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Chapter Text

The Herald of Andraste was born out of more than just smoke and fire. He was born out of a tear in the sky . To the reverence of burning corpses as an audience. To the song of demons freed into maddening reality as a choir. The death of the divine, her holiness, as a mother itself.

If this news hadn’t been reality , if it had been written in a book as a tale of fantasy, the chantry would have ordered it burned before a second print.

The proclaimed Herald of Andraste is a beast of a man: what could be wholly expected of the birth that brought him to the forefront of a nation in turmoil. Of course, such a catastrophe would birth a demon calling itself maker blessings . 

The Herald of Andraste was a beast- a Qunari. A beast of a Qunari . A Tal-vashoth, they say. 

(Is that better or worse, for the chantry? A betrayer of the foreign religious power? A man who’s turned on his people, on his beliefs?)

He’s a foreign picture painted on the cover of a tragedy. A mural that inspired fear and armageddon. And like any mural, any painting, it’s the coloring- the pigment, the shading, the vibrancy- which people remember of him. Painted- colorful, bright, like a demon , painted like something strange . 

There’s patchy hair, unshaven and unkempt in the beard. And longer hair, cut uneven and messy and twisted and pinned to the back of the head. But it’s red like the Qunari aren't meant to be. Red-orange, ginger and hot, hot like the same fires and embers and explosions and nightmares that overwhelmed the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Deep, bright, and overrun with violent reds like maddened lyrium, painted in fire and blood, like the demons that inspired and swarmed his birth.

There’s rolling muscle, and broad shoulders; but there's also ashen grey, dark, like half burned charcoal. He’s as dark as Qunari come, and it’s like a reminder of the burning of the conclave, as though he was made from the smoke and crumbled ash. He is the shockwaves of the detonation, and the singed bodies bowed before the death that would ravish them. He is the burns that raked the corpses and the smoke that poured from holy lives sent asunder.

There’s arching horns, swept back, long and broad and firm and unyielding; black as the singe that marks every stone and cliff in the place they had found him after a massacre. They are worn down, worn in- ancient, ancient looking things with no points. Maybe sanded down with intention, maybe broken off, maybe slowly and painstaking worn by countless chips and grinding on surfaces. Deep black things, crossed with ashen-grey scoring.

There’s much . There’s looming, leering height and there's width of muscle and firm bones. If you listen to whispers- there's sharp teeth and claws, hidden by tight lipped expressions and thick gloves. There’s large hands, broad palms soaked in blood and ash. There's flashes and sparks and smolders of green , a color which Thedas is learning to hate and fear in spades as rips and tears form in the fabric of nothing. There's the fade , there’s the veil , there’s the rifts , there’s the breach in his palm. What more than a demon could warp and toy with the veil?

It’s a painting of a monster: a demon. Reds and Greens and Greys and Blacks. 

And then there’s Purple.

There’s the eyes . 

People who haven't met the Herald of Andraste know him by the other colors. The charcoal and fire and fade bleed into their minds and paint the picture in sharp shadows and nightmare and power unleashed. That which can be seen from a distance, that which can be inspired from a fast glance on a battlefield, that which can be lauded terrible and frightening and awful. Those that have never known the demon herald will say he’s the red of spilled life or the green of the void or black of flash-burned flesh.

But the people who have met Kaayras Adaar know him by the color of purple . The sweep of his gaze, a vibrant violet, brighter than any color bled into his image. 

Like his reds, purple is a very unusual color for a Qunari, but so is he all. The variety of color found in the Qunari eye is as wide as nature calls it: yellows and greens and browns and muted ambers and blues both pale and deep. The Qunari kin, who come in coastal colors, a people of the seas, of rocky shores and washed out waves and storming skies. 

Still, he’s there. His hair, sharp and bright where the Qunari know their storm greys, deep blacks, pale whites, or even muted browns- but he is hot with rouge color. Even his skin, dark as the stone shores, dark as the ashes , is clouded with faint color : patterning of freckles, warm dots of color between each scar and char. Still he is here: with his warm scattered sparks, seeping hot reds and his ghostly violet edges. Unusual and colorful.

People who’ve actually met this messiah, they remember the violet of his gaze if it falls upon them, and if it doesn't, they still remember it. The eyes of onlookers are drawn to that brightness of the iris, so unnatural, by the rest of the purple.

Smooth amethyst, not so sharp as the eyes, not so ghostly. But bright and colorful all the same. A million painted expressions, ever changing, brushed over the skin. The painting comes in a hundred forms.

Fast, imprecise: a streak not unlike a handprint smeared across the face, when he’s seen looking not unlike the demon he is in the midst of a battle. Battles he didn’t expect, a rush of paint on hardening skin in the last seconds, streaked over shapes already painted on. 

Or full, powerful warpaint expressions: covering most of the face, a painted armor around the eyes and nose and ears, shapes intimidating and strong and stylistic to something only Qunari in style, geometric and expressive. Seen when standing battlefields with Inquisition backing, pacing through open battlefields and arriving to war-torn sites of rebellion and civil unrest. Prepared and ready like his war-race so often is when they arrive on the scene of to-be battle, to-be massacure, to-be conversion.

And gentler paintings of purple. 

Smooth and artistic; simpler. Less paint on the skin, less an armor , more of a picture. Clean shapes and careful strokes, for standing with the folk of Haven, where they clamor for his attention, for the attention of the Herald of Andraste . For meetings with visitors, allies, representatives, pilgrims , people come to see the chosen of Andraste’s mercy. 

Detailed, intricate, shapeless and fine, spreading and sprawling like script and curling along features. Like a hand-painted Vallaslin or lovingly stitched tapestry. Impressed upon the skin in polite company, daring to set foot in Civil cities and high towns, daring to step foot in a chantry building. Not an armor at all; a fancy make up, an accessory, an artistic expression neigh fashion.

Purple, always purple.

They call that the Vitaar, and it’s a mask only meant for the Qunari. A toxic paint that hardens the skin of the warrior, poison at prolonged contact for anyone else. It comes in all colors, but Kaayras Adaar only makes violet , and it cannot be a mistake in that the color always falls within shades of his natural purple gaze. It's the eyes- it's the eyes and the paint, and the color of Lilac, Amethyst, Orchid and Lavender which people remember.

He’s known for the purples that capture his expression, capture the wandering eye, and for crafting it with his own hands. An ever-evolving recipe of paint-like paste, an acrylic concoction with defining ingredients of a deadly variety: Dragon Blood, Snake Venom, Deep Mushroom, Felicidus Aria, Deathroot, Iron powders, Mercury fluid. Alchemists and Herbalists and Doctors alike marvel at the lists of spontaneous ingredients that end up ground in mortar for a face paint , and ferret in constant rumor of a secret ingredient that ties the various poisons into Vitaar. 

The running rumor, the running joke , is that the secret to the Violet Vitaar is the Royal Elfroot in which Kaayras Adaar mixes into most of his paint concoctions despite the ever-changing recipe. That the key might be a healing plant, that it is the Royal Elfroot which solidifies all of these killing concoctions into a working Vitaar. 

A Herbalist will tell you that’s ludicrous. An Alchemist will tell you there’s likely a couple specific, shared elements or compounds in each poison that activates in the skin of a Qunari. That maybe the Royal Elfroot is for Color, or for stability of the mix.

His companions might tell you the real secret was Rosemary.

Still, people like to whisper that it’s the Royal Elfroot.

People like to whisper.

Whisper about burnt bodies and red glowing crystals. Whisper about horns and red hair and piercing eyes. Whisper about purifying poisons made with Royal Elfroot and holy hands. Whisper about purple-lined stares and poison-painted lips which surely may give a kiss of death.

On first sight, of large and powerful and dangerous, people knew a monster, a foreigner, a heretic.

But it was when they saw the purple painted on that face did they know for sure: Kaayras Adaar, Herald of Andraste.

Chapter Text

Cassandra is a faithful woman. She questions, of course, but everyone does in a position like hers. Or at the very least, should .

It’d be of more worry if someone who’d seen as much of the world as she had didn't question the order of things. It would be painful- more than painful, just intolerable- to simply accept the suffering of the world, to only think it was as the maker willed it to be, without a moment of question. Woe might be the woman in her shoes if she didn't question death, despair, and hate.

One thing that had never made Cassandra question her faith was the Herald- and by the Herald, she would mean the specificity of who he is . 

Maybe she questioned if he was a Herald . Maybe she questioned if it was Andraste herself that saved his life at the conclave- why would she save him , when Andraste could have just saved the divine : a faithful woman, a servant to what was right… 

This was a question that often plagued Cassandra, for certainty. 

Surely Justinia was worthy, was deserving- why a mercenary ? Why a man with no connection to a chantry, or to either mages or templars, or even a connection to Thedas ? Why send someone with no connection at all to the major problems at hand, to solve the problems of countries he and his kin had no hand in? 

Why him , when a woman who had dedicated her life to the people, with the power and will to help, had been in the same catastrophe? Why him, why not Justinia?

Why not any one else- among the hundreds of lives lost, pitious templars who had worked in the order since their youth, or a clandestine mage gifted to them to uplift the nightmares? 

Why him? Was it even him, or was it someone else they didn't see yet sent to help them, and they were the blind lead by the blind? 

Had anyone been delivered to them in a time of crisis at all? Had the Maker stayed his hand or reached out to them, or had Andraste sent them a beating heart? Had anyone been listening as all those souls burned to ash and smoke and hellfire?

These were things Cassandra questioned. These were questions that ran in her mind, starting with the first time she heard the words Herald of Andraste . And they had run rampant first with rage and disbelief for a time, but even now they plague her nearly a month into their cause. These questions, these doubts, continued to plague her, gentler, more searching, longing… but not any quieter.

She did not, unlike other faithful, question him - his position - for what he was . 

Questioned why him, but, not question because of him entirely. 

Why Kaayras Adaar, why not Justinia, she had asked. 

Not why a man, not why a Qunari, not why a hired killer, not why an oxman.

Not why a demon . She had never asked that .

(If Andraste had truly sent them a blessed heart, who would Cassandra be to condem her champion for being not Human? Who was she question Andraste and the Maker, to suggest they had made the wrong choice, that they should have saved Justinia? Who was anyone to say they had chosen the wrong servant merely because he had horns?)

The Orlesian Chantry were some of the most difficult to deal with in this manner. When they were somewhat understandably aghast with him in Val Royeaux, leading a rival power Inquisition they would not support- they were disgusted with everything . His taste in fashion , or lack of flowery, scented fragrances , or lack of lace and white and gilding . They commented on his physique and the shape of his face and the size and shape of him with anywhere between pity and disgust, for his indelicate appearance . Petty grievances that only served to provide an angle in which to snide over, for the purpose of alienation. And yet, when they were not doing such blasted, asinine, meaningless things, they were damning him for worse . 

Perhaps Cassandra’s first dedications came to faith, came to order, came to truth. She served those things first, before all others. But her unofficial Inquisitor (leading them from the start, even if he wasn't The Inquisitor to those outside the inquisition yet ), her Herald (if that was what he was, if she hoped to believe such a thing, as he had been exactly what the needed when they needed it thus far) - was a friend, if she dared think so in quiet moments. 

As much a friend as anyone around Cassandra these days. She found herself surrounded by apostates and criminals and all else- why not a friend in one lone, quiet Qunari who was only incidentally heretical? He was a friend, as much so as anyone else in the Inquisition. As much so as the divine’s silent, violent shadow; the other hand held poised in the dark.

But also, he was a leader, and a hope for the future, and a Herald of Faith, if Cassandra did not feel particularly comfortable with a personal connections like friend . All of that would be enough to stand by him, even if she didn't consider him a friend in the making. 

In stoic assertion of independence, Cassandra had had to make this argument with herself before; and Cassandra was very much aware of her habit of using such a distancing tactic. She was not blind to her own behavior, not ignorant of her faults. But even if she did not want to acknowledge him, personally, as a companion and friend- he was many other things.

He was the last hope of a sky torn asunder. He was a sturdy, steadfast light. He was without animosity, in the face of waring, sharp edges in civil unrest. Where all answers were gray areas, blends of right and wrong, somehow there was Kaayras Adaar- and his needling eyes, straying in the direction of a path worth walking. However difficult a path to follow, always a good one, a humane one, a sound one in the end.

Whatever he was- a friend, to truth- a leader, to order- her herald, to faith - whatever Kaayras Adaar was… He was by no account a demon .

Cassandra had known demons. In the shape of monstrosity, ended at the edge of her sword. In the shape of man, capable of the unnamable horrors both behind closed doors and in plain sight.

She was disquieted by the comparisons of demon to friend, leader, herald, Kaayras Adaar.

Kaayras was a calm, relaxed man. He observed confrontation or conversations in quiet, unless spoken to, spoken of, spoken at.

Honest to a fault, as well. Which made using the “Herald of Andraste” position most difficult for Cassandra and the other advisors; when, if asked if he was truly a Herald of Andraste herself , he most often responded with “I do not know,” or kept his beliefs otherwise vague. She could respect him not being a man to cling to the power of such a title, or to lie in the face of the wills of the Maker if he truly did not believe in his existance… 

But it could still make their efforts difficult. That he was so easy to say he was unsure in the face of every good thing he did, every righteous option he chose, could be… confusing, for those who wanted to believe. 

Maybe he did not believe these results, these decisions, these opportunities were the guidance of the Maker or his Bride, but he did not need to say so. Josephine was only glad he did not go out of his way to deny the title. Only that he was unsure. Unsure that he had been chosen by anyone.

And perhaps he was unsure of whether he was chosen… but Cassandra wondered whether he might believe in the Maker’s hand.

Cassandra wasn't sure what he believed, or what he believed in before all of this , before he was made into a holy figure . She did not even know the details of his people’s faith- if the Qunari believed in anything but conquering, and whether that faith would apply to him. She wondered, really wondered, if all he had witnessed and seen lately had perhaps… influenced him to the side of the maker, even a little bit- but she did not know if he believed anything at all. 

She knew, at least, that he did not lie easily about it. Or about anything she or others had seen fit to ask, for that matter. He primarily avoided answering questions, avoided answers entirely, by not offering them. Or by being otherwise hushed and vague. 

A stance that could only be achieved by the sort of person who rarely spoke, let alone spoke of such abstract topics as faith or afterlife. Surely, because of his station and title, those outside of the inquisition saw him as a believer despite that. And Kaayras had never been the sort to correct when they assumed so.

But when asked directly, and he saw fit to answer , however rare: that honesty would spill out of him. 

Slow and delayed, like molasses, but his words would pour nonetheless, and would come honest and thoughtful and meaningful.

When he did deem to speak, it was usually because he was invited to, or because he stumbled his way into some sort of problem he wanted to help with. It wasn't particularly common, without prompting of others, that Kaayras volunteered his own words. 

Cassandra often wondered if that was merely the manner in which Kaayras was , or if he did not trust them- as she had once not trusted him. 

They had not so much as known his name until they had closed their first rift on the mountain top. For some time after, even that name had been debatable, as well. For all that he was not one to lie, what truths they did know of the man were often… debatable.

He was a man worth millions of questions, with no certainty in his shape, as abstract as puffs of smoke. If he simply was this way, a trademark of a man in the business of being a Mercenary and a lone Rogue, of a quiet man with few opinions and fewer still desires to share them… If he simply was that way, or if he simply did not see fit that any of them know his thoughts… 

That is to say, Cassandra would never know, likely. 

She was not sure if she would like to know, either. 

And the only way she might learn, anyway, would be to ask him- and as surely as he had dodged questions of his faith, his background, his experience- he would undoubtedly dodge a question of his opinions on anyone around him. She cannot imagine Kaayras expressing more than a few misdirecting words if she were to ask him how he felt about anyone, let alone herself. 

That is, of course, if he said anything rather than treat such a question as rhetorical, simply hum or chuckle in acknowledgment and continue without response…

He did that often. Passive acknowledgments, following eyes, aware, but simply deigning to pass on communication further. Cassandra had once grown weary of Tethras’ attempts to drag Kaayras into chatter. The efforts often failed. Even she and Solas had tried, but often did conversation die early and young in the crib. 

At times, though, he did decide to speak. When he spoke, it was often worth listening. 

Kaayras spoke with a thoughtful and calm manner, even if slow . Always slow . But he spoke with care, with a clear awareness of whatever he was offering of himself, or of the meaning in his words. He tended to talk most when there were fewer to listen, and Cassandra had heard him speak most freely when it was simply the forward party, marching along the roads. As though he knew the only place his words might go were to them, and to the wind, and no one more.

Always like molasses . Always slow. Always stagnant . 

Sometimes it was hesitance, a quiet uncertainty, that made his words so. 

Cassandra wondered if he were simply dealing with a word he didn't know in common tongue rather than the Qunari native tongue, or perhaps dealing with a piece of history he wasn't familiar of as a foreigner to Fereldan and Orlesian and Antivan and Marcher and everything . Coming from an entirely different world than people in Thedas had ever known, he was surely removed from their norms. 

(That is, of course, if he even was from the Qunari and had not been born a Vashoth. If he had not simply… fallen out of the fade in possession of a body.)

Other times the slow drag of his words was easy to dismiss; seemingly thinking on a response, careful in nearly everything he said, let alone what sparse words he offered. Like he needed to find the perfect thing to say, but so often could not and was simply finding substitutes that fit best. Perhaps that was all the more reason for his hesitation, as well. That he simply did not know how to say his intentions, or his unspoken opinions.

(If he even had any such opinions. He was such a lax, calm man that Cassandra might not be surprised that he rarely spoke for the matter of rarely having any interests worth voicing. He had rolled along with the end of the world and the Inquisition as simply as a man used to rolling with everything and anything . The few exceptions to that mannerism of his were few and far between. For all that he was massive and unrelenting, when the wind blew, he did not seem to resist its push.)

And yet still , sometimes it was none of those reasons that drew him slow and creeping, from one word to the next at the pace of a snail, or long delays before the start of a sentence, or sentences split apart by a brief pause. 

Sometimes, Cassandra got the feeling he had some sort of difficulty talking at all. When, if he ever did, Cassandra heard him speak the tongue of Qunari people, it was an even greater rarity. Greater, even, than the man interrupting someone else to speak. Which Kaayras Adaar had nearly never done, either- simply because he spoke too slow to interrupt, and simpler still, because she suspected his manners would rarely allow him without good reason. 

And yet still: the speak of the Qun, the tongue of his people, was even rarer. For all that the first word Kaayras Adaar had ever spoken to Cassandra had been foreign and from the Qun, he'd said little more of it.

She’d only heard him speaking the tongue of his kin on a few sparse occasions, and could probably count on her fingers the words of Qunlat he’s spoken, as certainly they did not number in the double digits. But of the times he had , there was a stuttering loop to words she’d later heard the Iron Bull speak clearly. 

Sometimes Adaar stuttered the common language, too, if he didnt go slow. Although this, too, was on the more rare end of his habit. But it happened more and more as she heard his rusted, gravelly voice; as though such stutters were… unavoidable. 

He slipped on syllables, and certain combinations of sounds caught him entirely off guard, as though his tongue was oil and his words could slide together and collide and jumble. 

More often than his rare stutter, he could just as easily slip into a hush murmur, as though it had suddenly become too burdensome to continue his line of thought aloud, which would lead his words to trickle slower and slower into silence. 

Most recently, though, was Cassandra realizing these slow slips or gentle slopes into quiet were… preambles, of a sort. That these were the corrections, the aborted words, the sleek gloss to cover the cracks. 

This was him stopping himself, correcting himself, preventing himself.

On the rare occasions he did genuinely stutter, rather than slip into a fading sentence to avoid it, or let his words collide to cover a skipped syllable, it was not unlike a… ticking pattern. A crooked rhythm: of the same syllable, of a cycle of the same sound or the same conjunction, perhaps even the same whole thought. They recycled relentlessly, if rhythmically, like the patter of feet as a dog ran in circles. Incessant. 

Until, inevitably, Kaayras would hush himself. 

But if he’d gotten so far enough that he was truly stuttering, to hush himself was firmer, more abrupt than his usual slips. In order to break his looping train, it likely had to be. He might bite his tongue, might twitch, might turn away suddenly, might snap a small stick in his hand- and then he might as well drag his crooked words back into his throat, with all the suddenness he would fall silent.

And usually, he would not speak again for several minutes after. Sometimes those moments bled to hours. Perhaps even a whole day. Kaayras had gone whole days without saying anything before, but after cutting himself off so sharply, his silences felt more… intentional.

A stutter was not rare in the fighting professions. Head damage, shaken up or blunt force, just happens to the best of warriors. The way Kaayras can so often right it, correct it, hide it under a veneer of gloss, particularly if he stops to think and prepare himself… it makes Cassandra think it's not a damage he wasn't born with. He’s practiced enough, and the way he handles his own speech is engrained into him in a way that does not impress it as a recent development, or the aftermath of recent damage. 

The only exception is the manner in which he stops talking abruptly , if he hears himself stutter; the harshness, the switch in his demeanor. 

She wonders if it's embarrassment, or agitation, or the effect of his normal speech patterns being jarred, surprised.

It is something she has noticed in him, as it is often detrimental , because Kaayras is a leader amongst her cause. If and when they made the decision to appoint him the actual Inquisitor, speeches and alliances and delegations and diplomacy would be in the hands of a man who often elected to avoid conversation directly. Whether it was simply that he wanted to avoid his stutter, or that he simply did not know how to compose his intentions with words… both were issues.

At any rate, Cassandra often thought about his habits, and his conversational skills were often on the table of discussion between her and Josephine.

One such thing they had both noticed… is that Kaayras takes a very long time to speak in Orlais, and to Orlesians, especially. It could make a meeting around the war table complicated, as Adaar was quite choosey in what he would say around Leliana. But this had become particularly pronounced on their journey to Val Royeaux. And despite that it was not their first time visiting here as agents of the Inquisition, it would seem nothing in this city intended to change.

This is the result of another knit picking to be found by the Orlais Chantry and its faithful workers, as well as the noble people in general. Surrounded with the proper masses, surrounded by people who pick apart one another for any minor detail, any minor flaw, to use in their fictitious yet deadly games. 

It's unfortunate that the only coping mechanisms Kaayras has to hide his flaw, his stutter, is with the long heartbeats of hesitation. His silences can sometimes be just as bad as a stutter in the face of the Orlesians, who will throw his incompetence back in his face. 

A dumb demon, just as they say!  

Either way Adaar might approach conversation- taking too long to speak, or not speaking correctly because he spoke too quickly- the result is the same. The way in which they dismiss him is resolute, and they would continue to do so even if he were of perfect fluency and pitch in their own Orlesian tongue. They want any reason to set aside the Inquisition and it’s Herald, and it just so happens they find this easy niche to mock. If Kaayras so much as hesitates to speak the trade common, let alone stutter , they will strike like adders.

They don't let him rest, none the matter how Kaayras might try. Whatever they say, however, or whatever they suggest, he ignores as though he does not notice nor mind any insult.

Cassandra knows that it gets under Adaar’s skin. And she cannot blame him. He is truly and unfairly trapped, here. Cassandra knows it, Kaayras knows it, and she knows that he knows it. She sees it bothering him, even if he has never willing acknowledged his struggles or answered to anyone’s insult. 

She still sees his response. However well disguised.

He keeps his gloved hands fisted tight, folded behind himself, and ignores their polite, delighted, ugly smiles when he doesn't speak perfectly, every time . His hands stay clenched when they stare at him with their impatient glares as he takes his processing time. He ignores their tapping heels and crossing arms and smug expressions, even when his silence is too long to be played off as polite . He never comments, never reacts, never so much as misses a breath, and wholly ignores their ridiculous behavior. 

But Cassandra can tell, as maybe many of these Orlesians can, that despite his lax and calm facade, it bothers him. All of it bothers him. 

And sometimes they have it in them to say it , gossiping to each other, voices raised clearly for him to hear, and some even braver still to say it all to his face. 

“Feeble minded, unintelligent.” “Stupid!” “Dumb demon, it cant even speak proper, just like she said!” “I know! Those poor half-witted oxmen…”

It rings in Cassandra’s ears. Like a red, heated steel prod. She feels it simmer in her just as hot, hot in her chest, and it's been over an hour since it’d been said in passing. Yet it’s still frustrating her, it’s still grating on her. 

Kaayras had not reacted to it, but she knows he heard; they’d wanted him to hear. Kaayras is nothing if not overly aware of his surroundings. He’d heard it. Cassandra heard it. They all heard it. Vivienne’s icy eyes had followed the responsible women; two loudly whispering merchants with gleaming metal masks. Sera’s light footsteps had become nearer to heavy stomping with each loudly-spoken line. And Cassandra has not been able to release the heat in her lungs with any of the sharp breaths she has tried using to force the hot sensation out of her core. 

(Swinging her sword later will help. But right now, she is at the mercy of her bubbling anger. Manners and decorum, Lady Pentaghast, she hears her tutor remind her when she was young. A sword had always helped more than those chasting comments, though.)

Kaayras may not act or respond, verbally or visibly , like anyone else; but Cassandra knows he heard it.

And she knows ugly demon or terrifying demon are just as bad as stupid demon, for him, as well. 

She can see as he tightens up to the cowls at those hard words, be they accusatory and yelled or implied and whispered. He hardens up the worst at cruel demon, but that's only Cassandra’s personal guess. She can tell they all bother him, but Adaar has quite the impressive lack of face, and aside from the tension in his body, the braced nature under his skin, there's little trace of what emotion any of the words truly inspire inside him.

Cassandra wondered at times if it was anger , or if it was sadness, or guilt, or perhaps fear, or even maybe smugness or satisfaction, or even just the tension of preparation for a fight? 

There was no telling anything of the sort- there was just the inklings of hidden reaction . Something in the way that his muscle moved and then stilled, like stone, a statue coming to life and falling to death again in a slightly tenser position. 

He’s always coiled like something prepared to sprint at any moment, but there's something in the way he changes that puts him closer and closer to that overwound edge. There was always a hitch, a bump in the road, when he responded to someone who’d said such words to him. About him. 

If he had to speak to the person who called him a demon, called him so to his face , it was then that the tension coiled him tightest, and his quiet pauses before speech were the longest.

All that broad muscle, it makes a person exude a confidence and a self assuredness , to be so big, in a crowd of smaller people in pretty fragile finery, while he is bearer of weapons and armor; but she's never heard any of such confidence from Kaayras himself, her own impressions- expectations - aside. 

Instead, she only sees that he is hiding . His rigid muscles tighten in a certain way that draws his shoulders higher. A single line of muscle in his neck is strung with just enough added definition, a clue that could almost let Cassandra hear his teeth clench and grind against each other. 

She doesn't know what it is he feels about that word, Demon , only that he feels something .

She simply doesn’t know.

The world doesn't know much about this man, not as much as it thinks. All that is known is what came after he fell out of the void, vision of Andraste herself pushing him into safety. 

A horned, dark, black-and-red figure rolling out of the veil and collapsing; such a terrifying sight that the soldiers who’d found him after the destruction of the conclave almost attacked him, under the impression they’d stumbled upon a possession, an atrocity, or a new unnamed breed of demon . 

When he had been brought to her, the lone unconscious survivor of a world-threatening catastrophe, Cassandra had been possessed by a brief, similar thought. That this - this… thing… is a terrible monster, bringing about a terrible travesty, dooming them to a terrible fate . 

They had been prepared for the world to be disrupted at the conclave. But they had not been prepared for Kaayras Adaar, the immediate death of a Divine- of Justinia - and certainly not prepared for a gapping maw in the sky. 

Cassandra hadn’t been prepared for the world to so immediately bring her the man responsible for it all, either. 

She had been livid. The soldiers had brought her a man so foreign and wrongly out of place- a demon-thing among a meeting of Mage and Man. In his sleep he had seized and frothed, and glowed with the light of the breach in his hand. Cassandra, had she been solely in charge… may have very well sentenced him, without questioning, without him waking at all. 

It was the others that had snapped her out of it. 

Lelianna had started demanding orders of the soldiers- to clear a room under the church for his holding, to find appropriate restraints immediately, to secure everything from the doors to the floors to the ceilings. 

Some guard had said it, then- Cassandra does not remember the words the man had asked exactly, but it had been not far from ‘would any of that stop an abomination ?’ 

It was Varric that had hissed the words which dragged Cassandra out of her brief loss of mind. She hadn’t even seen the Dwarf come upon them, but he was there , dirty with ash and crossbow drawn. ‘ He’s a Qunari, you dolt, not an abomination . ’

It was the first thing anyone had said about Kaayras Adaar. He’s a Qunari, not an abomination. It’s a perfect parallel to the argument they face constantly: He’s a man, not a demon. In just that moment, it was the smack on the knuckles from the tutor she had needed to reign in her temper in the travesty of the Breach run rampant over Haven.

This man was no demon. He was a survivor- a suspicious one, a prisoner , but a man. There was a moment when Cassandra had fallen prey to the thoughts from fear, in a time where the breach might tear open at any second and the waves of demons were coming en masse. But she knew better.

The following hours only cemented reality for Cassandra; that her brief lapse was a falsity. 

She’d searched him head to toe herself, and he was a solid man and very much real, with all the scars to prove a long life, with breathing and a pulse. Solas had arrived around that time- and the elven mage had been just as solidifying of the fact that Kaayras, then unnamed, was a living man rather than some fade-spat construct. 

The fade in the man's palm was consuming him, killing him, or so Cassandra understood it. He was no demon, ripping apart their sky, and in fact Solas was the only thing keeping him alive. 

Kaayras Adaar was the sole witness of whatever had destroyed the temple, nearly the whole mountain, nearly the whole world . He was chosen (if you had any faith in the rumors) by Andraste to survive. He was seizing, and dying, and was merely… merely a massive creature with reality, bending, in his palm. 

He was all of these world-changing things. 

A demon, though, he was not. 

And still the word got to him, anyway. 

Kaayras Adaar had been through infinitely worse situations than this one, facing down Orlesian nobility and Chantry women in Val Royeaux, and still the tension in his bones reminded Cassandra of when he’d woken on the stone floor in his holding cell in restraints. He’d woken under her watchful eye, where she had been watching from just outside the door to his cell. He had looked upon his shackled arms, and there had been a moment . 

He had gone from a slack man, aching, drowsy, barely conscious, confused… to something else. His joints had locked, his chest had stilled, his shoulders had risen, his fists had tightened- that thready muscle in his throat had tightened they way it still does now. 

He had looked upon her immediately- She had pushed the door open and he had looked at her and only her despite all the drawn swords surrounding him, and the room had fallen away like the curtains of a stage. 

He had looked at her, with entirely blank eyes, and she could not denote anything beyond the tension in his body. What he felt was lost on her. Only that he felt it . That… presence of his feeling, but the lack therein of it, had stuck with Cassandra, and to this day lingered. 

The trance of his expression and his sharp awareness of her, however, had broken in less than the time it took for her to blink, let alone for Leliana to follow her in. 

A green light had flared in his bound fist as their eyes met that first time, and all of his seemingly mysterious awareness and his unyielding mask had… had crumbled. 

She might have thought that flare of light a threat, of danger, if it had not been happening constantly as he slept. And if he had not, promptly, reacted to it in a way which destroyed his own mystery.

Cassandra can’t read Kaayras Adaar as he hides himself amongst people, but Cassandra has seen blind emotion on his face once before, and only that once. 

It had been then, in the wake of his consciousness, knelt on the stone floor in his bindings. The tension in his body had exploded with the front of pain from the mark- his eyes had averted from hers as they had widened with an unseeing surge of what could only be described as terror , and he had choked on his broken speech so hard she expected he’d bitten through his tongue in a prisoner’s final go-to suicide menuever, and he might drown on his own blood as he crumbled. She hadn’t known him as anyone yet, but she would always remember that garbled sound: fear and pain stacked behind one scream.

Serakost .

After he had been taken out of the prison, he had flinched neigh-imperceptively from her every approach that day, and the same tension had hardened his body every time they spoke for a great length of time following. Even long after Solas had explained that the mark had been the cause of the pain. It had not stopped him bracing with tension whenever their paths crossed for weeks as though she had inflicted him that agony and might do so again. She could not see the fear in his body, but that tension in his very skin when Cassandra drew near was a telling thing next to that memory.

The impression of Cassandra- and her unfriendly demands and accusations- and the pain he had known, and the place he had woken… 

It had left an impression. He did not look her in the face again for just as long as he would tense on her approach- but he never ceased seeming casual about the whole thing. Calm, even. It is how Cassandra had come to know that he is good at false calm. His impression of her as the first face upon him in a cell, of the inflection of something agony and killing him, was an impression that had long remained despite that he always looked at her calm and collected afterward. 

The way he had looked at her, and the way he had jerked away from her countless times after, had left an… impression on Cassandra as well. It was no one-sided transaction. Even minutes after that shriek had burned into her soul, he had calmed and regarded her with easygoing nature, but Cassandra was not sure he would ever see her without a flicker of unease, and she certainly felt that she would never look at him without thinking of that vulnerability and then how easily he pretended otherwise.

Even still, it was the only time Cassandra had ever known what he was thinking, what he was feeling, and it had been pain and terror in a fleeting moment.

Serakost , he had howled . 

It was one of very few words of Qunlat she had heard on Kaayras’ shaken tongue, even to this day. 

Cassandra had gone a long while without knowing it’s meaning. It was the only Qunlat word Kaayras had ever said to her by the time she had met The Iron Bull proper. That had felt meaningful enough, being the only word he’d ever spoken in Qunlat, that Cassandra had asked The Iron Bull the meaning. 

Bull’s mocking laugh had bellowed out of his gut, surprise so absolute, which had- had startled her. The way Bull had laughed at that word had stuck with Cassandra even to today.

No Qunari you’ll ever meet with a shred of valor will use language like that , he had joked. Mercy . It’s a cry for mercy . 

