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Chapter Text

I woke up with an exquisite head- and abdominal ache. If I hadn't known myself to be clean for ten years, I would have blamed a hangover. Unfortunately I knew better and had a vivid recollection of what went on last night.

There was a flash of green and I curled up into a ball. Hadn't my hands been clasped in rather heavy irons, I would have brought them to my chest.

“Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now.”

“And good morning to you too, Cassandra,” I groaned.

It was not fair. It was really not fair, after everything I had done to... to avoid exactly this. Unfair on all accords.

Apparently it was either not morning or Seeker Pentaghast has misplaced her sense of humour in her other scabbard, because she dragged mu up to stand. She probably regretted it soon afterwards, because I leaned all my weight on her, as my knees were threatening to give out. On my part it wasn't as much of a necessity, I knew that once I was awake I'd be able to ignore the pain fairly quickly – well it would be ignored for me, really, I had a somewhat comfortable living arrangement in my body – just like the horrible cold. But Cassandra pulled me up by my hair and I did not like that, so I decided to be inconvenient right back, as it was just.

“Explain this,” she took my left hand and shoved it practically in my face just as another flash of green went through it. It highlighted veins and bones and hurt like a dragon stampede. Same for my stomach and upper thighs, but those were clothed, so except me nobody noticed.

I took a shaky breath: “Alright. Short version or long version?”

“We do not have the time,” said Leliana from the door. “The short version will do... for now. But if you leave out anything important...” There was a small twitch of her head which I did not miss only because I knew to look for it. It was in that moment when I realised that I did not have my glasses, because the Left Hand of the Divine was extremely blurry.

“It's a magic mark that I did not want and still don't want which can close rifts to the Fade if provide with enough power. Would it kill you to throw a rug under me?” I added and shifted weight to my left foot, resting my right one on top of it. “The floor is freezing and I don't even have socks.”

One of the four men with very large swords whom all Cassandra, Leliana and I were excellent at ignoring made a poking motion with the aforementioned large sword, probably meant to indicate that while the rug posed no danger to anyone, the request could easily kill me.

“The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead. Except for you,” Leliana stole Cassandra's lines.

“I didn't do it.”

Cassandra and Leliana exchanged silent frowns. They didn't believe me. I couldn't blame them, I wouldn't have believed myself too. Especially myself. I had a reputation and they had Varric. I didn't count on Varric covering for me.

“Look, you can pin on a blown up church and hundreds of dead later, preferably after you yell at me a lot and make me close the Breach,” I flashed them a smile. Then I winced. While I did not really feel the pain per se, I was aware of it. “Honestly, if I don't stop the Breach from growing at the very least, I am probably not going to live for my own execution, that would be a bummer.”

Leliana stood in front of me, arms crossed, and stared me down: “Can you tell us what happened?” There wasn't a hint of recognition in her face, none whatsoever. I hoped she was just that good actor, though ten years is ten years, mortal memory is fallible, and I was often described as rather nondescript, obviously half-elf. I was neither of those.

“If I did, would you believe me?”

Cassandra nodded towards her companion: “Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take her to the rift.” There, my answer. A lot of words to say “no” but that was Cassandra for me.

While she was getting my hands out of the manacles and binding them together again with hemp rope, Leliana left. Then Cassandra lead me outside where the bright sunlight reflecting on snow rendered me blind for precious seconds. In the meantime a gust of wind got through my clothes and bit into me. I was able to ignore it, because I had to, but it was not pleasant.

Note to self: Never go anywhere in a plain shirt and short linen breeches. If you have to, wear shoes at least. I already missed my raiments, and when I had taken them off I really hoped I'd never see them again. Served me right.

My eyesight cleared somewhat. The Breach in the sky was big and green and that was pretty much all I could say about it, because I could not squint more. Maybe except: “I thought it'd be bigger.”

One of the guards at the door snickered: “Yeah, I told him just that the last night.”

I expected Cassandra to kick him in the shin or at least give him a glare, but apparently he was so below her that she did not bother. Instead she said: “It grows with each passing hour.”

“Along with the Anchor,” I sighed. “And when it gets big enough I'm a hole-in-reality shaped toast.”

“If given enough time it might grow until it swallows the world.”

“Lovely. Lead the way.”

She lead me through the people who were on their best way to start throwing rocks at me but found them frozen to the ground. They might have opted for snowballs, but the snow was too cold to stick together. I knew, I stepped in it. The stinging was not pleasant. When we passed through the gate, Cassandra cut the ropework around my wrist with a knife. What a waste of hemp just for the small parade for the people. She had a small demotivating monologue which I ignored until she informed me that she could promise me no more than a trial.

I took a precious moment to ignore another green flash and rubbed some feeling into my frozen feet and hurting wrists. Note to self number two: Never engage in bondage with Cassandra. Not without an extensive tutorial first.

“Come, it is not far.”

I didn't tell her that I knew. Just to make conversation I asked: “Are we headed to the forward camp first, or straight to the Temple of the Sacred Ashes?”

“The camp. We need armed men to get to the Temple. The whole place crawls with demons. And your Mark must be tested on something smaller than the Breach.”

“And per chance you do not deem it wise to give me a weapon in case some of those demons jump us? Because the chance of us getting anywhere without getting tackled by something malevolent from the fade is zero, maybe a bit lower.”

“No. But if you do not cease your pointless quipping, I will deem wise cutting your tongue out. You need only the mark.”

“It has a name, it's the Anchor.”

We proceeded through the gate and up the hill around remnants of makeshift barricades which still burned despite being nothing more than ashes now. Rage demon or maybe two had passed through here. I ignored the painful pulsing in my arm as well as I could, but the twitching of my figners had to give it away, because Cassandra looked at me with unveiled concern.

I asked her: “How long was I out?”

“A day.” That surprised me. Shouldn't the Inquisitor-to-be take longer? Then again I had special dispositions when Fade-shit was regarded.

“Could have been worse. What happened to me exactly?”

“You mean... you do not know?”

I paused in front of a bridge we were about to cross. It would very likely collapse and we'd get jumped by demons and I would feign surprise, not much time for talking after that. So I gave a sour smile and said: “Seeker Pentaghast, I was in the Fade. What I saw and what I remember about it can't be trusted. I myself take it with a whole bag of salt.”

“They say you... stepped out of a rift, a divine glow surrounding you. Then you fell unconscious. They say a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was.”

“Faith, I believe.”

“Pardon?”

I shook my head. “Nevermind. Is that... all to it?”

“Well...” Cassandra scratched the back of her head.

“I vividly remember shouting followed by pain in my throat, so I think that did, in fact, happen.”

Cassanda now looked slightly embarrassed: “The Templars who witnessed your arrival say you exclaimed ‘I am going to strangle that narcoleptic egghead with his own spleen.’ We are not sure what to make out of that.” She stretched her arms and walked past me on the bridge since I wasn't moving.

I followed: “It means he better watch out.”

This particular bridge did not crash to desktop. It only crashed. Cassandra took a few bumps and hits across the stones which her armour turned from shattered bones into light bruises. I landed far more gracefully on all four, arse sticking up in the air and blouse falling over my eyes, but that was because I was expecting this.

Meteorites don't land with green fire. A shade. A reflection of a volatile form. Not even Justice – and therefore I – was sure what exactly shades were except for after our throats. It never mattered anyway.

“Stay behind me!” Cassandra instructed and charged. Had she looked around she would have noticed the other shade under the cracked ice. It burst out right under my feet. I rolled away with grace and curses “A little help over here?” I demanded, but in vain.

The shade swept its claws at me and in turn I kicked him in the not-really-face. It did a satisfying crack and my foot was numb enough not to feel the extremely uncomfortable texture. With a jump I was out of its reach and searching for a weapon that would not require such a close proximity. I still needed those legs, you know?

Focus, weapon. There should be a weapon somewhere. Broken crate, yes. Now for playability purpose it was a weapon the Inquisitior could fight with. Here the scythe met the rock, though, because I was, well, let's be generous and say “unique”. A lost case fuck-up. That also worked, yeah, but it wasn't my go-to phrase.

It grabbed the thing the moment I saw it and pulled it out of the bridge-turned-gravel. A staff. I was no mage and therefore in my hands it was nothing more than a long piece of wood with a heavy iron head. But when I swung it at the shade it proved to be more than enough. Besides I was used to unconventional polearms, the only difference was that instead of slash this one went smash. The moment I was armed the shade never really stood a chance on its own.

Cassandra seemed to be doing fine on her own, fine enough to get rid of her own shade and turn her attention to me right in the moment I turned my opponent into a bloody pulp. It exploded into smoke and was gone.

“Drop your weapon. Now!” Cassandra commanded, her sword pointing at me now.

I made a display of throwing the staff away and into the snow. “You remember how I specifically asked for a weapon in case exactly this would happen?” I strode forward, ice making strange sounds under my shade-blood covered feet. By all means my toes should have fallen off in the frost by now. But I needed the body, so it would work.

Cassandra caught up with me after a moment, shoving the discarded staff back into my hands. “You're right. I cannot protect you. I should remember that you agreed to come willingly.”

The staff was a great support as a walking stick, so I took it gladly. That, and it was a good bludgeoning weapon. “Well, it was that or getting yelled at and possibly beaten and dragged out into the cold anyway. I like to think of myself as reasonable person. Besides the son of a bitch made it personal.” I did not point out that I hadn't agreed to anything.

“You mean the, uh, Egghead?”

I paused to think about it. “Him too.”

With a heavy sigh she unbuckled a belt from around her waist which held four flasks and empty loops for more potions. The glass and metal were hoarfrost-covered. “Take these potions,” Cassandra handed it to me. “Maker knows what we will face.” She paused as I was securing the belt around my hips, the buckle too cold to touch it comfortably. “Though, I suppose it will be demons.”

“It could be worse. It could be a metaphor for our insecurities.”

We proceeded up the hill and I resisted the urge to loot fallen bodies for anything useful, such as money or shoes. Though when we came upon a frozen elfroot, I tore of a leaf and shoved it straight into my mouth. “Don't look at me like that. I haven't had breakfast,” I addressed Cassandra's judgemental look. While true, I took the elfroot for its immunity-boosting properties. Out in the cold nearly naked for so long I was practically begging the universe to catch if not death then at least a bad cold.

We met a few more shades of which we made a quick work. If Cassandra noticed the flashes of blue light shimmering under my skin, she did not comment. Or not directly, at least, but when we were climbing up yet another stairs she noted: “I must admit that I have never seen a mage utilising their powers in combat like you do. Your focus on the physical approach is very peculiar.”

Instead of telling her that I was not a mage, because that would take too much explaining in the moment, I shrugged: “Tevinter training, I am afraid.” A headache was nagging at me.

“You are from Tevinter? I thought... I considered you a fellow Nevarran.”

“Many people do think that. I have lived in Tevinter for a couple of years, though. Picked up a few things here and there, like smashing your non-existent kneecaps to bonemeal you ugly rattler!” The last bit was not directed at Cassandra but at a wraith which leaped at us from behind a boulder. The boulder had reliefs of people upside down in it.

An arrow swished past my head. Correction: a bolt, not an arrow, sent by the one and only Varric Tethras. I hoped he simply fired at something besides me and simply did not miss me. And then there was a rift, of course, a small one. Calling it a rift would do an injustice to other rifts, this was merely a crack. Sitll, to close it we would need to focus and that was hardly to happen with shades and wraiths trying to tear our heads off.

Speaking of shades, the one next to me, supposedly the one Varric shot at, froze in place. With a little help I smashed it to pieces with the iron head of my staff, like an ugly vase.

“Quickly,” Solas shouted, “before more come through!” Already he was too close to me for my personal comfort. I was not going to be manhandled by... by Solas of all people, so I reached out my hand to the rift on my own.

A little help?

You go... like this.

Imagine a musical instrument and an echo chamber which replies only when you are tuned right. The instrument is the Anchor, but if that is a too abstract concept, imagine a trumpet instead. Once the tune is right, you can shout a command into the echo chamber and it will come out stronger and modify itself accordingly.

Shut it.

The rift shut it. Where by “it” I meant “itself”.

I was dimly aware of three people staring at me somewhat flabbergasted. After a few disbelieving blinks, Solas managed to say: “Did you just flip the bird at the rift to close it?”

“What? Did it work or not?”

Chapter Text

“Whatever magic opened the Breach also put the mark-”

“Anchor,” I interrupted with the real-life equivalent of the option to skip cutscene.

“-upon your hand. I theorised that the mark – Anchor as you've decided to call it – might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach's wake. My theory did not predict the lack of dignity included in the process.”

“Listen, Solas,” I sighed rather heavily and tried to find a spot where my feet wouldn't be so cold, “I've had quite the Thursday. I've decided not to be an agreeable or signified person.”

“Explains the choice of clothing,” Varric grumbled behind me.

“Does it mean it could close the Breach itself?” Cassandra interjected, sensing an upcoming banter.

“Possibly,” Solas ceded in the exact moment I said: “Certainly.”

More staring at me, this time curious. Cassandra spoke first: “You are certain?”

“I'm willing to bet my... not shoes, but shirt on it. With the Anchor the breach should, strictly theoretically, at my command. However I don't have enough power to close it on my own or make it do anything. I should be able to stop it from growing, though.”

“Do you bet your shoes often?” Solas chuckled.

“Quite. Never lost them, though.”

“Good to know. Here I thought we'd be ass-deep in demons forever,” Varric fixed his gloves. “Nevertheless, Dessa, I don't trust you. You've already crossed the line blowing up a chantry to piss the Sisters off, now you are responsible for another one along with the Conclave made to, you know, sort the mess you put us all in. And you made it,” vague gesture to the sky, “even worse.”

I regretted that I couldn't get a pint into me to be able to ignore Varric's misinformed accusations more easily. “Whatever you think I did, the Breach is not my fault. In fact I tried to get as far from here as possible when I heard the Conclave was gathering to prevent getting involved.”

My personal Seeker and interrogator demanded to know: “Where were you when the Conclave began?”

“Vyrantium.”

I saw them all digging up their geography knowledge, and finally Varric's brow furrowed: “How did you get here all the way from the heart of Tevinter?”

“Magic. Over the specifics I am going to break a lot of heads. Listen, are we staying here or are we going? The world is going to end itself just fine, but if we are breaking camp, a cup of coffee would be really welcome right now.”

“Without me. I know better than going anywhere with you.”

“Varric,” Cassandra hissed at him. “The valley is lost. We will need every man to get to the Temple of the Sacred Ashes. Your help would be... appreciated.”

“It might be,” he admitted, “but I am not going. Not with Dessa. And you should not either. A trial, execution, whatever, she is dangerous. If she hasn't blown up a church in a week, she might take it out on your head. I warned you, Seeker.”

We watched him leave the same way Cassandra and I came here. After a moment I stretched my arms: “Well, good to know he is still upset over that, but not enough to shoot my eye out. Shall we go now?”

In truth I was quite upset about Varric leaving. I had always liked Varric, Varric had always been there. One of his points was that he would never left. And I thought that we were friends. Some of us might not have always been themselves when a spirit living in their head took over and decided to be a bit more righteous than civil law agreed with, but... friends.

Kirkwall Chantry was a deal-breaker.

“Varric claims you are Dessa Tiny,” Cassandra pointed out, but I wasn't fooled – this was no casual conversation but yet another attempt to interrogate me.

But I nodded. “He came up with that pseudonym for me and then used it all legal papers whenever I was concerned. A bit unsettling if you ask me.”

“I thought he made you up for the Tale of the Champion,” Solas chimed in. “A mysterious demonic enigma, I quote, a play on the word ‘destiny’ both to sell his books better and point out the inescapability of fate.”

“In that regard the name really backfired, didn't it?” I grumbled.

I am not sorry.

I know you are not. Me neither, not really.

“Still, Varric was known to take... liberties. Did you really make the Kirkwall Chantry explode?”

“No, Solas, I didn't”

“Had you no hand in its destruction?”

“I had two hands in its destruction, but the blasted thing imploded.”

His laughter was bound to haunt me in cold lonely nights and not even Cassandra's harsh glare of disapproval did not make it any better.

The path to the forward camp was absolutely gory. My shirt was completely soaked in blood and therefore frozen. Extremely uncomfortable and did nothing to protect me from the elements.

“One would expect with the demons not being alive in the first place not to bleed,” Cassandra mused while trying to sweep entrails out of her hair.

“They are shaped by their experiences,” I pointed out to her. “The denizens of the Fade exist as partial reflection of material affairs, thus they very easily imprint simple concepts and then project them on themselves in an amplified matter. If I simplify it and forgive myself some inaccuracies for the sake of clarity: They are making themselves more real than our reality... but only in one or two very specific directions.”

She scoffed: “And they do that by bleeding on us heavily.”

I nodded towards what could have been dismembered remnants of two priests, or perhaps on very large priest. Tough to tell, the mass had only one and three quarters of a limb and not a single head. A lot of ribs, though. “They have learned that people bleed a lot and have a lot of insides. The whole situation might have been different if their first experience was not death and violence.”

Solas: “Your explanation has taken a lot of simplification liberties. Still, most mages does not have this good understanding of the spirits.”

I refused to be interrogated any further. “That's because they don't think about what they read. Critical thinking is discouraged by the Chantry. And not only in the Circles.”

He then proceeded to ask me about the Anchor – if it hurt often (yes), if the intervals were regular (no), if I had any experience with anything similar. I was just about to tell him that he was the Fade expert to avoid telling him truthfully that I had over hundred hours of experience which translates to three finished and several abandoned playthroughs, when I noticed that we reached the forward camp and Cassandra was extremely loudly arguing with an idiot in fool's clothes.

Aforementioned Chancellor Roderick pointed an accusing finger at me: “Ah, here they come!” It didn't escape me that he said “they”, apparently he wanted to pin some blame on Solas as well. He was right to do it, but he should have had some claims to it. You didn't see me strolling around barking accusations, did you?

Leliana, though seemed happy enough to see us: “You made it. Chancellor Roderick, this is-”

“I know who she is.”

“Great, please tell me,” I beamed at him. “I suffer a horrible case of amnesia and can't recall a thing.” Had you noticed that Leliana mentioned his name before she tried to mention me? Already she was taking my side.

“You are the mass murderer who destroyed the Conclave and killed the Most Holy Divine Justinia. On your hands is the blood of-”

“That's a lot of words for ‘I have no idea.’” I pouted. “Good thing I don't actually have an amnesia, you would have been most unhelpful, sir.”

That did not make him happy. “As the Grand Chancellor of the Chantry I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution.”

“‘Order me’? You are a glorified clerk. A bureaucrat!” Cassandra practically exploded.

“And you are a thug, but a thug that supposedly serves the Chantry!”

We do not have time for this. We are dying.

Justice was absolutely right. I rolled my eyes at them: “Alright, once you figure out who has it bigger, you can catch up with me at the Temple. I am taking the longer route around.”

They paid me no attention as if it wasn't even my life they were arguing over and their world I was saving (again). Their problem. I had shit to do.

I was two ladders away when Solas caught up with me: “Your courage is admirable, to deny Seeker Cassandra. Many find her intimidating. I thought I had lost you in the mountains, but luckily the carnage you leave behind is easy to follow.”

Truthfully I attempted and failed to sneak through the sparse shades. The Anchor simply attracted their attention. “They started. Cassandra and Leliana can sort it out with their fellow Brother of the Chantry. I am just here to make sure they still have something to argue about.”

We reached a supply tunnel and I made a small breathing pause to catch my breath.

“Are you sure we aren't getting lost? I do not know this part of the mountains well,” Solas admitted and sat down on a crate next to me, rubbing his legs. The lack of shoes was most likely a half-facade on his part, because I recognised a warming spell in his hands.

I nodded. “I've been here before. Right now we are following the winter pilgrimage path which doesn't get completely snowed in. It goes through old mining complex. Once the spring thawing comes, though, the path becomes too muddy and unstable to walk.” The Mystery of the Sacred Ashes, Ferdinand Genitivi, chapter 3, pages 2-4. He had taken some liberties, though, for example the book claimed Genitivi and his company of Grey Wardens were guided by a benevolent spirit. Technically not a lie, but at the time the book came out none of us knew that. “Though I haven't seen a pilgrimage walk through here, well, ever. Granted, at the time there was a dragon blood cult taking residence in Haven. Hmm...”

The last part I mused out as my gaze fell upon the frost covered crates. The wood was weathered. I broke into one – incense and ominously black candles. Second one had food, mostly rusk and wine frozen solid in the bottles. And I hadn't eaten in a day... Spraying crumbs around I burgled into the third crate and praise be to any deity willing to take the claim, it had clothes.

Solas might had seen me naked for a moment as I put on the warm faded red wool and fluffy furs. I did not care. Finally I was somewhat warm and I could feel Justice's presence retracting from my limbs. It announced itself with a lot of shivering and cramps of now-thawing limbs, but I no longer felt like my skin was going to pack it up and leave without me.

“Much, much better,” I murmured. There was even a staff harness, so I didn't have to carry my fine smacking stick in hand the whole time.

“Do you usually take breaks to change your apparel when running away from the hands of the Divine?” Cassandra panted and walked into the tunnel.

“Ah, there you are. I thought you weren't coming in the end.”

“You ran away!” And there she was, pointing sword at me again.

I shook my head: “No, I went ahead. The whole argument was extremely unproductive. Now,” I rubber my hands and looked towards the other exit, “if I remember correctly, there is another small rift ahead of us and then we should arrive in the crater formerly known as the temple.” I proceeded forward and hoped they wouldn't notice or at least question the thing about remembering.

There indeed was a rift and a lost patrol under assault at it. Honestly, the demons were a bit too persistent to clear them out in time and more were coming.

I take the control for only a moment. I imbue our weapon with my essence and I strike the crack in the Veil. Just like in Blackmarsh it fills up with power, power drawn from the not-blood of our adversaries. What a shame, my brethren that lost its purpose and themselves, turning-

Not cool of Justice, since I did not consent. One day this was going to backfire.

“Thank the Maker you've finally arrived, Lady Cassandra,” said the soldier as the Seeker helped her up. She was holding her side, but most of the blood was already out. Solas interfered with a little healing touch. “I, uh, don't think we would have held out much longer.”

“Thank our prisoner, Lieutenant. She ran off this way. I am just a hound in pursuit.”

“Pleased to meet you, happy to help, can you make it down the hill on your own? We are in a bit of hurry. The way into the valley is clear for now.”

Lieutenant and her people took that as a divine sign and limped away for their dear lives.

“The path ahead seems to be free of demons as well,” Solas informed.

“Let's hurry before it changes,” Cassandra nodded.

It luckily did not change. We climbed down the ladder to the temple. As soon as I touched the ground I felt dizziness over me, like fangs stabbing into my head.

“What's wrong?” Cassandra turned to me.

I vaguely waved in the direction from which the pain came.

THEY HAVE ABANDONE DYOU. THEY HAVE BETRAYED YOU. OU MUST GUIDE THEM, BY FORCE IF NECESSARY!

“Red lyrium,” Cassandra whispered. “Varric told me about it, but... I did not believe we would find it here.”

“Perhaps there was a lyrium deposit beneath the Temple,” Solas speculated while I was getting my shit together, “and the explosion corrupted it?”

“Perhaps. But it does not make sense. Red lyrium is tainted, and the Blight has never reached this deep into the Frostback Mountains.”

I swallowed down the bile that was threatening to escape along with the rusk. “I darkspawn magister throwing a tantrum would have been enough.”

“You're here! Thank the Maker.” I hadn't heard Leliana coming, but the scouts which showed up a moment later were making enough noise. “I thought you've abandoned us.”

“You wish,” I mumbled.

“Leliana, have your men take up positions around the temple. And you,” she turned to me when Leliana ran off to order the archers around, “are you ready?”

“No, but it's not going to get any better.” I leapt over the fence and landed in a crouch. I could afford to do that, since now I was wearing shoes. The rest took the more sensible options of stairs. The moment the life-force was strong enough to disturb the fragile balance of Fade present, images began to swirl in the air, echoes of memories, and Solas helpfully informed us of it.

A tall dark figure, unmistakeably Corypheus looming over a formless shape and someone smaller and radiant hanging in the air who screamed: “Someone, help me!”

“That is Divine Justinia's voice!” Cassandra gasped.

The formless shape was getting form and was very quickly changing into... me. Even though my own memory of myself was hazy, the echo's expression was twisted in unmistakeable fury.

“You thought you could defy me,” Corypheus-memory spoke.

We are taking the same stance as our own echo, only moments sooner. We remember too vividly. How dare he!

“You shall be the first to witness our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice!”

“What's going on here?” This voice was quiet and muffled, feminine. A fourth figure whom I barely recalled entered the frame.

“Run away!” Justinia's memory demanded. “Warn them!”

“We have an-” the echo of Corypheus began but in that moment the magical hold it had on the remembered me broke, and just like I recalled the memory of my bare foot met his stomach. Dramatically the vision ended in just that moment in a flash of green and I fell to the ground curled on myself, because oh fucking fuck, that hurt.

“You were here,” Cassandra turned to me sharply. “Who was it that attacked? How did he know you?”

“I'll explain later,” I wheezed and got back up to my feet. “First, let's seal this bastard properly. That is if you are ready to attract some unwanted attention.”

She glared daggers at me, but nodded that yes, we were ready.

Three seconds later we got jumped by Pride big enough to fit all of Tevinter in.

Chapter Text

As far as physical combat is concerned, Pride demons are fairly easy. Far easier than Wrath, which sets everything on fire, Despair, which freezes you, or Hunger. Pride thinks itself better than it is, it's one of its job description, and underestimating me had proven fatal to a lot of people. That being said, had the demon engaged us with psychological warfare or mental assault, we would not have done nearly as well.

While Cassandra and Solas kept the demon occupied I managed to disrupt the rift several times. It felt like a punch in the gut every time, but I stubbornly withstood it since Pride took it far worse than I. It still wasn't any grand falling of our adversary, more like wearing it down until it couldn't keep it's form any longer. The semi-lizard body slumped forward and after a moment crumbled upon itself.

I had barely turned my attention from the rift, so I noticed the change in it instantly; it was as if it has suddenly cleared out and suddenly all the difficulties to manipulate it were gone. I reached my hand out: Shut it.

It resisted the command. It was like walking through deep mud. Or perhaps an outright swamp. I said “shut it”, I demanded a bit more forcefully. There was a slight shiver in the air.

Brute force it was. Fuck you!

Yeah, fuck you!

My vision swam in very nasty bright green, blood drummed in my ears, and the floor took a dive from beneath my feet. I realised I was going to pass o-

I was in a very warm bed, comparatively the softest thing I had slept on in the past three years. I would have stayed there under the covers if it wasn't for the person who came in. The moment the door clicked open I found myself rising to my feet and reaching out for Fishbone next to my head.

My knuckles hit a makeshift bedside table in a rather painful manner and I was aware of the event of the past hours enough to recall that oh yes, my stabbing stick was gone.

The intruder was a young elf. A poof of bright spiky hair and a terrified expression was all that I registered before I jumped a diving fish for the box she dropped. Just as well, because this close I saw that it was mostly flasks and bottles – all very fragile things.

I looked up at her and grinned in spite of my already-bruising ribs: “Do you have girls throwing themselves at your feet often?”

I expected at least a nervous giggle, not a shriek of horror. I was out of the bed for less than a minute and it already sucked so much. Moral of the story: Stay in the bed.

I sat the box carefully down on the floor and picked myself up, making a show of dusting myself. I noticed that I was wearing different clothes – not my blouse and breeches (blood-soaked beyond salvaging, I assumed), not my found woollen robes of Andraste's old cult – which meant that someone had undressed me without me knowing and therefore unable to provide consent. My mood was drastically hampered by it, even though the intentions were good, because the shirt was comfortable, warm, and reasonably fancy for middle-of-nowhere-in-the-mountains Ferelden.

“I- I didn't know you were awake,” the elf stuttered.

“Well, of course. How would you have known?” I tried to sound reassuring.

She fell to her knees and bowed. “I beg your forgiveness and-”

“Alright, madam, no. Please do get up. I am not sure what Cassandra told you, but just... Don't. Alright? Do not do... this. This whole cowering and humble begging thing.”

“B-but-”

“I'll let go off your arm now, alright? And we will talk like one living being to another. Can we do that?” When she nodded, I let her go and took a step back to get out of her personal space. “Now, what's your name?”

“Sirann, my Lady Dessa.”

I had to force myself to keep the smile. “I am no lady, but it is a pleasure to meet you.”

“They say you saved us,” the words burst out of her like water out of a broken dam. “That you shrunk the Breach. It's all anyone has talked about for the last two days.”

I groaned and sat down on the bed. “Please tell me that I hadn't been out for two days.”

“Um, alright.” For a moment she stood there awkwardly, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeves. “I, uh, helped mister Solas tend to you. The mark from your stomach and thighs is gone now,” she looked at me, the search for approval obvious. I gave it to her.

“I suppose you have a lot to do, though. I shouldn't detain you, so I'll see myself out and... report to our resident Seeker in charge, I suppose. I am still her prisoner if my memory doesn't fail me. But before I go, Sirann,” I stood up and stretched, “by any chance what day is it?”

“Thursday, my la- madam.”

“Thursday,” I echoed quietly. “Thursdays have always been difficult.” I walked to the door, and with my hand on the knob I hesitated and then turned around to Sirann who's taken to smooth out the bedsheets I left behind.

“Hey, Sirann?” I called out and continued only once she looked up: “Has anyone here been... mean to you? Cruel? Even if it seemed reasonable? Called you names? Made you do tasks which were supposed to be done by more than one person?”

She didn't say yes. But notably she didn't shake her head either.

“You and the other servants, point us in their direction, alright? This will not stand.” A dim wave of blue light passed through the room. I could make excuses that it was just the sun reflecting on snow and glaciers, of course. But I saw the flash of blue cracks on my skin.

Besides I didn't need excuses. I fully supported Justice's decision to kick some awful racist asses. Chances were that I'd be the core of an organisation doing just that. Again.

My new fancy pyjamas were not really made to withstand local climate. The cold it could deal with, but not the wind. Therefore I was decided to get to the Chantry as quickly as possible as not to have to call on Justice to help me push through the discomfort. First, that shit was for emergencies, and second, the longer it went on and the more it had to push through the more blue was glowing, and people did not always react positively to a brightly glowing woman speaking with two voices at once. Especially Andrastians tended to be touchy about obvious signs of possession.

My attempt to just slip into the Chantry and get yelled at a little bit was put to a screeching halt when my path was blocked by a large gathering who awkwardly switched between saluting, bowing and kneeling in front of me on the snowy ground. Somebody in the back shouted: “Three times hooray for the Herald of Andraste! Yipe-yipp!”

The first hooray was very quiet and involved people exchanging glances of the “I am not doing this if you aren't either” sort. The heckler in the back gave another enthusiastic yipe-yipp and the hooray was answered louder. The third was an actual proper and loud cheer.

There was a very awkward. moment when there was a sort of lost fourth hooray followed by: “He said three times, you daft cunt. Three times.” Several people replied to that with an extremely forceful hooray to shut the speaker up.

“Okay, I hope you aren't hoping for a speech,” I started and rocked back and forth on my heels, “because right now I have an appointment with Seeker Pentaghast who should technically execute me or something. Because you know, the whole blast is still pinned on me officially.”

That sobered the crowd up a bit. After some shuffling they managed to part approximately in the middle and let me pass through. As I was walking, behind me there was yet another hooray from one person.

“Jimothy,” I heard a sigh, “for Maker's tits' sake, shut the fuck up.”

“Hoor- augh.” That was probably the sound of Jimothy punched in the stomach.

The door to the Chantry were heavy and the hinges were well-made enough that I needed to gently poke the wood and it opened enough to allow me to slip in. Inside it was dark, a touch warmer than the outside, and heavy with incense enough to kill an asthmatic milkmaid.

Cassandra and Roderick were in the middle of an argument in the sacristy, a debate heated enough to get through the thick stone walls and bulky oaken door. I had spent too much time in Thedas around various Chantries if I know where to find a sacristy in one. But where else to hide the bombs? Nobody ever checks the sacristy!

I walked in on them faking confidence, which I did mostly by making heavy swinging steps and holding my chin high.

Grand Chancellor Roderick barely spared me a glance, just pointed in my direction demanding with a weary and somewhat hoarse voice: “Chain her. I want her prepared for the travel to the capital for the trial.”

Nobody moved for a long moment besides me checking my tunic was not sticking out at odd angles. It didn't.

Cassandra: “Leave us.”

Two heavily armed men who could be Templars but not necessarily quietly slipped out of the door behind my back and closed it loudly enough to make me jump. Leliana, standing by Cassandra's side, turned to side so no one would see her giggling. I could still tell because her shaking shoulders gave her away.

“You two walk a dangerous path,” the man groaned.

Cassandra crossed her arms. “The Breach is stable, but still a threat. I will not ignore it.”

“It shrunk! For all we know, it might disappear tomorrow completely.”

“We cannot rely on that,” Leliana turned back. The look she gave to the clerk, however, made it clear that what she wanted to say instead was: “Are you actually this stupid or just trying to boost our egos?”

“Pardon, pardon,” I finally inserted myself in, “I'd like to know whose prisoner I am and what I am accused of exactly, regardless of whether or not we've made up our minds about my guilt. There must be a formal accusation if I am a prisoner in custody.”

Roderick tried to stare me down.

“In all nations of Thedas with the possible exception of the Qun the prisoner has the right to hear the accusations brought against them,” I reminded him. I read a couple of various law books. Justice demanded it. While what was just was not always what was lawful, it was always nice to have some legal covering for what we did.

“You are accused of the murder of Divine Justinia and over three hundred attendants of the Conclave, and of destroying a place of holy worship of cultural significance, the Temple of the Sacred Ashes,” he finally informed me. I noted that there weren't any charges for catalysing the end of the world and notably blowing up the Chantry in Kirkwall. Which was good, because I was definitely guilty of the latter.

“And the Divine has to judge me for that? Which means that I am prisoner of the Chantry right now.”

The three of them nodded, Roderick with resolution, Cassandra a bit hesitantly, Leliana gave just one curt movement.

I clasped my hands and gave him a big smile: “I am not absolutely certain about Lady Pentaghast, but Sister Leliana should have the authority to hold me in the custody personally while you, sir, go back to Val Royeaux, prepare everything for my trial, including the election of the new Divine. And if I remember correctly, the overseer of my custody has the right to put me to work as they see fit for the duration of my imprisonment.”

Slavery was not legal outside of Tevinter. But for the Chantry prison and custody labour was very much legal and very much substituted for the system the Tevinter had. Just in case anyone was wondering who the real villain here was. But for the moment I was willing to work with the system.

The Chancellor had no such inclinations: “Absolutely not. You are not to be given such leniency, or any leniency at all! And this- this is not for you,” he gestured at Leliana and Cassandra, who turned to rummage in a dresser, “to decide!”

Cassandra turned back with a victorious wolfish grin and a huge book in her hand.

Ah. Shit. Here we go.

With absolute disregard to the worth of the book she slammed in hard on the heavy table. “You know what this is, Chancellor.”

For the first time I noticed she had not phrased it as a question. He knew what it was. We all knew what it was. For once I mirrored Roderick with my face, because we both we trying very hard not to say: “You have to be fucking kidding me.” Though each of us for different reasons.

“A writ from the Divine, granting us the right to act. From now on I declare the Inquisition reborn.” She approached Roderick who tried to back away from her. “We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order. With or without-”

Cassandra was interrupted by a loud clattering noise not entirely unlike the one a Grand Chancellor of the Chantry makes when he trips and falls flat backwards on worn wooden floorboards in a sacristy in the middle of the mountains.

I nonchalantly pulled my heel back. I considered extending a helping hand to the man, but I forgot to do it because- Well, I didn't forget, I just decided against it. What has he done for me? I tried to be nice and offer a good compromise before. I did not have to be the bigger person every time.

Roderick got up on his own, shook his head and left, muttering something about lunatics.

Leliana looked at me and attempted to fill me in: “This is the Divine's directive: ‘Rebuild the Inquisition of old. Find those who will stand against the chaos.’” She glanced at Cassandra and continued: “We aren't ready. We have no leader, no numbers, and now no Chantry support.”

“We also don't have much else to do,” I pointed out. “Besides, it's not like we are setting out to do anything impossible: We just have to convince enough people to stop squabbling and arguing over borders and ideals for five minutes to borrow us enough people to throw at the end of the world so that they all would have something to war over tomorrow. It's been done before at least five times.”

Cassandra looked at Leliana: “You told me you helped to stop the last Blight. While there are no darkspawn, Dessa's allegory is right. The principle is the same.”

“Yes, about that,” I started quietly, but since they both ignored me, I did not bother continuing.

“Help us fix this before it is too late,” Cassandra offered me her hand.

I did not tell her that I tried to fix this before it even started. I did not tell her that I wanted to part in this, that I had enough. I also did not tell her that I wasn't helping them, but instead that she was helping me.

“In for an accusation of mass murder, in for forming anew a militant force of necessity not seen for Ages and saving the existence as we know at great personal risk,” I remarked.

“It's certainly taken a turn when you put it like this,” Leliana admitted.

“Eh,” I sighed, “it's just another Thursday. Speaking of, could I get a breakfast?” And so while Leliana ran off, Cassandra pointed me towards the inn and told me to meet her here in the afternoon.

I was not charged any money for the food, which was good because I had none. It was a warm What We Found broth and a weak but thick brew. Justice protested, as it was very slightly alcoholic, but I won the argument as it contained far more nutrients than the broth and that over-grateful people of Haven might try to buy me some actual alcohol instead.

After that I nearly broke a soldier's arm when he was yelling at an elven messenger that he hadn't brought her a missive which didn't get dispatched yet, and after that Sirann found me and nervously informed me that she's made a warm bath for me. I had never loved anyone so deeply in my life before as I loved Sirann in that moment.

Cassandra got me rather shortly after that, but I did take an indulgently long soak, and apparently I hadn't woken up nowhere near the morning, so it did qualify early afternoon. She led me through rows of saluting soldiers and civil people to the Chantry.

Solas was standing at the door and greeted us: “I appreciate that you want to make me a part of this, Seeker, but with due respect to your Maker, I won't step inside unless there is no other way.”

“I... I will respect that,” Cassandra nodded and proceeded with me to the sacristy.

“Dessa Tiny,” Cassandra named me first to introduce me to the room, but I already wasn't listening, “you've met Sister Leliana. It is time for me to introduce you to Lady Josephine Montilyet, our ambassador and chief diplomat, and our military commander Raleigh Samson.”

Chapter Text

“I've heard much,” Josephine said. “It's a pleasure to meet you at last.” Had she not looked at me as if I was a live bomb, I might had even believed it.

Raleigh maintained a neutral expression and gave me a nod, but the sparkle in his eyes and the fidgeting with his belt betrayed him. He was happy to see me. Finally, some recognition. I was happy to see him too, because the last time I did it was some three years ago and he looked very much like dying, and I had sort of come to accept since then that he'd join the Red Templars. Instead he was here, doing obviously just fine, even being the Commander!

“And of course you know Sister Leliana,” Cassandra concluded her introductions.

“I don't. Nobody knows Sister Leliana, nobody has ever seen her, world authorities doubt her existence,” I replied before I could stop myself. Promptly I wished I had swallowed my tongue instead, it would have been more merciful.

Cassandra gave me a strange look. “She is our spymaster,” she said bluntly.

“I've just said that.” I paused. “So, we are saving the world together, right?”

Raleigh nodded. “Cassandra has mentioned that your mark- Anchor I mean, that it needs more power to close the Breach.

“Which means,” Leliana smoothly interjected, “that we must approach the rebel mages.”

“Or that we have to weaken the magic force around the Breach before we decide to poke it again. So enough of trained Templars could serve us just as well.”

“That is just your speculation, Raleigh.”

Josephine softly sighed. Apparently these two have been arguing about it for long time.

“Look, I have tested it on the smaller rifts and it did work, more or less. Within my limits which are... well, limiting. We don't know anything about the Anchor, though.” He crossed his arms. “For all we know, if you pour any more power into it, it might explode. It has almost killed Ori already! If she dies, how would we close the Breach then? Have you brought your Fade-magic sewing kit?”

“Ori?” Cassandra looked between me and Raleigh. “Who is ‘Ori’, Samson?”

I tugged on Cassandra's sleeve and quietly said: “I'm going to include this in the list of things I promised to explain later, alright? Let's- first let's decide our next step and then we can all hit up the tavern and I am going to give you all a heart-wrenching tragic backstory of how I did not kill the Divine. And as a bonus we can invite Solas who is probably still freezing his toes off in front of the Chantry.”

Josephine cleared her throat: “Right now neither the mages nor the Templar Order will speak to us. The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition, and you,” she pointed the feathery end of her quill at me, “specifically.”

“And everyone still cares too much what the Chantry thinks because they have the patent on Maker's love and wrath,” I muttered loud enough for everyone to hear but quiet enough to make it known those were my private thoughts. Cassandra glared daggers at me.

“That... is a way to put it,” Josephine agreed reluctantly. “The line between belief and religion is thin and blurred at best. People adhere to the Chantry, it has guided them without fault for Ages.” I did not interrupt her with the list of the Chantry's fault. “However some believe you to be sent by the Maker, too. They call you ‘Herald of Andraste’ – that frightens the Chantry.”

“I suppose the magic words ‘heresy’ and ‘blasphemy’ have been used to describe the Inquisition.”

“Yup,” Raleigh nodded enthusiastically.

Cassandra scoffed in disgust: “Chancellor Roderick's doing, no doubt.”

“We can build quite the image of the Inquisition on that,” I pondered out loud. “People love to believe in prophets and heralds of order. Who are we to deny them that?”

“The title is impressive, but ultimately useless if nobody talks to us. And with the Chantry opposing us so strongly, nobody will,” Leliana shook her head.

“The Chantry is large and influential only because they are united,” I pointed out. “So what we need right now is to sow a little discord among the bureaucrats and preachers in high positions. I would like to point out right now that by ‘discord’ I do not mean ‘corpses’. Let's not go full Great Game on this. But, say, an open debate with a few clerics open to the idea... They could doubt. Their peers would denounce them just for seeing me, even if I meet them to, I don't know, discuss my guilt? Seem that I intend to humbly appeal to them before the trial?”

I saw them all rubbing their chins, in Josephine's case making notes.

Finally Cassandra popped the question: “That might work. But who would talk to you?”

“Mother Giselle,” Leliana said suddenly. “She has specifically asked to speak with you. Hadn't we come to a conclusion, I would have referred you to her, as it seemed as grasping at straws. But if she is willing to help us... Hmm,” she tapped her fingers on the worn table, “she is well regarded in the Chantry but has stayed out of politics. Seeker Pentaghast and I have assisted the Divine, yes, but with matters of outside of the Chantry. Mother Giselle could provide us with the insight we do not have.”

“Great. Where do we find her?” Raleigh, the man of action.

“Her message said that she is helping the refugees at the crossroad south of Redcliffe,” Leliana moved a crude wooden figure on the map on the table to mark the location.

“And we are in Haven, so that's a... five day trip there, weather willing, five days back if we don't get killed or snowed in,” I began doing the mathematics. “Throw in some spare days for complications and a day or two to find Mother Giselle if she has moved, plus the time we get slowed down as a large group. We could easily be gone for a month.”

“A small party, then,” Cassandra leaned over the map. “You, of course. I, to protect you. I assume we could ask Solas, he came to help after all.”

“I could come along,” Raleigh offered.

“Commander Samson, you and your shaking hands are staying right here,” said the three women in unison. Cassandra added: “Three people is enough, we shall stay out of the trouble. We will use our scouts' camps, so we won't have to carry that much equipment.”

“That's nice,” I smiled. “Especially since I don't have any equipment to start with.”

“We embark tomorrow,” Lady Seeker said resolutely.

“Great,” Raleigh patted my shoulder. “So I'll meet you at the pub later and you will finally tell me what the fuck is going on.”

“I will go notify Threnn,” Cassandra nodded. “The rest of you-”

“We have our work to do,” Josephine hinted a bow to her. “We will get to it.”

Very quickly I found myself alone and uncertain of what to do next. After a moment I decided that whatever it was I was not doing, I could also not be doing it anywhere else, so I saw myself out. After that I could... help in some kitchen or something.

The cold and fresh air outside knocked the breath out of me and I had to lean on the door.

“If you are planning to faint,” I heard spoken from the side, “you could try to pick a place where people will trip over you less.”

I turned my head and managed a wheeze: “Hello Solas. Have you heard about the camping trip which you are presumably joining?”

“Has it anything to do with the Seeker storming through the door a moment ago like a fury?”

“Eh, I think she just walks like that.”

Solas put one hand on my shoulder and walked with me through Haven. Even though he kept his voice gentle I heard him very clearly over the busy people: “What is this trip you were talking about?”

“We are going to meet Mother Giselle in the Hinterlands. ‘We’ means Cassandra and I, maybe you if you want to come along. Cass has decided to keep our numbers low so we move quickly, just so that I don't get mauled by a bear.”

“If you are not opposed to it, I'd like to accompany you,” he nodded. “My experience with the Fade might come useful.”

“Sure. I am certain we'll run into enough rifts for you to keep you intellectually occupied, not to mention that the Hinterlands are where-” I blinked a few times and looked around. “Where are you taking me?” I was momentarily incredibly furious, mostly with myself. I had not even noticed that the eggheaded split-chinned son of a bitch (pun intended) has steered me out of the Haven. I had not noticed he had been steering me!

“I thought we both could use a walk. You have been more or less comatose for two days and I was mostly hunched over your. Muscular atrophy would not help us in the slightest.”

“I appreciate the thought. And your care. You haven't answered my question as to where we are going,” I pointed out to him, not even subtly. Here was the thing: I was good with words. Decent with stories, yes, enough for the Kirkwall print and with some advertising even beyond the Free Marches, even though people usually credited the works to Varric, and as long as I was paid I did not mind. Side note: Josephine could probably check in with the Bank of Kirkwall about my account. I haven't touched in in three years, there could be something and the Inquisition could use any boost.

Anyway. Decent with stories, yes, but good with words. And also with burning hatred towards dodged questions.

Solas, leaning on his staff, pointed forwards to the trees which were growing denser the further away from Haven they were: “Just to the other side of the lake to the pier. It's frozen over and far off enough to be quiet at any part of the day.”

“Is this the chapter before the one in which a blood covered elf returns to the village, claiming I got mauled by wolves?” I chuckled to make it sound like a joke.

Either Solas was very good, had no suspicions or fears about someone knowing more than they should, or both. He only shook his head: “Not many wolves in the area. I'd find a different scapegoat, say, a druffalo.”

As an answer howling began to echo in the mountains. We waited for it to disappear into cold silence, and only after that Solas gave me an apologetic look: “I said ‘not many’, not ‘none’.”

We walked to the pier, brooded over the snow-covered lake for a dramatic moment before I admitted that I was freezing and we slowly headed back.

“Where are you headed?” Solas asked.

“The tavern. You coming too?”

“For anything particular?” He pouted. Loud people and alcohol did not appeal on their own.

I sucked the air in through my teeth before continuing. How only to put this? “Cassandra is going to interrogate me, this time without pointing sword at me. At least,” I added hastily, “I hope she won't point swords in my general direction this time.”

“Ah yes.” There was a slow nod. “You did say you were going to explain later. I suppose that means now.”

Inside the tavern it was still dim and warm and now also with far less people, as everyone had already had their late lunch, but it was not yet time for early supper. Or lunch. Whatever it was they ate.

The moment Solas and I entered, a soldier had suddenly decided to take her leave and nearly knocked us over as she was rushing out.

“Late for patrol?” Solas offered with a chuckle while he pulled a chair for me under the window like a gentleman.

“I, uh, might have gotten acquainted with her earlier today. We didn't make a good impression on each other.” I sat down and immediately tangled my legs into a pretzel to get as comfortable as possible. Solas only raised his eyebrows, so I continued: “There is a certain non-zero chance that I snatched a cudgel in her hand and snapped it over her forearm and promised to knife her ears if she hurls certain terms around.”

A moment of silence stretched between us and not even the waitress dared to approach us, instead she decided to scrub the already spotless table in the corner to new heights of cleanliness. When the moment passed, Solas slowly said: “Interesting. Not many humans would step in for an elf in such a situation.”

“That is hardly my fault.”

Sensing a safe ground, the waitress asked us for our order, and we got a large pot of tea.

Leliana was the first to appear, and she did that by opening the window from the outside and rolling in. Due to the interference of a certain spirit, her weight did not snap my spine in half. Raliegh came in second and sat down only after ordering a whole pitcher of water and introducing himself to Solas, in which he awkwardly did by mentioning that he got kicked out of the Order years ago and was not going to smite anyone.

