, Pride. The Dread Wolf cannot be outrun, cannot be outtricked, outwitted, or outmatched. His hunger cannot be satisfied, and steep is the price of his attention. He’s favored me since birth, and I’ve dragged him everywhere I go. And now he’s here. On the Plains. In the Promised land. In the Inquisition. Bending the will of Andraste’s Herald.” She pressed herself to me and buried her face in my shoulder. “I killed the Pathfinder, Pride. I’ve cursed this place. And I’ve cursed the Inquisition, too.”

Chapter Text

Harellan

          No. No, no no, this was all wrong.
          I hadn’t meant to confess that. I hadn’t meant to confess any of that!
          I hadn’t joined Solas to talk about me. I’d wanted to hear about Wisdom, and Wisdom alone. I’d wanted to talk about her, because I knew how isolating it could be to care about Fadeborn beings. And I’d wanted to give him a token of her passing. A nice little gift, some small memento mori of a spirit who’d clearly meant so much to him.
          And now instead we were talking about Fen’Harel. And here I was, spilling everything that frustrated me about the world beyond my clan—into the arms of a man so warm and gentle and kind, who didn’t damn well believe in any of it.
          He smelled like this place. Wherever he’d gone, it hadn’t been far. There’d been trees and ruins, earthy pines and underbrush, the tang of black walnut and the chalky whitestone of whatever comprised these statues and arches and crumbling walls dotting the Plains.
          Was it simply this, that disarmed me so easily? His scent and his sedate patience, his lyrical voice and his masterful Elvhen? There is a word in our language, one I’ve not found an analogue for in Trade nor Orlesian, that imparts a sense of homesickness, but for a place one has never been. It is a Dalish term often invoked when speaking of Arlathan and the glory of the lost empire of Elvhenan, and something about Solas made me feel it more strongly by his side than anywhere or anyone else I’ve ever been.
          I just wanted to be me, with him. But a different me. A better me. He made me long for a different clan than the one I was born to. A different childhood than the one I’d had. He and Hawen’s clan had done something to me. Opened my eyes. Made me see different ways that our People could live.
          What would it be like, to have grown up a proper elf? To not have been mantled with the curse of the Dread Wolf? In a looser clan, a smaller clan, like Keeper Hawen’s? Would I have been like Solas, free and deep-thinking and fearless?
          I beat it from my brain, or tried to. A waste of effort it was, to miss a place I’d never know. A person I’d never be.
          “It is not your fault, Slow-Heart.”
          I waved him off, unwilling to lift my head to shake it. “Don’t, Pride. You cannot understand. You do not live in a world of gods and devils. You think your actions are your own.”
          “Because they are.”
          No.
          I wasn’t going to argue.
          From right where I was, draped atop his shoulder, I started carving again. This wasn’t a point of discussion, and either he’d accept that or push me away. If he was smart it would be the latter. But I needed this, and until he wised up and left, I would take every ounce of companionship I could.
          I’d likely never have a moment like this, again.
          The campfire shifted, collapsing logs and sending a cascade of cinders into the blackened sky. Solas squeezed my shoulder, a soothing action, and I thought back to that day he’d fallen asleep against my leg. I wanted that back. Maybe that was the thing I felt nostalgic for. A “simpler” time, with simpler goals, to heal and to regain the strength I’d lost from a grave field misjudgment.
          “You think Fen’Harel favors you,” Solas said, quietly. “Why is that?”
          “I don’t know,” I answered, willing to explain so long as he didn’t deny me. We’d come this far, after all. Some twisted part of me wanted to confess it all. Some part of me realized how painful it was, to carry this burden alone. To have torn myself free of a world where everyone knew, and to step into a world that would beat me for trying to warn them. “He chose me as a child. He chooses the children he wants to eat and he marks them with magic so we know. We know to send them off and he takes them. But when it was my turn to be sent off, he took our clan’s First instead. He chose me to live, and he makes misery of my life for his glee.”
          Carving was cathartic. Busying my hands, creating something, pretending I was being productive. Feeling the way Solas’s palm weighed down my sleeve, slipping silk warmly along my skin. A tiny taste of intimacy, overwhelming in its rare novelty.
          “You believe he cannot be stopped.”
          “He is a god, powerful enough to seal away all others, to leave this world as his plaything.”
          When was the last time…
          …Had I ever been listened to before?
          Solas did something marvelous, just then. He leaned his own head atop mine, resting his chin against my temple. Sparkling warmth flooded sheer surprise through me, blooming from my insides and racing down my arms, tingling my hands to a weakness strong enough to slip. The carving tool dug a channel into the side of my thumb. A line of blood flowed as I pulled away and hissed.
          The moment disappeared. Bitter anger frustrated me as Solas picked himself up and covered my hand with both of his own. I let him heal the wound with a sigh and a grateful ma serannas and a shift away, burying my face in my own, uninjured palm.
          The stiff handle dug into the ridge of my brow.
          Stupid. Stupid clumsy elf.
          The Dread Wolf laughs at you, Harellan.
          I was too busy wallowing in my own self-loathing to notice him passing his healing along my palm as well, not until it was too late. Vivienne’s tight phylactery scar stitched itself into smooth, flexible skin once more, and I scowled from it to him before giving up and withdrawing my hand.
          “That was there for a reason.” Ice froze the bloodstain and sublimed it away.
          “I know,” he answered, likely doing the same to the crimson I’d left on him.
          I reached down to pick up the dropped antler-tip. “Then you know she’ll cut another tomorrow.”
          “Is this what you do, Slow-Heart?”
          The question caught me off-guard. I raised my eyes to his disapproving frown.
          “You accept the misery of this world because you were taught to?” he pressed. “How do you not drown in it? What keeps you fighting?”
          I watched him a moment longer, wondering if it was worth explaining. Wondering if he would even understand. Wondering if he understood any of what I was saying, or if he was…just…being polite.
          “What do you think?”
          “If I knew, I would not ask,” he replied, open earnestness coloring his tone. “How can a woman haunted by inescapable evil awaken every morning and fight for an Inquisition that hates her? A clan? A Circle?”
          “I left my clan. The Circle was fine to me. And the Inquisition is the only choice we have to fix the world.”
          But Solas shook his head. “There is always another option, Slow-Heart. If you truly believe these things you say about the Dread Wolf, what keeps you alive?”
          Oh.
          Really?
          I paused to eyeball him. “You really think he’ll just let me pass into Falon’Din’s shepherding care if I end his fun too early?”
          Whatever Solas was expecting to hear, it probably wasn’t that, based on the way his eyes tightened, the way his lips slackened, and the way his brow furrowed around that tiny scar.
          “...He’s trapped you into life?”
          No.
          It…wasn’t that simple.
          But that was an interesting way to put at least part of it.
          “It isn’t a constant thing,” I strove to explain, wishing I was back in his arms as I resumed my carving. As though he’d heard me, I felt fingertips against my spine. It dropped a tension from my shoulders, and he shifted closer, chasing me around the rock to return us to our closeness. Incredible gratitude washed my soul and I leaned in once more, amazed that I hadn’t yet pushed him away. “I believe the Dread Wolf loses interest, Pride. He wanders off to find other People to torment, other conflicts to stir. In those moments, I can try to find peace. In those moments, I can try to do good. I can’t end it because nothing waits for me but those hungry jaws, but I can still try to do good when he’s not looking. While I’m still here. The Pathfinder might be dead, but the clan has supplies now. Enough to fix their aravels, maybe enough to flee the war, or at least survive another winter. We did something, Pride. Say what you will about the Inquisition and about the quickling-Exalted but we can work around him. Say what you will about First Enchanter Vivienne but she too does what she believes is safest. Without the Circles we would be hunted and killed out of fear of our power and its dangers. We would be monsters, or worse, thrown to the wolves as children. And we would be useless to this world. Worse than useless. We would be another problem, another blight inflicted on this land.” I shook my head, then laid it back on his shoulder. He didn’t seem to mind. It was an unbelievable concession. “Not everyone is like you,” I entreated, hoping he would read the gratitude in my compliment. “Not everyone can safely traverse the Fade and avoid its tempting dangers. We all work and live in a broken and bitter world, ungoverned by divine goodness or the welfare of those who made us. The Dread Wolf is uncontestable, but he is, at the very least, a fickle devil. And we can do good when he is not watching.”
          He likes hope, anyway.
          It makes for a tasty garnish when he feasts.
          Solas didn’t answer. The logs shifted again, sending another burst of orange cinders skyward, their flames waning as the night waxed. I wondered if I’d gone too far, opened myself too much, or simply said too many things to disgust a man who rejected the gods without consequence. Until he pushed me away, however, I would not move. Stroke by stroke, the spiraling channel in the golden horn-tip deepened. Moment by moment, the Wolf’s Tail began to emerge.
          Harellan Fellavhen. Kin-Traitor. Kin-Killer. Place of the Trickster and Liar.
          I wondered how my replacement was doing. That little girl I couldn’t let him take. What had her name been? Tish. Tisharel. Bearer of Peace. Had she been made a murderer, yet? It had been at least five years since I’d left. That was enough time for another to show their magic. Enough time for the Dread Wolf to hunger, again.
          “...May you find serenity, dear friend.”
          Again Solas rested his head atop mine, albeit slowly, this time. Carefully. At least now I was prepared for the almost-painful sparkling shock it thrilled through my nerves. I began to understand why lovers did this. Why friends sat so very close. Why children sought hugs from their mothers and even from strangers, if they were too small to know better. Why frightened people huddled together. The simple comfort of connection was an amazingly powerful thing. Obvious, perhaps, to people for whom it was not a consistently-denied resource.
          Less obvious to me.
          The man’s wish unsettled, though. Not only were the words themselves jarring, but the familiarity he’d used warmed something deep inside, almost against my will. Something ancient and familiar, something shemlen tongues just couldn’t replicate. I really liked him, I realized quietly. Everything about this moment was…helpful. And kind. And…cozy.
          And that wasn’t a good thing.
          Fen’Harel tended to eat those things I really liked.
          “No judgment?” I countered, smoothing shavings away from the horn-tip. “No taunting words for the primitive believer in gods, from the enlightened soul free of the burden of duty?”
          It wasn’t wise, to let him in.
          “No,” he replied, his voice so very close. “You seem to have thought this through, Slow-Heart. You’ve given me…much to consider.”
          Fenedhis. And here I’d hoped to spark a fight.
          Not that I was putting in much effort.
          “Will you be here long?” Solas asked, nails trailing down my back in a way that parted my lips. “The hour grows late, and the quicklings are mostly asleep.”
          True statements, and I was tiring, as well. A shame. I could have spent all night here on this rock, with him.
          “Done with me already?” I teased, shifting my weight to disengage from his heavy warmth. “You—”
          “I will stay, if you wish.” He raised his head from mine, but his wandering hand found my waist, sliding more silk as he sought a firmer grip.
          “I won’t keep you.”
          The words slipped from my tongue without a thought. His touch consumed my attention, far more than his words. I could just barely see his fingertips in the dimming glow of the last flickering embers, bunching expensive fabric between his skin and mine. The ghost of their path whispered echoes down my shoulder blade. It didn’t seem like magic, and I was fairly certain I’d notice if he tried to cast any. But my heart had begun to race, and I suddenly felt a lot warmer just now than I had when the fire was at its brightest. I had to give up carving as well, lest I slip a second time.
          “Slow-Heart?”
          I looked up.
          “I said I would like for you to join me,” he apparently repeated.
          “Join you in what?”
          His lips moved, I was pretty sure of that. But his eyes spoke a language all their own, clouded and clear, mixed in emotions yet singularly focused, slipping whatever he said away from me and out into the enveloping darkness of night.
          I was probably supposed to respond. But all I could think of was how loudly my heart was beating, and all I could wonder was if he heard it, too.
          From the periphery of my vision I registered his rising hand. His palm was electric against my neck. All at once, I recognized that look.
          It was the one the Desire Demon had given me, when I’d first returned to Skyhold after the dragon attack in the Hinterlands. That thing in Vivienne’s not-so-sterile chambers flashed to mind, that piece of the Fade that knew me long before I’d ever known myself. An impossibly perfect recreation, and I flinched at the thought, and so did Solas, snapped from whatever we were doing to each other. He pulled that pinning gaze from my eyes and blinked, and withdrew his hands as well.
          The wisest decision made yet tonight.
          That was enough. I gathered my tools and the carving and wrapped them in sloppy haste. As I rose Solas joined me and caught me by the shoulder and elbow to apologize, before letting me go. I shook my head and said there was no need, he’d done nothing wrong. I apologized for tainting his gift, and asked him to return it to me if he changed his mind about keeping it. It was still a piece of a sacred animal, after all.
          “Might I suggest you not finish yours?” he asked, fetching his staff from the nearby rocks to quench the glowing char of our campfire with a quiet hiss of measured magic.
          I knew what he was asking. But I pretended not to.
          “Oh? I thought you wanted a matching set.”
          The cold glow of his staff added a chilling gravity to his humorless gaze.
          I shook my head and started off for the torchlights of the Inquisition camp. “It helps,” I lied over a shoulder.
          “Does it?” he pressed, keeping easy stride.
          …No.
          Of course not.
          But it was necessary nonetheless. My life had become significantly more complex in the past few months, and I was forgetting fundamental truths of life. I needed this charm, to remind me that all good things could end in the blink of an eye, the wave of a hand, a snap of the fingers.
          I needed to remember that my name meant something important. Even if no one else did.
          We parted ways just outside the glow of the night watch. Solas explained quietly that he no longer felt safe to sleep in camp. He promised that he was no stranger to solitude, however, and retreated into the darkness, leaving me to my sickening shock of realization.
          I looked down at my hand, at the scarless palm he’d freed from the First Enchanter’s stigmata of loyalty.
          Was this part of it? Had the Dread Wolf touched Vivienne, too? They were just phylacteries, to track us if we tried to flee. I hadn’t expected him to submit.
          But would he have been forced to, had he returned just a few hours earlier?

Chapter Text

Vhenan’Then

          I’ve never quite understood what mages found so miserable about phylacteries, and neither has Taren’Elgar, but First Enchanter Vivienne’s imposition of new policies roiled the Fade that night. Despair plumed frigid and howling, a winter’s gale stirring dusty power into dangerous forms among the slumbering visitors. Was there something worse to these little vials than mere tracking tokens? It was something about the principle of the matter, but what principle? What matter? The matter of escaping? The principle of committing crimes? What did these quickling peers of Taren’s think they were stopped from doing, now that their blood had been drawn and kept by those who would see them behave orderly? What was this unfounded fear?
          Taren’Elgar was slow to join me, after she parted ways with Solas. Sleep did not come easily to her after such a troubling day, and I did not aid her journey to my side, tonight.
          Tonight, it would be better for her to stay away.
          This place was not safe for her.
          She recognized the dangers quickly, when she passed from her world to mine. They were dangers familiar to Skyhold. Familiar to the Circles. So many of her kind, all sleeping at once, their thoughts and feelings outstretched, reflective, active and reactive. Demons already prowled among the chaos, searching for victims, hunting for weakness. Seeking more purchase by which to cross the Veil.
          Leading the defense were the usual figures. Grand Enchanter Fiona, Madame de Fer, Dorian Pavus. The lattermost we had not seen yet in Fade-battle, and the spectacle of his performance drew the eyes of many. His presence here was powerful, but deeply reluctant, and all the more cloudlike for it. A thunderhead, he was, towering but formless. The man clung to the physical world as so many of their kind did, rejecting this place and those of its denizens too powerful to submit to his waking call for servitude. His defenses here seemed selfish in their intent, tightly-woven expressions of will, flashes of fire and bright forks of silent lightning, caging himself in his own protective power, attractive to lesser spirits as flame attracts moths. I, too, admitted a curiosity to taste that might, to meet with and learn him and taste it.
          But I, of course, possess a discipline unusual among our kind.
          Do we help them? Taren’Elgar asked, forming herself as demons taught her to. The unease of this still curled around her, even as she sought to focus on the present.
          I trust that we are capable, I replied, awaiting her decision. I settled around her shoulders, seeing as she saw, mantling her in awareness. This idea, this concept of battle in the Fade was still new to her; still new to us.
          Dared we engage with those who would consume us, should we falter?
          I felt her refusal some time before she finally formed the intent to intone a no. This was not our place to save. These people, these other mages, must prove themselves capable of their gifts. As we all do. Every day. If they wished to show the world the strength of a mage free of the scrutiny of the Circle, let them each endure that trial for themselves.
          We withdrew to watch from the periphery. Elf and spirit. Mind and heart. Deception and Vigilance.

Cassandra

          Either the screams or the wailing woke me; it did not matter which. Little more than we are under attack registered in my head, just quickly enough to compel me to unsheathe my sword before spilling out of my tent. What I’d first worried might be the Dalish exacting revenge for their halla quickly resolved to a much worse prospect: Fireballs and arcane ice in the mages’ quarters, and the quavering of the Veil as their people panicked.
          “Demons!!” the night watch cried, sprinting past with a windswept torch to rouse others as we emerged half-awake into the darkness. “The mages are turning!”
          Turning.
          My blood ran cold. There was no time to don armor. I hardly managed boots and my shield before joining the chaos, forcing my way through a tide of fleeing laborers and soldiers caught in their smallclothes. Some of our Templars had already arrived by the time I came upon the scene; out of their armor, I recognized them mostly from their fearless willingness to face the arcane. Common men would see magical horrors and flee, as many already had.
          We did not have that luxury.
          Three of our own were already at work maintaining a wall to contain the madness. It could not be seen, but it could be felt by the sensitive. Errant tongues of flame and showering sparks struck it and rebounded, cascading harmlessly to the scorched earth. The rest had formed something resembling a careful vanguard searching for opportunities to restore order.
          None presented themselves.
          Corralled against the rocks and ruins were a cluster of half-dressed mages, little magics discharging at random from their terror. Opposite them towered three monstrosities of flesh, cloth, and cold. Pale limbs poked free of layers of tattered fabric, too many arms, rings of arms with too many joints each, joints that bent every which way except the correct one. Luminous ice dripped from their hundreds of fingers, pooling in crystalline stalactites and scattering at random with each horrid flail. Their hooded faces were not faces at all, but great oval mouths of flattened teeth, straight-cut like a farming hoe, one gaping wide to reveal another within, both throats keening and sobbing. No part of them touched the ground; they simply ended in those midnight-dark rags that glinted blue as they reflected the shine of the ice they were slowly spreading across the earth.
          Despair demons, like those we had seen pouring from the rifts here and elsewhere.
          But worse.
          Abominations.
          I hastened to our brave Chantry warriors and ordered them forward, pushing us between the monsters and mages. Our men seemed uncertain which side was the enemy until I barked a reminder to face the immediate threat. Slung ice crashed against my shield, a distraction I could not afford. Another missile Purged itself midflight, folding into nothing as though swallowed by truth, and one of the Templars lowered his arm and looked for another.
          The rest began to calm.
          This was what we trained to oppose.
          Together, we rallied, raised shields, and advanced.