That reminder, the way The Iron Bull had scoffed at it, is inked inside her mind like a scar right next to the memory of it shrieked in the dungeon, backlit with unnatural green light. 

At times, when Kaayras hardens under certain looks, and certain words set his limbs wound tight like a spring ready coil, that permanent impression seeps back to Cassandra on the surface. Not often , but sometimes, the memory comes. Cassandra remembers, of him in the few seconds, of first meeting . Of a plea for mercy, of the only raw expression she has ever known of him. 

Today is one of those days- that the break in his being, the hitch of his tension, reminds Cassandra of the first word Adaar had spoken to her.

They’ve all, arguably, had such a long day. Trekking all the way out to Val Royeaux for the third time in a row had been grating on both time and energy, of which there was short supply in their bustling Inquisition.  They’d come for something specific this time around; some woman here, looking for a contact with the Inquisition. Someone willing to send goods and make new deals with them, frightened after the chantry was deserted by the templars leaving the city unsafe, and offering her business in exchange for safe escort to Haven to begin her work. Josephine had been politely ecstatic to receive the request- Haven was in short supply of everything .

That request , though, had been the first news of the Templar Desertion to reach the Inquisition- 12 days ago, when they left nigh-immediately for Val Royeaux to meet the merchant who sent the word. The inner circle had not spoken much of The Templar Desertion outside of witnessing it, and the ensuing war meeting briefs regarding it. They had not taken the information directly public to Haven. It had not been long since the desertion announcement itself, either. 

But now that the news had reached the common populace of Haven, the people were tense, nervous- not the least of which were the ex-templars currently in the inquisition rank which had followed Cullen to the Inqusition’s recruitment.

Cassandra had been present for the dissertation itself, to witness it in all it’s appalling nature. Now, many weeks later, she had wanted to come along to the scene of the dissertation herself once again, even if it was the third trip all the way out to Orlais. Just to see if the chaos might spread further over such little time, to assess how well the Orlesians were coping, assess the stability of their chantry without their sacred swords. 

Val Royeaux had so far proven rather sturdy despite the loss of its primary guardians. No doubt due to a surplus of available coin to hire smaller replacements. Their trip here , however, had shown many of the consequences; surpluses of bandits and looting and panic. Orlais without it’s Templars was barely a fortnight deep and the chaos was beginning full swing.

Val Royeaux wore a classic Orlesian mask: that it was unaffected by everything. The only truth was that they had enough money to hire mercenaries to protect their city, that the Chantry was running donation pools to have these mercenary guards patrol their own spaces- and still they stand here in the now, condemning Kaayras for his little-known history as a Mercenary himself, among all the other pitiful slights they have perceived by his very existence as the figurehead they did not want.

The chantry had been grandstanding the day of the Templar abandon, just like this. Little has changed- despite that Kaayras had drawn his dagger on behalf of a chantry sister cowardly attacked by a templar. He had nearly thrown himself into a fight on some sister’s defense and still the very same sisters act such a way. Luckily, Cassandra did not need to stop the man from attacking a seeker back then- Kaayras had sheathed his blade and turned to the to helping the poor woman upright. 

The chantry had been abandoned. They had been shown kindness and concern from the Inquisition. From the Herald himself, and yet still nothing had changed. They call him demon and they accuse him for no reason more than that they do not like what he is, let alone what he means.

The word demon was used then, too. 

Like the Herald was an agent of a new blight, like he wasn't given to them in faith by andraste- supposedly , Maker, Cassandra wanted to believe it, wanted to believe the Maker and Andraste had sent them a massiah in a time of need, she wants to have faith . Yet the chantry throw around the word demon, like he was just another pride beast fallen from a tear in the sky.

Yet the only sources of Pride she saw in this was this disgraceful Chantry Sister in the now mere minutes after the gossiping merchants, smarting off that the Herald ought to be hung as she stands on the gallows: that he is a Demon impersonating a Holy person, playing the part but would surely turn on them, just as he had turned on the divine . 

The woman says it in more, many more, finer words. But she says it all the same. 

Surely she is of some noble family, chasing some kind of ambitious bonus points among her peers in the sisterhood for having ‘the courage’ to say such things to the ‘False Prohpet’s face’.

Cassandra does not have the class for Court Talk in round-about speech, like Leliana or Vivienne. She could do it, but she has no patience . Does not have the Calm to wait until later for a revenge strike, either. She's a woman trained in a sword, with a quick and angry tongue, but neither will help her here. The giggling women and the scowling merchants and eavesdroppers will only relay aggression, or so Vivienne has begun coaching them since her recent recruitment. Ruthless responses of vulgarity will only weaken their stance, the Grand Enchanter says; it will only worsen their common opinion in the city.

Cassandra has never been one for reputation among nobles or the wealthy, but she is of the mind to not make Josephine’s work any harder than she must, as the Inquisition is short on coin and allies as much as it is time and energy. 

So Cassandra holds her tongue and cheek behind her irritated glare, and the sister continues to run her jaw.

Kaayras- jaw tight, muscles risen, shoulders up- shifts on his heel as to politely regard this pitiful, shameful sister’s company despite her words. As tall and big as he is, and still somehow- maybe as Cassandra knows him too well, since the start of all this mess, because… still, somehow, he manages to seem small to Cassandra in the situation. 

In no literal sense; rather, small in the matter that his calm face swallows the rest of him, and leaves him less of the man she knows (barely knows, truly) to fill the mass his body occupies. Small like his volume is miniscule, like he is nothing but his calm shell, and yet she knows he is full of something . Something she cannot name , undoubtedly live underneath, yet like he has nothing within.

Calmly he assures this- barely a sister, unrighteous, dishonoring the chant of light and the Maker and Andraste with her behavior- this Chantry woman, that he will do the best he can, anyway. 

To fix the Breach, he says, to fix the chaos, and to- fix your order . 

It's an amount of back handedness that… Cassandra has never heard from Kaayras before. 

He does not say it calousley; backhanded is not how he speaks his words. He speaks smooth, and clipped clean of spite- it almost counts like speaking Court, the way he says it, although there’s not enough bite or intention . 

Cassandra remembers best that, after a second of thought on what’d said, Kaayras had added more intentionally, more dry, and politely: 

that he would fix her powerlessness in these matters. 

And that had really been the glaze, the icing, the garnish atop it all. Because that had been intentional , premeditated, if no anger or frustration or anything but politeness bled into his tone.

Cassandra almost felt like she had been struck with a shield, positively blindsided by the dry, clean snark . The rehearsed nature of his tone and the absolute wonder that was his perfectly worded attack (when he can so rarely word even less accusive words! Even if it was not so harsh or clever as it could be , it was… this was Kaayras who had said it!) 

There had been a small, quiet silence in which Cassandra had known she was certainly not the only one taken aback or surprised. 

By the way Kaayras’ shoulders hitched a little higher, even he was surprised with himself.

Vivienne, standing back barely a few feet behind Cassandra and Kaayras, with Sera, hums in agreement as the shock wears off, delighted by the turn of events. 

Despite the woman’s efficiency with words, Vivienne has never stepped in as a defense of Kaayras, something Cassandra understands would not help if she did; it would only paint Kaayras all the weaker to these people to need another’s protection, and paint a larger target on his shoulders. 

But this is, of course, a perfect opening for Vivienne’s tongue to go cold and sharp and viciously amused. She adds in something that is more confident, more competent than Kaayras could ever really be, something more designed for the city they are in, and the Sister has no opportunity to make snide remarks to Cassandra’s friend- her Inquisitor (she knows it will happen eventually, she’s already suggested it to the others)- her charge, her herald (she hopes, ever more than she should).

Sera, unfavored to reputations and clean words as she is, finds it an uproarious turn of events. She thinks it is a very good time to laugh, at least, when her surprise lets up. The elf immediately begins digging salt into the sister’s wounds with her slang and disrespectful mockery. 

It drives all the insults home, hard , if… taking a bit of eloquence away from Vivienne's golden tongued barbs. 

The mage seems not too affected with the drop in charisma, so much as Vivienne is simply content with the chantry sister fleeing. The absolute ruthlessness that is a very rare tag team between Vivienne’s coldness and Sera’s harshness is quite a combination. Cassandra regrets beings so stunned she doesnt even remember what exactly either of them said.

Sera, who’s occasional defense for Kaayras’s unjust treatment is often brushed off and ignored, seems absolutely radiant with the power her words have in the moment. Her crooked smile is wild with the thrill of success when she looks up at Kaayras, who seems more than a little startled by everything that transpired in a matter of seconds. 

There’s color in his face, flustered by either the situation or perhaps just his own snark, and Cassandra finds a smug smile on her own face.

Masked Orlesians, always undoubtedly listening in, will have a new rumor or two. That some sister lost a bicker, bit off more than she could chew, challenging the Herald of Andraste and his supporting team. At least, that is what Cassandra hopes they will take of this.

The rough hinge of the Herald’s jaw softens. His shoulders settle down the slightest once more- still square, more than your average immovable force, always ready for an attack, but calm again. A few lines etch into the thin purple patterns painted on his face at the corner of his eyes as he offers a small side smile toward Sera, whose laughter doubles into a delight as she nudges and prods at him- praising him for his own barb. Kaayras, of course, acts as though he does not understand what she means, refusing to acknowledge he said anything unusual.

Cassandra may not have the double worded sword of Vivienne, or other talents to out word a Court in Val Royeaux. But neither does Sera, and unfortunately, neither does her Herald, the one they accuse. Still, do they get to win, once in a while.

The Seeker actively decides that the next person to refer to her friend as Demon better be outside the City’s walls, and better be someone she can hold her sword against, because she will do so next time. For a friend or for honor or for loyalty- truth, order, faith. But most of all, for she is growing sick of watching his false confidence tried, and she's long been sick of hearing the word Demon when real demons are too real a threat these days.

Cassandra gets the chance on their return to haven- thankfully, with the Herald out of earshot. 

He’s busy fighting a Bear that had wandered into their fight against a rebel band of templars turned thieves and bandits. She catches the Inquisitor sail out of the shadows, daggers flying- how such a large man can operate such stealth, she won't ever know- as Vivienne casts a barrier to protect him from its claws.

In the same instance she sees it, so does the Templar Swordsman; The man scoffs her betrayal of the order’s cause, that she betrayed the order for protecting that demon - and Cassandra does not care to hear the rest.

The satisfaction is of not just holding a sword to someone's throat, but right through them. 

She scrapes the man off her blade by pushing her shield against his very much dying body, and Sera whistles, impressed. Cassandra does not like to enjoy the fall of her enemies, but she also does not have it in her to despair over the death of cruel and harmful fools. 

(Sera had, as usual, tried to snap the kill count as she very often does; the arrow buried in the templar swordsman’s neck says so. But Cassandra’s sword already stuck through his chest and the dull thud as he slides off her blunt shield certainly confirms that the kill is in Cassandra’s favor. Sera does not seem disappointed, if her double thumbs up and wink are any indicator.)

Kaayras brings down what Cassandra recognizes now as a Great Bear shortly after, re-brandishing his daggers readily, in case more enemies remained. There did not- but Cassandra has grown used to Kaayras. He is sharp as his own blades when it comes to his surroundings, but even if he knows there are no enemies around, he is always the last to sheathe his weapons. 

He’s not a demon, but, he certainly fights like one. He's not one, though; like proof, he sheathes his tools, and turns to Vivienne. He bursts into an apology for jumping in the way of her magic attacks- multiple times, due to his habit of appearing suddenly into battle. Vivienne is, of course, the newest member of the Inquisition, and they have not much practice yet fighting with one another, learning their patterns. He’s bound to jump in her path quite a few more times, and she into his, but that doesn't stop his wash of apologies even as Vivienne waves him off with polite platitudes.

He's got a knob of an arrow sticking out of his upper arm, too- as though never even noticed when he’d appeared in the path of Sera’s archery. Cassandra is almost worried he still doesn't notice he’s been shot with it, up until he pulls it out himself; rather abruptly, and barely flinching as he does. 

Sera has been with the Inquisition longer, although she is still their second newst companion at this time. And because Sera has been with them longer , and Kaayras is used to her at this point, he doesn't so much as flinch at plucking arrows from his own skin. Sera’s kill stealing tactics don't always mesh perfectly with Kaayras’ nature to randomly appear and insert himself upon the enemy. 

Ripping out her arrows is simple to him now. Like they are nothing more than minor annoyances, despite being lethal and powerful. At least they always land in less-than-dangerous areas. 

Cassandra is loathing the day he takes an arrow to the chest, or something substantial . Hopefully they get better with each other before then. And hopefully he gets less singed by Vivienne's energy bolts and catches fewer grazes from her ice spikes.

Certainly, he fights as unreal as a demon, ignoring pain or feelings. He is all swinging blades, and disappearing smoke and shadow, and dirty tactics. Hopefully, once Sera and Vivienne have fought at his side a while longer, he will adapt to them as he has the rest of the Inquisition thus far, and will stop demonstrating his tolerance for arrows and magic blows. 

It would probably help his case if Sera stopped trying to steal everyone’s kills. But she probably won't, and Kaayras will just find more ways to adapt to her tactics. He’ll do it.

She has faith in him, Cassandra realizes, and finds herself at ease with that realization. Not a demon , but a Herald- Cassandra isn't even sure the Herald part is what her faith finds in all this. No, her faith is rested on no less than Kaayras Adaar himself. 

No demon can howl in pain, nor complain about it the way Kaayras does, even as he hands Sera back her arrow. And even if no Herald of Andraste could, either, at the very least Cassandra still has faith that this… this could work. 

He can and will be their Inquisitor. (Cassandra will convince the others.)

Vivienne gives a small sigh and moves to heal his arm, and Cassandra starts to scold the mad laughter of Sera, for having slapped Kaayras’ injured pin-cushion arm (however good naturedly). 

His quiet, delayed complaining to Sera is like personal insurance to Cassandra.

There are no demons, here. Only fools and faith.

Chapter Text

Varric wasn't too familiar with Qunari. Not like people always seemed to expect of him. What with things that went down in Kirkwall, and being around Hawk, of course- people seemed to think Varric was as much of an expert as a non-Qunari man could be about Qunari.

Maybe that was just because Varric was the only man around who wasn’t surprised to see Qunari walking around just because they were a Qunari. Or maybe it was because Varric’s impressive vocabulary included lots of words in lots of languages- including big, fancy words like Basvaarad. Or knowing the name for Gaatlok. Or who and what the Arishok is.

Okay, so yeah: as usual, Varric knows more than the village idiot. And, yeah, he’s fought his fair share, and encountered a good number of Qunari without immediate violence. Sure, alright. 

But he’d only met, really met, less than a handful of Qunari, in reality- and that includes the two in the Inquisition.

You don't see members of the Qun or their non-believing Tal-Vashoth kin too often- Qunari stuck to their own people, to their places and their tasks. And when you do see actual Qunari anywhere, they’re some of the only people raised monolingual in all of Thedas, so it isn’t like every Qunari wants to sit down and chat with you in Common, whether they can speak it or not. 

Besides. You most often see either the armies- and the armies are bad, you don't stick around to say hello- or you see Tal-vashoth, or bands of them. 

More than likely, meeting a Tal-vashoth is a death sentence: marauders or wild, unrelenting mercenaries who dont speak much of common tongue themselves, anyway. And where you see one, there’s usually more of them, of the same mindset- not because all Tal-Vashoth are bad, but because the ones that are alone are often trying not to be seen. It’s the ones who are bold and confident because there’s a lot of them and they're used to winning that give them a bad rep. So really, a lot of the time Tal-Vashoth you see are just as bad as Qunari Armies, and you don't stick around to talk with them , either.

The general summary: one doesn't really get to know a lot of Qunari. 

Of course, not everyone in a generalized group of people is the same, and not every Tal-Vashoth is a thunder-headed blood-thirsting murderer. 

And probably, not every member of the qun is violent and devoted to nothing but the Qun. They probably keep all the peaceful ones back home in the homeland. Varric certainly hasn’t met a mold breaker there, yet, after all. Even Bull fits the title of a Qun Follower: violent and battle ready and savoring of attacks and willing to preach the positives of his lifestyle and his homeland if anyone’s curious enough to give him an opportunity.

Varric doesn't know much about Qunari, but he's met a couple in his well cultured time, here and there. Of the ones he’s met, he usually prefers the company of the better Tal-Vashoth he’s met. Some Tal-Vashoth, after all, are just people, people who’ve run away. He can respect that. 

He’d met a pair, once upon a time; a man and a woman who’d escaped the qun to be married under the chantry. They’d had six kids- Vashoth children not raised under their zealous species-wide religion. They lived happily along the edge of Ferelden, rarely venturing into a local society of a few elves and humans in a village. He’d met them when he’d visited that village by the request of his publisher, and he hopes they’re living a good life, even now. He didn't really get to know them too well, but he’d met them. They’d seemed like quality people. 

Most pleasant Tal-Vashoth encounters Varric had tended to go like that: just a couple people, maybe just a person, trying to live in a somewhat unfamiliar word and not wanting to be bothered.

He’s never, really, mentioned seeing them out there to anyone. And they likely wouldn't ever want him to. You have to lay low, as a Tal-vashoth. That much he knows. Betrayers are not well liked. Abandoning the Qun is the most self centered thing you can do in the eyes of the Qunari, and the secret enforcers or the hunters are out to find you if they hear any word where you hide.

He’d considered writing a book about it, once- but, he didn't need the attention of being targeted for “anti-qun propaganda” when Kirkwall had already seen an invasion once. And, well… he didn't know much about Qunari- Qunari, aside from the basic things you hear if you meet one in a bar. Varric could suppose the fact that he knows as much as he does is unusual, but it’s far from a complete picture of any kind, let alone enough to be considered knowledgeable on the mysterious Qun.

Suppose Varric does have his two teammates to ask now, though, if he wanted to change that, didn't he? 

And Varric isn’t one to turn down an opportunity for free information, especially if it’s gathered in a friendly sit down kind of way. And especially if it could make for a good read.

Varric did like talking with Kaayras, too. Honesty is a blessing Varric cherished, and it's hard to find anyone more willing to help the world than someone who's literally giving their life to save it, dedicating all their time to helping as they can. Two qualities that make a person very easy to talk to, honesty and good intentions, and both qualities Kaayras certainly has. So Varric does, very much, like talking to Kaayras Adaar in their casual little sit downs.

As they had done, before, even if it wasn’t particularly often that they sat down and ‘talked’. 

They certainly enjoyed each other's presence many times, and often; usually settled in the center of Haven’s safe, freezing walls, sat around the fire Varric often delegated himself to maintaining. 

They’d sit around, and usually Varric would read, and Kaayras would… well, Varric wasn't sure what Kaayras really thought he was doing. 

Varric had imagined, on occasion, that Kaayras was ‘giving Varric a break’ from his self-appointed task of fire keeper, especially when the herald would shift the burning embers with a prod and add wood to the burn. 

Other times, Varric simply figured Kaayras was just lonely, maybe. Or maybe he was just cold , and really liked Varric’s well-kept well-tended fire. Or maybe he just thought Varric wasn't keeping his fire well enough! (Varric chuckled at the thought.)

Other times, Kaayras would be stiffer than usual. He would keep his gaze to the outer walls, and the gates, and Varric would put together a descriptive internal monologue: describing a haunted man, appointing himself guard duty. A weary man, unable to rest, plagued by a looming sense of danger.

It was a lot of that kind of thing, most nights. Long, quiet, but in shared company. The first night, Varric had been neck-deep in writing correspondence back to Kirkwall- including some coded letters to assure Hawke that he was fine and wasn't being held against his will (any more , anyway.) and that a grand rescue was not necessary. 

Varric had only noticed Kaayras just as the man had knelt to sit, but it had only been a passing glance. He’d been pretty busy, trying to write a code that Daisy would understand and would know to tell Fenris who would know to tell Hawke and that Hawke would believe and not come charging in to be a hero (again). 

Varric had looked up some two hours later, already moved on to an entirely different letter, and there Kaayras had still been: keeping Varric’s fire well tended while he was busy. A soundless thing, simply existing nearby. Varric had looked the man over- clearly not waiting for Varric, not trying to talk to him or anything… and Varric had simply accepted it as that, and gone back to his writing. Kaayras had remained, as well, and… like that they had stayed. 

It had been that one time. 

And then it had been more than once. 

Some point along the way, it became more common than not .

Varric didn’t mind the quiet company in the least, and Kaayras seemed to feel of the same notion, if the frequency he showed up was any sign. 

So Varric would read, or write his letters, and Kaayras would do what he does. 

It wasn't uncommon for Kaayras to come around, two portions of whatever rations had been prepared by the camp’s harried cooks in hand, and settle into a seat closer with Varric than he might normally sit in order to hand Varric his own portion. Sometimes, that jostle of food changing hands was the most they’d really say to one another up until exchanging goodnights when one of them went to bed first.

Varric had, of course, appreciated that Kaayras put that simple consideration into bringing both of them dinner. It was often when Varric was busy that Kaayras happened to come by with the meal, after all. 

Sometimes Kaayras would even be there first- fireside lit and tended in the place Varric would build it, and he’d nod with a smile when Varric settled in; mindful to sit the same distance away Kaayras often would settle when joining Varric’s company. On nights when Kaayras was tense , that would help, for whatever reason. He just really seemed to like his personal space, which, alright. Varric can respect that, too. Other nights, Varric isn't sure what exactly feels different. But some nights just are, and Varric sits closer. Close enough to pal around and tell extravagant stories. Just close enough that if Varric told a tale, he could lean in on the herald’s knee, or when Kaayras’ hands inevitably twitched like they so often did, they would graze arms.

And as their interaction remained consistent… like reciprocation for the nights Kaayras brought dinner, it wasn’t particularly unusual for Varric to get to the campfire a bit later than he would usually settle down. And he would come bearing two sequestered drinks from the sudo-tavern that is The Singing Maiden, mugs charred on the bottom from being heated over charcoal. 

Kaayras would, very often, be there as the appointed backup fire-caretaker when varric ran ‘late’. And Varric had started… using that as a kind of signal, an invitation . Because Varric had come to notice that if he left the firepit unlit as the sun set, Kaayras would be there to light it for him by sundown. It was the best guarantee to have Kaayras there, and worked nearly every time.

Yet, as often as Varric ‘ran a little behind’ to invite the herald’s company and the man consistently responded by showing up, still Kaayras always seemed surprised by Varric’s token offering of drinks. 

It was definitely a pattern, and for all that Kaayras seemed surprised that Varric expected to see him, or surprised that Varric took his presence into consideration at all… Despite all that, it was a comfortable habit they had formed.

It also wasn't uncommon for Kaayras to watch Varric at the edge of his eye, and Varric often found himself wondering what the man was thinking when he watched Varric like that. Yet it was only fair- Varric himself watched Kaayras nearly as often, just over the edge of his book. Their company was often peppered with those long, thinking glances, where they would simply observe the other one, and house internal debates and lengthy internal monologues.

Most nights passed like that than did ones where they talked nonstop- but it also wasn’t uncommon that they did talk, too. Because, after all, Varric did enjoy talking to Kaayras.

The Inquisitor was a good listener- a man open to anything you’d be willing to tell him, and oddly eager to know about those he found himself spending time with. Kind of a soft soppy guy, sympathetic as all damnation, and apologizing for any inconvenience in your life you opt to tell him about. And he makes this uncertain expression on that purple-painted face- weighing what to say before asking for a detail he’s worried Varric might find touchy about Red Lyrium, or to ask about Kirkwall, or about books, or about trading, simply because he didn't know about any of these things, and Varric did. 

Kaayras always had questions, no matter how long it took him to ask them. Sometimes it took a little prodding, even, to get the guy to ask. Especially when he had that worried, nervous-pup look on his face; worried he might cause upset or offense simply by not knowing or understanding .

And since the poor massive lug was going to be responsible for a lot of things he didn't know or understand, Varric opted to help educate him, and told the stories. 

Told him a bit about Kirkwall- what happened there. What lyrium is, what red lyrium is, why he was so intent to destroy the deposits of it they find across Thedas, how urking it was to find it all around the temple of sacred ashes. About all the man’s little curiosities and worries.

From the stare, Varric had done most of the talking. And it took time, but Kaayras did start talking back . Kaayras was an honest guy, and a willing one to talk, as much as he was listen. Only if you worked him right, though. He would ask questions, and listen to Varric ramble for probably the whole night. But it took a bit of doing on Varric’s part to get the talking out of Kaayras. The herald already had a roughness to his voice, but by the end of some nights, Varric could get Kaayras to do so much talking that natural rasp would be dry and weak and worn. Varric figured that would be like… exercise. The more he got Kaayras to talk, the less sore his tone of voice would get. Still, with work, Kaayras would talk more and more, and with time Varric put the puzzle that was The Herald of Andraste together.

It was careful work, and it was slow, but Kaayras had plenty of things he thought about, if he could find words to talk about them. 

Varric had come to understand that Kaayras Adaar didn't much like talking about his opinions on… anything, really. He preferred to recite more than he did to theorize. It could be interesting, even then; often resulting in these slow-winding, patterned conversations of if-then statements and studious facts. 

Kaayras would talk about the way certain leathers folded or stretched and certain fabrics resisted elements like water and fire, and would slowly work down lists of pros and cons. Varric would end up trying to help Adaar paraphrase his statement better- such as, “So, you prefer the touch of Silk but the density of velveteen,” a statement which could sum up 45 minutes of Kaayras’ careful, hesitant statements. 

When Varric had said it as such the first time, he’d phrased it first as ‘so you prefer silk and velveteen?’ and Kaayras had shrugged noncommittally. When Varric had rephrased it as casually as he could a little later, putting on his best nonchalant tone, as the literal statement, and asked Kaayras if the assumption was wrong? Kaayras had shaken his head and elaborated an opinion at last: Lustrous Cotton was the nicest to feel, to him . In his opinion.

It had taken a couple tries and some prompting, but believe it or not, that was the first solid, inconsequential opinion Varric has ever heard Kaayras say out loud.

Getting an opinion out of Kaayras was a bit of an accomplishment, especially at the time. It was when Varric knew he'd gotten the odd man at last, hook, line, and sinker. He’d gotten a little bit of trust out of one Kaayras Adaar; he’d gotten a little bit of trust out of a man that spent many, many nights sitting awake and watching the walls, and dodging most attempts at a conversation for a preference to just listen to half of one, to avoid answering any questions, especially those which were personal.

It had been an early little checkpoint in Varric’s effort to unravel one very interesting man. A landmark on what may turn out to be one very interesting road.

With more of that time and trust, Kaayras had become more comfortable listening, and more content and eager to talk. They had more conversations, and longer ones too, hunkered together in the fire light. 

Kaayras could be a surprising guy- for all that he was a fountain of conversation points when it came to books of fiction or history or baking and cooking or even medicinal advice, he knew next to nothing about the Grand Torneys, understands next to nothing about economics or industry like agriculture or trading, and actually has nearly no grasp on the value of currency . Somehow, he knows a Sovereign is a lot of money and a copper is not, and that is nearly the limit of his understanding. 

Kaayras knows infinitely more about making bread than he does about how much money a loaf of bread costs. Kaayras knows the history of Ferelden or Tevinter, better than he knows the current events anywhere . 

Their conversations are interesting , and as much as Varric feels like he is teaching Kaayras a lot of things, he also just enjoys the conversations. Kaayras’ surprisingly strong opinions about tone in authored fiction had been intriguing, not that Kaayras had the words to explain himself. Like most things, Varric had to infer the summary of Kaayras’ opinions. Varric suspected Kaayras had a history with writing, if only for his strong understanding of elements in written works. 

With a more-chatty Kaayras at his beck and call, and with a suspicion that Kaayras knew bits and pieces behind writing, Varric opted to try at last: to seriously consider a Qunari character for his next book. 

More than likely a comedy- a funny little romance between a dwarf man and Qunari woman, perhaps: as Varric had mused to Kaayras more than once before, in good humor. Romantic comedies were fun to write and experiment when dealing with a new type of character. Likely the reason it was his most-published genre; Varric was always experimenting with new concepts and characters.

And what kind of audience doesn't find “she's too big for him to sleep with, isn't she? She wouldn't feel that!” absolutely hilarious? The book practically writes itself. Varric was sure his publisher would eat it up. Kaayras certainly did, if the surprised crack of laughter Varric had gotten from Kaayras at the joke had been an indicator. 

It was their 4th night in a row, settled at the fire, each with a cup of hot cider in hand, talking about small details and ideas. It was an easy going kind of night, restful, and they would likely turn in early for sleep- tomorrow, the forward party ventured out to the wetlands just south of the Hinterlands, and Varric wasn't all too excited to be waist-deep in the water they’d find there. So of course he was griping Kaayras’ ear off about it, which was only fair, because Kaayras had decided Varric needed to be on the team.

Kaayras, showing a streak of his inner bastard, offered jokingly to carry him if it got knee-deep. 

(Frankly, Kaayras’ knee-deep was almost Varric’s waist deep, maybe a couple inches shy, and that was very much unfair as far as wading in water goes.)

“Pick me up, and I'll write a scathing short story about a Qunari that was shot with a crossbow .”

“And sully your first Qunari character…? You wouldn't.”

“No, but take all your money the next time we play cards? I definitely will do that , Heartless, just because you actually said you’d pick me up.”

“Very well…  I hope you will enjoy slogging through the mud and water… full of fish and slime, rather than in my safe, strong, loving arms…” Kaayras gave a long, wistful sigh. “You’d rather that to my warmth? How hurtful.”

And Varric laughs, and Kaayras follows with him, a low rumbling chuckle and a content little smile curling his purple lips at the corners, while he sips at his cider. 

Varric’s starting to wonder if all Qunari talk that way, between Kaayras and Iron Bull. It's not the first of flirtatious humor from Kaayras, pointed in Varric’s direction of all ridiculous places. 

Maker, Varric can't even remember the first of the flirty humor; Kaayras has talked that way since he fell out of the hole in the sky. Figuratively , anyway. Varric’s fairly sure Kaayras has been making these jokes at Varric longer than anyone else, in reality. He doesnt talk like that with everyone. But that’s simply because Kaayras and Varric have been talking more than most of the others. 

The big guy’s weird, flirtatious sense of humor has been spreading to most of everyone else, recently, even more than the usual little slip up that once peeked up into rare conversations in the field. 

Varric is fairly certain that's a good thing. Some kind of sign that Kaayras is… settling down, here, with the passing time. That this is some effect of Kaayras’ natural sense of humor, which had previously been swallowed up under his quiet, mild mannerisms. That this, over all, is a sign that Kaayras is getting comfortable around the people here, and that he really hadn't been comfortable up until now.

It’s a good thing. It's an improvement. Plus, the flirty humor is pretty funny, especially now that Kaayras is surprising everyone else with it while Varric’s had a chance to get accustomed to it ahead of the game.

It’s a little more comfortable than Bull’s use of similar humor, at least in Varric’s opinion. Kaayras’ jokes lean more toward affectionate flirty than filthy flirty. At times, the joke even takes a second to register to Varric, after sitting through so many of them; it gets a bit lost in what just sounds like Kaayras trying to be round-about, and the way Kaayras talks about his growing friendships among Haven. Kinder words getting mixed up with hinting words. 

Like when Kaayras is joking about Sera’s impressive marksmanship, softening up to mention he’s quite impressed with a trick she did while out on field work the other day, dropping a line like ‘it was super hot’, and then continuing to explain this other interesting thing he enjoys about her company- and then Varric has to rewind because Kaayras just called a blatant, loud lesbian hot in between complementing her skill and her endearing giddyness and wow , Kayraas is a sap when he relaxes.

When Varric gets to see that sense of Kaayras’ humor slip into conversations outside the campfire, it’s quite pleasing- especially since it’s usually hilarious in results. Because Varric is right, it doesn't happen with everyone else nearly as often as between the two of them, so none of them are used to it yet like Varric has become.

That weird humor of his always makes Kaayras relax into bickering with Sera in a friendly, sarcastic, quipping way- she’s a second place in Kaayras-Comfort-Level. And it’s also funny to watch. Kaayras, assuring her he’d love her best, better than anyone else could, and Sera proclaiming it impossible unless he grows a “good rack and a less flat arse”. Kaayras points out all Qunari have nice ‘racks’, and Sera yells like a petty younger sibling that she doesn't need his “wibbly man boobies,” she wants some real tits. They both crack up over it. Cassandra usually groans in exasperation, and that makes it funnier.

It’s almost double the funny when the straight laces of the group are caught off guard- Maker knows Blackwall has no way to react when Kaayras makes a crack about giving him a massage as a reward for his outstanding form in battle in a half-sultry half-serious tone, and the Warden almost gives a tumble down a cliff in surprise. That one even made Cassandra laugh, if Varric remembers right; a short, shocked laugh, and just as surprised at the comment as Blackwall had been. 

Definitely double as funny.

It's a little less awkward than Bull’s typically dirty jokes, too.

Most of the time. Usually .

Usually , unless Kaayras does it in that… weird way that happens, sometimes. It’s probably the only real downside to Kaayras’ odd jokes: The Rotten Ones .

They’re less like a joke , more like something Kaayras blurts out in the most tense of situations. Where Bull would know not to make that joke, and… Kaayras doesn't. Or doesn't know not to, sometimes . That’s only some of the jokes. It’d be less weird if it was only that Kaayras just had a hard time reading the room, or reading his audience. Some people are just like that, just a little awkward, and that's fine.

But other times, the joke is… too strong , or something, and Kaayras seems to realize what he’s putting out into the world before he even finishes his ‘joke’, and immediately his face creases up in a distasteful wince at his own words. The tension in his body winds back up tight as a kid’s overkeyed wind-up toy, and at times Varric wonders if Kaayras will outright burst with it, or if he’ll melt under his own sour atmosphere.

