Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It wasn’t the time for doubts, and yet he had a few. What if, after everything, this didn’t actually work? It had been months leading up to this very moment, and he had known, somewhere deep inside of him, that he wasn’t going to see the new world. This was the end for him.

He’d said his goodbyes, as paltry as they were, but was he really ready to die? His whole life he had been living as someone else, for someone else. He had a few short years to himself, but he was always looking over his shoulder. He wanted to live for himself, just once. But now it was time to die.

He clenched his jaw and looked at the orb. He was faced with an impossible choice, and he had no idea if he was making the right one. But this would save billions of people, for the price of his life and unleashing a vengeful, all powerful goddess onto the unprepared world.

“For the greater good” sounded like a terrible excuse to doom the world. But it was immediate death for the planet, or a slow death, that had some chance of hope.

Desmond took a deep breath and grabbed the orb. Immediately his senses were overwhelmed by intense pain he had never felt before. A searing green and gold glow emanating from the palm of his hand, radiating down his arm and burning him from the inside out. He might have screamed, or that was just the ringing in his ears. He was aware of every nerve in his body dying.

He fell, tripping over what felt like the edge of the world. And then he planted face first onto stone, his arm being the only source of pain, but the rest of his body feeling foreign, raw. His mind was tired, the pain and experience exhausting his mental capacities. He saw people floating in and out of his darkening vision, saying words that barely translated in his mind, which he couldn’t parse the meaning of. His eyes fell shut of their own accord, for what felt like the first time, and what he thought would be the last time.

***

He blinked his eyes open and was instantly alert and aware of his surroundings. There were several people wearing platemetal guarding him, weapons drawn but not necessarily poised. He was chained to a rough stone floor. His name was Desmond Miles, and he was supposed to be dead. He didn’t feel like anyone else at the moment, but he could see Ezio, Altair, and Connor lurking at the corners of his vision, flickering in and out with the torchlight.

He regulated his breathing so as to not alert anyone that he was awake, but nothing was happening. The people around him were professional and barely even shifting as they waited, let alone talking. Desmond decided he wasn’t getting anything from playing asleep, so he lifted his head and looked around more fully. He was in a dungeon, rusting metal bars locking away empty cells, and minimal torches casting dancing shadows along the stone walls. The ground was cold and bit into his knees, and for a moment he wondered why he wasn’t inside one of those cells. Then he saw the drain underneath him and realized this was where the torture happened. How exciting.

He didn’t know where he was, or why people were dressed like olden day Templars, especially since he felt like himself and didn’t have any new memories inside of his brain. The last thing he remembered was grabbing the orb and falling onto the floor. Everything else was fuzzy, wiped away by pain.

His guards barely even reacted to seeing he was awake, so he continued his blatant exploration, but this time of himself. He was wearing new clothes, not at all the hoodie and jeans that he had been in last he remembered, and his hands were chained with thick, heavy manacles. But the thing that gathered his attention the most was the hand he had grabbed the orb with was pulsing a strange poison green glow with golden sparks and threads interspersed without. He turned his hand, palm down, and saw that the glow was still there. He couldn't see any scarring beyond the light, so he figured it was something to do with the Isu, and left it at that. He wasn’t thrilled to be physically marked by them, but what else could he expect by grabbing unknown technology that could save the world from a massive solar flare that would have roasted the planet. It was, in fact, less surprising than actually waking up when he thought for sure that he was going to die.

He activated Eagle Vision and took another look at his surroundings. The shadows disappeared and the world turned to grayscale. The soldiers surrounding him were an ominous red, which didn’t surprise him in the least. What was interesting was that his glowing hand still pulsed green light, which is a color he had never seen before in Eagle Vision. Along with that, the green went much further than just the palm of his hand. It was slowly creeping up his forearm, which didn’t seem like a particularly good thing.

He saw the figures coming from beyond the door before they actually appeared in the room. Both of them a silhouette of red. At a disadvantage, without weapons, surrounded by enemies. His prospects had been worse. He found himself settling into the persona he had when he was locked under Abstergo’s care. Absolute zen.

The door slammed open and Desmond deactivated Eagle Vision, analysing the two women that stormed in. He noted how the guards bowed and left the room, leaving him to the mercy of these two. One was a brunette with short choppy hair and a battle hardened face full of disgust and anger, and the other, a redhead, had a crafted neutral expression on her pretty, freckled face. Desmond returned the anger and neutrality with a calm expression.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now,” the brunette began. Desmond didn’t have an answer for that. He felt like he was on borrowed time anyway. The woman clenched her jaw and started pacing around the room in his blind spots. “Thousands of people, dead. At your hand.”

A lot more than thousands, he wanted to say, but he kept his mouth shut and face serene.

“Do you even care that you blew up the Conclave?” The woman raged, grabbing Desmond by his shirt and giving him a shake. “There were innocent people there! The Divine, our leader... Do you even know what you’ve done?”

Desmond’s calm facade broke and his brows crinkled a little in confusion. Blew something up? He rarely did that. And full of innocent people... He knew better. He could see better. Something was happening and he didn’t know what it was.

The redhead zeroed in on his apparent confusion like a hawk. “Do you remember what happened?”

Desmond considered his options. On one hand, could he trust these people? His Vision said no. But on the other, hadn’t he been thinking that he wanted to live? Having these people think that he blew up something called the Conclave didn’t lead to a very long life. On a third hand, he was tired. He didn’t really care anymore what happened to him, or what he said. He was tired of running, of living a lie. He just wanted to be free.

“I was trying to save the world. And then I woke up chained here. I don’t know anything else.” That wasn’t really a lie. But it also wasn’t the whole truth. He didn’t feel like he was betraying anyone with that answer.

“Save the world how?” The brunette asked, eyes narrowed on him.

“There was this orb. It was supposed to help. I don’t know. That’s what I was told, anyway. Either way, I don’t know anything about a Conclave.”

The two women looked at each other, then the brunette nodded. “Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take him to the rift.”

Leliana gave Desmond a long look, then turned and slunk out on silent feet. That woman had the makings of an Assassin. The brunette hauled Desmond to his feet and dragged him along, out of the dungeon and into what looked like a church, then to the bright outside world. The first thing he noticed was the massive green hole in the sky, a violent tornado of forboding clouds and the same green his hand was glowing. He really hoped he didn’t cause that when he touched the orb. No one had told him about a third way to kill off the human race.

“Oh,” he breathed. “Is that the rift?” The woman looked at him, perhaps guaging his reaction.

“We call that one the Breach. It’s a tear in the veil between our world and the world of demons, and it grows larger with each passing hour.” She seemed to like whatever she saw in his face. “It’s not the only rift, but it is the largest. And unless we close it, the Breach may threaten the fate of the world.”

Desmond sighed heavily, looking from her determined face to the Breach, feeling the weight of the world rest upon his shoulders again. It seemed he would never be free. “What can I do to help?”

***

Turned out what he could do was fight his way through creatures unlike any he had seen before outside of movies or video games, and make his way towards one of the nearby rifts. The woman, later identified as Cassandra, didn’t tell him much about anything, just saying “you’ll see” or “we don’t have time”. Very helpful. So instead, Desmond used his years of observation with a healthy dose of Eagle Vision to help him figure out what the hell was happening. Cassandra, within the past ten minutes, went from blazing red in his vision to a calming blue, which was incredibly rare, and he’d only seen it happen about three times in the four lives he’d lived.

From what he could tell, he definitely wasn’t on Earth anymore. Unless something went incredibly wrong and the orb made the world revert back to pre-technology with magic and demons and various humanoid species that weren’t actually human. So maybe he did get his wish to be free, even if it didn’t happen the way he expected. At first glance it seemed he was free from the Isu. And that was not something to be taken lightly.

The more he looked at the Breach, the more he felt like he could see a city in black beyond the swirling clouds. Something about it felt evil, wrong. Like the longer he looked, the more his soul was tainted. He tried not to look up. That was a little difficult though, when it seemed to be always in the corner of his vision, and looking at it was the only way to predict where the falling rocks would crash. Wherever the rocks landed, demons were sure to follow. And wherever demons were, that meant a fight.

Cassandra was incredibly talented with her sword and shield. Desmond still found about six ways to take her out, but about half of those depended on her not seeing him coming. He’d still seen and fought more people than he could count that used weapons like hers, and yet they weren’t half as skilled. It was easy to fight alongside her. She would draw the demons’ attention and Desmond would go in and backstab them with some daggers he found, or pick them off at a distance with a discarded bow he acquired. It became readily apparent that, with all the random weapons laying around in various states of disrepair, that his lives lived were incredibly useful for this time period and using all sorts of weapons. He sorely missed his hidden blades though.

“We’re getting close to the rift, you can hear the fighting,” Cassandra called, her voice slightly out of breath. Desmond wasn’t even sweating, but he was also used to being constantly on edge and fighting in bursts for prolonged periods of time. Also it was fucking cold outside, with about a foot of snow in all directions, so thick that even the carts on fire barely created any heat.

“Who’s fighting?” Desmond asked. The way she said it made it seem like there were people of more significance than those that would appear as white in his Vision.

“You’ll see soon enough. We’re almost there.”

And indeed, they crested a hill and he could see a rip in the fabric of the world, glowing green and pulsating like his hand. All around it there were human soldiers fighting off hordes of demons, one bald man slinging what looked like really cool magic which for a moment made Desmond wish he could do the same. There were also a few dwarfs fighting, one dwarf swinging around an impressively large warhammer which was twice her size. As he got closer, he watched as she swung the brunt of it into the head of a lanky green demon causing it to screech and disintegrate into green energy that was sucked back into the fade.

“Huh,” he muttered. The other demons they had fought had melted into mossy green goop. But then again, they didn’t have a tear in the sky drawing their energy back to wherever they came from.

Cassandra lifted her blade and started shouting, drawing the attention of some of the demons away from the squishier people fighting, and immediately ran in blade swinging. Desmond followed at a slower pace, but readied his bow to help anyway.

It was incredibly easy to pick out who was friend and who was foe, even without his Vision. The nice thing about demons, he was quickly realizing, was that there could be no mistaking innocents for enemies. They were hideous monsters that attacked on sight. Much easier than humans. Or, he supposed ‘people’ was the right term in this world. Unless demons could be considered people. He’d have to think about it later.

He sent an arrow true into the eye of a demon that was sneaking up behind a distracted soldier about 20 yards away. Thank you, Connor.

It wasn’t a fast fight, the demons kept falling out of the rift, but it was an easy one with so many people fighting away the horde. During a lull, the last demon screaming as it dissolved, the bald man grabbed Desmond’s hand and thrust it up toward the rift. The man would have lost his arm if Desmond hadn’t seen him and his golden aura. Interesting.

What was currently more interesting was the feeling that accompanied the meeting of his hand and the rift. It was like holding an Apple of Eden. There were whispers that teased at the edges of his awareness, promising something, but he couldn’t quite hear what it was. Then the rift slammed shut and the force knocked him back a step.

“What the fuck?” Desmond breathed, looking at his hand and back to where the sky was seamless, like the tear had never been there. “What did you do?” He turned to the bald man, noticing for the first time his ears and large eyes that marked him as an elf. Sloppy of him.

The elf smiled smugly, “I did nothing. The credit is yours.” Desmond looked back at his hand. He didn’t want to do that ever again. And yet there was a part of him that knew if he just held it for a bit longer, he would know everything. He would find out what happened with his missing memories, he would learn the secrets of this world... all he had to do was keep the connection open.

He shuddered. It was too much like the Apple for comfort. “I did not like that.”

The elf looked intrigued, “What did it feel like?”

“Like a lie,” Desmond said, thinking about the consequences of the Apple and how keeping these rifts open for longer than necessary would be an equally bad idea. If anything the elf looked even more intrigued. Desmond couldn’t blame him; his explanation was incredibly evasive. But he didn’t really want to go into what it felt like.

“Well at least you can close those things,” one of the dwarves said, coming closer. He had a massive crossbow strapped to his back and a roguish smile as he readjusted his leather gloves. “Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.”

“So there are more of them?” Desmond asked, dreading an affirmative. And yet that’s what he got.

“All over Thedas, I would assume,” the elf replied, leaning on his staff.

“Super,” Desmond deadpanned.

The two newcomers introduced themselves as Varric Tethras and Solas, while the soldiers started gathering up weapons and bandaging the injured. “We should get going,” Cassandra said, looking at the Breach once more, the lines on her face deep with worry.

Desmond nodded, and was a bit surprised to see Varric and Solas join them. He was used to working and fighting by himself, so it was already very different to have Cassandra there, but their teamwork was nearly seamless. He didn’t know how he would handle having two more people join. But it also wasn’t his place to say anything. The more people they had fighting the demons, the better.

“So, are you from the Free Marches?” Varric asked after they’d dispatched several more demons blocking the path.

“No,” Desmond said, shaking out his glowing hand. It didn’t really hurt, but he wanted it gone. The fact that it could take over his mind and test his willpower like that, deeply unsettled him.

“Ah, I thought I had placed the accent. Where are you from?”

“Somewhere you’ve never been,” was his evasive answer.

The dwarf didn’t even falter, “I don’t doubt it. I haven’t been to many places.”

“Perhaps I have been where you’re from,” Solas chimed in, idly twirling his staff as they walked.

“I doubt it,” Desmond replied, turning on Eagle Vision to see if they were about to be attacked. The poisonous green glow covered the entire sky, but everything else was a wash of gray. “More demons ahead. In about fifty feet. Two wisps and three shades,” he had learned the names of some of the demons as they traveled, and was able to easily recognize their shapes through his Vision, since it looked through any obstacle.

“How do you know that?” Cassandra asked, giving Desmond an indiscernible glance.

“I looked.”

Varric chuckled, “Very forthcoming, this one.” But Desmond wasn’t wrong, and they soon came upon a small cluster of demons which they easily dispatched. Solas froze one of the shades and a powerful bolt from Varric’s crossbow, Bianca, shattered it. Cassandra shouted as she sliced through a wisp, and Desmond caught the other wisp with an arrow straight through the head. The two remaining shades didn’t stand a chance under the combined power of Cassandra’s sharp blade, Solas’s bursts of elemental magic, and Varric and Desmond’s almost disturbingly true shots.

“So,” Varric started as they began walking again, the path growing icier under their feet, “are you innocent?”

“That’s a vague question,” Desmond responded distractedly, staring dispassionately at all the dead bodies strewn along the road. Carts on fire, scorch marks on the snow, blood and green demon ooze coating everything. It was a scene from a nightmare. But not Desmond’s. He’d seen worse.

“Is it?” Varric asked, surprised. “I’m asking if you actually blew up the Conclave like they’re saying you did.”

Desmond shrugged, “If I did, I didn’t mean to. That’s not really my style.”

Cassandra side-eyed him but didn’t say anything. Meanwhile Varric chuckled, “And what is your style, Enigma?”

“Are you calling me enigma, or is that a verbal tic?” He asked, uncaring.

Varric shook his head, “It’s like pulling teeth,” he muttered. “You haven’t told us your name, and you’re almost frustratingly vague. I look forward to uncovering your story.”

Desmond hummed, “My name is Desmond.”

“He said he touched an orb and then he can’t remember,” Cassandra cut in, her voice exasperated.

“An orb?” Solas asked, his voice so neutral that he had to know something. Especially since he was still golden under Eagle Vision.

“You know, a sphere,” Desmond quipped.

Solas gave him a disapproving frown, “I know what an orb is. I’m just surprised. I haven’t heard of such an artifact that could explode like that, although I suppose it is possible.”

“And you’ve heard of everything, have you?” Desmond asked, his voice curious.

“My journeys deep into the Fade have given me much insight into the workings of the world.”

Desmond hummed again, not having any idea what the Fade was, but the way he said it made it seem like everyone knew what that was. He wasn’t quite ready to give up his mysterious persona though. It was nice to hold secrets again, even though he could feel it getting old very quickly. His draw to be free meant that he wanted to be free from secrets and responsibility and looking over his shoulder at every turn. “Another rift up ahead,” he warned.

“Can you feel it?” Solas asked as they started speeding up a little bit.

“Yes.” Desmond left it at that and they arrived at the rift before anyone could ask him more questions. The rift reacted as before and started crackling as he grew closer. He couldn’t hear the whispers, which was incredibly nice and allowed him to focus on the fight.

This rift was stationed before a big stone bridge which was blocked off by large wooden doors. Guards and other soldiers were already fighting the horde of demons before the four of them arrived, so they jumped into the fray and started clearing out the demons as much as they could. The moment there was a lull, Desmond reluctantly put his hand to the rift, the whispers starting again, enticing temptation. He closed his fist and yanked the rift closed, stepping back and taking a deep breath.

“Sealed, as before,” Solas leaned on his staff, a proud little smile on his face like he had been the one doing the work. “You are becoming quite proficient at this.”

“Let’s hope it works on the big one,” Varric commented.

Let’s hope I don’t fall to temptation with that much energy and power, Desmond thought glumly. He knew he could resist these rifts, but he had no idea how much more enticing that huge Breach would be on his mind.
“Open the gates,” Cassandra barked at the guards who were still catching their breath.

“Right away, Lady Cassandra,” one of them shouted, saluting her with a hand thumped to his chest. True to his word, the doors swung open on squealing hinges and the four of them walked in to find a whole group of soldiers and officers stationed around, caches of various weapons, and a few people furiously grinding herbs and brewing something that smelled foul. There were injured soldiers laid out on cots, moaning their pain to the world while women in red and white hovered over them fretfully. It was chaos.

“Take a moment to restock your potions and weapons. We leave in ten minutes,” Cassandra ordered, immediately heading off to go talk to someone who looked important. Desmond shared a look with his companions and then bent to look through the selection of weapons they had, trying to find something better than his chipped daggers and worn bow. He found a few replacements that were nothing to write home about, but would do in a pinch.

He didn’t really need a break, so he spent the rest of the time listening to what people had to say and looking around at his surroundings. A few people showed red under his Vision, but he quickly blended into the nearest group whenever those people started looking his way. The glowing on his hand was rather inconvenient and he tried to hide it with some gloves he pilfered off a nearby table, but the glow still showed through. He grimaced as he looked down at the mark. The green and gold was spreading up his arm under his Vision, and he was worried about what would happen when it reached his heart. Hopefully it would all be solved before then.

Desmond met up with Varric at the table where people were grinding herbs and had glass bottles with various colored liquids swirling inside lined up in front of them. It was a whole conveyor belt of people handling the herbs, then the next person crushing them up, and the next boiling it with water while the last person in the line ladled the brew into a bottle to stopper and put up front where soldiers came by to claim a few.

Varric was humming and hawing over a few different vials, a hand on his chin and a line deepening his brow.

“What’s the problem?” Desmond asked, watching in amusement as Varric jumped slightly.

“The alchemists said I can only take three, and I’m deciding which three.” Desmond looked closer at the four Varric was contemplating. Two red ones, an orange and a yellow.

“What do they do?” Desmond asked, genuinely curious. He’d seen Cassandra chugging a few of the yellow ones, and Solas had a belt with some blue. He figured it was some type of drug, but he didn’t really know.

Varric gave him a scrutinizing look, and Desmond realized that he asked something telling. He stood his ground and gave the dwarf his best zen look. “The red one is your standard healing potion. It heals some major and minor wounds. Yellow helps put you back on your feet when you’re tired; blue does the same but for mages, and the orange heals wounds over time.”

Since Varric was so forthcoming Desmond decided to ask another question, “Why would someone take the orange one over the healing potion?”

“Good question, and one I’m still figuring out.” That seemed to make the decision for the dwarf as he grabbed two healing potions and a yellow vial. Desmond shrugged and grabbed a healing potion. It couldn’t hurt. “Now, since I answered your questions,” Varric began, a sly smile on his face, “tell me something new and interesting about you.”

Desmond gave him a dry look and then searched the ground for interesting facts about himself that weren’t too revealing. He was drawing up a blank, then just decided, fuck it, “I’m from a different world.” And then he walked off, leaving Varric gaping slightly. “Hey Solas,” he called to the elven mage, “can I ask you something?”

The bald elf turned and gave a curious half-smile, “What can I do for you, Desmond?”

“I was wondering what you meant by ‘the Fade’. Is it a place or...?” He trailed off, unsure what else it could be, but somehow it didn’t seem like a physical place.

Solas tilted his head slightly, his eyes considering. “The Fade is a world separated from us by the Veil. A Veil that has been ripped open and is now spitting out demons, as you’ve seen.” He gestured to the Breach, an enigmatic smile on his face.

“Cool. So, not a good place. Noted.”

Solas shook his head, “It is neither good nor bad. Just as the mortal world, there are those who are twisted with evil desires, and those who are peaceful. This Breach has made many of the peaceful spirits go mad and attack because they are confused and scared and whatever magic tore the world open, also turned them into demons.”

“Not so cool,” Desmond said eloquently, nodding his head.

“Why the curiosity about the Fade?”

Desmond shrugged, “I’d never heard about it before today. Oh, Cassandra is calling.” And indeed, the warrior woman was beckoning them over, catching Varric’s eye from where he was shaking his head and chuckling a bit further back.

Cassandra led them to the largest table, stacked with papers and a large map. There was a man dressed in the same white and red as the women tending to the injured, and the woman from before, Leliana. The two were arguing over the next steps to take, and it seemed that neither one was winning. Leliana had the better argument, but the man was incredibly stubborn and would not be swayed. Cassandra pushed them closer despite the loud argument they were clearly about to interrupt.

Leliana noticed them first, “Good, you’re here.” She walked over to Cassandra and they clasped arms in greeting, “Chancellor, this is-”

“I know who he is,” the chancellor cut her off, a deep sneer on his face. “Why is he here and not on his way to Val Royeaux? This criminal must be executed, by order of the Divine.”

“The Divine is dead, chancellor. As you well know,” Leliana said, her face carefully blank. Desmond decided she was close with the Divine and was likely devastated by her death.

The chancellor huffed, “Then we must elect a replacement and follow her orders on the matter.”

Desmond’s eyebrow rose. He may not know much about this new world, but he knew elections took months, if not longer. There was no way they could ignore the Breach for that long. “Isn’t the Breach the more pressing issue?” He found himself asking. “You can do whatever to me after the sky stops spitting demons.”

“That is not for you to decide,” the chancellor spat. Then he shook his head, “call a retreat, Seeker. Our position here is hopeless.”

“I will not,” Cassandra said stubbornly. “He’s been able to close the rifts so far, and I believe it may work on the Breach. We have to try.”

The chancellor shook his head with a sigh, “On your head be the consequences, Seeker.” He then proceeded to walk around the table, give Desmond one last disgusted look, and then disappear into the crowd.
“The quickest way to the temple is to charge,” Cassandra stated, ignoring the chancellor’s parting words.

Leliana shook her head. “But not the safest. Our soldiers could charge while you take the mountain path. It’s less direct, but it’s less likely to have the main bulk of the horde.”

Cassandra’s face was disagreeing before Leliana was even finished speaking. “We lost contact with an entire squad on that path. It’s too risky.” Desmond, personally, would rather take the mountain path. If there was a sneaky option, he would always take that one. But it wasn’t up to him.

The moment he thought that, Cassandra turned to him, “How do you think we should proceed?”

“You’re asking my opinion?” Desmond asked, taken aback.

“You are the one we must keep alive,” Cassandra said, shaking her head. “And since we cannot come to a decision alone,” she trailed off leadingly.

Desmond considered that, then shrugged. “Let’s take the mountain path. It’s less likely to end in friendly fire and any chance to take the demons by surprise is one I’m willing to take.”

Cassandra grimaced slightly, then nodded, heading off to give orders to various people. Leliana stayed behind for a moment to give him an assessing look then turned and started preparing for the assault.

“Look at you, speaking up for yourself,” Varric said, his face jovial but his eyes promising a future conversation. Desmond returned his look with an unruffled facade, even as on the inside he was in a bit of turmoil, wishing he hadn’t said anything. Maybe he could play the whole ‘I’m from a different world’ thing as a joke. But on the other hand, if he didn’t rescind that statement, then he could ask as many questions as he wanted to learn more about this world without getting weird looks.

But did he have proof? He checked his pockets briefly, looking for his phone, which he knew he touched the orb with that on his person, but he couldn’t find anything aside from a few of the potions he had grabbed or been handed that he had shoved in his pockets. So that meant either he lost it, it got destroyed, or these people had it. He didn’t know which one he preferred.

“What are you looking for?” Solas asked, a knowing glint in his eyes. So that meant they had it. Super.

“Nothing important,” Desmond shrugged, but he could feel his heart thudding anxiously. If they figured out how to use his phone... he could potentially be the cause of a major technological rise in this ancient world. He really didn’t want that kind of responsibility.

Solas hummed, unconvinced, but dropping the subject in favor of following Cassandra as she called them forward.

The path up the mountains was grueling. The pathway itself was thick, slippery ice, the wind biting through clothes. Desmond was shivering, and he had no idea how Solas could stand the cold with his bald head and bare feet. Maybe he had some sort of warming magic. It would have been nice of him to share.

They traveled through demon infested abandoned mines, only to find several corpses strewn about the snow once they found their way outside.

“Guess we found the missing soldiers,” Varric sighed sadly.

Cassandra shook her head, “That cannot be all of them. The others may be up ahead, if they’re still alive.”

Solas made a disagreeing noise, “Our priority must be the Breach. Until we seal it, no one is safe.”

“I’m leaving that to the man with the glowing hand,” Varric quipped. Desmond clenched the hand in question, but said nothing. The snowy mountains were surprisingly free of demons for the minutes that they walked down the path, but it soon became apparent why that was. There was another rift, the few demons being pushed back by some heavily injured soldiers. Desmond didn’t really think, he just unslung his bow and started firing. At least he wasn’t the only one, his companions also immediately began attacking.

The fight was fast, just like it normally was with such a skilled team. If Desmond had to fight with other people, at least he wasn’t bogged down by having to protect them.

“Lady Cassandra!” One of the soldiers called once the rift was calmed and closed. “I’m glad you made it when you did. I don’t think we could have held out much longer.”

“Thank the prisoner. He insisted we come this way.”

The soldier could not have looked more surprised, “The prisoner? Then you...?”

Everyone looked towards Desmond, and he shrugged uncomfortably. Truthfully he felt a little bad that he hadn’t even considered the missing scouting team when he made his decision, but he was happy they were able to save them anyway.

Cassandra waited a beat for him to say something, but when it was clear he wasn’t going to, she addressed the soldiers. “The way behind us should be clear of demons for the moment. Get yourselves to safety.”

“Right away, Lady Cassandra. Thank you again.”

The four companions resumed their trip to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Solas and Varric debating what type of explosion could have caused a tear in the Veil between the mortal world and the Fade. Desmond was surprisingly uninterested, considering that his memories about the event were suspiciously absent. But at the same time, who could say what the Isu created and what the effects of throwing him into another world were.

It was only once they got to the actual Temple that all of this started sinking in. He was in another world, and his arrival had blown up thousands of people. As they walked through the ruins of the Temple, he saw corpses that had burned into a permanently tortured husk, screaming in eternal agony. There were thousands of bodies strewn in all sorts of grotesque displays, but the deeper they went into the Temple, the less of the bodies there were.

They met up with Leliana and Desmond got his first real look at the Breach from right below it. There was no possible way his little mark could close that massive hole. From this angle it took up the entire sky, nothing was unaffected. Well there was nothing for it. He already, maybe, possibly, saved the world once. He could at least attempt to do it again. The first time around involved almost certain death. This time maybe he would end up in a science fiction world instead of a fantasy one.

“I’m assuming you have a plan to get me up there?” It was definitely too far away for him to get even close to affecting it with his mark.

Solas shook his head, “That rift right there, that one is the first. It’s dormant for the moment, but I believe it can be opened and sealed safely. Opening it will likely attract attention from the other side.”

“More demons,” Cassandra spat. “Well let’s get down there, first.”

Desmond was getting incredibly sick of demons, the rifts, and this whole world. But there was nothing for it. It’s not like he enjoyed most of his life anyway. But things had to be done, and he was, not necessarily the most qualified, but definitely one who was put in the position to get those things done.

As they picked their way towards the rift, eerie voices boomed throughout the Temple, Solas claiming they were echoes from the Fade of what might have happened. They were voices Desmond had never heard before, but Cassandra exclaimed that the woman was Divine Justinia, the whole reason he was in chains. Or at least it seemed that way. Everyone was more focused on the fact that the Divine was dead instead of the thousands of others that perished.

Then they came upon large, glowing red crystals which sprouted from the earth in foreboding spikes. The closer one got, the more one could hear singing. But it was an evil sort of singing, one that felt slimy and wrong. Varric sounded more wary than anyone else, calling it Red Lyrium, and cautioning everyone to avoid touching it. There was no way Desmond even wanted to touch it.

“Keep the sacrifice still,” a voice ordered the moment Desmond jumped off a ledge into the main clearing, where he assumed it was ground zero for the blast. The world flickered and then he was staring at foggy giants in the sky, a vision of the past. The man speaking was foggier than the others, his face black mist with glowing red eyes, but the old woman was almost too clear, every wrinkle deepened by her fear and the shadows.

“Someone, help me!” She pleaded. And then the most curious thing happened, Desmond saw himself appear.

He wasn’t used to seeing what he looked like, and he felt a strange disconnect from the vision. He saw himself say, “What the fuck? What’s going on?” But he didn’t remember this at all. Suddenly he was much more invested in what had happened to his memories. He had thought he had touched the orb and then dropped out of the Fade like everyone was claiming he did, but this showed that he was actually part of the events in a way he didn’t understand.

“Run while you can, warn them!” The woman screamed, and Desmond understood why she could gain so much love and so many followers. Here she was, about to become a sacrifice to a terrifying mist demon, and she was more concerned about everyone else in the Temple.

The vision disappeared as abruptly as it came, and Cassandra was immediately in Desmond’s face, demanding answers to what they all just saw. All Desmond could say in response was a paltry “I don’t remember what happened,” and Cassandra clearly wasn’t happy with that answer.

But that didn’t matter, because Solas interrupted and soon Desmond was touching the rift, yanking it open instead of sealing it shut. And then came the demon.

Chapter Text

Desmond woke up gasping for air. He sat up, startled. He couldn't remember his dream, but he knew something was wrong, his memories of a strange, fantastical world rushing in. He remembered waking up in chains and all the things that lead up to fighting a massive Pride demon that took almost an entire army to defeat. But he couldn’t remember what led up to that.

He was immediately on edge as he saw an elven woman come into his room holding a box. The moment she saw him, she squeaked and dropped her cargo, her large eyes growing even larger.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you were awake, I promise.” She stumbled over herself to say.

Desmond’s eyes narrowed slightly. What was she going to do while he was asleep? “What are you doing here?’ He asked, perhaps a little too roughly.

Her eyes started watering, “That’s wrong. I said something wrong.” She then dropped to her knees and slammed her head against the ground, hands plastered to the ground. Desmond stood up in alarm. “I beg for your humble forgiveness and your blessing, holy one.” That stopped him short.

‘Holy one?’ he mouthed to himself.

She looked up as if she heard him, “You’re back in Haven, my lord. They’re saying you saved us, that you’re sent by Andraste herself.”

“Who? What?” Desmond was completely lost. He remembered attempting to close the Breach and then blacking out. Maybe he actually managed to close it? “So we’re safe?”

The elf slowly got to her feet, “I’m only saying what I heard, I didn’t mean anything by it,” she promised, backing away. “I’m sure Lady Cassandra will want to know you’ve awakened. ‘At once’ she said.”

Desmond didn’t know how to deal with people that were that skittish, “And where can I find her?”

“In the Chantry. ‘At once’ she said.” And then she was running out the door. Desmond stared after her for a moment and then set to work looking through the room. Nothing really shone through his Eagle Vision, but he did find a note that had a checklist of patient observations. Three days worth. So he was unconscious for three whole days without any dreams he could remember. Awesome. They could have done anything to his body and he wouldn’t have known.

Oh well. That was nothing new.

He walked out of the cabin he had been placed in and immediately wanted to go back inside. As an assassin, the limelight was the last place one wanted to be, and yet there were lines of people creating a path for him right to the Chantry. People were clamoring to get a look and he heard more than one reverent whisper calling him “The Herald of Andraste”. Now he was a religious figurehead. Just what he needed.

The Chantry was blessedly quiet, just a few women in the church colors of red and white gossiping together and fretting that the main bulk of their church had denounced them as heretics and blasphemers. Super. At least it was nothing new, being on the bad side of the church. What was weird was being seen as a highly religious figure, even as he was denounced by the very church that propped him up. It was confusing and not at all a situation he wanted to be in. He preferred to work in the shadows, but that didn’t seem like it was an option anymore. He was in uncharted territory, and it took all he had to focus on the void, letting all his emotions fall to the wayside and become calm.

He slunk into some of the deep torchlight shadows, took a few deep breaths, and walked out as the man who could withstand torture and captivity for months and still come out smiling. After that, it was easy to walk among the staring faces and find Cassandra. He just had to follow the shouting voices.

He had meant to slip into the room without drawing too much attention to himself, but the door had other ideas and slammed open, banging against the opposite wall and silencing everyone in the room.

The chancellor from before quickly addressed the guards posted on either side of the entryway, “Chain him! I want him prepared for travel to the capital.”

Cassandra pushed off the table she was leaning on, “Disregard that and leave us.” She clearly had the higher authority, as the soldiers saluted her and left, closing the door behind them.

The chancellor’s face squished into something ugly, “You walk a dangerous line, Seeker.”

“Desmond was not responsible for the explosion. I heard the Divine call out to him for help.”

“So his survival is what? All a coincidence?” The man scoffed.

Cassandra shook her head. “Providence. The Maker gave us a savior just when we needed him.” Desmond’s face twitched minutely, but Leliana clearly picked up on it, her eyes giving a knowing glow.

“That is not for you to decide!” The chancellor bellowed, even as Cassandra turned away and grabbed something from a shelf.

She slammed a massive tome onto the table, the chancellor’s face drained of all color as he looked at the spiked eye emblazoned on the cover. “Do you know what this is, chancellor?” She didn’t wait for an answer, “A writ from the Divine, giving us the authority to act. We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order, with or without your approval.”

The chancellor looked at all the faces in the room, then stormed out. Leliana shook her head, eyes glued to the tome. “This is the Divine’s directive: rebuild the Inquisition of old. We aren’t ready. We have no idea where to start, no numbers, and now, no Chantry support.”

“But we have no choice,” Cassandra rebuffed. “With you at our side,” she addressed Desmond.

He shrugged, “If I can help, I will. I’m on borrowed time anyway. I just really don’t want to be someone in charge.” He could do it, if he had to. He had lived the life of a Mentor, but that was different from being seen as a figurehead for religion.

Leliana and Cassandra looked at each other and Cassandra held out her hand for a shake, notably not saying anything. Desmond figured that meant they had plans for him. He was screwed. He shook her hand anyway.

*** 

Things moved quickly after that, Inquisition banners started flying around Haven, people started wearing armor with the symbolic eye emblazoned on it, and Desmond was hardly given a moment to explore the little village he found himself in before he was summoned back to the Chantry. There he met the advisors of the Inquisition, Josephine, Cullen, and Leliana, the ambassador, commander, and spymaster respectively. It was also where he decided it was a requirement to be attractive in this world.

Josephine was young but her bearing was graceful, she wore fancy dresses which looked wildly out of place in Haven, but it helped her to communicate better with the noble visitors. She had perfectly styled hair with pretty little curls framing her refined face. The beauty marks along her cheek and chin added a humanistic charm to her otherworldly baring. It was difficult to be intimidated when her every word was meant to put one at ease.

Cullen on the other hand aptly earned the nickname ‘pretty boy’. He had curly blond hair, one strand falling into his face attractively, cool hazel eyes, and a blush that was quick to come. The other advisors had an unrespectable amount of fun causing the commander to turn a fetching shade of pink.

Desmond didn’t know what to do when he first was introduced to them all. He had been taken back to the room where the Inquisition was declared, what they since have called the war room, where he met all the people with impressive titles. Sure, he liked to know what was happening and be included in things, but he was nobody, really. Especially compared to the higher-ranking people he was surrounded by. The only thing special about him was his glowing hand, which was annoyingly persistent. The light wouldn’t be dampened even by thick leather gloves, so his usual method of hiding and disappearing into crowds was impossible. He could see it in everyone he met. Their eyes darted down to his hand, and then they were respectful. He could barely remember his name because everyone called him Herald. He already had identity issues, he didn’t need more.

After the initial introductions to the advisors, the three of them started debating what their next steps should be.

“That’s why we need to approach the rebel mages,” Leliana stated as they debated what they needed to fully close the Breach. “Enough power poured into the mark-”

“Could destroy us all,” Cullen interrupted, slashing his hand through the air as if to erase the very idea. “The templars could do just as well, suppress the breach enough to-”

“Pure speculation.” Leliana returned in kind. Desmond stopped listening for a second. Templars. Even if they were different from the ones from his world, he didn’t want anything to do with them. The word itself had bad connotations.

“I was a templar,” Cullen insisted, and Desmond found himself unintentionally backing away, “I know what they’re capable of.”

Leliana gave Desmond a considering look, even as Josephine said, “Unfortunately neither group will even speak with us right now. The Chantry has denounced us and you specifically,” she addressed Desmond, “Some are calling you the Herald of Andraste, and that frightens the Chantry. We have been declared heretics for harboring you.”

“Can’t we just ignore them?” Desmond asked, not having much hope. He’d lived through Ezio’s life where ignoring the church was almost impossible. To be fair though, Ezio was seeking vengeance on several of the high-ranking members of said church.

“If only that were possible,” Josephine sighed, “unfortunately the Chantry holds much sway in the minds of the people.”

There was a moment of silence before Leliana spoke up, “There is something you can do. There’s a Chantry Mother by the name of Mother Giselle who has requested to speak to you. She is not far, and knows those involved far better than I.”

“Why would she help a declared heretic?” Desmond asked, exhausted. He was tired of dealing with religion. It was the number one cause of fanaticism and the destruction of free will, in his experience. It was far too easy for Templars to sneak into religion and take control through force and order. It’s why they always won.

“I’ve heard she’s a reasonable sort. It’s worth a try, no?”

Desmond sighed, “I suppose. Where am I going?”

Leliana grinned sharply, “The Hinterlands. It is about a day’s journey from here.”

“Look for other opportunities to expand the Inquisition’s influence while you’re there,” Cullen added earnestly.

Desmond looked down at the map where they had marked the Hinterlands with a metal triangle. “I’ve sent scouts ahead to clear a path and set up an initial camp, as well as help with some of the fighting,” Leliana added, noting where Desmond’s eyes had fallen, “but you shouldn’t delay. They’re more suited to stealth missions than full battle.”

“I’m the same,” Desmond muttered, not expecting that they would let him do what he actually wanted. The problem with not being in charge of anything meant that he wouldn’t be able to decide what he did or how he did it. So if that meant that an Assassin became a Warrior, so be it.

*** 

They set out the next morning, bright and early; Solas wearing brand new rags, and Varric decked out in a nice burnt orange tunic that brought out his eyes with Bianca gleaming beautifully on his back. Cassandra was wearing her same worn mail as she shouldered her pack, the Inquisition not having any horses. That was another one of the assignments Desmond had been given- speak to the horse master in the Hinterlands and acquire mounts. Luckily Cassandra was coming, as she was one of the main faces of the Inquisition and that meant that he could sit back, and expend all of his willpower by closing the rifts and fighting enemies. At least that’s what he thought.

The walk to the first Hinterlands camp near the crossroads wasn’t too interesting. Varric was trying to pester everyone for information about themselves but was entirely unforthcoming about his own stories. What Desmond ended up learning about his companions was that Cassandra had been the Right Hand of the Divine for the past few years as well as being a Seeker of Truth. She was initially supposed to join the Templar order but ended up being chosen to be a Seeker instead, which she considered a great honor. She became the Right Hand because, through some turn of fate, she saved the Divine’s life from a nefarious plot she stumbled upon. It was all very coincidental, she insisted.

Solas, meanwhile, was more than happy to talk about the Fade for hours, but any questions about personal information were met with vague answers and unverifiable ‘truths’. Varric’s own stories were well-worded and more than likely completely exaggerated. They were entertaining and passed the time, but very few were actually about him.

Desmond didn’t share much, but he also wasn’t much of a storyteller. What he did share were things from Altair, Connor, and Ezio’s lifetime, just in first person. Because he did technically live it as well. Or at least experienced it.

He told them about meeting a great inventor, learning how to fight under the tutelage of a demanding yet doting Master, and a childhood spent playing in the woods with his tribe. He tried to make sure that none of his stories contradicted each other, and were time-accurate without spilling all his secrets, but from the looks the others gave him, he wasn’t too successful. They didn’t push though, which Desmond was grateful for.

The walking was slow, but it was interesting to watch the landscape turn from snowy mountains to lush plains with ample plant life. By the time they reached the camp the next morning, Desmond swore that the time had flown by.

They were met by a cheerful dwarf that introduced herself as Scout Harding and told them about the state of the Hinterlands. “Mother Giselle is down at the Crossroads, tending to the wounded. There’s been no word from Master Dennet, the horse master, the war has made it too risky for the scouts to travel in that direction. I hope you can find him. For the moment though, the Crossroads are in dire need of help. The mage-templar war has decimated this place. I hope the Inquisition can help.”

“We will,” Cassandra assured. “Let’s head out straight away.”

“Give me a second,” Desmond cut in before she could give the command. He saw a massive tree, and it was habit to head to the highest place to get a lay of the land and memorize the terrain. Besides, there was a perfect little leaf pile for him to perform a leap of faith. He couldn’t pass up the chance.

His companions exclaimed in surprise when he started masterfully scaling the tree, clinging to the top in a matter of seconds. He looked out at a good portion of the Hinterlands, seeing the Crossroads where there were plenty of people fighting, several fortresses in various states of disrepair, a town on the far edges near a lake, and a long river that had a farm on the other side. He mapped it all out in his mind, then took a Leap of Faith. He heard the screams, but within moments of dropping down, he was out of the pile and brushing himself off.

“We need to head that way,” he pointed in the direction of the Crossroads. “We should hurry, there are a lot of fights going on, and there are plenty of people that are trying to run away but are getting slaughtered.”

“What in the Maker’s name did you just do? You could have died!” Cassandra yelled, her face ashen.

“I was fine. I’ve done that from much higher. I knew what I was doing.”

“You could have died!” She exclaimed again.

“It’s called a Leap of Faith. The point is believing I won’t die, that the wind and my skills will take me to safety. It hasn’t killed me yet, and I’ve never been injured.” Desmond reassured. His companions didn’t seem to believe him, so he pressed on, “We need to go.”

That seemed to get them moving, but they still gave him odd looks. They would have to get used to it. The moment they were somewhere he hadn’t seen on that first jaunt to the highest place available, he was going to do it again. And again, and again, and another time just for fun and because heights calmed him down, and with this world he was trapped in, he needed all the stress relief he could find.

He led his three companions down a nearby slope and around a few big boulders to a small pass between the hills. They heard the fighting before they saw anyone, and Desmond quickly unslung his bow and readied three arrows on the string. The quicker he could take out their opponents, the faster the refugees would be safe.

They turned a corner and Desmond looked for those that were wearing Inquisition armor, and those who were fleeing. He ignored them and shot his three arrows at a group of approaching men in armor. His aim was true and each arrowhead found its way into the eyeholes of the helmets.

“It’s creepy when you do that, Enigma,” Varric said before hitting a mage in the chest with a bolt from Bianca. Desmond responded by throwing a dagger at a sellsword, the blade going through his throat and cutting off his battle cry.

It was sad how refreshing Desmond found it to be killing people again. Maybe that made him a psychopath, but he was pretty sure that just made him an Assassin that didn’t know how to deal with demons and magic and the simple act of killing humans was a nice reprieve from the fantastical.

As soon as there were no more enemies, Desmond started the tedious yet meditative task of gathering his weapons for maintenance, leaving Cassandra to talk to the Inquisition soldiers and figure out who needed what.

The last arrow plucked from a dead Templar’s eye, he made his way to the makeshift hospital. He saw a few women in the red and white of the Chantry, and he had no idea what Mother Giselle looked like, so he just stood awkwardly at the fringes of the chaos, hoping that she would approach him. After five minutes, he assumed he was accidentally blending in too much out of habit, but then a Chantry woman disengaged from the group and picked her way gracefully over to him. Her bearing spoke of nobility, but her clothes were humble and grass-stained. Perhaps she had been given to the Chantry as he’d heard some people do, or maybe her faith was so strong she voluntarily joined.

She smiled at him as she grew closer. “Mother Giselle?” He asked hesitantly.

She nodded, her dark skin strikingly beautiful against the light cloth she wore around her head. She was an older lady, wrinkles apparent around her eyes and mouth, indicative of a lifetime spent smiling and laughing. Her eyes were a warm brown that showed nothing but kindness and she glowed a reassuring blue in Desmond’s Vision.

“And you must be the one the people are calling The Herald of Andraste,” Mother Giselle responded as if his glowing hand didn’t give it away. Her French accent was strong, but not unintelligible and somehow added to her sense of nobility.

“You wished to speak with me?” He was a little uncomfortable that she hadn’t asked to speak to the leaders of the Inquisition, but had instead asked for him by his pretentious title. That meant he, unfortunately, could not pawn her attention off onto Cassandra.

She gestured for them to move away from the pained cries of the soldiers and refugees to a quieter section of the Crossroads. “I believe I can help your cause along. I could speak to the leaders of the Chantry, get them to hold a meeting in Val Royueax in three months’ time. You could go, appeal to them, show them you are not the threat they should be afraid of.”

“Why would they listen to me? They’ve already declared me a heretic and want nothing to do with the Inquisition.”

She smiled fondly, “They have heard only frightful tales, they do not know the truth. Let me put it this way, you need not convince them all of your innocence. Their power is their unified voice. Take that from them...”

Desmond nodded. Give some of them cause to doubt, and the Inquisition could have a lot more supporters. “It’s good of you to do this.”

Mother Giselle nodded graciously, “I do not know if you have been touched by the Maker, but I believe.” Desmond nodded awkwardly, and Mother Giselle looked out at the Crossroads, “I will go to Haven, see where else I could be of assistance.”

“The Inquisition welcomes your aid,” Desmond replied, stilted. He had no idea what to say. Luckily she got that impression, and with a parting smile, walked back to the hospital area. Desmond let out a sigh of relief, and suddenly Varric and Solas were by his side, Cassandra marching in their direction.

“Corporal Vale has been coordinating the Inquisition’s efforts in the area,” Cassandra said in greeting. “I spoke with him and he mentioned a few things that would help the refugees and expand our influence. What did Mother Giselle want?”

Desmond shook his head slightly, still baffled that this was the situation he found himself in. “She’s gathering a conference of the leaders of the Chantry in three months’ time at Val Royeaux. She said that we should be there to appeal to them, make some of them doubt the tales they’ve heard.”

Cassandra nodded. “It takes a month and a half to get to Val Royeaux from Haven, so let’s spend the rest of the time stabilizing the Hinterlands.” Her voice didn’t allow for any argument, but Desmond was all for it. Doing odd jobs for coin and building up cities and influence was kind of something he was used to. He was just worried about what kind of jobs he would be required to do.

*** 

He needn’t have been worried. The jobs were easy things like raiding apostate camps for blankets, sneaking into the mage and Templar bases and slaughtering them all, killing rams for food, clearing out mercenary camps, and the most exciting one was killing a dragon. That was also the only time he was injured since the Inquisition was declared. The only rush even close to that whole experience was taking a Leap of Faith, and that one he knew he would survive. Desmond hadn’t felt that kind of excitement for life that he could claim as his own in longer than he could remember. Probably around the time he escaped The Farm at sixteen.

Either way, after that fight, everyone was bruised, bleeding, and burnt, but Desmond was the only one smiling like a lunatic. “Let’s do that again sometime,” he remarked to his beleaguered companions, who all expressed some sort of refusal and complaint. Even the ever-noble Solas was slouching and favoring his left side, a grumpy look on his face.

After that dragon gave its dying screech, that’s when Desmond truly felt centered in this new life of his. Before that moment, he had been living in a state of shock, of disbelief. He hadn’t gotten hurt once, he didn’t know anyone or anything, everything was new and crazy, and most of all, he was put in a place, in a situation, he didn’t know how to handle. But now he felt invigorated, alive. Like everything would be okay. He just took down a fucking dragon. He could survive being a leader or a puppet figurehead, because, at the end of the day, this was a world for the impossible.

But, as he looked around at his companions as they chugged healing potions, he knew he couldn’t do it alone. Every life he’d lived he’d never been truly alone, there was always someone helping, but at the end of the day, it all rested on his shoulders. He would have to use these people as he did in his past lives. Sure they could be friends, people to lean on, but they were there to help get him to the final push where, in the end, it all relied on him.

The weight of it all almost crushed him, but he remembered the dragon fire and the dying screech, and he felt better. Not eager, but ready. He could do anything, as long as he put his best effort in. And with this new appreciation for being alive, how could he give anything but his best?

Chapter Text

One of the first things his companions learned about him, was that he always knew where the enemies were. They didn’t know how, but Desmond’s Eagle Vision allowed him to see the aura of enemies, allies, safe spaces and people, and points of interest. It was as easy to turn on as blinking, and it saw through a decent amount of obstruction since it focused on the user and life energy and some other stuff Desmond didn’t fully understand.

What his companions did know about it was that it allowed their quests to go by much faster. Desmond always knew exactly where to go, where to dig to uncover the treasure from a random map, where the cashes were, and how to avoid large groups of enemies or make a sneak attack. He always knew the best routes to things from his jaunts up the highest trees, and he always seemed to be one step ahead of the enemy.

Truthfully, Desmond was a little annoyed. There were so many quests all at once that he had to buy a journal and a charcoal pencil to keep track of them. It seemed that there were red spots everywhere he looked, the gold almost as numerous- including his companion, Solas, who hadn’t done anything untoward but glowed a frustrating golden hue, giving no indication as to why.

Oftentimes as they were traveling through the Hinterlands, the only blue in his vision were the two behind him, Cassandra and Varric. It felt a lot like being Connor again, except he wasn’t by himself.

Initially, Cassandra had been leading the four throughout their stabilization efforts, but when it became clear that Desmond knew where to go and how to get there, he became the lead in their party. It honestly was a relief to Desmond, as he felt a little awkward backseat driving, but now he could just go where his senses led him.

At the beginning of the second week, the little group of four had cleared out the base camps for the main horde of the Templars and mages, effectively ending the war in the Hinterlands and clearing a path for them to head to the horse master to hopefully get some mounts for themselves and for the Inquisition. All this walking was wearing everyone thin.

The moment they stepped beyond the hills and into farmland, they were attacked by vicious wolves that felt no fear and attacked with a sort of ferocity that made Desmond immediately on edge.

It was a quick fight, there were only three wolves and they fought with madness in their eyes. They didn’t run from the blades and didn’t dodge out of the way, they seemed only interested in the kill. Solas bent to examine their bodies, magic pulsing through his fingers. After a moment he rested back on his heels and hummed, “The magic of the Breach must have driven them mad. Or perhaps a demon took control of the pack.”

“Something to look into,” Cassandra observed, as Varric gestured over some nearby Inquisition scouts. They were tasked with taking the bodies back to camp or somewhere so their deaths wouldn’t be put to waste. The Inquisition would be eating well, and the wolves’ fur would make some nice cloaks for the chill of the night.

As they picked their way through the semi-deserted farmlands, Desmond reflected on some of the conversations that had happened this past week, particularly when he had asked Cassandra about the Templars. He had started it off with a fairly innocent question about the beliefs of the Templar order, something he thought wouldn’t garner too much suspicion. Varric had decided Desmond was joking when he said he was from another world, and Solas figured that he was raised away from normal civilization and didn’t have much experience with mages and the Fade beyond visiting it in his dreams. He let them think what they wanted.

Cassandra was all too happy to tell him about the core beliefs of the Templars, at least what they were before the rebellion. “The main purpose of Templars is to protect the mages, from themselves and those who do not understand magic. They watch over the mages in the Circle towers to ensure there is no misuse of magic and to eliminate the threat of abominations. They are also the main army for the Chantry, so if there is a need for a Circle Annulment or an Exalted March, the Templars would be the ones to carry that out.” She sounded regretful at that.

“What exactly is the Circle Annulment or an Exalted March?” Desmond asked, curious. It didn’t sound that great, based on Cassandra’s voice and the fact that if a church needed an army, they wouldn’t use it for anything good.

“The Right of Annulment is when Templars are given authority to cleanse the entire Circle of all its mages. That only happens if blood mages or abominations have taken over the entire Circle and it is about to fall,” Cassandra said, slightly defensive, as if hearing it out loud made it sound worse than it was. But Desmond thought there was no justification for anyone to use the word ‘cleanse’ in regard to killing people. From the whispers he’d heard, there were children and elderly in those Circles. There was no excuse for killing children.

Desmond didn’t show any of his thoughts on his face, just hummed in contemplation. “And the Exalted March?” He was dreading hearing what other evils could be sanctioned by Cassandra’s precious Chantry and executed by the Templars.

“An Exalted March is when the Chantry calls for a religious crusade, to eliminate a major threat to the Chantry.” She didn’t sound defensive at all when saying this.

“Ah,” Desmond said, his voice flat. He recalled the crusades of Altair’s time, people slaughtered just for being a different religion than the Christian church, and not looking the same as them. Desmond decided that the Chantry and Templars of this world weren’t too different from the Christian church and Templars of his old world. He really wished he didn’t know that because the Inquisition was founded by the leader of the Chantry and he was the mascot of it. Not only was it a religion that he didn’t believe in, but now he knew that it was also one that ‘cleansed’ people for being different. Awesome.

“Were the elves a major threat to the Chantry?” Solas cut in, his voice angry.

Cassandra looked bashful, “There were extenuating circumstances. The elves didn’t help during the Second Blight, and they were kidnapping humans to perform rituals. Then there was the time they marched on Val Royeaux to kill the Divine.”

“So your people say.” Solas remarked flatly, “Yet, history is so often written by the victors. In my wanderings of the Fade I have seen much, and not all your Chantry tells you is true.”

Cassandra blustered for a second and then sighed, “I do not claim to know everything this world has to offer, but I will not condemn a faith that has brought hope to so many. Perhaps they were not always what they should have been, but over the whole of time they have done more good than evil.”

Solas conceded her point with a tilt of his head, “Be that as it may, some things are inexcusable, such as their current treatment of magic and elves.”

Desmond decided that he learned more about the world from listening to his companions debate than he did from asking questions of his own.

“I do not disagree,” Cassandra sighed. “Their treatment of those who are different leaves much to be desired, but the Chantry brings hope and peace to many, and is a refuge from the hardships of the world. There are many things I would change if I were in a place of power, but I am not. I can only serve the principles on which the Chantry was founded, instead of what it has become.”

Desmond thought Cassandra was rather idealistic, but it endeared her to him. The kindness and hope for a better future that was unlikely was a soothing balm to Desmond’s jaded heart. He always wished for a better world, but he knew it was just a wish. No matter what he did, the bad guys usually won in the end, and everything he does meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. But Cassandra had faith in the good of the world and in people. It was refreshing.

Solas did nothing but give a hum, his tone giving away nothing of his thoughts. The conversation moved elsewhere, but Desmond ran it over in his head. Templars were the same but different. They still suppressed free will and feigned being for the people while in the background killing off those who opposed them. The difference was that they were the subordinates of a higher power, instead of being the higher power. It was still easy for him to label them as enemies, even as Cassandra swore they were the good guys. It was hard to believe her when every Templar they came across tried killing them like they were feral. They didn’t listen to reason and they slaughtered indiscriminately.

Desmond was sure that there were good people within the Order, as it’s difficult to label any one group of people as ‘good’ or ‘bad’. There were always outliers. But Desmond had yet to see them in their journey through the Hinterlands.

It didn’t take too long before the group was at a small grouping of farmhouses. A few were left abandoned and in disarray, but some were still in use. The fighting had clearly left its mark on the farmlands, even if it wasn’t as noticeable as places closer to the Crossroads. Desmond walked up to the notice board in the center of the little village, searching for any other quests they could pick up while they were out and about, while Varric and Cassandra started talking to the few folks that were tending to their gardens or animals.

Solas stayed near Desmond, reading the notes over his shoulder. This was the first time the two of them had been alone since they met, that time on the bridge barely counted. Desmond tried his best to ignore the elf as he tore off a few of the requests and stuffed them in his journal.

Solas waited in silence, and once Desmond could no longer pretend that Solas didn’t stay behind for some purpose, he turned towards the bald elf with an expectant look on his face.

“Tell me, blessed hero of Andraste, what will you do with all of this power you’ve come into?” Solas said, his words mocking but his tone curious. “You’ve been helping every person along our way that has even the slightest problem, and with every person you aid, your power over them grows stronger. Surely you know this.”

Desmond shook his head slightly, “Whatever you’re implying, I’m not interested.”

Solas looked taken aback, “I’m not implying anything. I am simply curious. Surely you realize the more you help the more the Inquisition’s influence grows. You, as the face of the Inquisition, benefit the most from the power we gather. You must know what type of hero you wish to be, what mark you want to leave on history.”

“I don’t want to leave a mark on history,” Desmond said truthfully. “If I had my way I would fix this all without receiving a single word of thanks, but I don’t have that luxury, so I’ll be the hero that people don’t recognize. I don’t want this title, this fame. But I have it, and so I’ll make sure that I use whatever power I have to give back to those who make me powerful. Does that answer your question?”

Solas’s face was completely unreadable. It seemed like Solas didn’t even know what he was feeling, but he nodded anyway and let Desmond walk away.

Chapter Text

Master Dennet was a dark-skinned man with a gray beard and a bald head. He had a face made for laughing but was showing signs of stress. It wasn’t surprising, but it was humbling to see the effects of war on even the small folk. The Animus didn’t pay much attention to those who were less important to the main story, so Desmond had never really seen the effects up close and personal like he was here.

Dennet spoke bruskly like he couldn’t spend the time on a fool’s errand. And he did believe that supplying the Inquisition with horses in the middle of the end of the world was indeed a fool’s errand. He wasn’t wrong when he said that sending a bunch of horses through the Hinterlands would be like leaving corpses out for the vultures. The bandits would be on them like flies on shit within no time.

He refused to help until they had shown that they were for the people; his wife and the leader of the farming village’s protections were the next people they talked to. Setting up watchtowers was easy enough, it was simply a matter of marking the locations and then sending a letter to Cullen to have his soldiers build them. Dealing with the mad wolves was slightly more involved. They had to travel to the nearby cove, traversing through a river that was bogged down by demons, demons which were finicky and difficult to pin down, if one didn’t have the absolute precision that Desmond did after more than his fair share of lifetimes building up the skill.

Solas had the right of it when he said that a demon had taken control of the pack. The wolves’ eyes glowed Fade green as their minds were toyed with. It was a mercy to take them down, and their corpses fed the refugees and the farmers.

They found a decent amount of treasure hidden in the cave. Some coins and magical accessories which Desmond was quick to hand out after Solas identified the enchantments. Magic was an incredibly useful thing, Desmond was quickly discovering. It didn’t only throw fancy bursts of ice and balls of fire, but it also had the ability to grant people extra sturdiness, agility, and strength. Pretty useful indeed.

The horse supplied by Master Dennet, when the group headed back to the farmland to assure the farmers the wolves were taken care of, was initially incredibly wary of Desmond. He didn’t know what sort of scent he gave off or if it was a result of the Fade energy on his marked hand giving him the presence of a predator, but it didn’t take long before he had a hand running along the mare’s chestnut coat and she was practically purring beneath his fingers. Solas and Cassandra were having similar reactions from their horses, but Varric was having less luck with his pony. It was perhaps because the animal could sense the feelings behind Varric’s grumbling about having his feet off the ground and at the mercy of a beast.

Desmond had never ridden a horse with his current body, but he had enough practice as several other people to know exactly how to bend his body to flow with the movements of the animal beneath his legs. That didn’t help how sore he was when he woke up the next morning, crawling out of the tent that the Inquisition had set up on the edges of the farmlands. He was set for another week of adventuring and helping the common folk, at least. Those watch towers were going to take time to build and Master Dennet wouldn’t hand out his horses until the deed was done. They couldn’t travel to Val Royeaux on foot, that would take more time than they had available to them.

So in the interim while the towers were being built, they cleared a fort that was teeming with bandits and mercenaries, which lead them to a cave behind a waterfall that lyrium smugglers and carta dwarves had taken residence in to preform their shady operations. Desmond had half a mind to find some way to make a deal with them, but the party of four was attacked as soon as they were noticed, and no amount of attempted dialogue was enough to get them to stop. So the team ended up wiping out an entire fortress of people.

Desmond took point on that mission, as infiltration of heavily guarded outposts was his forte. He wanted to go in by himself to make the entire thing go off perfectly, but Cassandra was vehemently against that, so due to the others’ lack of sneaking skills, the four of them were discovered about half way through the cave.

It was still an interesting experience; they had to collect gears from various ruins in order to open a large, ornate door that promised something potentially fun behind it. Once they got it open, however, they were greeted by what Desmond quickly learned were called darkspawn. They were horrid creatures that smelled like corruption and disease. They didn’t seem to feel pain, every wound not slowing them down beyond the force of each blow.

The darkspawn looked like rotting corpses with leathery skin and armor fused into their bodies, as if they were born with it instead of wearing the metal. They were all shapes and sizes, but it only took a cursory glance for Desmond to realize some looked more like humans, some like dwarves, and the ones that screamed before appearing from nowhere seemed more elf-like with their elongated ears and limbs that were thinner and longer than the human-like darkspawn, just like the anatomy of elves, from what Desmond had seen with the ones he’d run across.

The darkspawn were more difficult to kill than the poeple the team fought up until now, but were still easier than demons. At least the darkspawn had some sort of brain that Desmond could target. Half the demons didn’t even have eyes.

Once all the darkspawn were downed, the group picked through a few of the rotting crates and old chests to find a decent amount of loot, as well as some pieces of mosaics that Desmond stowed away in his backpack. They were pretty artworks of beaten bronze and unpolished gemstones that pleased the little magpie hiding in Desmond’s hind brain that told him to horde interesting trinkets. If the others thought he was going to sell the mosaic pieces, well. That was their problem.

They each found their share of treasures from the sealed room, Varric discovering a few pouches of coins as well as a fancy quill he quickly pocketed. Solas seemed fascinated by the delicate and waterlogged books lining an old stone shelf, and Cassandra found herself a new sword which, after some whetstones and elbow grease, could turn out to be quite the beautiful upgrade to her current blade.

There was also a chest Varric picked the lock of which had a few different pieces of jewelry, all inlaid with magic-infused gemstones granting a variety of effects. Desmond put them away for future inspection and possibly to sell if some of them didn’t match up with the strengths of the team.

Desmond was better able to appreciate the magnificence of the massive cavern they were in when he wasn’t fighting for his life or trying to solve a puzzle. The ceiling was so far away it faded into shadows, the torch light unable to reach it. The bridges were massive stone structures, waterfalls pouring from seemingly nowhere to the deep river coursing at the bottom of the cave. Plant life was everywhere, making it seem less like they were underground, if it weren’t for the smell of earth and mildew. Rooms were built directly into the stone walls, lined with ornate doors carved by steady hands. The lined decorations running along the walls and bridges were so straight, it seemed almost artificial, but with the technology of this world, it was impossible to create something similar. Unless it was magic. But from what Desmond understood, these caverns were built by dwarves, who had no magic to speak of. A mystery that was apparently lost to time.

There were several stone deposits riddled throughout the cave, which Desmond marked on the map for Inquisition soldiers to take advantage of, as well as tons of plants that could be helpful for their potion stores. He didn’t really know what went into potions, but Varric seemed particularly interested in collecting a few bunches of deep mushrooms for later, so Desmond figured they had some use.

Desmond fished his journal out of his pocket to make a note of the quests nearby as well as the map to find where they were going next. Varric peered at the notes and then made a strangled sound.

“What kind of language is that?”

Desmond took a closer look at his notes and realized that it was some sort of bastardized mix of Arabic, Italian, and English. He had been reading it like it was all one language. “Oh.” He said intelligently.

“I’ve never even seen some of these symbols before,” Solas remarked, as he too came over to take a peek over Desmond’s shoulder. Desmond figured he was talking about the Arabic.

“Uh,” Desmond stalled. How to say that it was a language from another world which he learned through living the life of his ancestor, and was now so fluent in it that sometimes he didn’t realize he was speaking it in his daily life until people gave him looks. “I made it up,” he went with.

“You... made up a language,” Cassandra said flatly.

Desmond hid a wince. “Yeah. I got bored, and came up with a new language. I call it Arabic.” Did he feel bad for taking credit for an entire language and culture that he most definitely didn’t have any hand in creating? A little bit. But how else would he explain his circumstances in any plausible way other people that didn’t live through it. Hell, he did live through it and he still didn’t believe it half the time.

Varric whistled, impressed, “I’ve tried doing that. Some tough shit. Could never figure out how to do that without just spelling the same words with a different alphabet. Unless that’s what yours is.”

Desmond gave a vague smile and an awkward half-laugh, “I might have made it a little too complicated, to be honest. But that’s what happens when you have a lot of time on your hands.” He weaved together a few half-truths. He learned Arabic while in captivity, if having an entire language stuffed into your head in one day could be considered ‘learning’. But he definitely had a lot of time on his hands between the ritualistic abuse.

“What did you say you did before this?” Varric asked, leadingly.

“I didn’t,” Desmond responded, a knowing glint in his eyes. He wasn’t going to give the author the chance to write a story about his past. His present and future may have been the stuff of gossip and in the public eye, but he didn’t really want his past as an Assassin to be known to the world. It was one thing to have an idol have a mysterious background- people could make up what they wanted about him, and since he was from a different world, no one would be able to call him out. It was quite another to have their religious figurehead be a known Assassin that had a kill count higher than most people could even imagine. It would make the explosion at the Conclave look like a few people, instead of the thousands it actually was. He was trying to prove his innocence, not make people even more eager to call for his execution.

He couldn’t really hide his skillset without risking his life an those of his companions, but people could infer from that what they would and he would neither confirm nor deny. He couldn’t get caught in a lie if he never said anything. Telling random stories that couldn’t be traced to a definable past was one thing. Stories about trekking all over a forest and up trees to find a collection of bird feathers were vastly different from talking about dismantling an entire conspiracy by killing everyone involved or saving the world from an impending solar flare.

“Alright then, keep your secrets,” Varric said, mock disappointed, a twinkle of merriment in his eyes, “I’ll figure you out eventually.”

Desmond gave an exaggerated smile but didn’t say anything. The conversation ended there and Desmond made his notes, figuring out their next destination as they walked back out of the cavern into the fresh air and the pale light of the massive moon in the sky. Another thing to remind Desmond that he was in another world.

They picked their way back to the nearest camp, killing a few straggling bandits and running across some refugees speaking among themselves about how much the Inquisition was helping with the safety of the Hinterlands. Some of the refugees looked up when Desmond’s group passed by, and a lot of them recognized Desmond’s glowing hand, he was still salty that it wasn’t able to be covered by anything, so the party paused in their trek to suffer the thanks the refugees had to heap upon them.

Well, Desmond was suffering at least. He hated being recognized, and especially having to listen to people shove praise at him for being a decent person. He wished that he wasn’t considered a hero, that helping others was just a thing that people did, instead of it being something others felt the need to comment on.

With every word of praise, Solas’s smile seemed to grow both more proud and more wooden, like he was torn between relishing in the praise and being upset that he was being praised at all. Desmond figured he was more or less in the same boat as Desmond was. Or maybe he was just projecting. Varric was handling the compliments and gratitude with grace and good humor, and Cassandra looked incredibly awkward.

Once the group finally eased away from the eager refugees, an exhausted silence descended. They spent the whole day fighting and adventuring, and now that the moon was bright in the sky, they finally realized how bone tired they were. And yet they couldn’t rest because people still required their attention.

“Well I don’t know about you guys,” Desmond started, trying to break the descending mood, “but I think I could sleep until those watchtowers are built.”

Varric made an agreeing noise, and Cassandra nodded resolutely, which surprised Desmond a bit, although, the more he thought about it, it shouldn’t have. Cassandra, at first, seemed like the type that was self-righteous and didn’t think anyone but herself was worth listening to. But she showed him time and time again that she could appologize when she was in the wrong, she listened to other people’s suggestions, and she had a dry sense of humor that fit in just perfectly with Desmond’s dark humor. She had her beliefs, yes, but they complimented her, not defined her. She didn’t preach at them, she told them what she thought in a frank way, and then listened to their side and adjusted her understanding when presented with facts and evidence. She was much more mature than most of the people Desmond had ever met in all of his lives.

He had learned so much about all of his companions during the past few weeks. Varric was quick to joke but had a darkness inside of him. He tried his best to let things roll off his shoulders, but he took things to heart. He held guilt for a lot of shit that he and his friends went through over the past eleven years, as well as what happened to his brother. He had a quick mind that was always ready for a quip, and knew how to lighten any situation so the group didn’t get too caught up in the overwhelming nature of their task. He was kindhearted and cared so much, perhaps even too much, Desmond thought sometimes.

Solas... was an enigma. He was always ready and willing to give answers to any question Desmond posed, and he loved talking about his time in the Fade, but any questions about the elf were met with suspicion and disapproval. If one were lucky enough to actually get an answer, none of the responses matched up. Desmond tried not to pry, knowing that he himself was doing the exact same thing, but he couldn’t help the fact that he was curious. Especially since Solas glowed golden, which meant he was important or something of interest that Desmond should look into. He didn’t know how to do that when Solas was so hushed about himself. It wasn’t just his past, but even his present feelings and thoughts about himself were met with evasive answers, and mentioning any questions about the future received an enigmatic smile. Desmond decided to let it go, get to know the elf better, and hopefully he would disclose what he was feeling. Maybe if Solas started giving straight answers, Desmond would return the favor.

Chapter Text

Before the group started on their way to Val Royeaux, they made a stop at Haven to gather supplies and make plans. Desmond took the time to fall into the bed in his rarely-used cabin and thank a god he didn’t believe in for the time spent in a real bed, for however brief a time.

The group had planned on three days in Haven before departing, and Desmond’s main goal for those three days was to do whatever he could to avoid his companions. He generally liked them, but he was entirely sick of seeing their faces. He wasn’t used to being around people for that long of a time without breaks. The only place he’d found that no scouts or servants or really anyone would bother him, was when he perched on top of the Chantry. Most people tended to not look up, which was a truth in all of his lives.

Of course, there were times when he was forced to interact with others. Namely when he went to get food from the tavern, or when one of Leliana’s scouts hunted him down and he was summoned to the war room. The first time was when a nondescript human male came rushing out to greet the party before they had even gotten off their horses at Haven. Desmond wished he had the same forgettable face as this man, instead of his own attractive features. Notability made it much more difficult to blend in and disappear. Although he didn’t think that was in the cards for him anymore, what with his glowing hand of doom.

“Ser Herald, Lady Cassandra, your presence is requested in the war room,” the man said, his face bowed and shadowed under the brim of his hat, hand settled into a salute over his heart.