And finally Cassandra, dusting snow off her shoulders. “Josephine is stuck with duke Whateveraux Whoeveraux and can't come, but asks for a signed copy if you ever publish whatever you are going to say,” she said as a way of greeting.

Raleigh pulled out a flask out of an inner pocket and poured it into the pitcher. If glares could kill, all of Haven would have been a toast. Lyrium. He poured himself a glass and slowly drank with absolute disgust. Solas followed his suit, except he did not spike his tea with anything.

I took a sip of the tea as well. It was a misery in a cup with mild herbal undertones. I switched my legs and stretched before finally asking: “Alright. Where do I start?

“Try the beginning,” Solas tried unhelpfully.

“In the beginning the Fade was created. That has made a lot of people very angry and been regarded as a bad idea-”

“Start with how you met Commander Samson,” Leliana interrupted me.

I briefly locked my eyes with Raleigh. He noted, but you wouldn't know it if you hadn't been looking for it. Fine, without censure, then. I took a deep breath “I lived in Kirkwall for a bunch of years. The Tale of the Champion has taken a lot of liberties to make Hawke look more... champion-like, but Varric did nail that I moved in with Anders, you know the Apostate, and helped him run the clinic. Often it meant helping to patch up Garrett's friends after whatever they got themselves into this time, but also loitering around Lowtown and Darktown and kidnapping people in need of medical attention off the streets. And one day I quite literally tripped over a mess of a dude in nearly lethal stage of lyrium withdrawal.”

“And she picked me up like a basket of laundry, hauled me to the clinic, poured a lyrium potion down my throat and proceeded to argue with Anders that I had to stay at least a week to at least vaguely resemble a human being even though I was a Templar. Which I wasn't, they fired me,” Raleigh added between his glasses. “So right now I am not foaming at the mouth nor I am dead. And my demand of lyrium is... at a manageable level.”

I reached over the table to pat his shoulder. “I am glad to hear that. I was really worried for you when I left.”

“I'm fine.” He pointed his thumb to the side. “Penthaghast's got me. Had to knock me over a few times. I'm fine.” He was not fine.

“How did that lead you to Haven?” Solas tried to keep us on the track.

A deeper breath. I licked my lip which where suddenly very dry. How much did they need to know, anyway? How much to say to avoid weird stares? “No secret, I blew up – alright imploded – the Chantry in Kirkwall because I had enough of the clerics abusing the Circles and the Templars and pitching them against each other. The conflict had been festering for ages. And the idiots still don't fight their actual enemy,” I sighed.

“Anyway, I didn't like the possibility of getting, you know, caught. Varric still has it pretty pitched for me, and he's the one most easygoing on such things. And he was my friend and it's been three years. I got over the Tevinter borders, since it they don't give a damn about the chantries in the South. Now, I was an illegal immigrant in Tevinter and not magically gifted, basically a slave material. I wasn't really keen on that.”

“You are a mage,” Cassandra informed me.

“Correction: I can do magic with this,” I waved my hand at her. I was very proud of myself of making the Anchor sparkle at my command. “So not mage, runaway almost-slave. I resisted the system. And then the Venatori entered the picture. They're, like... nationalist. Looking for the old Tevinter Empire, the one before the Chantry. They answer to Corypheus and revere him as a god.”

“Who is Corypheus?” Cassandra asked. “And is he actually a god?”

My grin was shit-eating: “Depends: How much would you like to punch a god in the face?”

Chapter Text

It was the next morning and we were thirty minutes down the hill from Haven. Our backpacks were surprisingly light, given that we carried mostly our own clothes and very little food. Cassandra pointed out where the Inquisition had the camps all the way through to the Hinterlands.

“Hunters and scouts mostly, and one logging camp,” she explained while she was folding the map into her breast pocket. “According to Genitivi, Haven was a self-sufficient village, but then most of the people abandoned it one day. When the Divine called the conclave there, it homed a herbalist and a couple of houses falling apart. The pilgrims have began to repopulate it, but they are far from self-sustaining for now. By the order of Justinia we provided, and I did not see a reason why it should change under the Inquisition.”

But that was a long time ago, like a full hour or so. Now however...

“Alright, what about... The Qunari prophet Koslun?”

“Solas,” I sighed, weary of the conversation, “I haven't found any reference anywhere in which anyone would be claiming Koslun was a god. And I don't exactly have enough beef with him to deck him in the face. But yes, if I wanted to punch him in the face and he claimed to be a deity, I'd go along with it to add ‘punched a god in the face’ to my resume.” I adjusted the backpack on my shoulders and gave him a weary look: “Has my point come across now, or have you got any more deities up your sleeve for which I have to spell it out for you?”

“I am still struggling with the whole ancient Tevinter magister turned darkspawn thing,” Cassandra admitted.

“What, I thought that the Chantry was very much on board with this idea?”

“I always assumed it was a metaphor for the mortal sins and vices. Seven Old Gods, seven magisters, seven kind of demons.”

“I am not denying that there might be a connection. But I don't know if there is. It would be indeed very... poetic.” Briefly I recalled the Architect. I felt a pang of regret that I hadn't kissed him when I had the chance. But now I'd probably catch the taint and it'd kill me. The Blight was not like a pox – surviving it once did not grant you immunity. Or maybe it was, but there weren't actually ways to test it.

Solas switched his staff to the left hand to better keep balance on the frosty path we were less walking and more sliding down. “I agree with the Seeker that spreading the information would cause panic. Already the Inquisition seems far-fetched to many with you being the Herald of Andraste with a magic Anchor on your hand closing rifts to the Fade. Claiming that the Inquisition battles an ancient sapient darkspawn who is the cause of all Blights and who wants to destroy the world to restore the old order would be... very hard to believe.”

In your words: “It's just another Thursday.”

“Yes, well, people can't really cope with weeks composed entirely out of Thursdays.”

“Pardon?” Cassandra asked me.

“Oh, just thinking out loud.” Damn!

Either the distance between Haven and Redcliffe shrunk while I was in the north, or we walked faster than I was capable of years ago, because we reached below the line of snow the next day and the scout camp the following noon.

When I commented on it, Solas answered: “It might be the Breach warping the space around themselves. Travelling large distance in the Fade by recalling your destination is common. And since the Fade now seeps into this world, distance might be displaying similar features.

“How certain are you about all those mights and maybes?” I prodded.

“Um.” Solas paused and looked aside for a moment, studying an incredibly interesting exemplar of moss. “I wouldn't wager my own head on it, but three and half finger, perhaps. There are probably additional factors, but I have no way of measuring them.”

I was about to ask how would he measure additional factor if he could, but we were halted by a dwarf in scouting gear. Even without glasses I managed to identify her as Scout Harding before she stopped saluting and greeted us: “The Herald of Andraste! I've heard stories. Everyone has. We know what you did at the Breach.”

Solas, red to the tip of his ears: “They couldn't be very good stories, because the Herald is standing on my left.”

I waved with a lot of forced cheer, mostly to show off the green sparkling of the Anchor illuminating my metacarpals: “Hi! You must be Scout Harding.”

She stuttered: “I, uh, yes. It's an honour to meet you, my lady. I'm at your service. I – uh, all of us here – we'll do whatever we can to help.”

“Great,” I nodded. I caught myself feeling around my head for my hair. I still had it, all of it even. Lots and lots of hair pacified in a low tail. “What's the situation down there?”

“We came here to secure horses from Redcliffe's old horsemaster,” Harding reported, glad that she had the faux pas behind her and was standing back on the metaphorical solid ground of her work. “I... grew up here,” her voice lightly quivered, “and people always said that Dennet's herds were the strongest and the fastest this side of the Frostbacks. But with the Mage-Templar fighting getting worse, we couldn't get to Dennet. Maker only knows if he's even still alive.” She puffed a breath out and concluded: “Mother Giselle's at the crossroads, helping refugees and the wounded. Our latest reports say that the war's spread there too. Corporal Vale and our men are doing what they can to help protect the people, but they won't be able to hold out very long. You best get going. No time to lose. ”

Cassandra looked around at the few scouts around: “Shouldn't we bring reinforcements to the crossroad?”

“Nah,” I waved my hand. “It will be fine.” Already I was walking out of the camp, making sure my shortsword and the dagger were easily drawn. I had issued those from Quartermaster Threnn before we headed out of Haven.

I followed the path straight to the crossroad. If there hadn't been a path, I would have followed the sounds of fighting down the steep hill. A lot of panting behind me let me know that Cassandra and Solas caught up to me.

The crossroad wasn't exactly a battlefield. Dirty with few scattered corpses it reminded me of evening walks through Kirkwall – people senselessly attacking anything and anyone that moved in the hopes that if they kill it first, it won't kill them. It wasn't anger, it wasn't bloodlust fuelling this fight. It was fear.

I hopped on an overturned rock and found a stable position. I licked my lips to make sure they wouldn't get stuck and shouted: “Hey, could you all calm your tits for five minutes?!”

The response was immediate: Two arrows and one crack of lightning in my direction.

I remember my armour. The arrows harmlessly bounce off my helmet and chest plate. The spell is nothing but energy, fuelling me for what is to come.

“What are you doing?” Cassandra hissed behind my back.

“Now, I know everyone's been incredibly tense as of lately,” I continued over her as if she hadn't spoken, still addressing the Magi and the Templars, “but I would like to ask you that if you are going to continue killing each other that you don't drag other people into this conflict. I mean look at him,” I gestured to a corpse hung over a fence. Presumably that man had been a farmer before. “Who of you had done that?”

By that time I had everyone's attention. When a small woman irregularly glowing green and blue starts shouting over you fighting and your attempts to kill her fail, you usually consider her worth listening to.

“The maleficars have unleashed their vile magic on the common folk and they all must fall under our swords!” someone shouted, but they were far enough for not to see them as anything else than a blurry spot.

The answer came from the other side of the road: “You fanatics kill us senselessly without the thought of the Maker! We are no beasts, no monsters others than the ones you made us!”

“Alright, alright, keep your tits calm,” I instructed before they could have jumped at each other's throats again. “Everyone's scared that the other guy is going to get him, I understand. But I am pretty sure that most of you just wants to sit down and stretch their legs without having to worry you're going to loose them, so please do that. And the rest of you who still want to fight, take up the hill,” I vaguely pointed somewhere behind myself, “far enough from settlements and kill the heck out of each other if you so desire. But don't make yourselves everyone's problem, we have more than enough of our own.”

There was a beat of awkward silence, and then the heckler from the back was at it again: “You're the Herald of Andraste?”

“The accusation has been flailed around recently, yes,” I confirmed. A ripple of nervous laughter passed through the crowd. Both parties have gathered close enough to each other by now for me to be actually able to call them crowd.

“You killed the Divine.”

“No, no, she killed the guy who killed the Divine.”

“I thought she closed the Breach.”

“Have you looked up recently? It's still there.”

“Wasn't she supposed to be an elf?”

“Don't be a nitwit, an elf can't be a Herald of Andraste.”

“Hey, that's incredibly racist of you, why couldn't Andraste choose an elf as her herald? She gave the Dales to them, she liked elves.”

“The Chantry says she opened the Breach, though.”

“Yeah, well,” that was noticeably a Templar in the front row who turned her back to me to correct the last speaker, “the Chantry also says that premarital sex makes your child a demon-possessed abomination who eats the woman from inside out, and also makes you impotent, so honestly I'd take whatever the Chantry claims with a grain of salt.”

That surprised me: “The Chantry says that?”

“Transfigurations 18:3,” she informed me.

“Sheesh,” I let out.

Another stretch of silence. Then a mage in green and very torn robes asked: “What now?”

Think quick. “Here's a suggestion: How about you now go apologise to all these people and help them fix their houses? They're not going to be happy with you, since you made all this mess, but you helping with the clean up could make them soften up a bit. Oh, and no pudding for all of you for a week, because you've been naughty.”

The crowd dispersed rather quickly. I noticed a procession of mages heading towards the makeshift infirmary, hopefully to offer their skills. I stepped down from my rock, knees suddenly turning into jelly.

Cassandra and Solas were staring at me. Finally Solas said: “That was an impressive handling of the situation.”

“I, uh, was hoping to draw them all into one place so we could kill them quicker,” I admitted, “but they then stopped fighting and it seemed awkward.”

“I recommend you don't tell that to Mother Giselle. We should get to her quickly. Maker only knows how long this good mood holds up,” Cassandra put a hand on my shoulder.

“Yeah. Yes. Give me... give me a moment. I am a little bit in a shock.” They did shoot at me after all, and it would have decorated the grass with my brain if Justice hadn't been prepared.

Which was when I unfortunately noticed that the dead farmer on the fence was missing the upper half of his head and the whole lower jaw. I had to close my eyes and focus very hard on not adorning anyone's shoes (or in Solas's case bare toes) with the breakfast.

After the moment has passed, I got up, faked confidence, and headed for the infirmary. I passed by a couple of the Inquisition soldiers proudly saluting as they raised a worn banner of the flaming eye with a sword through it. It was a stupid symbol, but it was our symbol.

Despite the state of the place, Mother Giselle's robes were spotless and her hat ridiculous. I approached: “Mother Giselle, I presume.”

“I am. And you must be the one they are calling the Herald of Andraste.” She gave me a long look. “I saw how you handled the fight. The world right now needs a hand who extends to help, not swings to strike.”

“Violence is easy,” I shrugged. “And the people fighting are all tired of being taken advantage of. They have been talking and helping for far too long in their opinion, and not action enough. However, neither of us is here to ponder the true victim and wrongdoer in this war.”

She nodded: “I know of the Chantry's denouncement, and I am familiar with those behind it. I won't lie to you: some of them are grandstanding, hoping to increase their chnaces of becoming the new Divine. Some,” she paused and overlooked the blood-soaked road, “are simply terrified. So many good people senselessly taken from us.”

“Fear and politics. The combination which topples whole nations into cold cruelty. I was hoping you could help me prepare to debate some of the clerics to... gain a different opinion.”

“From what I saw,” Mother Giselle chuckled, “you do not need help with your speeches and arguments. Perhaps your words could be more formal when you address the clerics, but that is all.”

“I needed their attention and avoid alienation. Throwing a couple of woman's breast into the conversation breaks the ice and is a sure way to get noticed.” Was she really thinking I was going to shout at a bunch of priests to calm their collective titties? “However, I don't know who to talk to.”

The woman nodded: “I will go to Haven and provide Sister Leliana with the names of those in the Chantry who would be amenable to a gathering. It is not much, but I will do whatever I can.” With that she left headed towards the buildings.

I caught up with Cassandra and Solas talking to a man introduced to me as Corporal Vale. From what I understood my help had already been promised on all fronts.

“Oh, you are not inclined?” Solas asked once I pointed it out.

“Eh, it will be something to do while we have a look around. I am pretty sure I sensed a rift over... there, and there, and there.” I pointed to three more or less random directions

If you don't mind my interrupting: “And over there.”

“We better close them, then.”

Cassandra turned to me: “What is your opinion of Mother Giselle? How did it go?”

“It went well. My opinion of her is rather private.”

“That,” the professional liar and deceiver with pointy ears commented, “is a lot of words to say you do not like her.”

“She is going to help,” I said. “Nowhere in that it is required that I like her. I am not sure if you've noticed, but I don't get along with the Chantry-folk on a principle.”

“Les talking, more walking, “Cassandra cut us off. “And while we are out here we could look for ways to expand the Inquisition's influence.”

“Yes mum.”

It got to me that I was the one who said it only when she smacked me one 'round the ear. Solas laughed, of course he did, and proceeded to needle me over it endlessly.

The humour left him the moment we ran into the first ocularium.

Chapter Text

The next four hours were filled with a lot of questions, such as: “Where exactly are we going?” (Forward!) “Whose skull is it anyway?” (Of some poor Tranquil, but I hadn't said that.) “Why do you call it Aslibe?” (Dunno, it just seemed right.) “What are these shards?” (A secret mouse thing that will help us later Cassandra, but more importantly the Venatori want it and I'm not letting them have it.) “What are you going to do with it?” (If you don't stop asking, I'm going to throw it at you, Solas.) and let's not forget my favourite: “How many rifts are there?” (I think nine?)

But four hours later the refugees had enough mutton to eat, the Hinterlands was some three rifts safer, we were halfway through uncovering a sinister bandit plot, we had dismantled a cult by an accident, and found a good enough spot for a logging camp. More importantly we have avoided all bears and dragons and haven't run into any Venatori. We have run into a few rebel mages and Templars chasing each other with sticks whom I couldn't talk down from their antics, so I ended up with pieces of brain in my hair.

“It's basically just fat and protein,” I kept repeating while I was trying to pull out at least the largest chunks without throwing up. I was only partially successful. “I am sure it will do wonders for my skin. And hair. I will have the most lustrous locks in all of Thedas.”

“This is your concern?” Cassandra scoffed. “Vanity?”

“It's either faux vanity and detachment, Cass, or hysterical screaming. Your pick,” I offered, as I was generosity incarnate.

“People,” Solas sighed. “Hair.” Right until he said that I considered cutting it all short again. But you know what? Just to prove a point I would not.

Instead I groaned: “If Threnn issued me a helmet instead of seven pairs of socks I wouldn't have this problem.”

Cassandra gave us a glare of universal disapproval and then slowly said: “I think it is time to return to Haven. We have done enough here to draw not only the attention but also the interest of the Chantry. They should be amenable to a meeting for sure; we've helped people. And as much as I loathe to say it,” and now her gaze focused on me, “you cannot appear in Val Royeaux like this.”

Therefore we returned back to Haven a few hours short of a week after we headed out.

“Your guesstimate of a month of a trip was a bit off,” Raleigh commented.

“Times I fake, Sunshine. Be so kind hand me the soap.” I was sitting over a bucket of cold water, trying to make myself presentable again. Alas hot water was sparse. Already I was missing Tevinter. It was a hell-hole of mortal misery, but it had functional plumbing, heated water and in some cities even decent public transport. Between the camping in the woods and mountains and that I felt right at home there, truth be told.

“Shoo, I'll do it for you.”

Cassandra had questions about letting Raleigh helping me with washing, because I was a woman and he was a man and we would be in a closed room together.

“Cass,” I had told her, “I shared the backroom of a stuffed infirmary with him and Anders for eight or so years. If there's a man whom I trust to see me half-naked trying to get bits of dead people off me, it's him.”

And there we were, Samson getting dried blood and insides out of my hair with a lot of soap. His hands were shaking horribly, but honestly it worked wonders on me, because it was a free head massage.

“How are you holding up?” he asked me after the second round and began already soaping my head for third.

“Well, I haven't started screaming yet, nor have I tippled into anything, have I?”

“As far as I remember you have never been for screaming – tilt your head to the right, good – and Justice doesn't let you do drugs or alcohol. You told me that.”

“I sometimes take lyrium potions.”

“Yes, to shut your inner spirit up.”

I am reasonable! You ought to listen to me more.

“Justice, darling, I started two revolutions because you wouldn't let me sleep. Chill your beans,” I muttered with a sigh. Then I tapped Raleigh's knee and told him: “You ought to tell Cassandra about me. Us. Justice, I mean. I'm not going to do it myself, we both know that.”

“I was supposed to tell a lot of people a lot of things. It might be a habit, not doing that. Alright, tilt back now, water's coming.”

Suddenly everything was very cold and very wet and I tried to blow the water out from my nose.

“My point is,” Raleigh continued, “that as long as you keep yourself in check and do the right things, your little friend's on our side. The moment Lady Seeker hears there is more than one of you in this head... Well, she won't kill you, but I guess it will be a lot of chains and irons and cages. You know.”

I knew. That was one of the reasons why I hadn't told anyone. Second reason was Leliana – the Chantry rarely spoke of the Oracle nowadays, but Divine Justinia's official verdict on that matter was that the Oracle was a demon of Vengeance who manipulated most of Ferelden to kill the Archdemon for tainting the Golden City and that while it saved the world from the Blight, it was still a demon ruthlessly manipulating people as it saw fit, leaving destruction in its wake. I didn't know what Leliana thought of that or if she recognised me, since we travelled together and she was one of the first to actually call me the Oracle, but... She was heavily dependent on the Divine as far as opinions went. She didn't need another demon. And Leliana was quicker to stab than Cass.

“You pretty much look like you're going to fall apart in the seams, Ori,” Raleigh said after a moment.

“I'm fine, Sunshine.”

“You're not, though.”

“I have to be fine, so I'm fine. I am going to be fine until this whole ordeal is over.” Wat I wouldn't give for my voice to sound at least a little firm in that moment.

“Sure. Then you blow something up and disappear for another three years.”

“Probably, yeah. But that's not really- Mhnf!” A fluffy towel was thrown over my head so everything went dull white for a moment while my hair was being dried.

When water stopped dripping from me everywhere, Raleigh took a step back and grinned at me. He still didn't get to have his teeth fixed, but I had noted that around Haven he was throwing close-lipped smiles only, so this expression felt sort of like a privilege. He threw the towel over the chair and concluded: “You look cute with hair like that.”

“With my hair everywhere?”

“Yup.”

I didn't have a quip for that, so I resorted to the lowest hanging fruit: “You still look like a corpse, so you shouldn't be the one talking.”

“Ha, but it takes me two hours every morning to look this good. True beauty is five percent talent, forty percent skill, the rest is hard work.” He threw a shirt at me. It was a button-down with embroidered sleeves. “Though I wouldn't worry about you – Seeker Pentaghast said that our artisan has time to take your numbers for a mask.”

“Oh right, can walk around Orlais without pants, but Maker save our souls if I have my face uncovered,” I groaned. How would I even fit a mask over my glasses? Oh nevermind, I didn't have my glasses anymore. They were left behind. Argh!

There was a knocking on the door: “Um, madam Dessa, sir Samson? Are you both... decent?”

“Come in, Sirann,” I said and buttoned up my shirt quickly. It indeed was Sirann, obviously very flattered than not only I remembered her, but recognised her.

“Making friends?” Raleigh asked

We both sheepishly smiled and looked away. After a moment, I said: “In my defence she was the first one I met here who wasn't all eager to shred me to pieces.”

“I am supposed to take you to Maestro Temuirre,” Sirann said quietly. “Otherwise he will shred me to pieces.”

“He can try that,” I frowned, “and we will have one maestro less.”

We still headed there once I brushed and pacifies my hair so it was a less of a poof around my head and more of an ordered tail. I carefully asked Sirann about her day, and she rambled to me about her work, from which I understood that dinner would be steamed carrot and baked potatoes and that Leliana's ravens were cute. Which of course they were, they were ravens.

Temuirre was the most obnoxiously Orlesian man I've ever met. He had a horrendous wig and an azure mask with silver bejewelled moustache and two rows of spiky horns. His accent was subtle, but his gestures were grand and he was holding a pair of scissors in each hand and stood too close for my personal liking.

“Excellent, most excellent, Lady Dessa Tiny!” he boomed in a tone that implied that he could not imagine anything less excellent. “Lady Cassandra has told me you are headed to the capital! How capital, ha ha.”

I hated him.

“Since it will be an one-time visit only, your mask doesn't need to be anything elaborate, but there is still a certain protocol to be followed. You are the representative of the Inquisition, after all! You can't just promenade around in a papier-mache domino like some vagabond from an alien-”

I cleared my throat rather loudly and put myself between him and Sirann.

“-an alien nation?” he ended a bit uncertainly. “Or some vagabond. My point is you need to represent. Oh, have a seat, my Lady.”

I took sat on the cushioned chair.

“You are very petite,” Temuirre commented and took a measuring tape to my head. “Tall forehead, that is a lot to work with. I would propose engraving. Have you got any military background?”

“I aided at the Battle of Ostagar,” I said reluctantly. A lot of people were at Ostagar, after all. As long as I didn't say I brought the Archdemon down myself.

He hummed and nodded, and for some ungodly reason measured my nostrils. It tickled. “Very good, very good, that means we can work with metal. Since you are also an author of some renown, I would go for a feathery edge. Pen and sword symbolism, we love that in Orlais. And of course, you are Nevarran, so-”

“I am not Nevarran.”

He paused. “However, you sound Nevarran and it will be easier to let people presume you are from there. As such – black and gold colours, touch of silver.”

My thoughts were how incredibly tacky that all was going to be, but I was promised that tomorrow morning at the latest I would have my mask which would not be perfect, but acceptable.

To my great surprise as I was leaving, I ran into Solas in the door. I opened my mouth to ask him about that, but he was a step ahead of me and already said: “I am coming too. Already I was hauled to a shoe-maker.”

“The sacrifices you make for me,” I replied cheekily. “Do I owe you a kiss?”

“No.”

“Ah yes, mister Solas.” Temuirre carefully glanced at me, but I didn't give him any shade for pronouncing “Solas” like “how unfortunate”, because he was entirely correct. “Come on in, have a seat. Now, what would-”

“I do not think all of this will be necessary,” Solas didn't even sit down and handed Temuirre a few papers pressed between two wooden desks to held together. “I have a specific design in my mind, as you can see.”

I bet my shoes it's a wolf.

Temuirre browsed the papers, but I didn't catch a glimpse. “Yes, yes I can see. Rather... bold,” but the word “bold” was supposed to mean “absolutely not”. “Nevertheless, mister, I have to take measurements if it is meant to fit. Do sit down, it will only be a moment.”

Sirran practically dragged me out and walked me to the cabin which I was beginning to think of as mine, since I slept there.

“I am handy with a needle,” Sirann explained, but I didn't know what she was explaining, so she only confused me, “so I volunteered. I though I'd show you so you can tell me what you really think, madam.”

She reached into the drawer and pulled out a bundle of cloth. Unfolded on the bed it turned out to be a coat with way too many buttons and puffy sleeves. Sirann was looking at me with a lot of expectation.

I carefully asked: “How long had you been working on this?”

“Just a day. Oh, I didn't make all of it, madam. I just fitted it so, you know, wouldn't drag it on the ground. And, um...” She showed me the hem of the left sleeve. Since the coat was a mute black and the thread was dark green I didn't notice it at first, but there was a swirly abstract embroidery going from the hem all the way to the mid-length of the sleeve. I quickly checked the other sleeve – nothing there.

“That is a very nice personal touch.”

“It's supposed to represent your mark. Anchor. Since you're the Herald. Um. You are the Herald of Andraste, right?”

I sat down on the bed and motioned for Sirann to join me. When she did, I sighed, heavily. “That is... complicated. I for myself haven't met Andraste, I don't hear her voice, she hasn't told me to do anything. The Maker doesn't speak through me either. But,” I said with a resolution, “it all might also be the Maker's will. It's too many coincidences for all this to be just random, right? So I think that... that it could have been anyone willing to help, you know? That's all it takes – just to want to help and venture head first to certain death and go through it. You come changed on the other side. After all when Andraste stood up to the Tevinter Magisterium, she did the same.”

Sirann thought about it: “So... you're not the Herald of Andraste because she sent you... but because you call for her. That makes sense.”

That was not my point whatsoever, I just didn't want to crush her hopes.

“I suppose. The Maker's will is ineffable and unpredictable. I just know that I am doing the right thing. It's not a nice thing necessarily, but I do it so other people don't have to.”

That seemed easier to swallow, and she left to bring me dinner.

Temuirre had kept his word and brought me the mask the following morning. It was a thin sheet of pressed blackened iron covering the upper half of my face, with ruffled raven feathers – a kind donation from Leliana as I had been informed later – decorating the edge. The engraving was mostly abstract swirls flowing from the left to the right leaving asymmetrical cut-outs with silvered edge here and there. My favourite part, however, was the gold satin rose right above my right ear.

“I must admit, Maestro,” I said with a smile, “I dreaded your suggestions, but it looks lovely. Thank you. I'll do my best to act up to it.” I tried it on. It was a perfect fit.

As for Solas... the world owed me yet another pair of shoes. It even had ears on the top!

The greatest surprise, however, waited for us when we reached the crossroad, now officially named the Crossroad, as the Inquisition's banner claimed it to be. As we had reached an actual road and were below the line of frost and snow, Josephine deemed it pragmatical-

“A chariot?” Cassnadra looked as if she was going to smash the offending box on wheel to pieces. “Chariot? Me? Never!”

Solas looked on the pair of shoes he was wearing and about which he hadn't stopped complaining since we made the first step, even though Cass and I had repeatedly told him he needs to crack them through before they become comfortable. “I am with Lady Montilyet on this one.”

“Come on, Cass. It's called shared suffering. It builds character and comradery.”

She made a disgusted noise, but climbed into the chariot eventually. With that we could embark, even though the road was uneven and we would have our behinds bruised by the time we would get to Val Royeaux.

After a moment Cassandra pulled out a book from her bag and glared at me in a silent dare to comment on her choice of literature. I was amused, because it was the Star Circle, which I wrote and nowadays deemed extremely cringe. Ultimately I did not say anything.

Something heavy fell on my shoulder. It turned out to be Solas. He was snoring.

I whined quietly: “Please, tell me we are going to be there soon...”

Chapter Text

“You two look awfully unimpressed by your first visit of Val Royeaux,” Cassnadra said with profound judgement and dismay.

Solas pretended to consider the architecture and the diplomatically answer: “I have walked the Fade and saw the memories of this place before the city was build. I have seen the old crystal cities of Arlathan and Antiva before the Fourth Blight, reflected in memories and lives of people who lived in them like the reflection of moonlight on a brilliant diamond. In the material world the splendour is fading to the admiration and ideals of dreams and imagination. Perhaps I have seen parts of Val Royeaux through your eyes too, Seeker.”

I took a gulp of water from my flask with water. After the Frostback Mountains the lowlands of Orlais were too hot and I was parched. With the flask still in hand I motioned to the small square ahead of us and said: “That but a hundred meters above the ground and upside down and with some decent street lights.”

Cassandra frowned: “What's with the Summer Bazaar?”

“It reminds me of the Tanner's Alley in Vol Dorma.”

“Hmph!” If I stretched my imagination a little bit, I could see out of the corner of my eye the notification Cassandra Greatly Disapproves. It was fine with me, I greatly disapproved of Val Royeaux.

Solas decided to carry on a conversation: “What have you seen in Vol Dorma?”

“Honestly, not much,” I admitted. “It was dark and blurry.”

“Blurry? You do not strike me as one to imbibe.”

“Oh no, nothing like that.” A grin like a gaping wound spread across my day. One day I was going to file my teeth so it would have a truly scary effect, but I hadn't gotten to it yet. “I was slightly in a hurry. An illegal immigrant and not a mage, had a problem with the authorities.” Not to mention a dead Magister and two mildly scorched estates and some hundred-odd smuggled out no-longer-slaves. “There is a certain charm of having a roof-chase in a night-light city and when you run out of the street just take a bit of a free fall down.”

“You,” Cassandra accused, but her heart was already melting, since she was smiling, “are a troublemaker with no regrets, are you?”

“I have a few regrets. For once, I should have pulled that in Minrathous. It's bigger and more scenic.” The bridges, the towers, the spires! The lights reflecting on wet cobblestone pavement. “Sometimes it was almost like home.”

I had to have a weird look, because they didn't ask me anything after that. We reached the Summer Bazaar in an uncharacteristic silence. How did Solas and I manage to keep our tongues behind our respective teeth would remain a mystery until my dying days. (One of them, anyway.)

To say that we were expected would be an underestimation. Few of the Chantry Mothers of varying reverence have brought out a podium. I hoped I wouldn't have to get up on it, because the whole thing reminded me of my elementary school drama club. The teacher never let me have a real role, I always ended up as the narrator. (For reference the plays were Sleeping Beauty and Snow White and even little young me knew they sucked ass. I was disappointed, I expected Shakespeare. The teacher couldn't even pronounce the name.)

One of Leliana's scouts, obvious as the golden rose on my mask, met us in the gate: “My Lady Herald!” How subtle.

“Your report,” I demanded.

“The Chantry Mothers await you, but so do a great many Templars.” Not blind either.

“There are Templars here?” Cassandra perked up.

“People seem to think the Templars will protect them from...” She hesitated. “From the Inquisition. They're gathering on the other side of the market. I think that's where the Templars intend to meet you.” She waited, but when none of us asked anything else of her, she disappeared behind a column. And by that I mean literally disappeared. A tingle with blue flavour at the back of my brain told me it was magic.

“Only one thing to do, then,” Cassandra said solemnly and proceeded forward, finally putting her mask on. It was styled as a skull with folded dragon wings on the sides. It might have been stylish if it wasn't so red. She wore it with an obvious loathing.

Once we were halfway through the boulevard, she hissed: “They wish to protect the people? From us?”

“Personally I don't think they give a fuck about the Inquisition,” told her without much care. “The world doesn't revolve around us.”

“Yet.”

“I am not sure you understand how reassuring your statement is not, Solas.”

“But it is true,” he opposed. “The Inquisition will become a force rivalled only by a few. Otherwise it fails. One way or another we will be marked by history, and we will be the ones making it.”

“Alright, but that's actually worse. You do understand that, right? That it's worse?”

He turned to me, silvered wolf fangs glistening in the midday sun: “Does the thought frighten you... Lady Herald?” he stressed the title out with a grim chuckle.

I hoped that my look was cold and calculated. Definitely my hand sparkled, of that I was sure, because it hurt enough for me to desire nothing else than to curl up and scream. “It does not. That should perhaps frighten you.”

“If you are done with the pep talk, maybe we could talk to the holy Mothers and later if we are not arrested treat ourselves to honey cakes.”

Solas gawked in disbelief: “Are you bribing us with sugary desserts, Lady Seeker?”

“Yes,” she said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. After a moment she asked a bit uncertainly: “Is it working?”

Both Solas and I made very complicated faces and even under our masks Cassandra managed to translate that as “yes,” because she had a victorious grin on her face.

“Maybe,” Solas started cautiously as we approached the Bazaar itself, “we could get the cakes before we talk to the clerics. Just in case we do get... delayed-”

“Solas, no procrastination eating,” I stopped him. “Besides I am always more agreeable person after I get my blood sugared. I am not planning on being nice or agreeable if they start throwing accusations, and the ladies over there have an accusing podium and pointing fingers.”

And the Revered Mother at the front was dedicated to prove me right: “Good people of Val Royeaux, hear me. Together we mourn the death of our Divine. Her naïve and beautiful heart silenced by treachery!”

Cassandra leaned over to me and whispered: “Not a word about Corypheus. We cannot afford panic. Or public lynching.”

“You wonder what will become of her murderer. Well, wonder no more! Behold,” the Mother made a very dramatic sweeping motion in my general direction. The crowd began turning to see. “The so-called Herald of Andraste! Claiming to rise where our beloved fell. We say this is a false prophet! No servant of anything beyond her selfish greed!”

I waited for a moment, but no tomato or egg was thrown, so I gallantly bowed to the crowd and opened with: “Revered Mothers of the Chantry, Sisters, Brothers, ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to see you all sound of health and not torn to pieces by any demon, maleficar, crazed Templar or a cleric seeking vengeance for our beloved Divine Justinia.” I was managing a casual and conversational tone not entirely unlike a street charlatan making you wonder out of what he is going to pull the rabbit next.

To say that the ladies in ridiculous robes of worshippers were somewhat surprised by that would be a missed opportunity to say that they had to help each other to pick their jaws up from the podium. They probably expected anger of the righteous or a frightened girl hiding behind Cassandra. Unfortunately they got me.

“I was forbidden to tell you how terrible the current situation is on the premise that I'd be robbing the Chantry of their job,” I continued.

There was a quiet snickering at that from a stall with what by smell could be hot almond buns. Gotcha.

“Instead I am going to tell you that I admire your bravery and stalwartness you have shown in the recent days. The Divine is dead, the promise of peace between the Magi and Templars is gone! And yet you do not despair! You carry on, one day at a time, struggling with the hardships of life and uniting for a greater cause,” I gestured to the crowd which indeed could seem united and I was actively working on them getting the opinion they should unite with me specifically.

“Thedas needs your unity more than ever. The Breach threatens to tear the world apart and the death of our Divine has already divided us. We must not falter in this trial of the Maker, we should prove our mortal virtue and stand strong together despite our differences against the evil that threatens all of Thedas. Every man – and woman – makes a difference.”

Unfortunately one of the women, not the main speaker but a Sister behind her, found some solid ground in my speech on which to build her argument: “Ah, so the blasphemous self-appointed prophet claims to know the Maker's will?”

Fortunately the argument was so sloppy that it felt like too easy fruit to pick. But I was a short woman, I was not one to scoff over a low-hanging fruit: “I have never said to be a prophet, good Sister. In fact the only one to call me that... was the Chantry.”

The crowd gasped at that. I thought that I saw someone swoon in the front row, but they were far enough for me not to be sure.

I continued: “And I do not know the Maker's will. No one does.” The fact that she let me point it out was a fatal mistake on her side, since the Chantry admitted that, but also held the patent on the interpretation of the Chant, which was as direct from the Maker as it got. There had been a couple of schisms out of that, the biggest one, in case you don't recall, the fragile coexistence of Imperial and Orlesian Chantry.

And I was not finished: “The Maker has left us for we are flawed and sinful. He is deaf to our piety, our humility, for those are selfish attempts to prove ourselves better than our neighbours. He does not answer our holy wars and disputes for those are nothing but hatred and violence defiling His name. But wouldn't a proof that we care for each other, that we face hardships beyond our imagination, that we protect each other... wouldn't that be a sign that we are worthy of His love? What is more noble,” I appealed, doing my best not to move myself to the point of tears, “than kindness and compassion in the face of cruelty and violence? A soft word and understanding in the face of paiii-”

I had to stop. My whole arm was pulsing and my vision swam. My knees gave out. I was vaguely aware that I hadn't fallen down because someone was holding me. Whoever it was, they smelled like a wet dog. How embarrassing – reduced to barely more than whines of a kicked puppy from such a good speech.

And then of course Cassandra killed it: “It is true! The Inquisition seeks to end this madness before it is too late!”

“It is already too late!” I heard the Mother-in-charge proclaim.

The ground was shaking.

“Are you going to pass out?” Solas whispered in my ear with great urgency.

“No promises,” I wheezed. And because I was aware of my limits, I added: “No running.”

He pulled me up more straight, his shoulder blade dug under my collar bone. For the first time I was aware that we were of similar height. Then he took my hand, although I tried to pull back, and he squeezed it. At first there was a flash of blinding pain, so brightly green behind my eyes that it was practically white. And then without a warning it was better. For a moment I heard only my heartbeat – arrhythmical and too fast – and then it passed and the world returned to normal.

Just in time for me to see the Templars arriving to the marketplace and a Templar, or perhaps a Seeker, knocking the priestess out cold. The crowd gasped, but notably no one rushed to her to see if she was alright. I didn't notice any blood, though.

For an unfathomable reason almost everyone turned to me, surprising mainly because a moment ago I was not much better than the cleric. I assumed some reaction was demanded from me. I was too dazed to give anything better than my actual thoughts: “Dude, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“As if we are beheld to you,” spoke Envy.

I could barely see it, but I felt it. Or rather Justice felt it, but the difference between that was so little that it practically did not matter. A demon wearing a human body like a hand wears a puppet. I let go off Solas and took a few steps closer just to get a better look.

Cassandra walked with me: “Lord Seeker Lucius, it's imperative that we speak with-”

It cut her off: “You will not address me.”

The fingers were wrong. They curled the right way, but independently of each other. It had longer hair and it did not move with its movements. The steps were just a touch too heavy. I knew the oddities because I was looking for them.

“Lord Seeker?” Cassandra was somewhat staggered.

“Creating a heretical movement, raising up a puppet as Andraste's prophet.” It's face turned to us sharply. “You should be ashamed.”

The eyes were wrong. Too white eye-whites, the pupils and irises as if they were painted on. They lingered too long on the gilded decorations of the market for someone who had seen them too many times and for whom they should have fallen into the background.

And then it saw me. Or rather: It saw us. We, who were holding my chin too high, who ere squaring up as a guardsman at the door.

We saw each other for who we were: We saw Envy. And Envy saw Justice... and something it could not entirely place. To give it some credit, I could barely place myself on the best of my days, and most of those days I placed myself in the bed. Well, I would have if someone wasn't pushing me into giving rallying people against their oppressors.

I am not apologetic about our situation.

We could at least have, like, weekends.

Justice never sleeps.

(Envy-Lucius was talking again, but I wasn't paying attention.)

But I would appreciate additional twenty minutes in a warm bed to wallow in self-pity from time to time. I used to do that a lot before you took residency.

It was an unproductive and pointless waste of your time. Besides you have not done that for a long time; you certainly have fallen out of practice. Our actions have changed many lives to better. We are just!

Your ideas would have gotten a lot of people dead if I was not here to actually care for the impact and consequences. You can't just chop chains off people and tell them “Be free!” and expect them to know what to do next. They have no guidelines, they haven't been free before.

We make an efficient team in our cooperation.

“Oh piss off you self-righteous wanker.”

Someone's (Cassandra's) elbow hit me between the ribs, but it was already too late. Lucius that was Envy was already reddening in face, whether with shame or anger I could not say.

“You- You have shown me nothing. And the Inquisition... less than nothing. Templars!” it turned to the other men. “Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection. We march!”

They marched.

“Try spindleweed oil!” I shouted before they could disappear, and loud enough so even the surrounding streets heard me. “I've heard it makes the soft bits much harder in no time!”

They marched a bit faster after that.

“That was unnecessary,” Cassandra scolded me the instant the crowd concluded the show was over and dispersed back into people minding their own business.

“The bit about soft parts or where I called him a self-righteous wanker?”

She thought about it for a rather hot minute, and the concluded: “No, both of those were necessary. I meant the part where you pretended to collapse in pain.”

“Pardon,” Solas interrupted, “quick questions: Do our scouts send messages on arrows?”

Cassandra shook her head: “Not usually, no. Why do you need to know?”

“We might have a problem then,” he pointed to a wall. The red fletching was still shaking.

Chapter Text

“Why exactly are we chasing red handkerchiefs across the city at the command of of an unknown archer who is a friend of the Red Jenny, whoever that is?” It took exactly two and half honey cakes for Solas to stop complaining about it and be curious instead.

I dusted some crumbs off my shirt and said: “Because she's armed and we don't know where she is and might shoot us next if we don't run the little errand. And Leliana, Raleigh and Lady Montilyet would be extremely disappointed if one of us would get shot, maybe even to death.”

“And dying would be inconvenient.”

“Yes, that too, Cass.”

“Besides it is a good excuse to see the historical centre of Val Royeaux at our own pace. You are making your face known, looking approachable,” Cassandra added. “With each moment you are becoming less of a monster and myth and more of a real person.”

It took a moment to translate: “I have powdered sugar on my rose, don't I?”

They both nodded. That explained the amused faces they had been giving me.

In addition to the promised the honey cakes, the walk around was a treat from the tourist point of view. For me Cassandra was the perfect guide: she knew a lot and gave little fuck, which meant less historical numbers and more historical dirt and gossip along with practical advice and notes such as “You can actually throw a guy over this historical wrought iron fence without getting into trouble with the guard, because he lands in a pile of drying nettles which cushion his fall enough for him not to get hurt, but you have to do it it summer.”

The last kerchief we found on the promenade by water.

“We have spent half a day here and haven't died,” Solas pointed out. “Not finding out what all of this was about would make the whole ordeal pointless.”

Cassandra scratched the back of her head and sighed after a while: “It is far too late in night. I would be barely functional guardian should anything happen. I recommend we return to the chariot so we get some rest.”

I could in theory be awake for as long as needed with Justice's help. Not that it was a pleasant experience, but my personal record was eight days. Solas, we had learned, had the miraculous ability fall asleep on command anywhere, anytime, for an exact amount of time, and in any position, though he was prone to falling if standing or sitting. Whether or not that was a somniar thing or a weird Solas thing was yet to be determined. The only other person I could compare him to was Feynriel who suffered insomnia and made us suffer it with him, and who coincidentally was far beyond my reach at the moment. I hope he's okay.

Some twenty minutes later we were sitting in our chariot, curtains drawn. The air was hot, stiff and dry and mostly full of Cassandra's gentle... well, not snoring, but sleep-humming. Just to spice things up I was not the designated pillow this time but instead Cassandra propped her legs on my lap. She even took her boots off!

When we had been on our way to Val Royeaux, there had been several complaints from a certain elf that I had too many bones to provide any comfort. Despite those complaints he was now once again resting his head on my shoulder. Whenever he exhaled, his ear poked me in the cheekbone right under the corner of my eye.

As for myself I couldn't bring myself to fall asleep, so I took out my journal to write down the latest idea. Josephine gave me a small allowance and while Haven wasn't big on trade at the moment, we had seen a lot of Val Royeaux shops and stalls, so of course I ended up with a leather journal and some pencils. The journal had a lacquer finish in which dried leaves were caught, and I was very happy with it. I was also aware the finish would last in my bag for a week at best.

Solas moved his head in his sleep, so now instead the tip of his ear was poking me in the nose. He also now had a hand on Cassandra's bare ankle.

I guess I could get used to this.

Shit, I realised a few seconds later, I am now used to this.

I had dozed off eventually, because the next time I opened my eyes after I blinked the air was significantly cooler, the world notably darker, and most embarrassingly I was snuggled to a certain bald furry. By the sound of it, Cassandra was still asleep.

“Get your hand out of my hair,” I demanded and sat back upright. Maker's knees, my back was stiff.

I heard him turn a page, but he did pull his hand back. “You slept calmer like that,” he said as if it was an apology. “Reading this, I understand that you might have trouble sleeping.”

I squinted at the book he was holding: “Reading in the dark is supposed to be back for your eyesight. And digging in Cass's things for reading material is definitely bad for your health.”

Solas chuckled: “Is this the chapter before the one you allow a Seeker to commit a homicide on an apostate elf?”

I didn't give him an answer. I might regret what I would say, and I hated regretting things.

Solas closed the book and put it back under Cassanda's folded cloak. He smiled at me and said: “I like Loken. His goals are noble.”

“Everyone there has noble goals, except Aaye.” That was the entire point. And everyone besides Jynn also had blood of hundreds on their hands. Which is exactly why Jynn dies at the end.

“What, even Nova?”

“Especially Nova. What time is it?” As if they could heard me, the bells struck. “I suppose we better get going then. Do you know how to wake Cassandra up without loosing an arm?”

We woke Cassandra up and headed to our clandestine rendezvous. A spot of corpses later we met Sera, which went pretty well. It also meant she nearly shot Grand Enchanter Fiona straight between the eyes when she approached us from a dark alley.

“You're getting pretty popular tonight, eh? Everyone's after you tonight,” Sera snickered. “Good that you still have your breeches. Heh, get it, because I took their-”

“We get it,” Cassandra stopped her. Sera insisted that we take the confiscated clothes with us as a war trophy, and hey, it wasn't like the cloth couldn't be repurposed to something useful.

We wrote back to Haven, of course, and sent the message with a raven at dawn. The reply came that evening and boiled down to: “Welcome aboard Sera. On your way back to Haven drop by Redcliffe to talk to the Magi rebellion, Fiona is known to be reasonable. Samson and Josephine are trying to compose a letter which could be diplomatically sent to the Templars, some of them are bound to think Seeker Lucius is a self-righteous wanker who should not be listened to.” Except, you know, it was Josephine who wrote all this, so we could publish it as a stand-alone novel. Throw in a love triangle and it would even sell.

Have you ever had siblings? Younger siblings? I had four back in the day, the day before Thedas happened to me. Or rather when I happened to it. A sibling who is two years younger is approximately on the same level of hubris as you are. The moment the difference is seven years or more – friendly reminder to give your father a talk about condoms or vasectomy when you get to it – and you have three screeching harpies unable to entertain themselves on a two hour ride to visit grandma for the weekend, in that moment you'll understand what it was like to share a chariot with Sera. Except it was a few days longer than two hours. And I couldn't be more than four or five years her senior.

Over the time it took us to get to Redcliffe, I had heard that I was too elfy for a human, should had glowed more, should have glowed less when I decided to make her happy, was supposed to sing everything I say, ought to have a staff like a true prophet, and give a proper closed ending to the Star Circle. The last bit came actually from Cassandra who could not appreciate a proper time-loop tragedy, so I disregarded the suggestion along with Sera's.

We were a short way from the Redcliffe village when-

“Stop the cart,” I demand as an afterthought, but already I am leaping out of the window-

Chariot. It's a chariot. What is it?

There.

I turned my attention towards the paper pinned on a limestone dry wall. It was true that such things warranted my attention, but I had no way of seeing it from the road. Justice did it for me, though an explanation before the act would have been nice. We were still working on his understanding of the chronological order of events. I snatched the paper with something akin to my face portrayed on it and returned to the chariot to inspect it on the way.

“What is it?” the rest of the company demanded to know. The coachman feigned disinterest, but the Actor's Guild would throw him out on his oily ear for that performance.