And it’s not like those particular jokes are mean , or anything like that. They’re just… soured. Sometimes self deprecatingly sour. Sometimes bordering on too dirty to be joked about, which is unusual, because Kaayras doesn't usually joke dirty anyway. Sometimes they’re just so bitingly awkward, that Kaayras will just turn and walk out of a room as soon as he’s finished the line, because even he knows he shouldn't have said what he did. 

Sometimes they aren't even too bad, they could have been fine and funny like normal, but the way Kaayras tightens up belays he personally didn't find what he said funny, and then rather suddenly he stops talking completely, and wont respond to anyone. Maker forbid someone actually laughs at those particular jokes, because Kaayras will get this… awful neutral expression on his face, and then fake this mild smile for the rest of the conversation, but he wont talk any more, and it makes some sort of warning ping go off in the back of Varric’s mind.

Varric is always perplexed by those jokes, those Rotten Ones. He just never knows what to make of them- there's… too many kinds of them.

“Getting lost in thought? I thought you had questions? Or was that an excuse for my company?” There’s an eyebrow arched at him with an accompanied smirk. 

Varric cuts the musing in his own brain to a hush. 

Then, he rolls his shoulder, leans back and chuckles. “I do have questions, honest. Alright, so, Qunari research question number… 80-something.” 

Kaayras huffs quietly against his cup as he takes another sip of his cider. Varric knows Kaayras does not actually take a sip most of the times he holds that cup to his lips; it’s a prop more than anything, and it makes Kaayras feel more at ease to have something to naturally cover his face with. The way he handles his cup is a lot like the way he eats: covering his face with his hand and averting his eyes. Props, distractions, hiding his face. The cup would otherwise go empty much quicker if he actually did sip it so often. 

“I’m actually curious to know if Qunari women are as flirtatious as you and Bull seem to be.” Varric asks his 80th-something question, and takes an actual drink of his own cider.

Kaayras’ gaze flickers out toward the gate, out where the Chargers have made their camp, as it usually does whenever The Iron Bull is mentioned. 

“Most Qunari are… similar. Yes.” Kaayras answers, clipped, but makes a face at his own answer. He takes a moment to elaborate on that, which Varric knows to wait for, based on that expression. “In the sense that… relationships and, ah… intimate acts aren’t viewed… as most people seem to view them here. So… that said… Every Qunari woman is different, but…”

“Similar culture, I gotcha.” Varric nods. “So, it’s probably a culture thing, that makes you two so flirty.”

Kaayras tilts his head a moment, so Varric waits. “Fewer… social restrictions to prevent it… more likely.” Kaayras offers at a drawl. 

Varric supposed that makes sense. So rather than painting a character overly sexualized or anything, he might try to more delicately paint her personality as just… less disposed to thinking flirting and playing around as particularly special ? 

“Frankly, that sounds like an interesting challenge. My most recent romance novels have been playing too much with the less than novel focuses of purity and sin, anyway. It’s getting a little boring to write, even if it sells well.” Varric muses out loud.

“Purity in… that sense …” Kaayras clears his throat, “Doesn't really exist in Qunari. Qun or Tal-Vashoth… or even Vashoth. Virgin Purity is… not a concept. Much like… idolizing a man who hasn’t made shoes before doesn't make sense, idolizing someone who hasnt… you know, done anything like that before… it's not a concept in Qunari.”

Varric nodded, sipping his own warm cider. He had to find it amusing the way Kaayras danced around the implications of sex, being a man as flirtatious as he was. It isn’t lost on Varric, either, the irony of Kaayras dancing on the topic while trying to explain to Varric that it’s not really a big deal.

A discrepancy, really. Maybe it comes with living around non-Qunari in Thedas. Human ‘decency’ wearing off on him. Or even that he’s just shy .

Instead of weaseling in a topic that might potentially wear some tension into the somewhat skittish nature of Kaayras Adaar, such as his own personal history and the way it’s influenced his opinion on sex, Varric decides to switch tracks. 

Because trying to ask about Kaayras’ personal history, prior to the Conclave, usually kills a conversation quickly with vague non-answers. 

His musings turn back to his book, instead. There's some intimate questions Varric’s been dying to ask, the more he considers actually writing this character; ones Varric is half sure Kaayras will dance out of answering with embarrassment, but half sure Kaayras could just as easily take it humorously and start bragging and teasing again. 

Either way, it’s practically been a wall in Varric’s writing process to consider the intricacies of the dirty scenes a romance novel needs, with no real way to research them.

How exactly Qunari differ in terms of erogenous zones from other races is not only fascinating, but pretty essential to the purpose of a romance novel. And Varric has asked some of it here or there- like how do the horns play into bed, if at all? Little details. Things not too Gritty, not too much to make Kaayras squirm, but frankly Varric has grown curious .

And, even more importantly, Varric wouldn't be caught dead writing completely inaccurate sudo-smut before his classic pan to the window technique. He’s not a hack . 

There’s frankly just one little problem when it comes to asking Kaayras Adaar about how to please a Qunari woman, though.

“So. You’re not actually into any of our lady friends here in the camp, right? Just our gentlemen.” Varric jokes, more as an opening to the topic at hand. That Kaayras is probably not particularly versed in the wiles of Qunari women as much as he probably is in the men.

It's an assertion, and really, Varric’s comment is based on a guess built from a smattering of random details and mental notes, more than any kind of fact. 

Like how Kaayras makes those dumb, accidental, or soured jokes that roll off his tongue toward the more endowed members of the inner circle infinitely more often than any of the feminine members. The number of awkward, terrible things Kaayras has cracked at Cullen that have wrought a silence over the practicing recruits or over the war table meetings are surely a double digit count by now. Blackwall has been on the victim end, as well, and the consequences usually involve Blackwall holding a mile long radius from Kaayras at every opportunity after a Rotten One. 

Varric has also not been immune to Rotten Ones, although he’s been blessed to have more tact then the other Inquisition men and can usually tell and therefore avoid when Kaayras is getting worked up enough to crack tense, sour jokes. 

The target of Rotten Ones always circles back to Cullen, though, in a way Varric has certainly found… Telling , lately. 

It's funny in a painful sort of way- probably not funny for Curly or Heartless, but, funny from a third party angle. Outside of the moment, at least. In the following seconds of the sour jokes, it's just really awkward. It almost makes Varric feel bad for the way Kaayras’ humor can just turn against him.

The Herald, to his credit, makes a funny little swallowing noise Varric almost doesn't even hear over the crackling fire, before asking an even, relaxed, “What… uh. Makes you… say that?” without moving his cup from in front of his mouth.

Again, it’s a bunch of other little things. Like how Kaayras usually makes his jokes with Sera more blatantly about having sex, but the dirtiest thing Kaayras can say to Blackwall without choking on a sour slip up is about a massage . 

And even littler things, like Varric believing Sera has an almost perfect homing beacon for people not unlike herself, and has never once taken any of Kaayras’ jokes with more than amusement and petulance. Maybe that’s putting a lot of faith in Sera’s ability to detect the company of gay men and lesbian women, but so far, she hasnt been fooled.

“Writer’s Intuition.” Varric offers in a mockingly sarcastic tone, rather than put all of that, and more, out in the open. It would just be too much work, really. And Varric now has the sneaking suspicion, based on the way Kaayras is reacting, that if Varric mentioned even a single tell, it would very much change the way Kaayras behaves. 

Kaayras inevitably neither confirms nor denies the implication. Instead, he trademarkably ignores the question; Kaayras ‘sips’ his cider and gives Varric an exaggerated side eye. “I can't recall any of your books including a single male main character interested in a man for you to have any intuition over that.” 

“Just not the ones I've published yet.” Varric gives a little wink. Kaayras rubs the back of his neck, and his gaze subsequently darts off to the side. “And since when have you read all my books, anyway?” Varric adds, jokingly. Kaayras shrugs, amusement mock on his expression. But he does not relax, nor look back toward Varric or the fire.

Ah, alright, more uncomfortable with this than Varric was genuinely expecting. Ouch.

Varric has to admit appreciating that Kaayras hasn't lied to him yet, despite the topic making him uncomfortable, evidently. Which in itself sticks out as another small inconsistency- The Qun, and Qunari, aren’t supposed to have hang ups like that, or so both Bull and Kaayras had hinted. 

Varric had gotten some impression that Kaayras was shielding his specific preferences in men, but Kaayras hadn't really made an effort to hide the interest itself . He did, after all, outright flirt with not only Varric, but other men in camp. Sometimes accidentally , and sometimes humorously. He just also flirted with the women. Only humorously, or vaguely. But he still did.

Varric tilted his cup loosely at Kaayras, bringing those violet eyes darting back toward the old mug on impulse; recapturing Kaayras’ attention from wherever it could so easily stray when tense. Adjusting his tone once again to the most casual and lax Varric could, he continued, “Not sure why you make a deal out of it. According to Bull, our master of free and uncensored speech, Qunari folk don't really care about things like that, when it comes to the bedroom. It shouldn't matter to anyone, right? You can do what you want with whoever you want.”

Kaayras remains hushed for a moment, then scratches one gloved hand along the scruff of his jaw. “A difficult… its a bit harder to explain, then that.”

“Harder to explain then ‘walk in visits to the doctor for a lay’? Tiny made it seem pretty simple.” Is Bull just like that, then? Varric had been under the impression that all the Qunari, or most of them, were like him- didn't care about who sleeps with who, and enjoying whatever it is they enjoyed. 

If Kaayras is shy, or just skewed, is that a Vashoth or a Tal-Vashoth thing? something he’s picked up being around so many humans and elves and whoever else? 

This sticks out, in Varric’s opinion. A little yellow flag. It takes more than a couple years with a new culture to just override an internal, cultural opinion you’ve grown up with, doesn't it? Kaayras’ level of ‘closeted’ is… all over the place, which doesnt really help Varric find any good conclusions.

The Herald makes a face at Varric’s comment- like that same knitted, concerned kind of pinched when Kaayras is trying to ask about a possibly sensitive topic, but more… strained, maybe.

“The Iron Bull… is a Ben-Hassrath. A lot of things are… easier , and simpler .”

There’s more tension lingering in Kaayras than Varric was expecting, and it makes itself evident when Varric gets a glimpse of Kaayras rubbing his wrists through his gloves. A nervous tic Kaayras sometimes does, usually behind his back, when trying to shape his speech with particularly important goals in mind. Kaayras’ voice doesn't hold any tone that is particularly telling of nervousness or something, but that’s also part of the problem.

Varric makes a quick ‘ah’ sound, then crosses his arms over his chest once again. 

Accidentally, Varric stumbled on a more… raw topic. Okay. Not the joking direction he’d thought this would go. Or even the somewhat awkward not-out-of-a-closet kind of route he could have expected.

Varric can either let the conversation die outright, as Kaayras will likely snip away at it until it does die, or Varric can keep fishing. Only one really merritts any possible change to the atmosphere, so… Varric tries to pick his next words efficiently, but carefully. 

And keep it offhanded, calm, and not like fishing. And not like he’s trying to pretend he isn’t fishing, either. Because frankly it would just set off one of Kaayras’ little mechanisms of alarm and make the man back out of the conversation if Varric didn’t show some of his usual curiosity.

Sometimes it takes a lot of effort to get Kaayras to stay out of his shell. Luckily, Varric thinks he's gotten pretty alright at it. He’s just gotta be careful. Curious, but not intrusive or insistent. He’d gotten pretty good at this, after all.

“So, any relation of… this to the untold mystery of whether you’re a Vashoth or a Tal-Vashoth, then? Cause, you know, the hero with the sordid past is only a good story when the cool mysteries get dragged out at some point.” 

Phrasing it like a yes-or-no question is sort of an out, really. Kaayras can answer as clipped as he likes, and Varric will just take it from there. 

Varric’s hoping that’ll help him feel more at ease. That, and it’s a cliche question. Kaayras is asked this question so often , that Kaayras has a million practiced ways to dance around it. Varric knows he does, he’s heard the same scripts repeated several times, dodging the nature of how exactly he’s related to the rest of his race’s mass religion.

Tension with Bull, and Bull’s position in the Qun was to be… expected, given Kaayras was considered Tal-Vashoth or Vashoth. No one was really sure where Kaayras came from, but he had confirmed to not be a member of the Qun; at least at this current time. So tension between a Ben-Hassarath, The Iron Bull, and non-Qun Kaayras Adaar, wasn’t unexpected in the least.

The question, really, was if status was a part of the issue, as it was so often for Tal-Vashoth. If the tension between Kaayras and Bull had anything to do with a current status as Tal-Vashoth, or simply a Vashoth wary of a Qunari agent. 

But if Kaayras is going to go ahead and suggest Bull’s got things ‘easier’ as a Ben-Hassarath, maybe that’s the kind of status that mattered. If Kaayras Adaar actually is a Tal-Vashoth, maybe some of that tension has to do with the fact that a Ban-Hassarath was a higher status then whatever Kaayras might have been when in the Qun. If he ever had been.

It’s a fair question, Varric thinks. But it’s still yes-or-no. And he’s not asking ‘so are you a Tal-Vashoth after all?’, he’s asking ‘so is that opinion related to whether you are?’, and no matter how Kaayras answers that question, there’s a sort of vagueness to use as an out. It’s got layers of obscurity, and even then , it’s a cliche question Kaayras is always asked. Which Varric hopes will help Kaayras relax back out of whatever… strain he’s gotten from Varric’s blunder into something more personal than he expected.

“I believe you were asking me about Qunari, for a book.” Kaayras guts the question completely, almost startling Varric.

It's not sharp . It's just fast. Fast, like there was nothing else in his head to say, so he threw out what was first to show up. And Kaayras is not usually fast about cutting off questions; he prefers misdirection and subtle shifts. 

Maybe it was too fair of a question.

Or maybe, no matter what Varric had said or asked him, Kaayras had been prepared with only that sentence to cut off the conversation from leaking into his personal history.

Varric stretches, and then crosses his legs in front of him; close to the fire, to feel some warmth in his freezing feet.

“I am. Reasons why a Qunari becomes Tal-Vashoth, if i'm going to write one. I’m just asking for your opinions. Seeing as information about sex and attraction got difficult to explain. It’s a change of topics.” 

And it is. Maybe that's a little unfair of Varric, because it was a change in topic away from the evidently difficult discussion of Kaayras’ personal preferences, but Varric had aimed the question at Kaayras, not at ‘general Tal-Vashoth’. 

It’s maybe a little mean to imply Kaayras had simply misunderstood Varric, provided Kaayras often struggles with things like that, but he’s not being mean spirited. Really, he just wants to get the guy to relax again.

But Kaayras takes a moment with that suggestion, anyway, taking Varric at his word. His gloved hands thrum a simple pattern into his knee, a tune of the dulled sound of leather on leather, while watching flames dance, or occasionally, people walk past on the path in front of them. It still isn't that late, but few people meander after dark, if only to get out of the cold that follows the sunset- and to avoid looking at the glowing green light cast by the lingering breach in the night sky.

Kaayras’ gaze travels, more than twice while he thinks, to the front gate, down the steps before them. Where the only other camp’s Qunari rests in his tent, already drunk from the tavern, on the other side of that wall. 

An Agent of Ben-Hassrath. An enemy to any Tal-Vashoth, Varric can note with ease, even if he’s no expert on any of them. 

The tension hasn’t only been one-sided, nor just Kaayras’ nerves. 

On more than one occasion, Bull has spit the word out to refer to the Inquisitor; Tal-Vashoth . And yet, he could say ‘Vashoth’ with just as much firm aggression to it. Varric overheard some of the blacksmith’s crew, normally working near where Bull watches the troops, talking, once: the Herald asked Bull something about Qunari that the blacksmiths hadn't heard, and the phrase “ you're not Qunari. Your Vashoth. Or are you Tal -Vashoth?” had been sneered, no short of stern-ness and hot iron edge. 

Hot gossip in the blacksmiths, that one had been, and it had spread to the rest of the camp quickly. Kaayras had left immediately and gone back in the gates, or so rumor had it. Bull hadn’t struck up any conversations with any of his charges for a good while, either, apparently having stewed for most of the afternoon.

This was definitely a double-sided tension.

Sometimes Varric wonders about it. Sometimes Varric really thinks about it; not often, because he doesn't like to dwell on the what-ifs, but sometimes he wonders . 

Varric has to wonder, even, about Kaayras’ motivations, sometimes.

If the only reason Kaayras is still here in camp is because he's marked , he's the Herald . If Kaayras stays with the Inquisition because now he is notorious , and created the most solid cover for a Tal-Vashoth while also simultaneously blowing it by the notoriety of his position as the Lone Survivor. 

Now everyone in Thedas, basically, knows Kaayras Adaar to some extent.

And even if Kaayras was here just for the selflessness of it, if Kaayras wanted to be here, but he wasn't essential… would agents already be here to take him away, back to… wherever they take defects, if they aren't killed on sight? If Kaayras wasn't irreplaceable for the Inquisition, if they wouldn’t know immediately that Kaayras was taken away, would Qunari agents not have already arrived for him in the fame of a possible Tal-Vashoth being in their camp?

Are they already here for him? 

Bull was, after all, a self-confessed spy, an extended arm of the Qun, on the possibility of teamwork . Was he here to wait like a looming, friendly shadow, and when the world was saved, was he here to be the agent that whisked away the maybe Tal-Vashoth the moment he was no longer essential, the moment he was no longer the apple of the public eye?

Where exactly, Varric wondered, would Kaayras be if he wasn't the only one that could stop rifts? Where might he be, when they solve the rifts and the breach?

Varric doesn't know what the Qun do with their Defected kin, other than slaying them. And that seems too… cruel to ask the possibly Defected man at his side, at least for right now. 

And Varric knows better than to trust a spy outright, to ask Bull, under the possibility that Bull is here for the day Kaayras is no longer the focus of an international crisis. Bull could very well lie- Varric would have no way to verify anything. Moot point to bother.

He’ll ask Leliana to find him a book, perhaps. Maybe there’s something about it, somewhere. If anyone could find that kind of information for him, it’d be her.

“Tal-Vashoth are individuals.” Kaayras finally speaks again. 

Nearly startled out of his thoughts, Varric gives the other man his full attention. He’d half expected the Herald wouldn't say anything else for the rest of the night, despite Varric having asked the question in the first place. It wouldn’t have been the first time. 

Kaayras, with words figured out, continues slowly. “They each have their own reason. Greed and Selfishness are common reasons- and… I don't mean to be cruel when I say that. Greed and Selfishness are things… anyone has. There's no room in the Qun for any of it, though. So if you desire a better place in society… than to shovel ox shit, you defect for selfishness. If you desire to live… a wealthier life than the one you're… assigned as a foot soldier, you leave for greed.”

He’s got more to say, but it takes him a minute. Varric is patient. It’s the most he owes Kaayras, in exchange for the man trying to string the words together to explain. 

“Tal-Vashoth leave for lots of reasons. For greed, for selfishness. Because they don't agree with something in the qun… and if you don't agree with anything in the qun, it's dangerous to be around Qunari… whether you are one or not. Some soldiers leave for weakness… cant handle slaughtering, despite having the body for it. Some leave for love- you don't get to be… attached, in the qun. No families. No love. No romance, even, if it… interferes with purpose . Some leave simply… because they don't want their job. A Fisherman who just… wants to make shoes , even if he’s a shitty shoe maker, but if you're not good at the job, you can't have it. If you’re too good at a job, you’ll… never have anything else. Some leave out of fear. Their neighbor gets… reconditioned… re-educated… needs a handler to babysit them, now, cant even use the bathroom on their own… and that's terrifying, so you run away. Some run away if they show the first sign of magic… that life, as… as a S… as Saarebas. It is terrible and terrifying, worse than circles, or worse than outcasting from a village. I think…”

And Kaayras trails off, watching the fire. His clipped facts are wrapped up with that little piece at the end, an “I think”, but Kaayras doesn't finish it. Like he rarely ever does finish an opinion. He just shifts, holding his cup at his face for another sip. His shoulders sink, watching the fire shift. Lost in thought is a better look, though, than all that tension from before.

Varric is relieved, but still thinks to ask again… which one he is. Why did the Herald of Andraste possibly leave the Qun, the Qunari, at such great risk to himself, if he did? Or maybe instead, to prod for what Kaayras thinks about it all. To know what Kaayras thinks is so uncommon.

But the Inquisitor stands and stretches before Varric can decide, or can decide not to ask anything. He stands and stretches, and his back pops twice as he stretches himself out tall- achingly tall. He has a Head over the height of Iron Bull. 

The way people chatter that the Inquisitor is a demon is at its most understandable in the light cast by the fire, Varric thinks absently. It makes him seem bigger, ominous, more dangerous; red of his hair glowing, piercing purple eyes sharp against the dark grey of his face, all the brilliantly brighter in the faint glow of the paint on his skin in the dark.

Those brilliant eyes turn back, briefly, to Varric. They meet his gaze, and turn upward quickly- just a little too quickly to be real causal, not the real casual way Kaayras often makes his mannerisms look with such ease. 

Just a millisecond too soon. Varric catches that, and a sense of surprise hits him like the bolt of an arrow to the shoulder.

Varric almost thought Kaayras was fine; that the man had made his usual quick recovery, as Kaayras so often makes from tense moments. He almost thought that Kaayras was over the questions, the personal assumptions, over Varric’s insinuation that still rests neither confirmed nor denied. 

Maybe warriors and fighters can see hiccups in self-trained soldiers. But for reading people, it's… different. People trained to hide their mood, their feelings- it's easier to read the trained one; the self-trained ones, the ones who learned all on their own, are harder . 

Kaayras is pretty hard, sometimes, Varric had already known. But just a millisecond too soon- the man is not fine. It’s a very careful mask; fake distant, fake thoughtful, fake relaxed. He is not over the conversation at all, actually. Still caught on something in it, and likely something specific. Still alarmed, still- afraid, maybe. There's something there .

That one slip makes Varric realize it, and he’s surprised that Kaayras almost had him fooled. That’s a hard thing to do. Varric isnt fooled easy by people .

And based on the way Kaayras’ posture shifts and his shoulders slip from relaxed back to tense, arms looping behind him, to rest at the small of his back, the way the man's weight shifts and the way he seems to completely cease moving: that says it. 

Kaayras knows Varric caught a scent of his unease, of his fake composure. 

Briefly, Varric wonders what tell he himself gave off, that Kaayras could tell such a thing; that Kaayras could tell Varric had noticed .

Kaayras keeps his gaze over the sky, lingering over the haunting of the breach. Varric’s expecting him to leave, any second now, and Varric can't fault him for it. The tension is rigid in the stillness of Kaayras’ body, and by the moment, Varric realizes, it seems to be growing worse. Like someone is slowly, slowly winding a key, and the tension is mounting in the oversized man’s very bones.

Instead, the Inquisitor makes that pinched face, like he's going to ask something uncomfortable again, while looking up into the swirling green shape in the clouds- it’s distant, over three mountains from them. It's never distant enough for safety. 

Instead of asking something uncomfortable for Varric, though, Kaayras speaks and it’s… to offer Varric an answer . The moon makes the paint of his lips and his eyes a bright, luminous purple, or maybe it's the Deep Mushroom mixed into it that's glowing in the dark all it’s own. 

“I became Tal-Vashoth because I was… not capable of performing my… job.” An answer to Varric’s question, in the end. And it is a confirmation to so many questions that Varric- and many others- have been asking. It confirms Kaayras is in fact a Tal-Vashoth, confirms he was once the Qun, is technically the betrayer The Iron Bull suspects he is. Quickly, before Varric can even consider any implications this information poses, Kaayras tacks on, “A favor. Please. Don't- Don’t. Spread this to… unsavory ears. Any of… this. Yet. If ever. Any of this. ”

And Varric realizes it is a confession all it’s own. 

Kaayras is, in fact, pretty fucking terrified. He must be, because he’s answering a pretty tightly held secret (where he came from, the truth of a Tal-Vashoth) as a concession . 

A bribe .

He doesn't want Varric to talk about anything from tonight.

He doesn't want Varric telling anyone that Kaayras Adaar has a preference for men?

And he's giving Varric answers as a barter, because Kaayras Adaar is actually frightened that Varric knows this detail about him. And Kaayras knows Varric values information , and this is his barter.

“Wouldn't dream of it, Heartless.” It was joking in tone as Varric assured it, and it came with a mock salute. But he means it. None of this had ever been information he intended to hold over Kaayras’ head. He makes sure he sounds as sincere as he sounds joking.

Kaayras isn’t amused. He’s just tired, Varric thinks, and what's more… Varric thinks Kaayras does not wholly believe him. 

Still, Kaayras only looks at him, motionless and no less tense, for a few seconds more. Then quietly heads off to his cabin. 

Varric certainly doesn't feel like he knows a lot more about Qunari than when he sat down tonight, or even the Inquisitor himself, and none of… that was particularly useful to his ‘book possibility’. But it puts him in a very particular place- one that Kaayras may consider threatening, as unintentional as that is. He knows more about Kaayras Adaar than he did a few hours ago, more than likely anyone here in Haven, and yet Varric still doesn't feel he knows the man himself.

Still, he hopes whatever research book he can convince Leliana to snare for him from her network of connections will answer his other questions. Especially since he’s going to need to lay off needling Heartless about Qunari for a little while, in the face of… all of that . 

He can’t deny himself. 

He’s very curious .

He doesn't ask on it again, though. If he asked more about it, it wouldn't really be coaxing Adaar. It would feel more like he was threatening Adaar, and that in and of itself is not Varric’s intention. There’s not reason for that.

For now, for the Herald’s sense of safety, he’s not going to ask more of it. It was already some rightfully dangerous information that Kaayras has just divulged. And despite… doubt that Varric would hold onto his little secrets, Kaayras didn’t seem to regret or fester over the conversation the following morning when they left camp with the group.

This is, in the end, a secret Varric will have to keep very lock and key.

Because Kaayras Adaar will always be a Tal-Vashoth, and always a famous one, now. There's no hiding, for Kaayras. He cant just be some anonymous man on the country side anymore. If and when the Inquisition is over, and he's not the key to the fate of the world, and his heraldry won't protect him anymore, he’ll still be Tal Vashoth- and a famous one, recognizable, in the public eye, that will probably never find another place to hide. 

There won't be hiding for the man, any more. Which seems purely cruel, for a Mercenary, for a Rogue, for a Run-away, for a man that has a primary skill for disappearing and hiding. 

It's better his reasons stay secret, for his safety, and Varric should never confirm to the waking world that he is a defector.

Varric isn't sure he really wants to know what reconditioning or re-educating means. He hopes Kaayras is lucky enough he doesn't have to experience it, one day.

Chapter Text

There's something a little too awkward about their… arrangement, for Cullen. Most of the time, it's just too much for him to stand. And he would like to think that he was trained to be disciplined in the face of all hardship, but when he recruited into the Order, this was not really the kind of experience he expected to have to stay firm against.

Cullen has very much enjoyed the company of Kaayras, of course. Cullen is of the supporting opinion, after all, that Kaayras should be their choice of Inquisitor; as resistant to the recommendation as Josepineand Leliana seem to be. And outside of that, of the importance behind their work, Kaayras is also just a good man.

He's a kind man. A little too soft in matters of diplomacy- a little too against templars and for mages, Cullen thinks. Too sympathetic , too bleeding heart . But Kaayras is friendly, he's kind, and he's immensely sympathetic. 

He's anything but what the… general appearance would lend a person to expect of him. Of course, Cullen wouldn't admit the shameful truth of expectation that had entered his mind upon laying eyes on Kaayras Adaar. Particularly… when Cassandra and Leliana had first introduced him as part of the Advising Circle. He had expected a violent, war mongering man that would use muscle first and talk loudly, and he had also expected crude, sacrificial maneuvers for the sake of advantage. That is to say, he expected Qunari . Or, what he expected of Qunari.

It was a stereotypical and blunt thing that Cullen regrets thinking of the other man, but the violence of Qunari had ingrained the expectations into him anyway, after everything he'd seen. Kaayras was not of that nature, though, and it was Cullen's folly to have assumed the man he saw back at the dawn of the breach was merely a brutal soldier based almost solely on the horns.

He's just a good, kind man in a very interesting time and place. 

And while it is certainly embarrassing to have realized his own bias, that was not what made it all awkward. No, Cullen had accepted the Qunari side of Kaayras rather quickly. He’d like to say he’s gotten over his assumptions of horns, of some Qunari people. The reality of Kaayras' character- a quiet, calm man with watchful eyes and busy hands, far removed from expectation- had become apparent in less than a week. 

And while Kaayras was not so assertive at their meetings even when final decisions were given to him, there were moments where the man could make hard tactical decisions with a quick, painless ease. And that was usually because Kaayras Adaar did not allow things like powerplays or opportunity to step in the way of trying to help the innocent, or trying to preserve life in general.

Yes, that too was embarrassing. That Cullen has become so accustomed to leadership politics that he sometimes mistook vulnerabilities as pawns, and that Kaayras would calmly and quietly cut an opposition to Cullens more harsh suggestions… 

(Cullen is not proud of this- but he’s embarrassed that a Qunari, however vashoth or tal-vashoth, has stronger morals than him. He’s very, very not proud of the thought, or the embarrassment itself. He knows it's an unfair thought. He knows it’s cruel, and it sits in a place in his head where he tries to silence it.)

But even those moments were not what was awkward in dealing with Kaayras. At the very least, Cullen was not alone in his slips; Leliana made the same implications and plots more frequently than Cullen did. 

And she was much more willing to make hard sacrifices for the sake of greater rewards; more willing than Cullen would ever be. 

Cullen had never been so wrong, so cold, as to be on the receiving end of Kaayras' deep tone, hammering a harsh "absolutely not." Only Leliana had suggested a plan cold enough to bend Kaayras' unspoken observation into solid unrelenting refusal and, maybe, even distrust or disgust. Leliana herself had only made a suggestion harsh enough once, even. She did not make the mistake a second time- at least, not so far.

And even that hadn’t been awkward for too long. Leliana had found a revised approach, and Kaayras had nodded in mild approval, and Kaayras had been wordless for quite a while… but it was not awkward in the kind of way Cullen dreads. Not even close, really.

The fact of the matter was that Cullen and Kaayras fit quite well, in all professional sense. And for a fairly long while it stayed just such a way: professional, and therefore, good. Cullen rapidly grew to respect Kaayras and his good nature and his calculative silences and unsaid judgement.

But there's something awkward, down at the bottom of it, these days. Cullen can't help regretting the turn things have taken.

Cullen has come to the understanding that the Herald's a flirty man by nature; that this is normal behavior for not only Qunari, but for Kaayras himself. It's just the way he and his kind are . 

Culturally. Yes. Culturally. 

(Cullen feels guilty, he does , that he has to turn his head back on itself. ‘His kind?’ He is not proud of the way he instinctively thinks a thing like that. He’s working on it.)

Regardless, it is an innate cultural difference that the Qun does not have nearly so many polite niceties or prudish outlooks upon flirting and suggestiveness as Cullen is used to from Humans, and even others among the population of Thedas tend to lean closer to Human decorum then Qunari… openness .

So the cultural differences regarding the topic in of itself is awkward, to Cullen, too- but he's even gotten over all of that . Cullen has grown accustomed to the culture clashes and the foreignness that settles with the company of Kaayras and Bull. Cullen even passes those jokes off with a laugh, now that he’s… used to it. That this is just how the two of them are. 

Cullen is certainly making paces past Blackwall- the Warden seems nearly incapable of not falling flat- verbally and, sometimes, physically- every time the Herald of Andraste so much as sends him a wink. Blackwall has failed to adapt to even Kaayras’ most light jokes. So its not like Cullen is the worst among them at dealing with it.

Quite frankly, Cullen thinks he's doing pretty well. He's been careful, tiptoeing around accidental things and ingrained reactions or unsightly emotional responses that may possibly be considered racist for the Qunari Herald. 

He takes extra care, of course, when approaching seemingly sensitive topics.

Sensitive topics like, perhaps, maybe Inquisitor Adaar could try a more intimidating approach for this particular problem, or this other thing he's trying to do. Intimidation would be a useful option, given the way he…… looks. 

That is to say, of course, intimidation would be easy for a man of his… stature. 

It's not racist, Cullen is fairly sure, it's just reality. He’s been trying to re-evaluate thoughts about Qunari and how Cullen perceives them, and he’s fairly sure this isn't a racist thing- just a fact.

Kaayras is the tallest man Cullen has ever seen walking among mortal men. He's bulky, and maybe his horns are normal where he comes from, but they aren't normal around here . He's quite literally- factually- built for intimidation; Even among Qunari , because it’s not even just that he’s a Qunari. It’s that he’s massive , even by their standard height and general build; and he just has features that… work for the position of being intimidating. At least, here in Thedas, he certainly is, and maybe Cullen isn’t a Qunari, but he’s pretty sure it would apply in his homeland too. 

And, of course, he carries knives strapped to his back. You know- big, scary knives? 

He could excel at using the fear he could so easily inspire. And sometimes things could be a lot easier if Kaayras just tried to use that rather than try to get around that. That’s all Cullen means to suggest.

Recommending intimidation at all for the Inquisitor, however, always comes upon a horrible moment of quiet, with Adaar scratching at his jaw what is certain to be selfconsciously, and a vague, noncommitted “perhaps i'll give that a shot”. 

Rarely does he, of course. Always trying to find himself a work around to avoid intimidation tactics or using threats. Even the places a harmless looking individual would realize it's better to try and intimidate the enemy. Cullen isn't certain if it's being too kind, either; Kaayras seems to prefer even outright violence to threatening . 

Kaayras preferring to stab a man rather than black mail a man with the  threat of a stabbing is interesting to deal with at the best of times. It can be an exasperation not only to Cullen, who is learned in the art of flexing might to avoid battles. But it is also a frustration to the other advisors who are also versed in power plays. 