Desmond immediately wanted to complain and demand a nap, but he was a grown man, not a toddler, and he could, on occasion, act like it. Even though all he really wanted was a nice bath and then to curl up in a blanket near a fire with a snack. Instead, he nodded his assent, dismounted, and handed the reigns of his horse- which he had named Animus for the irony of her taking him new places, just like the machine had in his previous world- off to a stablehand who, up until the group returned with actual horseflesh, was one in name only.

He felt guilty not tending to his own horse, but, as he reasoned with himself, it wasn’t really his job and he was also required to be somewhere else right then. Cassandra followed his lead, as had become custom in the past month and a half. Somewhere along the way she was no longer in charge and seemed oddly content with that. Where at the start of the journey she had been the one issuing the orders, his penchant for knowing where to go eventually led to her following not only his navigation but also taking cues from him in battle, then to more mundane things like letting him sit down first or start eating first. The other two did the same thing and it was incredibly disconcerting having them all follow his lead when half the time he felt like he was just winging it. The only reason he seemed confident in his actions was that his face was generally calm like everything was going according to plan, even if internally he was freaking the fuck out.

He tried not to let it bother him.

It did.

The scout led the way to the Chantry, as if in the month and a half they were gone they would have forgotten how to get to the massive looming building through the tents and sparse huts. Desmond didn’t mind following for the first time in a while, even if it felt a bit foreign. It seemed he couldn’t win. Either he was uncomfortable leading, or he was anxious following. He needed some alone time.

Desmond had gotten so used to the cold, even though the Hinterlands were a fair bit warmer than Haven, they were still on the ‘freezing’ side of the thermometer. He hadn’t realized how used to the near hypothermia he had gotten until two steps into the muggy Chantry and he could feel the sweat snaking down his back. Cassandra also seemed to be feeling the heat as he watched her shift uncomfortably in her layered armor. They were dirty and tired and stuffed under five layers of clothing each, and now they were sweating up a storm. He was hopeful that the sooner they got into the war room, the sooner this all would be over with.

The scout split off as they got closer to the war room, giving a parting salute and disappearing into the shadows. Desmond wished he could follow. The heat was making him feel things he hadn’t in a while, and it was nothing good. He couldn’t place his finger on the feeling, but it gave him a sense of foreboding dread.

The door clanged open under Cassandra’s hand, the three Inquisition advisors looking up from the map spread along the central table. “You’re finally here,” Leliana started, moving to give Cassandra a half-hug of greeting. “How was your trip?”

“Cold and eventful,” Cassandra said shortly. “Now, why are we here instead of washing off the road?”

Josephine had the grace to look a bit bashful at that. “We figured a plan of action would be prudent before rest.” Desmond didn’t agree, but he kept that to himself.

Cassandra had no such issues. “I’m sure this could have waited until after rest.”

It was Cullen’s turn to speak up, “The plan will decide how much time you have to recuperate before the road. We aren’t even decided if going to Val Royeaux would be the best idea.”

Josephine shook her head, “It’s not a terrible idea, and I can see it working, provided it’s not a trap.”

The advisors started bickering amongst themselves, but Desmond’s attention faded away, following a droplet of sweat snaking down his back. The air was dry and hot, the candlelight flickering. Malik was talking about some new mission he wanted Altair to go on, and he steamed silently at the indignity. He was the best Assassin they had and yet he was relegated to a novice, taking orders from a man who hated him. He could see Malik’s contempt with every word, his sadistic glee on sending Altair out on a run that new recruits usually handled. Altair felt angry, but he knew a single word of backtalk and he would be in for even more of these missions, so he held his tongue.

“You know your task, Novice. Get to it,” Malik said with no small amount of joy on his contemptible face.

Altair glared hotly, anger boiling his blood, but he simply gave a mock salute, “As you say, it will be done.”

Malik’s eyes narrowed, “What are our words, Novice?” The fact that he took every opportunity he could to belittle Altair by using his false title burned him up instead. The thought that Altair could even forget their words just because he was demoted was laughable, but Altair didn’t feel like laughing.

“Nothing is true, everything is permitted,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

Malik nodded, waving his remaining hand dismissively. “You may go, Desmond.”

Altair startled. “Desmond?” He repeated, confused. The word felt strange on his lips, like something forgotten, but not quite right. “Who is Desmond?” He asked, feeling a little like he was floating. He didn’t care that he would get punished for questioning a ‘superior’.

An unrecognizable voice came out of Malik’s mouth, unintelligible words followed by that name again, “Desmond.” Altair shook his head, like shaking off cobwebs. The dry heat seemed more wet, stifling. It didn’t scratch at his throat with every breath like he was used to, the sand mixing with the air. He blinked rapidly, the night sky of Jerusalem replaced with stone walls and four pairs of eyes staring at him with concern and no small amount of curiosity. He didn’t know who these people were.

He did know who they were. Cassandra, with her unending faith, Leliana with her kind eyes and harsh secrets, Josephine with her diplomatic words and enthusiasm, and Cullen, who he didn’t really know, but seemed earnest and like he had a weight on his shoulders that he didn’t know how to shake.

He blinked again and he was Desmond, the Assassin that had switched worlds and tripped into a position of power that he never wanted.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” He asked. Their looks of confusion did not abate, and he realized he was still speaking Arabic. It took him a second to figure out how to switch languages, but he repeated himself in English, or Common as it was called here.

The confusion faded out but the concern was still very present. “We were asking your opinion on what to do next,” Josephine spoke as if he was a cornered animal. It made him wonder what he had done while he was out of it. He hadn’t had a Bleed like that in a while, so it was probably overdue. At least it hadn’t been one in the middle of an assassination or a fight. He’d been told he gets pretty violent during those ones.

With that particular Bleed, he was pretty sure the most he did was zone out and start talking in another language. Nothing too exciting, but definitely something to question his sanity, which was fair. He often questioned his sanity.

“And before that?” Desmond asked, hating that he had to draw even more attention to how much he was out of it.

They all shared a look, “If I may, Herald,” Leliana started, and Desmond wanted to tell her that she may not. “What was that? You seemed to be somewhere else mentally, and then started talking in a strange language I’ve never heard before.”

Desmond sighed. As much as he was trying to not lie about himself, he also didn’t really want to get into his past traumas, so he simply said, “We all have our burdens.” Which was a whole lot of nothing, but also explained everything. “Now, onto the plan...” He spoke leadingly.

Cullen gave him a considering look but took it upon himself to explain the pros and cons of actually going to Val Royeaux to speak to the clerics of the Chantry. The pros consisted of ‘what if it did actually work’ and ‘can’t do much worse’ and also that there wasn’t anything else they could do at the moment with neither the mages nor templars willing to speak to them to help close the Breach, which was stupid in Desmond’s opinion. The Breach was more important than the Chantry’s denouncement.

The cons were more of ‘what if this is a trap to throw you in chains and have you executed’ and ‘what if this won't actually do anything’ and ‘this is a long trip for a whole lot of uncertainty’. In the end, it wasn’t much of a choice, as action was better than inaction when trying to get anything done. So, the plan was that they would get three days of rest at Haven and then they were off to the capitol of Orlais. The only thing Desmond cared about at that moment was the thought of sleep and a snack. The Bleed had taken a lot of mental energy out of him and he could still see Altair hovering at the edges of his vision, stalking around the war room and musing over the maps. He wanted to get out of there, the room feeling stifling the longer the advisors stood humming and hawing over their next move.

When they were all dismissed, Desmond withheld a large sigh of relief and instead saw to hightailing it out of the Chantry and to the tavern to grab some food. Varric was already holding court at one of the tables, regaling an increasingly drunk crowd about some exaggerated tales of their adventures in the Hinterlands. Although Desmond quickly realized he was underplaying their fight with the dragon, leaving out a few of the close calls and making it seem like they had been beset by the dragon instead of Desmond seeking her out.

Desmond briefly wondered why Varric wasn’t embellishing beyond removing a few of the wounds that Desmond himself got. But then he realized the dwarf was making Desmond seem larger than life and a lot more sane than he actually was. After all, no one in their right mind goes searching for a dragon to fight, especially not a High Dragon, which Desmond learned was significantly different than a drake and they had only recently been spotted in Thedas after seemingly disappearing for centuries.

Desmond cringed away from the admiring and awe-filled gazes of the tavern patrons and instead sidled up to the bar to request some dinner from Flissa, the bartender. She refused payment with stars in her eyes, which made Desmond very uncomfortable, but he thanked her anyway. He felt incredibly bad because he had amassed quite a fortune during his adventuring in the Hinterlands, looting coins off of dead bodies and rewards for doing things, as well as the treasure chests he would find hidden in caves and various points of interest. Most of the rewards for doing things in the Inquisition’s name went to the Inquisition coffers, but everything else was his, and by his running count, he had about three hundred sovereigns, which as far as the money system here went, meant that he was incredibly rich.

So when Flissa wasn’t looking, he dropped several coins on the table, grabbed his food, and beat a hasty retreat. Technically no one was supposed to leave the tavern with the dishes, but he wasn’t going far and he was going to bring them back, so he didn’t feel bad about scaling the side of the tavern one-handed and perching on the roof with his dinner.

The wind felt nice, and although it wasn’t the tallest building, he was away from people and higher than ground level. It was the most comfortable he felt since the start of this whole mess.

His food having been eaten quickly, he jumped off the building, accidentally startled a few people, dropped off his dishes, and finally found his way to the cabin for some rest. Three days to do whatever he wanted. He was looking forward to upgrading his armor and weapons, taking a nice long bath, avoiding people, and doing some studying. There was much he needed to learn about this world that he couldn’t simply pick up from living in it. Things like their religious beliefs would probably be very important for him to learn seeing as he was now their mascot.

Naturally, those three rest days were anything but restful. Everyone and their massive mabari hound wanted something from him, and as he was the one with the glowing hand that was the ‘chosen hero of Andraste’, he wasn’t actually human and therefore didn’t need to take a break.

It started with a fight in front of the Chantry between some of the resident mages and templars about which party killed the Divine. Cullen was quick to break it up, his eyebags reaching critical levels of dark. Desmond tried to sneak past but was still drawn into a conversation that he wanted nothing to do with between an exhausted Cullen and an aggressive Chantry member, the one who had been calling for his execution at the beginning of all this. That ‘chat’ lasted an hour, when all Desmond wanted was to go into the Chantry and borrow a few books.

Then the Requisition Master asked him to collect some supplies outside Haven’s walls, as if he had nothing better to do but be an errand boy. He did it anyway, gathering some items to help the blacksmith craft his new armor and weapons while he was at it. And then there was the apothecary that sent him back out to hunt for some notes in a dilapidated cabin in a vague direction outside the walls.

Varric pulled Desmond into a card game that was like poker but very much not, Solas wanted to talk at him about his adventures in the Fade, Cassandra wanted to formally apologize, Josephine wanted to know about his life before he became the Herald, Leliana shouted at him for telling her that killing someone before you have all the information was stupid, and Cullen... well. Desmond can admit that he sought Cullen out, which is something he never thought he would do.

The man was a templar, and that should have been enough for Desmond to know he should stay away. Cassandra had told him enough about the templars that he was even more sure that he should not go anywhere near them. But... Cullen had used the word ‘was’, as in he had been a templar in the past, and was no longer part of the order.

Desmond had lived the life of a templar in his world, however briefly his time as Haytham had been. And Cassandra could tell him what templars were like from an outside perspective, but if he actually wanted to know what it was like, he would have to go to the source. And Cullen was a pretty, earnest little puppy with cute curls and tired shoulders. He was about as intimidating as a kitten.

“So, Cullen,” Desmond started, walking up to the man as he was overseeing some of the training of the soldiers under his overarching command. He was the head honcho in charge of all the military affairs, but there were several other commanders that fell under him that were actually in charge of troop training. Cullen was just there because he probably had nothing else to do at the moment.

The blond man looked over in surprise, “Herald,” he greeted hesitantly before straightening and saluting Desmond. “What can I help you with?”

“Nothing formal,” Desmond hurried to reassure. “I was just curious what it was like being a templar.”

Cullen seemed to both relax and stiffen at the leading topic. “Well, my experience was much like any templar. I was given to the order at thirteen and raised on a healthy diet of vows and vigils until I took my first draught of lyrium and officially became a templar. I was assigned to Kinloch Hold, the Circle near Redcliffe, and I’m sure you know how that turned out.”

Desmond shook his head, “I don’t actually know anything about that. It’s the first I’m hearing of it.”

“Oh,” Cullen looked at him slightly oddly but shook his head. “I would prefer not to speak of it if it’s all the same to you,” Cullen said a bit stiffly, but not rudely. Desmond could see the signs of trauma from miles away, and not just from this conversation. He nodded, and Cullen sent him a grateful look. “After that, I was sent to Kirkwall, where things also weren’t exactly the best circumstances, so when Cassandra approached me about joining the Inquisition, I was quick to agree. That’s pretty much my story.”

Desmond nodded consideringly, there was a lot Cullen wasn’t saying, but the man had clearly been through it and Desmond wasn’t keen on dragging up a troubled past on the training grounds where anyone could hear. That was a conversation of trust and enclosed rooms. And they definitely weren’t there yet. So he focused on lighter topics.

“You were undergoing vows and vigils at thirteen? What was that like?” It wasn’t so much the age that bothered him, although it did now that he was out of the Farm and had learned how messed up it was to be preparing a kid to be a killer.

Cullen shrugged, “Mostly boring. We would recite the Chant of Light, and sit on our knees in front of a statue of Andraste for a couple of hours while a Chantry mother droned on about honor and our purpose and boring things like that. A bit much for a kid to handle.” He gave Desmond a conspiring look, “I admit my mind did wander quite a bit. But by the time I was older, I realized the true importance of the templar order. We were to protect the mages, both from themselves and from those who would do them harm. So I took my vow and lyrium and set out to be what a templar should be.” His face dropped a bit. “Unfortunately, reality is rarely what it should be.”

Chapter Text

That chat with Cullen stayed with Desmond for the next couple of days, and at first, he couldn’t figure out why. But then he realized- Cullen was like him in a way. They were both indoctrinated into something from a young age and both tried to break free, even if it was at different points in their life. Desmond ended up going back to the Assassins, though that wasn’t truly by choice so much as he was kidnapped and then tried to save the world, but some things were similar.

If Cullen’s account was true, and Desmond very much believed it to be so, that meant that, whether Cullen saw it or not, there was something very wrong with the templars here. Back in his world, they all knew what they were getting into. Sure, some of them were brainwashed into actually believing that they were saving the world by removing free will, but their methods left much to be desired.

The templars here were given a place of power over mages that they locked away for safety, and Desmond got it, he really did. From what he’d gathered in his readings and reluctantly talking with others, he learned that mages were incredibly susceptible to demons. They dreamed more vividly and were like magnets for evil and temptation. By placing them in a tower and having them undergo trials, they were building up a resistance to the demon’s temptation. But from what he understood, once a mage went through their Harrowing- the last test wherein they face a demon head-on and tell them ‘no’- then if they passed, they could no longer be possessed. They had to actually seek out the demon to fall prey to it.

He didn’t understand why mages weren’t let go at that point unless it truly was a prison. They were taken from their parents at a young age and taught magic under strict observation. That, he could understand. No visitation, he couldn’t understand. Kept the mages locked up and rarely ever let them out, even once they’ve learned how to control magic and how to resist demons, he couldn’t understand. They were still people, and people that had done nothing but be born with a little extra power. No one deserved that.

And then there were the templars, who were put in place to keep the mages safe from themselves and those wishing them harm. Except, from what he understood, no one wished the mages harm as much as the templars themselves. From talking briefly to the mages in the Inquisition, he heard whispered tales of abuse, rape, and murder, all allowed, and in some Circles even encouraged.

Even the Chantry treated mages like slaves, carting around Andraste’s quote of “Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him”, when Desmond was pretty sure they were interpreting it incorrectly. Maybe he just had an outside perspective, but it sounded a lot like magic should be used to help, and shouldn’t become the defining part of someone. Absolute power corrupts absolutely and all that. Magic is very different from mages as a people. One thing is an energy, the other is one who wields the energy, and Desmond didn’t think the Chantry knew the difference.

Either way, it all boiled down to: Cullen was adorable for thinking the best of the templars, but he was also ultimately an idiot for thinking the best of the templars. Although from what it sounded like, he had learned quickly that it was not all honor and protection. Desmond didn’t ask around about stories from Kinloch Hold. Cullen would tell him if he ever wanted to, and until that day, it wasn’t any of Desmond’s business.

He did, however, accidentally find out about Cullen’s time in Kirkwall. Nothing so personal as the commander’s thoughts and experiences, but just a general idea. Once Varric had discovered that Desmond knew a whole lot of nothing about current events, Desmond was given a brand new copy of ‘The Tale of the Champion’ which he read in one sitting. Varric’s descriptions and attention to detail made it one of the most entertaining reads he had ever gone through. The thought of the crazy life of Garrett Hawke being true dulled his excitement a little bit, but he figured that Varric embellished details a lot, just like he had in the tavern tales of Desmond’s exploits.

Regardless of how true the minutiae may or may not be, the overall story was true to life, and that shed quite a bit of light on the fanaticism of this world, and also why Cullen would say yes to abandoning his order. Meredith sounded intense.

By the end of the party’s little respite in Haven, Desmond had gotten a surprising amount of things done. He’d managed to get some new armor that actually fit and suited his style more- it was a bit more like Connor’s outfit but almost pure white, he knew it would get dirty from the road, but no blood, if his entire trip in the Hinterlands was anything to go by. He had a fresh new bow and wickedly sharp daggers. Sadly the blacksmith lacked the delicate materials to make the assassin's wrist blades, but he’d live.

He’d finished gathering materials for the Requisitions Master, the apothecary, and managed to read some books on the Chantry and the history of the world- it all felt more like a fantasy than actual life, but maybe that was because of the magic and gods and elves and dwarves. In the end, the only thing he didn’t get to do was get some good night's sleep. As comfortable as the bed was in his cabin, his dreams were haunted by flashes of green and screams not his own, and something lurking in the darkness. He didn’t need sleep anyway. According to everyone in Haven, he was a demi-god sent by Andraste herself. Sleep was for mortals and peasants. Or so he told himself as he sat shivering on the roof of the Chantry, three books cracked open next to him and a large flask of the stamina potion that was keeping his heart beating double-time. It tasted like dirt and had the texture of mucus, but it kept his eyes open and his mind somewhat alert.

Before he knew it, the sun was rising and the period of rest was over. It was time to speak to the clerics of the Chantry.

The ride to Val Royeaux was long and arduous. It seemed as if every day the group were sealing rifts and solving the problems of the small folk. Desmond normally wouldn’t complain, but they were on a tight schedule and every pit stop meant that they were much longer on the road and that much more likely they were to miss the meeting.

He would ordinarily be more than happy to ignore the meeting entirely, but the Inquisition council had impressed upon him the importance of the gathering. If he didn’t go, they wouldn’t have any Chantry support at all. And in a world where the word of the church was much more important than common sense, the Inquisition couldn’t afford to be spurned by them. Apparently, the fact that the Inquisition was founded on the Divine’s orders meant little when her suspected murderer was the mascot.

“My legs are never going to straighten at this rate,” Varric grumbled somewhere around hour five since their last break. Desmond was definitely feeling every rock in the road directly attacking his lower back and ass. But they could see the city on the horizon, glittering in the sunlight as if the very walls were made of gems. From what Desmond had heard about Val Royeaux, he wouldn’t doubt if that were true.

“We’ll take an hour's break before the last stretch,” Cassandra barked to their retinue of soldiers. Sighs of relief and groans of pain were heard all along their group as people dismounted. The scouts gave both Cassandra and Desmond a salute before riding ahead to assess the situation in the city. An early lunch was passed around and everyone took the time to change into more presentable outfits instead of their travel-worn armor.

Desmond’s own clothes were stained a light brown along the edges from dirt, and he was pretty sure he had leaves inside belts from a few close encounters with low branches and the turning of the seasons. Luckily he had commissioned two of the same outfits, and one of them was a pristine white. The dirty one wasn’t anything that a vigorous wash couldn’t fix though. It wasn’t like he had blood on it.

Sparse conversation was passed through the makeshift camp, everyone finding the will to present themselves to nobility and the Chantry to be picked at after a month-long journey. Desmond was pretty sure that no one actually wanted to do this, but he chalked it up to a necessary evil and got back on his horse with everyone else.

Before long, the party was setting their horses to rest at a stable just outside the city walls and crossing the massive, ornate bridge that could easily fit three carts side by side with room to spare. Along the sides were fanciful statues, bronze plaques underneath denoting who, exactly, was being displayed. There were several of the same statues, just in slightly different poses and clothes, and Desmond was reluctantly impressed at the artistry. He didn’t want to find anything about this place beautiful, but it was difficult to find another description. It was too elegant to be gaudy, and it seemed as if every stone building in the walkway had been washed down and polished just moments before. The whole place gleamed with a richness that Desmond found uncomfortable, yet couldn't help but admire.

They were met on the bridge by one of the scouts, Basira, Desmond believed her name was. She looked nervous and upset. “Herald, my Lady. The Chantry mothers gather on the far side of the market, but so do a great many templars.” Her eyes cast about, looking at the shadows, and then focusing on Solas, the sole mage in their group. She quickly looked away, but her worry was clear. “The people have rallied around, gaining strength from the templar presence. They seem to believe they will save everyone from the Inquisition.”

Cassandra scoffed, “We didn’t come here for some petty power-play. There isn’t much they can do to us, as we haven’t officially done anything wrong. Our mission is clear. As Mother Giselle said, we have to talk to them and make some of them doubt their dismissal of us.” She turned to the soldiers gathered, “Secure the perimeter, but try not to stand out. We don’t want them to think we’re here to attack.”

“Any more than they already think,” Varric muttered. The soldiers saluted and dispersed, leaving Cassandra, Solas, Varric, and Desmond to stare down Basira.

“Thank you,” Desmond said, earning a small smile from the scout. “You may follow or make a report to Leliana.” Basira bowed but decided to stay behind and keep to the shadows as the group of four made their way through the gilded golden gates separating the bridge from the city. Desmond couldn’t help but note that the massive gaps in the bars didn’t lend much to security, even with the Orleasian soldiers stationed at the entrance. He couldn’t see beyond their lion masks to the faces between, but he felt their glares on him even as they let his party pass.

While Desmond couldn’t call the city gaudy, the same did not hold true for its people. Dresses with layers of silk and velvet, embroidered with gold and silver, masks with jewels and feathers and he was pretty sure he saw a live bird in one lady’s hair. Not only were their outfits incredibly ostentatious, but they were a dramatic people, gasping in shock at the sight of the party of four. He was pretty sure he saw one lady faint onto her companion. There were a couple of men puffing up their chests and standing in front of someone else as if Desmond was moments away from going on a killing spree.

Desmond longed for the days of anonymity.

The gathering wasn’t hard to find. The warbling voice of an elderly mother shouted over the din of a murmuring crowd, yelling the evils of the Inquisition, even as her voice cracked with age. Cassandra pushed her way through the crowd to get to a better vantage point for their claims to be heard.

The mother’s sight caught on Desmond’s flashing green hand and her eyes widened before being overtaken with glee. “You wonder what happened to the murderer of our Beloved Divine,” the crone preached, movements grandiose to appeal to her dramatic audience. “Well, wonder no more,” and with a wide sweep of her arm, she pointed to Desmond. The audience gasped on cue. “This man has ideas and notions to take the place of the Divine, as the so-called Herald of Andraste. But we all know that Andraste would never choose a man as her prophet. We say he is false, and therefore, evil.”

Everyone was looking at him, and he tried very hard not to wilt under the combined gaze. He channeled a bit of Ezio, the greatest Mentor to date, and held his ground. “I claim nothing other than the ability to close the rifts and the will to seal the Breach. This hole into the Fade is causing demons to run free in our world, and I seek only to find a way to save the people of Thedas. We are not the evil you are searching for.”

Mutters burst out from the crowd and Solas gave Desmond an approving nod. “It’s true,” Cassandra called out, her voice ringing above the noise. “The Inquisition is here to help, and it was founded under the orders of the Divine herself. We are trying to follow her wishes and find those responsible for her death and that of so many others, before even more lives are lost.”

“It’s too late for that!” The Chantry mother shouted, visibly warring between upset and gleeful. “The templars are here to tear down the Inquisition and save us all from your corrupting influence, murderer.”

On cue, a retinue of templars in gleaming metal plate mail marched up the steps of the dais where the mother was preaching. Desmond watched, gaze sharpening and taking in each movement, but he was too far away to properly react when one of the templars punched the elderly mother in the face and sent her sprawling to the ground.

If anything the exclaimations and gasps were louder this time than they were at Desmond’s arrival. “What the fuck?” Desmond found himself saying, not loud enough to be heard over the confusion. He did notice that several of the templars looked surprised and unsettled by the show of violence against someone unarmed.

“Still yourselves,” the man in charge commanded, his voice oily and making Desmond feel unclean. He clapped a friendly hand to one of the shifting templars, “She is beneath us.” Desmond may not have liked the Chantry mother, but she was defenseless and he definitely did not think he was more important than her. But he knew not everyone felt the same as him. Even so, he unconsciously shifted to Eagle Vision and immediately stifled a gasp. Most of the templars were red, as he was expecting, but some were blue, which he was not prepared for. Even more surprising than that was the commander, who shone a bright, crackling green under the mysterious powers of his Vision. The color of the Fade.

Desmond didn’t know that people could glow green. Maybe the commander was possessed, but he’d only heard of mages having that displeasure. His eyes bore into the man, even as Cassandra pleaded with him for aid. His name was apparently Lord Seeker Lucius if that was even who he was.

“You will not address me,” The thing commanded, ignoring Cassandra’s taken-aback questions. “This whole ‘Inquisition’ is a farce, and your so-called Herald of Andraste is a power-mad, deluded loner that conned everyone into making him a prophet. My, how you’ve fallen Cassandra.”

Cassandra’s face hardened, but she didn’t respond. Desmond saw the doubt on some of the templars’ faces, and as much as he really, really didn’t want to, he opened his mouth, “Templars, one of your own leads the forces of the Inquisition. You could join and we would welcome you. We could use all the help we can get to seal the Breach. Come to Haven. Please.” He wasn’t above begging, and the willingness to do so clearly moved some of the templars, who looked at their superiors with something approaching wariness.

The Lord Seeker made a derisive sound, “Your words are meaningless in the face of the Higher Purpose that the templars are called to serve.” He gave Desmond’s hand a sneer and turned away. “Templars, Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection. We march.”

Desmond could only watch them go, feeling a sense of fearful hope that some of the templars looked back consideringly. He didn’t really want more templars to join the Inquisition, that is like inviting a feral bear into your cabin, but they glowed blue, and their leader definitely didn’t want the best for them. At the end of the day, if Desmond’s chat with Cullen was anything to go by, these people were still human. And as much as the word ‘templar’ made his skin crawl, he couldn’t help but give people a chance. After all, he sort-of-maybe died for the betterment of people. Kind of.

“I thought you didn’t like templars,” Varric said once the templars had disappeared and the crowd had more or less dissipated. Desmond didn’t know the dwarf had noticed, but it didn’t really surprise him. Writers saw everything.

“I don’t, not really,” Desmond admitted, starting to lead the group to an inn. “But at the end of the day, they still deserve a chance. It’s one thing to hate a group, but an individual is not the people as a whole.”

Solas gave Desmond a considering glance, “There are times you seem wise beyond your years, Herald.” Desmond gave him a half smile but didn’t respond. He’d lived enough lifetimes to be older than his body, so that was no surprise. He was only shocked that it wasn’t obvious all the time.

Chapter Text

“So,” Desmond started after a moment of silence, “are there demons that can look like people? Like, take over their body without possession?” Because he’d decided that the green that surrounded Lord Seeker Lucius under Eagle Vision was more all-encompassing than what he assumed possession would look like. Granted, he hadn’t actually seen someone be possessed, despite the demons running everywhere and mages outside of the Circle, which he rather thought put a bunch of holes in the thought process of the Chantry with putting mages in Circles so they didn’t get possessed. Food for thought.

Solas gave Desmond a considering glance, “Well, there are Envy demons, which have been known to ensnare the mind to learn as much as they can about their victim and then parade around in a conjured body. It’s extremely rare, however.”

Cassandra shot a look to where the Lord Seeker had disappeared, “You believe the Lord Seeker to be an Envy demon? Impossible. Seekers cannot even make contact with demons.”

Desmond shrugged, “I don't know what I think,” he admitted, “but I will say that demons are walking in the mortal world, which was once considered impossible as well. Also, you mentioned that this isn’t normal behavior for the Lord Seeker. I’m just giving some options.” But now he knew that there was an Envy demon parading around as the leader of the templars, which was bad news he didn’t know what to do with. He felt like giving those few templars an option other than following a demon was about all he could do. As much influence as he had in Haven, if this trip was any indication, his power didn’t extend very far.

Cassandra looked like she didn’t want to believe it, but couldn’t entirely dismiss the idea, and Solas was staring at Desmond, intrigued. Varric, for his part, was looking around like he couldn’t care less about the conversation. That was until he suddenly tackled Solas to the ground and an arrow embedded itself a few inches from where the elf had previously been.

The group immediately looked around, wary to draw weapons in the crowded market and cause a scene. Desmond scanned the rooftops, looking for any red auras, but found just a lot of white and some random persons in blue.

“An arrow with a message?” Cassandra asked, astounded. Desmond cut off his Vision and looked to see there was indeed an arrow stabbing through a piece of scribbled on parchment.

Desmond bent down and collected the message, scanning it over. And then he squinted. Tilted his head. Brought the parchment closer to his face. “Yeah, no. I don’t know what that says.” The writing was the worst he’d ever seen in his life. It was literally chicken scratch that looked vaguely like old English with the spelling. He’d once seen a picture of Russian cursive, and he thought that was more legible than whatever was written on the note. And Russian wasn’t even a language he spoke.

Varric held out an expectant hand and Desmond gladly handed over the note. Varric also squinted and tilted his head. “‘Hi Inquisition thingy,’” he read haltingly, “‘my... friends?’ Uh. That could either be friends or felines, but I think it’s friends. ‘My friends know of a knob that wants you dead?’ Is that ‘dead?’ Ah, yes there’s a helpful drawing,” Varric shook his head in befuddlement, “And then there’s a location that’s either a courtyard in Val Royeaux or a tavern in the Emerald Graves. There’s a tombstone drawing which could honestly mean either, but since I seriously doubt there’s a tavern in the Emerald Graves, I think it’s safe to say it’s the courtyard. Anyway, the note says tomorrow night is when we should go there.” He folded up the note and handed it back to Desmond. He scanned it again briefly and decided, yes, some of those scribbles were terrible drawings. Whoever left the note definitely was an interesting character.

“I don't know if I trust it,” Cassandra said. “It might be a trap.”

Desmond shrugged, “Honestly, anything could be a trap nowadays. I say it’s worth a shot though.”

“Worth a shot,” Varric mouthed to himself as Cassandra nodded. “You say the weirdest things sometimes.”

Desmond shot him a mischievous smile, “You have no idea, my friend. Let’s look for somewhere to stay the night.”

No one had any complaints about that, so the group resumed walking. They didn’t get ten steps before a messenger called out to them. “Inquisition? I have a letter for the Herald.”

Desmond shared a glance with Cassandra and then stepped forward to accept the fancy-looking parchment. He barely had time to utter a ‘thank you’ before the man was turning away and headed back into the crowds. Desmond shrugged and looked at the note, this one much easier to read than the previous scribbles. “‘Dearest Herald’,” Desmond read out for his companions, “‘It is with the greatest pleasure that I invite you to an evening soiree at the mansion of Duke Bastien.’ Signed by Madame Vivienne de Fer.” He turned the page to the back to see if there was anything else, but it was blank. “Huh. Two suspicious letters in one day. It’s almost like I’m popular.”

“This one is less suspicious,” Cassandra said unhappily, “I’ve heard of Madame de Fer. She’s well known in certain circles of Orlais, and as the Right Hand of the Divine, I’ve heard some things about her. Never met the woman, but she sounds just like any other Orlesian noble, with the notable exception of her being a mage.”

“I was led to believe that mages weren’t that notable unless they’d done something horrible. Is she evil?” Desmond asked, confused.

Cassandra snorted, “Only as evil as the nobility of Orlais. No, she’s the First Enchanter of Motsimmard Circle, as well as the Enchanter to the Imperial Court. Mages aren’t allowed to hold titles or land, but she’s as close as it gets, being so high up in Orlesian politics, and she occasionally holds the ear of the Imperial Court, when they’re feeling in the mood to listen to mages.” Desmond didn’t know how she could listen to the words she said and not feel that there was something very wrong with their world.

Solas sniffed disdainfully off to the side, “From what I understand, mages in Orlais aren’t seen as much more than court jesters, brought out of the Circles just to give a few lights shows to entertain the nobles. I hardly imagine this ‘Madame de Fer’ has much more regard in the eyes of those in power.”

Cassandra shrugged, “Likely not,” she admitted, “But she still has enough prestige that turning down a direct invitation would be seen as a massive affront, and one the Inquisition can’t afford to make.”

Desmond smiled at her, “Careful Cassandra, you almost sounded like Josephine there.”

Cassandra grimaced, “I did, didn’t I? Maker. Do what you will, I hardly care.”

Desmond and Varric laughed at her affected disregard. “I guess we will be staying in Orlais for a bit longer than planned,” Desmond said, acting disappointed. Truthfully he wouldn’t mind spending a few nights in an actual bed before heading out onto the road again. He could also take the time to look through the shops, maybe get some new weapons, as his were starting to wear from constant use. It was also likely that a blacksmith somewhere had the delicate tools for an assassin’s wrist blade, a prospect which excited him to no end. “Now, let’s see to finding an inn.” Hopefully, they wouldn’t be waylaid like they were the past few times they attempted that goal.

The first inn they found was only slightly ridiculous, but it looked cozy enough and it was within their price range. Even if it wasn’t, Desmond could definitely dip into his personal stash. He had enough money that he could probably buy half the shops in Val Royeaux and have some left over.

The moment they walked in, however, the proprietor of the inn took one look at them and sneered. “We don’t allow rabbits in this establishment.”

Desmond looked around in confusion. “We don’t have any rabbits?” He looked at his companions, and they all looked angry. Obviously, Desmond had missed something.

The masked Orlesian scoffed, “I don’t know what games you’re attempting to play, but servants may stay in the barn outside, they may not enter the building. Their presence upsets our esteemed guests.”

“I don’t have any servants?” Desmond was thoroughly confused, and his friends looked increasingly like they were going to lose it. Except Solas whose face was blank.

“He means me, Herald,” Solas said darkly.

That didn’t clear up any of the confusion, “But you’re not a servant?” Maybe he was just dumb, but the innkeeper was getting increasingly indignant the longer they stood there, and his team seemed to be close to doing something drastic. Solas wasn’t a servant, and they didn’t have any rabbits with them. What the fuck was this world?

“Elves are considered second-class citizens,” Solas clarified. Desmond thought that explained everything and nothing. Everything because of course this was tied to racism, apparently, every world had it. It also explained nothing because elves were people and racism was incredibly stupid and only for the small-minded. God, he sometimes hated people. And he realized the dichotomy of that, considering that just minutes before he had offered shelter to those he hated, but he was still human and could have conflicting emotions.

Desmond turned back to the innkeeper, “So basically you’re an archaic asshole with a tiny dick.” He flicked his eyes deliberately down to the man’s crotch and was immediately gratified to see the masked face whip downward to check if he was exposed, which meant that Desmond was right and his job was done. “Let’s find somewhere else to spend our gold.”

In the end, there were not any inns that allowed elves to be patrons, and Solas claimed he was fine with pretending to be a servant if that got the rest of them a bed, but Desmond was in no way okay with that, and it seemed as if the other companions felt the same. Solas was one of them, and it was not okay for him to bow to the whims of racist assholes. So they camped outside the city. Solas didn’t say anything, but his glances at Desmond were filled with a bit more respect than they had been before, which made Desmond a bit uncomfortable. He didn’t want recognition for doing what any decent person should do.

That night was a bit quiet, everyone was lost in their own thoughts. Desmond shook himself out of contemplation to see that his companions had grim expressions and the soldiers that had followed them out of the city were speaking in low whispers so as to not disrupt the mood. He didn’t want that, so he sighed loudly, watching in amusement as almost everyone jumped.

“Who wants to go shopping tomorrow? The courtyard escapade isn’t until that night, and from what I’ve heard, there’s plenty of interesting stuff to find there. Plus, I want some new weapons.”

“I agree,” Varric said happily, “I want to get some new writing supplies, and I need to check in with the local messengers to see if they have any correspondence for me.” At Cassandra’s look, he shrugged, “What? I’m a popular dwarf.”

“Perhaps I should stay behind,” Solas said, bringing the mood down slightly, “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

Desmond shook his head, “You wouldn’t be an inconvenience at all, and besides, I was rather hoping you would help me with something tomorrow.” That was a lie, but the more Desmond thought about it, the more he warmed up to the idea brewing in his head.

“Oh?” Solas asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I’m planning on having a blacksmith craft some special weapons and I was hoping to pick your brain on some magical theory and maybe get your advice on what to enchant the blades with?” The way Solas was looking at him made Desmond turn his statement into a question.

The elf’s eyes were intense, thoughtful but also piercing, like he was picking apart Desmond to find out what made him tick. “Very well. I shall be interested to see what these ‘special weapons’ will be.”

Desmond grinned in relief. He could say that his only interest in the arrogant elf was seeing the reason that he glowed gold under Eagle Vision, but the truth is there was some sort of draw that Solas himself had. Sure he believed he was better than every other mage to ever walk Thedas, but he was always eager to share whatever knowledge he had. And despite the elf’s clear disgust with the world, Desmond had found him quietly enjoying a sunset or staring at children with something akin to wonder. So Desmond knew Solas wasn’t as unaffected by everything as he pretended to be. Desmond wanted to know the elf better, wanted to see someone he considered to be a friend light up in joy at the simple pleasure of sharing his knowledge.

Also, he was genuinely curious about this world he had found himself in.

The next morning, the team split up once they crossed the bridge. Varric was off to the bookstore, Cassandra was going who-knows-where, and Solas and Desmond headed out to find a blacksmith. It wasn’t too difficult; the guards gave them wary glances but were happy enough to send them on their way, once asked for directions. Desmond assumed the stares they were receiving were in part due to his glowing hand, but probably mostly that they weren’t wearing masks like ninety percent of the rest of the crowd. It wasn’t just the two of them that were on the wrong end of the stares, after all.

Desmond made sure to either follow behind Solas or make sure they were walking next to each other. The Orlesians could think what they will, but Desmond didn’t want to give them any ammunition to treat Solas like he was lesser. He had to admit though, that it was fun to see the Orlesians clutching their chests in scandalous shock when they saw a human following around a proud-looking elf.

The blacksmith was hidden in an alcove off to the side of an alleyway. Out of sight, as the smoke and sweaty workers were unsightly to the gemlike visage of the rest of the city, but still accessible.

Desmond caught the attention of one of the smiths, a burly lady that, if she could manage to get her hands on Desmond, could likely snap him like a twig. She seemed friendly enough; she didn’t even glare at him.

“Hello, would I be able to commission a few weapons?” He asked politely.

The woman stared at him for a moment, and then grunted, “Depends on if you have the coin, and what you would like.”

Desmond grinned, “The coin won’t be a problem. Here’s what I was thinking,” he pulled out a piece of parchment from within one of the many pockets on his person. He’d seen the designs enough throughout his lifetimes, as well as making a few at the Farm, so he knew, for the most part, what he was doing when re-drawing the schematic. The woman grabbed the parchment and gave it a careless once-over. Then her eyes widened and she stared at it harder.

“When would you like it by?” She asked, almost sounding excited.

“As soon as you possibly can. Today, if that works. I will, of course, pay extra for the speed.” Desmond felt a bit bad about making her do the delicate work in so little time, but he’d seen Leonardo do much the same with even less equipment at his disposal, so he knew it was possible. Of course, there was the issue of not everyone being as amazing as Leonardo de Vinci, but he’d take what he could get.

The woman’s eyes shot to his and she studied him for a moment. “I could do that. It will cost double, but it’s possible.”

Desmond grinned, “Name your price.” And thus the haggling began.

Solas had watched on quietly throughout the whole thing, his face showing interest in the woman’s reaction to the schematic he had never seen, but he eventually went back to silently observing the world around him. Desmond didn’t kid himself into thinking the elf wasn’t listening to every word, however.

Eventually, Desmond and the blacksmith came to a reasonable price for the service, work, materials, and time. Desmond felt a little bit disgusting that it barely made a dent in his acquired coin. He had never been this rich, and yet here he was, haggling like he couldn’t afford it. At least the smith seemed pleased with the amount they had settled on.

The elf and human left with an estimated time to return, which luckily was just before they had to leave for the mysterious courtyard, and headed to some nearby shops to check out the wares and kill some time. Desmond asked Solas all sorts of questions while they walked among the various buildings. Things about the elf’s ventures into the fade, what he knew about how magic worked, what things magic could do, the forbidden spells, and the differences between demons and spirits. Whatever questions involving the arcane Desmond could think of, he posed to Solas, and the elf seemed more than happy to share his knowledge. And what considerable knowledge that was. It didn’t seem like Desmond could think of a single question that stumped the elf. Solas seemed to know everything about everything involving magic and the Fade, and it was amazing.

Desmond didn’t normally care about figuring stuff out, that was more Shaun and Rebecca’s forte, but he also was used to learning everything he could about a new situation before acting. That wasn’t exactly the case here, but pretty much everything counted as a ‘new situation’ and therefore he was interested to learn where he was and what potential dangers he should be aware of.

They had run into Varric and Cassandra at different points, both laden down with packages, but the two decided to follow Desmond and Solas around once they were done with their own shopping, and so the two became four.

Lunch was a surprisingly elegant affair, although perhaps not, considering where they were. The four of them found an outdoor cafe with Orlesian tavern music playing unobtrusively in the background. The food was filling and a little steeply priced, so Desmond treated his companions to the meal. They chatted about their day, and some of the purchases they made, although when that conversation popped up, Cassandra turned a deep red and wouldn’t tell them what she bought.

It was dusk by the time the four of them meandered back toward the blacksmith. Desmond had a few packages of his own, having bought a couple of enchanted rings and some sweets. He didn’t have a huge sweet tooth, but he could definitely say that he missed sugar. He missed seasonings altogether, as they weren’t exactly rare, but they were definitely not wasted on extended camping trips. So he bought a couple of pouches of various seasonings for future road trip meals. The hums of appreciation he got from his companions were all the indication he needed that they were highly grateful for his foresight. As if their grumbling during mealtimes wasn’t enough of a clue.

The blacksmith’s eyes alighted on him the moment he walked near enough, and she stood from the grindstone with surprising speed for her bulky form. “Ah, just who I wanted to see.” She beckoned him closer. “I have made the blade for you. It was unlike anything I’ve ever worked on. Here, try it on, see if it works.” Her accent was thick, but living in New York made Desmond quite attuned to understanding all sorts of people.

He gently grabbed the outstretched blade and strapped it to his wrist, pleasantly surprised to find she had modified the latch to be something easily done up with one hand. As he felt the familiar weight settle onto his wrists, something inside of him settled.

With a flick of his hand and the blade smoothly slid out of its sheath into a deadly point without a sound. Another quick movement and it disappeared safely onto his wrist. He stared at the weapon with awe. “It’s perfect,” he breathed. The blacksmith grinned, and Desmond reached into his coin purse and gave her an extra ten sovereigns. A small amount for how much this meant to him, even as her eyes widened and she tried to refuse what she thought was too much.

No price was too much. He finally felt like an Assassin again.

Chapter Text

The courtyard shone majestically in the moonlight. Desmond still had no idea who it belonged to, and it was so empty he wondered if they were even at the right place. He shared a wary glance with his companions but trudged deeper into the fancy outdoor corridors.

He turned on Eagle Vision for a moment to see what they were dealing with and three bright red auras appeared nearby with a few others speckled around further in. “Enemies ahead,” he whispered, readying his bow. As much as he would love to try out his new assassin’s blade, now wasn’t really the time for it. Three enemies, not really any easily scaleable heights, and his companions following close behind.

Varric gave him a look, “Someday I’m going to find out how you do that, Enigma,” he said, hoisting Bianca off his back.

“I would be interested as well,” Solas said loftily.

Desmond just shrugged at them and turned the corner. There were three guards, just as he had counted. Their armor was emblazoned with some crest Desmond didn’t recognize and they were busy chatting with each other instead of doing their job. Sloppy of them, but Desmond wasn’t about to reject their obvious invitation. He sent an arrow into the throat of the one talking.

Even as the man was choking on his own blood, the others turned and saw the intruders. “It’s the Inquisition!” One of the remaining two shouted, but that was the last thing he said as Varric put a bolt through his eye. The last one got encased in ice and shattered by a heavy blow from Cassandra’s shield.

“Well,” Varric started, looking at the results of their ten-second fight, “That was easy.”

“There’s more further in,” Desmond cautioned.

Varric toed at one of the bodies curiously. “If they’re all like this, I’m not worried. Hey Enigma, can your weird whatever sense how strong someone is?”

Desmond shook his head as he bent down to rummage through the dead men’s pockets. “I wish.”

“If we could continue,” Cassandra said dryly. Desmond nodded and stood up, whisking away his loot. It wasn’t much, just a few silvers and for some reason some pieces of fabric which Desmond gathered in case Harrit could use it when they returned to Haven. He didn’t know how crafting worked here, but the more he could help, the better.

“About seven people through this door, and they most definitely heard the shout. Be ready.” Although he did notice a speck of blue hidden in a corner, so either they had a hostage or that was their mysterious messenger. Desmond didn’t wait to find out. He dramatically swung the doors open and turned to the side, dodging a fireball aimed at his chest.

“Herald of Andraste,” the man chuckled. His mask was a golden atrocity with a crafted handlebar mustache. Beneath it, Desmond could just make out some wispy hairs above his exposed mouth. A mouth that curled into a self-satisfied smirk. “I wonder how much coin and effort it took to discover me. It must have weakened the Inquisition immeasurably.”

“Uh, sorry, but who are you?” Desmond asked, wondering if this was someone he should know, or if this was a self-aggrandizing asshole.

The man scoffed, “You know who I am. I’m too important for this to be an accident.” He stuffed his masked nose in the air. “Regardless of what you think you’ve discovered, my work to undermine your organization will prevail beyond this interaction.” He laughed the laugh of someone forcing themselves to be amused, and Desmond didn’t believe him for a second.

Before Desmond could tell the man exactly how pathetic he was, one of the guards fell with a gurgle and a petite blonde elf stepped over his dying body. Her eyes were alight with glee as she aimed an arrow at the pompous Orlesian. “Just say ‘what’,” the girl said impishly.

“What is the-” and he fell with an arrow sticking out of his throat. Desmond wanted to high-five her and tell her that shooting someone in the throat while they were talking was very poetic and he had just used that move, but then she walked over to the corpse and yanked out her arrow.

“Ew,” she declared, jumping back as blood sprayed where her foot had been moments before. “Squishy one,” she observed before turning to the party of four, “but you heard me, right? ‘Just say what’, rich tits always try for more than they deserve.” She stuck her tongue out at the body of the noble.

“I mean, yeah,” Desmond agreed, “that’s kind of in their job description.”

The young-looking elf shot him a grin before perking up even more, “Hi! I’m Sera, this is cover. Get ‘round it. For the reinforcements, yeah?” She ducked behind one of the boxes that lined the courtyard, sending Desmond a mischievous wink, “Don’t worry, Friends tipped me the location of their equipment shed. They’ve got no breeches.” She giggled, and Desmond was about to ask what she meant when guards came charging in, swords raised, and loincloths exposed.

Desmond started laughing, longer and heavier than he could ever remember. He bent over his knees, unable to even think about fighting when he couldn’t catch his breath. Every peek at the half-naked guards sent him into another fit. He had to commend them though, for being so dedicated to their jobs that they would fight with their asses hanging out.

“Why didn’t you take their weapons?” Cassandra shouted at the new elf, sending Desmond an exasperated look, which he couldn’t even react to as he was too busy trying not to fall to the floor with the flood of weakness laughter causes.

“Because no breeches!” Sera shouted, giggling madly. That sent Desmond into another fit, and he was absolutely useless for the entire fight as his companions and the new elf wiped the floor with the pants-less guards.

He finally got his breathing under control, trying not to stare at the bodies so he wouldn’t go into another bout of chuckles.

“So, Herald,” Sera started, eyes bright with humor. “You’re a funny one. I’d like to join.”

Desmond grinned, “Yeah, sure. Welcome aboard.”

“Yes!” Sera fist-bumped the air.

“Hold on,” Cassandra cut in, “I’d like a real introduction. Who are you, and what can you bring the Inquisition?”

Sera rolled her eyes, “One name, no wait! Two! Ugh,” she groaned in frustration, “Okay, so it’s like this; I sent you a letter from my friends- The Friends of Red Jenny. That’s us, or well. Me. So here, in your face, I’m Sera. The Friends of Red Jenny are all out there, and I’m one.”

Varric nodded, “I knew someone like that in Kirkwall. They’re basically people all over that have a little spy network of their own. You don’t want to be on the wrong side of the Red Jennies.”

“But what do they do? Spying? We have spies.” Cassandra stated her face a mask of confusion.

“Here’s how it is,” Sera started, throwing her hands around wildly as she talked, “You’ve got all your important people with all their important things and then you’ve got the little people, the ones that actually do the things. We’re the little people. So you’ve got a big bad doing big bad things and who gives him up? Some house boy who don’t know shite but knows a bad guy when he sees one.”

Cassandra looked like she kind of, maybe, understood what was happening, Solas looked intrigued, and Varric was nodding along like this was just rehashing information he already knew, which was highly likely. Desmond was starting to realize that Solas knew everything magical, and Varric knew everything else. Desmond was pretty sure that Varric was about three people away from knowing everyone in Thedas.

Desmond also really liked that there was a secret information network of those that ordinary people overlooked. It was like Ezio getting information from the brothels and thieves' guilds all over again, and he was very much in favor.

“We’d be glad to have you, Sera,” Desmond said, reiterating that she was welcome to join the Inquisition. He quite liked her, and if someone could get him to let loose and laugh like that, they were more than welcome aboard. He’d only known her for maybe a total of ten minutes, but she was quickly climbing the ladder of his favorite people.

“Sweet!” She exclaimed, bouncing on her toes. “Get in good before you’re too big to like.” Cassandra looked doubtful but didn’t say anything against Sera joining the Inquisition. Meanwhile, Varric gave the young elf a fistbump as a welcome.

Desmond gestured for them to start making their way back to their camp. It was going to be a long trip to reach the soiree the next evening. The group had decided that Desmond was the only one that needed to suffer the attention of the nobles, and thus he would be going alone. As well as him being the only one mentioned on the invitation, nobles were prickly about that sort of thing, more so in Orlais where wearing the wrong shoes was considered punishable by becoming a social outcast.

That didn’t mean that Desmond was wearing anything but his armor to the party. He wasn’t there to blend in, after all. Madame de Fer had to know what sort of scandal she was invited to her home, after all, she had sent the letter before he had even met with the Chantry and therefore risked bringing templars to her soiree. Desmond knew when he was the centerpiece to making a statement. Madame de Fer was plainly stating her support for at least closing the Breach, and she was likely picking which side she thought would be the winning one.

Desmond may not be a master of the Orlesian Game, but he was an Assassin and that meant that he was a master of subtlety and indirect movements of pieces on a board. He saw the underlying meaning in words and the maneuverings of those in power, far more than he wished, sometimes. It was a bit alienating to not trust people at their word, but he couldn’t say that ability hadn’t kept him alive on more than one occasion.

So after a day-long trip of Solas and Sera sniping at each other - because apparently Solas thought Sera should know and care for her elven history and Sera barely considered herself to be an elf at all - and Varric attempting to mediate while also telling tales, each more obviously fake than the last, they finally reached a grand metropolis of massive estates. If Desmond thought the city of Val Royeaux was grand, it had nothing on even a single mansion. Each garden was inlaid with beautiful sculptures, some made of precious metals, some of stone, and others from the hedges themselves. They had fountains, waterfalls, ponds filled with glittering fish, and even a few streams with small stone bridges and weeping willows shading walkways. In the dim lighting of night, the ornate lanterns were lit, illuminating the paths to the spotlighted homes.

Desmond had never seen something so grand in all of his lives, and he could only spot a few of the estates. Each was as magnificent as the last, though they clearly tried to outshine their neighbors. Desmond gaped for a while before closing his jaw and clearing his throat.

“Right, I guess I’ll go see what Madame de Fer wants from me,” although he had a pretty good idea. “You guys do whatever. I shouldn’t be gone for more than a couple of hours. Hopefully.” With that, he checked to see that his robes were still a pristine white and made his way through the mansions until he found the right one. It was easy enough to spot, with all the carriages and high-class citizens milling about.

He slid through the people easily, barely anyone sparing him a glance as he shoved his glowing hand in a pocket, which was surprisingly enough to dull the bright green, though not enough to make it disappear completely. Luckily the gardens were well-lit and his hand didn’t give off the same light it would in pure darkness. So he was finally able to disappear from view, despite his gleaming white armor. It was a point of pride that he could make himself seem to be a part of any group or environment, regardless of his clothes. That, above all else, marked him as a Master Assassin in his mind. God, he was cool.

He shed his inconspicuous mannerisms the moment he stepped through the estate doors, lengthening his spine and acting like he belonged as he walked calmly through the gasping throng of people. Eyes were on him, and it was only a moment of silence before the whispering started.

Two brave souls actually approached him, their body language open, but their faces masked. “You must be the famed Herald of Andraste,” the woman tittered, bringing a gloved hand to where her mouth was under the fancy fabric and gold. “I have heard so many fanciful tales, I simply must know the truth!”

Desmond feigned polite interest, “Oh? And what is it you’ve heard, my Lady?”

“That you have seven wives and scandalized an entire church. They say you are Andraste’s traitorous husband, reborn!” She gasped theatrically.

Her companion spoke up with a few of his own overblown stories, “I’ve heard you slew one hundred dragons in single combat, and that you can turn invisible through some sort of blood curse.”

Honestly, these people could give Varric a run for his money with their over-exaggeration. Still, “Everything you’ve heard? Completely true.” He had to find his entertainment somehow.

They both gasped and then the woman giggled, “Oh, that is exciting. You must forgive my manners, Herald,” she said, extending her hand in greeting, “I am Madame Charlene duFort, and this is my esteemed husband, Duke Getrain duFort. We’ve heard much, but nothing compares to the man in the flesh.” She simpered.

Desmond grabbed her hand with a flourish and placed a delicate kiss on her knuckles, “The pleasure is all mine, Madame. You may call me Desmond.”

The woman giggled again and started fanning herself with a hand. “Oh my, but you are a charmer.”

“An evil one, perhaps,” a man called from a grand staircase. Desmond looked up at the interruption and saw a man swan down the stairs as if he owned the place. Maybe this was Duke Bastien, the actual owner of the estate. “Tell me, Herald of Andraste,” he spit the title like it was a curse, “what does the murderer of the Divine hope to gain from coming here? Perhaps it is prestige? Being seen with those so far above your station as a way to con more people into joining your helpless cause?”

Desmond raised an eyebrow. One could hear a pin drop in the silence that followed. So, this man was not well-liked among the people gathered. Good to know. “I’m here on invitation. If that gains me a few allies in my ‘helpless cause’ to fix the hole in the sky, well, that’s just because these good people have the common sense to understand that demons roaming the mortal world is not something that should continue.”

The man harrumphed, “I notice you did not deny killing the Divine.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I just thought only the unintelligent still believed that. My apologies.” There was a smattering of laughter among the onlookers.

“Don’t you dare insult me like that. If you were a true man you would step with me outside and have a fight to the death, let the Maker decide who is the true innocent party,” he snarled.

“So if I win, you’re admitting that you killed the Divine? Interesting.”

The man blustered, “I hope you’re happy with those being your last words, false Herald,” and with that, he was reaching back for a sword that was strapped to his back. Before he could so much as grasp the hilt, an ice spell hit him dead on and froze him in place. Desmond figured the famous Madame Vivienne de Fer had made her appearance.

“My dear Marquis,” started a smooth, elegant voice from somewhere over Desmond’s shoulder. He turned and saw a beautiful woman that had an outfit making as much of a statement as Desmond’s own. Her mask was unlike anyone else’s, a half mask that curled back into metal horns. The V of her dress dipped scandalously low and the cut of it was slim and conformed to her body, which was incredibly out of place among the layers and bushy petticoats of the rest of the women, but she did not stand out in a bad way. “How uncouth of you to use such language in my house to my guests. Surely you must know that such rudeness is intolerable.”

“Madame Vivienne,” the Marquis stuttered, true fear marking lines around his exposed mouth, “I humbly beg your forgiveness.”

Vivienne tutted a crisp sound that echoed in the silent ballroom. “You should,” she said smoothly. Desmond wanted to laugh, but something about this woman put him on edge. “My dear, whatever shall I do with you?” She turned to Desmond, “My Lord, you are the wounded party in this unfortunate affair. What do you think is an appropriate punishment?”

Desmond could smell a test a mile away, and he knew that whatever he said would not only color future reactions with the Madame but also with the rest of the nobility eagerly watching. Desmond shrugged, “He doesn’t mean anything to me, and his words hardly caused any injury on my part. Do with him what you will.”

Vivienne gave no reaction other than a bland hum. “Poor Marquis,” she said with false pity in her voice, “acting like some Ferelden Dog Lord instead of Orlesian nobility.” She snapped her fingers and the ice holding the Marquis in place disappeared, leaving him coughing and shivering. “And all dressed up in your aunt Solange’s doublet. Didn’t she give you that to wear to the Grand Tourney?” Her voice was filled with curiosity and the crowd started giggling. Desmond wondered if perhaps choosing to kill this man would be kinder than becoming a pariah among his peers. But that was the Game they played, and it wasn’t just their lives on the line.

“To think, all of the brave chevaliers competing this morning, and yet, here you are.” She continued with pity. “Did you think to sate your damaged pride by defeating the Herald of Andraste in combat? I’m afraid he is much out of your league. Your display was amateur and childish,” she let her remarks ring in the silent ballroom. “Run along, my dear. Do give my regards to your aunt.” And then the Maquis was practically sprinting away with his tail tucked between his legs. Vivienne turned her unnerving gaze to Desmond, “Come, my Lord, we have much to discuss.”

Chapter Text

Vivienne led him to a darkened hallway lit only by the moonlight shining through the large windows. Desmond wondered briefly if she brought him here to attempt to kill him, but he reasoned she would likely do it in front of all her guests if she had any inclination. “What do you think of the party thus far?” She asked him, a knowing glint in her shadowed eyes.

Desmond gave a polite smile, “The grounds and estate are immaculate, Madame.”

She smiled the smile of those with high birth talking to someone they deemed lesser. “I thank you for your kind words, my Lord. But I did not bring you here simply for architecture. I believe you are in need of a skilled mage to aid in your cause. This Breach threatens everyone, and the mages more than most.” She gave him a look. “As the leader of the last loyal mages, I feel it only right to lend my assistance.”

Desmond resisted mentioning that they already had a skilled mage in Solas, but instead focused on what else she had said, “Loyal mages?” He questioned.

She gave a delicate laugh, “Of course, those who believe the Circle should be reinstated.” Desmond felt his eye almost twitch, but he forced himself not to react. He didn’t think there would be any mage that wanted to go back to prison, but wonders never cease.

He would get to the issue of the Circles later, for the moment, “What would you be bringing to the Inquisition, Madame Vivienne?”

Vivienne smiled just a touch condescendingly. “Why, my considerable magical expertise, as well as advice on how best to grasp the power you have been given. I do have quite a few noble contacts that could be persuaded to join our cause.”

Desmond heard what she wasn’t saying. Those contacts could just as easily be turned against the Inquisition if she didn’t get her way. Josephine would be furious with the number of closed doors this conversation would bring if he didn’t play his cards right. Did he want her to join? Probably not. But that was more on a personal, moral level. From what little he’d heard, she was skilled in magic, and she would be a great help in battle as well as those contacts she mentioned. So, in the grand scheme of things, Desmond felt like it was his duty to recruit her, even if he really didn’t want to. Something about her rubbed him wrong, and he was going to take a bit of time once he escaped here to figure it out.

“The Inquisition welcomes you among our ranks, Madame Vivienne.” There, suitably detached and polite.

She gave him a beautiful smile, “Wonderful, my dear. I’m already packed. When do we leave for Haven?”

“Tomorrow morning. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d best prepare for the journey ahead.” He gave her a smile and a small bow before taking his leave. He wanted to get the most out of time away from her because he had a sneaking suspicion that he was going to have to be on his guard whenever he was near her. It was going to be a long two months.

He employed the use of his ability to blend in to get out of the ballroom and back to his friends and Inquisition soldiers. He wasn’t even thinking about what damage Sera could have caused in his absence, but he really should have.

Solas was actually shouting at the giggling elf girl, which was a sight that almost caused Desmond to drop his jaw in astonishment. He had never heard the arrogant elf raise his voice.

“Do you hold nothing sacred, you immature brat?” Solas yelled, gesturing wildly with his arms.

Sera’s high-pitched giggles transformed into a full belly laugh, and Cassandra and Varric were watching from the sidelines, amusement and annoyance warring on their faces. Desmond sidled up to Varric, “What’s going on here?” He asked the dwarf quietly, not knowing if he should step in or not.

“Chuckles has been harping on Buttercup all day about the ‘tradition and dignity of elves’ and she got so annoyed that she found some snakes and put them in his bags and bedroll. I don’t think Chuckles liked his personal items tampered with. Also, he got bitten, but they’re not venomous, so he’s mostly annoyed.” Varric’s voice was similarly quiet.

“So why are you looking a bit pissy?” Desmond asked curiously.

Varric chuckled wryly, “She’s been playing pranks the whole time you were gone. No one is safe from her mischief.”

Desmond sighed, “I’ll talk to her.” Before he could hold true to that statement, Cassandra spotted him and her face lit up.

“You’re back,” she called, alerting the others to his presence. The shouting immediately stopped. “What did Madame de Fer want?”

Desmond shrugged, “She wanted to add her expertise as a mage to the Inquisition’s forces. I told her she’s welcome to join, so we’re going to spend the night here and leave in the morning with a tag-along.”

Cassandra’s face looked torn between a grimace and appreciation. Desmond felt the exact same. They weren’t in any sort of position to turn down help, regardless of how undesirable it was. That was a bit rude though, Vivienne had been perfectly polite, but there was just that feeling that he got around her that he really didn’t like. “Well,” Cassandra said hesitantly, “we were planning on staying the night anyway. Too dark to start our journey tonight.”

Desmond gave her a smile for the effort. He hadn’t gotten the impression that Cassandra liked Vivienne that much, and they hadn’t even met. He was definitely dreading the woman meeting any of his team, but it appeared it was inevitable. Perhaps if she left of her own accord, she would be less inclined to use her contacts against them. Then again, she didn’t seem like the type to run away just because something was not up to her standards. She was probably more likely to try to fix things to suit her. Joy.

Shoving the unavoidable matter out of his head, he gestured to Sera to bring her out of earshot of the rest of the group, but not so far that the light of the fire couldn’t touch them. “What’s it?” Sera asked curiously, but also slightly warily.

“How are you holding up with the rest of them? I know you’ve had some disagreements with Solas.” He started out gently.

Sera shrugged, “Old elfy got a stick up his arse called ‘tradition’ and it ain’t coming out any time soon. I’ll just get him with more snakes.” She laughed loudly.

Desmond smiled at her good mood. He knew Solas could be a bit much, but Sera seemed to be taking his overbearing presence in stride. “I get it. Sometimes you just gotta be a menace to get someone to leave you alone. But Sera,” he looked into her eyes, “I’m all for pranks and being an inconvenience, but can we set up some ground rules? Personal items should be left alone, and same with the bed roll. This team sees a lot of bad things while adventuring and there needs to be at least one safe space where they don’t have to worry about surprises or being attacked, even if it’s something harmless.”

Sera scuffed her boot, looking at the ground, “Yeah, I get it.” She looked up suddenly, “But anywhere else is fair game, yeah?”

Desmond grinned, “Oh yeah.” The two of them shared a conspiratorial smirk before Desmond sobered up a little bit. “How’s everyone else? Are they treating you okay?”

Sera shrugged, “Varric has lots of silly stories, most of them fake, yeah? At least he’s funny. Cassandra is a whole lot of righteous in one body and she doesn’t even wear it well. She’s big though. I’d stand behind her in front of anything. What about this Madame whatever, then? If she’s another Solas I’m gonna have to get real creative. Can’t use the same things twice in a row.”

“She's...” Desmond paused and tried to think of the right words to describe her, without being mean. But then he realized that honesty was probably the best policy with Sera. “She’s got a stick up her ass called ‘I’m better than you and I love it’,” he said, quoting Sera’s words. “She’s gonna be a real piece of work.”

Sera made a disgusted face. “Why’d you invite her along?”

He smiled ruefully, “Because my advisors would yell at me if I didn’t.” Sera hummed, unconvinced, but didn’t push it. “Well, we’d better get to bed. Long day tomorrow.”

And indeed, it was a long day. From the moment Vivienne pranced up on her pure white mare, carting another horse behind her packed to the brim with bags of personal effects. Desmond was pretty sure he spotted a hat box. He fought not to roll his eyes. She looked elegant astride her mare, mask gone, showing off her bald head and pretty features. She wore battle robes that were only slightly different from her outfit the night before.

“Hello my dears,” she said with her perfect enunciation. “I am Madame Vivienne de Fer. You may call me Madame Vivienne.” Awesome, Desmond thought. This was going to be a long two months. Sera made a rude sound and Desmond fought not to laugh at Vivienne’s offended expression. “I beg your pardon?”

“Then beg, arsehole,” Sera said, sticking her tongue out. Varric started chuckling and Desmond’s face twitched briefly into a smile before he got his expression under control.

“Play nice, everyone. Let’s head out.” Because as much as Desmond wanted the two-month journey to be spent nitpicking each other and words full of thinly-veiled insults, he very much did not. He would almost prefer Abstergo’s tender loving care to that particular brand of torture.

The morning was spent with light conversation, everyone on their best behavior or too tired to fight, Desmond didn’t care which one it was so long as he was left out of it. And he was, for the most part. Sure, his companions would occasionally engage him in conversation, but his social battery was pretty much drained and he would very much like to climb the nearest tree and hang out there for a while, away from everyone. He was pretty sure everyone got the memo because they only asked his opinion twice before realizing he wasn’t even paying attention to their conversations. They could be gossiping about him for all he cared. Although the moment one of them said his name, he was alert. ‘Herald’ didn’t count.

It was about midday and the group was considering stopping for lunch when another caravan started coming up the road towards them. Desmond’s group was on horseback, so they easily moved to the side to allow the carts to pass by, only they didn’t. Several of the people, who, upon looking closer were wearing mage robes, took a look at the Inquisition heraldry and the whole caravan slowed to a stop.

Desmond warily fingered a knife, preparing for a fight- they had a few sellswords, and as capable as his group was, even they could be overtaken by a sword through a gap in armor or even just plain getting roasted by a fireball. (Because that was his life now, where he had to worry about some twelve-year-old throwing a ball of fire at him.)

“Inquisition?” Called an elf, her eyes had deep lines around them and her short hair was almost more gray than black. “I am Fiona,” she greeted, sketching a short bow. “I was wondering if we might speak for a moment.” She dismounted her horse, and after a glance, Desmond and Cassandra did the same.

“Grand Enchanter?” Cassandra said disbelievingly, “What are you doing all the way over here? Last I heard the mages were holed up in Redcliffe.”

Fiona gave a rueful smile, “I’m afraid that title rings a bit hollow with no Circles to be the Grand Enchanter of. And I am here with a proposition to the Inquisition. I’m rather glad that we were able to find you, despite our late arrival.”

Desmond tilted his head slightly to show interest. “And what is this proposition of yours?”

She smiled slightly, “Come to Redcliffe and speak to the mages there. We would be willing to work out a compromise wherein the free mages aid the Inquisition in sealing the Breach.”

“A few questions first, if you don’t mind,” Desmond said, waiting for her nod of approval before continuing. “Firstly, why didn’t your group offer help before? And secondly, this Breach is a threat to everyone, including the mages. Couldn’t you just offer your help without strings attached? The longer the Breach goes unsealed, the greater danger this world is in.”

Fiona shook her head. “When the Inquisition was declared, my people were still scrambling from the destruction of the peace talks, the templars became more violent, and we had no people to spare. Since your group has ended the war in the Hinterlands, we have been able to regroup. We still had no reassurance that your Inquisition wanted to help the free mages, so we stayed back, but we are ready to listen. As for the Breach,” she made a complicated face, “The mages have been free for precious little time, and we want reassurance that if we offer our help, we will have allies backing us so we aren’t put back into the Circles.”

Vivienne scoffed lightly behind them, “Fiona, my dear, your age is showing. The Circles are the only place the mages belong, and the Inquisition agrees.”

Desmond couldn’t stop his annoyed look from showing. “That is not necessarily true. And the Inquisition would be honored to work out some sort of agreement that would benefit both parties.” He gave her a polite smile to show he was serious.

Fiona glanced at Vivienne, “You keep interesting company, Herald. I will await your visit to Redcliffe.” And with that, she hopped back on her horse and their caravan started traveling again.

Desmond waited until they were out of earshot before rounding on Vivienne, “I appreciate what skills you can bring to the table, Madame Vivienne. However, your input is not required when it may lose us allies we cannot afford to lose. Do you understand?”

She gave him a delicately nasty look, “You brought me along for my advice and the ideas I have to shape the Inquisition, and I can tell you, dear, that allying yourself with the so-called ‘free mages’ is not the way to best present the Inquisition.”

“Thank you for sharing your thoughts,” Desmond started, “but just so we’re clear, I brought you along because I have a need of strong allies that will help fight demons and those who would see the world destroyed. I have my advisors already, and if I want your input, I will ask for it.”

“Oooh, get destroyed poncy bitch,” Sera cackled.

Desmond turned an annoyed look on the giggling elf, “Now is not the time, Sera.” Said elf stuck her tongue out at him and he rolled his eyes before looking back at Vivienne.. “Do you understand me, Madame Vivienne?”

She stared at him before nodding approvingly. “Good, don’t let yourself be walked over.” Her chin was high in the air as if her being astride a horse while Desmond was standing on the ground made her in any way superior.

Desmond shook his head lightly at her way of twisting his words to do the very thing he asked her not to- give advice. “Alright, let’s move out.” He swung onto his horse and the journey resumed.

Aside from the interruption with Fiona, it was a straight shot from Val Royeaux back to Haven, and by the time they reached the little village, Desmond was ready to quit the Inquisition and disappear into obscurity. He had discovered things he hated about each of his companions, and there were several times during their trip that he had stalked off and climbed a tree for a few hours, just to escape their individual issues.

Cassandra was incredibly judgemental; hating Varric for existing, Sera because of her happiness and pranks, Vivienne for various reasons Desmond actually shared, and Solas because he would argue endlessly about how wrong she was about everything. Varric was fine for the most part, but he also kept talking when Desmond just wanted silence or to be left alone. Solas had a massive stick up his ass that he was trying to force up everyone else’s with his incessant attempts to make Sera see how much better elves were than anyone else, as well as inserting himself into conversations to tell how things ‘actually are’. Sera could not take a single thing seriously and made snap judgments that she wouldn’t budge on despite all evidence to the contrary. And Vivienne. Oh boy, Vivienne.

