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Chapter Text

The hum of the ship’s engines and life support were constant comforting white noise. Shouts and thuds filtered down the corridor from the ship’s gymnasium. Livilla Rosindi tucked her feet up under herself and she flipped through the new messages on her dataslate. She ignored most, delegated some, and set a few interesting updates aside for later. She was just about to go get a refill on her tea when a high-priority request came through. 

That it made it through the many filters without being intercepted was interesting. She frowned imperceptibly at the sender’s name and read through the request. She read through it a second time and her frown deepened to something almost obvious. 

She lowered the slate to her lap and stared across the room, eyes going unfocused. She projected her thoughts, -Verrus, love, what are you up to?-

He responded immediately, his mental presence wrapping around her mind deliciously, -Training Connie and Portia. Why?-

She picked up the slate and made sure the message was pulled up. She felt his presence look through her eyes as she said, -Because Stanford has a visitor who wants our help. He says to come as soon as we can to meet them.-

-Huh. Did you get a message from Sarah, too? What about Aunt Az?- He read the message through her eyes and withdrew. 

Livilla quickly scrolled through the rest of the messages. -Not yet.- She ran through probabilities of what could be urgent enough to come right out and say it. -He’s usually much more subtle. This seems out of character?-

The sounds from the corridor stopped. Livilla glanced in that direction before Verrus said, -Very. I will set a course. Tell him to expect us in two hours.-

“Girls, stay here and keep the engines hot. I don’t know if we’ll need to leave in a hurry or not.” Livilla checked the charge on her pistol and slipped it into her holster. She draped a long silk wrap around her shoulders and made sure all her jewelry was secure.

Constance nodded grimly. She said, “Yes, Mother.”

Portia looked over from her weapons station. She said, “Scans are negative, Aunt Livilla. Whoever this visitor is, they don’t have an obvious army with them.” 

Verrus strode in. He adjusted his jacket and smoothed a hand over his hair. He said, “I still do not have a premonition of any particular danger. The next hour is hazy in a way I have not experienced before and I do not know what it means.” He touched the energy blade on his hip and glanced over Livilla’s outfit, counting the weapons both hidden and obvious. He said, “If it all goes to ash—“

Livilla nodded calmly and finished, “—I will get myself out of there and we’ll take off. You’ll meet us when everyone is dead.”

“Good. Stay on the scanners and comms. Connie-girl, you have the conn.” Verrus ruffled his daughter’s hair and offered Livilla his arm. He had a glint in his eye as he asked, “Shall we go see what made my great-great-grandfather so anxious?”

Verrus walked into the library a step ahead of Livilla. He assessed the situation and held out his hand for her to join him. He said, “We got your message, Stanford.”

Stanford Guillory was tall for a human, which put him about average for a Dontaron. He stood from his armchair and came over, beaming, “Aren’t you two a sight for sore eyes! Glad you kids could make it!” He shook Verrus’s hand heartily and hugged Livilla.

When he let her go, he said, “We have a visitor, kids. Come and meet her.” He squeezed Livilla’s shoulder when he said visitor.  

Livilla smiled and thought at Verrus, -Visitor. Not guest. We can take off the gloves if we need to.- She said around, “That would be lovely. Thank you, sir.”

-Unprotected. Interesting.- Verrus was at her side, far enough away that they could both draw weapons with ease, but close enough to physically shield her if projectiles started flying.

The woman stood to meet them. She looked human, and her white hair was styled into two sets of horns sweeping back from her face. She had the same ageless quality at Stanford, but the lines on her face were from frowning, not laughter. Her eyes were piercing and she studied Verrus and Livilla with a near-sneer. 

Stanford said, “Kids, this is Mythal. Mythal, these are my grandkids, Verrus and Livilla. There aren’t two better people at solving problems this side of the galaxy.”

Mythal looked them up and down again. She pushed a wave of psychic energy their way. Livilla shifted her shields to let it wash over her without finding anything. From the way she moved all her focus to Verrus, he hadn’t bothered.

Stanford ushered them to the couches and they all sat. Mythal addressed Verrus, “I am trying to save my world. There is a…man who is about to make a series of decisions that will destroy it. I…require help to stop it.” The last was said with both reluctance and disgust.

Versus sat, back straight and eyes pinning Mythal in place. He said, “You surely have assassins on your homeworld. Why come so far in search of more?”

She protested, anger rising to her voice, “No! I do not wish him killed! Simply stopped.” She gestured, ether and power flowing around her fingers, “I want him to change his mind! To abandon this foolishness of his!”

Verrus raised an eyebrow at her. He said, “And you expect him to listen to strangers? Why not convince him yourself?” 

“I. Have. Tried,” she seethed. She bit out the words like they hurt, “I have tried. So many ways. So many times. I thought I could find help elsewhere. Could bargain for the power to change his fate! Help me save him!” She gestured wider and the power she’d gathered flowed away from her fingers and circled Verrus, trying to find a way to make him listen. 

He deflected the attempt and turned to Livilla. He asked, “Darling, could you bring a bottle of whiskey over?” Mentally, he added, -I am interested but I want all the details first.-

Livilla smiled sweetly and stood. She walked across the room to the liquor cabinet and filled a tray with the drinks. Behind her, she heard Mythal continue to explain, but also heard how much she was leaving out of the explanation. She twisted the ether and telekinetically shifted the sound in the room to cover her approach. 

She stopped right behind Mythal and looked at Stanford. He nodded his permission and settled back in his chair. 

Livilla placed one hand on the back of Mythal’s neck and started shredding the woman’s mental shields, holding her in place with a mental grip. -Hello, Mythal. I am pleased to meet you. I am very glad that you are ignorant enough to neither fear nor respect me. Where are you from, I wonder, that our names alone didn’t make you at least a little cautious?-

Verrus stood and straightened his jacket. He said, “Is Sarah safe, Grandfather? I notice she is absent, but I could not see why.”

Stanford tapped a button on the arm of his chair. He said, “Yep, she’s fine. She has some interesting facts about the world this one’s from. It’s locked in a time loop of some kind and is making her reading complicated, but she’ll be down prolly before you get what you need.”

Verrus chuckled. He asked, “Are we that predictable?”

“Nah, you’re right as rain. I just think you could use a vacation. Go play with a world that’s never seen psy power and have some fun with it!” His accent was stronger, crossing back to the open plains and cattle ranches and oil rigs of his youth.

Livilla said, “I have her. She’s done fighting.”

Verrus put a hand on Mythal’s forehead and read all of the woman’s knowledge, all her history. Her hopes, dreams, abilities, and plans. Everything.

Livilla accepted a cup of tea from Sarah and finished modifying Mythal’s memory. She had already removed every trace of the meeting and was working on erasing the research that had put the once-goddess on the path to make a deal with the Guillories. 

Sarah asked, “You will be going, won’t you?” She sat on the arm of Stanford’s chair and stole a sip of his whiskey. 

Verrus said, “Yes, if the time slip is as dramatic as you found, we probably do not even need to clear it with Aunt Az. Though I would like to visit Baker’s temple and see if she has anything that would help.”

Livilla pushed on Mythal’s mind and made sure the woman wouldn’t wake for several hours. She sipped her tea and said, “At least something to fool their body scans. We all have enough metal in us to raise several questions.”

Verrus smirked, “You would just make them forget and I can convince them that down is up, but the girls are not quite there yet. Soon.” He leaned back in his chair, crossing one ankle over a knee. He asked Sarah, “So we can enter the loop at any point, yes?”

“Yes. It seems as if there are regular catastrophes over the course of a millennium or so, then the cycle resets.” Sarah took a dataslate from her pocket and pulled a pair of reading glasses out of her hair. She said, “It would be easiest to open the way for you in the lull between the penultimate and antepenult crises. That would give you a few years to establish your network and begin to move your pieces around.”

Verrus shot back the rest of his whiskey. He said, “It is a low tech world, so that will make some of our equipment tricky to disguise. But it sounds like an interesting challenge. Liv, how do you feel about using that near-degree in herbal medicine and botany you got from growing up with your mother?”

Livilla set her cup on the table and nodded, “That will work. Can you tell us what you know about the way things typically unfold? We have her version of events, but I don’t want to rely on her if at all possible.” 

Sarah laughed and said, “I’ll get it all sent to you shortly. Based on what I’ve seen, they could very much use a skilled therapist to help them get through it.”

Verrus chuckled and pushed to his feet. He said, “We should go tell the girls, talk to Baker, and get packed. It will likely take us a few days to make the arrangements. Will that work for you, Stanford?” He held out a hand to help Livilla to her feet.

“No rush, kids. We’ll see ya soon.”

Chapter Text

“There is one more person you should talk with, Sister Nightingale,” Sister Clara said as they stepped out of the Chantry into the bright sunlight. They pointed at a large house built outside Haven’s wall. From here, she could see the garden sprawling out behind the house and the outbuildings connected by covered walkways to the main house, all surrounded by a sturdy fence. The gates were open and the path looked well-traveled.

Leliana asked, “Who lives there?”

Sister Clara folded their hands in their sleeves. “Mistress Livilla, her daughter, and her niece. Her husband is a trader and they’re both friends with Marquis DuRellion and respected by the residents of Haven.” They hesitated and added, “She can be…difficult. But you should still talk with her before the talks, if only to introduce yourself peacefully.”

Leliana glanced at Clara. She asked, “Why?”

“Because when the Divine invites the mages and Templars here, someone is going to think that those gardens are community property and if that’s the first time you meet Mistress Livilla, you will…not enjoy the meeting.” Sister Clara shook their head and added, “That is not to say she’ll blame us for the trespass, but she is…intimidating.”

“Hm.” Leliana studied the house and shook herself. She said, “Then I should be on my way. Thank you.”

Leliana knocked at the door of the house just outside of Haven’s walls. The house was surrounded by a well-tended garden and even had a half-submerged glasshouse for plants that wouldn’t do well in the frigid Frostbacks. The house was bigger than most of the homes in Haven, but that could be ascribed to the stillroom off the back of the house and a healing ward separated from the main building by a covered walkway. She’d picked up some of the gossip about the family on her walk through Haven and she was curious.

The door opened after a few minutes. The woman who answered was remarkably tall. She had brown hair pinned back under a bright kerchief, threads of gray showing on her temples. Her eyes were also brown and sparkled with intelligence. Her skin spoke of Rivani or Antivan ancestry with very few lines to indicate her age. She asked, “Yes? How can I help you?” Her voice was smooth with a hint of an Antivan accent.

Leliana said, “I am looking for Mistress Livilla.”

The woman nodded. She said, “You have found her.” She wore a long tunic over practical pants, both with embroidered vines around the hems. She had an apron with a variety of green smears at hip-height and a shawl around her shoulders. She wore a simple gold band on her left ring finger and didn’t have any visible tattoos, but she had calluses and scars on her hands that spoke of significant martial training. She didn’t seem to have the need to fill an awkward silence with words, which was disappointing, but could be worked around. 

Leliana said, “I just came from speaking with Sister Clara in the Chantry. They said I should speak with you.”

Livilla’s smile didn’t change. She said, “Interesting. What about?”

Leliana said, “I am here to help organize Divine Justinia’s peace talks. I am Sister Leliana, Left Hand of the Divine.”

“Livilla Rosindi, herbalist and healer. I am pleased to meet you, Sister Leliana.” Livilla inclined her head. She took a step back and held the door open. 

Leliana stepped inside and looked around the room. A weapon rack by the door held a weathered staff, but it didn’t look like a typical mage’s staff, more like a sturdy walking stick. There were three bows and several swords of varying lengths and shapes also in the rack. Bookshelves flanked a large fireplace with comfortable seating and decent lighting. Baskets of sewing and knitting were scattered around the main room with projects spilling out. It was warm, homey, and comfortable. 

Livilla closed the door behind her. She said, “Come back to the stillroom. The girls are running errands and I have a distillation to tend.” She led the way, steps nearly inaudible on the polished wood floor. 