Cullen tries not to be blunt about these difficulties, but the man ought to just try intimidating or threatening minor threats once in a while. It would make the jobs of him and the other advisors easier, at least on occasion. Sending a portion of their limited armies to take care of smaller threats is less useful than Adaar putting on some kind of intimidating visit to some opposing Bann. All he would have to do is look big, show off a knife maybe, and actually say a passing threat.

And it would make things terribly less awkward. Because Cullen really has a hard time making these suggestions without having to be blunt and straying to that place where he feels like the asshole for making a suggestion. 

Suggestions make everything awkward. Just like all the flirting.  

Too much 'suggestive' behavior. 

But Cullen has adapted to these things, so, it's… fine. He can put up with Kaayras dodging intimidation tactics, he can put up with Kaayrus teasing people, even himself, and he can put up with the cultural distinctions they don't share.

But also, it's the comments , too- comments that they both make. They make things awkward for each other often. Maybe these particular comments, this particular issue, is Cullen's own fault, though. 

Cullen's tact isn't limited to the battlefield, he swears it. But his tact is… not the most practiced, dealing with such an… awkward person as Adaar. Sometimes that really shows, is all.

Cullens own silly comments were sometimes just wholeheartedly embarrassing. 

Like, once upon a time, Leliana had mentioned that rumors were going around the Inquisitor Adaar was particularly effeminate . His habits behind closed doors were of the utmost discussion at a party Josephine had recently attended to see how the state of the rumor mill was, and some such rumors could need some circumvention.

Cullen commented, perhaps, some of the odd… rumors spreading around Orlais could be aswaded, and Leliana and Josephine's minds put at rest. If Kaayras considered a more… masculine approach to his… makeup.

His makeup .

War paint. 

Poisonous war paint. 

Cullen had actually said to the man not to wear poisonous war paint, that should help stop rumors about your feminine reputation!

My, Cullen felt very silly that day, and the awkwardness of that comment was definitely at his own fault. 

The Iron Bull had, of course , laughed at him righteously from just outside the meeting room, because Cullen had not known it was war paint at the time, that is was armor , and had referred to it as ‘makeup’. And Bull had had plenty to say about Cullen’s blunder between loud chortling.

Apparently this Vitaar stuff was about as manly, masculine, powerful as Qunari get in terms of fashion- their women, as Cullen understood it, weren't even allowed under the Qun to wear it.  

Cullen’s embarrassment had only deepened: he then learned next that it was literal poison. Poison upon the face for ‘Men Only’. His comment about the Vittar, Cullen had thought in that moment, could not have been more off base.

Except, of course, that was probably not common knowledge in Orlais, which had been his embarrassed defense. But after Bull laughing had quieted just a little, he realized Leliana and Josephine were also laughing at him too. All while Kaayras had shuffled, silent as the grave, thoroughly flushed at his end of the table.

And they were laughing because, no, the rumors complaining the Herald was effeminately portrayed wasn't the ‘makeup’ . In fact, news of the Vitaar as Kaayras' signature style of makeup had made the poisonous war paint the envy of every nobel man and boy in Orlais. Which effectively proved Cullen wrong , of course, as knowledge of the Vitaar was indeed becoming more common with Kaayras’ notoriety. 

Carefully explained the real problem. That it was a rumor instilled from being seen often with Krem of the Chargers, Josephine told him carefully, eloquently, tactfully- to avoid any insinuation that she shared opinions, Cullen presumes. 

Cullen had not understood the implication immediately- which, too, was embarrassing- but he came to the conclusion eventually. Not quick enough to avoid the awkward silence following Josephine's statement, though. Cullen, in fairness, had not had many interactions with Krem or others… similar to Krem. And a person’s battle with their own gender wasnt really any of Cullens business. Evidently this wasn’t a consistent opinion however, and Adaar’s ‘endorsment’ of the charger Krem had somehow made Kaayras an effeminate figure to be whispered about with scorn, Josephine had carefully explained with continued lack of opinion.

Kaayras had given a deep hearty laugh to hear about the rumors source, evidently surprised. If he was being compared to Krem, well, it was a good rumor as far as he was concerned; so he told them himself. 

He did add, although, that he’d like to hear whatever Leliana and Josephine could recommend he do to prevent rumors about Krem. He didn’t much care about being feminine himself, if that was the implication, so much as circumventing talk about the charger in question. 

Kaayras had, though, wrapped that statement up with an awkward look to Cullen, a rub at his lips- smearing some of the skin-hardening, but still smooth face cream from them onto the fingers of his leather gloves. The lip solution always shined- mixed with beeswax, Cullen remembered.

Whether Kaayras had been thinking about Cullen’s comment regarding 'makeup' or what, exactly, Cullen couldn't be too sure. But as soon as Cullen's eyes had met Kaayras' luminous purple gaze, the Qunari had immediately made a... 'joke' Cullen didn't really understand.  

About Kaayras showing Cullen how manly it would be to kiss him. 

Or. Something. 

Cullen remembers the joke being half baked and not, in fact, making sense, so that very well could have been it, word for word, for all that it mattered. 

Something flirtatious, and something awkward, and that's all Cullen really understood, with how poorly it was thrown together. Kaayras' delayed speech pattern had not helped with deciphering it, but Cullen had definitely heard the insinuation of kissing him loud and clear .

Awkward. Very awkward. Very, very, very awkward.

Cullen wasn't sure even Kaayras understood his own joke, judging from the painfully embarrassed expression that took over his smudged face. Leliana offered only a snort to break the ensuing silence, and dismissed the war room meeting with a wave of a gloved hand, and a mildly amused smirk on her face. 

Kaayras immediately fled, taking right to Cassandra, Bull and Solas- waiting just outside in the meeting room to overhear the whole ghastly ordeal- and vacated Haven for the hinterlands with no small lack of speed. Cullen remembers Bull laughing for so long that Cullen could hear them even once they’d stepped well beyond the gate, and Cassandra had not pried her hand from her face in exasperation for the whole of their hasty exit.

Those lamer jokes of Adaar’s were the worst of the awkward encounters, frankly. 

How was Cullen meant to respond to those? Laugh? How does one laugh at a man proposing they kiss to prove their masculinity? Cullen just rubs his temples at the strain. 

There had been more than just that one encounter, of course. Sometimes those jokes of Kaayras' could be light, could be funny. But sometimes Cullen couldn't figure out how to laugh at them. Sometimes they were just awful.

Not, however, as bad as the indecipherable looks. The ones that go a little too long, and Cullen pretends he doesn’t notice, because how would he act if he noticed? 

Little looks, too, over the shoulder, with a faint smile, strange, squishy looks, or weird, intense looks… 

Like the one Kaayras just unfortunately sent Cullen as they spoke, watching the recruits and talking up to speed on the current situations after Kaayras' most recent return from sealing rifts in the Hinterlands. 

It's a fleeting thing. It's so quick and warm and fuzzy that it makes Cullen want to share that smile back at the man- but then it agitates a little nerve in the back of Cullen’s mind that says, quite profoundly, what in the fade was that? And the warm and fuzzy thing feels alarming.

And there, of course is that look again, for the third time since they started talking. Quick, soft, and fuzzy. Fuzzy like a nug's nose, or like peachfur. 

Or like mold.  

These are the moments Cullen dreads most . These looks of Adaar’s are far worse than the weird jokes. This is the most awkward part of all.

Cullen, of course, ignores the lingering gaze and the unnamable smile, and stutters something out; a nearly failed attempt to maintain the conversation. 

Cullen, luckily, doesn't need to finish his struggle to find a point for his sputtering. The blessing of an interruption comes right from the maker, a scout with something for him to look at steps up quietly. 

It gives Cullen ample excuse to avoid looking at Kaayras, which is good. Great, even. Because the only thing that could make it more awkward, is letting Kaayras know that Cullen is finding him awkward .

Because whenever Kaayras seems to realize he’s unsettled Cullen with those looks and too many jokes , that's when Kaayras gets weird. It’s a 50-50 crapshoot, whether Kaayras will quietly slip away (and make Cullen feel strangely guilty ), or whether Kaayras makes a sour, sour joke (and makes the whole thing infinitely worse).

Awkward, despite how much Cullen has used the word, does not describe well enough how he feels about that smile disappearing off Kaayras’ face, replaced with a frown, when Cullen escapes the conversation. 

Because unfortunately, Kaayras has caught on that Cullen is finding the moment awkward, as Kaayras usually notices. Damn. 50/50 gamble, here we go.

With a clear of his throat, Cullen opts to not show any sign of noting Kaayras’ expression change, and to instead busy himself with reading… something about supply lines. A very benign report Cullen would usually just skim and hand to Josephine. 

Awkward doesn't really appropriately describe the situation, but he's lucky and thankful he’s found a distraction from it for just a moment. Then he can recollect himself and try to continue the conversation. Unless, of course, Kaayras makes his disappearing act.

Cullen hopes, genuinely, Adaar will just leave him be. So he can stop using the word awkward so many times, as well as relieving Cullen of the feeling of uneasiness those looks give him. And avoid the really awful suggestions that are sure to come.

And the herald does, thank goodness. He even starts to leave, without saying anything in goodbye, and Cullen is almost relieved, if… touched a bit by his own guilt. 

Regardless of feeling bad about his own relief, both feelings are short lived .

Seeker Pentaghast is just a row of tents away, and talking to Varric Tethras. 

The dwarven man is at an eye shot between the tents, leaned against the corner post of one of said tents. Cassandra’s focused elsewhere, wailing the sword at her dummies, mid conversation with the rouge dwarf- but Tethras is not so distracted. She seems almost completely unaware that the man she is speaking to has his attention elsewhere- in fact, on Kaayras and Cullen, staring right through the gap between the recruit's tents.

Something churns, very uncomfortable, in Cullen’s gut as he realizes the dwarven man had observed… observed… nothing. 

Because nothing had occurred. So why does Cullen continue to feel so awkward ? 

A nagging discomfort only increases as the Inquisitor shares a moment holding Tethras’ gaze, frozen where he had turned to leave but not yet having taken a step away. And watching the dwarven man from the absolute edge of his vision, Cullen realizes with a spike of uh oh in his body, that Tethras is waving toward Cullen, and the whole cursed motion looks encouraging . A smug looking grin of said encouragement has found sturdy purchase on the dwarf's face.

Shit. Shit.

... shit.

Kaayras turns back around to face the troops, as if he’d not just been about to leave and let Cullen escape. Cullen looks almost blindly and nearly furiously at his paperwork report, to avoid looking like he’d observed. He hopes, at least, he doesn't look as though he’s caught on.

The giant Qunari man is encouraged . Cullen tastes the opposite of his guilty relief. And he doesn't exactly have a name for that emotion. Excited dread? Maker .

The first thing Kaayras says to him, after a few moments of silent fake-report reading, “Did you leave anyone behind in kirkwall?”

And Cullen detours it purposely. 

No, he made few friends there- and had no family in the area. Which is, in fact, the truth. But he’s aware he's dodging and not making any answers for what Cullen can tell is being fished for. Is that a strong enough hint? It should be. For any normal person, it would have been.

The awkward dread gnaws when the man persists . 

He asks, again, “No one special caught your interest?” 

It's in that moment which Cullen takes a quick look back over all of his past… awkward interactions with one Kaayras Adaar. Flipping through those memories, Cullen recognizes that a couple of those awkward moments, bad jokes, and horrible silences may have been serious flirts. Genuine Flirts.

Oh, dear.

Shit.

Cullen plays along, off handedly answering no, that he wasn't really looking - mind you he wasn't good for a partner then, anyway… and that slips out, too, without thinking or having meant to say such a thing.

He's just hoping Kaayras really won't ask him. Dare he say, Cullen might even offer a prayer that he won't have to do some awkward rejection dance- but he’s not so fortunate to have that prayer answered.

“Per- Perhaps I might… interest. You? Uh, that is… interest you in… I- I- might- I enjoy your company.”

Oh, maker. 

It's bad enough how awkward this is. It's worse that he sounds so… 

Like that . 

Nervous. Timid. Dare say, vulnerable. Vulnerable , a Qunari mercenary, a Tal-Vashoth rogue, a warrior messiah ! He must be delirious. He took tainted lyrium this morning. He’s out of his mind. Vulnerable!

And Cullen is going to have to hurt his feelings. 

Shit.

When Cullen was recruited, “letting down the Herald of Andraste easy” wasn't anything Cassandra had mentioned to be a part of the job. Because it's not really going to work- none of it will- if Cullen keeps pretending he doesnt get it. If he keeps ignoring it now that he does get it, Cullen doesn't even know how this will go, but it can't go well . 

So Cullen has to get it now, he has to get what Kaayras is trying to ask of him, and let the would-be Inquisitor down gently . 

Okay. He’s a grown man, he can let someone down gently. And, uh, Kaayras is also a… grown man, he can be let down. Alright.

Cullen really cannot believe this situation.

“That's-” Shit. “I would value your friendship.” It sounds so dismissing, he already feels bad, feels that he said the wrong thing. And now it’s almost painfully guilty; enough to make Cullen wince. “I'm afraid I cannot offer more.” He tries to add, carefully.

He shouldn't feel guilty, it's not like he's done anything wrong. He just- well, he just really doesn't… go that way. In quite… quite a few… that ways … It sounds like a bad joke someone would play on him, Cullen being with a Qunari, a man, one who's an anti-templar mage supporter, to boot. 

Not that Cullen says any of those things here and now. Instead, he tries gently to add, “I... trust you'll understand.”

Not a single expression change crosses the herald's face at this answer.

Cullen really isn't sure if he's relieved, or concerned with a lack of disapointment, or crest fall, or anger, or upset, or tears, or yelling, or… Something. Anything, really, any kind of reaction. It's… unnerving, to say the least.

“I do.” is what Kaayras eventually says after a lingering quiet, instead of any of those reactions. “Thank you for your time, Commander. I’ll leave you to your work.”

A soft blow, that one was. Light and barely felt and still not unlike the wind had been knocked out of him.

Cullen got the distinct feeling Kaayras completely expected this answer- and has to wonder why Kaayras would set himself up for something so awkward if he did expect it. Set himself up for failure , for obvious rejection.

He’s not really sure what to do when Kaayras steps away, he’s certainly in no position to follow after the man, after- after rejecting him. 

Kaayras makes a sharp turn, and starts walking back through the tents and practicing recruits. He moves off in the local area of Haven’s ice field, each step silent, heel pushing through the inch of snow on the frozen ground like a blade through thin air. 

Cullen feels, for a moment, an itch to call to the man, and he doesn’t know what exactly he would call out. He realizes he’s already let Kaayras get much too far away, and he would have to practically yell over the practicing recruits, and it seizes whatever words bubbled mysteriously in his throat. Because what in Thedas could Cullen yell, in this situation, over his troops to the man he just had to reject ?

Despite very much maybe not a good idea it is to follow the man after this interaction, Cullen takes one step after the qunari as Kaayras nears the edge of the frozen bank of the lake.

A single nug darts out near the shore from the scant cover of a thin bush, and the qunari doesn't seem to react, and Cullen barely notices it himself. Cullen’s only taken two more steps, but then he has to freeze in place. 

The nug that had darted at the bank barely made it so many steps as Cullen had, before it's already skewered on a dagger; one of Adaar's many throwing knives. 

That feels like either a really, really strong omen, or a general hint from the universe. Cullen just stands there, and does not follow. Why did he even want to follow? He shouldn't follow, that is literally the stupidest decision he could have made, actually.

Kaayras does not acknowledge the pierce of his blade through the nug; merely proceeds without even a pause in his steps, leaving the nug in it's own blood spatter and smothered in a knife and cold snow.

Cullen makes a rapid glance around the training field, practically searching for help or rescue, not that there is anyone else he would want to witness this. 

Luckily, he resettles his eyes on Varric, seeing that the dwarven man has put a hand on Cassandra’s arm to interrupt her. He says something to the irritated Seeker; something that apparently wraps up whatever they were talking about, and Seeker Pentaghast watches the dwarf shuffle down the slope and snowy bank after their to-be-decided Inquisitor. Varric only pauses once, stopping to pick up the nug and knife, not looking to waste it and leave it to freeze to the lake’s edge. Then, Varric makes trudging pace after Kaayras out onto the ice.

Cullen breathes a sigh of relief, and buries his nose into his supply line report, content to let Varric deal with… that. It’s definitely better than Cullen going after him. Definitely.

He quickly turns and makes his way toward the front gate, nose in his report so he doesn't have to look and figure out if Cassandra has noticed him retreating. Not that he’s fleeing, or anything, he just needs to hand this important supply report to Josephine.

It’s around sunset, later into the evening and almost into the night, when Cullen hears that a shortage of blankets and coats has been solved. Acquisitions received a surplus of nug, rabbit, deer and ram furred skins to work with, rather suddenly, around the end of the dinner shift. 

So he deems that Tethras and Adaar returned safely. A relief just as great as when he'd left Varric to handle it to begin with. 

Cullen takes an impromptu stroll down to the recruit’s tents from his quarters to make an inspection, only coincidentally glimpsing toward the usual fire spot Varric occupies with the occasional visit of Adaar. Cullen ignores his disappointment that neither of them are there.

Cullen does not actually see Kaayras again until the next war table meeting, and it is awkward as one expects such a first encounter to be. It feels worse, even, because Kaayras returns to his old ways: neat, clean, professional mannerisms that mirror back before he and Cullen had adapted to one another's differences. But Cullen can deal with that; he can work with it, and he can work to… fix this. 

He’ll put up with the awkward, because it was not a lie. He would value Kaayras Adaar’s friendship, and is willing to work through this with him. It's not like a little awkwardness is the end of the world. It's the breach that's a probable end of the world. But they’re working on that, too, aren't they?

Kaayras gives him a lone, small smile over his shoulder at the end of the meeting. 

And, maker, it doesn't feel so awkward. Cullen returns it. He doesn’t mind starting over. 

Chapter Text

Sometimes, it's pride that drives the Search for Information in Leliana. Rarely, though, is it only a matter of pride. More often than not, there's better cause to search, to dig, to hound. Reasons like paranoia, like necessity, like strength, like power, like even The Game. 

(When Leliana bothered to play the Game at all, at least, rather than circumvent it or tear it apart as a whole, because that was often more fun or more important than winning. Winning, after all, is about pride . Sometimes you need not win: you simply must succeed .)

She's not playing any game now, though. And suppose, if she had to, Leliana could justify this as business, or consider this a necessity- an importance- this is need to know information and the Inquisitor is silent on it, driving her search for information. Thus requiring her to dig, of course. If she needed to justify her efforts to anyone else, such an investigation could easily be considered business.

But Leliana has no need to justify anything to herself. She knows why she is looking, and that is pride.

And even then, it's all reasonable things Leliana should know that she is after in the first place.

It is, after all, very difficult to fight rumors about a Tal-Vashoth Inquisitor’s origins, when you have next to no information on them yourself. No evidence to back up his background- documentation, a witness, even a story from the man himself. 

Not a shred of physical evidence to go on. Such a rarity; many men would admire such a life, and many men would pay to have the evidence of their actions disappear.

The reality of the situation, though, is that it means Leliana also has no standing point, no evidence to defend his position, either.

It's very well possible that this recent rumor spread by a duke in the north, that The Herald of Andraste fled the Qunari order because he killed several children, is true. There's exactly as much evidence to support it as any other theory or rumor: none.

Possible or not, Leliana is a master. She will still strike this rumor down like all the others, with simple reason and logic. Because thankfully, anyone who has met the proposed Inquisitor through hiring the lone Mercenary or meeting him, would scoff at the suggestion. 

And Leliana does know that Kaayras has previously broken numerous mercenary contracts, simply because a child was involved- and she has proof of that, too. 

Limited evidence. That only goes back, at the latest, a year and a half. But it’s still evidence of character, no?

Before that, "Valo Kas", Kaayras' mercenary company, does not seem to exist. Records of hire and payment to the company- and its only known member- are the only paper trail belonging to Kaayras Adaar, or anyone fitting his description and profile. 

It would seem as though the Herald of Andraste simply fell into this world (conclave withstanding) as a man in his 30s and a mercenary for hire known only for being overly helpful and being an ‘oxe’. And those lone stories and pieces of evidence are limited, as well.

Other rumors, scathing letters sealed with important signatures (mighty fine blackmail for the future, Leliana had saved every single angry complaint and threat), had been included in that scant papertrail Leliana had accumulated. Bounties on the head of Kaayras, requests to ban the Valo-Kas from operating in certain areas, even an instance of an assassin hired after Adaar. All responses to failed missions ‘Valo Kas’ had been hired to complete- failing to kill a child, decimate a whole family, or whatever else he was paid to do but ultimately refused to follow through on. 

‘Failed to follow through’ is the lightest of the sins they complain of Adaar and Valo Kas. Per an example, when the Vashoth failed to follow through, he not only kept the money he’d been paid up front, refusing refund- but also sent scathing warnings and threats that the ‘contract’ (which Leliana presumed must have been a Verbal Contract, as she had yet to find proof of actual contracts. Yet, at least) was absolved due to unmentioned complications- such as aforementioned children, families, or unnecessary collateral of innocents. Even, in a few instances, more than simple threats: Valo Kas was not favored in noth-most Orlais because, in the last year, it had become rumored the mercenary killed a man who had hired the company. Leliana had uncovered that the job he’d been hired for involved a kidnapping of some kind, but not much else about it or why. She presumed, like all of Valo Kas’ broken contracts, it was a matter of ‘morality’. 

Leliana has even put her hands upon one furious letter of note; not from any customers of Valo Kas, but from a separate mercenary company, sent to another. A scathing comment that "Valo Kas" or rather, Adaar, had killed one of their mercenaries. Their mercenary who had taken an aforementioned job to kill a family and their children, a contract which "Valo Kas" had previously broken. Adaar killed the other mercenary, supposedly, to protect the targeted family, even though he’d been the last one hired on the job to kill them. The notice was scathing commentary between two partnered mercenary companies, one warning the other not to take the job unless they intended to send an army. It mentioned a rumor that ‘Valo Kas’ was particularly… efficient when it came to ‘body guard’ missions and if the family was under protection, then the mission pay definitely didn't cover the risk. 

The angry letter was coupled with a more heartwarming letter from the mother of the aforementioned family, sent to Valo Kas. A simple letter, no doubt written by a scribe rather than an illiterate farm wife’s hand, thanking the "company" for their help around the farm that fall harvest in Harvestmere (the letter dates all of this occurring approximately one year ago, nearly a year before the conclave). Or rather, thanking the company for ‘sparing’ a member from service long enough to let him assist them, despite him having to ‘take time off his job’ to do so. 

The woman's letter shows no knowledge or even a hint, this woman had any idea that Adaar was actually hired to kill them at one point in order for some rival wheat farmer to acquire their land. She had no idea her life had been spared- it was merely a friendly letter to a company that had spared an agent for some farm work.

This particular letter had never actually made it to Valo Kas or Adaar; it had been intercepted by Fereldan Bandits. Leliana has debated giving it to Kaayras, amongst the normal mail to Haven. 

For now, she keeps it in her very thin collection of history regarding Kaayras Adaar, in case she needs it to disable a particularly ridiculous and accusatory rumor regarding the types of jobs Valo Kas once took. Or outlandish rumors and insinuate such as Kaayras Adaar becoming tal-vashoth after killing dozens and dozens of children in the Qun.

Leliana, of course, will destroy such a silly rumor with ease with or without a letter as evidence, as well as any other rumors that are not helpful to their effort. Whether she knows the real origins of their Herald, or not, is of no consequence to her skills. Particularly because it's ludicrous, silly, and easy to dismiss such outlandish rumors, anyway. But additionally, because it's her job, Leliana will tackle even the most difficult to refute rumors with success while it is her responsibility. Because that too is a point of pride in her professional skills.

That said... it is still a point of pride at times to search for the truth, anyway. Even if she does not need it. 

Because, no, it's… not always of utmost importance that she have information on the Herald's background. It isn't exactly top priority to know where he was born, Qun or not. No, she needs to focus on the mages closing in from Tevinter upon the rebels in redcliff, is what she needs to do. That is real necessity. There are actual priorities.

And yet… it's almost like an insult to her reputation. It would seem no one but the Qunari themselves know where Kaayras Adaar came from. Aside from the Herald himself, of course. But she neither has agents in the right parts of Qunari ranks to find out for her, nor Adaar telling her these answers. And frankly, Leliana would prefer to have the former.

And that's where it becomes a point of pride most specifically- perhaps, yes, she could sit Kaayras down and explain how important it is that she know these things, to help protect him, all of them, from nasty rumors circulating himself and the Inquisition as a whole. Perhaps he’d even tell her the truth, and not just some hint from his body language or emotions that would help her on her investigation when he refuses to divulge.

But that would be admitting there's no way for her, on her own, to find those secrets. Admit defeat, simply because she is dealing with someone of an exterior government? Unless absolutely necessary , why give up so soon? On the addition, this sort of exercise also gives her a good idea of how difficult it would be for someone else to dredge up dirty history and secrets about their to-be Inquisitor. When they officially appoint him, as they plan to do soon, it will be even more important than ever to defend him from the shadows. 

So far, with how her luck has come, the answer is maybe no one can find the answers, outside the Qunari, because even Leliana has had limited success. And even her precious, precious few agents in the low ranks of the Qun do not know a thing of him.

Of course, Leliana has scraps of the truth.  Hints, details, pieces of fact shaped into hints of what Kaayras once was. Scraps, entertained by what she knows of Qunari in general- what she already knew, and what she has researched since the start of the Inquisition- books on the heritage and the culture (some recently loaned to one inquiring dwarf- she suspects Varric may be her next informative visit in her mission to figure out the Herald) of the Qunari people. 

Prideful creatures, they are, for example. If they aren't good at something, they don't do it in public. So the first hints came with what Adaar found himself doing around people, of course. What he did before defecting, he may well do in public now. More than likely the case, seeing as Qunari are raised for but one job. 

He speaks common tongue well with everyone, and he fights well, but those can be learned in the mercenary business. He may have been a soldier, an agent of ben-hassrath, or neither. He may not have been a fighter at all, became one after defecting only because it is easy for a Qunari, given the natural physique and size. 

He likes to make things, especially. Kaayras makes the paint for his face, he makes his own potions- primarily healing draughts- he crafts his own equipment- learning every day new recipes on his travels for new armour, personally outfitting the inner circle himself with armors and weapons the Inquisition likely would not easily afford with their current meager income. But once again- these are all things learned in a mercenary business, things learned when you are out on your own in the world, fighting for survival. The clues they offer are minimal.

The very nature of his fighting style- a rouge, a shadow with two blades- it's the kind of self taught thing she can see hiccups in, missteps, mistakes. Something Cassandra has been vigorously training him to prevent, to repair, to fix wrongs in the way he fights. It’d be easier if they had someone who fought like that in their group. Varric leaned toward traps and arrows, Sera as well, even more brazenly. There wasn't anyone else in the Inquisition to show him better knife skills- even Leliana herself favored her bow. 

There is, unfortunately, not much else to go on than… fighting related things. And Leliana would say that the absence of Kaayras being anything more than a fighter would imply he was once a Qun warrior of some make. Except- Kaayras is purely self taught, and nothing in his style reflects anything Leliana knows of the Qunari Training. Having Iron Bull around as a comparison only makes that more apparent. It is so unlikely that the Qun ever used Kaayras for the sake of battle that Leliana would dismiss it entirely were it not for Kaayras not showcasing any other specific talents. It just isnt likely.

And yet, Fighting and Making and Killing are the only things Kaayras seems to do, seems capable of doing.

Ah- no, that's- not quite right, Leliana must correct her own thoughts. He is capable of much more. That is merely her cynicism speaking.

He’s insistent on helping, kind hearted to fault. So many silly mission reports- the fact he writes mission reports for finding lost wedding rings for widows, or informing people he’s unfortunately come across their dead lovers or family in the field, a detailed report on a man in redcliff for whom he took flowers to his wife’s grave.

Kaayras takes helping, making people happy, too seriously. He considered almost ever little request of a stranger in the field a mission. 

“ Depressed at the loss, he was. But he says it was better to know she died than to not.” Was a sad little note he’d left Leliana on a report not a mere days ago. Sad- depressing, because it just was . But sad, too, because he shouldn't be spending so much time, energy, focus on making people happy, or ‘feel good’ or find ‘closure’. 

In hindsight, that note was also a part of a more important mission report: it was what Lord Berand had said before his recruitment into the Inquisition. Which is a great help, in terms of alliances and connections, of which the Inquisition has very few so far. 

But still- to take so much time to find a dead person's family! It was sad . Such a waste .

Maybe, if Kaayras hadn't taken so much time in the hinterlands on such little things as returning missing Druffalo to some backwater farmer, perhaps the Inquisition would have beaten Tevinter to redcliff and avoided so much trouble in the first place- if at all possible. Time magic was a dangerous game to hear about- much worse than any silly Orlesian Games she was used to. Time Magic wasn't something she could begin to understand, not to the extent the Inquisitor experienced it directly .

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Kaayras Adaar could not have ever been fast enough to circumvent time magic. Skipping the affair of rescuing a young boy’s dog would not have stopped time manipulation.

And he is, of course, not the only one who had been preoccupied with non necessity. 

Leliana expends so much resource and time, trying to dig something up on him, on the History of the Herald. On what he was for among the Qun, on why he is Tal-Vashoth now, on why he holds it so secret. Mysterious Secrets are the most important to know- so she thinks. So she tells herself for the entirety she has worked for this Inquisition. She tells herself this is important .

She spends so much time on it. Too much effort. It is as much her problem- her fault- as it was Inquisitor Kaayras’ that they did not make it in time to redcliff. That a horrible future almost occured. That Kaayras went forward and witnessed it.

History was important, and is essential to Leliana’s work. But when Kaayras returns- with his tale and a new tagalong member from Tevintar- a history even more rich with imperium rumor... 

Leliana cannot think of history at all. She can only think more of future than history . Of dangerous, dangerous future. Red Lyrium, Mortal Men turned terrible, and some sort of ‘godly’ elderone and a sky that is only The Fade.

The mission debriefing is a raw experience; it had begun tainted with doubt and disbelief, and it had ended with haunted expressions and steel nerves. The new Tevinter mage, Dorian Pavus, had told the tale more than Kaayras had; it had been a long tale, packed with ludicrous theory on the magic itself and how it had been developed and the dangerous impacts. Kaayras had only submitted calm, mild additions where he felt necessary- such as stating names when Pavus referred to Cassandra as “the one with the hot tempter and the sword” or Varric as “the short one”. 

Kaayras did not interject much at all, and that implied everything Pavus said was true , was real .

And this changed everything. Leliana’s perspectives shifted rapidly in the course of that one meeting. The world had ended, and they had all failed . It was not a theoretical end-of-world any longer. The breach, the Conclave- it really had started the end of all things they considered living .

After the meet up in the chantry hall ended on the somber dismissal, Leliana returned to work in her tent. To think. Not so much about the past as she usually means to, not about what information she still needed to find, or even the present and what dangers were active. 

This ‘future’- only a year if they mistepped in today. It would take a year for the sky to open it’s a maw infinitely wider and vanish The Veil. Only a year for the populous to be a living, breathing red lyrium mine. Only a year before genocide and death, enslavery or murder for everyone around her in this very camp. 

So fast, the future could come. Leliana has to stop looking back, she must. Rumors can be aswaded, even without knowing the truth. She must look forward at the threat, not behind. If the +Inquisitor- so sweet and so invested in every minor issue of the common people it was sad - was going to keep a swallowed history and spend precious time fixing small, unhelpful things, well then. She would have to be ready to use those things for their influence. To make his small triumphs big . To combat those rumors with truth- truth, that the Herald of Andraste was here to do good, is doing good, and cared for every right, good, living thing.

It was not difficult to spin such an angle on him, not in the least, given how nearly true it was. It would be easier- and more helpful- to stay only on this focus.

And yet, it was failing, the challenge of it all - and the ripple of her pride still stung in Leliana’s face. Even now, it inspired anger in her to consider losing. How could she fail at even this little game, how could she give up now, in the face of all the dangerous, big things she could fail? Leliana had lost a war of wit- they had seen it in the future. Maybe that hadn’t happened yet- but maybe, her pride said with a thunderous volume, whatever secreted Kaayras Adaar hid could change that?

The notion was ridiculous, Leliana knew. She knew it was not her logic speaking; it was her maker-forsaken pride . She didn’t want to lose. And yet the frustration of internal content was a surge of anger deep within her as Leliana glared at her scattered work below her. 

“Leliana.”

“Inquisitor.” 

She doesnt look up from the paperwork. She won't admit out loud that she was not paying attention- sufficiently distracted that she didn't hear him approach her. That his voice had jarred her out of her focus was insulting enough to her sense of awareness- she does not react on it.

When he is silent a while longer, Leliana continues to speak; the meeting is still fresh on her mind, as surely it is upon everyone’s. She starts to remind him of the problem at hand- not of the future, but more presently. The mages now within their camp walls. Another issue he’s caused, sadly, from being too… soft. Too kind. She reminds him of the seriousness of what he's done: taking the mages as allies, such a serious stance during a time of civil war. 

This was not the meeting with the grand enchanter that they had agreed on in their strategy meeting. Ironically, Kaayras had taken a side for once- and no one had actually been prepared for him to take such a nationally visible opinion on display, nor to bring home the entire mage rebellion . The camp was not large enough, nor did they have sufficient supplies… 

He says it was the right thing to do at the time. Soft. Too soft . A Qunari, too soft . Leliana truly had not expected they’d have this problem when they were establishing the inquisition. She was expecting someone more like Iron Bull. 

Seems she fell, herself, to a rumor about Qunari and their behavior. Is that another defeat, in the list of failures that Kaayras Adaar will force her to accept? That she failed the world, she believed a propaganda-based rumor about qunari, and now, that she will never figure him and his origins out?

Still, he tells her, it was the right thing to do, at the time . And then, that he is not afraid to face this, at the end. 