Madame de Fer was the closest thing to a templar Desmond had seen in this world, and that was including those that shared its name. She believed in absolute control, that free will was for people who weren’t magical because their danger was far greater than their right to freedom. She believed that because her experiences in the Circle were perfectly pleasant, everyone else shared her experience. She claimed that she was aware some templars were not the best examples of humanity, but she outright called those mages with reports of rape and murder from the templars to be ‘liars braying for attention’, which set Desmond’s teeth on edge and he was so close to sending her back to Val Royeaux and away from himself and any of those victims he knew were at Haven.

He had asked Vivienne if she counted herself among those that should be locked away to never see the light of day simply because of the circumstances of her birth, and she claimed that she was no different from the other dangerous mages. He could tell that she even believed it- that a life in her cushy Circle where she was treated like a gift to humanity was an acceptable trade-off for her freedom. The problem was that she didn’t have the experiences of those mages that just wanted to be free, away from templars and their cruelty. Desmond had half a mind to give her her wish, sic some of the worst templars on her and see how she liked the removal of her free will and everything she held dear, but he wasn’t that type of person. He wasn’t going to force someone to go through terrible experiences, because as much as her presence and views on life grated on his nerves, he believed in free will for everyone, even the templars, of which he had no doubt she was.

So he always made sure that he kept one companion in between them at all times to limit their interactions. If she kept harping on about the Circles, he wasn’t going to be held responsible for his actions. Which would likely result in her death.

Despite all the problems he had discovered with his companions when they were fighting enemies together they were a cohesive team, which Desmond found surprising. They fought like cats and dogs all day every day, but give them a battle and they were a smooth machine. It was impressive, especially for Desmond who, before coming to this world, had rarely ever fought side-by-side with someone else.

All that led to Desmond almost weeping with joy when he saw the gates of Haven. Cullen was waiting outside the walls, watching over the troops going through their drills, his curls ruffling in the wind. Desmond could have hugged him and cried into his massive shoulders. The first person he knew that wasn’t one of his companions.

He needed a hug, some food, a nap, and a hell of a lot of solitude. Not necessarily in that order. It was unlikely he would get any of that, though, as a scout immediately came running over to Desmond before he had even dismounted, demanding his presence in the war room. Desmond didn’t even have time to open his mouth- to complain or accept, he wasn’t sure- before the scout was jogging over to Cullen, likely to give him the same message.

Cullen’s eyes looked over at the group, immediately focusing on Desmond. The blond commander of the Inquisition forces gave the Herald of Andraste a crooked grin filled with happiness and Desmond felt butterflies stirring in his stomach. He withheld a groan. Not again, his inner dialogue complained.

Chapter Text

Cassandra

The walk to the Chantry was spent in silence, and Cassandra couldn’t help but cast worried glances at Desmond. She’d watched him grow more and more withdrawn the closer they got to Haven, and she knew the journey from Val Royeaux had taken its toll on the Herald. It had taken its toll on all of them, to be honest. The constant bickering had gotten extremely old by day two, and she had tried her very best to not take part, but some of her companions were beyond annoying and she just couldn’t help herself.

So she knew Desmond’s slumped shoulders were partly her fault, and that was what caused her to hesitate to initiate conversation. He looked like he needed a good long rest away from people.

“After this meeting,” she began hesitantly, “I could tell everyone to leave you alone for the rest of the day.”

Desmond stared at her for a moment before a beautiful smile spread across his face. “You’d do that? Thank you, Cassandra. Thank you so much.”

She felt incredibly torn. His gratitude was so genuine that it made her feel warm inside, despite the chill of the air. And yet, the fact that such a little thing could mean so much to him was truly astounding. Her heart hurt at the thought that she could have been doing this all along, giving him a day to himself when she saw the weight of responsibility dragging him down. Instead, she’d watched him disappear to Maker knew where, and she’d done her best to hunt him down for one reason or another.

Cassandra had known from the beginning that Desmond wasn’t made for the role that had been thrust upon him. When first they met, she was ready to cast him as the villain of the story. To be fair to herself, she had no way of knowing who he truly was, and all the evidence pointed to him being the perpetrator.

But Desmond was kind. He helped everyone he could find, whether that be with something as trivial as finding a lost druffalo for a bedraggled farmer or finding a stolen wedding ring, to clearing out the bases of the rogue templars and mages so the refugees would be safer. Their trip to Val Royeaux took longer than she would have liked because Desmond stopped to help everyone that crossed their paths. At the time, she was incredibly annoyed at the delay, but now she could see the pure kindness Desmond’s every action exuded.

She watched him, even now, as he straightened the further they traveled into Haven proper. He had a ready smile for anyone that looked his way and greeted them happily. Even she couldn’t tell if it was faked. He seemed to put on this showman persona, like despite the weariness that he felt, whomever he greeted was the one person he was most excited to see in the whole world. He made people feel important and loved.

Desmond smiled at someone Cassandra could vaguely recognize, calling the elf by name and asking after a wound she’d suffered before their trip. Cassandra’s chest ached with a sadness she hadn’t even thought to name, watching as Desmond seemed to know and care about every single person in Haven, and yet, she realized with a pang, none of them knew anything real about Desmond.

She’d told him about her brother, how it affected her when he died; things she had never told anyone else. And he’d listened with compassion and sympathy that wasn’t overbearing. He didn’t treat her like she was fragile even after her vulnerability. He trusted her in a fight, asked for her opinions, and took her council. She felt like she could share her whole life story and he wouldn’t judge her, wouldn’t think less of her.

And yet the only things she knew about Desmond were his name, his kindness, his strange ability he wouldn’t talk about, his love of heights, and that sometimes he would zone out for no reason and start talking in strange languages, not reacting to anyone. She didn’t even know if Desmond was his real name.

It wasn’t entirely her fault that she didn’t know him, though. Every attempt to dig deeper into his past or who he was were either ignored, talked around, or contradictory to something he’d said before. She couldn’t be blamed for not knowing someone that didn’t seem to want to be known.

That didn’t ease the guilt.

Cullen

“What is this about?” Cullen asked the other advisors as he came into the Chantry. He had passed Desmond and Cassandra on the way over because they were busy talking to people and he wanted to know what the topic of conversation would be.

“The Herald has just returned,” Leliana stated the obvious, “we must go over our next steps.”

Cullen nodded. They had talked over in depth about what they would do once Desmond got back, and they still couldn’t come to an agreement. They were advisors for a reason- they all had different opinions on how things should go, and they needed someone to listen to them and tell them what to do. None of them were meant to lead something as large as the Inquisition was shaping up to be.

The trio hadn’t even made it to the war room when Desmond and Cassandra walked in. Cassandra was dusty and visibly sweating, but aside from the bags under Desmond’s eyes, the man himself look pure and untouched in his pristine white armor. It was times like this that made Cullen question whether the Herald of Andraste was truly just a man or actually a divine prophet. Surely no mere mortal could catch the light and shine in such a way. Cullen cleared his throat and looked away. It wouldn’t do to be caught staring- the man got enough of that from everyone else.

“Welcome back,” Leliana greeted, moving forward to clasp Cassandra’s hand. “Now that you have been approached by the leader of the mages, it is imperative that we decide our next steps.”

Cullen didn’t really want to go through this dance again, but Desmond needed to hear all their options, “Josephine has also found a way we could get in contact with the templars, get their aid with sealing the Breach.”

Leliana shot him the same look she always did when he brought up the templars, and he withheld a sigh. “The mages deserve a chance to be seen as a heroic force.”

“I don’t disagree with that,” Cullen said slowly, “but I also think that suppressing the magic of the Breach to destroy it is safer than the alternative.” And it’s true that while he’d had issues with mages in the past and wasn’t too keen on them in general- prolonged torture at the hands of mages will do that- he also liked to think that he’d grown past his previous blaming of all mages as a whole. He’d seen enough of the horrors that one person can do, but he’d also seen the injustices that had befallen the mages in Kirkwall. He did think that mages deserved the chance to clear their name and do some good with their magic. But he also feared blood magic to the degree that it was almost a phobia, and he wasn’t naive enough to think that granting mages freedom wouldn’t result in at least a few of them wanting more power and consorting with the demons that were more readily available than ever before.

“Well it sounds like you guys need to make your choice soon,” Desmond interrupted before Cullen and Leliana could get into yet another pointless fight.

Cassandra nodded off to the side, “I agree. Whatever direction we’re pointed in, we’ll go there.”

Cullen sighed and shook his head, “I’m afraid we can’t actually come to a decision ourselves. So we’ll have to bow to your judgment in this, Herald.”

While Desmond considered the problem, Cullen considered the Herald. He was, objectively speaking, an attractive man. He had close-cropped brown hair, darker tan skin, and a silvery scar cutting through his thin lips, eerily similar to Cullen’s own scar. He couldn’t help the wandering thought that wondered how the man got it when he otherwise seemed to never get hurt.

Cullen hadn’t spent much time with the man, instead keeping up with the troops while Desmond traipsed around the countryside. But he’d read the reports and heard how the Inquisition and people unaffiliated alike sang his praises. How he touched the hearts of everyone that met him, like a true prophet of the loving Andraste.

In the one or two conversations Cullen had had with Desmond, the Herald had been very curious as well as an active listener which made Cullen feel like he was the most important person. It was a heady feeling, having such an important person look at him like there was nowhere they’d rather be than talking to him. But he knew that Desmond did that to everyone, was equally engaged in everyone’s lives, and beyond that, he remembered everything.

Cullen truly didn’t know how a man that seemed to need copious amounts of time on his own could also be so great at talking to people. He’d honestly never seen the like.

“I’ll go talk to the mages. After all, they did give us an invitation. It would be rather rude to ignore them in favor of hunting down the templars.” Desmond said after a moment of thought. Cullen couldn’t help but feel like Desmond didn’t even want to try with the templars, and honestly, after what Leliana’s spies reported happened in Val Royeaux, Cullen couldn’t blame him.

Leliana

The group dispersed, some less happy about the news than others. “Desmond,” Leliana called softly, catching the attention of the Herald as he turned to leave. She had noted on several occasions that the man much preferred his name to his title, so she made an effort to call him by name whenever possible. “If I may, I have something to discuss with you.”

Desmond waved Cassandra on when she turned to wait. “What is it?”

I haven’t heard anything from the Grey Wardens in some time,” she broached the topic carefully, unsure as to Desmond’s thoughts on the order. Most people outside Ferelden thought they were unnecessary, or even exiled them. “Ordinarily I wouldn’t be surprised at the lack of contact, but the timing is suspicious. Not even my spies can find them.” Desmond seemed to be detached but curious. That gave her nothing, so she put his reaction aside and got to the main subject, “Our scouts have reported sightings of Grey Wardens on the Storm Coast, but I think the more direct approach may be necessary. I’ve heard of a Grey Warden named Blackwall out recruiting in the Hinterlands. Since you are headed to Redcliffe soon, it might be worth it to talk to him.”

Desmond nodded along, “Sure, I’ll check it out. Can’t hurt to see what he has to say, anyway.”

Leliana smiled, grateful. “Thank you, Desmond. And thank you for your time.” Desmond nodded again and with a short ‘no problem’, he turned and headed towards the doors to the Chantry.

She couldn’t help but watch him go, her thoughts a bit of a whirlwind surrounding the man. She’d heard all of the reports, official and rumor, and they were all generally complementary, with a few disgruntled people saying he was sometimes hard to find when they needed him.

If the title of Herald of Andraste had to go to anyone, Leliana was rather grateful it went to him. He was performing in the role beautifully, aside from his occasional bouts of hiding from any interaction. And his curious fear of templars. Even the name sometimes had him flinching, and she wondered, yet again at his past.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t found a single thing about the man before the Conclave. Of course, she had reports flooding in on people that claim to have had some sort of contact with him before, but all leads turned up false. She couldn’t even find anyone that saw him enter the Temple of Sacred Ashes. It was so very frustrating, but also fascinating. It had been a long time since she’d had to rely on her own powers of observation to solve a mystery. She’d grown too used to her spies doing all the work for her, while she collected the information like a dragon with her horde.

From what she could tell beyond the surface, Desmond was deeply traumatized. There were the obvious times when he would completely dissociate from the world and start speaking like a different person. But there was also the way that his eyes seemed too old for his face, the way that he carried himself like he’d seen the worst of humanity and nothing else could compare. Nothing seemed to faze him aside from too much interaction with people. He didn’t judge anyone from what she could see, and it was with a slow realization that it was because he didn’t see anyone as greater or lesser than himself.

Desmond seemed to know the exact amount of space he took up in the world, knew exactly how dangerous he could be, and his own importance. She would say that he knew who he was, but she wasn’t sure of that. Sometimes it would take him a moment to react when his name was called as if he wasn’t used to the name. Or the way he walked would look like a completely different person. His handwriting had four distinct styles and always, without fail, seemed to fall into four different languages as if the words were interchangeable.

She’d started a notebook on what those written words meant, based on context clues, but for the most part, she was extremely lost whenever he gave her a report. She started asking his companions to give her a second report of what happened so she could actually tell what was going on. Her spies weren’t always with the group, after all.

But beyond Desmond’s obvious trauma and odd inconsistencies, she was more than happy to follow him. She would even put forth his name as the Inquisitor, once they get around to that.

Josephine

“Ah, Herald,” Josephine called when she saw him walking past her office door. The man took a few steps back and gave her a questioning look. “I was wondering if you would indulge me for a moment.” She felt guilty for the interruption once she noticed the bags under his eyes and the exhausted slump to his shoulders, but she held her tongue when he walked into her office and stood before her desk.

“Yes, Ambassador?” His tone was smooth and warm, holding an affection that not many people used when talking with her.

“There have been several queries as to your background. What would you like me to tell them?” She cut right to the issue, not wanting to keep him for longer than she had to. He seemed ready to keel over.

Desmond sighed and cast around for somewhere to sit, giving up after a moment. For the first time, Josephine regretted not having chairs put in. It was a bit of a power move that the types of people that normally visited her office appreciated. But that meant that the Herald of Andraste had to stand before her like someone on trial while she sat behind her sturdy oak desk on a plush chair. She considered offering him her seat but reasoned that the offer would either embarrass him or, more likely, he would refuse on account of her being a lady. Or his inherent kindness would mean he would rather suffer than see someone else be inconvenienced.

“Can’t we just say I appeared in the world at the Conclave? Fully crafted by Andraste or whatever?” He asked wearily.

She smiled at him, “While that would turn quite a few heads, I believe it would cause more problems than it would solve.” At the confused tilt of his head, she continued, “Simply calling you the Herald of Andraste is something that the Chantry calls blasphemy on. They’ve reacted this bad so far, there’s no telling how much more severely they would react if we claimed Andraste made you.”

Desmond sighed heavily and looked around at her office, clearly deep in thought. Then he spoke, and she had never heard the like of the accent that came out of his mouth. “I was born to a little village, everyone knew everyone. It was just me and my mother. She would tell me vague stories of my father, but everyone else in the village seemed to hate him, so she would whisper things to me in the dark of night.

“One day, some men came while I was out playing and they set my village on fire, killing everyone within. I ran, hard and fast, away from everyone and everything. I came across a farmhouse where an old man lived alone. He took me in, taught me how to fight how to run a household, how to survive in the harsh world.” Desmond paused, his eyes far away, and Josephine still couldn’t place his accent. It was like he was an entirely different person. “When he died, I left to find my father and dismantle his order. They weren’t at all what my mother told me, and there was nothing I wouldn’t do to see the end of them.” His gaze suddenly cleared and he gave her a tiny half-smile, “And then the Conclave happened. Is that good enough?”

Josephine didn’t know what to think. She’d seen that far-away look a few times, and each time his voice and sometimes even language had changed. She had read his body language throughout his life story and it felt like the truth while he was talking, but now she wasn’t so sure. Oh well, she reasoned it wasn’t her job to find out the truth of his background, but simply to make it as palatable to potential allies as possible.

“So you’re saying you lived in a small community, they all died, and then you were raised and taught by a third party. I can work with that. Thank you, Herald. It can’t have been easy to tell me,” she said as gently as she could.

He gave her an uncomfortable smile that spoke of lies, “Was that all, Ambassador?” She nodded and he disappeared out the door, leaving her to her thoughts.

She didn’t know how it was possible for something to ring true in one moment and then like a lie in the next, especially considering her superior ability to ferret out lies and half-truths. But, she decided while grabbing some clean parchment to pen out her replies to curious nobles, it wasn’t any of her business.

Vivienne

“My dear, if I may,” Vivienne called out to Desmond as he left the ambassador’s office. It thrilled her to see him withhold a sigh at her summons, but he walked over anyway. She gave him a polite smile, “I wanted to apologize for my actions at the beginning of our trip. It was most uncouth to say what I did.”

Desmond tilted his head in curiosity, and she was reminded how much effort she would have to put in to shape this man to be a leader in her image. “Why wait until now? Why did you even say it in the first place?”

“I’m afraid no one is immune to saying the wrong thing when shocked. I was not expecting Fiona to be there, and I spoke out of turn when I needn't have said anything.” It grated a little on her nerves to admit her faults, but it seemed that would be the only way to get back in his good graces. “As for why I waited, well. I can admit to not wanting an audience to my humiliation.”

The truth was always a bitter pill for her to swallow, but a little vulnerability every once in a while could cement her place at the Herald’s side. And she would do almost anything to hold Desmond’s ear and be in his confidence. She knew her status as a mage would get her no further than the pet of the Empress of Orlais, fit for nothing but pretty light shows and to look important without any real power. But the Inquisition had so much potential to become something truly great. As rough and unpolished as their Herald was, they were in dire need of a guiding hand to lead the Inquisition from the shadows, someone to puppeteer the Herald to her whims. If Vivienne didn’t do it, someone else would. And at least she had the best interests of the world at heart.

Varric

Two days after the group had arrived back in Haven, Varric was approached by Desmond. The man looked well-rested and was sporting a smile that didn’t look like it took the remnants of his almost non-existent energy to produce.

“Hey, Enigma,” Varric greeted with a little wave, “What brings you to my little corner of Haven?” And indeed, he had carved out this little section of the village to be his own. It was no Hanged Man, his usual haunt in Kirkwall, but it was a small tent to rest his head and an ever-going campfire to warm him up as he told stories to the enraptured Inquisition. What more could a dwarf ask for? Except maybe a better bed. He wasn’t as young as he used to be and the harsh ground and traveling weren’t as easy on him as it was on someone like Sera.

Desmond grinned at him like they were sharing a joke before sobering somewhat. “I wanted to apologize for my behavior during the trip. It all got to be a bit much for me, but that’s no excuse for how I reacted.”

Varric waved a hand to dismiss the apology. “No worries, Enigma. We were all a little on edge and exhausted by the end there. New people messing with the dynamic and all that. Nothing a good game of Wicked Grace can't fix. Nothing brings people together like playing a strip round.”

Desmond snorted, “I don’t know about you, but I don’t really want to see my companions in more state of undress than I already have.”

“No, see that’s the beauty of it,” Varric countered, “It’s one thing to see someone naked for survival, but something else to see them lose at a game so badly that they have to hand over their clothes to the victor. Plus, there’s alcohol.”

“Okay, I see your point,” Desmond conceded, laughing a little. The man had a beautiful laugh in its rarity. Varric didn’t really see humans as attractive, as a rule. Too long and oddly proportioned, but he could call Desmond beautiful without compromising his standards. The man, while still as weird looking as the rest of his kin, had a certain charm to him that reminded him achingly of the ten years spent trailing behind Hawke, but also different.

Varric was there for the story of Hawke- the Tale of the Champion, his most-sold book. But Desmond was just as his nickname suggested. He was, beyond all doubt, an enigma. He would act one way and Varric would think he had him figured out, but then the next he would be doing something completely opposite as natural as breathing, and Varric would be back to square one. There was the evidence that Desmond hallucinated and heard voices, making him wonder if he was somehow possessed by a demon like Anders, but he wasn’t a mage, and as far as Varric was aware, non-mages held no appeal to spirits and demons.

But then there was Desmond’s clearly magical ability to just know where things were, who was their ally, how many enemies were up ahead, safe spaces to dive into at a moment’s notice, and things like that. He had mentioned the possibility that the Lord Seeker was a demon, and acted like it was just a guess, but Varric could tell that was no guess. For whatever reason, their Herald of Andraste had spotted a demon that even their resident Fade expert didn’t catch.

And then there was his whole ‘I’m from a different world’ joke that Varric wasn’t one hundred percent sure was a joke. Despite being completely impossible, it would make a disturbing amount of sense. Desmond didn’t seem to know some of the most basic things- his daily questions revolved around stuff that children learned before they stopped clutching at their mothers’ skirts. That could all be explained away by him living a sheltered life deep in the mountains or whatever. But Desmond wasn’t naive like someone who was raised apart from the world would be. He saw the worst in people, killed with frightening ease that spoke of years of experience, and he wasn’t socially awkward. He acted like he’d raised an entire cause from nothing to something impressive, and like he was burdened with doing it again. He could play The Game of Orlais but balked at public speaking. He stuck to the shadows and comfort of obscurity when possible, but shone with a beautiful inner light when talking to people. He was, above all, an Enigma. One Varric was determined to figure out, and not just for the book he was writing.

Sera

“Hey Lady Fingers,” Sera called, cackling at the look the tavern singer gave her, “Can ya write a song about me? That’d be awesome!”

“Are you planning to pay me for it?” Miriam raised an eyebrow.

“Of course!” Sera said, completely offended, “I’m not some shitty noble.” Miriam sighed and nodded before turning back to her lute and starting up another song.

“Do I even want to know?” A sudden voice asked from right behind Sera. She shrieked and turned around quickly, finding Desmond where she could have sworn he wasn’t there moments before. He was out of his armor and she boggled at how skinny he was. His usual outfit had so many buckles and weapon holsters that it really bulked up his frame, but he was just a little thing in a cotton long-sleeved shirt and trousers with boots. He looked like a stiff wind would blow him over, but at least he didn’t have bags under his eyes that went down to his knees as he had by the time the group reached Haven.

She stood there, shocked, for a moment before snorting loudly. “You got me! If I were some bandit creep I’d be long dead.”

Desmond gave her a smile and a nod, “Good thing you’re not then.”

“I’m way too skilled to be one of those losers. You’ve seen them, right? Big weapons but they die quick.”

Desmond chuckled quietly and then gestured to the seat across from Sera. “Mind if I join you?” Sera shrugged and he slid into the rickety chair. “I was curious to get to know you, Sera.”

She gave him a cautious look, “Why?”

“Do you not want me to?”

Sera didn’t stop looking at him warily, but she shook her head, “Nah, it’s fine. Just don’t go too deep, yeah? I don’t like you enough.”

Desmond nodded, finding her perfectly reasonable request perfectly reasonable. “Can I ask what your issue with elves is?”

Sera pursed her lips. “Everything. They let people walk all over them and are fine with the little boxes shitheads put them in when they’re only different in how they look! I’m not an elf, I’m a person. Anything else is bullshit and stupid Solas with his stupid ideas trying to make smaller boxes for elves to fit into as if they didn’t have enough problems. Who cares about the past when today and tomorrow we need to eat and be safe? Stupid.”

He smiled at her, one of the warmest and most genuine smiles she’d ever seen directed at her. It filled her with soft fuzzy feelings she wasn’t sure she liked. “I completely agree. People are people are people.”

She grimaced, “People make it way more complicated than it has to be. Like this whole Breach thingy. There’s a hole in the sky and what to people care about? Not closing it, that’s for sure. Just measuring whose dick is bigger and who gets the best gifts from making friends with us.” She looked over Desmond and his slightly hunched posture. “You’re not too bad though. You’re uncomfy with leading, yeah? That’s good. When you start getting comfy, that’s when you start pissing on those under you. Then my Friends would have to take care of you.”

Desmond grinned, “Noted. Don’t become comfortable with power or I’ll die.”

Sera shifted uncomfortably, “Well, I don’t know about killing you. But we’d definitely get you with a pie or something. Make you look less cool in front of everyone.”

“You think I look cool?”

She wanted to shove her hand into his smug face, but she could see his eyes dancing happily, “Shut up!” She shouted, throwing a cloth napkin at him. It was good to see that light back in his eyes. She’d had to watch it slowly disappear over the course of two months, but she was glad to have him back. He was quickly becoming one of her best friends.

Solas

Solas had noted the Herald making his rounds and figured it was only a matter of time before it was his turn. He truthfully didn’t know what to make of their leader, though he suspected everyone else was much the same. Though while he thought they were more stuck on Desmond’s inconsistencies, Solas himself was concerned about how Desmond fit into Solas’s view of the world.

When he woke up from his long rest, he hadn’t met a single elf that wanted to learn the truth, that he could share his knowledge with and not have it be scorned. He could admit he hadn’t given much thought to the humans that dominated the world. They were primitive creatures, ugly and crass. They had none of the natural grace and elegance of the elves he grew up around, and their language was harsh and guttural. Disgusting and immature creatures that couldn’t appreciate the beauty of the world and instead did everything they could to destroy it with their ugly architecture and pointless wars.

He had only approached the human settlement after the explosion of the Conclave because, as much as it burned, he didn’t have the resources to fix the Breach on his own. And thus he became surrounded by hideous humans that issued slurs with every breath aimed his way and treated his kind like they were less than dirt. He had felt rather ambivalent about the elves surrounding him before he became a member of the Inquisition. But time around them gave him an opportunity, one he hadn’t seen before, and he once again found himself taking up a cause of those who were downtrodden and weak.

But Desmond made him question everything he had learned since re-entering the world. Desmond was like a blank piece of parchment ready for any information to fill it. He asked well-thought-out questions and was genuinely interested in the answers. He didn’t get defensive when Solas said something that would have shattered someone else’s worldview. Solas had never met someone so eager to learn without any sort of biases holding him back. And from a human, no less. It made him wary, but also curious. Had his well-honed analysis of modern-day people been false? Or was Desmond a one-of-a-kind person, a product of his mysterious past that was unlikely to be repeated?

Solas burned with the need to know. It was one of his failings, his relentless search for knowledge. At least he didn’t horde what he learned and was more than happy to share what he knew if people were willing to listen. There were few things he hated more than an unattentive student. Desmond was anything but that, and that intrigued Solas as much as it intimidated him. Desmond was a rare gem that Solas had not seen the likes of in a very, very long time, and he had no idea how this unknown variable would factor into his plans. He couldn’t afford the unknown messing up his carefully laid pieces on the board. He would have to watch Desmond, figure out the ways he could account for every move Desmond may make, and put safeguards in place.

But that brought him back to the problem everyone else was recognizing- Desmond was difficult to pin down in both his reactions to things and his past. From the conversations he’d eavesdropped on as well as the words from his spies, Desmond was a puzzle with several crucial pieces missing. Which was something he could ultimately handle if the man himself didn’t destroy his plans a little with every smile and kind word thrown at the elves under the Inquisition.

No one that had spoken to the Herald of Andraste for longer than five minutes wanted to betray him, even if it was for the betterment of their people. They saw him as a beacon of hope and kindness and everything good with the world. A true warrior to fight for their right to live and exist. Solas’s plans hinged on an eventual betrayal, but just by being himself, Desmond managed to make that nearly impossible.

Maybe Solas would find a way to involve Desmond somehow. Ultimately that would be the best outcome, if the Herald of Andraste agreed to aid him, but Solas knew how impossible that would be.

Solas watched the man that plagued his thoughts help one of Solas’s spies with her laundry load, talking with her and making her laugh. There were stars in her eyes that shone with a brighter awe and reverence than they ever had when talking with Solas. The only thing that kept his rage at bay was the surety that Desmond would never use these people’s affection against them. As little as Solas knew about the man, he knew that Desmond wasn’t that sort of person. Unless he was somehow some master manipulator that escaped the trained eye of everyone the Inquisition had to offer.

“Hey Solas,” the man himself called, walking up to the elf on silent feet. Solas didn’t let himself show how much Desmond’s arrival shook him. Had he been so lost in thought that he lost track of time?

“Herald,” Solas greeted neutrally.

“I wanted to ask your opinion on something,” Desmond started with a small smile. Solas was once again struck by how different this man was. Rare was the human that would ask an elf their opinion, even rarer if that elf was a mage. And yet, here he was, allowing Solas to share his thoughts to be taken under serious consideration. Yet another reason why Solas couldn’t find it in him to hate Desmond.

Chapter Text

There was a wolf in the corner of Desmond’s dreams. A big, hulking thing that looked like someone had heard of the idea of a wolf, more than actually seen one. It had several eyes that glinted red in the nowhere light of dreams and wisps of shadow danced along the edges of the creature, blurring its shape.

It didn’t do much, just watched. Desmond noticed it every time he went to sleep, but he couldn’t approach it. He was a slave to the whims of his dreams much like he wasn’t in control of his own life.

His dreams were disjointed things, Ezio running through Jerusalem, his dad snapping at him to tighten his form and try again, even as he dangled from the gallows. Sailing a ship through Monterigioni as cannons tore the city apart. And through it all, that horror wolf watched it all, its eyes calculating and curious.

He always woke with the sense that he was known- that the wolf was an indication that someone was digging through his thoughts and head against his will. It made him feel worse about this all, like he wasn’t even safe in the privacy of his own head. Everything was watched and judged and ferreted out. It bred a sort of paranoia he was used to, but wished he’d left behind in the other world. He felt disjointed, watching everyone he came across, wondering if they were the wolf in his dreams because one thing was certain- in a world of magic, there was no doubt that people could invade his dreams, and the wolf gave off a familiar feeling.

So he watched, looking to see if anyone gave off the impression they knew more about him than he’d told them. The results were... inconclusive.

Paranoia was a tricky thing. It made one jump at shadows, certain something was there. One could tell themselves that they were overacting, but then there’s always that niggling doubt of ‘is it paranoia if someone really is out to get me?’ Desmond had no doubt that someone was out to get him, and he wanted to trust his companions. But the more that he watched them, the more he realized just how much each of them was hiding.

He didn’t want to discover their secrets. That lack of barriers is what he felt every time his dreams were invaded, when he was watched and judged while at his most unguarded and vulnerable. But he also felt like he needed to know what made them feel so shifty to his senses. Sure, they were all a reassuring blue to his Vision (aside from Solas which made Desmond feel even less like his paranoia was unjustified), but someone could show up as an ally but still end up betraying him. It only had to happen once and he was always ready for the possibility again, even if he really didn’t want to be the sort of person that couldn’t trust.

Being an Assassin was both a solitary life and one filled with a small group of trustworthy people. Desmond needed to have a group he could trust, but ever since Lucy, he’d always been slightly wary of those claiming to be his friend. It went to show that one could never truly know someone, regardless of how close they are.

After two days of wandering around Haven, observing everyone from high up, trying to see if they would slip and show him what they were hiding, he was done. He was tired of his thoughts, the circles he went around in, and the fear dogging at his heels. He needed to get out of his head.

So he made his rounds, talking to each of his companions, seeing how Sera and Vivienne were settling in, and eventually making his way towards Solas, the companion who bore the brunt of his suspicions. He’d noticed that the elf was watching his approach, so Desmond took his time, some sort of petty game that he knew he was above, but couldn’t help playing anyway. Desmond was feeling all out of sorts, and he could only hope that no one noticed.

“Hey Solas,” Desmond smiled cheerily, having hopefully ruffled the elven apostate at least a little bit.

“Herald,” the elf replied, giving no indication of his feelings for Desmond’s little game. Desmond forced his face to remain pleasant and not grimace at himself for how absolutely petty he was being. His suspicions were just that and Solas didn’t deserve to be cast in a negative light when nothing had been proven. But at the same time, the elf insisted on calling him by that stupid title, so he deserved it a little bit.

“I wanted to ask your opinion on something.” Solas looked a little taken aback which Desmond found odd, but he barrelled on anyway. “Do you think the mages would be able to help seal the Breach? The working theory is that all that power could either make things worse or somehow close it. On the other hand, the templars could weaken the Breach enough as well. I don’t know if you were consulted on this already, but each of the Inquisition leaders seems to have different opinions on the correct course of action, and I know I’ll likely be called on to make some sort of decision in the end.”

Solas hummed, considering. “I believe it to not be so simple. Each option has its downsides, but I must admit that the thought of being surrounded by templars does not appeal to me in the slightest. However, the theory that they could suppress the Breach does have potential. I do not know enough about their abilities to truly tell you one way or the other. I do know magic, and Fade magic at that, however, and I firmly believe that if we were to ask the mages for aid then they would be able to enhance the mark you bear to increase its strength.” The elf shifted on his feet and gave an elegant shrug. “That is all to say, Herald, that I of course have my preference, however whichever faction you turn to for aid would likely serve just as well as the other.”

Which was zero help, Desmond thought a bit unkindly. It was informative, even if the explanation was ultimately useless and Desmond was back to where he started. “Thank you for sharing your opinion with me,” Desmond nodded, “It gave me some things to think through.” He looked up at the sky, watching the clouds shift to avoid the massive green scar in reality. “Well, you had best pack your bags. We’re headed to Redcliffe tomorrow morning, a personal invitation and all that.”

Solas nodded in acquiescence, and Desmond turned to leave. Then he stopped, turned back, and studied the elf. Maybe it would show his hand too much, but if he couldn’t trust his companions at least a little bit, then this would be a very lonely second life.

“Dreams are your specialty, right?”

Solas’s face didn’t change in the slightest, “More specifically the Fade, but as dreams are an aspect of that, then yes.”

Desmond hummed thoughtfully, “And you can enter other people’s dreams, correct?”

“If I so desired, though I often try to avoid that. Is there a reason for this line of questioning?” Solas tilted his head, eyes curious and giving Desmond nothing. Fine then, time to show his hand completely.

“I believe someone is watching my dreams, someone I know. I’m not sure who, yet, but I know that they’re invading my privacy and I want it to stop. Is there any way you know of that could shield my dreams from outside observers?”

The elf’s face contorted into a look of disgust, and Desmond had to give him credit. If Solas was truly the culprit, then he was an excellent actor. “I’m sorry you were violated in such a way. Dreamers are rare, but not unheard of, and any of our numerous mages could secretly be one, and there would be no way to tell.” Solas shook his head sadly, “Unfortunately, there is no way for a non-mage to shield themselves. There is a spell I could perform that would make you more difficult to find in the Fade by Dreamers, but there are several downsides.”

He hesitated and Desmond made a gesture for him to continue, “Lay it on me.”

Solas gave him a weird look but nodded, “It would mean that you and I would share dreams, which on one hand would give you more control over what you see when you sleep, it would also give me unfettered access to your inner thoughts and memories. Sadly there is no way around me being present, as I must be there to actively shield you from others.”

Which brought Desmond back to the original problem. “So you’re saying that I would be able to control what you see, but you will always be there?”

He shook his head, “You may control it to some extent. It will not be perfect, especially not at the beginning and it would be inevitable that I will see things you would rather I didn’t, but rest assured that I will keep whatever I learn to myself. If you wish to choose this option, the spell could be ended at any time, but the reemergence of your presence in the Fade will draw more Dreamers and demons to your mind. In essence, it would be best to be absolutely sure you would like to perform the spell with me. The consequences should not be taken lightly.”

“Awesome,” Desmond mumbled. On one hand, if it wasn’t Solas spying on him, then this spell would shield him from some unknown enemy. On the other, if it was Solas then Desmond would be opening the door for the elf. On the third hand, this way Desmond could somewhat control what Solas saw, and more importantly, know exactly what it was that his brain was sharing with the other. “You’ve given me a lot to consider,” Desmond said diplomatically. “I will get back to you with my answer by the end of the day.” He definitely didn’t want to go to sleep without feeling at least somewhat confident in his decision.

Solas nodded in understanding and Desmond took off, heading to the nearest tall building to consider his options while overlooking Haven. If he said yes to performing the spell, then not only would Solas have access to Desmond’s dreams and memories, but it also gave the elf a degree of power over Desmond that he wasn’t sure he was comfortable with. If the two of them ever had a falling out, Solas could remove his protection and Desmond would be at the mercy of his ability to resist the temptation of demons, which he knew he could do. But he would also be like catnip to the Dreamers and invite spies to watch his dreams when he couldn’t control them.

How uncomfortable was he with the current arrangement? Sure, he didn’t know who was spying on his dreams, but what were they really learning? That he dreamed of himself as different people? That his subconscious strung together different memories in disjointed ways? He was pretty sure he dreamed like that before Abstergo abducted him. That’s just how most people dreamed. Who would even think to question if Desmond belonged in this world, or if he’d been multiple people throughout his lifetime? That wasn’t a common first or second thought.

So, the question was this: Did Desmond accept Solas’s help when there may not even be a problem beyond his chronic paranoia?

He sighed and settled down to brood for a few more hours. This was, after all, a life-changing decision.

Chapter Text

An hour after scaling to the top of the Chantry, Desmond had the tentative beginnings of a plan and the sudden realization that the only companion he’d told about the trip to Redcliffe was Solas.

The sun was high in the sky, battling for space with the Breach. The bright green scar warped everything around it, the sunlight scattering and twirling into a vortex in a way that hurt Desmond’s brain the longer he looked at it. He tried to avoid the disorienting sight, but it was like watching something terrible happen right in front of him- he couldn’t make himself look away despite everything in him screaming to do so.

He tried to ignore the cold green light that washed over everything, a constant reminder of another way he’d let people down.

His first stop was to the tavern to try to get some food and hopefully find Sera in her usual haunt. The last couple of times he’d been around the excitable blonde, she’d been badgering the poor bard, Maryden, into writing a song about her. Desmond was rather interested in seeing if Sera’s tireless efforts had paid off yet.

The tavern was blessedly green-free, aside from the constant glow from Desmond’s hand. The large room was close to empty at this time of the day, aside from a few people with haunted eyes that Desmond knew had lost too much to wish for anything approaching sobriety. A few of them looked up at him with bleary eyes and weary faces, and Desmond gave them a solemn nod. He’d sat with each of them and heard what they were willing to share of their stories, and he wished he had the ability to help them, but everyone had their own heart demons and some people didn’t want to get better. And if there was one thing he’d learned, it’s that you can’t force people to change if they don’t want to.

Sera’s bright giggle broke over the gloomy mood and Desmond felt his lips quirking into a small smile. The girl was standing next to Maryden and both of them were hunched over a scroll, the bard talking quietly and Sera cackling like she was impervious to the mood surrounding the tavern. Knowing her, she probably was.

“That word is stupid,” Sera declared happily.

Desmond walked closer in time to hear Maryden sigh, “What do you want me to change it to?”

Sera shook her head, choppy blonde hair flying everywhere, “Don’t change it! It’s a perfect stupid, like,” she paused, “like nugs, right? They’re dumb as shite but just the kind you want, innit?”

Maryden blinked slowly, looking for all the world like she was completely unfazed and entirely done with Sera. Desmond was impressed by the bard’s composure.

“What’s up, Sera?” He greeted, smiling as Sera immediately dove to cover the scroll.

“No peeking!” She demanded.

Desmond held up his hands in surrender. “I would never.” He watched in amusement as she shot him a suspicious glare. “I just came to let you know that we’re headed to Redcliffe tomorrow morning.”

With that, her suspicion was gone and she immediately perked up, “I’m going with? Of course I am. Taking the best, right? Just don’t take Lady Poncy-Pants, she’s dumb and smells like flowers. Makes me sneeze.”

Desmond stifled a laugh with a small cough, “I wasn’t planning on bringing her,” he confided, “she wouldn’t be the smartest companion to bring to a meeting where she’s actively against the people we’re trying to build an alliance with.”

Sera raised her nose in the air and sniffed, “Good. But...” she looked hesitant, “we’re doing mage-y stuff, right? I can do something else, right? Like, hit people with arrows or whatever.”

He hummed, realizing that Sera’s aversion to magic was probably not a good mix for this mission, but he didn’t really want to see what would be left of Haven if he left her behind for however long the excursion would take. “Alright, how about you check on your Red Jenny network in Redcliffe and restock on some supplies, and I’ll take some of the others to deal with the mages. Sound alright?”

Sera visibly brightened, “Yeah! I can do that.”

“Cool beans,” Desmond nodded, watching in amusement as Sera mouthed the words, absolutely confused. He made a hasty retreat before she could make him explain what they meant.

Varric was tending the fire outside the tavern when Desmond escaped his choices and plunged into the cold of the Frostback Mountains. “Hey Varric,” Desmond called, walking silently up to the crouched dwarf. It always amazed him how tiny Varric was for how much space the author took up. Varric rose to his full height and came to the bottom of Desmond’s sternum, and yet his shoulders alone were broader than Desmond’s entire body. He’d never met someone proportioned like a boulder before coming to Thedas. Just another thing to remind him that he wasn’t home anymore.

“Two visits in one day,” Varric remarked drily, “You’ll make a dwarf feel special.”

“You’re incredibly special to me,” Desmond said, equally dry.

Varric broke with a short chuckle, “Stop, I’ll blush.”

Desmond grinned, “I did come for a reason, though. I wanted to make sure you knew that we’re headed out tomorrow, bright and early.”

“And just who is ‘we’?”

“Every single person in Haven,” Desmond replied with a straight face. “But also just the original three and Sera.”

“Sounds like a good time. I guess I’ll see you at the gates bright and early then.”

Desmond shot the dwarf little finger guns as he walked away, much to Varric’s visible bewilderment. Desmond sighed happily. There were several things he would never have done or said back in his home world but bringing gestures and slang from the modern world to make his companions worry for his health was a benign way to entertain himself, and he was going to take it.

Up next was Cassandra, and she was easy to spot the moment he walked out of Haven’s front gate. She was grunting and pounding away at a straw dummy, her sword strokes precise and heavy, easily spilling the straw guts of her opponent despite the dulled blade. She was down to her underarmor, sweating even as her breath puffed in white clouds with each labored exhale. Desmond walked over but didn’t interrupt her flow. Instead watching as she hacked and growled out some inner frustration she was feeling.

Her practice ended with a shout that sent birds fleeing from the trees. She dropped her sword and stood there, just breathing for a minute, and Desmond wondered if he should speak up or let her have her moment.

Before he could decide she breathed in sharply, ran her gloved fingers over her hair, and turned to face him. “What can I do for you, Herald?” She asked, her voice calm as if she hadn’t just had an emotional outburst.

Desmond hesitates, “Are you alright?”

Cassandra looked at the fallen sword, her eyes miles away. “I wished to apologize to you,” she said earnestly, dark eyes meeting his own. He started slightly, unsure what offense she had committed to leave her so torn up. “I was very judgemental of you when first we met,” she admitted, “I do not expect you to forgive me. I was rude, suspicious, and jumped to my own conclusions. I was unfair to you, and after getting to know you, I realized that you are not at all like I pictured you to be. You did not deserve my scorn.”

Desmond felt like his eyes were going to pop out of his head. He had never had someone apologize that earnestly to him before, without expectation of forgiveness. “You,” he paused, unsure where he was going with that. “You don’t need to apologize.” The second the words were out of his mouth, they felt cheap and dismissive. “I mean,” he amended, “I appreciate your apology, and I do forgive you. You had no evidence to think me innocent, aside from my own admission. I don’t blame you for doing what you thought was right with the information you had available.”

She looked at him, a creeping look of marvel overtaking her inscrutable face, “I- thank you. For saying that. I didn’t,” she stopped, looked at him for an uncomfortable moment, and then shook herself. “Thank you.”

Desmond smiled awkwardly, unsure how to take her earnest gratitude. “You have a good heart, Cassandra,” he stated, feeling incredibly out of place.

She gave him a wry smile, “I’m afraid that’s not always true.” They stood in silence for a moment too long, “Now, what did you interrupt my practice for?” She asked in good humor.

Desmond smiled slightly, “I thought tomorrow would be a good time to head to Redcliffe and take Grand Enchanter Fiona up on her invitation.”

Cassandra gave him a look, “You wish to seek the aid of the mages?”

He shrugged, “Well, only one of the factions has actually expressed interest in talking to us. It might be worth it to see what she has to say. Besides, I feel like we have to at least do something to further the quest to seal the Breach. If we leave it up to the advisors, we’ll never come to any decision.”

Cassandra chuckled lightly, “Unless Josephine decides to strong-arm them into her way of thinking.”

“Her diplomatic ways would never let her pick sides, not in something like this. She will play the devil’s advocate for both, but not weigh in either way. Ergo, a decision will not be made until either you or I make one for them.”

“I’m afraid I’ll leave that choice up to you,” Cassandra bowed out, “I believe my skills lie elsewhere.”

Desmond wanted to ask her why all the difficult decisions were now his problem, but he held his tongue and gracefully made his farewells. In his past life things more or less happened to him. He could count the big decisions he’d made on two hands and have an uncomfortable amount of fingers left over. But now here he was, making life-changing choices left and right, deciding the fate of the world when he barely felt qualified to choose the right outfit in the morning. And according to Vivienne, he was still messing that up.

He sighed, there was nothing for it but to activate the con artist syndrome, which was his favored version of impostor syndrome. Did he belong there? Hell no, but he’d make damn sure that no one but him knew that. Becoming a con man is one of the only ways to be a true Assassin, and he was damn good at being an Assassin.

The sun was starting to drop further in the sky, and Desmond felt his stomach follow. It was time to make one of those life-altering decisions.

The trek back to Solas’s cabin was filled with doubts. Was he making the right decision? Could he handle the consequences of this one choice? Well, he was going to have to, he realized as he saw Solas perk up at Desmond’s approach.

“Herald,” the elf greeted, “have you come to a decision?”

Desmond nodded, “I have a few last-minute questions, however.”

Solas tilted his head downward, “I am at your disposal.”

“Is there a way to learn to control my dreams without the use of the spell?” This was an important question that Desmond foolishly had not thought of asking before. It would fix a lot of things.

“Sadly, I would not be the person to ask,” Solas said regretfully, “For while dreams are part of my specialty, I must admit that I have always had complete control over my own. I’m sure there are ways, but I’m afraid the only way I’m aware of is through magic, which you do not have.”

Desmond shrugged, if he had magic, it was definitely not the kind that was useful in this scenario. He would have hoped that his connection to the Isu had given him some mastery over his subconscious but alas, it seemed all it gave him were unsettling dreams and odd little nightmares. “And if we were to do this spell, would I see into your memories?”

Solas looked uncomfortable, “That is not entirely out of the realm of possibility. While it would be incredibly rare for you to see anything I do not wish you to, we will be melding our dreams, in a sense. It is not impossible.”

“So what exactly do you get out of helping me?” Desmond wasn’t sure what benefit there could possibly be, beyond getting to snoop in Desmond’s mind, which he couldn’t imagine the elf admitting to.

“Besides getting to know more about our elusive leader?” Solas asked in good humor, surprising Desmond a little bit. “I believe that learning to shield your mind would be in the Inquisition’s best interest. Someone created the Breach, and that person has unknown forces at their disposal. Perhaps they have Dreamers of their own and hope to spy on the Inquisition through the Herald’s mind. I do not wish to die, Herald,” Solas admitted, “and it seems more and more likely that, if we are not careful, not everyone will make it out alive.”

Which was perfectly reasonable and Desmond believed none of it. Or at least, he didn’t believe that Solas was telling the whole truth. “You know what?” Desmond decided, “Fuck it. Let’s do the spell.”

Desmond’s thinking was rather simple, in the end. Sure, Solas likely had a hidden agenda, and Desmond would be screwed if and when the elf rescinded his aid, but ultimately, Desmond wanted to trust. He wanted some form of control, and maybe understanding and being able to shape his dreams the way he wanted to would be the key to ending the Bleeding Effect that he was beginning to suspect was happening more than he realized if the worried looks of his companions were anything to go by.

He wanted to believe that Solas had good intentions. They’d been traveling together for almost five months, and yes, the elf was secretive, judgemental, and quite arrogant, he seemed like he had a good heart. Sure, he was angry about something, remorseful in a way that made him slightly enraged at almost everything he saw, but Desmond could tell that he wanted the best for the world. Whether that was a good thing or not, remained to be seen.

Besides, Desmond didn’t even need access to Solas’s memories to learn more about the elf. They would be sharing dreams for the next however long, it was inevitable that they would become friends. Desmond hoped so, anyway.

So yes, he was making a rash decision, but it was his to make. He might have been manipulated into it, but it wasn’t fate, and that was a key distinction. It was his own terrible decision, and regardless of the consequences, he would see it through. That was a problem for future Desmond, however. Present Desmond’s problem was the slow, satisfied smile that spread across Solas’s face. It made him want to rescind his agreement.

“Then let us begin. There is a potion rune I must draw, small and impermanent, but necessary to link our minds, at least for the beginning of the spell. It will allow me to find you when we sleep until I memorize the shape of your dreams. The magic itself will take place in the Fade. What better connector than the dimension of magic itself, no?”

Desmond nodded, only slightly interested in how it all worked, just hoping that it did. “Is there anything you need me to do?”

Solas looked considering for a moment before shaking his head. “No, I should have all the ingredients in my cabin. Come visit me before you sleep, and we will begin.”

Desmond thanked Solas and headed back to his own cabin to start packing. He didn’t know how he’d feel in the morning, but his guess was ‘not good’. For better or worse, he’d made his decision, and he was going to stick to it.

Chapter Text

There was someone staring at Ezio. Someone that felt familiar, yet he was sure he had never seen before. He prided himself on how good he was with faces, he had to be in his line of work. Yet, the bald man with large eyes and pointed ears was someone Ezio was sure he had never seen.

The man’s gaze traced over Ezio’s face, and while there was a time when the Assassin welcomed people’s eyes on him, this time it made him feel exposed, seen, and dissected. He felt stripped to the bone and read like a book. It made him want to shy away from the eyes that glinted like a cat’s in low light. But that instinctual need to hide made Ezio more sure that he needed to stand his ground.

Ezio was wearing his armor, he had his weapons, and he was a Mentor of the Brotherhood of Assassins. He would not be cowed by a man in rags leaning on a wooden staff.

“Desmond,” the man spoke with an interesting accent. He didn’t say anything else, just waiting for a reaction. Ezio blinked slowly, fighting very hard to not react to that name. The name he’d heard once before. Was this man the mysterious ‘Desmond’? Or was he calling Ezio that? Or was he simply stating that name as a way to say he had a hold over knowledge he shouldn’t have?

The man watched Ezio’s non-reaction and hummed consideringly. “Interesting,” he said, making an abortive move to come closer, and then seemingly deciding against it, despite Ezio not giving away that he was prepared to attack. “I’m quite sure that I connected to the correct mind, and yet you look nothing like Desmond. Is it blood magic, I wonder?”

Ezio didn’t understand a word of what the man was saying, and yet the meaning was somehow quite clear to him. It was like a song he had forgotten and yet intimately knew the tune of. He didn’t respond. Didn’t even know how to.

“No, I don’t believe this has anything to do with magic,” the man hummed again, luminescent eyes tracing up and down Ezio’s body with clinical detachment. It made Ezio incredibly uncomfortable. “Curious,” was the conclusion.

Ezio narrowed his eyes, “Who are you? Why do you look at me so?” He finally decided to speak, using the language he knew and not whatever nonsense the man was spouting.

The man’s head tilted, large eyes widening a fraction. “I do not understand. Is that Antivan? Is that where you are from?” It didn’t sound like he expected a response to his question, which was good because Ezio didn’t have one. The man shook his head. “Desmond,” he said again, “You are Desmond, correct? You have the shape of his mind, but also not. I hope I did not do the spell incorrectly. I must admit I have not done it before.”

“Desmond,” Ezio repeated slowly. This time it felt like it had a distant ring to it, like he should know it beyond being his Prophet. And why would this man ask him if Ezio was Desmond? Ezio clenched his jaw slightly, “What do you know?” Even as he asked the question, he knew it was futile. The man didn’t seem to understand him, and beyond that, he appeared just as confused as Ezio.

“Well, as... uninformative as this has been,” the man said slowly, “I have a spell to perform and would like to find Desmond. Farewell.”

Ezio wanted to squeeze the man for answers he wasn’t even sure could be given. He didn’t want to let the man go, but also couldn’t wait for that eerie gaze to leave him. He watched in silence as the mystery man turned his back to Ezio, seemingly unaware of how dangerous that move would be if Ezio was inclined to harm him. Perhaps the man knew that Ezio wasn’t going to do anything. That made him want to attack, just to be contrary. But he hadn’t gotten as far as he had in life by being petty and reactive, even though he had definitely had his moments in his youth.

He tracked the man’s movements as he faded into what Ezio suddenly realized was somewhere he had never been before. The world was wispy, dream-like. Half forgotten in a way only memory was. As his eyes focused on one part of the bland room, everything else blurred. He couldn’t recall what he had just been looking at the moment he looked away.

Everything was a smoky green, and that thought niggled at Ezio’s brain. He was forgetting something, something more important than this room he couldn’t remember. He felt the answer on the tip of his tongue, so close, he just had to focus...

The man walked back into the room, shattering Ezio’s concentration. The man’s brows drew together and he looked incredibly puzzled, like he hadn’t meant to be there. “This cannot be right,” he decided, staring at Ezio more intently. “You cannot be Desmond. There is no magic that can change someone into another person.”

Ezio felt a growl threaten to escape his throat. He was not Desmond, he was Ezio, and if this pointy-eared man would stop looking at him like he was a curiosity he wished to dissect, that would be great. Or Ezio could rip out his eyes. That was certainly an option.

“And yet you are the one that I keep being drawn to while searching for Desmond. How fascinating.”

“What’s fascinating is my blade through your stomach,” Ezio said, perfectly pleasant, just to see if the man really could truly understand him or not.

“I do not know what you said,” he admitted regretfully. “It would make everything easier if we could communicate.” He stared at Ezio a moment longer, then shook his head ruefully. “It’s never been this difficult before. Very well, I shall try one last time to find Desmond.”

And then he turned and left, but Ezio was caught on those last two words. Find Desmond. He didn’t understand. He was right here? He’d always been right here. Why was Solas trying to find him?

He looked around himself, knowing he was dreaming, and recalling, slowly, that he had just been Ezio, and that Solas had met one of Desmond’s carefully laid secrets. But more than that, Solas had implied that he had found Desmond before in dreams. That meant that the elf was the one that was stalking his sleep, invading his privacy and now given free rein to get inside Desmond’s head.

On one hand, that was terrible. Solas had an unknown agenda, Desmond didn’t even know if he was an ally. He’d met Ezio, although thank whoever was listening that Solas didn’t understand Italian, or who knows what would have been said that Desmond didn’t want to get out.

On the other hand, Desmond felt more present in his dreams, more in control. Like he could affect the world around him and show only what he wanted to. As a test of his capabilities, he imagined he was holding a feather, the type he would collect in the Animus, just to keep his mind on task. And just like that, he was holding a spotted owl feather. He stroked along the edge and was surprised by how real it felt. Fluffy and only slightly yielding.

With a thought, he was wearing Altair’s armor, complete with the sword at his hip. It felt like slipping into comfortable clothing after a difficult day. Altair was the first, and although his clothes were armored, they were nowhere near the weight of Ezio’s or Connor’s.

Desmond pulled the hood off just as Solas walked back into the dream room. The elf’s face was surprised for a moment before it was quickly schooled into a mask of curiosity. “Ah, there you are,” Solas said with a slight smile.

Desmond decided to play dumb. “You were looking for me?”

Solas had an unreadable expression on his face as he studied the Assassin. “Indeed. Now, this is the last chance you have to back out of the spell,” he warned.

And Desmond really wanted to, for a moment. This felt like it would define his whole life. But there was a niggling thought that this would actually allow him to know Solas better, learn what made him tick and what made him appear golden to Eagle Vision. This seemed like his only chance. So, he did what any good Assassin does, he took a Leap of Faith.

“Fuck it,” he declared, an echo of his initial decision, “let’s do this thing.”

Solas nodded solemnly and the sharp scent of ozone filled the non-air of the Fade as bright blue magic started gathering around the elf. Desmond felt the hair on his arms stand up straight with the build-up of energy. Solas’s arms went up as if in supplication, and Desmond had a split second of doubt before Solas pushed the magic towards him.

It hit Desmond with a sort of internal force, a chill that passed through his body and settled uncomfortably inside his mind. A pressure just behind his forehead. It didn’t hurt, which Desmond considered to be a small mercy, but it was very distracting.

“The sensation should fade, with time,” Solas said as if reading Desmond’s mind. He was suddenly very suspicious about that being one of the side-effects the elf had conveniently forgotten to mention. “Although I admit, as this is my first time performing the spell, I do not know how long that will take.”

“Can you read my mind?” Desmond decided to ask outright.

Solas startled a little bit, “I do not believe so. That is the domain of blood magic, of which I am not a practitioner.”

Desmond hummed, unsure if Solas was telling the truth, but for his own sanity, he decided to believe him.

“I had wished to speak to you about a matter that has been on my mind, but it appears it is time to wake up. We have a full day of travel ahead of us,” Solas said regretfully.

“It’s been like five minutes,” Desmond said in shock. There was no way that it was already morning.

Solas shrugged elegantly, “The logic of reality does not translate to dreams, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t be scared,” Desmond said, even as he could feel himself waking up. His last sight in the dream was Solas looking exhaustedly at him. And then he was staring at the rafters of his cabin, wondering inanely if this new dream-sharing would make him a heavy sleeper. He should have asked before committing. Heavy sleeping could be a death sentence, especially to someone in his position.

Well, it wasn’t like he would never see Solas again. He could always ask the elf what other questions he thought of. After all, they would be spending a fuckton of time together. Every night, in fact. Which sounded way more enjoyable than it probably actually was going to be.

Desmond heaved himself out of bed and set about changing into his armor. He really didn’t want to remove any clothes, the chill of Haven’s eternal winter seeping into his cabin and misting his breath. But his armor was better padded, once it had soaked up enough of his body heat so as to be more comfortable than ice against his bare skin.

He shivered heavily as he strapped his weapons to his person, slinging the bow along his back and daggers at his hips. Shoving vials of poisons into one pack, and healing potions to another, he did a cursory glance around his cabin to see if he missed anything while packing the night before.

The walls were lined with generic tapestries to help preserve warmth, which didn’t do much considering the ill-fitting shutters covering the windows. The corners were stacked with boxes of random supplies, not even their beloved Herald got a space all to himself when the Inquisition needed places to keep things. All of Desmond’s own things were contained in his backpack, a small dresser, and a nightstand next to the bed.

He quickly grabbed the journal of his musings in at least four different languages that was sitting innocently by his bed and hefted his backpack onto his shoulders. The journal went into a side-sheath for easy access, and, with one last glance around, he made his way into the biting cold of the morning.

It was going to be a comparatively short trip to the Hinterlands, where it was marginally warmer than Haven, but traveling down a mountain had its own problems, especially with horses. This time around there weren’t going to be any soldiers or scouts accompanying the party of five, so it would, theoretically, be a quicker trip.

In the Hinterlands he would have his first real interaction with the bulk of the rebel mages. He had met a few, yes, but he was about to be surrounded by quite a lot of angry and miserable people. He didn’t know if he was fully prepared, but he was about to find out.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t any less cold standing at the gates of Haven while waiting for his companions, so Desmond found himself stomping his feet and breathing hot air into his gloved hands. He was barely there for a minute before Cassandra came walking up, a grumpy and tired look on her face. The two of them grunted at each other in greeting as Desmond shoved his freezing hands into his armpits hoping for body heat to stave off frostbite.

They stood in silence, Desmond watching out of the corner of his eye how Cassandra seemed to go into a still meditative state and didn’t even shiver in the cold. He envied her sharply.

“My balls have crawled back into my body,” Varric said in greeting. Desmond snorted despite himself, feeling a bit annoyed at how cheerful the dwarf was this early in the morning. Sure, Desmond felt well rested, but the cold had sapped him of his good mood, and he just wanted to get moving, hoping that the travel would warm him up. Though with the way the wind was blowing, he didn’t think he would be getting any less chilled.

Cassandra ignored them and continued to stand perfectly motionless with her eyes closed. Desmond half wondered if she had fallen asleep while standing up, and yet again envied her.

Speak of dreams and the devil will be summoned, Desmond decided, watching as Solas and Sera walked up together, both looking like they would rather be near anyone else.

“It’s cold as shite,” Sera whined, a thick fur coat wrapped around her thin frame, covering up the bright colors she wore. Tall boots kissed the bottom of the coat, hiding the yellow plaidweave Desmond knew she was wearing underneath. Desmond wished he had a coat like hers, but he also didn’t know if he was willing to sacrifice mobility for the comfort it provided.

Solas, meanwhile, still didn’t have shoes on and wore only slightly more layers than he usually did. Desmond was freezing just looking at him. The elf looked around the group and shrugged, “Magic,” was his explanation, and Desmond realized that everyone was looking at him like he was crazy. Magic was a good explanation, but Desmond thought it was a little rude that he wasn’t extending his magical warmth to the rest of them. Even Sera looked like she was thinking about asking him for some assistance, and she hated magic. But then she shook herself and glared at Solas as she inched away.

Desmond looked around at the group, “Are you guys ready to head out?”

They all gave their affirmative and started walking toward the stables. A few of the stablehands had woken up before them and prepared the horses for travel, so all Desmond had to do was thank them and grab their respective horses. Desmond’s was the mare he had gotten from Dennet, a pretty brown miss that he had named Minerva, because despite how terrible things were in his original world, Minerva had tried her best, and now she would carry him around everywhere. But also, fuck the Isu. Despite how much he liked his horse, he found some sort of pleasure in naming an animal after a pseudo-god. It entertained him every time he saw Minerva the horse.

“Hello, little miss,” he greeted Minerva, stroking a gloved hand along her soft snout. “You ready for this trip?”

Minerva whinnied and started trying to eat Desmond’s short hair. He chuckled and looked at his companions who were all staring back. It was then he realized he was talking in Kanien’keha, the native language of Ratonhnhake:ton.

“What language is that?” Varric asked, looking completely thrown. Desmond remembered how it had sounded to Haytham, and realized how odd it must be to an outsider. It was just part of the several languages that all fought to be his native tongue. Sometimes Desmond wondered what language he thought in. It all sounded the same to him, more or less.

“Uh,” he paused and thought for a second. “My grandpa’s native language.” Which wasn’t a lie. Ratonhnhake:ton was kind of his grandpa, just a bit further down the line, and also sometimes felt like he was Desmond, but it was close enough.

“And you speak to horses with it,” Sera stated bluntly.

Desmond shrugged. He didn’t know. Unless someone pointed out his language shift, he rarely ever noticed. “Enough about that,” he decided, “let’s head out.” They all hoisted themselves onto their mounts and started what was likely to be a three-day trek to Redcliffe.

The first few hours as they were waking up were filled with mostly silence. There were a few scattered comments here and there, but mostly they were focusing on not falling off the steep edges of the pathway.

It was only when the sun was starting to brighten the sky and slightly warm the group that conversation picked up.

“Hey Varric,” Desmond called out to their resident dwarf. “What is it you did before coming to Haven?”

Varric chuckled, “You mean before I was kidnapped?”

“I didn’t kidnap you!” Was Cassandra’s predictable exclamation.

“Sure, sure. I was treated to a nice warm welcome by being knocked out and dragged through my friend’s abandoned mansion and then threatened at knife point. But definitely wasn’t kidnapped.”

“There were extenuating circumstances,” Cassandra defended.

“Children, please,” Desmond chided. Sera giggled behind him, snorting in her laughter. Cassandra huffed angrily but didn’t say anything more.

“To answer you question, Your Absolute Holiness,” Varric started, ignoring the dirty glare Desmond shot him. “I am an esteemed member of the Merchant’s Guild, of which there is no actual merchant-ing involved. Very misleading, I know,” he nodded solemnly.

“So what do you actually do then?”

Varric shrugged, “To quote my past self, coins flow when I talk and when I shut up. That, m’Lord, is what I do.”

Desmond nodded, “That makes sense.”

“It does?” Varric asked, surprised. “Huh, most people don’t understand that.” He looked at Desmond suspiciously, “What is it you think you know?”

Desmond gave him a confused look, “People don’t understand that? How... never mind. It means you learn information and sometimes you’re paid to tell it, probably to select people or in special situations, but other times your silence is what is bought. Makes perfect sense.”

“That sounds morally unjust,” Cassandra piped up, her face showing just how disgusted she was with Varric.

“Is it?’ Desmond questioned thoughtfully before Varric could get defensive. “Do you not do the same thing, Cassandra? Sometimes you withhold information because someone doesn’t need to know it, whether it’s related to your personal life or your position. But other times, the right words to the right person could help the situation. It’s not so black and white as you seem to think.”

Cassandra harrumphed, “It’s Varric, Herald. His intentions are never pure.”

“I don’t want to argue with you, Cassandra, but Varric is a person, and people rarely deal in absolutes. Saying someone is ‘never’ or ‘always’ a certain way is dismissing their right to be a person. Even the person you would consider evil down to their core, might be nice to animals, or be doing what they do because they think they’re doing the right thing. Conversely, someone who is inherently kind and what most would think of as ‘good’ can make bad decisions and make mistakes.” Everyone was looking at him. “Anyway, I’m just saying that judging people for what you perceive to be ‘good’ or ‘bad’ is a little bit hypocritical and dismissive of what they might be going through or thinking.” Desmond cleared his throat and felt like he said too much.

“Then what about all the people that you kill?” Cassandra asked, raring for a fight. “Are you not immediately judging them as ‘bad’?”

Desmond looked at her, at her closed-off body language and her challenging eyes. She didn’t want to listen, to hear what he was saying. But everyone else in the party was looking at him, waiting for an answer, so he gave one. “I’m not saying that I’m always making the right decision, or that I’m free from initial judgment. There is such a thing as self-defense and fighting for what I believe in. I know that those I kill are also fighting for what they believe in, and defending themselves. I live by a code, and I don’t claim to be perfect, but in a world that so often lives by the rule of ‘kill or be killed’, there are certain decisions I have to make, and categories I have to put people in. Such as ‘enemy’ and ‘friend’. And Varric is a friend. Therefore I will defend him as I would myself.” He couldn’t handle the look of absolute awe and gratitude that Varric sent him, so he turned away. “Thanks for coming to my TED Talk,” he mumbled to himself.

“That is a very mature way of thinking,” Solas said, sounding impressed. Desmond shrugged uncomfortably. He hoped he was at least somewhat mature, as he had probably lived around two hundred years by now. If he wasn’t mature yet, he never would be.

“That was a lot of words,” Sera decided loudly. “I just shoot the bad people.” Desmond rolled his eyes away from her. That was one way of looking at it, he supposed. He wondered what Sera would be like when she grew up if she ever did. She was the queen of making snap judgments though, and he didn’t think there was any way to articulate to her in words she would understand, how absolutely damaging that was to not only her own psyche but also to those around her. She would either learn that later, or she wouldn’t. It wasn’t actually his job to teach her these things, regardless of what he just said to Cassandra. That felt different, more like a reminder than an actual lesson.

“To get back on topic, but slightly to the left,” Desmond swiftly side-stepped whatever reaction was going to come from Solas’s antagonism with Sera. “Varric, you adventured a lot in the past eleven years, right? At least according to your book.”

Varric glanced warily at Cassandra, “Yeah, a bit. A trip to the Deep Roads here, the systematic slaughter of most of my city there. It’s been a time, let me tell you.”

“Sounds like it,” Desmond agreed, “I was just wondering if any of this felt nostalgic.”

“Well,” Varric said, stroking a thick hand along his non-existent beard, “There’s a lot more horse riding and end-of-the-world fear that makes me change my undergarments at least three times a day,” Desmond chuckled while Cassandra made a retching sound in the background, “but the banter is similar. This version of adventuring is a lot less comfortable, however. So to answer your question, it’s nostalgic in the absolute worst way, so basically not at all.”

Desmond nodded, “I get it, kind of. I mean I’ve never had the giant hole in the sky that’s threatened to tear apart reality, but traipsing through the forest completing random quests, and killing a bunch of people is pretty on-brand for me.”

“And what did you say you did before this?” Varric questioned innocently.

Desmond shot him a smile, “I didn’t.”

“I’ll get you someday.” Varric glared lightheartedly.

“Sure you will,” Desmond said consolingly, entertained by the dwarf’s constant attempts to learn more about him. He could say he had been a bartender or something, but the mystery was more fun. Plus, he didn’t really want people to know about his past life, especially now that he was famous, or rather, infamous. The more people knew about him, the more they would judge his current actions through the lens of his past, and it was difficult to spin being an Assassin in a good light. He could just say that he was a protector of free will, but that sounded incredibly pretentious and invited questions he didn’t want to answer. Best to keep his past vague and contradictory, and allow people to draw their own conclusions.

Conversation flowed to other topics. Sera was in turn complaining about her ass hurting and making sure the topics didn’t get too serious, Cassandra begrudgingly apologized to Varric and then immediately started making conversation with Solas, but rather intelligently dancing around any topics that could spark another argument. Magic was strictly off the table since the subject would make Sera upset and Cassandra still held some reservations about mages. Varric made jokes where appropriate and kept their spirits high through the long day.

Desmond, for his part, asked questions about the world, but only things he thought would be more light, such as different plants they came across and their uses. He also asked about the criminal underground, such as the coterie, which was basically the gang that was all-inclusive to every race, and the carta, which was primarily dwarves. The coterie was more like the gangs from Earth, Desmond realized. They had their hierarchy, and they were the violent underground that preyed on those walking the streets at night that wasn’t covered under their ridiculous ‘protection fee’. Meanwhile, the carta, while still occasionally violent, were mostly lyrium smugglers. But they held a monopoly over the business, and anyone who tried to smuggle lyrium independently was swiftly dealt with using extreme prejudice. Long story short, the coterie was to be avoided, and the carta could be useful if handled correctly.

That discussion inevitably led to Desmond asking for a more in-depth explanation of what lyrium was, since it seemed to be so important. Surprisingly it was Varric, not Solas, who answered Desmond, telling him that lyrium was basically magic in physical, solid form. It seemed almost to be alive, from what Varric had heard from his contacts. It sang, and had some sort of pulse, and would regrow over time. Some parts of the Deep Roads that had been abandoned were now covered in lyrium that had regrown. Because it was such a high concentration of magic, no one but dwarves could get close to it in its raw form. Dwarven skin was naturally resistant to magic, so they often mined the stuff and refined it to forms that were usable by mages and templars.

The mages used watered-down lyrium potions to supplement their magical reserves or perform magical acts that they didn’t have enough power to complete on their own. Templars used a more pure version of it to gain some sort of magical power. The downside was that it was incredibly addictive and there were severe consequences for quitting lyrium, up to and including death. One did not start taking it lightly, which answered Desmond’s question of why it wasn’t used as a more common drug if it was so powerful. It didn’t give a high, according to Cassandra who, while she hadn’t taken it herself, had been around several templars that had explained the effects to her. But what it did give was a burning rush that went through the whole body and then was immediately followed by a cooling sensation and immediate power, like a massive shot of caffeine on an empty stomach. The effects lasted almost twelve hours unless depleted by expending the power, but if it wears off naturally, the templar usually sleeps off the drain on their energy and then takes another draught in the morning. It sounded like some severe drug addiction to Desmond, but Cassandra claimed it was a necessary evil, earning a nasty glare from Solas.