Blackwall

          Bloody demons. Just couldn’t very well stay put, could they? I hauled ass toward the fighting quick as I could, ignoring sore muscles from all the hard labor Maxwell had us doing since we’d arrived. I wasn’t out of shape, mind. It was just a different kinda shape, this work took.
          It was good to get a sword and shield back in hand, though.
          Or it woulda been, if my foes were the normal sort. I’d been hoping for bandits, personally. Maybe some turncoats. Somethin’ proper to stick a blade through and prove I was good for more than just grunt work.
          But when I saw the things that had showed up to raise the alarms…Well, I hated admittin’ I might have to sit this one out.
          I coulda been useful, probably. But Cass and her Chantry brethren seemed to have the situation handled well enough, slowly advancing and driving the three monsters into a slow retreat, outta camp and away from the rest of us. Made me wonder if I should head back and dress a bit better. An undershirt and skivvies was hardly dignified, though the Seeker weren’t wearin’ much more, if I squinted in the dark.
          Qunari swearing brought Iron Bull to the party. And if I’d thought I wasn’t in anything battle-ready…
          “See something you like?” he taunted flatly, hefting his…sword.
          There was a bit o’ cloth covering the other one. The rest was all muscle and horns.
          “Wish I could say I did,” I told him, grimacing at the action a handful of yards away.
          A mechanical thok sent somethin’ blurring through the air. One of the demons recoiled and wailed anew, its pitch and volume earsplitting. Varric had somehow managed pants and boots, but the dwarf’s chest hair was otherwise on full display. He came runnin’ up to us as fast as he could manage, fussing with something on his fancy crossbow and cursing up a storm. By the time he had another bolt loaded and aimed, the demons had noticed us, and the one who took an arrow to the…head…shape…area…launched a barrage of ice our way.
          The Templars did a fine job erasin’ most of it before it escaped their periphery.
          But a few shards slipped past.
          I knocked ‘em away with an easy block of the shield to give the dwarf cover. He sent another bolt sailing into the dark. Honestly? That was fine by me. I didn’t mind playin’ shield maiden to an archer. Wardens were supposed to protect, after all.
          “Good shot,” Bull added, as the same demon screeched anew. He started closer but Varric gave him the nastiest stink-eye I’ve ever seen from a dwarf.
          “Yeah, do me a favor and stay on THAT side of Blackwall,” the man said, loading up another bolt. “Nobody needs that much cheek in their peripheral.”
          “Am I really that much more distracting than the demons?” Bull asked. His joking sounded strained. Forced.
          “Just think about where my eye line is, Tiny.” Thok. “Hard not to be distracted.”
          He stopped with the cover fire when the Templars closed the distance. I could see him lookin’ for an opening, but I couldn’t find any that wouldn’t put good men in danger, and he seemed to agree.
          “...Shit,” the dwarf hissed, lowering his crossbow.
          With a cry, the Seeker and Templars raised their swords and charged at their ice-hurlin’ foes.
          And then, from somewhere behind the fracas, a bright arc of sparklin’ magic cut the night air—and one of the horrors—in half.

Harellan

          No rest for the weary, tonight. Or the wicked. I saw it happen, the horrid consumption, the failure of will, the way mage and demon both disappeared from the Fade when the vile act was complete. And when one fell, others followed, susceptible to the same hopeless anguish that bred such powerful creatures. It spurred us to action, as best we could, Vhenan’Then and I, overcoming our reluctance in order to stanch the bleeding, risking ourselves to cut down and disperse the ebb and flow of intention creating more dangers, and it bought others at least some measure of time to awaken and scatter and distance themselves from the chaining cascade of disasters before more could occur.
          Vivienne, imperious in the Fade, caught me after a time. She said no words yet commanded me awake, intention demanding what voice did not. I pulled myself back to the world of the living, to the shrieks and cries of the things that had made it through the Veil, and dressed quickly to face and oppose them.
          The monsters’ backs were to me, or at least their hoods did not face my way, and I took immediate advantage, closing fast to cleave deeply into the tattered robing and nearest forest of arms. Speed-magic still needled dangerously at the spirit-wounds striping my back, but my soul seemed to hold under the strain, for now. There was no expedient cure for those, not like the First Enchanter’s treatments for my leg. I had to simply trust myself, and hope this battle did not cost me a lengthier recovery.
          Frost-cold claws snatched at my arm, my face, my neck, unseeing but still scrabbling for purchase, as the nearest demon whirled. I’d misjudged the distance and its size in the dark, and not fully understood just how much larger these monsters were than I was. It was cut, and foul fluids seeped free of the wound, but not enough to kill. Ice dripped from its dozen palms, each brush and grip spreading painful crystals across my skin and stiffening silk, infecting me with a melancholic anguish deep enough to drown in.
          Fen’Harel’s specter licked its hungry maw, reminding me who had brought him here. Reminding me what he could do. Solas had been so warm, hadn’t he? So kind and respectful. And now it was time to pay, again. The wolf’s laughing breath was cold and moist on my nape.
          Dispel forced feeling back into my bones, driving the Abomination’s influence away. Another clean slice sent five of its unearthly limbs thrashing to the ground, and another Dispel burst its liquid-ice magics to sparkling dust before they could be cast. Its wailing scream rattled my head with a volume I’d only felt once before, when hiding too near a Chantry bell twice my size, unaware it was about to be rung.
          A leap brought me skyward, high enough to reach its gaping, halla-like mouths. A twist and a slice split its hood in half. As I landed so did the upper portion of its “head,” revealing a blackened hole of a throat lined with more spirals of flattened teeth and bony growths than I ever wanted to see again in my life
          And still it wasn’t enough to kill.
          These creatures did not obey the rules of the living.

Vivienne

          What have they done?! Fools, weak-willed and proving exactly why cloistering constraint is necessary. Succumbing to demons, after the privilege of freedom? Lowering their defenses in a land already shattered by Corypheus?? I’d imposed phylacteries on them, not threatened them with Tranquility! This had been meant as a compromise to settle fears after what Trevelyan witnessed out on the Dales, and one even Fiona herself had reluctantly agreed to, for the good of all.
          And now I was more than coldly certain the Rite would be at the forefront of the Herald’s mind, despite my every effort to smooth our bumpy road back to legitimacy as a magical monolith.
          By the time I’d dressed and joined Fellavhen, one of the Templars was already on the ground, a sash of bloodstained icicles studding his naked chest. Headache upon headache, this was becoming. I couldn’t fault the elf, however. She continued to pull more than her own weight, as a single Abomination lay in shredded pieces around her and the remaining pair battled on multiple fronts, a squadron of Templars to one side, and one lone Knight Enchanter to the other.
          Two, now, as I joined her and struck up my own glimmering blade.
          Fellavhen cast a final bursting Dispel to clear away more building ice and withdrew to my side, disengaging the monsters in an act of obedience that overruled common sense. I needed her in the thick of things, demonstrating the prowess of a well-trained mage, and a snapping gesture seemed enough to convey that very point. Knees bent, the elf vanished again in a blur of sparkling blue, my lyrium-infused walking cane serving her well as a mage staff, it seemed.
          More of the nearer horrors’ arms cascaded to the grass in a blinding arc. I chanced a quick bolt of fire into the vile rags once the elf was clear. It caught, and the creature screamed to rattle the Black City, but before it could spread the Templars focused their Suppression on it, snuffing the spell with a smoky hiss.
          “Nevermind this half of the battle, darlings, you focus on yours!” I called out to Cassandra, attempting to hide my annoyance.
          Again Fellavhen flashed to my side, and held aloft her cane. Before I could chastise her a second time, a call that raised gooseflesh haunted the base of my brain. I didn’t hear it so much as feel it tugging at my soul, demanding my attention with an arcane authority quite dissonant from the elf’s usually submissive meekness. I caught myself staring down at her, the Abominations all but forgotten until one wandered closer, away from its partner, and Fellavhen backed away to pull it further afield.
          The spell cut sharply, leaving me with the unnerving hollowness of a moth without a flame.
          “For us, Madame,” the elf offered, lowering her cane and raising her sword.
          I joined her in striking a guard.
          Just how powerful was that spirit of hers?

Dorian

          Well, this was going from bad to worse, now, wasn’t it? I’d hoped to remain asleep, allowing the Southerners to handle their own self-inflicted traumas, but there was only so much that could be done from one side of the Veil when the other was causing further problems. I hardly had the time for underthings and trousers before deciding to simply treat onlookers to a show and arrive half-dressed to the nighttime fracas.
          And what a fracas it was.
          Those were a variety I hadn’t yet seen. Despair Abominations, and creatively-rendered ones, at that, with so many scrabbling arms and a pair of throats to put a ship’s foghorn to shame. Misery wasn’t very high on the list of magical sins in Tevinter. We tended towards pride, wrath, and envy, ourselves.
          And lust.
          The Inquisition appeared to be making headway, at the very least. Vivienne and her little sidekick were putting on quite the acrobatic clinic, methodically trimming the offensive capabilities of one monster as though it were an overgrown sheep that had wandered into a bladed trapeze performance. The other seemed to be giving their Templars quite the runaround however, as though they couldn’t quite manage an approach upon a creature with no obvious openings and a surplus of freezing magic.
          The corpse on the ground gave me an obvious idea, however. I swirled my staff and loosened a shoulder to gather a power of my own. Tendrils of purple gathered around it as I called to the already-thinned Veil, pulling forth a few of the hundreds of wisps gathered here to create and reflect this growing mess.
          The fallen soldier managed about half an inch, leaky-chest-first, before dropping back to the earth. A block of pure rejection very suddenly surrounded it, scattering my attempts to bring their fallen comrade back for another go at the beast that had cut it down. I still had yet to acclimate to these Southern Templars and their utter denial of a mage’s abilities.
          One of them turned my way, and paid for his distraction with a smattering of small icicles to the bared shoulder. I scowled from the dark and tried again.
          “Vishante kaffas, let me in!” I called, circling my staff and slamming the earth for good measure. A more forceful expression of will wormed its way under the Templar’s blocky refusal and pried it up, dispersing the cube of reality as the man himself withdrew to nurse his injury. The corpse picked itself and its sword up, and staggered meaningfully into the flailing arms of the Abomination, its unfeeling flesh immune to the pain of the arcane frost threading its lifeless veins, and plunged its steel deeply into what I hoped was the approximate location of the heart of the creature.
          A snapping flourish set the timer of a Walking Bomb.

Chapter Text

Cole

          Loud. Awake. Everyone was awake and everyone was very loud but this wasn’t the right time to be loud and awake. It was too dark. And it wasn’t a celebration. It was fear, sticky, sickly, sour screams, stammering and stumbling over itself and each other to escape.
          Don’t fall. Don’t succumb. Stay strong.
          Kill it, destroy it, tear it apart!
          Maker’s soiled loins, I hate magic. Fiona’s mongrels should all get put to the sword.
          It dragged like a weight. Voices, feelings, anger, trembling. The source. The source. The source. The winter things, the chilling things, the trees that weren’t trees, with mouths so wide and large. One was gone, two was gone, three was missing so much of itself, but alive. A bigger hole than its mouth, blasted into its side, blood and awful painting the world in red and black. The mages screamed inside themselves, terrified that they would be next.
          But they would not be next.
          They did not have to be next.
          Closer, closer, creeping around edges and shadows until that mass of mages was near.
          Gemma went like this in Kinloch!
          I saw her, desperate in the dark. Gemma had no other choice. You do.
          They’ll take us and kill us!
          You’ve been Harrowed. You have proven your strength.
          What if I’m next?!
          What happened to the Templar?!
          It’s Tranquility for everyone now!
          They were hard to tell apart, so many people with hearts and heads so loud. They clung to each other, and that helped. I took a few hands and reached them out to join the knot, bundled the mages closer together. They liked the hugging. Some felt bigger when they hugged, and others felt smaller, and it made them all that much calmer for it.
          Dammit. Damn them all! This is the end of us!
          One mage was not big or small. One mage was bright, and angry, and sick. He was hard to get to, deep inside the knot of people, and they were not helping him feel better. It was almost over, though. They all knew it was almost over. Just one left. And soon enough, not even that. Fabric fell in a flutter, sliced to strips, the damned deed done. Relief rippled through the rest as the fighting finally finished and the trio of terrors was terminated.
          Thank the Maker!
          We need the Templars.
          I’m so glad we have a Seeker here!
          Look at the elf…can the Iron Lady teach me to do that, too??
          Like a single mind, they came undone. The screaming and shouting and wailing, all over.
          Fuck the Templars. Useless twats. Can’t believe that magister exploded one! Good. Fiona should have sent us all to Tevinter.
          The quiet was spooky, a silence to the air that didn’t match at all the flooding of gratitude and uncertainty.
          And in the middle of it, that one mage, tucked tight with head in hands.
          Something was scrabbling to get to him. Everyone else was calming, collecting, closing out the things from the Fade. But not him. The Fade knew him. It knew him too well. It was tickling his head, scratching his skull, slippery, smooth, slender, starving. It wanted in.
          We’re all just monsters, waiting to show it.
          His shoulder shifted, bulging, bumping the people next to him. They screamed and gasped, outside and in, and scattered away. The whole camp turned, alert-alarmed-aware, to see him struggle. Connor Guerrin, demon-touched, desperate, devolving into something pulsing and primal. It was winning. I didn’t know how to fight it.
          I didn’t know if I should be the one to…to help.
          “Kill him.”
          White terror exploded as the Iron Woman gave her command. By the time I could see again, she was there, a flash, a slash, a Joy, a Liar, Delight and Deceit, with Sentry’s Claw tipped against his throat. His back was to rocks, hands pressed, staff dropped, eyes closed, skin bubbling, fighting fighting fighting. He didn’t want to go this way, he didn’t want to die like this! He didn’t want to be the monster everyone thought he was!
          But nobody thought him a monster. Not like he thought they thought he was.
          “Harellan. End it.”
          The Seeker, too, joining the call. Slow-Heart’s body tensed, a match of mind against muscle, of duty against determination, of conviction against consequence. She didn’t want to kill him, either. She didn’t want to kill anyone. Not here. Not again. Not ever. Not while a chance remained. And she’d done so well, so far. Saved so many. He could be saved, too.
          It wasn’t yet too late.
          Please, Wolf. Haven’t you eaten enough?
          But she knew her wolf was never full.
          Take him, and they all go. A plea, a prayer, to demon and devil. They all go, and I go too. I go, and you lose your favorite plaything. Please.
          Tendons tensed, tight and taut.
          Don’t you want more time with me?
          Connor fought to stay Connor. He wanted her sword, but he didn’t want to lose. A slide, a slice, a sword would be quick, would take away his pain. But Connor wanted to go as Connor. Connor did not want to go as a monster.
          Neither of them wanted their monster to win.
          Flesh fizzled, boiled, bubbled. Fen’harel’s Favorite Hare didn’t believe in him, but she believed in herself. And she stared and she stared and she stared and she stared, and she waited for the wolf to take him…or to let him go free.
          And while she waited, her Heart struck true.
          Vigilance, valorous, attacking the attacker, snaking through the Fade to sever the demon he could see. To beat back Fen’Harel’s friends. To win the war for Connor’s soul. I crept close to touch him, to remind him which was here and which was there. That, at least, I could help with.
          “You can do this. You’ve done it before.” As a boy, brave, belligerent, facing down a full-grown foe. “Let her help you. She wants to help you. You can live.”
          His eyes closed, underlit by understanding and a steady elven hand.
          Templars and others gathered close. But he was winning. He was calming, collapsing, enforcing his edges, remembering here. And the demon was distracted, and losing its way in.
          I held the others back, whispering to them, next. Promising patience, telling them truth.
          “...You can do this,” whispered Joy. “Do not let it win.”
          “—You can do it, Connor!” another called.
          Aloud, alight, a sudden spark to a flaring flame, one mage made many voices, all calling to assure their friend. A chorus of cheers to bring him back, to separate man and monster, stabilize shape and smoothing skin, until the demon was dead and Connor Guerrin remained.
          Heart returned to hand of Mind, and elf and spirit lowered their blade.
          Thank you, Dread Wolf.
          Sickly speech in a bitter brain.
          Fen’Harel, Fen’Harel, closes his jaws. Fen'Harel, Fen'Harel, licks at his paws...
          She was shaking.
          He was shaking.
          Both staring in silent disbelief.
          Both wanted so badly to cry.
          A new voice trembled, then swelled to authority.
          …Is it safe?
          “What’s this then?!”
          No chance. No calm. No moment of rest. The Herald, shining, glaring green with gifted power, a plated panoply glinting off torches of soldiers flanking him. He marched closer, and all who turned his way rippled with waves of turbulence and timidity, inspired and intimidated, horrified and hopeful, angry and assured.
          He meant so much to so many people.
          “More monsters?!”
          He rounded on Vivienne, blaming her for the sins of his cowardice. “I thought your little blood routine was meant to stop this.”
          Her will was a wall, stalwart and strong, shored against skeptical suspicion.
          “Phylacteries are a form of accountability, Herald darling. I think you’ll find we contained our messes adequately.”
          “They did.” Seeker, swift, speech slicing sharper than sword. “These people are doing their best with limited resources. There are not enough Templars to help them.”
          “An oversight we intend to fix very soon,” the Iron Lady added.
          But Herald was hardly hearing. Thoughts chased like hounds howling in his head, noticing the two women in torchlight. Skin, shapely, too much to be right.
          Not enough…clothes?
          The Seeker saw his stare, and simmered in a searing rush.
          Not all of us had the time to dress.
          …?
          “I’d give them some solid credit, boss.”
          “Never seen anything like those monsters.”
          Ice, everywhere, cold and hot. The big bull was extra-big, gray and pink, skin skin skin. Eyes pulled down, dozens of eyes, waiting for wind, begging for breezes. Blackwall beside, Varric below, bare chests bulging.
          “Could’ve done without the gore fireworks though…” the dwarf decided.
          Pavus, proud, nose high over half-waxed mustache, strutting closer, approached with approving appraisal. “‘Oh thank you Dorian, for contributing to the cause and ruining your beauty sleep.’ Hmph, yes, you’re welcome, pity about the body but I’d rather lose one than let those accidents make several more.”
          Anger, disgust, loud, but shallow. Voices all at once, too many, too fast.
          Are you okay?
          Are they okay?
          Something’s wrong.
          Warnings, worry, the mages turned inward. Bitter victory a cold comfort for Connor Guerrin in the middle, but colder still was Joy, outside. Black paint, searing cold, ferocious and deep. She was still shaking, slumped against stone.
          What is this?
          The Iron Lady, iron-cold too, spatters staining silk and sinking through skin. She looked up from her arm to see first the elf, then everyone else engaging the sinful, skin-full men and not her. A moment to breathe, to gather, to slip away and regroup. Night cloaked, dark as Bastien’s bedroom. She hurried Harellan off to heal away hoarfrost harm.
          “Don’t touch that.”
          Dorian, half-bent, straightened at Seeker’s scowl, withdrawing from the fallen Templar’s towering shield. Think the vint will dirty it with his touch, do you?
          “I was hoping to help,” he said aloud.
          “You’ve helped enough.” Your people have as much respect for the dead as mine do, I see.
          A dance of mind and mouth, of thought and tongue, emotions overspilling. Mourning losses, delirious relief, fear and hope, and exhaustion. Bickering, battering, he’s trying to help! She’s not ready to let him! Crowds filtering off to dress or to sleep, to check for wounds and to celebrate survival.
          Unease still soured the air, lingering as everyone left. What to do about the mages? They were not safe, and no one was safe around them. Do we trust Vivienne? Do we trust the Herald? Where had he been when they needed him?
          The Templars ushered the mages to bed, and held a vigil for their fallen. I did my best to help them remember, to ease their bitter grief.
          Tomorrow won’t be easy.
          Damn them all. He was a good man.
          Cassandra, clothed now, collected his chattels and cleaned them, alone. I sat with her and listened to her doubts. Over and over, she cursed Varric a thousand ways, blaming him for everything. The hawk would not have been Trevelyan. The hawk could have been the leader they needed. Scrub scrub scrub. Rage rage rage. I did what I could to ease her troubled heart.
          The Iron Lady lurked in the dark, peeking from a distance. I crossed to her, next, and whispered encouragement. Yes, it is safe to approach. The Seeker wants to talk to you. She wants to know you’re okay.
          “...I wouldn’t recommend that without gloves, darling. Preferably some sort of thick leather from a stout beast.”
          Cassandra turned. Recommend what?
          “Recommend what?”
          Vivienne nodded at sword and shield. “What you’re currently doing. Are you touching that ichor directly?”
          She is. How can she feel her fingers? Is she resistant?
          “Is there something dangerous about it?” the Seeker asked.
          “...Not for you, it appears.”
          Enchanter sat beside Seeker on stone, skin tracing skin, fingertips on forearm.
          Stained. “You feel no discomfort?” mage asked.
          “You say that like I should be.” What is she asking?
          Vivienne’s horned head tilted. “The creatures’ blood produced adverse effects where it touched us, dear. Fellavhen and I. And I would assume that your men would report irritation, had they suffered any. I came back to check on you, and to offer a countering topical. Should you find yourself feeling suddenly cold where those foul fluids touched you, do come find me.” She rose, troubled but trusting. “I’ll likely remain awake for some time.”
          Seeker followed, seeking understanding, softly setting shield aside. “Are you alright? Where is Fellavhen?”
          She cares. Good. A smile, delicate, designed to disarm. “Recovering. As am I. She may appreciate a visit, if you’re inclined.”
          Come see your faithful icon, darling.
          The women left for the Enchanter’s part of camp, still separate from the no-longer-seditious. Spellcasters slumbered, deep in disciplined dreams, most but not all returned to the Fade.
          Warm.
          One remained, huddled by firelight, a funnel-shaped fortress of fabric with an elven head.
          Warm warm. Tasty. Warm. Warm. Tired.
          Clutched to her chest, a cup.
          “Harellan?”
          No.
          She looked up. “Yes?”
          Seeker recoiled. Oh.
          Horror. Black. Wet. What?
          Darkness painted half the Liar’s face over Dalish ink, blackening cheek, nose, lips. Still, she smiled, screaming inside to be left alone. “It is medicine, ma’am.” Soothing. Warming. Grateful. To Vivienne, “will she need some, too?”
          Pain. Skin. Face. Back. Pain. Didn’t want to think but now she must think now she has to think—
          “I suspect her abilities leave her resistant,” mentor answered, both women nearing. Relief so loud from the Seeker, louder than Vivienne’s words. “Fellavhen was extensively spattered, and will be recovering for some time.”
          Always paying the price, Mind added. Heart resettled around her, big bright bulwark bounding the base of her bastion of blankets. Something was strange about the serpent, though. Something new lurked inside. Something very, very old, and very, very weak.
          It asked me to keep it a secret.
          From the Seeker, pity poured now, mingling with Mage’s manipulation. So many little trials. So many small sufferings. Tiny tests, for the gifted, or the cursed.
          “...I suppose I should wash my hands.” Frowning at fingers fanned, black tips like monster’s teeth, nibbling at faith of self.
Vivienne nodded. “I’ll fetch a basin, dear.”
          And she left.
          Silent, unsettled, Slow-Heart sipped her serum, determined to delight in every decadent drop.
          Warm. Chocolate. Warm. Focus.
          A simple love; a cherished treat, treated to chase away colder consequences.
          A kind of magic, itself. To make the body forget.