It is such a thing she did not expect of this neutral, restrained man. And yet it is such a soft, determined, bull-headed answer that she cannot be surprised. Yet still, Leliana has to warn him that his lack of fear is not the point.

Adaar’s never afraid of the rumors, after all. He has listened to her explain countless rumors impacting his image, and he has listened patiently as she told him how to adjust , to make rumors curve in his favor. He is unaffected by rumors that he is a murderer, that he is here to destroy Thedas, that he was implanted for the purposes of destroying the Chantry. Leliana already knows he is not afraid of what people will say about his intentions. 

Cassandra thinks otherwise. Thinks Kaayras hates the murmurings of strangers- thinks the rumors make him weaker when he has to deal with the diplomacy. No, Cassandra hadn't said weaker . Cassandra sounded like she was saying they hurt him. But, that in itself is weakness, if he feels them. Even if he does not fear them talking behind his back, if he feels those petty rumors, then he is weak to them. It does not matter whether he is afraid of inspiring them.

He may not be afraid, but, what they say of him, that gets to him anyway. And he’s inviting it, picking such a strong side in a war. 

Even if it's a dangerous move- Leliana finds it... Admirable. To stand up for the mages, so boldly, so strongly. She tells him so. That kind of strength is admirable. He’s not afraid- or maybe he is and doesn't know it, but courageous enough it wont stop him from doing what is right. 

Sadly, he is far too kind .

Still, Lelianna admired it, and she says so to Kaayras as his violet eyes follow her every movement.

He doesnt say a thing to that in response. 

Leliana expected him to, actually. She expected some kind of... A joke, perhaps? A snappy flirt or come back- after time with Dorian, obnoxiously confident, he’s been making even more of the flirtatious, or overly confident jokes- however brief their interactions have been thus far. Someone of a similar tongue had bolstered his own, even if they had not been together particularly long. Surely it will only grow worse. 

And yet, he says nothing, only continues to stare at her. It's just a moment of silence, long enough she thinks he's done with the conversation, and looks back at her work, waiting for him to leave.

“I watched you die for me.”

That is a chilling statement. One you cannot ignore easily.

Leliana looks up at him, as one would, if such a sentence is said to you. She holds his gaze, steady. He, though, can't seem to do that. Those keen violet eyes turn away- out of the shadows of her tent, and look instead at the sunshine dappled over the chantry doors. 

He looks to an eavesdropper like he is having a normal conversation; he is still lax, still calm. But he cannot meet her eye.

He remains quiet, as does Leliana. She is… at a loss for what to say. It gives Kaayras enough time to put together another sentence.

“You sacrificed yourself, so that I could return here.” He says.

It's not… new information. Dorian’s already said this, recounted it to the other advisors in a meeting barely an hour since ending. Dorian gestured at Leliana mildly as he said “she” at that part of the tale, and Kaayras had cut in, calm and quiet, to offer her name. 

The whole story, all of it, had been told already. 

Dorian had not been light on details- Torture, and lyrium, and rifts in every garden across Thedas, and the Elder One, and… 

“Of course I did.” she says, easy. She knows who she is. She knows what she would do, in the situation he described. Anything to prevent that world. “One small life, in exchange for a second chance at history.” history- so preoccupied in history, even when talking about herself in the future. “I always loved a bargain.”

She sounds so… light, about it. Even to herself.

And Kaayras gives her some sort of look . Like desperation. Like he doesnt want that kind of answer. A little click switches between them, and Kaayras’ gaze is reading every little expression in her face with all the skill of a spy, of a Game Player, all the training one could have in the world for reading a person- a little click, on instinct, triggers within her as well, and somehow in only a moment , Leliana understands that Kaayras wanted her to deny that she would have done it for him.

“I would do it again.” is the first thing she says. Hard, almost icy. If she didn't , then that is where they would be- still in that future, all of them probably dead, or worse. 

Why would he want a different answer? She's almost offended. Does he want that future?

His gaze travels- up and down her body. Any man other, and she’d consider less pure thoughts in his head when eyes trail like that, how intensely he studies every inch of her person. A precision, an intensity, as though he is trying to see every thread in her outfit, and strip it away. He’s looking for something , and Leliana cannot fathom what .

“They… They, uh. They killed Cassandra, too. And- Varric. They were… already. They were already full of the… red stuff. ‘already dead’.” he sounds like he's quoting someone. Maybe her future self. “But. They were first, dragged... uh. Back into the room… already dead. Really that time. Really dead.” 

She- doesn't know what to do with that statement. 

They’d do that again, too. Just like I would do it again. 

But he doesnt want that answer, so what does he want her to say? What, maker's breath, is he looking for in her?

“You all suffered a whole year.” Kaayras breathes, his tone still so casual, his posture so easy. As if he is not recounting something so grievous. “It was- very… real . You made so sure we knew that. That it was real .” 

And it probably was very, very real. It still is real, in a way. That threat is there. That was one year in the future. But they are here, now, and they have time . Leliana is not the woman that died for Kaayras, even if she likely would die for him now, if she could rewind time and prevent the conclave, the breach, everything. She would do it again.

It was likely very real, for that woman. But Leliana is not her. It is no longer real.

“But it is not, now. Not any more. Undid. Never meant to be.” she reminds. Pointed. Too pointed. Too pointed, his shoulder moves upright. Tense. His hands twitched- just the smallest movement in his wrist. An almost perfectly disguised flinch .

She gives him a moment. Sometimes, he takes his time to think and needs it, to speak properly. She’s seen him have trouble, stringing together words into a sentence. When rushed, he spits out jokes, and they aren't funny ones. She gives him a moment to figure it out. The same way he takes his time to figure it out normally, when he just sits back and lets everyone else talk, listening, until he figures out how to say what he wants to. She listens, and she watches him, too. She knows his tells. She can see when he flinches . When little cracks form in his sudo-calm. She gives him a moment to sort himself out, and waits for his tells.

When Kaayras gathers what he needs, his weight shifts just right. Backward- with hesitance to speak- as always, when he's not asked to say something, always hesitates - and then forward, onto the other heel. His left foot is dominant, even if he's right handed.

“I- can't stop hearing you say it.” he rumbles. He's too big and too deep to have a tone of voice like that. It's wrong. It's weak.

He doesn't look as weak as he really is. The body fools. Still, it's in the flinch, it's in the softness of his tone, it's in how he still does not meet her eye. 

“ Though darkness closes, I am shielded by flame. ” he gives a little shutter as he speaks- it's not disguised at all; he doesn't notice he did it. “And then the door bursts open. They drag the bodies in… inside.” he’s only really looking at her feet, now. She stills her old habit of shuffling them, or fidgeting her hands, like when she was much younger. She's a trained woman, now. She is not weak. “ Andraste, guide me. Maker, take me to your side. ”

And she can see it herself. Really, she can: She can see it before her now. Like a memory she does not have, a scene she has never set foot, and still she can taste her own determination, can feel the desperation on her skin. She can see her prayer on her teeth line wine stains, can feel the tension of a drawn bow, the whistle of it fly, the sink of a tip on rotten, red-infested meat.

Kaayras, struggling not to rush forward like a war vessel barely restrained, knives clenched in hand and prepared to dive forward anyway, jaw clenched and breath smothered with something unsaid, an expression there that takes Leliana back to a real memory, to when they had him in restraint in the dungeon below their feet, to the feral drive of pain and the roar of fight or flight behind his eyes. He, and that Dorian Pavus, stuck on the throne; no choice but to watch, hoping the magic will activate in time, that they will make their escape at the grave cost. The Tevinter with one fist wrapped around the Qunari’s arm- not nearly enough strength in his body to hold such a man as Kaayras back, but the only anchoring point in the room that keeps Adaar’s feet stuck to the floor.

A man like this- a man like Kaayras Adaar . He can't help but stop every mission to find missing rings, druffalos, or family members. He digs graves for slaughtered casualties, he rescues animals that run into war zones, he fights a bear to protect a mabari. 

How someone like him could have managed to stay, still, do nothing, watch three people die before his eyes on a gamble ?

He's not a man of faith. Leliana knows he's not a man of faith. He left the Qun. He had no makers nor gods to have any faith that he would make it, fix what was not meant to be, even after their sacrifices. 

She did. She said her prayers- the one he's echoing in time, where he should never have known her to say those words. She had full faith in Andraste, and her Maker, and the Herald they’d sent her. 

He’d had nothing but an empty room, unstable magic, and Lyrium beasts gnawing on the skin of his allies. 

She’s always loved to bargain. Always loved taking chances. She has faith and belief to support her- that she will win, if she is meant to, and she will be sure that she is meant to.

She can't imagine, to be him, to be there. 

She can smell the deathly guilt, and the helplessness, and the total feeling of being lost on him now before her, standing in her tent with all the lying calm of a man with no certainty in anything.

He looks only at her feet, and might as well whisper when he speaks.

“What- what if we haven't. Just- just because I disappeared, and a year passed, and that was the future. But… just because it correlated doesn't mean it was the cause.” he says. “What if coming back didn't change the future. I failed in redcliff.” she doesn't get the chance to say he didn't fail , he just wasn't there , he didn’t-- “I failed in redcliff, what if I fail again?”

“You won't.”

That's… That's all there is to it. 

She steps closer to him.

In some small moments- moments like this- his broad shoulders and his horns and his appearance, they cannot hide him with an appearance that makes one expect power, that makes one expect fearlessness. 

He backs away from her- not one step, but two. His horn grazes a tent pole. His jaw grows tight and his gaze moves from it’s low point, to the edge of the door, and back again to her feet in the span of nothing.

He's afraid.

“You will not fail.”

She takes his gloved hand firmly by the wrist. The haunting green flares when his hand seizes, stills, and stiffens in her hold. Those flares hurt, but he remains deathly still under her touch as she holds that light, in his palm, for him to stare at rather than her heels.

“You do not have to believe in Andraste, or a blessing, or being sent by the maker.” she holds his hand up, high, to his own face. “You just have to look at the facts.” She is firm. He is scared, but his attention is on her, where it needs to be. The present. No future, no history; the present. “You hold what we need. We will close the breach, Adaar. We have the mages, we have the mark. Venatori and Tevinter have been thwarted, and we have Alexius and his magic contained. You have advisors, and agents, and powerful, supporting people surrounding you. We will close the breach. When the breach is closed, there will be no open sky to the fade. Already, we have changed the future.”

She lets his hand go. His other grabs where hers was- grip tight, around his wrist. He is holding his breath. 

“Come. You've prepared, and it is time. Cullen, Josephine, and Cassandra should already be in the chantry hall. We will seal this breach- and do it now . And then, you will see.”

When she leaves the tent, she feels the same determination in her step as that prayer inspires in her hands when she draws her bow. Behind her, a second set of steps follows, without hesitation. Perhaps his confidence- the air of it, the expectation of it- perhaps that's fake, an illusion, normally. But he's got a little of it in his step again, when he knows where to follow.

She’s glad. Glad to give him a little piece of her faith- if not in Andraste or himself, she gave a bit of faith in the people he's brought together; Haven is a testament to where he can rest his faith. He brought these people here, and they will fix everything they set out to.

He is no longer scared of the future.

Not until, at least, the future he fears buries him alive in haven, in the death of the place where he rests that faith. 

The only warning is an unknown, familiar, small, skinny kid banging on the front doors, yelling he can't help unless they let him in. And then already, the red lyrium bastards are upon them. It’s too late. 

This time- this time, though, it's him who stays behind. While everyone flees behind him, he stays, all of them protected to his last breath. He stands forward against everything, while Haven flees. Because it is the people in haven where he has rested his fate.

He doesn't have faith. Leliana can only leave him behind because of her own faith. She couldn't have sacrificed herself in that distant future- not without knowing everything would be fixed because of her faith that the herald would go back, take his name as Inquisitor, and fix everything. She needed faith to stand against the foes, the inevitable, the hopeless. 

She’s shaken as she leaves. She needs faith to leave. The last glimpse she sees is his square shoulders. 

Not confident. No faith in anything- not even that he will live, not even that his sacrifice will save the world or anyone in haven, not even that he can make any difference, not even that he will buy them a mere second of time in their evacuation. He believes in nothing, but he must do it anyway. Because it was the right thing to do, at the time .

She can't imagine how he faces Corypheus alone, with nothing, nothing but knives. Knives, and a desperation- a guilt- this time to save- to prevent- to help- to protect- only a drive and two knives, and armor he made himself, skills he taught himself.

She doesn't know how he can stand there and make this sacrifice so utterly alone, no gods or future to have faith in, his people fled, alone .

She gives him a prayer, a plea, a beg to the Maker in his stead. 

She’s the first to join the song of light; knowing with him found and alive , the dawn will come. When her prayer is answered and the Herald returns from certain, hopeless death, she knows her faith is rewarded by the Maker. Her faith is answered by Kaayras Adaar, Herald of Andraste; and still, he keeps moving with none of his own.

She said it once: she finds his courage to stand up impeccably admirable.

Chapter Text

Kaayras Adaar wasn't awake for long before the camp of survivors sang their faith, and the trend continued not long after. There was, however, a small window of time where the ‘Herald’ was awake and active. There was much to have done, so that small window kept the man busy and had worn him to the core.

By the time Solas got a chance to talk to him, alone, Adaar was barely on his feet anymore, and it had to be a very short conversation. Solas knew this even before they started talking, as he had been monitoring the Qunari’s health before the man had woken, and was quite aware Kaayras should go back to resting rather than try to do any proper work. 

Still, for that small window, Solas continued to monitor at a distance and allowed Kaayras time to investigate and assist. Adaar spoke- or rather, listened to his every advisor. He checked in on each of his companions, from tucked around corners listening in to their conversations, or on occasion actually interacting with them. He checked in with people of note- the quarter master, the head cook, the horsemaster, the head blacksmith, the apothecary and the arcanist- each offered him quick, dismal reports of no supplies and minimal plans and who was most desperate for what. Kaayras spoke few and far between- perhaps only a couple scant words per person, but he nodded along and for all his exhaustion, seemed to be thinking deeply.

Solas finally stepped in when Kaayras overheard the head of the hunters that had been struggling to feed the survivors discussing how little they’d found to do so. He stepped in because for all that Adaar was in no condition to go off alone, he’d clearly intended to go hunting to help. That was when Solas finally struck, if only to prevent stupid mortal decisions.

Rocked with emotions, exhaustion, injury- Solas could see why Kaayras was unsteady on his feet. The mighty Qunari man was truly a wonder of this world, that he managed to constantly survive small apocalypses. 

Solas wondered if he, himself, would still be standing, in that condition. If he were nothing more than a simple man like Adaar, from whatever origins he hides with such care, in this exact, precarious place. Would Solas have the will to be standing, when he were half dead less than 6 hours ago? Would he be standing in the frigid snow, listening to talk of a distant safe shelter, only a little bit more alive than a few hours ago? Would he, in this condition, in Kaayras’ place, be wholly ready to leave now and get his people to safety? 

Solas is not so sure. He thinks he would consider a while of rest, first,  before feeling all that willing to listen to someone talk of a far away fantasy shelter, let alone already making plans to scout to the northern mountains. 

Solas is fairly aware he is being vague about this place, about how he knows it. If it was anyone else in Kaayras’ position, would they even be interested in Solas’ proposal for shelter being through the unknown, dangerous mountain range? 

Likely no- anyone else would most assuredly be dead. 

A few times over.

How that man could even level headedly consider starting the trip- the grueling journey to skyhold- immediately after Solas told him the direction he needed to go… was fascinating.

Solas supposes he could understand it, though. Kaayras, in what little time he has been conscious thus far, has mostly born witness to the collapse of the inquisition. Solas has been watching the same thing up until Kaayras woke, as well- the slow descent into hopelessness of the people, and the panic and confusion breaking down the threadbare structure still alive and still well enough to function. 

Prior, when Adaar had first woken up, Kaayras had sat motionless while Solas had inspected his anchor and expended healing magic and spells into the man; they had remained deadly silent, as they watched Adaar’s fellow advisory circle argue and disagree. Solas had considered the futility and failure of man and survival and order. What Kaayras thought was a mystery, as usual, but it surely must have been… disheartening to wake up to the arguments, the uncertainty; the slow collapse in the ‘last hope’ of protecting the world.

Solas had been fairly certain he had chosen wrong. He had chosen the Inquisition as the best hope of avoiding loss of life from the impending catastrophe- Kaayras having been here , been with the inquisition, still alive with the anchor clinging to his body, had been a surprise. But Solas had come because he had chosen the Inquisition, and Solas was watching it fail and fall to pieces. He was not optimistic, even with the host of the anchor, that the Inquisition would last for much longer. Solas had chosen this, and yet, he feared he had chosen wrong.

And then the people of the Inquisition chose Kaayras . 

And that, rather simply, held them together- for now.

Solas could understand Kaayras’ urgency, then. Because not 30 minutes ago, Kaayras had sat, battered and barely survived, and had watched in silence as things fell apart. And then all those people put it on his shoulders.

If it, truly, were anyone else in Kaayras Adaar’s position, they would not only be dead, but they would likely have cracked. Kaayras had merely looked out upon the mountains, weighed Solas’ words, asked a few questions, and had made the decision. The man, Solas was sure, was overtly aware that he was now responsible for every life in this haphazard camp. When Solas gave him a vague, but serious offer of shelter, Kaayras easily accepted it as the best opportunity, and wanted to move for it immediately. 

Luckily, Kaayras was dissuaded: back into the camp to rest. 

Barely on his feet, Solas returned the man to his tent with a careful eye on his unsteady limping through the shallow snow.Adaar, for as easy as he could be persuaded, was only now going back into his cot only because he'd been told to. 

Foolhardy, really, that a limping man was willing to lead his people through the frostback mountains.

Kaayras passes out almost immediately when he lays on the ramshack cot, hastily put together to keep the survivor’s warm bodies off frozen ground, keep icy dirt from stealing body heat. It only just barely holds his weight; if he sat too heavily, it would snap under Adaar. Luckily, shifty rouge assassin that he is, the Inquisitor (named or not, he is their inquisitor, now; they need only make it official) is graceful, despite his size and weight. His unsteady cot holds his weight.

Solas briefly ducks out to acquire one of few fur blankets, and by the time he returns, Adaar had found sleep; shallow and restless, but sleep.

Thrice, then, it seems that Solas will sit at his side and perform observations on the mark while he rests after near-death. The fact that it is the third time truely highlights Kaayras’ ability to skim danger and death. 

Solas settles to the appropriate side of the cot, his back turned on the now gentle hustle of scouts and soldiers with orders, moving to improve accommodations before the moon reaches too high for the night. They’re lighting campfires, setting up more cots, and doling out when portions of rations can be spared for the first night. He can distantly hear arrangements being made to find food come morning light. 

Then, Solas puts his attention to the anchor, and focuses on making sure it isn't any more of a danger than it needs be. He notes, secondarily with his first magic scan, that Kaayras still has 6 fractures in this hand, and sighs. 

Even through their previous healing session before Kaayras finally disrupted the advisor’s argument, Kaayras had not mentioned the fractures, or any sort of pain in his hand. Solas had already known the fractures were there- he’s healed the major breaks already, and the fractures are what remain from his previous attempts. 

There was a map of many, many old cracks, long since healed, when it came to Kaayras’ hands and arms. Perhaps Kaayras, with his twitchy fingers, failed to mention the pain to his current healer because they so often ached with fantom memories?

At least, for once, Solas can perform his observations and healing sessions knowing the man is only asleep , not unconscious . Solas had kept him alive after the conclave, and he’d gotten a bit of healing and observation done tonight initially after Adaar had stumbled upon the camp alive and collapsed. 

He’d finish what he’d started, now, sure the Inquisitor wasn't slipping into a coma for once. That was a nice change. It afforded him the time to focus on smaller details.

While Solas’ focus is on the structure of the anchor weaved into Adaar’s body, he’s jarred when the area darkens around him; only the pale light of the green anchor to see by as the light of campfire and lanterns beyond the tent disappear.

Solas looks up, over his shoulder.

Newly resident spirit, Cole, of course. The stocky, fidgety spirit fiddles with the corner of the tarp a moment longer, before it is secured well enough to the tent frame, sealing the room into adequate darkness. Solas gently sets Kaayras’ hand down beside the man on his cot, putting his attention to the newest addition to the interesting ranks of the fractured inquisition.

“Light, loud, labouring to ignore. Makes it hard to sleep, so tired. Makes the headache swim, so tired . Nothing safer than enclosure, waking to an empty room, empty bed, a door he locks, locks, locks. Deep, dense darkness hides the details, desperately departing from to dream. Safe walls, darkness, a door to check is locked three times to seldom sleep safely inside. The pain goes quiet in the dark and quiet, the head feels empty.”

A silence falls.

“I don't know where to find him a door to lock.” the spirit concedes, fidgeting, looking up to the tarp he hung in the place of secure walls.

“The tarp won't make it much quieter, either. But it'll be dark, and it is safe.” Solas agrees, and his calm does not exactly seem to soothe the anxious spirit, but the compassion spirit- Cole , Solas reminds himself, does nod along.

“He likes the dark. It doesn't make his eyes and head hurt. It hides what one doesn't want to see, no matter what they must do in it. Dark is good. Easy to pretend.”

“...for now, what he must do is only sleep.” Solas offers, carefully. That at least lets Cole's jittery body relax, just a little. He nods again, as well.

“He’d like that. The dark is made for sleeping.”

Solas sends a glance to Kaayras’ palm as the anchor flares a soft green light again, and when that hushes itself down naturally, Solas agrees, “It is.”

And then, quiet.

When Solas looks up, the spirit is already gone. He is not surprised. 

He’s only interacted with Cole once before now, as Solas has had his hands as busy as anyone else. 

A brief interaction, before, while evacuating Haven into the chantry building for the escape route. The two of them, coming head to head, striking down the same red templar, the corrupted creature’s sword drawn on a young woman in a chantry sister uniform.

A brief meeting of expressions- two creatures, heavy in fade, coming face to face and recognizing one another. 

Other than that, Solas has only watched him in distant glimpses. The spirit was obsessively busy about Haven’s survivors. Somehow at every dying person’s side in their final moments, somehow delivering food he scavenges from the snowy environment to whomever is most hungry. A child is given a blanket they were crying for, having left it behind in Haven, but somehow it's returned to them anyway- alongside diaries, or family heirlooms forgotten in in the panic- thought were forgotten, at least, before it's realized they’d somehow managed to grab it, after all.

Cole is perhaps the busiest person in the survivors, and Solas makes a note to converse with the spirit later. He's so very intrigued. Cole had certainly not been there in Haven before, and Solas would very much like to know where he had come from, and what his interests are, here.

His attention is stolen again by the flash of the anchor, growing bright in his grasp. Solas returns to his observations, carefully curling his hands around Adaar’s faintly twitching hand.

He’d sensed this before, in the early cursory look over, when they’d found the Herald. But, something about the anchor has changed. He doesn't know what about it has changed, not exactly, not entirely sure what could have done this. But it’s certainly grown. Grown… deeper . Deeper in the flesh, like roots. Kaayras is possibly the first ever living, mortal man to hold an achor’s mark, and Solas is not entirely certain what that will mean for his body long term. But, as Corepheus had said to the ‘Herald’ in his explanation, and as Solas had expected before, it is permanently entangled with Kaayras. 

Everyone has mana in their body- in their skin, in their flesh, in their bones. Magic, innate, natural; bare, raw connections to the fade. Of course, what made the tranquil so… wrong, was removing connection to the fade. They’re barely alive, barely a person, all that makes them a person behind the veil, devoid of the energy they need. More like a plant, with better developed nerves and muscles. But even plants are natural, and even plants have mana. The comparison is weak at best.

The anchor, at it’s nature, is… it is not a hole in the veil. It's sort of like the opposite. A malignant growth of the veil. Scrunched up so tightly, like pulling in the fabric of the great curtain and bunching it together in ne place, and yet the veil is so thin where it’s been pulled in. So much of the cloth lies here in Kaayras’ hand, and yet it's such a thin cloth, sucking in, or pushing out energy, now. Thinned down fabric pulled and scrunched through a little metal ring, it's the best way to describe the anchor. If you yank on it enough, you can open the veil by tearing it, and cinch it up again.

It's thinner than it was before, the fabric of the veil in the Inquisitor’s palm, and the bunched up cloth is… looser. And that’s part of the concern.

He's not sure whether that's a good thing. Adaar briefly told him, the Advisor circle at a hover, when he had first woken up. In the course of debriefing on what had happened while everyone was evacuated, he had come upon a point where he had done something new with the anchor. Something in a cave, to a room of demons. The anchor had changed, and Kaayras had casted something new with an innate magic he did not understand. 

His body was experiencing a toll- Kaayras had yanked on his own bodily Mana, something a mage learns not to alter or toy with carelessly. The snap of bones in his hand would have been instantaneous, and would have hurt more than it should, because the damage itself had been more than the bones. It had been to everything in his hand. The nerves, the muscles, the cartilage, the joints- everything had been rattled and damaged. 

Solas had focused on fixing that first, even before Kaayras had woken to explain, out of worry for what the injury and the anchor might mean and what damage could spread. Solas had sent for Dorian and Vivienne, and they had assisted. It had been very serious damage, and there had also been other life threatening injuries done to Adaar’s person. Not the least of which being fall damage and frostbite.

From what it sounds like, when Corypheus had him, grabbed him by the arm, dangled him in the air, fondled with the anchor itself before deeming it worthless to him now- all that intrusion made it… looser. Adaar now had the ability to take in energy, fill up the anchor, force it out. Rather than making rifts- other holes- he made new malignancies much like the Anchor itself. Less stable ones, by using the stored energy to pinch together the veil, dense. Heavy. It would crush fade creatures, or creatures close to the fade. Perhaps even send them back within, through the thinning of the taught veil, before the creases and bunches smoothe back out again. 

The damage to the veil would likely be minimal, and it would take a nearly unimaginable number of uses to permanently damage an area of the veil. That wasn't an issue at this time.

But the thinning of the anchor’s cloth worried him. The spread of the malignancy, deeper into the natural magic of the body… worried him. This would not happen in a body like Solas’ as he was fluent in the fade, but any normal body… This could be deadly. This could be very, very dangerous, as well. Kaayras using that energy even just the once, albeit haphazard and new, had destroyed his hand. 

It left questions- tainting of the fade? Ill effects? The possibility of a rift tearing open inside of the herald himself? Was he more, or less vulnerable to a possession, now? What effects could come with such a thinned fabric of the fade inside a person, grown right into the magic of his own body? 

Solas would wish no one to suffer such a miserable fate as the rip and tear of their bodily mana. Even what Solas knew of the Tranquil was not so cruel- their mana was merely severed, their connection to energy and the fade cut. The sensation of having it ripped out of you was not a comparison, let alone what theoretically could happen with the veil itself embedding into the bodies’ natural Mana. 

Solas would have to sit down with Kaayras as soon as they reached Skyhold, and set up shelter. Teaching someone entirely unfamiliar with magic would be difficult , but to spare the man an absolute agonizing fate, Solas would need to teach the man to differentiate between his bodily mana and that of which should be touched. Even blood-mages know better.

A deep, slow breath passed through the herald, and the Anchor shimmered in answer, very much connected to his bodily functions. Solas frowned.

Kaayras was certainly sleeping better than before, at least, his shallow sleep settled deeper, slightly more restful. Cole had the right idea, of course. The light of the fire and the arguments must have been what kept him awake, tossing and turning, after they’d found him. Solas had attributed it to nightmares, sleep anxieties, restlessness from the deadly trek alone to find the camp, the ache and pain. He’d brinked death there, multiple times; between the avalanche, the cave of demons, the snowstorm he struggled through.

Once more, Solas is impressed with the difficulty of killing Kaayras Adaar. Lucky it is for the inquisition that this man works for them . If the Herald were on the side of Corypheus- well, they'd really be in danger, now wouldn't they?

He sleeps easier- but even still, Solas notes, not easy . Still so light, barely asleep, shifting and twitch consistently, almost tugging out of Solas’ inspecting fingers. At this rate, will he ever recover from the exhaustion to lead them north? He considers asking Vivienne for a sleeping spell, perhaps, if she knows one. Or maybe he can find some of the sleep powder the rogue uses on his enemies to knock him out?

“He won't sleep deeply under your hands- hands in the dark are the worst part of the dark, even if the dark helps never to see them.”

Cole returns, without even a sound to announce himself. Closer than before- Solas looks up from the Herald’s bare hand, and Cole is crouched on the other side of the qunari man’s cot, leaned at an angle to peer into Solas’ crochet position.

“A break from running around and helping, then?” Solas prompts, running at least one last scan to see how well the fractures have healed thus far. If Cole makes suggestions, Solas has no real reason to discard them, but he’ll need to wrap up the healing firstly.

“Your concerns are quiet, not sharp, dull, but serious. Heavy to hear, hard to help. They don't hurt you, now, but… they can hurt a lot of people, soon. We need him to rest, you think- and I agree. This place isn't safe, more people will fall faint here in this camp. They'll get sick- there's not enough food- no shelter from the cold- enemies from haven may yet find the people here- not far enough from Haven for the pain to waiver in the heart, like a shadow of a grave.” Cole echoes his concerns- not only his own, but shared between everyone in charge, and everyone in the camp, likely.

Solas nods, calm. “Getting Adaar fit is very important. When he can move again, walk again, make a trip in the mountains, we can get everyone, safely, to somewhere better. Where survival odds will increase, room to grow and strengthen. And there is less danger of the mark causing complications if he is fit, as well.”

“He needs sleep.” Cole nods sagely, agreeing. “The bright sun in his palm feels stable, despite your worry. How do I help?”

Solas gives a small rumble, wrapping up his inspections as he asks, “Touching you say? That is what is keeping him up?”

That's very well- Cole’s right. There's not much more he can do to settle the anchor, and the fracturing is stubbornly resistant to further healing, but will fix itself on its own as it is minor enough, now. They’ve already healed most of the other serious damage, to a point it will mend itself in a day or two, as well. Kaayras’ current health and the anchor are both as stable as they can be, given the exhausted man they’re dependent and attached to. 

There are still small details warranting attention, but if not touching him is how the inquisitor will get the most rest- Solas may have to put off the other minor healing sessions the Qunari is deeply in need of, until he's at least more rested. 

“The dark helps to hide the hands, the dark is always welcome, comforting. But not the touching. He will wake again soon, if you keep touching.” 

“Are you sure he's not the one who’s attracting your attention, then?” Solas muses; despite Cole saying he came for Solas’ ‘larger’ worries. No less- if it'll put more energy into Adaar, he lays the hand back onto the bed beside the large body. He’ll allow his work to be complete, for now.

Still, Cole takes his question honestly where it was rhetorical.

“His hurts are quiet while he sleeps, even if they ache under hands, like memory embedded in the muscles.” 

There's a pause carved into the following quiet. In the dark, they both observe the sleeping man. Solas is still considering a response to the restless spirit, but Cole slips back into reading the sleeping inquisitor, without even thinking, as the spirit’s gaze lingers over the resting man.

“Darkness, quiet, and his gloves. Engulfing cloth- rough leather on calloused fingers. Won't have to feel it, skin on sharp skin, like splinters stuck under silk, rubs the skin raw with even the softest touches, fake intimacy and soothing lies. Empty, empty. Dark, quiet, gloved hands- won't have to feel a thing.” Cole’s voice ends with a twist, the hitch of tone, of someone who’s come upon a relieved revelation, touched with a delighted sort of panic. 

Another brief silence, the length of barely a single heartbeat, follows. The partially formed response Solas had no longer feels appropriate.

“He likes the leather. It feels nice.” Cole finishes with a nod, as if he agrees with the notion.

Solas glanced down to the glove rested on the ground beside his own seated position. He’d peeled it off, to prevent it’s interference with his observation and the deep healing scans. Per Cole’s suggestion, if it will help, Solas will reapply it. Solas admits, he finds it odd that such small things can keep Kaayras restless. The man, though, is an enigma.

Solas leans forward again, slides his staff out of the way, enough to lean forward and reach, and makes to re-apply the glove to the Herald's hand, careful not to ‘ rub skin raw’ as Cole says. as much as he can avoid, anyway.

He’s not looking to pry into what he hears, not in the least. But it's helpful, what Cole reveals- some of it, that is. There's compulsory questions- Solas has always asked a lot of questions of everything, it's why he's a good mage, a wise man, and knows as much as he does- but they aren't things that concern him, things he needs to pry into. They do not have anything to do with him, and are certainly not his business to pry from a spirit that doesnt think twice to read into parts of a person's mind. As long as Adaar sleeps, he is content for now with the new information.

He’s been in the tent a while- his eyes have adjusted to the artificial dark. When the light suddenly comes streaming in, it's blinding. He squeezes his eyes shut, briefly, trying to adjust.

He hears Cole shift in the bright stream of intruding light- barely, the spirit boy is almost soundless, even for a spirit- as the spirit grows suddenly tense. 

When Solas squints, he finds an inquisition soldier in scavenge-repaired armor comes into the room, as Cole mutters (borderline whines) “too bright.” in that tone of distance, of feeling someone else’s words.

It’s spoken at the same time as Adaar jerks, awoken, of course. 

Just a quick jerk- the way one might jump from a dream in which they were falling. Innocent- just a sudden waking, from the surprise of light.

Solas moves to take his hands back when he feels the body jump- weary of skin on skin , as the spirit had just warned him. Impulsively, he lets go of Adaar’s wrist- impulsively calculative, thinking that was the best move. 

It may have been better not to move at all.

The second Solas moves, the little jerk is not so little . From jerking awake, to jerking up right. 

And almost immediately at that, Solas recognizes: 

oh, bad. 

As simple a thought as it is, it's all there’s time for in the transpiring moment.