Desmond quickly changed the subject to ask about slightly easier topics, like what they would do with the mages. The plan ended up being pretty simple. Chat with Grand Enchanter Fiona, ask what they wanted in exchange for the assistance of the mages, and hopefully head back to Haven with a group of them to get the Breach officially sealed.

That plan lasted until the group reached the gates of Redcliffe, where there was an active rift that was not only spewing out demons but also bending time around it. The air seemed to ripple around the rift, like a mirage in the distance, but right in front of them. If the group wasn’t careful or chose the wrong ripple, they would slow down to a crawl and be stuck moving at a fraction of the speed of everyone else. But there were some of the spots that increased speed, to the point where it looked like the rest of the world was almost at a stand-still. The fight, in the end, was easy enough. Eagle Vision made finding the right spots a cinch. The places where time sped up were white, while the slowed spots were red. It was an easy fight, but it was incredibly unnerving. Why were the rifts reacting like this? Were the tears in reality getting worse, affecting time like cancerous growth? It was worrying.

Closing the rift itself was a disturbing affair. The normal secrets the rifts promised were increased with tempting offers of knowing the future and past. Desmond could understand everything the world had to offer, he would be omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent. If only he would keep the rift open, and seek its power.

It shut with an almost audible boom, sending Desmond to his knees, panting. “Fuck, what was that?” He breathed, more to himself than his companions.

“I didn’t like that one bit. This place gives me the creepies,” Sera said, giggling nervously. Desmond nodded absently, took a deep breath, and heaved himself to his feet.

“Let’s get going.”

As the group walked closer to the village gate, they saw faces poking over the walls and through the portcullis, the people finally popping out of the woodwork now that the rift had been closed. Almost hesitantly the gate was opened and a few armored soldiers peeked out, weapons first. When all they saw were five travelers, they relaxed and half-heartedly asked the group to state their business. Desmond told them, somewhat breathlessly, that they were there on invitation.

The guards didn’t even ask who invited them before waving the small party through. They were barely ten steps past the gates when a messenger ran up to them, eyes roving over their gear and stopping on Desmond’s glowing hand.

“Herald of Andraste!” Her eyes were wide with wonder, but also a hint of fear. “We were not expecting a visit from someone as esteemed as you! Magister Alexius will want to greet you.”

There were a few too many things to focus on with what she had said, but firstly, “Magister Alexius? We were invited here by Grand Enchanter Fiona about two and a half months ago.”

If Desmond thought he was confused, he had nothing on the face the girl made, “Fiona hasn’t left Redcliffe since we got here six months ago. Also, she’s no longer the Grand Enchanter, nor is she in charge of the mages. Magister Alexius speaks for us now.”

Desmond blinked, took a deep breath, held it, and then chalked everything up as magical fuckery. “May we speak with Magister Alexius then?”

The girl nodded eagerly, “I’m sure he’d love to see such an important guest like you. If you wait in the tavern, The Gull and Lantern just up the hill, I’ll go fetch him right away.” With that, she turned and sprinted away.

“Nuh-uh. I’m out,” Sera loudly proclaimed and then left the group with her horse as she disappeared into the crowd. Desmond honestly couldn’t blame her. He kind of wanted nothing to do with this either. He’d had enough of weird magic fuckery, even if it was technically just science. Tapping into one’s DNA and reliving the memories of their ancestors was definitely magic, he didn’t care what anyone said. And now some weird time shenanigans... No, thank you.

He would just say that the person he had met on the way back from Val Royeaux hadn’t been Fiona at all, but Vivienne had met her before, and according to the information Solas unwittingly provided, magic can’t give someone a different face, unless through demons, apparently. But Fiona didn’t have the green glow of a demon, so it had to have been her. But now the girl had said it wasn’t her, and Desmond’s head hurt.

He sighed heavily and jerked his head toward the stables. “Let’s see what’s happening now.” Sometimes he felt like he was a school teacher herding children around with how his companions follow him everywhere, but it usually worked in his favor, even if he wasn’t technically getting paid for any of the work he was doing. All his coin came from looting the dead, which honestly wasn’t too different from his past life. Or lives, as the case may be.

After settling their horses with the stable hands, the now group of four followed the messenger’s vague directions to the tavern. The outside was a dingy little building with warped wood aged grey and distorted from rainwater and the spray of the lake at the edges of the village. But it was obviously a very popular establishment as there was a steady stream of people entering the tavern, and not many people exiting.

The inside was warm to the point of nearly sweltering, especially with the extra layers the party was wearing to stave off the cold. Desmond instantly felt sweat beading at the base of his spine and saw Varric taking off his outer coat out of the corner of his eye. He wanted to do the same, but he didn’t actually have any layers that could come off with this specific outfit, sadly. So instead he bore the heat with a stoic face and walked deeper into the busy establishment.

“Herald,” a startled voice called out. Desmond turned and saw Fiona making her way towards them through the throng. He would wonder how she knew his title, but all one had to do was look at his obnoxiously glowing hand and they’d know instantly. No such thing as anonymity anymore.

“Grand Enchanter Fiona,” he greeted politely.

She looked even more startled, “You know who I am? Not that I’m a Grand Enchanter anymore.”

Desmond tilted his head slightly, “We met on the road to Val Royeaux. You invited us here.” He wanted to see her reaction, see for himself if maybe she snuck out of Redcliffe and made her way to him, but the blatant confusion on her face cleared that up quickly.

“I haven’t been to Val Royeaux in almost a year, I’m afraid, and I’ve certainly never met you before.”

“Then who did I meet?”

She looked him over, caressing him with her eyes in an almost uncomfortable manner. “I do not know, but whatever or whoever brought you here, the situation has changed. I am no longer in charge here.”

Desmond nodded, “I heard. Magister Alexius was it?”

“Yes. That would be me,” answered a deep voice behind the group. Desmond spun and saw a man in slightly ridiculous clothing and a smug, punchable face.

Well, Desmond decided, this would be interesting.

Alexius had ushered Desmond to a table that was immediately vacated at their approach, which Desmond thought was rather indicative of the type of person Alexius was. Desmond sat across from the Magister as his team spread out within listening distance but enough apart so that it was clear they weren’t involved in the discussion. Alexius’s guards stood stoically to the side and faced the crowd. Either they were very dumb, turning their back on a potential threat, or they didn’t view Desmond as a threat. Or, perhaps Alexius was dangerous in his own right and they felt he could protect himself well enough against a few enemies, but not a mob.

“Welcome to Redcliffe, Herald. That is what they’re calling you, yes?” Alexius didn’t wait for Desmond to respond before he continued, “I apologize for the accommodations, but it seemed the most appropriate for an initial, informal meeting.”

His every word was dripped in polite slime, and Desmond felt like he would need to scrub himself clean after this conversation. It really didn’t help that he glowed red under Eagle Vision. But this man spoke for the mages, and Desmond would really rather get this whole thing over with so he didn’t have to ask the templars for help.

He would need charm and just a little bit of wild abandon for this conversation. So Desmond accessed one of the ancestors he hadn’t touched the skills of in a while, and Edward Kenway smiled at Magister Alexius.

Chapter Text

Edward reclined on the rickety chair like it was a throne, body loose and projecting that he was the one with all the cards. Sure, Magister Alexius was the one the Inquisition was coming to for aid, but Edward didn’t have to treat him like that.

“So, Alexius,” he purred the man’s name and watched as his companions jolted slightly out of the side of his eye. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” Edward knew his accent was different from Desmond’s but in this case, he didn’t try to hide it and instead used the words in a way he knew how to curl his tongue around just so.

Alexius’s eyes roved over Edward’s resplendent pose, his eyes holding a touch of contempt. “Magister Alexius, if you please,” the man corrected, clearly attempting to be polite.

“My apologies, Magister,” he said the word like the filthiest innuendo just to watch the man try not to react. Very entertaining. “I received an invitation to your beautiful little refugee camp some months ago. I apologize for the late response.” There, now if Alexius attempted to deny the invitation he would appear as rude, or he could claim that it was his invitation and be marked as a liar. That, of course, led to one more option.

“You are, of course, always welcome to Redcliffe, Herald,” Alexius said, perfectly pleasant.

Ah, the sweet taste of someone doing exactly as he wants them to. “Why thank you, Magister,” oh how entertaining to use the man’s requested title feels more like a sex thing than an actual sign of respect. “As for why I’m here,” he started before he was automatically out of his chair and catching a man who had fallen in his direction. He had moved without thinking, out of pure reaction, and only after the fact realized how stupid that was. This guy could be an assassin sent to kill the famed Herald of Andraste, especially with those innocently large hazel eyes. It was always the one you least expected.

“Felix!” Alexius exclaimed loudly, moving his chair back with force as he stood up.

Desmond took a closer look at the guy in his arms as he helped him to stand. The man was sickly pale, the skin around his large eyes bruised a deep purple. He was wearing the same slightly ridiculous style as Alexius, but he had a much kinder face. Desmond didn’t react as the man slid something into his hand before they separated.

“Father,” Felix said slowly, painfully. “I apologize for the interruption.”

Even as he was speaking, Alexius was shaking his head, “It is perfectly alright. Come, let’s get your powders.” He turned to Desmond, his face full of nothing but concern. He seemed to look past the Assassin, eyes worried. “We will have to pick this up another time, I’m afraid. I will send a raven with a new meeting.”

Desmond nodded, knowing that if he spoke it would be a terrible version of Edward’s accent. Languages, he could do and speak fluently. Accents within his own language were horrible and he was better off not trying. He waited until the Magister, his son, and their guards had left, studiously ignoring the looks his companions were giving him, before he opened the note he’d been stealthily given.

“‘Come to the chantry. You’re in danger.’” He spoke out loud for the benefit of his team. “Well, I could have told him that. What do you guys think? Trap?” He turned towards the others and knew immediately that they would not let his brief slip into Edward Kenway go as easily as he hoped they would.

“What was that?” Cassandra asked, halfway between harsh and concerned.

“Neat party trick,” Varric commented. “You were like a completely different person.”

Solas just stared searchingly.

Desmond shrugged uncomfortably. “It wasn’t that different,” he attempted.

They all gave him incredulous looks, “Desmond,” Varric said slowly, using his name for probably the first time, “I have never heard you speak like that to anyone. And it wasn’t just the way you spoke, but your entire body language. You, as Desmond, act like you know every part of your body and how best to use it as a weapon. Just then, you used your every muscle as a distraction. That’s not something that can be easily changed. Trust me, I know all kinds of people.” Varric looked Desmond up and down, “So to repeat the Seeker’s question, what was that?”

“I uh,” he paused to think of what to say and how to say it, drew a blank, and panicked slightly. “I think we should head to the chantry. Might be time-sensitive.”

Cassandra glared at him for a moment, and he would have thought it was threatening if he couldn’t see the worry in her eyes. He looked away. He knew he should open up with these people at some point, but it just wasn’t in his nature. As a kid at the Farm, he was taught that Assassins work in the shadows and they are a part of the whole. An individual Assassin didn’t have needs that didn’t benefit the world or the fight for free will. So he learned to keep to himself. And then once he ran away, it didn’t feel safe to share his past with anyone. He felt hunted and alone. And then after he was abducted by Abstergo, everyone already knew everything about him. It was displayed on a cold hard screen and while he hated it, a part of him relished being known. But it also meant he had never gotten practice with opening up.

Until Lucy. He wanted to share things with her, which was an entirely new sensation. He wanted to be known as more than just the descendant of great Assassins. He wanted to be someone with her. And then he had killed her and felt like the worst sort of monster. When he discovered she was actually a Templar who had been ordered to gain his trust and report on his movements and findings, it sort of cemented the thoughts that he shouldn’t trust anyone, even if they show blue under Eagle Vision.

Trusting someone was one thing, trusting them to have his back in a fight and not attack him was easy. Trusting people with his past and inner thoughts and issues was quite another thing and one he wasn’t sure he was in any way capable of doing. He was still sore over Lucy, regardless of how many lifetimes ago that was.

So no, he would not be telling his team that he had several different people living rent-free in his head that occasionally start driving his meat suit. They would either figure it out on their own, or they wouldn’t, but Desmond wouldn’t come out and say it. Some things were just too personal. Especially for a crowded tavern where anyone could be listening. Honestly, he thought his companions would be more aware of that sort of thing.

“Come on. To the chantry we go!” False cheer colored his voice and he made a ridiculous move to point them in the direction of the door. Desmond could feel their resistance, but they moved to follow him after he started walking away.

A few people stopped them on their way out, including this man named Clemence who had the most monotonous voice Desmond had ever heard.

“My kind has been disappearing for months,” he explained, “We make the Magister uncomfortable to look at. ‘The failure of a country’ he calls us.” Even as Clemence said the words, his face did not change from its blank state. “I would like to assist the Inquisition before I, too, disappear. I am a trained alchemist.”

“Hold on,” Desmond held up a hand, “First of all, yes, you may join the Inquisition. We will always accept aid when offered. Secondly, what do you mean when you say your ‘kind’?”

“The Tranquil, Herald,” he said without any sort of inflection.

Desmond’s eyes widened slightly, “Tranquil are mages who are cut off from their magic, right? And they’re all missing?”

“It is not just magic, Herald,” Clemence corrected serenely, “but emotion and dreams as well.”

“I’m so sorry,” Desmond said sincerely, “I can’t even imagine.”

Clemence tilted his head slightly to the right, “It does not matter. I am the way I am. I do not miss it, for I do not have that capability.”

“I’m still sorry that happened to you.” Clemence shrugged at Desmond’s earnest sincerity. “Of course, you have a place in the Inquisition. You can go to one of our camps and request an escort to Haven, or you can wait a few days, maybe a week, and travel back with my group.”

Clemence bowed lowly, “I will find my own way to Haven. Thank you, Herald.” And without waiting for a farewell or some sort of dismissal, the Tranquil man turned away and gathered his stuff.

Desmond nodded to his party and they continued their attempt to leave the tavern with much more success this time. But the moment they left The Gull and Lantern, they were ambushed by a serious-looking Sera. That look upon the usually cheerful girl’s face was almost scarier than anything else Desmond had come across. He didn’t want to meet whatever put it there, but he had a feeling he was about to.

“Found a creepy little shack,” she said in greeting, voice flat. “So I unlocked the door, right? Just to see what was hidden there. You should see it.”

Desmond looked toward the chantry and then decided the note could wait. The group followed Sera to a ramshackle little hut at the end of the docks near to the water and she swiftly dropped to a knee and picked the lock. “Didn’t want someone to accidentally walk in,” she explained.

And the moment the door swung open, Desmond didn’t blame her for her worry. The shack was a single room with several tables covered in skulls at various stages of being stripped to the bone. The smell was like a physical wall, blood and decay with the scent of herbs nearly overpowering it all. Varric sneezed behind him, but Desmond made a beeline to the book open on one of the tables.

It was a guide on how to use the skulls of the Tranquil to make something called Oculara to view magically hidden objects. Desmond felt his rage build with every word he read. So this was where the Tranquil were disappearing to, and it was folly to assume Alexius was not behind it.

“Well,” Desmond exclaimed with fake cheer, “time to go take out the trash. Let’s kill Alexius.”

“Hold up, Enigma,” Varric cautioned, his hands coming up to hold Desmond back. “Remember the note? There are probably things we don’t know.”

“It’s fine,” Desmond waved him off, “I can go into the castle and kill him really quickly. Wouldn’t even take me an hour.”

“Be that as it may, Herald,” Solas cut in smoothly, “I believe that course of action would cause more problems than it would solve.”

“No no, I think it would solve quite a few,” Desmond just really wanted to kill Alexius. The Tranquil couldn’t even defend themselves. They would willingly follow Alexius to the slaughterhouse because they couldn’t feel fear and they heeded commands. Alexius was systematically murdering a whole group of people for something selfish. Desmond had killed people for less.

Cassandra grabbed Desmond’s arm to stop him from heading off on his own, “We need his cooperation until the Breach has been sealed, then you may do what you wish.”

Desmond’s eye twitched, and then he forced calm. He was a predator, he could wait, play nice, and then strike when least expected. He nodded resolutely and shook off Cassandra’s hold. “Fine. Let’s head to the chantry, then.”

“We should kill that creep,” Sera declared, “no one who punches down at the little guys needs to live.” She nodded, then looked at the dirty looks everyone but Desmond was shooting her. “What? Heraldy is right though.” The looks continued and Desmond felt a ghost of his good mood return. “Fine. What’s at the chantry?”

Cassandra took over explaining the note while Desmond led the group to the large building on a small hill.

“Are you guys ready? It might be a trap,” Desmond cautioned, looking over his companions. They all readied their weapons and gave him a determined nod. Desmond took a deep breath and opened the doors.

It was loud in the chantry, the sounds of a fight pervading every corner. Desmond’s first inane thought was that the chantry had incredibly good soundproofing, and he wondered what technology they used. And then it clicked that there was a rift open inside of the building, a few demons attacking one man who slung his staff around like he was giving a show, even without anyone being there. His every movement was flashy, and Desmond would easily say that it was unnecessary if he wasn’t deeply trained in the art of combat.

This man wasted no movement, every swing of his staff fluidly switched into the next, interspersed with magical hits so that he was all at once a ranged fighter and melee. It was beautiful. Desmond almost wanted to sit back and watch as this man wiped the floor with three demons at once. But as the chantry doors clanged behind the group of five, the man turned to them, a smile full of the joy of combat wide on his handsome and well-maintained face.

“Oh, hello. I’ve been waiting on you,” he said brightly, not even slightly out of breath. Desmond wondered how long he had been fighting because that was impressive. “Do you mind helping me out with this?” There was a shade, a rage demon, and a wraith, all converging on the man like he was a meal and they were starving. Which was probably true.

Desmond immediately knocked an arrow and sent it into the approximation of where he assumed the shade’s spine was. It shrieked but turned to face him, so he figured they didn’t have the same sort of anatomy. Obviously. But that gave him access to its face, which he knew from experience would down the creature just as quickly as it would a human. Even as he sent another arrow into its glowing eye, a bolt of ice came from over his shoulder, striking true and freezing the demon a split second before Desmond’s arrow hit and shattered it. Man, he loved his team. They were all badasses.

The man laughed maniacly as he sent fire raining from the sky and striking at the last two demons. It didn’t do much to the rage demon, who ignored the assault and turned to find a few more tasty morsels. Sera and Varric both shot at it, and Desmond had a brief moment to realize that they needed more warriors or melee fighters in their team. Everyone but Cassandra was ranged, although Desmond could do both. Cassandra shouted out a challenge and ran into the fire rain, which Desmond thought was both really cool of her and super stupid, but he covered her with arrows. The fight was over in seconds, but that was only the first wave.

They had a brief reprieve as the demons formed, and the guy who had been waiting in the chantry sent the group a grin before focusing on Desmond’s hand. “I’d love to see that in action,” he said, which sounded incredibly like an innuendo.

The leftover bits of Edward took over for long enough for Desmond to hear himself say, “Buy me dinner first.” The man looked stunned and then absolutely delighted, but there was no time for a response before a few terror demons were sprouting out of the ground with their long limbs like leather stretched over bone. The demons shrieked loudly causing a few of Desmond’s companions to cover their ears. Desmond gritted his teeth in pain and forced his slightly shaking hands to knock another arrow and send it into the throat of one of the screeching demons. Its cry immediately cut off with a gurgle and the other one stopped its wail for long enough to start opening a portal in the ground. Oh, how he hated dealing with these ones.

He tried to keep an eye on both the floor and the demon charging in his direction, but it was incredibly difficult and disorienting. Cassandra called out another challenge and started hacking at the spindly legs of the charging demon, diverting its attention so Desmond could watch the floor better. A portal started to open up under Varric and Sera and he shouted out a warning, even as he knew it was too late. The two of them fell to the floor and the demon started screaming again, keeping the two of them stunned.

It cut off abruptly as Solas sent a fist made of rock smashing into the thing’s stomach, sending it sprawling. Desmond immediately used one of the tricks he had learned recently and threw a grappling hook at the demon letting the momentum drag Desmond’s body closer to the creature. He came at it, hidden blades first, and slammed his whole weight into the creature’s chest. It immediately broke into shards of bright green and got sucked into the rift.

Desmond rolled out of the way and looked to where the other demon had fallen as well under the tender care of Cassandra and the other guy, whatever his name was. Desmond scanned the battlefield for any more hiding enemies, activated Eagle Vision just to be sure, and was startled when he realized that there were spots of time distortion sprinkled throughout the chantry. He hadn’t even noticed them, having stayed mostly in one spot. He was very inattentive during this fight, apparently. Maybe the newcomer was a bit too distracting with his flashy movements and pretty face.

Speaking of the man, Desmond briefly checked and was relieved to see him glowing a reassuring blue. That didn’t mean much except he wasn’t currently hostile towards Desmond, but it was something. He deactivated Eagle Vision and rolled to his feet before beginning the terrible task of closing the rift. This one was just as draining as the one outside of Redcliffe, but he somehow managed to keep his feet under him after he yanked it closed.

“Fascinating,” the man declared, staring in awe at where the rift had been, nothing left of it but the destruction it caused. “How does that work exactly?” He turned to Desmond, eyes gleaming like Leonardo’s did every time he had a brilliant new idea. “You don’t even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers and boom, rift closes.”

“It must be magic,” Desmond responded dryly.

The man laughed again and looked Desmond up and down meaningfully, “I’ve been incredibly rude. Where are my manners? I am Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?”

Desmond figured those words were supposed to mean something to him when Cassandra cursed behind him, “Another Tevinter. Just what we needed.”

“Now don’t go getting your pitchforks just yet,” Dorian held up his hands in a placating manner, staff already attached to a clasp on his back. “I come in peace and with information.”

“Can’t trust it though, can we?” Sera asked mistrustfully.

“He’s fine,” Desmond said, making sure Dorian was still a reassuring blue, “Let’s hear him out.” His team settled behind him, and he tried not to let the power of having a group of people trust him implicitly go to his head.

“Thank you,” he nodded gracefully. “You met with Alexius, yes? I would assume that’s how Felix got you the note. The truth is that I used to work closely with Alexius, he was my mentor. We were working on some wildly unstable magic, something I would hesitate to explain in polite company because it sounds ridiculous even to my ears, and I worked on it for years.” He paused, looking around and searching Desmond’s face. “We were working on time magic.”

“Impossible,” was Solas’s first word, and Desmond was inclined to disagree. True, he had never experienced actual magic before coming to Thedas less than a year ago, but he’d already seen a lot of ‘impossible’ things. Who is to say that people couldn’t travel through time here when he could be dragged across worlds at the moment of his death and lose his memories of what brought him here?

Dorian apparently zoned in on Desmond’s nonreaction. “You’ve noticed it, haven’t you? The way that time distorted around the rift here? Well, it’s going to happen further and further away from Redcliffe the longer we wait to stop him.”

Varric made a considering noise, “I don’t want to believe in time magic. I don’t like believing in any magic, to be honest, but the way Fiona doesn’t remember inviting us? A Magister from Tevinter showing up right after the Divine’s death and taking away the mages? It’s all highly suspicious.”

“Yes, exactly,” Dorian exclaimed happily, “there’s a smart one. What I don’t understand though is why he worked so hard to make the magic useable and the first thing he does is gain a few hundred lackeys. I don’t understand his motives at all.”

“He didn’t do it for them,” said a voice from the shadows, and out limped Felix, Alexius’s son. He looked pale and sickly, more so now than he did when Desmond had briefly met him before. “Hello again.”

“Hi,” Desmond responded, wondering if he should be worrying about the health of this complete stranger who was trying to help him but also might not be.

“That took you a long time,” Dorian noted, heading over to his friend. At least their body language made them seem like friends. “Is he getting suspicious?”

Felix shook his head, looking like he immediately regretted the action. “No, but I shouldn’t have played the sickness card. I didn’t think he’d let me go.” Desmond wasn’t sure if the ‘sickness card’ was a play so much as a reality, but he didn’t say anything.

“You said he didn’t disrupt time to get followers,” Desmond said thoughtfully, “so what did he do it for? The rifts?”

“No,” Felix denied, leaning heavily on Dorian, “the mages were just a bonus, a test, if you will. The rifts reacted badly to the magic, absorbing it and distorting the energy. Soon enough he’s going to start on more of his tests. He’s got the backing of some Tevinter supremacists calling themselves the Venatori, and someone called the Elder One. They’re all bad news.”

Dorian was wide-eyed as he looked at his friend, just as disturbed as Desmond was. “But what’s he doing this for? It’s so far removed from the man we grew up with.”

Felix shrugged half-heartedly, “I think the Elder One promised Father something, so he’s doing the Elder One’s bidding. And from what I’ve understood, the Elder One hates you with a passion,” he gestured to Desmond.

“Well, that’s an overreaction. I haven’t done anything.”

Felix shook his head slightly, “I think the Elder One created the Breach, and you going around and closing the rifts and trying to close the Breach is messing with his plans. My father is the one who was tasked with getting rid of you, somehow. So that’s what he’s going to try to do.”

Desmond looked at Felix’s grim face and understood that this man still loved his father, despite whatever he was up to now. It was a tough situation to be in, Desmond knew. Because as much as he’d never had a good relationship with his father, he knew what it was like to look up to someone only to have them betray your trust and turn out to be working with the enemy. He had that experience both as himself and as Altair, and it wasn't fun either time.

“What can we do to stop him?” Desmond asked, leaving off the suggestion of assassination. “It seems like he knows some information on this Elder One, so it would be good to know what he knows. But I also don’t want to die,” again, “so let’s figure something out.”

Dorian nodded, “I think the best plan would be to attack while he thinks he has the advantage. Perhaps when he invites you to the castle for that meeting? He won’t be expecting you to know some of his plans.”

“Sounds good.” Desmond agreed.

“Great! I guess I’ll see you back at Haven, then.”

“Or,” Desmond started, unsure of where the words were coming from, “we actually have a few errands to run before we head back. If you would like to join us.”

He felt the eyes of his companions on his back, but no one said anything. “Oh? You wouldn’t mind bringing along a scary Tevinter? Your friends certainly look like they mind.”

Desmond shrugged, “You’re talented in battle, and that’s something we could use. Plus, I think if people are going to have issues with you, then it’s better to be surrounded by at least somewhat friendly faces.”

Dorian looked him over consideringly, “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Well, then I would be delighted to join you. Just allow me a moment to grab my things.”

He walked off with Felix and Desmond was immediately surrounded by his companions. “You do know that Tevinter is evil, yeah?” Sera asked, a bit louder than she probably meant to with the way Dorian’s head cocked slightly in their direction even as he didn’t stop walking.

“Well, even if that’s true,” Desmond started, looking down into the young girl’s face, “A single person does not make a country. Just because where Dorian came from is ‘evil’ doesn’t mean that he is. And I would like to give him a chance, thank you.” Sera made a face but settled down with a few grumbles Desmond didn’t try too hard to decipher. “Anyone else?”

Varric shrugged, Cassandra rolled her eyes, and Solas had his gaze trained on Dorian and Felix, seemingly not listening to a word that was spoken.

“Solas?” Desmond questioned. It looked like it took great effort for the elf to tear his gaze away. “Are you okay with this?”

“It does not appear that my opinion matters in this decision, Herald.”

Oh, ouch. “Of course it matters.”

Solas stared at him piercingly, “Then I will tell you that having someone from Tevinter around me while I am asleep makes me deeply uncomfortable. They are, after all, known for their kidnapping and slavery of elves.”

Desmond blinked, “They what.”

“You didn’t know that?” Varric questioned. “Slavery and blood magic are the two big things people have against Tevinter. And then if you want to get more religious, their Chantry is messed up and they are ruled by mages.”

“Oh.” Desmond didn’t really know how to explain that Dorian had no bad intentions towards them because his weird magic-but-not-really vision told him so. “Well. Huh.” He paused and looked at Dorian’s stiff back. “I still think that we should give him a chance. I can’t say that I’m super fond of racism in any of its forms. Not everyone in a place that’s considered bad is actually bad. Some are just born there.”

“Very well,” Solas said stiffly, “I will bow to your superior judgment.”

Desmond felt like he just took ten steps back with his entire team, but he wasn’t willing to villainize someone for something he had no proof they’d actually done. “Cool. Super.” This was going to be a fun rest of his trip. The plan was to go check out that Grey Warden somewhere in the Hinterlands, as Leliana had requested, and then head to the Storm Coast to watch a mercenary group fight? He wasn’t quite sure of the details, but a man named Kremisius Aclassi had made his way to Haven to invite Desmond to see The Bull’s Chargers, and Josephine had told him it would be a good idea to accept the invitation. Apparently, they were a very renowned mercenary group and it would be good to have them on their side.

So he was looking at a few weeks of traveling with a team that wasn’t very happy with him at the moment. He decided he was going to look at it with a glass half full. He had a few weeks to get to know his new potential teammate better, and he had time to figure out how to get back on the good side of his current companions. At least he had the nighttime talks with Solas to look forward to. Hopefully, he could talk it out with the elf, and they could come to some sort of understanding.

Chapter Text

Dorian was actually amazing, Desmond quickly discovered. He always had a quick remark to people’s snide comments that left them wondering if they’d been complimented or insulted, he had a ton of entertaining opinions on things, and he was ridiculously charming. Desmond had a platonic crush on the man and wanted to be his best friend, and they’d only known each other for the two hours it took to head to the area Leliana’s scouts said Warden Blackwall would be.

Desmond could see Sera’s resolve to not like Dorian crumble in the face of the mage’s good cheer and willingness to go along with her hair-brained schemes. Dorian had a way about him that made him seem incredibly interested in people's lives, but not in a creepy or pushy way. He was incredibly curious and liked to know things, but didn’t hold his knowledge over people’s heads like Solas was sometimes known to do.

Solas and Dorian... did not get along. Whenever Solas decided to talk to the other mage, it was with biting remarks and coldness, which Dorian took in stride while occasionally throwing back words that caused Solas to get an even more pinched expression.

Obviously Dorian wasn’t perfect. He was a person, and he had his flaws, most of which were immediately apparent. He couldn’t seem to let things go without some sort of comment, he was incredibly vain and concerned with how he looked, and he was, in essence, a noble, with all that entailed. Luckily he was nowhere near as unbearable as Vivienne was.

“What do we know about this Warden?” Asked Varric, who apparently had the most interaction with Grey Wardens of all of them. Cassandra had had some dealings with them in the past, but Varric had been friends with an ex-Warden, had his best friend’s brother become one on a dangerous venture into the Deep Roads, and had apparently gone on an adventure with a couple of insane Grey Wardens to kill one of the original Magisters that caused the Blights. Dorian looked like he’d swallowed a lemon when Varric told the bare details of that tale, claiming that there was no actual historical evidence that it was Tevinter that started the Blights, and that was Southern Chantry bullshit. He was ignored by everyone who subscribed to the Southern Chantry beliefs, which was most of the party.

Desmond, for his part, was rather interested in the whole debate, as he didn’t know much about the Grey Wardens or the Blight. So upon asking some clarifying questions (he was pretty sure that his companions all thought that he came from a remote village on some small island that had no clue about the rest of the world, and that suited him just fine), Desmond discovered that, according to the Chantry doctrine, a thousand or so years ago a few Magisters from Tevinter had the brilliant idea to enter the Fade physically and storm the Golden City, which is claimed to be where the Maker resides, and usurp his throne. But their audacity or impurity or whatever ended up tainting the Golden City and it quickly became the Black City. The Magisters were cast out of the Fade, diseased and contagious and insane, and they spread their taint to the rest of the world. Every couple hundred years since then, the darkspawn, which have been amassing in the deep road, find one of the Old Gods that have hidden away and taint them, turning them into an Archdemon. This Archdemon takes control of the darkspawns’ hive mind and they swarm to the surface to inflict their taint on the world.

The Fifth Blight happened only eleven or twelve years ago, and only a Grey Warden could defeat an Archdemon. No one outside of the order knew why that was, and everything surrounding the initiation and actual life of a Warden was top secret. People just knew that they were uniquely equipped to handle the darkspawn, and that in some places it was an extreme honor to be a Grey Warden. Other places had historically banished the Grey Wardens or thought that their presence was no longer necessary.

People became a Warden either through volunteering or by invoking the Rite of Conscription, which stated that the Grey Wardens could go anywhere and recruit anyone they wanted to. The Rite was usually only invoked during times of the Blight, but they used it often to bolster their ranks with criminals set for the death penalty.

It was interesting stuff, Desmond thought, but he could also see why Dorian wouldn’t want to believe that Magisters from his home country were the ones that doomed the rest of the world for the rest of time. But from Desmond’s interaction with religion in his home world, there always seemed to be some grain of truth in religious doctrine, even if it was incredibly off base. Such as the case of Adam and Eve actually having escaped slavery by the Isu with an Apple of Eden, and not the way the Christian bible told the tale.

That was all to say that there was a great controversy surrounding the Blights and the Grey Wardens. According to Leliana’s information, Warden Blackwall was in the process of recruiting people for the Grey Wardens and was doing it among the refugees, which wasn’t the worst plan. Give the refugees a promise of a purpose and a community to belong to, a way out of their situation, food to eat, and a place to stay. Desmond could only hope that the promises would be fulfilled, but he didn’t know enough about the current Warden-Commander to know if she would be a good leader to the new recruits. But as she was deemed the Hero of Ferelden and, if the rumors were to be believed, she was married to Leliana, Desmond had hopes that she would be a good person.

When the group found Warden Blackwall, he was training a few hungry-looking men and teens about how best to defend their families. He wasn’t filling their heads with indoctrination drivel, he was actually teaching them to fight, which Desmond immediately liked about him.

“Warden Blackwall?” He asked, hoping that this was the right man, but also not doubting Leliana’s information.

The man turned abruptly, showing off his impressive forked beard and a ruggedly handsome face behind all that hair. “Who’s asking?”

Desmond was a bit taken aback at his aggressive response. “I’m with the Inquisition and I had a few questions for you, if you have some time.”

Blackwall looked at his charges and their terrible form as they hacked away at dummies. He sighed heavily. “I’ve got a few minutes.” He led the party slightly away from the trainees, keeping them within his sight but out of hearing range. “What is this about?”

“We’ve heard reports that the Grey Wardens have gone missing, completely silent. Do you know anything about it?” Desmond got straight to the point, not wanting to take up more time than was necessary.

Blackwall’s bushy eyebrows drew together, “That’s kind of what the Grey Wardens do though, isn’t it? A Blight is over, they go underground to train and regroup. If they’re doing anything other than that, I haven’t heard. I’ve been out recruiting for a while now.”

Desmond nodded along. “Thank you for your time, as uninformative as it was.” He gave a wry smile, hoping that his words wouldn’t cause offense.

Just as he was turning to leave, Blackwall spoke up, “You said you’re an agent of the Inquisition, correct?” Desmond turned back to him only to watch as the man seemed to be at war with something in his mind. He sighed again, shoulders slumping slightly. “The thing is, I may not know what’s going on with the Wardens, but you wouldn’t be asking about them if you didn’t think they might have something to do with the sky or the Divine’s death. That’s what your group is trying to solve, right? I would like to formally offer my assistance. Thinking the Grey Wardens are involved is almost as bad as them actually being involved. I would like everyone to know that at least one Grey Warden stands with the Inquisition, even if I’m not the most famous.”

Desmond considered him. He had some sort of internal battle going on, but who didn’t? Blackwall had a good heart, Desmond decided. And he had allowed other people to join his team for less. “The Inquisition would welcome your assistance, Warden Blackwall.”

“Do you actually have the authority for that?” Blackwall asked curiously.

Sera snorted behind Desmond as he raised his glowing hand. “If I don’t, they haven’t told me.”

“Oh,” Blackwall said slightly sheepishly. “I hadn’t wanted to presume that you were the famed Herald of Andraste. I didn’t think I would be important enough for a personalized visit from the man himself.” He seemed shy all of a sudden, and Desmond couldn’t handle that.

“No, no. I’m just a guy, honestly. Besides, everything seems to require my personal attention, nowadays.” He smiled sardonically, but Blackwall didn’t seem comforted in the least.

“I don’t know if I believe that,” he said candidly, “but regardless, allow me a moment to wrap up my business, and I will meet you at the nearby camp if that’s alright with you.”

Desmond looked at the sun that was starting to dip below the horizon. “Sounds good,” he confirmed. “It’s about time for us to settle down for the night, anyway. Tomorrow we’re setting out for the Storm Coast, if you want to join us. You’re more than welcome to head to Haven though, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

He kind of hoped that Blackwall would stay with them. The guy seemed like a tank, and he would be good to have manning the front lines in fights. But at the same time, it was difficult to keep track of all the people in his party.

“I think I would like to travel with you, Herald.”

Well, that solved that problem. “Please, call me Desmond.”

Blackwall’s small eyes opened wide, “I wouldn’t dare to presume.”

Desmond was about to tell him it wouldn’t be a presumption at all since Desmond was telling him to call him that, but Solas spoke up, “I believe I will be heading back to Haven tomorrow, Herald.” The elf would likely never call him by name.

And then the words registered. “Why?”

Desmond could see Solas’s eyes very obviously not trail to Dorian’s figure, “I have some things I would like to do at Haven before we work towards closing the Breach in earnest. Do I have your leave to head back?”

“What? Of course,” he must really be on bad terms with Solas for him to ask like that. That did make him wonder about the dream thing and if distance affected the spell, but he also didn’t want to mention anything around so many people. He’d ask during their dream tonight, assuming that the elf wasn’t so angry at Desmond that he would revoke the protection already. “You’re staying the night with us though, right?” Solas nodded, and Desmond felt relieved.

“I will also head back,” Cassandra said, speaking up for the first time in a while. “There is much to be done in preparation for the sealing of the Breach. The advisors must be made aware of the situation in Redcliffe and we must decide what to do with the Templars. I will ride ahead and tell them what I know while you make your way to the Storm Coast. Return quickly, if you can.”

Desmond sighed but nodded. Well, losing two of his companions would make it easier to keep track of the others. “Anyone else headed back?” He looked around at his teammates.

Sera stuck her tongue out at him and Varric shook his head. Dorian smiled, “And leave just as I was getting to know you? Perish the thought.”

“Cool. Well, I guess we’ll meet you back at camp, Blackwall. I’ll have a tent set up for you.” Desmond nodded to the man and directed his team out of the area, listening as Blackwall went back to his charges and explained that he was leaving, but that they shouldn’t neglect their training. Definitely a good man.

The walk back to the nearby Inquisition camp was silent, each person lost in their own thoughts. Desmond, for his part, was thinking of things he would say to Solas tonight, assuming the elf still kept up the protection spell. The past couple of nights during their trip to the Hinterlands had been... odd, to say the least. Solas hadn’t talked much, and Desmond had worked on controlling his dreams. Every time he went to sleep, he was someone different, but for less and less time. Last night he had been Haytham Kenway for about five minutes before he was back to Desmond. Luckily Haytham hadn’t said anything incriminating. In fact, the man hadn’t said anything at all, simply observing Solas as he in turn was observed.

Desmond didn’t know what Solas thought of his shifting dream faces, but he hadn’t been able to understand when any of them talked. With Desmond’s luck though, tonight it was likely that Edward would come out, since he’d been so close to the surface all day, and probably flirt with the elf. Desmond was not looking forward to it. He definitely had to get control of these dreams before he gave anything important away. He didn’t know what anyone would do if they found out he was from a different world, a different time, and marked by wanna-be gods.

When Altair met Solas, he was the older version of himself, right before he had his first child. He had observed the elf curiously, asking a few questions, but giving up when it became clear that Solas did not speak Arabic. So they stared at each other for a time until Desmond came back to himself.

Solas had asked him who that was, and Desmond had given a non-answer of “Somebody I used to know,” to quote a song. It was the same answer for every time Solas met an ancestor and asked who they were.

As for Desmond and Solas, they’d had a few conversations, but it mostly revolved around the Fade and learning what Desmond could and couldn’t control in his dreams. He could conjure up anything he could think of, but he couldn’t consume anything or smell or taste. Unless the memory of the thing was strong enough, to which point it became a sense memory instead of conjuration.

He could create the room they had the dream in, down to as many details as Desmond’s mind could handle, or they could be in a creation of Solas’s. The two of them practiced a lot with control- Solas telling Desmond to conjure a certain thing with as much memory attached to it as possible. Some things were easier than others, but as Desmond quickly learned, his time in the Animus had made him quite adept at creating details.

Solas was quite surprised that on Desmond’s first attempt at summoning an item, a rock to start, Desmond had included texture, divots, and imperfections with little specks of dirt coating the surface. It gave Desmond quite a bit of pleasure to have surprised Solas on his own, and not because of his ancestors or bleeding effects.

Since then they had been building up from little things to Desmond creating the space they stood in, including details like the grooves in the chairs, cobwebs in the corners, dust motes swirling through the air, touched by light from an imagined window.

Desmond had quickly decided that creating things in the dreams was not only incredibly fun, but it was also an amazing stress relief.

But now he wanted to have a real conversation. Find a way to understand what was going on in Solas’s mind, and hopefully help him to not feel as angry as he appeared to be. Thoughts of what he would say to his elven companion carried him through the monotonous tasks required to set up camp.

Inquisition soldiers were milling around the campsite when Desmond’s group made their way over. The soldiers that spotted him immediately stopped what they were doing and saluted their precious Herald of Andraste with a closed fist over their heart, the others following suit until the entire camp was saluting in deference to Desmond. He wanted to throw up. Instead, he nodded his head in greeting, and one of the soldiers came up to personally greet him.

“My Lord Herald,” she said loudly, immediately flushing under her helmet at her exuberance. “We did not know you would be stopping here for the night. Please, allow us some time to set up for you.”

Desmond shook his head even as a few soldiers dropped their salute to scurry about to prepare tents. “It’s fine, we can set up on our own. Thank you for your consideration, though.”

The soldier looked aghast, “I couldn’t possibly make you do the work! Please, Herald. Sit and let us do this for you. You’re protecting us all, it’s the least we could do.”

And if that didn’t make him feel uncomfortable and guilty, he didn’t know what would. He slowly made his way to the fire and sat on a log, his companions following him. Well, most of them. Cassandra went off to go make a nuisance of herself by attempting to help the soldiers even as they continually told her to go sit down.

Sera grimaced, “This ain’t right. I’m not some poncy noble.”

Varric shrugged, “It’s making them feel useful, Buttercup. Just let them do their thing.”

Sera huffed, but settled down, crossing and uncrossing her arms angrily before grabbing some arrows and sharpening them with jerky movements, projecting her upset. Solas perched delicately on the edge of a log refusing to look at any of them and instead pulling a book out of his pack. Dorian looked perfectly in his element having people do the work while he sat back and relaxed. Desmond could see, however, that the silence of the group was bothering him, but the mage didn’t speak up to break it.

Varric, as if sensing the mood, gently set his crossbow Bianca down with a loud sigh, “What a day, huh? Mages, under the control of an evil Magister from Tevinter. Couldn’t be better.”

Dorian immediately looked offended, “I mean it’s not a great situation, but not everyone from Tevinter is evil.”

Varric nodded sagely, “You’re right, there’s the slaves.” Well, Varric obviously chose violence today.

“Whoa, whoa,” Desmond cut in, raising his hands in supplication, “I don't think now is the best time to have this conversation.” It still amazed him how his team listened to him like his word was law. Dorian’s tensed posture relaxed and Varric sighed heavily.

“Sorry, Enigma. It’s been a long day.”

“It has for all of us,” Desmond nodded, “try not to take it out on others.”

“Did I come at a bad time?” Blackwall asked, heading over to the group. Some of the soldiers tensed up, but Desmond waved them off.

“It’s fine, we just need a good night’s rest to reset.” Nods all around the fire.

The conversation was stilted as the Inquisition soldiers finished setting up extra tents. The sky gradually darkened, and the moment that everything was set up, the team dispersed. It was two to a tent and Desmond ended up rooming with Dorian, since no one else wanted to spend too much time with the mage from Tevinter. Desmond didn’t mind. Dorian had been mostly pleasant for the day that they’d known each other. Besides, they were probably going to go straight to sleep.

At least Desmond thought so until Dorian cleared his throat. “I apologize if I said or did anything to upset you today. I must admit it has been a long time since I’ve had to ‘play nice’, as it were.”

Desmond shook his head, “I won’t ask you to be someone you’re not, Dorian. Everyone has a strong personality in this group, and they all mostly get along, with some exceptions. They’ll get used to you.”

“If I may ask,” Dorian started hesitantly, “why do you trust me? Not that I’m complaining. It just seems a little sudden.”

Desmond thought about how to reply. “I don’t know much about Tevinter,” he said thoughtfully, “But I do know that you’re attempting to help us, and that’s worth a chance.”

Dorian hummed doubtfully but turned away to start undressing. Desmond followed his example, peeling off the outer layers of his armor, keeping it within reach in case he needed it during the night. He never knew if they were going to be attacked by bandits or something, and it paid to be prepared.

Desmond settled into his bedroll and shut his eyes, trying to drift off to sleep. Before his mind succumbed to the whims of the Fade, he heard Dorian whisper, “Thank you, Desmond.” He smiled a little.

Chapter Text

“For today’s lesson,” Solas started, his voice cold, “we will be focusing on conjuring living things. Or, at least, things that have the appearance of life.”

Damn, Desmond thought. “That sounds so cool,” he breathed and then shook himself, “But I actually need to speak with you.”

Solas looked at him, “Very well. Say what is on your mind. Tell me why you decided to invite a Tevinter Magister into the group. Against everyone’s wishes, I might add. We do not know his plan, his loyalty, or even who he is. Tevinter has a complicated history but it is all built off the backs of my people. Perhaps Dorian Pavus is not a slaver, but he owned slaves. He was complicit in their suffering. I do not feel comfortable with this arrangement, Herald.”

Desmond looked at Solas, at the elf’s rigid spine and coldly angry face. “I understand your position. Thank you for telling me. May I share mine?” He didn’t want to dismiss Solas’s opinion and viewpoints, because they were all valid.

Solas inclined his head, “Please.”

“I’m not dismissing the part he took in continuing slavery, but at the same time, he was raised to think it was okay. It was normal. That does not excuse him, but it explains him. According to him, this is his first time out of Tevinter, and he hasn’t been here for long. I think he deserves a chance to learn and make up for his past mistakes. That’s part of being a sentient person, is it not? The ability to learn and change and become a better version of yourself. Dorian isn’t perfect. Show me someone who’s perfect and I’ll show you a liar. But he came all this way to warn us, to give us a fighting chance. He’s trying, Solas. And I want to give him a chance to fix his mistakes. Our upbringing does not define us unless we allow it to. And Dorian doesn’t look like he wants that.” Desmond hoped he articulated that well enough for the elf to understand him.

Solas looked reluctantly thoughtful. “I suppose you have a point. I’m still not comfortable with him, Herald. But I will try to think about what you’ve said.”

Desmond allowed the elf some time to get lost in his thoughts before he was rocking back and forth on his heels like an eager child. “Can I make some living things now?”

Solas startled almost imperceptibly, “Oh, yes. I suppose you can.” He cleared his throat and then turned on what Desmond called his ‘teaching voice’. “Now, this is one of the most difficult parts of controlling your dreams. You do not want to call a spirit or demon to the body you create. The point is to envision the illusion of life, not actual life. Try something small, to start with. Like a rat or other small animal. Start with crafting the body, and then imagine it running around in circles.”

The body was easy to create. It was no less than Desmond had already been doing. But when he tried imagining it moving, the stiff body of the rat moved around without looking even somewhat alive. Desmond hummed, thinking about what to do. Solas was silent off to the side, allowing Desmond time to think through the problem without any input. “Maybe if I... hmm.” Desmond tried imagining the muscles moving as they would when the animal ran. Contracting and expanding, limbs following suit.

He had seen plenty of rats in the streets of Monterigioni and New York. He knew what they looked like when they scurried away. He attempted to recreate that and was satisfied when the creature started moving in fits and starts.

It was incredibly difficult and draining, Desmond decided. Stationary objects were one thing, he didn’t have to think about it once it had been created. But the moment he stopped focusing on the rat, it would stop moving. Desmond thought if he were in the waking world he would be sweating up a storm. But inside the Fade he felt like he could sleep for a week, and he was already asleep.

“Alright, you may stop now,” Solas said and Desmond immediately hunched over to prop his hands on his knees, breathing heavily.

“Why does it feel like I ran a marathon? I was just thinking,” he complained in between heaving breaths.

Solas hummed and walked closer, examining the stationary rat. “Here, in this world controlled by your mind, anything that exercises it strains your entire concept of yourself. Thus, it feels like you’ve run whatever a ‘marathon’ is.”

Desmond nodded, “Makes sense. Kind of sucks though.”

Solas gave a small laugh like he was humoring Desmond, “I believe that will be enough for the night. We still have some time left before morning, however, so what would you like to discuss?”

Desmond caught his breath and conjured up some squishy chairs for them to relax on. Creating inanimate objects was almost as easy as blinking now that he’d done it so much. “Can you tell me more about magic? Specifically blood magic. I don’t know anything about it other than it seems to be not well-liked, and the label itself doesn’t make it sound too good.”

“This is a controversial topic, you understand. I will tell you what I know of it, from an unbiased perspective, and allow you to come to your own conclusions.” Solas shifted and then settled into the seat primly. Everything about this elf’s baring screamed high-class royalty, yet he dressed like the lowest peasant, despite Desmond knowing he had enough money by now to buy himself some decent clothes. Solas acted humble, but Desmond would have thought he was some sort of noble at the very least, if it wasn’t impossible for elves to be nobility in this world.

“Lay it on me,” Desmond nodded, also settling back into his chair in a decidedly less elegant way.

“The first thing you should understand is that it does not work through the Fade. Blood magic uses the inherent magic of life, that’s why it requires a sacrifice of blood. The more lifeblood, regardless of whether it is given willingly or not, the more powerful the spell or ritual. Because it does not run through the Fade, and thus lyrium, it is often a last resort of mages that need an extra boost once their power has run low. Or that is what it used to be for, at least.

“Blood magic, because it uses the source of life, can also be used to control people,” he continued, tone perfectly blank so as to not give any of his thoughts and opinions away. “This is one of the main reasons it is considered illegal in most societies. Through blood magic, one could marionette someone like a puppet, controlling their movements, and sometimes even their mind, depending on the amount of blood used in the spell. It is not foolproof, and if the victim has enough willpower, they could potentially break through the binding.

“Spirits have less willpower, and thus less ability to resist. They do not have blood per se, but they are created from the same life magic that resides in mortal blood. It is often easier to bind spirits or demons to one’s will, and it takes a considerably less amount of blood because that life magic in mortals is diluted and thus more difficult to bind, whereas the spirits and demons are pure, in a sense.

“Some spells change depending on whether the blood sacrifice is willing or not,” Solas shifted in his seat, “The magic is more potent if the blood is given willingly. The wish to aid brings the life magic to the surface, making it easier to access. Blood taken from one’s own self is powerful because not only is it willing, but it is easier to manage and shape to one’s whims. The downside, however, is that because it is drawing from one’s own life, the caster is quick to tire. Blood magic and healing cannot be used at the same time because they are such different magics that the more powerful blood magic takes precedence. Therefore if a mage plans to use themselves as a catalyst to augment their power, they must be aware that they will be unable to heal until they stop using blood magic and allow their body time to reset and switch back to the more natural Fade magics.

“Another reason that blood magic is feared, beyond the sacrifice required and the ability to control the will of others, is that Templars cannot stop it. Templars possess the unique ability to cut mages off from the Fade, but they cannot cut one off from blood magic, because, as mentioned, it draws from a different source. This scares the Chantry. They cannot have mages with power beyond their control. But that is a different problem altogether.”

Solas paused and Desmond took a moment to digest the information. To him, it sounded like blood magic was fine as long as someone used themselves as their power source. They wouldn’t have enough of this life magic to control people, but they could still cast spells once the mage runs out of Fade magic.

The elf cleared his throat and continued, “Tevinter has no such laws. In Tevinter, their leaders are all mages, their Templars are paid guards who are all under the thumb of those with magic, and while blood magic is illegal on the surface, everyone knows that the mages do it anyway. Those in power use whatever is at their disposal to stay in power. What I find abhorrent,” he started his voice gaining an angry edge as his face twisted into a sneer, “is that they brainwash their slaves into doing whatever is asked of them. When they’re told that they’re to become sacrifices, they go willingly to that ritual table, and then their blood is more powerful. They don’t know better, because that’s how they were raised. But if the slave has a mind of their own, if they’re rebellious, it’s not a problem. Unwilling blood can be powerful too,” he spat, his voice having risen during the course of his speech.

Desmond watched, eyes wide, as the man lost his composure.

“I apologize, Herald,” Solas said, gaining control of himself. “Slavery is disgusting, and were I in a position to help, I would.”

Desmond nodded, “I can’t change a whole country, but I can definitely kill any slavers that come my way.”

Solas gave a weak smile, “And sometimes, that’s all we can ask.” He looked closely at Desmond, “Aside from my outburst at the end, I have given you an overview of blood magic, as requested. Now it is up to you to decide your opinion on the subject. For now, it appears to be time to wake up.”

And indeed, Desmond could see the Fade blurring around the edges, a tell-tale sign that he was close to waking up. “Thank you, Solas,” he said in parting, watching as Solas’s eyes softened towards him a little bit. That was his last sight before he was blinking his eyes open to Dorian softly snoring in his own bedroll.

He felt a friendship building between him and Solas, which was amazing. Solas always seemed so untouchable, like he was a god among mortals, intrigued by their silly little lives but ultimately above them. It sometimes made Desmond wonder. Solas’s past was a mystery. He claimed he was from a little village not on any maps that was destroyed by the Blight. He came out of nowhere with a great amount of knowledge about the Breach and what may have caused it, more so than he should have been able to learn from dreams in the Fade.

Granted, Desmond didn’t know exactly how wandering the Fade worked, but he didn’t think it was like that. Solas was the true Enigma, regardless of what Varric thought. But even if Solas was somehow a god, which Desmond wouldn’t put past this world, Desmond was still glad he was gaining a friendship with the elf, even if sometimes he wondered if it was one-sided. He liked Solas, thought that he was interesting, was generally happy to teach Desmond about the world of Thedas, and was so sure of himself and who he was that it was amazing. It wasn’t always a good thing to be sure of himself, but at least he was still open to learning and changing.

With a sigh, Desmond decided he had lazed about long enough and levered himself out of the warm bedroll into the brisk morning. He shivered heavily and stood there for a moment, letting the chill wake him up and debating if he wanted to put on the cold metal layer of his armor. Yes, it would protect him from harm, if any of the enemies ever managed to actually touch him, but with his luck, if he decided to forgo it, that would be the time someone got the drop on him.

He hissed as the icy armor seeped through the underlayer of his clothes and burrowed into his skin. “That looks cold,” Dorian commented sleepily. Desmond looked up at the man, charmed to see Dorian’s hair slightly sticking up on one side.

“It’s definitely not pleasant.”

Dorian sniffed and sat up, “That’s why I don’t wear armor. Well, that and magic doesn’t really do well with the metal. Ice spells? Fire? Electricity? None of it reacts well. Best to just go with standard leather and cloth.”

Desmond shrugged, “It hasn’t been a problem for me.”

“Well, that’s because no one can hit you,” Dorian said primly, reaching up to fix his hair. “How rude of you to not mention that I look atrocious this morning.”

Desmond snickered as he did up the clasps on his armor, “I thought you looked cute.”

He was treated to the sight of Dorian turning slightly red and looking away, “Yes. Well. I’m always cute.”

“Very true.” The two of them chatted lightly as Desmond shrugged on his white overcoat and strapped various belts and weapons to his person. Dorian, for his part, pulled out a mirror and started fixing his hair and mustache to perfection before starting to put his clothes on.

“Why do you wear white?” Dorian asked, eyeing Desmond up and down.

“It’s a good color for me,” he said as he posed. Dorian snorted and Desmond grinned at him. “It’s an intimidation thing. Coming into battle with white armor is a very bold statement. Either I’m overconfident and they underestimate me, or they know that I’m just confident enough in my skills that I know I can keep my clothes pristine. Or they want the contact information of my washer. It’s a toss-up,” he shrugged, “but either way I get enemies that are cocky and thus easy to pick off, or I get a little bit of a challenge with those that are more cautious.”

Dorian hummed consideringly, “Very sound reasons. I might have to look into getting some lighter-colored fabric as soon as we find somewhere with decent quality. I’m afraid I won’t find anything like that in Ferelden.”

Desmond barked out a laugh, “Just ask Josephine. She’s the ambassador to the Inquisition, and she can make anything you want appear in just a few days. If I didn’t know what actual magic was like, I’d think that was it.”

“I just might,” Dorian nodded decisively.

Desmond walked out of the tent with a brief explanation that he was going to see what he could help with and Dorian waved him off and continued getting ready to set out.

The sun was just barely starting to lighten the sky and a few soldiers were already seeing to the group’s horses. Varric was gesticulating wildly to Solas as the elf looked on with interest. Sera was stamping her feet shivering, and sticking her tongue out when she caught anyone staring at her. Cassandra was also just getting out of her tent and Desmond gave her a nod of solidarity. It was at least somewhat warmer without the breeze, and the two of them had more armor than the others.

Except for Blackwall, who was standing awkwardly off to the side, unsure of his welcome as everyone else was too tired or cold to include him. Desmond headed right for the burly warrior. “Good morning,” he greeted, watching as the man straightened from his slouch. Desmond would have to find a way to rid him of his burgeoning hero worship. “How was your first night here? I know you have a tent to yourself. How was it?”

Blackwall looked embarrassed, “You should have gotten that tent. I’m just a nobody.”

Desmond shook his head, “I enjoyed where I was last night, but thank you. Are you ready for some rain? I hear the Storm Coast came by its name honestly.”

“Uh, yes. I suppose,” he looked uncomfortable. Desmond inwardly cringed. He’d have to talk to his companions and get one of them to help the man to loosen up. Maybe Sera would be a good fit. He quickly took his leave, not wanting to make the man more uncomfortable than he already was. Besides, he was hungry.

The soldiers that were awake had made up a large pan of scrambled eggs with wild vegetables and ram meat mixed in. It was absolutely delicious, was Desmond’s proclamation, causing several of the soldiers to blush with pride.

It wasn’t long after they had their breakfast that the group said their goodbyes and Cassandra and Solas took off to the west as the others went north. Varric, upon noticing the awkward and solemn morning mood, took it upon himself to start telling wild tales of his time traveling with the Champion of Kirkwall. They were lighthearted tales of rescuing some kittens from hungry refugees, people getting tangled in string because of someone Varric called ‘Daisy’, and this creepy merchant that ran a sort of black market somewhere underground. Apparently, only the Champion knew the way through the tunnels to the market.

People eventually started speaking up as the sun drew across the sky until Dorian and Varric were deep into a discussion about the benefits of facial hair (wherein Dorian was convinced it was purely cosmetic, and Varric insisted that the only purpose was to keep food for later. Desmond was pretty sure he was holding his stance just to see Dorian get more and more enraged.) Meanwhile, Blackwall and Sera had started whispering together and sharing conspiratorial looks, so Desmond was pretty sure a prank war was going to start sometime soon. He would have to keep an eye out for anything they might be planning.

As Demsmond surveyed his team, he had to smile. Here people from all walks of life were banding together to help save the world. He couldn’t be more proud to call them his friends and companions.

Chapter Text

Just as Desmond had anticipated, the Storm Coast had earned its name. A day before reaching the Inquisition camp, the sky decided it was a great time to start raining and not stop.

“Why did I decide to come with you?” Dorian complained as they ate a soaking wet lunch, huddled under their oiled treated coats. “I could have been nice and dry in Haven by now.”

Desmond side-eyed the mage, “You say that, and yet you don’t know how cold it is there.”

“I’d rather be just cold than wet and cold,” Varric decided and then immediately sneezed. “Ugh,” he shivered, “This mercenary group better be fucking worth it.”

Desmond couldn’t help but agree. It was wet and windy and they were all cold. Even Sera seemed to have lost her resolve to get Desmond with at least one prank. For the past five days she and Blackwall, who got along like a house on fire without Desmond ever having to say a thing, had been pranking everyone. Desmond, with a healthy dose of Eagle Vision, had managed to evade every attempt, and Sera decided that meant war.

He had to check all of his belongings every time that his eyes were off it for even a millisecond. He would not take a single step without it being calculated and measured. It was kind of tough being on edge all the time, but it was worth it to see the delight in Sera and Blackwall as they grew closer by trying to think of creative ways to get him. He loved seeing their friendship bloom.

“I agree. If we don’t get somewhere warm and dry soon, I’m going to do something drastic,” Dorian declared.

“You have magic,” Desmond pointed out. Solas was always warm and relatively dry, so he wondered why Dorian didn’t do the same thing.

Dorian sniffed, “Yes, I know. I was speaking for all of you. I’m perfectly content right now.” And then he sneezed.

Sera started giggling madly, almost falling off of the log she had perched on, “Big fat liar!”

“I beg your pardon?” Dorian couldn’t look more offended. Desmond found himself snickering into his fist. “I am not fat.”

Sera snorted and looked over Dorian’s lean figure. “Yeah. Sure.”

Dorian looked incredibly outraged, but his eyes were dancing with joy. Desmond had the biggest platonic crush on this man. “I’ll have you know, I only consume the finest foods to get this figure. It’s a sign of immense wealth.”

“What wealth? You’re homeless,” Sera poked, a childish grin on her face.

Desmond watched as Dorian took the insult with grace, “Home is where the heart is, my dear. You should only be so lucky to be my home.”

Sera made a disgusted face, “Yuck!” She yelled, throwing some leaves in Dorian’s direction. They floated to the ground about a foot from his face, but he looked wounded.

“How dare you?” Dorian picked up a wet clump of leaves and threw it at her. She shrieked with joy and started chucking nature’s debris at everyone, not just Dorian. Soon, their lunch was interrupted by an impromptu warfare filled with laughter and joy.

They all felt in much lighter spirits as they restarted their journey back to the Storm Coast. The air was much less gloomy and chatter flowed freely between them, the rain doing little to dampen their mood.

“The Herald is here!” Some soldiers called out over the rain as the group approached the camp at the top of a large hill overlooking the Waking Sea. By the time Desmond dismounted his horse, the downpour was fierce and the wind was blowing sharply, finding gaps in clothing and chilling to the bone.

He was led with his team to a small clearing where the soldiers and scouts had erected a canopy of sorts to have some small amount of relief from the weather. Waiting under it was a familiar face.

“Scout Harding,” Desmond greeted warmly, shouting to be heard over the deluge. “What do you have for me?”

“Herald! Welcome to the Storm Coast. The mercenary group is down on the beach. We’ve made contact, but they’re content to stay on their own until they’ve been hired. They’ve received word of a shipment of something coming from Tevinter and they were going to stop it, hopefully with you watching as a sort of test of their abilities. That’s supposed to happen later today, so you arrived right on time,” she yelled into his ear. He had bent down to hear the dwarf better, and was still missing a few words. The already loud rain was pounding onto the tarp creating a harsh backdrop. “There is something else,” Lace Harding continued, “A few of our scouts have gone missing. They went to go make contact with the locals, and haven’t returned in days. I don’t have the people to spare going out on a search and rescue, so I was hoping you would look into it.”

Desmond nodded, “We’ll find them, one way or another.”

Lace’s face filled with relief, “Thank you, Herald. There’s not much else to report. A few rifts, some signs of a dragon further in, as well as some weird skull totems scattered around.”

“Thank you, Scout Harding,” Desmond said, even as he felt his face hardening at the mention of the skull totems. He knew what those were, and if Alexius and his ilk were willing to go to such lengths to discover the hidden magical items, he would do well to recover it instead.

Desmond decided the plan was this: there was a skull that was conveniently on the way to the meetup place for Bull’s Chargers. After that, he would immediately go look for the missing soldiers, assuming the show of skill and negotiations afterward didn’t take too long.

Plan in place, the group set out into the torrential rain. Desmond pulled his hood down further, hoping that he wouldn't get sick, but comforted in knowing that if he did, there were potions to fix him up.

They had left their horses behind to traverse the rocky hills and shores on foot. If there was a conversation happening, Desmond couldn’t hear it over the schlurp of their boots trampling through the mud.

The Ocularum wasn’t difficult to find. It sang a single note that thrummed through Desmond’s entire being, growing louder the closer he got. “I really don’t want to touch that,” Varric said over the slowly dwindling rain.

Desmond felt the same, knowing that it was the remnants of a murdered innocent, but he drew closer anyway. He looked through the holes drilled into the back of the skull to see through the eye sockets and view the world with a magical glaze. Just as the book in that dreadful cabin had said, the Ocularum illuminated objects in the distance, the items shining like a beacon only he could see. Desmond pulled an oiled map out of his pocket, examining the landmarks visible on the map and matching them to the locations he could see through the skull. Then he made a mark in his journal of all the current quests he had in the area so that he didn’t lose track, hunching over the book to shield it from the water pouring from the sky.

By the time the group came across the mercenary group, the weather was comparatively pleasant, with just a light drizzle soaking through their clothes instead of the deluge they had arrived in. The Bull’s Chargers were mid-battle, and Desmond was suitably impressed. His first reaction was to hop right in and help, but he held back his companions from joining in the fight. This was, after all, a trial run of sorts.

He watched with wide eyes as a massive... man? He didn’t know the race of this person, but he was large with muscles for days stretching the limits of his gray skin, all on display for everyone’s viewing pleasure. He had an impressive set of horns protruding from his bald head, and he swung a battle axe that was probably as big as Desmond and twice as heavy like it was a blade of grass. Easily and without any visible effort beyond the enticing shift of muscles with each movement. Desmond assumed he was the leader of the Bull’s Chargers, but he also didn’t want to make an ass of himself by saying anything just because the person had the horns of a bull.

The other Chargers were impressive in their own right, they just didn’t draw the eye like the massive gray person that he really needed to learn the race of so he didn’t offend anyone. There was an elven mage slinging out spells with every breath, a few humans swinging swords with pinpoint precision, and a dwarf hurling grenades at the group of enemies that were wearing uniforms like a cute little cult of murderers.

All in all, Desmond was very enthusiastic about hiring them. The Inquisition would benefit greatly from such a skilled group. The Bull’s Chargers made quick work of the Tevinter mages, and soon enough that hulking man (?) was walking towards Desmond, his one visible eye moving quickly and taking in each of them. He was much larger up close, and if Desmond had to guess, he was at least seven feet tall, maybe even taller.

“Herald of Andraste, I presume,” he addressed Desmond, his voice a deep baritone that rumbled through the air pleasantly.

“Yes, I’m Desmond,” he held his hand out to shake and was astounded to see that his hand was only a fraction of the size of the other guy’s.

He smiled pleasantly, a crooked thing that stretched the scars peeking out from under his eyepatch. “The Iron Bull, at your service.” He gestured for the two of them to walk a little distance away, and Desmond followed. “I’m glad you didn’t miss the show. I was worried you wouldn’t arrive on time.”

“And what a show it was,” Desmond couldn’t help but say appreciatively, “Your group is certainly impressive, there’s no doubt about that.”

The Iron Bull radiated pride, “We’re expensive but worth it. If you decide to hire us, you’re not just getting the Chargers, you’re getting me. You need a frontline fighter? I’m your guy. No matter what it is. The bigger the better, I always say,” and then he blinked, and Desmond wondered if it was supposed to be a wink but fell flat with one eye missing.

“I would be more than happy to have you join the team, Iron Bull,” Desmond said readily.

The Iron Bull grinned, “I love to hear it.” And then he got serious, “There is one more thing you should know before you write to your ambassador, however. Could be a big thing, could be nothing.” He studied Desmond for a moment, “You know the Qunari, and more specifically the Ben-Hasrath?”

“Uh,” Desmond’s brain short-circuited for a second, “You said a few words at me and I understood none of them.”

That got an intense look, “Well I’m Qunari. That’s my race, I suppose. Though it’s more of my religion, to be honest.” Desmond knew the confusion was on his face, but The Iron Bull waved a massive hand through the air, “It’s a whole thing, don’t worry about it for now. What’s important is that there’s a subgroup called the Ben-Hassrath, and they’re pretty much the spies of the Qunari. Or well, we are. I’m one of them. The leaders of the Qun are very interested in what’s happening with the Inquisition. So they’re sending me to report back on what you are doing. I don’t know if that’s something that bothers you or not.”

Desmond blinked. A spy that told him he was a spy. How novel. “That depends,’ he spoke slowly, “on if you’d be sending sensitive information, and if you make sure you allow our spymaster to read what you’re writing before you send it out. Also, quick question. How likely is it that we can rely on the Qunari for help with this whole,” he waved his hand around, “thing,” he finished lamely.

“Well, to be completely honest, I don’t think the Qunari assistance is something you want. Sure, an alliance would be helpful, but if the Inquisition isn’t doing its job in fixing the problem, then they’d come here to take over. And I don’t think that would go well for anyone but the Qunari.” The Iron Bull said it lightly, almost jovially, but Desmond could sense the truth in his words. Desmond really needed to learn more about the Qunari if they were that big of a threat. He hadn’t even heard of them before this conversation, and that seemed like a huge oversight in his education.

“Huh. Well. Welcome aboard, Iron Bull.” Better the spy he knows, right? Besides, it sounds like it would be better to have someone reporting at least semi-favorably than to have the Qunari decide they needed to step in.

“Just like that?” The Iron Bull checked. Desmond nodded, “Alright. You’re the boss. Do you want me to join you now, or meet you back at Haven?”

Desmond looked back at his pretty full group and shrugged, “You can join us. I don’t really know what to expect from the Storm Coast, but my head scout said there’s a dragon somewhere.”

The Iron Bull’s eye lit up like a kid in a candy shop and unlimited funds. “A dragon? Fuck yeah. Let’s go find that. We’re gonna go kill her, right Boss?”

Desmond grinned, finally someone as excited about dragons as him. “Absolutely. Come on, let’s go meet the team.”

They moved back towards Desmond’s companions who were awkwardly waiting off to the side as Bull’s Chargers celebrated with a cask of ale they had pulled out of nowhere and cracked open with axes. Desmond thought that was feral behavior but didn’t say anything. The Iron Bull shouted out to them, “Hey boys! Looks like the Chargers have been hired. You can make your own way to Haven, right? Get moving.”

“But we just opened the casks!” The man that Desmond met earlier said back, Kremisius, if Desmond remembered right.

“I don’t care. Pack it up,” The Iron Bull ordered, turning away and following Desmond to the team. “What’s up, guys? I’m The Iron Bull,” he greeted jovially, raising a massive hand in a wave.

“Where’s your shirt?” Was the first question out of Sera’s mouth, her eyebrows raised in judgment.

“Must have lost it,” The Iron Bull replied solemnly. Desmond noticed Dorian studiously not looking at the Qunari’s bared chest. Interesting.

“Do girl Qunari wear shirts?” She giggled, “And are they as... big as you?”

“The Tamassarans? They’re just as big, sometimes bigger. Shirts are optional.”

Sera swooned, “Wow.”

She didn’t look like she was going to say anything else, her eyes glazed over as she likely imagined it. “That’s Sera,” Desmond supplied helpfully, jerking a thumb at her. “She’s our token female on this trip.”

Sera snapped out of it and looked at him, “What does that mean?”

“It means that you’re the best of us all,” Desmond replied seriously. She eyed him suspiciously and then shrugged, taking his words as the truth they were and going back to her daydreams. Desmond liked her. “This is Dorian, our mage for this trip.”