“‘Rally against the false prophet’,” I read out loud the heading. “‘Beware the sinister with of Tevinter who hexes the most stalwart of men. Do not heed the words of the self-proclaimed Herald of Andraste for she is nothing but the herald of her own greed.’ Just me or is that the best argument they found against me and then repeated it over and over?”

The rest I only skimmed through: It gave a list of my assumed crimes, including but not limited to blood magic, demon summoning, blowing up every Chantry in Thedas, enslaving upstanding citizens and murdering the Divine. It also gave my short and vague description which boiled down to: “Short, has hair and forehead, sometimes glows.”

“See, even the Chantry says you are too elfy!” Sera claimed victoriously.

“It says ‘elfin’,” I retorted. “That means I am small, scrawny, of trickster nature or a combination of any of those.”

“The lack of erudition in common people,” Cassandra interjected, “might explain why they keep confusing Solas for the Herald.”

“I do not have hair.”

The Seeker flipped a page without much care. “You do have a forehead. A lot of it.”

Sera took the opportunity of me being distracted by observing Solas distress over his appearance and snatched the poster from my hand. Before I could even demand it back, she folded it into a swallow – that's like a paper plane but nobody in Thedas know what an aircraft is – and threw it out of the window.

And because she had what Merrill would call “the luck of the Dalish”, the paper swallow hit a terror demon. Here cue us rolling out of the carriage and getting our weapons so we could stop the demon horde and close the rift.

In the end our losses were one dignity (coachman whose sphincter was not strong enough), one stubbed toe (Solas), two shallow claw-nicks on face (yours truly), three arrows (Sera, shot them straight into the Fade), one chariot (split in half), and Cassandra's place in the book (Cassandra).

“What shite is this?” Sera demanded to know angrily, gesturing to a spot of air. “This ain't natural. It's not even magic. Hey elf ass, if you're doing this, stop it. Just stop, ugh!”

Solas, as the accused party, went to see what the grievance was. I realised that we had a problem on our hands when I heard him say: “Fascinating.”

A thing about Solas which I had noticed back in Haven: Whenever he said “fascinating” what he actually meant was “fuck this shit with a chainsaw penguin” and the only reason he never said that was that he did not know what chainsaws and penguins were.

(You would have thought that over the course of twelve years I would have gotten used to the cultural-linguistic difference. You would be wrong.)

“Okay, what's on fire?” I sighed and walked over. Nothing was on fire, of course, but there was an arrow with Sera's trademark colourful fletching hanging in the air. Warning bells began ringing in my head and Justice performed a perfect solo cheerleading choreography to the rhythm with his red flags. Not that it was necessary, I was not stupid. Not that much, anyway.

I made sure no one was standing in the line of the arrow and gently touched the feathered end with one finger.

Schlud! “Augh!” I cried out when the Anchor bit me from the inside. Sera went to get her arrow from the tangle of ivy on the wall. Good arrows could not be wasted.

Solas my self-assigned nurse: “Are you unharmed?”

“Can't say that it likes temporal displacement,” I strained to speak without hissing. My hand was taken and massaged. At first it felt numb but it got better soon after. I was grateful and hated myself for it.

“Hey, watch your fucking language,” Sera waved her arrow at me before putting it back into the quiver. Like every reasonable archer she had it at her hip and not on her back.

“So now the rifts can warp time around themselves,” Cassandra concluded. “We need to stop this. Yesterday was already too late.”

“Yeah,” Sera agree, finally catching on, “especially since it might be tomorrow.”

A soldier rushed past us, thanking the Maker but noticeably not us for the whole ordeal being over. The iron gate opened at her command.

We were greeted by a harrowed scout in the familiar green shawl all inquisition scouts issued, and which by the way did nothing to protect one from the elements: “Ah, you've arrived. There was a betting pool the moment the rift opened on when you'd close it.”

“How much did you cash in?” I waved my hand when I notice the man loosing all the colour from his cheeks and added: “No, no, I don't want a cut. So, what's the situation?” I had to ask, even though I knew. I was trying to appear normal. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was forgetting something important. Keys? Money pouch? Glasses, yes, but I knew where those were and had no way to get them.

“We've spread the word the Inquisition is coming, but you should know that no one here was expecting us,” the scout shuffled his feet awkwardly.

I nodded sagely: “Nobody ever does.”

The scout nodded along with me without a hint of amusement in his face: “True. Still, we've arranged the use of the tavern for the negotiations.”

“The agents of the Inquisition!” That came from a short-haired elf in famulus robes. He bowed to us with his hands clasped. “My apologies! Magister Alexius is in charge now, but hasn't yet arrived. He's expected shortly.” When none of us threw anything at him, he offered: “You can speak with the former Grand Enchanter in the meantime.”

“That sounds... great,” I smiled at him. “Thank you for informing us.”

He didn't seem hurt and despite his eyes jumping between us, he did not flinch when I moved my hand too quickly to wipe a trickle off blood off my face. So either he was alright or he was extremely well trained. Given that this was Magister Gereon Alexius's man, I presumed the former to be more likely.

The elf bowed again and returned back downhill to his duties. Slowly the four of us followed him, leaving the scout behind.

“Dessa,” Cassandra tapped my shoulder, “this Alexius, who is he?”

“Out of the Magisterium one of the more reasonable people. Ultimately a pacifist when he can afford it,” I informed her. It felt like reading from my journal, so I continued: “He pushed for standardised and improved education in whole Tevinter, especially for the Soporati, since the rest of the Magisterium couldn't be assed if the road workers knew what they were doing or not. I had hoped to get the Agit Curam through him, or rather through his son Felix. Alas, the magister joined the Venatori. He's... not a bad man. Just extremely desperate.”

A stretch of silence as we walked past the windmill. Finally Solas asked: “I take it that you know him, then?”

“Not well, but we've met.”

Oh. Of course. Here the scythe meets the rock. This was the thing I had been forgetting. Alexius knew me and knew my face.

Sera, dubiously on my left: “How did you meet shite bloodmage 'Vint?”

I licked my left incisor and tried to find a good way to say it without saying too much. Ultimately I settled on the bare truth wrapped in some jokes: “Alright, it's not going to sound good, but I caused this Chantry in Tevinter to implode and-”

Both Solas and Sera keeled over laughing so loudly that I couldn't hear myself speak. Cassandra flicked me one around the ear and since she was wearing her gauntlets it hurt.

Chapter Text

For an unfathomable reason Cassandra took away my flint-and-tinder rights. She also took them from Sera, who would probably ignore it, and Solas, who was a mage and did not need neither flint and steel nor the tinder, which Cassandra would have realised if she recalled that literally ten minutes earlier he had set a demon on fire.

One didn't need to be an empath to notice that the inhabitants of Redcliffe were terrified. They were not terrified of us, unlike the Chantry-lapping crowds of Val Royeaux, which was a nice change on one hand and deeply disturbing on the other hand, and on the third hand (I borrowed Sera's) it was infuriating because I liked being on the most terrifying side around and this was shattering my ego.

There was a lot of mages, some of them even in Circle robes of various levels of holding together by pure will alone. They minds were singing a haunting choral. But even if I didn't have any sixth sense to tell who was and was not a mage, the staves tended to be a dead giveaway. And they tended to stare into the middle distance, not entirely unlike the Tranquil. We did meet a few Tranquil on our way to the tavern, though, and they all moved with precision and purpose. It was the mages who seemed completely lost.

There were also common people. The tried to pretend the people around them did not exist. Some of them even tried to walk through me.

“The people here seem pretty miserable,” Sera notes. “Someone's gotta do something about it. I'm gonna shoot it in the butt.”

“We can do side-quest errant later,” I offered gently. “First, let's focus on not punching a magister in the face while it would do more problems than help.”

“You're a boring dusty asshole.”

I patted Sera's shoulder with a cheeky smile: “Let them think that. Then they'll never guess who took their breeches.” It gave her enough material for thinking that she was silent until we got to the Gull and Lantern, and to my amazement, she continued to be quiet even after the door closed behind us.

It was dark inside and the place smelled of stale ale and faintly of urine. It was nearly empty, but whether that was due to it being used as negotiation grounds or because the locals suddenly found their thirst quenched and their wells of political ideas dried out, hard to tell.

Wood creaked behind me; when I turned around I noticed Solas gripping his staff so hard that his knuckles went white. My reassuring smile helped absolutely nothing. Our group made a collective effort to look less tired and blood-covered. We might have faced a bunch of demons a moment ago, but we were going to be professionals about this.

“Welcome, agents of the Inquisition,” Fiona greeted us. She looked worse for the wear than she did in Val Royeaux – there was a distinct air of lack of sleep, her hair was messier, her complexion more ashen. There was also a ripped seam in her robe which no-one had mended.

When she meets us in Val Royeaux it is repaired with golden thread.

Justice, your eidetic memory is fascinating, and your grasp of tenses is abysmal.

Time is a mortal concept. For me it's been nothing more than a vague direction at best.

Rather than getting into that argument again, I gave the elven enchanter an bow.

Her voice tired she asked: “What has brought you to Redcliffe?” She motioned for us to sit down, so we did, but she herself remained standing. Her lipstick was askew, her eyeshadows all around her eyes and nose. If that wasn't a cry for help I don't know what is.

“You, or perhaps someone of your exact likeness, invited us to meet with you here.”

My words took her by surprise, but she was sluggish enough that she barely reacted: “I could not have invited you. I do not even know you, though I have heard of the Inquisition.”

“Of course, Grand Enchanter,” Cassandra interjected, “introductions are in order. My name is Cassandra Pentaghast.”

Fiona acknowledged it with a nod and: “The Right Hand of the Divine, of course.”

“I am Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am-”

“I am Sera,” Sera said quickly. “I shoot shit-faced wankers in their shit faces.”

Cassandra's shin brushed against mine as she tactfully and tactically stomped Sera's foot. Her face betrayed nothing when she said: “And this is the Herald of Andraste, her name is-”

“Madam Isc, what a lovely surprise,” a hearty voice boomed from the door followed by heavy steps. Magister Gereon Alexius, still slightly dusty from the road, juste entered followed by four other men, one of them I recognised as Felix from a vague memory of seeing him in low-texture high-shaders combination. Meeting him in person was... slightly different. For a starter: he had a noticeable limp.

Magister Alexius was wearing the horrendous Venatori uniform, he even had the hood on, so it gave him the appearance of having two too large and spiky elf ears glue to the sides of his head and one on the top of it. He was also sporting the trademark Tevinter sincere friendly smile and he greeted us cordially: “Welcome, my friends!” Here I heard the staff in Solas hands threatening to shatter into splinters. “I apologise for not greeting you earlier.”

“Agents of the Inquisition, allow me to introduce Magister Gereon Alexius,” Fiona said.

He dismissed her with a wave of his hand, and the former Grand Enchanter nearly flinched herself into the wall. I took a grasp of my knee not to start throwing fists. Gereon leaned on the table and stared me down like a fish in a stall: “The southern mages are under my command. And you... I am surprised to run into you here. I thought you were extending your welcome at the Vyrantium Circle,” he added with a frown. Amazing how he managed to ignore everyone else and immediately assumed I was the person in charge despite Cassandra being right there and not sitting in the corner like me. Even more amazing was to watch how much it pissed Cass off.

“And I thought you were incredibly busy in Minrathous. Funny how the times flies, isn't it? Felix,” I nodded towards the younger – although by no means young – man, “pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He sheepishly smiled and nodded back, his eyes darting to and fro.

“So,” Gereon took his gloves off and delicately set them on the table, “what has brought you to Redcliffe? I presume you have an interest in my mages for a reason.”

“I have been here barely for five minutes, I couldn't possibly make a picture about that,” I replied with a chuckle. My companions seemed slightly baffled by how casual and warm our talk was, alas I did not have time to explain to them in private that we've just declared a war on each other within the first five words we've said. “The Inquisition is planning on sealing the Breach. We need power for that. We need the Magi.”

I watched Gereon carefully so I noticed him pointedly looking everywhere but my left hand. Given that I was wearing gloves and my hand did not even give a single spark, he knew suspiciously too precisely at what not to look.

“Yet, the southerners pledged themselves to the Imperium. I vouched for them, offered myself as their protector. You know how it is.”

“I do.”

“Well, I do not,” Cassandra fell in sharply.

I nodded slowly and turned in my chair slightly to get her in my field of view along with Gereon. Felix glanced at me, but seeing that I was already taking in breath to give her a summary, he averted his eyes again. I said: “Lady Cassandra, it's like this: If you don't have a Tevinter citizenship and want to gain it, you have to work for the Empire for ten years before you are given any sort of legal rights. Immigrants are often screwed over this and abused to Void and back. Magister Alexius being legally the protector of the free Magi means that during that period they answer only to him.”

“And that is supposed to be better?”

“Well,” Felix poked a coaster on the table idly, “my father is a generous and compassionate person. If he did not protect these people, they'd have to answer to the whim of everyone in Tevinter. Some of our countrymen are...” his voice trailed off as he searched for a diplomatic term.

“Shit-faced wanker,” Sera supplied. Then the table jumped a bit and she squeaked.

“Precisely,” Gereon nodded, a smile tugging on his lips.

Cassandra suppressed a groan, but not enough for me not to be able to tell that she did it. “And so we wanted to negotiate with Grand Enchanter Fiona who no longer has the authority, and you want to negotiate with the Herald who hasn't got the authority either and we are stuck here, getting nowhere. Great. That is just great.”

“Wait,” Gereon turned to me sharply, “you don't?”

I shook my head: “Ultimately the decision is is somwhere between the Right and Left hand and the Commander and Ambassador of the Inquisition. I just stand there looking pretty, closing rifts and serve as the occasional target for the Chantry's spoiled eggs. The Inquisition leadership sometimes considers my ideas when they like them, but that's it.”

The magister's frustrated expression let me know that this stabbed quite a large pitchfork into his plans. He puffed out an exasperated breath and finally concluded: “That... changes things considerably. I am afraid that my course of negotiation was not prepared for this.”

“Neither were ours,” Cassandra admitted. “Perhaps we could continue at a later date?”

“That is agreeable. I shall send a word to the Inquisition.,” Gereon nodded and rose from his chair. “Fiona! I require your assistance back at the castle-”

“Pardon,” I jumped in before anyone could leave, “would you mind if we stayed for a moment?”

Eight heads tuned to me, plus the barkeep, so I elaborated: “We've just gotten out of our carriage, I personally would like to stretch my legs a little,” as if the fighting hadn't stretched me enough. “And I would like to make sure the Magi are all good under your care.”

“I assure you that they are treated well.” Yeah, maybe except the whole shack of Tranquils' skulls.

“You know me. I cannot believe it until I see it.” And then I was enlightened by a struck of pure genius on my side and added: “Besides... I sort of hoped that perhaps Felix could give me a tour.” I had never tried to bat eyelashes on anyone, so it probably didn't look well when I now tackled an attempt, but it was apparently good enough for Felix to blush, Sera to groan and Cassandra let out a quiet “d'aww”.

Gereon for his part chuckled: “I see, I see. But let him home before dinner. I am an overprotective father and you are still an unruly rebel.”

“Father I-”

“I know, I know, you promised to help me. I can miss you for one afternoon, though, and you ought to see some sunlight and perhaps even some people your age.” And then, gods preserve us, he gave us a wink and left.

Felix looked at me awkwardly and offered me an arm and walked me out of the tavern. It was a lot of work not to grin like an idiot. I let go off him once Gereon and his bodyguards got out of the sight. To my great relief the rest of our company followed us awkwardly.

Felix asked: “So, my lady, where, uh, would you like to go?”

I decided not to take any risks: “I haven't had the chance to see the local Chantry yet. I'd like to see what I have missed out on.”

“Not certain if it should go that quickly,” Felix nodded and barely contained excitement, “but I am up for it.”

“Dessa, I swear to the Maker...”

“I am not going to light anything on fire, Cassandra, I promise.”

We proceeded to the Chantry like the ragtag incoherent group we were, Felix checking every other moment to make sure we all were still with him. Solas fell in step with me on my other side so I was now sandwiched between two bald awkward men.

“Isc?” he asked. “Why Isc?”

I shrugged: “It seemed a good enough name for Tevinter. Or what, should I have used my real one?”

“No, no. Simple curiosity as to its meaning.”

“I've learned that people often are the opposite of what their name means.” Coming from Felix it hurt my heart to hear.

“I am sorry. I wish there was something I could do,” I heard myself say.

Everyone stared at me. With a mumbled “nevermind” I pulled my dagger out and slipped into the Chantry, as fortunately I managed to blurt out the hint on me knowing more than I should right in front of the door.

“Good!” I heard before something (shade) threw a pew in my direction and completely missed. “You're finally here! Now help me close this, would you?”

Step one: Do not get distracted by Dorian being pretty while fighting for your life.

Step one failed completely, but I was still able to put up a fight while distracted. Something (wraith) got kicked in its suggestion of face and it gave me enough time that I could disturb the rift somewhat which made the demons howl and pause.

In that pause my reinforcements managed to pour in, orient themselves somewhat and even pick a side, which I guessed form the fact that Sera did not send an arrow through Dorian's mouth.

By the time the fight was over I had ugly bruises on my back, a courtesy of being thrown through two pews, and my shirt had been turned into a scandalously high-cut crop-top. Also the scratch on my chest was bleeding and I ignored it as much as I could.

“Fascinating,” Dorian managed breathlessly while the rift was collapsing on itself right above me. “How does that work exactly?”

“Uh,” I shook my hand to feel anything besides the throbbing pain, “my guess is something about resonating structures, but our expert could probably put it in much longer sentence.” I waved somewhere towards the last place I remembered Solas standing.

“Don't start being all academic on her,” Felix chided his friend. “She already had to deal with my father.”

“Who are you?” Cassandra still hadn't gotten rid of her annoying habit of pointing swords at people who had anything to do with saving the world against their better judgement.

I was done with everything. I found one of the last standing pews and practically collapsed on it: “His name is Dorian Pavus, he's an Altus, he came here to help and he has an amazing moustache. This is Cassandra Pentaghast, Seeker of Truth and pointer of stabby things, Solas, mysterious expert on Fade stuff and ancient elves, and Sera who gives you lentil when you're being a little posh shit. Did I miss anything?”

“I don't give away lentil to anyone. Especially not snobbery bastards.”

Felix leaned to Sera and not so quietly whispered: “She means you beat people up.”

“Don't do that either. I shoot them.”

Dorian, more on the same page as I: “You didn't say that Alexius used to be my mentor before he joined the Venatori so I also know what is going on in here. And also I didn't catch who you are, besides the Herald of Andraste.”

“Depends on who you ask,” I grinned. Wow, they went off with the ceiling here. Should my head be spinning? Probably not...

“I'm asking you.”

“Well, already I got recognised as Dessa Tiny. And also as Isc. Some people also call me ri, but that' probably doesn't mean anything to you.”

A stretch of silence. Then someone slapped their hands on my stomach and it made my whole body tingle and drown in warmth. I squinted and looked away from the fresco and to the great surprise of no one saw Solas practising healing magic on me without as much as “do you mind”.

After a moment Dorian finally said: “And here I thought that I'd have a grandiose entry, explain to you that there is unstable time magic being abused in Redcliffe, offer my support and probably Felix as an inside saboteur and informant. Alas I'm beaten by the Herald of Andraste introducing herself as the leader of the Just and the infamous underground author in one person.”

“Time magic?” Solas fished out the important.

“How do you think we got here before you? Minrathous is far away,” Felix noted.

“I helped to develop this magic. It was a pure theory; we never got it to work! What I don't understand is why he's doing it. Ripping time to shreds for a few hundred lackeys?”

Felix sighed: “He wants to impress the Venatori. He wants to get you,” he pointed at me.

Chapter Text

“And I am the one who's taking this too fast. This is mildly disturbing, you know, since Magister Alexius is twice my age at least,” I tried to lighten up the situation.

“You are being kind on him. Ugh.”

“I'm thirty, Cass.”

The entire group did a double take on me with expressions ranging from “She is definitely a blood mage, nevermind she can't do magic” to “We are getting unnecessarily sidetracked and I did not wake out of millennia long depression coma for this”.

Finally Dorian broke the awkward silence: “Okay, just real quick before the world ends: share your skincare routine with me. And your haircare while you are at it, your hair is amazing.”

“Constant stress, getting dragged from a disaster to a catastrophe. Oh and use a lot of brain.”

“Glow-up smarter, not harder, huh?”

“No, I mean get sprayed with the insides of a man's skull from time to time,” I shook my head lightly. “So, are we in agreement that Felix's dad ripping the time a whole new one is bad and we should pacify him when he have the, uh, time? And more importantly, you two on board with it? What about you, Sera, you're not looking happy about this.”

She threw her hands to sides in frustration: “Of course I don't! They're 'Vint magisters! Nothing good ever came out of Tevinter. Argh, why can't we just shoot them all?”

“Because we are Alti, so presumably if we failed to show up for dinner more 'Vints, as you so aptly called us, would arrive searching for us,” Dorian dived head first into banter. I was already looking forward on having him on the team, because finally I would have someone who would not only match me toe-to-toe but would be even willing and probably happy to dance the verbal Remigold with me. “Granted, you'd shoot those too, and a bigger searching party would be sent for those. The fifth time or so I think you'd ran out of arrows. And the smell would be horrible.”

“Speaking of searching parties,” Felix interrupted, “I should probably head back before father sends one for me. It wouldn't do if they found Dorian, he's not here with us.”

“Or at all. You haven't seen anyone,” Dorian grinned and patted his staff.

“Alright, gentlemen,” I struck a gallant bow. “I suppose that this is the time where I say I had wonderful time and wouldn't mind doing this again.”

Felix blushed deeply enough that I could see it even in the low light of the Chantry. I decidedly did not kiss him farewell and headed out where the afternoon light practically blinded me and I stood stunned, squinting at the horizon.

Cassandra walked out followed by Sera and finally Solas. She growled: “We are heading back to Haven. Now.”

And since our chariot was busted, we walked on foot. Fortunately we didn't have to go all the way back to Haven, the camp in the outskirts was good enough and we even managed to get there before the sun disappeared.

Unfortunately it was good enough because Leliana and Raleigh were waiting for us there with the explanation that the Inquisition's people got a word to Leliana about how the negotiations in Redcliffe went... two days ago.

Solas glanced towards the green lining on the horizon which gave an indication of where the Breach was, and groaned: “Today I have learned that I absolutely loathe time magic.”

“You and that Tevinter spy think you're funny with that, don't you?” Raleigh pouted. “Everyone knows time magic wasn't real. If it was, Kirkwall would have never get a calendar.”

“What Tevinter spy, Commander Samson?” Cassandra demanded. Her annoyed face and further questions signified that she has finally cracked how this party's way of life was set, because then she asked: “Has he got half of his chest nearly out of his coat?”

“True enough he's got a bit of a tit showing. How he manages in this weather-”

“Is it Dorian?”

“That is the name he gave us, Seeker,” Leliana nodded.

“Then let him go.”

Three minutes later which included some ropes cut and a horribly bitter herbal tea made Dorian joined us at the campfire and even gotten a free dinner out of it. He was also sporting a black eye and was suspiciously quiet. It seemed that I was the only person who minded it, though.

It turned out that Raleigh and Leliana came here to discuss how to approach Alexius with Cassandra, and give me my post. People wrote a lot of letters to me, much to my surprise.

I never had any post when I was with the Grey Wardens except exactly two letters from Bhelen, one of them a small pouch of uncut jewels and the second a paper copy of the Memories concerning me with the added note that it would be nice if I could keep a low profile as long as I associated with House Aeducan and that I should never write back. The gemstones were spent a long time ago to keep one non-profit clinic running and stop someone's lyrium withdrawals from killing him, and the documents were left behind in Vyrantium with the rest of my stuff.

In Kirkwall Varric and sometimes even Garrett had to hand me fan mail ever so often, as Dessa Tiny was presumed to be Varric or Garrett's pen name. The assumptions were wrong, of course; Varric didn't have any pen names, and Garrett was lucky when he could write down his full name without a spelling mistake, spilling beer on it, or Bella seizing the opportunity of seeing him bent over the table, inevitably knocking the inkwell over all and any papers.

The Herald of Andraste, that being me, was getting... a wild array of what could also be described as fan mail, but different from what I was used to. Dessa got “put my idea in your next book” letters mostly. (If your idea ever got into any of my books, it was an accident; I was writing that stuff already and your suggestions have never been considered.) The Herald got pressed flowers and drawings of sticky figures with glowing hand. She also got some threats promising to avenge the Divine by killing her in unimaginative ways. Most importantly she got a couple of invitations to various interesting places and gatherings.

“Looks like Alexius is not the only one who wants to negotiate with you.”

“Solas, has anyone ever explained the concept of private mail to you? Would I be mistaken in assuming that you have seen a lot of correspondence in the time you've spent in the Fade?”

“Your assumption is correct.”

“Has it occurred to you that people do not like it when you read their private mail over their shoulder?” I folded the invitation back in half and put it back in its envelope to give him a cold glare. Solas glare was impressively even colder.

“You don't have to look after her so much, Solas,” Leliana called from where she, Raleigh and Cassandra were trying to argue over the map quietly. “I've already checked that it's nothing harmful. The invitation from First Enchanter Vivienne is the only important one. She could be a powerful ally if you manage to talk her over on our side.”

“Gods dammit, Leliana,” I groaned. “Look, even if I wanted to go – which I don't – I don't have anything to wear.” I made a sweeping gestured encompassing all of me in a shirt with its lower half torn off, a re-fitted army coat with green flame embroidery on the left sleeve, ans the rest which was too big and I had to wear three pair of socks in the boots just so they would stop slipping off despite being laced up high. I realised my mistake a heartbeat too late.

“We can go shopping. Our Herald has to look representative after all. We could go shopping, get you some nice dress. I'm thinking puffy sleeves, low back. And of course some shoes,” Leliana practically glowed and clapped her hands. The whole mysterious spooky spymaster persona gone the moment she thought of shoes. “You have dainty feet, you could have little shoes with ribbons and sheen lacy stockings.”

“Counter idea,” I proposed with a nigh hysterical smile. “No.”

“Correct me if I am not getting this right,” Dorian broke his silence. “You are willing to face a supremacist cult, time magic, demons, throw your whole life away for a lost-cause rebellion against an Ages-old system and two of the most powerful religious organisations on the face of Thedas, hide at the edges of civilisations for years and run barefooted on rooftops, but shopping is where you draw the line? Shopping?”

“As long as we are not getting books, yes.”

“That is absolutely ridiculous,” Cassandra exploded (metaphorically) in disbelief.

“I mean, I kind of knew,” Raleigh crosed his arms, “but something something greater good, we all make sacrifices. Come on, it's a tailor, not an assassin.”

“An assassin you can stab,” Solas muttered. “Tailors not so much.”

Once again people were staring at me. I kept busy with the lentil soup because I was hungry. Finally Cassandra cracked first: “It is an order. You are to attend First Enchanter Vivienne's salon and you will be socially dressed. Leliana will help you get clothes in Val Royeaux.”

“Alright, but I'll get to complain the whole time.”

“No, you won't,” she dismissed me.

I put my empty bowl down and stood up. “Well, in that case,” I stretched my arms with an assortment of various pops and cracks, “if you excuse me I am going to be in my tent, wallowing in self-pity. If you don't excuse me, I'm going to be there anyway.”

I was actually trying to fall asleep, but I had too many thoughts about too much wolfshit (like bullshit, but a wolf made it, so it might contain people you know) to actually relax enough to doze off. After some time the arguments outside died out and soon after someone slid onto the bedroll next to me. I supposed it was Leliana, because anyone else would smell like sweat and old blood instead of old wardrobes, but I didn't turn around to check.

Ugh, why me? rolled in my head for the umpteenth time.

Who – if not you? When – if not now?

Don't try to be smart. It doesn't suit you. Being smart is my job.

I learn.

I thought that half of being a spirit and or demon is the inability to come up with anything new. Being smart is all about new.

You have this concept which you call machine learning. A concept like I can learn just as a machine learns. Perhaps even better; I represent an extremely mortal concept, one that presumes learning. I am Justice, not Mindless Obedience of Arbitrary Laws.

Mindless Obedience is probably a demon.

Very likely. Sloth-aligned, I'd imagine. Then again, it could also be a spirit of Duty. Or perhaps Faith. Faith can be many things if you believe in them hard enough, I suppose.

You suppose?

I have been around your over-active mind for an extended period of time, from the mortal perspective. It has been a formative experience. I am... having doubts. Multiple perspectives, all of them mine. It is fascinating and frustrating.

I decidedly avoided any thoughts of how human that was of him. Instead I thought: If you think you could use some of my perspectives, well, I'm always here for you.

You tried to get rid of me.

I'm taking half of everything in the divorce. I had to chuckle at that. I'm not made for getting into just fights for others. I know that it's the right thing to do, but... I'm tired. Really, really tired. I guess that I should be dead seven times over by now. I don't want to do this anymore. I can't... I just can't. And you are... not doing well here.

That is very reassuring. I can only hope that when I return to the Fade I will still be a good spirit of Justice.

For sure you're going to be a novel one. Have you noticed you are far less cranky about lying? And here I don't mean fairy-lawyer omission of truths, but flat out lying.

Not all people deserve the truth. To share it with them would not be just. For some it is too cruel, for some it is overbearing, some have done nothing to earn it, and some only trade with lies. An image flashed in my mind and I had to chuckle again.

“Shhh,” Leliana next to me hissed.

My my, throwing shade now? I was mistaken, you do learn.

The Wold-Deceiver is not deserving to bask in warm sun either.

Unfortunately I also needed every help I could get, so I would have to watch myself around Solas. It wouldn't do to murder him outright. Would it solve a lot of problems in the long run? Yes. It would also probably doom the world, not to mention Cassandra would have my liver on a plate.

“Justice never sleeps,” people say. They are completely right. No spirit or demon actually slept. Sometimes they rested, yes. Sometimes they laid motionlessly for hours to give the appearance of sleeping to others so their cover wouldn't be busted. But when I was asleep, Justice had a free reign of our shared body and as long as he didn't have to cross its limitations at which point it'd start glowing blue, he could get away under the guise of me still being awake or sometimes sleepwalking. He didn't need my eyes to be open to know what was going on, unlike me.

After a lot of internal shouting at each other about stuffing a certain Chantry full of implosives while I was asleep and couldn't do anything about it he usually shared his memories of any night adventures he got us into. But I had to take his word for it and as he had just informed me: sometimes not everyone deserved the whole truth. And when it came to control, it was easier to keep it once you had it. I had never dismissed the suspicion he would not give me the reins back upon waking, and he in turn never promised to me that he would do no such a thing.

As if that was not a nightmare fuel enough, my dreams were often filled with turning into a spindly monster with bone-like claws which ate living people – usually people I knew or would know. On its own it wouldn't be that bad, everyone had those kind of dreams from time to time I was sure, but the really bad part was that the dream was very enjoyable while it was going on. Waking up extremely hungry and drool all over the pillow didn't help me to feel better.

On the bright side due to Justice's lingering influence on me I was aware that it was a dream. With enough focus I was able to sway its course. Instead of flesh I dug my claws into the ground, instead of raw bones I chewed on ripe apples from trees I planted. When I had a very selfish streak I managed a very fantasy-esque and pointy keep full of tapestries and books and statues.

Tonight I was selfish enough and a spark of anger helped me to focus so that instead of cannibal extravaganza I was for once in my own bit uncomfortable short human form, and I found that form sitting at a loom in the drafty tower, weaving a tapestry in many shades of green and here there I noticed a thread of yellow or light teal. The end that was already finished I couldn't see, because it was wrapped around me as a blanket.

Or you know what? I was wrong about the human worm. I was pretty sure that if I had unrolled the blanket-tapestry, I would find out that I was part of the tapestry myself. Stupid fucking metaphors. I had a suspicion about this particular dream-place ever since I got here, which was three years ago when I figured Justice's whole thing, but tonight I finally got the confirmation. It was the Keep. The Keep made to represent possible various fates and histories of Thedas. The Keep of the Dragon Age. That keep. Fucking stupid fucking metaphors, in case it hadn't carried across what I thought about all this.

Nevermind that I couldn't actually weave on the loom anything besides the simplest cloth in theory, in this dream I was an A+ weaver and the tapestry was huge and detailed and I was working on just a little piece. I let the hands run on autopilot – I did not focus on them at all and they did the scripted thing. The woollen threads were soft under my fingers, but tugging on them too much was painful.

Besides me working and the distant dripping water the keep was completely silent. The absence of sound was notable – no setting wood, no wind in the hallways despite the draft, nothing. The silence of a presence which very obviously doesn't want to be heard.

I made the conscious decision to pause my work and get up to light a fire in the fireplace. It had an odd grey-teal colour of the veilfire and when I turned my back to it a spark jumped into my hair and set it ablaze. It didn't hurt, in fact I barely felt it at all. It spread quickly from the head to my covers, from those to the loom and then to the threads which were hanging down from the distant ceiling lost in the darkness upstairs.

Finally I felt warm enough and returned to my weaving, content.

I could have been dramatic and say something like: “You can come out, you know, and make yourself comfortable at least.”

But I didn't owe anyone letting them know I was aware of them, least of all Solas.

Chapter Text

We took a little detour on our way to Val Royeaux, where by “we” I mean Leliana, I and Dorian, whom Leliana refused to let out of sigh, and he repaid her by shamelessly and borderline profanely flirting. Hadn't I known any better, I'd think he really was into her. Which, honestly, would be a good taste. During that time our spymistress got out of him that he was a necromancer, too liberal by the Tevinter standards – which doesn't say much, since Tevinter is... well, Tevinter – studied in literally every Circle the Empire had, and preferred red over white wine. Dorian got nothing out of Leliana, not even a chuckle, and he was trying really really hard.

“So, why are we going the long way round?” I asked twenty minutes later. “Not that I don't love some undegrowth, but I am pretty sure that following the road would definitely be faster.”

“Your Tevinter friend is here unknown to Alexius,” Leliana replied a bit too calmly. “On the main road we would be found too easily and we would have lost this advantage.”

Dorian grinned and elbowed me: “Hear that? We are friends now.”

I ignored the remark, but elbowed him right back. “Alright, but we could have left him at home with Cass. She'd mother him.”

“Oh, I am extremely happy to get out of the house. Father always said I need to get out more.” Instead of elbow this time he pushed me with his hip a bit to side. The height difference – Dorian was far taller than I had expected him to be, though he was not beanpole-shaped – meant that it hit my chest.

“I thought we could quietly sneak past the fighting idiots ahead and visit Horsemaster Dennett,” Leliana spared us a glance, implying that we were nowhere near being sneaky or quiet.

“His farm is north of here, though.” I swung my hip and hit Dorian hard enough that he momentarily staggered, but if the grin was any indication, he didn't mind. “Instead we are walking in a circle around lake.”

Leliana sighed: “Fine, you've got me. When you mentioned an ancient darkspawn magister, I reached out to the Grey Wardens. Or tried to. All of them have suddenly disappeared, both in Ferelden and Orlais, aroudn the time the Conclave happened. Weisshaupt hasn't responded yet and Free Marches have no idea what is going on. My people have located a sole Warden recruited by the name Blackwall, fortunately camping around here, and now I can't find him.”

“What was that about ancient darkspawn magister?” Dorian asked

“Not certain either,” Leliana frowned. “You skipped a lot of details, Dessa. I would actually like to know what exactly it was with the Cornyphenul.”

“Corypheus,” I corrected her promptly. “He's a-” I was cut of by a loud splashing noise like the one I make when I land in the shallow muddy water full of reed and blood lotus stalks because Dorian bumped into me too hard and I lost my balance on the slippery footpath.

“Maker preserve us,” I heard Leliana whisper with the strong undertones of a woman who is reisgned to the idea that the fate of the world is once again resting in the hands of complete idiots.

I took the offered helping hand and looked up at its owner: “Give me a moment, I'll be right back,” I instructed and climbed back up on the road.

With a great smile I informed Leliana: “Good news, I found him.”

“Corypheus? How is that good news?” Dorian asked.

Blackwall proved inability to follow even the simplest instructions, because he didn't wait as I told him and simply followed me. He had a perfect timing, because he appeared as if on a cue and made Dorian look like an idiot. Dorian informed him of that with a pout.

“Alright. Who or what is Corypheus?” Blackwall asked.

“Okay, everyone knows the Chant here? The bit where seven Tevinter magisters shimmy into the Fade and into the Golden City and catch the Blight taint and bring it back and thats where we get the Blight from?”

Certain mage crossed his arms: “Well, the Imperial Chantry would correct you about twenty times and then burned you at the stake for this description, but otherwise yes, go on.”

“Great, so Corypheus was the one in charge of that operation,” I informed them.

They all look horrified by it, so I gave them a moment to digest it before continuing: “Some years back, like Ages or so, some Wardens managed to kind of imprison him through a mage's blood. The Hawke shuffle-truffled in like he owned the damned Deep Roads, set those bindings loose and hacked the dude to pieces, despite one fo the first things I ever told him was to do exactly everything but.”

“So the Champion killed the darkspawn magister, no? I want to say that all is good, but obviously it is not,” Blackwall shone his brilliance.

“We are talking about a dude who had physically been in the Fade. For Corypheus, body is just a vessel. Loosing it is inconvenient, but he hasn't got a problem getting new one. Sort of like changing socks, I suppose. And now he's a new Old God-alike to a cult of Tevinter supermacists.”

They thought about it for a moment. Finally Dorian summed it up: “Ew. Imagine the big laundry days among the Venatori. Or you know, don't. Don't imagine that.”

On the grounds that the Inquisition was secretly fighting against a secret darkspawn we recruited Blackwall, got his side-quest abut the caches, and upon reaching Dennett's we left him with the scouts and soldiers who have been covertly following us to train them and help them build the watch-towers, because it turned out that on their own our troops had the organisation skills of cherry-drunk finches. Dennett's description, not mine.

“Horses for the Inquisition won't be a problem once the routes are secured,” the horsemaster said. “The Grey Warden is going to be of good help, unless he conscripts all the food we have for himself. And the three of you are going to Orlais and in hurry... I suppose you all know how to sit in the saddle, right?”

If I had a calm and docile and small mount, yes, I could. It was horrible, I hated it and I was not a good rider, but out of necessity I learned.

“Unfortunately we don't have any ponies here,” Dennett looked pointedly at me. “Won't be a problem, though. I've done... some experimental training.”

“Please tell me it's not an overgrown mabari,” I whined.

It wasn't. It was a ram.

“Arlathan twisthorn,” Dorian specified. “They were domesticated in the times of the old Empire, Maker only knows why, and then we dragged them everywhere. They have far lighter fur in the north, though, and more upwards horns. You get to see the wool or skulls in shops often posed as halla. They have nothing to do with hallas.”

“Dos your historical zoology lecture come with a manual on how to ride this?” I asked pointedly and Dorian took it as his cue to shut the fuck up.

It turned out that the ram was easier than a pony on the premise of arguing with me less and not trying to beg apples out of me. It was also definitely more eye-catching when I galloped it through the streets of Val Royeaux. Just so the world would prove a point to use we arrived there yesterday, as in on the day I also had the talk with Alexius. Given that we had been a week on the road and didn't even pass our own chariot, the three of us were more than slightly irritated by the complications in chronology.

Despite all the threats Leliana made about getting dress and shoes for me we didn't end up at tailor's. We bought the only somewhat acceptable dress by Leliana's standards we were able to find in four hours, and then dragged it over to a seamstress to fit it on me.

“With the mask and ribbon lace-ups you look like a doll,” Dorian concluded. “One of those porcelain collectibles you can never play it. My cousin has a hoard of them, they are extraordinarily creepy even by Tevinter measures.”

“The only other option was to look like a whore,” Leliana countered. “Do me a spin, Dessa, I want to see it in the movement. Hold your back a bit straighter, you are a proper lady in a salon. Absolutely adorable.”

Coincidentally those were the words First Enchanter Vivienne described me at the “little gala” when I got to it. It was actually a week-long thing serving as the sweet end of the second ball season. Don't ask me, it doesn't make any sense to me either.

It went like this: I went in all doll-like and charming, I got passed around ad a charming talkative entertainment who made groups laugh without saying anything, some people recognised me as the actual Dessa Tinym and made me autograph a few blank cards which they could put in their books, marquis Alphonse attempted to antagonise me and the whole Inquisition and then tried to duel me when I offered him a loan to buy some better insults which to the surprise of no one ended up in Vivienne freezing him in place.

“I must say that you are absolutely adorable, Herald darling,” she fluttered me a smile. “As the offended party, what would you have done with him?”

I pretended to give the marquis a considering look while in fact I was working on my wording. Finally I concluded: “Oh, poor little meow meow. But he is looking rather aesthetic like this. He's not really in the way either. I think he could spend the rest of the evening gracing us with his decorative presence. Provided that you do not mind, of course.”

Vivienne tapped her chin with a delightful toothy smile: “My dear, the only thing I mind is the suit his poor aunt provided him with for the Grand Tourney.”

“We can peel him out of it. Unless he is more offending without it.” And like that I won her over, even though she was made well aware I was the one to start the whole Mage Rebellion mess with blowing out the Kirkwall Chantry.

It also meant that on our way back to Haven the two of them bickered. It was fun at first, but they both made it known rather quickly that I should not bother trying to join their sparring. I'd lie if I said I wasn't a bit broken-hearted about it, but I coped with scouting ahead and debating with Justice if we should be saving the world as quickly as possible or trying to fix every problem we come across.

“A sole soldier ahead,” Leliana informed us the day we crossed the borders back to Ferelden. “I don't recognise the uniform.”

She handed me the spyglass to take a look, because I still had no glasses and barely saw shit as it was, not to mention anything on the opposite hill on the road. I squinted at the distant figure through the tube for a moment and then handed it back with words: “I bet you seven sovereigns that he's waiting for us.”

“You're on it,” Dorian laughed.

I turned to him with a wicked smile: “And three on top of that that he's your countryman.”

“Alright, you're getting way too specific.”

The said soldier was in fact a mercenary indeed waiting for us and indeed Tevene. Namely it was Krem and I was incredibly relieved, because this meant I had my recruiting done. We took yet another detour, this time to the Storm Coast, because it'd be too suspicious if I took the Chargers on their offer without seeing them work.

The Iron Bull saluted to us lazily, leaning on his great axe, whole man splattered with blood. It was the first person on whom carnage looked good, but then again he was not covered from gore head to toe. To be fair it was because there wasn't enough guts to cover him completely.

“So you're with the Inquisition, hm?” he looked us over. “Glad you could make it,” he chuckled. “Come on, have a seat. Drinks are coming.”

Dorian and I made ourselves comfortable on only moderately sharp rock. Vivienne circled the camp for a moment before she defiantly remained standing, finding nothing she would deem worthy of holding her butt, Leliana sat down neither, hands hanging around belt with weaponry a bit too awkwardly to look comfortable with the situation.

“So, you've seen us fight,” the Iron Bull said after he made sure we all had a tankard with ale in our hands. To my great amazement I saw Vivienne taking a hesitant sip and then exing the whole thing in one go. One of the Chargers, (Dalish, probably) cheered on her and limped to get her another. Bull continued tuning them out: “We're expensive, but we're worth it... and I'm sure the Inqusition can afford us,” he added with a chuckle.

“How much are we talking?”

“It's not going to cost you personally. We'll set it up with your ambassador – Josephine, I think is her name – and the gold will take care of itself.” Chuckle. “What matters is that we are worth it.”

I passed my keg to Dorian who looked like it was the Feastday. The Iron Bull looked at me quizzically as I crossed my legs and deliberately folded my hands behind my head, making myself more comfortable on the boulder. I wasn't going to leave him hanging in suspense for too long: “Do we ought to supply you with letterhead paper? I bet that would be impressive.”

The Iron Bull paused. Then he put his keg down and started laughing: “Alright, you're good. You're really good. I would have told you anyway, though. I've heard of Sister Leliana, you have a bit of a reputation in the Qun. I'll get my own paper for my reports back home.”

“What's wrong with the Qunari?” Vivienne peeped up from her yet another ale from where Krem was doing a display of chatting her up.

“Ben-Hassrath,” Leliana shrugged. “I want the reports you get. And I will proofread everything you send to anyone. Don't try to trick me; if you do, I'll have your liver for breakfast.”

“You'd chip a tooth, but this is an excellent agreement.”

I chimed in quickly: “Can I add a condition too?”

“Sure, little one. Shoot.”

“You get the Inquisition members a therapy before railing them tied to the bedpost.”

The Iron Bull did a double take on me and his one remaining eye blinked a few times before he managed: “You're worth a lot of salt too. Sure.”

This is not going to bite me back in the ass in any way whatsoever.

Leliana gave me an ugly side glance: “You remind me of a demon I once met.”

“We are not demons,” Justice and I hissed at her.

“Tension in the leadership, huh?” Bull stood up. “Beter not to have anything to do with it. Chargers, we're packing to Haven! I'll catch up with you there. Skinner's drunk out, we might take a while. Krem! Stop trying to hex the mage with your blood magic thing, use to it seal the casks, damn it all!”

“Aaand the ale has gone sour now,” Dorian put the tankard I gave to him down, still mostly full. “I'll pick up our Enchanter you two go ahead.”

On our way back we picked up Blackwall, arse deep in possessed wolves and I got into an argument with Lord Woolsey about determinism. Everyone looked at me a bit weird, because they heard only my half of the conversation, and finally Vivienne concluded: “At least Seeker Pentaghast is a civilised Nevarran. Your people are so peculiar, must be all the walking corpses.”

“There is nothing bad about walking corpses,” Dorian muttered behind my back.

“That depends entirely on the direction in which they are walking,” I told him.

“Point taken. I just never seemed to have a problem. Asking politely to go bite someone else over there? ‘More than happy to comply, ser Pavus.’ Sometimes they just explode too violently, but it's a matter of timing, really.”

I feared that it would tempt the fate to tell us to haul our sorry butts to the Fallow Mire, but the worst thing in Haven that I had to deal with were Chancellor Roderick and helping Josephine to reorganise Haven so that the newly coming pilgrims and agents and soldiers would all fit somewhere. The place was becoming a fortress. A wooden and sloppy one, but a fortress nevertheless.

The following two days were spent mostly listening to various reports and helping to make decisions. No news from Redcliffe, though.

Perhaps it shouldn't have come to me as a surprise when at the end of the week Cassandra brought Vivienne to the war table and together with Josephine told us that they are going to approach the Templar Order in Theirinfal Redoubt. The glared daggers at me when I told them that I was not coming along, but after some considerations I suggested they should bring Blackwall along. You know, for security, if anything happened. They had ten minor Orlesian Houses behind them, but those were going to parade around like peacocks and that would be it.

Good thing that I didn't go, too, because the next morning Dorian walked onto our little council waving a piece of paper in our faces: “Magister Alexius sends his regards. I am a little disappointed, I expected a poison-dipped paper. Wasted a pair of gloves on it.”

“Fucking finally,” Leliana took it from him.

Chapter Text

“‘Arrive at your convenience, I shall make time for you.’ Certainly nothing suspicious here. The audacity!” Solas was sweeping the crumbs off the letter, since it was him who got them there.

“Half of being Tevene is the audacity. But you have to admire the phrasing – it's as if he wanted us to find out, don't you think?” Dorian propped his elbows on the war table and donned a plaster smile that invited to knock his teeth out.

Enter Leliana and Josephine. They quickly assessed the situation, noted the state of my flour-covered shirt, the white powdering of Dorian's moustache and Solas' sticky hands. With a nod Leliana said: “And Sera. Is not here because...?”

“Resisted my bribery. Apparently it was not frilly enough.”

Josephine reached for the plate and with one dainty hand examined the bribe in question. After a bite she licked honey off her lips and with a coy smile said: “Her loss. I'll add ‘honey cakes’ to our possible negotiation tactics.

We went over the plan which is this: Sera and Solas would accompany me, because they were unassuming and therefore perfect bodyguards if things went south. (“Things are far too south already of my liking,” Dorian said, “and for once that's not a complaint about the climate.”) Dorian would sneak in with Leliana and scouts through the secret tunnel in the windmill. (“Ori, how do you know about the secret tunnel?” “Sunshine, windmill in a valley? They could have saved themsevles the trouble and just put ‘Secret tunnel here!’ sign up.”)

The main party would politely ask if we could borrow Alexius' mages for ten minutes to close the Breach. In that moment he would presumably try to subdue us and that would be when our reinforcements would burst from below, and take the castle by force. Outside of the castle we would have the Chargers; while the Iron Bull was not a part of my envoy, he was promised he'd get to bash some Venatori heads.

“What do we do if Alexius does something to time?” Solas popped an important question.

“The one of us close to Sera keeps her from panicking and the other one kicks a magister in the balls,” I said after a moment of thought.

Raleigh winced at the idea alone: “That's low and radical.”