Especially as Adaar sees- his eyes trained for fighting- as hands- hands trained for fighting - grab dagger from his holster. Weapons, of course, for fighting .

The Bleeder of Souls is quite the dagger, which Solas remembers came from The Hinterlands, but not from where; it’s hooked, deadly, and cast with corrupting rune, notably. Kaayras had chosen and carried it, and Solas remembers not when, exactly, but he knows Kaayras had taken the blade everywhere , since acquiring it. Solas has never liked it. He does not understand why Kaayras does. Corrupting runes should not be so freely used, Solas has long since believed.

Devastating against unsuspecting humans- such as those whose back are turned; unknown danger they would not expect in their Herald of Andraste’s tent. Unsuspecting human soldier, in scavenged armor from the battlefield remnants of Haven, emblem of a templar, and red cloth accents- like red templars. 

A man in templar armor, and a dagger in hand.

‘ Oh, bad. ’ is all there's time for, before disaster surely strikes.

Graceful as ever, big and fast and deadly. One hand clutched in dagger, other reaching behind him for the second of the deadly pair. Impulsively attacking from behind, against the perceived enemy, as if stepping out of the shadows on a battlefield, not out of his own cot. 

Solas only has time to grab the staff he’d set down; not even enough time to raise even one knee from his sitting position, or gather any magic, or even choose a spell.

Cole is, thankfully, the faster of two rogue men with dueling blades.

One hand claps around the Kaayras’; knife dug into the area between Cole’s fingers, cutting inward. Not deep, superficial, but quickly soaking red into the fabric and trickle softly down skin.

Bare fingers, wrapped palms, clapped around Kaayras’ bare handed fist, clutching a dangerous blade- Cole’s, smaller hand then the Qunari’s, smaller, but stronger than mere half awake impulse, panicked as it were. Cole’s other hand has grabbed Adaar’s other- gloved- fist at the waist, caught and pinned against the half awake man’s hip by Cole’s quick, nimble fingers, second knife already in Adaar’s deadly grip. 

Cole effectively has him grasped and still, caught and held in frozen place. Belated, Solas’ brain decides he would have used a Barrier spell. Now, he does not move, for fear that any movement will startle the situation further.

Cole is probably less than half the Herald’s weight. It’s an Impressive feat to catch Kaayras as he has, even if the Inquisitor’s brain is addled with sleep and exhaustion, body hindered with injury and wound. It is additionally impressive, as his smaller body is wedded between the absolute lacking space between Adaar’s hulking frame and that of the Soldier’s turned back, the Inquisition Soldiers expression shocked as he stares over his shoulder.

Still, Cole wastes no time, despite his resounding success and last moment save.

“There's no fight. There's no hands. There's nothing to fight, there's no one to protect, there's no one to please. It's time to sleep.”

Quick, easy words follow, not whispers in volume as Cole speaks loud, clear, but they are whispers in tone, gentle. Assurances that crack directly from the panic which races through the Herald’s mind. Each word aimed to disarm, while real, nibble fingers do actual disarming. Cole pulls the second blade out of the Qunari’s gloved hand, and drops it on the ground. It barely clatters on the packed earth: Cole presses it against the ground with his heel to silence the sound, crushing it still and silent. 

Solas’ pounding pulse calms, and he watches, intrigued. Motionless, because he doesn't need to spook Adaar; Solas assumes the startled man noticing another unseen presence in the room would not help the situation.

One dangerous hand now disarmed, Cole raises his free hand, hovering before the panicked and confused expression of the Inquisitor. The soldier behind him almost says something- probably would have yelled whatever it was they were about to say. The soldier looks up at the hand that goes up, too, however. Cole seizes an opportunity: a flash of black and white Cole produces at his palm, as if to blind both men.

Dazed and confused, the tension breaks like a storm snap. Solas blinks in surprise, tight grip on his staff yet still, but there is certainly a shift near physical.

Both parties, one pressed against the spirit man’s front, the other pressed against his back, have gone still as stone, expressions blank, dazed, lost, unsure. The situation and all its panic, Forgotten in an instant. 

Incredible .

Cole lets go of the bladed hand, just barely to the left of his own head, on a direct collision course to stab into his neck, where he’d jammed himself in the way of where it would have jabbed the soldier’s spine. The blade hangs in the air, the fist around it so still you wouldn't know Cole had been straining to hold it still but only seconds ago. It’s almost haunting.

The hand hovers in confused stillness in the air, like undecided if it should continue its murderous arc, frozen in time like snow. Cole reaches behind himself, quickly, past the soldier, to the table the soldier had been searching. Cole manages, blindly, to pick a book up off the salvaged, damaged table- what the soldier had come in for, apparently. Cole presses the item into the soldier’s gloved hands without so much as a glance, then turns the soldier boy by the shoulder. Cole’s body yet still doesn't move, still as death, spirit as he is not even breathing: stays pressed chest against chest to the dazed Herald like a defensive wall between an unknowing victim. 

The spirit merely reaches behind him, and pushes the soldier out of the tent by the shoulder with one loose arm. The flap closes behind the man, and darkness engulfs the room again. 

Solas strains his senses, and hears the man begin to walk away, as if he had witnessed nothing at all.

More prominently, Solas hears Cole; those same, aimed comforting words have not once stopped, not even as Cole performed his little trick. Now he aims the Herald with guiding words, gentle commands and suggestions worked into them between the comforts.

“It's time to sleep. No enemies to fight, no hands to roam, let's go lay down. No weapons to sleep, just your gloves and the bed. You'll feel safe, comfort of the dark, go to the bed, just to sleep. Safe, simple, sweet serene sleep.” It's an endless chatter, still whisper soft, still firm and clear.

Cole turns Adaar with two hands on his shoulders, finally daring to move either of them, facing Kaayras toward the bed. Solas tenses when Kaayras’ dazed, confused expression lingers over where Solas is sitting, his blade still frozen in the air; yet Kaayras seems to disregard Solas sitting there entirely, after a moment of confusion. Solas picks out the words, amidst Coles tirade: “It’s dark, and it’s safe, and yes, he’s safe, too. He won't touch you, he won't move, you’ll sleep safe. It will be dark, and safe, and you’ll sleep.”

Dutifully, Solas stays motionless, and within seconds of his confusion, the assurances have Kaayras’ gaze drifting away, back toward the bed.

Carefully, Cole undoes the buckle of Adaar’s utility belt, still murmuring to him about the darkness. Belt, tools, back up weapons, and dagger holsters all stripped away, Cole carefully takes the last harmful object- still clutched in Adaar’s hand, hovering in the air but slowly dipping as though Kaayras does not at all remember why he once held it up. Cole is careful, not to touch the hand itself, as he reaches for the blade. He rumbles, almost without thought, “no skin. no skin, or skin on skin. safe.” as he takes the final blade from Adaar’s fingers. 

Adaar relinquishes it, thoroughly distracted. As though already part way asleep on his feet.

Shuffling the belt and weapons away across the floor with the heel of his foot, Cole picks up the abandoned leather glove from where Solas had dropped it on the edge of the cot. Cole grabs the herald’s still-gloved hand, the one safe to touch, and gives the Adaar the glove back, pressing it into the empty palm. All the while, coaxing small assurances and gentle suggestions to put on his gloves.

Adaar sits after a moment onto the cot, drowsy. And slowly, with that same exhaustion, he begins pulling his glove on, confused, flexing his fingers once they are covered. While he does, Cole carefully removes yet another dagger- strapped to Kaayras’ leg, hidden under the rim of his boot. Cole nods to himself, finally relaxing, and Solas assumes that must be the last blade on Adaar’s person. The Inquisitor is now thoroughly disarmed. 

Kaayras flexes his hands, looking at them, shoulders slumping in relief as he registers evident protection it offers to the skin of his hands. But the confusion lingers, like he doesn't comprehend why he's relieved. 

He looks up at Cole, and then to where someone was almost stabbed with a furrowing brow and an expression that begins to creep with frustration. Cole steps to the side, actively blocking Kaayras’ view of the spot, and the Qunari looks up at him instead, still just as lost. 

“I'm sorry.” Kaayras looks for all the world like he has no idea why he’s sorry.

“I know. It's time to sleep.” is the response Cole offers, in such a kind tone of voice. Adaar lays back down as he’s urged, easily, relieved, and Cole adds again, once more, “You'll feel safe, in the dark. Protected.” then, imitates three soft, odd ‘click’ noises, with a second of silence between each one. “The door is locked.” He promises Kaayras at last.

A final exhale passes through the lain body, and apparently, that's the last assurance he needs. Kaayras is, in under five fleeting seconds, asleep. 

Solas is amazed, looking over Adaar as Cole moves to the table, picking up the discarded tools as he goes. The spirit sets the utility belt and knives and holsters down on the stand. 

There Cole stands, fidgeting and lingering, in the silence of listening to Adaar’s breath even out and deepen with Solas. Fidgets with the fraying ends of sleeves, and the wrappings around his palms, the trickle of blood slow but still bleeding into his palm wrappings from between his ring and middle fingers.

“They won't remember that. You want to remember it, though.” Cole says, slowly, quietly, and he isn’t asking.

“...yes.” Solas agrees, anyway. “Certainly, I’d… like to avoid that again, in the future. The memories would help me to.”

“He didn't mean to hurt anyone. He just got scared.”

Solas nods. Easy to tell, you don't have to read a mind like a spirit to know that. Obvious, if you know inquisitor Adaar to begin with. It was all just fleeting panic.  

Still, it’s dangerous. It is very, very dangerous to have… that they would have a Qunari carrying the weight of all these people’s faith, only to impulsively kill an innocent life. That is a dangerous, frightening instinct. Something they will have to avoid at all costs.

He will gladly keep the memory, if there ever again is a time someone needs to know what will happen. It would not do, to tell the fragile world that their Messiah is the kind of man that can kill them on impulse, on accident, without hesitation. Next situation, perhaps Solas can prevent it entirely, but it will have to be Solas that knows. 

What can he tell the others that will prevent their loss of faith? How much should be said? Certainly not ‘Why yes, disturbing Adaar in his rest can be a death sentence if you are not careful. It is a good thing we locked him in his own cabin in Haven like a common prisoner and never moved him into a bunk house.’ 

He will have to think of what to say. And- perhaps when . Should it wait until they’ve made it to skyhold, to avoid complications? It will be more difficult for them to rest the faith they must on Adaar, if they know he might stab them some time. Not only if they wake him too suddenly, but- who knows when else he might get frightened. 

He is, after all, a Qunari. If one day someone turns the corner too fast and bumps into Adaar, will he one day take a knife to someone’s ribs? Kaayras has a low-level of friendly fire on the field by the nature of his fighting style- but will one day he accidentally kill an ally if they sneak up on him?

But it's good that neither of the two will remember, Solas thinks, passing his gaze over Adaar. No rumors of a scout almost being murdered. No Adaar remembering what he’d almost done- might that anxiety make him worse by putting him further on edge? Would he, a brutal Qunari, seek out and complete the job, kill that soldier, to his another secret? Kaayras is a man who likes to hide everything , after all. 

Solas has questions. He also has this memory- he will have to prevent this, and future issues, from happening again. Carefully.

“He sleeps easier… alone , in the dark.” Cole offers Solas once more, when they had stayed quiet in Adaar’s tent for several minutes. 

Solas isn't surprised that Cole is already gone once again, when the elven mage looks to him again, finding only empty space.

Well, Solas will leave the inquisitor to sleep alone, then. 

He makes sure to go out the back side of the tent- the side not facing the campfire.

Knowledge, for the future: not to touch the Herald’s bare hands, his skin; particularly while he slept, or as he woke; at all, if preferable. Remember to tell others not to, if he must. Kaayras is a hazard- his own tent, his own room, obviously. Anxiety would make him worse- when he becomes stressed , he should say, is when people should give him increased space. Yes, he will say that. He will likely tell Seeker Pentaghast- she seems capable of making arrangements. Capable of controlling how she tells others. 

Doable.

He makes a plan: when they get to skyhold-,he’ll make sure Herald Adaar will have a room to himself entirely. A room with a lock on the door, too. A waste of space given the refugees ought to use all the castle space they can, but, a whole room, away from others, may be safer. For everyone. Subtle commentary, as well, and delegate some regulations of KAayras Adaar to Cassandra. 

It won't be hard to convince the Inquisition to give Kaayras that privacy- Solas can already tell. Soon they’ll make him the official leader, official ‘Inquisitor’. Not that he wasn't, really, already the lead; humans just take so long to bestow their often times meaningless honors, waiting for “just the right moment” as it were. 

Perhaps the fall of Haven will put them into motion. Solas thinks The Right Time may now be upon them. 

Adaar sleeps for almost 2 days, and doesn't wake until the late afternoon of the third day. 

They set out for Skyhold the following sunrise. 

Cassandra makes sure Kaayras has his own tent the entire journey, but Adaar hardly sleeps the whole trek.

Chapter Text

Blackwall watches, through the pouring rain, as the Inquisition’s flag is hoisted into the air. 

Vivienne, standing in as group mage, keeps to the wall not far on Blackwalls’ left; where there's a bit of rain shelter from some slightly dilapidated roof. It doesn't do her much good- she’s soaked as a sewage rat already. She’d have his head for the comparison.

Cole is hovering at the Inquisitor’s side, blood smudged and still dripping over his pale lips as it streaks down from his bruised nose. That’s probably broken. More worryingly, a large, dark stain is creeping down a gash in the sleeve on Cole’s left arm. The boy doesn't seem particularly aware of it, though. Cole's watching, like they all are, as the flag shakes in the horrible wind, and lightning threatens to strike the very pole it flies from. The spirit barely seems aware of his own injuries, possibly submerged in the injuries the rest of the party feels, on top of his own. Blackwall will admit he doesn’t understand how that works, though.

Cole, Vivienne, and Blackwall watch the flag reach its height at the peak of the pole, and still none of them move as it flies there, the mark of a hard fought victory.

Kaayras Adaar bleeds, and breathes heavily, in the nonsilence of battering rain, and ties off the rope that holds it high. Sluggish, clumsy.

They’ve already sent for a crestwood villager to take word to the Inquisition camp; The Keep is the Inquisition's, now. The locals may not perfectly like that- but one of the greatest threats in the area, the pillaging camp of bandits, has been removed from their seat of power. This would be a center for dealing with everything else- the damn, the undead, the distant dragon. The locals will grow used to it, at least when their situation improves. 

This was a victory. A battle hard fought, and a battle hard won. 

Blackwall doesn't much like the look of the flag. Black, an ominous eye, a bright red dagger embroider-stitched into the fabric. It's not much of a flag for the Good Guys . He hopes, after all, he's with the Good Guys like he means to be. You can never be too sure, but he thinks he is. Corepheus definitely isn’t a Good Guy, and they're against him, so… there’s that.

He doesn't like the flag, though.

One would think the Inquisition would want no red symbolism, given their enemy pumps its soldiers full of red and lyrium. Why not Green? With the “Mark” and all. Or Yellow, or White, maybe. Holy colors, what with the Herald thing. Purple, even- the Inquisitor’s signature color? Expensive, sure- but they could flaunt that. 

No matter- its a black and red flag, raised against a faint glow of the moon through thick rain clouds.

They’re the good guys- Blackwall thinks- and they won. So this is a good win, and he can sit here, and… take that in.

Soon it will be busy. There will be bustle as scouts inspect every crack for weakness in the holding walls. Soldiers and grunts beginning to pitch tents, setting up caches, food set out to salt looking for pests that could disrupt storage or activity. Check points for traders, and planning leaders, and missives and reports coming and going to Skyhold, and spies on outpost. 

Soon this will be a very busy place. The first people they’ll send will include medics and healers- for them, and to set up the infirmary. 

For now, there's a quiet in a storm. The rain is loud but smothers everything else- ragged breathing, dripping blood, echoes of battle cries, the thud replaying in Blackwall’s skull- into a sudo silence.

The heavy patterns of blood dripping off blades, dripping from a gash down Blackwall’s arm, small patterns off the end of Lady Vivienne’s dress, blood from the corner of Cole’s mouth and some of his thin fingers and wrapped palms. Little red drops, joining the rain in endlessly cascading to the stone floor. 

Blackwall is no poet, but for right now, he’s not in a fight. He has time to watch the blood drip. 

There's something deep and dark oozing up the Inquisitor’s left side, staining the thick blue cloth and sticking to the leathers. It doesn't drip freely; it soaks and grows; ominous, threatening. They took off his coat, a little while ago, before he struggled away from them before they had the chance to get a look at whatever’s gone wrong under there. Without the coat, you can see it oozing.

It's deceptive, how he's the only one not dripping blood onto the wet stone. But the patch is growing darker. His breathing is more uneven every time Blackwall can focus his brain to listen to it again, growing worse and more unsteady, more shallow. 

The adrenaline is fading, Blackwall knows. It’s only a matter of time until that catches up with the man, massive or not, strong or not, stubborn or not.

No one bothers to address any wounds, yet. Not even look at them, check they aren't lethal. Because the adrenaline is fading in the rest of them, too, and it’s taking time. This is battle shock. 

Because it hasn't quite escaped everyone's thoughts, yet. 

They cannot think of anything but the battle. Of those moments.

It had been routine, until it hadn't been, so quickly. So tangled and busy. They’d been fighting corpses for several nights- perhaps the dirty tricks and the tactics of a well-led group of living highway men had gotten them off guard, perhaps they’d gotten too used to mindless swinging swords of the undead. Perhaps they were just tired, weighed down by the rain and the long journey. Hell, maybe even distracted going into this fight by the prospect of the dragon in the distance they had spotted not long ago. 

Blackwall cannot be sure what had them unprepared, but one moment it was a fight and it was the usual , and the next- the next, it was too much, and they were on their toes and swallowed. 

Blackwall had slashed a man down with a heavy sword swipe just as Adaar carved a dagger into another's throat, and Cole had swiped out a third bastard's feet. 

That was the last moment Blackwall remembers it felt like Routine. And it was also the moment that Blackwall had realized- in that moment, jarring him from the routine, he had asked himself- if Cole, the support, had just swiped out that man’s feet and was dodging another hit- who was watching Vivienne's back?

And from there, the normal routine was broken.

He lost sight of both rogues then, because he turned away from the battle to try and spot their mage, and yet he didn't have a chance to find and check on her. The thought was fleeting, because an armored man was upon Blackwall, and he had a job to do. 

His part of routine, which he tried to return to, was to be the focus. Brazen, a target, attract as much attention as he could. He was supposed to be the unmovable bulwark; the shield in the middle of the fight, the point of return if any of his team needed a fall back point, needed a hand with too many opponents.

Cole hadn't been watching the mage position, he had been dragged into the fight; likely supporting Adaar, or maybe he had been pushed to the fall back point trying to shake off too many opponents. That was the boy’s folly: he’d left Vivienne for too long. 

Blackwall's, then, was that he had been distracted long enough to watch them. He was supposed to be unrelenting- and if Cole had fallen back to Blackwall’s shield point, then it was Blackwall’s faulted that Cole had not been able to shake the men he was fighting, and able to get back to his position. That was Blackwall’s folly.

Five men had taken that opportunity to charge the long distance mage position that was Vivienne. Blackwall’s belated rally taunts only managed to get two's attention, to turn and draw on him instead, with a battle cry. Despite how hard he strained, Blackwall had slipped, and the part of him that knew the routine had slipped had cringed while the rest struggled to power on anyway.

They'd gotten past him. And that was his fault. 

The routine was to let Vivienne- and the support - handle it. For Blackwall to make sure no one else cut through while they did. 

But routine was already out, because Cole, the support, was grappling two Highwaymen- and because 3 slip enemies was not a routine-slip-up . 

Blackwall had hollard a warning aloud, to whoever of his team might hear his alarm, that she was on her own, and it was all Blackwall could do as he charged forward to take the two of five he had managed to taunt.

Vivienne, under 3 blades of the highwaymen guards, braced and prepared. Cole hears Blackwall’s shout, and pops out of existence and back, having abandoned his own fight, and slices one of three to ribbons. But his sleeping powder misfires- maybe the rain- maybe the wind- maybe poor aim- maybe the speed of the boy’s mad scramble to protect- but the point is, it misses the other two. Cole has attention on the one he didn't try to put to sleep, on taking him down as quick as possible. The other two dangerous, very much awake men continue their assault all at once, close in tight quarters, bad for any mage, too many for any stealth based rogue that has already been spotted. 

Vivienne has her spirt blade drawn by an instant, staff to her side,and is already parrying and trying to dig for openings- but a mage in no armor with a ghostly blade hardly two men in full plate mail with longer, fuller swords.

They don’t have a routine, a tactic , for this.

Cole, while surprised to be dodging attacks he thought he'd put to bed, manages to recover in ample time. Vivienne receives a shove from the spirit that has her spitting in outrage, but firmly puts her behind Cole, who is much more prepared for close combat than her. Cole is, after all, her line of defense, and he is a grappling, bladed, swift kid. He even succeeds in disarming one of his combatants. But the abandoned sword is retrieved in the split seconds Cole tries to recover his footing, while yet still dealing with the second assailant. At this point his every effort is a par battle of buying seconds and buying space.

The two of them, to say the least, are both focused on the defensive. Vivienne is too busy slamming a barrier down on them both for protection, and Cole is too busy defending the mage while she attempts to pull together the magic to do so. 

The spirit lad takes a full fist to the face when he's too busy digging a dagger into the sword-bearing hand of one of the men, successfully saving Vivienne mid-casting from a horrible slice. Cole stumbles a bit from the strike, driven tighter and closer to Vivienne and giving up precious defendable space, but she does not falter in her intentions- them closer together will only make her barrier stronger when she finishes it. 

She focuses all the harder, and Cole steels after reeling from the blow, still two daggers in hand and determined, to help and protect. This, of course, is why Kaayras always puts Cole in defense positions. Cole is unrelenting to help and protect . 

They're both too busy , wrapped in their throng. Too busy , and miss the Leader of the bandits coming upon them.

That’s Blackwall’s fault. Because he was looking at them, and not the whole battle. Three slip enemies, and a fourth, a heavy brute combatant with a hammer. 

Blackwall had tasted his own panic when he realized the bandit leader was upon them. He remembers again that he gave some sort of yell for them to take cover, he tried to yell another warning, he remembers that very clearly. At least- he remembers yelling . Maybe it was a yell of challenge, trying to draw the Leader’s attention, or even stall the impending threat for even a moment, to get that massive threat to glance away from his victims for even a second . 

Most of Blackwall’s memory fades out, around this point, in a blur of adrenaline, and the details vanish beyond the feeling of straining his throat with a guttural, commanding shout as the reality hits him hard. 

The thing he remembers best of each moment following were... only a glimpse, each, in their respects. 

Like the shadow of a man, the massive Kaayras, is suddenly there in the throng. Blackwall does not know how long after Blackwall’s shout had passed, before he glimpsed Kaayras there , daggers brandished, suddenly a wall between friends and foe’s swinging hammer.

And then Blackwall has to look away, because every other enemy is suddenly his responsibility, as he is the central pillar of the fight, and the only one in the battlefield not tangled in the mess behind him. 

Blackwall hears more than sees most of what follows, when he has to put his attention back to his own battles. He hears sounds that are indistinct, that tell the tale of what exactly happens in the moments Blackwall turns away- clatter of steel (block of blades)- grinding stone on stone (the hammer diverted)- thunk and crack all mixed in to one (someone hurt)- all while Blackwall slays a single enemy.

Blackwall chances a glance over to the tangled throng again as his opponent falls. Remembers the adrenaline fueled glimpse of the scene. A crater in brick- had to have been that massive war hammer to the ground, he thinks in a split second- 

Cole’d had a knife dug deep- too deep, it was stuck, Blackwall snapshot thinks, it had to be stuck- in one of the highwaymen’s shoulders. the other, speared through man’s sword arm, and the sword in the man’s hand stuck through the other highway man’s neck. 

An expression like a rabid dog on Cole’s face burned into Blackwall’s mind in only a second, sprayed with a spatter of blood from that deep shoulder stab, protective and vicious, lit up so bright with brilliant blue-white light- 

The light, a cast of barriers and the shimmer of ice crystals in the air- ice crusted the feet of the second highwaymen opponent- Vivienne enchanting with cursing breaths, and her staff glowing harsh light on her sharp silhouette-

There’s a dagger (big, too big a blade to be Cole's, Adaar's dagger, another snapshot thought) stuck in the Bandit Leader’s swinging arm- but the hammer is raised again despite the injury- Adaar is brandishing the other dagger and by god , is Kaayras Adaar big, even next to a brute with a hammer, and there's no room for him in that tight battle, wedged between enemy and ally- 

Just a glimpse and Blackwall uses that glimpse as a strike of confidence that they can take it. The rabid dog expression of Cole, the unyielding cast of Vivienne’s magic, the mass that is Kaayras- they can take it, he tells himself, trying to use the brief glimpse as a sign. 

Blackwall has to focus on his own battle, anyway, despite the overwhelming gut feeling he has that something has gone wrong. He has to have confidence that they can handle it, and he tells himself they will, but his gut sinks . He has to finish, and get there to help, so he pushes forward against another opponent.

Another clatter- a strike of thunder loud in the distance- clattering, thunk, something cracks and unfamiliar man’s grunt and yell- Blackwall forces his blade through a bandit’s arm, and then through another’s gut, but a third one almost gets a sword through his damn arm - Cole’s voice reaches his ear in a snarl, another screech of metal on metal, another resounding crack against the stone-

Blackwall chances another glance- not nearly long enough this time to take in much detail, but he has to look. 

He regrets it.

Adaar gets in a hard shove on his large opponent- takes a step back, to garner more fight space, wise, a wise move-

Then trips over the end of Vivienne’s staff, extended behind his heel- 

A noise of alarm from Cole that's drowned by that same adrenaline rush in Blackwall's ears. 

Cole, sensitive as he is, must have felt the shift in Adaar’s mind, from tactic to shit, as soon as Kaayras had tripped. Another snapshot thought that Blackwall can only now process in the presnt. But Blackwall wasn’t looking anymore when he heard, by the time the sound of Cole’s alarm reaches the air; Blackwall's blocking a swing of a sword headed right for him. His own fight. His own fight . Something is terribly wrong but his own fight .

And yet, Blackwall remembers that part of the rushed moments best- even as it all feels like a distracted blur, fighting his own opponent, several feet away. Rushing to dispatch the ones Kaayras had abandoned fighting, in order to protect their companions instead; Blackwall must, because letting yet another enemy encroach on that tangled close combat fight is a death sentence. 

Blackwall cannot rush to their aid, he must fight the rest to keep them at bay. 

He had to turn away, he couldn't keep looking, and he couldn't go to their aid .

He knows that. He knows this. He knows he made the right decision.

But he saw it. 

He saw the moment Adaar was doomed to go down. 

Blackwall saw the moment it went wrong, and was too busy to see the result.

He remembers this part best, even if he’d been looking for only a single heartbeat. Blackwall remembers the split second of Adaar reeling back after the shove; the heel he slides back to counter his own huge center of balance. The way it meets the edge of her staff. 

Even as Kaayras arches over Vivienne, prepared to block the incoming massive force of the hammer that's already raised to come down with brutal force, to shield her from the blow with his sheer height, his weight, his mass. Even still, as Kaayras is ready, that heel slides back and catches her staff .

Blackwall knows- from so many spars against him- that Adaar's whole weight is on that foot, responsible for shifting his entire center of mass, to prepare for the force of that blow: to be immovable, to be firm and unyielding.

And Blackwall saw that foot hook the staff.

The best thing he remembers in the whole of that fight was the glimpse of heel, twisting, and knowing, knowing with a cringe so sharp as his own sword, shit.

Just before swinging his own blade down on the dazed highwayman Kaayras abandoned (still recovering from the sleep powder Kaayrus had cast him with to get away), he sees Adaar trip in the corner of his eye. Dread in his chest- but Blackwall can't look- he has yet another enemy of his own to fight, immediately after he glimpses it.

But maker does he know what's going to come, and knows what every sound is this time as it happens.

A massive body slams the ground with no grace, a loud thud drowned in the wet sound of a puddle splash and of more distant thunder reaching their ears. Shit , Blacwall thinks again, dread realized as the dull sound reaches him. 

He half thinks, in a snap, as he swings on his own enemy, half hopes Adaar didn’t fall on Vivie-

One loud, sick crunch- one he hears far too clearly, and it turns his brain into silent mush.

Shit. 

The hammer on ribs, Blackwall knows now, more precisely. He wishes that sound, too, had been drowned out by the sound of thunder, or the adrenaline, or a battle cry, or something- anything. 

It's sickening, still, and turns his stomach over and over, even in the stillness after the battle, echoing in his ears and rattling through his skull.

Rogue fighters are fragile. They don't take well to heavy hits, with no real armor to speak of. They sacrifice that armor for movability and stealth. Kaayras is a hefty, massive Qunari man, but- he still follows that rule. He is not braced with any protective metal plating. And while maybe he can lift far more than Sera or Cole or most any other Rogue… yet still, face to face with hard hitting brutes- even Kaayras must stay distant, or slip away quickly. He is still a man , and his bones still break.

Addar shouldn’t have been in that tangle. It shouldn’t have gotten so bad in the first place, to need him there. They were supposed to protect the Herald. They were supposed to hold their defenses at all costs, never abandon their defenses for offense.

That was everyone’s folly. 

Addar paid a nasty toll for it.

They’re lucky it hadn't been a crushed skull. It’s the kind of situation that kills a man in one hit, what had just happened, and they are so very fucking lucky. 

Cole urges the Qunari man to sit down, in the present. Quietly. Only says it once, barely loud enough to be heard over the rain. It's the first time any of them have spoken since the fight ended.

Kaayras stares up at the flag, watching it whip violently, still on his feet, perhaps not even hearing Cole. Perhaps too blind and deaf to everything else. 

Blackwall wonders if the man is in shock from the injury. Hears, again, the sick crunch in his ears and feels his fingers curl inward in response, disgusted. 

Vivienne stays entirely silent- perhaps in respect to her own pride. Assistance by Cole was enough to sneer at, for her. Needing yet another rescuer , too much; her rescuer crushed after tripping over her, much too much .

Perhaps that was her folly. To her credit, that was very much after routine had dissolved, that her stance had gone sloppy and too wide.

He wonders if they are all in shock, at the moment. After all, Blackwall knows he should coax the Inquisitor into sitting, as well. At the very least, begin patching his own leg or arm, both still bleeding freely. But he's not saying much of anything at all, not doing anything but sitting, hunched in the rain, even after he’s regained his breath. 

He takes a look down at his leg- the injury is nothing. He could run on it, if he wanted to. He's more like a wet, tired dog than an injured soldier. He doesn't feel like he’s in shock. Just- that nothing can be done, for now. There’s nothing to do. It’s just stillness.

There's a sudden wet thud , again, an aching familiarity. 

He hears another echo of the crunch as though he's back to the first time he heard that hulking body hit the floor while he was looking away. It's not as hard a thud as he remembers, no blunted, violent force behind it, but still the crunch echoes in his ears afterward. As if he missed it for a second time.

But of course, when Blackwell looks up again, the Inquisitor is once more on the hard ground anyway, downed like a drop of rain, fallen from the sky among its kin; like he is nothing more than another puddle on the ground. 

Just like when Blackwall had slain his last opponent, and turned, and finally been able to look upon the scene. He had watched Cole, panicked and crouched on all fours like a feral dog, over the huge body on the ground. The boy was blocking what was certainly a death blow from one of the other highwaymen, using his bare arm; the sword halfway carved into his flesh and stopped perhaps only by the bone . Cole’s second and final blade had been buried in the throat of the massive leader, dead on the ground, collapsed less than a foot from where Kaayras lay, the hammer still on his chest, the only thing between Adaar and Cole’s snarling. 

Cole had killed the threat, but not before Addar had been crushed with a dead hit of that fucking hammer. Something which without a doubt, would have killed a smaller man. Vivienne flash-freezes the last highwaymen, sword still buried in Cole’s arm- what had fully intended to cleave Adaar’s head from his shoulders- into a solid block of ice. 

Kaayras heaves the Hammer off his chest and yet still heaves for air , exactly like a man who’d been crushed . Kaayras’ last dagger is still in his clenched hand. Still clinging to gasping breaths as though the air is missing completely, Adaar strikes his blade into the ice. It shatters, as does the man encased in it, and the final highwayman is dead.

And then, the fight is over.

And here they are now. Kaayras, collapsed again, but their flag in the sky.

They won.

Cole has crouched at the man’s side, once again, and that's too familiar. Even if it's less feral, less bloody a moment, it's too familiar to finally turning, finally seeing the aftermath of the catastrophe, too much like a mirror back in time to that moment of dread. 

Too chalked full of the panic of “ is he dead?” and not sure where the hammer had crushed the huge man. If he was dead, or would lose a limb from a mulched appendage? Is he dead? It had echoed in Blackwalls head silently, alongside that sick, sick crunch .

This is too much like that moment.

Blackwall jerks to his aching feet, sliding bloody blade into sheath. Vivienne powers forward, stiff with a mockery of her own poise, as if she too can't stand the mirror of that moment. If Blackwall is a wet dog- she is a wet cat. She’d prefer it to wet rat, he thinks. She’d say Cole was the wet rat among them, if she were up to a bit of back and fourth. Right now, he doubts she's in the mood. He isn't, either.

“I'm fine.” Kaayras wheezes, wet and raspy. It should be a relief to finally hear the man speak, but it isn't. There's a sickening dampness to his voice, much like that disgusting crunching sound. Blood on the lungs- sounds like someone who’s swallowed a lot of water before swimming back ashore, half drowned.

There’s no telling how much damage has been done, internally, yet. But there's something odd about the shape of Addar’s chest as he lays there, struggling to breathe. Something almost concave, maybe, but… it just looks wrong. The heavy blood stain is dark and wide, spread over his left side. There’s a little notch, poking out from the stain. Blackwall gets the nasty thought that maybe it's a rib bone, poking out of the skin, that has caused the bleeding puncture on the outside.