“Ah, a ‘Vint. A very pretty one though,” The Iron Bull said appreciatively.

“And you’re a disgusting Qunari brute,” Dorian replied primly.

The Iron Bull did his blinking wink again, “Only on my best days.”

Desmond looked between them, “Is this going to be a problem between you two?”

“Nah Boss,” The Iron Bull shrugged, “I’m good.”

Dorian sniffed and turned away, “It won’t be a problem if he doesn’t make it one.”

“Alright,” Desmond dragged out the word, unconvinced. He had no idea if it was a personal thing, a cultural thing, or just a racist thing. Either way, everyone would learn to like each other somewhat or so help him, he might have to do something drastic. Like a group therapy session. “That’s Warden Blackwall,” he said moving on to the next companion. Blackwall nodded his head in greeting but didn’t say anything, “and Varric, our mascot.”

“Excuse me,” Varric said, mock offended, “your what? I’m going to quit right now, don’t test me.”

Desmond chuckled and The Iron Bull looked around at each of them, “This is quite the team you’ve got here, Boss.”

Desmond shrugged, “I like them.”

“Stop, you’ll make me blush,” Dorain deadpanned.

Chapter Text

It was surprisingly easy to find the missing soldiers. Or what was left of them, at any rate. They found the bodies surrounded by an ambush by the locals. At least it was supposed to be an ambush, but Desmond had Eagle Vision activated and saw them hiding up in trees, behind crates and the dilapidated house and rocks. He warned his team, and they all got ready to battle.

The locals put up a good fight, but faced with the sheer competence of Desmond’s team, they somewhat easily vanquished. The Iron Bull was a force to be reckoned with, Desmond quickly realized. It was one thing to watch him fight and another to do it with him. He left very few openings for the enemies and hit incredibly hard with his giant axe. Desmond found it fun to pin someone’s boots to the ground just in time for The Iron Bull’s weapon to relieve them of their head or other body part. It was incredibly gruesome, but it was also entertaining to work so seamlessly with such a heavy hitter.

Cassandra and Blackwall were good at drawing attention to the battlefield and defending the more squishy members of the team, but The Iron Bull was almost one hundred percent offense. It was beautiful to watch.

The team was very cohesive, with Varric and Sera picking off the archers, laying cover fire for The Iron Bull to go charging in. Blackwall protected the archers and Dorian from anyone that thought to attack them. Dorian was setting up traps that would explode if someone stepped into them, as well as setting barriers on The Iron Bull and anyone else that needed it.

Desmond, for his part, was picking up any slack, as well as disappearing into the shadows and assassinating anyone that wasn’t paying attention. The battle would have been over quicker with how well they were all working together, but more of the enemies kept showing up, obviously having expected to overwhelm anyone that came looking for the soldiers.

They even had war hounds that they unleashed, and Desmond left the killing of the dogs to his companions, since he didn’t want anything to do with it. The whimpers they made when they were hurt tugged at his heartstrings a little bit. It was one thing to kill humans, but animals were innocent, simply products of their training. So he steered clear of the hounds and killed off their masters.

Once the fighting had wrapped up, Desmond went searching through the bodies for various loot, as well as any potential items to indicate who the locals were and why they were so aggressive. In one of the nearby ruined cabins, he found a few sheafs of paper detailing the belief system of The Blades of Hessarian, a religious militia group that bordered on being a cult. The Blades believed themselves to be the instruments of Andraste’s will, and were sent out to test the worthiness of whomever their leader claimed Andraste wanted to test. And so, with the Inquisition having declared themselves to have the Herald of Andraste in their ranks, it was only natural that the Blades of Hessarian wished to test this claim for themselves.

Tucked underneath a few of the papers was directions on how to craft an amulet that would signal someone’s wish to directly challenge the leader of the Blades of Hessarian, thereby stating their intention to become the next leader.

Desmond knew that he would probably have to deal with the group one way or another, but if he crafted this amulet and won the battle, then he would have a skilled group to help with whatever he might need. If he didn’t, then he would have to fight an entire cult, and that wasn’t really something he wanted to do.

He gathered up the papers and the group of six made their way back to the Inquisition camp to share the news of the soldiers’ fate. Some of the other soldiers immediately wanted to go and eradicate the Blades in revenge, but once Desmond shared his findings and his plan, they were placated enough to allow Desmond to handle the situation.

It didn’t take much time to follow the instructions to build the amulet, and soon enough, Desmond was the proud owner of an ugly looking Crest of Mercy. He placed the misshapen wooden necklace with a gaudy blue gem in the center around his neck on proud display. It was an eyesore, and Desmond was glad he didn’t actually have to look at it.

Varric decided to stay behind, claiming that he could feel the onset of a cold, and that all the rain wasn’t good for Bianca’s inner mechanics. Desmond didn’t really mind, since he had a rather full party anyway. So, with some well wishes towards their dwarven rogue, the group of five set out to where some maps indicated the main compound of the Blades of Hessarian was located.

They arrived with minimal issues, running into a few bears in the rainy woods that they quickly killed, marking the location on the map to return to later. Even if they couldn’t use the meat, they could at least repurpose the fur into warmer cloaks or armor.

When they arrived at the Blades’ compound, a few of the guards looked on edge until they noticed the amulet Desmond had placed in plain view on his chest.

The two gate guards shared a disbelieving look, “Someone’s come with a challenge?”

“The others failed,” the second Blade said faintly as they allowed Desmond and his group to pass without interference. The party received stares from everyone within the compound, but no one made any moves to attack until they reached who Desmond presumed was the leader. He was a burly man with a thick beard and two massive black mabari flanking him. The hounds growled at the party’s approach and the leader of the Blades of Hessarian sneered at them.

“Come to die, have you?” The man laughed snidely, hefting a great hammer from its mount of honor next to him. “One on one, if you dare.”

Desmond eyed the snarling mabari and had the feeling it wouldn’t be as fair as that. “If those are the parameters you set, I will accept. If you do not abide by that, then I will not either.”

The leader’s lip curled in anger and disgust, his plot seen through. “Fine.” With a hand gesture his hounds stopped growling and laid down, eyes watchful and bodies poised to attack at the slightest indication from their master.

Desmond readied his daggers, deciding it would be easier than attempting to shoot at close range. In the moment he had before combat began, he analyzed his opponent, the bulging muscles fighting to break free from the confines of his shirt, the way he held the hammer with deadly strength... it all painted a picture that if Desmond got hit even once, he was dead. He needed to be fast. There were no convenient walls to aid in parkour, so he would have to rely entirely on the agility of his muscles and his well honed instincts and reflexes.

The leader charged with a shout and Desmond waited until the last moment to dodge out of the way and slide under the man’s guard to slash at his side. He ducked out the other side and the man roared a challenge as he turned to face Desmond.

This went on long enough for Desmond to analyze his opponent’s fighting style until he spied the optimal opening, and with a breath he sent his dagger sailing. The man’s momentum was dragging him into the dagger’s path, and with perfect accuracy on Desmond’s part, the blade embedded itself into the leader’s throat.

Blood spraying a vivid red through the air as the man made an aborted move to seal the wound, falling to his knees. Desmond knew the dagger was holding the man’s lifeblood where it was supposed to be, keeping him weak but not dead. Desmond walked over, dodging around grasping hands, firmly placing his foot on the man’s chest and drawing out his dagger from where it was embedded in the man’s trachea. Blood spurted out from the wound as the leader fell onto his back, slowly bleeding out.

Desmond cast a look around him, staring the Blades of Hessarian down as they stared at the scene of carnage. Then, as one, they all knelt on the ground, bowing their heads. “Hail the Herald of Andraste.”

Chapter Text

It took a few days for the group to wrap up their business in the Storm Coast, killing off a few darkspawn and sealing their entrances, sealing a few rifts, and battling another dragon. Desmond learned quite a bit about The Iron Bull, namely that the qunari experienced sexual pleasure from fighting and killing dragons. It was an interesting thing to discover, but Desmond could see how his personal exhilaration and adrenaline from the battle could easily tip into the same predicament The Iron Bull was proudly sporting. Desmond couldn’t help noticing the way Dorian’s eyes ogled the qunari, despite his obvious self disgust at his fascination. Very interesting indeed. The two of them had been nothing but antagonistic towards each other, but Desmond sensed something underneath all that animosity. It wasn’t his business unless it affected the team, however.

The moment the rain started tapering off the further the team got from the Storm Coast, there was an audible sigh of relief. They paused briefly to change into dry clothes and draped the wet outfits over the backs of their horses to dry. It was a relief to not be wet for the first time in a week.

Desmond got a day to rest back at Haven before he set out to meet with Magister Alexius at Redcliffe to negotiate getting the assistance of the mages. The plan was relatively simple, considering they knew the meeting was likely a trap. Desmond and two of his companions would enter through the front to serve as a distraction while Leliana led a group of soldiers and Dorian through a secret passage she had used years before to infiltrate the castle. Dorian would disable the magical traps and the soldiers would kill any guards they came across. Hopefully they would all reach the throne room at the opportune time for maximum effect.

Desmond chose The Iron Bull and Solas as his companions for the mission, for the sheer entertainment of seeing Magister Alexius struggle to be polite to the two races he hated most. Tevinter was at constant war with the Qunari, and Desmond knew that they also viewed elves as lesser, as slaves. Desmond wanted the Magister to know that he saw both of his companions as equal, and force the man out of his comfort zone. Also, the more focused he was on Desmond’s group, the less brain power he could give to everything else going on behind the scenes.

The three of them arrived with minimal fanfare, the castle chamberlain greeting them at the door. “Magister Alexius has been expecting you,” he eyed Desmond’s companions with disdain that was thinly hidden behind a veneer of polite disinterest. “Your, ah, companions must stay out here.”

Desmond tilted his head in mock confusion, “You wouldn't deny me my advisors, would you? This is a negotiation, is it not?” Out of the corner of his eye he saw The Iron Bull flex his muscles threateningly as Solas smiled benignly.

The chamberlain gulped and waved them through the large oaken doors that concealed the throne room. “Magister Alexius, I present the Herald of Andraste,” he announced.

“My friends, welcome,” Alexius rose from his throne and threw his hands out in a grand gesture. Desmond was rather impressed that the man didn’t even bat an eyelash at his companions. It was also a bit disappointing, but he assumed that being high ranked in a place like Tevinter seemed to be, Alexius must have a pretty amazing mask. But Desmond hoped the man was a little off-put anyway.

Desmond briefly activated Eagle Vision, just to make sure he wasn’t mistaken. He trusted Dorian, and the man never showed as anything other than blue, but maybe Alexius was multifaceted. Even if he was systematically killing off all the Tranquil, which still made Desmond want to bury a knife in the Magister’s skull. But the man was a reassuring red in his Vision. Desmond smothered a sigh of relief and instead pasted on a smile.

He hated diplomacy, but it was the nature of his position as the Herald of Andraste that he had to learn to school his reactions. He pulled a tiny bit on Haytham’s charisma and leadership and wore it like a cloak as he walked forward. “Alexius,” he acknowledged, “our conversation was cut short, last time. I appreciate the chance to resume the talks.”

“Of course, Herald,” Alexius purred, slightly slimy in his delivery. “Now tell me why I should lend you my mages?”

Desmond had several things he could say to that. Things such as, ‘Claiming them already, Alexius?’ or even a pointed, ‘Why would you withhold them when they could help close the Breach?’

Before he could come to a decision, Fiona interrupted with a voice full of anger, “Are we to have no say in deciding our fate?”

Alexius sighed with a face of disappointment, “Fiona, you would not entrust your people to my care if you didn’t think I could make the best decisions for them,” his tone was patronizing and Fiona looked like that had been the last thing she thought about when handing over control of the rebel mages to the Magister. “Now, where were we?”

Desmond had the choice to say that he thought Fiona should be involved in the negotiations, but truthfully, he didn’t want to. Sure, she was in a bad situation and tried to make the best of it, but what kind of leader decided to hand over their people into what basically amounted to slavery, before it was even the last choice. The Conclave had exploded maybe a week before she was handing over the rights of the mages to someone with questionable motives from a place that everyone seemed to hate. He didn’t really care for her opinion on the matter anymore.

“Actually Alexius, I’m more interested in talking about the Venatori.”

Alexius’s face froze, more of a reaction to that simple sentence than to Desmond’s companions. It still brought a viscous sense of satisfaction to Desmond, having caught the man off-guard.

“The way I hear it,” Desmond continued before Alexius had a chance to recover, “you have no interest in closing the Breach. In fact, I’d wager that the whole reason you’re here is to find some way to kill me, adding more mages to your army is just a bonus, wouldn’t you say?”

“And where did you hear that?” Alexius sneered.

“I told him,” Felix raised his chin in defiance. “You’ve gone too far, father.”

“Felix, what have you done?” Alexius asked with genuine sadness. “He could have healed you. You’re going to die.”

Felix’s face softened a touch, “Everyone dies, father.”

“And who is this ‘he’ you spoke of?” Desmond interrupted.

Alexius curled his lip in anger. “The Elder One comes to us, a god among men. And yet you ruined his glorious ascension with your very existence. He has tasked me with removing you, and the mark you bear.”

“Father,” Felix sounded distraught, “can you even hear yourself? Do you know what you sound like?”

Dorian waltzed in, stepping with light feet over the bodies of the fallen guards, Inquisition soldiers filing in behind him. “He sounds exactly like the sort of villainous cliche everyone expects us to be.”

Alexius sighed with disappointment, “Dorian. I offered to let you join me. You declined.”

Dorian scoffed, “And I continue to do so, thank you very much.”

“This is not at all how this was supposed to go,” Alexius shook his head, looking around himself at all the Inquisition agents. Desmond could see the desperation and anger as the Magister’s eyes alighted on him, “this is all your fault, Herald. You should never have existed.”

Alexius yanked an amulet out of his pocket and started casting some sort of spell. It was a dark and stormy green, and tinged the air with the scent of despair. Dorian must have recognized the magic, because he ran forward, a shout on his lips as he flung a counter spell into the magical cloud. Desmond saw the bright blue magic hit the amulet, and then the world flashed golden and crumbled apart.

Chapter Text

It was wet, and it was cold. That was the first thing Desmond became aware of. The second thing was the dark, only illuminated by red lyrium crystals growing out of the walls and floor. He was in a dungeon, water to his mid calf, and the sharp scent of mold and mildew invading his nose. He covered his face with a spare sash in his pocket, not wanting to breathe in the infected air.

A groan came from below him as Dorian rose with shaky limbs from where he had fallen into the water. “Gross,” was his declaration.

“Did you hear that?” A voice came from outside the cell, before the two of them heard the sound of armored feet approaching. Desmond looked at Dorian, and they both readied their weapons. “Who the-” three guards came barreling into the cell, weapons drawn. Desmond and Dorian made short work of them, despite the cramped quarters. Dorian forwent using his staff, flinging about spells from his hands instead. Desmond, for his part, darted in between the guards, slashing at weak points in their armor with his daggers as Dorian roasted them.

The scent of burnt flesh was overwhelming in the small space by the time five became two. Desmond dropped down and started rummaging through the guards’ pockets, finding some coin, health potions, and a ring of keys. Grinning with accomplishment, Desmond gestured with his head for them to escape and go explore.

They had barely cleared the cell before Dorian was spouting his theories about their location. “Where do you think we are? Redcliffe castle? All this Ferelden architecture looks the same to me. Very musty. The amulet couldn’t have taken us far, with the way I disrupted it... Of course!” Desmond looked back at the mage from where he was poking his head into various barrels and empty cells. “It doesn’t matter where we are, the question is when we are.”

“Time travel,” Desmond said, connecting the dots. Dorian had mentioned that he and Alexius were working on time magic. And then there were the rifts that warped time. If Alexius had managed to link the magic to that amulet... well. From the way Desmond saw it, they had two options. Either they found a way to reverse the magic, or they were stuck here. If they were stuck here, where red lyrium was growing out of the walls in corrupted, deadly crystals, then Desmond wasn’t sure what exactly he could do to fix the world. From the little he’d seen, it seemed a bit further gone than it had been when he left it. “I’m guessing the future.” Because red lyrium hadn’t been much of a thing before the explosion at the Conclave. Certainly nowhere near the amount in the dungeon. And if Dorian was right, and they were still in Redcliffe castle, there was no way the place would be in such disrepair from the few months since the Arl was kicked out.

Dorian gave Desmond an excited look, “Time magic. It’s simply fascinating! We do need to find a way back, however. I’m betting that the amulet would be our key home. And for that, we need to find Alexius. What would you say to a little adventure?”

Desmond grinned, “I’m always down for that.”

The pair went sloshing through the flooded dungeons, Desmond poking his nose in golden crates and coming out with stray coins, some food that didn’t look or smell rancid, and a few potions of varying use. Dorian didn’t seem bothered by the hold-ups, instead studying the walls or muttering to himself about where they were in time and possible ramifications of what successful time travel could mean for the future. Desmond side-eyed the man when he started talking about potentially visiting the past.

“You know that’s rather dangerous,” Desmond commented. “You could change the whole of history by meeting the wrong person.” Dorian gave him a look. “It’s called the Butterfly Effect. Visit the past, step on a butterfly, and maybe you’d never have been born. And then comes a paradox, because if you were never born, you wouldn’t have stepped on that butterfly, but if you didn’t step on it, you would have been born, leading you to the very event that caused your unbirth. And then the whole of time is destabilized and congratulations, you’ve killed the world.”

Dorian blinked rapidly. “Maybe I won’t visit the past, then.”

“Best not to,” Desmond agreed.

“But what about the future? There’s no ‘effect’ there, right?”

Desmond sighed, “Well. We’re living it right now, I suppose. But the thing about the future is that it’s not a fixed point in time. If we manage to make it back to our present, that would mean that we would do everything in our power to stop this future from happening. And thus, as a consequence of our actions, this future we’re living in right now would become obsolete, leaving us where we were before - with no idea of the future. We could, in theory, do that indefinitely until we build the ‘perfect future’, but we’re just two people, we can’t change the fate of everyone. And who’s to say that our perfect future is perfect for someone else. At that point we’d be playing god, and then we become the type of people we’re trying to stop.” Desmond shook his head and popped off the lid of a chest, “Messing with time doesn’t go well for anyone.”

Dorian was silent. When Desmond looked behind himself at his companion, the mage appeared deep in thought. “So we should destroy this research.”

“I don’t know,” Desmond shrugged. “It’s dangerous, that’s for sure. But limiting knowledge isn’t always the way to go. For something like this, however, I don’t think there are any good applications. In the wrong hands, people could be erased from history, whole civilizations killed in a day.”

“And in the right hands?”

“I don’t think there are any right hands for this, Dorian.”

Dorian hummed, and that was the last they spoke until they came across someone singing.

“Six thousand bottles of beer on the wall,” a deep voice hummed, sounding weary. Desmond poked his head around the corner to see the Iron Bull resting against the wall, throwing spare bits of straw at a bucket. “Take one down, pass it around, five thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall.”

“That looks boring,” Desmond commented.

The Iron Bull jolted, head whipping around, horns clanging against the stone wall with his speed. Bull didn’t even flinch before he was crowding against the cell door. “Is that you, Boss? Or am I finally going insane?”

Desmond noted the cloud of corrupted red swirling around Bull’s head, his eyes glowing and small lyrium crystals breaking through the skin of his arms and face. Desmond swallowed, “Hey Bull. Miss me?”

“Fuck yeah I did,” Bull grinned widely. “How’d you get out of there, though? We saw you disappear. Thought you were dead.”

“Alexius sent us through time,” Dorian explained as Desmond started fitting keys into the lock. “How long has it been anyway?”

The Iron Bull shrugged, “You lose track, in here. But I’d guess about a year.”

Dorian gaped, “All this destruction in just a year?”

“You haven’t even seen the worst of it, ‘Vint,” Bull laughed. “But I reckon you’re about to.”

He gave Desmond a grateful smile as the cell door creaked open. “Is there anyone else here?” Desmond asked.

Bull shook his head, “Leliana should be somewhere. Solas escaped about a month into captivity, and I haven’t heard much about the others. I think they killed some of your companions, though. In the beginning they would taunt me about it, but I don’t know them as well as you do. Sorry, Boss. After a while, they stopped caring. It’s been just me here for a while now.”

“How did you survive?” Dorian breathed, looking at Bull with pity.

The Qunari scoffed, “It doesn’t matter. Let’s get out of here. I assume you have a plan?”

Desmond let it slide as Dorian explained their quest to get to wherever Alexius was, and hopefully figure out what was happening here, so when they got back to their time, they could avoid all of this happening. Desmond, meanwhile, was lost in thought. The Iron Bull had said the guards stopped coming by. That meant no food and no water. He was tainted with red lyrium. But what if that taint went deeper. Desmond had heard that Grey Wardens could survive off their corruption for years without any other form of sustenance. What if the red lyrium was the same? It infected a host and kept it alive so it could spread to others. A perfect incubation, until it grew so much that it didn’t need the host to sustain it any longer. It was a troubling thought.

“Sounds like a crazy plan,” Bull commented, “I’m in. Last I heard, Alexius doesn’t leave the main chamber. We should probably make our way there.”

The three of them made good progress in the bowels of the castle. They came across a stash of weapons, and Bull picked out a massive hammer that he seemed to have no trouble wielding, despite his slightly deflated muscles. Perhaps the lyrium gave more than sustenance to their host. It was a thought for later, as they soon came across the stomach-churning sight of Fiona locked away in a cell.

There was nothing they could do for her. She was half red lyrium, proving Desmond’s theory correct that the lyrium eventually outgrew its host. She was becoming the crystal, her voice distorted, echoing the corrupted lyrium song Desmond had tuned out like the buzzing of a fly.

She told them everything they needed to know about what had caused this future. The assassination of the Empress, the destabilization of Orlais, a demon army. Mages and templars banding together under the banner of the Elder One. She mentioned a small rebellion, gaining traction with the free folk, supposedly lead by an elven god. The Elder One, a god in his own right, leading the march for world domination and destruction, and the elven god, leading a seemingly hopeless rebellion, yet the only one able to withstand the Elder One.

Fiona gave them direction. If they found a way back to their time, they would be able to work on stopping the things that gave the Elder One his edge- the assassination of the Empress, and the demon army. If they were stuck in this time, they would try to join the elven god’s rebel army. Hope that they could find a way to work against the Elder One.

But first, Alexius.

They found Leliana in torture chamber, various bloodied tools strewn about the room. Their entrance was enough of a distraction for the woman to snap the neck of her assailant, which Desmond respected greatly.

Leliana was wholly unimpressed with Dorian’s attempts at gathering information, her responses curt and no-nonsense. Desmond felt like crying when she said that it didn’t matter if they were displaced in time, because what she experienced was real to her. That couldn’t be erased just because they go back in time. Maybe this will become an alternate timeline, and everything The Iron Bull and Leliana experienced would still happen. It was saddening to think of, but the truth of the matter was that Desmond had been entirely passive in this quest.

Dorian was the one who was gung-ho about finding a way to the present. Sure, Desmond wanted that too, he didn’t want his friends and companions to die, he didn’t want this horrific future where people were turning into red lyrium. But he was also resigned to the possibility that they might get stuck here. He had been passively gathering information in the case of either possibility coming to pass. Compartmentalizing and not letting the horrors get to him, because if he took even a moment to actually process the ramifications that his disappearance or death means the literal end of the world, he didn’t think he could remain calm. He might even break down.

The severity of the situation was only compounded when the four of them entered the castle courtyard, seeing where the Breach wasn’t so much a tear in the world as it was the entire sky. The air itself crackled with Fade energy, rifts splitting open reality every ten feet, stone structures floating above them like monoliths of doom. All of this... because Desmond disappeared. Their only hope against the Breach and the rifts, gone. The Elder One with no one to stand against him, except an elven god that couldn’t undo the tears in the Fade. It was, simply put, a nightmare.

Desmond breathed through the panic, focusing instead on fighting the demons, blood mages, abominations, and guards that came their way. The rhythmic process of dodge, slash, shoot, dodge, all of it doing its job to keep him sane in the face of the overwhelming consequences of failure. This world was not an option. He had to go back in time, and he had to stay alive. There was no other choice.

He felt horrible writing off this world as a lost cause, but the truth of it was that he couldn’t see himself making much of an impact. Him closing the rifts strewn throughout the castle already gained the Elder One’s attention. He could feel the mass of demons growing closer as the four of them searched for the pieces to unlock the door to the throne room. It puts everything on a speed track.

Alexius, when they finally got to him, was a shell of a man. Slumped on his throne, eyes bruised purple with exhaustion, and a scraggly beard. His clothes were a mockery of regal, dusty and unwashed, just like him. He barely glanced up when the party made their way into the chamber.

“I knew you would come. Not that it would be now, but I knew you weren’t dead. My last failure.”

Desmond was peripherally aware of Leliana slinking into the shadows before she grabbed the wasted walking corpse hunched at Alexius’s side. She brought a knife its throat in a promise.

“Felix, no!” Alexius shouted, finally reacting as he shot out of the throne and outstretched his hand as if he could stop her.

“That’s Felix?” Dorian asked, aghast. Desmond felt a similar disbelief. The creature had gray leathery skin stretched over its skull, milky white eyes staring at the far wall, empty of anything that once made it human. “Maker, Alexius, what have you done?”

Leliana looked to Desmond, and he knew she wasn’t asking for permission so much as testing him. On one hand he knew that if he allowed her to kill Felix, assuming he was even alive, then Alexius would likely lose any tentative hold he had on his sanity and they would have a fight with the person who trained Dorian to be as skilled as he was. In other words, it wouldn’t be easy. On the other hand, if he told her to stand down, they could try to resolve this peacefully, but there was every possibility that Leliana wouldn’t even listen to him and kill the creature anyway.

He nodded, and with a smooth motion, Felix’s throat was cut. “No!” Alexius screamed in despair, magic crackling at his fingertips.

The fight was brutal. Alexius teleported all over the place, opening rifts in the chamber and hiding behind impenetrable barriers, shooting spells from the safety of his shields. Desmond hadn’t had a fight this long with a single person in a long time, showing what it was like when he was battling with a truly skilled magic user. It wasn’t necessarily a situation he would like to repeat, as his breath was slightly labored when Alexius finally went down. It was the only battle thus far that was able to wind him even slightly. But, on the plus side, he was able to get his fix of murdering the man, and now he would be able to think clearly when dealing with the Magister in his own timeline.

Another negative, however, was that they were noticeably running out of time. They could hear the demons growing closer. Dorian rummaged through Alexius’s clothes, coming up with a victorious exclamation, amulet clutched in his fist. “Give me an hour and I should be able to send us back.”

“An hour?” Leliana said, voice dripping with disbelief that Desmond shared. The demons were right outside the throne room. “You don’t have an hour. You must leave now.”

Dorian, obviously flustered, shut up and started working his magic on the amulet.

The Iron Bull looked at Desmond and gave a wry little smile, “Well, it was nice seeing you again, boss. Go and save the world, won’t you?” And with that he slipped out of the chamber, closing the door behind him with a resounding thud.

Desmond hadn’t known the qunari that long, but the loss sent a pang through his heart. Sure, Bull was a spy, and likely didn’t have much loyalty to Desmond or the Inquisition, but he was a good person, and he had always been blue under Eagle Vision. Desmond knew this was how Bull wanted to go out - being remembered for heroics and going out in battle, instead of the slow infection of red lyrium. It still hurts.

“Hurry it up, mage,” Leliana demanded, notching an arrow as the sounds of fighting ceased. “You have as much time as I have arrows.” Dorian’s brow started sweating as the door was flung open, a terror demon dragging the dead body of The Iron Bull behind it. Desmond swallowed and stepped closer to Dorian, wishing there was something he could do.

But there was a swarm of demons, and if he was too far away from Dorian when the spell activated, then he would be stuck here and this future would always come to pass. It was agony seeing his companions die for him. That was one reason why he preferred to work mostly solo. Because then he was the only one at risk. But seeing what would happen if he died... as callous as it was, the world couldn’t afford him to die. It was better if his companions perished in his stead. He hated that thought even as it crossed his mind.

Leliana took down the first wave of demons before she ran out of arrows and resorted to punching and kicking. Desmond watched helplessly as she was overwhelmed and the army started converging on the two remaining humans.

“Got it!” Dorian exclaimed as a cloud of dark green exploded from the amulet. Within the space of a blink Desmond was in a brightly lit version of the throne room, the shocked faces of Bull and Solas staring at him, Inquisition soldiers surrounding the pair.

Alexius fell to his knees, the fight having fled in the face of his obvious defeat.

Desmond grinned. “Honey, I’m home.”

Chapter Text

Things happened very quickly after that. Alexius had barely admitted his defeat before the Queen of Ferelden, Anora, was gliding in with a retinue of stomping soldiers. Fiona was the only one who bowed. Desmond was too busy making sure that Alexius wouldn’t try anything, as well as studying the new player.

Anora, for her part, looked regally disappointed. “Fiona,” she started, voice patronizing, “When I granted asylum to the mages in Redcliffe, I did not mean for you to make an alliance with Tevinter.” Fiona’s head dropped lower in submission, but to her credit, she did not attempt to make excuses. “You do realize that now I have no choice but to banish you from Redcliffe. Maybe someone else will be willing to harbor you.”

Desmond watched as Fiona grimaced, but did not lift her head. With a sigh, Desmond spoke up, “I should point out that I came here seeking the aid of the mages.”

At that, Fiona looked at him, desperation and resignation warring on her face. “And what are the terms for our assistance?”

Desmond really wanted to mention that there shouldn’t have to be negotiations about whether or not they would help close the fucking hole in the sky spewing out demons, but he was unfortunately aware that such words would have the Inquisition’s ambassador wringing his neck. Diplomacy, Desmond.

Before he had to figure out what words wouldn’t cause some sort of incident but would also give him the aid he needed to close the Breach, Dorian cut in. “We can definitely offer you better than what Alexius promised,” he then looked at Desmond somewhat accusingly, which was unfair, “The Inquisition is better than that, yes?”

Desmond took a second to think over his options. If he were to allow them free reign at Haven, it would only be a matter of time before there were abominations and blood mages. Because, as much as he didn’t want to be judgmental or fall to stereotyping, the fact of the matter is that people who have been restricted their whole lives, when given a bit of freedom, tend to go off the deep end before eventually figuring themselves out and calming down. But with such dangerous magics, there wasn’t much forgiveness and room for error. So the mages needed some sort of supervision. But the only ones that could do that were templars. The very idea of giving templars any more power within the Inquisition gave Desmond hives. And he didn’t want to deal with the consequences of having mages go from one prison to a sense of freedom, to indentured servitude, and back into a gilded cage.

At the end of the day, Desmond was an Assassin, someone who preached Free Will. He would never cage the mages, make them into prisoners again, just because of something they were born with. At the same time, though, it wasn’t just him that he was protecting, but an entire group that was growing larger every day. There were defenseless civilians at Haven who would be instantly killed by even one abomination. What to do...

Desmond sighed and shook his head. “I offer you this, Fiona. Help the Inquisition close the Breach, and give us aid in finding the one who caused it. You and your mages will help the Inquisition repair the damage the Conclave created. In return, we will offer you a place to stay, protection from the templars and Chantry for the duration of the alliance, and a chance to learn how to govern yourselves, while also integrating into normal society. There are likely to be incidents involving dangerous magic, but I will not assign templars. I would appreciate it if you could figure out a system of accountability among yourselves.” He gave her a stern look, “It would be wise to take this opportunity to get your names out there and make people realize that mages are not the monsters under the bed.” He hoped she got the message that the mages shouldn’t form groups that excluded non-mages, as that would just breed more contention and not allow for others to see them as anything but ‘other’.

Fiona looked slightly unhappy, which Desmond didn’t understand. He was giving her mages freedom. Sure, it wasn’t a free pass, and they had to do something in return, but freedom was never truly free and he wasn’t asking anything heinous. He didn’t want a repeat of what happened in Redcliffe, that was for sure. “I suppose we have no real choice.”

Desmond’s eyebrow rose, “You always have a choice, Fiona. I’m giving you the chance to learn how to be self-sufficient outside the Circle and learn how to be a part of society. You don’t have to be a victim if you don’t want to be.” Because she was definitely playing the victim. He didn’t entirely blame her, because as terrible as the Circle was, they always had shelter, food, and knew what their role was in life.

Out here, they didn’t have that. They didn’t know how to hunt, grow food, get money, find shelter, and all the necessities for survival. They were newborns to the outside world, vilified beyond this little village, and floundering without direction. Along came someone who claimed he could clear up all their problems, and Fiona, used to being taken care of to some extent, didn’t know what to do when her people were starving and scared, with a war going on outside their walls, and never having had any real knowledge about how to lead a people. Of course she would give up her power. Desmond couldn’t blame her because she was scared. But he could blame her because she let that fear rule her. She sold her people into slavery because she was too proud to ask for help, to figure something out. Desmond knew it wasn’t easy. But she played the victim instead of hiking up her sleeves and fucking learning how to survive.

And now, here she was, playing the victim again. Acting like Desmond expecting the mages to pull their own weight instead of handing everything to them on a golden platter was no better than the offer Alexius made. It made him a little nauseous wondering what the future of the mages would look like with someone so soft in charge. Someone so quick to give up control to the first person with a disarming smile and offer of protection.

“It’s decided then,” Queen Anora cut in gracefully. “Fiona, I can’t say it’s been a pleasure, and I hope to never see you again.” She gave a pretty smile to the elven mage as if she didn’t say something incredibly rude. Then she turned to Desmond, “I had hoped we would meet under better circumstances, Herald of Andraste. You are making quite the stir.”

“I’d hope so, Your Majesty,” he responded with a slight incline of his head.

Anora laughed politely, “I eagerly await to see what kind of impact you’ll have on the world. I don’t expect it will be small.” She looked him up and down, “Not small, indeed.” Desmond fought not to react to the very obvious flirtation. Anora smiled. “Well, it seems my work here is done. Herald, I hope to see you again, in a much more pleasant situation.”

With those as her parting words, she and her soldiers left the throne room without much fanfare. Desmond shared a look with his companions. The Iron Bull was wiggling his non-existent eyebrows and Solas gave Desmond a placid look as if he had been zoning out throughout the entire conversation. Dorian, for his part, was trying his hardest not to laugh. Desmond scratched his head, mystified, and then cleared his throat, hoping to move on from the queen flirting with him. He was in no way prepared for that level of acknowledgement. Being the Herald of Andraste was one thing, being the Queen’s Consort was quite a different thing.

“Anyway,” he coughed, “let’s head back to Haven and close that damn Breach.”

But of course, things weren’t as simple as that. When the group returned to Haven, Alexius in tow, Desmond was met with a wide range of emotions. His companions were almost evenly split on how they felt about him accepting the mages into the Inquisition as allies. Because of course news travelled faster than the group high-tailing it back to headquarters.

Vivienne was approving of his decision that the mages should govern themselves, but was equally disapproving of him giving them so much freedom, as if she wasn’t one of the mages but a separate, much more superior individual that was beholden to no such rules. Varric had thrown up his hands in the universal sign for surrender and claimed that he had no opinion in the matter one way or another, which Desmond thought was more of stretching the truth than an outright lie. Sera was so upset to be surrounded by mages that she actively avoided him after hunting him down to stick her tongue out in a childish act of disapproval. Blackwall grunted and clapped Desmond on the back, which he took as endorsement. Dorian was happy as a clam and Solas took time to caution Desmond about the potential ramifications of allowing untrained Circle mages free reign to do what they want. Desmond thought it was less about the lack of supervision and more that these people Solas viewed as weak were suddenly given time and space to do what they wanted. It was like teenagers set loose on an unsuspecting store and told to ‘have at it’. Desmond felt old just thinking about it.

Cassandra didn’t voice her opinion until Desmond was being stared down by his advisors in the war room. She called out her support, which was rather surprising.

“What were you thinking?” Cullen rounded on Desmond as soon as the door slammed shut. “Mages get their freedom, sure, but now I have entitled brats hounding my every move demanding this or that as if they deserve it just because of this so-called alliance. And I can’t do shit because you offered them protection, and I’m an ex-Templar.”

Desmond had never seen Cullen this ruffled. It would be cute if it were any other subject matter. “Listen-”

“None of us were there,” Cassandra cut in, face stern, “The Herald made the best decision he could in such a situation, and I support that.”

It was silent for a moment, and then Josephine delicately cleared her throat. “Be that as it may,” she sent a disarming smile around the room, “we need to figure out the parameters of this alliance. You did well in starting a foundation, but we need to work together and build something even better.”

The tension in the room dropped by a few degrees. Cullen took a deep breath, “I apologize for my outburst, Herald. I’ve been under pressure lately, but that is no excuse.” Desmond looked closer at the man and saw the deep bags under his amber eyes, the pale skin that looked almost sallow in the firelight. Cullen looked sick. Like he was barely holding on by a string.

“Perhaps,” Leliana spoke up, “we should discuss what our plans concerning the Breach are.”

Desmond rubbed at his eyes, feeling exhaustion creeping up. If they were even able to close the Breach, they still had to find the person responsible for it in the first place. He felt like he hadn’t slept in a month, which was probably true. He had barely come back from a nightmare future, and it was back in the game. No time to process what he’d seen, how he’d felt.

“I should probably also tell you what I discovered under Alexius’s spell.” Eyes turned to him, “Dorian and I were transported to a future where we died in that throne room. It was... Not a good place,” he said, understating it by a mile. “But the main takeaway was that this Elder One has plans to assassinate the Empress of Orlais, and somehow gets ahold of a demon army. Those two things, as well as the inability on our side to close the rifts, changed the tides of this war, and the world fell to ruin within a year. Once the Breach is sealed, we have to focus on stopping that future from coming to pass.”

Everyone in the room looked rightly troubled at the implications. “One thing at a time,” Cassandra forced them back on topic. “First, we must close this Breach. And then we will see what we can do.”

“Any news from the templars?” Desmond asked Cullen. If there was any hope of combatting the demon army, they would need an army of their own. With demons running rampant in the world, mages were even more at risk. And Desmond let them into his hold without much supervision. Negotiating out the kinks in the alliance contract seemed to be something they definitely needed to do. As much as Desmond didn’t want to deal with the templars, it looked like they would be needing their help.

Josephine answered in Cullen’s stead, shaking her head with a troubled frown, “They’ve all disappeared. While you were busy at Redcliffe, Therinfal Redoubt where they were stationed was cleared out. I’ve heard nothing on their movements.”

That was a grim prospect. “Then we should assume the Elder One has them.” It wasn’t a nice thought, but the timing was suspicious. Coupled with how sketchy the Lord Seeker was... they needed to plan for the worst-case scenario. Desmond shook his head. “Let’s plan on heading to the temple in two days. I don’t know about you, but I need some sleep.”

The tension broke and Josephine giggled a little. “You look like you need it.” Desmond gave her a wounded look. She smothered a smile behind a delicate hand. “I will make contact with some dwarves to set up a supply of lyrium for the mages. Cullen, make sure that the soldiers are ready for whatever may come. Leliana, find out whatever you can about the templar’s movements.” She swiftly took charge of the room. “We only have a few days to prepare. Let’s make it count.”

Chapter Text

“Hey Cullen,” Desmond called as the meeting disbanded, jogging slightly to catch up with the man who was surprisingly speedy. “Can we talk for a moment?”

Cullen looked shocked, as if astounded Desmond would ever talk to him outside of a meeting. And then his face turned downcast, “If this is about what I said in there earlier-”

Desmond waved his hands in front of him, “No, no. It’s fine, honestly. I just wanted to ask - are you okay?”

Cullen’s whole body language closed off within a moment. Desmond tried not to wince. “Of course I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

“Well, it’s just,” Desmond felt like backtracking even as he blundered ahead, “you kind of look like shit.” Not the most delicate way he could have phrased it. It always amazed him that he could con an entire political, slightly religious faction like the Inquisition into thinking he was competent when really he was kind of a rabid weasel in a trench coat. Not fit for human interaction.

Cullen’s eyes narrowed slightly, “I assure you, whatever I’m going through will not impact my work, Herald. You have no need to worry.” 

“That’s not why I’m worried,” Desmond rushed to say as Cullen started attempting to flee. “I just. Well. I’m worried about you . Is it - are you -” he sighed heavily, avoiding Cullen’s eyes. “I know we don’t see eye to eye on the templars, but we’re both more than that, aren’t we? I think you’re a wonderful commander, but I think that comes from you being a good person. And I see that person struggling, and just want to see if you’re okay.”

After a beat of silence, Desmond looked up into Cullen’s face. The man bit his lip slightly and then shook his head. “You don’t know me, Herald. You don’t know what I’ve done.” His tone was harsh, meant to end the discussion and push Desmond away.

Well, Assassins had never been good at leaving well enough alone. “I don’t need to know what you’ve done or what you’ve been through to see you’re a good person, Cullen. It’s in the way you care about the soldiers under your command, how kind you are to everyone, how you try so hard to make sure everyone gets a job suited to them, and you don’t push people beyond their means even if it would be easier. I don’t care what you did in the past, Cullen. I care about what you’re doing now, and all I see is a good man trying his best in a shitty situation.” Cullen had a look of reluctant vulnerability on his face. “So I ask again, are you okay?”

Cullen looked heartbreakingly world-weary, “I’m trying to be.” 

Desmond gave him a small smile, “Thank you for telling me. Do you need anything from me?”

“Just keep doing what you’re doing, Herald. Fixing the world.” 

“Right, no pressure or anything,” Desmond tried to say lightly, but some of his stress must have shone through because Cullen gave him a searching look. 

“Desmond,” Cullen started, throwing Desmond off as he hadn’t heard his name in what felt like forever, “you know you’re not alone, right?

And wasn’t that a nice sentiment. It was easy to say, but less easy to believe. Sure, he had advisors and companions and soldiers and followers, but at the end of the day, he’d seen a future without him, and it was bleak. As much as anyone else wanted to help, the truth of the matter was that the fate of the world rested on his shoulders alone. He had no doubt that in that future they had everyone working together, all the resources in the world, except one person. Him. And they lost. Once again he was the only thing standing in the way of total world destruction. The first time around it was a solar flare that cost his life, this time it was some megalomaniac with dreams to end the world, or whatever it was the Elder One wanted. Either way, it all boiled down to him at the center of the world.

He was tired. He didn’t want to give his life yet again just so other people could continue on. He didn’t want to go down in history, he just wanted to live for himself. Those few short years on the run between the Farm and Abstergo were some of the best in his life, even while he had to look over his shoulder constantly. At least he could make his own decisions and the only one that was affected was himself. 

But now he had the Inquisition, and even beyond that, the whole world. In fact, he would say that he had even more pressure in this world than the last. Because in the last he could still work in the shadows, but here, his every word was taken as gospel. He had to watch what he said, what he did, and sometimes even what he thought. It was a lonely and alienating existence, and as much as he wished he could share the burden, he was the one with the glowing hand and the title he never wanted. It wasn’t The Herald of Andraste and his companions, it was just him. No one called him by name, no one knew who he was, or what his favorite things were. They saw him as an icon, a figurehead. He wasn’t a person, he was a mascot. Even to the people he was supposed to be friends with. 

He pasted on a smile, “Neither are you, Cullen.” 

The blonde man looked incredibly sad for a moment. “Thank you, Herald.” Ah, that damn title again. Back to polite distance then. “I should get going, but thank you for checking up on me.” 

Desmond watched Cullen’s back as he walked away, feeling cold and alone. He shook himself, this was no time to get maudlin. He supposed he had to reach Friendship Level 10 with Cullen to unlock his tragic backstory and inner feelings. Desmond wondered what Friendship Level people had to reach with him to unlock the same. Not what everyone was at right now, that was for sure. 

He really should get something to eat, he thought even as he climbed up the side of the Chantry to breathe in the crisp winter air. It wasn’t as cold in the Hinterlands, and the frigid air of Haven burned his nose with every inhale, but it felt nice. Isolating in a way that was less lonely and more contemplative. Like he was choosing this time to be alone and compartmentalize, unlike how he felt separate among the crowds. 

Man, he needed a vacation and a friend. Although he didn’t think he would even know what to do with one. He’d never opened up in his life. People either knew everything about him and his situation, or they didn’t need to know. There was never anyone that he felt safe unloading his inner thoughts and feelings onto. Well, there was Lucy, kind of. With her, he’d felt comfortable enough to tell her how the Animus was fucking him up, messing with his mind and his body. He told her how he didn’t want to go in there, and he could see the regret in her eyes every time she helped strap him in. Reluctantly compounding his abuse and descent into insanity. He didn’t blame her, not entirely. Even if she was a traitor that was selling him out. He didn’t want to hurt her. He didn’t want to kill her.

Rebecca tried her best, in her weird, distant way. She would tell him about all sorts of mundane stories while he stared at the food he couldn't get himself to eat. She never asked him to open up about anything other than his experiences in the Animus so she could fix things. She never talked about anything deep, like how it felt to be trained to kill from infancy, or how messed up it was that he had to escape his house, The Farm, because he thought he was in a cult and he spent the next six years of his life terrified they would find him if he let his guard down. How, the moment he thought he was free from their overbearing shadow, the moment he tried to do something for himself, he got kidnapped by the mystical ‘enemy’ his family had told him all about. 

She never asked him how it felt to be systematically tortured every day for months, forced into a machine that had never had a successful case of someone who hadn’t gone crazy and died. How it felt to watch Clay Kaczmarek commit suicide and then hijack Desmond’s brain and force him to kill the one person he thought he had a true connection to. Rebecca tried to distract him, she never asked the deeper questions, always keeping it light. 

Desmond’s relationship with Shaun was friendly and antagonistic. The man took pleasure in belittling Desmond’s knowledge about things, and poking fun at Desmond’s descent into madness, even as concern lurked deep behind his glasses. By the end there, Desmond didn’t even have the energy to banter back, too worn from the weight of the world, the lack of sleep, and the nausea he felt every time he so much as thought about food. He was dead weeks before he touched the orb that brought him to Thedas. And nobody did anything. 

What use was there in asking a corpse to open up about their feelings? To dredge up terrible memories as the last thing he remembered before his body joined his mind in death. There was no use to Rebecca, Shawn, and even William Miles, Desmond’s father. The man was as distant in the months leading up to his son’s death as he had been throughout the entirety of Desmond’s childhood. As inscrutable as a rock. 

So no, Desmond didn’t know how to open up to anyone, and so far, no one in this world had asked, either. They’d all just assumed he was stuck behind a facade of a mysterious stranger, here to save them all. Desmond didn’t know what he’d do if one of them showed genuine interest in discovering who he was beyond being the Herald of Andraste. Well, first he’d like to see them call him by name, then maybe they’d unlock his tragic backstory. 

After several hours of calming his racing thoughts on top of the highest building in Haven, and watching the sunset, he finally descended and beelined toward his cabin. He stuck to the shadows, avoiding anyone and everyone who could possibly want his attention. He wasn’t in any sort of mood to entertain people or feign interest in their problems with the thoughts whirling in his head.

He was trying to make plans, contingencies in case those plans went awry, and trying to plot a course for anything that might come their way once the Breach was sealed. They would have to find a better stronghold than Haven, but he didn’t know where that would be. He didn’t know the geographical layout of Thedas, but he did know that positioning a veritable army inside the borders of either Ferelden or Orlais could be taken as a threat. So the only place they could be without incident was somewhere in the Frostback Mountains like Haven was. It was a stretch of icy mountains that straddled the border between Ferelden and Orlais, and therefore neutral territory. But he didn’t think there were any unoccupied fortresses anywhere that would suit their needs. 

One thing was for sure, Haven was defenseless, and they needed to find somewhere better before the Elder One descended on them like a vulture. He would have to ask around, find out from someone who knew more about the geographical layout of Thedas. Maybe Solas would know, having dreamt the dreams of the forgotten. He was probably their best bet if they wanted to find an abandoned stronghold in the mountains. 

But that was a later problem. So was figuring out a way to get close enough to the Empress to save her, as well as finding out where the demon army came from. His goal for now was storing enough energy in his tired body to seal the Breach in two days when the last attempt sent him into a coma for three days. He couldn’t afford to be out of commission for that long this time. There was a war brewing on the horizon, he could feel it. With the templars missing, the Elder One a relative unknown, and no idea for the timeline of things... well. He had a lot to stress about. At this rate, he was going to get gray hairs before he turned thirty. 

Chapter Text

The allotted two days passed before he was ready, but Desmond wasn’t one to shy away from responsibility. Not anymore.

A group of mages and soldiers escorted Desmond, Cassandra, Varric, and Solas to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Desmond brought the original three with him because he figured that if this worked, it would be somewhat cathartic having this horrible chapter closed. This was the Breach that killed Divine Justinia, someone Cassandra called a close friend. It was what brought Solas to the Inquisition, and it’s what caused Varric to join their group. The same could be said for everyone, but it felt nice to bring the ones that were with him on his first attempt at sealing the Breach.

It brought back a lot of memories, traveling the path. Times before he knew that Cassandra was actually a sweetheart behind all that armor, that Varric was burdened by the knowledge that he was the one that brought red lyrium to the surface, and now it was popping up everywhere. Solas... Well. Desmond knew about the same amount about Solas as he did before they traveled together, except now the two of them shared dreams. He supposed he now knew that Solas was an incredibly patient teacher when it came to things that interested him. Still a rather surprising discovery about the otherwise arrogant elf.

His companions didn’t seem to share his nostalgia, they all had their determined faces on, watching the shadows for anything that would attempt to hinder their progress to the temple. Desmond shook off his sentimentality and got his head in the game. This was no time to lose focus when he had a hole in reality to close.

Despite their wariness, they made it to the temple without incident, which somehow made Desmond more anxious. Closing the Breach was the logical next move after the Inquisition gained the aid of the mages, and yet no enemies were present. That made him wonder what they were doing instead. Haven didn’t have much of a guard without Desmond and the soldiers there. He clenched his jaw at the realization and sped up. They needed to finish up quickly and hurry back to their headquarters. It would deal a massive blow to the Inquisition if their base was attacked behind their back.

“Mages!” Solas called as the group got into position around the rift beneath the Breach. “Focus on the Herald, let his will draw from you!” There was a resounding thud as the mages collectively stamped their staves on the ground, the focusing crystals on the top starting to glow with their combined power.

Desmond took a deep breath and raised his hand to the rift. The mark connected with a tether of green electricity, and Desmond immediately heard the voices in his mind, an overwhelming shout clamoring for his attention, his cooperation. He squeezed his eyes shut, casting out his focus to the potent magical field surrounding him, drawing on the power to shut out the screaming in his head.

The sound grew to a crescendo as the magic built. Desmond couldn’t hear himself think above the cacophony begging for him to just fucking listen. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he was on a mission. That subconscious messaging somehow grabbed control of his body and pulled the string taut, sewing the Breach closed with a massive shockwave that almost threw Desmond off his feet.

There was a deafening silence in the temple, made all the more prominent by the lack of screaming in Desmond’s mind. He almost thought he’d actually lost his hearing, but then a cheer went up among the mages and soldiers. Desmond looked up at the sky and almost wept at the perfect, unblemished blue, unmarred by the turbulent green scar.

He just stood there, staring at the sky as the Inquisition celebrated all around him. He’d never noticed how beautiful blue was. His eyes stung with tears he tried desperately to blink back. This wasn’t the end, not by a long shot. But it was a huge milestone, and hopefully with the Breach closed, the future was already changed. The sky would never become poisonous green, the Fade superimposed onto the world of Thedas. It felt like relief.

The celebration back at Haven started with the bang of a drum and the strum of a lyre. Soon enough music played in every corner of the snowy village, people grabbing friends and strangers alike and dancing in the walkways and alleys. Drinks flowed and a few Inquisition scouts grabbed Desmond and started spinning around in a drunken circle.

Desmond laughed at their merriment, feeling the celebratory high mixing with his earlier relief, creating an intoxication separate from those chugging alcohol like water. He found himself releasing a tension that he had been carrying for months, shoulders unfurling from his ears and limbs loose as he danced with the residents of Haven.

A cloud of dread and foreboding hung over him, even as he tried to shove it to the side and focus on the present. The future would always have the next great problem, but how many opportunities would he have to celebrate the big wins? He had to take the time to relax where he could.

An hour since Desmond had returned to Haven, and he could no longer ignore the niggling feeling that something was off. The party-goers still shouted their merriment and relief to the heavens, music loud and bonfires hot.

Cassandra found him while he sat atop a small cabin, legs dangling as he surveyed the Inquisition, good mood sapped from him.

“You’ve done a good thing here, Herald,” she remarked, leaning against the wooden walls. “You should be proud.”

Desmond strained his eyes, trying to look beyond the walls, but the fires were too bright to see much of anything. “We all worked together on this. It wasn’t just me.”

“Perhaps,” Cassandra allowed, “but there’s only so much we could have done without that mark you bear.” Desmond didn’t say anything. It was true. He’d seen it. “You could have run when you had the chance, but you didn’t. I won’t forget that.”

Desmond looked down at her, giving up his search for a threat as a lost cause. He studied her loose limbs, the way she propped herself against the wall like she didn’t have a care in the world. “Doesn’t it all seem too easy?” He questioned, hoping that he wasn’t just being paranoid.

Cassandra shrugged, staring into the far distance. “It does. Something is off. But if we live our lives in a panic, waiting for the other shoe to drop, we won’t truly live, now will we?” She sighed and straightened from her slouch, “But you are right. We cannot predict what may come next, but closing the Breach was too easy, and I’m worried about what this Elder One will bring to us next.”

He regretted having brought up anything as he watched her put back the weight she carried on her shoulders. He’d never seen her so relaxed in all the time he knew her. But something was off, and he needed someone to tell him he wasn’t crazy, jumping at shadows.

“We should let them have this one night, before preparations resume,” Desmond tried to coax her into dropping the weight again, but she shook her head.

“I think I’ve participated enough. It might be time for me to retire for the night.” She sent him a parting salute, and not a second later, the alarm bells were ringing.

Shouts of joy immediately turned to screams of confusion and fear. Desmond gave Cassandra a wide-eyed look before jumping off the roof and heading to the front gates. They moved through the throng of frantic Inquisition followers to find where Cullen was directing some soldiers. Very few of them had their full armor on, the majority having taken it off for the festivities.

Desmond and Cassandra weren’t the only two of the inner circle that had made their way to the gate, and Desmond was proud to note that all of his companions had their weapons and were in battle stances.

“What’s the situation?” Desmond shouted over the clamor.

Cullen turned to him with a grave look, “Our scouts spotted an army coming through the mountain pass. They fly no banner. All we know is they’re heading straight for us, and they don’t look friendly.”

Desmond cursed and was about to scale the wall to get a look for himself when a loud banging reverberated through the gate.

“I can’t come in unless you let me,” announced a muffled voice. Desmond and Cullen shared a cautious look, but Desmond nodded and a soldier swung the gate open. Whatever Desmond was expecting, it wasn’t a thin boy that looked no older than sixteen, clothes ragged and patched, a massive brimmed hat perched on his straw blonde hair. The bodies of five templars strewn about in a way that made it obvious they had been killed by this child. “Hello.”

Chapter Text

“I came as soon as I could,” the kid defended before anyone could say anything. “The Elder One is very angry you stole his mages.” He pointed into the distance where Desmond could vaguely see two figures standing above the army. “He brings the templars, angry and red and wrong. They hurt so very brightly.” The boy’s bright eyes stared imploringly at Desmond from beneath the brim of his hat.

“I... see.” Desmond did not see.

“I’ve come to help,” he announced, “I hope I can help.”

Desmond looked over the army drawing ever closer and motioned the kid inside. They didn’t have much time to come up with a plan, and Haven was defenseless, as he had feared. There was no way they would be coming out of this alive unless some miracle happened.

“Alright,” Cullen pulled his shoulders back and took command, “Gather as many people as you can and head to the Chantry. If we’re overrun, that’s the most defensible area. Maybe we can use the trebuchets to cause an avalanche. Anything that could cull their numbers.”

Desmond nodded and turned to his inner circle. He would bow to Cullen’s superior tactics. Desmond was made for the shadows, a war was miles out of his depth. “Bull, Dorian, Sera, with me. The rest of you, help the citizens make their way to the Chantry. It’s likely scouts will come ahead of the horde, so the three of you will help me defend the trebuchets. Hopefully, we’ll make it out alive. Best of luck to you all.”

His companions scattered like startled birds, off to assist with whatever they could, and Desmond motioned for his chosen three to head towards the nearest trebuchets, all outside of Haven’s walls.

“Sera, I want you to be our sharpshooter. Anything moves in the distance, you kill it. Dorian, set up traps on the ground. Make it hurt. Bull, I want you on me. If anyone gets past Dorian and Sera, hit them hard,” he directed his team as they power-walked to the lakefront.

They had barely made it in range when the first templars arrived, and Desmond realized what the kid meant when he called them ‘red’. They glowed with a crimson miasma swirling in the air around their bodies. Some had red lyrium crystals spiking out of their bodies, and some of them Desmond wasn’t even sure could be called human.

They popped out of the shadows, sharp hands like knives swinging at anything nearby. They were large, crackling things with skin burnt black around the lyrium wounds. Nothing in their eyes but an animalistic violence.

Blades glanced off their hardened skin like a butterknife against a rock, no visible chinks in the crystalline armor. They shattered like glass when The Iron Bull came in swinging with his massive maul, though, so Desmond left him to it, instead picking off the templars that he could still consider to be people. He was grateful that Bull had recently decided to switch from his axe, or they’d have little to no defense against those things.

The dark night spawned the red templars like a contagious disease, each of them streaming from the inky black in an endless flow. Between bouts of fighting, the four of them managed to aim the trebuchet into the mountains and finally set it loose.

That one taken care of, they allowed the red templars to overtake it, instead, fighting their way to the other trebuchet. It would take too much time and effort they didn’t have in order to reload the thing. But the other one should be prepared. Another hit and the avalanche was all but assured.

Bodies of the Inquisition’s members were strewn about in various states of mangled, one man’s body had his head so badly slashed, Desmond couldn’t make out a single feature. The four of them picked their way through the destruction, decimating enemies left and right when they came upon a raiding party.

Sera, for once, was quiet in the face of the attack. Everyone was grim at the reality of it. What felt like days ago they had been partying, a chapter of their story closed. And now several of the people who had been excited for the first time in several months with the end of the world hanging over their heads - now they were dead. It was a sobering thought.

Red templars stood guard over the second trebuchet, setting a trap for anyone who would think to come. They didn’t plan on the four-man army that was Desmond and his companions.

Wave after wave of red templars came, and between them, Desmond tried his best to aim the trebuchet toward the snowy mountains. It seemed never-ending, and yet also like the hordes of enemies were reaching a crescendo of some sort.

It all came to a head when a massive creature of almost pure red lyrium came lumbering down the path. It was two heads taller than Bull, a behemoth of asymmetrical proportions, lumbering around with a sythe for a hand.

“Oh fuck no,” Sera refused, backing up a bit. Desmond could relate. The other creatures of red lyrium were impervious to their arrows and knives. He had no illusions about how difficult this thing would be to kill.

“Sera! Help me with the others. Bull and Dorian will take care of it,” he ordered. She gave a shaky nod and drew more poison-tipped arrows. Desmond unsheathed his dual daggers and grimly set upon his task.

Desmond felt the time press against him as the battle wore on. Every second they spent here was a second of the army getting closer. They didn’t have the time to be spending on this behemoth. The best Bull and Dorian could do was wear it down, and that wasn’t going as fast as Desmond wished.

“Keep them off me!” He shouted over the clamor, heading to the controls to get the avalanche started.

His heart beat a samba in his chest and his hands shook with adrenaline. This felt like a bigger deal than saving the world from the solar flare. Sure, it was also time-sensitive, but it was more of a calm affair. Say goodbye, walk up to the pedestal like he had all the time in the world, and die.

Now, faced with an approaching army, a defenseless village, and people he had grown to know over the past couple of months, everything was moving too quickly. It felt much more real, being in the midst of battle, versus being in a cave.

His sweaty palms slid against the wooden wheel as his muscles fought to turn the trebuchet. He swore under his breath at the shake in his arms but persisted until he heard that final click of it being in the perfect position. Without hesitation, he sent the boulder flying into the mountain.

For a heart-stopping moment, nothing happened. And then a rumble started in his chest, expanding to his feet, and finally, with a great heave, the snow-capped mountains dropped an avalanche on the army. He watched, delighted, as torches went out, a cry of fear so loud he could hear it from the miles separating the templars from Haven. He almost sagged in relief.

A horrible screech rose from the site of the fallen army, a sound so terrible Desmond thought his ears would bleed from the reverberation against the mountains.

And then there was a dragon, a creature unlike the ones he had killed on his journeys. This one was a deep purple, gashes and scars and teeth Desmond could see from so far away. It had the same red glow as the templars.

Desmond shook for one terrible moment, feeling nothing but dread. He didn’t think he’d ever been so afraid in his life. But then he rallied himself and called the retreat.

His team didn’t hesitate, and within seconds they were hightailing it to the Chantry, the dragon hot on their heels.

The doors closed with a massive bang, the noise from outside cut off with a suddenness that made Desmond’s ears ring. He squinted into the torchlit Chantry, noting all the injured and cowering people, bemoaning their fate.

“Was that a fucking archdemon?” Cullen asked, incredulous. “Why the fuck do they have an archdemon?”

Desmond hysterically thought that the Commander must have been incredibly rattled to actually swear. Desmond himself was feeling pretty rattled. Nothing had made him that terrified in all the lifetimes he’d lived. There was something about it that just radiated fear and misery, its screech a portent of doom that seeped into his bones and set off every flight or freeze response in his body.

“What are we going to do?” Cassandra asked, coming up to their little group stationed at the doors. “We can’t fight an archdemon, we don’t have the manpower. Not after the raid.”

Desmond felt himself dissociating a little as everyone argued on their options. It was times like these that he realized why he could never be a Mentor. Sure he had lived the lives of the best of them, but when it came down to it, he, himself was never meant to be a leader. He’d lead the Inquisition thus far because he had no choice and it was easy shit, comparatively. It was mostly battle tactics and odd quests, but this? When a whole building full of people were pressing in on him, looking for answers when there were none? He was out of his depth.

They couldn’t evacuate because the only way in or out was in the direction of the army. They couldn’t go out and fight because they didn’t have the soldiers. The only thing they could do was sit here and die. That didn’t sit right with him at all.

“You loved the people you met on the pilgrimage,” the kid from earlier cut into Desmond’s thoughts like a hot knife through butter. He wasn’t talking to Desmond, but his voice was clear and urgent, “You only wish you had known how to help sooner.”

Desmond blinked, unsure what was happening. The kid was bent over a heavily wounded Chancilor Rodderick, a man Desmond hadn’t thought of in months. This was the man that was adamant Desmond should be executed, that the Inquisition would fail, and yet he stuck around regardless, nitpicking their every movement and decision.

He watched as the man’s battered face lit up in recognition. “There’s a path,” he said slowly, painfully, “you would only know of it if you had taken the summer pilgrimage as I had. It exits through the back of the Chantry, as an escape for the priests, should they need it. We could use that.”

The group let the thought sink in. There was hope.

“The army would just follow us,” Cassandra pointed out.

Desmond found his voice faintly, a wild idea taking root, “Not if we bury Haven.” Everyone looked at him like he was crazy, but he was warming up to the idea. “The Elder One wants me, right? Alexius said as much. I could go out there, act as a distraction while everyone evacuates. Aim the third trebuchet at the mountain over Haven, and once you give me a signal, I’ll send it flying.”

“We can’t ask you to risk your life, Herald,” Cullen’s eyes were sad, but Desmond could see that the idea had already won him over.

“Good thing you’re not asking.”

Cullen took a deep, steadying breath, and then nodded. “Cassandra, start gathering everyone. Chancellor lead them to the evacuation point. Herald,” he paused. “I wish...” he shook his head, “Come back alive. Maker bless you.”

Desmond didn’t have time to wonder what the man was going to say before everyone was a flurry of movement.

“We’re coming with you, Boss,” Bull said, hefting up his maul.

Sera shook but looked determined, Dorian grinned, “What, you didn’t think we’d let you have all the glory, did you?”

Desmond sighed helplessly even as he felt reassured that he wouldn’t have to go out there alone. “I welcome the help,” he said seriously, “but the moment we reach the trebuchet, you have to promise me you’ll head back. I’ll do everything in my power to stay alive, but if I don’t make it, the Inquisition will need all the help it can get.”

The three of them set their jaws in determination, and it was Bull who gave the affirmative. Desmond smiled weakly and turned back to the door. Out there would be chaos with all the red templar survivors swarming the place, and that fucking dragon. Archdemon. Whatever it was.

He took a deep breath and swung the doors open.

Chapter Text

Outside the Chantry, chaos reigned. Buildings were set aflame, red templars crawling over the wreckage like ants as they advanced towards the Chantry. Desmond and his companions came out swinging.

Three templars fell to Sera’s arrows before the doors had shut behind them. A bloody and brutal battle followed, and Desmond knew nothing beyond the hacking and slashing of anything with that singing red glow.

They inched forward, step by step making their way to the third trebuchet. Before Desmond was aware of it, they had reached the monolithic siege weapon, and he took every moment they got to breathe in order to aim the trebuchet directly at the mountain looming over Haven.

The moment the mechanism clicked into place, Desmond was shouting at his companions to retreat. He could see the resistance on their faces, none of them wanted to leave him behind, which was nice, if inconvenient at the time.

Desmond gave Bull a commanding look, and with a nod the qunari threw both Dorian and Sera over his massive shoulders and hightailed it back to the Chantry. Desmond took a steadying breath the moment they were out of range, and became everything an Assassin was not. A distraction, a spectacle, and most of all, bait. He had to keep the attention of that horrific dragon, the Elder One, and the bulk of the templar army. The Inquisition must survive beyond this day, and he would make damn sure they did.

The trail of dead bodies his team had left on their way to the trebuchet was pretty obvious breadcrumbs to follow to his location, and it didn’t take long before the templars were following it to his position. It was good intel to know that despite the red lyrium distorting their form until they were unrecognizable, their minds were not addled. That was a complication that was working in his favor now, but would likely be a pain in the ass for the Inquisition later down the line. He had no illusions that they had culled the whole force, or that burying Haven would do so either.

Desmond scooped up a fallen sword and activated the skills of Haytham Kenway. This was not the time for daggers and shadows, this was the time for showy moves. Templar to templar.

He dodged, parried, slashed. Found chinks in armor and flurried in and out like a dance only he was proficient in. It was difficult not don the arrogance of Haytham when dozens were felled at his blade with a skill beyond his years.

He heard it before he saw it, the flapping of wings, the dread screech. Desmond had just enough time to roll out of the way before, with a sound like shattered glass, a miasmic ball of fire slammed into the ground. Within seconds the whole horde of red templars were a smoldering pile, and Desmond himself was laying dazed on the floor.

He felt the impact of the archdemon landing rattle throughout his bones, the pounding in his head from where he smacked it against a rock grew heavier, deeper. He groaned, and with monumental effort, managed to sit upright, just in time to see the blurry outline of a very tall humanoid figure walk through the fire as if it were a field of wildflowers.

As the figure came into focus, Desmond fought not to hurl. He’d seen corpses in all states of decay, he’d seen red lyrium growing out of people in that horrific future, and he’d seen the templars disfigured beyond belief as they swarmed Haven.

But now there was this creature, once a man, now a walking nightmare. An unholy amalgamation of all three of those horrors. Half of his skull was missing, simply gone from above his right eyebrow and back. The other half had red lyrium spiking out of it, dragging scarred skin until it pulled at his face in a painfully elastic way. He was easily eight feet tall, armor fused into his skin and protruding with massive crystals the size of Desmond’s torso. The creature’s hands looked like someone had only the vague idea of what human hands looked like; they were talons more than hands, long and clawed, bones in places they shouldn’t be. Too many joints, by far.

Inhumanly red eyes peered at him from behind sallow skin, hatred and disgust prominent in the sneer on cracked lips.

“So this is the famed Hero, the one who thought to challenge me. Nothing but a pathetic child playing at greatness,” the creature’s voice was deep and layered, like three people were swallowing gravel as they spoke at the same time. “I come to you all, a God, and you spurn me.”

Desmond coughed and weakly got to his feet, feeling like a newborn fawn with the pounding in his head. “What do you want?”

Contempt filled the creature’s eyes, “Mortals beg for things they cannot have. You lack the understanding to be worthy of my purpose.” With two swift steps, he was right in front of Desmond. Before he could move, the creature’s too long fingers were wrapped around his throat and lifting him off the ground. “You interrupted a plan years in the making, and instead of dying, stole it’s purpose. For that, you must be punished.” Desmond clawed uselessly at the thing’s hands that felt like wet newspaper. Like if he clawed hard enough, the skin would come off in clumps. “I once forced my way to the Golden City to dethrone the Maker, and what I found was nothing. A broken, empty castle. The Maker cares not for your mortal stumbling because he does not exist.

“You should be thanking me,” he continued as Desmond fought for breath, “For I am here, a new God. A thousand years I have been imprisoned, but no longer. I will cure this Blighted world from all its filth and disease. You should be grateful. Exalt the Elder One. Exalt the will that is Corypheus.” And now Desmond had a name, and a rough backstory. If he got out of this alive, this was all very important information to have. Corypheus brought Desmond closer, his head twice the size of Desmond’s as the creature looked directly into his eyes.

Corypheus seemed to calm slightly. “No matter. You have stolen the Anchor and I want it back. The process of removing it begins now,” and then he was lifting up an orb. A very familiar orb. Desmond’s eyes widened, even as the sphere started crackling Fade green and lyrium red instead of the Isu gold he was expecting. The swirls looked familiar in a distant, fuzzy way, but Desmond was certain it was the same thing he touched that saved his world.

He didn’t have time to dwell on the thought and implications before the energy was arching directly into the mark on his hand, the thing Corypheus called the Anchor. Agony ripped through his whole body. It was like being flayed alive while set on fire, neve-ending and all-consuming.

And then all at once it stopped, just as he teetered on the edge of insanity. His vision swam, and he could barely breathe with the hand clutching his neck.

Corypheus roared with rage and sent Desmond flying in the direction of the trebuchet, “You have spoiled it with your stumbling. The mark is permanent.”

Desmond lay in a heap for a moment, and then mustered all his strength to shakily get to his feet. He drew a chipped sword from one of the dead templars and faced Corypheus with a determined expression. Two flares went up behind the monster, one after the other, and Desmond bared his teeth.

“All you megalomaniacs are the same. You love to hear the sound of your own voice.” He didn’t give Corypheus time to snarl in offense before he was lunging forward and releasing the trigger for the trebuchet. He didn’t waste time with final words as he spied a broken mining shaft and dived for cover from the coming avalanche.

The last thing he saw was Corypheus’s archdemon swooping its master away from the coming destruction. And then his back hit solid ice and he blacked out.

Chapter Text

Cold seeped into Desmond’s bones and he awoke with a violent shiver. Everything ached, as he expected coming off from a fight and falling onto solid ice from an unknown distance.

It was dark, wherever he was, the only light coming from his crackling hand. He didn’t have his weapons, having lost them somewhere before jumping into the mineshaft, and while he had been dressed for the cold, he wasn’t prepared for this icy tunnel with no heat but whatever feeble warmth his body could produce.