Cassandra

          The stones Vivienne’s people used as seats were shaped for comfort, I realized as I took one. Everywhere else in the camp made do with whatever rough surfaces had fallen from the old ruins or the nearby hills. But magic had been used to smooth and curve these.
          Harellan seemed so deeply engrossed in whatever she was drinking. I almost did not want to disturb her further. But questions buzzed in my head about what I had seen, what she had done. The disaster she had helped contain, and another she’d somehow prevented entirely.
          I’d never seen a mage fight off a demon like that. Not one that had gotten so far into their…head? Body? Soul?
          “...How are you, Harellan?”
          She smiled at me. After everything that had happened to her, she still smiled. “I am well, Seeker. And you are uninjured?”
          “It seems so.” I did not fully understand how, and that concerned me. None of the other Templars had mentioned adverse effects. I hoped they would not wake tomorrow with rashes, or worse.
          The woman nodded, and returned to her drink. “This is good news. The First Enchanter was worried for you. You are our guiding light, and the Templars rally to you.”
          “The Templars rally to the Herald.” It came out more bitterly than I intended.
          “It is good too that he was not injured,” Harellan replied.
          “...Was it?” I could not help anger. The elf seemed surprised. She did not see what I had seen, however. How he had not been there when we needed him. And the way he had looked at me after, like a dog looks at the meat in a butcher’s window. A crisis in our own camp, and his only care was—
          “He is not a Templar, ma’am,” Harellan said. “He does not have your resistance to magic. Demons are a greater danger to him, as much as they are a danger to all laypeople. A leader does not sully his hands with soldiers’ grime.”
          I…did not think that true.
          “He fights demons every day, to close the rifts.”
          Harellan considered that. “Abominations are worse.”
          “And they threatened everyone!” How could she defend him? “He has powers to repel them, powers to—!”
          The elf shrank into herself, condensing her pile of blankets. I sighed and started to bury my head in my hands, only to catch their stained skin and remember I should not.
          “I am sorry, Harellan. I should not yell at you. You were amazing…”
          Harellan rustled around a bit. Her nearer hand disappeared briefly, only to wiggle its way out of the top of her woolen mountain and reach for my arm.
          “I am sorry to say that I cannot fault him. I, too, was scared. And I am not nearly as important to the Inquisition as the Herald is.”
          Her squeeze was reassuring, and so was the Chantry verse she recited for me just then, but her body was bare to the shoulder, and the neck, and lower, as the blankets shifted and fell. More of Vivienne’s medicine painted her farther side, her blade-wielding side, sticking to and staining the woven materials. All of her upper body had been stripped for treatment. The spattering seemed…extensive.
          Her words lingered between us. There was still so much wrong with them. Her place, her importance, her fears. So much I struggled to answer.
          Vivienne returned with a silver basin, taking longer than I’d expected to fetch water. She came back with staff in hand and used it to lift a block of stone to bring it closer, and sat beside us.
          “Here, darling. Rinse thoroughly. I’ve added something extra to help.”
          The water was warmed, and slippery, and its surface glistened with a rainbow sheen. I did not care for how it felt, but it lifted the demon blood from my skin with minimal scrubbing.
          “Thank you, Vivienne. And thank you as well, for joining the fight to rid us of those Abominations.”
          The woman sucked her teeth as she took back her bowl and set it aside. “A tragedy, that. So much fear and consternation over an ancient and harmless ritual. You do support accountability, don’t you?”
          “Yes.” Of course I did.
          “I hope you also don’t lay the blame at my feet for what happened,” Vivienne pressed. “It is, after all, every mage's responsibility to guard themselves from possession.”
          Of course it was.
          “My concern is more for Trevelyan’s behavior,” I confessed, drying my hands on a small cloth towel the Enchanter produced from somewhere in the darkness. “He provided no leadership…”
          “Figureheads often don’t.”
          I could not help but stare. Vivienne’s dark eyes glistened. “Fellavhen speaks an interesting truth, Cassandra. As a highborn noble yourself, certainly you know your recent history? Recall for me where Fereldan’s King Cailan was found in the wake of the Ostargar tragedy? The one he insisted on leading the charge into?”
          Hanging from a wooden stake by the hands of the darkspawn, the unkindliest reports had read.
          I did not need to say. The Enchanter nodded in quiet understanding. “The Dales need not be our Ostargar, Seeker. The Herald should be praised for his shrewd self-preservation, not scorned for what seems to us like simple inaction. Particularly when he has men and women like us to perform heroics in his name. Bear in mind that he is not a king, replaceable by some heir or an enclave of squabbling nobles. Trevelyan is something much more special, a man with Andraste’s blessing at his fingertips. If he falls, there is none who can step up.”
          That was right. I could not find fault with her words. And yet…
          Vivienne smiled, meeting my uncertain gaze with a confidence I wished I could share. Perhaps it was something with mages, their need to control themselves always, that led to such easy calm after a rattling night.
          “If you wish for heroes, Cassandra, become one. The Maker knows you already are. Legends fall from your name in hushed whispers, darling. Great leaders are marked by the accomplishments of the men and women they lead, not simply by the works of their own hand…”
          She trailed off and nodded tellingly beyond me. I followed her gaze to Fellavhen, bundled again in her blankets, half her face still smeared black around those enormous elven eyes, peering so innocently over the rim of her steaming cup.
          The two of them made for quite the pair. My mind as well drifted to our beloved Divine Justinia. I had not thought of how my service to her, how Leliana’s loyalty, might have made of her a good leader, too.
          “I hope to count you among our allies,” Vivienne continued over my shoulder, “for the difficult journey ahead. Each stumble weakens our legitimacy, and steers small and frightened minds toward extreme and short-sighted solutions. The coming days will be unpleasant for the mages, darling. We must ensure that level heads prevail. Fellavhen is right; the people see you as an inspiration. You will be remembered as the one to put down the Abominations. The one to restore order. And they will look to you for guidance.”
          Another headache I did not want.
          “I think anyone with eyes can see who did most of the work,” I replied, looking from one woman to the other and back.
          “The public tends not to have the clearest vision, darling,” Vivienne corrected. “Even in hindsight.” I frowned at her. She examined her left arm fastidiously, and I realized that it, too, glinted with the same medicine painting Fellavhen’s skin. “I promise you, they will remember what they are told,” the woman continued, eyes still downcast, “and, whether we want them to or not, they will tell each other not of the elf, but of the inspiring Seeker of Truth, shield aloft and gleaming sword. They won’t talk of how the mages contained their own problems, but of how their overwhelming numbers had to be contained by the brave few Templars still loyal to Andraste’s vision and Chantry teaching.”
          Such cutting and cynical words. “They may not even understand what happened after, either,” I added quietly, looking again to Fellavhen. “How you saved one of them from becoming another victim.”
          I’d hoped to prod the elf into conversation about that. But, still as stone, her eyes flickered from me to Vivienne and back, and she sipped cautiously at her cup.
          “How the public perceives an event is not always determined by those who participated in it,” the Enchanter sighed with a hint of something that seemed a little too close to amusement. “But we often can shape the consequences of that perception and steer the momentum it generates. I only ask that you take control of that direction a bit more than you have been, darling. Your name will continue to grow, Cassandra. I suggest you own your legacy now, before it spirals into something entirely out of your control.”
          The fire crackled in the silence. A log from the nearby stack followed Vivienne’s gesture to slip itself into the flames. I hated the idea of more politics. I did not want to bother with reputations or…perception. That was the realm of Josephine, and Leliana. It reminded me most unpleasantly of home, of the endless dinner parties and arguments over words and gold flow and trade agreements…
          The Enchanter had an interesting point, however. She was not asking me to put down the sword and put on a dress. At least, not yet. But I did not want to shape my “story.” I just wanted to see the world back to peace. To see Corypheus killed and the sky healed. To see the Inquisition triumph.
          I wanted to leave the stories to Varric. Perhaps he could make “mine” as grandiose and full of exaggerations as he did the Champion of Kirkwall. The mere thought of the dwarf angered me all over again. Hawke would not have hidden away, afraid of Abominations. Hawke would have been right there beside us—
          A soft nudge lifted my eyes from the glare I had been giving the campfire. Harellan, offering her cup. I frowned from it to her, not understanding why she would share her medicine with me. I did not need it.
          Its aroma, however, caught me quite off-guard. Far from the bitter herbs I had assumed she was nursing, a very familiar earthy chocolate joined the campfire’s smoky warmth, and something else I knew but did not know the name for. Something that brought me back to the rainy overcast of late fall in Nevarra, after the leaves had fallen but before the snows, that miserable tumble from summer to winter when our uncles came to visit and brought treats from their travels, candies and powders that made the most delicious drinks to enjoy by a hearth.
          Perhaps a taste, then. Out of curiosity. I reached for the cup.
          “Thank y—”
          “Fellavhen.”
          The elf startled at Vivienne’s tone, sharp as the point of a dagger. The disapproval in the Enchanter’s expression was no less barbed, and Harellan withdrew her gift into the folds of her warming wools.
          “She doesn’t get to offer that, darling,” Vivienne explained, thumbing at the back of her own palm absently. “It’s hers. Earned.”
          Earned?
          But the Enchanter was right, I should not take even a sip from a woman who clearly needed it. No matter how strangely pleasant it seemed.
          “I’m sure it is best that you get as much medicine as you can,” I agreed to the uncomfortable elf. “Thank you, though. I am fine.”
          “Oh, it isn’t medicine,” Vivienne added. “It’s a reward, for an excellent performance. Sugared cocoa powder, with spices from Antiva and Nevarra. Hardly a day at the spa but it will have to do.” The woman touched my knee gently, pulling my attention away. “If you’d like a cup I daresay you’ve earned one as well. But Fellavhen isn’t allowed to share. Andraste knows she’d hardly get a drop for herself, if she did.” There was something unsettling in the Enchanter’s smile. “One could say she’s generous to a fault, but, truthfully, she’s a little too willing to allow others to take even more advantage of an elf than usual.”
          “I wouldn’t dare.”
          “Of course you wouldn’t, Cassandra, but it’s good practice nonetheless. Sit tight, darling, I’ll fetch you a cup.” She rose, before I could say no. “I do have one more topic I’d like to raise with you, before I let you go. There is the matter of the next Divine I’d rather like to discuss…”

Chapter Text

Trevelyan

          Back in their towers. Every single last one of them. Towers or death, as far as I was concerned.
          I couldn’t get back to sleep that night. My hands were shaking, undoing all those ties and buckles in the dark, when it was all over and everyone was back to bed. Armor piled in a great careless mess on the ground; someone would clean it up in the morning for me.
          The silence was terrible. All I could see behind my eyes were those horrid rags, those skin-stretched pale hands, those dripping fingers. I got a glimpse of one of their faces, too, and those teeth that could swallow a man whole. Had me tucked deep under my field linens, as if those flimsy sheets could protect anything at all. I’d never look at a horse the same way again.
          I didn’t want to be alone. Not after that. But the damn Chantry sisters were all busy praying, or being pious, or, I didn’t know, chasing Bull or something. Chasing half the rest of the men who’d shown up in their skivvies and stood there like useless cowards and slack-jawed louts on the sidelines.
          Damn it. Damn them all. Damn this whole war, damn Corypheus, damn the mages. Damn the Breach. Damn my hand, too, while we’re at it.
          Andraste, what do you want from me?
          All night I tossed and turned, trying and failing to blink away those monsters. Our own people, they’d turned into that?? That was what could happen to mages?? And they thought they could be free?? Delusional, every last one of them. What if that had happened in Val Royeaux? What if that had happened in…in Kirkwall? Wasn’t that what happened in Kirkwall, every damn day?? How was that fucking city still standing?!
          Dawn couldn’t come fast enough. Our forces were smart to stay out of my way. I paced the camp in a long circuit just to burn off energy in the cold, grateful for clammy morning mists to cool my skin. Felt like I was sweating worse than a pen of pigs. What a mess this was.
          Caught a glimpse of green making its way down the rocks near the camp’s edges. Stopped me dead in my tracks.
          “And where were you last night?” I demanded.
          Could have punched Solas’s head right in, again, for that belligerent scowl in response. But he was one of them, wasn’t he? Could turn into a fucking monster himself if he felt like it.
          “Nevermind,” I decided. “Can’t be bothered with anything, can you?”
          A glint caught my eye as I turned, forcing a double-take. Some small golden spiral glittered at his chest, bouncing against that ugly bone charm. A token from the dead? Was he stealing war trophies now, too? Thieving little rabbits, all of them.
          No. I wasn’t going to ask about it. I had better things to do than be annoyed. At him, at least. Probably for the best that he wasn’t around yesterday. Off gallivanting about with the Dalish, probably. Taking a scenic elven stroll through their crushing historic defeat at the hands of Orlesian might. Ripping medals off fallen soldiers. Amazing he’d even returned.
          By the time I’d completed “inspections,” the rest of the camp was beginning to realize it ought to join me for the day’s tasks, after all. In the daylight the aftermath of the magical kerfuffle seemed almost mundane, just a black sludgy mess of rags and limbs, and some arcane ice spreading frost up the nearby rocky ruins. There was a muted hush to the slow bustle, and more glances than just mine were thrown to the pitiful pile. On a whim I ordered it gone, and walked away from anyone trying to protest. I didn’t care who did it, the mages could clean up their own filth for all I cared. Probably best if they did, now that I thought about it.
          Chantry sisters finally noticed the mood I was in and flocked to offer their charming brand of Andrastian comfort as the morning waxed. I disappeared into my tent with a few, and emerged some time later feeling significantly better and very well-cared-for.
          Duty awaited, in the form of Cassandra and Vivienne primarily, but also in the form of word from Corporal Rosselin, the Orlesian officer from the forward ramparts, sent to share his latest field intelligence and hand me a new headache to deal with. Fort Revasan, apparently, to the northeast, was still besieged by bullshit and needed our help to plow through it and break their people free, too.
          Made me wonder what the Orlesians were even good for. Foppish war-mongers were all for show, it was beginning to look like.
          But, we saddled up and rode out to meet them. Anything to buy our way into the peace talks and make sure their Empress wasn’t killed by some agent of Corypheus. Took the women with me, of course, and Vivienne brought her trained rabbit along, which I was fine with. The elf seemed finally able to walk on both legs again, and saddled a horse with no trouble. I hadn’t forgotten the part she’d played. Although her face was a right mess, half of it mottled with splotchy red and tightly sheened, like an oil burn from a kitchen accident, and the angry glaze spilled down her left shoulder and spattered her left arm, both bare from some new fashion the Enchanter had introduced. Didn’t seem to bother her one bit, though, and the ugly flush did nothing at all to warp or distort her little elf forehead markings. Blackwall rounded out our excursion commanders; I figured I’d try him out for once to help lead a handful of soldiers for backup. Let the good Warden stretch his legs. I left Bull and his Chargers to help with construction instead, and Dorian was to keep an eye on the mages and Fiona in our absence. Time to put them to hard labor, if he was smart. Keep their damn hands busy so they don’t start more fires. And it would be the Vint’s last chance to prove that he wasn’t a liability along with the rest of them.
          Varric opted to stay behind, too. To keep an eye on Cole, he said. The dwarf had to remind me who that was. I didn’t even know that thing was here with us.
          Solas wheedled his way into the journey to Revasan, for some inscrutable reason. Something about the name of the fort and its elven history; I walked away to let Cassandra decide if she wanted that headache. He was her pet project now, as far as I was concerned. The whole damn lot of the mages was, out here. I didn’t like how uneasy I felt around all of them, this morning. Even Solas seemed like so much more than some dirty elf with a stick.
          I called the Seeker up front as we rode. Her and Vivienne. The Swamp Slayer jogged her horse up, too, lockstep at her mentor’s flank.
          Fine.
          “Tell me what happened last night.”
          I didn’t look at them. They could fight it out for themselves who got to answer.
          “The report—”
          “I don’t want the report, Cassandra, I want to hear it from you. From both of you.” I’d read the report. I was there to watch it all. “What happened.”
          More silence. The stink of days of charcoal trees was slowly turning my throat raw. Not to mention the festering dead—mostly restful, though a few twitched uncomfortably as we neared and passed. The vultures had done a number on many of them, by now.
          What was I doing out here, trotting horseback amidst this repulsive scenery? I should never have left Skyhold. Not for this.
          “The Seeker contained a crisis.”
          I scowled at Vivienne. Now it was her turn to “ignore” me, eyes front, all prim and proper. Her left arm was sleeveless too, like her rabbit’s, and her skin had that same tight, glassy shine, though if it was flushed in any way, I couldn’t tell, for obvious reasons. Reminded me of last night. How little they’d been wearing, and how form-fitting the rest was.
          Women that beautiful shouldn’t be out here, in men’s country, fighting men’s wars. They should be fought over, not fought next to.
          “Tell me how the crisis started, then.”
          Before I dismiss you both.
          For…insubordination.
          “You were there, darling,” Vivienne answered. “What more do you want to know, that you didn’t already see?”
          “How did this happen.”
          Cassandra eyed her quietly. Vivienne’s stiff posture never flinched.
          “Inadequate guardians,” the Enchanter replied. “Another reason the Circles must be restored.”
          “Is this normal for you people?” I demanded, sick of her Grand Games. “You get a little upset about things and whoops, there goes a demon?”
          “We train to resist such things.”
          “So it is normal.”
          Even across Cassandra, Vivienne’s sharply-snapped gaze flinched me. “Ignorance does not suit the leader of the Inquisition, darling,” she answered. “This place is dangerous. The Veil is weak, the battlegrounds clamor with things possessing the dead, and our people are poorly-looked-after. A breeding ground for—”
          Of all people, Solas decided to chime in. “Your ‘people’ are frightened. Ill-informed, ill-educated, and—”
          “Shut up.”
          I drew my horse round, stopping everyone and silencing the chatter in the back. The apostate rode between us and Blackwall’s men, apparently more than close enough to eavesdrop. He scowled and opened his elven mouth again, but I loosened my sword in its scabbard for clear emphasis.
          “Not another word from you. You’re as much part of this mess as anyone. You’ve done nothing of use since ‘finding’ Skyhold, have nothing to say but snide little quips, offered no solutions or any of your promised ‘advice,’ and you were gone in a crisis. At least the other one cut down the bastards flinging ice everywhere.” I jerked my head toward the oil-seared Swamp Thief, whatever her name was. “Not another word from you or you’re going back to camp, alone, without an escort, or a horse.” I narrowed my eyes. “Or your staff, for that matter.”
          Still, it didn’t stop him.
          “Ah,” Solas dared to sneer, “as close to a death sentence as our brave Inquisitor can conjure.”
          I drew my blade fully and he backed his horse away, tugging the beast ‘round to flank our soldiers, and pouted back there.
          “Perhaps fighting is not in our best interest—”
          “I don’t care what’s in his best interest, Cassandra,” I snapped, sheathing the blade angrily. A tug of the reins and a snort from my mount set us back on our path. “I care about keeping people safe, and not harboring monsters just waiting to…to hatch.”
          “We are making strides toward these goals, dear Herald,” Vivienne chimed in. “Unfortunately they cannot happen overnight. The mages have been unsettled and have no manner by which to achieve calmed minds. Not out here, so far from help and tools and civilization.”
          “And you then?” I volleyed back, looking her up and down. “Are you ‘unsettled’ too? Should I worry about you?”
          A long silence followed. Her steady stare challenged me but once again it was my turn to face the fields and the ruins and the bloody, burned-out scars of civil conflict slowly passing us by. Wildlife began to appear this far from the garrisons and the ramparts, more Dalish deer bounding about, normal in colors and occasionally chased by a roving pack of distant wolves. Made me wish I hadn’t left my little trinket back in Skyhold with Fang for one of the attendants to look after.
          Vivienne’s tone dropped dangerously low when she finally spoke. “The only thing unsettling me at the moment, Maxwell, is your frightful reactivity overwhelming your higher senses. That you would accuse me of lacking discipline when I and Fellavhen were the only two mages capable of stepping up to end more than two of the three Abominations threatening us all says much about the steadiness of your leadership, and suggests heavily the root cause of why the mages feel troubled and fearful under your rule.”
          Another beat of silence fell.
          I wanted to be angry at that. I was, for sure. And I all but snarled at her for such insolence. Between us, Cassandra said not a word, but her brow was furrowed and her expression deeply uncomfortable. She slowed her horse to slip away and I glanced behind. Blackwall and his lot weren’t close enough to overhear. He was regaling them with tales of Warden history, it seemed, and other battlefield glories he’d seen or heard of in his travels. I jerked my reins closer to the Enchanter and lowered my own voice, but apparently she had more to say, and dared to cut me off.
          “You know what must be done, Maxwell,” the woman insisted softly. “If it’s advice you seek, I’ve plenty. But if you wish to sling about accusations? I’ll not hear a single one. I have been performing flawlessly, delivering you Gordian’s head and an entire rampart and workforce without incident. My right-hand has delivered you glory upon glory, including a dragon and a golden halla. I refuse to allow you to levy these cruelties upon me, darling, and certainly not in public, in front of impressionable soldiers and a certain apostate who would happily continue sowing seeds of discord and dividing our unified front.”
          “—Madame.”
          Vivienne’s glare flashed toward the elf who called to her, then followed the woman’s gaze. The Swamp Elf slipped from her horse and flashed to my side, attention fixed on…something along the distant west horizon.
          She drew her blade. Seemed to think better of it. Sheathed it, and readied her staff instead. A curved blue barrier received a single arrow, fired high and bouncing harmlessly off the glowing shield. It spiraled away into the grass, and she hurried off to fetch it.
          The damn thing would have landed inches from my horse’s leg.
          I scanned the haze for our attacker. A cluster of distant elves, much too far to charge. Dalish, from their line-dark faces. The little warrior hurried back with a folded note.
          I held out an expectant hand. She passed it along. At least somebody around here knew how to behave around their Herald.