He doesn't want to think about it.

Instead, Blackwall sits heavily and none too gently at Kaayras’ side. With one hand on the Inquisitor’s shoulder, he drags the other man to sit up straight. Kaayras, somehow, doesn’t make a sound , not even in protest, not even in pain. 

“Deep breaths.” Blackwall orders, sitting with his back to Adaar’s, to keep him sitting upright, but with something to lean against, at least. “Big, deep breaths.” 

He’s not, actually, sure if that's what you should do with a punctured lung- but at least it's something to have the man focus on. It can't be wrong to make him get air in his body, right?

Vivienne has taken a knee at their side- Kaayras raises a hand to wave her off like he’d done when they’d practically wrangled him out of his jacket before, and Blackwall grunts, “Let lady Vivienne help you before you drown in your own blood. It’ll be some time before we get more healing potions or a professional medic up here.”

Blackwall feels the back of Adaar’s horned head lean back against him, slumped against the warrior’s back. Adaar’s huge shoulders roll out to relax and allow Vivienne’s hands near, only to tense again under the contact of magic fingers.

Cole sits against the flagpole on their opposite side, crossing his legs, a small exhale of relief falling between the rains. Perhaps feeling the relief of magic, of pain relief, second hand.

After a passage of time that can only be measured in crackles of thunder- 16- the dim glow and hum of magic quiets, and the back and shoulders rested against Blackwall soften again, signaling Vivienne has stopped, or finished for now at least.

Kaayras, immediately, shifts and makes to raise to his feet. 

“Sit down.” Vivienne snips, almost cold, but not quite. “You're not going out to that dam like this, dear.”

“I-”

“Don't talk back to a lady.” Blackwall elbows Adaar's side- his good side- from behind him. “And don't be in such a rush to join the corpses. We’ve enough of them to kill.”

“Listen to the unwashed man, my darling. As horrible as it must be, pressed against him like that, you must remain here until the Inquisition arrives. Let that battered lung rest, though I'm sure the stench is abhorrent on a weak lung.”

“If you don't enjoy a sweaty man, you’ve a horrible sex life.” Kaayras coughs once, interrupting his own joke in the middle, but forces it out despite the interruption. 

The joke is a good sign against shock, at least, even if Blackwall has absolutely no way to respond to that.

“I assure you, my dear. Mine is sated far better with men who know proper bathing.” Blackwall finds it almost incredulous that this kind of chatter can seem to put Lady Vivienne at ease.

Adaar makes a light hum that sounds wet and rumbly still, “Well, you know, I clean up very well, myself.” The Inquisitor’s shoulders shake behind him, trembling with laughter which would no doubt hurt to let out. He can almost hear the wink in the Qunari’s voice.

“That you do, darling.” She gives Kaayras a consoling pat on the shoulder, and just barely in his own peripheral, Blackwall sees a content smile bloom over the Inquisitor’s expression in place of a toothy, flirtatious grin. Blackwall can almost interpret the interaction as… warm. Fond.

“ So nice to find someone who understands the joke .” Cole’s voice pitches, low, slow, like a mockery of how Kaayras speaks with a deep, cracked gravel. “Friendly, friendly, just to get a smile. Don't touch me , a joke in low light, I could crush you, crush you, but I can't, bend under fingers into soft- sanctum turned prison. Raw, dutiful, disciplined, docile, bend, bend, break, snap. A smile means pleased, did the job well.”

A marveling performance from Cole; offhanded, absently tracing the Inquisitor with his gaze, fidgeting with sleeves, and dripping water from the drooping edges of his hat as surely as his arm still freely bleeds. 

One of the more uncomfortable things Blackwall’s overheard from Cole, but, that seems to be the case to all of them.

Vivienne removes her hand from Adaar’s shoulder, as the Qunari man’s smile falls to the tune of Cole’s words, stolen straight from his own head.

“Serves you right for keeping it, dear.” Vivienne produces, with less bite than usual. She sits back, on the ground, already properly soaked, and quite tired.

Blackwall feels Adaar shift and lean off of the support of the warrior’s back. Blackwall turns toward the group, armor clinking, and sees Kaayras sits upright on his own now, if labored, and faces toward the spirit kid. “Cole, we’ve-”

“Talked about it, yes.” Cole dips his head. “I’m sorry. The hurts just come so fast.”

Kaayras shrugs. “Asking a person to go against their nature… what different can I expect? Thank you anyway, Cole…  don't worry. Just… keep trying.”

Vivienne sniffs, “You address it so generously, my dear, but you are right. It can't help its nature , it's just a demon.”

“I like jokes.” Adaar cuts, smoothly, ignoring her entirely. A random comment, with no inclination as to what that's supposed to mean. A change in topic, perhaps, to interrupt unpleasant conversation. His tolerance is likely low, pained as he must feel. That’s fair.

“Knock knock.” Cole perks up almost immediately, much to everyone’s surprise.

“...who’s there?” Blackwall finds himself asking, without thinking.

Cole tilts his head. “It's me, Cole.”

One crack of thunder, to call silence, follows Cole’s answer.

Kaayras, himself, erupts into flustered, borderline hysterical laughter that ends up forcing the man into choked, hacking coughs. After only a few moments, Kaayras is heaving again like he’s nearly drowned, and blood is coming in weak splatters up his throat and across the purple paint on his lips. It’s strange to see the red dribble into the red of his beard down his chin.

Vivienne, scoffing low, takes back to magic induced healing while Blackwall- who maybe chuckled once, he’ll admit- forces Kaayras to rest against each other's backs again. Kaayras’ persistent pants still sound suspiciously like laughter.

Cole smiles small, and proclaims, “Varric said my jokes were not ready. I can't wait to show him, I'm funny after all.”

The Keep’s first scouts to fill it’s walls arrive less than 30 minutes later.

Adaar’s first order of business when they do is, of course, an order to get Cole and Blackwall’s injuries bandaged. Because, of course, he’s an idiot.

Vivienne promptly sits him back down on his ass, hushes him, and directs the medics among the scouts to see the Inquisitor first while taking three healing potions, one for each of them, while they wait their turns. Kaayras complains wholeheartedly.

All in all… it isn't terrible , for their first mission after the Skyhold pilgrimage. 

Chapter Text

Dorian Pavus, previously of the Tevinter Imperium and currently of the Inquisition, is a proud man. 

It grates on everyone’s nerves, Dorian is aware, but he's also not quiet about his pride. Or his opinions. His thoughts. His rugged charms. His numerous talents. His interest in others (or lack thereof.)

Kaayras Adaar, previously of the Qunari ( maybe, as he’s heard , at least) and currently of the Inquisition and, perhaps, Tal-Vashoth, looks like a proud man. 

One would, at least… expect him to be a proud man. With posture so precise, and eyes that will stare into your mind through the eye, and confidence in his… in his sense of space ? Upon first meeting, he seemed to know where everything in a room was, even the Demons falling out of the rift. He seems incredibly, perfectly aware of his own skin- where to position his arms, the expression on his face, and exactly how far he is from the nearest threat.

The place they first met was a church, and a in a battle. Kaayras Adaar had seemed like a proud man: from the way he had killed magic demons, to the way he had sealed that rift, to devastatingly handsome man-of-few-words-staring-into-your-soul-and-not-bothering-to-eye-the-rest-of-you-because-he-knows-what-you-can-do routine. 

He had even caught a healing poition mid-air that the dwarf had thrown to him. Without even looking at the dwarf. While staring Dorian in the face.

Ridiculous! Attractive, but ridiculous! Dorian always did have a thing for confident men. (And large men, and men who clearly exfoliate, and yes, definitely, men with exotic features. Oh, and cant forget charming men who get up just to catch weak sicker men who are about to fall over in a tavern and also your best friend- even if that was just a ruse to pass Felix’s message. Still touching, still attractively tender.)

That is to say: what on earth would all of that lend to, if not a proud man?

And yet…

Stepping around the eggshells of everyone else's nerves, Kaayras Adaar is incredibly quiet about any pride he may there have. He’s certainly competent, Dorian had that on the nose. But proud…? 

Kaayras… may or may not be a proud man. He certainly wouldn’t make it known if he were. What’s more? If he has opinions, they're oft set aside for ‘order’ and ‘fairness’ or even neutrality for it’s own sake. His thoughts are often kept inside, unless you ask for them specifically. His talents, while certainly numerous , are always a surprise, and hardly displayed. He is equally quiet about his genuine interests. And has never not used his looks for depreciative humor given the slightest opportunity; at least, as long as Dorian has been here. 

Dorian is of the impression that, before he arrived and during the early days of the inquisition, even Kaayras’ depreciative and flirtatious sense of humor was… rare. Asking Vivienne had later proved him correct- Kaayras had only recently begun making flirtatious passes, charming closed mouth half-smiles, and chuckling or making jokes at his own mistake or expense. Perhaps even two weeks before Dorian and Kaayras met at Redcliffe, Kaayras had been known for dullness and impassivity and distance.

Now he is… still distant and passive. But he makes jokes! That’s new, they say! 

(So his charming, extremely competent, highly aware, man-of-no-words routine once also included stoic-brooding-but-the-polite-non-depressive-not-interruptive-kind? The I-have-responsibility-and-power-and-I-keep-to-myself shade? The maybe-I-have-deep-secrets-so-I-am-mysteriously-insistant-on-solitude? Is Kaayras Adaar a real man, or is he some crazy escapee from one of Dorian’s teenage youthful fantasies?)

That is to say, Kaayras Adaar is not like Dorian Pavus. 

That is to also say, Dorian Pavus had some very… wild first impressions of Kaayras Adaar. And not all of them, really, ended up holding their end of the bargain. 

The so titled “Herald” and he did, after all, fall through time together. And Dorian watched that competency persist- he managed to kill two guards in shallow time less than a minute, ankle deep in shallow possible-sewage, before Dorian even had a chance to get his damned barings together because of said falling through time. 

Competency persisted, yes it very much did. They found out during the same trip that Kaayras’ competence was probably the only barrier between a would-be-blight-god and ruling the world. Kaayras Adaar was very fucking competent, and that included saving-the-world competency. 

Everything else Dorian had gleamed of the man who met him in that church? All of that really fell apart. 

Giving Dorian odd looks when Dorian commented on his skills, or how little he actually deemed to say to Dorian, and even the way he had to stop Dorian from talking at one point and very, very slowly tell Dorian “I… Do not understand.” and refused to elaborate until Dorian himself had to piece together ‘oh, I’m talking too fast for this man to understand my big words, is that it?’ 

All of that very… quickly changed his first impression. 

Which was a little disappointing. Okay, so not fantasy-perfect-man. Fantasy-perfect-man would also be a decent scholar and large words wouldn't be scarier than the time travel magic, but, we can’t all be perfect. 

It also became quickly apparent that, while Kaayras had joked on first meeting freely about being flattered with a cult’s obsession and had even passingly flirted with his dwarven companion and his seeker companion and Dorian and Alexius… he was definitely not good for conversation under tension. Or… almost anywhere, really. Disappointing lack of banter in the dirty future chamber of sewage and cells.

There was even a moment when Dorian had first lain eyes on Adaar where he had thought how intriguing it was to see a Qunari Mage running around. Except of course that Kaayras was no Qunari- it was the only piece of history he would confirm, that he was not a member of Qun. And furthermore, all the ambient magic had clearly been the Mark, and Adaar was far more reliant in his knives, either thrown or stabbed. He knew even less about magic than the normal non-mage, for that matter; he had a million questions for Dorian, over the course of time that would follow.

Even if all of Dorian’s first impressions were wildly all over the place, they were still alive because of the ones Dorian had gotten right. And even when punted a whole year in the future, Kaayras was beautifully capable at that kind of thing. You know, staying alive? That is, after all, the one first impression Dorian got correct . Literally nothing seems to be able to kill Kaayras Adaar, not even impossible-to-survive things.

So they team-worked their way through the end-of-the-world-time-travel, survived time travel a second time, and showed up back to where they’d originally been booted. And then it was back to Priority: Prevent End Of World, maybe save a few thousand mages, maybe keep the sky intact, you know. Just whatever is along the way.

(Dorian thought he knew all his ‘types’ in men. But he might have a thing for Dashing Heros whom Hero because ‘well obviously we save all these mages. Obviously . Is that even a question? We’re here, aren't we?’)

(The unfortunate side effect of that handsome hero trope is ‘What? What do you mean, we can't stop to help these poor bastards who lost a pet draffalo? We’re here, aren't we?’)

(Except Kaayras Adaar does not use so many words. No, he simply stops when you challenge his hero-ing, stares at you until you feel guilty or summarily awkward, and then politely asks “are you sure?” and, well, okay, fine, but let’s make it quick.)

It turns out, Dorian finds all the versions of Kaayras Adaar he has both assumed and actually met are interesting company. Is that so strange? They bonded. Maybe it happened when they watched his weird, scary ginger spy-lady friend kill Alexius in the future. Maybe it happened when they were vigorously trying to get the amulet to work while all of his colorful friends were killed-but-sortof-already-dying-anyway. Maybe it just happened back in the church, when Dorian found himself charmed by the poor bastard that was given a magic hand and now simply waved it at holes in reality without understanding any of the how.

It happened at some point. Hardly matters when.

And after all that, well. Dorian didn't really have anywhere to go . So he rather politely did not mind that he was maybe-kidnapped by the Seeker who ‘helped’ him into a wagon with the rest of the Mages, destined for a frigid little place they called Haven. 

The seeker that kidnapped him clearly only wanted him for a report. To be fair, she did not remember dying for him so that he could save her Herald as vividly as he did. Because it did-but-didnt happen. So he wont fault her.

Kaayras Adaar is Dorian’s only advocate at that point. Afterall, everyone else would have seen him sent off as the Tevinter Spy infiltrating Haven, quick, quick, get him out before he blood-magics someone. 

Although there’s no Haven anymore, so, tough luck on that. Can't ban him from a place that has been decimated and no longer exists, after all. Now no one gets to be in Haven. Besides, it’s not as though the Inquisition is anti-spy. There’s the Qunari spy, The Iron Bull, after all. 

Except, Kaayras himself had invited Dorian to stay. Invited being a… strong word. The Herald of Andraste had, more literally, seemed surprised when Dorian had hinted of his preparations to leave Haven. He was, after all, not wanted there. The Inquisition Commander who had overseen their shared ‘report’ about the events of redcliff had taken Dorian’s every word with more than simply a grain of salt (rather the entire spice cabinet), and the meeting had been opened with Seeker Pentaghast’s assertion that they could hardly trust the word of a Magister. 

Dorian’s cheeky commentary that he was not yet a Magister did not seem convincing , but after all, their issue wasn't the Magisterium. It was seemingly with the Imperium itself. 

(Understandable. Dorian also had a lot of problems with the Imperium.)

Kaayras had been his voucher. “I was there.” He said when it was insisted Droain’s tale of wild, impossible magic could not be trusted. He simply said “I was there,” And he said no little more about that fact. And yet, that had been enough.

For as few words as he had answered the Advisor’s concerns, there was little else needed . Kaayras had the Advisor’s trust implicitly . Another place where Dorian and Kaayras were nothing alike: Dorian was likened to Pariahdom as Kaayras was likened to Trust. Or perhaps it’s faith , given the andrastian title he bore?

(Dorian had later learned that the trust Kaayras had built between the advisors was also new . Not as new as his sense of humor, but still quite new. Seeker Cassandra evidently kidnapped and tried to keep a lot of people prisoner.)

So Dorian had told the tale of the future, and what he knew of the mages and their would-be fate, and what little they knew of this still dramatically named ‘elder-one’ and the admirers he had in the Magisterium. 

Kaayras simply stood by, content to be the chime to Dorian’s center stage. More places where they were not alike. Dorian was no one’s side-piece. Kaayras was no lead actor, not unless the fate of the world demanded it.

And then toward sunset, the meeting had adjourned. As Kaayras had accompanied him out, Dorian made comments about drinking as much of their alcohol as possible and whether he should leave immediately or the following day after the hangover and stealing from them whatever they considered ‘breakfast’ in this hovel. A good, light hearted joke. Dorian had been joking, and presumed he might stay a few days at the least to scope out the Inquisition, make a few contacts here, contribute where he could because end-of-world-bad, and Dorian likened his attitude on the matter to how his mother’s best cooking servants had taught him to behave about santinalia feasts. ‘Make yourself useful or get out of the kitchen’. 

Haven being the kitchen. Be helpful, then get out of the way and be helpful somewhere else . 

He’s seen a year in the future. He would do whatever necessary to prevent it. A large part of him said making sure Kaayras Adaar never died, never disappeared, would go a long way toward that, so a part of him was tempted to hang around the Inquisition despite all the trouble they would cause him. But The Herald of Andraste had the bodyguard thing covered for the most part- he was surrounded by people that believed in him. Perhaps even rightly so. Another point where they differed. And a lot of those people were big and muscular or ominously skilled. It did not seem they needed another talented, powerful mage around here. Even if Dorian was the best.

And still this oversized man had the gall to look at Dorian with big, owlish, round eyes, the color of fade-touched amethyst or a poison-imbued rune. Surprised. 

“You’re welcome to stay.” He’d said, in just so few words as needed.

Was it in answer to Dorian’s joke? That it was better to stay until the hangover came and went? Or was that an offer to do as Dorian intended- to stay a while and do what work could be done? To rest, to make his contacts, to see to the mage’s care, and then go where his efforts would take him? Or was that indefinitely ? Did two who had time traveled together qualify as permanent (or at least indefinite) residential status? Companionhood? 

(It would, for a long time, amuse Dorian that Kaayras referred to him and other members of the “Upper Circle” as his Companions, with consistency. And then one day it would not, entirely, be amusing. It would be concerning. It would be like Kaayras’ reputation: Friendly, but Distant . Several companions, no friends.)

It hardly mattered whether it was a long-term welcome to Haven or not. Haven, after all, burned to the ground before it’s burial in snow. 

Dorian had, yet still, nowhere to go at that point. There were hundreds injured and plenty more dead. The Inquisition had plenty of mages, but spirit healing was practically a contraband skill in the south where they reviled spirits, even those that sought to help. Dorian’s talent had certainly never rested in healing , but even his Tevinter-Standardized Education on the matter was leagues ahead of the Southern simpletons that considered leeches more useful than basic healing magics. Suddenly Dorian was in high demand. Catastrophe could be that way, what with making you need the things you reviled.

And when it wasn't about what he could do that they couldn’t, it was the simple fact that the people needed . Able bodies that could pull wagons, lift the injured, move the deadweight both literal and the heavy crates of supplies, even handle the animals, or fight should a stray red templar fall into their path as they fled.

Haven was gone. And whether the invitation offered by the Herald had been real or not had hardly mattered. 

There had been a point, early on: the first 18 hours after the fall of Haven. Kaayras Adaar, who had extended Dorian a vague invitation to stay, could very well be dead, should the Maker have claimed him for one of his already numbered close-calls. 

Dorian had seen what that particular death meant in little more than a year, with his own two eyes. 

When he was not hard at work as one of the fit-bodies to do so, or keeping some poor bastard alive, or considering summoning a few undead to pull the man-drawn wagons (to be shot down quickly should he even suggest it, likely), then Dorian was on the forefront to quite literally fight for a position with the search teams. Because he, like many , were terrified of the reality that the only competent protector they had was missing, even presumed dead.

Every stressful hour, those he were tasked with search teams came back with a straggling survivor, or carrying a lone carcass (either humanoid or meat), or freshly found material. Dorian watched them for horns, even when he wasn't amid the teams scouting for survivors. He was always looking . Always hoping . Dorian rarely prayed- Andrastian less spiritually than he was by virtue of having been raised with it- but he truly considered it. 

He wasn’t sure whether to pray to the Maker, or since he was in the land of blasphemy and praying on behalf of her prophet, he should pray to fucking Andraste . 

(That would really kill his father, and definitely his mother.)

Another thing they did not have in common was that Kaayras Adaar had immaculate luck, and Dorian did not. 

Dorian had been born into an Altus family, with high standing, with the archon’s good will and favor. He had been born with good blood, wealthy, at the high of society; he’d been born with incalculable odds in his corner, and with all that at his favor, he had squandered and failed. He has been expelled from every circle he had ever attended at least once, he had been exorcized from every research program or study he had ever worked with, every teacher and mentor he’d ever had was either mad or enraged by the end of Dorian’s time with them, and he had long fled from the communities and country he loved. His luck had been terrible and atrocious on every turn- his best friend caught the blight , his surrogate had gone mad over time magic and mortality, his parents had turned against him, the magic he excelled best in was stigmatized and reviled, and let us not even mention the travesty that is his love life . 

Dorian had always been given good odds in his favor, and terrible, terrible luck.

Kaayras Adaar had been a man with two knives, fought an army in a burning village, fired catapults at an archdemon, came face to face with an elder one monstrosity that had come, blighted, from the fade, and dropped a natural disaster upon himself with a suicide menauver, and there had been a blizard and miles of ice-battered wilderness. 

There had been no odds. 

And yet anyway, 18 hours afterward, in a still-raging blizzard, there he came staggering between two cliff faces. Alive, bleeding heavily in the shoulder and gut and his left nostril, left ear, left eye. Heaving and out of breath, panting like a dog and coughing blood. Clutching a mangled magic hand, the other a sick nearly blue shade of his usual grey when his gloves had been peeled off. Frozen to the core and to most of his extremities. Fucking alive , somehow.

Cassandra and Cullen had dragged the luckiest man in Thedas from his knees with each of his arms over each of their shoulders, and Dorian had never so frenzily called upon his lingering Spirit of Hope to heal a person- not since the first time Felix had a fit of sickness and collapsed. 

(Healing Felix would be a numbing memory for the rest of his life. The dark, foreign thing in his friend’s body, in his mind, in his soul would always be Number One Worst Experience Of Dorian’s Life. Seconded only by hisbrush of blood magic at the hand of his own father .)

(somewhere in the third to with worst moments of Dorian’s life, however, involved having the fate of the world resting on Dorian’s sub-par spirit healing skills, and all the while Hope told him falteringly of all the damage in that body that needed to be mended.)

They dragged Kaayras into camp, unconscious, with staunched bleeding frozen to his wounds, gnawing frostbite, barely conscious and so distorted he could not stand on his own, and alive . 

Dorian dared not think he had the luck to even survive a portion of what Kaayras had. 

They were very, very different after all.

About the only thing they have in common, dare Dorian say, is a false overconfident early impression, which they both had a habit of displaying through flirtatious behavior and sarcasm. 

And, of course, an unsated love life. 

And , of course , they are both pariahs of their original kin and kind. There's that. Cannot forget that.

And they agree- Dorian thinks , at least, that they agree on some larger matters. Like Tevinter is bad. And Red Lyrium is bad. Corypheus is bad. Maybe they even agree Mages should not be slaves to ‘the people’ or templars, even if magic is ‘for serving mankind’, nor should people be less than the mage- a view that their respective ex-kin strongly disapprove of their stances on.

The point is, they're both incredibly similar in… behavior , and yet , borderline opposites. 

Dorian is glad of it- Kaayras Adaar is fairly easy to get along with, when the world isn't ending and the sky isn’t full of holes and the snow isn't on fire, because of their similarities. It is easy for them to get along, yet very interesting, because of their differences. 

Even if it is difficult to pry interesting conversation from the man, sometimes. But it’s definitely all there, to make Dorian constantly curious, because they simply see everything so… differently. They must , as almost no angle of their perspective is the same. (And that is only barely a joke about their height.) 

Dorian’s fairly certain the Inquisitor feels the same way about him- being interesting and easy to get along with, that is. Of all the mages in the Inquisition’s inner circle, Dorian finds himself in the Forward Party most often, now that operations from Skyhold have resumed. Roaming about the battlefields with a lead brute of a newly-minted Inquisitor for a companion provides plenty of opportunity for curiosity, especially when said Inquisitor is one known for dicing up enemies left and right, with a ridiculous sense of style, and an obsession for wearing thick heavy clothing, even in the hotest of climates. Gloves and long sleeves and a scarf, in the desert! A travesty! If not of fashion, then of self preservation! From heat stroke!

Then again, Dorian isn't surprised he's inherited the position of “Favorite Mage” (so dubbed by a joking Varric). For the one out of the three that comes from an ‘evil’ foreign power, Dorian's the most friendly, and the least of a judging asshole. Dorian had expected southern mages to be more… pitiful. More suppressed and put-upon by their laws. Frightened of templars and naive to the scope of their magic because of a life of sheltered walls and frightened masses.

The other mages Kaayras keeps company with are… not what Dorian was expecting.

He’d hoped he’d have more interesting conversations with the inner when he’d discovered them not to be prisoner caricatures, for that matter. 

But Vivienne can be a bore to talk to (reminds him of back home, in the least favorable ways, up until she starts acting like mages should be imprisoned for life and sounds more like a persecuting Templar trying the exorcize a rite). Talking with her is rarely about magic and is more often about politics ; and while Dorian is not shy about politics, he hardly cares for Orlais’ political atmosphere, and is even more interested in tearing apart Tevinter’s from the floorboards up. Vivienne cares more about their current states, and of course, winning . Dorian understands the need to win (both as survival and as to accumulate the power for change), but simply does not enjoy it like the game others- such as Vivienne- consider it to be.

Solas, while intriguing, and an interesting fountain of wisdom at times, is quite bitter on behalf of Dorian’s heritage. (Which is Fair, really, but it still makes conversation difficult despite that which they seem to agree. ) And, of course, the elf seems more happy in the company of spirits than anyone this side of the veil. Their friendliest conversations seem to be politely digging at each other's style- be it his own 'flashy' style, or Solas’ horrible unwashed apostate hobo ‘look’- or trading magic theory and ideas. Admittedly, it's better conversation than petty and aggressive commentary traded with Vivienne. He can deal with that, sure, whatever, he’s heard worse from his family’s gardener, but it's not quite a basis for friendship, not really. At best, an ally. Which… better than nothing, he supposes. 

But it’s really no wonder at all why Dorian’s quickly usurped the position of Mage In The Forward Party.

(It’s a stroke of his ego to assume Kaayras prefers his company over the other two, sure. But it doesn't mean it’s not true. It also doesn’t mean it is true, either. But it’s certainly a nice thing to think.)

Kindness and Friendlessness must be in short among mages, for some reason.

Luckily, the qualities aren't completely absent from the Inquisition, and Kaayras does seem to look for that in his closest company. Thankfully, a blessing, it's most common in his forward party, as well. Which is wise- good appearances and all to those they meet on the road. Good impressions are pertinent. 

Usually, the forward party consists of the Inquisitor, Dorian himself, and some combination of a warrior and a varying support-position. 

Either Bull or Cassandra, usually, fill the former warrior position, and while they’re both not the merciful sort, they have their own charms. The Iron Bull is more common of the two, and certainly is Doiran’s favorite of the two- an absolute delight, not that Dorian intends to say so aloud anytime soon. Especially when Dorian and Bull and the Inquisitor are all out together . 

The conversation turns out to be 90% flirtatious, overconfident, good natured humor, passed around in some comical mockery of a love triangle. Nothing against Cassandra, but really , nothing compares. This kind of display would give the Magisterium heart attacks. Cassandra would probably just kill the Magisterium herself. That is to say: they get the same results either way, but one is definitely more fun.

And also, the Iron Bull is just exceptional to have in a fight. You simply cannot lose track of him- always yelling, always shouting, always cracking the earth apart and doing large amounts of damage. It’s nearly beautiful.

The flirting afterward is just also fun. 

(It’s another stroke of the ego. Nice to pretend he doesn't enjoy all the teasing and catcalling. It’s also Nice to return it, sometimes, and no one bats an eye. This is nothing like Tevinter.)

The later position is the support, and it depends on where exactly they’re going, or what they need to do, who fills it. Going into civil territory like Val Royeaux, Kaayras typically enlists Sera. A bit funny, honestly, given Sera isn't the most civil , but she's good at the type of area anyway, and very handy. And kind, in her own right, too- unless they’re dealing with someone wealthy . Dorian is glad Sera doesn't consider him wealthy since leaving his home behind; it keeps her tongue aimed at people other than him. And her bag-fulls of insects. Thankful for small mercies.

But when it's out into the field, it's almost always Cole that fills the role. This is a position almost as frequent and unchanging as Dorian’s position as Favorite Mage.bWhich would make Cole… favorite something. Favorite ghost? Favorite knife-holder? Favorite Hat-wearer?

Dorian knows Cole came after Dorian, making him the newest member of the circle… but Dorian doesn't remember exactly when Cole joined. He’s certainly been around since at least the start of Skyhold, but that's the most Dorian knows of it for sure. 

This makes the Primary Combat Team a fairly regular arrangement: The inquisitor Kaayras, The Iron Bull or sometimes Cassandra, Dorian, and Cole.

Given the company, Cole works very well in the mix, too. It’s a strongly functioning team, dare Dorian say it. 

At worst, back in the earliest missions when the Inquisition was still scrambling out of Skyhold to create a foothold, Cassandra and Cole found civil disagreement, but the two are getting along a bit better, and only growing on one another with time; occasionally talking about ethics in a manner Dorian would relate to an older sister speaking to a lost young child. 

Not that Dorian himself has any siblings to compare such a concept to, but the point is, it works; the team operates smoothly, these days, with few hiccups between the normal line up. Cole never really had any strikes against Dorian or Bull, and if Dorian were a little more a gossip, he’d dare to say Kaayras tends to play a little bit of favorites with Cole, over anyone else. Not just team formation.

For that matter, despite enough war between the Qunari and Tevinter to set teeth grinding between a pair of “loyalists” like themselves, neither Dorian nor Bull hold any grudges beyond some early grief. Most of that, really, was on Dorian’s side- but it was hashed out… quickly enough. It smoothed out. 

Dorian also worked out his issues with Cassandra rather quickly, for that matter; once he figured out her suspicion and abrasiveness wasn't really just for Dorian , and that she was… well, she was just brash and abrasive. Even to Kaayras, sometimes, which was… funny, really. Cassandra was half his size, and for any bark she had with the Inquisitor, Kaayras would just nod along and loosely acknowledge. Either that would settle Cassandra down or make her more agitated, but if the later, she’d at least point it somewhere else. Usually by hitting something. 

So Cassandra was prickly, Cole was dodgy, The Iron Bull was Loud, and The Inquisitor was Mild. Dorian had quickly grown accustomed to them- and moreover, might have grown… somewhat fond of them. 

The rotation is easy. Both diplomatically between themselves, and in battle. 

Especially, of course, the primary combat team. That is, after all, why they were considered such. 

Iron Bull, standing in the center of a warring battlefield, roaring and swinging a massive sword or hammer. Protected by Dorian, with a barrier and wards, and a strike at anything which falls in a blindspot; all delivered from where he’s perched nearby on a high point, occasionally summoning up some wayward spirit to cause mayhem and horror alongside the raging Bull. And amidst the distracted chaos, two of the sneakiest bastards Dorian’s ever seen. Cole, flitting around the battlefield in the blink of an eye, tasked as Kaayras instructed him in strategy meetings, to focus most on taking out anyone who approaches Dorian while he’s busy casting defenses and backup spells and unguarded in the focus his stronger spells require. Kaayras is the offensive of the two rogues, knocking out the biggest enemies with sleep powder or a raw slam on the head, and dropping them again entirely with a well placed blade.

It is quick, deadly, and efficient. And Dorian appreciates the care put into the defensiveness, worked into its core; no one is ever left unguarded, and there is always another position watching you. Dorian especially; he's usually at an observation point for the entire fight, usually has the eagle eye; and because of that, usually has the better awareness of how the four of them fit together nearly perfectly. He’s always watching everyone, and almost always had a pair of eyes on him.

Bull and Cole have a fitting system together, working on their own; whenever the two end up near one another in a battle, comes the ambush technique where Bull distracts the attention of some great, massive Dragon or Giant, and as Cole puts it, “1, 2, 3, daggers in darkness” and flays the wings or chops into the achilles tendons while Bull does what he does best and hammers on, straight forward and violent. It is, of course, just as effective against non-massive humanoid targets. 

Cole and Kaayras operate well together, too. They often operate as the forward of the forward party, slipping into the shadows and sliding first into a soon to be battle or a tight quarters room for an ambush, taking out the most important or most dangerous targets before the fighting even starts. Dorian and Bull will always follow, whether in ready backup positions or waiting outside the doors for the rush of the rest of the enemy fleeing, or to come storming in after; ready to take advantage of the enemy already in panic over the surprise devastation that the two can employ together.

Dorian likes to think even he and Kaayras have developed a sheer sort of efficient partnership in battle, despite being extreme opposites. Kaayras usually talks more strategy with Bull and Cole, which makes plenty of sense, as the they all fight in closer quarters and higher stakes, while Dorian's plethora of spells work best in long range. But Dorian is no mere damsel mage, and he appreciates that Kaayras is constantly aware of this; that Dorian comes from a homeland where mages are front lines fighters, the bulk of the force, and that Dorian's style reflects this. There’s an extreme efficiency to putting Dorian high and hard to reach, and playing Cole to watch Dorian’s back. It gives Dorian the focus to unleash absolute hell: magic of greater mass destruction, of the horror of loosed spirits and raised dead, which make Dorian just as panic-inducing as Bull and his Reaver tactics and war hammer from three times as much distance.

Kaayras never expects Dorian to purely focus on support magic, like the mages of this country seem to know best. The emphasis of their every teamwork and strategy conversation is defense, and Dorian's barrier magic and battle-healing are far from sub par, but Kaayras still expects Dorian to fight like a Qunari will blast its cannon. Kaayras expects lightning and anger, and Dorian has plenty of that in his bones.