Desmond slowly got to his feet, muscles heavily protesting each movement. He felt along his potions satchel, cursing lowly when he found all his healing potions shattered by the fall. He supposed he was doing this the old-fashioned way.

Using his hand like a flashlight, he walked slowly, achingly through the darkness, each movement causing shocks of pain through his whole body. He didn’t even know if he was going in the right direction, but forward was one step closer to not freezing to death.

Either the movement was building up heat, or he was falling into hypothermia, as he eventually stopped feeling the cold, and his muscles got used to the abuse he was putting them under, enough so that he could pick up his pace a little bit. Either way, it wasn’t long before he entered a cavernous space with three demons meandering about, minding their own business until he stumbled upon them. The light from one of the wisps cast everything into sharp relief, almost blinding Desmond with the brilliance after having nothing but his hand for guidance.

Desmond swore. He didn’t have any weapons on him other than the Assassin’s blade attached to his wrist, and that was for stealthy work, not an all-out melee. His hand crackled angrily and he had a terrible idea. He knew how to close rifts, but could he open one? Force a gap in the Fade, one that would, hopefully, suck the demons back inside of it.

The demons advanced on him and he held up his palm, focusing on that tethered feeling he got when closing the rifts and just... undid it. Cut the strings holding the two dimensions apart. A bright green tear split open the cavern, and the demons looked like they were being torn apart, their forms breaking into pieces and ripped back into the Fade. They screeched, in pain or fear, Desmond didn’t know, but he winced anyway.

Although it was easy to close the mini-rift after the demons were destroyed, he didn’t know if he would be using that method very often. It felt too much like torture to those creatures. According to Solas, the demons were only attacking because they were scared and confused, having been torn from their homeland and forced to become demons through the traumatic entry into the mortal realm. He didn’t know how much he trusted Solas, as a person, but that explanation made a decent amount of sense. If babies had any strength when they were born, he was sure they’d come out fighting, if the force of their screams were anything to go by.

The abrupt darkness of the cavern after the mini-rift was closed almost blinded Desmond with the non-light. He stood there for a few minutes, his body shivering while he waited for his eyes to adjust enough to see the glow of the Anchor on his hand. He remembered seeing three pathways when the demons cast light in the cavern, but now that everything was quiet, he thought he could faintly hear wind coming from one of them.

He slowly but steadily made his way toward the sound of whistling, each step aching anew now that he’d paused for a time. The whistle became a howl the further he went down the tunnel until the wind funneling down the passage became almost deafening. The moment he saw the low light of a blizzard outside signaling his freedom, he clasped his hands over his ears under his hood as a defense against the screaming wind and the cold.

He wanted to wait and gather his bearings before heading into the blizzard, but he was already on the verge of hypothermia, he wasn’t getting any warmer unless he found the remains of the Inquisition, and his injuries had made themselves known as more than just bruises. He’d been nicked a few times by stray blades when fighting the red templars, and walking through the mines had made them bleed more. He needed help, and he needed it now.

The moment he stepped out into the flurry of snow and wind, he realized he hadn’t had hypothermia, because this was the true cold. He was likely to get frostbite in this weather. Desmond quickly shoved his hands into his armpits, hunching down against the cold, and set off toward where he thought the mountains might have been. He couldn’t see two feet in front of him, but it was walk or die, and only one of those options had a chance of survival.

Time had no meaning in the dark white of the endless storm. He could have been walking for five minutes or five hours by the time he happened upon a burned-out campsite. He didn’t know if it belonged to the Inquisition or bandits, but either way, it was a sign of people, even though it was stone cold by the time he found it.

He looked around through the heavy blizzard, but any footprints had long disappeared from the ground. Eagle Vision couldn't’ see through the furious weather, or nothing of note was close enough to his position. All he could see was the grayscale of nothingness. His body shook with tremors as he willed his frozen muscles to continue onward toward where he vaguely recalled the mountains being.

Of course, there were mountains everywhere near Haven, but he figured a straight shot away from the decimated village was a good enough bet. For however much direction meant anything in this white oblivion.

He didn’t know how long he walked for, just focusing on putting one step in front of the other and staying as warm as he could. He came across two more abandoned campsites, each one more recent than the other. The last one he found still had embers crackling, despite the harsh winds. He longed to stoke the fire and heat up a bit, but he was so close to the rest of the Inquisition, he could feel it.

The moment he stepped into a crevice between two mountains, the snow changed to a light fall, the wind dying down considerably. He saw light in the distance and heard shouting coming ever closer.

His knees gave out at the relief he felt, frozen to the bone and weary beyond belief. He briefly saw Cullen leading a group of soldiers to Desmond’s location, and then he was face-first into the snow, out cold.

Desmond was always aware of his dreams, now. Whether Solas was present or not, Desmond could feel the nuances that made something a little less real and more floaty. He wanted to wake up, but something was preventing him from doing so. Something... there. He pinpointed the disturbance and found a blonde man lying down under a Fade tree, looking for all the world like he was taking a relaxing nap. Desmond knew it was an affected pose, his sharp eyes picking out the slight irregularity in the man’s breathing. And then he looked at his face and Desmond’s own breathing stopped.

“Clay?”

Chapter Text

The Clay look-alike sent him a lazy grin without opening his eyes, “Hey Des. It’s been a while, eh?”

“Wha-- you--” Desmond sputtered before gathering himself. The connection between Clay and Desmond had been severed. “What are you?”

The thing wearing Clay’s face cracked open a single blue eye in reproach, “Rude.”

Desmond manifested blades, knowing that it wouldn’t do much to whatever demon this was, but he could at least expel it out of his mindscape. “Why are you wearing his face?”

Not-Clay sighed and rolled to his feet in a move too smooth to be real, but that didn’t say much in a world where nothing was truly real. “Listen, Des. I know you thought the connection ended after the Black Room was destroyed, but that’s not technically true.” Not-Clay took one step forward, and Desmond raised his weapons a touch higher. The creature stopped in place, “By sending you through that portal to save your life, I had to imprint my genetic memory onto you. Surely you know this?”

Desmond didn’t let his blades waver, but he did remember wondering about that. He had declined the AI version of Clay when he asked if he could join Desmond in the waking world, but when the Black Room was deleted, the only way Desmond’s mind wouldn’t be erased along with the virtual world was due to Clay throwing him through a portal and forcing him to wake up. He’d thought that Clay had just given him the memories of his time in the Animus, helping the team find the location of the Apple of Eden in Rome, but maybe more came along with that transfer.

It would make sense, but then again, so would demons reading his mind to get all this information.

“Sure. Say you are Clay, how would you prove it, and why are you here?”

Maybe-Clay shrugged, “I’ve been on the fringes of your dreams, watching as you and that bald guy with the huge ears worked on controlling this place. I was just an idea, you know? Only here when you were. The first time I was fully aware of being here was when you created that rat, remember? When you breathed a false life into the thing, you breathed it into me too. Except I’m more than just something you created,” his blue eyes were as piercing now as they had been in the Black Room, except more now that he was a full person instead of a half-broken AI construct. “I am Clay Kaczmareck in all the ways that matter.”

Desmond studied the man, taking in the earnestness of his body language without the faintest hint of a lie. He’d heard that the demons were crafty, but Solas’s training had been very good at keeping the creatures away from him and hiding him away from the rest of the Fade. Plus, it made a disturbing amount of sense.

Part of Desmond didn’t want to question this. He was the only person in Thedas from his world, and that was incredibly alienating. Even if Clay couldn’t see or be a part of the waking world, he was still something from Desmond’s past, someone that went through the same sort of torture by the templars. Arguably worse, in fact. After all, he hadn’t had the clear memories that Desmond had, his brain boiling inside of his skull at a much faster rate. The man had even killed himself for a chance to help Desmond fuck over the templars. He felt like he owed Clay something, even a little.

“You didn’t answer me. Why are you here?”

Clay looked at him like he was dumb, “You’re clearing up your mind and you’re surprised I now have space to show up? Dude.” And then he shrugged, “But I really don’t know. Maybe you subconsciously called to me? I don’t know where we are, and I don’t see anything but whatever is happening when you’re asleep, but here I am, I guess.”

Desmond believed him, which was a problem. He really hoped this wasn’t a demon, or else he was a lot more susceptible than he thought. If Clay started asking to be let into the waking world, he would know for sure. Although Clay had asked once before... huh. That complicated things.

“Why haven’t you shown yourself before?”

“I may not know where we are, but I didn’t think you’d want to have this conversation with that other guy present. And you’re surprisingly difficult to get alone, despite this being your own mind.”

Desmond hummed and the weapons in his hands disappeared with a thought. “You better not be lying.”

Clay barked out a laugh, “Dude, I’ve seen how badass you are, I’d rather not get on your bad side.” And then his face went serious, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to attach myself to you after you said not to. We were running out of time, and you needed my memories. And maybe a big part of me wanted some sort of second life or whatever. To live on through you.”

Desmond shrugged uncomfortably, “It’s alright. I was considering letting you hitch a ride in my mind anyway. What’s one more person in here, huh?” He knocked a fist against the side of his head. “Besides, I have to admit that I’m glad I’m not completely alone here.”

Clay’s head tilted like a curious bird. “Don’t you have friends out there? What are their names? Glasses douche and that girl that’s a knock-off of me?”

“First of all, rude,” Desmond said pointedly. Rebecca was more than just a Clay knock-off. He couldn't say anything against the description of Shaun though. “Secondly, they’re not here. I somehow ended up in a different world.”

Clay’s stare was blank. “What the fuck does that mean.” It wasn’t a question so much as a declaration of shock.

“It means that there’s magic and dragons and fantasy races. People are still as shitty as they were in our world, though. That hasn’t changed. Oh! And there are templars,” Desmond enjoyed Clay’s dramatic gagging motion, “they’re a bit different here, but still kind of the same. Either way, it’s a wild ride.”

He found himself giving Clay a basic rundown of the things that had happened since he arrived in Thedas. They had migrated to sit under the tree, watching as the leaves rustled in an invisible wind.

“Well shit,” Clay said when he finished laughing over the irony of Desmond becoming the leader of a religious group. “I’m kind of glad I wasn’t there for all that. Sounds like a fever dream, and I don’t think my mind can handle any more crazy shit.” His blue eyes roved over Desmond, taking in his Fade clothes which were a modified version of his usual outfit from the modern world - a white hoodie and jeans, but instead of being a zip-up, he had one large pocket in the front which he kept his hands securely hidden in. “How are you doing though? I know the Animus messed us up, so how are you holding up?”

Desmond sighed heavily, “You know, it’s funny, I’ve been here for almost six months and no one’s asked me that. Not in so many words anyway.” He fell to his back and searched the clouds for an answer to how he was. He knew he wasn’t fine, but he was handling it. Maybe he didn’t have to be strong to Clay, the only person who wasn’t depending on him. “I’m... overwhelmed. I was never meant to be a leader.”

Clay scoffed, “You have two of the best leaders in your head. Just become them.”

That hurt more than Desmond was expecting. “I’m not them,” he said harshly. “Altair and Ezio are dead and gone. I’m just Desmond, and Desmond is the guy who runs, who does what he’s told, and who takes everything to heart. He’s not a leader, he’s just a guy.” His voice trailed off to a whisper and Clay was silent.

“I think maybe the best leaders are ones that don’t want to have the responsibility, but shoulder it anyway, and do a damned good job of it.”

Desmond followed the wisps and curls of the clouds above, “Maybe you’re right. Fuck knows Ezio was never meant to be a leader, and yet.” He remembered Ezio’s days before his family was executed, the carefree child that he was, with no responsibility beyond living his best life. Ezio was never trained as an Assassin, just as Desmond was never trained as a religious figurehead, but they were both forced to fill these roles. The only thing Desmond could do was his best, because running was no longer an option, not when he’d seen the future without him.

He sighed, “Whatever. I’m surviving, I guess that’s all that matters.”

“That isn’t though,” Clay countered immediately. “Bonds are what make us, dude. I should know. I didn’t have any, and look at how miserably I ended. You had bonds. You had your dad, the other two, and even that templar spy for a bit,” Clay sounded earnest yet sad, “it got you to the end, those bonds. Kept you going. Sounds like you need more of that.” Desmond was going to protest that he hadn’t been that close with any of the people from his old world, just as he wasn’t close with those in this one, but Clay cut him off, “Listen Des, saving the world is all well and good. Very important shit, I’m sure, but you’re no less important. Those people don’t need a savior that’s a shell of a person, going through the motions. Fucking open your heart to people. I didn’t kill myself just so you could give your life away, no matter how noble the cause.”

Desmond side-eyed the blonde man, someone who had slit his wrists with a ballpoint pen while in templar captivity. His last act was to write a cryptic message to Desmond on the wall in his blood, all in an attempt to fuck over the templars. He’d read the codex on Clay Kaczmarek, he knew how alone the guy had been— abusive father, not many friends before he was plucked by the templars. No one to miss him as he was strapped to the Animus and his brain was turned to soup. No one to remember that he lived after the templars dumped his body in the Tiber River. No one but Desmond. Desmond who held the death of Subject 16 close to his heart, because this guy didn’t even know him, and yet gave his life so Desmond could have a fighting chance.

That very guy was telling Desmond to live the life he wished he had. And Desmond wanted to. It sounded so nice, making friends, and getting closer to those who were in his circle. Maybe even tell them about himself, so he didn’t feel so alienated all the time. He knows they’ve noticed his dissociation episodes, even though they weren’t as common now as they used to be, but he’d always brushed it off. Maybe it would feel good to tell someone what was happening when he became one of his ancestors. To have someone watching out for him so he didn’t have to always be strong for everyone else. He didn’t know if he could have it, but it sounded nice.

“Maybe,” he settled on.

Clay glared at him, “Not maybe, Desmond. Just one person, other than me, that you tell fucking something to. I don’t care who, just someone,” he paused, “but maybe not that bald dream guy. He gives me the creeps.”

Desmond let out a startled laugh, “You and me both, buddy. You and me both.” Because while Solas had gained some level of trust from Desmond, he was still a sketchy person with unknown motives. Desmond didn’t even know if the elf was an ally beyond his actions. He didn’t have Eagle Vision giving him a calming blue glow. It was always a steady golden, which set Desmond on edge every time he saw it. But there was only so much paranoia he could handle in his already fucked up head, so he tried his best to not let it affect his relationship with the elf. It was always easier to push away when he was in the waking world. In dreams, Solas felt like a predator. Sure, it was well hidden, but Desmond was well attuned to these things.

“Fuck,” Desmond cursed as he felt the Fade start to waver, “I’m waking up. Will you be here when I dream again?”

Clay shrugged, “Like always. Can’t promise to show up if creepy guy is here, unless, of course, you want me to.”

“I’ll let you know,” Desmond promised, and then the Fade was gone, replaced with a chill that shivered through his body. He shot upright to the sound of arguing, and Mother Giselle set a calming hand on his shoulder.

“Hush,” she tutted, “You’ve been asleep for a few hours. We healed what we could, but I’m afraid you’ll still feel weak.”

Desmond lifted a hand to the hinge of his jaw, feeling a headache building from the cold. “If we’ve been here for hours we should get moving, Corypheus could be here any minute.”

She gave him a startled look, “Is that the name of the Elder One?” At his nod, she smiled gently, “We’re safe for now, albeit a little chilly. We have nowhere to go at the moment, and no one chasing us in this weather.”

And indeed, outside of the tent the storm was still settling over them, much lighter than it had been, but a storm nonetheless. He sighed and relaxed back into the cot. “What happened while I was out?”

Giselle shrugged elegantly, her face aglow with the firelight. “There was a young man, blonde, large hat. He said he felt your pain coming closer and begged our Commander to search for you. The Commander was already anxious, so the moment the young man indicated a direction, they were out searching,” she looked humbled by the memory, “They found you half-frozen in the snow, but you’re alive by the Maker’s will. Andraste’s prophet.”

Desmond turned his head away from this, “I’m not some holy figure,” he countered, “Corypheus believes himself a god reborn, and I don’t want people to see the same thing when they look at me.”

Mother Giselle settled her hand on his, “I don’t know if you’re truly touched by Andraste or not, but I believe that either way the Maker sent you to us in our time of need, and your existence has been something that connects us all to something greater than ourselves, something that could stand a chance against a self-proclaimed god.”

Desmond looked back at her, feeling a little lost, “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he confided, the talks with Clay fresh on his mind.

She patted his hand, “No one does, not truly. But I believe you know more than you think you do.” She sent him a gentle smile and then stood and started slowly walking out of the tent, a song on her lips that easily quieted the arguing.

“What the fuck,” Desmond mouthed to himself as everyone started joining in until the whole Inquisition was singing in the snow. It seemed to rouse spirits, the lyrics building hope with every word about how they would prevail over the darkness. He felt like he learned a lot about his advisors, such as Leliana’s beautiful voice and the fact that Cullen’s smooth voice translated well to music. Apparently, it was a day for revelations.

The song came to a close, their small clearing ringing with the echo of music as everyone came to a thoughtful silence. Then, as if possessed, they all turned as one to look at him. Desmond’s eyes widened, feeling put on the spot with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and skin flushed with his body’s temperature regaining equilibrium. He hoped they weren’t expecting a speech, or he would expire on the spot.

He nodded in acknowledgment, which seemed to be enough for the majority of them. He noticed Cullen’s eyes stayed firmly locked on him, and Desmond recalled that the blonde had wanted to say something before Desmond went out on his suicide mission. He wondered if the man would tell him now that they were relatively safe.

His attention was pulled away from Cullen’s concerned face by Solas giving him a mysterious nod and gesture to follow. Desmond was reluctant to leave the warm shelter he had woken up in to go into the light snowfall, but his curiosity won out. He was keeping the blanket, though.

Desmond shivered as fat snowflakes landed on the skin of his unprotected face. The healers had stripped him of his soaking armor and shoved his unconscious body into warm fur-lined pajamas which did little to make him feel like anything but a child. It was warm, though, and he would take what he could in this white hellscape.

Solas led him past the tents and to the border of their makeshift camp, his bare feet dancing above the snow while Desmond waded through the frozen clearing, up past his ankles in cold. Thank whatever God may or may not exist that Desmond had high boots.

With a flick of his hand, Solas lit a torch with green flames. Veilfire, he’d once called it. The memory of fire. It bore no heat and little light. Desmond had no idea why the elf hadn’t just conjured actual flames when Desmond was freezing his ass off in the dark, away from the others. Some douchy show of power, Desmond assumed.

The pale green light cast shadows on Solas’s face, making harsh lines and drawing him with a deeper severity than he normally appeared. Maybe that was why he had used Veilfire. “The orb you saw,” the elf started, with no small talk or easing into the conversation. “I believe it to be Elven in design.”

The look he gave Desmond was meaningful, and he did not doubt that the elf was trying to lead him to a conclusion about how much harsher people would be on the elves if they figured out the ‘weapon of mass destruction’ was theirs. But he was drawn to the memory of the orb, the parallels to the Apples of Eden, and the thing he touched to shield the planet from being roasted. He didn’t know if it was his memories playing tricks on him, but the more he thought of it, the more he thought they looked different. He hoped so, anyway.

Thedas was supposed to be separate from the Isu and their bullshit. Sure, he had ended up here somehow after touching an Isu artifact, but he’d seen no evidence of their existence in the almost year he’d been here. There’s no way the orb Corypheus was using was actually an Apple of Eden. That would be horrific.

He would operate under the belief they were two separate things, but make plans in case they weren’t.

Solas was waiting for an answer. “I don’t think we should tell anyone,” Desmond said hesitantly. “I mean, there are some people that should know, like Leliana, but I think the elves get enough hate for things out of their control. Corypheus was definitely not an elf, and I don’t think it matters how he got the orb, just that he has it.”

The look Solas gave him was in part approving and assessing. “I agree. The circumstances are less damning than the results. These orbs were once used as focusing crystals in the times of Arlathan. I do not know how he managed to find one, but I believe it to hold the key to his power. We would do well to recover it.”

That didn’t sound suspicious at all. Desmond kept his thoughts off his face. “Wouldn’t it be better to destroy it?”

Solas shot him an extremely disappointed look, “This is a piece of Elven history, a tool that holds immense power, but not on its own. It is no more dangerous than the blades you carry. It fell into the wrong hands.”

And you would be the right hands, Desmond didn’t say. “Relax, I was just wondering.” Highly suspect. “How do you know so much about this?”

Solas wore his tension in the set of his shoulders and the jut of his jaw, but he relaxed minutely. “I have seen much in my travels of the Fade.” Desmond didn’t know why he thought the answer would be anything else. “But that is a conversation for later. For the moment, we need to do something about this,” he elegantly gestured to the camp behind them.

“Yeah,” Desmond agreed, “We’re sitting ducks out here.”

“I have seen a place in my Fade explorations,” he started, and Desmond was really tired of hearing about the things Solas knew about the Fade. He wondered if the elf had ever lived outside of it, despite his claims to the contrary. “It is not too far, maybe a few day’s journey through the mountains, but you must be the one to lead us there. The people need to see their savior bring them somewhere better than Haven, a stronghold that won’t fall as easily, and that we can rebuild from. Somewhere we can recollect ourselves for this struggle to come.” Solas looked at Desmond with a weight in his eyes, and Desmond was sure the elf standing across from him knew this place more intimately than simply a memory in the Fade.

“Where are we headed, Solas?”

The elf’s lips twitched in remembered fondness, “Skyhold.”

Chapter Text

One good thing about having a militaristic organization set on saving the world was that no one was crazy enough to bring kids along. Luckily there hadn’t been any at Haven, and they didn’t have to deal with them on the long, cold journey to Skyhold.

Desmond spent most of his time on the trek leading the Inquisition to their destination. Each night Solas would trace the path they should take, making sure Desmond memorized it, and then every day they walked it. It was exhausting, even with the beasts of burden and traveling carts lightening the load. They had many camp followers who weren’t ready or prepared for such a harsh journey through storms and rocky terrain.

At least it was a relatively short trip, or they would have had a much larger death toll than the one from the attack on Haven. They did lose a few, however, but they were mostly ones that had already been suffering from injuries or illnesses from trying to defend Haven. There wasn’t much they could do for them beyond keeping a record of their names and giving them a pyre at night. They would be remembered and mourned, and their ashes scattered to the wind. Desmond had been fascinated the first time he learned that those in Thedas burned their dead so they could not be possessed. Now, with all the corpses left in the wilds, it was just a sad reminder that people had to see spirits and demons walking around with the faces of their deceased loved ones. There was no time to honor and protect the dead in times of war, and they were definitely at war.

Desmond wished he had more time to make good on his promise to Clay, even though a part of him was terrified of the prospect of being open about himself for the first time in probably his entire life. But it was lonely, scouting ahead of everyone else. Solas couldn’t be seen giving him directions, and he was busy pretending to be the healer when that had never been his specialization, by his own admission. Cassandra was busy arguing and planning by turns with the advisors, and Varric was too busy telling rousing tales to the Inquisition to bolster spirits.

Vivienne sat primly on her mare and discussed politics with the noble faction, making plans for their arrival at Skyhold. Sera was making mischief among the Inquisition, using her version of distraction and helping people be less depressed. It was nice to see her so accepted in camp. The bard, Maryden, even made a song about her. It was light and playful and always got Sera giggling her mad little cackle. She was a bright spot among all the doom and gloom, and Desmond couldn't bear to take her away from the center of the action just so he wasn’t as lonely.

Dorian made an effort to keep Desmond company, and he figured it was likely due to the lukewarm reception the mage was receiving from the rest of the Inquisition. But Dorian quickly grew tired of the quick pace and Desmond jumping off cliffs and trees to scout for the best path. Desmond also wasn’t the best person for Dorian’s magic debates and lectures, which the mage quickly realized and, with a regretful look, went in search of someone who would engage him in a rousing discussion.

Blackwall was too flustered to presume to be in Desmond’s company. Even when the man got over it enough to have a conversation, he was generally pretty squirrelly, and Desmond was certain the man was hiding something. He also knew it wasn’t time to ferret it out of the man, so he left him be. Blackwall seemed to find peace only when tending to the horses or staring at Josephine with a deep blush finding its way past his bushy beard. Desmond left him to it.

The Iron Bull stuck with Desmond and Dorian for the first day, but the magic talk made him twitchy, and he felt more comfortable flanking the camp in case of threats, especially knowing that Desmond could take care of himself.

The one Desmond was most interested in talking to, however, was their newest recruit, the blonde teenager, Cole. And yet the boy was surprisingly elusive, obviously trained as some sort of assassin, if not an Assassin. Despite his very noticeable appearance, Desmond couldn’t pick him out of a crowd. Cole blended in seamlessly, so much so that people tended to not even notice him. Desmond, while he was up in tall trees or hanging over cliffsides, would look back at the camp and Cole would be hovering over the healers that were tending to the wounded, shadowing Solas, or staring into the middle distance with a lost look on his face. And that was only when Desmond could find him. Sometimes the kid disappeared from even his Eagle Vision, where he was a distinct blue-green, almost teal color. One would think it would be easy to find him, but it was like Cole just didn’t exist. It made Desmond wonder if he was going crazy.

He’d tried cornering the kid, wanting to thank him for the warning, however brief it was. But it was like catching a fish with his bare hands. It was incredibly impressive, to be honest. Desmond was pretty sure that he would love to have the kid along for his adventuring and quests, just to have someone similar to his skillset along. It would make fights much quicker with a heavy hitter in front to gain all the attention, like Cassandra or Bull, a mage to set traps and barriers, and himself and Cole sliding through the shadows and picking off the distracted enemies. He was almost salivating at the thought of how efficient it would be. Of course, he loved Sera’s poisoned arrows and Varric’s traps and explosions, but there was something about shadowy assassin work that was incredibly nostalgic. He wouldn’t bring Cole along unless he knew more about the kid, however. If he could ever manage to talk to him.

In the interim, he spent a lot of time while he was alone just thinking about what it meant that Clay was here, that the orb looked a bit like an Apple of Eden, that Solas was so secretive and still glowed golden. But despite those Very Important Things he had to consider, his mind was frustratingly latched onto the looks Commander Cullen would give him. Almost every time Desmond looked the Commander’s way, the man was staring back, his gaze searching and almost understanding. Desmond was hesitant to put a label on what he saw in those amber eyes.

Of course, everything would have been much easier if he just talked to Cullen, but the man was almost as slippery as Cole, just in a different way. He was constantly busy; talking with the soldiers and creating a list of the fallen, bolstering defenses, making plans with the other advisors, the list went on. And throughout it all, he looked sickly, like a stiff wind would knock him over. Desmond was constantly worried that the frequent storms would do away with the man, but Cullen was stronger than that.

Desmond was surprisingly okay with the attention, however. Usually, he would shy away from that sort of regard, especially since he didn’t know what thoughts lingered in Cullen’s head, but it was strangely flattering, he supposed. He felt seen? He didn’t know exactly what he was feeling. He needed to talk to the man.

All thoughts flew from his mind at the first glimpse he saw of Skyhold. A hulking gray fortress clinging to the top of a mountain, only accessible by one long bridge to the front gates. It was easily defendable, with a drawbridge and portcullis, high walls and turrets, and sheer cliffs on each side. The only way the enemy was getting in would be through the air (which they had a dragon, but only one, hopefully) or across the overpass.

Skyhold was in obvious disrepair, but it was a fantastic starting point. With everyone pitching in where they could, it wouldn’t be long before it became a proper stronghold for the Inquisition.

Desmond knew his face was excited as he found his way back to the camp, immediately telling the advisors that he’d found it—their new home. Rumors spread quickly throughout the Inquisition, and before the day’s end, everyone was abuzz with excitement and rekindled hope. Desmond’s loneliness was washed away in the face of all the happiness and relief. He found himself grinning at everyone who looked his way and surrounded by groups of people who wanted him to tell them what Skyhold looked like, just one more time. He kept things vague enough that they could experience its grandeur for themselves when the time came but gave enough details so they had something to look forward to.

It took another day to reach it at the pace they were going, but they had all gotten a good look at Skyhold a few hours into the last day of travel. There were gasps, joyous exclamations, and laughs of excitement.

Through it all, Desmond felt eyes on him, when almost everyone was looking at their new home. He searched around and found Cullen’s amber stare, a little half smile playing at the Commander’s scarred lips. Not for the first time, Desmond thought about how pretty the man was when he didn’t look like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. There was some kind of message Cullen was trying to convey, but Desmond hadn’t had enough interaction with the man to truly know what he was thinking. Someone jostled Desmond in their excitement, and the connection was broken.

The rest of the journey to Skyhold was awash in hope and talk of what the inside of the fortress would look like. Desmond did short trips to scout ahead, but mostly stayed with the rest of the Inquisition, more than happy to experience the unveiling of Skyhold with everyone else. He could barely contain his excitement as they crossed the long bridge, the fortress looming over them, growing ever larger the closer they came.

Everyone paused at the gates, waiting for their Herald of Andraste to do the honors of opening the main gates. The portcullis was closed, and they all stood, unsure what to do, but trusting in Desmond.

Which was probably a mistake since Desmond didn’t have any clue how to open it from the outside. There was an awkward moment of silence, and then Desmond remembered he was an Assassin. They never used the front door.

He looked back at the Inquisition, gave a jaunty wave, and then started climbing the fortress walls. There were gasps of surprise and shouts of alarm as they saw him quickly scale the monolithic walls in front of him, Eagle Vision finding the most stable handholds with ease. Within minutes he was vaulting over the top and waving again at the awed Inquisition. His companions had all seen him scale trees with ease, and he’d spent a lot of time on top of buildings, but he supposed this was an entirely different thing, and everyone was impressed. It was difficult for him to not preen under the attention. While finding Skyhold was not truly by his ability, and therefore not something he could take true credit for, his skills as an Assassin were things he could be proud of, and it felt good to get acknowledgment for how cool they were.

With one last look to the Inquisition below him, he went in search of something to open the portcullis and unlock the gates. He took a long moment to survey the fortress from the top of the ramparts, and ‘impressed’ didn’t quite cover what emotion he was feeling. Everything was decrepit and falling apart, but it was nothing a little construction couldn’t fix. What was awe-inspiring was the massive, two-tiered courtyard, the impressive stonework that had withstood the sands of time, and huge buildings that could easily contain everything they needed. It wasn’t just a fortress, it was a castle. He couldn’t wait to examine the inside, see what little nooks and crannies there were hiding inside.

With a shake of his head, he picked his jaw up off the floor, performed a quick Leap of Faith off the ramparts, and started on the hunt. Eagle Vision led him to some rusty gears that took a bit of finagling and elbow grease to shift, but after one big heave, the gates opened with a groan of effort. Cheers erupted once the pathway was clear, their Herald once again delivering miracles.

He fought not to cringe away from the almost fanatic reverence of the Inquisition as they stared at him, everyone trying to talk to him. Desmond tried to gently steer them on their way, telling them to go set up their stuff and take some time to rest. But everyone wanted his attention.

It wasn’t until Cullen’s stern commands and Leliana’s cold stares that they finally let Desmond have some breathing room. His advisors immediately descended upon him like vultures. “Let’s go for a walk,” Josephine said, and Desmond still didn’t know how to get over seeing the usually prim and proper woman dressed down in traveling clothes. They were by no means anything a peasant would wear and obviously spoke of intense wealth, but the furred leathers and thick cloak were so diametrically different to her golden frilled dresses and perfect hair.

Desmond followed the advisors away from the crowd, Cassandra breaking away to join the four of them. “Now that we have a stronghold,” Leliana began, carefully watching him, “We need a leader. Up until now, we’ve done the best we could, but as we have officially become an organization, people need to see us as a united front.”

Desmond knew where this was going. He was the mascot, and for months now he’d been making all the big decisions. Unless they were throwing him a wild ball, then the only natural line of progression would be making him the leader. He rubbed at his forehead, unsure how he felt about this. Sure, he had already been the leader in all but name, but with the official title came more recognition and duties that were wildly out of his skill set.

He sighed heavily, “I don’t know if I’m the right person for this.”

“We will still be here for you,” Cullen said quickly, maybe too quickly, “If you have any questions, or need anything,” he cleared his throat. “But we’ve talked this through, and there’s no one we’d rather have.”

Desmond looked at the earnest faces around him, and then to where he had been unconsciously led to -- a platform overlooking the courtyards where everyone was gathered. “I guess I have no choice,” he sighed.

Leliana gave him a small smile, the action reducing her age by at least ten years, “You have a choice, but you truly are the best option we have. And we would like you to be the one to lead us.”

Desmond closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and nodded. Cassandra smiled, and Cullen and Josephine descended the platform to spread the word. An elf ran up carrying an enormous ceremonial sword, which Leliana grabbed reverently.

Cassandra stepped up to the edge of the platform, “Have the people been told, Commander?” She shouted with her battle voice.

“They have,” Cullen confirmed, a muted sort of joy on his face.

“And will they follow?”

He turned to the people, “Inquisition, will you follow?” A resounding roar rose from the crowd, and Desmond fought not to hide somewhere. This was all so overwhelming.

Leliana came forward, holding the sword in her hands and presenting it to him. “Say a few words,” she whispered, barely moving her lips.

Desmond gulped and grabbed the hilt. The blade must have been hollow because he was easily able to lift it in one hand. He had seconds to think of a speech that wouldn’t show his doubts, but also show that he was human and not going to pretend to be a god like Corypheus. “You all are putting your trust in me, as your leader, and I will not let you down. We are facing a would-be god, and I cannot promise it will be easy, but I can promise that we will do our best, and we will defeat Corypheus, one way or another.”

Desmond’s eyes met Cullen’s and the man grinned without reservation, “Inquisition, I present to you your Herald, your leader, your Inquisitor!” The cry that rang from that declaration echoed off the mountains until what seemed like the whole world was shouting their approval.

Desmond stared ahead at nothing, terrified of what was to come, but vowing to do his best anyway. He would be what the people needed, and he would try his best to not crumble under the pressure. There was no other option.

Chapter Text

“There are several things you saw in that future that concern me,” Leliana said, her voice swallowed by the cavernous main hall. The roof had caved in, leaving stone and rotting wood piled in heaps on the ground. Desmond and his advisors stepped around the mess to find somewhere private they could speak. Desmond was still reeling from his nomination as Inquisitor, but he tried his best to shake off the shock and be in the present.

“The assassination of Empress Celene is one thing,” Josephine hummed, clipboard almost materializing out of nowhere as she wrote a few words in sharp movements. “We will talk about that later.”

“But for now,” Leliana cut back in, “I believe we need to find information on this Elder One, Corypheus. He is an unknown, but I will have people look into the information you’ve provided from your interaction with him.”

“I might be able to help with that,” Varric cut in, walking up behind them. It had been implied that the advisors wanted somewhere private to talk about their next steps, as no one had followed them into the main hall, but Desmond didn’t begrudge the interruption. Any information was good information at this point. “I know someone that might be able to help with our Corypheus problem. He’s tangled with the guy before, so I sent a letter. He should be here soon.” Varric looked incredibly awkward underneath the combined stare of the leaders of the Inquisition, and Desmond wondered who this friend was, exactly.

“I’ll take anything I can get, at the moment,” Desmond said honestly, “When do you think your friend will arrive?”

Varric shrugged, “Sometime within the week? He was relatively nearby when I sent the message.” His hazel eyes roved over the people looking at him and he shrugged again. “I’ll let you know more, later. I just wanted to let you know that we should have a little bit more information soon.” And with one last nod, he quickly skittered away.

Desmond had never known Varric to be self-conscious about anything, so that begged the question of what exactly he was hiding.

Leliana snorted, “I know one thing. If Varric is talking about who I think he is, Cassandra is going to lose her shit. There might even be blood.” She sounded way too gleeful for Desmond’s comfort, and once again he was glad she was on his side.

“Well, I guess there’s not much to do about that until Varric’s friend arrives,” Josephine hummed, marking a few things down on her paper. “There isn’t much to report at the moment, but we’ll get back to you when we know more.”

Desmond knew a dismissal when he heard one and beat a hasty retreat. He wanted to go check on his companions and see if he could find Cole. Was he putting off talking to Cullen? Very likely.

The first person he ran across was Vivienne, who flagged him down in a prim way. He wanted to ignore her, but he didn’t have a good reason. “Madame Vivienne,” he greeted cordially.

“Inquisitor,” she graced him with a polite smile, “I was wondering what you plan to do about this Corypheus. He has dealt the Inquisition and more specifically you, a serious blow. You need to show a strong front. If you require any advice,” she trailed off meaningfully.

“No offense, madame, but if I needed help, I would not come to you.” Although she knew how to play the court and the nobles, if he went to anyone, it would be Josephine.

Vivienne gave him a secretive smile, “Good, keep your guard up. You never know what motives people have for you. It is smart to keep your own council. But if I might suggest a change of attire? I know an amazing tailor that could make people fear you and your power.”

Desmond fought to not let his eye twitch in annoyance, “I’m sure Josephine would appreciate the assistance. I’m afraid she’s the one who decides what I wear outside of battle.” That was true enough. She gave him a selection of outfits and he chose the ones he liked the most. That’s how it was at Haven, and he assumed the trend would continue.

“Ah, I see,” her tone was carefully blank, and Desmond had no idea what she saw, but he rather thought it was time for him to make himself scarce.

“Thank you for your time, Madame, but I’m afraid I have other things I must check on.”

She nodded, “Of course, I wouldn’t wish to keep you from your duties. Just be aware that I’m more than a pretty face and have many magical talents that could help the Inquisition, and you, with this fight.”

That was rather direct of her, Desmond thought a little incredulously, but he smiled anyway, “I will keep that in mind. Excuse me.”

Desmond was on a mission. He would find Cole and talk to the kid, learn if he was someone Desmond would want on his team, and if not, welcome him to the Inquisition anyway. Instead, he ran into Blackwall who was looking in the direction of Haven.

The man noticed Desmond's approach and sighed heavily, “It never really ends does it?” Desmond made a questioning noise and Blackwall elaborated, “The fight. You think you’re safe in one place, only to find that was all a lie.” Desmond wondered again at the man’s past, but he was cut off before he could even formulate a segue into asking, “Come. I want to examine our defenses.”

Desmond silently trailed the man up a set of stone stairs leading to the ramparts. Blackwall didn’t speak until they were looking over the steep edge of Skyhold. It would be a long drop and a quick death. Desmond felt a sense of ease looking down at such a height, his thoughts settling with the sharp cold winter air.

“We have a good set up here,” Blackwall broke the silence, “We will see Corypheus coming for miles.”

“Hopefully that will be enough,” Desmond whispered, remembering the bodies of fallen Inquisition members littering the snow at Haven.

“Are you what they say you are?” Blackwall asked out of nowhere, turning his bushy face to Desmond. “Andraste’s chosen? No, don’t answer that. I don’t think it matters,” he looked away, over toward where people were setting up tents and tending to the wounded, “They believe, and that gives people hope and morale.”

Desmond didn’t want to know, but, “Do you think I’m the Herald of Andraste?”

Blackwall continued to look away for a moment and then turned his gaze back to Desmond, “I believe that you are a great leader and that I’ll stand by you, so long as you continue to be a great leader. I don’t know about religion, but I do know the military. You have my shield, Inquisitor.”

A smile twitched at Desmond’s lips, “Thank you, Blackwall. I’ll rely on your support.”

Blackwall nodded, “I’m going to stay up here a bit longer, but you don’t need to keep this old man company. I’m sure you have better things to do.”

Desmond took one last deep breath of the chilly mountain air, “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He vaulted over the side of the wall into a pile of leaves and came out with Eagle Vision activated. Time to find their resident teenager.

Instead what he found was Vivienne and Solas arguing. He wanted nothing to do with it, but Solas spied him and he was called over. Desmond suppressed a sigh. Everything was working against him.

“Inquisitor,” Solas greeted, “You should be included in this. I believe Cole is not what he seems. I think he is a spirit. He can cause people to forget him or fail to notice him entirely, as I’m sure you’ve seen.”

“It is a demon,” Vivienne cut in snidely, her holier-than-thou attitude peeking through her veneer of civility.

“He,” Solas stressed, “is here to help. He is not possessing anyone or anything. That body seems to be entirely his.” The elf gestured over to the makeshift infirmary where the erstwhile kid was poking around like a curious bird.

“We must get rid of it,” Vivienne demanded. “A demon in the Inquisition? There will be chaos.”

Solas shook his bald head furiously, “He is harming no one, I believe he is here to help.”

They both glared at each other, and Desmond sighed. “I’ll go talk to him.” That was the only thing he could do, and it matched up nicely with his original goal. Cole being a spirit would make sense with how he kept disappearing under Eagle Vision. The Fade-tinted blue marked him as something other, but also as an ally, so Desmond was more inclined to believe Solas’s reassurance that the kid was there to help. He still wanted to talk to him.

Cole didn’t look over at Desmond as he approached, instead staring at one of the dying soldiers. “Choking fear,” he said, voice taking on a haunted, melodic quality so different from the last time Desmond had heard him speak, “Can’t think from the medicine but the cuts wrack me with every heartbeat. Hot white pain,” Cole adjusted the gloves on his hands, body language casual despite the words spewing out of his mouth. “Everything burns. I can’t... I can’t, I’m going to... I’m dying, I’m -- dead.” The soldier he was staring at went limp and the healers surrounding her shook their heads sadly.

“Are you --” Desmond didn’t know how to ask what he wanted to know. “Are you reading their mind? Or feeling their pain?”

His voice was blank as he stared at the dying. “It’s louder this close, with so many of them.”

“Would you like to go somewhere more comfortable?” Desmond was entirely out of his depth with this.

“Yes,” Cole said without hesitation, “But here is where I can help.” He walked over to another wounded member of the Inquisition. “Every breath slower, like lying in a warm bath, sliding away. Smell of my daughter’s hair when I kiss her goodnight.” The man’s eyes dimmed, head lulling to the side. “Gone.” Cole’s head snapped to the side, “Cracked brown pain, dry, scraping. Thirsty.”

Within one blink and the next he was at the woman’s side, offering her a cup of water. “Thank you,” she whispered, voice strained with the remnants of smoke in her lungs.

Cole finally looked up at Desmond, eyes barely visible beyond the brim of his hat. “It’s alright, she won’t remember me.” The kid’s head tilted slightly as he squinted at Desmond. “It’s green, this close. A piece of the Fade so bright it’s hard to read. But behind it... I’m sorry for your loss.”

Desmond’s brows drew together, “Thank you?”

“I could make it go away. Or try. There’s a dry heat like sand rubbed raw on flesh, but behind that is a wet pain, old and burnt and soaked. Choking on blood but the goal is so near... I can’t feel you. Something isn’t right.” Cole was fluttering around in distress, and Desmond found himself putting his hands up, hoping to soothe the spirit.

“Hey, it’s alright. Focus on something else, alright? There’s a lot to look at, with me,” which was an understatement. Six or so different people shoved into one body, plus whatever havoc the Fade was wrecking on his mind, as well as Clay’s appearance? Too much for one person, by far. He didn’t want to hurt Cole before he even truly talked to the kid.

Cole shuddered, glitching a bit like an error in some type of code, and then he was focusing on one of the other dying soldiers. "Hurts, it hurts, it hurts, someone make it stop hurting. Maker please...” Cole pulled a knife from behind his belt, hat hiding his expression. “The healers have done all they can. It will take him hours to die. Every moment will be agony. He wants mercy. Help.” Cole turned his face to Desmond, a question in the lines of his body.

Desmond knew a thing or two about mercy killings, “Alright. Help him.”

Cole crouched down at the soldier’s side, knife in hand, “It’s alright, I’m here to help.” With a smooth moment, the knife slid in between the man’s ribs, and he was gone. Cole stood, staring at the man. “I want to stay,” his voice held a longing, “I used to think I was a ghost. I didn’t know. I made mistakes, but I made friends too. Then a templar proved I wasn’t real. I lost my friends. I lost everything. I learned how to be more than what I am. It made me different, but stronger. I can feel more. I can help.” He looked at Desmond, his voice pleading, “I want to help.”

“If you’re willing, the Inquisition could use your help. There’s a lot of pain and loss here,” Desmond looked around at the makeshift infirmary, where the dead and dying were packed along the courtyard, out in the frigid weather. “I’ve heard you can make people forget about you, about the things you do.” Cole tilted his head in confirmation. “I ask that you never do that to me.”

“Not knowing what’s real or not, can’t see my memories beyond his. What’s happening to me?” The kid’s voice took on that strange quality Desmond figured meant he was reading someone’s mind, more specifically, Desmond’s. And then Cole stared at Desmond’s left ear, an attempt at eye contact. “I will not make you forget.”

Chapter Text

Desmond found Cullen in the lower courtyard, sighing over a piece of paper. His first instinct was to crack a joke, something along the lines of ‘what’s cooking, good looking’, but the weary lines on the Commander’s face stopped the thought before it fully formed. Instead, Desmond made his footsteps heavier and walked into Cullen’s line of sight.

“Anything I can help with?”

Despite Desmond’s attempt at making his presence known beforehand, Cullen was still startled, hand falling to the pommel of his sword. “Inquisitor,” he acknowledged after a beat. Desmond somehow hated the title coming from Cullen.

“Commander,” he returned pettily. Cullen didn’t seem to have the same hang-ups.

The blonde man sighed heavily and looked back down at the parchment. “A list of all the people we lost at Haven.” Desmond was glad that he hadn’t opened with a joke. “I don’t even know if it’s all of them. Their families must be notified. I just wish we could go back and honor them properly,” he shook his head. “So many good people taken from us. And for what? We don’t even know what Corypheus truly wants! What was his purpose for creating the Breach?”

“I don’t know about you,” Desmond started after Cullen went silent, “but I’d rather not know how a would-be god thinks. That’s one step closer to becoming one.”

Cullen let out a tired snort, “That’s true enough, Inquisitor.” Desmond’s eye twitched. So impersonal. But then again, what did he truly know about this man, other than that he doesn’t trust mages, he’s eternally exhausted, and he’s gone through some horrible trauma in his past? There was no reason for Cullen to be anything other than professionally distant. But Desmond wanted to be closer to him, for some reason he couldn’t decipher. Sure, the man was pretty, everyone could see that. But Desmond had seen plenty of good-looking people in the whole of his lifetimes, and yet they hadn’t affected him like this. Was it because they both had trauma? That they both acted like they had the weight of the world on their shoulders, or like they had lived the trauma of several lifetimes, despite their age? Maybe it was some combination of all of those.

It didn’t matter when the result was Desmond feeling a bit hurt at Cullen’s distance. Should he bring it up? Did it matter?

“I’ve noticed you seem to have something to say to me,” he tried, going for a non-confrontational tone. Cullen tensed up anyway. “Is there something you need from me?”

Cullen’s jaw clenched a few times as he chewed on some sort of thought. “I need to discuss some... personal things with you.” Desmond tamped down on the entirely unbecoming flutter in his heart. Disgraceful. “I’d rather do it somewhere more private.” Both of their gazes flicked around the crowded courtyard, at the people that couldn’t help but listen to their conversation because there was little else to do.

“Name a time and place,” Desmond said, trying to not feel like they were setting up some scandalous rendezvous.

The time and place ended up being two days later in a newly cleared room on the ramparts which Cullen had repurposed into his office. There was a steady stream of soldiers and scouts roaming through the doors to add new papers to the already perilous stack on the Commander’s desk. The man himself sat hunched over a report of some sort, stress visible in the tension along his shoulders.

“Ah, Inquisitor,” Cullen looked up, voice exhausted. Desmond almost suggested they reschedule, but the Commander set aside the paperwork and stood up. “Could you close the door?”

With a firm click, they were alone in the stone office which Cullen or someone had made attempts at disguising the room as something more hospitable. Desmond stared at the sparse bookshelves and red rug on the floor, trying to look anywhere but at the Commander, all while keeping him in his peripheral. Desmond didn’t know why he was so avoidant of this conversation, he didn’t even know what it would be about, but something put him on edge.

His gaze snapped to Cullen as the man opened a drawer in his desk. “Now that you are Inquisitor, you should be made aware of my situation.” He pulled out a small box, fingers trembling as he opened the lid. Desmond walked closer and peered into the velvet-lined box to see a vial of blue liquid cradled inside. “As you may or may not know, Templars gain their abilities from consuming lyrium, but since they are not mages, it gives them abilities close to magic, but artificial. What the Chantry doesn’t mention, is that lyrium is highly addictive, and quitting it just might kill you. I... no longer take it.”

Desmond looked at the exhaustion in every line of Cullen’s body and the way he always looked halfway to an early grave, and he believed him. A large part of Desmond ached at the thought that this man might die soon, that he would go through so much obvious agony beforehand. Through Desmond’s years in New York, and even some memories from his ancestors, he’d seen plenty of drug withdrawal and the toll it took on the person.

“Cassandra and Leliana are aware of my situation and have been watching me for anything that might make me unable to continue my job. If you think it is best, I will step down and you can give this position to someone more fitting.” Cullen’s tone was blank and emotionless, and Desmond’s heart hurt.

“Can I ask why you stopped? You don’t have to answer,” Desmond was quick to backtrack at Cullen’s grimace.

The man shook his head, “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you, but revisiting the memories is difficult,” he looked out the small window in his office, gaze far away, “I suppose you should know. I was there. At the Circle in Ferelden, during the blight. I saw what mages could do when they had too much power, as they tortured me and forced me to watch the death of everyone I’ve ever known, keeping me in a magical cage and making me hallucinate until my brain boiled. After that, when I was reassigned to Kirkwall, I was angry. I hated mages and everything they stood for, and Knight Commander Meredith was exactly what I didn’t need as she caused me to fall deeper into rage and distrust. But she...” he paused, looking down at his feet. “She grew more and more insane. Paranoid. She saw blood magic in every shadow, and despite my hatred and fear, I couldn’t help but see how she was changing, how she was becoming just like the blood mages that held me captive. So I helped the Champion, in my own, small way, after Meredith was turned into lyrium. I let him leave the city, unharmed and vowed that I would stop. I wouldn’t become what Meredith was, or the type of person that caused the uprising to happen. When I took my first lyrium draught, I took an oath. But now I no longer uphold that oath, so I have no right to take the lyrium.” He stared Desmond in the eyes, “The Inquisition is more important than my personal hang-ups, and if you want me to take lyrium, I will.”

Desmond swallowed, unsure what choice to make. He couldn’t, in good conscience, make someone take drugs, especially if they didn’t want to. But this withdrawal would likely kill Cullen, and he really didn’t want that either. In the end, though, it wasn’t his decision to make, not truly. Cullen wanted to be free from his old order. He was no longer a Templar and didn’t want to be. Desmond could and would respect that. “I trust your judgment,” Desmond settled on, “And I would rather have a Commander who fought for his own beliefs and stayed true to himself than one who threw away everything just because someone told him to.” He stared Cullen down, willing him to listen to every word. “I want you to stay off lyrium, and I want you to survive.”

Cullen grits his jaw, eyes suspiciously moist. He cleared his throat once before nodding, “As you say, Inquisitor.”

That damned title again. Desmond had only had it for a few days but he hated it. “Was there anything else?”

Cullen straightened, becoming the Commander once again, “That man we saw with Corypheus. I know him. His name is Samson, and he was once a Templar, like me. He was kicked out of the Order, and last I saw, he had been begging for coins on the streets of Kirkwall. I don’t know how he started working with Corypheus, but it can’t be good. He was a good Templar, back in the day, and I fear that he will be a formidable foe.” Cullen shuffled through a few reports on his desk, “We’ve tracked the Templar movements to the Emerald Graves and Emprise Du Lion. It may be beneficial to go there to find out what they’re up to.”

Desmond took a moment to move his head from traumatic revelations to his role as the leader of the Inquisition, but he nodded resolutely, “I will check it out when I can.” He sighed and muttered under his breath, “So much to do.”

Cullen gave him a rueful smile, indicating that he heard. “Don’t stretch yourself too far.”

Desmond snorted, “Take your own advice,” he nodded to the stacks of reports on Cullen’s desk.

“It uh... Helps. With the cravings.”

“I understand,” and he did. Work helped him not stop and think about how fucked his life was, and not have a mental breakdown at the mortifying ordeal of being observed and put in charge of the safety of the world. It also helped a bit with the Bleeding Effect, which was a bonus. He knew it would all catch up with him at some point, but he hoped to delay that as much as possible. “Remember I told you that you have to live, right? Don’t work yourself into an early grave. And that’s an order.”

“As you say, Inquisitor,” Cullen repeated, this time with a barely-there smile. The title felt slightly different that time, and Desmond tried not to overthink that it felt a bit like flirting. He tamped that thought down and nodded.

“Can I borrow a bit of desk space?” He pulled out his journal and a charcoal pencil. He needed to note down all of his current quests to keep things straight in his head.

Cullen looked like he was trying to withhold his curiosity as he allowed Desmond to use his desk, but the man wasn’t stealthy at all as he peered down at the journal. Desmond watched in amusement as the Commander’s eyebrows rose in surprise at seeing Desmond’s notes in a mix of four different languages, one of them not even using the letters he was used to. Cullen caught Desmond’s entertained look and cleared his throat, cheeks dusting pink.

“I ah,” he cleared his throat again. “I apologize.”

Desmond smiled, “No worries, I know my notes are a bit mysterious.” He knew of several people who had tried looking over his shoulder as he wrote in his journal, thinking they’d find something interesting, only to discover they couldn’t read it. He supposed that made it more mysterious and enigmatic, but truthfully what he wrote was entirely boring. Just a running tally of his money collected and spent and various notes about things he needed to remember, such as quests and things to check out. He also had a few maps tucked in the pages that he would fill out with his mediocre cartography skills, mostly marking it up with points of interest and landmarks. He knew any snoopers wouldn’t find much of interest beyond discovering how staggeringly rich he was, but the ‘code’ he wrote in made his notes much more fascinating.

“That’s not it!” Cullen was quick to refute. “I was just... curious.” It looked slightly painful for the man to admit, and Desmond kindly decided not to laugh, instead nodding seriously.

“Don’t worry about it,” he reiterated. “I’m just writing things so I don’t forget them.”

“Ah,” Cullen laughed sheepishly, “I apologize for being nosy.”

Desmond waved him away and got to writing down the new information about Samson and the two locations. He quickly scanned the things of most importance: avoiding the Empress’s assassination, finding out about the demon army, talking to Varric’s friend when he arrives, and now heading to the Emerald Graves and Emprise du Lion to discover what shady business the Templars were up to. At least that meant he could stay at Skyhold for a few more days before heading out, since he needed to wait for Varric’s friend.

Skyhold was shaping up to be a wonderful headquarters for the Inquisition. It was massive and had room for everything they may need, including a garden to grow herbs for the infirmary and apothecary. They had a tower for the mages, a huge library with several intact books, and space for almost everything. One of the first buildings to go up was a tavern, and Desmond found it amusing and also rather necessary. It was good to have a place where everyone could go to unwind after a day spent rebuilding their home. Morale was high, as the Iron Bull had been telling Desmond, and everyone was doing their part.

Desmond, meanwhile, had been given a room in the tallest tower, which was either a nod to his obvious love of heights or because it was easily the most luxurious chamber in the entirety of Skyhold. Whatever the reason, Desmond was extremely happy that it had a balcony overlooking the mountains. He could see everything for miles, and nothing made him feel safer than being up high and observing everything.

He left Cullen’s office feeling both lighter about their situation and heavier. Things were changing at Skyhold so quickly and he had so much to do out in the rest of the world that he wondered if he’d even recognize the place when he finally made it back. A part of him was terrified at the thought of leaving Cullen for so long when the man was in such a perilously weakened state, but he had to trust that he would be fine. After all, Cullen had made it this far, he would make it farther. Desmond believed in him.

Chapter Text

Leliana hadn’t told Desmond her suspicions about who Varric’s friend was, but the moment the man walked through the gates of Skyhold, the rumor mill reached Desmond. The Champion of Kirkwall had arrived to give aid to the Inquisition. Tales of his heroics in defending the mages of Kirkwall went around in excited mutterings like a wave through the rebel mages, everyone excited to greet the man and get to say they met the Legendary Garrett Hawke.

Varric sent Desmond a summons to one of the turrets half an hour after Hawke arrived, which was pretty damning evidence that his ‘friend’ was indeed the Champion.

Desmond hiked to the designated tower and found Varric and a rugged human chatting, Varric with a bottle of whiskey in hand. “Hey,” he greeted, offering a hand to Hawke to shake, “I’m Desmond.” He hoped that by introducing himself by name, someone in this god-forsaken fortress would finally address him by such, but no such luck.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Inquisitor,” Hawke shook Desmond’s outstretched hand. “All of it flattering, I assure you.”

Desmond shot a disbelieving look to Varric, who was steadily working his way through a large bottle of some sort of alcohol. It wasn’t that he didn’t think Varric thought highly of him, it was just that he was surprised someone would tell their friends things about him, beyond that he led them hither and yonder hunting for herbs and hidden treasure.

Varric waved a negligent hand toward the two of them, “I’m not here,” he assured them, which made Desmond think this was not going to be a pleasant conversation.

“I guess we’ll get down to it, then,” Desmond sighed and hopped up to sit on the stone wall. “Varric said you have information on Corypheus?”

Hawke returned the sigh and leaned his arms on the wall next to Desmond, gaze searching the Inquisition bustling down below. “Before that, I should tell you something. For the past couple of months, I’ve been on a self-imposed mission. If you’ve read Varric’s ridiculous book, you’d know that my brother, Carver, joined the Grey Wardens about ten years ago. In the last letter I got from him, he was incredibly vague, mentioning something about new management. I haven’t heard from him since about a month before the Conclave. The things I have heard, however, have been worrying. Weisshaupt and Vigil’s Keep in Amaranthine are both closed down, with no information going in or out, but some of my contacts have mentioned the Grey Wardens leaving in force. There’s no Blight that I’ve heard of, and the timing is more than suspicious.”

Desmond knew Leliana had friends in the Grey Wardens, and Blackwall had never had anything but good things to say about the Order, so he would like to think this was all a misunderstanding, but something smelled fishy.

“I have a contact in the Grey Wardens, but he’s something of a fugitive from them at the moment. I was going to head to Crestwood before I got Varric’s summons and see what the Warden had to say. It would be beneficial for you to come too. Something is happening and I think it’s connected to Corypheus.” The man took a deep breath, “A few years ago, I ended up in the Deep Roads, and this wasn’t the one in the Tale of the Champion. Some members of the Carta had gone insane, starting a cult that wanted my blood to unlock a cage. As it turned out, my father had been the one to lock up this creature because it was too dangerous. For my whole life, my father had preached about the dangers of blood magic, and he had resorted to it to lock up something. Well, me being me, of course I unlocked the cage, and that’s where we found Corypheus,” he paused, and the only sound was Varric chugging his drink and the Inquisition down below. “You have to understand, when we killed him, we didn’t just think he was dead. He was dead. There was a body, no breathing, wounds that no one could survive. I made sure he was dead. You need to know that.”

“I believe you,” Desmond reassured, “but we also need to know how he could have survived.”

Hawke sighed, “We were with two... factions of Grey Wardens. One of them was bat shit insane from years of isolation in the Deep Roads and he was adamant that we needed to kill Corypheus, that a darkspawn that powerful needed to die. The other faction was a group of three Grey Wardens, led by a woman who believed Corypheus should be studied and used. A darkspawn that could talk, that was more powerful than the others... it wasn’t a choice in the end. I remember the Blight. Not only the tales told of the Hero of Ferelden, but running from my home, losing my sister to the hordes. We didn’t get a proper burial for her, you know. We had to leave her body there,” he shook his head. “There’s no way I was going to side with a darkspawn, no matter how useful he might be. Besides, in my time in Kirkwall, I’d seen plenty of people experiment on things they had no knowledge of. It was best if we destroyed Corypheus. So we did. But the closer we got to his cage,” Hawke paused and looked like he needed a drink, “Anders went crazy, he started hearing voices, and then he attacked us. It was like he was a puppet on strings like he didn’t have control of his own mind. I think that was Corypheus manipulating the taint inside him. Maybe he was manipulating the other Grey Wardens, pressuring me to open the cage. I don’t know.”

Desmond chewed on the information for a bit, “So essentially, Corypheus can take control of the Grey Wardens, and since they got their new management, they’ve been acting like an army. I think it’s not much of a mystery who is backing them. My question is this,” and he was hesitant to propose anything since the information he knew about magic was very limited, but at the same time that allowed him a sort of out-of-the-box view. “Is it possible that he can also overtake the bodies of the Grey Wardens? Transfer his soul into them? He could be doing that on a lesser scale when he takes control of them. Tell me, was the Grey Warden acting any differently after you killed Corypheus?”

Hawke had a look of dawning horror on his face, “He was less insane. I just assumed... well. He’d mentioned that Corypheus was in his head, and he’d been resisting it, and when Corypheus ‘died’ it had released him from that torment. It is... entirely possible. Maker, what have I released?”

Desmond hopped off the wall and clapped Hawke on the back, “I know it’s not much of a comfort, but you did all you could, and helping us take down Corypheus would be a great start to making up for releasing him. We all make mistakes, Hawke. The most we can do is try to be better than we were when we made them.”

Hawke snorted, “Do your mistakes end up with a hole in the sky?”

Desmond waved his glowing hand around, “I’d say so, wouldn’t you?”

“Fair enough.”

“Anything else I should know?” Desmond asked after a moment.

Hawke shook his head, “That’s pretty much all I know about Corypheus, other than that he’s an ugly motherfucker, but you probably know that already. If you have any questions, feel free to ask me. I’ll be here for a week before I head out to Crestwood to get a lay of the situation and prep my contact to meet with you.”

Desmond thought about it. There wasn’t much else he needed to know about Corypheus that he didn’t already, such as the darkspawn believing himself to be one of the magisters to enter the Golden City and his delusions of grandeur. It was useful to know about the Grey Warden thing, however, and Desmond was glad he got this chance to talk to Hawke.

“Can I ask more about your personal life?” He settled on, and Hawke looked like he dreaded the question.

“I’m guessing you’ve read Varric’s horrible book?”

“Hey now, that’s uncalled for,” Varric piped up from behind them. They both ignored the dwarf.

Desmond nodded, “Yeah. I’m sure it’s riddled with exaggeration and more than a little bit of storytelling, but am I right it thinking it has the gist down?”

Hawke looked begrudging as he acquiesced to that assessment. “Alright, what do you want to know?”

“How is everyone doing? Your friends, I mean. The story said you were all pretty close, and after the battle, it didn’t mention anything.”

Hawke scrubbed a hand down his face, “Well. Yes, we were close, but not in the way the book made it seem. Aveline was handy to have in a fight, but I always got the impression she was three seconds away from arresting the lot of us. She disapproved of pretty much everything I did, but unstuck herself from her morals enough to realize the good we were doing. We fell out of contact after Kirkwall, and last I heard,” he sent a look to Varric, making it obvious who he heard this from, “she’s happily married and they just had their first child. A little girl.” He smiled gently, and Desmond got the impression he still cared about Aveline, despite what he said. “Fenris is out there killing slavers all over. We still keep in contact, but I think he’s never forgiven himself for how our relationship ended, and he hasn’t forgiven me for defending the mages. Isabella pops up sometimes. She’s the captain of her own ship, and doing splendidly. I can barely remember her visits, we get so drunk, but I love her to bits. Merrill, well. She’s always been a bit crazy, and that’s only grown worse with time. I like her well enough, but she’s very... single-minded. It’s difficult to have a conversation with her when she has one subject she will talk about and it’s something I can’t relate to.” Desmond noticed the regretful grimace on Hawke’s face. “Sebastian, well. He was always a right prick. He was looking down on everyone since the beginning. You know, he asked me if he should join the Chantry or take up his throne. The only thing he seemed to care about was the Maker, but all that changed when... well. You know. King of Starkhaven and a bounty hunter all in one. If I ever see that guy again, it will be too soon.”

Desmond waited, but Hawke didn’t say anything else, so he hesitantly broached the topic, “And Anders?”

Well, that was a heavy sigh if Desmond had ever heard one. “Anders is. Coping. I love that man more than I have words for, but he’s not... anyway. He wanted to come with me, you know? Despite all the danger and fingers that would inevitably point his way. He didn’t want me to go through this alone. But Corypheus had already taken control of him once and I couldn’t make him go through that again.”

That kind of love was something Desmond himself had never felt before. His ancestors definitely had, so he knew abstractly the kind of all-encompassing love that had a grip on his soul, but he’d never experienced it himself. Maybe he could have, with Lucy, but that ended with her betrayal and death. Cullen’s face flashed in his mind and he winced. Perhaps he had a thing for blondes.

He remembered Maria Thorpe, the woman that Altair fell for and married. She had always struggled with being seen as a woman, especially in her time. She had dreams and interests that did not align with being a ‘lady’, and later in her life, she was treated as lesser, while also not being seen as a true woman, until Altair had seen her as she was. Even though their initial hatred of each other, he had never seen Maria as lesser. Through their time together, they’d become so in love that nothing could break them apart, and through Altair, Desmond had felt that all-consuming passion. Even now, outside of his ancestor’s head, he held an inherited fondness for Maria, her strength, her drive. She was incredible, and Desmond was in awe of the way she believed so strongly and yet was able to listen to reason and look past her biases.

Then there was Sophia Sartor, who had never been a fighter a day in her life but was able to keep the attention of the famous bachelor Ezio. She had been beautiful and intelligent and so strong. She was everything Ezio didn’t know he needed, and definitely out of his league. Their romance had been slow, Ezio running all over Italy for her before they finally got their shit together and Ezio realized he had fallen for the charming bookkeeper. Desmond knew that in the final years of Ezio’s life, Sofia had been the thing keeping him going. She was his light, his life, his everything. Being an Assassin had never meant as much to Ezio as coming home and seeing his wife smile.

So yes, Desmond knew what it was like to love someone so much he’d do anything for them, but at the same time, he’d never truly experienced that. Not as himself. Nevertheless, he still nodded to Hawke, “I understand. It must have been difficult to leave him, knowing you might not make it back.”

Hawke winced, “The fight was catastrophic, and if I make it back, he might kill me himself. But I think the world is more important than my love life, don’t you?”

Desmond shrugged, he’d been in the mind of those who would happily see the world burn for their family. He couldn’t say anything. “Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time. Please make yourself comfortable, and welcome to Skyhold.”

Hawke saluted Desmond, “It was good to meet you, Inquisitor. Seek me out sometime before I leave. It would be legendary to have a good drink with the famed Herald of Andraste.”

The light teasing in Hawke’s voice took the sting out of Desmond’s titles and he snorted, “I can’t promise the drinks will be good, but I wouldn’t pass up the chance to get to know the Champion of Kirkwall.”

Hawke grimaced, “Alright alright, you’ve made your point. No more titles.” Desmond grinned. At least he’d have one person call him by name.

Chapter Text

“So, your Holy Inquisitorialness,” Hawke sidled up to Desmond with a saucy grin and Desmond groaned. “Are you free for those drinks?”

“Get fucked,” Desmond responded automatically.

“I would if I could, Mistress of Andraste,” Hawke slung an arm around Desmond’s shoulders, having clearly decided they were best friends, “but alas, the love of my life is nowhere to be found.” He leered at Desmond’s whole body, and the Assassin suddenly felt naked in his pre-workout clothes. “Unless you’re offering. I’m sure Anders wouldn’t mind.”

Desmond looked him over, “I’m pretty sure you just offended at least twenty-six nobles in Skyhold. You had better repent.”

“Can I do that on my knees?” Hawke’s eyebrows waggled suggestively and Desmond pushed the man’s face away.

“Only if you promise to be a good boy.” Someone behind them choked a little bit, and Desmond surreptitiously glanced back to see a bright red Cullen. “Oh, hi, Commander. Are you doing alright?”

Cullen avoided his eyes like he was being paid to do so, “Yes, thank you, Inquisitor. I just, uh. Excuse me.” Desmond watched the man scurry away for a moment and then turned back to Hawke, who had a knowing look on his face.

“So, the Commander, is it?” Hawke smirked.

Desmond rolled his eyes, “Yes yes. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some training to get to.”

“Boring,” Hawke declared. “What are you going to do? The straw dummies are over there,” he gestured to the small training area near the tavern where the Iron Bull and his Chargers were beating each other with blunted weapons.

“Nah,” Desmond cast his eyes over the scaffolding, uneven walls, and high ledges, “There’s a course to run right there.” It had been a while since he did much beyond climbing trees and buildings, and something inside of him itched to run through a natural obstacle course. The half-constructed fortress was the perfect training ground. “Catch you later.” He didn’t give Hawke a chance to respond before Desmond took a running start and scaled a nearby wall.

The next hour was a blur of running, climbing, jumping, and a significant amount of parkour. It felt amazing to let go, forget the eyes watching him, and follow the course for the fun of it. The feeling was entirely different from his memories of doing the same because he was being chased, or to reach a goal.

By the time he reached the second tallest tower, his breath puffed out of him in thick clouds of mist and he had sweated through his shirt. He stood for a while and surveyed Skyhold, more specifically the crowd that had gathered to watch his progress. Despite it being so different from what he had been raised to feel, watching all these people who trusted him and were in awe of him felt surprisingly good. He was used to being the protector in the shadows, and in his ideal world, he would fix this mess with Corypheus without anyone being the wiser. But despite all of that, he had to admit it was pretty nice having others recognize his efforts and support him through it all.

In the crowd he spied several of his companions, Vivienne watching with approval, Blackwall with wide eyes, Varric and Sera sharing giddy glances-- as was befitting of a rogue-- and Dorian standing slack-jawed. Hawke, when he noticed Desmond looking, started swooning and fanning himself, much to his amusement. His gaze was inevitably drawn to Cullen, who despite his earlier rush to disappear, had ended up staring up at him on the fringes of the crowd. The man seemed stunned and incredibly flustered.

Desmond grinned, spread his arms wide, and performed a Leap of Faith to the terrified screams of the Inquisition. A cart of hay caught his fall and within seconds he was up and standing, brushing off stray bits of fodder, shoulders more relaxed than they’d been in what felt like years. The crowd stood in stunned silence, and then the first claps started. Soon there was a thundering roar and Desmond felt his dark skin deepening with the force of his embarrassed blush. Damn, it was weird having people so in awe of his feats. But it felt good.

His eyes trailed to where he last saw Cullen, only to find those glittering amber eyes trained on him, an unreadable expression on his face. He took a step forward to go talk to the man, but an arm slung around his shoulders and Hawke thumped a friendly hand on Desmond’s chest. “Absolutely insane, man. I thought I was about to witness the death of the Glowing Green Man. Glad to see you survived. And can I just say that was hotter than the breath of a dragon? Are you sure you don’t want to take this discussion somewhere private?” Desmond looked to where Cullen had been only to see the man had disappeared. Hawke kept going, “Anders and I made a list of free passes. I think he’d understand if I changed mine a little bit from the Archon of Tevinter to you, right?”

Desmond lifted a brow, “You want to fuck the Archon?”

Hawke shrugged with a conspiratorial grin. “Can you imagine if I told people about it? They would never believe me.”

Desmond chuckled, “Well, sorry to say, but I’m not a one-night kind of girl.”

“Ah well, worth a try,” Hawke sighed sadly. “I guess I’ll just have to help you woo the Commander, instead.”

“Thanks, but I’ve got it.”

Hawke looked at him dubiously, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Desmond shook his head in good humor. “I’m sure you have plenty of tips, but I’m fine, thanks.”