          Shem.
          We are not fools, though fools you think we be. We the Dalish take grave insult from your attempts to deceive and play tricks. Sending your Liar into our midst in the trappings of the People harkens back to the Dread Wolf himself, tricking the gods into thinking he be one of their kind, as well.

          What? What was this tripe? Was everybody mad here?
          On and on the note went. I skimmed through paragraphs of animals and guardians and guides and traitors and other incomprehensible elven bullshit, until the final lines.

          Your Inquisition is no more welcome in the Dirthavaren than those shemlen who call themselves of Orlais. If one of the People sees your soldiers, we shall consider you hostile, and act accordingly.
          Dread Wolf take you all.
          Hawen
          Keeper of the Dalish clans of the Dirthavaren.

          The note was of a clothy material, and didn’t crumple satisfyingly, but I still balled it up anyway and managed to hit the Swamp Thief with it before it unfurled and fluttered into the wind. It was her problem, now. She’d been the one to wander off and chat with them, along with Solas. The little elf’s eyes darted away briefly, and she was off chasing it.
          “If they think to make enemies of us, I think I’ll take our new Orlesian allies and go on an elf hunt tomorrow,” I announced, watching the cowardly figurines on the horizon attempt to stare us down. “Teach their children not to insult and attack the tall ones with their little sticks and flinging mud.”
          We pressed on. I tried to engage Vivienne on the mage-monster issue again but she battered me back down, over and over. Nothing to be done now, everything needs to happen later, these things take time and resources. And you’re going to be a part of it too, darling, once you take your Chantry vows and start on your lyrium every morning until the day you die. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out whether I wanted to be a Templar or not. My whole damn youth my family wanted to throw me into the chapels, and here I was, a grown man, Andraste’s Chosen, and still I’m being told I had to do this.
          But…it was amazing. On its face. And I wanted to be able to protect myself against magic. I didn’t ever want to feel that scared and helpless again. I wanted to kill monsters. I wanted that glory. That bravery. That fucking little elf, how was she the center of everything? How did she possibly get that good? That strong? That fearless? I wanted the power to beat her, I realized. To remind her that when she’s told to shut her little rabbit mouth about a dragon hunt, it stays shut, no matter how much tavern ale is shoveled into it and how many Qunari spies are slapping her on the back to force it up and out.
          A foul mood carried me into the slowly-steepening terrain. Plains became paths between hills that steepened into wildling ravines. Revasan was surrounded by all these little trails, defensible and difficult to assail, which was likely why they’d survived as long as they had. Little bits of elven culture scattered about here and there too, decorating the landscape with tributes to their failure. Great stone wolves in repose atop thick pale pedestals looked down on us from afar, between vine-draped owls and other animals here and there too. I wondered why the Orlesians hadn’t torn them all down by now. Surely rock that lasting could be better-used elsewhere.
          Stone paths eventually flattened out the route, making an easier journey of it for the horses. Most of the trek was eerily quiet save for the endless crow calls, though we did happen upon a pocket of Freemen fighting the Loyalists where the paths swelled to an opening. Piled sandbags, barrels, crates, and parked wagons marked that this place had been a chokepoint for some time, or perhaps some first attempts at staging a grander invasion.
          “Right, then.” I drew up my mount, and looked back. “Blackwall, you’re up. Take the men and separate them. If the traitors want to join us, they may. If not, they die.”
          “Aye.” The Warden’s mouth set grimly and he relayed his orders. We all stepped aside to let them charge.
          It was a quick battle, and barely even a battle at that. The two sides separated of their own accord when they heard the thunder of hooves, and the man delivered my ultimatum. The Loyalists were the ones attempting to argue, at first, but a few pointing fingers tossed my way gave everyone the right idea, and I signaled the rest to approach.
          “The Freemen’ve surrendered,” Blackwall reported.
          “Fine work, Warden,” I told him.
          He smirked under his beard at that.
          One of the Freemen shifted restlessly in his fancy plate. “You will take us then, Inquizzitor?”
          I looked him up and down. He seemed capable enough. “We will. I hope you’re ready to work, though. You won’t be freeloading when you’re with us.”
          “Anything but ze demons,” another spouted, and several around him agreed with helmet-clattering nods. “If we do not fight any more demons, we will work.”
          Well well. Why couldn’t everything be so simple?
          “We’ve specialists for the demons,” I promised them, casting a meaningful glance Vivienne’s way. Cassandra was still at least a horse-length behind, and not so easily referred to.
          Eyes widened as the men recognized their former Court Enchanter. Viv seemed to enjoy every fearful stare more than the last. Blackwall rounded up the new conscripts and headed for the back of the herd, and I had a little chat with the Loyalists about their besieged castle.
          “We ‘ave been trying to reach zem,” the captain informed me, walking alongside my horse. “But zey too are besieged by monsters.”
          “So I’ve heard.”
          “If you can break through, we can establish communications again, and perhaps break this deadlock and begin reclaiming the Dales once more.”
          That was the plan.
          The forward entrance to Fort Revasan was not far beyond, marked by a pair of towers or grain silos of some sort, standing just inside and overlooking another one of those long elven walls pocked with a hundred wide arches. Stone stairs sunk into the dirt led us up to and under it, and into the sounds of more fighting and stomach-sinking growls.
I was beginning to recognize them, I hated to say.
          The growls, and that hair-raising tickle at the back of my neck that marked the presence of magic in the air.
          “...Maker’s sagging balls,” I muttered, cresting the final stair and looking right to see a long stone path, an enormous closed wooden door at its ende that marked the entrance to the fort, and small battalion of demons and undead assailing it, led by one of those bastard Horrors Dorian’s classroom field trip had been infected by out on the Ramparts.

Chapter Text

Solas

          No place had been left untouched by the ravages of time and the wars of men, it seemed. And yet, a curious number of familiar waypoints still remained. Elven things built atop older elven things, as though the Dalish remnants had managed to remember something after all, or were simply drawn to those same places in the manner my People had once been.
          Trevelyan’s behavior needled at me. Not his sword threat—I feared neither that clumsy length of steel nor the man behind it—but the ideologies his behavior represented. The deeper failures of character revealed by these actions. I endeavored to avoid such a negative reaction, but even as I thought I’d shored up enough of my own fortitude to handle the man, his callous cruelty continued to rise beyond it. There was no end to my frustration as I witnessed the birth and uncontrolled growth of yet another fresh religious tyrant and could do nothing to formally prevent it from maturing. His Anchor did me no favors, either; it reacted to his emotions in subtle ways he presumably knew nothing about. The frequency with which my mere presence seemed to spark his ire created an amplifying effect; the more I endeavored to contain myself, the louder his stolen power called, a keening, taunting soul-whistle only I could hear.
          Maddening—to a lesser elf, perhaps.
          I waited at the rear of the traveling party, studying the outer reaches of the pathway to our destination, while our burgeoning god-king floundered about in the face of his newest obstacle.
          “Would you have stopped him?” I asked, mostly to pass the time and take my mind from it.
          Cassandra, fallen back to ride with me for the moment, did not seem to realize I was speaking to her, until my glance her way confirmed expectations.
          “When he drew his blade on you?” she guessed, correctly. After my nod she answered, “Of course.”
          “By drawing yours?”
          I still intended to hold her to her word, or to press her on it where and when I could. Time and again she had failed to intervene on my behalf. If she was to abandon her promise of protection, I meant to make of it a conscious decision, and not merely a good intention fallen, unrealized, by the wayside.
          “I would have…” She floundered a bit. “...Said something.”
          “And yet you did not.”
          Not until I had withdrawn, and ended his threat myself.
          I returned to my inspection of the architecture. Fort Revasan. The Place of Freedom. Curious that the quicklings had kept its name. So quick they were to name things after their own generals, their own kings and warmongers and conquerors. I had dreamed here, and elsewhere, lately. The Dalish had fought bravely against their overwhelming foes, and repelled wave after waves of attempts throughout months of sieges before falling. As inspiring a battle as any, and a fine enough final sendoff for a fortress so much older than they could possibly conceive of.
          “I am trying, Solas,” Cassandra insisted. “It is…complicated.”
          I did not believe that.
          Trevelyan continued to kick up a small fuss at the foes arrayed before us. Something about how the Horror had infected Dorian’s mages reached my ear, and how he didn’t want another monster on his hands should Vivienne or Harellan succumb. I kept myself far enough away to no longer catch the details, but the man searched for us when he failed to convince the mages of his point.
          “Cassandra!” he called, motioning her closer. She cast a final mixed-emotion glance my way before leading her horse around Blackwall’s cloud of soldiers. I dismounted and handed my reins off to one of the recently-captured, correctly assessing that my wordless confidence would bemuse the man into compliance. It freed me to make a wide approach, avoiding Trevelyan, and to come astride of Slow-Heart instead, silent and watchful opposite the two women now wedged between him and her.
          “How are you?”
          I hadn’t spoken to her yet, not since we parted ways last night. Not since the camp had been attacked from within. Familiar gold glittered from the head of her walking cane, a second Wolf’s Tail charm finished despite my quiet protest and fastened with stout string near its tip.
          She glanced down from her horse, the worrisome colors mottling her upper body and face mostly hidden from this angle, and shook her head.
          No?
          No to her state? Or no to her interest in conversation?
          “Come down, unless you intend to fight from horseback,” I invited with a lifted palm.
          Vivienne flashed me an impatient scowl but the elf intercepted her gaze, and prepared to dismount.
          “I haven’t trained for mounted combat, ma’am,” she said under the Herald and Seeker’s louder discussions. The First Enchanter waved her cohort off and returned to her own third of the argument, and Slow-Heart dropped, silent and graceful, to the stone before me. I beckoned another of the captured forward. Blackwall sent one off to claim her horse’s reins as well.
          “May I?” I circled the woman to examine her arm, and her shoulder, and cheek, bared and pleasingly-shaped as they were despite their condition. Touching them did not visibly discomfort her, but I’d cared for Slow-Heart enough to know now how well and how easily she suppressed even severe pain. An oily substance coated my fingertips—Vivienne’s medicine, presumably.
          “What’s caused this?”
          I had my suspicions, and she confirmed them. The rash was a painful one, then, though quite well-healed for its recency. Our many differences aside, I did appreciate the First Enchanter’s attentive care to her loyal charge, and recognized that Slow-Heart was, at least, receiving something for all of her efforts. And I, too, could offer further assistance for injuries of this nature. A soft whisper of healing magic nudged aside the woman’s acquiescent will and flowed into the side of her neck, spreading to soften tight skin, forehead-to-fingertips, and easing the swelling’s pressure. She thanked me in Elvhen, but what warmed me more was the way her shoulders relaxed of their own accord. A far more telling thing than words.
          The woman’s injured hand lifted to brush with her thumb the matching charm I’d hung from my necklace. Bone and horn, suitable enough decorations, the former a dark tease just daring the world to remember. The latter, a memory aid of my own.
          “Fellavhen.” Vivienne, of course, intercepting whatever the woman wanted to say. “Be a dear and demonstrate to the Inquisitor how trifling a matter this is to a properly-trained—”
          Knees bent, cane blue, the elf vanished in an obedient glimmering sparkle, her azure streak winding off down the long stone catwalk. The ghost of her springtide gaze lingered before me a half-second longer than it should have. Undead fell apart in neat halves, diagonal slashes and clean separations of upper from lower bodies. About halfway down she paused and posed, striking a proud stance with eyes on us, a silent question one assumed all present could read.
          Is this enough?
          “Convinced, Maxwell?” Vivienne asked.
          “What makes you different to the others, then?” Trevelyan snarled. “Is there something special that makes you so confidently immune??”
          “Discipline,” came the steel-sharpened answer.
          “And the others aren’t disciplined?? What good are the Circles if you’re not all like that??”
          Vivienne still would not break. One hand aloft, eyes still on their Herald, she beckoned her pet back. Slow-Heart glided almost leisurely through the Veil to return to us, a dancing ribbon of power carrying her once more to my side.
          She looked down at my hand between us, the one I hadn’t noticed was touching the small of her back. I withdrew it. She returned her gaze to mine, then to the quicklings.
          My reactions to her still troubled me, though of course in a completely different manner to how I was affected by Trevelyan.
          “Tell me, Herald,” Vivienne pressed, “Do you remember all of your studies? Or were you the sort that slacked off when your tutors attempted to impress higher mathematics and the finer points of science and ancient history into your young mind?”
          Cassandra grimaced at the unspoken implication. Trevelyan gave the sneer of a man aware he’d been insulted, but uncertain why or possibly even how.
          “What’s that got to do with it?”
          “Mages are people, darling,” the First Enchanter explained slowly. “We did not choose our gifts, they were thrust upon us, each recipient unprepared and largely unwilling to receive it. Magic is not practiced by the intelligent, or the skillful, or even the capable. It is practiced by the peasant-girl surprising her farm family with a spark of lightning. The well-bred son of a minor noble shattering a window with angered frost. The nephew of the career soldier melting his uncle’s breastplate during an overenthusiastic polish. We all walk this path unaware that we are on it for the first handful of years of our life. Some of us are more naturally talented. Others, content to think themselves safe under the watchful eye of prudent guardians, chose to slack away their studies. Perform the bare minimum. As you may very well have.”
          Trevelyan glared. “My studies, my choices, don’t mean the difference between peace and monsters!”
          Vivienne’s silhouette shifted, honing the edge of her bladelike stare.
          “Don’t they?”
          Cassandra almost physically flinched.
          But still, Trevelyan blustered. “W…Well I didn’t know back then!”
          Precisely the point, one assumes.
          The Iron Lady’s chin rose, triumphant. A measured glance toward the Seeker signaled the end of her argument. Cassandra exhaled and looked from Herald to mage and back, and drew a breath.
          “Alright. Enough. Please. We will handle the creatures,” she decided, shifted to dismount. I glanced back to summon more captives, but they were already on their way to take the Seeker’s and Enchanter’s horses. Vivienne waved her approaching attendant off, however, and gestured Slow-Heart to the forefront.
          “Just you two, darling,” she bade the elf. “Work around her. Teach yourself how the Order fights.”
          A curious directive. Nevertheless Fellavhen nodded, and matched the Seeker’s pace as they strode off. Trevelyan gave a huffing sort of sigh as he watched them go, snapping his reins to disgruntle his horse, as well.
          “So what were you, then, top of your class?”
          The woman almost looked tired of this. She took a long, slow, measured breath, briefly closed her eyes, and rattled off a list of accomplishments presumably meant to impress, with clear emphasis on her apparently-shocking youth at the time of achievement. It lasted an entertainingly long time and reminded me rather sharply of a fair few of the People I had once known, all-too-prepared to sing their own praises in exhaustive detail at the drop of a hat.
          “So, yes,” Vivienne concluded, her steady gaze having never once left the pair of women now advancing on the outer undead halfway across the catwalk, “‘top of my class’ is a suitable approximation.”
          Cassandra struck a guard, with Fellavhen behind. The elf raised her runed silverite walking-cane, and even from this distance, I felt the Spirit-Call. Her haunting melody, soul-singing through the Fade, pulling a half-dozen undead and a handful of wraiths and shades from their listless wanderings.
          A fireball launched itself from the shambling wave, and broke over nothing but air, feet from the Seeker’s shield. Crackles of lightning and spines of ice dissolved en route, rippling away as though illusory. Fellavhen made no moves to engage as the creatures closed in, allowing Cassandra to bear the brunt of their first round of attacks. Her only contributions came around the edges of the fray, sparkling distractions and the occasional swipe to keep in check some creature about to capitalize on an opening.
          But her focus was more on the Seeker than their enemies.
          Studying her. Learning her.
          Perhaps in a way that I, too, might benefit from.
          Vivienne ushered us closer as they made advances into the outer cloud. The Orlesians began to whisper among themselves, murmurs of accented approval and wonder over who these heroes were, these champions who could single- (or, rather, double-)handedly cut through waves of near-endless dead. Mentions of Cassandra by name and title made the rounds as well, as though at least some of them were aware of her previous Orlesian heroics. It settled Trevelyan, miraculously enough, into his more relaxed arrogance once more, and he preened about the pair to his wondrous audience.
          Until the Arcane Horror turned its attention upon them.
          Tense silence from the man, then.
          Tense, but relatively brief.
          Whether by Cassandra’s order or her own judgment, Slow-Heart vanished and reappeared behind the creature. While it wound back to pepper the Seeker with magical missiles, the elf seemed to size it up. What followed was almost a comedy of confusion, as each attempt from the Horror to pitch a frontal assault was snuffed before it had left the thing’s distended claws.
          It was a masterclass in control over the arcane. The Horror even looked down at its own hands at one point, as though finally realizing something was wrong. I expected Fellavhen to cut it down in her typical blinding fashion then, but it was the Seeker who tore the thing to pieces after a time, unceremoniously and with almost childish ease.
          And when the deed was done, the pair walked leisurely back, conversing as friends do, barely a labored breath between them.
          “Are you quite finished doubting us, then, darling?” Vivienne taunted, watching them near.
          It seemed Trevelyan was, though he still remained unconvinced. A jerk of the reins turned his horse and a snap sent the beast plodding onward, the man not bothering to wait for myself or the women to return to our saddles. They met us halfway and I came astride of Slow-Heart, who paced Vivienne’s mount’s clopping gait on foot.
          “Allowing the Seeker her glory?” I asked. And added, when she frowned, “Traditionally you’ve been the one to claim the spotlight in close combat.”
          “I was asked to learn from her,” the woman replied, quietly. “Practitioners of the path that leads astray are—”
          “—What are you saying over there now, elves?” the Herald snapped.
          “Beg pardon, your Worship,” Slow-Heart answered, strangely undaunted. “Solas expressed curiosity in my performance. I was explaining to him that Knight Enchanters train to supplement Templars in defense against our own kind, and to out-will and command the arcane. We are, in fact, a class of mage meant to defend against the very threats now facing us. We find ourselves well-prepared to face such enemies as these.”
          A lengthy quiet followed her words, punctuated only by horseshoes on stone.
          “...And when were you planning to mention this?” Trevelyan asked, after a time.
          “Beg pardon, Worship,” Slow-Heart chirped demurely, again.
          I could all but feel her holding her breath beside me. A tell, that she was aware of her gamble, and also aware that the Herald could not see her give it.
          After another beat of silence, Vivienne’s contemplative gaze down at the woman all but glowed with approval.
          For my part, I could not contain a smirk. “Do you practice these lies beforehand, Rebel, or do they simply come naturally to you?”
          The twinkling relief in her glance thrilled, as did the wink and the smile she genuinely surprised me with, but some somber thought within extinguished her mirth all-too-soon.
          “It is no lie, Pride,” she answered soberly, eyes on the path ahead and the looming wooden door to the fort. “My People trained me to contain and contest other magics. Do you remember what I said last night to you?”
          I did. All too well.
          “...Parts of it,” I baited instead, sensing an opportunity to learn more, if she was willing.
          The woman nodded, and looked from the charm atop her cane’s head to the one hanging from my neck. “If we’ve time later, perhaps I’ll speak more on it. If you wish.”
          I certainly wished.
          “As you wish,” I answered brightly, hoping to recapture that marvelous spark.
          It did not return, but regardless I would very certainly like to hear firsthand what I’d only so far seen in dreams, and that which had been stolen from the woman’s heart by Cole’s poetic verse.
          I reminded her, also, that the proper term for her techniques was dirth’ena enasalin, not ghilan'him banal'vhen, which she’d begun to use to describe herself before Trevelyan interrupted. She did not walk the path that led astray. She practiced the knowledge that led to victory.
          The woman didn’t reply, but her body language did not overtly reject the correction, either.
          Revasan’s massive wooden entry did not open upon our arrival. Trevelyan took a breath as though to shout, thought better of it, and looked around for someone else to present a solution. Cassandra suggested someone knock, and Slow-Heart looked to Vivienne as though to ask whether she herself ought to, but it was Blackwall who dismounted, brought the loyalists around, and slammed the edge of his shield into the door, creating an impressively resounding handful of percussive notes.
          “Marshal Proulx!” called one of Gaspard’s men. “Zee Inquizzition has arrived! Zee path is clear! Open ze fort!!”
          A few helmeted heads popped over the upper wall, and shouted confirmation to the ground behind them. With a deafening series of creaks, the doors began to swing towards us.
          Awestruck Orlesians escorted the party into the ancient structure. Trevelyan dismounted and took Cassandra and Vivienne to confer with a commander in bronze-colored leonine armor, his fanlike helmet molded into the great cat’s fearsome visage. Tufts of blazing orange fur spilled from its back in an eye-catching facsimile of a mane, and each pauldron was stylized as another roaring lion’s head. Even his regal boots were molded into cat paws.
          Blackwall remained behind, separating Gaspard’s men from the Freemen we’d conscripted, and more or less defending them from the scowling realization of their recent enemies. Slow-Heart began to follow her mentor, but paused when I caught her elbow with a gentle touch.
          “What is it?” she half-whispered, not looking my way just yet.
          I smirked at her, then glanced around. “Look at these walls, Slow-Heart. This architecture. Come tour them with me, while the quicklings confer. Engage with your People’s history, while you’ve a rare opportunity to stand within it.”
          The First Enchanter glanced over her shoulder and sized the pair of us up. I firmed my grip and watched the woman, making clear my intentions with her pet. Narrow eyes contemplated her options.
          The woman dismissed us both with a wave of her staff, and returned her attention to the task at hand.
          An invitational tug was resisted, but not for long. Slow-Heart watched Vivienne carefully, leaning increasingly in the direction of my gentle insistence, before her feet and conviction caught up, and off we went.