“It's also effective, which matters more,” Leliana cut him of with the smooth conversational tone of a woman who's proved the effectiveness more than once. “It doesn't work on darkspawn emissaries, but otherwise it is a good tactic if you don't have a Templar at hand. Which we won't have – you are staying here to avoid suspicion that we are planning to retaliate.”

Solas retreated from the sacristy the moment the last honey cake disappeared, and with him went away most of the “what if” questions. Leliana didn't feel the need to explain the whole plan to me, since I was a bait, Dorian oversimplified it, Raleigh couldn't keep his attention for longer than forty seconds, Josephine had no idea what we were talking about, and I already knew how this would go, most likely. Could I change it drastically? Yes. Was I going to? No. I was feeling more comfortable with a script to adhere to.

With everything considered sorted out we went to pack in order to embark tomorrow as soon as possible. Dorian offered to brief Sera, since he was headed to the tavern anyway, as he had a free evening – the little he had brought with himself he hadn't bothered to unpack.

Upon arriving to my lodgings I found out that the clothes and light armour Threnn had issued me with had all gone missing. And when I say “all” I mean “all”. Even smallclothes!

Outrage! Theft!

Larceny! Arson! Murder!

Okay, chill your potatoes there. I am sure that nobody sat anything on fire in here. And hopefully no murder. Now, if I were a heaping of clothes, where would I be?

“Um, madam?” Sirann peeked from behind the door. “I am sorry, I knocked but you weren'T answering and you look... um, uh.”

I looked up sharply from the empty chest. Heel! The blue light went out.

“My apologies, Sirann. It's just, well, mostly nerves. I was distracted. What is this about?”

She shoved me a batch of folded laundry in her arms and sat it down on the bed. “I washed your clothes as you asked. I used the lavender soap.”

“Sirann, would it be too much if I said I love you?”

“Um.”

“What I mean is: I am very grateful for everything you keep doing for me. Thank you.” That seemed to put her at ease, because she giggled and bowed herself out. I myself was far less at ease, because I hadn't asked anything of Sirann recently, unless you count the complaint about the anatomically inaccurate drawing in the outhouse which was supposedly me, because the left hand was on fire. (Or rather the hand on the left, so the carved person's right hand.)

I didn't either. I would have let you know.

I deemed it a mystery for the future and less busy me. Probably Sirann just took the initiative and went a bit over the top and took my clean clothes with it. Or someone needed the clothes more. Yeah, that's likely, some new recruit needed a fresh pair of trousers so they ended up in mine.

At least I didn't have to fold the clothes myself, all needed was to stuff them in the bag. That gave me the rest of the day free, so I hit the tavern hoping I'd manage to get dinner before everyone poured in and the place would become uninhabitable.

“Has any of you have anything to pack?” Sera demanded the moment I put my foot in. I looked towards her table and found not only Dorian, surrounded by three empty tankards, the Iron Bull on a crate he probably hauled in just so he wouldn't have to squeeze on the chairs not made to accommodate a qunari, and Solas loudly slurping a soup from a bowl.

I ordered the soup, because it seemed like a great idea. I was informed that there were currently no clean spoons. The moment the waitress turned around, Sera began laughing like a madwoman. I decided not to ask what happened to the spoons.

“So, Tiny,” Bull started when he found out he wouldn't get any ale in me, “you nervous? About tomorrow, I mean.”

“Quite,” I nodded, “but as long as nobody starts about the Dalish, it's going to be fine.”

His eyebrows wiggled as he focused, and then he conceded: “You lost me. What?”

“I'm the person who has to keep Sera and Solas from loosing nerves with each other. Which they are most likely to do if elves, especially the Dalish, come up in a conversation.”

“We are facing a cliché time manipulating villain,” Solas threw his empty bowl in front of me, “but your problem is my disagreement with Sera?”

“Well, I can't kick your disagreement in the bollocks to make it come to its senses, unlike Alexius.” I stacked my bowl in his with a silent challenge to come up with a move.

“Do you two need a room? Or a conveniently isolated snow pile- Ack!” Dorian toppled backwards, because we didn't need a room and let him know that by kicking his stool under the table. I would have felt better about it if we had planned on that instead of having the same reaction. Bull and Sera both laughed, but whether at us or at Dorian was hard to tell.

“My feelings are hurt,” Dorian informed us from the floor with no indication that he was going to get up any time soon. “All seven of them.”

“Yeah. I think you've had enough,” Bull said, pulled him up vaguely upright, and then practically carried him out of the building into the night. That the mage wasn't even protesting meant that the Iron Bull was absolutely right.

I had tea which we tried to share between the three of us, but Sera drank most of it. Or rather she spilled most of it, predictably on purpose and on our heads. When I wiped the bitter vaguely herbal water out of my eyes for the second time I sighed: “I've never had such intense hair-care routine before I joined the inquisition.”

“Your hair's stupid. And elfy. Hey, hey, where are you going?”

I didn't bother informing Sera that I had just enough and was heading to bed.

In the morning we embarked before the dawn. Leliana was accompanying us, but the only people who noticed her were Sera and the Iron Bull. Along with her we had the full set of Chargers and a number of the Inquisition scouts and more stealthy soldiers. One of them made Dorian to wrap the green shawl with mask over his head until they reached the secret tunnel so that he'd remain at least somewhat unnoticed.

Shortly after the covet group left us we also left the Chargers behind while they did they thing and blended in. They would protect the village should anything happen. “Just so you know, might not be needed, might be needed a lot. A little army's on their way here from the east. Might be reinforcements, but not sure whose,” Krem informed me on the side while he eyed the red rocks.

We proceeded to the docks where a small boat was awaiting us. The whole time we were guarded by two Venatori, one of them sounded like a mage, while a Tranquil handled the oars.

“What's your name?” I asked him when we were halfway through the lake. He looked familiar, but I couldn't place his face anywhere, and the nagging was annoying.

He looked right through me: “My name is Owain.”

“Thank you.” It didn't ring a bell, but I tried at least. “I am Dessa. But you might know that.”

Owain shook his head head and continued rowing without another word. Sera next to be shivered and hissed: “Don't talk to it. Creeper.”

“He is still a human person,” I frowned at her lightly.

“He's weird. Hollow.”

“That,” I said lightly, “is the Chantry's fault.”

Solas, through gritted teeth: “Let's add this topic to the list of things we won't talk about together, Sera.”

“Put yourself on your stupid list.”

“Already there,” he rolled his eyes.

“Kids, play nice,” I reminded them, and then shot a very ugly glare at the snickering Venatori mage. The humour left her very quickly, even though Solas kicked me under the seat.

There was a hint of resistance in the entry hall; a young man stopped us that the invitation was for me alone and that neither of my companions were allowed in. I gave him a weary look. Orlesians wrote their status on their masks, Tevenes on their clothes. This man had barely right to talk, let alone tell me who I could bring with me and where.

“Alright, then I guess I am going back home. It was a displeasure to meet you all, bye,” I said cheerfully and didn't budge from my spot.

“Risky,” Sera whispered when the guards stepped aside to let us all proceed further.

“I have a reputation among the Venatori. It has a body count.”

Gereon Alexius was sitting on an uncomfortable throne, he didn't even have a pillow on it. Besides him stood Felix and at the bottom of the stairs was First Enchanter Fiona. She looked notably worse and drained. More drained than just simply tired. She was... a little less.

“My friend, is so good to see you again,” Gereon approached me. His fingers kept on fidgeting and it was extremely distracting. “And your... associates. Of course.” I heard his breathing, it was fast and shallow. “I am sure we can work out an arrangement that is-”

“What are you taking?” It took me a moment to realise that it was I who asked that. “Your hands are shaking. Your heartbeat is off. Your pupils are dilated. Either you are on some damn fine snuffs or you are terrified of me. I think we all are willing to agree it's drugs.”

Very, very slowly Felix lowered his head into his hands. It was probably my imagination but I hear him say: “Maker preserve us.”

Somewhere deep below me there was a hum. I was thrilled with anticipation. A bit anxious, too. I didn't have to make sense, I just had to buy us time. Heh, time, get it? Because breeches! Breach, breeches, time. Alright, that might be hysteria.

“She knows everything, father,” Felix shook his head.

“But let's not skip to the part where we try to kill each other,” I followed promptly. “I would really like to know what made you think that Corypheus wasn't just taking advantage of you. Because he is. Even your son who hasn't been told anything suspects that, he's concerned for you.”

“Do you think you can turn my son against me?” Gereon's voice was shaking with anger. “You walk into my stronghold with your stolen mark – a gift you don't even understand – and you think you're in control?”

“This is not your castle, it's called the Anchor, I have better understanding of it than you do, and I also have more than vague idea of what I am doing,”I listed on my fingers. “I am also not dancing to the whistle of a darkspawn who keeps word like a Pride demon.”

Solas flinched at those words, a fact I noticed only from the corner of my eye. Well, would you look at that?

(Schlud!)

“You are nothing but a mistake!”

“Indeed. Corypheus is fallible, isn't he? If I was from the Fade, I'd be Arrogance, coming to bite him in the arse. Alas.”

“You wouldn't even understand-”

“Gereon,” I interrupted him, this time not even waiting for him to finish, “I have been thwacking the Venatori in the north for the past two years, give or take a couple of months. I do understand. I understand more than you dare to hope. I know exactly what this is about, and that's more than Corypheus – your Elder One – can say.”

I took a few steps forward which intimidated the magister enough to walk backwards for a moment. I smiled: “Trust me, you don't want to participate in this glorified game of handball.”

(Schlud!) Solas flinched again and Sera with him.

“You dare to doubt the power of the Elder One? You are nothing, nothing but a worm!”

“Father,” Felix spoke up, his voice practically dripping despair and sorrow, “listen to yourself. Do you know what you sound like?”

“He sounds exactly like the sort of villainous cliché everyone expects us to be,” answered him Dorian, stepping from behind a pillar as if on cue. It probably was on a cue. He watched me and Gereon with his head tilted to side, hands empty, but the buckle on his staff harness was dangling loose, so he was in a fight recently.

(Shlud!)

“Dorian,” Gereon sounded almost remorseful, “I gave you a chance to be a part of this. You turned me down. The Elder One has power you would not believe. He will raise the Tevinter Empire from its own ashes.”

(Sera groaned. The terror had apparently worn out and was replaced with boredom. Schlud!)

“That's a bad thing,” I used the tone of voice I had reserved for young children putting peanut butter on armchair cushions. “You understand why that's a bad thing Gereon, right? You haven't skipped the class where they told you that genocide is evil, have you?”

Fiona, ever so weary and harrowed, looked up: “You can't involve my people in this.” It felt angry, but the anger lacked energy to be expressed through.

“This is exactly the sort of thing we talked together never wanting to happen,” Dorian's tongue was tripping over itself. “Why would you support this?”

Felix and Gereon shared a tender-tense moment when they both could hardly believe what monstrosity some people were willing to make to prolong one life. Not even save, only prolong. But when Gereon turned his attention back to us, he found out that there was nobody left in the room to seize us or kill us.

There were a lot of arrows sticking out of dead Venatori, though. Leliana wasn't even smiling, she had the expression of focused boredom, which was honestly far more terrifying.

That was when Gereon did something to time.

There was a high-pitched Sera's shriek behind me and then the sound of Solas tackling her down to the floor to keep her from panicking, as instructed.

“No!” Dorian flung a loosely weaved string of raw Fade energy which threw Gereon off balance and made the time-thing turn sideways.

Which in practice meant that it hit me from the left instead of flat in face. Once again I was dragged through the wonderful green yonder, though this time less with far less screaming around me. I was at my sense enough that I landed on soft feet and with my weapons unsheathed.

I was ankle deep in water in the Redcliffe dungeons, guesstimate one year in the future.

And I was completely alone.

Chapter Text

The worst part wasn't the omnipresent screaming of the red lyrium, though that was bad I give it that. It wasn't the murky water either, but someone could have took care of it – Redcliffe was sinking. It wasn't even the fact that I had to murder my way through the dungeons which I barely remembered how to navigate.

It was the not-so-lonely loneliness. I had only Justice to talk to, and while he was making his presence known strongly, he kept silent. There were last scraps of the Veil protecting Thedas and Justice... reacted strongly to it, his home being so close and yet so far. My blood felt as if it was on fire and I had to focus to keep my thoughts of righteous vengeance. It was partly why the Venatori ended up as corpses instead of my trying to sneak past them.

“‘Let's start in Inquisition.’ they said.‘It will be fun.’ they said. Well I am just about to be hilarious,” I grumbled.

CEASE. DIE. SURRENDER

“Oh, piss off. You too,” I added and stabbed the man trying to ambush me from behind. He staggered in shock, looking at the black blood encrusted with red crystals pouring out of the wound. I twisted his neck before he could say anything else. I was getting the feeling I might have gotten insensitised to death by my recent experiences, because there wasn't even a rise in heartbeat in me to speak of. I needed a therapist. Not Bull. Definitely not Bull.

I came upon the prison block and took a precious minute to wring my hair somewhat dry. I failed miserably and now had loose hair stuck to my hands along with blood. I had to wipe those off into my coat before approaching the cells.

At some point there had been many prisoners.

YOU BELONG TO US. LISTEN YO US. OBEY US. JOIN US. DIE.

It had been some time since then, though.

Fiona... there couldn't be done much about Fiona. While this all was never to come to pass if I succeeded here – and I had no plans on failing – it was painful to watch her. I comforted her. Promised I would fix this. Then I broke her neck just so she wouldn't have to suffer longer. I was vaguely aware that it was not a thing I wanted to do, but it was the most right choice.

Sera was extremely unhappy to see me. She backed away from the bars as I was picking the lock open (it was surprisingly easy). “No, no, no. You can't be here. You're dead and they don't come back.”

“I came back for you, Sera. I am not dead. Alexius is about to be, though. There.” The door swung open.

“I can't. I don't have anything to shoot with. I ran out of arrows the day you died making them pay,” she hesitated before stepping out and away from the red growing crystals protruding from the wall. Her eyes were red. Her teeth were red and crystalline. Her hair was longer.

“I'll get you as many arrows as you want,” I promised. “We need to find Gereon Alexius so I can get back in time, somehow, to stop all this. It wouldn't also hurt to find Dorian.”

“Fancy boy died with you,” Sera muttered.

“Yes, he should be around here somewhere. I haven't found him yet,” I frowned. Honestly, certain Pavus Altus was something I was counting on from the beginning. Not having him here was... Well, I didn't like to think about being stuck. I'd wing this. I could maybe negotiate with Gereon. Or get a different smart mage.

At first I thought that Solas wasn't there, but Sera pointed to the door: “He's stopped talking some time ago. It didn't make any sense, but I miss it anyway.” She added: “Don't tell him that. I still want him to remember me as, well, me. The old me. The Red Jenny me.”

Solas' cell was full of red lyrium. He wasn't stuck in it, but by the looks of it it was because he kept on chipping off anything that grew out of his skin. He missed a few spots on the back where red shards were sticking through, which I had an excellent view of, since he was sitting on the ground and staring at the back wall of the cell. He was still bald, but far from polished.

“Please tell me you hadn't been tearing your hair out for a year,” I sighed and cracked the door open.

For the first few moments there wasn't a reaction. He turned around slowly and stood up. Oh gods, that's a- that's a lot of scars. He blinked at us for a moment. Then he remembered how speech worked: “You- You're alive! We saw you die.”

“You saw me being propelled into the future, that is to say here. Can you still fight? I am headed back to prevent this from happening. I need some manpower to back me up.”

Solas stumbled out of the cell. He was worse for the wear then Sera who actually caught him and hung him over her shoulders. With the expression of absolute disgust she began snapping of the spikes from his back. It had to hurt. Still, he kept his voice calm: “Can you reverse the process?”

“In theory, yes. I hoped to find Dorian, he know how to operate the amulet.”

“Dorian is dead.”

“So is she. You don't see it stopping her,” Sera pointed out to him.

I backtracked and picked up a battle staff and a bow along with a quiver off the fallen. Hopefully the bowstring was not too badly damaged in the water. I handed the weapons over: “Here. Step two: Punch some sense into Gereon Alexius. Step three: Figure out time magic. Step one: Travel back in time and stop the assassination of Celene and demon invasion on mass scale, kick a self-appointed god in the nuts.”

“This world is an abomination. It must never come to pass.”

“I really, really wish you knew that a year ago,” I patted Solas on the shoulder.

We proceeded up the stairs, as Sera pointed out she heard the guards saying that their master barricaded himself in the throne room.

YOU ARE ONE OF US. ONE OF US. ONE OF US. COME TO US.

“How did you keep your shit together with all this lyrium screaming at you?” I turned my companions as we stepped over the corpses we were leaving behind. My elves weren't well, but they fought like cornered rats. Which was not entirely bad comparison, come to think of it.

Sera just shrugged as if she had no idea what I was talking about. Solas looked surprised: “You can hear it? How?”

They are not going to remember this anyway. This is not going to happen to them. “Alright, Sera, don't freak out, I am spirit possessed abomination. It's a working arrangement.”

“I... I see. That explains a lot of things.”

“You haven't answered my question, though.” I swung the next door open. “Over here, we are taking the scenic route around.”

For a moment Solas was silent and then finally told me: “I didn't. I am but a shade of what I used to be. I screamed and fought against my restraints and I failed. The red lyrium took a lot from me. I am simply put very good at keeping my face. Perhaps too good.”

We picked up Leliana. She was less than thrilled and also very coherent for a dead person. Which she was. She was dead and still commanding her own dead body out of spite and resolution. I didn't even need Justice to tell me that, it was blatantly obvious. I didn't comment on it, though, people usually don't react well to such news being broken to them.

I took them the long way around on a merry shard collecting tour during which Leliana accused me that it was all a pretend to me while all this was real.

“I know it is real, Leliana,” I sighed and picked up a shard, not commenting on how similar they were to those we had collected in the Hinterlands. “Everything is real. Maybe I am not. But you don't remember me, not enough for it to make any sense. This world, this timeline it is doomed and even if I could save it – which I doubt – then I don't know how. If I go back, there still is a world I can save.”

“So you pick that one over this,” she spat on the ground. “Predictable.”

“It's Qun math. Staying here means that one hundred percent of us have miserable end of life and all known iterations of Thedas are doomed to be turned into Hell by Corypheus. Going back and saving at least one version of ourselves lowers that number. In the wise words of Nintendo: Everything not saved will be lost.”

“Who's Nina Tender?” Sera demanded.

“A money hoarding glob with very cute animals and incorrect idea of how plumbing works.”

Leliana slapped me across the face, hard enough that it split my lip. I swallowed some blood and proceeded further.

Four rooms and bunch of dead people and demons later we walked into the throne room. Gereon was standing in front of the fireplace, which was the only source of light in the dark room without roof. The being that once was Felix was crouched on the ground next to him, gnawing on... a leather cover of a book. Ironically it was Thunderblood, which erudite and informed people could consider a parable to the current situation. Which of course it was. I should know. I wrote it.

I gently pulled Sera¨s hand down, but didn't make her un-notch the arrow. There would be shooting soon, I just wanted to at least try to negotiate. The world owed Felix that much at least.

“Was it worth it, Gereon?” I ascended the stairs.

“It doesn't matter now,” he shook his head and didn't even look up. In fact he sat down on the heap of splinters that once was the throne. Still no cushion. One hand was extended to the ghoul to pat it on the shoulder. As a reward for the attention Alexius got bitten. There was blood, but the magister didn't make a sound, didn't even flinch.

“Wait with me for the end, Isc of the Just. You and your friends alike,” he motioned for us to join him. We stood behind his back, but did not sit down. The fire was at least warm and after trodding around in water and drafty broken castle I was grateful for it. “It doesn't matter now.”

“I knew I hadn't destroyed you, I knew you'd be back. Didn't know it would be now.”

“Dorian is gone,” I told him. “I looked for him everywhere in this bloody place. He's gone.”

“I hadn't erased him,” Gereon rubbed the bridge of his nose, getting blood all over his face. “I wanted to remove you from time, but he- he skewed the spell and took the hit with you. If he was taken out of time we wouldn't remember him. But we do. But I don't know where he is. Or... when.”

“Send me back,” I told him. “I can fix this. I promise that I'll fix this.”

“You can't. Don't you think I tried? The past cannot be changed.”

Leliana moved like a viper; she pulled the ghoul by the scruff on its neck and pressed a dagger to his throat.

“Felix!” Gereon reached out, but she took it a few steps away from him. It wasn't Felix. I had seen a ghoul who remained herself – Utha – but whatever the Architect did to ghouls and what Corypheus did, it had to bedifferent things. There was not a trace of a person here. Or a soul.

“Please, don't hurt my son. I'll do anything you ask,” Gereon begged.

I started: “Leliana, please, don't. Don't do-”

“I want the world back,” she frowned at us and then black blood spilled on the floor and the lifeless body in her hands slumped forward, still twitching but blissfully unaware.

Gereon, mad with grief, fought us, but not really. An arrow with red fletching did him in.

I picked up the Amulet of Time-Fuckery. “Anyone in here knows how to work this?”

Solas peeking over my shoulder only shook his head. Leliana scoffed: “So all this for nothing. You are still useless! A false hope, a false prophet, a false-”

The ground shook.

The trace of the spell is still there, like a footprint.

“Great, can you track it?”

“We cannon stay here!” Solas shrieked. There was a crack in his composure. Specifically his teeth were wrong. His hands were also wrong, more... more paw-like.

Sera and he exchanged a glance and nodded. “We'll have the door. Buy you time.”

“I need a mage for this.”

“More arrows! Arrows into butts! Butt arrows!” Sera leapt for the door and Leliana with her.

Solas took the amulet, though I never really let go off it. He was obviously panicking, but I couldn't blame him, I wasn't much better for it. I had no chance of standing up to Corypheus like this, alone and under-equipped, not to mention without any preparations.

“You have as much time as I have arrows,” Leliana informed us before she went out.

Had you ever tried to replicate a spell you had only seen but never felt while you had no magic talent and your only guidance was a spirit who only concerned himself with various interpretations of law and justice? I now could proudly say that I had; it was like navigating a labyrinth with invisible walls that jolted electricity when you touched them.

“Almost,” Solas whispered, “we almost have it. We just need more ti-” he cut himself with hysterical laughter. There were tears.

The door burst in. It was demons of all shapes and forms. Some spirits too, but what was the difference, really.

I managed to rig the Anchor to give a green jolt that made me feel like my whole arm and stomach were tearing themselves away from my body, but it discorporated the front line.

“Yes, yes, this is it. The attunement-”

“Can't... again,” I wheezed.

The horde approached. They didn't seem like they were in hurry, they wanted to savour the victory. Or perhaps they were simply instructed to take me alive just so Corypheus could gloat and monologue at me in person. Fate worse than death.

But we almost had it. We just needed time, just a few minutes, a few minutes which someone had to buy for me.

I turned to Solas: “It would be incredibly convenient if someone was a gigantic monstrous wolf of legends and ate my problems away.”

“You... you know-”

“Haven't killed you yet for it. I need you alive. You need me alive. Please,” I added when he still hadn't moved. “Just one world, and who gets it, gets it. This one is a toast. Was it worth it?”

There was a giant wolf, sickly and wounded with red lyrium protruding from his body like hunting spears. He growled and bared teeth, then pounced. From the first moment it was clear that he was loosing the fight, but was determined to hold out as long as he could.

I had to leap off the platform when the fighting moved around the room. I rolled down the bloody stairs and between the knees of Anguish, dashed past Zeal and landed in the innards of Regret. The Anchor painfully pulsed, and the amulet glowed in my hand.

Howling echoed in the hall, so loud that the walls crumbled.

The attunement! The Anchor for the Breach. And through the Breach to time.

It was a desperate attempt, but it was either to do nothing and die for sure, or try that and die very likely. Math was simple that way.

I discharged the energy of the Anchor, this time into the Amulet. For the second time in two hours I was pulled into the green yonder, but this time it was inside out. I was barely aware of it, though, because my body hurt like a bitch.

My eyes were unfocused, but I found myself somewhere warm and smelling of gore, sewage, roasted mutton, and cinnamon.

“You'll have to do better than that,” Dorian next to me informed Gereon all smug.

It felt like a defeat.

Chapter Text

Gereon's last pinch of will left him – he fell to his knees and was inconsolable. I let Felix try to do the impossible and make him feel a bit better and a bit less like a monster.

“Well, I'm glad that's over with” Dorian smiled at me blearily, face strained. He was sweaty, drenched in blood and his entire left side looked like he had a nap in ash. “Or not,” he corrected himself swiftly.

A small army marched into the throne room. It was now positively crowded.

“Oh right. This,” I sighed. I wanted nothing more than a bath and a nap. Not to deal with this. People try to break the world, I am left with the clean-up. If I was a witch I would at least have the broom for it, and a pointy hat.

King Alistair Theirin, first of his name, stepped through the rows of soldiers and Inquisition scouts, and put on a wolfish smile: “Grand Enchanter Fiona, imagone how surprised I was when I learned that you gave away the Redcliffe castle to a Tevinter magister.” His command of the intonation was exquisite, but I had the light feeling that I should had been claiming copyright.

“King Alistair,” Fiona wanted to say something, but her voice failed her. Whatever was holding her together gave up in that moment. Leliana rushed over to help her to sit down; nobody wanted to see an older elven mage falling down and shattering her bones on the floortiles. I leaned on the pillar behind me, much to Dorian's amusement, closed my eyes and simply listened.

Anora, somewhere from the back where I hadn't initially noticed her, but who else could it be than the queen:“Especially since I am fairly sure that it belongs to Bann Taegan.”

Fiona, wearily: “Your Majesty, we never intended-” It must be terrible to argue with your own son and he doesn't know about it.

Alistair again: “I know what you intended. I wanted to help you, but you made it impossible. You and your followers are no longer welcome in Ferelden.”

More resolution this time in the Grand Enchanter's voice: “But we have hundreds who need protection! Where will we go?”

A beat of silence. Oh shit, right, this is my part! I made myself stand a bit more upright and look attentive: “The Inquisition came here to recruit the mages. We would still have you. We need people. Especially mages to close the Breach.”

Fiona looked at me as if she couldn't believe I was the Inquisition's spokeperson and then asked: “And what would be the terms of this arrangement?”

“While it's not much like you have many choices, I'd like to keep it simple: You become the members of the Inquisition. That's what the word ‘recruit’ means,” I smiled. My smile grew when I noticed Alistair's shock upon seeing me and Leliana a step behind me. “Right now free Magi don't have a good reputation in Ferelden – thank you for that, Gereon – but the Inquisition is known to take in everyone and commit good deeds which are yet to be rightfully punished.”

“We accept,” Fiona said hastily, “it would be madness not to. I will ready my people for the journey to Haven.”

“Please, don't get yourself killed over it,” I said. “In the village you should find a fellow, he answers to the Iron Bull. Qunari. He and his squad are here with me, he's here to help you to get you out of here as quickly as possible,” I patted her shoulder gently. “I wouldn't be surprised to learn that you are already packed.”

“You thought of everything, haven't you,” Alistair grumbled behind me.

“The original plan was pulling of a heist where we would steal slash rescue hundreds of mages from slavery,” I turned to him. “I must confess I was not expecting a royal farewell.”

“Get the fuck out of my kingdom,” Alistair said in many sentences and honey-glazed words.

As requested we saw ourselves out. Dorian ended up taking the boat with us, claiming that he would prefer not to go through the dungeons again today. I completely understood him. Nevertheless, the moment we reached the shore the mage melodramatically flopped into the water face first. He was there for a few seconds before gathering himself and wiping the water from his eyes, which smeared kohl all over his face.

“Better?” I asked.

“No, but now I don't have bits of people stuck to me at least.”

“You have dog fur all over,” Sera informed me helpfully.

“It's wolf,” I corrected her. Her reply was to dump a bucket of lakewater on my head and then laugh like crazy. I laughed with her once I got the pail off my head.

Dorian pulled us all into a tight hug. Not that he squeezed hard, just the capacity pressed on us. He grinned: “I am very glad you three are alright. Let's never do this again.”

That of course prompted questions, so over our journey back to the village we both had to answer the pressing question what in the Void did Gereon do to us. I gave them a slightly censored answer. The shock and horror and mostly guilt caught up with me when I got to the part about ghoulish Felix, which forced me to loose the contents of my stomach in the middle of the lake.

“Just like the last Blight,” I wheezed and failed to swallow another batch of bile.

“I mean, yes, she has a point. ‘Bleurghhhh’ is a good description of what I saw too.”

Solas tilted his head to side: “I take it you had the same experience, Dorian.”

“Not exactly, but close enough. I did not appear in the future alone but along with a pleasant if a bit short-tempered young woman. She knew me, I had no idea who she was. You and Sera were apparently her friends.”

“I know people,” Sera claimed. “Was she pretty? What's her name?”

Dorian bit his lip and looked down on the tip of his shoes. After a moment he answered: “Ellana Lavellan. Her name was Ellana Lavellan. And I- damn.” His voice broke. “I promised her it'd be fine, you know? That I'd protect her.” He rubbed his eyes and then was fascinated by the black stain it left on his fingers. “I was holding her when I sent us back. But the moment we appeared in the present she turned into ashes. I now have a dead woman in my hair.”

“It will be extremely lustrous,” I wheezed and resurfaced above the edge of the boat just in time to see Dorian heave over the other side.

“You two could open up a circus with that,” Sera said. “You'd be rich. Then I'd get your breeches and put lizards in your beds. Rich shites.”

“It's better to throw up after dramatic events rather than during them,” I pointed out to her. “Uh, Solas, what's the meaning of this?”

“This conversation bores me. If you do feel the further need to vomit, do not hit my head,” he answered calmly as if he hadn't just blatantly marked my lap as a pillow. Before I opened my mouth to give him a piece of my mind, he was snoring already.

We silently envied him that.

I got to steal a little exhausted catnap a few hours later in the back of the wagon where I was showed after one too many complaints about having to walk the whole way to Haven on foot, since we hadn't taken horses or rams with us. The only exception were the Chargers, who had the wagon full of mysterious equipments I fell asleep in, and now also Fiona's Magi who were taking entire libraries with them.

When I woke up, it was because the wagon stopped and people around me began arguing whether to push it or leave it or go another way, because one of the trees gave up under the weight of snow and fell on the road.

“We are barely thirty minutes from Haven,” Bull growled as he was pulling out an axe – not his greataxe, a regular axe for chopping wood – and stepped forward, “and we are thwarted by a tree. Better not be a metaphor for anything.”

I slipped out and into the cold air which did better for waking me up than coffee ever would. Sera was busy throwing snowballs at mages, so I avoided her by a mile and instead headed towards the nearest intellectual conversation which meant Dorian, Solas, an an older elf Enchanter who was freezing his arse off despite his obviously very warm robes.

“What are you arguing about this time?” I approached.

“We are playing a fun little game ‘What's the most absurd thing we can accuse Dorian of?’,” said the man in the centre of the accusations.

I was not yet awake enough to realise what it was supposed to mean, but I really wanted to participate in a group activity, so I threw in: “How about manipulating the fragile flow of time to get us to Haven faster?”

“Ah, so you are taking Solas' side. You both are wrong for the record. And revered Enchanter here hasn't made up his mind about his accusations yet.”

The elf turned to me with a weary smile: “At your service, Herald. I have been trying to stop their blood-curling argument for an hour now, but they seem to be enjoying it far too much to listen to me.”

“Our group is travelling far too fast for you not taking advantage of the time disruptions around the Breach,” Solas frowned.

“And I indeed am, my dear opinionated friend,” Dorian beamed, “but I certainly am not making any new ones. I merely alter the currents and our caravan is going with it.” He twirled the Amulet of Time-Fuckery between his fingers like a stage magician would do with a coin.

“The wolf is in the details,” I nodded sagely.

“Speaking of details, one thing that doesn't fit for me in your story,” Dorian pointed at me.

The elven Enchanter probably came to the realisation that this was not going anywhere and went away, probably to secure another pair of gloves for himself. I watched him go. He had such nice hair, the few he had left anyway... My attention was brought back when Dorian poked my nose which he accompanied with an impish grin and a question: “How did you make the amulet work? You're not a mage.”

“Oh, easy. I mean,” I snatched the pendant dangling under my chin, “I just did this.”

And I did it.

All of sudden the tree on the road was still standing, the people were gone, and instead of slowly approaching evening it was morning.

“Ah. Shit,” I observed. It didn't feel like enough to describe the situation, so I added: “Piss, fuck.” It didn't help either, but at least I knew my tongue was still working.

Considering my options I decided to make to Haven. Perhaps I arrived before we managed to embark for Redcliffe and Dorian would be there so I could explain him the predicament and perhaps also mention that I was sorry for the trouble. That was the original plan at least.

It changed the moment I ran into Raleigh on his morning cordial walk into the woods to take a leak somewhere else than the outhouses full of improbably anatomical inaccuracies and quaff a pinch of lyrium.

“Don't look at me like that,” he said. “It's mostly sugar. It's the placid- placebo effect. I have it under control.”

“Do you?”

Long pause. Then: “No. No I don't. I'm trying you know? To watch myself. I asked Cassandra to help me with the doses, but she's so busy. I don't trust anyone else with it; there just isn't a healer who'd know enough about it. I am trying to go by the schedule you gave me in Kirkwall, but... it's hard. Sometimes it just gets too much and... it's right there. The lyrium. In the drawer right next to my bed. It's so easy.”

“You need a regime,” I noted.

“I do, yeah. But I have nobody to watch it for me. So I dilute with sugar and hope my teeth don't rot away before the world ends.”

I resolutely stuffed the Amulet of Time-Fuckery into the inner pocket of my coat, offered to race Raleigh to the training dummies, a race which I lost by probably a minute, took a brisk rinse at the bucket and washcloth prepared for sweaty soldiers after training, and then cornered Cassandra behind a tent.

“Herald, I did not expect you to be awake so early,” she said fully surprised. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I think we should reach out to the Templars in Theirinfal,” I said bluntly. “Just our best and brightest so they know what they mean to us. You, I, First Enchanter Vivienne, just a little girls' outing and recruiting mission.”

“But- What about Alexius?”

I took a slow breath in order not to start giggling, and then said: “Alexius can go fuck himself with a shark on a stick for all I care.”

Cassandra tilted her head to side: “I am not going to quote that to the First Enchanter. Or Josephine. This is a diplomatically delicate mission.”

“Mhm, that gives me an idea.”

“Maker help us...”

In Josephine's words: “It is not a bad idea, in fact in political circles it is a common practice. There certainly are Orlesian nobles in Ferelden and Fereldan nobles who would be likely to support the Inquisition and gladly bask in the Templar presence if we smothered the road for them with some gold. There is however a little problem at that. Several zeroes small problem, in fact. The Inquisition does not have the funds for this.”

At which point I gave Josephine a scrap of paper with two hastily scrawled rows of numbers, a name and an address, saying that a clever and resourceful woman like her was certainly able to secure the best noble support money could buy.

Then Cassandra and I broke the idea to Vivienne who was fully on board and they agreed that they would speak up at the war table after breakfast about it.

I slipped out of the Chantry, waited for a few days younger me to exit the cabin and proceeded to quickly raid the drawers for anything clean or at least cleaner to wear. That was why Sirann caught me with my breeches pooled around my feet and halfway into a blouse.

“Oh I am terribly sorry, ma'am, I thought you've left!”

“It's fine, Sirann, it's fine. Don't tell me you've never seen a naked woman before.”

“I- well. Not really?” she tried. I finally pulled the clothes over my head so I could see she was beginning to blush.

“No? You always wear clothes?”

“That doesn't count,” she squeaked. “Besides you are... different.”

I groaned: “If this is once again about me being the Herald, I swear to the Maker.”

“No, I meant... well... You are... fluffy.”

I took a glance on myself, and then shrugged: “Yeah, well. Human.”

“It's cute.”

Now it was me who was blushing, so I began to put the clothes on a bit faster. To hide being flustered I said: “Would you be please so kind as to wash these clothes for me?”

She took the pile I had had more or less exhumed from my backpack, certain pair of socks which went into the future Redcliffe dungeons threatened to walk off on its own, and scattered away as she always did. Sirann was priceless, she kept the world going one cleaned thing at the time. Recently that cleaned thing was me.

I hauled clean clothes from the drawers into my bag. It wasn't much, but it had to do for a trip to Theirinfal Redoubt and back. I finished by buckling on the armour and headed for the stables to tell Blackwall to get ready.

“Finally. Some action,” he nodded curtly. He was ready to embark in ten minutes – apparently nobody in this place bothered to unpack their belongings, ever.

We got the horses ready for him, Vivienne and Cassandra, and my ram whom I was thinking of naming Oscar, in loving memory of Wilde the Grey Warden mabari.

“What was that supposed to mean, Herald?” Vivienne shrieked the moment she appeared in her pristine riding outfit, followed by Cassandra in clinking plate.

“A little bamboozling,” I did not exactly lie. “Leliana would have never let me come with you. She is too focused on Redcliffe. She'll have to live with it. This is more important. After you, my ladies. Who's got the map?”

Chapter Text

Blackwall suspiciously eyed the gathered nobility and then finally asked: “Since when are we so popular to get this many people to sign our petition for the Templars?”

Vivienne shrugged: “People are very reasonable when their invitation has gilded edges. Though I admit that I just saw Lord Abernache and Ser Martina embrace, so I have to wonder what exactly is the Inquisition's gilding budget, Cassandra dear?”

“The question should be directed to you, I think,” Cassandra stared at me. “I have little doubt that this is due to the note you gave to Josephine before we left. What did you do? Blackmail her? Or gave her information to blackmail them?”

“You've spent too much time around Leliana, Cass.” I got off Lord Oscar Fluffenton the All-Devouring. “All I gave her was the number and access code to my account in the Bank of Kirkwall. I wasn't rich, but I had some savings. I wanted to withdraw it all years ago, but, uh, my reputation in Kirkwall is not exactly weaved in laurels and roses. Or maybe the roses, but only the thorny bits.”

They were all silent for a moment. After a moment Vivienne said in a strangled voice: “Dessa, darling, I think you underestimate how much popular your books became with the publishing of the Tale of the Champion.”

Cass cuffed me in the face. My lip, which hadn't healed properly, opened. It was not entirely a bad thing, because I got myself out of all talks with the assorted nobles before they even began, as I was holding a kerchief to my mouth most of the time and occasionally spat blood on the ground when Vivienne wasn't looking.

That didn't stop a lot of people whispering behind my back that Lord Seeker Lucius only agreed to meet us after seeing me in person. There was a number of inappropriate comments clandestinely covered in social curiosity and idle gossip, the mildest of them stating that the speaker always thought the Lord Seeker to prefer equally experienced women. The moment Vivienne heard it she linked her arms with Cassandra like two proper ladies promenading in front of an old Fereldan keep, which both gave the picture of them being good friends, which they weren't, and prevented Cassandra from splitting more lips, which she obviously wanted to do.

Ser Barris was waiting for us at the gate. We were quickly introduced, but he ignored all the social polish and approached me straight: “I'm the one who sent word to Raleigh. He said the Inquisition is working on closing this Breach in the Veil.”

“Commander Samson has informed you correctly, ser,” I informed him.

“I didn't think you'd bring such a lofty company,” Barris admitted.

I tried to explain to him through pantomime that neither did I and that the situation might have gotten slightly out of hand. Out loud, however, I said: “The nobility supports the Inquisition's efforts. Even divided nations fight united against such a threat. Lord Seeker cannot ignore the voices of many.”

“This... promise of status has garnered the interest from the Lord Seeker. Beyond sense.”

“I was just about to tell Lord Abernache before you approached us that I always thought Lucius a very reasonable man who knows to whom he ought to lend his ear,” I smiled. The Orlesian lord smiled under his mask with a very pointy nose.

I added: “So, if we might go and see him?”

Ser Barris nodded and led us to the courtyard.

Lord Abernache gallantly offered me his arm, apparently walking hand in hand with the treacherous Herald of Andraste would help him climb the social ranks somehow. I took the opportunity and leaned to him in conspirational tone: “My friend, I suspect an extremely foul play afoot. If we are ambushed, I trust you with the life of our guests. Lead them to safety.”

“Worry not, ma chérie,” he patted my hand in a condescendingly calming manner and pointed to the glorified ornate butterknife strapped to his inner thigh, “I shall protect you from any danger we may encounter.”

I decidedly did not sigh.

COME TO ME. PRAISE ME. LOVE ME.

“Ah, shit,” I growled.

“Yes, the state of the courtyard is rather sorry,” Abernache whined next to me. “Wipe it in the grass, certainly everybody will excuse it.”

Absolutely no stabbing. You can only annoy him.

I passed the flag ritual to Abernache. Justice wouldn't let me do anything else than to raise the flag of people and then burn both the remaining ones, and I was not sure how much I actually agreed with him and how much I had simply internalized his opinions, and also it probably wouldn't be well received by the rest of the company.

The Orlesian attempted to play five-dimensional chess with flags by raising the Templar flag first, then people's, and then Maker's. I could feel Cassandra's disapproval flooding the courtyard, but Abernache was an excellent swimmer and did not drown in it.

Barris led us to the office where to the surprise of everyone but me we were greeted by the Knight-Captain instead. The air was screaming.

DIE FOR ME. DIE FOR ME!

“You know what they are going to do,” a whisper from under the stairs informed me. I focused all my might not to look. “You can change it, you will change it. You have to time it right. Pale faces with red eyes, gods, what have they done to you?”

The Knight-Captain went on an out of context villain monologue which I kept up with only because I knew exactly what was going on.

Wait for it. Wait for it-

I leaped over the table and tackled Abernache to the ground.

The arrow bounces off my armour as it has done so many times before. I remember it.

“Esmel, get everyone out. Now!” I commanded as I rolled off the man and threw an inkwell against the Knight-Captain's helmet. The damage it did was close to zero, but he had his eyes full of ink, which distracted him for long enough for me to trip him into the way of the next incoming arrow and then skewer a dagger through the space between his pauldron and helmet.

Lord Abernache ran out, followed by several Templars; some were running with him – those that haven't been backstabbed (which to my great pleasure was most of them) – and some were running after them. A few of those Vivienne got with her nifty extended cold touch.

The room turned into a massacre, for the lack of better words. There wasn't almost any blood – most of the Red Templars were so far gone that their blood simply crystallised in their bodies. The two that did bleed had their blood too bright, too thick, too translucent.

“Like gelatine. Berries on cream cheese, cold, the hint of summer. All gone.”

“Not helpful, Cole,” I whispered right back, hunched over the body of he last archer whom I was checking for any signs of life.

“They are safe. He led them out. The gate was locked, but I opened it.”

I acknowledged it with a nod: “Thank you.”

Then I stood up and looked at my somewhat shocked companions: “I think we are owed a lot of answers. I am so sorry about your dress, Vivienne,” I added when I noticed her skirt being ripped all the way to her upper thigh.

“This was a fine Antivan brocade. Lord Seeker and his Elder One will answer for this,” she dusted herself off nonchalantly, but her voice was trembling with focused ice-cold rage.

When we stepped to the upper courtyard I took a good look around, and that was the first time I saw Cole. He looked just as scarecrow-ish as he had been advertised, and hard to make out any details under the shadow of his hat. He was also slightly shivering like mirage.

“Why do you see me?” he asked, head tilted to side. Cassandra walked strait through him. “You don't need to see me.”

“You deserve to be seen.”

It earned me strange a strange look from Blackwall, so I told him: “Just practising what I am going to tell to our beloved Lord Seeker. He is a monster, it ought to be known.”

“Ah, so you don't just make all those speeches up on the spot. Good to know,” he nodded. “We still need to fight our way through to get to him.”

I'd like to think we would have made it without Cole around, but the truth was that it would had been extremely hard; he was picking off the Red Templars on the battlements one by one. It didn't seem that anyone noticed we were being shot less and less and eventually not at all.

GIVE YOUR MIND TO US. YOUR MIND TO US. OUR MIND TO US. OUR. US. OURS.

We caught up with Envy wearing Seeker Lucius' face atop the staircase. Behind him the door to the main hall loomed ominously.

“Lord Seeker,” Cassandra started, taking her ceremonial helmet off to face her ex-superior face to face, “I demand to know-”

She didn't get to finish due to her terrified gasp when the demon leapt, its hands around my throat. It literally hissed: “At last!”

The scenery abruptly changed. While I was aware – mostly due to Justice's influence, no doubt – that physically I was still suspended in the air by my neck, it was hard to ignore that I was also inside the Theirinfal main hall after a small cataclysm ran through it. It was a big foggy, because I had only very vague and old memories of it, most of them horribly pixillated, and Envy couldn't be bothered about details.

The place wasn't the Fade, but like everything that depended solely on the interpretation of the mind it was trying too hard to be real. The stone was too cold, too solid, the atmosphere too grandiose and oppressive, the fire too roaring and too bright while not illuminating anything nearby.

I walked forward to the pair on the other side of the room which was partially hidden by trees. Those were sparse at first, but grew thicker and thicker further in. Interesting trees those, they had very verdant round leaves ending in a point and the bark of pine.

On the list of details that Envy got wrong was the greeting committee. I started laughing.

The shape that was Leliana appeared in the thicket and approached me: “Is this useful? Will the laughter let me know you?”

“You've got it wrong,” I somehow managed to get out through my laughing fit. The memory of my stomach muscles was beginning to hurt from it. I had to lean on the shape that was Cullen for support so I would not fall over.

“You wanted to see them,” Envy reasoned through Joesphine's mouth with Cassandra's voice. “They are your comfort figures. You trust them.”

“No, no, it's just- You've got it wrong. And you don't even understand it.”

My support was taken from me as the not-Leliana dragged the not-Cullen, who looked the least real of the three of them which in turn made the shape look like a human being the most, and slit its throat. The blood was black, but at least the bleeding was correct. It sprayed me head to toe, and it didn't taste or smell like anything.

“And you don't even understand it,” Envy echoed, its voice all around me now. It was Cullen's mouth that moved, though. “Being you will be so much more interesting than being the Lord Seeker.”

“I'm taken. And you are not entertaining. You can't even imitate me properly,” I imagined a flash of lightning striking behind me. Of course Envy took the shape of me – very miserable shape – right behind me and of course I knew. It was my mind, how could I not know? I had spent countless late nights over-analysing everything that was happening in it, and then analysed the analysis until the dawn.

“Piss off,” I added. “You're in time out until you get some better props. You think that the Inquisition defines me? Come on, there is so much better material! So many interesting memories you could dig into.” I waved my hand to the trees which blinked out of existence and turned into a cosy library alcove overflowing with books, trinkets and cushions. I tried not to focus on how much it looked like the particular one in Skyhold.

“What are ‘spoilers’?” Cole asked and got out of the over-cushioned armchair, he himself looking surprised about being sprawled in it a moment prior.

“It means telling the twist or particular information that would cause a surprise in a story,” I explained to him. “It often spoils the experience to the person who is interacting with the story for the first time, as you cannot replicate the feeling of the shock and surprise. Hence the name spoiler, because it is spoiling.”

Cole mulled it over in his head for a while and then said: “Even when you know all the spoilers, then there is the anticipation. You changed things. You need to know if you were right.”

“This is getting uncomfortably meta,” I turned away from him and began browsing the shelves. Complete List of My Failings and Mistakes, the Chronological Edition – Volume 15, Part 4 was the first title my eyes landed up on. Coincidentally also the last one, because I decided to walk away from the library. I opened the wall suspended between two trees and walked through to the other side.

The Complete List had just gotten an entry longer, because I walked straight into my old class at grammar school. I saw it through the eyes of elven-years old me with glasses, which meant things came into good focus and were considerably bigger than they were in real life. Twenty centimetres do a lot for one's perspective.

Young me, her form distorted, was sitting in the first row right at the door. I recognised a few classmates whom I remembered where they were sitting, others kept changing shapes into the other classmates, but while I could name each individual face at any moment, none of them would come into focus for long enough to actually give them the name.

My old math teacher – or rather her caricature – was looming above us, giving us sheets of paper with test problems which we were supposed to send to the rows in the back. But little me was distracted by the half-peeled sticker next to the sink. The sticker was the most vivid thing in the scene, really.

The class diva sitting right behind the reflection of me screamed at me to give her the papers loud enough that the windows shattered and the electric lights cracked and went out. My young self whipped around, a ballpoint pen in hand and-

“You are overplaying it,” I commented.

The next moment the diva was trashing in death agony while her right hand slowly dissipated. The ballpoint pen was dripping blood.

“So much anger. So much hate,” Envy spoke through the teacher. “I am learning to be you every time you move.”

“Learning and understanding is not the same.”