“If you say so,” Hawke removed his arm from Desmond’s shoulders and pushed him in the direction of Cullen’s office/quarters. “Go get him, then. By the way, I’ve heard he likes flowers!”

Desmond rolled his eyes, and contrary to what Hawke just said, Desmond made his way to the kitchens. He sincerely doubted that Cullen had eaten anything today, despite it being almost evening. Sneaking into the hot kitchens was easy as hell, and he quickly pilfered a couple of plates of food. He knew he didn’t have to steal anything, that he would just have to show up and he’d be given enough food to feed an army, but he didn’t like the idea of getting special treatment. So instead he performed a crime. Today was the day for comfort behavior, it seemed.

Package acquired, he dodged his way through the people milling around and up to Cullen’s office. The Commander had his hands buried in his blonde hair, hunched over the table as if in pain. He barely twitched with Desmond creaked the door shut behind him.

Desmond studied the man for a moment and then dropped the plates onto the table with a clatter. Cullen startled heavily and Desmond felt bad for a moment, but not enough to do anything about it. “Eat.” He commanded.

Cullen looked worse than he had when Desmond had last seen him, not even ten minutes ago. The torchlight in the now-darkened room deepened the shadows under his eyes. “Ah, Inquisitor. To what do I owe the visit?”

“Eat,” Desmond repeated, dragging over a chair and plopping himself down.

Cullen stared at the food, a dark look overcoming his face. “You don’t have to coddle me.”

Desmond had several things he could have said to that, either an affirmation that he did, in fact, have to coddle the man or he wouldn’t survive, to assurances he wasn’t acting out of pity. He immediately dismissed the idea of blurting out his feelings towards the man, knowing that would just scare Cullen away. “It’s not coddling, Commander. I decided to have an early dinner and didn’t want to do so alone. Are you going to deny your Inquisitor?” He hated pulling rank, but if Cullen insisted on calling him nothing but his title, then he would fucking act like it.

Cullen looked at the food, a modest fare of roasted potatoes with a cut of juicy meat. “Why me?”

He sounded genuinely curious, so Desmond decided to be brutally honest. “We’re both haunted by our pasts, Commander. I’ve been told in no uncertain terms that I need to trust those around me, and you were very courageous by telling me your story, more so than I’ve ever been. I admire you, Commander, and I want to get to know you better.”

Cullen considered him for a moment, and then very decisively speared a potato and plopped it in his mouth. Desmond felt his lips curling in a smile a bit too soft and telling, but he didn’t try to stop it.

The light from the crumbling roof slowly disappeared, leaving the two of them in a rather intimate candlelit room. They didn’t talk much as they ate their food, conversation topics of little consequence, and as the evening drew into the night, Cullen got up to light more candles to see by. The man hesitated for a second, and then sat on one of the chairs next to Desmond, removing the barrier of the desk between the two of them.

“Will you tell me?” Cullen asked softly, “About the past you’re haunted by?”

Desmond shook his head, looking out at the cracks in the stone wall. “You’d think me crazy,” he stated, wondering about asking someone to fix the stone, avoiding thinking about their current conversation.

Cullen made a disagreeing noise, “I have seen and heard much, Inquisitor. Even if I find your tale unbelievable, I know you. You wouldn’t make things up.”

He was so earnest, Desmond couldn’t help but think it cute, even if he had misunderstood. “The problem isn’t if you’ll believe me, it’s that you will look at me differently if I were to tell you.” He couldn’t bear the thought of Cullen’s sincere amber eyes becoming filled with pity and he started treating Desmond delicately. He couldn’t decide if that eventuality was better or worse than Cullen’s worry and fretting.

“I promise,” Cullen started, hesitantly taking Desmond’s hand in his own, “nothing could make me think less of you.” His eyes shone in the torchlight. There had been several times before this where Desmond wanted nothing more than to grab that perfectly slicked blonde hair and pull him into a scorching kiss that would leave him looking significantly less put together than usual. But never had the desire been so strong for a tender kiss, one that left the both of them breathless from emotion more than action.

“I have...” Desmond started, then stopped. He had crafted words in his head for this exact moment, going over several different ways he could explain his situation to someone not from his world. All his ideas fled the moment he tried to speak. Cullen gave him an encouraging nod, and Desmond found those words. “I have visions of other lives.” He cringed as soon as it was out of his mouth but forged ahead. “Lives of people I’ve never met, that lived long before me. But I don’t just see their life, I become them. I speak their language, I feel their emotions, I live through them. I’m not following some fateful path like it’s something that has already happened, instead, it’s me making the decisions in the moment. And then I come back to myself and I don’t know who I am. Am I Altair, the proud and talented leader who started it all, yet lived almost one thousand years before I was born? Or am I Ezio, who saw his whole family get killed and spent the next few decades on a revenge mission, just trying to make the world a better place? Sometimes it’s Connor that haunts my thoughts, the man who tried his best to do the right thing in a world that hated him for how he looked. And then I’m Desmond, a man so scared of responsibility that he ran away at sixteen and never really stopped running.” Once he started speaking it all came out in a rush. Shaun and Rebecca tried their best to be there for him, but he never felt like he could talk to them about the toll everything took on his psyche. He had to do it, and regardless of how everyone felt about it, at the end of the day he was still strapped back into the Animus and forced to go through it all again.

Cullen was silent, and Desmond didn’t dare look at his face. “I’m not free. I lived their whole life until I couldn’t anymore, and yet they bleed into my waking world. I think thoughts that aren’t my own and see the specters of these people in the corners of my vision. Sometimes I become them for a few minutes. You’ve heard me speaking their language, saying their words. I have all these lives and experiences and skills in my brain. I feel so old, Cullen. Older than my body. Ezio was over fifty before I stopped living his life, and I was there for his birth. I hardly know who I am, most days, and they won’t leave me alone.”

Desmond slumped back in his chair, entirely too aware of where Cullen was clutching his hand tightly. He felt empty, drained. He had never told anyone that before. They either knew, or it wasn’t any of their business. But Desmond didn’t want to keep things from Cullen. There was something about the man that drew him in and made him feel safe and comfortable.

And then Cullen was lunging across the distance between them and scooping Desmond up in a hug. Desmond didn’t even have time to tense before his own hands were clutching at Cullen’s back, his face buried in the man’s neck. They awkwardly sat there, Cullen half leaned over and Desmond experiencing more human contact than he had since he arrived in Thedas. Eventually, Cullen pulled back a bit to look into Desmond’s eyes.

“Thank you for telling me. I will spend the rest of my life making sure you know exactly who you are, Desmond Miles.” He seemed to realize exactly what he said a beat after the words passed his lips. The only acknowledgment he made of the severity of his words was to blush a dark pink. “If you’ll let me,” he tacked on.

The only response Desmond could imagine to that proposition was to lean the rest of the way forward and press their lips together in a promise. So he did.

Chapter Text

If Desmond had been hoping to keep this new development in his relationship with Cullen a secret, he was to be sorely disappointed the moment Cole looked at him and said, “Your heart feels much lighter with the Commander,” in a room full of people. It was a good thing he hadn’t been expecting any sort of privacy concerning his life. Hell, even his dreams were invaded by two different people. And now Cole could read his mind. Desmond just sighed tiredly and bore Varric’s back slap as the dwarf wandered over.

“You and Curly, huh? Nice,” Varric nodded.

Desmond shook his head, “It’s very new, but thanks.”

Within thirty minutes the entirety of Skyhold was aware that their Inquisitor was in a relationship with the Commander. It was all very exhausting, especially considering that Desmond and Cullen hadn’t officially had the Relationship Talk. After their, admittedly lovely, kiss the night previous, they’d parted so Cullen could get back to work and Desmond could prepare for a lengthy excursion into Thedas in a few days. He had to head over to Crestwood for a quick trip, return to Skyhold for a day, and then make the journey to the Winter Palace in Orlais to stop the assassination of the Empress. That left little time to have a personal conversation, as much as he would love to talk to Cullen some more.

Hawke found him an hour before the mage was set to leave Skyhold and gave Desmond a complicated look. “I know how rumors can be, believe me. But are you really doing the nasty with Cullen?”

“‘Doing the nasty’? What are we, twelve?” Desmond rolled his eyes, “No I am not having sex with Cullen.” And that was true, as they’d done little more than kiss and make promises for a nebulous future.

Hawke let out a relieved sigh, “Cullen is a nice guy, I’m sure, but he’s also very... rigid,” Desmond narrowed his eyes slightly, not loving where this was going, “I knew him, back in Kirkwall, and he was very much a believer of making mages Tranquil. Sure, in the end, he helped us take down Meredith and didn’t arrest us, but I can’t just forget how he stood by and watched as my people were systematically hunted down.”

Desmond considered how he would tell Hawke to mind his own business, but still keep their easy friendship and not spill Cullen’s secrets. “I understand what you’re trying to say,” he started carefully, “but I can make my own decisions. And I assure you I’m well aware of the facts, and who Cullen is as a person.” He looked Hawke over, and shrugged at Hawke’s stare, “I may not be having sex with Cullen right now, but I am romantically invested in him. If you have a concern about his current behavior, you may bring it up with me, but we all have pasts we’re not proud of, and I won’t judge him based on that.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow then nodded, “Noted. But if that noodle-haired man goes all Mage-Bad-Me-Templar on you, I reserve the right to electrify his ass.”

Desmond grinned, “Sure thing. Thanks for your concern though.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Hawke shrugged uncomfortably, “Anyway, I’m headed out to Crestwood, so I’ll see you in a few days. I’ll send a raven to the scouts when I know where my contact will be and I’ve had a moment to talk things over with him. Catch you later, Ser Inquiz.”

“See ya, Champ-man.”

Hawke made a disgusted face in parting, and Desmond was left alone with his thoughts. He spent a few extra seconds in the deserted hallway and resolutely turned toward Cullen’s office. He needed to have that Relationship Talk with Cullen before he disappeared for a month.

By the time Desmond found his way to the office, Cullen was leaning back on his chair and looking up toward the ceiling. Desmond took a moment to stare at the man, his messy blonde curls free from their usual gel. Cullen had a dazed look on his face, one that spoke of daydreaming. Desmond propped himself against the wall and traced the very pretty outline of his potential paramour. Cullen Rutherford was incredibly gorgeous, that wasn’t even in question. But Desmond had to admit his favorite look he’d seen of the man was his soft amber eyes staring at Desmond in vulnerability as they talked in the deep of night. Or maybe that just held a special place in his heart since that was the start of this all.

Desmond cleared his throat lightly and Cullen jolted, eyes immediately focusing on Desmond. He had the pleasure of seeing his Commander turning a fetching shade of pink, “Ah, Inquisitor. I didn’t hear you. Apologies.”

“Back to the title, are we, Commander?” Desmond teased, sauntering closer.

Cullen blushed deeper, “I mean-- that is to say-- well. I admit I’m at a bit of a loss as to how to proceed.”

Desmond smiled softly, “That’s kind of why I’m here, to figure things out before I leave.”

“Ah, right. That’s coming up,” Cullen looked a bit crestfallen.

Desmond drew closer and leaned on the Commander’s desk. “Yes, unfortunately.” He studied the man in silence for a moment, “I would like to pursue a romantic relationship with you, Cullen. Is that something you would also like?”

Cullen’s eyes widened a fraction and the blush that had started to dissipate returned in full force. “I uh, yes. I would like that very much.” He cleared his throat self-consciously, “I don’t really know what I’m doing. I want to-- but I don’t know-- well, it’s different with a man, isn’t it?”

“If you’re talking sex,” Desmond started, watching in fond amusement as Cullen started sputtering and looking anywhere other than Desmond, “then yes, it’s different. As for the romantic aspect, it’s mostly like dating a woman. Both parties communicate what they want, spend time together, build trust and support one another, and show affection through various means. What that looks like depends entirely on the individual. There is no one way to be in a relationship, Cullen. The whole point is figuring out the other person as you go, learning who they are and what they like. That’s the same no matter if you’re dating a man or a woman.”

Cullen cleared his throat and looked back at Desmond, “You’re very wise. Have you been with a man before?”

“Yes,” he remembered his times as a bartender, dating all sorts of people and taking them home. He had the most experience with women throughout his various lifetimes and experiences with Ezio, but he’d been with plenty of men. Nothing too serious, as he’d never trusted anyone with his past, and that wasn’t the healthiest basis for a relationship, but he’d tried. “But we’ll both be figuring out this relationship together. I may have been with others, but I haven’t been with you, so we’re both new at this.”

The smile Cullen gave Desmond was gorgeous, and Desmond couldn’t wait to see more of them. Desmond leaned over and kissed his new partner, happy that he could do so now. He ran a hand through Cullen’s loose curls, marveling at how soft they were. They kept the kiss chaste, and when they pulled away, Desmond rested his forehead on Cullen’s and stared into warm amber eyes.

“Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to a late night picnic?” Desmond asked, entranced by the smile that grew on Cullen’s scarred lips.

“I would love to.”

They parted soon after that because as much as Desmond would enjoy nothing more than spending hours in Cullen’s presence, there were actually duties he had to attend to and other things to do between then and their date. Such things included tending to his herb garden, checking in with Leliana and Josephine to see if there was anything that needed his immediate attention or anything that he should be aware of for his trip to Crestwood, and meeting up with Solas.

He found the elf painting murals of their journey so far, a palette splashed with colorful paint in one hand as he stared consideringly at the wall from the scaffolding above.

“Solas,” Desmond greeted, “I have something to discuss with you.”

The elf looked down at him and set his paints aside, “Very well. A break would do wonders for my creativity.” He easily dropped down the ladder, “What can I do for you, Inquisitor?”

“I was thinking of sharing with the advisors that we communicate through dreams,” Desmond got right to the subject he wanted to discuss.

Solas’s face didn’t change one way or another, but Desmond spied a hint of shock in the elf’s eyes. “Do you think that is wise?”

“It’s a tactical advantage,” Desmond nodded. “You won’t always be with me when I travel outside of Skyhold, and there are times that we need to exchange information faster than a raven can travel back and forth. The ease of communication is something that can’t be ignored. It would also be wise to let others know that if this connection were to ever break, I would be beset by demons.”

“Do you think this connection will be broken?” Solas regarded him with a searching look.

Desmond shook his head, “I don’t know, will it? We don't know what the future holds, Solas. And I believe it is best to have contingencies in place, or at least have others know the risks. It’s too late to do anything about the connection in a safe way, but I cannot believe you would want to be tied to me for the rest of my life.”

Solas hummed and looked away. “You have thought much about this, I see. Very well, I will concede your points. Tell who you wish.”

Desmond nodded his head, “Do you wish to be there when I tell them? You have greater knowledge of the intricacies of the spell.”

“Summon me when you wish to inform the advisors and I will explain.”

“Very well. I’ve taken enough of your time unless there was anything you needed from me?” Solas shook his head and Desmond hummed, “I’ll tell them later today.” And with that, he set out to attend to his other duties.

Being the Inquisitor was exhausting, Desmond decided as he dragged his body to the War Room hours later, arms laden with reports on things that Simply Must Have His Attention. He slumped against the wall for a moment, remembering how Josephine had told him primly that he would now have the duty of sitting his ass on a throne and passing judgment on the enemies of the Inquisition. And on top of that, the whole world would be watching and judging his decisions. He wanted to curl up and sleep for a thousand years until he could disappear into anonymity again. Instead, he pushed himself up and told himself he just had to get through these next couple hours and then he could sweet talk his way into cuddling with Cullen under the stars.

He took to studying the war map while waiting for his advisors and Solas to arrive, sighing over the several markers that needed attention. They overwhelmed the completed missions six-to-one. He was only grateful that the majority of them could be foisted off onto his advisors. The problem came about that the missions that made it onto the map were ones that they couldn’t decide the best course of action, so it fell to Desmond to have the final say on who would do what. He was tired just thinking about it. He really wished he were the type of person to delegate without a thought, but he was uncomfortably aware that these were real decisions that would affect people’s lives in unpredictable ways. He couldn’t forget that and start seeing these missions as chess pieces, despite how easy it would be. He used to be the one to take out those who fell into that mindset, and now he knew that Sera and her people were watching him. He both did and didn’t want to be the person they felt the need to take out. It would be much easier on his mental stability and exhaustion, but he would never be able to forgive himself.

Leliana was the first to arrive, slipping in through the squeaky doors without a sound. Desmond was still aware of her entrance, despite her silence. She had a presence about her that was difficult for Desmond to ignore. Josephine sauntered in next, her office situated on the way to the War Room. Her reason for not following him in was stacked in her hands in sheets of parchment she had been scribbling on when he had walked past her.

Solas slipped in and set himself unobtrusively along the edges, but the other advisors still gave him considering and interested looks, which the elf steadfastly ignored. Cullen came in moments later, looking significantly more ragged than he had when Desmond saw him last. The man’s curly hair had the wild look of having hands run through it with anxiety, as well as a sallow look to his face that meant he hadn’t eaten anything today and was feeling the effects of hunger. Desmond narrowed his eyes but didn’t say anything.

“First order of business,” Desmond started when they all settled into their normal positions, with Solas lurking on the fringes. “Solas and I have a mode of instant communication when I am out of Skyhold and he is here.” All the advisors looked incredibly curious, and he didn’t leave them hanging in suspense for long. “We have a dream connection, I guess you could call it. He’s in my dreams almost every night, and we remember everything when we wake up.”

Cullen gained a look that was somewhere between baffled and envy, Leliana appeared as if she was considering the implications, and Josephine had a politely confused face. “How did this connection come about?” Leliana asked, eyes sharp.

“I had an unwelcome visitor at the start of this all, and no ability to control what they saw,” Desmond admitted, “So I went to Solas, the expert on dreams, and asked for his assistance.” He gestured to the elf, and Solas continued the tale.

“The only somewhat permanent solution to keeping someone out of dreams is to build up the magic to create a shield. As the Inquisitor does not have magic, it would have been impossible for him to keep this visitor out. The solution was to connect my magic to his mind, thus drawing me to his dreams every night. I could teach him to control his dreams and keep demons and spirits out of his head. He decided it was worth the risk.”

Cullen startled, “What risk? And what’s in it for you?”

“If the connection were ever to break, whether by intentionally dissolving it or forceful separation, the Inquisitor would become a very tempting prize to everything in the Fade. Calling to them like a beacon.”

Everyone’s eyes focused on Desmond, “That’s a very hefty price, and quite a bit of trust to place into one person,” Leliana said, her tone not giving away what she was thinking.

“It is,” Desmond nodded, “However, I believe the connection to be beneficial as of the moment, even beyond the shield. I’m telling you all not for judgment on decisions already made, but for two reasons: one, the ease of communication for time-sensitive information, and two, the awareness that I could be possessed if this spell breaks for any reason.” He held up his hand when Cullen and Josephine started protesting, “I am reasonably sure that I can resist whatever temptation the demons throw at me, but I am still a human and therefore fallible. It is a scenario you need to be prepared for.”

It was silent for a moment while they tried to digest the thought, then Leliana spoke up, her eyes sharp as a knife’s edge as they stared Solas down, “I noticed that you didn’t say what you get out of this arrangement.”

“Self-preservation,” Solas said serenely, “If we have a spy set on the Inquisitor’s unprotected mind, that puts the whole of the Inquisition at risk and therefore myself for having put myself in a visible position as an ally.”

Leliana narrowed her eyes, “I don’t believe you.”

“Would you believe that I was and am very curious about our elusive leader and wanted more of an insider’s view into his head, someplace within my control where I could see his secrets and he wouldn’t be able to lie to me?” Solas’s voice did not lose its serenity.

“That would be more believable, yes. I do think you have other reasons that aren’t as easily spoken. If any of those reasons bring harm to the Inquisitor, or the Inquisition, I will hunt you down and no one will find your body when I’m done with you,” Leliana warned.

Solas didn’t even have the grace to flinch at her threat, instead clasping his hands behind his back, “I see. May I be dismissed?” He turned the question toward Desmond, and it did not go past Desmond that Solas did not make any assurances that he meant no harm.

“You may,” he nodded, waiting until the elf had disappeared through the door and a good minute afterward for Solas to go down the hallway. “Second order of business,” he started but was immediately cut off.

“What? No, you can’t just drop that on us and expect us to move on so quickly,” Cullen grew a bit red in agitation, and Desmond was just glad he was showing some form of life. “That mage is shifty and he’s up to something. I don’t trust him.”

Desmond shrugged, “Maybe not, but he’s been helpful so far. Everyone here has an ulterior motive to help, and I’m no different. Until he gives me a concrete reason to distrust him, I will keep my doubts to myself.”

“Do you not care about yourself?” Cullen’s voice was soft and wounded. Desmond had no idea how the man got around to that thought from what had been said. Cullen, catching the confusion on Desmond’s face, expanded, “You made a life threatening deal with someone you don’t know, who all but admitted to having harmful intentions, and who you have given complete control and power over your mental well-being. And you don’t even have the sense to mistrust him, even after all of that. So I ask again, do you not care about yourself?”

Desmond ran a hand over his growing hair, “Is the Inquisition any different?” he asked. He didn’t want to tell them like this, but he’d been holding on to more secrets than he cared to, even after he’d concluded that he wanted to live a life free from the burden of keeping himself hidden. “I was supposed to die.” Everyone reeled back in some fashion, no one more obviously than Cullen. “That day, with the Conclave, I touched something, and I wasn’t supposed to walk away from it. I said my goodbyes and I walked to my death, knowing that from birth to death, my entire life was calculated and destined. Even when I thought I was in control of my fate, I found out that my every decision and thought was set on a specific path that ended with me dying the way I did. There was no such thing as Free Will in my life.

“And now I find myself here, in a place I didn’t expect, and where I’m immediately put in a position where my every move is watched, my private life the stuff of gossip, my dreams invaded, and people making decisions for me. I take one step, say one thing, eat something, and suddenly it’s a trend in the whole country. I’m a household name, sent from your God to save the world from unimaginable evil. I’ve lived my whole life as an Assassin in the dark, unknown to everyone but a select few, and now I’ve been raised to a position that I wanted nothing to do with, simply because you all thought it would be the best decision. I’ve worked my ass off to know you people, to trust you all, but no one even calls me by name. No one wants to see who I am beyond this fucking title I had thrown at me. Do any of you care about me as a person? At the fact that being put in front of so many people makes me physically ill? That I get anxious at the thought of being seen? Or do you just care that I’m the Inquisitor, and it doesn’t matter that I want to hide and never talk to another person again, so long as I put on a smile for the masses and sit on my throne?

“I hate this. I hate being the Inquisitor. I hate this glowing hand. I hate being looked at and expected to make the decisions. I hate knowing that even after the world is saved, I can never disappear into anonymity because I’ll be even more of a hero then, and heroes don’t get to become insignificant. But I’ll continue to be the Inquisitor and do my job, and you know why? Because I’m used to it. So what if I die in the end? I’m already living on borrowed time. I already hate everything my life has ever stood for and become. But I’ll do my fucking job because I’m not going to damn the whole world and all its people simply because I am having a bad year. So no, I don’t care about myself. I’ve never been able to, and I will continue to not be able to until the day I finally die and get to rest. And if the only control I get in my sorry excuse for a life is when I’m dreaming and learning how to make a fucking table appear out of nowhere, then I’ll take it.” He stared at the stunned faces of his advisors. “Now, could we get back to our business? I have more shit to do today. People needing my attention, you know how it is.”

Surprisingly, no one had anything to say after that.

Chapter Text

Cullen would have loved to talk to Desmond about the trauma-venting, but the moment the War Council meeting was over, the Inquisitor jumped out of the hole in the hallway and climbed up the outside of Skyhold. He couldn’t have been more clear about his desire to be left alone if he had shouted it.

The three advisors stood in silence for a moment after Desmond’s quick escape. Josephine ruffled through papers absently, Leliana stared into the middle distance with a carefully blank face, and Cullen himself couldn't find a place to put his hands. One moment they rested on the pommel of his sword, the next he fiddled with one of the map markers.

He cleared his throat self-consciously, “Is there anything we can do?” He felt like the worst sort of person because he knew he was part of the problem. He’d seen the way Desmond’s eyes lost a little bit of light every time he called him Inquisitor, and yet he’d kept on doing it. He hadn’t thought it was that serious, too lost in his cowardice regarding his feelings to truly consider the object of his affections. But now that the issue was brought to his attention, he realized he’d never heard anyone refer to Desmond by his name, not even when the man himself wasn’t present. When talking about him it was always “The Inquisitor.”

They’d all had their own concerns for Desmond, but Cullen realized with a nauseating sickness that it was only concern relating to how well he could perform as the Inquisitor. The way Desmond would blank out during conversations and start speaking in a different language concerned them because that was dangerous if someone they didn’t trust exploited that weakness, or what if it happened during a battle?

Cullen had the disturbing thought of wondering if his entire attraction to Desmond was built on the Inquisitor mask the man had built up. He’d admired Desmond’s strength in the face of adversity, how nothing seemed to get him down. Desmond’s kindness and ability to make everyone feel special and understood. The way he took time out of his day to make sure everyone was taken care of and comfortable and happy. Cullen had admired and fallen for Desmond’s bright eyes and brighter spirit. Was that all a facade? Did he even know the person Desmond truly was?

He recalled that conversation they had before the kiss that changed everything and nothing. The way Desmond’s voice had cracked slightly, even as he spoke as if talking about someone else. The raw fear and confusion in Desmond’s eyes as he asked who he was beyond his ancestors. Cullen felt sick as he wondered if that was the only time he’d ever seen the man behind the titles.

Desmond had called himself an assassin, and the truth was that none of them knew anything about his background before the Conclave. Even Leliana and her spy network hadn’t been able to find anything about a Desmond Miles anywhere in Thedas. The Antivan Crows hadn’t claimed him either, which meant he was an unaffiliated assassin, and was probably at the Conclave to kill someone. That possibility changed so much, and if anyone outside of this room found out about Desmond’s background, that would call the whole Inquisition into question at a time when they needed stability and support.

And there Cullen went, thinking about the Inquisition again instead of Desmond. It felt as if his mind was rejecting the whole impassioned speech Desmond had given, unable to process that he’d been so callous as to claim he had romantic feelings for someone when he had only fallen for an ideal, not the true person. It was depressing to realize he didn’t know the true person.

“What can we do?” Josephine answered Cullen’s question with another question. He’d forgotten that he’d spoken. This whole meeting was turning into a fever dream he wished was just a dream. He wished he could go back to a time when he thought he knew who Desmond was. But that was a disservice to Desmond’s suffering and trust in telling them what was on his mind.

Leliana stared at the two of them, her green eyes calculating, “Well it seems we have three options. First, we keep this to ourselves and keep going as we have been, at least until Corypheus is dealt with. Then we do our best to allow him to become anonymous.” Cullen immediately disliked that idea. How could he possibly continue his problematic behavior now that it was pointed out? He was trying to be a better person, not exacerbate the problem. Leliana’s lips quirked up at the obvious resistance on Cullen and Josephine’s faces. “The second option is we tell the inner circle a select amount of the information we were given, enough to make Desmond’s life a little easier. That runs the risk of betraying his trust if we say too much.” Which was... not ideal, in Cullen’s opinion, but was better than the first option. Cullen exchanged an uneasy look with Josephine, and Leliana continued, “The last option I can think of is we run interference. We take more duties onto ourselves and give Desmond more time to relax. That would mean more work in some aspects, as well as outsourcing to others and finding ways to do the menial tasks before he has the opportunity to run himself ragged. We would, in essence, become a protection squad for our Inquisitor.”

Cullen felt exhausted already at the thought of taking on even more work, on top of everything else. But he just had to think of Desmond’s deadened stare as he spoke of the crippling weight of his responsibilities and Cullen felt his spine straightening with determination.

Josephine hummed consideringly before Cullen could tell Leliana his decision. “What if we combine all of them?” She shuffled around and gathered a clean sheaf of parchment. “We needn’t tell the Inner Circle everything Desmond said,” she started, a small smile on her lips. Cullen felt disgusted with himself that it was a slight shock to his system every time someone spoke the Inquisitor's name. “We just need to tell them enough to get them on board with running interference, meanwhile we could work in the background making sure he can retire into as close to anonymity as possible. Delegating tasks would be key here. Ideally, the only thing Desmond would be in charge of while at Skyhold is sitting in judgment and other highly public appearances that require him to make a showing of his power.”

Cullen thought about it for a moment. He didn’t think it would be a betrayal of trust to tell the Inner Circle to look out for their Inquisitor. And Cullen was quickly finding that there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for Desmond, even if it was an idealized version of the man. He would just have to get to know who Desmond was beyond the mask.

Their first date that night would be the perfect opportunity to start that process.

The advisors quickly decided their course of action, and throughout the rest of the day, they tracked down each of the Inner Circle members and gave them individualized tasks to help relieve the burden on the Inquisitor. Dorian and Solas were placed on research duty since Tevinter and elvhen history were highly prominent subjects in their world-ending dilemma. Vivienne took on the part of addressing the concerns of the mages and the nobles, while Cassandra did the same for those in the Chantry, with help from Josephine, of course. Blackwall and Cassandra each took turns checking in on troop training and making sure everything was going well within the barracks, while Sera did the same with the camp followers. Sera got her information on who needed help within Skyhold from her spies and Varric’s suggestions, which came straight from Cole’s powers. Everyone thought it would be best if Sera and Cole didn’t have direct interaction.

Varric would spend time finding allies through his connections and bringing the lists to one of the advisors, depending on the name he was given. The Iron Bull’s duty was a bit more nebulous than the others in the sense that it was his job to pay attention. If there were any snags in the Skyhold machine, it was Bull’s job to find the right person for the job to fix it.

The advisors stressed to each of them that Desmond was only to be bothered with things if no one else could handle the problem. They leaned heavily into the angle that the Inquisitor was already dealing with so much, especially the whole saving-the-world thing, and it was their duty as the Inner Circle to make his life easier and responsibilities palatable. No one had any complaints, and Cullen saw the sunset with a weight lifted from his shoulders. He couldn’t completely remove the burden on Desmond, but he could certainly make it lighter.

It was with a spring in his step that he gathered blankets and snacks from the kitchen, and set off to the designated spot for their stargazing date. A small smile played on his scarred lips as he set everything up. He tried to tamp it down because although he was under no illusions that Desmond wouldn’t immediately notice what they had done, he didn’t need to brag about it. The whole point was that they were doing this for their Inquisitor and the man behind the title, not to feel good about themselves. They had fucked up. There was no getting around that fact. But Cullen truly wanted to make things right, not just for his guilt, but also because he didn’t want to be the sort of man that took and took without giving anything back. He wanted to be the sort of man that Desmond could learn to rely on and trust.

The night grew darker, the stars out in full force, and yet there was no sign of Desmond. Cullen didn’t start to worry until the moon was directly above him, throwing the lonely picnic into sharp relief. He stifled a yawn and searched the area around him, hoping for a flash of Desmond’s iconic white outfit, but there was nothing save the darkness and the curious glances sent his way by the soldiers and scouts that stumbled past the secluded rooftop.

Desmond wasn’t in any kind of trouble, Cullen knew that. There wasn’t much that could even damage the man externally. At least that’s what Cullen understood from all the reports he’d gotten over the past however long it had been since the Inquisition was reformed. That meant one of two things. Either Desmond was held up doing something for someone -- unlikely considering all the effort the advisors and Inner Circle had gone to today -- or he was deliberately avoiding Cullen. That was the more likely of the two.

Cullen’s mind came up with three reasons for Desmond to avoid him. First, he was worn out or embarrassed over his outburst, in which case Cullen would allow him a little time to calm down and rest, and then he would hunt the Inquisitor down and reassure him that they thought no less of him for it. Second, Desmond had forgotten about the date in all the excitement, which Cullen doubted, since he knew that Desmond wrote everything in that little journal of his and referred to it often. This left the third potential reason, which was that Desmond was no longer interested. That the attraction he had felt towards Cullen was fabricated just as his Inquisitor facade had been, and now that his true thoughts and emotions were out in the open, he no longer had to fake any interest in Cullen.

The Commander suddenly felt too large for his skin, the curious gazes of the passersby turning into pitying looks. He should have known that no one would be interested in him. It was just like his time in the Circle of Ferelden when all the pretty mages would try to get his attention just so he would go easier on them. He didn’t want to fall for the same vicious cycle of people using him for their own gains.

But he couldn’t help remembering the hushed conversation on the night of their first kiss. The confession Desmond had trusted him with. Cullen didn’t think that was a facade.

Cullen laid back and stared at the stars for a long time. Even if Desmond didn’t show up, even if his reasons were unknowable, Cullen had to admit it was nice to take a break and breathe in the beautiful night.

Chapter Text

Desmond Miles was a fucking coward. He could admit that to himself as he stood in the shadows staring at Cullen’s figure sitting on a blanket gazing at the stars. He couldn’t even analyze his own thought process. He didn’t think Cullen would treat him delicately because of his outburst. If the man still wanted to kiss Desmond after he spilled the beans on him having fucking voices in his head and dissociating so hard he became his ancestors, he didn’t think that Cullen would change his tune just because he found out that Desmond wasn’t too attached to life. If anything changed, it would probably be something like people using his name more.

So if it wasn’t that specific fear, what was it that froze his feet to the shadowy corner he’d stuffed himself into? He tried desperately to scan his fucked up brain for the reason he wasn’t speaking with the Commander, cuddling while Cullen explained about the foreign constellations.

Was it the fear of being known? While people noticed his presence now and his dreams were no longer his own, he had felt a safety net in not having his waking thoughts read out for the world. And now the advisors knew everything. Not the exact details, but the main idea. He felt like he didn’t have any part of himself that was his own anymore. At least one person knew something about him which cumulatively meant that he had nothing to himself. The advisors knew of his feelings toward being the Inquisitor, as well as him being an Assassin who was supposed to die. Cullen specifically knew that he had memories of other lives that became a part of him and that he didn’t know who he was outside of that. Solas was aware of his dream thoughts, especially during the times before he learned how to not make every little thought show up as an image in his dreamscape. He was sure the elf had inferred most of Desmond’s life from those flashes of memory, even if it wasn’t the exact truth, it was still another thing that was no longer just his.

Then there was Clay, if the man hiding in his brain chemistry even counted. Clay knew Desmond more intimately than anyone else in this world, simply because they had shared experiences that no one else around him could even fathom.

Desmond searched frantically within himself for something that no one else knew. His childhood? Solas had seen memories of that. That he was from a different world? Clay knew, but even if Clay didn’t count, that wasn’t really a secret so much as something he didn’t care to explain to everyone, especially since he didn’t have an explanation for how it happened.

His heart pounded in panic as thoughts swirled through his head. Each aspect of himself he conjured up was known to someone. He’d never been so completely exposed. He didn’t know if he could add a romantic relationship to that. The level of intimacy and vulnerability expected of such a companionship made his chest seize. He needed something that no one knew, something that was just his. Being so completely exposed left him unmade, unraveling at the seams. Assassins belonged in the shadows. He didn’t know who he was without being an Assassin. The mark was branded into his very skin and soul. He couldn’t be anything else.

His heart jumped and then calmed. He knew what was his and his alone. No one here had climbed to the top of the largest tree or building, staring at the world in gray tones, memorizing locations and points of interest, and then performing a Leap of Faith. He could maybe describe Eagle Vision to someone, but there were no words for the complete trust he had in his body, the wind, his ancestors, the Faith it took to jump from the highest point and believe with his whole being that he would survive. That he would walk it off unscathed. The pure exhilaration of a Leap of Faith was his, and his alone.

And now, looking at Cullen’s sitting lonely in the moonlight, Desmond realized it was time to make a much different Leap of Faith. One where he didn’t know if he would come out the other side unscathed. He was scared shitless, but there was a sense of exhilaration attached to that inherent fear.

“Sorry I’m late,” Desmond slid into the empty space next to the blonde Commander. Cullen flinched sharply, then settled with wide eyes trained on Desmond’s face.

“I didn’t think you would show up,” Cullen admitted after a beat.

Desmond rubbed the back of his neck, “I didn’t think I would, either.” He gave a self-conscious smile and shifted his weight onto his hands as he leaned back.

Cullen’s eyes trailed down Desmond’s sprawled limbs, “I almost didn’t recognize you. You’re not wearing white.” It was a weak attempt at a joke, but Desmond smiled at him anyway.

“Josephine commissioned some outfits for me. I thought it would be polite to get some use out of them.” Truthfully, he liked the clothes a lot. They were surprisingly comfortable and easy to move in, while still retaining an elegance befitting of his station. It reminded Desmond somewhat of a black suit from his world, with the button-up shirt and form-fitting pants, as well as the dark dressy shoes meant more for walking than the usual running and jumping Desmond filled his time with. The thing that set the outfit apart from the iconic formal wear in his world was the gradient emerald green and teal tailcoat with golden embroidery and filigree ornaments. He was also pretty sure that high-class men in his previous world did not show off as much chest as his current shirt was cut to display.

“You look,” Cullen cleared his throat, a light pink dusting his face, “very nice,” he finished lamely.

Desmond smirked, “Yeah? Wait until I get a decent haircut.” He ran his fingers through his shaggy hair which was starting to curl into unmanageably messy waves.

“I think it suits you how it is,” Cullen said in a rush. Desmond quirked his lips up in a half smile. “I mean,” he backtracked, “It’s very... you. I think.”

“What do you mean by that?” Desmond was curious to know how Cullen saw him, and how that related to the hair he’d not had time to take care of in any way.

Cullen held Desmond’s gaze for another moment and then looked up at the stars. “I guess I don’t know you that well,” he addressed the elephant in the room, “but I get the impression you’re a little wild, someone who prefers being free and untamed. Someone able to do your own thing without the constrictions of expectations and conformity. But I also think you care deeply.” Desmond was getting the feeling they were no longer talking about how his hair matched his personality, and instead, Cullen was giving an actual breakdown of who Desmond was as a person. He didn’t know if he liked it or not. “It’s in the little things, mostly. Sure, the big things are pretty important and definitely show you care, but I like to think it’s pretty common to want to do what you can to not doom the world. It takes a rare kind of person to be as unthinkingly kind as you are.”

Desmond laughed uncomfortably, “I’m not that different from others.”

“You are,” Cullen denied immediately, eyes snapping back to pin Desmond in place. “There are nobles and people in power that step on the weak. There are ones that take their position seriously and consider those under their influence. And there are those that actually care about everyone under them, yet still maintain a bit of distance. I have not heard of very many people with even a fraction of your power who would do half as much as you have. Desmond, you are amazing. I may not know much about your life previous to the Inquisition, or your current thoughts about our mission and your role in it, but I know who you are as a person, the things you can’t hide. It’s in the way you will stop and chat with everyone, taking care of little problems that have nothing to do with our larger purpose. The way you collect music for the bard, materials for the blacksmith, and ingredients for the apothecary. It’s the way that without you, we wouldn’t have had as many survivors of Haven, even before you caused a distraction so we could get away. You, Desmond Miles, are the kindest person I know.”

“Yeah, well,” Desmond cleared his throat and looked away. He debated with himself for a moment. Relationships are vulnerable. A Leap of Faith. “Did you know I used to work as a bartender?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cullen blink in confusion. “After I ran away from home, I worked a bunch of odd jobs just to survive. A lot of things I could do without any form of identity. I was hiding from my past. There was this guy, who looked like he could crush me with his forefinger and thumb and not even break a sweat, and he saw this kid, seventeen and scrawny as hell, rummaging through his trash. Instead of calling the authorities, he brought me into his bar and gave me some food, and a job. I was too young. He would have gotten into so much trouble if anyone found out, but he did it anyway because that was just the type of person he was.”

Desmond traced the unfamiliar stars with his eyes, Cullen silent beside him. “So there I was seventeen and suddenly with a steady job. I worked so hard, trying everything to prove my worth so I wouldn’t get kicked back out on the streets. Through years of hard work, I eventually made my way up to being a bartender. The thing about serving alcohol is that people tell you their problems. I struggled a lot with it, not because I didn’t want to hear it, but because I wanted to be in the position to help them. I wanted to be that hand in the dark lifting them out of the gutter, just as he had been for me. But I could barely afford my one-room home in the slums, and two whole meals a day. There was nothing I could do but sit back and make sympathetic sounds. Fat lot of good that did.” Desmond hesitated briefly, then let out a sigh. “When I was abducted by the Templars,” Cullen drew in a sharp breath beside him, but Desmond ignored that for now, “I became part of something bigger than myself and the little sphere of influence I had. The things they did to me... Well. You’ve seen the results. I’ve told you the results.”

“Did they use blood magic?” Cullen whispered, horrified.

Desmond shook his head. “They used this machine, device. It burned through my veins, through the very things that make me who I am, and forced the remnants of my ancestors in my blood to the forefront. I became them, for a time. The Templars watched me waste away through their experimentation, watched me live the lives of those who died hundreds and thousands of years ago, just so they could find a way to remove all the things they found unsightly and create the world anew.” Desmond breathed in the night air, releasing it in a steady stream of barely-there white smoke. “You know, I didn’t fight them. Not at first. I had just been abducted, strapped to a table, my mind ripped apart, and I just let them do it. I thought it was inevitable. The moment I became comfortable with life and let myself stop hiding, the monsters found me.”

They both sat in silence for a while, digesting what Desmond had said. Then he collapsed onto his back, eyes trained on the moon but mind not taking anything in. “Well, that got weighty very quickly. This was supposed to be a time to discuss our relationship, not for me to dump my trauma on you. Sorry about that. I did have a point, I promise. It was all a very lengthy way of saying that I always wished I could help people more, and now that I’m in a position where I have a lot of resources, it only makes sense that I’d follow through. Live your dreams, and all that shit.”

Cullen stared at him mutely for a moment, visibly gathering his thoughts. “I like learning more about you,” he started cautiously, “and I don’t think every conversation we have has to be about our romantic involvements. But if you do not wish to speak more on the subject, I completely understand. I do have one question I hope you’ll answer me.” Desmond hesitantly nodded. There were several things Cullen could ask about the things Desmond had told him within the past day. “Does it bother you that I was a templar?” Desmond didn’t answer right away, and Cullen rushed to explain, “When I went through everything at the hands of mages, I was so angry. I took all of that out on any and every mage that I found, regardless of how innocent they were. I’m not proud of that time, but I wasn’t any better than those that took you.”

Desmond hummed and sat up, turning his whole body to face the blonde. “I’ll admit that at first, I was incredibly wary of you. I didn’t know who you were or what you stood for, I just heard ‘templar’ and thought of my past. But I was never really angry at them. I killed most of, if not all of the Templars that did anything to me. What I was, was scared and resigned, but mostly, I felt pity for them. They’d all been raised to think of the world a certain way, and they didn’t have the ability or maturity to consider other sides. So yes, I killed them to save the world, but I don’t think my side was one hundred percent correct either. My point is, that I will always feel apprehensive of templars. The word alone makes me uncomfortable, but I don’t hate you, Cullen.” Desmond reached out and took Cullen’s bare hand, “You call me kind and considerate, but you’re brave, with incredible willpower. I run away from my problems, while you stand up and fight. You may not be loud about it, but refusing to take lyrium despite the havoc on your body, is an incredibly courageous form of rebellion. I don’t hate you, I admire you.”

Cullen raised a hand and cupped Desmond’s slightly scruffy cheek, “And I admire you.”

“Well, look at us,” Desmond said lightly, “just two guys with buckets of trauma and mutual admiration. How cute.”

Cullen chuckled, “You jest, but I don’t think I’d have it any other way.” They smiled at each other for a moment, Desmond watching in awe the way starlight reflected off of Cullen’s eyes, turning them ethereal.

He blinked and ducked his head, feeling illogically shy in the face of Cullen’s earnest wonder. “So, what kind of goodies did you bring?”

Tomorrow he would have to make last-minute preparations to head to Crestwood and save the world, but for the moment, under the pale moonlight, he was just Desmond. And staring at the pretty man across the blanket from him with blonde hair falling into his face as he rummaged through a picnic basket, Just Desmond felt a lot like he was falling.

Chapter Text

The rain in Crestwood reminded Desmond sharply of their time at the Storm Coast, but there was something malevolent about the downpour here - unnatural and smelling vaguely of rotten things. Thunder rumbled in the green-tinted clouds, but no lightning lit the overcast day.

“I would say welcome to Crestwood,” Scout Lace Harding started, a wry smile on her pretty face, “but there’s not much to welcome you to.” She sobered up and straightened her posture, “The first thing you should know is there’s a rift under the lake.” Desmond blinked and then groaned. Harding gave a commiserating smile, “The people of Crestwood are very wary, but the mayor may be willing to talk to you. I’ve heard rumors there may be a way to drain the lake to get to the rift, but you’ll have to talk to him about that. In other news, Grey Wardens have been spotted canvassing the area for someone, a fugitive, I think. They’re not interested in talking to us, but you might be able to get something else out of them. There are Red Templars, undead, wyverns, and a dragon somewhere to the south. Champion Hawke gave me this letter for you,” she handed Desmond a sealed envelope and he nodded his thanks even as The Iron Bull crowed in excitement behind him.

“A dragon,” Bull exclaimed, “Tell me we’re going after her Boss, please.”

“Sure thing, Bull,” Desmond nodded, heart fluttering in anticipation. He still remembered killing his first dragon, and how alive it made him feel. Dorian groaned Blackwall sighed, and Desmond saw Cole tilt his head in interest.

“Fuck yeah!” The Iron Bull shoved his fist up into the air in joy and Desmond smiled.

“But first, we have some other things to take care of. Like that rift and meeting up with Hawke.” Desmond moved to a small awning to read the letter away from the downpour. There wasn’t much to the note, simply a location and a warning to avoid mentioning anything to the Grey Wardens lurking in Crestwood. Desmond stashed the letter in one of his many hidden pockets and the party started their soggy trek to the village.

They ran into a few groups of aggressive, wandering undead on the short trip, but the corpses didn’t seem to be the bodies of warriors. They fought with mindless determination, but they had no armor or weapons and threw themselves at Desmond’s group with blank rage. Desmond noted that they all seemed to be in the same state of bloated decay, meaning they all died at around the same time. Something to ask the mayor, he decided.

The group only ran into a single patrol of two Grey Wardens, fighting off the undead and protecting the gates of Crestwood Village. Desmond notched an arrow and let it fly.

In the minutes after the battle had finished, Desmond gained a little bit of a clearer picture of who Grey Wardens were as an order. They were outsiders and more than content to remain that way. They didn’t insert themselves into anything outside of the Blight and their own business, as evidenced by the two Wardens refusing to remain to protect the villagers. They asked questions about their fugitive and then left to continue the search, although one of them did look conflicted about it.

Desmond sighed and rubbed his forehead, wondering what could be done about the little town. He groaned out an explicative. “Alright, fine. Let’s go talk to the mayor.”

The first thing he noticed when their group walked through the gates was how skittish and despondent the inhabitants were in turn. They shied away from the strangers, but there was an air of melancholy across the whole town. It took a while to find anyone who would actually talk to Desmond instead of skittering away and closing their shutters, but they eventually found their way to the mayor’s house. The wooden hut was a squat thing, with no grandeur or obviously displayed wealth to mark him as someone important to the village, which spoke well to his humility but not on the economy of Crestwood Village.

The mayor himself was a mousy man who stared at them warily but was nice enough. He introduced himself as Gregory Dedrick. “These are frightful times, you see,” he spoke as he bustled around his house which doubled as an office, making them tea they had attempted to refuse. “With the Red Templars and then undead. Fightful times, indeed.”

“Yes, about that,” Desmond started, wincing as he watched the man pour brackish water into a pot filled with black lotus seeds and elfroot. “I think we can help. The rift under the lake might be what’s causing the dead to swarm. I’ve heard there might be a way to drain the lake.”

Mayor Dedrick paused briefly, a movement only noticeable because of how jittery he’d been since they walked in. Desmond’s eyes narrowed slightly but he wiped the look off his face as the mayor turned toward them, “I would love nothing more than to help you, Inquisitor. Truly would love nothing more. But I’m afraid the dam’s controls were destroyed during the Blight. Terrible business, that. Just terrible.” He studied the group for a moment and then abruptly turned back towards the tea, jerky movements continuing. “This is New Crestwood, you see. Old Crestwood flooded ten years ago. So many innocent and beautiful lives were taken from us that day,” his voice wobbled pitifully. “The darkspawn took control of the dam, flooding the village and breaking our only way to drain the lake. I’m sorry, Inquisitor. I wish I could be of more use.”

“Where are these controls? Maybe we could fix them,” Desmond tried.

The mayor was shaking his head before Desmond finished speaking. “They’re destroyed beyond repair, I’m afraid.” He handed them each a chipped cup with shaking hands. The tea inside was a deep brown that smelled of rust. Dedrick stared at Desmond unblinking for a moment and then briefly glanced away, the sign of a liar. “But maybe the Inquisition may see something I couldn’t.” He gave them the location, warning them again to not get their hopes up and to be careful with all the undead about, and then he all but shoved them out of his house. They hadn’t even had time to take a sip of the tea they definitely didn’t want.

Desmond raised a brow at Bull, asking if the qunari saw the same tells he did. Bull inclined his head slightly in agreement. Desmond hummed and they started making their way through the town to the road that would lead to the dam. Surprisingly a few of the villagers stopped them, asking for help. Someone had apparently overheard that they were attempting to drain the lake and the rumor had spread like wildfire. A local Chantry sister asked them to mark spots on a map where the bodies of the fallen villagers were in Old Crestwood so they could get proper funeral rites. A man wanted them to search for his friend and urge her to head back to the village. Crestwood’s only merchant begged them to trade with him and maybe to clear out the bandits and undead on the trade routes so they could get new supplies. The selection was low, but Desmond traded what he could to help.

Finally, the group was on their way, and Desmond couldn’t be happier to be out on the overgrown paths, surrounded by his team and away from the varied emotions of the town and their expectations. They made a brief stop at the Inquisition outpost to let them know Crestwood was open to trade and to have a few soldiers protect the gates, and then Desmond and his party were on their way to the dam controls.

They ran into a few bandits and Desmond took a moment after the skirmish to analyze them while looting their corpses. “They’re well fed,” he noted. “Much better armed than regular bandits. They must have headquarters somewhere nearby. Something to look into, I suppose.” He made a note of it in his journal and continued along the path.

The gatehouse sat squarely in the middle of the dam. The stones were slick with stormwater and algae, a sheer drop to a swift death on either side. Desmond had little trouble finding solid footholds, but his companions were much slower and more cautious. Desmond kept a lookout for any enemies that might sneak up on them while they crossed and had the distinct pleasure of watching a dragon soar across the sky, screaming her fury in a breath of lightning.

“You look like a lunatic,” Dorian commented, hair drooping into his face, sodden with water. Desmond turned his wild grin to the mage, unapologetic. “You know we can’t fight her until the rain stops. Lightning and water don’t mix in a way that’s even remotely pleasant.”

Desmond shrugged, “Something to look forward to.”

“Insane,” Dorian sniffed and then focused back on his footing. Desmond scurried ahead and started rummaging through barrels and sacks while he waited, hoping to find salvageable supplies. He discovered a few loose coins but otherwise was disappointed to find nothing but rotted fabric and spoiled wheat.

When the whole party had crossed the perilous bridge and were safely ensconced under a small awning, they took a moment to prepare to face whatever might be in the gatehouse, be it more undead, somehow surviving darkspawn, or simply a really bad smell of death and neglect.

What they were not prepared for was walking in to find two lovers halfway unclothed next to an abandoned romantic picnic. They both screamed in alarm, hurrying to cover themselves. Desmond swallowed down a laugh and lowered his bow.

“Sorry, we thought this place was abandoned,” he turned slightly away to give them the illusion of privacy while still not allowing them the chance to catch him unaware if they decided to attack.

“That’s why we came here,” the woman grumbled under her breath as she tucked in her shirt.

“What she means to say,” her lover spoke, sending her a pointed look, “is that we’ve never run into anyone else here, so it’s a safe place to, uh. Be together.”

The Iron Bull snorted, “Not very comfortable, though. Can’t say I don’t admire your tenacity.”

The woman shrugged, “It’s more comfortable than him getting stabbed by my father.”

“Fair enough,” Bull said jovially.

“So you’re here often?” Desmond asked, moving on to the reason they came. At the man’s nod, he continued, “Do you know where the controls are?”

“I would assume over there,” the man pointed to a blocked-off door, several barrels and crates stacked up against it in what looked like a deliberate mess. “We’ve explored everywhere but that room. Too much effort, you know? I haven’t seen any controls anywhere else.”

“Thank you,” Desmond dismissed. The two lovers stood staring and Desmond shook his head, “Be safe on your way out.”

The woman sneered but began packing up their stuff as Desmond, Blackwall, and Iron Bull started clearing a path to the door. The two were gone by the time they had moved everything. Dorian and Cole had spent the time poking through the crates and barrels they’d moved, looking for anything to harvest. Dorian shook his head at Desmond once the last box had been moved. “If there was anything worthwhile, it was taken long ago.”

Desmond nodded and opened the newly cleared door. “Well, someone’s been naughty,” his hands went to his hips as he surveyed the completely intact dam controls. “What reason could he possibly have to hide this, unless draining the lake would uncover something the mayor would rather stay covered.” He eyed up the room for a second longer and shrugged, “We’ll find out soon enough. Blackwall, help me turn this.”

It ended up being a job for more than two people with the metal bearings having rusted together, but between the five of them and Iron Bull’s impressive strength, the gears slowly started turning. Once the large control had been manhandled into position, the mechanism locked in place with a resounding clang. Desmond heard the faint sound of rushing water, even from inside the gatehouse.

“Well, that’s that,” he breathed in the musty air, “I’m guessing it will take a few hours to drain completely. Anyone want to take down a bandit hideout with me?”

Dorian groaned.

Chapter Text

“Rest in peace,” Desmond murmured as he pulled a bloodied sword out of the last bandit. He would have felt bad about the way his small group came in and murdered everyone within minutes, but not a single person showed up as anything but pure red in Eagle Vision.

“Well I’ll be damned, Boss,” Bull whistled, “You sure seem to be skilled at taking over fortresses. We barely had to do anything.”

Desmond shrugged as he discarded the sword he’d stolen from a different bandit. He’d had plenty of practice eliminating entire bases on his own, and not just from the memories of his ancestors. “It’s all the same idea. Once you’ve taken a couple, you’ve taken them all.”

“What did you say you did before this?” Dorian asked, eyebrows raised high and voice incredulous.

“I didn’t,” Desmond grinned. “Now then, we should split up. Some of us stay here while the others go tell Scout Harding that we’ve commandeered a much better place for headquarters.”

“You rest, Boss,” Iron Bull said with laughter in his voice. “Blackwall and I will go tell her.” The Grey Warden nodded in agreement, and within moments Cole, Desmond and Dorian were waving them goodbye and setting out to check what supplies the bandits kept and get rid of the bodies. Desmond hoped they’d be able to inventory what was available and return a vast portion of it to the people of Crestwood, but he knew that keeping an army fed and housed was no small feat, even if there weren’t as many Inquisition soldiers here as there were in other parts of Thedas.

“You glow so brightly,” Cole spoke out of nowhere as the three of them dragged corpses to a corner, “It’s hard to hear your hurts.”

Desmond blinked, “Me? Is it because of this thing?” He waved his glowing hand for emphasis.

Cole nodded like an overeager puppy, “Singing like the memory of a choir, music and emotion, drowning out the source.” He jerked, eyes clouding over, “Dry sands, tall walls, all mine mine mine. Gone, to fire and fervor,” his eyes cleared and he looked at Desmond sadly, “It wasn’t ever yours, just theirs.”

It took a moment for Desmond to parse what Cole was saying. The Fade sang, like lyrium sang, because it was pure magic. That part made sense, that because the Anchor on Desmond’s hand was a direct link to the Fade, it would be loud and obscure his thoughts from someone like Cole who was so attuned to the subtle magic of his home. Dry sands for Altair, and he assumed the tall walls referenced the walls of Monteriggioni, the places his ancestors felt were theirs. Both lost to him, but they weren’t ever actually his, because as Cole said, Desmond wasn’t the one who bled for those places. “No, it wasn’t.” Desmond agreed, “But I still love it, even if it will never be the same.”

“What are you talking about?” Dorian asked, chest heaving as he dumped the last body into the pile to be burned outside the walls. “What isn’t yours?”

Desmond shook his head, but Cole responded anyway, “A city! Or two. Three. Things get jumbled.”

“You... owned a city?” Dorian’s eyebrow rose in his bafflement.

“No,” Desmond responded cheekily, “it was never mine, weren’t you listening?”

Dorian shot him a playful glare, but Cole cut in again, “She gave him white tulips, fondness and food and times frozen in memory. He gave her a ring.” Cole tilted his head in confusion, “Why is he you and then not you?”

Desmond blinked, thinking of beautiful Sofia, who only wanted to share knowledge and her love of books with the world. “She was his, a relationship not meant for me,” he said softly, staring at the floor but not seeing it, “Everything else could be something we shared, but not this.”

“I can’t see what that means. It’s too bright,” Cole complained, wincing.

Desmond smiled softly, “You don’t have to look, it doesn’t hurt.”

“Not that,” the spirit clarified, “the betrayal, the killing, the... the... it hurts--”

“Hey, hey,” Desmond soothed, putting a grounding hand on Cole’s shoulder, “I’m okay, I promise. You don’t need to look anymore.” He didn’t want the spirit to suffer because of Desmond’s past, which he was dealing with in his own way. Shit happened, but that was a whole world away, and he was more interested in trying to figure out a way to survive in this one than rehashing old hurts. Nothing from that world existed any more, as far as he was concerned. Except Clay, but he was half convinced Clay was a figment of his imagination he called forth because he was yearning for something familiar.

Dorian looked back and forth between the two of them as Cole ducked his head under the wide brim of his hat. “As... confusing as this conversation has been, I believe our Inqu-- Desmond, is right.”

Desmond startled at the use of his name, the unfamiliar way it curled around Dorian’s tongue. He almost didn’t recognize his own name after so long. He felt conflicted, because on one hand it was nice to be referred to as something other than his title, but he had the nagging feeling it only happened because his advisors had spread the information relayed in his outburst a few weeks ago. It felt both like an invasion of his privacy, and a huge relief. If his inner circle knew, then he wouldn’t have to hide his feelings as much. But there would always be that niggling thought that they only noticed he was hurting once someone told them, and therefore they didn’t truly care. He tried to wash that out with the reminder that just because they hadn’t noticed initially didn’t mean their actions going forward were any less sincere.

“What do you say to finding a bed and sleeping until Blackwall and Bull return?” Dorian asked kindly, a hopeful lilt to his voice. Desmond, who hadn’t even realized until that very moment that he could feel exhaustion clinging to his bones, readily agreed. They’d spent the whole day traveling, fighting, and dragging around corpses. He was more than ready for a power nap or, ideally, a whole night of sleep, but he’d take what he could get.

He didn’t remember finding a bed or even falling asleep. Between one blink and the next, Desmond was in that non-space where he often met Solas before either of them decided on a scene to explore. And indeed, the elf awaited Desmond, hands clasped behind his back as he stood straight. It was rather odd that Solas was here already when Desmond was taking an evening nap, but he figured Solas was weird and probably didn’t have much else to do at Skyhold when he wasn’t painting his mural.

Before Desmond could get any kind of greeting in, Solas gave him a look, “Your Commander has been pining and it is nauseating.” Despite himself, Desmond’s heart fluttered a little bit. “Return as soon as you can, or at least write him a letter. For my sanity, if nothing else.”

Desmond barked out a laugh, “It’s only been a week and a half.”

“And yet he’s been moping,” Solas spat the word like it personally offended him.

“Has he really?” Desmond honestly couldn’t imagine Cullen allowing anything to affect his work efficiency. If his lyrium withdrawals weren’t enough to stop him, Desmond couldn’t see his absence doing much either.

Solas sniffed, “I may be exaggerating, but he has been fretful and asking me for updates on you more than usual. I have other things I would like to do than check on you constantly.”

“I appreciate it,” Desmond said dryly, although he was grateful. He didn’t need a babysitter, nor did he want one. But his mind kept getting caught on the thought of Cullen going out of his way to pester Solas on Desmond’s well-being. It was... rather cute, actually. “Well, you can tell him I am fine. I’m sure Scout Harding has sent a report to Leliana already, but we’ve arrived in Crestwood and have plans to meet with Hawke tomorrow.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him,” Solas said, quietly disdainful, as if the very idea were beneath him. Desmond couldn’t help the fondness that filled him. The elf was prickly and arrogant, but there was no doubt he cared deeply about everything, in his own way. Desmond wondered how long Solas had been waiting for him, to see if he was okay while using the excuse of Cullen. Although Desmond doubted it was a full excuse. Solas, despite his evasion, rarely outright lied. Fae lies, Desmond thought, twisting the truth in ways that made it seem like he was saying something else entirely. If nothing else, Desmond got plenty of practice at reading the words that weren’t said and looking underneath the ones that were.

“I’ll write to him when I wake up, if that will make you feel better.”

Solas hummed, eyes briefly roving over Desmond’s body as if he could see any injuries, even though they rarely, if ever, showed up in dreams. The only wounds that appeared on their Fade bodies were the ones so severe that they became a part of the soul for a while.

Desmond felt touched by Solas’s care, “I’m fine, really,” he reassured. Solas’s eyes met his and he nodded, an acknowledgement that he was caught. “How are things at Skyhold,” Desmond changed the subject, conjuring a chair and collapsing into it. “Other than Cullen annoying you.”

“Uneventful. As it turns out, there’s a lot less activity here without you running everywhere fixing everyone’s problems. The new arcanist is here, a dwarf named Dagna. She seems to have hit it off with Sera and I’ve heard whispers of them making some questionable weapons.” Desmond could only imagine the kind of horrors Sera’s brilliant mind could come up with, and if she found someone to enable her, the results could be either brilliant or disastrous. Or both.

“Hopefully Skyhold is still standing when I return,” He only half joked.

“Indeed. I believe their latest idea is arrows that explode into bees.”

“What the fuck?”

For the next however long, the two of them shot the shit, inasmuch as Solas was able to with his generally sophisticated manner. Desmond was of the opinion, however, that people didn’t give Solas’s subtle, dry humor enough credit. The elf had his moments where he would say something that left Desmond gasping for air in his laughter and Solas would give a small chuckle and smile in a self-satisfied way.

“I’m going to wake up soon,” Desmond said after a pause in their nonsensical chatting. “But it was good to take this little break.”

“Agreed,” Solas smiled secretively, and Desmond wondered if this conversation was part of his inner circle’s new determination to-- what? Treat him like a person instead of their leader? Give him a break? He didn’t know what exactly they were doing, but he found it hard to be completely upset at their recent realizations when he’d just had a fun conversation with the second most stoic member of his team, after Blackwall. “Don’t forget to write to the Commander.”

Desmond chuckled sheepishly as the world started blurring at the edges, he’d definitely forgotten his promise to the elf. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to Cullen, but something felt a bit off about writing a letter knowing that Leliana was likely to read it and there was the potential for it to not even reach Cullen. He didn’t know what he could write that would assuage Cullen’s fears, but also he wouldn’t feel incredibly embarrassed about others reading it.

He was still pondering on what to write as his eyes opened to the morning bright room. Someone had either forgotten to wake him or deliberately chosen not to. He stretched in a very undignified manner, feeling each vertebrae slide into the perfect position. Desmond was pretty sure nothing was more pleasurable than that first deep stretch after a night of great rest.

He lay there for a moment, allowing himself to wake slowly for the first time in what felt like years. Later, he would have to trek across Crestwood, slaying the undead, closing rifts, meeting with Hawke, and seeing what else this wet region had to offer, but for the moment, the most pressing thing on his mind was how relaxed his body was, and what words were affectionate without being disgusting that he could send to Cullen.

A few more stolen moments later, and he heaved himself out of his appropriated bed to go in search of some parchment to write a letter.

Walking into the fortress was like entering a completely different place, and he was astounded that he’d slept through everything. A whole marketplace was set up with a smithy and apothecary off to the side, and even an outdoor tavern took up a healthy section of the common area. Desmond raised his eyebrows in surprise as Inquisition soldiers and Crestwood citizens bustled around like they’d always been there. He seriously wondered how long he’d been asleep.

“There you are!” The Iron Bull clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s get you some food. There’s some lovely stew with actual seasoning over there.” Bull pointed a large finger to a covered area which had been refurbished into a mess hall.

“How long was I out?” Desmond asked with wide eyes. “There’s no way this only took a couple hours.”

Bull barked out a laugh, “It’s been a day, but you’d be surprised how quickly things get put up with so many over-eager people. Word traveled quickly, and those in Crestwood immediately offered their help. There are, of course, some nay-sayers who don’t believe you’ll fix their problems, but others are putting their faith in you, that since you already cleared out the bandits, you’ll soon fix the lake.”

Desmond shook his head at the word ‘faith’. He didn’t need any more religious connotations to his name, when he himself was a devout atheist. “Then we’d better get started.” The letter could wait, surely.

The Iron Bull put two restraining hands on Desmond’s shoulders, “Woah, hold up. Take a breather, Boss. Get some food, look around. It can wait.”

“People are dying, Bull,” Desmond protested, even as the qunari steered him into the mess hall.

“People are always dying. It’s not your job to save everyone. Besides, you’re no use to anyone if you’re so weak with hunger you fall down dead.”

Desmond shot Bull a look but didn’t protest. The closer they got to the stew, the more his stomach growled. It truly did smell divine. “Can you at least find me some parchment for a letter?”

Bull snorted, “Sure thing. But I’m staying right here. Don’t want you running off the moment someone isn’t paying attention.” He hailed over a scout and sent them off to acquire the requested parchment, and Desmond finally got a piping hot bowl of thick, hearty stew. His mouth salivated and it took a severe amount of willpower to not inhale it the moment he sat down. He hadn’t eaten in what felt like days, and probably was.

“Here you are, Ser,” the scout returned with several pages of slightly crumpled parchment and handed it reverently over to Desmond. He was glad he’d used self-control and hadn’t been eating like a heathen without manners. Sometimes, very briefly, he’d forget he was an icon and idol to these people. He was always watched and judged and emulated. It was too much pressure, when he even had to watch how he ate.

Bull nudged him gently, “Writing a love letter?”

Desmond looked down at the parchment, still considering what words to use. He pulled out his stick of charcoal and smiled at Bull, “Something like that.”

Cullen,
Solas tells me you’ve been sulking without me. I keep imagining you wandering into his study, staring at him with puppy eyes until he chases you out with a broom. It’s a very entertaining imagery, and if you deny it I’ll just come up with something more outlandish.
There’s something about traveling across Ferelden with four companions, two of which are constantly on the verge of either brawling or making out, while another one speaks your thoughts out loud and asks very personal questions. A week and a half of Blackwall as my only tie to sanity, and the man loves nothing more than to laugh at my suffering while carving wood. How he manages such intricate detail while atop a horse, I’ll never understand. I’m close to abandoning them all and climbing the tallest tree I can find and not coming out of it for at least a day. But we’ve made it to Crestwood, as I have no doubt you’ve been told, and all I can say about this place is that I haven’t been this perpetually soaked since the Storm Coast, and it is another sort of torture to fight rotting and bloated corpses while in wet socks. I haven’t seen the full extent of the region, but I’m hopeful that we’ll have this place cleaned up and functional within a week, and then I can head back to Skyhold. I miss being dry and not having to battle everything from aggressive nugs to wandering demons. I also miss you. I miss our talks and bothering you in your office for no reason other than that I’m bored and want to see you, and I miss having someone there that knows me more than anyone else alive.
I’m going to stop there for fear of sounding too pathetic. To sum things up, I’m doing okay. Everyone is looking out for me. The Iron Bull is fully capable and more than willing to physically manhandle me into taking care of myself. You can stop bothering Solas now. He might set your office on fire.
Yours,
Desmond

Chapter Text

Desmond’s boots squelched in the muddy ground as his group trekked through the drained lake bed. The rain had not stopped its incessant downpour, the dreary weather dampening spirits along with the several bodies littering the ground.

Desmond marked the location of groups of villagers who hadn’t been possessed and cut down, but it was grim work. Bodies of all shapes and sizes, evidence of lives lost to drowning. He didn’t know how much Mayor Dedrick knew about the villagers of Old Crestwood, but considering that he had lied about the state of the dam controls and had been squirrelly through their whole interaction, he was willing to bet the mayor knew quite a bit.

It became even more evident that this was the case when they found a cave with a locked gate. The wood was bloated and distorted, easy enough for Bull to smash his maul through, and what they found caused Cole to whimper. Corpses of all ages bloated and rotting, piled at the door in a way that made it obvious they were trying to escape even as they drowned. They had been locked inside and left to die.

“Betrayal, fear,” Cole started in his distant voice, the damp cave echoing his words back to them hauntingly, “It hurts. It burns. Don’t breathe, can’t find the air. Must get her out.” The spirit walked over to two of the bodies, a child and their parent, clasping hands even in death.

“I’ll fucking kill him,” Bull said dully as they looked at the dead strewn along the floor, so disfigured with ten years of being underwater that they couldn’t distinguish any features. The smell was horrific, but Desmond couldn’t focus on that when his mind was filled with trying to understand how that mousy little man could have done this to his own people.

He clenched his jaw for a moment, dropping his head. For all the wrongs he’d done in his life, he would never understand people like the mayor. He allowed himself another moment of grief, and then he wrapped a strip of cloth around his mouth and nose, handing out more to his group. “Let’s go close that rift, then we’ll bring Dedrick to justice.”

The deeper into the caves they went, the more bodies they found, ones marked by the Blight, and Desmond understood a little better what the mayor was thinking. If the villagers were infected, it was better to save a few than risk everyone. It didn’t make the decision less horrific. That the man could trap his own people and drown them and then lie about it for ten years, showed that he had the ability to do something similar down the road. Killing innocents for the greater good was never a justification, in Desmond’s mind. Maybe he was idealistic, but he didn’t think it was worth coming out the other end on top if he’s standing on a bed of the innocent.

Caves gave way to the dwarven architecture of the Deep Roads and soon the group was fighting darkspawn and demons in the crumbling ruins. When they eventually found the Fade rift, there were rage demons crawling all over the damp and mouldering stone, leaving sizzling tracks of steam in their wake.

The rift itself wasn’t much bigger than any he’d seen in times previous, but there was a tether of Fade energy escaping into the cavernous ceiling, connecting it to the tumultuous clouds above. He hoped the effort of closing it wouldn’t cause him to pass out like the last rift connected to the sky had. The one that started this all.

The fight wasn’t anything too special, their team working together like a well oiled machine with Bull gaining demon attention, Desmond sniping them from the background, Cole dodging from shadow to shadow, and Dorian setting down runes while Blackwall protected him from any enemies. Closing the rift was slightly more draining than most others he’d dealt with in the past, but it was nothing a quick rest couldn’t take care of.

And then they were exiting the cave into a bright and sunny Crestwood, birdsong greeting them and no sound of rain. The grass stuck to their boots in soggy clumps and pockets of mud attempted to drag them down, but their moods were significantly improved under the bright midday sun.

“Much better,” Dorian commented, closing his eyes and turning his face towards the sky, “I didn’t realize the South would be so dreary all the time.”

“I don’t think magical anomalies are indicative of the whole South,” Desmond commented, also taking the time to soak up the sunlight.

“Then how do you explain the Storm Coast?”