Leliana automatically cataloged everything, kept track of the lines of sight, and noted where the exits were. Stairs led to a second story and someone moved around on that level, possibly in a bedroom? The kitchen was off the hallway just before the door to the stillroom. It seemed decently equipped, clean and tidy. 

The stillroom was an alchemist’s wet dream. One long workbench held exquisite, expensive glassware. The rafters were full of bunches and bundles of dried and drying plants. Both long walls had shelves full of neatly labeled ingredients and preparations. The back of the room, the far side from where they entered, had a door and large windows, all open with fine screens across them to allow for air circulation. Baskets were haphazardly stacked near the door and shears and scissors and trowels crowded the top one. A broom stood next to the door and the whole spoke of organization and meticulous planning. 

Livilla sat on a stool and checked on a small flame and the flask bubbling away over it. She adjusted the beaker waiting beneath the apparatus and nodded. She didn’t volunteer anything, but she also didn’t drive away the spy. 

Leliana felt her shoulders tighten. She glanced over her shoulder and caught a glimpse of someone going from the hallway into the kitchen. She asked, “Who was that?”

Livilla didn’t turn. She said, “Probably Fel. Long-term patient turned family. He’s likely getting started on dinner.” Sounds of chopping drifted from the kitchen, backing up the guess.

Leliana watched the oily liquid drip into the beaker. She asked, “What are you making?”

Livilla’s eyes stayed focused on her work. She said, “Nettle. It will be winter again soon enough and there is quite a bit of arthritis about.” 

If I wait for her to volunteer something, I might be here all day. Leliana buried her frustration and said, “Divine Justinia intends to host peace talks between the mages and Templars at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.” 

Livilla asked, “When?”

Not “why?” Not “will it work?” And not “who all does that mean?” Just “when”. Did she expect something of the sort? Aloud, Leliana said, “In two months’ time.”

Livilla nodded and adjusted the flame again. 

A clatter and chatter from the garden path burst into the room. Two young women, maybe late teens? Early twenties? Both taller than Livilla! Leliana had to nearly crane her neck to watch them. 

Both girls held baskets. One said, “Mother! We took the burn ointment to John Peters, you know, the farmer. He’s doing much better and sent a block of tallow and some beautiful beeswax back with us.” Her hair was a shade or so lighter than Livilla’s, but they had the same eyes. 

The other said, “And then we stopped in at Missus Weaver’s to drop off the tea and check on her baby and see if she needed anything else. While we were there, Tassey Potter stopped in with some fresh bread and she said she heard from Jenkins who heard from Old Carter that there’s gonna be some big thing up at the old temple where the dragon used to sleep right around when Uncle Verrus is getting back!” Her hair was nearly fair, but seemed to be from sunlight rather than heritage. 

Livilla shot a side glance full of amusement at Leliana. She said, “Really? How remarkable.” She added, at the girls, “Connie, grab a pair of baskets. I need one of yarrow and one of calendula, please.”

The darker girl—Connie—put down what she’d been carrying and grabbed two baskets and a set of shears from the pile at the door. She cheerfully said, “Yes, Mother,” and headed into the garden. 

Livilla said, “Portia, go ask Fel if he wants anything from the garden to help with dinner.”

Portia sighed, “Yes, Aunt Livilla,” and headed for the kitchen. She walked right by Leliana without seeming to notice her. Her voice floated out indistinctly, followed by a male voice. 

Livilla sighed and said, “They’re good girls. A little unobservant, true, but good.” She carefully blew out the flame and turned fully to face Leliana. She said, “My home, gardens, and grounds are neutral territory. If I am caring for someone in a sick room or otherwise treating them, they will be neither bothered nor attacked due to any affiliation they might have. My home and family are not here for the taking and any assumption along those lines will be swiftly and violently corrected. Do I make myself absolutely clear?” She didn’t stand or use her height to loom over Leliana. She simply sat on her stool with authority draped around her like a cloak. 

Leliana nodded briskly. She said, “Quite,” and fell silent. She looked at Livilla’s posture again and wondered where a rural herbalist learned to hold herself more regally than the Empress of Orlais and new King of Ferelden combined. 

A heartbeat later, she had the sense of her caravan of thought hitting a bump. What? Was there something in the wording? She mentally shook herself and said, “When the plans are finalized, would you be willing to join a meeting to discuss how to best handle the influx of probably hostile people?” 

“Yes, thank you.” Livilla stood from the stool and stretched her neck. She said, “Thank you for your time, Sister Leliana.”

Before she quite knew what was happening, Leliana found herself outside the gate. She set the facts in her memory as she walked back into Haven. That night, in her borrowed bed in the Chantry, she wondered again what kind of trader could support a family in this style and why they chose Haven to do it in.

Livilla watched the Left Hand of the Divine walk away. She didn’t leave the spot until the woman was on the road into Haven. She murmured, “So. It’s time.”

Constance came in from the back. She said, “Father’s on his way back. He says that he will be here in plenty of time.” She had a handful of flowers in a vase. She set it on the windowsill and adjusted it carefully. 

Fel and Portia came out of the kitchen. Portia was bouncing with suppressed excitement. She said, “Did we do enough to set her expectations?”

Livilla nodded. She said, “She still has questions, but she also has assumptions.” She looked at Fel and asked, “Have you decided what you want to do?”

The violet-eyed elf touched the crystal he wore at his throat. It flared and he said, “I will stay, especially if he is only seldom in residence. I do not have full control yet and an extra set of eyes may be important.”

Livilla reflexively checked his emotional state. He’s not as calm as he’s projecting, but it’s covering anticipation, not fear. Good. Aloud, she said, “As you wish. Let’s talk about the next set of strings we need to get tied up and then do lessons.”

Portia’s excitement burst in a shower of gold sparks. She said, “This is going to be so much fun!”

Chapter Text

Seven weeks later, Haven was a bustling mess. Leliana walked the path from the Temple of Sacred Ashes down into Haven. Mages and Templars were already arriving and it was difficult to find places for them. There had already been some incidents, but tensions were high. Trust was in short supply and tempers were equally short. 

She stopped at the gate at a call from the sky. One of her ravens dropped like a stone, backwinged at the last second, and landed on her arm. Leliana scratched along the bird’s neck and extracted the message from the tube on its foot. She read the message quickly and tucked away the paper to destroy later. So, Cassandra has Tethras and he’s agreed to tell his story to Most Holy, but refuses to admit to Hawke’s location. They’ve left Kirkwall. That should put them here in…eight days. Most Holy arrives in six days and we mean to start the negotiations the day after. Things will likely be going poorly, so perhaps having a break immediately will be good?

She turned to head into town, but a clatter of hooves and wagons on the road drew her attention. Automatically, she faded into the shadows along the wall and settled in to watch.

The caravan was large and well-equipped. They passed by Leliana’s hiding spot and she counted five wagons with easily a score of guards and drivers. They didn’t go into Haven, but took the path leading to Mistress Livilla’s home. 

Leliana watched them go to a side gate and one of the girls—she was too far away to tell which—came running out to open the gate and the barn door. 

One of the riders swung off his horse and headed to the house without helping with the wagons or horses. It was hard to see, but Mistress Livilla came out of the house. The rider was taller by at least his head and shoulders! He met her at the door and lifted her in an embrace. He carried her into the house and the door slammed behind them.

Leliana petted her raven and watched the rest of the caravan take care of their affairs and head into the house one-by-one. There was still light in the barn and the house glowed in many windows. She finally resumed her path into Haven. So, the master of the house has returned. I should meet him. If these talks go on long enough, we may be in need of someone who can get supplies in and out of Haven.

Fen’Harel—no, Solas, just Solas now—stood in front of a small cavern high on one of the Frostbacks. From here, he could see the dirty human village they called “Haven”. Where the Blighted magister had been headed. Where his orb would be unlocked in a matter of days. Where he would finally be able to fix his impulsive, catastrophic mistake. 

He turned away from his silent vigil and sat by the small fire, banked and carefully hidden. It would not do to be spotted yet. He was not entirely sure if he was close enough or too close to the temple. True, his focus contained an absurd amount of power, but it was impossible to estimate how much would be expended in the unlocking of it. 

No matter. It is not a problem for today.  

Solas settled himself against the wall of the cave and let his gaze rest on the flickering flames. Somewhere nearby, a hunting bird screamed and tiny animals scurried for cover. His gaze softened and he drifted smoothly from the waking world into the familiar embrace of the Fade. 

Solas stood and returned to his vigil. The temple and town looked much the same, if even more devoid of color and life. His lip curled without his conscious knowledge of it. He scanned the rest of the valley and froze. There was a difference. 

He frowned in thought. I did not pay it any mind, but I think I would have noticed if a palace had been outside the gates of the town. He shifted his shape from vaguely-Elvhen to a giant six-eyed wolf and bounded down the mountain to investigate the anomaly. 

The palace glowed with light and life. Spirits congregated in the yard, chatting amiably. They parted to let him approach the door—none tried to bar his way and none challenged him, but none greeted him or welcomed him, either. 

Solas looked at the door and smoothly shifted back to his Elvhen shape. He knocked on the door and waited for it to open. 

Two spirits stood inside, one wrapped around the other. The one doing the wrapping briskly asked, “Do you have an appointment? Are you late or-”

The other reached up and held its mouth shut. It—no, she— said, “Greetings, traveler. What do you seek?”

Solas tucked his hands behind his back and said, “Simple curiosity has brought me to your door. I am Solas, if there are to be introductions.”

The standing spirit said, “I am Hospitality and this,” she slightly shook the snake-like spirit, “is Punctuality.” She looked Solas up and down and asked, “Curiosity brought you? I don’t see them.”

Solas chuckled, “Pardon, it was but a manner of speaking.” He caught a glimpse of more spirits wandering through the halls behind Hospitality-Punctuality. He asked, “If it’s something you can share, would you tell me of this place?”

Punctuality poofed away from Hospitality and disappeared into the palace. Hospitality watched them go and shook her head. She said, “This is a sanctuary and a place of peaceful healing. It—” She cut herself off and tipped her head, listening to something inaudible. She nodded and said, “If you would follow me, please, the Lady would like to meet you.”

Solas inclined his head and followed the spirit through the door and entryway. As big as the place seemed from the outside, in true Fade fashion, the interior was even more vast. Staircases swept up several levels and rooms and halls spiraled away into the distance. 

Hospitality led him through doors and corridors. Around every corner was another spirit simply existing in the space. After a series of turns that made no sense for the physical representation, they stopped in a small library. 

The room was circular and didn’t seem to have a ceiling, just black sky spangled with stars in unfamiliar constellations. Tall shelves lined the walls, the tops of them fading into the dark. Chairs flanked a fireplace, sofas surrounded several small tables, and a desk piled with books and papers sat in a halo of light. 

Behind the desk was a woman. She was real— more real than any of the spirits or surroundings. Who is she?! She was human, or something similar. Her hair was mostly white, but some few red streaks remained. Her face was lined with age, but her posture straight and when she looked up at their approach, her eyes were sharp and penetrating. 

“Whom have you brought to see me, Hospitality?” She asked, voice calm and cool. Emotions pooled around her: competence and confidence, curiosity and determination.

Solas automatically tucked his hands behind his back. He said, “My name is Solas. I take it you are the ‘Lady’ of this house.”

She looked him up and down and stood. Her clothes were…interesting. They didn’t seem like anything Solas had seen in the waking world, nor did they remind him of anything from Elvhenan. They were dark, tailored, restrained. Black and red with flashes of gold. Perhaps a uniform? 

She came around the desk and her shoes clicked on the floor. She said, “I am called Lady Jeva. This is a place dedicated to safety and healing, peace and knowledge. I have heard your name whispered in the darkness between the stars, Dread Wolf. Are you here in opposition to any of our ideals?”