Chapter Text

Harellan

          Solas led me deeper into Revasan, past the frowns of worn- and haggard-looking shemlen soldiers. But news of the breakthrough quickly outpaced us, and confusion turned to a mix of uncertainty and disgusted acceptance.
          We may have been saviors, but we were still elves.
          And mages, at that.
          I had the jitters. Or at least, that’s what I thought they were. A kind of…nervous buzz under the skin, this keening tease deep in my stomach. It was good, it was a positive feeling, but I…
          …I didn’t really know how to make it go away.
          Focusing on the pain helped, a little. It at least grounded me. That prickling of thousands of little needles up and down my arm and face. The sunlight made it worse, and that…made things better, somehow.
          I was excited. Energetic.
          Conflicted.
          On the one hand, I’d been kicked out of another Dalish clan. Almost funny, when I put it that way. But on the other, I was…nervously certain that the Dread Wolf had left. That he’d “answered” my “prayer” and decided he’d tormented me enough, after all. That he’d spared Connor and moved along to find some other prey to chase, elsewhere in the world.
          If that was true…it was an amazing thing.
          Madame de Fer was so happy with me. Protecting the others, ending those Abominations, so openly and in front of so many. Nobody could deny her prowess and authority anymore. And again, out here, just now, cutting through the creatures swarming the fort’s entrance. I had demonstrated with a single performance and an “accidental” explanation what the First Enchanter could not convince the Inquisitor of on the entire ride over.
          Everything just…felt right, today.
          Uneasily so.
          And Solas was no small part of it, either. He was wearing my charm. We walked Revasan as though it was his home, and he pointed out little elven details here and there as they passed. Spread-winged owls and Raven-pairs carved under eaves, in the shadows hidden from sun and rain. Like Hawen’s clan marked by Falon’Din’s lines, like those glyphs to Dirthamen I’d stumbled across out in the Dales on my own, this fortress too had once been constructed in the name of the Twins.
          Revasan.
          “The Place of Freedom,” he quoted, ascending a flight of stairs beside me.
          “Fortress Freedom-Place,” I teased back, noting how silly it sounded in our shared tongue.
          Redundant, at best.
          Again he touched my elbow fondly. I looked away, but allowed it. Something about his smiling grays made the jitters worse.
          “You’ve recovered well,” I added, down at the wood flexing beneath our weight.
          “Have I?” he asked. “I’ve not seen combat.”
          “Within,” I meant. “Your heart.”
          Your grief.
          “Ah.”
          Creak.
          “A sympathetic ear is a kind gift,” the man replied. His fingertips traced the back of my arm in a way I wasn’t certain he was fully aware of. “And not one I am accustomed to.”
          He was playing my nerves like a harp with that hand.
          I didn’t hate it. But it wasn’t helping.
          “I should thank you, as well,” I told him, willing myself steady. “I said much yesterday that I hadn’t intended to. You responded kindly.”
          “It was a vulnerable moment for the both of us.”
          So it had been.
          We crested the stairs to the battlements, and Solas led me to their edge. Much of Revasan was sunken into the earth, built into some hollow in the swelling terrain we’d traversed to arrive here, but parts of it rose above the rocky hillside, including this wall. Below us, the Dales spread in all directions, in all their pastoral destruction and hazy battlefield smoke. Up here I could see for miles. The charred trees, the winding wooden ramparts, the sedate flowing waters of Enavuris to the west. The Dalish camp on its bank, so small and familiar. The broken homesteads I’d wandered through after Solas left. Other elven ruins and crumbling statues to the Creators, so large they were visible even from here. More rifts in the Veil, peppering the land in warping, shining green.
          Things that could have been beautiful.
          Things that could have been ours.
          Solas pointed with his staff off towards one particular broken rectangle in the distance, and named it as a temple.
          “Those arches were once windows, colorful with stained glass.”
          And another, an innocuous garrison on the surface, but only to mark the entrance to a deep and winding series of subterranean chambers, to practice magics and inter the dead.
          “See how the owls form path markers?” he asked, describing a line of statues spanning the plains. “Our People did not build roads. But elves finding themselves on foot between strongholds used them as guides.”
          “You sound like a Keeper,” I told him, listening to his soft, pleasant voice. “Have a story that you’d like me to memorize for you, next?”
          His eyes darted from the distant horizon to mine, capturing my gaze before I could look away. Unreadable scrutiny danced in his pale stare, and it dropped to a point between us, to the head of my cane, where he traced the Wolf’s Tail charm I’d hung there with gentle knuckles.
          Wow, did it hurt to blush. Fire ripped through my cheek, too fast to hide a wince. I waved off the apostate’s concern and shook my head. He’d done enough. It would just take some time to heal.
          “You’ve been here before?” I asked, to distract his concern.
          “Not for quite some time,” he replied. “And, recently, only in dreams.” Solas looked around, including behind us, down at Revasan sprawling below. I joined him, turning my back to the plains. “There is mixed history here,” he added absently. “Conflict permeates many layers of this land’s past. Ruins hundreds of years old built by your Dalish were raised atop foundations first crafted thousands of years before. Here is but one of those places. This one is called the Home of Freedom, because it was once a forum for discussion, a place where the People could meet in secret and exchange free thought.”
          I didn’t have to believe him. But nor did I have to challenge his claims.
          “And why would they need a place so guarded to speak so freely?” I asked.
          His eyes sparkled as they turned upon me, prickling more warming cinders through my wounds. “Do you think the one who once called himself Master of Secrets looked kindly on such things?”
          Dirthamen.
          “Dirthamen shared his secrets with the wise and the worthy,” I reminded him.
          His chuckle was dismissive, an academic amused by the folly of the ignorant. “Even if that were true, child, it shines just as poor a light. Why should the Secret-Keeper be the one to decide who is worthy? Why should any of the People?”
          “Well if you don’t believe him a god, the judgment is understandable.”
          He wasn’t the only one who could be dismissive.
          “Even as gods to you,” Solas countered, “were they not fallible? Your legends do not paint them as perfect beings.”
          …And?
          “Knowledge must be kept by someone, Pride. Lest it be lost forever.”
          Like so much already had been.
          “Kept, yes,” the apostate agreed. “Not hoarded.”
          That didn’t sit right with me. I couldn’t meet his gaze anymore. It quelled the jitters, at least, which was an excellent thing, though one I couldn’t really thank him for. We Dalish spent a lot of time mourning the knowledge lost when Fen’Harel sealed away Dirthamen and the others. I’d never really considered how the People might not have been left with so little, had the Secret-Keeper been less…
          I shook my head.
          No.
          Solas wasn’t going to make a blasphemer of me.
          I stepped out of his touch when he reached for my wounded arm. He chased me, catching my far shoulder to prevent escape.
          “Pride—”
          Magic perfused my bones, cool and soothing, another dose of his arcane balm.
          “Your ‘Keeper’ forbid you from learning certain magics,” he said, insistently. “Healing being chief among them. Would you not benefit from a diverse education? What made you unworthy, child?”
          Stop calling me child.
          “Our People split duties among their leadership,” I replied, fixing his hand on my arm with a stubborn scowl. “I was their warrior, defender of the clan. My Keeper and First were the clan’s healers.”
          “And they taught you not even basic restorative spells? Did they, too, have no method by which to defend themselves, or repel threats, in your absence?”
          “They did.” Not nearly as effective as mine, of course.
          “And yet they decided that only you were unworthy of their knowledge.”
          Familiar belligerence bubbled up inside. “Yes, that’s true, and it’s correct of them, because if they taught me everything, they’d have no means by which to control me.”
          Yet again I didn’t want to fight. And yet again I found myself doing exactly that. I looked away and awaited his quip, listening for whatever smart little thing he was going to counter with next in his lyrical Elvhen.
          “...Could you explain this further?”
          Or…not.
          I could explain it, yes. But I most certainly didn’t want to. I shook my head. It was as good an excuse as any to exit the conversation with something resembling grace.
          “Slow-Heart—”
          “No.”
          I’d clearly said too much already. I pulled myself out of his lingering grip and turned back to the Dirth. The Promise. That land gifted and stolen away by the shem. And I ignored Solas’s palm warming my back.
          “Your Keeper forced you to depend on his magic for medical care?”
          “Let it go.”
          “Does Vivienne control you in this manner, as well?”
          Ice threaded my veins, a sharp rebuke but a very welcome change from the rising heat beneath my skin.
          “...No,” I lied.
          Did she?
          Or was I just…familiar with seeking my superiors for healing?
          Solas must have seen my uncertainty. I made no effort to hide it.
          “Technically speaking, the Herald did order me to teach you,” the apostate baited softly, leaning forward in an attempt to catch my eye. I turned my head to reject him.
          “I know.” I, too, hadn’t forgotten. “I don’t believe it wise.”
          “And so now you are the one to decide who receives knowledge?” Solas challenged. “What suddenly gives you authority to decide this?”
          Lived experience.
          The words came to me as though they had been beaten into my brain by Keeper Junnarel’s staff. I repeated them to the man who had supplied them for me all those weeks ago, more out of spite than true belief.
          And still he persisted. “You would deny yourself experience and claim it be in the name of—”
          “Pride. Enough.”
          “No.”
          The rebuke was sharp, as was his tightening grip on my shoulder. “I’d like to hear this, Slow-Heart. Why do you limit yourself? Your Keeper no longer has authority over you; why do you continue to abide by the rules of a people you’ve rejected?”
          Indignation gripped me. I didn’t like the word he used for “people.” It wasn’t the proper noun, the one reserved for elves. Like he was making a distinction, calling my clan false, insulting them, lumping them in with the shemlen. A haughty thing for an ignorant flat-ear to say.
          “It is for the safety of all,” I insisted, scowling first at his hand, then up at the man himself. “You may be acquainted with the softer things in life, gentle wanderer, but a warrior needs boundaries. Cages. Preventative measures, lest they become tyrants or monsters.”
          His stare was unwavering. “And learning to heal will make a monster of you?”
          Such flippant sarcasm in his tone. He spoke too comfortably on topics he knew nothing of.
          “You may not fear demons, Pride, but I do. What would happen to you, should you become possessed?” I asked slowly, as if he were the da’len here. “You wander about a forest until a large enough bear decides you’re a threat to its territory? Or you become a local legend to frighten children? Perhaps you murder a villager or two before the local Templars put you down.” And quickly, if you were lucky. “What if I became an Abomination? Do you know how fast I would kill? The sort of destruction my power could cause, in a demon’s hands? You’ve seen me. What is there to stop me, if not even a high dragon could? And what if I, then, could regenerate wounds? How much more impossible would a beast like me be to put down?”
          Pounding bootsteps thudded their heavy shem way up the stairs. A soldier hurried over, and stopped before us. He looked from one to the other and back as though not sure who to address, then scowled a moment, and drew a breath.
          “Elves. The Herald demands you.”
          Good. I walked off immediately, out of Solas’s grip and back down the stairs. Not once did I look back, either, as I retraced our path with a quick stride back to Vivienne’s expectant heel.
          “Had a nice leisurely stroll?” Trevelyan mocked over folded arms. “There’s more work to be done. Where’s Solas, lose him again?”
          I almost wished I had. The apostate ambled into view soon enough, ignoring the barrage of jabs the Herald leveled his way upon arrival, too.
          “Right, then,” the shem added, once he’d had his fill of insults. “If the rabbits are done nibbling at the local grass, there’s one more piece of business to take care of. The good Marshal Proulx here tells us a garrison by the riverside seems to be the source of the nearby demons preventing their men from reopening lines of communication. No doubt there’s a rift down that way, and we’re to close it. Mount up, it’s not far.”
          Within minutes, we were on our way. I fastened myself to the First Enchanter’s side, eyes ahead, focused on the path.
          The shemlen made conversation to pass the time. More debates about demons and how to handle them, and about Knight-Enchanters and the ways in which they are meant to work alongside Templar magical negation.
          “There’s a spirit, inside your little hilt there?” Trevelyan asked.
          “Captured and bound, yes,” Vivienne replied. “When pressed to serve it produces a blade capable of cutting through most mundane objects, with an edge that never requires sharpening.”
          “Andraste’s tits,” the Herald swore in wonder. “Why aren’t we all using those?”
          “They require a connection to the Fade, darling,” the First Enchanter explained. “The spirit must be out-willed in order to force initial submission. And, if it breaks free, arcane will is required once more.”
          “Not every spirit must be enslaved to be of helpful assistance,” Solas remarked loudly from somewhere behind us.
          “What did I say about piping up?” Trevelyan fired back.
          “It is safest to bind them properly,” Vivienne added, with a pointed glance my way. “To prevent them from expressing different intentions than those of the Knight-Enchanter wielding them.”
          “And what happens if they break free?” Trevelyan asked her.
          “They are contained and neutralized,” the woman replied lightly. “Knight-Enchanters must prove they are capable of handling such things before they are allowed to carry a spirit-weapon.”
          “One can only imagine what this ‘proof’ requires,” Solas added.
          The shem ignored him, for the most part, and continued chatting to themselves for the remainder of the ride over. We didn’t get far from Revasan’s funneling valleys before more demons and aimless undead encountered us out on the wider plains. I was primarily tasked to kill them, a responsibility that was practically sport. I didn’t mind at all; it felt good to be useful, and visibly so. And it got me away from the more and more frequent glances Madame de Fer was leveling my way, reminding me that my Dalish spirit-handling technique was not, and had never been, Chantry-approved.
          “So she bullies around a spirit too, then?” Trevelyan asked, once. “The Swamp Thief?”
          “Yes,” Vivienne lied, her unblinking eyes following my every step as I clambered back aboard my horse.
          I didn’t show surprise, but I certainly felt it. That had been a Game move, a meaningful public defense.
          The Herald tried to quiz her on Abominations, next. Vivienne raised the point that our elevated wills and our comfort controlling spirits inured us to possession and temptation. A little seed of something cold settled itself into my stomach as I listened, and wondered if that demon haunting me back at Skyhold could sense this too, and that was why it had not made any overt attempts to attack.
          Was it intending to lower my guard even further, before showing itself in?
          As we neared the Riverside Garrison, a fort on a small rise overlooking Enavuris, the density of enemies thickened, enough so that I could no longer mount my horse between assaults and simply led as vanguard, cleaving a path through mindless foes. Their structures seemed much fresher here as well, as though they were only recently dead and not several days or weeks old, as others further out had appeared to be. Perhaps those sent to reclaim or scout this area had become part of its defenses. The idea unsettled me, not just its implications but also the sudden self-awareness that I was becoming capable of discerning the relative ages of undead at a glance. It was not a skill I particularly wanted to possess. Some of Blackwall’s soldiers and Cassandra as well joined me for the final push, driving a wedge through which the Herald, First Enchanter, Warden, and remainder could pass. The Orlesians seemed strangely bolstered of fortitude for all their talk of not wanting to fight more demons, and even raised a few cheers among themselves at their victories.
          I suspected it wasn’t the fighting of demons that bothered the men, but the prospect of losing against them. And I wasn’t about to let our people lose.
          The Garrison itself was teeming with lesser monsters, wraiths and shades and more reanimated corpses. Further fractures in the Veil clung to the ancient stone as we battled our way inward, piled in glowing green corners that oozed more spirit-stuff clambering free to form more demons and seek out bodies to occupy. What struck me immediately was the shift in arms and armaments displayed by the corpses within the ancient, roofless stone walls, as opposed to those wandering its periphery. Greens and browns and golds, ancient leathers in unexpectedly good condition and brass-colored plate and blades of a more graceful and strikingly different style than the modern decorative or brutish irons and steels of Orlais.
          Trevelyan swore at the scene and ordered the little rifts cleared, so he could get close enough to close them. Blackwall’s emboldened troops seemed happy to oblige, leaving me to thin the crowds elsewhere as I saw fit.
          A rotting head rolled free of its helmet as I cut both from their owner’s shoulders. At my feet, its left ear tapered to a shriveled point.
          Elven.
          I’d hoped they weren’t.
          Solas’s presence loomed over my shoulder, dismounted and occupying the space I had cleared. I looked from the head to him to the great, caved-in hole in the floor more ancient gauntlets and desiccated fingers were clawing their way out of, deeply troubled by the implications.
          “You said this was a garrison atop a tomb to inter the dead?” I asked quietly.
          “It seems the fractured Veil destroyed the protections upon the graves,” Solas replied.
          “...What do we do?” I didn’t really expect an answer. But still, “It’s desecration…”
          I didn’t want to destroy the remains of what were likely the warriors who’d given their lives to fight the shemlen Exalted March. Although this styling of equipment seemed much, much older than that…
          “I’ve an idea, if you can keep them from me.”
          A bright barrier formed itself around Solas, and he directed me toward that gaping stone mouth. Vhenan’Then and I didn’t cut our way through so much as forcibly nudge aside the groaning creatures shambling around us. The dead didn’t seem terrifically interested in attacking, I realized, once I’d stopped being an obvious and deadly threat to them. Path cleared, Solas stepped up to the nearer edge of the crumbled stone floor, and peered within.
          The rift we expected to see was down there, shining and twisting in midair. Lines of power stretched from it toward the stone walls as it cast them in haunting emerald relief, dozens of catacombs broken or breaking, their occupants continuing to pull themselves from eternal slumber, even still. Pillars that had once supported the chamber formed a kind of crumbling staircase now, one that the corpses were using to leap between and hoist themselves out of the darkness and into the sun.
          “There.”
          Solas pointed with his staff, to a beautifully wrought bronze tree of unambiguously elven design below, situated opposite the rift. “A guardian tree. In times past they caught and entangled ambient magics, to prevent them from accumulating and to power the enchantments threaded through their structure.”
          It didn’t look like it was doing any of that, at the moment.
          “Is there a way to reactivate it?”
          “There is. If we can safely approach.”
          I tried not to think about Revasan as I formed a Barrier as a platform for us and stepped onto it, inviting him to join me with a hand. If he’d correctly predicted what we’d find here, after all…why wouldn’t his tale of Dirthamen’s secrecy also be true?