Desmond shrugged, “Point.” He took another moment to breathe deeply, processing the scents of flowers and petrichor and light, and then he shook himself lightly. “Alright. Let’s head to the village and restock, then we’ll find Hawke.”

The Chantry Sister overseeing funeral rites in the area was overjoyed when Desmond told her the locations of some of the fallen villagers. He also warned her about the horrific scene in the caves so the victims could receive a dignified memorial instead of rotting away forgotten at the scene of their murder.

And then they headed to the mayor’s house, full of righteous fury. There, they met Dedrick’s frazzled assistant, a small man who looked in turns devastated and alarmed at the group of heavily armed people coming his way.

“Where is he?” Desmond demanded when the assistant blocked the door.

“He’s disappeared!” The man wailed, “One moment he was there, and then he was gone! What did you say to him? He talked to you and then he was gone!”

Desmond felt rage burning in his veins. Mayor Dedrick had decided to run. Unsurprising, but disappointing. “Move,” he commanded, not in any mood to be forgiving. The assistant’s eyes widened and he stumbled to the side, allowing them entry to the house.

It certainly looked like someone had left in a hurry, taking only the essentials. Trunks overturned, drawers haphazardly spilled open, and select items missing. In the middle of all the chaos, there sat a sealed letter on an untouched table. “Inquisitor” stood emblazoned on the front in shaky calligraphy.

Desmond snatched up the letter and broke the seal.

Inquisitor,
It was not darkspawn that opened the dam and flooded Old Crestwood ten years ago. I did, in secret, the night they attacked. The undead you have been fighting are people I killed with my own hands.
We’d taken in refugees from the Blight. Many were ill. We moved the sick to the lower part of Crestwood, and the refugees into the caves, to stop the disease from spreading. It didn’t work. One confessed he’d seen such blight sickness before. It was always fatal. When the darkspawn attacked, I knew the only way the village would survive is if the blight-sick drowned with the monsters. I cannot bear the sight of Old Crestwood now that the water is gone. I cannot stay.
I’m sorry.
Mayor Gregory Dedrick

Desmond passed the letter around, jaw clenched. He understood where the man was coming from, he did. But he couldn’t help but think the level of subterfuge the mayor had taken spoke of something deeper. He couldn’t stop seeing the child clutched in their parent’s arms. He could condemn all he wanted from the outside, but truthfully, he didn’t know what other decision could have been made. It was a shitty situation, and from everything Desmond had heard, the Blight forced people to become monsters in more ways than one. He didn’t know if he would have done any differently.

Mayor Dedrick still needed to be found. The fact that the man ran at the first opportunity showed that he knew he had done something wrong, but that he didn’t truly feel the guilt his letter implied. If he had regretted his choice, he would have sought penance instead of hiding his actions and fleeing retribution.

Desmond rubbed at his brow in agitation. “Well, there’s nothing we can do but have Leliana’s people keep an eye out. In the meantime, we should go talk with Hawke. Hopefully he’s got something useful. I hate this fucking place.”

The party ran into the searching Grey Wardens one more time on their way to the meeting place with Hawke, and the Wardens’ desperation to find their missing quarry did not endear them to Desmond. He found the whole situation rather suspicious on multiple fronts. They would not give any information to identify their fugitive, and yet they had been running all over Crestwood in their search. They would not answer any questions about anything, whether it was the state of the Order, why they couldn’t be contacted, what the fugitive had done, or who was giving the commands. The two Wardens sealed their mouths shut when it became clear the Inquisition didn’t know where their outlaw was.

Another curious thing was how Blackwall stayed conspicuously out of the Wardens’ line of sight. He didn’t speak up, and he barely even looked at them, seeming much more interested in the water-drenched flora surrounding the group. Desmond filed that thought away for later.

When it became obvious the Grey Wardens were uninterested in sharing any information, Desmond sent them on their way, but made sure they weren’t following him. He didn’t trust those Grey Wardens one bit, especially because the younger one looked so torn and guilty every time his senior dismissed one of Desmond’s questions.

The deeper they got into Crestwood, the more Red Templars popped up. Desmond felt slightly frustrated that the meeting with Hawke kept on being pushed back, but the Red Templars appeared to be migrating closer to Crestwood Village. So he followed their trail to the main camp where red lyrium crystals grew out of the tents, infecting the ground around it. People of all sorts of races and genders were packed in like sardines in transportation cages, some of them crying silently, some staring into nothingness with defeat written all over their faces.

Desmond’s eyes narrowed, and with a choppy signal, his team rushed in and attacked the Red Templars lurking in the camp. It was a risky play, because although he trusted his team to come out the other side, they were vastly outnumbered. They had the element of surprise on their side, but Dorian was next to useless with all the juiced up templars trigger happy with their holy smites, and Bull could only do so much against the ones who had transformed into something less than human and could bend the shadows to their will as they darted in and out of the range of his maul. Cole’s daggers weren’t entirely effective against the lyrium coating what was left of their skin, and Blackwall’s main speciality was protection, not dealing damage.

Desmond took a deep breath and started barking orders. Blackwall to protect Dorian. Cole, keep the shadow templars off the Iron Bull. Dorian focus on passive runes instead of active spells, wherever possible. Bull, keep the heavy hitters occupied. And Desmond, for his part, would use Eagle Vision to find weak points in armor or cracked red lyrium skin and hit it with poison tipped arrows.

Under Desmond’s direction, the battle was won with limited injuries on their side and heavy casualties on the templars’. He was proud that he was getting much better at the whole ‘team’ thing, at knowing the skills of his party and where best to position them, if even for no other reason than that they came out of sketchy fights with no wounds a quick healing potion couldn’t fix.

The prisoners had watched the battle with hope and fear in turn, and after the initial flinch as Desmond drew near to their cages, excited clamoring replaced trepidation. He quickly picked the locks and let them out to their uncomfortably exuberant gratitude. While his team raided the bodies and campsite for any useful information or supplies, Desmond directed the most stable of the prisoners to where the new Inquisition hold was located.

He quickly gathered that some of them were from much farther away, that Crestwood was simply a stop on the road to gather more supplies and people for their experiments and whatever else they were going to do with those they collected. He tamped down his rage and sent them on their way, promising that the Inquisition could get them back home, if they still had one, and find them accommodations if they didn’t.

Desmond suffered through another round of tearful gratitude and then he was heading over to where Blackwall was waving, various papers clutched in gloved hands. “You should see this, Desmond,” he spoke, Desmond’s name sounding awkward and stumbling on his tongue, but he appreciated the effort.

He quickly skimmed through the orders and missives, eyes catching on concerning words like ‘seeding’ and ‘harvest’ and ‘red lyrium farms’. He paused and re-read the orders slower and with intense care. It detailed a command to find able-bodied and strong people that would be able to survive an implant of red lyrium, something they called the ‘seeding’. They would cultivate these hosts while working them to the bone mining silverite for the Red Templar army, all while slowly becoming red lyrium themselves which would then be harvested.

Desmond felt nauseated and had to consciously keep his hand from clenching and ruining the parchment. “Fucking monsters,” he breathed. Every time he thought he’d seen the worst of this world, there was something else. “Where is Emprise du Lion?”

“A little south of Skyhold,” Blackwall spoke up, “In Orlais. There’s not much there. It’s mostly snow and ice.”

“Well it’s just become a lot more interesting,” Desmond ground out, passing the orders to his team when they reached for it. He took a deep, grounding breath, “Fuck. Okay, let’s go see what Hawke wants, then hopefully we can head back to Skyhold. I want this red lyrium farm shut down as soon as physically possible.” Whatever doubts he’d had about the humanity left in the Red Templars was quickly cauterized. There was nothing good or justifiable about what they were doing, and he would ruthlessly hunt them down like the rabid animals they were.

He hoped to hell that whatever Hawke had to say wouldn’t derail him from his new mission.

Chapter Text

“Fucking finally,” Hawke sighed dramatically, slinking out of a shadowed cave. “You sure took your sweet time getting here.”

Desmond shrugged unapologetically, “What can I say? You brought a chronic fixer to a town with lots of problems. It’s kind of your own fault.” Hawke rolled his eyes but ushered the group into the cave. “Anyway, what’s so important we had to meet this far out of the way?”

Hawke glanced around the scenery behind them, “Were you followed?” He asked seriously.

Desmond activated Eagle Vision and also checked their surroundings, finding no one within the range of his sight. “No, it’s just us.”

“Come on, then. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” Hawke led the party through the damp cave to a warped wooden door with a complicated lock system. He rapped a series of knocks on the surface, the normally sharp sound dampened to dull thuds with the waterlog.

A moment passed, and then metallic mechanisms groaned in protest as the door creaked open. The first thing Desmond noticed was the scruffy world-weary face with shaggy blonde hair and an unkempt beard. The man’s hazel eyes immediately zoned in on Desmond’s glowing hand which was all the more noticeable in the low light. “Inquisitor,” he greeted, a tired edge to his forcefully cheerful tone. “Welcome to my refuge.” He swung a hand to show off the damp rocks, numerous flickering candles, and a ragged tent setup in a shadowed corner. “I would offer you refreshments, but I’m afraid all I have is cave water, which is... not tasty.”

Desmond eyed the steady drip of slightly brown water falling from a stalagmite and grimaced. “Thanks, but I think I’m good.” The man shrugged and moved over to relight a candle which had fallen victim to the wet atmosphere. “What can I do for you?”

The man’s shoulders dropped further into their defeated slump. “My name’s Alistair and I am-- I was a Grey Warden.” He sighed heavily and turned back to them. He looked nothing like the Grey Wardens Desmond had seen, especially without the iconic blue and silver armor with gratuitous gryphons.

Dorian eyed Alistair curiously, “I didn’t think Wardens left the Order.”

Alistair shrugged and glanced away, “It’s not talked about, but it does happen. I suppose it would be more accurate to say I’m an unwilling fugitive.”

“Ache, anguish, agony,” Cole cut in, candle lit eyes barely visible over the brim of his hat.

Alistair gave the spirit a slightly unsettled look, “Sure. That. Anyway.” He coughed and appeared to gather himself a bit. “The Grey Wardens have been my life for almost ten years and I know I’m reaching the end of my life, but something is wrong.” Desmond wanted to ask about how Alistair knew he would die, but he kept mum while waiting for the rest of the story. “The thing is, I’ve traveled with the Hero of Ferelden and she taught me many things, most notably to always ask questions and a certain sense for when something is wrong or off. That’s all to say that there’s something incredibly wrong with the Wardens.” He ran a hand through his scraggly beard. “All I had were feelings, you understand. Warden-Commander Clarel has this new advisor, Livius Erimond, and while I don’t know exactly what they talked about, I do know the results. Clarel took all the active Wardens and removed them from their posts, ignoring the darkspawn and telling us to not interfere in world affairs. Wardens have never been particularly involved, but you must understand, this was exactly two weeks before the Conclave exploded.”

Desmond was getting an incredibly uneasy feeling, and he knew his companions were feeling it too.

Alistair noticed and smiled wryly. “I felt the same. So I started asking questions, investigating. I didn’t get very far into my search before they decided I was too much of a risk and ordered my capture. I ran, and now I’m being hunted.”

Hawke took that as his cue and picked up the story. “Before I lost contact with my brother, Carver, he told me that something was happening within the Order, and that I should find Alistair. I’d met him very briefly a few years ago and he’d been... sympathetic. So I used my contacts, and here we are. I’ll admit, I’m mostly involved because of Carver. I may not see eye to eye with him all the time, but he’s my brother, and I’d like to find out what he’s gotten himself caught up in. Alistair’s story has me worried for more than one reason.”

“The thing is,” Alistair continued, “the Wardens are understandably scared. A few days before the Conclave, every Warden I know of started hearing their Calling.” His tone was incredibly grave, and Desmond asked what that was so he could grasp the full implications. “The Calling is when the thing which makes us Grey Wardens starts to corrupt us. It’s a song that grows louder and louder until it drives us mad. Those who hear their Calling go to the Deep Roads to take out as many darkspawn as they can, and hopefully die with honor before the madness takes them. It’s usually around the ten year mark when this happens, although it has been known to take longer, or shorter. But every single Grey Warden hearing it at the same time? That’s unnatural, and I’m hesitant to believe it’s real.” He leaned against a thick stalagmite, uncaring as his threadbare clothes grew wet. “Before I left, Clarel mentioned something about finding a way to cull the darkspawn when all the Grey Wardens are dead. An undying army. I don’t know exactly what I thought. Necromancy? Blood magic? But when Hawke mentioned the demon army you saw in that future hellscape, the pieces fell into place.”

Bile crawled up Desmond’s throat but he swallowed it down. A demon army summoned by the fearful Grey Wardens. Perhaps it was a leap of logic, but he couldn’t help but remember the corrupted face of Corypheus, a powerful darkspawn himself. He wouldn’t be surprised if the creature was pulling the strings somehow. This meant that Corypheus had the Red Templars, the Grey Wardens, and, unless they stopped him, an army of demons. And what did Desmond have? The Inquisition and the rebel mages. His own army had been training wherever possible, but mages could be stopped by the templars and possessed by the demons. “Fuck,” he said eloquently.

“Sorry to be all doom and gloom,” Alistair said with forceful lightness, “I’m usually much more entertaining to talk to, I promise.”

Desmond waved away the comment and ran a hand over his shaggy hair. “Blackwall,” he started, a thought coming to him. The man straightened and looked a little squirrely, “You’ve been hearing the Calling too? Why didn’t you mention something? Is it bothering you?”

“I apologize, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.” He tilted his chin up with a dismissive sniff. Desmond nodded and turned back to Alistair in time to see the man give Blackwall a strange, searching look before he cleared his face. Desmond’s eyes narrowed and he looked over briefly to catch Bull’s gaze. A miniscule nod. Something was up.

He sighed and shook his head, getting back on topic. “Okay, so you know where the demon army comes from. Or have suspicions, at least. This answers some of Leliana’s questions about where the Grey Wardens have disappeared to.” He noticed Alistair perk up at the mention of the spymaster, but barreled over it to the more important point: “What can I do to stop it?”

“I’ve tracked them to the Western Approach,” Hawke answered. “There’s some suspicious activity, but none of my contacts have been able to get close enough to see. My guess is that even if it’s not the main site for whatever they’re doing, it may lead us to some answers.”

Desmond quickly ran through all the things he had to do. He was just about done in Crestwood, but he had to head to Skyhold to prepare for the Winter Palace ball to prevent Empress Celene’s assassination. Then there were the red lyrium farms in Emprise du Lion, and now the Western Approach for the demon army. “Fucking hell,” he sighed. “Alright, how urgent is it?”

Hawke gave him a sympathetic look, “From everything I’ve gathered, whatever they’re doing there is in the beginning stages, so you have a bit of time. I wouldn’t dally, though.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Desmond pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment and then pulled out his map and journal. He spread out the hand-held map of Thedas, avoiding putting it on any of the damp surfaces, and began tracing out his path. “Okay,” he said after a moment of deliberation. “We head to Skyhold, the Winter Palace, the Western Approach, and then Emprise du Lion. Hopefully nothing else pressing pops up or I’ll lose my shit. We’re already on a time crunch.” He folded up his map and started scribbling in his journal in messy Arabic.

Hawke peered over his shoulder and immediately balked, “What kind of language is that?”

“None of your business,” Desmond shot without looking up. “Are you going to meet us at the Western Approach?”

“Yeah.” Hawke rocked back on his heels and stopped hovering. “I’ll make sure they don’t do anything too fishy before you get there. But please try to hurry. I’m not too fond of the thought of demons roaming the world.”

Desmond snorted, “I don’t think any of us are.” He snapped his journal closed and stuffed it into his chest pocket. “Alright. Well, it was nice to meet you, Alistair, but it seems I won’t have time to chat and take you up on your dubious refreshments. It appears I will be very busy for the foreseeable future.”

Alistair gave a limp, mocking salute. “As you were, soldier. It was good to meet you, too. I’m sure we’ll see each other again before too long.”

Desmond and his party exchanged quick goodbyes, and headed out of the cave. The sun had set while they were squirrelled away, but Desmond didn’t waste any time. “One night in the stronghold and then we start the journey back to Skyhold. Get all your equipment and prepare what you can. We’ll talk on the way.”

They hurried to the stronghold without much conversation, a fog of overwhelmed dread settling over them. The moment they entered the hold, they dispersed to prepare. Desmond, for his part, headed to the market to grab potions, rations, and a new whetstone to sharpen his blades. He sold off a lot of his collected loot, lightening his pack considerably, and filling it with another journal, spare charcoal sticks, thread and needles for field armor repair, and a few refilled sachets of spices, because there was no way he was going another journey with bland food when he didn’t have to.

The night passed quickly, and at the break of dawn, the group was on their way, making steady and quick progress. The journey shortened from three full days to two and a half with the brutal pace Desmond set. They had a little over three weeks until the Winter Ball, which meant four days or so in Skyhold before they had to go back on the road if they wanted to make it on time, especially with the expected entourage almost doubling travel time.

The sentries spotted them heading along the road to Skyhold several miles from the gate, so that by the time they reached the entrance, most of the residents had assembled to greet them. After weeks of limited interaction with people outside of his immediate Inner Circle, it was a tad overwhelming to have so many eager bodies crowding around him. Desmond’s heart rate picked up but he carefully repressed any panic and searched out Cullen. He met the Commander’s shy but warm smile with a grin of his own. He wanted nothing more than to go over to the man and hug him for an hour or more, but he was dusty and needed to take care of his mount and supplies.

Before he could do more than pivot toward the stables, several people broke away from the crowd and began leading away the horses until Desmond was left with nothing to do but head to his room for a bath.

Desmond waved to the fawning masses and made his way into the castle, people heading back to their duties once they got a good look at their Inquisitor.

“As much as I adore you,” Dorian began, “I don’t want to see you for the next few days.” The sentiment was echoed by his other traveling companions, and Desmond found himself laughing.

“I’d have to say the same. But if you end up needing anything, just let me know.”

Dorian rolled his eyes, “Not likely.”

And with that they all headed their separate ways. Josephine sidled up to him, a warm smile on her soft face. “I’ve had the servants prepare a bath for you,” she commented. “Unsurprisingly, several of them volunteered to wait on you hand and foot. I let them know it would likely be unappreciated. Please tell me if that was out of line, and I could get you a personal servant.”

The thought of someone waiting on him at all times sent a shiver of unease down his spine. “I’m good, but thanks. I will take that bath, though.”

She smiled at him, “We can talk about what to expect at the Winter Palace after you’ve had some time to recover. There are some people who would be very interested in a chat, I’m sure.” She very deliberately did not look in Cullen’s direction, though the man was staring at them so hard it was practically a physical thing. Desmond was reminded of Solas’s complaints about Cullen following him around like a puppy and he smothered a chuckle.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He gestured for Cullen to join him in his trek to his room, and Josephine made her graceful exit. “Hello, handsome,” he teased.

Cullen flushed a vibrant shade of pink within an instant. He cleared his throat self-consciously, “Right. Hello, Desmond.”

“What? No cringey pet name?” His grin lit up his face. The uncomplicated banter soothed a part of his soul that had been missing his Commander in the time apart. He’d tried not to think about it while away, because he had more important things to deal with than his love life, but it was a sweet feeling he’d forgotten about with all the death and destruction. He missed the pining and the soft comfort of having someone who gave him butterflies in his stomach. Their relationship was new and tentative, but he felt seen and appreciated. He wanted to cuddle the man, to have a warm body wrapped in his arms as they talked about everything and nothing. Warmth and blossoming love. It was too soon to assign such a large word to Desmond’s feelings, but he knew it would be easy to fall for Cullen.

“Do you like pet names?” Cullen asked, suddenly serious and eager despite his flushed cheeks.

Desmond considered that for a moment. The people he’d been with in his lifetime were never very long relationships. He didn’t ever know how to talk about himself in ways that people would understand, so those he dated or slept with never got beyond surface deep. There had been Lucy, but that was the potential more than the realization of romantic entanglements. He didn’t mind when his partners called him the standard fare of babe and baby, but he’d never had someone call him by terms of endearment such as sweetheart and honey and whatever else was tooth-rotting. But the more he thought of it, the more he thought he would enjoy the sweet softness.

He smiled, “I think I do.” Cullen gazed at him with adoring wonder and Desmond felt a blush rising up his neck. He cleared his throat, “What about you?”

Cullen nodded, “I don’t have much experience with it, but I think it’s nice.”

Desmond looked at him, feeling incredibly gooey inside. He extended his hand in silent invitation, watching in fascination as Cullen didn’t even hesitate before pulling off his glove and slotting his fingers in between Desmond’s.

They paused at the door to Desmond’s room, Cullen shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

“Well, I should-” Cullen started just as Desmond blurted, “Do you want to come up?”

They stared at each other for a second and then Desmond snorted, breaking the tension. “I’d love to spend more time with you, but I also need to wash the road off me.” He leaned against the door a little, not letting go of Cullen’s hand as they looked each other in the eyes.

Cullen looked down and away for a second, then darted his gaze back to Desmond with a determined expression. “I can keep you company.”

Desmond beamed and opened the door behind him, leading Cullen up the long staircase to his tower bedroom. Light streamed in from the snowy mountainside, throwing splashes of color along the floor from the stained glass windows. Off to the side behind a privacy screen was a runed bathtub filled with gently steaming water, soaps and washcloths arranged on a small table next to it.

Cullen looked at the large tub and blushed, quickly looking away. Desmond pretended not to notice and eased his backpack off his shoulders, throwing it against the side of his desk. He didn’t give time for the awkwardness to set in and immediately started unclasping the various buckles keeping his dirty and stained white armor attached to his body. He let out a sigh of relief when the chest brace loosened. It had been far too long since he’d taken it off, and it felt good to have an unburdened breath of air.

“What did you do while I was away?” Desmond asked, attempting to get Cullen to stop his studious avoidance. Cullen looked up from where he had been focused on the sparse bookshelf behind Desmond’s desk.

“A lot of reports and training. I’m sure you had a more entertaining experience.” He set his eyes on Desmond in a way that made it obvious he was forcing himself to watch instead of looking away in bashfulness. Desmond found it rather endearing.

He eased the last of his armor off, leaving him in a loose shirt and pants. “Oh, I don’t know about that. Did Solas end up chasing you off with a broom?” He laughed at the face Cullen made.

“Excuse you,” Cullen said in mock offense, finally seeming to get over his awkwardness. “I started sending him missives at the end.”

Desmond grinned and walked over to Cullen, keeping eye contact until they were standing almost chest to chest. “Hi. I missed you.”

Cullen’s features softened. “I thought about you more than I should have,” he whispered in the distance between them. “You are incredibly distracting, even when you’re not here.”

Starting with Cullen’s ungloved hand, Desmond traced his fingers up his arm, over his formal clothes until he reached Cullen’s neck, loosely tangling his hand into the curls, thumb resting on Cullen’s jaw. He rubbed his thumb along the stubble, staring into liquid amber eyes. Cullen’s eyelids fluttered, gaze dropping to Desmond’s lips. They stayed there, trapped in the moment of potential. Desmond wanted so badly to rock forward and press their lips together, but the wait, the tease, rushed through him. He’d been trying his best to not think of Cullen while he was away, and now he stood on the precipice, one dive and he would be off the cliff of longing and free falling into deep affection. But oh, how Desmond loved a Leap of Faith.

“Kiss me,” Cullen whispered, the words sounding like they were torn out from somewhere deep inside of him. Desmond ducked forward, lips brushing tenderly, yet another tease. He drew back, watching in adoration as Cullen subconsciously moved forward to connect their lips again, eyes closed. A noise of complaint escaped Cullen’s throat, and Desmond immediately responded, pressing their lips together with intent.

Desmond kept the kiss soft and slow, soothing Cullen every time he tried to deepen it. “We’ve got time,” Desmond whispered in the space between. The world was rushing around him, but this was one thing he wanted to savor. Cullen sighed and the kiss gentled even further. Slow movements and soft caresses until it came to a natural stop and they stood there, in the middle of Desmond’s opulent room, foreheads pressed together. Desmond kept his eyes closed for a while after the kiss ended, breathing in the scent of gunmetal and woodsmoke. His thumb continued its soothing motion just under Cullen’s ear and he took a moment to bask in the moment.

“I should get cleaned,” he murmured reluctantly. His eyes opened slowly to see Cullen looking flustered and breathless, an absolute treat.

“Ah, yes,” Cullen visibly gathered himself. “Do you want me to...?” He gestured vaguely towards the door.

Desmond shook his head. “Wash my hair?” Cullen smiled softly and nodded. Desmond took a few steps back, removing his shirt. His hands dropped to the waistband of his pants, but Cullen’s hand on his skin stopped him. Cullen looked equal parts fascinated and dismayed at the scars littering Desmond’s torso. Some of the silvery lines stretched taut from having been received before his pubescent growth spurts. Some from training with weapons, others, like the puncture scars lining his arms from being hooked up to machines and IVs, were less easy to explain. “I’m sure you have your fair share of scars,” Desmond responded to Cullen’s unasked question.

Cullen shook his head, “Not so many, or so visible. Some of these look very old.” He traced the burn scar along Desmond’s shoulder from when he had gotten too careless while forging his first hidden blade at eleven years old. Cullen’s fingertips followed the line of muscle to the blocky tattoo on Desmond’s forearm. “Will you tell me?”

“Later,” Desmond promised, enjoying the soft touches more than he expected. He didn’t get much physical interaction with others that wasn’t aimed to hurt. Cullen handled him like he was delicate, something to be treasured. It felt incredibly nice.

They eventually made their way to the tub, Desmond sunk into the hot water in relief while Cullen cleared off the small table to use as a seat. The air was soft and muted in the steam of the bathing area, Cullen humming softly as he ran his fingers through Desmond’s slightly wavy hair. He lathered up the soap and worked his way through tangles and deep into the scalp while Desmond relaxed against the lip of the tub.

In the peaceful quiet, Cullen started talking about himself, skirting around traumas and instead mentioning the good parts of his childhood. He spoke of his three siblings who he hadn’t seen in a long while, though he wrote to them often about his life. He shyly admitted that he’d told his older sister, Mia, about Desmond, and might have been a little sickening during the pinning phase.

His voice carried softly as he spun tales of the terror he had been as a child, constantly getting in trouble for playing with his father’s sword. Desmond hummed and chuckled, and fell a little deeper into adoration.

“I’d love for you to meet my siblings sometime,” Cullen said after a brief lull, Desmond freshly cleaned and resting idly in the warm water. “When this is all over.”

That, beyond any declaration of burgeoning feelings, told Desmond how much Cullen cared. After speaking so fondly of his family, he found Desmond important enough that he wanted to connect the two relationships, and he wished for them to stay together long enough for it to happen. “I can’t wait,” Desmond said genuinely, touched to be included in such an important part of Cullen’s life.

Chapter Text

There was a vulnerability in being completely naked while Cullen was fully clothed. As Desmond rose from the bath, the water sluiced off him, falling in rivulets down his body. Cullen’s eyes traced the flowing lines, even while his cheeks grew steadily more flushed. Desmond watched Cullen watch him with interest.

He stepped from the bath, feet meeting the soft mat. “Come here,” he murmured. Cullen stood quickly and closed the distance between them. There was nothing soft and tender about this kiss. Their lips met desperately, passion igniting within seconds. Desmond slid his hands under Cullen’s shirt, clutching at the hard back muscles as he drew their bodies closer. Rough fabric and buttons caught on Desmond’s skin, the metal clasps forcing a shiver down his spine.

Cullen had one hand gripping Desmond’s damp hair, the other planted firmly on Desmond’s shoulder, drawing him closer and anchoring them together. They stumbled in the vague direction of the bed, knocking into the bath table and sending it careening across the floor. Instead of the bed, they found the desk, and Cullen sat on the edge, thighs opening so Desmond could slip between, kiss never faltering.

They separated briefly as Desmond found the first button of Cullen’s shirt, then he was diving back in, working his hands down the fabric, and slowly unveiling Cullen’s sculpted chest. He trailed biting kisses down Cullen’s neck, the grip on his hair tightening when Desmond reached Cullen’s pulse point. The second the last button was undone, Desmond started his exploration. His hands blazed the trail for his lips to follow, focusing extra attention on the spots that made Cullen moan in breathy little exhalations and clench his fingers tighter.

Desmond grinned slightly when Cullen’s hips shot off the desk as Desmond lightly bit at a pink nipple. “Fuck,” Cullen breathed, the explicative sending a sharp wave of heat down Desmond’s spine. He dove for Cullen’s lips again, his hands finding the buckle to Cullen’s belt, arching his body away as his fingers fiddled with the latch. “Hurry, hurry,” Cullen breathed between kisses.

Cullen’s hand remained anchored in Desmond’s hair while the other ran trembling fingers down Desmond’s arm, gripping tight at his bicep when Desmond slid the leather belt free from its bindings with an audible snap. Desmond rocked back slightly, his eyes catching on Cullen’s hazy, dilated pupils, knowing his own were a match.

He smiled roguishly and shoved his hand in Cullen’s pants, immediately grasping him in a firm hold. Cullen swore again, hands clenching tighter than they had been, and Desmond was incredibly glad he’d allowed his hair to grow out.

Desmond kept a steady pace on Cullen while his other hand snaked around Cullen’s back and dragged him even closer.

“Please,” Cullen moaned feverishly, “Des, please.” A litany of whimpers fell from his bitten red lips.

“I’ve got you,” Desmond murmured into the sweltering air between them. “Come on, sweetheart.”

Cullen shook his head, “I don’t--” but what he didn’t want was cut off with a loud moan as he shattered apart under Desmond’s eager movements. Desmond slowed to a stop, allowing Cullen a moment to breathe and recover. He took less time than Desmond was expecting. “I’m sorry that was so fast, it’s been a while.”

Desmond drew him in for a deep kiss, “It was perfect.”

“We’re not done yet,” Cullen said, looking down the length of Desmond’s body. “Show me what you like.”

Desmond smiled and led him to the bed, removing the last bits of Cullen’s clothes until they were both bare and flushed in the afternoon light cascading through the stained glass windows. Desmond laid down in the center of the bed, Cullen following and bracketing Desmond’s head with his arms. He swooped down, capturing Desmond’s lips, passion a simmering background noise as they explored the taste and simple intimacy of each other.

Cullen settled his knees on the sides of Desmond’s hips, slowly parting from their kiss. “Show me,” he commanded softly.

Desmond trailed his fingers down Cullen’s arms and intertwined their hands. He brought Cullen’s open palms to the flat of his chest and steadily trailed them downward in a gentle caress. Desmond let go and Cullen took control of the movement, exploring the scarred skin with light, shivering touches. Desmond arched slightly into Cullen’s hands before settling into the blankets with a shuddering breath.

He brought one hand to Cullen’s neck and slid a finger down his thudding pulse point. “Kiss me here,” he instructed breathily. Cullen anchored his hands on Desmond’s waist as he dropped closer, lips attaching gently but eagerly to Desmond’s neck. Cullen shifted his knees slightly to stabilize himself, and then his hands began their steady exploration, touching every inch of skin on Desmond’s torso and back. He drew swirls along his abs and tugged lightly at a nipple at the same time he bit down on the rabbiting pulse under his lips.

Desmond moaned, arching his neck into Cullen’s mouth as his hand flew to Cullen’s head to urge him closer. “Yes,” he whimpered, “that’s perfect.” What was once a thundering crash of passionate pleasure became a slow simmer of heat lighting up every nerve until his body became a livewire of sensation. Part of him longed for harder, faster, a quick burst of intense pleasure. But a much larger part of him ached for the steady connection, the build so inescapable he could not differentiate the discovery from the destination.

He led Cullen’s lips along his body with trailing fingers on Cullen’s own, gesturing without a word for a line of kisses down his chest, around his nipples, up his sternum, and along the other side of his neck, until Desmond’s fingers traced Cullen’s swollen lips. They stared at each other, lust and aching fondness spilling between each point of contact, contained within the space between them until the air radiated heat.

Cullen moved their hips together in a slow, intense drag, their lips meeting in a share of shattered exhalations more than a kiss. They rocked in tandem, Desmond’s hands guiding Cullen’s movements as he rose to meet him. Desmond squeezed his eyes shut tightly, pleasure dialed up to ten. He felt like he couldn’t get enough air, each breath catching in his throat, heat drying his tongue. Kissing Cullen was a relief, a passionate distraction from the rising tides building in his stomach.

Cullen reached a hand between them, a hot press of calluses creating a rough texture increasing the intensity of their connection. Held together in intimate embrace, sharing each other’s air, one moan bleeding into the next with no respite. Desmond grew lightheaded, hands unclenching from Cullen’s hips and scrabbling up his back, searching for purchase on slick skin and hardened muscles.

Desmond moaned out a plea, his breath hitching as the pleasure they had built together within these endless moments of intimate eternity pushed him off a cliff and he fell, plummeting into a sensation so intense everything grew fuzzy around the edges. He vaguely registered Cullen following him with a hoarse moan, but he couldn’t think beyond the leaden weight of his limbs and mind.

He drifted for an indeterminate amount of time, and when he finally dragged his thoughts away from the serene lake he had been floating on, he found Cullen lying on his side, head propped in his hand as he stared at Desmond, overwhelming adoration in his gentle gaze.

“Hey,” Desmond murmured, still feeling like his soul was drained out of him.

Cullen smiled softly, the scar on his lips adding a crooked charm. Desmond felt his heart turn over with an almost painful thud. “Hey yourself.”

Desmond blinked sluggishly, and with herculean effort, managed to mirror Cullen’s position until they were facing each other, not physically touching at any point, and yet Desmond felt not a shred of distance between them. Sex had always been an act of intimacy for him, but never had he felt so connected to another through it. He didn’t know how to handle the feelings revealed to him, the overwhelming pressure in his heart so full he could barely breathe beyond the swell of it. “Stay the night?” He asked, instead of speaking words he wouldn’t be able to take back.

Cullen reached out and dragged Desmond into his arms with a strength Desmond found incredibly enticing. “I would love nothing more.”

Chapter Text

Desmond walked into the War Room the next morning feeling refreshed for the first time in what felt like weeks. A bath and a good night’s rest on a nice bed was just what he needed and had sorely missed while on the excursion to Crestwood. His advisors were already positioned around the table, Leliana positioning a few of her map markers while Josephine scribbled furiously on her ever-present clipboard, a deep furrow between her eyebrows. Cullen leaned against the table, reading through sheafs of paper with a serious face. Desmond smiled helplessly at the stubborn curl in Cullen’s hair that had refused to slick back into its usual style, adding a messy charm to the usually put-together Commander.

All three of them looked up at his arrival, Cullen’s lips curling up automatically before he quickly schooled his features into a mask of professionalism. Leliana straightened. “Desmond,” she greeted, “Good morning.” Desmond returned the pleasantry, and then the mood rapidly changed. “I apologize for such a quick summons after your journey, but things are happening very quickly outside of Skyhold. I’m afraid we don’t have much time.” She grabbed a stack of parchment and leafed through it. “Firstly, we have one month before the masquerade at the Winter Palace, which gives us a little under a week to get ready and head out.”

“We have much to discuss regarding the ball,” Josephine cut in, “but we will get to that in a moment.”

Leliana nodded. “The information you sent ahead about the Wardens is concerning, and I hope we can get to that as soon as possible. The ball is top priority because of its set date, but the Western Approach isn’t too far from the Winter Palace, if you wish to head there right after that whole mess.”

“There is another matter,” Cullen put forth. “Do you remember the man standing with Corypheus when they attacked Haven? A lot was going on, but I’ve identified him as Samson, an ex-templar. I knew him in Kirkwall. He was a good man, but got kicked out of the Order due to a scandal regarding one of the mages. I’m not sure of the details, but if he’s been taking red lyrium and has been placed at Corypheus’s right hand, then we would do well to find a way to weaken him.”

Desmond rubbed at his forehead in thought, eyes trained on the map spread across the table. “Do we have any leads?”

Cullen nodded, “Some of Leliana’s scouts have intercepted correspondence between the Red Templars. The letters lead to some sort of quarry in Emprise du Lion. I hesitate to add more to your plate, but it’s something that might be worth looking into.”

“I was planning on stopping by there, anyway,” Desmond said tiredly. “There’s some sort of red lyrium farm using people as live fertilizer. I’ll bet the two are connected.” He sighed heavily and then steeled himself, taking out his journal. “Alright. The Winter Palace, Western Approach, and then Emprise du Lion before heading back to Skyhold. Anywhere else while I’m out?”

Leliana shook her head. “Obviously we cannot predict what the future may hold, but as of the moment those are the most pressing concerns. I don’t know much about what we may find at the Western Approach, but there’s much to talk about with the masquerade.”

She gestured to Josephine, who quickly took over the discussion. “Firstly, we know from that future you experienced that Empress Celene was assassinated, leading to the destabilization of Orlais. That must be stopped at all costs. Orlais must be united under one banner if this is to succeed.”

“But it doesn’t have to be under Celene,” Leliana pointed out. Josephine sighed tiredly, but Leliana shot her a look. “Empress Celene has many faults, negligence, among other morally reprehensible things. Exactly the sort of leader we do not want in place under threat of Corypheus. However, there are options. Duke Gaspard, the leader of the Orlesian armies, is attempting to overthrow her and start a coup. This is not common knowledge at the moment, but we could put him in place instead, if that’s a route you would prefer.”

Desmond considered his options for a moment. He didn’t like the thought of putting any sort of military in place, but a more aggressive approach might be the best aid against Corypheus. He didn’t want to doom an entire Empire just because it was currently the easiest option. He had to consider long term as well. Empress Celene had not done anything to repair the rot perpetuating Orlais, however, and he couldn’t see that changing without some sort of catalyst. Perhaps an assassination attempt would be enough, but perhaps not.

“I think I’d like to meet both of them before I make a decision. Let’s table that for now, but prepare for either outcome. Anything else?”

Leliana nodded and made a note. Josephine ticked a mark off her clipboard, “We need to decide on the statement we wish to make. It’s Orlesian custom to wear masks as a part of the Game. A physical representation of the facades people put on in different situations. Some people do not wear masks, however, as this is a masquerade, everyone must wear one. If we participate in this, we would be showing our respect for their culture and the Game, but some people may think we are weak and conform easily. If we refuse to wear masks, we will be stating that we are a separate entity and not beholden to their rules, but some may see it as a slight against their customs and a lack of respect. How do you wish to play this?”

“No masks,” Desmond said without hesitation. “We’re not trying to step on toes, but we are not Orlesian or Fereleden. If we show favor for one nation over another, that will give them a reason to claim us. We are here to save the world, not play ‘who has the bigger sway’.”

Josephine and Leliana both smiled. “Good choice,” Leliana praised. “A nice statement. I think you’ll do just fine at the Game. Some of it, at least.”

“Thanks, I guess. What else do I need to know?”

“Everyone will be there,” Josephine stated. “Your inner circle and all three of us, as well as a retinue of soldiers. Skyhold will be well defended in our absence, but we will be showing a token of our might. We will all be outfitted in a similar uniform, showing our allegiance to the Inquisition, but yours will be more grand than everyone else’s, due to your status. Let me know if you have any specifications you want added.”

“We have contacted some of Sera’s Friends of Red Jenny,” Leliana continued. “The servants have agreed to smuggle in a select amount of your armor, hidden in a box. There will be time between the greeting and the official start of the ball, and that will be your time to scope out the Winter Palace and uncover the assassination plot. See what other secrets you can uncover while you’re there. You never know when blackmail on the Orlesian court will come in handy.”

Desmond nodded, thinking over who he would take with him on those excursions. He would have preferred to go alone, knowing he’d be able to get in and out without anyone noticing, but that would never fly with the Inquisition. Cole, for sure. No one in his group was as sneaky as the spirit. Solas, maybe. He wasn’t nearly as flashy as Dorian, and if they were doing a stealth mission, they’d need as much subtlety as possible. The Iron Bull would be his last companion. A spy’s eyes might catch more than Desmond’s own. He nodded again. “Alright. Any information you can give me on the layout of the Palace would be appreciated.”

“I’ll get you whatever you need,” Leliana promised. “In the meantime I would feel a bit more secure if you would allow me to teach you how to play the Game. Over half the danger in Orlais is played in speech. One wrong word could ruin our entire operation and destroy the alliance. We need to get you as prepared as we can before the ball.”

Desmond felt exhaustion at the very thought, even as the part of him that lived Edward Kenway’s life perked up in interest. “Very well. I bow to your superior judgement.” The words would have sounded sarcastic, if Desmond didn’t earnestly mean them. He might have been good at schmoozing, but weaseling tips out of drunk patrons at the bar and rubbing elbows with snobby nobles were both vastly different from a game of words and double meanings. He could admit his only charisma came from an earnestness which the Orlesians would see as weakness to be exploited, and a sarcastic wit which might be construed as an offense punishable by death. He certainly had his work cut out for him.

The meeting quickly ended after that, each of the advisors having preparations to make. Josephine stopped him before she left with a quick reminder to let the tailor know if he had any adjustments to make to his version of the uniform for the ball.

Cullen dropped a quick kiss on Desmond’s lips, giving him a charming crooked smile, “Catch you later, darling. Remember to take breaks.” A last kiss to Desmond’s forehead and he was gone, Desmond feeling his heart attempt to escape out of his chest with its rapid thudding.

He cleared his throat and turned back to the war table, finding Leliana’s gentle smile aimed his way. “I’m glad to see you so happy.” Desmond shrugged slightly uncomfortably. He’d never had anyone this invested in his relationships before, but it felt a bit nice. Not something he knew what to do with, however. Leliana stared at him a moment longer then nodded decisively. “I think you two will be good for each other.” She gathered up some papers, “I have some things to take care of, but you should consider meeting our new arcanist, Dagna, when you have a chance. She should be able to outfit you with some nice new toys.” She gave a mischievous smile and slunk out of the room.

Desmond snorted, recalling Solas’s warnings that the arcanist had been getting along with Sera. Something about arrows which turned into bees. He was rather sure that if Dagna thought that was possible, then she could easily make anything Desmond would be able to come up with. She was definitely someone he wanted to meet.

He studied the map in front of him for a bit, noting where each of his advisors’ specialized markers were placed. Sometimes it hit him with a startling clarity that none of this would be possible without the three of them. Sure, he was out there making sure the people felt his presence, fixing problems right and left, and making the final decisions, but each of his advisors had their fingers in countless pies. They made sure everything ran smoothly, preparing for every outcome and making sure the Inquisition came out on top. They were the true leaders of the Inquisition, he was simply a mascot with a little power.

It should have made him feel small, unimportant, and used, but instead he was awash in relief. Not everything was on him. Sure he had the final say and everyone rallied behind him, but he wasn’t the one who had to figure out how to run an army, how to manipulate and make allies, or how to collect information from everywhere. All of his information networks had always been on a much smaller scale, but he’d always had a team working in the background. If he ignored the sheer size of the operation they were running and his inescapable visibility to everyone, it was just work as usual. A small team of four out to save the world.

And then there was everyone else outside the war room doors. Everyone who kept them going and made the process smoother. Desmond realized he’d been so stuck in his exhaustion of having a position he’d never asked for, a new battle to fight when he’d been ready and prepared for his death and a final, blissful rest, that he’d never considered how lucky he was to have such a wonderful team. Each and every one of them, from his advisors to inner circle to the regular people serving the Inquisition for no other reason than that they believed in the cause, every single one built them to what they were today. A group who stood a chance of stopping a self-proclaimed god from his plans of world domination. Of course, he didn’t want to count his chickens before they hatched, but for what felt like the first time since coming to this world, he felt grateful and secure.

He scrubbed his hands through his hair to get his thoughts back on track. Now wasn’t the time for sentimentality. He had to get through the next several months to years, defeat Corypheus, save the world, and then, if he survived, he could cry his gratitude over every single person who helped them get through the mess. No pressure, or anything. He shook his head at himself then set out to find the tailor. He had a few ideas on how to make a statement.

The official Inquisition tailor was a lean man with a shrewd, no-nonsense face. He showed Desmond the standard uniform and nodded to Desmond’s suggestions on adjustments, putting in his two cents here and there until they had an outfit worthy of the Inquisitor, but still made his allegiances quite clear. The two of them shook hands firmly, and Desmond went on his way, off to find and meet Dagna.

Desmond found the new arcanist hunched over a table in a cavernous room, a waterfall rushing off the edge of the mountain Skyhold sat atop. The chill of the room easily combatted with massive braziers of smoldering coals and the fiery forge melting metal for weapons and armor. The blacksmith, Harritt, nodded to Desmond, and then immediately ignored his presence. Dagna herself was surrounded with what looked like the dismembered bits of some sort of machine, tinkering on at least three different projects. Sera sat on the table, just out of reach of some rock shards, her legs swinging back and forth merrily. The swishing pattern of her bright yellow leggings made his head hurt slightly. They hadn’t noticed him yet, both of them invested in their conversation.

“My point is,” Sera said, hands gesticulating wildly as an offset to her legs. “A feral nug is no match for a slime grenade.”

Desmond blinked in astonishment, but Dagna nodded her head seriously, not looking up from her makeshift magnifying glass. “They can’t attack if they can’t walk.”

“Exactly! One sticks, one slicks. Grease and shit. Nugs are gross, but grenades could stop them. I might just throw a few for fun, watch them squeal and slide.”

“Leliana might get angry,” Dagna said, a note of glee in her voice. “Not a bad idea though. I’ll see what I can make up.”

Sera giggled, “You’re the best.” She looked over and noticed Desmond’s approach. “Oh! Desie! What do you think is scarier: a rampaging feral nug or a person shaped tree?”

“Uh,” Desmond started, unsure what to continue that with.

“Because,” Sera didn’t even seem to notice him floundering, “a nug is just a little gross pink thing but a person-tree in the dark can scare the shite outta you. Bam! Person. Lotsa ways to stop a nug, but what do you do with a heart attack?”

Desmond shrugged, deciding to go with it. “I’d say the nug though.” Sera grimaced and shook her head, but Desmond was warming up to the topic. “No, listen, a single bite from a feral nug and you’re looking at rabies, which could spread to others. Plus, nugs are surprisingly smart and slippery. I wouldn’t want to set one loose in Skyhold.”

Sera scrunched her nose, but Dagna swirled around on her chair and nodded. “Fair point. I’m Dagna, by the way. Inquisitor Desmond, right? You’ve got the hand.” Desmond greeted her in return, internally despairing about the glowing hand. No such thing as anonymity with a magical shine which couldn’t be hidden by any known means. “So, what brings you to my little cave? Need anything?”

“Kind of. I wanted to meet you, welcome you to Skyhold even if I’m a few weeks too late. I was also curious about what sort of things you can do.”

Dagna grinned, “Oh! All sorts of things. Most people think runes are pretty boring and beholden to specific rules, but they just don’t have imagination. Let me know what you’re interested in trying, and I’ll see if I can find a way to make it!”

Desmond thought for a moment, then rolled up his sleeves and unlatched his hidden blades. He’d tried his best to make them seamless and take care of them, but they were by no means perfect. “What can you do with these?”

Sera leaned forward in interest, wide elven eyes growing bigger with glee. “Arm knives! Why didn’t I think of that?”

Dagna grabbed the blades and turned them every which way, examining the mechanisms. “Well, I can work with Harritt to make it much less bulky. Smoother glide. Hmm, maybe some electric currents or poison vials hidden within.” She hummed to herself, voice getting quieter as ideas ran past her eyes. “Oh! That’s a cool idea.” Dagna turned to him and grinned. “I hope you can go a few days without these. I’m going to make something really nice, just for you Inquisitor.” She gently set the blades on her work table and Desmond felt the loss of their comforting weight acutely. “Do you want anything else? I heard you use a bow! I can make you some cool arrows and a fancy bow.”

“Do you think you could make a bow that could turn into a sword? And I’d like these.” He pulled out a list of weapons and arrow types he’d been working on ever since he learned about various things runes could do.

“Easy,” Dagna said quickly, eyes barely skimming the page. “It will all be ready before your trip.” She took a closer look at the list, an ecstatic grin lighting up her face, “I think we’ll get along nicely, Inquisitor.”

Sera peeked at the list and cackled.

Chapter Text

Desmond’s ancestors had, on special occasions, worn fancy outfits. Through the Animus, Desmond had also donned the finery of nobility, although he himself had never been in the right situation to dress up. He’d never gone to a wedding, school dance, or to church. He couldn’t recall a single time on Earth where he’d worn a full suit. Perhaps there were one or two times where business casual was the dress code, but for the most part, it had been t-shirts, jeans, and hoodies.

Since coming to Thedas, he had been stuffed in a variety of outfits to show his status, but none had been as opulent and eye-catching as his ensemble to the Winter Palace. White on white with stripes of red like blood, dripping down the lines of his corset vest and accentuating the length of his lean body. The stylists had refused him a shirt to go under the tight, whale-bone material, claiming that the indecent dip of the collar was mandatory to make an impression. A white coat billowed behind him, a deep red satin lining the inside to match the color of the intricate metallic swirls trailing up his sleeves with a single red glove covering his right hand, drawing further attention to the left with the Anchor glowing its ghostly green.

The stylists had poked and prodded his messy, oddly grown hair into an artfully tousled look, the natural wave adding a regality to the outfit. Desmond had never felt so objectified in his life. He drew on Ezio’s glutinous attention seeking attributes from his younger years so that Desmond didn’t cower away from all the lustful stares. Cullen’s audible gulp when Desmond walked within eyesight made it a little bit less of an act.

“You uh,” Cullen cleared his throat, pink blossoming along his face. “You look very... good.” He finished lamely.

Desmond grinned and leaned in for a slightly indecent kiss. “And you look stunning,” he replied. It was true though. The Inquisition uniform might not have been as big of a statement nor as eye-catching, but the white collared shirt under the deep red almost military blazer looked incredibly flattering on Cullen, drawing attention to his posture and muscled form. He looked at home and comfortable in a suit, likely more so because he blended in with the other Inquisition members than due to any regularity in dressing up.

Their colors were an inverted match, with Desmond’s working as a ploy to gain as much attention as possible while also a nod to his armor he’d worn around Thedas- white with red accents. Cullen was meant to blend into the machine, a single cog to the working whole, no more or less important than the others. Desmond knew it was all part of the Orlesian Game, but a part of him rankled at relegating each of his unique and individual inner circle members to a background mass of obscurity; important enough to be present, but not enough to leave an impression. All of the attention would be on Desmond, and a large part of himself withered into dust at the horrors of observation he was about to undergo. But the strict lessons with Leliana the past three and a half weeks had done wonders, and he hid every emotion behind a facade of peace and jovial regality.

Cullen’s eyes searched Desmond’s face, easily picking out the falsity. He smoothed a thumb along Desmond’s cheek and gave a half smile, “You got this, my dear. It’s one day, then you can find the highest building in Halamshiral and hide away. I’ll make sure no one bothers you.”

Desmond’s forced smile became a softer, fonder thing. He didn’t know if anyone had ever known him as well as Cullen. Or if they had, they certainly hadn’t seen his insecurities and fear, instead focusing on the strength to pull through. No one had tried to protect him, or give him space the way Cullen had. Their relationship was still relatively new, but Desmond felt a security he hadn’t in a very long time. “Thank you,” he spoke with an overwhelming gratitude, the force of which nearly bowled him over. He wasn’t just thanking Cullen for the promised escape.

His Commander, ever the astute observer, noticed immediately. He brought their foreheads together for a beat and then pulled away, his thumb trailing one last arch against Desmond’s cheek before withdrawing.

They went their separate ways, and Desmond rebuilt his mask from the shattered remnants of his momentary vulnerability. Jaw set, then released, he relaxed into a lazy, loose-limbed posture with danger poised in his muscles, but an air of self-importance. Josephine and Leliana had beat into his head the importance of every movement. The plan was for him to waltz in with an arrogance the unintelligent would underestimate, while the astute would see the sharp edges underneath. A tease to competence lurking below the swagger.

Those who were not worth the Inquisition’s time would see him as nothing but a puppet leader, one to be manipulated. The nobles Leliana and Josephine would descend on with offers of alliance were the ones who regarded Desmond with wary approval and recognized there was something to be gained from true partnership.

He was no longer Desmond, but the Inquisitor. There would be no room for his true personality in the halls of the Winter Palace. Within one breath and the next, a master of the Game was born, and he was ready to play.

The Inquisition’s agents strolled into the front gardens of the Winter Palace, Desmond leading his party of six. Directly behind him were his three advisors, and behind them marched the companions he had carefully chosen for this mission. He could hear the gasps of awe and scandal as the crowds milling about the lawns noticed their entrance.

Desmond had chosen Cole, Solas, and The Iron Bull to accompany him as a statement to their inclusion of everyone willing to help. A sign that the Breach and Corypheus were a threat to everyone in Thedas, not just the upper class humans.

The first conversation of the evening was a greasy interaction with Empress Celene’s cousin, Duke Gaspard. The man implied several times that he would be a better ruler than Celene because Orlais needed a “militant mind” during these wartimes. Of course Gaspard would never be so gauche as to directly say he was organizing a coup, but as Desmond later snooped through the locked corridors and sniffed out the palace secrets on Leliana’s suggestion, he learned that this masquerade was anything but a benign event.

Spies, coups, assassinations. Servants whispered in hidden alcoves ripe for eavesdropping and parchments of plans collected for future blackmail purposes. Layers of subtle maneuverings Desmond easily uncovered with a liberal use of Eagle Vision until he had the full picture.

Duke Gaspard had planned a surprise military takeover, which Empress Celene had discovered through seduction. She had planned to make a fool of her cousin, all while in the background, Celene’s ex-lover, Briala, had her elven spies pulling the strings. None of them were the assassin Desmond was looking for, but with the political climate reaching the boiling point, he knew he had to do something to stabilize the throne. If he didn’t, Orlais would still be under threat of Corypheus easily finding the means to swoop in and take control.

Each and every option Desmond could think of to fix things had the potential to make it worse. On one hand, Celene being Empress had gotten everything to this point, and yes, he could find a way to force her to grow a spine and stand up to the pressure for the betterment of her people, but that would equate to babysitting. Negotiating peace between the three leaders would work in the short term, but each of their ideals for what is ‘best’ varied wildly, and that would be like putting a bandage on a dam; temporary and ineffective. Allowing Celene to die to make room for Gaspard would be helpful for dealing with Corypheus, but would, in the long run, be detrimental to Orlais. The man wasn’t built for the subtleties of the Game, and would be quickly run out or killed, as Desmond saw it. Ideally, he would let Briala rule alone, but no one would stand for an elf ruling their country.

That left him with one choice.

Desmond watched dispassionately as Florianne de Chalons, the sister of Duke Gaspard and cousin to the Empress, shoved a knife into Celene’s back and declared Orlais as a friend to The Elder One. Desmond swaggered into the ballroom in his battle armor with a dramatically slow clap.

“How plebian of you, Florianne, falling prey to a disillusioned darkspawn’s lies,” he tutted with a disappointed head shake as Florianne’s eyes widened.

“You’re supposed to be dead!” She cried out.

“And you’re supposed to be good at the Game, but look at you now, so inelegant.”

Florianne gathered herself and attacked him with swift violence. He commanded his companions to stand down and met her blade for blade in single combat. Desmond knew he shouldn’t play with his food, but this was as much a show for the nobility as it was a fight. In true Orleasian fashion, he tore her spirit down with pointed comments about her stance and missed blows until she was hesitating and wasting precious seconds on doubt. When even the untrained eye could see her falter, that was when Desmond disarmed her and drew the battle to a close.

Inquisition soldiers clapped her in iron shackles to the voiced approval of the crowd, and after a theatrical bow, Desmond gathered Gaspard and Briala onto a private balcony. After all the manipulation and sneaking, it was surprisingly easy work to broker a peace between the two enemies, with Gaspard sitting on the throne of Orlais and Briala pulling the strings of the political scene the now-Emperor couldn’t be bothered with.

Midnight found Desmond outside the palace conversing with the court magician, Morrigan, and wishing for the night to be over. Perhaps sensing his exhaustion, she made her case quickly, offering her considerable knowledge to the Inquisition, and then bowing out with promises to talk later.

After her departure, Desmond hunched over the balcony and gazed into the mage-lit grounds below. The night breeze was a welcome distraction from the heat inside the Winter Palace. All day he had been tense and worried, but now he was taking a moment to breathe, even as Morrigan’s words echoed in his mind. He shook his head, trying to expel the thoughts and just live in the moment, looking out at the beautiful gardens and trying not to dwell.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen’s voice greeted softly. Desmond didn’t turn to look, hoping, perhaps in vain, that his Commander didn’t need him for anything. He just wanted to rest. Cullen came over and leaned on the balcony next to Desmond. The Assassin didn’t say anything, just studying the handsome blond man out of the corner of his eye, tracing Cullen’s stunning profile. “Today was quite something,” Cullen said slightly awkwardly. “I finally managed to escape the attentions of the dowagers. Thanks, by the way, for leaving me to their tender mercies.”

Desmond snorted, “You looked like you were having fun.”

Cullen shot him a dirty look, “You know, I once thought you were a nice person.”

“Ah,” Desmond nodded solemnly, “that was your first mistake.”

They both cracked smiles at each other, and Cullen drew closer to Desmond, their arms brushing. A moment of comfortable silence passed between them, listening to the music filtering through the open windows. Desmond gazed at the stars, still stunned by how vibrant and different they were from Earth’s own.

Cullen cleared his throat softly and stepped away. Desmond turned to watch as Cullen held out his hand in invitation. “May I have this dance?”

Desmond couldn’t help the eruption of butterflies in his stomach any more than he could stop the besotted grin from growing. “I would love nothing more.”

Though it was less a dance and more of a swaying hug, Desmond couldn’t imagine a better end to this nightmare of an evening.

Chapter Text

Desmond brought them stumbling into one of the numerous guest rooms he’d discovered during his exploration of the Winter Palace. The door had barely enough time to click closed before he was shoving Cullen against it and following with his lips.

“You have no idea,” Cullen panted between bruising kisses, “no idea what you do to me.” Desmond bit Cullen’s lip lightly, dragging it with him before he looked into Cullen’s eyes and smirked.

“Tell me,” he demanded, and then swooped in to start mouthing at Cullen’s neck while deftly undoing the intricate clasps separating him from warm skin. Cullen moaned and reached for Desmond’s clothes, but Desmond grabbed his hands and pressed them against the door. “No.”

Cullen’s eyes sparked with heat. “Fuck,” he moaned like it was punched out of him. “You’re so--” he cut himself off as Desmond resumed his attack. “Watching you play everyone here with your charm and deadly grace, Maker, I wanted to have you. Wanted to leave you marked up so everyone knows you aren’t theirs.” He panted as Desmond finally had unfettered access to Cullen’s chest, which he took full advantage of with lips and teeth and seeking hands. “When you walked out of your tent dressed like that,” Cullen continued between breathy exhalations, “I wanted to drag you back in, mess up your perfectly styled hair.”

Desmond straightened up and looked Cullen in the eye, “Then do it.” And then in one swift movement, he dropped to his knees.

“Maker,” Cullen whispered, hands immediately flying into Desmond’s hair and gripping like he would die if he let go. Desmond hummed appreciatively and took Cullen’s cock into his mouth without hesitation. Despite the years that had passed since the last time he did this, he knew exactly what to do; how to lick, suck, and swallow at the most sensitive places until Cullen was a moaning mess with every muscle pulled taut.

Desmond dragged his mouth off, and with a last, almost vicious suck to the head, he stood, ignoring Cullen’s whine and started undoing his own elaborate outfit while Cullen caught his breath, eyes closed. He had removed the coat and was halfway through unstrapping the corset vest when Cullen finally opened his eyes, a blazing heat turning his gaze dark. Desmond caught his stare and smirked. “I want you to fuck me.”

Within one blink and the next, he found himself on his back with Cullen’s bare body crushing into his own, fabric catching on skin. “Get these off,” Cullen was muttering to himself, barely audible beyond their combined harsh breathing. They both plucked at each other’s clothes, eager hands getting in the way and hindering more than helping, but Desmond couldn’t imagine not touching Cullen. Eventually, there was nothing separating their bodies, and Cullen’s hands were everywhere. Desmond could barely breathe beyond the pleasure lighting up every nerve. Cullen found sensitive spots Desmond had never been aware of having, and he arched into every caress.

His body was already littered with marks, and he knew there would be more by the time they were finished. The thought had him squirming over to his abandoned pants, searching impatiently for the lubricant he had squirrelled away when the attendants hadn’t been looking.

Cullen panted as he kneeled astride Desmond’s thighs, an astounded look on his face. “You carried that with you all day?”

Desmond rose up and kissed Cullen, handing the lube over. “I like to be prepared. And I was hopeful.”

“Fuck, that’s kind of hot.” Cullen’s eyes were wide and overwhelmed. “The thought of you battling all day and yet thinking of us like this...” He trailed off and cupped the back of Desmond’s neck. “You amaze me.”

Desmond’s insides turned into fuzzy mush. “You are so precious to me,” he admitted. They stared into each other’s eyes for a moment, and then Desmond nudged Cullen’s side. “So, are you going to fuck me or not?”

Cullen grinned a charming, boyish thing. “Well, with an invitation like that, how could I refuse?” He dove in for another searing kiss, and Desmond quickly lost sense of time while in the haze of pleasure. Cullen spread Desmond out on the bed between kisses, and Desmond was barely aware of Cullen situating himself between Desmond’s thighs and stuffing a pretentiously embroidered pillow under Desmond’s hips.

The air was saturated with heat, and Desmond could barely breathe as Cullen rubbed Desmond’s hole with slick fingers until he relaxed and ached with need.

“Tell me what to do,” Cullen murmured, eyes glued to where his hand was moving between them.

Desmond had completely forgotten that he was Cullen’s only experience with a man. Desmond hiked a leg around Cullen’s waist and dragged him forward until Cullen lost his balance and had to catch himself with his spare hand. “One at a time,” Desmond advised. “It’s been a while, so go slow.” Cullen’s eyebrows furrowed in concentration as his fingers poked and prodded until one sank into Desmond. He moaned and brought Cullen’s head down for a kiss. “Don’t think so much. Let yourself feel it.”

Cullen swallowed heavily, eyes searching for something within Desmond’s face. He must have found it, because he swooped down and captured Desmond’s lips as his finger started moving. Desmond clung to Cullen’s back as one finger became an exploratory two, became three, punching in and out of him. Cullen’s aim was immaculate, and once he found Desmond’s prostate, he was relentless until Desmond was almost sobbing with pleasure.

He pulled his fingers out, and Desmond took a much-needed breath. He mustered up his strength and flipped them so Desmond was straddling Cullen’s hips. He stared heatedly as Cullen’s face rapidly turned from surprise into a blazing lust. Desmond easily sank down on Cullen’s cock, feeling complete at the way his insides stretched to accommodate the size. He took a moment to allow them both to come back from that edge, and then he was moving.

Cullen’s hands flew to Desmond’s hips and gripped so tightly that Desmond knew he had just gained a few more marks on his skin. The thought made him move faster, chasing his pleasure. Cullen braced his feet against the bed and started thrusting up as Desmond dropped down, burying himself deeper until Desmond felt mindless with the fullness.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Cullen groaned. Desmond watched through hazy vision as Cullen reached for Desmond’s cock. “I could do this forever.”

Desmond had no idea how Cullen was able to speak, and clearly, he wasn’t doing his job right. He started grinding his hips in circles every time he dropped down, relishing in the way Cullen closed his eyes with a loud moan. He wasn’t able to keep it up for very long with the dual sensation of Cullen’s hand on his cock and Cullen reaching so deep inside of him, hitting his prostate until it was tender.

He reached that precipice quicker than he would have hoped, agreeing with Cullen that he wanted to stay like this forever. And then he was coming, vision whiting out and body an exposed nerve. He distantly felt Cullen turn them over and chase his own release in Desmond’s clenching body.

Desmond opened his eyes just in time to see Cullen throw his head back with a groan and still his movements, hot cum filling Desmond’s ass. They panted in the sudden quiet, and then Cullen pulled out and dropped to the bed next to Desmond with a disbelieving chuckle.

Desmond smiled up at the ceiling, tired and sated and incredibly satisfied. He turned his head to see Cullen grinning dopily at him. “Five minutes?”

Cullen huffed out a laugh and brought a hand to stroke the side of Desmond’s face. “Give me ten.”

“Old man,” Desmond said as he burrowed himself into Cullen’s side. Despite his words, he wasn’t in a rush. Not this time.

Chapter Text

The Western Approach was one of Desmond’s least favorite areas that he’d been to in Thedas, right up there with the Storm Coast. He had the benefit of Altair’s memories on how to survive in the sandy wastelands, but that hadn’t prepared him for the reality of it, paired with the near-constant attacks from darkspawn and ferocious wildlife.

Even Hawke’s presence didn’t change much, especially when he led them to a ruin occupied by a magister from Tevinter who was using Grey Wardens in a blood ritual to summon demons. At least the man’s over-inflated ego provided them with a decent amount of information before he sicced his pet demons on them and scurried away like the rat he was. After the rather simple, if distracting, battle was over, Desmond crouched down to examine the Grey Warden bodies.

“Well, now we know where all the Wardens went,” Hawke said with palpable disdain. “And we know it wasn’t against their will.”

Cassandra held a hand to her forehead and sighed deeply. “This bodes ill. If every warden is summoning demons and being controlled by Corypheus, it’s no wonder you saw a demon army in that future. Recruits have been flooding into the Order since the end of the Blight. Who can say how many of them there are?”

“Think of the positives, Seeker,” Varric spoke up with false joviality.

“Like what.”

Varric blanched for a second, and Desmond huffed out a strained laugh, standing from his crouch. “Well, for one,” he answered for Varric, “we now know how to stop them, sort of. And we know where they’ll be.” He held up a note he’d pilfered from one of the bodies. “Adamant Fortress, signed by Warden Commander Clarell.”

After that, Hawke quickly volunteered to scope out the place while Desmond sent a raven to Skyhold with the command to ready their forces for a full-scale invasion of the fortress. Desmond and his team cleared one of the larger ruins and commandeered it as a base camp for the Inquisition to have a presence in the Western Approach.

There wasn’t much else to do there, aside from killing a dragon for research and a few odds and ends quests. Desmond still relished the adrenaline rush he got when fighting a dragon, but even that wore off quickly in the face of the blistering heat and sand getting in every crevice of his armor until he was uncomfortably and unwillingly exfoliated with each step.

It was almost a blessing traveling east to deal with the red lyrium farms in Emprise du Lion. Almost. As soon as the weather turned cold and icy, Desmond and his team were shivering with every breath, even with the heavy fur cloaks Scout Harding had supplied to them.

“I was not built for this weather,” Dorian complained for the one hundredth time in the past hour. “Tevinter is warm, nothing like this barbaric wasteland.”

“Maker, would you shut up?” Cassandra groaned between chattering teeth. “We’re all cold.”

Desmond breathed in the frosty air and tried to settle himself. Everyone’s nerves were frayed, not only from the icy tundra, but also knowing what they were headed to. They’d been hearing rumors from villages they passed as well as actual information from the Inquisition spies; the Red Templars were kidnapping people and taking them to Emprise du Lion. This, paired with the notes they’d found concerning the red lyrium farms, did not bode well for anyone.

When they finally reached the little village, Sahrnia, at the base of the mountains, they were met with suspicion and mostly empty houses. The weeping and the fearful dotted around in far fewer numbers than was natural.

The leader of the town was a no-nonsense lady with ambitious determination shining behind her eyes. She hadn’t allowed the Inquisition to set up camp inside the village borders, but she did tell them a little of the situation. Mostly, that they’d had a few brave souls attempt to figure out what was happening in the mountains, but none had returned.

“It’s up to you if you pursue this,” she said, looking down her nose at them. “But make sure not to implicate me in your attempts. We have enough problems without retaliation.”

Something about her seemed off to Desmond. Nothing concrete, just a feeling compounded by the way she looked sad but not shocked at the state of her village. The determination behind her eyes said she would do anything, and yet she was, in a roundabout way, warning them against going up the mountain. Desmond wanted to believe she was concerned for their safety, but he knew that wasn’t true.

He left that meeting with a heavy heart, sickened by his thoughts and hoping he was incorrect in his assumptions.

Regardless of what was happening behind the scenes, their first step was capturing Suledin Keep. The Red Templars used it as a base camp, and Desmond wanted to take it from them. Before they arrived at the gates, they were waylaid by a young man calling himself Michel de Chevin. He spoke with a heavy Orleasian accent as he tripped over an angry request to end the life of the demon Imshael.

“I cannot make it past the Templars on my own,” he spoke with frustration. “There are too many, and while I can fight well enough, my target is Imshael, and I cannot be killed before he is gone. Please,” he looked seconds away from dropping to his knees in supplication. “I did a terrible thing. The least I can do is try to end Imshael’s life. Please help me get to him.”

Desmond looked the boy over and nodded. “It just so happens that I was headed for the Keep anyway. You can tag along, but tell me what happened.”

And thus, as they made their way to Suledin Keep, Michel de Chevin spun a tale of treachery and massacre, of being deceived over and over again by this demon. “I didn’t know,” he said, voice choked, “I thought breaking the binding circle would send him back into the Fade, but he tricked me. He killed them all.” The destruction of a whole clan of elves, save one, who was then possessed by Imshael and sowed discontent and betrayal. “Imshael needs to die.” Michel ended his story with finality as the group reached the Keep’s gates.

“I don’t disagree with you,” Desmond started carefully, “but are you sure you’re able to do it?”

Michel looked at him, offence clear on his face. “Of course! He needs to die, and I need to repent.”

Desmond chewed on what he was going to say. “Yes. But can you resist his deceptions? Nothing in your story shows that you can.”

Michel’s jaw dropped open at Desmond’s bluntness, and Desmond tried not to wince. But this man, barely appearing out of his teen years, was more of a liability in his emotional state. Desmond understood where Michel was coming from, and he knew that a part of Michel would not rest until he knew for certain that Imshael was gone, but he also didn’t want to deal with the consequences if Michel fell to the demon’s charms.

“I swear to you I have researched all I can about desire demons in my time hunting down Imshael. I will not be lured in so easily this time.”

Desmond sighed. “Alright then. Let’s go.”

Breaking in through the gates was easy work, same with killing the first wave of Templars. Michel mostly hung in the back, which suited Desmond and his team just fine. Varric, Cassandra, and Dorian worked like a well-oiled machine at this point despite all of their bickering outside of combat, and he didn’t want to disrupt that.

Deeper into the Keep was where they found some truly horrific scenes. Giants dead in cages, red lyrium growing out of their corpses, and singing a haunting tune Desmond could just barely hear. A part of him wanted to lean closer, listen for the words he knew the lyrium was singing to him, but he was able to tamp that down easily enough. The temptation was nowhere near as strong as holding a Piece of Eden. More than once, he had to pull his companions away when they stepped too close.

Aside from the giants, they found huge clusters of the corrupted lyrium surrounding dead faces or with limbs sticking out. Desmond didn’t dare loot anything from the Keep for fear it was tainted by sheer proximity.

“I think we should burn this place to the ground,” he decided after their third room, which looked more like a house of horrors than whatever it was initially supposed to be. “There is no saving it from the corruption here. Maybe a nice explosion will do this Keep some good.”

“I know a guy,” Varric said in wary agreement. “Great with explosives. I’ll get in touch when we get out of here.” They came upon a red lyrium-infested giant, and Varric amended his statement. “If we get out of here.” Then, it was to battle yet again.