In the darkness of the stars? What does she mean? Solas inclined his head and said, “I assure you, Lady Jeva, I intend no harm to any in this place.”

She raised an eyebrow and smirked, her amusement swirling around her form in a shower of light pink sparkles. She said, “I am afraid that is not good enough. Try again.” It sounded like a request, but the absolute steel beneath the smooth tone said that this was a non-negotiable condition of being allowed to exist with these walls. 

Solas felt a twinge in his jaw like his body was gritting his teeth. He kept his voice level and said, “I assure you, I will do no harm to any who have taken shelter underneath your roof.”

“Better.” She held out her hand, motioning to the sofa arrangement, “Please sit. Would you like any refreshments?”

Solas followed her to the sofa and sat. On the table, a tea set took shape, steam rising in graceful curls. Jeva picked up the teapot and poured two cups. In defiance of his expectations, a soft floral scent rose from the surface. Solas picked up the cup and the heat against his hand had his eyebrows climbing his forehead. He cautiously sipped and flavor and sweetness burst across his tongue.

Before he could question the Lady about how or what or why the Fade acted so differently for her than anyone he’d met since the Evanuris, the door opened and another Dreamer entered. 

She wasn’t as solid as Jeva, but her emotions were more finely curated. She wore them like armor, spinning only a carefully chosen few out into her aura. She bent to kiss Lady Jeva on the cheek and gracefully sank onto the cushion next to her. 

Jeva smiled, poured a cup of tea, and said, “Troublesome client?”

“You could say that.” She sipped the tea and her posture relaxed fractionally. She said, “Thank you, this is perfect.” She focused on Solas and said, “I’m called Livilla. I hear you are Solas. I assume Grandmother Jeva already wrangled some sort of non-aggression promise from you.” 

Jeva patted her shoulder. She asked, “Difficult case?”

Livilla sighed and shifted her visible emotions. She said, non-comittally, “Aren’t they all?” She sipped at the tea and smiled. “But where’s Rontari? I expected to not see either of you for days yet. Haven’t you had your reunion?”

Jeva’s laugh was warm and rich. Even the tea in Solas’s cup became sweeter for having heard it. She said, “Who’s to say we did not? He is one of the most skilled time manipulators to ever exist.”

“Ah, true.” Livilla finished her tea and Punctuality slithered up from the floor and wrapped around her. She listened to it for a moment and stood. She said, “No rest for the wicked.”

Jeva reached up and squeezed her hand. She said, “You cannot pour from an empty cup, child. You will rest and they will wait. Find your husband and enjoy him.” Neither Livilla’s form nor her visible emotions changed. She simply nodded and disappeared through the door. Jeva watched her go and topped off both her and Solas’s cups with a sigh, “She takes to responsibility like a phoenix to fire. You will see her again, I am sure. Drink your tea.”

Solas obeyed the command without thinking. Too many questions crowded his mind, fighting an impossible tournament for what would be spoken first. Nothing about this made sense, though all his senses were in agreement that everything was real. More real than anything since he woke from uthenera. More real than it had any right to be.

Jeva sipped her tea and watched the expressions cross his face, questions half-formed and discarded as inherently unhelpful or potentially offensive. She let him twist in indecision for several minutes before saying firmly, “Thank you for your visit, but dawn approaches and your physical form is unguarded. You should attend to it.”

Solas frowned and focused on his body. It was cold and, yes, there were sounds in the vicinity. He said, “Thank you for the hospitality. If I…find my way back to this place in the future, will you be here?”

“Almost certainly, though this place may move. That happens sometimes.” Jeva stood and walked him to the door. 

Solas bowed and stepped through the door. To no great surprise, he stood on the mountainside. Looking down into the valley, the palace was still a beacon of warmth and safety, promise and prosperity. He sank back into his body and opened his eyes. 

Immediately, he looked to see what was in the valley in this world. He could not find a palace, but there was a large house outside the gates of Haven. People milled about, tiny and indistinguishable from this height and distance. Whatever it may be, I hope that it survives the opening of my focus.

Chapter Text

Cullen leaned against the table in his tent. The box taunted him, tormented him. The lyrium song seeped from the seams and under the latch, promising ease and relief from the constant aching. Just take it. You know it will fix you. Mages are arriving in droves and you need to be at your best. Just take—

A knock at his tent pole pulled him from his dark obsessing. He looked at the interruption, ready ready to send whoever it was on their way. 

Leliana had her arms crossed. She said, “Everything all right, Commander? I need your eyes in Mistress Livilla’s yard.”

Cullen straightened and rubbed the back of his neck. He asked, “What can I do for you?” 

She held the tent flap open and beckoned him to follow her. The sun was blinding and his headache spiked, then settled into a throbbing ache behind his right eye. He winced and blew out his breath. Leliana led him across the small valley to the herbalist’s manor house with the extensive gardens, barns, and buildings. 

They reached the gate and walked a path around the house. Leliana said, “Tell me what you see.”

They rounded the house to see a training yard next to the barn. In the center of the ring, Mistress Livilla faced off against both girls. They had swords and she had a staff, but the way she used it… 

Cullen said, “What…” He reached out with his Templar senses, ready to smother the magic in the staff, but there was…nothing. She’s using…what? Just a stick? He shook his head and watched closely. He finally said, “They’re skilled, but not like a Templar, not like Qunari, definitely not like Hawke. I don’t know any other styles. And that’s not how a mage would ever use a staff.”

From the other side of the ring a tall man shouted, “Keep your guard up, Connie! Don’t give her that opening!”

Mistress Livilla laughed and shouted back, “Whose side are you on?” She swept her staff at the darker girl’s feet and whirled to redirect the other’s attack. 

The man dryly said, “Theirs, obviously. You can take care of yourself, my love.” He stood with his arms crossed and the posture of trained military. 

Cullen glanced at Leliana. She shrugged and said, without moving her lips, “Her husband, but we haven’t been introduced. The drovers call him Verrus.” She had her face angled toward the fight, but her eyes looked at everything but. 

The honey-blonde girl cried out and lost her sword. She backed up, hands raised. She called, “Con! I’m out!”

“Shit!” Connie dodged and fought bravely, but she couldn’t get close enough. Even though she was taller, the staff gave Mistress Livilla more reach. Connie missed a block and her sword spun out of her hands. 

The man—Verrus?—leapt the fence and went to Mistress Livilla. He caught her face in his hands and murmured something to her and she looked up at him like he hung the moons in the sky. He slanted his mouth over hers and they either didn’t know or didn’t care about the onlookers.

Cullen looked away, a blush creeping up his neck. Leliana snorted in quiet amusement, but before she could start teasing, the girls were standing in front of them. They were…tall. Very tall.

“Hi!” Connie held out her hand to Cullen like the Carta would. She said, “I’m Constance, but everyone calls me Connie. This is my cousin Portia. Back there are my parents, Livilla and Verrus Rosindi. We met Sister Leliana a couple months ago, but who are you?”

Before he answered, Portia hip-checked her and said, “You can’t tell by the Templar armor and cloak and gorgeous curls? Besides, we had tea with Missus Peters and she had it from Pansy Baker who heard that—”

Connie rolled her eyes, sharply elbowed her cousin, and kept her hand out. She chided, smile still in place, “Manners.”

Cullen dodged the small kick Leliana aimed at his ankle and took her hand. It was stronger than he expected, but he’d just seen her fight and, upon reflection, that was a silly expectation. He said, “Cullen Rutherford. I’m here to help keep order. During the Conclave, that is.”

Connie released his hand and eyed him. She frowned and turned to call, “Mother! Can you please come here? I need your eyes.”

Leliana raised an eyebrow at the coincidental repetition but, blessedly, didn’t comment. Instead, she asked Portia, “What did you hear from Missus Peters about Commander Cullen?”

Portia started spinning a tale that spanned nearly every family in Haven and the intricate web of gossip that linked them. Clearly, the Conclave was the most interesting thing to happen to the sleepy town in years.

“Hm, yes, I see. Well done, Constance. Thank you.” Mistress Livilla held her husband’s arm. Her eyes were…sharp, as if seeing far more of Cullen than he meant to present. She squeezed her husband’s arm and said, “I will find you in a bit, love.”

He bent and kissed her, murmuring with undisguised heat, “I will count the seconds until then becomes now.”

Cullen felt the blush creeping up his face again. He awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck and muttered, “Maker’s breath,” but he snapped to attention when Livilla ordered him to follow her. 

Leliana tried to come into the out-building with them, but Livilla said, “You are not my patient, Sister Leliana, nor are you next-of-kin to Commander Cullen. I maintain strict patient confidentiality. I am sure you understand.” She waited impassively in the face of  Leliana’s quiet indignation. 

Most Holy’s spymaster left, but not before shooting Cullen a look that clearly said, “I expect you to give me a full report later.”

Livilla watched her leave, then ushered Cullen into a small room. It was brightly lit and scrupulously clean. She waved at a chair and said, “Please. Sit.” She sat in another chair and pulled a rolling desk into place. She said, “You can speak freely here, Commander. My notes are coded and for my eyes only. Now, how long has it been since your last dose of lyrium?”

Cullen jerked in the chair. He said, “A month and how—“

Livilla made a note and met his eyes. She said, “Yours is not the first case of withdrawal I have treated.” She tapped her pen on the page and asked, “Which symptoms are giving you the most trouble?”

Cullen was answering before he could think better of it, “The headache and the nausea. I can handle the aches and have never slept well, so that’s nothing new….” He looked at the healer’s posture and thought, She holds herself like…Meredith did. She knows how to command and expects obedience, but she’s respectful? I don’t know—can’t think with this blasted headache.

She made a note and asked, “And what kind of support system do you have? Is there someone you trust to help when the cravings get bad?”

He said, “I’ve asked Seeker Cassandra to…watch me. Make sure I’m still capable of doing the work?”

“Hm, not precisely what I meant, but we can come back to it.” She finally looked up from her notes and her eyes were compassionate and kind. She said, “I will give you some medicines and some instructions. In the end, this will be the hardest thing you will ever do, but also the most worthwhile.” She stood and opened a cabinet. She took a basket down and started nestling small bottles in place. 

She said, “I will write out instructions. These are all to alleviate individual symptoms as they occur. You should share the information with an aide who can help get them ready on the bad days.” She wrote quickly and asked, “Have you disposed of your lyrium tools and any emergency doses you have kept?”

Cullen watched her pen move and admitted, “No.”

She turned her head and he shrank away from the disappointment in her eyes. She said, “Then we will do that next. And who handles the lyrium distribution here for any Templars who choose to take it?”

He said, “I do.”

“Not any more. You are going to choose someone else. Whom do you trust?” She put the pen down and tucked the paper into the basket. She leaned against the counter and looked at him, arms crossed and eyes stern. 

Cullen flushed and said, “Captain Rylen could handle it?”

Livilla nodded and said, “Good.” She didn’t move and asked, “Do you want me to ease that headache? Before we go back out into the sun?” At Cullen’s nod, she stepped behind him. She said, “I am going to manipulate your neck. This may feel odd.” Her fingers probed along his neck and she said, “There. Take a deep breath and let it out. Try to relax.”

Leliana waited outside Cullen’s tent impatiently. She’d received word that the healer had accompanied him back with a basket of medicine. She could hear muted voices and furniture moving, but nothing distinct. 

Livilla came out with the basket. There was...something in it. Not medicines like when they’d arrived, but something else. She carefully closed the tent flap, reaching in to secure it against the light. 

She isn’t surprised to see me. Leliana asked, “Is Cullen well?”

Livilla’s face didn’t change. She said, “I will not discuss it.” Leliana went to go into the tent, but the healer stopped her with a hand on her arm. She said, “No. You will let him come to you.”