Chapter Text

Cassandra

          The dead seemed endless.
          Inquisitor Trevelyan staggered a little as his powers closed the third piece of sundered Veil. His shoulders had begun to sag under the weight of his armor, and his breath did not come easily. Whatever blessing Andraste had gifted him with was clearly exacting some kind of toll after repetitious use.
          “How do we stop them?” he demanded, looking around at the battle between the Orlesians and their rotting foes.
          “They are coming from underground,” I reported, shoving a corpse off my shield and pressing it into the stone with a boot to the chest. A strike to the neck severed most of it from the thing’s shoulders, and another boot-stomp to the exposed spine sent its helmet flying.
          Repulsive work.
          “Get us over there, then,” Trevelyan ordered with a sloppy wave of his sword. “This must be ended.”
          I had to agree. We were unprepared for a siege, and it seemed that the very Garrison itself was reacting to our intrusion. Blackwall and I rallied the men to clear a path toward the hole, and, within a few exhausting minutes, we had formed a shell at its edge for the Herald against the nightmare swarming in on all sides.
          “What in the Maker’s name are they doing down there?” Trevelyan asked, stomping the fingers of a creature trying to drag itself up towards us. He slid its grip off the edge and back down into the dark with his heel.
          “Amassing, I’d wager,” Blackwall growled, his sword clashing off an ancient breastplate. Whatever armor these soldiers had been buried with, it was incredibly resilient, and doubly so for its age.
          “No, the elves.”
          The what?
          I chanced a look over my shoulder.
          Solas was aloft in the air, a halo of green ringing him as he floated before a treelike statue down there. His left arm was palm-up and extended towards its lower branches, so close that he was nearly touching whatever metal it seemed made of. Power flowed around his staff, across his body, and off his fingertips, into the center of the statue’s cagelike limbs. Whatever spell he was trying to channel did not seem to be working, however. Sparks snapped against the statue’s tines, with increasing frequency as the swirling power in the middle swelled to a brighter and brighter ball. Another tendril lashed out from the rift and whipped wildly against the statue’s trunk, dissipating the energy in a violent explosion of white sparks so bright I had to cover my eyes with an arm to avoid being blinded.
          The rift itself swelled and birthed a wave of glowing motes, dozens of them, all of which spiraled off into the catacombs walls to revive more ancient dead.
          “Is he feeding that rift?!” Trevelyan spat, banging his shield and sword to catch the elf’s attention. “Solas! You’re making it worse, you knife-eared ass!”
          The apostate dropped back to the ground and stumbled a few steps, finally catching himself on his own staff. He shook his head, looked up at the tree, looked up at us, and looked across at the rift opposite him.
          “He’ll have to close it, but carefully,” the elf called, indicating the tear. “The Veil was thin here even before it tore, and the whole area is magically unstable. Care must be taken.”
          “And how do you propose I get down there, hm?” the Herald snapped.
          Again Solas looked down, across the room, then back up at us. With a deep breath he steadied himself and conjured a platform of the same sort of Barrier magic I have seen before, just off the lip of the Garrison’s hole.
          “I’m not standing on that,” Trevelyan decided.
          Andraste, please…We did not have time for another fight! One of the distant shades sent a spray of fire along the floor; I forced it to dissipate into smoke with a tight fist and an even tighter jaw. This could not go on endlessly.
          “Herald—”
          “With respect, ser, I think you might ‘ave to,” Blackwall interrupted, knocking one of the corpses senseless with a pommel strike to the helmet. He shoved another with his shield and glanced back at us. “We can’t keep ‘em away forever, and they’re not slowin’ down, either.”
          Yes. Some sense, finally.
          Beyond, Vivienne regarded us from the fortress of ice she had constructed around herself and the horses.
          “What’s the delay, darlings?” the woman called impatiently.
          It was time to set an example. In a show of faith, I stepped over the gap and onto the magic. It felt as hard as glass, and solid as any marble floor I have ever walked on.
          “Sure, you can trust Solas,” Trevelyan added, but at least he followed.
          “He would not injure us,” I promised, looking down. To Blackwall I added, “Keep your men safe. We will endeavor to be quick.”
          The Warden rolled out his shoulders and returned to the fray.
          My stomach dropped as the platform began to move, but Trevelyan yelped and grabbed me around the waist for support. I shoved back with an elbow and could not help a disgusted glare, remembering over and over the way he saw us last night.
          It was almost a terrible mistake. The push broke us apart and staggered him backwards, and only by Solas’s quick reflexes did the platform widen enough to contain the Herald’s tumble onto his backside, cutting short a terrified scream.
          Swears carried us down into the darkness, some at me, some at magic, some at Solas himself. I managed an apology to the Inquisitor but it was not a true one, and it twisted at me to view and think of Andraste’s Herald in so negative a light. I whispered a prayer to the Lady of Flame, begging her for patience and grace, while her Chosen clung to the gently descending Barrier on hands and knees at my feet.
          It did not take me long to realize we were passing through some sort of unseen magic as the mouth of the hole rose around us. Down here was something different. Something very strange. And by the time we were waist-deep, I could hear Harellan’s power, too, beckoning my soul with her unignorable melody from somewhere just beneath the low ceiling, out of sight until we were completely submerged.
          The woman was crouched atop the most intact pillar down here, having wedged herself into the few inches of space between it and the stone it was no longer supporting. Hypnotic blue danced along her cane and lifted from a visible aura around her like bright ropes of smoke. Dozens of corpses piled at its base, climbing over one another in a writhing cone of dead flesh and clattering armor in an attempt to reach her.
          “What in the Maker’s name is she doing?” Trevelyan asked, as transfixed as I felt.
          “Keeping Solas safe,” I realized.
          “She better be keeping us safe as well,” the Herald growled, hands still clutching the platform’s edge.
          The apostate joined us as his spell neared the catacomb’s floor. I stepped from it with a quiet word of thanks. The Inquisitor, however, made no immediate attempt to rise, and Solas had to dissolve the barrier to drop him that last inch and jolt him out of his fixated reverie. The man grunted and spat another irritating curse at the elf and picked himself up.
          “What is this place?” he demanded. “What’s the matter with it?”
          Solas gestured around us with his staff. “One assumes it an ancient crypt, if the many remains of interred warriors are any indication. Their arms and armaments predate the Dalish wars, however. Presumably, the weakening of the Veil shattered the magics meant to protect this place from curious spirits seeking to cross into our world in order to—”
          “I don’t want to hear about curious spirits, I want to hear how to stop it.”
          Solas’s eyes flickered my way, needling me with more guilt for his mistreatment.
          I spoke up. “Perhaps we should listen to what Solas has to—”
          “No.” Trevelyan glared at me, as though angry I would take the side of knowledge. “I don’t need a dissertation on Magic Dream Land, Cassandra, I need answers to the problem in front of us.”
          I…looked from him back to Solas. The Herald was right, we did not have time for lengthy explanations. Not with Blackwall and our new allies in the middle of a fray above.
          I just wished he could be kinder about it.
          “Do as you always do, then,” the apostate replied tersely. “Use your ‘divinely granted’ gifts to cleanse the sky.”
          The Inquisitor sneered right back at him, hefting his sword threateningly before turning away. “You still don’t seem to get that I can shut that smart mouth of yours by force. Keep up the attitude.”
          I had never seen Solas level such a fearsome, lip-twisting, teeth-baring scowl at anyone. I tried to offer him a look of sympathy, or to defuse the situation in any way, but the mage completely ignored me. He hissed something angry¹ in elven, something I thought must be a curse, but Harellan responded, and he fixed her with his cold glare next. I did not need to know their language to guess that his answer was a rejection of whatever she had said.
          He repeated it louder and more insistently as she unwedged herself from the top of the pillar and leapt to clear the mass of corpses congregated beneath her. By then Trevelyan had reached the rift and raised his hand toward it, beginning his familiar sequence to close the rend in the Veil.
          Harellan positioned herself behind him, glowing cane in both hands. A beam unfurled from the Herald’s palm and connected to the rift. Instead of creating a smooth channel of power as it had in the past, however, the line spasmed and twisted and bucked as it touched the seam, eventually snapping back on itself and breaking, as though the tear had…rejected his attempts to tame and seal it?
          But it felt as though the entire catacombs had rejected his efforts, not just the rift. Something greater had reacted to the presence of Andraste’s Mark, something woven into the very stone around us.
          “I beg your pardon?” the Herald hissed, shaking his whole arm like it had been burned. The man wiped his sword on the leg of his trousers, sheathed it, and tried again, steadying his left hand by bracing his forearm with his right.
          Behind him, Harellan too widened her stance and her grip on her cane, and lowered her shoulders and chin.
          The second attempt lasted longer. But it also made much more apparent the forces that resisted them. I could feel this place reacting once more, squeezing them in a manner not unlike I often felt when battling particularly determined mages. All around the pair, the floor and walls glimmered with glyphs, flickering and fluttering like steam on glass, their shine and spread growing as the pair dug in their heels and tried to force the rift closed, Harellan clearly feeding her power to Trevelyan. The Herald’s beam of power thickened but still it quavered, more bright sparks showering from it as they had when Solas’s work with the tree had failed, as well. I looked to the apostate. He remained a fearsome sight, glowering but focused, brow drawn and eyes narrow, still angry as he looked on, as though he, too, was willing them to fail.
          I searched for something to do. Anything at all. But I struggled to even understand the source of the power of this place, let alone locate a manner in which to contest it, myself. It seemed everywhere and nowhere, locked into the stone but leaking into the air, a directionless force resisting change.
          If we only knew what this was…I caught myself wondering, if we could line chambers of the mages’ towers with this sort of magical sterility, could this be helpful to them?
          Trevelyan snarled. He grunted. And he took a deep, teeth-clenched breath and began to yell.
          Brighter, his power shined. It consumed nearly all of the man’s hand, now. I could see his body shaking under the strain and willed Andraste to come to his aid, and yet behind him, Harellan did not seem to be suffering the same level of effort.
          And still they failed, and violently so. Trevelyan's battle-shout was cut short as the reactive forces shoved him backwards; he collided with Harellan and tumbled hard down on top of her, then rolled off and glared as I hurried closer to assist where I could.
          “What are you doing, now?!” the man spat down at the coughing elf beside him. “You’re making it worse! Get away from me!”
          “Are you alright?” I asked Harellan, kneeling. She’d been crushed between Trevelyan’s plate and the floor, and did not look as though she’d taken the fall very well.
          “I’m fine—Oh,” Trevelyan answered, still sneering. “Nevermind her, the rabbits need to keep their distance when the adults are working.” He hauled himself to his feet and Harellan picked herself up as well, waving away my offered hand.
          The Inquisitor rounded on Solas, next. “How do we close it?”
          The other elf stood, incorrigible. “Perhaps you’d try again; it seems you nearly had it.”
          Trevelyan looked about to come to blows and I half-stood between the two men, but it was Harellan who spoke, quick elven² that softened Solas’s stubborn belligerence, though only slightly. He answered her and she said more to him, but I wasn’t certain it was working.
          The apostate began another answer.
          “—Trade, dammit!” Trevelyan bellowed, flinching me and Harellan alike.
          “Please, Solas,” the woman begged.
          “What are you saying?” the Herald spat at the both of them. Neither answered. Solas glowered but backed away, and stalked off towards the bronze tree statue he had been working with before we arrived.
          “It must be done in tandem,” the apostate instructed, still terse, power flaring around his body with a snap of his arms. “If you’ve a capability for anything resembling teamwork, Inquisitor, you might attempt to match your power to mine.”
          “I’m sure I won’t have a problem with that—get away from me,” the Herald ordered, swatting at Harellan as she neared. “I swear, they’re like damned flies,” he added, at me. The woman hesitated and withdrew. Solas began to call something out but Harellan silenced him with more quick, brief elven³, and the apostate abandoned whatever he was going to say.
          “By your lead, then, Inquisitor,” he directed instead.
          Trevelyan mocked him briefly before turning away and facing the rift again. More sounds of battle drifted down towards us from the surface, alongside Blackwall’s orders to fall back and regroup. Harellan winced visibly, pressed the side of a fist to her chest and seemed to struggle to swallow, then shored up her fortitude. She caught my eye and pressed a finger to her lips, then resumed her stance behind the Inquisitor, to brace his ability with her own again.
          I hoped she was alright. I did not like how practiced she was at hiding pain.
          “Ready back there?!” Trevelyan called.
          “Begin,” came the order from across the room.
          The Herald bared angry teeth, but raised Andraste’s Mark to the rift a third time.
          Solas’s feet lifted from the ancient stone.
          Harellan spread her heels and tucked her chin.
          I found myself again wishing there was something I could do. Though, in that brief moment, I realized that the undead were still clambering at the pillar. I was not even needed to keep them from us.
          And so instead I prayed.
          I prayed to Andraste, to grant Maxwell Trevelyan the wisdom to guide the Inquisition with patience and understanding. I prayed as the man called to her holy power, as Solas matched divine might with ancient magic. I prayed for the success of our campaign against Corypheus, as whispers of magic breathed around me. I prayed for peace, and harmony, as Solas swept away the resistance of the chamber, gathered it into that strange statue. And I looked up to see everything I prayed for, human and elf working together, as Harellan poured her strength into Maxwell’s endeavors, as Maxwell’s bright power raged against the tear in the Veil, and as Solas manipulated the chamber around them, bending it to the Herald’s will, forcing ancient elven architecture to yield to modern need.
          I bore silent witness, as the two mages and Andraste’s Chosen tamed this place.
          With enormous effort, Trevelyan closed the rift, folding it in on itself until no trace of the unsettling green glow remained. The Herald almost immediately dropped to both palms and a knee, his breath coming in great heaving pants.
          “Fellavhen!”
          Harellan hardly had a moment to recover. Off she went, tireless as ever, to answer Solas’s call and aid the apostate’s work next, her power carrying her in a streak of blue across to the tree, and to him. Into the air she rose, opposite him, the gathered power Solas had already locked within the tree’s caging branches also outlining her silhouette.
          Magic surrounded her. Whatever they were doing…it was continuing to affect the entire structure. Runic language painted the walls, shimmering in oceanic blues and sparkling greens. I could feel it, coursing around me, immense power groaning into place like some great machine slowly being repaired.
          Trevelyan struggled to his feet, hands-on-knees, and looked around.
          “Magic,” he spat between breaths, shaking his head. “Sera’s got the right idea about it all.”
          The elves continued whatever they were doing for another minute or so, with Solas occasionally directing his arm or his staff in one manner or another. The tree with its glowing nest no longer sparked nor reacted poorly. But after a time, it did begin to emit some kind of pleasant note, a ringing chord that was neither harsh nor loud.
          Above, Blackwall’s orders sounded.
          “Back up, back up! What are they…What?”
          Solas, too, spoke something in elven⁴, something to Harellan. She nodded once in response.
          All at once a shower of white motes spilled like a waterfall over the lip of the chasm above. Another shower erupted from the pillar beneath which the rest were congregated, brightening the space in a dazzling display of light. These two streams flowed toward the tree and coalesced within its branches, adding themselves to the power within. It swelled to absorb them, then collapsed back to a shining, stable sphere.
          The runes around us faded as well, as though the entire structure was returning to a watchful sleep.
          Solas and Harellan descended to the ground. The great and steady orb siphoned away the last of the aura around the pair.
          In the silence that followed, only the tree seemed to sound, its warm note spreading a kind of suppressive peace to everything its golden shine touched. Harellan did not immediately move, but Solas crossed to her.
          I watched him gently raise his hand to her chin. I admit, my heart raced for the both of them; surely that must have been something special…
          A corpse slipped from the upper edge of the hole. It plummeted to the floor with an ear-splitting clatter of metal and a sickening thump of dusty muscle.
          We all flinched and stared, but it was dead, truly and completely. It did not attempt to rise, or to move at all. I looked to the pile in the corner by the pillar. They too were inanimate, lifeless mounds of ancient flesh and armor. That strange spirit-call had also stopped.
          Everything seemed as it ought to be.
          “Right then,” Trevelyan declared, glaring from the ancient body to the two elves. “Is it done? Did you do all your…” He flung his arm around. “...Everything?”
          “Yes,” Solas replied, looking beyond Harellan to see him. To me he added, “this place has been cleansed and sealed. The dead will not rise again.”
          “Good,” the Herald said. He started towards the pair with an aggression I didn’t like, and I followed after. “Then I’ve got a couple words for you, you rabbit bastard. How dare you—”
          He’d raised a fist as though to swing at Solas, but stopped when Harellan turned and spread an arm, keeping the other elf behind her.
          I, too, grabbed the man’s wrist in disbelief.
          “Inquisitor, what are you doing?”
          He rounded on me. “Let go. You saw him. He made it worse! He knew what had to be done, and he let me look like a fool and exhaust myself! I don’t know what’s gotten into him, but I’m going to beat it right back out.”
          “You will not.” I tightened my grip.
          Solas laid a hand on Harellan’s shoulder. “Let him,” the elf beckoned, turning everyone’s head. His eyes were hard but cold, not nearly as angry as he had been. “Allow your fair and shining Inquisitor to show us all the brutish monster he hides behind titles he’s never deserved and powers he’ll never understand.”
          He…could not be serious.
          Trevelyan tore free of my grip. Solas attempted to pull Harellan away as well. The woman, however, did not yield, and continued to place herself between the men as Trevelyan tried to make his way around her.
          “Get out of the way or you’ll get it, too.”
          “Don’t,” Harellan begged, her eyes shining in the light of the tree. “You fear us as monsters, what if he becomes one?”
          We all stared at her, next. Had both of the elves lost their wits?
          “This place is dangerous to fight in, your Worsh—”
          “Shut up,” the Inquisitor spat at her.
          I too could not stand by and permit this to happen. “Maxwell—”
          “You shut up too,” he said to me next. There was a frightening desperation in the Herald’s eyes, like a trapped animal. “They can’t be allowed to act like that. He can’t have that bullshit attitude!”
          “And so in failing a battle of wits, you’ll revert to your crudest instincts,” Solas scathed.
          I stared in disbelief.
          The elf could not even manage that level of self-control?
          “Fine!” Trevelyan roared, raising his arm again. “Your little rabbit girlfriend has all the discipline, she’ll get all your punishment!”
          I tried to grab at his hand again. I did. But the slap was fast and hard, and it caught Harellan across the same part of her face still healing from demon blood scars. The woman went down in a tumble but managed to end up on hands and knees in a wincing crouch, eyes up and steady. Trevelyan followed, and wound back to kick her, too, and I seized the man around the shoulders and waist and grappled him away.
          “Let go of me!”
          “Calm yourself!” I ordered. “That is enough!”
          “I decide when it’s enough!” he bellowed, struggling.
          But I was stronger, and I held him in place until the man stopped writhing to get free. It did not take long; doubtless he was still exhausted from his ordeal with the rift, and after a brief time he slacked against me, leaning and panting once more.
          “...Let go. Fine. I’m done. It’s done.”
          I did not fully believe him, but when I released my grip he did not attack again. Solas was down on one knee beside Harellan, inspecting the stricken side of her head. The woman herself was sat back on her own knees, arms limp at her side, brow drawn but otherwise neutral. The apostate glowered up at the two of us as we separated.
          “Once again Inquisitor. How entirely predictable of you.”
          I tensed, but Trevelyan just spat and turned away. “Someone get us out of here. I’m done with all of you. With all of this.”
          Harellan half-whispered something to Solas between quick breaths, eyes closing and lips parting in clear and spreading pain. More than anything else, it seemed to incense the apostate to a fresh, glaring rage, one he directed at the Inquisitor’s back.
          His eyes met mine next, and I could not help curiosity.
          Harellan grabbed at him to keep him from speaking, but he shook her off and answered the question I did not ask.
          “She said he will make a good Templar.”