“You are violent. You want to slaughter! You want to drown them in their blood!” Envy roared. One by one the shadows of my young classmates took each a ballpoint pen and stabbed themselves into their own hands. For some reason, perhaps over-dramaticism, is caused them to abruptly explode.I looked at Envy-teacher with the open ribcage from which blood and organs in vibrant colours like they have in anatomical atlases were bursting out.

I said: “I want a hot maple syrup cider, a good book and a week off.”

I stepped out of the climbing organs and jumped out of the class through the window. I landed up on the balcony of he only reasonably priced tea house in Vol Dorma. The sunset was magnificent and the lights below me were like a fairytale.

On the table was a pot of good Architect's Desire smelling ever so faintly of jasmine and lavender, and a cup of steaming maple syrup cider with a stick of cinnamon still swimming in. It was a made-up cider and Justice wasn't around to give me a lecture on alcohol, so I drank it. It tasted a bit underwhelming.

Cole appeared: “You are confusing Envy.”

“I am a very complex person. If it wants to learn about me, be me, it has to observe me like moons in motions. I am betting on it tiring out or getting bored sooner. I am getting closer to the core of this mental structure with every obstacle crossed.”

“Temptation,” the spirit whispered. “Peace, a moment of respite. ‘I could stay forever.’ But you can't – if you do, you die and it wins.”

“I am not so naïve. Hear that, Envy? Take a note: I am not naïve. But I am making him work on it really hard. Visual and auditory inputs are easy, but do you know how hard it is to get taste right? Anyway, tea? It better be nothing besides delicious.”

Hesitantly Cole made himself comfortable on a cushion and poured himself a cup.

Chapter Text

I was waltzing through a mental forest which was under assualt my Envys' vision of the all-powerful Inquisition under its command. The people barely had any facial features. The trees were brown poles with green blobs on top, no texture. It didn't look convincing even from afar. And I was dancing the simplest step of waltz through the shoddily sketched carnage and sung We All Lift Together, probably somewhat out of tune and definitely out of rhythm as loudly as I could.

The scenery gave way to an exhausted imitation of Theirinfal Redoubt. That at least looked somewhat realistic, because Envy was going by its own memory instead of mine, which also signified it was too tired to dug into my memories any further.

I found Envy wearing my body, or rather a poor imitation of it, in front of the great hall.

“Hello, Envy dear,” I beamed. “I looked for you everywhere, but couldn't see a thing.

“I... am. All.”

“You think yourself hot shit when you can't even stitch a honey-cake together. Seriously what was that supposed to be? The whole Inner Circle killing each other over my pastries? They didn't even have a taste. For shame, Envy, for shame,” I approached.

Most demons, and Envy was not an exception, were alligator or cheetah-like when it comes to getting their prey. They focused on one powerful outburst to overwhelm their mark. I was only a human.

Humans are pursuit predators.

“Unfair! Unfair! That thing kept you whole-”

I wrapped myself around Envy's fake body before it could grab me by the throat again. I really didn't like that. “Cole is a great moral support, but you could give some credit to me too.”

“We'll start again. More pain this time. The Elder One still- Mhff?”

I distracted Envy from resetting the process by sticking my hand in its open mouth, grabbing the implication of tongue and yanking it. It pulled out unnaturally long.

Cole who had followed me the whole time and Envy hadn't noticed his presence, was the ultimate distraction. Where by “ultimate distraction” I meant “stabbed it in the back.”

My vision cleared and I was staring in very much lack of face of what once pretended to be Lord Seeker Lucius. Envy's true form could be best described as a “mouth inside out sewn on an anus with four arms, but nowhere near as pretty”.

It reeled, barged through the wooden door and fled.

Ser Barris behind me dropped his sword and jaw in amazement. I helped him to pick up the first, he recovered the latter on his own along with the question: “The Lord Seeker...?”

“Has been dead for months by now, most likely.”

We sized up the enormous energetic barrier that Envy raised in the great gall in its desperate fleeing attempt. Magical barriers usually weren't visible, but this one was thick enough to distort air around it and tint it green. Vivienne, standing a step behind horrified Blackwall, shook her head and whispered: “Oh, shit.”

Cole was standing right besides me. It didn't seem that anyone noticed despite the fact that he was the most eye-catching person in the room. He still seemed to be slightly put off by the whole tea experience that happened in my mind, which I was a bit sorry for.

“Ser Barris,” I turned to the Templar, “I realise that your Order is now in shambles, but what are the chances that we still have some Brothers and Sisters capable of coherent thought and not turned into slaughtering maniacs here? And any lyrium that hasn't turned red yet?”

“The odds are high, but whatever and whoever we have left, we are loosing it rapidly by the minute. You... aren't suggesting to go after... after that thing?”

“That thing is Envy. And I don't need you to follow me, I just need this barrier to come down so I could thwack it.”

“Dessa, this place is under assault,” Cassandra reminded me, not even gently.

“Noted. You help the remaining Templars hold the great hall,” I nodded resolutely. “No man left behind, we have already lost more than we could afford. I'll find the lyrium caches and bring back anyone I ran into on the way.”

“On your own, darling?” Vivienne questioned, but did not sound disapproving. “I'll let you know that is a suicide.”

“The Maker and strange Fade bullshit will be with me,” I waved my sparkling anchor at her, and then bolted for the door.

This way I didn't have to do with anyone's judgement but mine and Coles. He was not exactly helpful with whispering “Tick tock, tick tock. One-and-twenty kittens, one-and-twenty kittens, one-and-twenty kittens. ‘If I don't make it in time he dies.’”

“Cole? You would tell me if we needed to return to help with securing the great hall, right? None of them has to die.”

Cola paused, and then nodded: “Yes, I will tell you. Bruised and bleeding, battered and breathless, but not bet, not broken. He holds them together, throws himself in front of their blades, then pushes them back with his shield. He won't make the same mistakes, he won't hide this time, because the Herald believes in him.”

I was in the process of stuffing my coat full of lyrium, convincing myself that I didn't need to swallow some of it just to make Justice shut up for five seconds, as he demanded to kill all the Red Templars as a retaliation for all their monstrosities. I still paused to think about what Cole just said: “That was... Thom?”

“Yes. He doesn't know that you know. He has thought about telling you, but his faith is weak and his fear too strong.”

Our run was rather quick. Not that I knew where to go, for that it had been too many years, but Cole heard the Templars' pain and I heard them, their low humming song of sleepless vigilance.

“This could be a popular resort,” I told ser Barris when I handed him the rescued lyrium. The two dozens of Templars which I picked up from fights and sent back were around, mostly licking their wounds, but they were very importantly alive. A lot of men was still not accounted for, but Cole assured me that they were fine, mostly hiding.

“Who are you talking to?” Cassandra asked me plainly. Then she nearly jumped out of her skin when all of sudden she noticed my new friend and partner in backstabbing Red Templars from the shadows.

“I am Cole. If I unsettle you, you can forget me. It will be easier for you. But not now, you need me now.” He fidgeted with the brim of his hat so that it would stop folding over his ears.

Cassandra was this close to pointing her sword at him: “Who- what are you?”

“I've just told you, I am Cole.” A tilt of head, and then he pointed to me: “She thinks I am Compassion. I want to help. I can help. I already helped you. They want to hurt you, but I didn't let them. They won't hurt anyone anymore.”

“First a Tevinter magister,” Vivienne muttered, “now this. Not to mention the stray petty thief. Dessa, really, your taste in companions is... lacking.”

She was entirely right. After all, she was a proof of it.

“Less criticising my taste in men,” I forced myself to be cheerful, “more demon-slaying.”

I was prepared that we'd have to protect the Templars while they'd peel the barrier layer by layer. It was not necessary; they simply hit it with force head-first and the thing shattered to pieces and dissipated into nothing.

The shock wave rolled over me and made me lightheaded and nauseous. Vivienne, despite standing on the far end at the remnants of the entry door, wailed and collapsed to her knees. Blackwall rushed to help her, but she pushed him away with far more strength than any of us were able to believe she could have, and walked to me on unsteady legs. A trickle of blood leaked from her nose and her eyes were bloodshot. She commented: “It reminds me of my first days in the Circle. Lovely days those, no care in the world but the books.”

“I hope you realise how extremely upsetting that is, First Enchanter,” I could help myself. It was a very polite way of saying that a certain spirit in my head was just contemplating a homicide.

“Let's go,” Cassandra commanded. “The demon will pay dearly for Lord Seeker.”

We went.

Envy was cornered. From this high up there was no other way than either down or through us. And since in the material world gravity could kill, Envy decided to risk us instead. Or perhaps its reasoning were far more shallow than that and it just wanted me gone if it couldn't have me.

“You could have been so many things,” I cooed, making an attempt to find a peaceful solution for all of us. “Ambition, Improvement, Aspiration.”

“And because of you,” is screeched, growing two spindly withered hands on which it stood, “I am no one. But if I can't have you, no one can!”

I dodged the first strike and parried the second by pure accident, but it was predicting my moves far too well. I hoped for a little back-up, but the Red Templars appeared as if they burrowed out of the ground – quite possible that they did, come to think of it – and everyone else was suddenly very busy.

“I know you. I was you. There is nothing you can do,” Envy hissed as I rolled out of reach again, “that I wouldn't see coming from miles afar. You can't win.”

There was an obvious solution to that, of course.

Now Envy is battling me.

“You forget about this, do you not?” I smile and shift my hold on the weapons. They are too light, too short. One of the fallen Templars is holding a mace and a shield, so I gladly take them, her body no longer needs them, mine still has use for them.

Envy doesn't know how to handle me. It corrupts, but Justice cannot be corrupted. Justice cannot be copied without understanding. It steals, it kills, it denies beings their purposes, and it makes no attempts to make up for any of it. My cause is just, my victory is certain.

When next it leaps at me, I bash it with my shield, sending it tumbling to the ground off-balance. The mace parts the leathery tissue like butter. What follows if not me, it is not justice, but a plain butchery, an insurance the foe never rises again.

I know for certain it is not gone forever. It has only returned to the Fade. In the end, that is its victory over me, for I envy it that it could return home. I am still imprisoned here.

My senses and command of locomotion were given back to me without a hint of hesitation. I took a moment to take a deep breath-

No, no, mistake.

The smell of Envy beaten to pulp was... beyond description. It was bad. It was worse than bad. I had had the displeasure of tending to infected putrid wounds out of which poured litres of festering pus, I had walked through Tevinter summer knee-deep in week-old corpses, and I had landed face-first in bronto shit on one occasion, and all of those things smelled better than dead Envy. I would have vomited, but I was too afraid to open my mouth.

So I extracted myself from the spilled misshapen bowels and stumbled far enough where the air was breathable and coped the only way I knew; I turned to horrified ser Barris and said: “My profound apologies to the cleaning staff.”

“Andraste be praised,” the Templar found his voice finally, “she shielded you from its touch. The demon is dead.”

Cassandra exhaustedly sat down on the stairs and threw her helmet off. It ricocheted off the wall. After a moment she looked up at me: “I agree with Leliana: This was a stupid idea. We did a good thing, but I wish the Templar Order did not fail their duties for us to be needed. It was a miracle we even arrived and fought through this.”

That was followed by a pregnant pause, and then I said: “The news of these events will spread like a wildfire, especially because of the nobles that came with us. The Inquisition cannot work with the Templar Order anymore, it would discredit us.”

The Templars exchanged awkward looks which said that they knew I was completely right, but that they wished I wasn't or at least used some honey to swallow these bitter herbs with.

However, ser Barris proved he was an intelligent man and I didn't even need to give him a hint: “Yes. I am stepping out of the Order. Herald, Lady Seeker,” he knelt before us, “I would be honoured to join the Inquisition. I promise to help however I can.”

Then there was a lot of clattering as a lot of people in heavy armours followed his suit.

“Commander Samson is going to whip you all in shape,” I promised with a threatening grin. “you guys are going to love him.”

Vivienne took care of the burial rites for the fallen Templars, Red and the regular blue ones alike. The burial rites consisted of setting a small hill of corpses on fire. Cassandra helped with the prayers for the dead and the departed. All in all four hours after we arrived to Theirinfal Redoubt we left it together with the survivors.

Cole and I shared saddle on Lord Oscar Fluffenton the All-Devouring. The spirit-boy was sitting behind me, because if he sat at front I wouldn't see anything except a lot of pointy shoulder blade. No one else offered to share with him, as he fell out of people's mind and sight once again. And he didn't know how to ride a ram, or any other animal.

As a result I was surprised when I found his hands slipping on the reins and squeezing my palms. I was too focused on the road ahead to turn my head to him, so I only asked: “Yes? Anything on your mind?”

“Justice and Compassion, walking hand in hand. The hurt soothed, the wrong righted,” he whispered in my ear, and for once it didn't sound like he was quoting my own thoughts at me. “The world will be better now. Maybe. I want it to be better.”

“Well, we are going to be very busy,” I chuckled. But it did sound good, that promise. I straightened my back a fraction – some heavy weight was lifted from me, weight I didn't know I was carrying until it was gone. We can help. We will help. And that is a threat.

Needless to say that the Templars, as a large army, were taking forever to move, so my little group, plus Cole invisible to all people except me, went ahead to Haven to prepare the village for the arrival of armed forces.

We were expecting some cheering, especially when we returned and found the village positively packed with new arrivals who were just setting their bags down, but the atmosphere was positively gloomy.

Cassandra caught scout Harding and asked her for Raleigh.

“Commander Samson is in the Chantry, along with Sister Leliana the last I saw them. I should warn you, they are in a mood. They haven't told us what happened in Redcliffe, but it couldn't have been good,” she told us as nonchalantly as she could, but it didn't take a mind-reading spirit to know she was seriously worried.

Cassandra and I exchanged a look and raced to the door.

There was a lot of angry screaming from the sacristy, much to my surprise most of it sounded like Solas. It was mostly in Elvhen, but since it did not come with subtitles and I didn't have my old journal with notes, I understood only some of the swearwords. Which tells you all you need to know about my linguistic priorities.

“We are in a Chantry,” Cassandra hissed at the gathered people. “Lower your voices, all of you,” she demanded.

“‘It's my fault’,” Cole bretahed into my ear and this time I nearly jumped out of my skin, because I hadn't noticed him following us. “‘I only wanted to help and I couldn't. I made everything worse again.’”

“I don't know who that young gentleman is or why he is right,” said Dorian, his words slurring together like mating caterpillars, “but could he not do that?” I noticed he was holding a bottle of mead, mostly empty and sideways.

Cassandra pouted: “What happened here?”

“He,” Solas pointed an accusatory finger at Dorian, rage making his voice shake, “lost the Herald! Our only hope at closing the Breach and he lost her!”

Our Seeker looked at him, at Dorian, ad Leliana whose expression promised murder, and then stepped to side to take a look at me, and then back at Solas, and finally she proposed: “Did you look in the sock drawer?”

Dorian got off the stool, knocking it over in the process, made a zig-zag line of a man whose feet the floor is dodging to me, unceremoniously plunged one hand between my breasts and into the inner pocket of my coat, and after four attempts he fished out the Amulet of Time-Fuckery.

Chapter Text

Solas and Leliana briefed Cassandra on what happened in Redcliffe in four very passionate sentences, and then the three of them proceeded to scold me for the following half an hour, but my ears simply tuned them out the moment they turned to me, so I spent that half an hour sitting on the war table, kicking my legs and grinning like an idiot.

They probably had more in store for me, but stopped when Josephine entered with the question: “Seeker Cassandra, how has your expedition to Theirinfal turned out?”

Cassandra gave me a weary glare and said: “We have the Templars. What is left of them, anyway.”

“What is left of them? Were you forced to take them by force?”

“Red, all red. Pained and pursued, perverted and punished.”

I hopped off the table to help Josephine back to her feet and pick up her candle before it set the flammable sacristy on fire or dripped too much wax on the worn carpet. I introduced: “Josephine, Cole, he's here to help. Cole, Josephine, our Ambassador.”

“My apologies, sir,” Josephine tried to make herself more presentable, getting over her perceived faux pas by going straight through it and emerging on the other side like a cannonball. Come to think of it, in the world where words were weapons, Josephine would be some sort of a siege equipment, but I didn't know enough about sieges to tell which. I wanted to say “trebuchet”.

“I assure you, usually my manners are better than to ignore a guest of the Inquisition. I insist that you-”

“You've done nothing wrong. It was not your fault,” Cole said, looking straight through Josie's eyes. He took a step back and continued: “You cannot see everyone all the time, you don't have enough eyes for it. You don't need to be seen all the time, either. Would it help you to forget that this happened? It wouldn't hurt then.”

“Or maybe it would help more if you didn't try to slip out of people's minds all the time,” Dorian said. “Of all the help you could have brought, Isc, was a spirit a good idea?”

“You captured a spirit?” Solas howled

I looked at Cole: “I don't know. Are you captured?”

“No.”

“Dessa,” Cassandra shook me by the shoulders, “it's only one step from being a demon. We cannot allow it to stay.”

“And you are one bad revelation away from beheading people and I am one stupid comment from blowing shit up and Raleigh is one missed dose from catatonic screeching and plunging off the nearest cliff. What exactly is your point?”

I waited long enough for the silence to stretch well into the uncomfortable measures as everyone became suddenly very well aware of how close they were to loosing their shit. After that I gave the room a sad smile and suggested: “We ought to prepare Haven for evacuation.”

“Because I'm going to turn into a suicidal lunatic foaming at the mouth?” Raleigh asked. Were it anyone else I would think that my words cut a bit too deep, but I knew him long enough to know that he both trusted me with his health to give him a serious answer and was aware of his addiction to the extent that he joked about it without trying to hide any perceived failing.

“Because I just stole both promised mage and Templar reinforcements from a self-appointed god not even three full weeks after I stole his remote control for the end of all days. If he doesn't come looking for either of those here with an army, I'll eat this table.”

“Please don't eat the table,” Cole whispered, this time creeping out Dorian out of his drunken stupor, “the woodworms would starve.”

“Alright, alright, prepare Haven for a trainwreck hitting, I get it,” Raleigh raised his hands in mock defeat. “I'll make sure everyone is ready to grab their stuff and leg for it.”

“Oh, one more thing. Is Chancellor Roderick here?”

“He arrived yesterday morning,” Josephine confirmed. “Goaded our soldiers and mages into an argument. I had to stop Commander Samson from breaking his nose to prevent a scene.”

“Excellent. He knows the summer pilgrimage path, I vividly remember him boasting about it. If Corypehus brings his army through the valley, which I suppose he will, trying to get many people to Have any other way in winter is an incredibly stupid idea, our fleeing people will need to avoid them, most likely taking it through the Orlesian side of the Frostbacks.”

Leliana shook her head: “But if we leave Haven, where will we go?”

“That,” I answered drily, “is a problem for those of us surviving Corypheus' assault. If you excuse, I need to sleep off a close call to demonic possession. Could anyone gently inform Grand Enchanter Fiona that Ser Barris and his men with Tempalr training have joined the Inquisition and that they are going to have cooperate together to close the Breach? We ought to close it as soon as they get here.”

I didn't wait for anyone to confirm, I simply walked out of the Chantry, walked to my cabin and practically fainted on the bed. If I dreamed of anything, I didn't remember it.

A couple of hours later I was gently woken up by Sirann who repeated “Ma'am Herald” until I sat up and informed her that everything was fine and I was awake.

“The Iron Bull told me you probably want to know that a lot of Templars carrying the Inquisition's banner have just entered the Frostbacks. Also there is venison stew for dinner this evening and you should probably eat something.”

“One day, Sirann, it's possible you're going to marry someone, and that person is going to be the luckiest one to ever walk Thedas.”

She shuffled her feet in place and then asked: “Ma'am, is it true that the Elder One whom the Venatori worship, the usurper-god, that he is going to attack Haven?”

“It is very likely.”

“Are we all going to die?” She sat down on the bed next to me and looked on her hands. I noticed the state of her fingernails – we shared the vice of biting them. Not that I mentioned it.

Instead I stared off into nothing located approximately on the far wall, and then I said: “Eventually we all are going to die. But if you listen to Commander Samson and evacuate in time, you will probably not die when the bastard of blighted magister arrives.”

“You have a plan to defeat him right?” Sirann looked at me, he already large elven eyes seemingly even bigger. “Not a stupid story-plan. A good plan. One that doesn't make you heroically sacrifice yourself. The Maker can't ask that of you, you've done everything good!”

“I am... figuring out the details,” I said hesitantly. When Sirann stared at me, I quickly followed with: “Dying is not an option. It would stab quite the pitchfork into my retirement plans.”

I made my way out and to the tavern. Sirann was right: I was starving and yearned for something warm to eat. On our way to Theirinfal and back we practically slept and ate in the saddles to save the time, which meant we didn't cook and survived on dried rations and water. Don't get me wrong, I had always been a fan of dried jerky, but eating nothing but unseasoned dried jerky and hardtack bread was bordering on torture.

The moment I stepped into our finest dinning establishment in Haven – it won the title by default – the Iron Bull waved at me to come sit at his table. I took the offer gratefully, as the place was packed, but Bull deterred most people by being a qunari and therefore sitting with him meant getting some elbow room for myself.

“So boss,” he looked at me over his tankard when my stew arrived, “I have a question for you, if you don't mind.”

I quickly swallowed my spoonful and ran over a list of things he could try to ask me. I hoped it wouldn't be about Kirkwall. He was a Ben-Hassrath and I had sent a watercolour postcard to Par Vollen the last time I had anything to do with the Qun. I also hoped he wouldn't ask about sex.

Bull had to notice that the prospect of being question did everything but put me at ease, so he added: “Feel free to tell me to fuck off, it's just something I'm curious about.”

“Okay. Shoot.”

“Who's in charge here? As in, the Inquisition. Some main Inquisitor, a leader?”

“Trick question,” I stirred my stew so it would cool down a bit and stopped trying to boil my mouth off, “there are multiple answers. The truth is somewhere between them, I suppose.”

The man grunted thoughtfully, but when I didn't follow up, he asked me to clarify what kind of answers were those and what they said. A casual proof of intelligence.

I made myself comfortable on the bench and punctuated my counting by eaten spoonfuls: “First is our official answer: The Inquisition is lead by a board consisting of Sister Leliana, Ambassador Montilyet and Commander Samson, each of them can bring their own advisor. Cassandra might or might not be on the board to keep them from killing each other. Second is the obvious one: Cass declared the Inquisition, therefore she's in charge. Just on my walk here I've heard we are also giving the reins to the Grand Enchanter, to ser Barris, and that it doesn't matter who is our leader, because actually Solas pulls our strings like a puppetmaster and this all is his elaborate strategy to bring the fall of human kingdoms and empires and found the New Arlathan.”

The Iron Bull scoffed at the preposterous last claim. I heard it from one of the soldiers – specifically the woman whose arm I nearly broke a few days back – so I knew she was just joking to win some racist cookie points, but for our own safety she shouldn't repeat it anywhere near Solas. Or maybe she hadn't meant Solas specifically, it could have been any sinister and savage elven apostate. I hadn't asked her whom she had meant, I had only informed her that if I heard her say “knife-ear” one more time, I was going to knife her ears.

Bull wasn't privy to my internal thoughts, though, so he asked: “That's all nice, but I was asking you, not what other people think.”

I grinned at him and hoped I hadn't a string of venison stuck between my teeth: “Not to look like I think too much of myself, but you've called me ‘boss’ yourself. So, there's that.”

“You're the only one who knows what is going on and is able to make decision. In Qun such people are made leaders while the best soldiers fight, the best spies spy and the best negotiators negotiate,” Bull shrugged as if this was not the Qun version of flattery.

“A slight correction: I am the only one stupid enough to let other people see I can make decisions and know what the fuck is happening.”

“So you don't shrink responsibility, gotcha.”

I sighed and poked the stew, quickly loosing appetite. Finally a grumbled: “I don't want to be declared the Inquisitor, I don't want this to be my problem and I don't want to be anywhere near here.” A pause just so I could force an especially tasteless and mushy piece of carrot down my throat, then: “Then again, the last time when what I want had to do with anything was when I had my fine poking stick engraved.”

My back was patted. “You had a spear, huh? What did it say?”

“‘Din'an da fenin'lenan sal.’ It's an ancient Elvhen phrase to banish all evil.” Well, it was a phrase in ancient Elvhen, and I had Merrill to check it before I commissioned the engraving just so I wouldn't wave Fishbone around with a grammatical atrocity. I did not correct Bull on it not being a spear at all.

Bull didn't speak Elvhen whatsoever, so he nodded along and asked: “Did it work?”

“Like a charm. I wish I had it here with me.”

“Hey, if I know something about good weapons, it's that your will turn up if you don't give up on it. Or don't do anything to make it give up on you.” Bull proceeded to pull me into an one-armed hug, which felt like being pressed between two very solid warm walls covered in leather.

After that I returned to my bed where I attempted to finish my nap. The verb “to attempt” was crucial, as I was dragged out of my comfortable nest at approximately three in the morning (I had to ask) by a vaguely hungover Dorian Pavus with hair desperate for some combing and face looking raw without whatever make-up he was using, all of that accompanied with the argument that he was a firm believer in shared suffering and also that those were my Templars and that Sera somewhere found lizards and he couldn't go back to his bed because he was afraid that he'd squish one if he laid down.

It was only in front of the Chantry where ser Barris stared at me with mouth agape instead of rigidly saluting that I realised that I walked out into the night in light pyjamas and without shoes.

There were also Raleigh, Cassandra, Josephine, Vivienne, Fiona, Cole at the edge of my vision, and a bit to the side Sera with a small bag, Solas fishing unspecified small objects from under his shirt and trousers which he was putting in the said bag, and Leliana staring them down like an extremely disappointed teacher finding Dick sticking chewing gum in Susan's hair. Except it was lizards, and because Solas didn't have any hair, Sera made do with his clothes.

I somehow managed to squeeze out a “g'mornin'” and it took me only two takes. Once my vocal chords kicked in, I demanded: “Report, soldier.” Because all of them were no longer Templars but Inquisition soldiers instead.

“I have brought three hundreds and thirty seven men capable of service, twenty-seven injured and currently not capable of performing but stable and improving, five Enchanters and sixteen Tranquil, all willing to serve the Inquisition to the best of our capabilities, ma'am,” Barris recalled himself and saluted.

Then he glanced at Fiona and swallowed heavily, which he followed by adding: “I propose we close the Breach as soon as possible. As in right now, madam. We are not as ready as we could be but- Well. There is an army of Red Templars and Magi only a few hours behind us – they march at inhuman speed, they do not stop for rest. They were in pursue and catching up on us. We had no means to avoid them, but we took to avoiding settlements after they completely razed Foxenshire. A few of our men were carried off my demons they sent after us, we fended off more though. If they get here and the Breach is open, the forces they'll be able to summon will overwhelm us undoubtedly.”

“We could call it pandemonium and charge admission. Could be popular.”

“Ser Pavus,” Fiona sighed wearily, “sober up, please.”

“I am sober. That's the entire problem.”

“Right,” I clapped my hands. “Ser Barris, Grand Enchanter Fiona, twenty of your best and brightest charges each. We are going to close that bitch. Breach. The Breach. I definitely meant to say the Breach. Everyone else evacuates, now. Raleigh?”

“Yes, my Lady Herald?” he gave me a theatrical bow which he no doubt copied off of Dorian, judged purely be the amount of wrist-wiggling.

“We have how many trebuchets in Haven?”

“Three.”

“Excellent. Have them loaded; one for each mountain side of the valley and the third above us. Once they are ready, the soldiers have to evacuate too.”

Everyone looked at me more than slightly horrified. I repaid them with a cold look: “We are leaving Haven. I am not going to let Corypheus have it. It's probably not going to kill him, but the Venatori can't take an avalanche to the face. If you want someone dead – which we do – bury them deep. Just don't think about the spring thawing.”

“Dessa,” Cassandra spoke slowly, “if we all leave, who will fire them?”

My smile was positively wolfish when I said: “Give me fifteen minutes. I need to get dressed. Meetup at the Temple!”

Chapter Text

How to close the Breach, a handy guide by yours truly: Step one, get twenty-one mages and twenty-one ex-Templars under the bitch of a hole in the sky. If you don't have your own Magi and Templars, stolen from a supremacist cult are just fine. Once you are dressed and have your kicking boots on, make the guys hit the Breach with everything you got and then shove it it your Anchor middle-finger. Let Solas do a little speech beforehand because he needs to heal his ego after sleepy lizards bit him in the butt.

When the Breach shut itself, the thunderous sound effect was accompanied by an agonized howl down from the valley. Corypheus was pissed to say the least. By that time even I could see the red lights down the hill.

“How dramatic,” Solas noted next to me. “Two full moons. It is as if the nature itself wanted to observe our last stand.”

“No-one is standing anywhere here. Get out. Shoo. Be a good elf and evacuate.”

“You heard her, sir.”

“Sunshine,” I didn't even bother to turn around, “that goes for you too.”

Unlike Solas, Raleigh didn't budge: “You're staying here to bury this place. I'm not letting you. Sorry, Ori.”

I looked at him this time. He was tired and shaking; obviously he tried to stretch his limits and missed out a dose or two on purpose. The point was he didn't stand a chance. We walked together down from the ruins of the Temple of the Sacred Ashes at a calm and deliberate pace as if we weren't discussing death. I said: “When Corypheus gets, he's going to be searching for me. He wants the Anchor. If he doesn't find me, he will pursue. The people of Haven need more time to get far enough, I am going to buy that time. I am betting on the high probability that right now Corypheus doesn't want me dead. He wants to gloat.”

“While that's perfectly reasonable, I... I want to stay. It's personal.” He noticed my quizzical look, and so he added: “When announcing the evacuation I took a quick peek through the spyglass at our enemy. Your fucked up 'Vint identified Calpernia in charge of half of the Venatori forces, but a big part of them are Red Templars and...” He swallowed heavily. “It's Rutherford. They're lead by Cullen fucking Rutherford. Fuck. Shit. Piss!” He kicked a rock which didn't help anything.

“That is certainly a development.” I searched for what possibly he would want to have to do with Cullen and eventually landed on: “So you want him to kill you?” That sounded dumb.

“No! I want- I don't know. It just feels like my responsibility, you know? He was an okay guy, a bit of a zealot but who in Kirkwall wasn't? They transferred him to the Gallows from Kinloch four weeks after the Blight ended, I kind of... He was fine. He covered up for the mages a couple of times. It's... it's not fair.” In his frustration he walked straight into one of the tent-posts that had been left standing, though the tent was nowhere to be seen.

I considered for a moment. The first of the trebuchets fired, and a moment later a cataclysm of snow fell into the valley, partially wiping out the red lights. I looked at Raleigh as soldiers rushed past us to get the hell out of here while there still was time.

“Hey,” I started gently, “what if I promise to you not to kill Cullen without you, and you get your sorry arse evacuated so you can make up your mind about it all?”

“Well, that actually does sound-”

“It was not a gentle suggestion.”

“How are you going to get out of here?” he finally asked.

“Mine tunnels, if I am lucky.”

“And if you are not?”

“I can keep this body in motion as long as there is anything left of it,” Justice answered instead of me with the briefest flash of blue. Not that there was anyone besides Raleigh to see it. “One way or another, I'll meet you on the other side and we will blame the Maker for both the living and the dead.”

As if a great relief washed over him, Raleigh patted me on the shoulder: “That sounds like a plan. Good luck, you mad lass. Don't get yourself or your little blue friend killed.”

He left with the second group of soldiers who launched the second trebuchet. I proceeded to sit down at the heel of the last one and waited. Do trebuchets even have heels?

Luckily I didn't have to wait long, so the anxiety didn't have the time to set in. The False Archdemon flew low and overhead and with a spit blasted the Chantry to pieces. I hope Cass won't write that one off to me.

Shortly after that I was surrounded – three Red Templars, one archer, two Venatori mages. I kept sitting and didn't move. Neither did they – they simply stood there all menacing for a long moment and then scattered to the side when the tainted dragon landed and Corypheus, the son of a bitch, stepped out of its shadow.

It began snowing rather heavily.

“It is customary,” I started with a conversational tone, “to knock before you just barge in. Gives everyone a moment so they're not caught with breeches around their ankles.”

“You toy with forces beyond your ken, thief,” Corypheus boomed, which was as close to a greeting as he would ever get. “No more.”

“And you piss off powers beyond your knowledge and your reason and still dance to the whistle of another. So here we are. Both doing something we aren't supposed to be and don't want to be,” I smiled and stood up. Sheesh, my legs were stiff.

“I am ruled by no one,” he approached, his impossibly stretched face distorting further in a display of anger. If he wasn't so hellbent on destructing the world and killing me, there would be a certain aesthetic allure to his features and voice. Mostly the voice, but still.

Corypheus grabbed my hand and pulled me up so I had to stand tiptoe. “I rule all.”

“You can't even secure a dentist appointment.” It gotten me being raised a bit further up, which was a pain on my arm, and also meant my feet were now dangling up in the air. I had to giggle at the last bit, but Corypheus, predictably took it personally.

He hissed uncomfortably close to my face so I could smell the taint: “I wanted to be gracious in my victory. You could have witnessed the rise of the world to its former glory. Your knowledge would have served me well. Despite your arrogance and stubbornness I planned for you to lead one of my armies.” Was that flirting? He made it sound like the clashes between the Just and the Venatori over three years of complicated courting and not a fight for who was supposed to have basic living rights and decency. The thought filled me with fury.

Out loud I smirked: “Flatterer. I should have sent you a fruit basket. Everyone loves one of those-augh!” There was a crack as he squeezed my wrist – or rather since he was holding me below the wrist, my lower forearm – and I hoped he hadn't broken any bone. It hurt well enough that it might have. Healing broken bones was a pain in the ass even with access to spirit healers.

“Silence! No more leniency for you, thief! I will take the Anchor from you... and then I shall kill you.”

With that he dropped me from his grasp and I landed unceremoniously on my knees and scraped them. I gasped: “You... brought this... upon yourself. It could have been anyone. Anyone!” I glared up at him as he pulled the richly carved the Dreamer's Orb out of thin air – or possibly out of his arse – and spat at him. The droplets of saliva splattered the lower hem of his robes.

“Your resistance is ultimately futile. The process of removing the Anchor begins now.” The Orb sparkled faintly green and then vibrant red. The anchor painfully pulsed in answer, pain flashing through my left cracked arm, my stomach and my thighs.

A note for potential Inquisitors: If you ever kick Fen'Harel's toy ball out of the hands of a dude with the delusion of divinity who was creating the Anchor with it, which is know to hurt as all fuck, don't jump after it and don't curl around it. It's an illegal move in handball and you get an inconvenient and sporadically but frequently painful glowing green spot in... places. Trust me.

What Corypheus didn't expect was that I was ready and steeled for the effect, so it took me barely a moment to recover before I did my trademark kick-under-the knee and then the not trademark kick in the hand, and the moment he howled and let go off the orb I jumped after it.

Hey, speedrun attempt. You can't blame me for that. Can you imagine the face that Solas would make if I'd waltz into the camp with his parlour trick in hand?

But Corypheus was too fast and I too tired, and besides he still had an army here which I didn't have. I was just stalling.

“The gall,” he growled when he picked me off the ground and plucked the Dreamer's Orb from my hand like a ripe plum off a tree. He then went on a rant of how he went into the Fade and it all was fucked up and that the throne of the gods was empty. With that he threw me against the trebuchet.

“Right,” I muttered and tried to blink the blackness out of my vision. Ow. Fuck, ow. “And it's necessarily your bony butt what's supposed to warm it. It's never occurred to you that the world doesn't need gods? Or that people don't actually want them?”

“Mortals beg. Mortals pray. You desire a powerful hand over you.”

“No, we just want a scapegoat for droughts, floods, and our own failings. Ow, dammit.” I might had a muscle pulled with all that rough treatment and all. I looked on the horizon. Black.

“The Anchor is permanent. You've spoilt it with your stumbling.” Corypheus' face shifted in a new emotion, one that I hadn't seen before. Could it be... disgust?

“It could have been anyone, you know?” I forced myself to stand up a little straighter and spat out some blood. My lip hadn't fully healed yet and being thrown at things did not help. “Anyone else. So many – ow, fucking shit – at the Conclave who'd hear Justinia's plea for help. So many of them wouldn't even think to stand up to you. You'd win, bread and butter. But no. You wanted a witness. That's how you know the really evil ones – the need of attention. An audience. So you pulled me through the Fade right when I was almost done with it all.”

I sneaked out a short knife from behind my belt. It was sharp. I always kept everything sharp. It might have not been just, but it was kind to the things on the end of the blade, and besides cutting bread with dull knives was hell.

Corypheus wasn't interrupting me. He was an old-school Magister who honoured dramatic speeches, since he gave them often.

“I am a mistake. I am specifically your mistake.” The edge of the knife was now touching the rope holding the trebuchet taunt. I dug it in, but it sank only a fraction. I switched my stance so that the whole thing was behind my back.

I had to keep talking: “I made this world. Eleven years. That's a third of my life, and I dedicated it to Thedas, to make it somewhat better. People live because of me. People died because of me. I shook a nation in its foundation, I crowned kings. You think you get to erase it all?”

“The destiny commands-”

“There is no destiny,” I shouted back at him. It would have been more dramatic if my voice hadn't broken in a cough. “No destiny,” I wheezed, “just us.”

Heh.

Piss off. Not everything is about you.

“Only me,” Corypheus echoed me incorrectly.

“A funny parallel, really,” I stretched the time and squinted at the sky again. Still nothing. “In Tevinter I opposed you just because someone had to. ‘Every living being has the fundamental right to be what they are and the right to decide what they are.’ But when you blew up the conclave, when you dragged me there from across the Fade, you made me your enemy. The enemy I am now.”

There was a flare which I barely made out, a shooting star. Except it was a burning arrow.

I knew better than to pray for it to be the sign that everyone was clear. Who knew who might had heard me... I sunk the knife a bit deeper. The wood creaked.

“This world will burn,” Corypheus began approaching at a confident and deliberate pace. Unlike me he wasn't faking it. Or if he was, he was far better than I. “And I shall raise new Empire from its ashes.”

I growled at him: “If this world burns, it burns on my terms.”

The rope gave out with a sharp snap that smacked me across the back. The crank went spinning, the chain loosened, big rock went up and hit the mountain above us. Terrible rumbling went both through the air and the ground. We felt the avalanche sooner than we heard it.

“You-” Corypheus began, but I was no longer there. I was solid fifteen meters further, through a hole in the palisade and the poorly covered hole leading into the mining tunnels which I remembered being there only because I nearly fell into it during one of my walks with Solas.

Cool girls don't look into explosions. Even cooler girls don't look into avalanches. Me, the coolest girl of all, couldn't see a shit in the moment, because the tunnel was dark, and I only knew the mountain was trembling as the impact of hundreds of tons of snow and rock hit what once was Haven. Somebody tell Brother Genitivi he'll need to update his book.

I took exactly twenty seconds to catch my breath and do a quick damage assessment. The worst of all was my left forearm which while not fractured was very likely cracked in. I had bruises all over, my back was killing me, I was hungry, cold and tired.

I expected to run into demons in the tunnels, an old memory telling me that there should had been demons, but all I encountered were a couple of half-eaten Venatori and a bear near them in a food coma. I decided not to disturb them and simply walked past after relieving one of the corpses of a staff. Words and daggers and knives were all nice, but there was a certainty to a staff, certainty that whatever was happening on its end it was happening two meters away from you, a certainty that there would be a satisfying thwacking sound if you rammed it over someone's head.

Plus this was a mage's bladed staff, which meant it had a sharp bit on one and and a counterweight on the other. The Magi would disagree that it was the head of the staff to channel magic, but for me it had never been anything more than a fancy counterweight. A maul at best.

I stumbled out of the mine and into the waking morning. I was tired. Incredibly tired.

Eventually she falls unconscious in her exhaustion, but I carry our body further, forward, navigating mostly by the distant song of Templars who are Templars no longer.

Templars without the capital T. Try just “templars”.

Ah, you're back with me. Can you walk?

Maybe. Can't be bothered to, though. Too much work.

I carry us further, then. I do not feel fatigue or cold or pain. Not physically at least, though I am aware of how damaged our body is. My will is stronger that its material limitations, however.

Yet as the lights of the campfires the refugees from Haven made come into focus, I give up my control over the limbs. My work manifests itself with noticeable visual effects and Thedas mortals are afraid of possessed bodies, however much in their interest the possessor acts. Compassion, Cole, he is different, as he is also a spirit. But he knows to be quiet, too.

Cassandra was the first to rush to me when I collapsed into the snow, chill invading my body. I was shaking, my teeth chattered. A par of strong and warm arms pulled me up and hung over Cassandra's shoulder like a sack of very frozen potatoes I was carried into the camp.

“Someone, a healer, quickly!”

I was just about to tell Cassandra that by no means she was to get me a healer, when Solas just appeared next to me and helped to ease me down on the bedroll. That was fine. Solas had tended to me before, so he probably already knew how much unreal my inner anatomy probably was. Another mage, or anyone with more than basic understanding of anatomy, would probably... Would probably not handle it well.

I practically felt myself thawing and melting in the warm hands which did wonders for my collection of one thousand and one aches. Only when Mother Giselle sat down to the next side of me I came to my senses enough to turn to Solas and whisper barely above a breath: “Tell them not to sing. I don't want to be a princess.”

Then I blissfully fell asleep.

Chapter Text

My lovely slumber was interrupted by angry voices as the official leadership of the Inquisition couldn't agree which side was left and which was right. They probably were arguing about something more important and less objective, but I caught only the end of it, and the end result was the same: They each stalked off in their own direction and regretted their life choices.

“I tried to tell them to tune it down a notch,” said someone sitting next to me and then eased the sack behind me so I could lean on it while sitting up, “but they wouldn't just listen. Maybe they don't care we have wounded here who need rest, more likely their passion gets better of their judgement. Which leads to... this.”

I blinked at him a few times in disbelief, and then said, voice croaking and cracked: “Chancellor Roderick. You're... alive.”

“Mostly luck on my side, I'm afraid. We got ambushed by some of those Red Templars, probably a patrol to make sure nobody would escape. I went after them, foolish attempt I admit in the hindsight, but slipped and dislocated my ankle. Your peculiar friends had to carry me most of the way,” he gave me a weak smile. It looked like he was in a dire need of a nap.

“All my friends are peculiar. You'll have to specify.”

“The half-naked Tevene mage – Did you know he is a necromancer? – and... hmm, I can't quite recall the other one, come to think of it. He was very nice, though.”

“Sounds like Cole. And yes, I knew about Dorian.”

For a while we were sitting in silence next to each other before I asked a question that had been nagging on me since I opened my eyes: “Where is Mother Giselle?”

“The last I heard her she was in the,” he waved hand towards the biggest tent, “infirmary, singing lullabies to the wounded. Thankfully we don't have that many of those, and no dead.” He studied the tip of his shoes for a moment and then added: “Thank you. For, well, for everyone. Not in their name, I mean, I can't speak for them, but thank you for saving them.”

“They saved themselves.”

“You made sure we were ready to flee and that we had the time for it. And you- You warned us all from the beginning, that this was the real threat. And I didn't listen. I am such a fool. An old fool.” I had the feeling he would have kicked himself if his leg didn't hurt too much.

I patted him on the shoulder: “Hey, an angry woman with a magical hole in her body falls from the sky after the most powerful religious leader has been brutally murdered, and she claims the evil magister of old is returning and is going to remake the world in his own image, proceeds to insult every person in power and flips the bird to the cataclysm that had killed hundreds. Being dubious of me was the sensible reaction. Not the good one, I admit, but the reasonable and wise one, given what you knew.”

“Um,” the Chancellor looked a bit sheepish. “I still should have believed.”

“Faith has killed a lot of people.”

“I almost killed them!” He turned to me with a sudden urgency. “If they listened to me, if they rejected your orders, they would all be dead.”

“Hey, hey now, I don't give orders, I just give extremely specific suggestions and hope nobody says ‘no’.” It didn't seem to make him feel any better, so I added: “Alright, what if you call off all those wanted posters and we'd call that good? Seriously, people are confusing me with Solas of all people, and I think that if one more person calls him ‘Herald of Andraste’ his mouth will explode with all that pouting.”

“It is true that would help matters.” I nearly jumped out of my skin, because that was the man in question and I hadn't heard him approaching at all. At some point during my conversation with Roderick he had sat down on my right.

Awkward silence which I tried and failed to make a bit less awkward by giving my brightest smile as a proof that I hadn't died yet. Instead a cramp crept up my cheeks.

“A word?” Solas finally said and nodded his head to side. He didn't wait for me.

I scrambled myself off the bedroll like eggs off the pan and followed in his footsteps just so I wouldn't have to break more of the fresh snow. The moment I passed the last tent I realised that once again I forgot my shoes. The fact that I could allow myself to forget such a thing was messing up with my brain more than I was willing to admit.

I had always been keen on walking barefoot, mind you, but it was always in warm weather, and I had to watch my step. Kirkwall was very warm most of the year and as long as one avoided broken glass and feces it was fine and it lowered the expenses for new shoes. Tevinter was positively hot and had clean streets, though the countryside was a bit harsh on the soles, but boots were necessity only when I got into a combat or chase, which usually ended in a combat anyway.

Ferelden was freezing, and the Orlesian side of the Frostback Mountains wasn't much better, hence all the snow. So far nobody had called me out on the fact that when distracted I had the tendency to take the temperature as a fashion suggestion. How long would that last?

“I know you said ‘a word’, but I am expecting a lot of words,” I approached Solas' vantage brooding spot, for the lack of better term. Was it daytime or had the sky been clear, the view would have been amazing. This way I saw snow and darkness.

The show-off lit an empty torch-scone stabbed into the ground, cold blue flame flooding a small circular area and giving no warmth at all. I lingered on the edge of the light, waiting for him to start speaking. Solas was more patient than I, giving away nothing. And unfortunately while I knew what he would say, I needed his directions, and I needed a semi-plausible source of information, since I couldn't come up with “It was revealed to me in a dream.” as I wasn't a mage.

I stepped into the light circle and refused to look at the flame.

“Dorian has told me that you had lead a civil war in Tevinter,” he started.

“All due respect to Dorian, but: was he sober?”

“Mostly. The Iron Bull was the one leading the informal interrogation, and according to him the information given was reliable.”

I was going to have a choice of words with Bull. A very careful choice of words, since he was huge and had a sharp with and a huge argument strapped to his back, one on each side of the heft of that huge axe. What I said out loud was: “It was hardy a civil war. Minor insurgence at best. Rebellion if I wanted to sound pompous, but we operated on the scale of the Friends of the Red Jenny. More bombs, I admit, less bees. Few petitions to the Magisterium.”

Solas tilted his head to side and arched a brow. Of course he could arched only one brow, the show-off. “No army fighting gloriously for freedom?”

I chuckled, a bit darker than I actually meant to. “That's the picture you had been painting? No. It was a me, a friar, and a mage, bunch of flasks of various contents, sets of disposable lockpicks, good running shoes, and a tavern wench who knew better than to speak. We had supporters, sure, people came in and helped, but they never saw us and we never saw them. Better that way for both parties. It wasn't even a guerilla war; for that I'd need an army, and I am not one for such grand logistics. Needles, not hammers.”

“I concede, that does sound like Sera and her Friends.”

“We had a concrete goal, though,” I shrugged. “And a more consistent cause. Every army needs a cause

Solas nodded, folded his hands behind his back and gazed into the darkness, reflection of the blue light dancing on his skin. I watched our camp in the opposite direction. Finally he said: “The orb Corypheus carried, the power he used against you, it is elven. Corypheus used the orb to open the Breach. Unlocking it must have caused the explosion that destroyed the Conclave. I do not yet know how Corypheus survived... nor am I certain how people will react when they learn of the orb's origin.” He looked at me with an expectation. No, not expectation. That was a challenge,

I shrugged as if I had no care: “I suppose that with curses, like when they usually do with anything that comes from Fen'Harel.”

Solas rocked on his heels back and forth twice, tendons on his neck stretching before he relaxed his jaws. He thenk shook his head and concluded: “I should have realised you knew about it since you had fought the Venatori long before the Inquisition was declared. I must admit that you have surprised me. That information couldn't have been easy to come across. You must be truly dedicated to destroying Corypheus.”

“So ultimately it's either risking people taking this out on the elves who haven't done anything – again – or withholding information and history.” I began fixing my hair. Its state was horrendous and it needed brushing. “Are you throwing the dilemma at me, or are you going to amaze me with already having a solution?”

And that was how I got him to tell me about Skyhold and to say that it was an ancient elven hold. That we would fight the abuse of elven history from a place of elven history.

“Ah, of course,” I smiled, “the third kind of justice.”

The seemingly absurd statement made Solas chuckle. “I am afraid I am not familiar with your division of justice.”

“The most common justice is punitive. You see that all the time, though most of it is hardly justice,” I scoffed. “Then you have the useful kind, the reparative one. And finally my favourite kind: poetic.”