Leliana dropped her other hand to one of her knives, but a moment later, she blinked in the light. She was walking away from the camp, back to Haven. What was I doing? I was…checking on Cullen, but he’s sleeping. And the healer? She was…helping. She looked over her shoulder and saw the healer was more than halfway home. Hm. How did she know about the lyrium at a look? And what did she say to him to get him to actually rest? I will…check on him in a few hours.

Chapter Text

Felassan tucked the crystal into his shirt. This was either going to be a good plan or a disaster. But even if it’s a disaster, they won’t hang me out to dry. We just might be digging an extra grave. He went down the hallway to the small study. The latch on the hidden door quietly beeped under his hand and clicked open upon recognizing him. 

Constance and Portia looked up and waved him to the table. A detailed map of Haven and the surrounding mountains was pinned in place. Verrus was placing markers around the map for their mission. 

He said, “That’s everyone. So, girls, your job is to get Malika Cadash and Maxwell Trevelyan to the house. Do what you need to do, but keep your talents under wraps. Cadash is currently here, at the Chantry, and Trevelyan is on his way into town.” He moved the markers as he talked, updating the movement of people in real time. 

Portia made note of where the markers were, but Constance just looked off into the distance. Her gaze cut through the walls as if she could see her targets even now. She said, “I have them, Father. We’re good.”

Verrus pointed at two markers off to the sides of the map. “Felassan, you will find Ellana Lavellan to the northeast. Solas is still maintaining his position on that mountain in the southeast ridge, so you should be fine. You have the communicator, just in case. Please use it. I will keep an eye on him and let you know if he moves.” 

Felassan touched the metallic cuff on his ear. He said, “I have it.”

“Good. And obviously avoid Templars. They are belligerent and looking for an excuse to abuse any who they can vaguely identify as a mage. Be safe and if you have to choose one person to save, choose yourself.” Verrus finally looked up from the map. He fixed Felassan with a stare until the elf nodded. He said, “Good. I will be getting Kaaras Adaar and probably the rest of their band.”

He pushed a few more markers around on the board and said, “Tonight will be explosive, so we should aim to get this done as soon as possible. Liv is going to have food ready and we will do what we need to do so that everyone is in place for the fireworks. Good hunting and good luck.”

Josephine Montilyet accepted the offer of a tour of Haven from Sister Clara. There were a few high-ranking mages and Templars yet to arrive and she was glad for the exercise. 

In truth, all of Haven could be seen from the steps of the Chantry. They had an alchemist in town and a herbalist outside of the walls. There was a tavern, a blacksmith, and public baths. There was a small market along the inner walls. The village was sleepy and quiet and the residents reportedly liked it that way. 

When they finished their loop of the village, a group of young people was leaving the Chantry. A young nobleman, Free Marches by his accent, a dwarf lady with a hammer bigger than herself, and two tall young women.

“Oh, hello, Sister Clara!” One of the girls held the door open for them. She asked, “Everything ready for tomorrow’s negotiations?”

Sister Clara smiled and said, “Yes, thank you, Portia.” She paused and said, “Lady Montilyet, may I introduce you to Portia and Constance? Girls, this is Josephine Montilyet, here to help with the Conclave.”

Both girls dropped tiny curtseys. Portia said, “Pleased to meet you. We’re taking these two home for dinner. There’s not a room to be had for love or money in town, but Aunt Livilla said we could use some of the empty rooms in the infirmary. So we’ll take Marcus and Malika off your hands and you can have the room in the Chantry for some other late arrival. Lovely to meet you, but Uncle Verrus expects us home soon and I’m babbling, but gosh you’re pretty so we need to go before I shove my foot any further in my mouth! Bye!”

They bustled away and  Josephine turned to Sister Clara. She asked, “Did she take a single breath?”

Clara laughed, “That is Portia in a nutshell.”

“Hm.” Josephine watched the mismatched quartet until they disappeared around a corner. She said, “Interesting. Is there a place where I could write some letters? And are there ravens for sending them?”

“Right this way, Lady Montilyet.”

Leliana left Most Holy’s room and nodded at the Gray Wardens standing watch. She made note of the mages and Templars who had arrived and which of them chose to stay at the Temple of Sacred Ashes and which were staying in Haven. Hm. Fewer people than we expected here. Most are staying in the village? Why? Closer to power is always better. 

Regalyan D’Marcall intercepted her in the portico. He held out a raven message and said, “Cassandra is just outside of town. She wants us to meet her and Deshyr Tethras there. It sounds important.”

“Now?! Why not just meet them in the morning?” Leliana read the message a second time and turned it over. No, that is her handwriting. And the appropriate code to indicate urgency. What could be the problem? She handed the note back and said, “Well, then we should be off. Do you have what you need for the walk?”

“Yes, Sister Leliana.” Regalyan had his staff on his back and a bag tucked under his arm. He brushed his hair back and they headed for the steep path down the hill leading back to Haven. 

Leliana whistled for one of her birds as they walked. The night was dark and the mountains were cold. The clearing Cassandra indicated was to the opposite side of Haven as the Rosindi home. There were lights on in most of the downstairs windows as they left the gates and headed out. 

In the kitchen, Verrus checked Portia’s gear again. He asked, “Are you ready? His Red Rockiness is headed for the temple and we need to get you in place. We can still scrub the mission.” He adjusted her cloak and looked at her seriously. 

Portia rolled her shoulders and said, “Ready. This is going to suck, but I’m the best choice to interrupt the ritual and steal the ‘magic’ in the process.”

Felassan pinched the bridge of his nose. He asked, “Why can I still hear the air quotes around the word?”

Connie snorted, “Practice.” She held a piece of crystal and her eyes glowed with a pale white light. She said, “Both Jeva and Rontari are ready in the Fade to aid and abet. Rontari’s been having a battle of insults with the Nightmare and he’s apparently the most entertained he’s been in centuries.”

Verrus laughed, “I am insulted that overthrowing an evil plot full of sedition was not entertaining, but I suppose that tracks.” He sobered and said to Portia, “You will be fine. You will be in the Fade and your great-great-grandparents will get you out. When you are out, we will get you whatever care you need, even if that means leaving this pocket universe to its own devices for another cycle.”

Felassan winced and Livilla rested her hand on his shoulder. A wave of calm confidence brushed against his mind. He inhaled and accepted the edge of it. She said, “All will be well. Get her in place, husband, and watch to make sure it goes smoothly. And get yourself out of there before the explosion happens.” She crossed the room to press a kiss to Portia’s forehead. “You will be fine, niece. Make it so.”

Portia nodded and said, “I hear and obey.” She hugged Connie quickly and said, “Ready, Uncle Verrus.”

He nodded and the two vanished. Livilla went to the window to wait, watch, and witness.

Chapter Text

Solas left the cave at sunset and began working his way down the slope. The magister’s ritual had begun and he needed to be closer to retrieve his orb. He checked the position of the moon and changed his course slightly. 

A break in the trees gave him a clear view of the temple and he watched the lights flicker. It will be well. The magister will die; the temple walls will hold the blast. Gaining entrance may be a challenge and it might require excavation, but—

A flash of light burst from the center of the temple. As he watched, the walls either disappeared into ash or accelerated outward at incredible speed. A few seconds later, the shockwave hit him, followed immediately by the roar of the blast. 

Solas grabbed a tree branch to steady himself and gaped at the sky. The night sky was no longer black and star-speckled. A great tear formed above the crater that had once been a temple. Through it, he could see… “The Fade? The Fade?! No! No, no, no, no!”

Solas broke into a run. The mental pressure of the magister was still there! And his orb! But even before he reached the valley, he could feel both retreating! He lived?! How did he live through that?!

He reached the gates of Haven at the same time as a party consisting of a dwarf and three humans. One of the human women greeted him with bared daggers. 

Solas put his hands up to hopefully lessen the perceived threat. He said, “Yes, I am a mage, but I study the Fade. Whatever is happening there,” he jabbed a hand at the sky, “it must be stopped at once!”

She snarled, “A Fade expert?! How do we know this isn’t your doing?”

The human man cleared his throat and said, “No one who created that blast would be among the living.” He looked up and added, “We will likely need all the help we can get. Andraste preserve us.”

The woman put away her daggers and they rushed up the path.

Verrus popped back into the kitchen in the moment between the flash of the explosion and the shock wave hitting the telekinetic shield around the house. When the force of the blast dissipated, Livilla released her hold on the power and shouts of alarm filled the yard. Verrus kissed her quickly and headed outside, shouting orders to organize their people and Adaar’s mercenary company to deal with the incoming demon invasion.

Connie was still focused on the crystal in her hands. She said, “They’re fighting their way back to the rift. The Divine is badly hurt, dying really, and Jeva says she’s going to take her to the palace for safe-keeping.” She watched the light a bit more and added, “Rontari’s really smug about something, but I can’t tell what.”

Over the next hour, Felassan watched Livilla’s actions in the Fade. She insisted on calling her energy manipulation “the ether”, but it was the same source as he’d been trained on. She had her eyes closed and was warping the Fade around the nearby rifts, pushing and pulling using raw emotion to keep nearby spirits away. Like putting warning signs on the bridge that’s about to fall. It won’t prevent everything, but it’s better than nothing.

He stood in the doorway of the kitchen and wasn’t entirely surprised when the new guests—the proto-heroes they’d gathered that day—rushed by without noticing them. He touched the crystal at his throat and sent a thread of Fade magic through it again. It echoed back with a comforting touch. Without the crystal, he was Tranquil. His soul lived within the rock and that was a terrifying thought. At least they gave me a demonstration of how sturdy these crystals are. Without that, I think I’d be more of a mess.

Constance said, “Okay, they’re at the main rift. Waiting for our mark to send Portia back through.”  She tipped her head, listening to someone who wasn’t in the room and added, “Father’s there and ready. Mark.”

Cassandra stabbed another demon and yanked her sword free. She caught the next strike on her shield and went low. As she ducked, Galyan threw a bolt of lightning, incinerating it. She took a step, bashed another demon in the face and kept fighting. 

More people were arriving, but Leliana hadn’t come back yet. She’d gone to see if she could find any trace of Divine Justinia. Cassandra’s heart ached at the thought that the blast had taken one of the world’s best people, but all she could do was fight and try to keep a foothold.

The hedge mage who they’d met at the gate—Solash? Something like that?—was trying to do something to the rift, but based on his expression, it wasn’t working. He staggered back and looked absolutely exhausted. 

Tethras had his crossbow out and was remarkably helpful, given his complaints about being kidnapped, arrested, and drug to the ass-end of the Frostbacks. His banter set Cassandra’s teeth on edge, but Galyan seemed to like it, so she rolled her eyes and kept fighting. 

It was never-ending. Demon after demon fell from the rift, bounced off the crater’s floor, and headed for the nearest warm body to tear and rend and destroy. It was constant, unceasing—-

Until it wasn’t. 

Cassandra looked up at the rift. Two figures stood there—two women stood there—backlit by the sickly green light of the raw Fade. They embraced and then one shoved the other through. As the one fell, the other gestured in a circle, more of a benediction than a spell before turning away and disappearing into the Fade. 

The rift quieted. It was still there, still an angry gash in the fabric of reality, but it was quiet. 

A woman’s body lay limp on the ground, breathing, but not moving.

Chapter Text

Varric whistled. He called, “Hey, Seeker, did you see that?”

Seeker carefully approached the girl who’d fallen from the sky, sword in hand and ready. Enchanter followed her, pulling some kind of magic to his hands. Chuckles just swung his staff back onto his back and watched with open curiosity.

A booming voice came from the edge of the crater, “What the fuck are you doing to my niece?!” Varric turned to see a stupidly tall man leap down the broken masonry and stride confidently to where the Seeker now looked ready for a fight. Behind the man were a handful of Qunari mercenaries and they were broader, but not any taller than him.

Varric drifted to the side, sensing drama brewing and wanting to see everyone’s faces while it happened.

Seeker said, “Who are you? Who is she?! How did she get here?! Who was with her?!” She leveled her sword at his chest.