Chapter Text

Harellan

          I think the Inquisitor blinded my left eye with that blow. I could see nothing but white from it, a bright pain I could barely think through.
          “All right down there?” called Blackwall, from above. His bushy head was silhouetted against the bright clouds beyond. “Everything up here’s fallen apart. Even the demons are gone.”
          “Finally, some good damned news,” Trevelyan shouted back. “As soon as the rabbits pick themselves up we’ll join you. The rift is closed. We’ve done it.”
          “We could leave him here,” Solas theorized darkly. His fingertips were cool and gentle against a part of my face that was nearly numb. Like the Inquisitor had slapped a hole right through my cheek, its edges burned much worse than the muted pins and needles at the center.
          It was almost enough to laugh. The thought of leaving him here. I would have laughed, if it were just us.
          Cassandra continued to blanch at Solas’s translation. Trevelyan continued to ignore us. It was just as well; I’d been sure such a rude statement would spark another attack. But the man seemed to have run out of steam completely. He simply waited now, arms crossed, back turned, breath labored, looking up.
          I let Solas feel around for another few seconds, then pushed myself to my feet. He tried to keep me down, but I shook him off and shook my head. Here wasn’t the place to recover. And Solas was exhausted, too. His work with the ruins’ structure had been amazing to experience, but I knew it left him drained.
          “Let’s be on our way.” In Trade I added, “Would you take the Seeker up?” I knew he wouldn’t aid the Herald, and it was very clear that neither of them ought to be within arm’s length of the other, anyway.
          “And how am I getting up?” Trevelyan demanded over a shoulder.
          “I will take you, Your Worship,” I replied, backing away and turning.
          “And where are you going?” the man asked.
          It paused me.
          “My staff is here, and my hilt I left on top of the column,” I answered, pointing at both in sequence. I turned. “May I retrieve them?”
          How Solas and the Seeker stared at me. The Inquisitor did, too, but in a different way. Suspicion, then acceptance.
          None of them knew. None of them knew how normal this was in the Circles. To be smacked around and then still be expected to serve. Maybe Cassandra knew, but the Seekers were so far removed from the daily lives of mages. None of this was anything I hadn’t endured before.
          Well, the Abomination blood was new. That made it a little worse.
          “Go on, then,” Trevelyan said, resettling his still-crossed arms.
          “Thank you, Worship.”
          Twin looks of disgust from the others. Maybe that was sympathy too, from Cassandra. It was hard to tell. I picked up my staff, or tried to, at least. It took a few attempts to judge the ground, and I didn’t really feel like hiding that I was still half-blind. I didn’t see any wisdom in it, either. The white had faded to a prismatic spotted patterning of gray-on-gray, but I didn’t know if that was a good sign, or a bad one.
          The column proved even more difficult. I sensed Solas creating his Barrier and departing with the Seeker, but I did not watch them go. Dozens of dead still piled at the column’s base, preventing any dignified approach. It pained me, to see them. Proud warriors, pulled from slumber, their ancient bones pressed into service at the demands of a shattered enchantment. This was no way to treat the dead. And I could do nothing to fix it.
          I’d have spent all day here if I could, interring elven bodies again. All week, if that was what it took.
          Many of them had not come from the immediate room, either. There was a passage here, beyond where the rift had been, one that led off into darkness. I wanted to go there, to see it, to explore our People’s history.
          But the secrets of the Twins were not for me to know.
          An uncertain leap sent me clumsily up to the stone, Veil-carried but still hitting the ancient rock sooner than I could judge, and all the much harder for it. It jarred my shoulders and rattled through me, but I fastened myself to the column and clambered up.
          My hilt remained where I’d left it, Vhenan’Then awakening at my touch. It had been him to keep the restless dead at bay when I’d left the column, a service he’d provided flawlessly for us.
          Again the ground rushed up faster than anticipated, though I had the wits to form a Barrier of my own to land upon; a finite arcane structure I could sense without needing both eyes to judge. I stepped from it and crossed to the Herald, who remained impatiently frowning at me, and recreated another platform more than wide enough for the both of us.
          He scowled as he stepped onto it, and off we went.
          The view we rose into was just as macabre as below. Dozens if not hundreds of corpses lay where they had fallen, ancient elven puppets unceremoniously cut from their strings. The elements would take them in time; even now Dirthamen’s ravens perched atop the garrison’s crumbling outer walls, beaks snapping and talons clicking.
          “Looks about done,” Blackwall sighed as we joined them. His soldiers had a few minor injuries Solas was willing to check over, but nothing seemed serious or debilitating.
          The sunlight was giving me a terrific headache.
          We crossed through a wave of cooling mists to rejoin the First Enchanter as she sublimed her ice and freed the horses she’d been protecting. I could not look up to greet her; even the mere act of raising my head was too much. I prayed she would not require more from me. I did not want to give more.
          “What’s happened?” she asked, and I hoped it wasn’t of me.
          “We won,” the Inquisitor answered, mercifully. “The dead are dead again. Let’s go. Back to Proulx, and then to camp. Anything else can wait until after a meal. Saddle up.”
          No horse for me. I didn’t have the strength to ride. Solas touched me and I let him, back and shoulder, gentle as always.
          “Slow-Heart?”
          I could feel myself fading. It wasn’t a pleasant thing to fight.
          “I asked what happened, dear,” Vivienne repeated above, insistently.
          Cassandra was kind enough to reply, next. “She was…She gave a lot. She has earned rest.”
          Me. They were talking about me.
          “Fellavhen.”
          A call this time, from the First Enchanter, unmistakably in my direction.
          Please. No.
          Just let me rest.
          A flurry of fabric, and heels hit the stone. The Iron Lady’s cold fingertips raised my chin. I closed my eyes; the sunlight’s stabbing pain was too much to bear. Still, she lifted my lid, driving light like nails into my left eye. The gray was now a showering starburst of monochrome sparks, and welling with tears.
          The Seeker gasped. Solas’s grip tightened beside me.
          “Oh now what’s wrong with her?” Trevelyan demanded.

***

Vivienne

          The white of Fellavhen’s eye was blood red. It made for a frightful visage, positively demonic in the ocean of purpling red spattered across the left half of her face. Her cheek was terrifically swollen and significantly darker than the surrounding injury, as well. It was clear that something drastic had happened to her down there; some vicious blow she’d received that required immediate treatment.
          And I had no field supplies with which to do so.
          “Solas, do you care to explain this?” I asked the elf inspecting her fretfully beside us, since neither the Seeker nor the Herald had any interest in sharing their versions of the truth.
          Fellavhen muttered something elvish at him.
          “A great deal,” the man answered, not acknowledging her obvious plea at all, “if you’re asking about the manner in which our fair Inquisitor rewards his most obedient and servile soldiers.”
          “Solas—” Cassandra sounded strained. The apostate leveled a neutral glare at her over the top of Fellavhen’s head.
          “Hm? Beg pardon, Seeker. I’ve little interest in protecting a man who struck an innocent, injured woman as punishment for another’s sins.”
          “Your sins,” Trevelyan spat.
          “Ah. Of course. Because speaking freely while elven is a grave offense to your Maker.” Solas returned. “Or is it my magic that condemns me? Memory fails, when the arbiter of this religious justice holds such a narrow-minded view of the world.”
          “Stop fighting!” Cassandra ordered, stepping between them but facing Trevelyan, interestingly.
          “She’ll get another smack if you don’t shut up!” the man seethed, leaning around the Seeker.
          Well.
          An admission of guilt, then. Solas leveled an expectant glance my way. Clever of the elf, to bait out such unambiguous and unflattering truth.
          Although admittedly, a bit too easy to do.
          “We’ll discuss this later, darling,” I told Trevelyan, drawing all attention and releasing Fellavhen’s face. The elf’s head slowly lowered as both eyes closed. “Fellavhen must be returned to camp for immediate medical care. I will take her—”
          “Now you’re abandoning us?” the Inquisitor snapped. “What if there’s more demons to kill? There’s always more demons to kill!”
          “A thought you might have considered before assaulting your single best defense against them,” I answered. Fellavhen looked worryingly about to collapse. I wasn’t certain I could get her onto a horse.
          “I will return with you, then,” Solas decided.
          “Yes, send him,” Maxwell agreed. “You stay, Vivienne.”
          “I’m afraid that is no longer for you to decide, Inquisitor.”
          Trevelyan’s face reddened with rage at me, but I hardly cared. Fellavhen was significantly more critical to my future than he was, at present. This Inquisition was temporary, a response to a crisis. A potential means to further political power. She would see me through whatever came after that crisis was quelled.
          “I will join you also,” Cassandra volunteered, surprising us all. The sudden attention only set her jaw, and the woman nodded at the three of us. “I would like to ensure her safety. It is more difficult to fight when protecting another. The more of us who can be there, the safer her journey will be.”
          The Warden scratched at his neck. “Well I can’t rightly send you all off without joining in.” He, too, nodded at Fellavhen. “Might even need someone to carry her, with the way she looks.”
          “You’ll all abandon me, then?” Trevelyan demanded. “And how will that look to Proulx, hm? The Inquisitor, Chosen of Andraste, leaving with a small army, and returning alone?? They’ll think the worst of us!”
          It was worth consideration, though the man who uttered it hardly was. We did not all need to escort the elf home. And frankly, I did not trust Maxwell to handle himself with anything resembling dignity, should he be allowed to return to Fort Revasan without a suitably impressive force.
          “Solas.”
          The apostate raised his eyes from Fellavhen’s to mine. I fixed the man with my gravest stare. It seemed to captivate him well enough.
          “How confident are you that you can care for her?”
          “You’ve an interest in taking me at my word, First Enchanter?” Solas countered. “Or shall I simply remind you how well she recovered from the events of our excursion to the Hinterlands?”
          Of course I hadn’t forgotten; I merely needed him to say it aloud for all present.
          “I’ll be along soon, then. Cassandra, dear,” I added, turning to her. “Join them, will you? Fellavhen would appreciate your protection.” To Blackwall I turned after. “You’ve been an adequate commander of the Freemen so far, Warden, might I suggest you continue that role? Too many defenders risk distracting one another, or drawing too much attention to themselves. We’ll stay, and accompany the Inquisitor back to the Fort.”
          Blackwall didn’t reply. He didn’t look particularly happy, but nor did he look openly displeased by the suggestion. Though it was difficult to interpret much of anything through that mass of hair sprouting from his head. He looked to the Herald instead, as though for confirmation.
          “Now you’re taking charge,” Trevelyan pouted.
          “I am,” I replied, baring his snarl unflatteringly. “And if you think to strike me, darling, you’ll find yourself missing a few fingers to frostbite in seconds. Surely I need not remind you how we were introduced.”
          The corpse of Marquis Alphonse, though long since thawed and laid to rest, had decorated Bastien’s ballroom for some number of days prior to his interrment.
          The man dropped his gaze, conceding the battle.
          “We’ll be off, then,” I told the elves and their attendant warrior. “Will you be needing your horses?”
          I suspected not. The Seeker and apostate exchanged a glance.
          “I would prefer the journey on foot,” Solas suggested.
          “I would like that as well,” Cassandra admitted.
          They both looked to Fellavhen, whose entire existence appeared to be focused singularly on the two tasks of breathing and remaining upright at the moment.
          “I’ll walk,” the elf managed with a nod.

***

Harellan

          I liked walking. Walking was good. I could handle walking.
          My cane was helpful, too. Some part of me had hoped I could trade it in for something less…debilitating in appearance eventually, when my leg had healed, but frankly, it was continuing to serve well.
          Solas and Cassandra were kind enough to guide me along, also. The apostate kept a palm just behind my shoulder, and the Seeker had taken my hand to help me down the steps leading to the river, and had not let it go when we reached the grass.
          It was good. This was good. They were kind.
          I was happy to have Cassandra on my blind side. I had always wanted her as a protector and lookout, ever since I’d met her. And now, she was. It was strange, to feel almost perfectly fine from the neck down, and to feel a thousand years old and crushed under a giant’s heel from the chin up. Even my arm and hand barely hurt by comparison.
          “Solas?” I asked, turning my head. I couldn’t quite look at him, but the ground and his toes were close enough. I wished I didn’t have to wear shoes. “Would you give me that charm back?”
          In Trade, so Cassandra could hear. If she couldn’t, then she’d just ask. And then Solas would tell her. Because Solas said everything, now.
          “The charm?” Solas repeated. “What for?”
          “I don’t like what it’s done to you,” I told him. “You’ve acted terribly all day.”
          I tried to say it nicely, at least. I don’t think I succeeded.
          “You blame me as well for what happened?” he asked. I couldn’t quite tell how to take his tone. Whether or not it was mad. It seemed strained, but slightly.
          “I don’t,” I answered. “I blame the charm.”
          “What charm?” Cassandra asked.
          I rattled the end of my cane at her between steps, bumping and jostling the Wolf’s Tail at its head. “I gave Solas a charm like this. He’s wearing it now. I want it back.”
          “What does this have to do with my behavior?” Solas asked.
          “I don’t know,” I told his toes. I shook my head at them a little. Small movements were almost okay. “But I gave it to you last night, and all day today you’ve been fighting with the Inquisitor.”
          “My disagreements with Maxwell have nothing to do with the charm, Fellavhen,” Solas replied. “It is the quality of his judgment that has steeply declined, as have his resulting choices, presumably in the wake of the events that occurred after we parted ways.”
          “I’d like it back,” I repeated anyway. I didn’t need him to believe me.
          A brief pause.
          “...You’ll not have it,” he decided. “As I recall, it was given, not loaned. I’ve already attached significant meaning to it, da’len. I am afraid I consider it mine, now.”
          Fenedhis.
          It was worth the attempt.
          I didn’t bother again after that. I hadn’t the strength to fight him. But it was important that he know, that I plant the seed in his mind. He needed to be aware of forces that might be influencing him, perhaps the same ones still lingering around the Inquisitor.
          And besides, I had to focus on my steps.
          I wasn’t convinced that I’d be able to get back up again, if I fell.
          “What is this charm?” Cassandra asked. “What significance does it hold?”
          A better me would have cared. I knew I should. I did. But I had not enough focus to lie, nor any energy to make a convincing act of it.
          “It is a memorial token,” Solas answered for me. A tension inside me was doing my headache no favors. “Fellavhen carved them for us last night. The one she gave me is meant to represent a recently departed friend. Among other things.”
          It was the other things that were the important parts.
          “Is it Dalish?” the Seeker asked, squeezing my headache and digging the giant’s heel into my temple.
          “It is Elvhen,” Solas replied. Somehow it pulled a smile from me. I fought to quell it, but couldn’t quite. The faintest ghost of it lingered on my lips. A better me could have elbowed him.
          A better me, without an audience.
          “I have seen such things in the cities as well, small folklore tokens and memorials,” he continued, lying. “Is it not common to wear a necklace to remind you of a loved one? Many women wear lockets of their lovers, for instance.”
          At least, I was fairly certain it was a lie. He’d said he’d never seen it before, last night.
          Perhaps he’d been lying, then, instead.
          Or too.
          But it was kind of him not to betray my faith.