It took him a moment to get it, but then he broke into laughter, the haunting kind compared to which the local climate was warm and welcoming.

“Very well then. Skyhold it is. If you excuse me then,” I gave him a gallant bow, “I am going to heard some cats, that is our wise and united leadership, and explain them what a great idea they've just gotten, and perhaps suggest that your work of dreams ought not to be questioned.”

To be entirely honest, I did nothing nearly as subtle or clever as to convince Raleigh, Josephine, Leliana and Cassandra that moving to Skyhold was their idea. I told them flatly that unless they had an amazing idea we had nowhere else to go: Half of the people here was Fereldan, the other were Orlesians, the fact that they hadn't jumped each other's throats was a miracle. If we went to Ferelden, our Orlesian half would make it seem like a declaration of war, not to mention we'd be bringing the Magi back after King Alistair explicitly told them to get out. If we went to Orlais, we had still a lot of beef with the Chantry and were hosting Templas, who technically abandoned their holy duty and then deserted their Order at my suggestion.

“Is Skyhold a neutral ground?” Leliana questioned.

“For now. When we get there, it will be our ground,” I argued. It hit home.

Despite me noting that ti was Solas' idea and he knew where the Skyhold was, it was decided that I'd be the person scouting ahead and deciding which paths we would take. On day three the Iron Bull in combination with Vivienne pulled a literal all-nighter, improvised a sextant and guesstimated our location, which meant I could even rely on our map, which made the rest of the journey a piece of cake. A week old, a bit frozen, but a cake. And more importantly no-one died! Or if anyone died, I hadn't been informed of that.

Nevertheless after a week of bullshitting our way through the snowy mountains and surviving mostly of dried rations and whatever the hunters managed to find we reached Skyhold and walked in accompanied by worried comments about the stability of the bridge, the foundations, the Chargers' tipsy singing – which was very different from their drunken singing, for the start it was only half as off-key – bothered sounds of the few livestock which were evacuated from Haven with us and Vivienne's loudly whispered scolding of whoever got under her feet.

For the first day we mostly sat our material possessions outside, and the scouts and soldiers alike then scattered to inspect the place. I went to inspect the main features, starting with the main hall.

“This place is going to have some magnificent views,” noted Dorian who followed me. With us were also Josephine who didn't have any people to give orders to because her small flock of diplomats was as useful as copper frying pans in a thunderstorm, Solas who refused to let me out of his sight under the claim that the Anchor had spread and he needed to observe me but more likely he was trying to find out how much did I actually know, and Chancellor Roderick who had such a crisis of faith that he had shed his robes and donned a light leather armour.

I opened both wings of the grand door which screamed in the hinges and proclaimed: “Hello honey, I'm home- Whoah!” The last bit was a hastily squealed addition when a couple of shingles began raining from above and I plunged to the side before I realised that the hit wouldn't take me as harshly as the embrace of the stone floor I threw myself into.

“A view through every wall, Lord Pavus, I have to give you that,” Roderick smirked.

“And they are all magnificent!” Dorian beamed. I had the suspicion that he had tippled into the keg the Chargers opened in anticipation of celebration, which was not the same keg they tapped for the celebration and that was a different keg they were going to open for the afterparty.

I was going to have to keep a close eye on Dorian so he wouldn't get alcohol poisoning before anything significant could happen. Or more likely I would be too busy and therefore delegate the task to Krem who was the most responsible person in the Inquisition right after Sirann, but unlike Sirann took no shit.

“It is a miracle this place is still standing,” Josephine waved her hand dismissively. “A few unorthodox windows are a minor issue. You and your dream discoveries are godsend, Solas.”

Solas nearly choked.

“Lady Herald,” Josephine turned to me, as I had since gathered myself from the floor and with a heavy sigh began working, “what are you doing?”

“Cleaning up,” I answered curtly. The puzzled look she gave me demanded me to stop and elaborate: “This place is full of debris. Before we start any repairs, we need to all of this out. I'm planning to make three piles – salvageable stone, those I can't carry I'm afraid, salvageable wood, and trash.”

And awkward pause when the four of them exchanged glances. I nodded to Josephine and Dorian: “I recommend slipping into something different if you're keen on helping. If you're not, just don't stand in the way and don't block the door.”

Surprisingly enough the first one to get the hint was Chancellor Roderick who on his first round carried out an armful of useless splinter and then recruited an empty rice sack for transport efficiency. Not even fifteen minutes later the inside of Skyhold was full of people scuttling around like ants, carrying out whatever could be saved, and whatever could not they threw overboard into the valley below us.

With the help of Sirann and two brooms I cleared most of the passages of the worst cobwebs and some of the overgrown spiders. They weren't the gigantic ones that could eat people, but they could cause a nug or a poodle getting lost. It certainly explained all the weasel and cat skeletons we found stashed away in piles under the windows.

Of course, I tired myself out, especially since I forgot to eat, so when we emerged from the Undercroft, Sirann politely yet firmly told me to take a break and something to bite and sit down somewhere people wouldn't trip over me.

I was given two slices of bread and a tasteless but unfortunately not odourless bean-and-carrot gruel. I couldn't possibly sit in the courtyard, it was too busy and dusty, so I retreated to the rotunda. To my great surprise I found an elderly and elven mage clad in black wool head to toe alongside Dorian setting up the beginnings of the library.

I didn't disturb the men from their work, but I inspected the system they were using. At first there was none to be seen, but after squinting at the shelves for a couple of minutes I came to the amazing revelation that the first letters of titles spelled out a naughty poem. The one about toad, dandelions, and a cask of orichalcum-spiked wine.

As such, Seeker Cassandra Bunch-of-names Pentaghast found me sitting on the cold ground of the library, snickering over a bowl of sorry beans, and I didn't notice her until it was too late because I was too preoccupied pondering what was probably the oldest text on Thedas in the Trade Tongue about sex-pollen.

“Could you tell me,” she started slowly and already I knew I was in trouble, “why Corporal Vale told me to refer to you for job assignment?”

I considered my choices very carefully, and then tried: “Because my spring-cleaning got a wee bit out of hand?”

She nodded sharply. He voice didn't change: “Alright. What do you want me to do?”

“Well, we need to put up stable ladders in all the towers on the battlements to access the upper floors. Sirann and I found out we can't carry them on our own.”

Chapter Text

It took us three days of deep-cleaning and woodworking and light acts of masonry before the Skyhold was habitable. During that time we all slept in and out of tents and alcoves and the list of Inquisition members who had seen their Herald at least partially naked had expanded significantly. The list of people I saw at least partially naked didn't grow all that much, because I minded my own bloody business.

We had the war room set up with a new table, because nobody was foolish enough to drag the old one from the Haven Chantry all the way here, gods be praised. We had furnished the Undercroft which had deserved its own capital letter, and Harrit and his lads and lasses were busy there all the time with things like new hinges, door handles, barrel hoops, rivets, nails and the like. We had sent for an arcanist, an idea that one of the Tranquil – Owain – approached me with, because we had many people who studied specific fields of magic, but nobody to study the study of magic, and we needed to understand how the research worked. Besides arcanists were often unconventional in their approaches to their job and made fantastic discoveries as a byproduct.

I was just taking a fourth round with the broom through the future laboratory – no matter how much I swept there was still more dust, more splinters and more pebbles to take care of – when Raleigh approached me, made me eat half of his honeyed cross-bun which was still warm and asked me if I could but my work on hold for a moment, the he wanted to talk, but preferably somewhere with breathable air.

I took a detour to the kitchen to wash the topmost layer of dust off myself and then caught up with Raleigh in the upper courtyard.

“Sunshine,” I asked him quietly, my innards already sinking with dread, “why is the whole Inquisition here?”

Instead of answering he lead me around, flanking the crowd and navigating me to Cassandra and Leliana who held a very impractically ornate sword.

“We agreed it was a good idea to-” Cassandra started, but she stopped when she took a look at me. “Dessa?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” I hissed. “No. This is a terrible idea and I do not want to do this.”

“We need an Inquisitor,” Leliana answered coldly. “And all these people would go to the end of the world at your command. More or less they already had done that. We might as well put you in charge officially.”

“This is as good as a declaration of war to nearly whole Thedas,” I took a step back where Raleigh's chest stopped me from backing away any further.

He said: “Look, the way I see it, we already are in a war with the most powerful nation in Thedas anyway The rest is either with us or against us, and we are the ones holding the whole save-the world business as a hostage. Don't look at me like that, I've got that from you,” my Commander patted my shoulder. “So either you take the fancy poking stick and we'll call you Inquisitor and Your Worship and everyone will do what you tell them and hope you still know what you are doing... or you don't and we all will follow your lead anyway, but no pretty swords for you.”

“Raleigh Samson,” I sighed, “you're an absolute bastard and I hope you stub your toe when you go to bed tonight.”

He grinned, already knowing that I was on board, although I would be complaining about it until the end of days. Which, for all they knew, could be next Tuesday.

“Fine, but one condition: If anyone calls me ‘Your Worship’ I have the right to throw them off the battlements,” I resigned.

“I hope you won't exercise the right too often,” Cassandra agreed.

Instead of a podium I had to give a short motivational speech from the staircase landing where I said that no matter what hardships we were going to face, this threat to Thedas was to be ended by us and that I was expecting no less than the people's best while at their worst. It was a very neutral speech as far as political and religious matters were involved, and as such it gained a massive support.

After that I got a lot of patting on the back and congratulations and suddenly people considered it unthinkable for me to sweep what by all means should be my own fortress. Especially pushy was Sirann in this regard: “My Lady, you mustn't carry all your things, I'll do it. Madam, these breeches have too large seams, I'll bring you something better. Inquisitor, there are plenty of kitchen boys to chop the onion, leave those be.”

Raleigh from somewhere brought Master Gatsi Struhald, a heavily tattoed dwarven fellow who introduced me as a madman who left the Orzammar out of his own volition and then proceeded to take over my coordination of Skyhold repairs. Granted, he took my ideas and suggestions and we even had a nice chit-chat about the potential benefit of indoor plumbing, but the whole time he was circling me like a stalking lioness. My project being fully in Struhald's hand practically meant that outside of the daily sittings at the ostentatiously massive war table every morning along with the advisors I had nothing to do with my day save for the moments when I practically begged Blackwall or the Iron Bull to spar with me, which was a pastime I was beginning to seek more and more often despite getting pounded flat to the ground every time.

By the end of the week I was practically crawling up the walls. I had always thought myself lazy and loathing work, but it turned out that having nothing to do was worse than having work to do. Who knew? I pilfered loose sheets of paper and pencils and started drawing again, something I hadn't done since, well, since Kirkwall. I was rusty, though, and the frustration sapped all the joy out of it, so my quarters promptly became a mess of crossed-out scribbles which Sirann refused to throw out for some unfathomable reason.

Monday morning opened Raleigh with his usual report – the memorial for Haven was still in progress, the Hinterlands were secure, Skyhold hadn't fallen apart and we had most of the roofing done, and I was only half-listening to him as I poked my breakfast on the plate and tried not to dribble yolk all over Gwaren. Teyrna Cauthrien would have my liver if I did.

“I had contacted my acquaintances in Orlais about the possible planned assassination of Empress Celene,” Josephine smoothly took over after Raleigh sat back down. “The agreed consensus is that were such an event to take a place – which we know it will – it would happen on an important socio-political event, the closest opportunity being the Winter Ball. I ran into a peculiar problem, though.”

“They think we are the one who wants to fertilize the roses with her?” I asked.

“Oh, that is hardly any inconvenience, you are expected to make a grand opening in the Great Game. I had already received several suggestions how to best propose marriage to Duke Gaspard. No, the issue lies within your title.”

“There is a problem with me being the Inquisitor?”

Josephine tapped the corner of her mouth with her decoratively ruffled black quill and shook her head: “Historically the title of the Inquisitor was held only by men. While nothing from the records of the Inquisition of old suggests that women were prohibited to hold this particular position, it never happened. As such the precedent is... to address you as Lord Inquisitor. Despite your... feminine nature.”

A very nice shiver ran down my spine and made me sit up straighter in my chair. “I fail to see the problem.”

“I admit I expected you to be opposed to the idea. Some might presume you to be a man from the correspondence,” the Ambassador tried carefully, “and then be... disappointed when meeting you in person.”

“I am going to be disappointed with them most likely anyway, so that way we shall be on even ground. Lord Inquisitor,” I rolled the words on my tongue. Lord Inquisitor. “My Lord.” It was certainly doing something for me. “I like it.”

Raleigh, to hos great and obvious mortification, purred at hearing that.

Leliana chuckled: “Have you got anything else stored there, Josie?”

“Not really, all negotiations are coming along smoothly and achieving nothing, to the surprise of no one. People do not know what to make of us yet.”

“In that case, my Lord Inquisitor,” Leliana bowed her head just a fraction, “my agents have sent a word from the West Hill Bannorn in Ferelden. A giant rift, not as large as the Breach but large enough for the local to name it Breachling – had opened in the Trout Pond. Under normal circumstance I would refer this problem to Commander Samson for our soldiers to hold off the demons, but the true problem are the dead rising from the dead.”

“That's... that's Crestwood, right?” Ding ding ding! Important, pay attention!

“New Crestwood is on the bank of the Trout pond. Old Crestwood as the bottom of it, yes.”

“Please, Leliana, my most beloved of spymasters, can I have a field trip?”

“I was about to suggest it, actually,” she smiled at me with approval.

“While you are out here you could look for ways to-”

“Expand the Inquisition's influence,” the rest of us finished for Raleigh. He beamed proudly as if we were trained Mabari and just performed a trick perfectly. He was right to an extent.

I expected to be able to bring more than three companions with me, but it turned out that I didn't have that many volunteers: Cassandra was buried in maps and reports, trying to find where the rest of the Seekers had disappeared to, Bull was off with the Chargers getting newcomers safely to Skyhold, Blackwall had promised to train the new recruits – though I didn't want him with me in case we found any Grey Wardens – Vivienne couldn't give any less fucks about Ferelden, and Sera was nowhere to be found. However, upon hearing the word “a field trip to undead-infested backwater middle of nowhere with constant rain” Dorian practically saddled up the horses himself, Solas was utterly fascinated by a rift causing possession of the deceased, and Cole wanted to help.

I am going to end up tanking, am I not?

Hopefully not.

And thus we embarked for Crestwood, packed and armed and in my case hoping Sera wouldn't blow up anything important (such as the kitchen) while I was done.

Two hours later Solas and Dorian seemingly exhausted topics they could argue about; Solas had nearly lost his voice and Dorian began coughing like the hothouse orchid he was and the silence that descended on us became uncomfortable and too thick to breathe rather quickly.

So I tried: “Cole? Your hearing-of-the-hurt, it works on animals, right?”

“Yes.” Cole was very focused to keep on the top of his horse. Solas – who much like I ended up with a ram for the lack of ponies in Dennet's stables – was leading the animal by the reins. I was feeling slightly better about my miserable riding skills now that I knew that at least someone had it worse., but I felt far worse for acknowledging the source of my glee.

“How do animals think?”

Cole answered immediately: “It's more easy, more straightforward. People have their thoughts and hurts tangled with other hurts and thoughts. Some of them don't think, only feel.”

“No, I meant... do they have their own language?”

“Most of them don't. A lot of people doesn't talk to themselves in their head like you do,” he answered in the still voice of child watching ice crack under their feet. “The ravens in the rookery have a language, but a lot of it isn't made out of sounds. Cats too. Dogs think in sounds, but they don't know those are words – they are just sounds. Sometimes when the Inquisition is too much I like go visit the cellars and listen to the mice. They are content just being, always searching for the next thing to nibble. They are warm, their fur is soft and their claws tickle.”

“They also have the longevity of barely three years,” Dorian pointed out, “and that is if they have an extremely lucky life.”

Cole shrugged: “For them it is a lifetime. They don't need more.”

“So we should have been born as mice instead?”

“Who would stop Corypheus then, Dorian?”

To bring the conversation back to the original uncanny valley instead of the depression sinkhole, Solas asked: “Do animals use names for themselves.”

“Some of them. Animals usually know who they are so they don't need names. Your ram,” Cole pointed, “is Headbutts-Other-Rams.”

“He tends to does that, I've noticed,” Solas sighed.

Cole continued: “The horse Dorian is riding is Kicks, and the one that carries me is Hates-Galloping. I hope we won't have to flee from anything, she doesn't like going fast at all.”

“Who's this guy then?” I patted my ram on the side of the neck and he turned his ehad in hopes that I was holding a snack. Alas, I was not.

Long pause from Cole and then his face shifted into confusion, which was a rare sight. “He is Lord Oscar Fluffenton the All-Devouring,” he formed the words slowly. “I don't know why he calls himself that, but he does.”

“You have a gift for naming, Isc,” Dorian laughed. “And you waste it on puns and jokes.”

“I wouldn't call that wasting,” I opposed.

In the evening as we sat up our camp a bit away from the road I cracked the mystery I personally named “Why did Dorian so eagerly volunteer himself to go to Crestwood?”. The answer laid with his newly struck friendship with Raleigh Samson; despite them being off to a rocky start – Raleigh gave Dorian a black eye the first thing he saw him – they went together like milk and biscuits, which I found horrifying and fascinating at the same time. Dorian didn't waste any time and persuaded Raleigh to share stories from Anders' clinic when the three of us lived there together, apparently on the ground that he himself had passed through the shithole of city and actually met Anders, somehow, during his travel to Redcliffe.

I found out by Dorian offering me his assistance with cooking, an act that extremely wounded Solas' pride as he was planning to be in charge of our party's provisioning while out in the wilderness. I interfered the moment it seemed they would come to blows.

“I admit that I sort of hoped you would be cooking, that is all. I let it get ahead of me,” Dorian admitted sheepishly. “I am offering my assistance to Solas. Would that be an apology?”

“No, it wouldn't,” Solas growled from his onions.

We took turns in sighing and watched solas tending the pot over the campfire, as he didn't let any of us go anywhere near it. When we were on our third round (Cole didn't participate, he was too busy observing dormant anthill.), I gave up and asked Dorian: “Alright, why did you want me to cook? It better not be some Tevinter bullshit.”

“It is somewhat Tevinter bullshit,” he admitted with a loopsided smile. “It's just that my culinary experience in the south has so far been an endless tragedy with misery on the side. Everything is either brown or grey and boiled until it looses all taste or roasted until it is effectively plain charcoal with fat. I complained to Raleigh over a game of chess, and he went on this almost poetic tandem about the miracles you did with food at the clinic. I suppose I am simply desperate for something that's not only edible but also enjoyable.”

“Ah, be at ease,” I patted his shoulder. “My miracles were my cuts from doing accounting for carta spice smugglers. It's easy to do miracles when you have ginger and two colours of pepper.”

For a good moment Dorian's mouth moved but no sound came out. Finally he found some words to say and those were: “But those are the most common-”

“Shut up and eat,” Solas silenced him before I could manage to explain to him the extents of climate differences between the north and the south and the class divide between the two of us.

Our dinner was a soup. It was mostly brown and taste mostly of onion and garlic with hints of potatoes. We complimented it heavily, but Solas still refused to share tent with either of us – Cole said he didn't sleep – and brought his blanket outside.

As a result the first thing I did in the morning was that I stumbled into the weak morning light to expel some excess liquids, and I promptly tripped over the egg of an elf. The bastard had the audacity to shift his snore pattern and roll over to continue sleeping on his side.

Needless to say that our journey to Crestwood was a very long one and when we got into the first fight between a hoard of undead and people wearing griffon crests, I took it as a blessing.

Chapter Text

I graciously gagged and smeared mud-preserved brain more evenly through my hair in an attempt to get the largest chunks out. It had to be given to Dorian that his virulent bomb was spectacular and effective, but that is all positive I could say about corpse tissues flying in all direction at the moment.

“We had that,” one of the Grey Wardens frowned at us.

“Well, pardon us for not seeing your feathers in all this fog,” I stepped on a hand that was still twitching and crushed it against the gravel just to be sure. I was always one for kicking 'em while they were laying down. Kicking high up was much harder. “Local report said ‘demons’, so we didn't expect to run into any Grey here.”

“We aren't here for the demons,” said the other Warden, much gruffer. That one was sporting a domino mask styled like overlapping feathers, silver splattered with black – she belonged to the Orlesian chapter then. “We're chasing deserter. You haven't encountered him, I suppose?”

Please, please be this dumb: “Whom would we be encountering?”

“Loghain,” the bearded one informed me. “Loghain Mac Tir. He was spotted in the area.”

Our group exchanged glances and then we shook heads while Solas, picture of calm temper, said: “No, we have not met him on our way.”

Dorian was just about to launch an investigation of where the Wardens had all disappeared to when the Grey Wardens pushed past us with huff and disgust, not paying us any attention.

“They are scared,” Cole said, “they believe they are dying. It calls them sweet and haunting. Tah-tah tum. Tah-tah tum. Voices in their heads which aren't demons. ‘Is this it? The end?’”

“I have decided to believe they are imagining dinner gong,” Dorian pouts. “Far less creepy that way. I am wrong of course, I know, but I don't need any more nightmare material.”

“The Calling-” Cole started.

“I've just said I don't need more nightmare material. Spare me the details. At least until lunch,” he begged.

“I suggest that while we are around we find Loghain,” I said and hoped they were on board with it being more of a command rather than an actual suggestion. “And when we get to him, we pull all the information out of him, preferably over dinner.”

“What makes you think he would be amenable to meeting with us?” Solas shot back at me, but I had spent enough time around him to know that exploring the challenge of the proposition was his way of agreeing.

“He's a deserter, so right now he needs any friends he can get,” was my answer, followed promptly by throwing caution and subtlety to the wind: “Also I know him. Whatever he is deserting from, nine in ten cases it should be deserted.” And in the tenth case I prevent the situation altogether, so there is that.

“They will hurt him if they find him,” Cole muttered.

“And I had seen some paintings of him, I have to see the real deal. Let's get moving!” Dorian commanded. This round of persuasion went far smoother than I expected it.

“Great. So if I was an old poacher with overgrown sense of paranoia,” I pondered out loud, “where would I hide in rainy countryside of wet grassy misery?”

Not here, was the obvious answer, here the Wardens have just passed, and they came from the opposite direction. I informed the group that my guess was somewhere by the lake, probably in a cavern, definitely past Crestwood. Which meant that we had to go through the settlement and hopefully restock, because just yesterday we ran out of potatoes.

While we did not acquire potatoes, we got rice, carrots and a whole cabbage. We also got the request from a local Sister of the Chantry to find corpses in Old Crestwood for cremation.

“You cannot deny Andrastian traditions a certain practicality,” Dorian mused on our way through the village. “Ashes are far less likely to get up and gnaw your head off.”

Solas couldn't help himself apparently: “One would expect that you would protest the most of all, given your... specialisation.”

“I said that is less likely, not that I couldn't make it so.”

I recalled the last time I ran into ash wraiths. Funnily enough, it was in the Temple of the Sacred Ashes, many years. Andraste's most devoted and her most opposing, both guarding her alike in death. I wondered where they all had gone. With the cult and the ashes mysteriously disappearing, had the wraiths gone with them gods-know-where? Had they found peace at last, their duty fulfilled now that they had no temple to guard?

A cold hand on the back of my neck brought my attention back to our present situation. I looked around for its owner and found myself face-to-face with Cole who was pushing very wet posies into my hands. On closer inspection they turned out to be mostly common red embrium and razor spindleweed with the occasional stalk of unidentified subspecies of elfroot.

“They should be gathered,” the spirit made me take the assorted flowers. “They are here to help, and they are here and now.”

I thanked him and my inner musing turned to the practical question of how to dry the herbs in this damnable weather. The thought of drying made me abandon my mages locked in a rather heated debate about what does and does not count as tomb-robing, and paid a visit to the mayor. The man was incredibly relieved when I informed him that the Inquisition forces have arrived, grew slightly concerned when I told him that the Inquisitor was me and that I was looking into the matter personally, and by the time I got to the point that I need to drain the lake the man needed a shot of something rather strong for his nerves.

Outside my men were still arguing and Cole did his thing with the townsfolk, soothing little pains which they would not remember him doing later. I cleared my throat loudly: “Hey, guys how about we get a castle in this lovely locality?”

Solas stopped mid-sentence about the horrors of Tevinter and turned to me: “Before or after we find... your friend?”

“After, provided we find him quickly,” I clarified. “There is a keep a bit further on our way. Some bandits took residence, failed to pay up rent and the mayor wants them evicted. Wouldn't be our business whatsoever besides being very nice and helpful, but the mechanism to open the dam is accessible only through the keep. I was told that as long as we don't start robbing people on the road we are welcome to move in. It's a free real estate,” I added with a grin, but nobody caught on.

We proceeded and practically the moment we were around the hill we ran into an unexpected rift. At first it wasn't there and then suddenly blamf, demons! Things got a bit steamy, because the biggest fellow was a Rage and it was still heavily raining. Cole earned himself a very nasty bite into thigh which he informed us of only once I was closing the rift.

Solas, who fancied himself something of a healer, was on the other side of our self-appointed battlefield in the moment, so Cole asked Dorian to give him his hand. The next moment the man was gasping and the nasty wound was closing under his fingers.

“Did you- Did you just short-circle me?” Dorian demanded to know completely aghast.

Cole shrugged like someone who had no idea what those words meant. “I conjured this body. The world here is too solid to change. Magic makes it fluid again. I, uh, am probably not explaining this well.”

“What is going on here?” Solas approached us.

“Cole short-circled me,” Dorian explained while keeping a very careful watch of his hands, fingers as far apart as anatomy allowed him, “which made me hit him with unstructured magic power. Which, fair enough healed his wound, but it still should not have happened.”

“No, that was what was supposed to happen,” Cole protested gently.

Dorian weighted his options with a heavy sigh and finally concluded: “Fine, but the next time warn me beforehand that you are about to do this. And if I blow a spell in my pretty face now, that's on you, understood?”

“Gentlemen,” I reminded softly, “we are burning daylight and Loghain won't wait for us.”

Despite not running into any more problems – though we did walk into a couple of Red Templars, but they were a burned crisp within seconds rather than a problem – it turned out that our search for Loghain Mac Tir was going to be an insufferable ordeal, because sympathetic caverns by body of water where one could broke a solitary camp away from prying eyes was a lot.

I myself found myself pondering geology; I couldn't identify the base rock – it was pale as limestone, but significantly harder. Some white form of granite, perhaps? The origin of the mineral pressed on me far less than the origin of the caverns and tunnels – they were rather extensive, but they did not seem man-made. No pick-marks in the walls.

“They came from below,” Cole said suddenly as we walked through a narrow pass between two steep hills. “The ground quaked and then they were everywhere. Death, decay, destruction. Darkness and despair and drums.”

I frowned and looked over my shoulder back at the tunnel we had just passed. “You mean, darkspawn made these tunnels? During the Blight? Here? But the horde was held at Ostagar.”

Cole only shrugged. “They followed an army. No one came to help. Many people in Crestwood still remember.”

“So we have a strong emotional charge, a huge rift spilling out demons in need of a form, and a pile of mud-preserved corpses at the bottom of the lake,” Dorian sighed.

“All things considered,” Solas agreed, “aggressive walking dead are the mildest possible outcome here.” I decided not to ask him what were the spicier possible outcomes.

While I guesstimated the final location extremely well, it was actually Cole who pinpointed Loghain's location, because he felt the man's discomfort over cold feet.

“No wonder,” Dorian growled. “My footsies are freezing too.”

“Wait here,” I instructed, “too many people would probably spook him.”

With that I carefully slipped down the muddy hillside and approached the cave entrance. It was closed by wooden door and a suspiciously new sign that said: “Danger of collapse.” The paint didn't even managed to fade, unlike the weathered wood the lettering was on.

I politely knocked and waited for a moment. There was no answer. In the rainy silence I felt rather than heard a faint clinking of something magical behind the door.

Okay, here goes. I opened the door which gave way far too easily, and entered with a hearty: “Hey, what a nice- Ack!”

Schlud!

Ow. Ow ow ow ow ow. “Ow” didn't describe the headsplitting headache that flooded my senses in the slightest. If you ever had a bad migraine, this was worse, this went straight through my head. The cave flooded blue, but I was dizzy and barely aware of anything besides the pain. I reached for my right eye from which the pain was spreading. Something soft tickled me in palm – feathers. The touch made them move and another wave of pain crashed into my brain.

I felt Justice supplying control of my body as the pain got pushed away and back in my mind. I knew about I, the way one knows about their knees.

Wet and salty liquid made its way down to the corner of my mouth while at the same time I felt a trickle of blood running down the back of my nape. I took a deep breath and decided to panic later, preferably after I figure out who shot me.

In those crucial seconds it took me to gather myself enough my vision – somewhat flattened now – cleared enough to assess the occupants of the cave. Occupants, plural, because there were three of them.

“Varric, stop pointing your girlfriend at me,” I said and forced Justice to drop the whole enraged illumination at

Bianca which was locked and loaded did not budge in the slightest and kept aiming at me.

I pretended to ignore it and continued with a smile: “Hi Garrett, hi Loghain. You are awfully bothersome to search for, I'll let you know. How have you guys been?”

The only indication that Varric didn't want to shoot me was the surprised “oh shit” he let out the moment the trigger clicked. Justice was fully prepared to deflect this bolt with the memory of his chest plate, but it was not necessary, because it harmlessly bounced off a magical barrier.

Loghin and Varric shot Garrett a look. Garrett Hawke glared past my shoulder, and I turned around like an idiot. Solas behind me had his hand still reached forward. The rest of the squad was at his heels.

“Cole said you were hurt,” Solas explained. I was standing in the shadow of the cave and the light from the campfire barely reached me, so he didn't see the extent of my injury. Then he noted the people behind me and nodded: “Varric Tethras, how unexpected to meet you.”

Garrett chuckled: “Look at you, I'm not around for five minutes and you made friends.”

“Alright,” Loghain finally sheathed his sword. “What the fuck is this about, Ori? And who are all these people?”

We sat down around the campfire to dry ourselves a little bit. Varric finally put Bianca aside and refused to meet my eye as he said: “This here is Dessa, but I guess you know her, somehow. This is, well, Chuckles,” he pointed to Solas. “Chuckles, meet Chuckles.”

“My pleasure,” Garrett grinned. “It's Garrett Hawke, though. Or ‘Don't Let Him Get Away’.”

“Solas,” said Solas with a nod.

“Dorian Pavus, most recently... of Skyhold, I suppose?” Dorian somehow managed to bow with flourish despite squatting practically in fire in an attempt to warm himself.

And our residing spirit tilted his hat with: “I am Cole.”

I waited until the introductions were over before finally opening: “I am going to start my explanation of why we barged in here like this with an unusual question. Garrett, do you remember how basically the second real thing I ever told you was something along the lines to never search for your father's legacy and that if you couldn't really stand the mystery and it brought you to the Deep Roads you were supposed to get your sorry arse out of there as if your mum was chasing you with a broomstick and household chores?”

He hesitantly nodded: “I recall something like that.”

“Great. Which part of it did you not understand?”

“Hey now, Inky,” Varric interferred, “you don't have the patent on being always right. We went in, discovered old secrets, we went out. No problem.”

“Yeah, we ran into an old sentient darkspawn magister and forced him to rest in pieces. The Grey Wardens couldn't handle Corypheus – nothing against your Order, Loghain – but I could and I did. It's what I do.”

From the inner pocket of his fancy half-coat Dorian produced a flask and took a swig. Then he said: “Either you didn't kill him enough or we are dealing with another one.”

“It's the same one,” I confirmed. “He's got a delusion of godhood and wants to remake the world in his own image. And we are going to stop him.”

“You really don't think small, do you?” Loghain chuckled.

“Neither does Corypheus,” I shook my head and threw a splinter into the fire. “He's mass producing the red lyrium, out of people if I got it right. He feeds it to Templars – Red Templars, and screws people's head over if they don't listen to his supremacist indoctrination.”

Garrett and Loghain exchanged a look and I didn't have to be a spirit to know what they were thinking. Garrett summarised after a moment: “That brings a whole new theory about the corruption in the Grey Wardens on table. I don't like it.”

“Dessa,” came cautiously from Solas who had been watching me for a while by then, “you have... you have something in your eye.”

Before I could even try to respond, Cole was behind me, took the bolt by its head and pulled. What happened after that I had no idea, because ow ow ow ow ow. Shit this fuck, that hurts.

The next thing I knew everything was very warm and pleasant. This is what it must feel like for a phone to be charging. When I opened my eyes I found myself looking at somewhat startled Dorian. Apparently I had been thrown into his lap and the pleasant energizing warmth was coming from his hand on my forehead. A short while after that it turned from pleasant to agitating and I sat up, taking inventory of my suddenly missing aches.

“I don't want to be the one explaining this to Cassandra,” I heard Dorian whisper.

“Yeah. Let's not tell her how Varric shot me,” I agreed and looked around. Nobody lived to my expectation of wearing absolutely horrified face. The most expressive was Solas who appeared fascinated, Garrett and Varric were staring at the bloody bolt between them with disgust.

Loghain put a hand on my shoulder: “Fine, Corypheus. Where to next?”

Chapter Text

That night the seven of us assaulted Caer Bronach. It was incredibly easy to get Loghain and his companions hooked on the idea in spite of everything he had undoubtly been told about my time in Kirkwall: the promise of getting to rest out of the elements was all it took. To my surprise the first person to be on board with the idea was Varric: “Inky might blow my tits off, but a cave can't compare to a roof and solid walls, Chuckles.”

Of course the enthusiasm slightly wavered when we reached the keep and Solas leaned to me: “How are we going to get in?”

“I was thinking of the front door,” I pressed the reins of Lord Oscar Fluffington the All-Devouring into his hands and approached the heavy gate which gave me as much disapproving look as a thick wooden mass could muster.

I knocked on the door and announced myself: “Royal Mail!”

Reminder: The next time I see Alistair, I have to compliment him on the postal service. The gate opened a fraction and I was met with a wearily blinking night-guard.

I didn't wait for them – him, I found out later – to assess me, grabbed him by the forearm and pulled him out. With the help of a knee I pinned the man against the soaked wood and pressed the tip of my dagger between his teeth.

“Do anything stupid and I'll kill you,” I informed him. “Now give me the keys-”

“Intru-” the bandit sentry started, but he finished in a bloody gurgle, because the back of his throat was suddenly very intimate with my blade. In my defence, I told him not to do anything stupid or I'd kill him.

I turned around at the waiting rest of my group and as an afterthought kicked the gate full open with my heel.

“Your style's changed,” Varric noted on his way in. Then he stopped in his track and looked at the dearly recently departed with sudden concern: “Is he... really dead?”

“Oh yes, absolutely,” Dorian waved his hand which still flickered in upsetting purple manner. “Don't mind the shambling, balancing on just two legs doesn't come naturally to all.”

“Don't you think there is enough of walking dead around?” Solas hissed at him just as the corpse walked past Varric.

The retort was: “Not nearly enough on our side.”

The two of them then proceeded to hold an argument about the ethics of necromancy while we murdered our way through the keep which slowly woke up in alarm. I was able to keep up with them just enough to notice that neither of them raised the question of bodily autonomy and potential sacrilege and instead their focus was solely on binding involuntary spirits and demons.

“Amazing,” Garrett whispered to me as we climbed yet another flight of stairs. “Where did you even find them?”

“On Solas I practically fell in nothing but my pyjamas, and Dorian I got from a Chantry. Cole is a spirit.”

“You made a murder-friend,” he beamed. “Has he blown up anything yet?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

Boom! That was Cole slashing the neck of a bandit who wanted to take a good look at us with a torch and in death dropped it on a barrel which promptly turned into a ball of fire. The courtyard was flooded with the smell of caramel and burning alcohol.

“He takes after you,” Garrett patted my shoulder before he began hurling frost at the approaching archers.

In the end the hero of the day – or rather night – was Lord Oscar Fluffington the All-Devouring (“You are worse with names than Blondie!”) who literally rammed the self-proclaimed captain over the battlements. Loghain's arrows finished the man off, but we all knew it was an assisted kill.

We wordlessly agreed to worry about the clean-up later, and once we were certain the place was empty besides us and some spiders and the dam was opened, we crashed onto the bedrolls.

That night I dreamed of the Keep of the Dragon Age again, but for once I wasn't stuck behind the loom and tangled in complicated threads of other people's lives, but I was sprawled on a sofa and leafing through playing cards. I shuffled them and laid four of them by random on the beaten rickety table in front of me: Angel of Death, Song of Night, Song of Healing and Serpent of Crossroads.

When I laid out the rest of the cards face-up, I found out that I was missing the Knight suits in its entirety. I wondered where did it go. Did the Knights march away following Envy? This place didn't even have doors or windows, how would they leave?

Except there was a door when I looked up. Right across me in the wall, a door. I got up to hesitantly touch them and under my fingers I felt a no-longer familiar material which I haven't touched for years – the quickly warming up smooth coolness of polyvinyl chloride.

I woke up to a quiet giggling and my won breathing struggles. The struggles came from practically everyone being piled up on the top of me, which was really heavy on my chest. Varric's hair was in my ear and tickled terribly whenever he took a breath. The giggling was from Scout Harding who found the scene more amusing than I.

Cole was sitting under the table and stared at the floor.

“A little help?” I asked, and Harding dragged me me out, though it nearly pulled my breeches down.

“Thanks. And good morning. What do we owe the pleasure? No bad news from home, I hope?” I searched for my boots as I spoke and checked on my drying herbs.

“Someone,” Harding giggled again, “killed out the bandits in Caer Bronach and drained the Trout Pond overnight. Me and some men broke camp near Crestwood yesterday and talked to the mayor, apparently we missed you by half a day, so we thought we'd check on you. I though ‘If I was the Inquisitor, where would I go?’ and there you are. And you made friends!”

“Hawke,” I heard Loghain growl sleepily behind me, “if you don't get off my bladder this instant, you are going to really regret it.”

“Charter downstairs is making scrambled eggs and ham,” Harding practically pushed me out of the room. Priceless woman, watching out for my stomach.

During the course of breakfast I took a course through the keep. The Inquisition agents who have followed us in have made themselves at home; already there were improvised workshops to repairs armours and weapons, a small rookery and an active gambling ring.

There was a post for us from Skyhold, most notable being a letter for Dorian, as he was the only one besides me to get any mail, and my mail was tedious reports written in Raleigh handwriting which strongly resembled over-caffeinated spiders in a rave. One day he was going to write something important and I would never know, because I'd give up reading not even halfway through. It was a good cypher for encryption, though. And he added explanation doodles. One of them involved a dwarven woman with a sparkling rock and from that I understood that Arcanist Dagna had arrived to Skyhold.

Eventually I had to return back upstairs and threaten everyone with defenestration to get them up, dressed, fed and running. Dorian didn't tell me what his letter was about, but he grumbled something about private mail and Leliana. I decided to let it be and instead began preparing to descend into Old Crestwood. Mostly it involved checking my now positively wilted herbs.

“I smell fish,” Garrett commented once we were on the way. “And... more fish.”

“You've spent seven years in his company,” Solas leaned to me with an urgency in his voice. “Tell me how you managed to withstand his jabbering. He might drive me mad.”

Varric pouted: “I wouldn't ask her for advice, Chuckles – not you, him! – because very likely she'd just tell you to bottle it up until you can't take it and then – boom! Seriously, I am surprised you haven't blown anything to pieces yet.”

“I would,” my tone was a bit more acerbic than I liked, but I had just had enough, “but Corypheus beat me to it.” It was a low blow, but after that Garrett wisely shut up, and Varric stopped bringing up the exploded Chantry in an attempt to guilt trip me.

The prickly attitude left them completely when we ran into a rift and I closed it.

Garrett turned to me with an epideictic knife-twirl: “Were you able to do that this whole time that I've known you?”

“Not like this, but otherwise, yeah. More or less,” I nodded.

Solas, his tone cautious: “So what you are saying is that you don't need the Anchor?”

“Not to close rifts of regular size. We can do this instead.” I demonstrated as Justice briefly imbued my shortsword which shimmered light blue as a result for a while. “Of course, then we'd have to hack at the air with weapons and we'd look like idiots.”

Loghain snorted: “Would that change anything?”

“Ha!” Varric laughed, “I knew I liked you for a reason, Princess.”

“Princess?” Dorian turned to the dwarf in horror. “One of the most important figures of modern history, and you call him ‘Princess’?”

“And you,” Loghain made a vague gesture in Dorian's direction with an arrow, “are a Tevinter noble, a society infamous for being oppressive and killing own people like a cattle the week before carnival, and the worst he's called you so far has been ‘Sparkler’.”

“Could we,” Solas sighed, “perhaps do five minutes without unnecessary witty banter?”

“It's a necessary witty banter,” Garrett retorted. “I am the original Chuckles – you might be all dreary with a staff stuck up your arse, but I am a witty banter with a pair of very handsome legs.” He wiggled his buttocks at us to demonstrate. “I just can't help it.”

Cole, hovering behind Loghain until now, looked up and in that distant tone of his said: “It's a call for help; love me, love me, love me. Don't pull the curtains away, don't let them see the scars. Love me, I scream, love me.”

Dorian broke into a cough and turned away from us, but he was faking it. Very likely he was faking it that badly on purpose, but whether he was simply trying to open up somewhat or just held solidarity with the Disaster of Kirkwall I couldn't say.

What I said was: “Anyone else needs their coping mechanisms called out, or can we move on, quietly for once?”

Garrett wanted to say something, but both of his friends gave him the elbow to the ribs in sudden and unexpected self-preservance. As a result we made it to the still-drying-out caverns in relative silence. Granted, there was huffing, occasional cussing when someone fell too deep into the mud and several cases of “Maker's tits, Cole! Don't appear behind me like that, you'll give someone a heart attack.”

That's a rather short way of saying that we spent the entire day wading around in smelly mud, occasionally killing misplaced denizens of the Fade if they tried to kill us first. When we actually got to the caverns, the sun had sat down. Still we pushed further down accompanied by dancing lights in all the colours of the rainbow, a courtesy of Dorian.

We made it as far down as the room with the dead bodies.

Without even talking about it we broke camp a bit back, all of us too pale even in the coloured light, and too upset to even mention it.

The sombre silence broke when Loghain turned to me with: “Do you need any help with cooking? Well, no, do you want any help with cooking?”

“Isn't it a bit sexist?” Dorian looked up from the spot he was clearing off pebbles so his bedroll would lay straight. “To presume it's the woman cooking? I thought that Ferelden prided itself on the equality of all sexes when it came to the roles.”

“Ori's always cooked when we were camping out,” the Warden shrugged.

“Dessa's cooking has many qualities,” Varric chimed in. “For example: it's edible and not a coal paste stuck to the bottom of the pan.”

“That was just one time, Varric.”

“Chuckles, you said you were making a soup. Soup!”

“My coal soup is still better than your scrambled eggs. I swear I have that stuck in my hair even now,” Garret poked Varric in the chest

Solas approached: “Your cooking is quite famous.” Was that a hint of jealousy? Or perhaps outright envy? He kept his tone light and face calm, with such a liar I couldn't tell. He was good.

“Are you handing your apron over, or fishing for tips?”

“Merely stating my observations out loud.”

“Ah, trying to butter my up to roast me later, I see,” I nodded and returned to crumble most of the mud out of my hair. No point in washing it – it had created a solid helmet and partial mask on me. Besides water was scarce, we only had a few waterskins, and while I was vain in my own way, I was not that vain.

Solas frowned: “Do you always presume the worst about people?”

“Well,” I grinned, “no. It's just you specifically.”

Even in the mixed light and dancing shadows I noticed the blush the crept up to his cheeks before the elf turned away demanding to know what was taking so long with the campfire.

“Not entirely sure if you've noticed, but all wood in the area is completely soaked through. Crazy, right? As if this place has been flooded for years!” Dorian earned himself a lot of groaning for several sources with this.

We ended up with dry food and crusty bread again.

Somewhere into the second half of the night I woke up feeling trapped in my own body. I was sitting for some reason. The reason wasn't that hard to guess, since my skin pulsed with faint blue light.

“-feel always lost. I hoped you would understand, I need someone to- Oh.” Cole was sitting next to me, hat in his hands. He stopped talking suddenly.

“Sorry. I didn't want to wake you up. You are angry and hurt now that Justice moved you without you knowing. It's like the days before. Don't worry. You won't remember it. It won't hurt again. Just return to your bedroll and it will be alright, I promise.”

Not awake entirely, I did as he suggested.

But I still remembered in the morning, and I was pretty pissed about it. At both of them, actually. And at Garrett who helped himself to my tea mix without even asking me.

Chapter Text

“We are getting close,” I informed the party.

“How close?” Loghain demanded. He was a bit on an edge ever since we crossed into the old dwarven ruins; he had an arrow notched in his bow.

Although to be fair, nobody was at ease except Cole – who simply just was most of the time. Garrett was good at faking it, but after he nearly obliterated us all with an ice barrier when a droplet of water fell from the ceiling on the back of his neck no one believed him the jovial act anymore.

“About five minutes of walk, “ I waved my left hand in the general direction of the rift, “if we could walk though stone, that is. We'll have to walk around.”

Dorian looked up: “Practical question: how do you know that?”

“I suppose there is an inference between the two source of disruption in the Veil that is large enough to vibrate the connected tissue. Granted, it's a theory and it might be wrong, because I did not study magic on any theoretical level or at all.”

Garrett: “Alright, I understood literally nothing of that.”

“It hurts like a bitch when a rift is nearby,” I translated.

“Why doesn't the Champion of Kirkwall know pulse interference principles?” Dorian pouted. “It's one of the core theorems of modern magic. Aren't you supposed to be the greatest mage in the south?”

“All the theory I've gotten was on how not to get caught by Templars,” Garrett frowned. “I've never had any chance to get proper magic education. Glad for that, too. Seeing the Gallows from the outside was bad enough...”

A beat of silence when I got my hopes up. Alas, Dorian was Dorian – unable to keep his mouth shut: “Well, would you like to?”

“Would I like to what?”

“Learn magic theory, of course.”

“What, are you offering?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.” The man attempted to fix his moustache – a futile endeavour – and continued: “I've studied at the best Circle of Magi in Tevinter. In spite of what you've heard about my homeland, we practice actual magic as well. Sometimes people get over in their head, yes, but where they do not? Besides, learning from me means you get the uncensored version. Note to our lovely Inquisitor: At least half of our library at Skyhold is suitable merely as kindling.”

“Glad to see you are making friends, Chuckles,” Varric sighed. “Though this wasn't what I meant that you need to get out more. Hmm, is that just my knees giving out, or is the ground really trembling? I don't want to get caved in... again.”

His wishes were answered with a fiery roar promptly followed by the famous Hawke battlecry: “Choke on my dick, you motherfucking son of a bitch!” Quite sad that it had never made to into the Tale of the Champion. And even if it had, Bethany wouldn't have gotten her credit for it.

I did not have the time to reminiscence what Varric did and did not publish, because I had my field of view full of fire. One wouldn't think that stabbing at fire would do much, but luckily nobody had told the rage demon that it should not have been affected. Unfortunately it bled some no-name brand of knock-off lava and it burned my hand, eating straight through my gloves. I smelled it, but did not feel it. A little busy for that.

What followed was probably the worst barbecue party ever which could have turned out far uglier than it did if Garret's speciality wasn't freezing stuff while shouting profanities. Also stabbing. Garrett liked to stab stuff a lot, literally anyway. While flirty, he hadn't done much of the metaphorical stabbing.

The fight left us all in various states of scorched, singed, toasted, smouldering (Loghain's arm cops) and with delicious golden crust (Cole, self described). And Bianca had gotten scratched by a wraith which was an absolute tragedy as Varric just would not shut up about it.

On the top of that Justice decided to call it a day and retreated to the back of my mind, leaving bodily maintenance fully to me. On one hand: autonomy. On the other hand: Ouch. Ouch, ow, damn. I was burned, bruised, I had a pulsating hole between states of reality in my hand and forearm and the one in my abdomen had apparently began re-opening, which was the second last thing I needed. Last thing that I needed was Solas' lecture.

“Inquisitor,” he was saying, “your condition is an uncharted enigma to us, but we know it is a dangerous one. You must exercise caution and not strain yourself. If the Anchor grows, it will kill you, perhaps worse.”

“I like how dying is the better option,” Loghain mumbled.

Cole tilted his head to side: “Lost and light. Weightless and wrung. It is not fair. It's not fair! How dare you? You will pay.”

“That was extremely creepy, Kid,” Varric patted his back. “Let's get someplace more cheerful, what do you say? People will be less gloomy and you won't have a reason to roam in their heads that much.”

“But I want to help. I can't do that if I don't see the hurt.”