The man rolled his eyes and ignored her. He didn’t unsheathe his sword (visible beneath the coat that billowed dramatically behind him), just walked past her. He said, “She was running errands around town and was meant to be home hours ago. Oh, Portia, what happened? Your mother is going to kill me if you are hurt.” He carefully rolled her over and noticed the green sparks coming from her left hand. He looked at it for a second and said, “Huh. That is…new.” 

Enchanter said, “It seems like a piece of the Fade, but in her hand. Interesting.” He reached out, but the giant blocked his grasp.

“No.” He gathered the girl - Portia, he called her. Maybe Spark? Because that’s absolutely what her hand looks like. Maybe Lucky? Since everything Daisy and Blondie said about the Fade made it sound like not the place you come back from? - up into his arms.

Seeker protested, “She’s the only witness to all this! She must be detained! Maybe she caused this! You cannot take her!”

The man smiled in an absolutely unfriendly way. He called, “Adaar, come here and hold Portia for me.” One of the Qunari, a warrior with a giant sword across his back and one broken horn, picked his way across the rubble. He accepted the girl and got out of the way. The man stared at Seeker and said, “Well, then, back up those threats. What do you think you will do to me when I do not obey you?”

Varric considered saying something. He also considered getting out his notebook to take down these quotes. This is good stuff. I like the “when” in that statement, not “if”. Really drives home the point that he’s not going to do what she says just because.  

Seeker snarled, “I will not attack an unarmed man!”

The man - Captain, maybe? He definitely feels like a fighter and someone used to being in charge. And he’s got the confidence. Yeah, Captain will work. - said, “In that case, you are more of a fool than you appear. I did not think that was possible, but here we are.” He turned his back to Seeker and started walking away.

Varric choked on his spit. 

Seeker huffed and went to grab the man’s shoulder.

Captain turned inside her grasp, grabbed Seeker’s breastplate, and lifted her off her feet. With one hand. Enchanter protested, of course, and Seeker grabbed at Captain’s wrist. He just said, “Good reaction time, but still not good enough.” He set her down and added, “I am taking my niece home so that my wife can treat her injuries. Stars willing, my sister will not show up and demand my head because her baby got hurt.” He looked off at the Qunari and said, “Whichever of you is fastest, please run back to the house to let Livilla know to be ready? Thank you.”

Enchanter checked on Seeker and asked, “Your wife is a healer? I am, too, and would be honored to help care for your kin.” Quieter, to Seeker, “See if you can find Leliana, Cass.”

Chuckles startled and asked, voice rather louder than it seemed he wanted, “Who is Livilla?”

Captain looked him up and down and said, “My wife. Why?” His voice was ever-so-slightly colder, more clipped. 

Varric’s fingers itched with the need to start writing. Why doesn’t he like Chuckles? Because he’s an elf? Can’t be because he’s a mage if he didn’t react at all to Enchanter wanting to come along. Maybe just possessive of his wife?

Chuckles’ eyes were a tiny bit too wide to be convincing. He said, “I would also lend my expertise.”

Captain looked between the mages and said, “You two, fight it out. Liv will only let one of you in at a time. I can hear her berating me even now for this delay. We are leaving.” He glared at Seeker and said, “Talk to your Nightingale. She has met us.” He whirled and led the Qunari out of the crater. He was tall enough to lift Sparks out without jostling her too much. Both mages followed. 

Varric followed, finding a way out of the crater that was manageable for a dwarf. Seeker headed off into the ruins, shouting for Leliana (hm. Red? Or just go with Nightingale? Yeah, that’s better) to ask her what just happened. Varric was much more interested in this family that somehow had giant blood than vague threats from the Seeker about how his story about Hawke made no sense and why wouldn’t he just tell her where the man was? I think Captain pissed her off even faster than I did. The guy’s got a story, I’m sure of it.

Livilla sat next to Portia’s bed. She’d taken charge of the situation, giving orders in a calm, collected manner. The other mage, the human, had done some kind of diagnostic magic and confirmed that Portia had some superficial injuries, but nothing deeper. Except for the piece of the Veil embedded in her hand. That was clearly a problem, but nothing the human could do anything about.

The human said he’d done all he could, so Livilla sent him down the hall to see what he could do for the other patients who’d been brought to her doors. 

Solas watched Livilla closely. She had the same emotional armor here as she wore in the Fade. Unlike nearly everyone else in this silent world, she and her family - even her spouse - had emotions swirling openly through their auras. The husband had kept his   aura close to his skin. The Fade loved that one and even though he hadn’t shown it to the Seeker, he clearly was a mage of some power. Her daughter was similar to herself, but less disciplined. Her aura had spiked with fear and panic at seeing her cousin unconscious and in pain. She’d been sent to make tea and prepare medicine for some other use.

But Livilla’s aura never changed, not even when Solas cautiously poked at it. She radiated calm confidence and unflappable resolution and was undeniably real.

How? How does a human have the same emotional control as an Elvhen of old? Solas watched her and waited.

But she didn’t seem to have the same need as all the humans from the cities and towns he’d been through to chatter, to talk, to fill the empty silence with words. She simply held her niece’s hand and waited for a change. 

I must know if the Fade has shown me something true. Solas finally asked, “Was your grandmother named Jeva?”

Livilla looked at him, a thin worry line deepening between her eyebrows. She said, “Great -grandmother, rest her soul. Why?” She kept one hand on Portia, even as she turned to fully face him. “I apologize for not asking before, but who are you?”

Her aura did not change. She either now feigns worry or has learned to mask her true feelings. Solas said, “My name is Solas. I study the Veil and Fade.” He kept watching her aura. Wait. Rest her soul? Does she believe Jeva has died? He had to ask, “Great-grandmother?”

“Yes, my second mother’s mother’s mother. She died a decade before I was born. Why are you asking about her?” Livilla’s gaze was sharp, but the Fade didn’t cling to her, didn’t trail her the way it did her husband or any of the mages in this silent, still, tranquil world.

Solas decided to use a piece of the truth, “On my journeys through the Fade, I met a spirit who named herself Lady Jeva.”

Livilla smiled at that, but still, her aura stayed the same. She said, “Ah. Yes, I have vague dreams of her sometimes. I always wake from them with renewed purpose.” A clatter from the hallway had Livilla standing, putting herself between the bed and the door. She said, “Stay silent, Solas. Do not interrupt.”

What? Solas tried to peer around her to see who was approaching, but the angles were all wrong.

The Fade snapped into focus around Livilla and everything in the room suddenly felt so much more real than it had before. The door was flung open and Livilla calmly said, “Seeker. Nightingale. Get out. You and those chains you carry are not welcome here.”

Chapter Text

“Get out. You and those chains you carry are not welcome here.”

Cassandra recoiled from the frigid coldness of the healer’s greeting. She looked at Leliana, who had her hands on the hilts of her daggers. Down the hall, she saw Galyan coming out of a room, staff ready. She looked back at the healer, standing in the doorway with more confidence than her noble relatives would be able to manage. 

Leliana said, “That girl is the only survivor. She must be taken into custody and questioned.”

The healer raised an eyebrow and said, “I didn’t realize you were a mage, as well as an assassin. How…progressive of Divine Justinia to have you at her beck and call.”

Cassandra snapped, “What are you talking about?!”

The healer actually rolled her eyes. She said, “My niece is unconscious. The only method I have heard of interrogating an unconscious witness is to join them in the Fade and the only way to do that is to be a mage. Keep up.” She transferred her attention fully to Leliana and asked, “Do you recall what I told you when we met, Spymaster? How my patients are not to be attacked and, specifically, how my family are not here for the taking?”

Leliana stiffened and admitted, “Yes, I remember that.” She didn’t take her hands from her daggers, but didn’t look as sure of herself.

“And yet you still came here with chains and manacles in your hands? Did you truly wish to test my word or did you think I exaggerated when I said that attempts of this sort would be met with swift and effective violence?” She lowered her voice and stepped closer. She said, cold anger coating each word in malice, “You are on my last nerve. Choose your next words extremely carefully, Spymaster.” 

Cassandra felt the edge of that anger, that rage, and instinctively reached out to smother the Fade, to suppress the magic. It washed over the woman without touching her. What? Even if she’s not a mage? It would still touch her.

Leliana pressed her lips together and said nothing. 

Livilla’s gaze went even colder. She said—no, commanded — “Leave. Deal with the rest of the problem or I will deal with it over your corpses. When Portia wakes, you will be able to politely ask her questions while she has anyone she likes present. She may choose to answer them or not as she sees fit.”

“Rest of the problem? What do you mean?” Galyan put his hand on Cassandra’s arm. She took a half step back and looked at him. He was uncharacteristically solemn and shook his head slightly, silently promising an explanation later. 

Livilla said to him, “There are more rifts than the one Portia came through, all potentially causing demon attacks on the unwise and unwary. There are scared people— powerful scared people—blaming each other for the tragedy. In the absence of any authority redirecting that energy in a productive manner, you’re looking at a bloodbath at minimum. There are many who have been hurt and I only have so much capacity. Once my rooms are full, I will turn the rest away. Those are three problems you could be solving, but instead you are here, ineffectively threatening my family. Shall I continue?” 

Cassandra sucked in a breath and asked, “How do you know?!”

Livilla transferred the weight of her entire attention to her and said, “That is what happens after any disaster, Seeker, but doubly so when there are as many unknowns as you are facing.” She didn’t have any visible emotion, just stated the facts with cold, clear logic. 

Cassandra looked at Leliana. She was seething at the audacity of being scolded and threatened and not obeyed. She looked at Galyan and he nodded. Cassandra took a deep breath, felt all her anger and fear drain away, and said, “Please send a messenger when the girl wakes. You are right, there are too many crises to manage.”

Leliana tore her eyes away and looked at Cassandra with deep betrayal. She started to protest, “But—“

Cassandra interrupted, “But the mages and Templars are already at each other’s throats and Haven will be overrun by demons from the rifts along the mountain.” With calm certainty, she admitted, “The ‘why’ will not help the next few hours, but our blades might.”

Leliana muttered in offended Orlesian as Cassandra all but dragged her out. Galyan chuckled and said, “I don’t think that would be physically possible.” He wisely kept Cassandra between them and said, “I will see who I can gather from the remaining mages for healing and fighting. Someone has to know how to close these blasted rifts.”

Varric ducked into a doorway to let the Seeker, Nightingale, and Enchanter leave the building. He popped his head back out and saw the healer calmly watching them go. He tucked his notebook away and went to introduce himself. Andraste’s ass, this family is tall! How?! He stopped far enough away that he didn’t have to crane his neck too much and said, “Varric Tethras, writer and tagalong.”

The healer smiled at him and her posture softened. She said, “Livilla Rosindi, healer and pain in the ass.” She glanced over her shoulder and said, “Come in and sit. You have the look of someone who knows how to politely ask questions in an entertaining manner.” She disappeared into the room. 

Varric followed, his curiosity piqued. The room she’d been guarding was small—just enough room for a bed and a couple of chairs. One side wall was entirely cabinets and drawers and the wall to the outside had a large window, the night sky visible through it. Livilla - hm, I could go with Healer for her, but she feels…different. Her scarf has something on it? A dragon? A bird? And is that a pin of a spider holding it in place? Spider could work, she seems to know everything that’s happening in town, what with her gossip-gathering children and reputation with the locals - sat next to the bed, resting a hand on the unconscious girl. 

The bald elf was there, so Varric said, “Hey, Chuckles, didn’t expect to find you here. Figured you’d be up staring at one of those rifts.”

Chuckles tipped his head and said, “I have a perfectly good name—“

Varric waved a hand and said, “Eh, writer’s prerogative. I give everyone a better one. So what’s with Spark, Lady Spider? She gonna be okay after that fall?”  

Spider laughed and said, “Oh, you see far more than you let on, don’t you?” She didn’t relax, but she didn’t seem an inch away from ripping out someone’s throat anymore, either. 