Chapter Text

Solas

          Slow-Heart declined rapidly as we left the river for the open plains. A path through the broken shemlen village afforded us stable, relatively even ground for her to walk, but little in the way of shade, which I suspected she would dearly appreciate.
          At some point, she had given up on sight entirely, and both eyes remained closed now, almost fully trusting us to guide her, with only a few occasional peeks at the road here and there. I entertained the Seeker’s ideas of romance and tokens of sentiment to pass the time, hoping the Knight-Enchanter appreciated my deflection of Cassandra’s idle curiosity.
          Image was important to Slow-Heart. I would not be the one to break it.
          Breath came strangely to the woman after a time—in sudden, fitful bursts. Cassandra worried at her and she seemed to stabilize, but it was enough for me to call for a rest.
          “This is not a good place to stop,” the Seeker observed, correctly. Not far from here was a rift in the Veil, harbored in one of the many shattered houses. But it was, in a sense, also the perfect place to stop, for that very reason.
          “It seems that Fellavhen requires a moment to gather herself,” I insisted, guiding us towards a stable-looking and shaded remnant of blue-painted wall. “With luck, we will be brief.”
          The spirit-warrior herself did not protest, alarming me significantly.
          Cassandra helped her down onto the rise of grass at the wall’s base, but did not sit alongside us. She returned instead to the path below, and looked around as though on guard.
          With Vigilance here, there would be no need.
          Slow-Heart curled immediately into my side, folding arms and legs alike into a charming elven ball under my arm. Failing to find comfort there, however, she descended to my lap instead, and tucked herself in tight around my nearer leg.
          Discontentment left her shifting restlessly. A touch of magic put her to Sleep. I could not bear her suffering, particularly at my expense, or at least, indirectly, by my hand. The Fade would be a kinder place, for now.
          The Seeker had begun to touch her lips with her fingertips in a display of concern, or perhaps romanticism, but the sight of Slow-Heart, slackened and limp, flinched her. I assured the woman she was merely resting, but the Seeker remained unsettled.
          “Cassandra,” I began, “may I entrust with you a secret?”
          “Of course,” the warrior answered, frowning. “What is it?”
          “It is a rare technique, disliked by your Chantry,” I confessed. “Versions of it are taught to your mages, but they are poorly implemented, and cause great damage when invoked. If I might entrust you to witness it in its truest form, it may help Fellavhen recover a great deal in a short amount of time.”
          The Seeker hesitated. “Is it dangerous?”
          “No,” I assured her.
          “What part of it causes damage?”
          Wise of her to be suspicious, perhaps. “The damage is not done to the recipient of the Chantry-approved spell,” I explained. “And none at all is done to either party, when performed correctly.”
          “‘Either party’?”
          I smiled. She would make me explain it all, then. Carefully, I turned Slow-Heart’s head until her face was to the sky.
          “Spirit-healing,” I explained, smoothing back golden hair and tracing the damage to her cheek. “Circle mages are taught to steal spirits from the Fade and force them upon an injury, wringing magic from their presence as one wrings water from a soaked cloth. It is quick, brutal, and often powerful, and I have witnessed it destroy many gentle beings of the Fade. A truer, older version offers agency to the spirit who responds to a call, asking for aid, rather than demanding service. There is a chance it will heal Fellavhen significantly, but in doing so, it will evoke questions from the First Enchanter, and others. I would ask that you avoid confessing the truth, if you are able, when asked. Will you do this, for her?”
          Again Cassandra looked around, albeit slowly, and pensively, for a moment.
          “Of course,” the woman answered with a nod to herself more than to me. “If you can help her…please do.”
          She spoke with reasonable sincerity. I nodded as well, and closed my eyes, and allowed the Fade to take a part of my conscious mind.
          The world of spirits roiled around the tears in the Veil. Turbulence dictated the tides of magic, coalescing and capturing gentler beings as flotsam in a fast-flowing river. Some were drawn inexorably towards that singing rend; others entered it willingly, to be twisted into demons by the frightful journey. I could do nothing to save them, and endeavored to focus on my intention, here.
          Slow-Heart regarded me tiredly, sitting beside our living forms, her spirit-back pressed to the impression of stone. The old house had stood here long enough in the waking world to create an echo in this place, as well. Vhenan’Then draped as a scarf from her shoulders, his black eye wary but pensive.
          “I am sorry, Pride,” Slow-Heart apologized. “I did not mean to fall asleep.”
          I smiled at her, as best I could. I was not fully here, and thus my form was shapeless, indistinct. A half-self, but enough to perform the actions required.
          “You have more than earned rest,” I assured her, extending the quavering collection of rays of light that served as my arm in a welcoming gesture toward the path below. Parts of it shimmered with tamped-down grasses, recalling the ancient migratory paths of animals that no longer strode this world.
          Energies danced and flowed around us. I searched along them, examining the Fade and the wisps and spirits swirling about it. Many were weak in this area, their essences too frail to coalesce into something willful enough to survive and resist. But this very conflict was what I sought to capitalize on; for where there was pain, there was also sympathy, and where there was sympathy, there was mercy.
          …Yes?
          The answer came as softly as a single leaf upon the breeze, reflective of the quiet voice that spoke it. She shimmered in the currents in a rare and sedate, golden peace, yet troubled by the audience before her. Though it was not I who caused this; it was our wounded friend laid below.
          I bade her cross the Veil with me, appealing to her nature and, with open heart and mind I plead assistance. The spirit crossed to meet me and agreed to make the journey; with her hand in mine I guided her to our world. She was there as my eyes opened, shining brilliance that coated my arm.
          “...Solas?”
          I smiled at the Seeker. The woman regarded us with understandable worry; first Slow-Heart falling asleep and then I, to an extent, with little explanation or assurance. I raised my gleaming arm to show her; the spirit upon it quavered as jelly does, clinging warmly to me.
          “A Spirit of Healing, willingly brought from the Fade,” I told her, “in its purest form. Neither forced nor coerced to join us.”
          I lowered her to the damaged side of Slow-Heart’s head. The spirit flowed from my fingertips to the warrior’s bruised and battered skin, then sank half-through. She spread herself along the scarring, slowly enshrining Slow-Heart’s face, neck, shoulder, and arm in a bath of auric glitter. If the elf detected the intrusion upon her body, she made no attempts to return from the Fade and awaken to force it out. A part of me worried she might, but a larger part hoped that she trusted me by now.
          And it seemed that she did.
          The spirit worked patiently, in no hurry to finish. It spoke to the depth of damage Slow-Heart suffered, and the enormous difficulty of reversal. It was just as well; the longer the woman remained asleep, the more rested her body would be upon waking, of course.
          “What is it doing?” the Seeker asked. “Is it working?”
          “It is.”
          What I did not yet know was the true extent of aid the spirit could render. A complex series of wounds such as this might require more of its power than the being was willing to safely give. In truth, I hoped some remnant wounds might yet linger; a perfectly-healed Harellan might beg more pointed questions than I could reasonably ask the Seeker to deflect. But when she contracted and withdrew, not a single blemish remained on the woman’s fair skin. The spirit briefly spread herself across the upper half of Slow-Heart’s face, masking her closed eyes, but little changed when she lifted herself away and returned to surround my arm.
          I cannot remove the lines, the spirit apologized, speaking directly to my heart.
          Ah. Her vallaslin. Certainly a type of wound, in itself. No, those would require other magics to clear away. If Slow-Heart wished it.
          “You have done all I asked,” I assured her, answering in a deeper language than shemlen grunts. “I thank you deeply, friend, for your aid. I bid you return safely to your home, and caution you that you maintain your distance from the strange vortices. I know that you seek them, but they cannot be healed. They will siphon your essence back here in a manner that is transformative to your nature. You will be regarded as a monster. We will work to heal this land, to restore to you its safety, soon.”
          Her gratitude and satisfaction flowed through me, and she allowed the Fade to reclaim her once more, dissolving into a series of swirling golden mists that quickly winked out.
          How I loved their kind. My plans weighed heavily on my shoulders. Corypheus was still so far from within reach, and so too was my orb. But soon they would dance freely again.
          Soon, everyone would dance freely, again.
          “Andraste’s Grace…”
          The Seeker approached, and marveled at Slow-Heart’s perfect skin. “This is the power of spirits?”
          “It is the power of cooperative aid,” I corrected, cradling the woman’s unmarred cheek. Her arm slackened and slipped to the ground, pain no longer keeping her muscles taut.
          “Can you wake her?” Cassandra asked.
          I smiled up at the woman, and gestured to the grass beside us. “Must I? One assumes you both slept poorly last night. This place may seem dangerous, but here at least is peaceful. Rest with us, Seeker. Fellavhen has not been afforded many opportunities such as this.”
          And none could know when her next chance may be.
          The Seeker cast another wary glance around, but carefully slid her sheathed sword from her belt and her shield from her arm and settled herself into the grass. Almost immediately she drew up one knee and sighed into her palm.
          “Some rest would do us all good,” the woman stated with a tired sigh.
          No doubt it would. I let her hang her head in silence for some moments longer, contemplating Slow-Heart’s steady, sedate breathing in my lap. I had put her through so much, to demonstrate a point that could no longer be denied. I wondered if the Seeker would speak of the events that had transpired, but when she seemed content to wait in silence, I made an offer of my own.
          “It is to be expected,” I began, raising my eyes to the clouds above. “I give my castle to Trevelyan. It is foolish of me to have hoped he might become something other than a king.”
          The Seeker peeked out from under her palm. “Your castle?”
          I smiled at her. “Presumably. I found it, derelict for centuries. Were I human, many might consider it mine by finders’ rights.”
          It lifted her attention. Uncertainty narrowed her eyes. I thought she might challenge me about elven treatment, but she simply sighed and shook her head.
          “Why does he behave like this?” the woman asked, possibly not of me. “I do not understand why Andraste would choose him, of all people…What is he meant to do? How is he a fair representative of us?”
          I could think of many ways in which he was quite a fair representative of the shemlen, in fact. But none of them would further my goal, nor the purpose of this conversation.
          “What if he were not chosen by her?” I asked.
          Again, an exhale. “Solas. I understand that you do not believe in the Maker, but—”
          “Hypothetically,” I added, watching for her reactions. “Presume he was not, for a moment. How would your approach to him change?”
          She considered it. I caught myself tracing Slow-Heart’s ear absently as I waited, and endeavored to stop. I could not allow myself to draw comfort from her. Much as I wished I could.
          “What can be done?” Cassandra managed, eventually. “We need him. We need his…power.”
          “It is his rift-healing ability that places him above reproach, then?” I countered. “Consider instead, that your Andraste has placed a challenge before you. Are not your tales and legends filled with ordinary men and women who rose to greatness, from humble origins? Tales will paint them as perfect, but were they? As I understand it, Andraste’s own husband betrayed her. A man she had also chosen, to love. Clearly she was not a perfect woman, either. Understand, I do not intend to criticize your beliefs, Seeker; I know they are the pillar and cornerstone of your strength. I only ask you to reframe the Inquisition, to rethink your approach, and to reexamine your expectations.”
          And to adjust accordingly.
          The deepest sigh yet escaped the Seeker’s lungs. “How strange of you and Vivienne to agree on something,” she confessed, again burying her brow into the webbing between her thumb and forefinger. “The both of you would like me to step up and take better charge. But I did not want to, Solas. I am not meant to lead. I spent a long time and so much energy searching for a better leader than I can be. I wanted Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, to lead us. And instead we have…him.”
          “Andraste’s test.”
          “And what is she testing?!”
          Ah. Now we were getting somewhere.
          “How much more would the people look to Trevelyan if they could relate to him, Seeker?” I asked her. Her gaze met mine. “Do we all not come from prejudice? If he can be guided from ignorance to enlightenment, can you not imagine how greatly the people would rally to him?”
          I had no hope for any of this. But I did have the Seeker finally understanding that her prophet’s perfect soldier was none of these things. Not yet.
          “So, what do I do?” she asked.
          The question of the hour.
          “One could start by removing the Inquisitor from his divine pedestal,” I suggested lightly. “The one you’ve placed him on, in your mind. He may or may not have been Chosen, but he is still very mortal, and very flawed, as we all are. And yet you treat him as a god, and so he behaves like a tyrant. He is ill-equipped to wield the power he has been handed. Would it not be kind to him to guide him?”
          Again, my fingers were threading Slow-Heart’s hair. I consciously rested my palm on her shoulder, instead. Perhaps it would be safer, there.
          “Vivienne speaks of making a Templar of him,” I continued. “You see already the way he treats mages. Imagine the man you wish him to be, and guide him to become that. Speak up when he speaks cruelly. Remind him of Chantry teachings, if it suits you. Consider him an unfinished work, one that your Maker has placed into your hands. Enlist the aid of allies, if you must. His advisors, and others he respects.”
          It might not work. But it would potentially delay the man’s next attempt to punch me, for a time.
          Cassandra looked from me to Harellan, motionless in my lap. “Make greater efforts to stop him when he threatens you both.”
          “That would also be helpful, yes,” I agreed.
          Again her eyes rose. I met them with a smile. I watched her search my gaze before, interestingly, huffing out something I was quite certain was a laugh. Of disbelief, perhaps, but a laugh nonetheless. She buried her face in both gauntleted palms and pulled them down to her lap, and stared up at the clouds above.
          “It sounds so simple when you say it, Solas,” the woman decided. “A test, a legend in the making. Storybooks are not real, and yet…Well, Varric’s was, was it not? To an extent. I suppose Hawke was not so perfect, either. Ugh. You are right. He is human, like the rest of us.” She flinched. “Well—”
          “Understood,” I assured her, warmly.
          But it was telling.
          Fenedhis! I pulled my wandering hand from Fellavhen’s cheek, and tucked it into the crook of my other elbow. Perhaps it would not misbehave there.
          The sharp movement caught the Seeker’s eye. Another smile came to her lips.
          “She is lucky to have you,” Cassandra said, reaching out to loosely pinch at the woman’s short hair. The Seeker looked from her to me. “Are you two…?”
          I shook my head. “No. And it is better that we are not.”
          Whatever she was about to ask.
          “Are you certain?” the woman pressed. “You seem so perfect together.”
          …I could not help but fix the woman with a curious stare. “Are we?”
          A thousand reasons came to mind, both why we were and were not well-suited for one another, but I was quite interested in the Seeker’s judgment, were she willing to give it.
          “Aren’t you?” she countered, fairly.
          “One could argue we are further from one another than night and day,” I, indeed, argued. “A Chantry mage, a wandering apostate. Fellavhen is all but sutured to the First Enchanter’s side, doggedly devoted to these causes, and so submissive to authority she will place her duty above her own well-being. I, of course, hold different opinions. And values.”
          “You certainly do,” Cassandra replied, though not unkindly. “And yet I often see you together, speaking elven comfortably, in a manner that I did not know elves even were capable of.” Her glimmer of mirth faded. “She placed herself between you and the Herald, also. I think that is the first time I have seen her defy anyone.”
          I thought back. “It may very well be.”
          “Does that not speak to her heart?” the woman insisted, suddenly somewhat emotional. “You have become more important to her than her own life?”
          It was a challenge not to laugh. “Seeker, this is not some lurid romance penned by Master Tethras.”
          Color flushed her tanned face. “What? What about—I do not read…those sorts of…”
          Now, I did chuckle. “If you wish to be believed, consider a less public reading spot than the benches near the training areas.”
          Even darker, her cheeks became. “And how would you know what it is I read outside?”
          “Simple. I recognized their covers. Do you think yourself the only one who reads them?”
          Her stare amused me deeply.
          “You do?”
          She hesitated. I waited for her to ask what she really wanted to.
          “Do…you enjoy them?”
          “They make for suitably distracting entertainment, at times,” I admitted. “Though I’ve been meaning to speak with the durgen’len concerning an idea I may have for one of his plot points…”
          A bright discussion of Varric’s works followed, one that passed the time well. I had not realized the depth of the Seeker’s attraction to the idea of romance, nor her interest in passion and drama. It sharpened my understanding of her interest in myself and Slow-Heart, certainly. Two figures, from opposing lives, drawn inexorably together amid the backdrop of a worldly crisis. There was a dreamy charm to it, perhaps. I recalled that day in the Rotunda, the day the Knight-Enchanter had met Cole, and the yawning chasm of ideological distance between us back then.
          “You do like her,” Cassandra insisted suddenly, looking down at my hand. It had escaped the prison of my elbow at some point and returned to caressing Fellavhen’s cheek. I surrendered to it; I was clearly far too distracted to effectively supervise my own emotions, and besides, I’d intended to reforge my alliance with the Seeker in these moments. The action seemed to garner her sympathies.
          “More than is safe to,” I confessed.
          “In what way?”
          It was refreshing, to speak so simply of something so inconsequential. “She represents every danger that assails me, Seeker. Men and women like Vivienne and Maxwell would see me caged, thrown into a dungeon for heresy, or much worse, for communing with spirits and exploring the Fade with tempered caution. To grow too close to her would be akin to a wolf teasing a poacher’s trap. Unless and until she demonstrates more independence from her mentor, she cannot be mine.”
          Cassandra looked from me to her and back.
          “And…what if she did?”
          So earnestly, did she want us to be happy. There was a warming charm to it.
          “...If she did, perhaps a different ending to our story could be written.”
          The very idea relaxed the Seeker’s shoulders.
          “Of course, you are advocating for a faithful Chantry mage to abandon her beliefs and flee to apostasy,” I reminded with bright amusement.
          Sorrow teased the edges of her gaze. “And you would never convert to Andrastianism?” she pressed.
          I buried my fingers in the elf’s warm hair, and smoothed it away from her slave-painted forehead.
          “With respect to your beliefs…Not in ten thousand years would I submit myself to a Circle, Seeker.”
          Beneath my touch, Harellan began to stir.