“Sometimes helping means not picking at the stitches. Getting some sunlight and a warm meal would help us all, I think. And some beer.”

“Lot of beer,” our Warden agreed.

Solas voiced his worries about our priorities, but Dorian gently reassured him that our priorities were fine. “After all,” he smiled, “we are planning to get drunk only now, after we tackled the problem at hand. Though if you don't want to go drinking, you can always join me for tea.”

We headed back after dousing the last patches of hair and clothes. On the surface the rain had eased up. Mind you, I did not say “ceased” or “stopped”, I said “eased up”. Meaning that instead of a constant stream of downpour we made our way to Caer Bronach through omnipresent nearly freezing drizzle which was somehow worse. The mud situation didn't get any better and when we were a bit more than halfway through, Varric expressed his desire to turn around and return to the underground.

“It was warm, Inky. Warm and dry. Underground and horribly dwarven, I admit, but nothing is perfect.”

“Save for me.”

“You are sopping wet and your moustache is stuck to your face sideways, Sparkler. You have far to perfection right now.”

To my mild surprise upon arrival we were greeted by Cassandra who pretty much had the expression of “do you know how long it is past your curfew?”. I didn't know I had a curfew!

“I can't let you out of my sight for five minutes without you bringing home strays, can I?” she scoffed in pretended disgust. I couldn't blame her much, we looked like scorched mud-monsters straight out of some horrible Fade nightmare.

However it wouldn't be Garrett if he didn't try to defend himself: “Hey, I am not stray. I am domesticated, I'll let you know.” When that didn't get a reaction out of the woman, he unhelpfully added: “Potty trained, even.”

“What, really?” Cassandra couldn't believe her ears if her eyebrows were any indication.

“It was a lot of work,” Loghain sighed, “but yes, he is.”

I smiled, trying to get through this without punches being thrown, and the boys weren't helping. At least Varric was sensible enough to hide behind Cole. I asked: “What do I owe the pleasure of you coming here?”

“Sister Leliana received reports that the rift was bigger than we thought and that the Red Templars were active in the area. I though... you would need help of a competent swordsman. But when I got here, I learned you were below the lake.”

“Um... sorry. Should I have waited for you?”

“Given that you have solved the problem... no.”

“Could we go inside?” Cole whispered loudly enough for the whole courtyard to flinch. “I don't like being wet.”

We got to the room where we had slept the previous night where we concluded that privacy be damned, we were changing into dry clothes. Suddenly the situation looked far less bleakly. That changed when Cassandra concluded she had given us enough time and barged in to begin the cross-interrogation. Once a Seeker, always a Seeker.

“First of all: Where did you find Varric?”

“In a ditch,” most of us answered in absolute unison. Varric sighed something about that not being wrong, though he would had preferred it being described as a hovel more.

“Second-”

“Hey, Cassandra, before you cross-examine whatever we are about to say,” I interrupted her quickly, “I have something important I want to ask you.”

She scoffed, she grunted, but ultimately nodded: “Very well. Ask.”

“Hypothetically, back in Haven, if Magister Tilani walked in in fully feathered glory,” I caught Dorian’s surprised expression and decided not to explain why Tilani was the first Magister to come to my mind, “and demanded to know where I am, would you tell her?”

“Of course not.”

“Are you one hundred per cent sure, Cassandra? You wouldn't tell her?”

“I don’t think I need to repeat myself.” She crossed her arms and frowned at me. “You were already opposing the Tevinter Empire, loudly at that. Louder still after your meeting with Alexius. So, no, I would not betray you to a Magister. She wouldn’t get anything out of me, not even with torture. Does this answer satisfy you?”

“There wasn’t a wrong answer to begin with,” I shrugged. “but I would like you to commit your answer to memory.”

Truth be told, while Cassandra’s loyalty was pleasing, it was not reassuring. She barely knew me. She could just as easily be a staunch follower of my enemy, and given she was deeply religious and I was not on rather bad terms with the Orlesian Chantry on my diplomatic days... well, it could easily become a problem, that was all.

On the other hand, Loghain dropped his hand from where he semi-casually held it on his sword. He hadn’t stopped scowling, but to be entirely fair, he scowled in his sleep.

“Now I would like to know who are our new companions. I am not objecting... not yet, anyway. You fished up Blackwall from a lake and found Cole taking a stroll in your head,” Cassandra sighed. “I am sure that whatever it was you found in a ditch next to Varric can’t do worse. Not much, anyway.”

“The name is Loghain. A Grey Warden.”

“And I’m Garrett. A problem, usually. I can stab things.”

Cassandra blinked, then her face turned red with fury, but before she could lunge at Varric, the dwarf rolled under the table to put some distance and a physical barrier between the two of them. Not that it would help him much, the Seeker would probably be able to toss the table aside if she tried to. It was a rickety thing, barely out of any wood.

What was probably better at preventing Cassandra from committing murder was me, who took a couple of steps to side to block her way. Not that I was any more of a physical obstacle than the table, but as a psychological obstacle I was more than solid enough.

“You!” the Seeker fumed. “You knew the whole time where Hawke was! You hideous scoundrel, after everything, after the whole search I went through. And you lied to my face that you did not know where Hawke was, you-”

She stopped her furious tirade, struck by sudden self awareness.

Our two mages exchanged a look. Dorian’s moustache was curling itself unnaturaly, as if his upper lip was trying to make a run for it, Solas was not even bothering with hiding the smirk. He said: “It is reassuring to know that Seeker Pentaghast is not a hypocrite.”

“Not much, anyway,” agreed Dorian, because he could simply not poke the bear with a stick.

Cassandra covered her mouth and nose in her hands and took a while to cool down. When she spoke again, her voice was somewhat strained, but at least she didn’t look like she was about to start spitting fire: “Sister Leliana and I searched for the Champion of Kirkwall, because the Holiest Divine Justinia considered him fit to lead the Inquisition.”

“Welp,” Garrett moved to stand besides Varric behind the safety of the table, “she was entirely wrong about that.”

Varric nervously pointed out: “You, uh, kinda failed to mention that before you stabbed me in the book, Seeker. And afterwards too.”

“Yes. I realise that now. It was... a tactical error on my side.”

“No, no, I think it worked out fine,” Garrett protested. “I am unfit to lead household, let alone a city, not to mention an Inquisition. What is it inquisitioning after? I don’t know, I don’t want to know, I sure as damn do not want to be the one deciding that. I am an idiot with a knife and the worst known luck to Thedas. Do not put me in charge of anything. It will end badly.”

“Too late for that. We have already pronounced the Inquisitor, so your chance has passed.”

“Great, so who is this guy of yours?” Varric tried to change the topic. “Just so I know before I accidentally introduce him to Bianca’s piercing gaze.”

Cassandra jerked head in my direction. Varric stared, his jaw slowly lowering. When he glanced at Solas, the man only nodded.

“Seeker, after everything I’ve told you, you put Inky in charge?!” the dwarf managed to shriek desperately.

“She did survive a trip into a hopefully alternate future version of Thedas and then returned back in time, and faced off a rather powerful demon in her head and won, a ritual called in the southern Circles ‘the Harrowing’ I believe,” Dorian interjected. “She then saved a lot of mages from contract-bound slavery which would force them to work for Corypheus, and she also outright stole the remaining uncorrupted Templars right from his clutches. Not to mention she has the power to seal Fade rifts, most notably the Breach.”

“And saved thousand lives in Haven when she predicted Corypheus’s strategy of attack,” Cassandra added.

“Dessa also at least seems to know what is going on.” That was Solas with a low chuckle. “That is far more than you could say about anyone else.”

And as a cherry on the top, Dorian once more: “And she’s found the Champion of Kirkwall and the last two Grey Wardens who haven’t sauntered off to do something mysteriously bloody, a task that Seeker Pentaghast and Sister Nightingale have been on for a year now. Quick, while our Inquisitor is in the mood, are we searching for anyone else?”

Cassandra sighed: “Well, there is... one more. Divine Justinia also searched for the demon that manipulated the Fifth Blight, the Oracle. Yes, I know, the Chantry’s stance is that the Oracle was not real in the first place, but in case if it was and if we found it, the Divine wanted to force it to submit its knowledge to the Inquisition.”

“Force it?”

She hadn’t missed the edge in the question and added: “Well, since she is not around anymore and her orders no longer bind me, I thought we could try asking nicely, Solas. But we have to be cautious. Cole has been useful, but he is a spirit, not a demon. The Oracle, however, cannot be trusted.”

I caught Loghain looking at me, head tilted to side. I very slowly, very lightly shook mine. Hopefully he’d get the message and keep his trap shut.

Out loud I concluded: “Well, if I see your demon out there, I’ll send it your way. But we have better things to do than to chase after Oracles that do not exist. Loghain, you mentioned something about the Hissing Wastes yesterday, let’s get to it. Unless Josephine’s managed to smuggle us into the Winter Ball already, Cass? No? I didn’t think so.”

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Cole slinking out of the room, taking a long way round to stay as far away from our Seeker as possible.

Loghain pulled out a map case and procured from it a sketch of a map of some Maker-forsaken desert area as he curtly informed us that what he knows about the happenings with his fellow Wardens were mostly a heresay, but he had also mentioned he was not the only deserter.

When he noticed that Cassandra stood next to me looking over the maps, he swung his tall frame between us to pinpoint some irrelevant detail to her. I stepped to side to give him space, only to bump into Solas next to me, who gave me an encouraging nod.

Chapter Text

Cassandra did her best to herd us all back to Skyhold, and as much as I hated it, I had to agree with her on that: I couldn’t just pick up my things and just waltz across Orlais and the Hissing Wastes to the Western Approach and hope to trip over the correct tower. Firstly, my chances of survival would be minimal. Secondly, I did not have any stuff that was actually mine, and while it made it easier on the picking up part, it made it the waltzing and surviving all the harder.

So what we were doing instead was sending a scout envoy and securing forces ahead. Those needed to be supplied, which meant setting up camps alogn the way and leaving behind people to maintain those camps, which in turn meant greasing up some elbows and persuading the nobles owning the places deemed good enough to become camping spots that the Inquisition’s presence is something they definitely want in their backyard.

Then the camps had to be fed. While more often than not the separate camps received permission to make use of local wildlife to provide timber and meat for themselves as long as it was in sustainable moderation, we still had to purchase grain and flour, vegetables and fruit and finally cloth and also metal. Not to mention there was the entirety of Skyhold to feed. The Frostbacks weren’t exactly arable, let alone warm enough to grow anything besides glaciers, and no promising ore vein was found for us to open a little unapproved mine. That meant we needed money.

Thus on our way back I pondered the means of potential enterprise from atop Lord Oscar Fluffington the All-Devouring while Dorian was discovering the horror that was Garrett’s arcane knowledge (“What do you mean you know how to cast an icebolt but never heard of thermodynamics?”) while Solas inconsistently showered them with knowledge, rhetorical questions, corrections, and tales of personal experience to piss off one or the other, but never both of them lest they’d team up on him and throw him off of his ram.

My pondering was put to a stop by a feeling of urgency that grew as we approached Crestwood. I only hoped this would not end bloodily.

People leaned out of their windows to look at the Inquisitor, meaning me, and her entourage as we rode through the small town. When we reached the main square, I got off Lord Oscar and told him to stay. By that point I had such faith in Dennet’s training that I was certain the ram would not move unless it would put him in harm’s way. And even then the harm would probably think about it twice; facing a Fereldan mountain ram had that kind of effect.

Without explaining anything to anyone I turn towards the mayor’s house. Nobody tries to stop me, so I yank the door open. It isn’t locked, but it wouldn’t matter even if it was.

Mayor Dedrick was in full travel clothes and I caught him haphazardly packing. He froze on spot when he saw me. I tried not to think about what he was seeing. I was in control, for now, but the balance could slip any moment. This is a matter of justice.

“No,” the mayor whined. “No, no, please.”

“I take it that you know why I am here, then.”

I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed which he followed by a small nod. He didn’t meet my eyes, he in fact was trying to look at anything but me. When the silence began crushing him too much, he said: “I did it to- to protect- to save- I didn’t-”

I took a deep, slow breath while internally I was trying to push Justice into a cupboard. The spirit wanted to do something, the yearning for a resolve was so strong I could practically taste it.

“Gregory- Your name is Gregory, right? Good, so tell me, Gregory, what do you want me to do about you?”

He looked at me, then. I knew that look, the face of a man who considered himself worthy of the capital punishment, yet hoped for mercy he wouldn’t know what to do with if he received it. But strictly speaking, this man was not my responsibility. I did not have the right to judge him, it would not be just.

Finally I could breathe a little easier. I smiled at the mayor and said: “Here is what you are going to do: You are going to get four strong and trustworthy people who shall make sure you make your way to Denerim in one piece. There you’ll plead your case to your king, and whatever it shall be, you will accept it. Understood?”

Alistair, the current King of Ferelden, had once been a Grey Warden, so if anyone was going to have sympathy for the man’s situation, it would be him. And Crestwood was the king’s responsibility, not mine. These were not my people. I had no jurisdiction.

He nodded, I could tell that the fact I hadn’t killed him outright moved him to tears. Still, Dedrick licked his lips to force them to move and asked: “What if I don’t make it to Denerim?”

“That would be either the will of the people, who ought to be tried for murder. Or it could be the Maker’s will if it’s a bolt of lighting that kills you, or a bold pack of wolves.” A though occurred to me and I added: “You may get to live if you are willing to make amends and do better. Make no mistake; should you try to outrun the responsibility, I will hunt you down myself.”

I left him with that. Upon turning around I found out that my little group had followed me, so at least nobody asked me what that was about. Only Dorian commented: “I was expecting a key-trial, Isc.”

“I don’t have the authority here. Taking justice into one’s own hands is incredibly dangerous.” Twice as much when you are one step away from Vengeance and half a breath from Retribution. I had to be careful.

“That hadn’t stopped you in Tevinter,” the mage pointed out.

We turn to him sharply and hiss: “When injustice has the blessing of the law, there is no authority to call upon, to rely on. Key-trials were a matter of necessity.”

Rather than scared, Dorian seemed thoughtful. “I hadn’t considered that before. I’ll think about it, unless Garrett and his poor grasp on the elemental theory freeze my to a crystal.”

That was when Varric and his borrowed mule matched speed with me and with a conspiratory tone the dwarf leaned to me: “Okay, I gotta ask: Why does Sparkler call you ‘Isc’ and what are key-trials?”

I sighed and said loud enough for Loghain’s straining ears to pick up: “After I left Kirkwall I spent some years causing slave uprisings and riots under the name Isc. And you don’t want to know about the key-trials, trust me.”

Varric did not press further, so I hoped that would be it. How naïve of me.

Our arrival to Skyhold was fairly unremarkable, but I as we got closer, the blurred silhouette of the castle fortress rapidly changed until I realised that it was completely surrounded by scaffolding. A large part of it extended into the abyss below.

As we approached further, the road itself suddenly changed. Where beforehand were steep rocks was now open path carved into the rock, wide enough to fit a cart and a horse besides it. It was also heavy with traffic. I noticed a trio of people with pickaxes and shovels sitting nearby, enjoying a lunch break. They saluted when they caught me looking at them, and I gave a brought two fingers to my temple to semi-salute them back.

“Looks like you are in for a treat,” Dorian mused. “I suppose that as guests of the Inquisition you’ll get rooms that doesn’t have a view through every wall.

Cassandra nodded thoughtfully: “When I left for Crestwood, the restoration works were nowhere near this large.”

We were greeted by Josephine with Sirann and Master Struhald in tow.

“Atrast vala, my Lord,” the dwarf greeted me with a salute – Orzammar salute, arms crossed over his chest. He hadn’t done that when he had first met me. I had a vaguely bad feeling about that.

“Figured I’d report myself. Most of the Skyhold’s gone to the Stone. I’ve gone through everything available that’s ever been put into the memories about the topside architecture, but whoever had built Skyhold hadn’t read those books at all. Still, the men are making a good progress with the renovations. We’ve got hot water flowing, and we’ve excavated a whole tower from the valley below, currently working on getting it up here.”

It was an awe-inspiring feat and I told him as much. When he continued to stand there awkwardly, I said: “Report accepted, Master Struhald. Dismissed. Atrast tunsha.” The farewell slipped out mindlessly. A remnant of a life that was not mine, yet once I had claimed it.

Josephine smiled, but I could tell something was gnawing on her mind. “Master Struhald wrote to his contacts in Orzammar, which secured for us supply of stone, metal, even a very good deal on lyrium. My table is full of letters from various families across all castes all but tripping over each other for the honour to work with us.” She scratched her chin with the tip of her quill, and added: “While it is true that King Bhelen opened that city to the Surface, the dwarves of Orzammar had never been so enthusiastic to interact with anyone who was not one of their own. I wonder, Inquisitor, if you know what changed that.”

I recalled my legal documentation – which I had left in Vyrantium and had no hopes of getting back, along with the rest of my actual belongings. I had a suspicion, but I was not eager to corner Struhald to confirm it. So instead I put on my most innocent face and said: “Ambassador Montilyet, do I look like someone who understands Orzammar politics?”

“Well, Inky,” Varric entered with a grin which he thought to be shit-eating but actually looked like he had very bad indigestion, “you don’t look like Carta accountant either, but here we are, are we not?”

“And you look every pinch like you need your facade fixed, but here we are indeed.” My tone was enough for Varric to back down. If it came to stand-off of airing each other’s dirty laundry, Varric wouldn’t stand a chance. For a starter I could bring up whose books I had been keeping, and after that I wouldn’t have to worry about the finisher. Or the follow-up, really.

I shook my head and said: “Josephine, is anything you have to tell me pressing, or can it wait, say an hour? In the meantime I’d like to put Master Struhald’s claims about hot water and indoor plumbing to a test, maybe ease up the ram-paints from my, uh, ramparts. We all have been up in the saddles for over a week, and I can’t speak for everyone, but I am certainly going to have less aggressive opinions on everything once I get the rest of zombie brains from my hair and the soreness from my arse.”

It could wait for an hour, even a little longer if I wanted to, so Sirann took me away. It turned out that in my absence Raleigh and Leliana agreed to promote the timid elf woman to the position of Senechal of Skyhold, partially because she was one of the few people Sera took seriously and stopped putting live crickets in people’s clothes when Sirann told her to cut it out. As it turned out, Sirann’s timidity had worn off extremely quickly once she had been put in charge.

After a hot bath, hot tea, and two slices of meat pie I actually felt somewhat human I made it to the meeting room where to my delight I found out that the war table had been fitted with chairs with an actual cushioning. The impromptu meeting held all three of my advisors plus Sirann (“She’s the Advisor for Domestic affairs, because sending the troops out should be done after the big laundry, and neither of the three of us understands the laundry schedule,” Raleigh clarified.), my diverse group of companions (“I am technically here to represent the Chargers, we are an external group.” “Yeah, everyone is buying that, Tiny. Me? I just like to be included.”), Garrett, Loghain Grand Enchanter Fiona, and Ser Barris.

I first brought to the table that we needed to cross the Hissing Wastes and find a suspicious ritual tower somewhere in Western Approach. No, we did not know even vaguely where, but it would smell of darkspawn taint and quite possibly blood magic.

“So we need scouts,” Raleigh concluded as he stirred a lyrium potion into a pitcher of what I identified as a coffee the moment he poured himself a cup. Wordlessly I pushed my cup to him. We stared at each other for a while, but he knew that this was the closest to I could get to be at least tipsy, and nobody should be forced to suffer the Inquisition business sober. Besides he needed to butter me up for what he was to say, that much was clear.

He pushed the filled cup back to me and said: “Problem is that half of our scouts got themselves ambushed and kidnapped while they were searching the Kolcari Wilds. As far as the feudals are concerned, it’s no man’s territory, and we hoped to find an ore vein or something agriculturally usable. Instead a son of one of the local chieftains has taken our people hostage and demands to duel whoever is in charge.” A sip of lyrium coffee large enough to drain the cup, refill. “I had it as number one of our concerns, but you cut ahead of me.”

Garrett, who had never said ‘no’ to a duel in his life, even when it didn’t concern him, perked up: “Well, it can’t be as bad as a sodden field of walking flesh-hungry corpses all, can it?”

“For the Inquisitor’s sake I hope that particular image is cheerful, because what you described is precisely what the Fallow Mire is.” Leliana had gotten her reports from Crestwood and I knew it, so she wasn’t fooling me with her hopes and wishes of my well-being.

Leliana worried me. That she did not acknowledge me as, well, me, that I marked up to her keeping my secret. After all, Cassandra had made the Chantry’s position towards the Oracle clear,a nd most people followed the chantry like sheep. But she didn’t even nod at Loghain, didn’t acknowledge his presence in the slightest, and I knew that the two of them had built good rapport with each other. What was worse, Loghain seemed quite hurt by this rejection.

“Well, I’ve had my fun with that,” Dorian mused out loud, “so I suppose someone else can have a turn.”

Solas had to jab: “Wasn’t it you who said that there is nothing wrong with walking corpses?”

“My opinion has evolved.”

“Yea, you’re just a chicken big-hat flopper. Y’know what these goners need? Arrows!”

Varric tried to protest: “But-”

“No ‘but’s! Haha, butts!” she snickered. “Anyway yea, I’m in.”

“There used to be a Grey Warden fort in that mire,” Blackwall slowly rolls out. “There should be a cache left, in case shit happened. I guess that shit is happening, so we could make use of it if we ran across it, right?” He added the last bit uncertainly, looking at Loghain.

Loghain had always been a pragmatical man: “I agree. If there is time, we should search the area for it.”

“Correction: Blackwall is going to search for it,” Raleigh pouts. “Mac Tir is staying here, because he has a tower to help me look for.”

“I thought we can’t do that without the scouts we are now planning to retrieve from a mire.”

“Yeah, but we also have a ton of maps older than Andraste’s tits to look through-”

“I see, my presence here is necessary.” Having the benefit of long legs, Loghain proceeded to kick me under the table so I’d stop snickering. It wasn’t as if Raleigh bribed him on purpose...

“I am of the opinion that there should be a mage present in this little skirmish,” Solas noted thoughtfully. “As with Crestwood, the presence of undead implies that a strong magical force, perhaps multiple forces, are at play.”

“If that is your attempt to dump me in a swamp, apostate, it is not working.” Vivienne didn’t even look at him. I could swear that the temperature in the room dropped by several degrees. Hopefully this argument wouldn’t go on long, because it hadn’t been warm here to start with.

Solas’s smile was warm, all honey and poison: “Actually, I was just about to say that I volunteer for this mission. I wouldn’t dare to even suggest for someone unprepared and not competent to take part, especially not when there are lives at stake.”

“Alright, Solas,” I put on my Inquisitor voice, “your initiative is noted and appreciated. You two can continue comparing the thickness of your tits and skulls outside, please.”

They mercifully shut up, so when it was clear that nobody else was into this project, we moved on to point three of the meeting, that being money-making. Currently we had the largest population of experts at various fields of magic as far as Nevarra, so we concluded that besides being demon-solving swords for hire we could profit from providing magical expertise from spells and artefacts to enchantments. Fiona was besides herself with joy.

“Lastly there are... let’s call them tokens of goodwill.” Josephine was very careful to keep her tone neutral. “Both the Tevinter Empire and the Chantry – the Orlesian Chantry to be precise – want to express that they have no quarrel with the Inquisition and by extension insist that we ought not to judge them for the actions of individuals. Especially on Tevinter’s site. Hence this... gesture.”

“What gesture?” I asked. Josephine murmured something into her collar, but I asked her to repeat it for me, because I’d like to know what was being thrown at me.

“They sent Gereon Alexius and Roland Denam, by Tevinter Empire and the Chantry respectively, for you to deal with as you deem appropriate. They are currently in the holding cells.”

My forehead met the table. “Maker’s tits. I’ll... I’ll handle that tomorrow.”

Raleigh forfeited his spiked coffee to me.

Chapter Text

            It is a known fact that money can’t buy happiness. However, money can buy physiological (food, protection from elements, place to rest) and safety (health, security) needs and from there a person can quite reliably build happiness. It’s not that the saying is wrong per se, it’s just that it’s understood wrong. In a currency-based society you need money to be happy, but you can’t outsource your happiness to it.

            Similarly, money can’t solve all your problems and desires, but a lot of money can either buy solutions or hire someone to handle the solutions for you in most cases. For example, it can’t bring back your loved ones, but it can hire a Crow to avenge their deaths. Once we start talking about sovereigns in seven digits, a little sprucing up of an ancient castle in the middle of literal nowhere in inhospitable mountains stops being an impossible task and becomes a task that needs a little patience, because caravans of stone have to adhere to a speed limit.

            If I, as a provider of the aforementioned seven digits (How popular were my books, really? That number seemed insane! The interest rate was not that good.), had a few suggestions and ideas of what would be nice to have in Skyhold, my idle musing was as good as granted as long as I didn’t want something stupid (which I didn’t) or structurally unfeasible (such as floor in the prison area, but at least we got safety railing around it the chasm). As such there were three notable changes that came to Skyhold while I had been getting brains in my hair in Crestwood: Hot water, joined with thermal heating, a ventilation system in the laboratory which used to be known as the secret library, and a heavy and solid ring of red steel installed into the floor stone at the base of the staircase right in front of the uncomfortable spiky armchair in the main hall, more known as the Inquisitor’s throne. I had objections to the throne, but Josephine, her heart be blessed, was very resolute: I had to have a throne to make an appearance. The best she could do was a change in design, but it had to at first glance be a throne. So much for my idea that we could just haul in a chair from Herald’s Rest, which would grant me a good posture.

            In my new laboratory I met with Dagna, our newest arcanist and by my slightly lyrium-drunk and caffeinated decision she was immediately promoted to the First Arcanist, a rank I had just invented, in exchange for her silence and lack of question regarding a list of things I asked her to make for me. Strictly speaking it was nothing illegal. Strictly speaking, it would have become illegal rather quickly if anyone knew what precisely to outlaw. Magical explosives were like that.

            Dagna straightened out the papers with step-by-step instructions I left her and assured me that I could expect the first batch in a week. That sort of sucked, because I was going to be out in a swamp by then.

            “I am bit under a time duress here. I’d brew something myself, but in twenty minutes I am supposed to be upstairs and hold a trial,” I not as much explained as I complained. “And right afterwards I am headed for the saddest swamp that Thedas has to offer.”

            The newly-appointed First Arcanist leafed through the pages I had just given to her once again, rubbed her chin, and said (with a haunting cheerfulness): “I’ll whip something up. Do not expect quantity, my Lord Inquisitor, but you won’t be leaving Skyhold empty-handed.”

“You’re the best, Dagna.”

“I know,” she nodded. “I worked hard to be!”

I returned upstairs where I was intercepted on my way to my room by Vivienne. She smelled of cloves and cinnamon and was suspiciously glowing with a good mood. This was the first time I had seen her without her mask either.

As I was pondering whether to comment on that or make a scandalised gasp, she maneuvered a hand around my shoulders and accompanied me to my room. I had a bad feeling about that. And when we opened the door, I was unhappy to learn it was entirely justified.

“While you were draining the Trout Pond, I took the liberty of assembling you a more suitable wardrobe. I am saddened to say that the only other person who has some sense of fashion in the Inquisition is our Ambassador. And she is, it must be said, too preoccupied to attend to it.”

There was no way I was going to be able to make use of all of that, unless I’d wear several outfits at once. To my surprise, the clothing articles actually looked vearable. There was nothing that I’d hate purely based on its looks. I commented something along those lines.

            “Yes, darling, I’ve noticed how uncomfortable you looked in the dress at my little gala. Furthermore, I think it is going to sell you out better as a Lord Inquisitor.” She paused with a finger at her chin and head tilted to the side.

            “Don’t get me wrong,” she added. “I understand your preference towards more practical, even outright pragmatical, style. Nevertheless, you are now a figurehead of an organisation – potentially a very powerful organisation. You must dress to represent when the eyes of the public is upon you. That includes Skyhold. Your people must see you as a leader. They have to have faith in you. Especially when you consider that you don’t have much to offer them materially.”

            “Saying it like that, you make it sound like the inquisition is a cult,” I noted as I turned to browse the assembled clothes. I knew where this was heading; I was going to have to wear one for the upcoming trials. I was not entirely opposed to the idea.

            A slight frown creased Vivienne’s immaculate forehead. “Well, yes. Do not say it too loudly, though. People might get the wrong idea. Especially Seeker Pentaghast.”

            I ended up in a velvet suit of dark teal with asymmetrical silver embroidery – Vivienne confirmed for me that she let Sirann to have a go at it, apparently needlework was how our Senechal unwound stress. Which was terrifying, because it meant precisely stabbing something a thousand times. There were depths to this woman. Both women.

            The First Enchanter made the gracious offer to do my eyeliner, even if I forsake any other form of make-up. Aking her up on it was a good move on my side, because on our way to the throne room slash main hall we ran into Dorian (who looked impeccable save for the dark bags under his eyes and ink all over his hands) who stated that I was “looking sharp and our for blood.”

            He was about to say something else, something that made him fidget with his collar, when I was approached by Leliana. At that point the corridor began to be a bit crowded.

            “Lord Inquisitor,” she stated very officially, “I have received a report from the Chargers that per your request ser Aclassi and two more members of their company – I believe one of them is Skinner and the other is Dalish – have set camp at the base of the mountain and are,” she frowned at the paper she was holding, “making a slow pork roast with rosemary and, I quote, ‘enough garlic to cure a hangover, tested it myself’.”

            A lot of tension suddenly left Dorian’s shoulders. I acknowledged the report: “Excellent. Well done.”

            “Why are they doing that?” Leliana pressed me.

            “Because I asked them to.”

            She was not amused. “Why did you ask them to set up a cooking camp? Sera Pavus, I fail to see why you find this to be a chuckling matter.”

            Dorian raised his hands up as a peace offering. “My beautiful terrifying ladies. How about we don’t delay our equally beautiful and terrifying Inquisitor Isc of the Just any further? We are not to interrupt the trials ahead.”

            Vivianne smoothly transferred her arm from my to his shoulders and dropped her voice: “Oh, I’d love to talk more to you. You seem like a knowledgeable man.”

            “Crank it up a notch, my dearest First Enchanter. This almost sounds sincere.”

“Oh the horror. Sister Leliana, I am certain you know of a spot secluded enough where we wouldn’t be overheard. Please, show us the way.”

I entered the throne room alone.

So far, there was only Josephine, who would direct the trial proceedings. This was not a court session; both men to be brought to me had been already found guilty. This was a judgement, hence why Josephine didn’t see a reason to bring together an actual civil court with barristers, and since I was the highest authority, she even passed on any jurors.

Shortly afterwards Grand Enchanter Fiona and the mages from Redcliffe (and only from Redcliffe) flooded into the hall, orderly standing along the walls. Then Cole spirited (ha!) his way in with a heavy crate the contents of which quietly jingled and rattled.

“I gathered what you asked,” he whispered to me. “Please, make no great hurt. Only the necessary.” And he was gone before I could tell him that I was certainly trying.

Jospehine leaned to me and quietly murmured: “You have given a lot of peculiar orders this morning. What has gotten into you?”

“Just moving pawns around.”

“Planning a checkmate? Devious.”

“More like converting an enemy rook.” I pouted: “Here the chess analogy falters a bit.”

She arched one delicate brow and obviously wanted to inquire further, but in that very moment the main door flung open dramatically.

Commander Raleigh Samson had received his templar training at the Gallows, without a doubt the strictest Circle of Magi in Thedas. That meant he had an enormous dramatic flourish when he really wanted to. Right now, donned in ceremonial armour (so my wardrobe wasn’t the only one Vivianne got into her well-manicured hands), for once properly shaved, jaw firmly set… he was kind of terrifying. He glared an absolute murder.

Behind him, flanked by a soldier on each side, was Gereon Alexius who was looking far less imposing. This morning he had been given the opportunity to shave, but he only took it to get rid of the most offending facial hair. His scalp was sporting short hair, he hadn’t slept properly in days, and I had it on trusted reports that he had been refusing food. He was wearing issued clothes rather than his Venatori vestments, which meant that he was at least somewhat warm.

Raleigh- Commander Samson saluted me with arms crossed over his chest and expression of strong willpower, because he did not grin at me even though he obviously wanted to. The two soldiers behind him secured Alexius’s manacles – brought from Theirinfall, so they effectively blocked magic (specifically by circling it back to the wearer, which, simply put, hurt as hell) – to the ring in the floor right in front of my throne.

My Commander then took his place on my side, mirroring the Ambassador, who waited patiently for the hall to fall silent before pulling out her most official voice:

“Gereon Alexius, you have been brought to judgement before the Inqusitor. You have been found guilty of conspiracy against the Inquisition, endangering the continuity of time and space,” Josephine slightly faltered and frowned, “cruel and untimely death of at least two hundred and- Lord Inquisitor, is that number correct?”

“The Iron Bull’s men have found two hundred and fourteen oculara in Redcliffe. I personally have found one more in the countryside,” I said with a neutral face. It sent a wave of whispers through the congregated mages.

I stood up from the spiked throne, hands clasped behind my back.

Alexius was kneeling, chained to the floor. If he didn’t want to be kneeling, there were two soldiers right next to him who’d keep him that way. He didn’t even look up at me, his gaze was firmly on the iron ring in the floor.

Dorian wasn’t the only one who knew where this was going. After all, I had a reputation in Tevinter. There were survivors, quite a lot of them.

“Your crimes were many, we all are aware of them. You took advantage of many people by promising them to protect their lives and the lives of their close ones. Similarly, you had been taken advantage of by Corypheus,” at hearing his name from my lips, Alexius actually flinched, “who promised to save your son if you provided him with an army.”

Another wave of whispers. I noticed the Grand Enchanter suddenly lifting her head, mouth slightly open. As if she was struck by a realisation. As most likely Alexius’s motivation suddenly became clear to her.

Honestly, it was a bit cruel to Alexius. I knew of three people who had been… not cured, but purged of the taint, of the Blight. And he met all three of them. Two of them were in the room right now! Yet, there was no saving Felix.

“I give you an offer: You can join the Inquisition, right at this very moment, and work alongside to ensure that tomorrow there still will be a world to wake up to, and the day after that, and every day to come. If you choose to do so, however, you will have to do it by your own volition. The task is laborious and the choice cannot be enforced.”

It took a moment for Alexius to register that the silence that followed was everyone waiting for him to speak. It took him another moment to put a sentence together, and when he finally spoke, he did so quietly, as if he was afraid his voice would break at the slightest straining: “Your endeavours are futile and in vain. The Elder One will destroy all and you with it.”

It was the answer I expected. I nodded my head and very decidedly did not sigh. I extended a hand to my right: “Commander Samson, the key to the prisoner’s bindings.”

Raleigh for a moment looked like he wanted to question the why’s and what’s of my request, but ultimately he did as I asked. It wouldn’t do to undermine my authority in front of everyone.

I put the key into the box Cole had brought in earlier. Then I picked the whole thing up and considered the distance between the end of the short stairs and Alexius. About four metres. That was enough, although I doubted he would act up even if it wasn’t.

“This is a trial of the ring and the key,” I spoke slightly louder to get everyone’s attention. This was where the assembled mages were paramount. “Gereon Alexius, the assembled victims of your abuse are you jurors. This is justice at the hands of people you have wronged. All blood spilled in this room stains my hands.”

With that I turned the box upside down. Metal clattered and clashed against the stone floor and against each other as knives and daggers spilled out like guts out of an opened fish. The blades poured down the stairs, briefly revealing the key in their midst. It wasn’t much dramatic, it never was. I wasn’t good enough to spill around forty knives theatrically.

But the men and women around me gasped as I graciously sunk back into the throne. A few of them took a step back as if putting more distance between themselves and the assembled weaponry would somehow make it less real.

“If you make it to the door, you are a free man.”

You could hear the silence echo, which acoustically is a very impressive thing for a lack of sound to do. People started at the knives as if hypnotized, only some of them finding the courage to occasionally glance at me. That was usually the way with people who were completely new to this. I remained unmoving.

Finally, one person dared to leave the safety of the crowd. An older man, receding hairline, bundled up really warmly, brow smoothly turning into a narrow nose bridge, leaf-shaped (specifically a frosty blue agave) ears. His eyes darted around, several times he turned around just in casy anyne was following him or made an attempt to stop him.

He approached the pile of knives quietly, and this up close I recognised him: It was the mage who helped Dorian to set up the library and by general consensus was our Head Librarian (and also the only librarian). He had the quietest footstep in the Skyhold, Cole and Leliana included.

The librarian kneeled at the knife pile, still regularly checking my reaction. I gave him none. For a moment the only sound was the clanking of iron against iron against steel as he pushed the blades aside. His hands grasped large key quickly, as if afraid I was going to kick it away.

Nobody tried to interfere as he unlocked Alexius shackles. When the man didn’t show any indications of planning to stand up, the librarian pulled him to his feet himself.

“Come on,” the enchanter whispered. “Let’s get out of here.”

They left the great hall together. The Head Librarian returned a few minutes later, notably without Alexius but with a sheepish smile on his face. He handed me the key and asked: “Is he going to be alright?”

“That,” I mused laconically, “is entirely up to him. Grand Enchanter Fiona and all assembled, please clear the hall for the next hearing which will begin in fifteen minutes! Ambassador Motilyet, please call in Captain Barris and his men. Commander Samson, be so kind to prepare once-Knight-Captain Denam for his judgement.” Then I excused myself under the pretence of bodily fluid maintenance and homed straight for the Senechal’s office.

As far as everyone was concerned, Sirann first and foremost, she was my lady-in-waiting as well. As such she was the perfect person to ask to prepare my travel belongings and clothes, as well as to conveniently place a bucket of water and a mop behind the side door to the Great Hall.

Unlike mages, Templars were generally out for blood.

Chapter Text

Once the late Roland Denam was cleared out of the hall, which involved me scrubbing the floor a lot to get out all of him, I changed into reasonable travel attire and gathered my travelling companions. That meant a different, significantly warmer and water-proofed coat, high boots, Lord Oscar Fluffington the All-Devouring, Solas, Sera and Blackwall. And at my discretion, a pair of spare shoes of Solas’ size, because while being upon the peaks of Frostback mountains did not manage to convince him he ought to keep his toes warm, I had high suspicion that Fallow Mire might change his opinion on footwear.

Loghain and Leliana were the last ones to bid us a proper farewell.

“Maker guide you,” my Spymaster said as she handed me two caged ravens. The noon sun crowned her head like a halo. But since I had that halo right in my eyes, I didn’t get to admire the view as much as sceninc rules demanded.

Loghain added: “But don’t rely on Him. I did find a map of the Fallow Mire, but it is dated. Feel free to make adjustments as needed. Also here,” he passed me a leather pouch alongside the scroll case.

“What is that?”

“Bribes for these two.” The chuckle and gesture indicated that ‘those two’ were the ravens, not Solas and Sera. I would have appreciated bribes for my elves as well, because… Well, they were Solas and Sera. You know, the most elfy elf under the sun, and the last elfy elf under the sun.

As soon as we had crossed the bridge and were therefore out of the official earshot (there were lot of hidden Leliana’s scouts, I was sure, but those were unofficial), I announced: “Let’s make a deal here. We won’t talk about religion – any religion, we won’t talk about the Dalish, we won’t talk about Tevinter, and we won’t talk about the Fade. That is, with the exception of getting the necessary context of whatever is hurled at us and how to dispatch it most efficiently.”

“Oh piss off.”

“As you wish.”

“Why?”

“Because, my dearest Blackwall who you have not yet had the pleasure of travelling with Sera and Solas, otherwise we are going to get into an argument. And we are going practically alone into a frigid corpse-infested swamp, and I don’t need us to fight each other.”

For a while Blackwall was content with that before he piped up again: “What’s wrong about talking about Tevinter?”

I took a deep breath and after holding it in for longer than necessary – giving the argumentative duo to come up with they own reasons, which they didn’t – I finally said: “Because if we talk about Tevinter, someone is eventually going to ask me about the Just, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You showed the bunch of magic-shitting top-hats what’s for! You’re a big hat now, but you know, I gotta respect what you did there. All the chain-breaking and blowing shit up. That’s great.”

“I agree. The uprising you lead was a noble endeavour. One that was successful within its limited capacities. It is most commendable.”

“Which part of ‘I don’t want to talk about that.’ did you not understand?”

“As you say.”

“Stick in the arse!”

Blackwall chortled in amusement. I suppressed a sigh, but I was of the opinion that my point had been successfully made.

We’ve managed to reach the first line of trees in silence and therefore without any argument. It was a slow ride, given the weather, and therefore managing it without a quarrel was a feat. We were all the slower for the fact that Dennett, hearing where we were headed, didn’t equip anyone with a horse, we were purely ram-mounted. Well, Sera got a temperamental mountain-sheep, but the point was that we were built for endurance and difficult terrain, not for speed.

So when we finally got into the woods below the mountainpeaks, it was late in the afternoon. At this point I was well accustomed to the ram-saddle, so was Solas, givne our previous adventures in Crestwood. However…

“Sera, aren’t you sore?” Blackwall huffed from his saddle.

“From what? You staring at my butt?”

“From the saddle.”

“Ha! Rided worse. What, are you butt-hurt?”

(“Rode,” I whispered. I had worked as an editor for a time. And an accountant. And a, uh, cleaner. Fun time, working for Kirkwall carta, fun time.)

“Let’s just say a horse and a ram each walk entirely differently. What in the void did you ride on? A dracolisk?”

“That was not her name.”

Solas besides me suddenly went red to the tip of his ears, but he also sensed a challenge: “What was her name, then?”

“Your mum!”

It took a great effort not to laugh, because Solas walked into that one as into clear glass.

Solas sniffed: “I smell roast.”

“Don’t try to change topic! Now I’m telling you how I totally buggered your mum. She was very lucky, because unlike your daddy, I knew what I was doing.”

“No,” Blackwall sucked in air through his nose. “I smell it too. Burning fat. Lots of garlic.”

“And rosemary,” I added. I didn’t smell it, though.

“Huh. What’s that about?” Sera pondered. She sniffed the air too. “Better yet: let’s grab a bite. I am starving.”

“No,” I shook my head. “I want to get as far as we can while we still have daylight. Besides, we shouldn’t interrupt. The Chargers are hard at work.”

“So that’s the Iron Bull’s company? I thought they were mercenaries, not chefs.” Solas frowned in a momentary confusion. “Why would they break a camp here? Surely they’d have more comfort in Skyhold. And on the contrary, this close the Inquisition’s main base they can’t do much work that our own forces wouldn’t be able to handle.”

“Especially if it’s cooking,” Blackwall agreed.

“They don’t look Inquisition though.” Sera bit her lip, thinking about it further: “But if you want them to be subtle, the smell is giving them away. Anyone coming toSkyhold will find them from miles away.”

“You are thinking abut it the wrong way.”

“So they are what, a bait?” Blackwall’s grumble was right beside me. Suddenly everyone was way too close to me, trying to figure out what was going on in my brain. “They are too obvious for that. Nobody wanting to approach Skyhold would fall for it.”

Solas chuckled: “But you have to admit that it works wonders to distract people coming from Skyhold. I personally am tempted to check if the Chargers would be willing to share- Oh.”

“‘Oh’ what?” Sera demanded.

“People leaving Skyhold,” Solas slowly turned to look at me. I fancied myself enough to say that what I saw in his eyes was reverence, but it was probably just understanding.

Still I grinned back at him. It’s tough to be clever when nobody appreciates it.

“Alright, but besides us nobody has left Skyhold today. I mean yeah, there was the stupid ‘Vint berk whom you just let get away instead of, I don’t know, making him sorry for all he’s done,” Sera gestured wildly, letting go off the reins. “But besides him-”

“Oh,” Blackwall suddenly looked up and towards the way where we suspected Krem’s camp to be. “Hmm.”

“Okay, Inky, what are you playing at?”

“I am not playing at anything,” I shrugged. “I figured that some people leaving Skyhold on not exactly good terms might be hungry. And that they’d be more willing to share inclinations with their fellow countryman.”

“So people have to agree to work with the Inquisition of their own volition, but it’s a fair game to give their volition a shove in the direction you want?” Solas raised his eyebrows at me.

“I was made the Inquisitor – against my better judgement, might I add – so I am going to arrange situations that are the most beneficial to the Inquisition. Gereon Alexius would be very little use to us if he was apathetic at best and outright refusing to cooperate at worst. And he’d be of no use if he froze to death halfway down this stupid mountain.”

We were silent for another half an hour. From time to time we saw patches of bare grass poking through the snow.

“You’ve got me thinking,” Sera said. “That hurt, I didn’t like it. But, here’s what I have: We are going to end up doing politics. Where by ‘we’ I mean ‘you’. I’m not gonna be caught dead in politics. Politics is stupid.”

“We will have to deal with the planned assassination of Empress Celene,” Blackwall agreed. “Seems like involvement in these ‘politics’ is inevitable. I am not looking forward to it.”

Sera nodded: “Right. But I’m thinking Inky’s gonna have fun with it. She’ll be good.”

“That doesn’t sound like a compliment,” I noted.

“It wasn’t,” came the cheerful confirmation. So that was slugs in my shoes in the near future. Great. Fuck my stupid baka life. With Sera and her slugs or lizards or whatever.

I sighed: “Look, I am not going to enjoy it. I will do what’s necessary. I gleefully arrange a recruiting operation, making my previous enemy work for us, but I am opposed to, like, bribes exchanged for perceived social prestige. I’m not going to get corrupt in politics.”

“What if somebody offers you a bribe you can’t refuse?” Solas needled.

“If that happens,” I tried to think of a horrible scenario that could make it, “then I’ll let Vivienne doll me up and waltz with you at the Winter Ball.”

“And if you don’t, I’m gonna draw dicks on his baldy head every day until we kill Cornysocks for good.”

“Corypheus. And you won’t do that,” Solas corrected her.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I’ll grow my hair out in self-defence.”

Blackwall pinched the bridge of his nose: “Wait, wait, wait. You’re not naturally bald?”

In such manner outr clown entourage carried on until the dusk had progressed so far that we concluded that breaking camp would be most prudent (Solas), wise (Blackwall), frigging great (Sera), and a good idea (yours truly). We left Blackwall to handle the tents and guard our backpacks, and the rest of us went foraging for something cookable.

We were travelling light. We wanted to rely on on-site procurement until we reached the Fallow Mire, in order to keep our rations as intact as possible. Had we packed enough foodstuff not to hunt and forage, we’d have to get a cart, and we were slow enough as it was.

As it turned out, my proposed idea of fanning out to cover a wider area was utterly ignored by Solas. I couldn’t be very wall mad at him for it, because I found only when I ran into a rift and he emerged from the undergrowth with a barrage of spells.

We could have handled it.

True, but not without some battering. It was a lot of hungers with legs. And even then I would have to let do Justice do most of the work and… Honestly, I was not getting any more comfortable with letting him have control of my body. In fact, I was getting more uncomfortable with how much more easily he got that control without asking or any prior warning with every time he did just that.

On the other hand, as a result both Solas and I have returned mostly empty-handed, save for some wild garlic bulbs and thyme, which refused to be weeded out even in these harsh conditions.

Sera brought back a pumpkin. A red-fletched arrow was sticking from it.

“It tried to run away,” she explained with a grin.

Blackwall stared balnkly and finally caved in: “Where did you get a pumpkin?”

“It was grazing. Bit to the north of here,” Sera offered.

We gave her our best non-amused face.

“There’s a cabin I broke into. Got it from the pantry. There’s a ton of people-bones under the florboards, so I don’t think we want to go back there. Found out when I fell through the planks straight into them. But that’s creepy and bad, so I didn’t wanna tell you. Anyway, let’s cook this bad bitch good, what do you say?”

“Leave it to me,” Solas took the pumpkin and returned Sera’s arrow. “Desa has fond some spices, so my contribution shall be turning all this into something we can eat.”

“Garlic is not spice,” I pouted. But nobody asked me to elaborate, and Solas had once again make it clear that he was handling cooking on his own, nobody was to get under his feet.

So I sat by the campfire and grew bored.

The dinner was a baked pumpkin coated in garlic and thyme. It tasted mostly like garlic, a bit like thyme, the pumpkin itself was rather bland.

Blackwall, however, was over the moon about it: “My, Solas, I didn’t know we had a chef with us. Where did you learn how to bake a pumpkin like that?”

‘I saw it in the Fade.’ but I didn’t say that out loud, because I had to maintain the ban on Fade-talk. Damn me and my stupid rules.

“Ah, here I thought you’d recognise the recipe,” Silas smiled gently. Mostly obscured by the shadows, he almost had a nice smile like that. Almost. “I learned it from a Grey Warden.”

I noticed Blackwall tensing, but only because I expected him to do so. “Ah. Met my fellow brothers at arms? Mind… telling me about it?”