Huh, didn’t expect that laugh. And looks like Chuckles didn’t expect it either. She’s dealt with politicians, I’d bet money on it. Varric graciously bowed. He hadn’t decided what question to ask when another giant came into the room. She looked like a young version of Spider and said, “Here, Mother. This should work.” She held a flat piece of green glass in her hand. Thin silver chains dangled from it. 

Spider took the glass and placed it on Spark’s palm. It covered the gash of magic entirely. Chuckles nearly leapt out of his chair and ran right into the girl’s raised arm. She held him away from the bed and snapped, “Sit or get out.”

Spider ignored the squabble and fastened the clasps at the ends of the chains, holding it in place on Spark’s hand. She watched the flashing, flickering light and said, “Perhaps. We’ll give it a bit. Nice work, Connie. Thank you.”

Connie shoved Solas back to the chair he’d left and looked at Varric. She asked, “When the crazy dies down, would you sign some books for me? We're big fans. I’m Constance, but everyone calls me Connie.” She pointed at Solas and said, “Sit. Stay.”

Varric snickered at the absolutely offended look on Chuckles’ face. He said, “So, in the interest of the book I’m probably going to have to write about all this, what’s that glass thing?” He pulled out his notebook and started jotting notes in shorthand. Hm. The daughter of Captain and Spider. Her skirt has the same pattern as her mom’s scarf. Is that a bird? On fire? Huh. Firebird might work for her. She certainly seems to have the same temperament at her parents. 

Firebird said, “Crystal, not glass. Should absorb some of the extra energy. Make it hurt less…if it hurts. Need her to wake up to tell us that, though.” She kicked the corner of the bed, but nothing happened and she grumbled. 

Spider sighed and said, “Go see if your father or any of the guests need a hand. Perhaps beat up a Templar or something and then grab a couple hours of sleep. You’ll feel better.” She caught her daughter’s hand and pulled her into a hug. 

Varric watched a cascade of emotions cross Chuckles’ face as he watched the women. Curiosity, greed, pride, regret, and was that anger? Why?

Firebird hurried out of the room and Varric went back to his notes. This is going to be Hawke all over again. I’m really glad we got him out of there. Hope they’re okay.  

Chapter Text

Solas wrapped himself in a blanket in the small room in the “guest house” he’d been shown to. The sun was coming up, but the room had a decent curtain over the window and the bed was comfortable, even for his height. There were other people moving around the guest house, but it was leagues more comfortable than a tent and making the hike all the way back to his cave seemed like a terrible plan. 

Constance had taken him to it. She’d left and come back hours later with splatters of blood on her skirt and exhausted peace in her aura. She’d pointed out the amenities, apologized for the lack of same, and handed him a key. She’d said, “The kitchen should be stocked with food and supplies and there are towels and soap in the baths. Take what you need. Um,” she rubbed a hand over her face, “House rules include being respectful to everyone and not trying to open a locked door. And don’t attack anyone under Mother’s roof. Unless she’s the one who told you to. Blood and ash, it’s been a long day. I’m forgetting something, but we can burn that bridge later. Hopefully it’s not too important.”

She’d bounced off the doorframe and cursed in a language he didn’t recognize. She didn’t stop to explain, just headed back across the yard. 

Solas had silently followed her back out of the room, partly to make sure she arrived wherever she was bound safely and partly to make certain he knew at least two exits from the building. He witnessed her path across the yard until she disappeared into the main house. Someone had opened the door for her, but they were in shadow and indistinct. She was safe enough, anyway. 

Solas turned over and let his mind slip past the Veil into the Fade. 

He opened his eyes to find himself in a room not unlike the one he slept in. It was, perhaps, more luxurious with a larger bed, but it would not have been out of place in a guest house in the waking world. It was also not his place in the Fade, but somewhere that he would be considered a guest. He opened the door and a small spirit—barely more than a wisp—startled to attention and came close to examine him.

“Oh! Hello!” The sparkle in the air didn’t have a defined shape. It chirped, “You are here!”

Solas chuckled and held out his hand. The wisp brushed across it. He asked, “What is your purpose, little one?” 

It flickered through several colors, settling on white. It said, “She calls me Potential and I like it.” It flared and a burst of sparks came from it. “He wants to talk to You. So does She, but He’s not patient so You should see Him first. But She might be there when We get there. Yes?” It flickered down the hall a few steps and zipped back. 

I wonder if it actually understands pronouns. Solas started walking and asked, “When you say ‘She’, do you mean the Lady Jeva?” The hallway felt real. His feet made no sound on the polished wood, but the shadows and light shifted and moved as it would in the waking world. Chatter from distant conversations echoed and the air held wisps of incense and something floral. 

“Oh! Um, I mean Herself. She. Her.” It changed from white to blue to aqua and then back to white. “Maybe? No. She calls Herself I. And He calls Her You. So yes? No?”

It does not appear to understand pronouns. Solas smiled and tried to extend the feeling of understanding to the tiny spirit. He said, “You are doing well. Language is quite confusing.” 

They passed numerous doors, all different. The place felt…organic. Grown, not built. But grown by what kind of mind? Who held the seeds of this place and fueled it? Solas trailed his fingers along a table and felt the uneven, irregular wood grain beneath his fingertips.

Potential stopped in front of a door. It said again, “He wants to talk to You.”

Solas put his hand on the door and it swung open at the touch. The interior of the room was a black void. Solas hesitated before crossing the threshold, especially since Potential had gotten as far from the open door as it could, but still be near enough for easy questions. He asked, “You will not enter with me?”

“No. He wants You. And Her. Not Me.” The wisp shivered through colors: red to yellow to white again. It almost shrugged and vanished. 

Solas stepped over the threshold into the dark. 

The room was black. The floor was black. The walls, if they existed, were black. The ceiling was the same unfamiliar black sky as Lady Jeva’s library. The center of the room had a column of white light illuminating nothing. 

The door swung shut. The click of the latch was unnaturally loud. 

For lack of any better option, Solas drifted towards the light. He cautiously touched it, but it was neither cold nor hot. It simply showed him his hand, nothing more. 

An urbane, practiced chuckle rippled around the room. “So, the Dread Wolf deigns to visit my den. How…fortunate I am.” The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. 

Solas rolled his eyes. He said, “You should find a spirit of inspiration who can help you be actually intimidating.” 

The laugh returned, sounding more genuine than before, “So the puppy has teeth!” A hand landed on Solas’s shoulder and the voice all but whispered in his ear, “Then see and know me.”

The light focused to the width of a needle and burst in a shower of sparks. 

No, not sparks, but stars. Solas stood in the center of all the stars in all the sky. Below his feet, Thedas stretched out, the towns and cities little more than splotches of gray amid the green and brown. Tiny pinpricks of light moved around on the ground and meteors and comets wheeled overhead. 

The hand released him and the man that walked around the room was tall. Extremely tall. As tall as the trader with similar features. He had dark hair slicked back and facial hair that was nearly sculpted into crisp perfection. He wore similar clothes to the Lady Jeva and moved like a general.

And he was real.

Solas mirrored the man’s movements around the room. The stars flowed through their bodies and their feet vanished in the landscape of the map. 

The man waved a hand and the map shifted. It felt like falling, the ground rushing up and becoming larger. As the mountains grew and the terrain transformed from vague to precise, Solas noticed that the pinpricks of light weren’t just points. They were… “People?” He crouched down to examine a group making their way up a mountain. “The Seeker, her mage, and the spy. And others.”

The man’s chuckle was smooth and smug. He said, “You are smarter than you look. Good.” He leaned against the mountain and flicked a piece of snow out of his way. He said, “My lovely wife already took your oath to not harm any here under her roof. My concerns are both more vast and much more…targeted.”

Solas stood and tucked his hands behind his back, squaring his shoulders. He said, “What threat can you level at me that I have not heard many times before?”

He grinned, a predator’s smile with too many teeth and more than a little arrogance. He said, “My family. Should your actions or inactions harm any of them any more than you already have, I will find you. I will bring you here. And I will kill you.”

Solas rolled his eyes. He said, “Death is not the most creative threat—“

The man interrupted, “Your body will not die, Dreamer. Just your soul.”

“What.” 

The smile was now entirely malicious. He said, “You did not know?! That is adorable!” He laughed and said, “I will kill you here and your body will wake the next morning. It will not be able to access the Fade in any way. You will be Tranquil and, I hope, able to know precisely how much you have lost even as you move through a world without magic or dreams or color. Not that you will care about your losses, but you will know them.” He raised an eyebrow and waited. 

Kill a Dreamer in the Fade and…make a Tranquil?! Is this true? Or an elaborate hoax? Solas cleared his throat and asked, “Who do you consider to be your family?”

The man smoothly bowed and said, “I am Rontari Rosindi. You have met my beautiful wife Jeva and my descendants and their children: Verrus and Livilla, Constance and Portia. There are a few others they have claimed as family, but not many. I am certain they will let you know.” He gestured and the map went back to a view that showed almost all of Ferelden and a good portion of Orlais. 

Solas swallowed. And my orb already brought harm to Portia somehow, but he is letting that remain? He said, “I am sure you’ll understand if I seek out those who can corroborate your words about Dreamers and Tranquil.” He refused to show how shaken he was to this…human. 

“Of course. The door is there. You have some time yet before you need to be awake.” Rontari didn’t move, but the shadows crept up around him in smoky silence, obscuring him from view.

Solas nodded briskly and left. 

He was outside the palace. He looked around to catch his bearings and headed out into the Fade. There were those who could answer his questions about what Rontari had said and what he had, possibly, already done. 

Chapter Text

Cullen fought on and on. At least now, almost a day after the explosion, they were focused on fighting the waves of demons, not each other. On the plain below Haven in the immediate aftermath of the blast that destroyed the Conclave, Templars and mages had literally been at each other’s throats. Ugly accusations about who was responsible and who was happy about the destruction had led to more lives lost than any of the demon attacks. 

He’d finally restored order in Haven with Cassandra’s help. She was calm, determined, and oddly unshaken by what had already happened. Between the two of them, they got the militia in order and separated the mages and Templars who were willing to stay and help. 

Unfortunately, he couldn’t even say that most of the survivors stayed to help. If they lived through the blast and the first riots, it seemed more likely than not that the mages fled to the wilderness and the Templars to the nearby holds and castles. 

Useless to worry about it now.

Cullen ducked a swipe of long claws. He bashed the Terror demon in the torso with his shield and went low with his sword. It screeched and pulled the Fade to its feet, but an arrow exploded in its face, knocking it back. 

He turned to look and saw a Dalish elf aiming past him. Another arrow zipped past his face and a Despair demon shrieked at the flames licking up its robe. She—the elf, not the demon—had curling branches tattooed in a mask around her eyes and her hair was warm honey brown, intricately braided away from her face. 

She nodded at him and lobbed a healing potion in his direction. He caught it, nodded his thanks, and immediately poured the potion down the throat of the kid he’d been trying to get out of the fighting. 

Cullen helped the kid back to the healers’ tent. He grabbed a drink of water and went back to the front line to rally the troops yet again. 

The Dalish archer was still there, slipping in and out of stealth, dropping traps and shooting with terrifying accuracy. She paused next to him and said, “Is there a possibility of changing out the entire front line? They are tired and making mistakes.”

Cullen followed her gaze and said, “Maker’s breath. I want to say yes, but there isn’t anyone else. We’re it.”

To his surprise, she grinned. “Then we’d best make it count.”

Galyan sent up a flare of green sparks and Cassandra broke from the fighting. She slid down the trail and he caught her. He said, “She’s awake and coming up to help.” He pointed down the mountain where a group of people approached. 

Cassandra sheathed her sword and waited. She muttered, “I should get some stilts if this family is going to be around.”

“Your legs do look amazing when you wear those heeled shoes,” Galyan agreed. 