And when it's Kaayras and Dorian in a battle, they are purely opposites. A flashy, long distance mage, and a subterfuge close-combat rogue. Dorian causes chaos and disabling effects and targets the masses, and Kaayras goes for needlepoint deadliness, target-by-target. They are nothing alike and yet they click just as perfectly as the rest of the team often does.  

Kaayras particularly loves to set up Dorian for Chain Lightning- metal blades pierced into bodies and the enemy pushed into tighter defensive formations make perfect electrical targets, and Dorian almost always sees Kaayras making the set up for him from the highpoint of his view, and always seems to trust that Dorian will throw the surge-protective Barrier over Kaayras before unleashing the lethal strike, never fearing that Dorian will miss and fry him. Kaayras never blinks when summoned spirit images of the enemy he just finished slaying take form to steal his fight with an enemy still breathing. He never winces under the chaos Dorian causes around him, or flinches from the panic he wields like an explosive. 

Dorian creates countless distractions that Kaayras in sound mind always utilizes to fall back, vanish, and find an assassination he can take down in an instant. Kaayras, Dorian knows, is not a drawn-out fighter, and the longer he is stuck with the same opponent, the higher the risk: If Dorian can see Kaayras in one place for too long, Dorian fixes that and creates the distraction for an escape, because the defensive and protective qualities are the most important. 

Kaayras is the one who emphasized that, and he follows his own rules to a T. On occasion, Dorian has had the sound mind that his High Point location is no longer safe (as unsteady battlefield territory often shifts both literally and metaphorically), and Kaayras has fought his way up to Dorian's back to serve as his defensive blade, alongside Cole, until Dorian hurried through the battlefield to a new position; returning to the fray when Dorian resumes casting.

Kaayras favored defensive, tight efficiency. He expected Dorian to be watching his back, and Dorian had since learned that if he ever glanced to check, Kaayras always had his in return. Cole, as well; always tasked to the position, as priority one, Cole’s job was almost always defend the mage, whether it was Dorian or someone else. 

Even Bull, adaptive and aware, was a looming and violent guardian, a wall that might as well be made of brick to defend their edge of the field, a siege between them and the opponent. A first line of protection not just for Dorian, but for the rest of the team, by the sheer fact that he drew attention and his teammates would pick them off to protect him .

On any rare occasion Dorian was to fall from his high point, or intentionally abandoned it, at least one member if their team was there in an instant. Whenever and wherever The iron Bull had too many opponents, there was the rest of them to burn down the numbers. When Kaayras was locked in prolonged combat, there would be a distraction for him to escape. Whenever Cole needed an out to get across the field and help where it mattered most , to whoever was backed into a corner, someone would edge in on his opponent to free him. They were together on battlefields so often now that synchronization was lock and key. 

Even Kaayras and Bull work well in tandem, despite having a sort of shaky instability to their companionship outside of jokes and battle. If and when Kaayras and Bull manage to find one another, and the battle seems overwhelming, it is then when the two become the most in sync, the most dangerous. 

Dorian is not fool enough to think that a Vashoth or Tal-Vashoth and a Ben Hassarath trust one another without fault, but there will always be those heartbeats in the battlefield that make it seem as they do. They do not fight back to back, as neither can be so efficient with so little space, but they might as well be. When Bull swings down his hammer in a ruthless slam, there is always Kaayras on his flank or over his head or under an arm. When Kaayras buries both his blades into a bulky target, there is always The Iron Bull, hammer reared to follow through on the nearest threat. 

They have a sort of patterned approach, one, two, one, two, one, two- it’s a cover, Dorian understands, to protect one another. There's a space of time where Bull has to raise his weapon up after a strike, and there’s a moment where Kaayras has to rip his knives out of a body. The one, two, one, two, covers the moments, striking the order of most threatening next, thinning the numbers and leaving neither unguarded. They are watching for the next threat , but not for themselves- Kaayras takes The Iron Bull’s next threat, and Bull takes Kaayras’. It breaks up the focus of the opponents and it leaves little room for a return strike during a moment of weakness.

And then Dorian gives them both a barrier spell, and their defensive pattern snaps, and Bull lets loose and Kaayras peels away from Bull for a fleeting second, because they are both defended for a moment by Dorian, and they will take brutal use of those moments when they come. 

Even when things are overwhelming, do they not falter. They are dangerous, the longer they are together. Their pattern goes faster- crush, cut, crush, cut, one, two, one, two . It's volatile when their rhythm hits a certain point, when they reach a perfect synchronicity like a pocket watch finishes winding. Bull’s sweeping hammer and angry shout, Kaayras' whistling blades, faster and faster. Dorian admits, more than once, of thinking to not interfere; to see how fast they can go, to see how furious the Bull will get and how wild the blades and the eyes of Kaayras. But Dorian always casts: he doesn't intend to press his luck, terrible as it is, or theirs .

This team doesn't work well because they take unnecessary risks; it's a team that works well because they defend one another ruthlessly.

They operate well; it’s a honed, neat, tight efficiency that comes with the fact that the four of them are out together more often than anyone else in the forward party. 

The downside is, unfortunately, Dorian gets dragged out into forsaken hellscapes like the bogs of the Fallow Mire or the freezing Frostbacks at an unbearable frequency. 

The plus side is interesting conversation, though. 

Cole makes very interesting conversation.

“So, you’re not possessing a human body, Cole?” started a brilliantly interesting one, late night during one of their travels. 

And Cole doesn't mind questions- marvelous, since his mere existence warrants many questions from anyone who’s even half an idea of what the kid is.  

“Yes.” 

“But a spirit's true form is always monstrous, or at least unnatural.” Dorian persists the question, watching Cole inspect some lily pads in bloom on the mire’s surface water as their march passes the flowering cluster.

Cole does not break away from his curious expression, only answering Dorian with the simplicity of what the boy considers obvious, as though this line of thought is as simple as the wind would blow. “The world doesn't make sense to them. It's too real. That's why they look wrong.”

“And… this is how you want to look?” Dorian asks, running his gaze thoughtfully over Cole’s simple, unthreatening, un-spirit-like form.

“I want to help. Looking doesn't matter.” Cole answers, easy.

That would be the end of it, seeing as Dorian didn't have a response, and his question had been answered (sort of, but that's the best you can hope for from Cole).

But it also ends there when the Inquisitor makes a low, wordless grunt ahead of them. 

That grunt, dare Dorian say it, borders very closely on a scoff .

About the most opinion, the most disagreement, the man has ever announced without some sort of permission , or being invited or asked to speak.

How extremely out of character.

It certainly deadens the conversation pretty quickly. An awkward silence descends as they dredge through the Mire, patterned with rain and the foul smell of rot. 

Dorian exchanges an impulsive look with Bull, finding his surprise mirrored there. And Dorian and Bull share another of those glances immediately, when Cole’s nervous habits begin; looking away from the flowering blooms that had perplexed him, fidgeting with the bare threaded ends of his sleeves. It was a fresh new set of armor when they’d left Skyhold; already Cole had worn through the ends. 

Yet the rigorousness which the kid starts picking and pulling threads loose with his wrapped hands now? This is a sharp tell that someone is less than happy, and Cole is ‘sensing’ the brunt of it at the moment. Both Bull and Dorian notice it, clearly.

The Inquisitor, at the head of their non distinct formation, does not say a word.

Of course, Cole’s sense for not continuing a conversation that’s soured isn't… well practiced. 

“People know you want to help them. Looking doesn't matter.” Cole offers, carefully, as if to soothe whatever he’s sensing off the man.

The Inquisitor, as one would expect of him, doesn't respond at all. Except, Dorian notes, Cole usually gets more responses out of Kaayras than anyone . Kaayras usually answers the kid when Cole talks to him, while the man dances or twists away from anyone else's prying. 

(Favoritism. Blatant favoritism.)

Cole’s head tilts down anyway, and the speed of nimble fingers tear all the quicker at the cloth of his sleeves. Ouch. Kaayras had not evidently spoken, but Cole had received some sense of a response, however unvoiced it had come.

“I’ve made you angry.” Cole acknowledges, even as the group impulsively pulls their weapons; a trio of sword wielding corpses start crawling from the marsh onto the land. “I'm sorry.” 

And then weapons are flying, and that's the end of it, for real. The small conversation does not impact their efficiency, luckily. No one is injured, and it’s quick work, dispatching the corpses. Once they’re damaged enough to be immobile, it takes simple fire spells to be rid of them completely.

If the bog weren't full of marsh and water, Dorian would suggest burning the whole place down.

Dorian's preference for lightning and fire are good use for corpses; their tactics for the marsh involve a lot of " stay out of Dorian's way" while Dorian roasts corpses from the inside out via thunder or emolates them into fine cremation. The more physical attacks of his companions aren't the quickest way of dealing with things that don't bleed or dont stop when you crush in their skulls or ribs, so everyone else has to play defense for once while Dorian kills everything. 

It's an interesting change of pace. One that would have left Dorian all pride and preening, if it wasn't for the blasted marsh and the constant stink of burned rot. 

And now the interesting conversations are over, too, apparently.

There's plenty of other fun conversations to be had, but, not that night . It's mostly quiet the rest of the night, aside from the carving of flesh, war cries, casting of magic, yelled battlefield orders, the usual things. The usual things, minus the catcalling and joking.

Cole seems done on talking for a while, immersed in his puzzling thoughts. Kaayras is dealing with himself, evidently, and has no jokes he’s interested in making. So Bull and Dorian throw grief and flirts and innuendo back and forth until they’ve all saved the captive Inquisition soldiers, and then continue to do so even after, in an effort to fill the awkward hollow of silence. They even take turns, making attempts to coax Kaayras into joining their nudging and ribbing, as he would normally, and Dorian keeps hopefully expecting Cole to ask those goofy obnoxious questions about what any of their flirtatious banter means or why this and not that . 

But, no, it's distastefully quiet from either of them, up until the morning they finally depart from the god forsaken mire’s camp, assured they’ve done what they can in the area for now. Kaayras has picked the area clean of scraps he’ll sell or use for his craft, any and all rifts to seal had been wrapped up, and enemies that need to be vanquished are dealt with. 

The following morning, they pack themselves and their little camp up, and begin to make their journey toward Skyhold. Kaayras joins easily in Bulls’ mock flirtatious comedy routine when Bull points his aim at Dorian for the day, and that is as much evidence that the man has mellowed out as his team particularly needs. The awkward night, Dorian hopes, is over.

Dorian is content to batter back their ‘teamwork’ of flirts with loud, unabashed complaints that he’ll have mud in places for weeks , drawing out laughter, and the obnoxious agreements that both of the horned fools will gladly help him with that. Dorian would much rather have a bath , thank you very much. Of course they both offer to help him with that , too, the scoundrels. Bull even gets a bit graphic. Which Kaayras follows up with a little smile and a promise to help him wash his hair.

(Bull tease-threatening him is a completely different fluttery feeling to the almost sincere teasing of Kaayras. Both are fluttery and get Dorian warm under the collar. Scoundrels.) 

The brilliance is that between a few days of banter, they’re almost half way home, and halfway to the relief of that bath. 

They’ve just left their rations and rest stop in Redcliffe, leaving the hinterlands straight for skyhold, in a moment of quiet between jests, when Cole finally opts to join conversation again, too. 

Dorian considers that a blessing; the last traces of the previous upset are cleared, then, if Cole is returning to his curious self.

“Dorian, you said I could ask you questions.” 

Ugh. Perhaps not as much of a blessing as Dorian had anticipated. That seems fairly loaded.

Cole is, if nothing else, good for interesting conversations. But apparently, he doesn't know how to not blast full speed from the proverbial starting gates. “It's true.” Dorian agrees despite himself, with a sigh. “I did say that.”

Cole doesn't detect his tone, or ignores it. He only continues with his evident question. 

“Why are you so angry at your father?” Ah. “He wants to help and you know he does, but-”

Bull groans, interrupting Cole’s already intense, thoughtful stream in the early stages, and dragging the spirit boy away from his questions to look in the Qunari’s direction. Bull is absolutely not excited for another long, annoying silence to follow this loaded topic, and Dorian frankly agrees with the notion. 

(More than likely, Bull does not want a silence where the only other member of the group not sucked into the pit of silent smoldering, Kaayras, will be fairly useless in breaking tension.)

(There’ll be no disrupting the awkwardness with ease if it's Dorian who’s shutting up. It it’s not exactly why Dorian agrees with Bulls groaning and moaning, but, Dorian still agrees, feeling his mouth dry and very much like he would rather go back to the mire than have this conversation.)

“I'm not certain I can explain it to you.” Dorian says, firmly and quickly, taking advantage of Bull’s interruption before Cole can go back to talking about his father trying to help him .

It takes more than that to derail Cole, Dorian rues.

“You love him, but you're angry. They mix together, boiling in the belly until it kneads into a knot.” Cole’s frustrated, and Dorian watches his hands squeeze at his sides, trying to figure out a tangle he wants to fix. 

Dorian was being honest. He doesnt think he can begin to explain it to him. And he doesn't really want anyone trying to untangle him, but also… Dorian doesnt think he could ever explain it to anyone . 

The most he can think, to explain, is not very much to say, but it’s all he has. “Sometimes... sometimes love isn't enough, Cole.” And he hopes that… is an answer, really.

And it's quiet again- for a while. Not very long. Not nearly long enough.

" Love isn't enough. Enough what?” Cole’s floppy little hat tilts up, peering at Dorian from under the rim, no doubt. The confusion in his tone is unhidden. “You didn't explain, Dorian.”

Dorian sighs. “I was rather hoping I had.” He doesnt think he can explain it any more than that, and he wished Cole could have figured it out on his own, because Dorian doesnt think he has anything else he can say on it. It simply is . There isn't any more than is.

“His face in the stands, watching as I pass the test. So proud there's tears in his eyes. Anything to make him happy. Anything.” Cole pauses, thinking, rethinking, thinking thrice on it, unintentionally leaving the memory and feeling to fester in the air, no one else wanting to speak on it. Dorian feels his perfect posture waiver, the festering might as well be in the rotten memories themselves. Cole, taking in those once happy, now aching reminders, peels back to the one he’s spoken. He asks, “Why isn't that true anymore?”

“Cole, this…” Dorian’s more bothered that he can hear it in his voice. That he can hear the upset in his response to the spirit, that he actually sounds upset at all, is what bothers him more than he is upset at Cole for asking. “ …is not the sort of discussion for walking around.” Still, he would very much like Cole to stop asking. “Please drop it.”

Cole, though, doesn't seem done on the topic. He tries again, fingers fidgeting, and Dorian feels a sting when the boy opens his mouth to speak again.

“I'm hurting you, Dorian. Words winding, wanting, wounding. You said I could ask.”

Ah. Well, that's better than continuing insistent questions, at least. He can appreciate Cole is at least self-aware.

Still, Dorian sighs, quiet. “I know I did. The things you ask are just… very personal.” Hoping Cole understands that much, at least. 

“But it hurts. I want to help, but it's all tangled with the love. I can't tug it loose without tearing it.” Vishante kaffas , Cole, then dont tug . “You hold him so tightly. You let it keep hurting, because you think hurting is who you are. Why would you do that?” Cole asks, and he sounds upset about it, and just what is Dorian supposed to do with that ?

It’s Dorian’s turn, now, to groan. He presses one finely manicured hand to his face, trying to apply enough pressure to banish whatever expression threatens to creep into his handsome face. Because this is certainly not a time to let Coles’ words pry, and let the boy get to him. 

“Can someone tell him to stop?” Dorian mostly-jokes, very much aware of his pair of audience members to this intrusive little show. “Banish him back to the Fade or something!” 

Seriously (not really, but do something , anything), because he really doesnt have more to offer to this… interrogation. 

He vaguely feels the taste of panic on the back of his tongue, and it tastes like bile before he smothers it like Dorian would a fire spell he doesn't need anymore. 

He knows Cole doesn’t mean harm, but he’d really appreciate a rescue. Quickly.

Invited into the conversation vocally, now, Kaayras has whatever ‘permission’ he needs to step in and does so, swiftly, by turning at the shoulder and flipping his gaze Between Dorian and Cole. Not that it is usually useful , because as much as Dorian can appreciate the man, Dorian does not need a neutral party, he needs to get out of this conversation. 

Dorian braces himself for the Qunari’s usual stance of neutrality, a stance that won't really help. Or even worse, that Kaayras might say something that Cole somehow takes as encouragement . 

“Cole, it's time to back off.”

Oh, Fasta vass , Dorian loves that prefect, beautiful man. 

A shred of a well-minded opinion! An actual taking of a side, in Dorian’s hour of need! Excellent. Striking. Out of the ordinary, and outstanding. Dorian can really appreciate that man. He’s such a fine man. Exemplary.

(He can still taste a bit of that bile-panic, but that certainly helps.)

“I'm sorry.” Cole’s hat dips, and his hands tighten into fists where they were fidgeting against the chest of his shirt. “I keep making it worse. Making things worse.”

UGH . 

Well, what's Dorian supposed to do with that kind of dejection? He feels bad for the kid, stumbling into two rough conversations, all in one trip. Maybe Cole has a bit of a runaway mouth, but he doesn't deserve to feel like the cause of whatever animosity. “No, I'm sorry.” Dorian winces at his own tone, or perhaps winces over Cole’s nervous little glance in his direction. “Of course you don't understand. Just… leave me with it. For now.”

Maybe, possibly, Dorian can find… an explanation . He doesn’t really believe he ever will, but he did say Cole could ask questions. And maybe some day, Dorian will have… better words about it.

Blessings, Cole grants him that, and leaves him with his thoughts: he leaves the topic alone. 

Dorian’s not excited to think about his family, his father, the rest of his trip; nor excited to watch Cole fidget all nervous in reaction to his every complicated thought. But at least it will keep the boy from asking more questions, for now.

“Kaayras.” Cole tries, instead. 

No one in the party is optimistic about that . While Cole’s left Dorian’s conversation well enough alone, no one is sure that this will be any better than what Cole’d abandoned. 

Dorian can even see Iron Bull looking between them all like he may well put distance between himself and everyone if only to escape the ambressment. 

“I can ask you questions too, you said.” Oh, Dorian thinks, this is probably going to be perfect . Dorian already feels bad for the big, quiet man. Round three of Cole Time.

Kaayras scratches the back of his neck, looking over his shoulder to the Spirit turned man-with-a-knack-for-questions. He gives him a smile, and it is very much hesitant, but a small smile none the less of invitation. “Yes, Cole, I did.”

“Do you think you can explain?”

Kaffas , Cole!

You do not ask a man to explain someone else’s bullshit, certainly not in front of him . Dorian is instantly both mortified and horrified.

Cole shoots Dorian a glance- having heard his thought or perhaps felt the reaction, the little mind skimmer, and opens his mouth to correct himself. Thankfully, before Dorian could get mad about the implications of the intrusion. Dorian would probably swing his staff right at Cole’s adorable little hat if the boy went around asking other people to explain Dorian and his father’s… situation .

“Not… not explain that.” Cole corrects his question, and looks back to the Inquisitor, hat tipped back to look at the tallest man in the group, towering several heads above the boy. Kaayras continues his steadfast pace at the head of their group, his steady march somehow producing not a sound and unwavering despite Cole’s piercing stare, which lingers for a moment before the boy attempts to continue. “Can you explain why you are so angry at your parents? Why parents… why people get so mad?”

Now, Dorian’s just pulling up into the exasperation of ‘ oh boy, another intrusive awkward conversation’ , still getting over his own mixed feelings. 

But, after maybe a few silent seconds, Dorian realizes the intensity that has descended on the group, that he’s practically swimming in. 

And he doesn't get it, at first.

Surely, it can't be that bad. It’s not like the Qunari have the mind numbing Courts that the rest of the world offers, where kids are crushed for the smallest of individuality. They’re quite hive minded- and oddities are good there, when you're growing up, aren't they? That's how they get the good jobs made just for them, and such. As far as Dorian knows, they treat their children well (not that Tevene Propaganda would agree, but Dorian doesn’t put much stock in that).

Of course, then, after a few seconds, Dorian recalls a particular part of that Propaganda he’d grown up with. 

Qunari, actually, don't have parents . 

He’s heard so from Bull as well, which is a more reliable source than Propaganda. Still, Dorian has half-bothered memories, people who would talk about their Qunari enemies back home: those big, horrible Qunari, ripping children away from their parents! 

It's framed like a horror story in the Imperium, it is. Not that it's all that better than selective social breeding and grooming and using magic to fix your children.

That aside- Qunari don't have parents . 

“I don't understand. Why are you upset?” Cole asks into a silence so dense, he almost echoes. Who, exactly, the boy is asking is up for debate. The whole party seems to suddenly thrum with a sensation more than just ‘ upset .’

Dorian is quite curious, himself. Juicy gossip? Kaayras never did confirm to be a member of the Qun, just as he never claimed to be a Vashoth- but having parents implies the latter, does it not? Or does it? What is this, some sort of Qunari scandal? 

Kaayras is thinking, of course. Kaayras takes long enough to respond to normal things, they all know that. But the hike in his breathing, the tight gloved fists- you don't have to be a Qunari spy or a mind reading spirit like his companions to recognize panic . Kaayras is thinking, and Dorian’s more than certain he’s going to spit out a half-baked lie in the end because thats what people do when they panic like that, even if Kaayras has never expressly lied about his history so far as Dorian, or anyone else, know. That’s if it’s not one of those horrible rotten flirtatious jokes that aren't like the good ones, because Kaayras does do that when he panics, sometimes.

He’s definitely panicking and taking even longer that normal. Oh, my.

He’d never confirmed he was a Vashoth, if he is one. Is that a secret, and that’s why parents is a bad word? Dorian flounders to grasp the actual reasoning, but- he can try to help? 

“A bone to pick with your- hm, what do they call those? Tamaran?” Dorian offers, before Kaayras hurts himself thinking so hard. Comical as that would be. 

After all, Kaayras had just taken Dorian’s side, so he’ll take Adaar’s in return; only the right thing to do. Dorian has a sort of sinking feeling about whatever’s going on. 

“ Tamassran. ” Bull is the one who corrects him. Sharp. Needle sharp.

Despite Dorian’s best efforts, the word doesn't give Kaayras the conversational out the mage was trying to give him. 

“My Tamassran was fine.” Kaayras says quickly, and then makes a foul expression, as if he realized he missed his chance for freedom from the impending tense atmosphere. He shoots a fast look at Dorian as if suddenly realizing the opportunity Dorian had tried to give him- dare he say, Adaar looks like he’s going to sweat a whole summer storm in a few seconds. 

Then, after that brief glance in which Dorian does not manage to decipher any sort of emotion on the man's face, Kaayras is looking forward, in the direction they march, pinning his eye on the road ahead.

Belatedly, Dorian realized the sudden admission… implies the opposite. 

If Kaayras is mad at his parents to quote Cole, then- how did he have a Tamassaran?

Dorian’s feels his pulse waiver. Kaayras just implied he’s been in the Qun. Maybe he wasn't wincing because he missed the out- he’s wincing because that might as well be a confession he’s had a Tamassaran , he’s been in the Qun.

(Doesn't that make sense? Why would a Vashoth never confirm they’re not a Qunari? Is he a Tal-vashoth ? Then what parents ?)

“You didn’t like the numbers they renamed you, but you loved her every word. Loved her- but you weren’t supposed to.” Cole’s attentive claws sink, evidently, into mention of Kaayras' Tamassaran like bird talon sink into a fresh prey. The boy's brows furrow underneath those messy, unkempt bangs of his. “She didn't listen to you, and gave you the job you didn't want, too. I thought she was supposed to look out for me. She was supposed to be my new mother. You didn't want to not like her, but your didnt want to like her, either; why are you so angry at them all?”

Dorian tries not to wince. That’s… a lot. “Ah. seems we’re getting into far too many questions for my comfort-”

“ New mother, huh? Re named?” Bull is all frown, and Dorian makes a face at him, annoyed at the interruption, and at the perpetuation of the tense conversation. 

Bull doesn't acknowledge him- how insulting.

Okay, sometimes this well oiled team has problems, Dorian must confess. Primarily, the worst problem Dorian could really speak of is the one you might expect. It’s The Iron Bull, picking a fight- rather, hard words, picking hard words . The two have avoided any fights via Kaayras’ lack of self-defensive comebacks; The resulting lack of Talk-back to Bull’s antagonizing commentary is usually just silence on the end of the Larger Qunari, no response to mockery or otherwise sharp comments. 

The ‘Maybe Tal-Vashoth And The Ben-Hassrath’ thing was annoying. Very annoying. Dorian had never appreciated it. Definitely not now, either.

The fact of the matter, though, is that Kaayras had never said anything back to Bull’s needling before, as far as Dorian knows. 

Except this time, Bull’s digging does elicit an answer. A calm, cold one. “Stop.”

And even still, that's… not much of a defense from our problematic Herald of Andraste. Even if it's more than the usual silence Kaayras carries in response to Bull’s mockery. It’s still not much at all, and yet the fact that he answered makes Bull’s frown become some sort of ugly, smug smile. 

“What, boss? Were you an unruly Imekari? Did you lose a couple Tamassran? What of it, boss? Didn't like being a Karashok? Wanted a better job than a foot soldier? Poor you, boss, Asit tal-eb.”

“ I would have liked to be a foot soldier. ” The Inquisitor finally snaps, his voice utterly screwed taut with tension. Dorian has never heard the man sound like that. His terrible, usually hidden stutter catches on the complexity of the word “would” and in the couple seconds it takes him to stop repeating the difficult suffix, Inquisitor Kaayras only gets more frustrated, more angry. The pitch of his tone is so low and raspy and cracked that it suddenly sounds as if the man has not spoken in years . 

Frankly, Dorian has never heard him stutter so blatantly, let alone twice in the same sentence when Kaayras proceeds to get stuck again on the word ‘soldier’. That said, Dorian has also never actually seen Kaayras snap back at Bull, especially not over Qunari subjects. And Dorian had never realized how heavily he’s associated the mild mannered calm with Kaayras’ voice until it was suddenly absent. Kaayras almost sounded like someone else completely.

“So what were you, then? Athlok? Ashaad? An Aqun-Athlok Tamassran?” Bull answers, as though he is somehow unaffected by this rocking change of pace in Kaayras. “What’s got you in knots ? What couldn’t you handle ?”

“ Parshaara! ” Is spat out of the Inquisitor’s mouth with a venom- he stutters even worse , and Dorian can't remember hearing Kaayras actually speak a qunlat word unless the common tongue word was the same. Which seems like a more startling discovery, and strange that Dorian had never noticed until now.

Cole gives a nearly full-body flinch at the qunlat word, and Bull has this nasty, sickly smug smile about it, and Dorian notes that observation is already apparent to all of them, and that the use of qunlat now is something purposeful . 

Kaayras doesn't speak qunlat, then, for whatever reason. Doesn’t want to, or avoids it? And this word is some kind of fluke , out of the ordinary. He’s proven correct, when Kaayras continues, his gaze still fixed forward unmovingly on the road ahead. “Is that what you want of me? Using words I don't know, so I'll talk like you? Sound like you? Like a Qunari ?”

Bull produces one short, unhumorous laugh. “Oh come on, boss, you know what some of those words mean.” and his tone is dense with fake-sympathy and sudo-pity. Very, very mean spirited.

“ Qalaba. ” Kaayras snaps at him, his voice cracking at the start of the word, and Dorian is nearly alarmed by the sudden twitch that shoots up the man’s dominant arm.

“Oho, ouch, boss. You know what that one is, then. Rude.”

“This is not what I meant to happen.” Cole’s voice rises in pitch by the end of the sentence, frustrated, interrupting Bull’s mockery. “I just wanted to understand, to help.”

“Help the kid out, boss.” Bull’s mean spirited pity persists, “Tell us about your Parents, boss.”

“Do not use my words to hurt , The Iron Bull.” Alarmed and borderline angry, Cole turns to the instigation with a frustrated look, very nearing a glare. 

Bull's unfriendly grin stays directed at the back of Kaayras’ head, even when he addresses Cole's accusation. “Hurt? No one’s being hurt , kid. There's just enough secrets , don't you think?”

“Says the man among us named liar , weren't you?” Dorian quips, pointedly. 

Bull ignores him almost completely; talk about rude . Instead Bull actively puts an extra distance in his strides, putting himself barely a foot behind Kaayras. Another bodily twitch wracks through Kaayras, this time through the man’s shoulders and neck, like some sort of restrained reaction to the proximity. 

Bull’s mean smile spreads wider on his face. “Just spit it out , man,” he goads Kaayras, “before this conversation gets ugly.”

“Stop trying to scare him.” Cole scowls.

Kaayras lets out a laugh- well I certainly missed the joke, Dorian thinks. It's a boisterous, chest-deep laugh, a kind Kaayras has not made before; it ends in an audible snap of teeth, like the horned man is doing some sort of imitation of a shark. 

The laugh goes on just a little too long- but that's fine. At least he’s thinking, again. Dragging out the laugh to think extra on his words, like he usually would. Dorian hopes, at least, that is what Kaayras is doing- using his delay tactics to think .

Does that mean he’s done panicking, or is he just- nervous? Angry? something?

Finally, Kaayras bites out some words, “What was the question again, Cole?”

Dorian suspects angry. There’s nothing in the tone itself to hint at it- but it has to be angry. Right?  

The spirit boy is ripping at the thread of his sleeves and his shoulders sink. Cole very blatantly does not answer Kaayras’ question. 

Why else would Cole shrink if it wasn't anger ? Oh, he has to be pissed , right?

Kaayras drags on without him. 

“I believe,” he punctuates, “I was asked why I’m angry at my parents - for what that's… worth to the Inquisition, to the world, to anyone who needs the information, for some reason …” There's the slimest furious edge on the words, and Dorian feels the sentiment aimed generally everywhere , at all the people who’ve been trying to pry, present or not. “I’m pissed at my parents. Im pissed at my father, my Tal-Vashoth father, for getting killed…. by a Ben-Hassrath that saw him in town. For the other Ben-Hassrath that came, the Arvaarad …” There's a hitch in Kaayras’ words that hints toward a stutter, and Kaayras’ jaw gnashes in some poorly restrained fury, which spills back into his words when he continues, “There’s a word I know, Bull . The Arvaarad .” And there's a brief moment where Kaayras is too strained by the word, like it is physically difficult for him to speak. Bull, notably, does not insert any comments. Kaayras continues, “I’m furious- at my father, Cole , because he… got killed so easy , and Cole , I’m angry at my mother- because… because she was so eager to run away she forgot to count how many kids she escaped with, and how many were… left behind.”

Kaayras laughs, hard, again. It's… a bit more hysterical this time. Hysterical, long winded; time taken for focusing on words, pushing away a stutter, figuring out what words to use; and maybe too much time absorbed into not outright panicking worse than he already has. 

Dorian decides he’s not a fan of the particular laugh.

The massive man makes the first movement that isn't a wild twitch, throwing up both his hands in a stiff shrug. “‘ Left behind’ . Accident? Purpose? Who knows.” Kaayras jokes to himself.

Dorian sees Cole open his mouth, like he’s about to answer that question. Then the boy closes it again without a word. Dorian almost flinches; he doesn't know how Cole works, doesn't know how Cole would know, but unfortunately, the answer seems to be on purpose, right? He’s glad Cole has the piece of consciousness not to say that outloud. 

There’s a silence that goes only long enough for it become apparent that no one has a response to Kaayras’ general, long statement. Kaayras takes that as an opportunity to snap: once again, out of character with his accusations. 

“So, Bull , answer me a question . Am I Tal-Vashoth for leaving, or am I just a Vashoth for being born outside the qun? What's the view of a Hassrath on what I am ?”

Silence continues, and Bull does not actively make any effort to acknowledge the question. Dorian feels a little smug that The Iron Bull’s nasty grin has been pressed, at least, into a neutral expression. 

When Bull doesn't seem to have something to say , Cole answers, in that mock-gruff voice reserved for when he imitates Bull. “‘ A kidnapped kid if I’ve ever heard one. Doesn’t work like this. Wrong.’ Neither.”

Bull gives Cole a sour look, and Cole meets it head on with a mild glare of his own, less than happy Bull had used Cole’s questions against the Inquisitor in the first place, no doubt.

Dorian takes his opportunity to silence the damn dreadful conversation.

“Well!” Dorian claps his hands together. “As someone who was born an enemy of the Qunari and their armies, let me be the first to say I do not condone the kidnapping and brainwashing of children for ‘conversion therapy’! And I do support the idea of not harassing our leading-man-Inquisitor any longer for today- and also support that there's been enough difficult questions. What’s say we find a way to hold our tongues for the next few hours of the Journey, maybe even all the way to Skyhold, and all of you remarkably lovely and attractive men reinstate your focuses: on how you’ll all write your mission reports!”

And, now, the bliss of silence. 

Almost .

Interestingly enough, it’s Kaayras who interrupts the uneven silence.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you, Cole.” is blurted out, minutes into the quiet. Cole looks up from watching the ground. “I know you were trying to help.”

“...I’m sorry fathers and parents are so hard to understand, for all of us.” Cole’s voice is quiet, and certainly holds a small bit of his frustration and confusion in its tone. 

Kaayras laughs, quietly. Then he asks, soft, “You have one…? Any… parents?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Good, or bad?”

“...bad, I think. Cole was scared.” The spirit answers, vaguely.

The Inquisitor gives a long, deep breath that makes his large shoulders shake. “You and I can talk about fathers, Cole. I'll answer your questions if I can. Fathers, parents, Tamassarans, all of it, if you like. But like Dorian said.” he looks over his shoulder for the first time since he’d given Cole that first hesitant smile, and gives another one this time; a half smile, tired and still cold with unsaid anger, but not seemingly for the spirit boy. “This isn't… uh, for walking around. We can talk at Skyhold. Alone. Okay?”

Cole nods his head. “Thank you, Kaayras.”

The rest of the trip is, blissfully, silent.