“Oh, it was only briefly. When the Fifth Blight broke out, I had the misfortune to find myself in southern Ferelden. Not too far away from where we are now, actually, close to Lothering, if I recall correctly.”

A warning bell rang in my head. I ignored it, that was the usual reaction to Solas talking.

He continued: “A group of Grey Wardens rescued me from a pack of blighted wolves. I had never seen such afflicted creature in the waking word, they took me by surprise. The Wardens, however, invited me to spend the night in their camp.”

“I thought all Wardens were fighting at Ostagar unless they were actively recruiting like I did,” Blackwall carefully.

“Not this group,” Solas shrugged. “They were a mismatched group on a mission to deal with some cultist in a temple. There was a Qunari among them. I remember that one of them insisted that they conscripted the pumpkin, rather than stole it. The pair who brought it seemed quite disappointed, though.”

“Food tastes better when you steal it. That’s why this pumpkin was so good!” Sera beamed.

“You’ll have to excuse me, Solas if I don’t really believe you,” Blackwall hummed. “There aren’t any Qunari in the Grey Wardens. Som Tal-Vashoth, sure, but that’s in Anderfell and far north Tevinter. Not in Ferelden nor Orlais, not even in the Free Marches.”

“You do not have to believe me. I thought you’d like this anecdote, though.”

“It was heart-warming, and the meal was good. Thank you,” Blackwall finally concluded. He was thankful enough to do the dishes.

A gust of wind blew the fire-smoke into my face and sent a cold shiver through me. Some of my old wounds chose that moment to remind me of themselves. The Anchor was quite, but the old bite in my right fore-arm decided to be a bitch, even though it had healed nicely many years ago.

Sera decided to bunk up with me in the tent.

“I hope you don’t mind sharing with old distrustful me, Solas,” Blackwall tried to laugh it off. “I don’t have anything against you.”

“Oh, I prefer to sleep under the stars when I can,” the mage shook his head.

“Solas, could you do em a favour?” I piped up as another warning bell rung in my head.

“For you almost anything, Lord Inquisitor. What do you request?”

“Pick a sleeping spot where we won’t trip over you if we need to visit the bushes in the night. You can be a very inconveniently placed elf.”

“I’ll be mindful of that,” he promised.

And because it was Solas’s promise, you can take a guess who ended up tasting dirt in the small hours of the morning, and who snored through it with no care in the world. Ouch.

Chapter Text

We arrived at the edge of the Fallow Mire suffering a terrible case of ram fever. That was like cabin fever, except we didn’t have a cabin but we had four rams.

The welcoming committee to the sodden nowhere consisted of Scout Harding and two Mabari who were reasonably suspicious of us. I had a good chance of getting on their good side, but when I made it clear the jerky treats were reserved for the messenger ravens, the dogs lost interest in me altogether.

Speaking of ravens, we sent a message back to Skyhold. Not wanting to waste words, I settled for simple: Arrived at FM, no losses . And, because Blackwall was a busy boy while I was getting Harding’s briefing, I was told to add: Recovered 1 GW cache .

Here it should be noted that Harding was alone and had one arm in a sling. Solas was currently taking a look at it, and was allowed to do enough spirit healing that the sling wouldn’t be necessary anymore, but the point still stood: No scouts, no backup.

The cache was predominantly easily liquidable assets, because Grey Wardens were chronically short on funds. There were some weapons, but Sera wouldn’t give up her bow, Solas considered the magic staves and found that they weren’t any better than what he already had, and Blackwall… was already equipped Grey Warden, on top of that with gear that wasn’t waiting for centuries in a swamp. So I was the odd one out.

“A war scythe?” Solas was dubious of my choice. “I thought you were partial to daggers. You do have two of them.”

“That’s because this is the first polearm that’s balanced well to my height. If I cannot have the reach,” I continued running the whetstone along the blade, “than I am going to settle for mobility. Besides, it’s not like I am putting the daggers away.”

He smirked: “So to clarify, it has nothing to do with the scythe being enchanted?”

“Absolutely nothing. But it does have a bit to do with it being silverite.”

Blackwall turned as if I had just poured water into acid: “You can’t sharpen silverite! You’ll destroy the entire blade.”

Solas and Harding exchanged looks, and then the scout tested the scythe’s edge – which was dull enough to function as a bludgeoning weapon when Ihad  initially picked it up – with her thumb. Blood.

“It doesn’t even hurt,” she noted.

I nodded: “It has very little friction. Better disinfect it, though. You don’t want some fallow sickness, do you?”

Sera slapped her thighs: “Alright, if everyone’s done wanking, we could get through with our little rescue operation.”

“Speaking of which, how much of goody two-shoes do we want to be about this?” I rose up, putting the whetstone back into the collection of crates we were leaving with Harding.

Blackwall, who had already somewhat gotten the gist of how I talked, cut to the chase: “What exactly are our options”

“One: On our way back our rescued forces, who probably aren’t much capable of fighting I’d wager, are going to have to trek through undead infested swamp. Or two: On our way to the fortress we get to light several magic beacons that will draw most spirits and demons towards them, where we send them back to the Fade through violence, which will be exhausting. Or three: We will light the beacons, but deploy violence in a smart way. However, this method requires Solas to wear shoes.”

“I don’t like it already,” Solas frowned. “May I know why you deem closed footwear necessary?”

I grinned: “First and foremost, allow me to thank you that you didn’t ask what most of our travel belongings consisted of since it clearly wasn’t provisions.”

Mountain war rams could carry a lot. Relief supplies for the wounded, for example. We were leaving most of those with Harding. However, half of our packs bore the (brand new) seal of the First Arcanist of the Inquisition.

Now I broke one of those seals freeing the drawstring and pulled a bundle of straw from the inside. Letting the insulation fall to the ground, what was left in my hand was a jar

“I hope that’s blueberry jam,” Harding took a peek. “I’d kill for blueberries.”

“This should be,” I checked the label, “Antivan ice. Which is what happens when you try to make Antivan fire, but all you have is the wrong kind of rock.”

“So you want me to avoid getting frostbites on my feet? Your concern is appreciated, but unneeded, Lord Inquisitor. I shall manage.”

“Not all of these jars are ice. But all of them are going to leave a lot of tiny clay shrapnels all over the ground.”

Solas locked eyes with me.

In the end he put on the spare set of boots that I had brought along exactly for this purpose. He was a huge bitch about it the whole time, But at least when the walking dead and hordes of lesser demons got frozen, shattered, set on fire, exploded to smithereens, pulled into gravitation wells, petrified or dissolved in acid, he toned his complaints down.

“I am beginning to understand why you posed such an obstacle to– Wait, no talking about Tevinter,” Blackwall stopped himself. “My bad.”

“Love a girl who can blow.”

“It is practically magic, Sera,” Solas pointed out to her.

“This comes from a bottle. That’s normal. I do it too.”

Guesstimated by the light, we made it to the fortress three hours after stepping out of the initial camp. The place was under obvious undead siege, but I still had several jars of Antivan ice and bottled gravity, which was a deadly combo for most things that encountered it – frozen bodies snapped around the knees and crashed together at the epicenter of  enhanced gravity. And it didn’t send ice shards everywhere, because, well, gravity. So it was easy on the cleanup too.

“You are doing it all creepy,” Sera complained.

I crossed my arms: “Am I? Or are you just mad at me that you couldn’t shoot all of the walking dead in the butt?”

“No, you’re doing it creepy. You know way too much what you’re doing, you’re not having fun with it. Like, you first freeze them or turn them into stone a bit, and then you throw something at them that goes smash. It’s creepy. Creepy Inky.

“It’s efficient.” For some reason Solas thought he needed to stand up for me.

Blackwall opposed: “Yes, to an uncanny degree.”

“Well, I had over a decade to get really good at it,” I noted. I didn’t say that seven years out of those I had a lapse in making magical and non-magical explosives, and focused more in making medicine. “I fancied myself to become an alchemist back in the day.”

Or, you know… a chemist. Well, that was an aspiration abandoned.

“Did you?” Blackwall sounded a bit sympathetic. “What happened?”

“The Blight.”

“Ah. I’m sorry.”

“I am sure you did what you could as a Grey Warden.” I didn’t want to see him squirm, it just had to be said pro forma.

Solas suddenly turned: “Blackwall, a thought I’ve had.”

“Shoot.”

“As a Grey Warden, you surely fought at Ostagar.”

“It’d be hard to find a Warden who didn’t.”

“As such, surely you must have met the Oracle.”

“Ah, right,” Sera sneered. “You wanna make friends with demons.”

“Solas, I am sure that if you want to know more about the Oracle of the Fifth Blight,” I said before the conversation got heated one way or another (for example by showcasing gaps in knowledge that Blackwall should not be showing), “Loghain is the Warden you want to talk to. He is sort of famous for having travelled with her. And he was out of the loop when Chantry gave its official stance on the entire matter.”

“I am sure he’s been already questioned by Seeker Pentaghast on that matter, and that he’s told her to go to the Void with it.”

“Easier job for you then. Just make sure he knows you are not Cassandra.”

“That’s gonna be tough,” Sera chuckled.

“How so?”

“Neither of you got any tits.”

“I think,” Blackwall chimed in before Solas could have found anything wittÿ to respond with, “that the last bits of acid fog have dispersed, and we should be able to cross into the fortress. If we do it quickly and can hold our breath.”

“Oh fuck yes, give me the death match. Finally,” I groaned with all the enthusiasm I felt, which was none.

Our entry was rather unremarkable. We strolled in like it was a park. In my case that meant paranoidly checking all corners and shadows for potential assaulters.

Rather than ambushed we had our way blocked by a group of Avvars, who had to be very thick-skinned or spirit-possessed (or both), because their clothing offered only very little protection from the southern chill.

“So, the Inquisition has arrived. Which one of you,” spoke the one with the necklace of bird skulls, “is the Herald of the Sky?”

I waved.

They stared at me a bit blankly.

“Yes, I am a woman and tiny, not I am not a half-elf. My hand does the glowing thing,” I waved that hand again. This time I tricked the Anchor into flashing a bit. (Consequently, my stomach and thighs also pulsed, but fortunately the armour hid that. The visual effect was slightly nauseating for most people.)

They accompanied us to the inner courtyard of the keep. For a sodden ruin, the courtyard was well kept, recently cleaned, only moderately damp.

Sitting on the top of the staircase on the far end – it would have led to the main hall, hadn’t it fallen apart an age or two ago – was sitting a man. Imposing horned helmet, fur and war paint covering him to waist, and a large bladed mace, any finer details were lost to that.

“I am the Hand of Korth,” he introduced himself, seemingly disinterested. “I’ve heard that you call yourself Herald of the Skies.”

“I don’t,” I pointed out to him. “Lots of people call me the Herald of the Andraste. The sky got mixed into it, because there was a huge hole in it which I closed, with a lot of help from other people. Just so we are clear on that.”

“Yeah, same difference. This Andraste is a false goddess.”

“A prophet,” I corrected again.

“Of a false god.”

“Just because you don’t believe in the Maker doesn’t mean it’s a false god. I am not calling Korth a false god.”

“It sounds pretty fake to me,” Sera cackled.

“I am trying to be diplomatic here.”

“So your little pet knife-ear belittles Korth. That means we have to fight,” the Avvar grinned. IT was obvious he was hoping for that outcome.

“To death?”

“To death.”

“If I win, will your people let my people go.”

“And if I win, my people will kill your people. For… What do you call it? Ah. Heresy.”

I shooed Sera and Blackwall to the sides without an issue. Solas I had to have a staring contest with, but eventually he relented.

“Before we start,” I said loud enough for everyone to hear, “I’d like to even the odds. It is a duel, after all. It should be fair. But you, Hand of Korth, aren’t wearing any armor.”

“I don’t need it. You won’t land a single blow on me, little Herald.”

I nodded: “Then I don’t need one as well. Surely Andraste won’t let her Herald die.” Not that I thought she would give a damn, she was super dead for quite some time, but it never hurt to impress my own troops. By all accounts, I was leading a militant cult. For a good cause, but a cult nevertheless.

My coat went off easily. The studded leather offered some protest, but it wasn’t anything a few unclasped buckles wouldn’t fix.

Truth was that I had a plan. Unfortunately in that plan the armor (and the c)oat, the one Sirann had embroidered) would come to harm, and I was trying to be resource efficient here. And also a little dramatic, because, as I’ve said, cult image.

I was standing there, blouse and breeches, tall boots, leather gloves, one dagger in my left hand, a war scythe in my right one, the handle resting against my forearm.

The Hand of Korth grinned: “You look fierce. I like that. Won’t help you, though.”

He charged at me at full speed and swung the mace at my head – not vertically, as one might expect, but horizontally. Fortunately I had seen a bladed mace in use before and knew this tactic – its wielders preferred to slash rather than smash.

As such, I rolled between his legs with ease and on my way tripped him with the scythe’s handle, letting the momentum do most of the work for me. He didn’t fall, but lost his footing for long enough for me to get back up again.

The mace went for me again, this time aimed at my stomach.

I didn’t dodge. Instead I pulsed the Anchor again.

For a brief moment the Anchor was active, an opened wound in the material existence. The weapon found no resistance, passing through my internal organs and flesh as if there was nothing there.

Which it wasn’t.

The Hand of Korth was close enough for me to see how his eyes widened in shock. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t this.

Well, since he offered me such a beautiful target, I couldn’t help myself and drove my dagger into his eye socket

For a moment longer he stood there like a poorly carved saint before the weight of his helmet and mace toppled him forward. When his face met the stone floor, it smashed the dagger further in, forcing the blade out through the back of his skull.

I turned to the horrified Avvar congregation: “I would like my scouts back now.”

Chapter Text

“Hey, Inquisitor, that was very cool how you handled that, very clever, I am in awe,” said literally nobody on our way back.

Sera and Blackwall were too busy rounding the scouts in different variants of wounded, sick and starved, not to mention organising the transport of the Grey Warden caches. They were making a fine work of it, if the expletives were any indication.

Solas, on the other hand, was an hour into giving me an earful about how irresponsible I was, and that I should have told him straight away when I noticed the Anchor growing, it could have been reversed, this would take much more effort to shrink back into my hand, we didn’t know the full properties of it, what if it affected my heart or brain, what then? He was doing so out of the earshot of the rescued party, and he was having his calm and reasonable voice on.

I had tuned him out.

It had taken us a couple of hours to get to the heart of the Fallow Mire. It took us a day and half to get back to Harding’s camp, because we were significantly slowed down by our own troops. Most of them could walk, but we had to carry those that couldn’t. Spirit mending could fix fractured bones and cuts, but not fever and dehydration, nor infection.

Besides, had you ever tried to get fifty people through a swamp using only a narrow pathway where every step was treacherous and threatening to send you waist deep into the mud? Once ten or so people walked across a patch of grass, it was mushed and no longer firm. Solas tried to freeze large bodies of water, but it turned out that our collective weight was too much, and then we had to dry out as well.

Harding was already with a sparse back-up team that had set out a proper infirmary and bare-bone logistics. She sent our second Raven to Skyhold, letting everyone know that our mission was successful.

We slept in the camp for the night. Come morning we left Harding in charge of everything, and our merry quartet was on its way back to the Frostback Mountains.

The steady gallop of our rams lulled us into the false safety that this journey was going to be uneventful. The occasional rift we ran into and closed did not count.

Then somebody made the decision to stop at Redcliffe, and nobody made any attempts to oppose the idea. That somebody was actually all four of us, for different reasons. Sera had something related to her friends going on, Blackwall wanted to visit the blacksmith – his shield had gotten a bad beating and threatened to snap in half. Solas claimed he wanted to see how the town had adjusted to the Venatori and the Circle Magi leaving all of sudden, and I… I wanted a lukewarm bath and a slice of fresh bread, actually. I was dead tired.

All in all, when we opened the door to Gull and Lantern that day, and Josephine waved at us from a table, it caught us with trousers around our collective ankles, so to say. Dorian, Varric, Garrett and Vivienne we noticed only afterwards, and it did not help our surprise in the slightest.

Before anyone could say anything, Garrett gave Dorian one of his trademarked shit-grin, and Dorian wordlessly handed him some coins. After a moment Varric did the same.

“What were you guys betting on?” I sat down to the table.

“Hi, happy to see you didn’t drown.”

“Sparkler here is expecting some friends, coming by boat. He’s being mighty mysterious as to who they are,” Varric chuckled and waved for a barmaid. He ordered a round of beer and a pot of mint tea, and ‘whatever Chuckles the Second here drinks’, which turned out to be apple juice.

“And the bet?”

“Whether you or them arrive first. I was betting on a draw, that you’d come on their boat. Team Dessa won, so Chuckles the Original is paying for this table.”

“That is an illogical wager, Master Tethras,” Vivienne pouted. “The Inquisitor went south, and every boat has to come to Redcliffe from the north.”

“Well, I‘ve learned never to let such things as a logic to constrain my thinking when Dessa is involved. For example, she says that in one moment she was in Vyrantium, and the other – blam, in the Crater of the Sacred Ashes. And also the other options were boring.”

“Have you considered shi might be lying?”

Varric looked at Vivienne, at me, back at Vivienne, and then he sighed: “Look here, Iron Lady, I am the first to say that whatever sentiment was there between me and Dessa it had gone sour. But I have to set the record straight with you, she doesn’t lie. Inky might mislead and she might be mistaken, but she won’t knowingly lie to you. If she says she was in Vyrantium, then she was there or some other place that had her fully convinced that it was that particular shit hole.

“Since Altus Pavus’s contacts had made a stop in Kirkwall, and with the current weather,” Josephine’s brow furrowed, “I’d expect the ship to dock here this evening. Speaking of, Inquisitor, the boat might have another passenger and-”

“Josephine,” I looked at her wearily, “can it wait after I get a bath and eat something that’s not dried rations? Because I’ll be honest, if it’s anything important, my brain is not going to comprehend it right now.”

“Oh. Yes, yes of course. Rest now, Inquisitor. But later I must talk to you.”

“So do I actually,” Dorian chimed up. “But don’t stress it.”

Soles added: “And I too, must check in with you. But only after I consult with a local herbalist and perhaps a surgeon if there is any.”

“You're a popular girl, Inky,” Varric’s voice lacked any warmth.

I requested a room for the night with a bath included at the proprietor, and left upstairs. Behind my back Varric and Sera got into an argument about whether ‘Inky’ stands for ‘Inquisitor, but not so stupid long’ or ‘covered in ink, because she writes too much’.

I apparently passed out in the bath, because when I opened my eyes next, I was wrinklier than a raisin, the water was cold, and outside the sun was setting. I crawled out of the tub, dried myself off and got dressed. I almost put the armor on before settling for going without it. The shirt was the one I wore to the duel with the Hand of Korth, and because unlike my Anchor-infused body parts it couldn’t simply not materially exist when a weapon went through it, it now bore three rows of stitches where I had mended it.

I returned back downstairs to find Varric, Sera, Solas, and Garrett playing Diamondback. Varric was clearly losing, Solas was not doing badly, Garrett and Sera were equally matched. They were playing for coasters and bottle corks rather than money. That was Garrett’s idea. Bad things happened when he had pocket change on him. Those bad things had body count in triple digits.

“The fancy-skirts are at the docks, waiting for the ship,” Sera informed me offhandedly as she pulled another hoard of tokens to her.

“I see, I see. Solas, you wanted to talk to me.”

Solas looked up from his hand: “It has turned out that the herbalist and the surgeon are the same person, and that person is currently sleeping off a hangover. Not to mention I am somewhat occupied right now. Folding,” he finished.

“Alright,” I ignored the chuckling around the table. “Then I suppose that if anyone comes looking for me, I am catching up with our Ambassador.”

“Don’t tire her much,” Garrett winked. “Haven’t got dinner yet.” He probably didn’t mean it, but just to be on the safe side, I gave him a mean look in return.

Maybe it was because the last time I was in Redcliffe the village was full of terrified people, or because my recent experiences with weather were suboptimal, but I’ve found the evening approaching… nice. Pleasant, even. The setting sun was painting the fishing settlement in soft oranges and purples, people were slowly deserting the streets and lighting lamps and putting up little wards.

The Lake Calenhad was black water against almost-black sky, and on the horizon I could barely make out a ship, full sails at an angle to make out the most from the north-eastern wind. It was approaching at a considerable speed.

I found Josephine surrounded by two mages, all three of them arranged on some abandoned barrels on the pier. They all looked very nonchalant.

“You should have woken me up, Josephine, if it’s anything pressing,” I approached with a smile.

“I wanted to. But Solas advised against it. You are apparently… having some difficulties with the Anchor, and you should probably rest as much as possible.”

“I am not fond of the apostate,” Vivienne sighed, “but he is the most knowledgeable about the Anchor – mostly by the virtue of not allowing anyone else to have a look – and as such I had advised to defer to his judgement. Still, it means that you’re a little… under-informed, which as of right now is not a boon.”

Josephine smoothly picked up: “That is what I wanted to talk about you. Shortly after you left for the Fallow Mire, we received a message from the Tevinter Imperium.”

“Either genuine or the forger is exceptionally good and also brave enough to be considered foolish. The seal used was of the Archon himself,” Dorian added, eyes fixed on the ship on the horizon.

“Tevinter is taking a negative stance towards the Venatori, and they want to formally cooperate with us. So they are sending an ambassador. We can, of course, refuse.”

“Who is this Tevinter ambassador to the Inquisition?” I asked the obvious question.

“Didn’t say. But his presence should prove beyond all measure that the Empire’s efforts are genuine,” Dorian chuckled. “The Archon’s words, not mine. I wouldn’t dream of such an oxymoron. Not enough imagination, as Vivienne had so kindly pointed out.”

“Alright, I get it, it is a secret mouse-thing that’s going to bite us in the backside later. I presume that is in my best interest not to punch the ambassador slash spy slash hostage in the face the moment he puts his foot on the Tevinter ground.”

“It would not help international relations, if you did Lord Inquisitor, yes.”

“Alright, and who is Dorian expecting?”

Vivienne frowned: “That is a Tevinter ship. But it is flying the colors of the Lords of Fortune. How… odd. Is this the ship we all are waiting for?”

“Absolutely. It’s the same one that brought me to Redcliffe.”

“So you are recruiting the crew for the Inquisition? Are we going to become a naval force too?” I chuckled. When did Dorian get acquaintanced with the Lords of Fortune?

“That too,” he admitted. “But more importantly I have a friend in Tevinter who knows a guy who has a friend who knows a tavern owner in Vyrantium. Surely you know what I mean.” Dorian was back to watching the ship.

I wanted to tell him that no, I didn’t, could he be more transparent with me, when from the ship went holler: “Land ahoy!”

That was… a familiar voice.

Within a couple of minutes a nondescript deck-hand was mooring the ship to the pier. After a moment the gangplank was extended and one by one the crew began trickling out of the ship like wine out of a poorly corked bottle.

First dozen of people I didn’t know and they didn’t know us. Thirteen was Merril, no longer of the Dabrae clan.

“Dorian,” she smiled brightly, “it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Before they could engage in a proper hug, I lightly elbowed Dorian to get his attention: “By any chance, you didn’t tell any of our rescues from Crestwood whom you had invited, did you?”

“Who do you mean? Oh, I don’t expect them to know everyone in Kirkwall.”

That was when Merrill noticed me. For a moment her face was pure panic before she hesitantly offered: “Hi Ori. Haven’t seen you, um, in a long time.”

Soon after she was joined by Anders who didn’t say anything, just hugged me tightly and then stood between me and the ship. Soon after it became clear why

“Dorian Pavus,” came Fenris’s grave voice as he walked down to the pier.

I tensed up. This could get really, really ugly. Fenris’s opinion of Mages, especially Tevinter Alti and Magisters, was not a secret of any sort. The man right behind Fenris, whom I still couldn’t see clearly, tensed up as well.

Fenris approached us, or respectively Dorian, the rest of us were collateral damage, so to say. “You son of a motherfucker.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you,” Dorian beamed, ignorant of the large sword on the elf’s back, “but that’s how it is with being someone’s child.”

If you recall the man right behind Fenris, he finally got close enough for us to take a look at him. He was of dark skin, even darker hair, advancing age, wearing travel clothes that managed to be fancy yet practical.

Now it was Dorian’s turn to tense up. He and the man were looking at each other as if they saw a ghost. Or maybe a blood spectre.

Then the man tore his gaze away, and turned to Josephine: “Ambassador Montilyet, it is a pleasure to finally meet you. My name is Halward Pavus and I have been appointed by Archon Radonis, glory to his name, as the Imperial Ambassador to the Inquisition.”

In the silence that followed you could hear a needle drop. If looks could kill, the only person left alive would be Vivienne and maybe Anders.

Magister Pavus smoothly continued, procuring an envelope from the inner folds of his robe: “I bear with me the appointing letter as well as a message for the Inquisitor, but I am afraid it is into the Inquisitor’s hands only.”

“Well then, the Inquisitor would like to read it,” I stepped out of Anders’s shadow. I was taking advantage of the distraction that Magister Pavus was.

“Autoliberata Isc,” he handed me both envelopes with a little bow. “See you once on the Magisterium floor, never forget.

I ignored the letter of appointment, that was more of Josephine’s area. Instead I tore into the message meant for me. It was brief, the amount of words didn’t even deserve the entire sheet of gilded paper it was written on – rather hastily. I read it four times.

“First Enchater du Fer?”

“Yes, Lord Inquisitor?”

“Please, be so kind as to coordinate my wardrobe for the Winter Ball with Solas.” I forced a smile and added: “Ambassador Pavus, welcome to the Inquisition.”

And then – without any prior warning – somebody tackled me to the ground.

“Desa! I thought I killed you!” that somebody shouted into my ear.

Chapter Text

I weighed my next words very carefully: “Could everyone please let go of their weapons and spells? Especially you, Dorian, friendly fire is not a fire that is friendly.” Pause. I didn’t get to see what happened, but several light sources on the edge of my vision dimmed, and there was even one tell-tale swish of a dagger being sheathed.

“Great, thank you. Feynriel, please, get off me. You are crushing me, and everyone almost killed you.”

“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t think of that.”

“You do have a bad record of that, son,” said another man approaching us. About my height, thrice my weight, black robes.

“Marten,” I breathed out in awe.

Josephine was obviously sensing that the situation has just gotten a lot more complicated and could slip out of her fingers, so she intervened: “Perhaps we could enjoy the hospitality of a nearby inn. Surely introductions will be heartier at a table.”

We relocated to Gull and Lantern where we put three tables together. That was something Garett and Varric were unable to help with, because they were being passed form arms to arms. The Kirkwall crew was very happy to see them; apparently they though Varric was dead at this point.

(It should be noted that the usual suspects in this party were Merrill, Anders, Fenris, Isabela and Carver. Aveline had always been a bit of an outsider as a law enforcer, Bethany was missing like most of the Grey Warden, and Raleigh was in Skyhold.)

“Alright,” Blackwall was the first to breach the tense silence and eyed me as I was squeezed between Feynriel and Marten, “who is going to start explaining what in the Maker’s name is going on? Who are all these people?”

Solas, glaring an absolute murder at Marten for some reason, added: “And perhaps why they are here. Such information might shed light on things.”

Magister Pavus had given up on his mug of beer and treated us to his most diplomatic smile: “I believe I can answer most of it for you. Of course, most of what I have to say as a deduction, so please, everyone, feel free to correct me if I am mistaken.” His tone of voice let us know he believed that to be highly unlikely.

“My name is Halward Pavus, currently I am by thh grace of the Archon the Imperial Ambassador to the Inquisition, as both the Tevinter Empire and you share the common goal of eliminating the Venatori. While nationalistic parties are not an unknown occurrence in my homeland, currently the Archon has decided that this particular one threatens the stability of our country.”

Varric, writing something in his notebook, piped up: “Does that translate ‘If Corypheus gets to rule the world, he doesn’t need an Archon around, and the current wants to keep his chair’?”

“That is one possible interpretation, yes. Lord Inquisitor is widely known in Tevinter to oppose the Venatori from the very beginning, even before she had taken her current office. I am here to coordinate mutually beneficial cooperation between the Empire and the Inquisition. Such is the role of an Ambassador.”

(Blackwall was whispering something to Sera, whose eyes were suspiciously narrowed. She was not looking pleased, but so far she hadn’t thrown anything at anyone, yet.)

“Here,” Halward continued, pointedly ignoring the aforementioned, “I presume where Dorian came into the equation. I know he had been occasionally entangled with the Just, Lord Inquisitor’s previous company, and knowing how to contact them, he asked them to join the fray where the current greatest fight against the Venatori is held.”

Marten shook his head: “It was more sending a couple of words along the grapevine. ‘Hey, Isc is not dead, she’s in Ferelden and she could really use her stuff.’ And if you haven’t noticed, Magister Pavus, it was getting increasingly difficult for the Just to stay in Tevinter. We aren’t exactly popular with those trying to keep the status quo.”

“Then I am only surprised you haven’t brought the rest of your… organisation.”

Feynriel smiled sheepishly: “It was only just the three of us.”

Halward Pavus made the very complicated expression of a man who is only now realising that the four years of political hell, strikes and violent uprisings was caused by three people who didn’t even have magic or resources.

“Needles,” Solas nodded, “not hammers.”

“Since you asked for introductions, I am Marten Anselm, a Holy Father in the Imperial Chantry. This here is Feynriel. He does magic.” That was an understatement of the century.

“What was it you said about killing Dessa?” Dorian turned to Feynriel with a sudden interest.

Ït took Feynriel several takes to speak loudly enough fo people to hear: “I… opened the Vyrantium Dreaming Gate. And we went through. And then we got, uh, jumped, by a lot of weird demons. Dessa told me to leg it and close the Gate, so I… did.”

“And you just left her there?”

“It was fine,” I insisted. “The least bad thing that happened that day.”

“When was it?” Vivienne demanded.

Feynriel told her. The table for a while plunged into thoughtful silence.

Finally Merrill addressed the werewolf in the room: “Isn’t that the day when the Temple of the Sacred Ashes exploded and the Herald of Andraste dropped from the Fade through the Breach?”

“How do these things keep happening to you, Ori?”

“If I knew that, Anders, my dearest, I’d make sure they’d stop happening. Bey they keep on. They warned me about the stairs,” I sighed into my coffee.

“Alright, that explains three people around the table. What about the rest?” Blackwall didn’t let us get sidetracked.

“I am so glad you asked,” Dorian preened. “While I chased after Alexius, I made a stop in Kirkwall and got acquaintanced with this colourful company. And since they were very good at disposing of Venatori and eager to do so too, I thought it’d benefit everyone if I invited them to join. So I did.”

“And you didn’t think of telling me? Or Varric?” Garett wiggled his eyebrows.

“My charming rugged apprentice, I know I keep on saying that Kirkwall is a backwater shit hole-”

“It is a shit hole,” the Kirkwall crew nodded.

„-but it is still a city of considerable size. I don’t presume either of you know everyone in there,” he finished smoothly.

“You know, Sparkler, I don’t say this often but: Read my book.”

“I fail to see how your fiction is relevant,” Dorian protested. Most of us at the table had the good sense to hide our faces behind a mug or two so that the war on smiles we were waging and actively losing. (Except Garrett who didn’t bother. That was a common way to describe Garett at any given moment.)

Varric very diplomatically, trying to preserve everyone’s face, offered: “I did write one or two nonfictions.”

Dorian pondered that for a while before he asked: “ Sword And Shield is nonfiction?”

Isabela lost it.

“I think,” Andres offered cautiously, “that we are all tired and should probably get something to eat and then sleep. At least I am going to do that and you all are free to join me.” He sounded reasonable enough for everyone to get mutton stew with bread.

As people filled their bellies and got sleepy, they slowly began to trickle upstairs to fill the rooms. Soon I was left in the company of Dorian, Anders and Marten. They looked like they had something on their mind, but I was not going to coax it out of them.

Dorian caved in first: “I don’t want my father as the bloody Ambassador around. I do not want to be around him.”

“I am aware. I don’t want him around either.”

“Not enough to tell him to bugger off,” Marten noted. “The Archon had sweetened the deal, didn’t he? What did he promise to you?” he asked when I merely nodded.

Instead of telling him, I handed him over the letter.

“Isc, if you accept Magister Halward Pavus as an Ambassador, the unabridged Magna Charta Auxiliara will pass on the Magisterium floor. Best regards, Redonis names for miles.” He stared at the paper blankly. Dorian stared at him. Anders was switching attention between the two of them rapidly, not knowing what was going on.

Weight pushed into my shoulders.

I took a firm grip of the table. I almost swung around in self-defense.

“What is Magna Charta Auxiliara?”

“Solas, you are in my personal space.” When he wordlessly sat down on the chair next to me, I explained: “Magna Charta Auxiliara, or the Great Maintenance Charter was my written proposition of several laws for the Magisterium. In a nutshell it would force every slave-owner to provide food, clothes, education of the basic trivium to their slaves. There is a section about equal courts and punishments, too.”

“I see. So the Just never actually sought freedom for the enslaved. Only higher quality of service provided.”

Marten fixed Solas down with a look. As far as friars went, Marten was one of those who firmly believed in Andraste and Maker both, but were more than ready to hold them responsible for what they made and decreed. When Marten put on the face of priestly disapproval, you felt like an utter idiot under his gaze. To be fair, he used it only when you were being an utter idiot.

“No,” he spoke slowly, as if he was trying to make certain Solas got it through his thick skull. “Magna Charta Auxiliara was a stepping stone to the abolishment of the slave caste. It’s great benefit is that when the enslaved population becomes free, they will read. They will write. They will count. They will be much harder to take advantage of. An uneducated man is easily led into what is slavery in everything but name. Such a man is desperate and much easier to lead into predatory jaws of cults and militant sects.”

“You speak as if Tevinter is brimming with such recruiters,” Solas scoffed.

“Well,” I shrugged nonchalantly, “I mean, we did operate that way. We promised them freedom and they fought for us against their owners. The worse the slavers were, the easier the recruiting was. Frequently they sought us on their own. The only difference was that I parted ways with them once we succeeded in that place. If you want to amass power quickly, uneducated people are more gullible and the desperate are more eager for a better purpose. So yeah, half of Magna Charta Auxiliara is to avoid this scenario on a bigger scale.”

For a while there was silence. Finally Marten smiled at Solas: “Well, if you have any more questions about the Just I’ll be happy to uncover to you our years-long sacred modus operandi tomorrow. For now I am headed to bed. Isabela’s worked me a tad too much.”

We said our round of good night wishes to him.

Dorian uncomfortably shifted in his seat, eyeing the remaining three of us: “Maybe I should tell you why exactly I don’t want my father here.”

“You don’t owe anyone an explanation,” Anders pointed out. “As far as I am concerned I am a total stranger to you.”

The Tevene Altus waved it off: “All three of you have pulled me out of corpses of my own making. With Felix gone and Maeve a sea and half away, we are practically best friends. Or accomplices at the very least.”

“Dorian,” I bored my eyes into the table, “you don’t have to tell us. I know.”

“I prefer the company of men–”

“I know .”

“As the only child he expects me to sire a successor to–”

“Dorain. I. Know.”

“He tried to use blood magic on me!” Dorian slammed his hands on the table. His calm, languid cadence was gone. The urgency behind his voice was obvious despair.

I didn’t look up from the scratch in the wooden desk of the table: “I know,” I echoed myself quietly.

A stretch of silence. 

Finally Dorian caved in: “How could you possibly know that? No one knows that . Except him and I, obviously.”

I could feel myself trying to shrink further back into my chair. When someone put a hand on my shoulder, I flinched so hard I nearly toppled backwards.

It was Anders: “Ori? you haven’t told them about your… uh… special thing?”

“That our Inquisitor is a spirit?” Solas tilted his head to the side.

Anders stuttered. Whatever clever quip he had ready, it came out as a bundle of indistinguishable noises and sounds, rather than words.

I am not a spirit.

I am a spirit.

But we aren’t the same person.

“So that’s it?” Dorian was a bit crestfallen. “You just… saw it in my head? Like Cole when he does that ‘hear the hurt’ thing?”

“I am not like Cole,” I offered quietly. “I can’t see into people’s minds, no matter the circumstances. I… Would it help you if I said that I no longer can learn such things about people without someone telling me?”

“For how long?” He was willing to bargain.

“A couple of years. Ever since I’ve crossed the border to the material side of Thedas.” I almost said eleven years, but that would raise questions about me being pre-cognitive. And we didn’t want that, not when Cassandra’s interrogative methods weren’t entirely off the table yet.

Anders crossed his arms: “You two are suspiciously alright with a spirit being in charge of an entire Inquisition, let me tell you.”

“I am on good terms with many spirits and even some what you’d call demons.”

“And I am a necromancer. I am entirely for spirits pulling their weight. Besides, Isc is not the only spirit in human guise in high ranks of the Inquisition.”

“Ah,”Anders nodded, “there is this Cole you’ve mentioned.”

“That’s hardly a disguise. He isn’t being a spirit secretly in any form,” Dorian chuckled. He was obviously glad we’d changed the topic from his family. “I was thinking of our Spymaster Leliana.”

“Wait, Leliana? Ginger, nice singing, deadly shot?” Anders pressed. “Since when?”

Chapter Text

That night I dreamed of the Keep of the Dragon Age, something that I hadn’t done in a couple of weeks. This was the first time it just popped up in my sleep without me consciously trying to steer my subconsciousness there.

Actually, come to think of it, ever since I closed the Breach my dreaming was… virtually non-existent. Very similar to how it was back in… back in my old life. Before the Blight.

(It was painful to think about who and what I used to be before. Where I used to be. Everything had changed so much. Besides, it was a fruitless line of thought. Even if there was a home to return to, there was no way to return to it.)

Anyway, I took the solace of the dreamed up Keep as a comfort. It was the only place where I could be alone with my thoughts and put them under a metaphorical magnifying glass. That metaphor took the form of a large loom at which I weaved a tapestry as if I was born to do nothing else.

Justice wasn’t in the Keep. He couldn’t reach me here, not without an invitation. And I needed a room of my own. A bit of selfishness. Surely I deserved it. And even if I didn’t, then I needed it. Because otherwise I would start screaming or worse – singing – and surely no one wanted to witness that .

In case you couldn’t tell, I was moping about Leliana being a spirit.

I mean, all the signs were blatantly there! I should have noticed!

Driven by a single purpose? Being super ambiguous about anything that happened longer than six years ago discarding it as unimportant? That she couldn’t recall faces of people she had met before those six years? The whole future that didn’t happen where she navigated her body as if it was business as usual despite being very obviously dead?

At least the last thing should have tipped me off. And maybe it did, I was just… too busy. That was my problem, I was too busy. Juggling too many balls at once. Corypheus was the biggest one of them, but it didn’t change that everyone else was also a ball and I had spent seven years and a good portion of the remaining four keeping all those balls in the air, that is to say alive and where I needed them.

Not to mention that I was losing the ground under my feet. Or, if we go with the metaphor of the loom,since it was right in front of me and all, I was running out of thread.

Back in the fifth Blight they called me Oracle. Technically, Loghain and Anders still do call me that if only in a shortened form. But an Oracle has to know the future, and I was approaching the end of the future I knew at a breakneck velocity. Not to mention that my actions past – the balls juggled from place to place, keeping up even the ones that should have bounced off the floor or shattered to pieces years ago – had changed that future a great deal. At every given moment I was making educated guesses. Educated, quite researched, but guesses nonetheless.

I looked at my hands, elbows deep in tangles of colourful yarns, making it impossible to say where my skin ended and threads started.

The walls of the keep began shaking under a sudden fast rhythmic pounding. I snapped up awake before the walls could cave in on me.

My breathing was rapid, my pulse wasn’t faring any better, and the rhythmic pounding was someone rapping on my door.

Just in shirt and breeches I ventured to open the door before the continuous onslaught managed to give me a headache. And, having had a few unkind experiences with opening doors, behind my back I held one of my daggers.

“Good morning, child,” said Marten, just pulling Feynriel’s hand away from the doorframe. “You can put the weapon away now.”

The bared dagger went on a night table and then two men went into my room. They carried a heavy box with them.

“What’s that?”

Feynriel beamed: “I hope you didn’t think we forgot about you. And I definitely didn’t forget that we crossed through the Gate in basically just light sleepwear.”

That was true. Bringing anything enchanted through the Gate of Vyrantium was risky. Especially if it was opened by just one person who had done no such a thing before – it didn’t matter how talented somniar Feynriel was, he was still fairly new to everything.

Besides, at the time we had a sense of safety, a private corner of the Fade which we could use for my divorce which Feynriel would officiate. Corypheus unleashing destruction miles in the south and reaching into the raw Fade to draw me to him just so he could gloat… well, no, nobody had expected that.

His loss. He could have had a normal Inquisitor. Instead he got me. And he had nobody but himself to blame, and like hell was I going to go easy on him.

“Well, yes. I was sort of missing my stuff, especially the boots. I appeared knee deep in snow, you know,” I chuckled.

“I’ve figured.” Feynriel was a brilliant boy. Yes, as in clever but mostly in the shining sense of the word. A lot of smiles and light in his eyes. He was almost positively glowing when he finally got the lid off the wooden crate and waved at me to take a look.

I took a look.

If I was the kissing type, I would have kissed him. And Marten. Instead I started tearing up. I sniffed to push the waterworks back, and reached inside.

The first of my possessions which I reclaimed were my glasses.

“Holy fuck,” I said, blinking a few times. “I can see shit .”

Stop wearing glasses for a couple of weeks and you forget that things are not supposed to be blurry blobs. I now once again belonged to the group of people who could tell apart leaves on a tree without climbing it up.

Next was Fishbone. It was disassembled to fit into the crate, so the first thing I did was to snap the counterweight half and the blade half back together into one long single weapon. My partners in revolution gave me a space so that I could swing it as a test.

“Oh yeah baby,” I grinned. “I am so back.”

“We’ll leave you some space to get dressed. See you downstairs at breakfast. young man, do not gawk, go, go,” the friar ushered the dreamer out.

It took me a good twenty minutes or so to get dressed, ten of which was calming myself from giggling like a schoolgirl. I had my stuff back! My precious equipment. My stuff. That matched my size! I worked years on most of it! I lost most of my blood while wearing it.

There was my Tevinter coat, and asymmetric cut with wide raised collar and detachable sleeves, full grey dracolisk skin and silk lining. It was disproportionately heavy, though, because stitched between the two layers of lining was red iron chainmail.

There were my high buckle-up boots which saw me through more than a score of roof-top runs. Each boot had more enchantments on it than I had fingers – and I still had all my fingers. Toes didn’t count as fingers. Although to be fair, in Tevinters such boots weren’t commonplace, they weren’t rare either.

There were my sketchbooks and notepads full of ideas – for writing, for alchemy, for surprise ambushes, sketches of Marten and Feynriel, but also people I had no right to know what they looked like at the time.

There was a very ugly ornate dagger, all vertebrae and skull motifs. I vaguely recalled prying it from the hands of a desperate mage in Kirkwall, right after things went… bloody. I hoped the poor sod was alright. I had ushered him and his friends through the Darktown smuggling passages on a beach, but from there it was sort of every man for himself.

There was a pendant of gnarled pale mythal root, suspended from a leather strap. After some consideration, I hung it around my neck.

My helmet I left untouched, just as I did with several jars and flasks and additional clip-on lenses on my glasses.

At the bottom of the crate was a burlap sack tied with twine and the twine was sealed with blyewax. The seal had an imprint of a simple fish skeleton on it, taken from a decorative engraving on Fishbone’s blade. (I had engraved that one myself, miserably, but I did.)

So, my boys probably hadn't opened it. Getting hands on blue pigment do dye wax wasn’t exactly easy. I sealed the bag back in Kirkwall, to make sure Raleigh wouldn’t go through it in search of some lyrium.

There were things some people shouldn’t know about me. But I was too sentimental to throw the damning evidence away.

Now, however, I broke the seal. After a moment of contemplation, I donned gloves to deal with the insides.

On the top, no longer in the neatly folded state it was years ago, was a beautiful dress. Or, it had been a beautiful dress, one worthy a queen, before it had been dragged through swamp, bled on heavily and drenched in darkspawn ichor. Now it was mostly black with blood– and grasstains that refused to wash out, no matter how I had tried, and Maker I had tried. I ruined the embroidery on that thing trying to scrub the grime off.

Beneath the dress was a silverite locket with a right-facing griffoness segreant. I left it closed and instead reached for the last object in the bag – a little paper booklet with a golden geometric face stamped on the front.

With Fishbone in its proper place – that being in harness on my back – and the booklet in my hands, I braved the stairs downstairs. For a moment no one noticed my arrival, so I could observe the party in peace.

Solas was still rubbing sleep from his eyes, a process not helped by Feynriel trying to talk his ear off. Marten was solemnly, methodically eating. Josephine was entertaining Pavus. Dorian was not at our pushed-several-tables-together table, instead he was sulking in the corner with Fenris, and they looked like they tippled into the casks already.

Anders and Carver were talking over each other in hushed voices to Garrett and Varric. Varric was, praise be his fluffy chest, taking notes at a frantic pace. He was not nibbling on the pencil, so this was not for a story.

The only person who looked up at me as I landed was Merrill. Merrill had always been immune to the mythal root’s boon of unremarkable passage. She put down the bread she was chewing and waved at me.

I sat down next to her, and finally noted: “Your vallaslin had changed.”

As soon as I spoke up, as if a spell was broken and everyone’s attention turned to me. Which was what happened. A spell was broken. Sort of. People had mixed expressions of “When did she get there?” and “What the hell is she wearing?” and “Is that a magic staff or what is it?”, or at least I presumed that was what they were thinking. Statistically speaking, they were probably thinking that.

“It was actually Fenris' idea,” Merril said. “I am very happy with it. I think it reflects my devotion to the Evanuris much better now.”

Solas blinked at her blearily for a moment, trying to comprehend what she had just said through Feynriel’s unceasing wordfall (like waterfall but it’s words). After a moment, words emerged: “That explains why your vallaslin looks like nothing I have ever seen.”

Then he did a double take on me and asked: “Excuse me, Lord Inquisitor, may I see your weapon?”

I diseragded etiquette and handed it to him over the table with words of caution: “Don’t cut yourself on the blade.”

“I shall be mindful of the fact that it is a weapon.”

“Yeah, it’s soaked in superevil shit. You’ll die. Slowly,” Anders pointed out to him. “Trust me, I’ve seen it before.”

Fishbone’s blade and guard had been drenched in the last Archdemon’s blood. Solas catching a case of Blight was the very last thing we needed. Anders was aware of that, although not of how low on the list of things we needed it truly was.

Solas reconsidered and then proceeded to use his scarf as a barrier between the worn jagged black blade and his bare hands. He looked up after a moment and asked me: “Do you know what this inscription means?”

“Oh?” That was Blackwall who had just come in from outside and joined him at the table. “What does it say?”

“It is in Elven,” Solas said. When it was obvious that Blackwall couldn’t read it and the rest of the table (besides Merrill who tried not to giggle, and Carver who couldn’t care less about me) was eager to know, he read: “ Din'an da fenin'lenan sal. That would translate as: May death claim all sons of the she-wolf.”

“Mors tolle omne fili lupa!” Fenris hollered from his corner over a bittle.

Dorian’s reaction I didn’t catch. I was too occupied watching Halward spraying tea over the table. Once Varric helpfully patted his back and he could breathe again, he still needed a good moment to stop snickering.

“I don’t get it,” Blackwall crossed his arms. “It’s on me, I’ve never studied languages, but someone please explain. Kindly. Like I am twelve.”

That was when Dorian (Fenris in two) joined us at the table: “This ancient Teven phrase is a popular battle cry among the Soporati. While the direct translation is identical with the elven phrase, the meaning is generally understood as ‘death to all the sons of bitches’. We like to think we are clever and funny.”

“It was supposed to say ‘death to all motherfuckers’,” Merrill chimed in helpfully, “but in all my studies I’ve never encountered any word in elvish that would refer to anything dirty, so this was the best I could do.”

Dorian looked at her, looked at Solas – in the heavy process of passing me back my beloved Fishbone – and then with the appropriate drama and gravitas put his mostly-full bottle of wine (not even a good one) directly in front of our miserable elf.

The miserable elf wordlessly poured himself a cup and downed it in one gulp.

I left the boys to their theatrics and tiptoed to Josephine: “Excuse me, how is the progress on getting invited to the Winter ball?”

“Painfully slow, Lord Inquisitor, painfully slow. Why are you asking?”

I put the booklet from my bag in front of her: “This might speed things up. But not a word to Seeker Pentaghast.”

Josephine’s brow furrowed: “That is an Orzammar passport.”

“Yes. It’s mine,” I added helpfully.

Josephine opened it. To give her credit, her expression did not change at all when she read the name neatly written next to a sketch of my likeness.