The three stopped. She’d learned their names from Leliana: Portia had fallen from the Fade and carried a piece of it in her hand, Connie was the young woman beside her, and their respective uncle and father Verrus was behind them. All three had blades and armor.

Portia raised her left hand and the green light flashed awkwardly. She said, “So, I hear this might help with that?” She pointed at the rift. “It hurts every time the rift pulses, so it seems likely to be connected.”

Connie closed her eyes like she was praying for patience. Through gritted teeth, she said, “You didn’t mention that part. What else haven’t you said?”

Portia blithely ignored her. She said, “Is there a smaller rift on the way? Just to test it out?”

Galyan touched Cassandra’s elbow and she said, “Yes. There are many demons, so stay close.”

Portia saluted. Kind of. They headed up the slippery trail. 

Varric hooked Bianca back on his back and watched the show. Spark was shaking out her hand and looked like she wanted to punch Chuckles. He had taken a large step back after holding her hand to the rift to close it.

Firebird had her arms crossed and her mother’s frown. She snarked, “We ask before we force someone to perform untested theoretical experiments, Solas! How dare you send magic through her without asking first?! What were you thinking?!”

Captain stood behind his daughter with a proud smile. 

Chuckles protested, “Time is somewhat of the essence and if it had not worked—“

Spark said, “Well, now we know. Great. Let’s keep going.” She did a double-take at Varric and asked, “Con, did you—“

“Yep. Of course.” 

“Okay, good.” She shook her hand again and they headed down the icy path. 

Varric asked, “So, how’d you get that on your hand, Spark?”

She looked over her shoulder, slipped, and caught herself with a yelp. She said, “I don’t remember. I was taking a basket of medicine up to the temple and then I was waking up in Aunt Livilla’s sickroom. You tell me.”

Varric nodded, “Yeah,  that’ll get you every time. Should’ve spun a story, make up something believable.”

Firebird laughed and asked, “Are glowing hands common, then? I can’t say I’ve heard any story where someone gets a piece of the Fade embedded in them and they live to tell that tale.” She carried twin short swords, while her father and cousin both had longswords but not shields. 

Seeker made disgusted sounds at the banter, but Enchanter leaned in and said something that made her blush. Chuckles used his staff as a walking stick half the time and Varric was honestly a little jealous of the extra stability. There was one point where he’d skidded on a hidden patch of ice and he still wasn’t sure how he hadn’t fallen all the way down the mountain. It was almost like someone had grabbed the back of his coat at exactly the right time, but no one else seemed to notice and no one was close enough. Weird. 

“Okay, let’s take the mountain pass, rescue the scouts, and get to the temple.” Portia looked across the valley as if she could see the entire path. 

Chancellor Roderick had been his usual annoying self, but Cassandra had ignored his blustering. She looked at their group and hesitated. Rosindi is a fighter, but are the girls mages ? They don’t act like it and they’re good with those swords, but the Fade feels…different around them. Ugh. I will talk to Galyan about it tonight and see if he has insight. 

Leliana tried to tell Cassandra something with her glare, but it didn’t work. She huffed and went to help organize the charge with Cullen and the bulk of the troops.

Tethras sauntered over and handed Cassandra a hot drink. He said, “Don’t glare, Seeker, it’s from your Enchanter. He said to tell you that you take care of everybody else, so he’s going to take care of you whether you approve or not. I told him that I’m using that in my next book. He said that’s fine as long as you take a minute to breathe and drink the tea. Thanks.”

There really was nothing to say to that. Cassandra drank the tea. 

Portia sheathed her sword and looked at the rift hanging between the Breach in the sky and the blasted rock that had once been the Temple of Sacred Ashes. She said, “How the actual and entire fuck did I survive that?”

Varric came up next to her. He said, “You only fell from the lower rift, so that wasn’t too far. Still don’t remember how you got in the rift?”

“Nope.” Portia had hoped that the memory would come back when she saw it. I know what was supposed to happen, but did it? 

-Stop worrying. Jeva took care of you. You’ll get the memories back. Eventually.- Constance was running interference with Solas, keeping him from being too terribly pedantic in her direction, which was nice. 

Portia shot back, -You’re telling me to stop worrying?! Have you met you?!- She kept half her mind on the spoken conversation around her out of long practice.

-Enough. Focus.- Uncle Verrus’s mental voice was more solid than the ground they walked on. More quietly, he asked, -How bad is it?-

Portia shook out her hand again. She could feel Solas’s attention like a weighted blanket. She said, -Could be worse. Will almost certainly be worse here in a minute.- She looked at the rift and asked aloud, “So is there a plan or are we just gonna wing it?”

Chapter Text

“Open the rift all the way and then close it so that the big rift in the sky closes in sympathy. Sure. Sounds like a totally calm and reasonable plan. Nothing could possibly go wrong.” Portia cracked her neck and drew her sword. Next to her, Constance drew both her swords in a smooth movement. 

Cassandra shouted, “That means demons! Be ready!” She glared at Rosindi and demanded, “Why haven’t you drawn your sword?”

The tall man smirked and said, “I am here as backup for the girls. Think of it as a training exercise. If I have to draw my sword, it means something has gone catastrophically wrong.” He crossed his arms over his chest and settled in to watch, ignoring the spluttering Seeker at his side. 

Solas readied a spell and watched intently. Portia held her marked hand toward the rift and pushed energy at it. The rift accepted the energy and exploded with violent tendrils. Several small spirits materialized and instantly corrupted into demons. Easily handled and nothing to be truly worried about. 

But then a very large, very old Pride demon stepped out of the air. Arrows flew in from every direction, but didn’t do much but draw its ire. It slashed claws through the air, threatening any and all with a violent end.

Solas sent a flurry of Fade fists at an approaching Despair demon and missed the first set of blows between the cousins and the demon. But the unmistakable laugh pulled his attention to the many-eyed, many-spiked monster. It pressed its palms together and pulled them apart, creating the trademark lightning whip of its kind. It cracked the whip, sending human soldiers tumbling in all directions, while their blades bounced harmlessly off of it. 

Regalyan shouted, “Try disrupting the rift! It should break its defenses!”

Solas looked for the cousins. Portia…Portia was bouncing on her toes in excitement, not fury or fear. She grabbed Constance’s shoulder and said, “Did you see that?!” 

Constance sighed heavily and asked, “Want me to ask it to play nice so you can get a lesson?” She flicked her swords, clearing some of the blood from them. 

Solas felt his mouth drop open at the cousins. The author dwarf was next to him and asked, in the tones of some who didn’t expect an answer, “What are they talking about?”

“Yes, please!” Portia sheathed her sword and flexed her fingers. 

A barrier coalesced around the whole area, closing them in. The spymaster and the troops were outside of it. They didn’t move. They didn’t breathe. They were still as stone, caught in the space between moments. An arrow was midway through the barrier, frozen in time. Solas looked at Regalyan, who shrugged helplessly. The Seeker started to shout, but fell silent at the heavy hand that landed on her shoulder. 

Rosindi said, “We will let them have their fun. They are only young once, after all.”

She started to protest, but he raised an eyebrow and she snapped her mouth shut. She staggered and looked like she wasn’t certain where she was. He smiled and returned the majority of his attention to his girls.

What was that? And what are they— Solas let his eyes unfocus to better see manipulations of the Fade around them. 

Outwardly, Constance simply stared at the Pride demon, but in magesight, shining ribbons of emotions flowed from her to it. She was sending confidence and clarity, resolution and respect, and it calmed and looked around itself with something resembling curiosity, not blind rage. It was still Pride, but something…more. Something that was willing to share and raise others up. Something far more complicated than simple “pride”.

Portia walked up to it, hands held out in front of her, weapons put away. She said…something in a language Solas did not know. It sounded like what Constance had cursed in, but also…sounded like he should know the words. Should be able to understand the meaning. He listened, not realizing how he leaned towards the conversation to catch more words. 

Portia finished her explanation and pressed her hands together and pulled them apart. An arc of sparks stretched between them for a second before dissipating. She asked a question and…

And the Pride demon went down to one knee to be at her level! It asked a question and Portia repeated the trick. It nodded and very slowly manipulated the Fade between them. One thread at a time, it twisted the energy to create the whip. When it finished, it handed the whip to Portia. She turned it over in her hands, not burned by the sparks, nor paralyzed by the energy, but able to calmly examine how the magic bound it together. How?! I have not seen another mage in this silent world who does not need a staff to control their magic!

Portia handed the whip back and attempted one of her own, pulling lightning from the air and threads of Fade from the mark on her left hand. She stopped and listened to a correction, backtracking her work twice more before she had something similar to what the demon had demonstrated. The demon examined her whip and then patted her on the head! Like a child! Like it had both pride in itself and pride in how she’d learned from it! 

Solas tore his eyes away and looked at Rosindi, who wore a proud smile, eerily similar to the one the demon wore. He looked back at the girls in time for Portia to open the rift wider and Constance to give the demon the energy to head back into the Fade calmly without being killed. 

Portia sealed the rift behind it and wobbled on her feet. She let go of the whip and its energy unraveled back into the air. She sat down—fell down, really—and Constance caught her, falling herself and called, “Father! Come help!” Portia was dazed, perhaps exhausted, but conscious. 

Rosindi laughed and the barrier around them shattered. Time rushed in and the dwarf said, voice faint, “Did…did we just see Spark get a lesson in sparking from the big, scary demon?”

Solas put his staff on his back and watched Rosindi scoop up his niece like she weighed no more than a kitten and help his daughter up in the same motion. He agreed, “That does seem to be what we just witnessed.”

Regalyan shook his head and asked, “Any idea why it stopped attacking and listened? Or what language that was?”

“Not as yet.” Solas followed as Rosindi took his family home. The spymaster was irate, but the Seeker was still bewildered and fuzzy on what had happened. Her Enchanter watched her with worried eyes until Constance walked with her for a time. She spoke quietly, too quietly to be overheard even by Elvhen ears, but by the time they parted, the Seeker was back to normal, shouting orders and organizing the troops. 

For lack of anything better to do, Solas returned to the room he’d been offered in the guest house. The dwarf followed after being assured that Portia was awake, just tired. He unlocked a door a little ways down the corridor from the one Solas had been given.

Someone had made soup and bread and the kitchen was warm and comfortable. Others wandered through, an emaciated elf with slave markings, a dwarf, a sharp-eyed human still wiping blood from under his nails, and even several of the horned Qunari. 

Solas found a note in his pocket saying that the Seeker and spymaster were going to invoke some kind of religious law to take over the area and it might be possible to either get in at the beginning or get away entirely because of the innate hatred of outsiders their church espoused. The agent was in Haven, but didn’t have a permanent place to stay. They weren’t sure if they should go, but were trying to get a job to have a reason to stay.

Solas ate the soup and burned the note when he had a private moment. He had more questions than answers and for the first time since waking to a silent world, everything around him felt real again. He would stay.

Chapter Text

Josephine was anxious. She had work to do, but couldn’t officially get started until the Hands finished the proclamation that Divine Justinia had started. She didn’t do anything as gauche as pace, but she needed to be doing something productive. 

She waited in the small conference room with Cullen, Leliana, Cassandra, and Roderick. Only Roderick was unaware of the writ that Most Holy had been working on. He was still arguing under the assumption that things would be the same as they had been. (Foolish man, but he has his uses. I will find a place for him that is not a thorn in my side.)

The door opened and Portia came in. She had her cousin (Her mother is the sister of her father? Where is her mother? Why is she here?) with her. Constance leaned against the wall next to the door, watching the room with the same intensity that Leliana had when she watched over Divine Justinia’s public audiences. 

Chancellor Roderick tried to argue for Portia’s arrest, but Leliana shut it down and Cassandra took the opportunity to drop the massive writ on the table. (Good. Just like we talked about.) Roderick left, but not before shooting a venomous glare at every woman in the room. 

They ran through introductions: Cassandra and Cullen for military, Leliana for espionage, and Josephine for diplomacy. Cassandra asked (No, demanded. Not asked. Maker, she doesn’t have a tactful bone in her body.) Portia to join them, especially since the people were already calling her the Herald of Andraste.

Portia had listened to everything with a polite expression of mild disbelief on her face, but at that, she said, “Wait. Go back a second. Who’s calling me what now?!”

Josephine privately agreed that is was probably the correct reaction to that title. 

Leliana said, “Before you fell out of the rift, a woman embraced you and offered a blessing. The soldiers who saw have sworn that it was Holy Andraste. And since soldiers gossip even more than townsfolk, we decided to use the rumor to our advantage.”

Portia shook her head, “Yeah, no. That’s a terrible idea, especially if your goal is to have an independent organization. You might as well just say that the Inquisition is a new military branch of the Chantry.”

Josephine was…impressed. (That’s logical. We can work with this.) She said, “But since the Divine gave the order, it helps the cause if we have the impression that Andraste agrees, does it not?”

“Maybe.” Portia drummed her fingers on the table and came to a decision. She said, “Right. I’ll help. Under a few non-negotiable conditions.” She looked around the room and continued once she’d received a nod from each of them. “First, we move all of this out of the Chantry. If the goal is to be independent, we won’t risk that by using Chantry resources. Any Chantry resources. Find somewhere else to work and sleep. Ask Uncle Verrus for advice or Aunt Livilla for space if we need to. Second, all of you and anyone else who gets a say in decisions - like Varric or Solas or Galyan or Fel or anyone else we pick up along the way - has to have at minimum a weekly appointment with Aunt Livilla. More if she says so.”

Leliana protested, but Portia kept talking over her, “Mental health is just as important as physical health and Aunt Livilla is a trained mind healer. I won’t have people around me who are unstable or not taking care of themselves.” 

Cassandra sighed and asked, “Is that all?”

Portia grinned, “Nope! Last, Connie is going to be in any meeting I’m in. Where I go, she goes. This is only going to work if she knows what’s happening.”

“Why?” Leliana had her arms crossed and suspicion written across her face. 

Constance snorted, drawing their attention for the first time. (How did I nearly forget she was here? That is a hard skill to teach.) She said, “Because Father and I don’t trust any of you to keep Portia alive. You’re all painting a rather large target on her back: I will keep the daggers and arrows from actually reaching it.” She didn’t move from her position, just stayed still.

Leliana bristled, but Josephine asked, “Why are you so insistent on separating ourselves from the Chantry? Surely their resources would help and with both Hands of the Divine, we have reason to accept their aid.”

Portia raised an eyebrow and asked, “What is the purpose of this Inquisition? Is it to ask questions and find answers, no matter who is working against the people of Thedas and where they might be found? Or is it to extend the Chantry’s rule to all corners of the land? Are you asking me to fix problems that threaten all of us or are you wanting to burn down the homes of those who sing the Chant in a different key than you’re used to? Because I can tell you right now, Lady Montilyet, that I can help with the former, but I will be damned before I lift a single finger to aid you in the latter. If you’re looking for a holy warrior to lead a grand crusade against the non-believers, I will walk out this door now and this entire world can burn for all I care.” 

Josephine kept hold of her pen only by long habit. (She is…passionate. And confident.) She said, “We haven’t said anything about a holy war—“

Constance interrupted, “Liar. She,” she flicked her fingers at Leliana, “threatened Hawke with an Exalted March against all of Kirkwall if he didn’t solve the Chantry’s problems for her. You four absolutely would condone a holy war against your own people, especially if the suggestion came from whoever claims the Sunburst Throne.” She didn’t smile, didn’t try to soften her opinion, just spoke with terrible logic.

In the uncomfortable silence, Portia asked, “Well? Is this a new branch of the Chantry? Or something actually new and independent?”

Cassandra had flushed bright red but went pale by the end of the diatribe. She said, “Most Holy’s wish was for an independent force. But if we turn away all aid from the Chantry, our hands will be tied with what we can accomplish.” She looked at the book with far less hope now than when she’d threatened Roderick with it. 

Cullen said, “We can do this. Without the Chantry.” He had one hand on his chin and he looked at the map with calculation. He said, “It might make it more difficult to get started or it might make it easier. The Chantry leadership is in shambles, so we could try to siphon away some resources, but once the Mothers sort things out, they’ll ask for it back. With interest.” He picked up a carved marker and put it in the Hinterlands. “But if we, with our limited resources, can restore order, we won’t need them and our reputation will bring in support.”

Josephine nodded and flipped to a new page in her notes. She asked, “Was that where Mother Giselle asked for aid?”

Leliana said, “Yes. She is at the Crossroads and sent a bird asking about the Herald and if they can get help. The conflict between the mages and Templars has thrown the area into chaos.”

Cassandra’s eyes lit with hope. She asked, “When can we leave?”

“A couple days? We’ll figure out who all will come along and get supplies. Can they hold out that long?” Portia asked Leliana. 

Leliana said, “The situation seems urgent. Each day of delay will allow the camps to entrench themselves further. But rushing in without adequate preparation is foolish.” She stared at the ceiling for a moment and then refocused on Portia. She said, “We can make three days work, Herald.”

Portia scowled and Constance smirked. Without looking, Portia pointed over her shoulder at her cousin and said, “Not a word.” To Leliana, she said, “No. You all can use that title to drum up support, I guess, but no calling me by it! Ugh. No, thank you. I get enough made-up names from everyone else in the world, is it too much to ask to be called only by name or any actually earned titles?”

Josephine asked, “What is your full name? Portia Rosindi? And, if it’s not a terribly inconsiderate topic, who are your parents?” (And where are your parents? Why do you live with your aunt and uncle?)

Portia bowed shallowly and said, “Portia Azureé Mal-Cavantar, at your service. My mother is Livia Mal-Cavantar, older sister of Verrus Rosindi. She’s an…inventor and her line of work doesn’t lend itself to raising a child. So I’ve lived with Constance and her parents most of my life. My mother is…not currently reachable. Alive and thriving, but not reachable.”

Josephine made a note. She asked, “Your mother is Livia and your aunt is Livilla?” (I don’t think I have heard names like these. They sound Rivanese or Antivan, but I don’t recognize the family names. Well, not going back more than a couple years. Rosindi’s star has certainly risen fast. In merchant circles, anyway.)

Portia laughed and said, “Yes, and the family made several jokes about it when he first brought her home—”

A knock at the door interrupted them. A messenger slipped in and said, “Several ravens have arrived, as has a message from Val Royeaux.”

Portia said, “Then we'll take this opportunity to head out and gather our gear. Con, can you ask Uncle Verrus to lend us horses? I don’t particularly want to walk to the Hinterlands and he likes you more.”

“As you wish.” Constance held the door open and looked out before letting Portia through. 

(Did the room get colder? Or is it easier to breathe?) Josephine glanced at her notes. She said, “I need to pack, apparently. Commander, will you post the notices? Perhaps…not on the Chantry doors, in respect of the Herald’s wishes?”

Chapter Text

A desk had appeared in Varric’s room in the guesthouse while he was out. There was a box on it that held a variety of paper, both loose and bound, inks, pens, and other tools. The desk and chair were even sized for him, not for a human or a half-giant like the buildings were. 

A knock on his open door pulled his attention away. He said, “Hey, Spark. You made it out of the Chantry in one piece!”

Spark leaned against the doorway and grinned. She said, “Yep! They’re restarting the Inquisition on Divine Justinia’s orders and since my hand’s the only thing that can close a rift so far, they want me to help.” She nodded at the box, “Is it missing anything?”

Varric watched her posture. She’s paying attention to someone else who’s listening. Not someone she trusts. He said, “I haven’t looked at all of it, but it seems great. How much do I owe you?”

“Eh, ask Uncle Verrus. I don’t handle the money around here.” She grinned again and asked, “So do you want to come to the Hinterlands as part of the ragtag group of adventurers who will save the day and lead the Inquisition to victory or some shit? Please say yes. You’re the only one who can keep up with Con at cards.”

Varric felt his eyebrows climbing as she continued, “But if you’d rather go back to Kirkwall and deal with that ongoing mess, then we’ll help you get there. Since the whole reason Cass kidnapped you is because she wanted Hawke to lead this thing but now they’ve roped me into it, so I think you’re clear. But I think you’re fun to have around and really useful in a fight so I’m trying to not convince you to go. If that makes sense.”

Varric paused before answering. That’s not a terrible idea, but this Breach threatens all of Thedas. What kind of person would I be if I just up and left? And this all sounds like the kind of story that my publisher would love. He drummed his fingers on the desk and said, “I can stay. Mostly rebuilding happening in Kirkwall and I can help as well from here with letters as I could there. Especially if I can convince your uncle to do a deal or seven for material delivery.”

“Great! Team meeting tomorrow and we’ll see what everyone has in way of supplies.” Spark straightened up and tapped on the doorframe. She said, “I’m gonna go talk with some of the others who were up on the mountain, see if they want to join the fun.” She half-turned and called, “Solas! You in? I know you heard my whole sales pitch, such as it is.”

Chuckles came close enough that Varric could shift and see him. He said, “Who am I to refuse the request of the blesséd Herald of Andraste?”

Spark’s face did something complicated and she ended up pinching the bridge of her nose. She said, “No. Not only ‘no’, but ‘fuck no’. Accept or decline as you like, but no.” She said, “Ugh, meeting tomorrow and you two can go talk with Aunt Livilla about appointments. I’m gonna go shoot arrows at a tree or something.” She turned on her heel and stalked out. 

Chuckles watched her go with open curiosity. When a door slammed, he turned and went back to his room.

Varric thought about the emotional storm Portia had shown. Disgust, for sure. She doesn’t like the title, but why? Disappointment? In what or whom? Resignation, probably in realizing that bronto’s already out in the world and she can’t control it. Annoyance, but I think she just has that along with the disgust. Huh. This might be more interesting than I thought.

Felassan and Constance went out into the woods east of Haven with Portia and Ellana Lavellan. They were theoretically hunting for dinner and really just getting away from the noise and stink of the humans in Haven. And in Portia’s case, getting away from those who want her to be their holy icon. Or martyr. 

Constance watched the trees more than the path. She wasn’t visibly armed, but that didn’t matter. She couldn’t quite pull something out of thin air like her father, but she was as creative as her mother in application of her skills. 

Portia chatted with Ellana about the technical differences in their bows. It wasn’t Portia’s favorite weapon, but she was the better archer of the cousins. Ellana’s eyes were hard and untrusting, but she slowly opened up, going from one-word answers to full sentences, even before Haven was out of sight. She doesn’t trust humans. Not that this family has much in common with the humans of Thedas, for all that their ears are round and they don’t have horns.

-Thoughts about our new Dalish friend?- Constance’s mental voice was warm and comforting, the mental equivalent of soup on a cold day. 

Felassan shrugged and projected back, -She is proud and has generations of reasons to hate humans.-

Constance stopped to pick some herbs. -Think we can get her to tell stories around the fire? How Fen’Harel lost his tail and the like?- Amusement coated her thoughts, like sweet caramel or taffy.

Felassan transformed his laugh into a cough. -Probably. Maybe work up to it. Any of their more reverent stories would make him grind his teeth, but those? I don’t know what his reaction would be.-

They reached a small clearing and Portia and Ellana shot a deer. It dropped in mid-jump and they went to field-dress it. They laughed and chattered, taking on the task with more ease than their just-barely-not-stranger status would have indicated. 

Constance took a seat on a rock and stared at the darkness under a nearby bush. Felassan caught a flash of bright eyes and went still. In magesight, a wisp of tempting emotion flickered in the space between girl and bush. 

Despite the danger and death. Despite the noise and blood. Despite anything that made sense, a fox crept out from under the bush and walked up the Constance. She held her hand out and it sniffed her carefully. In the language they’d been teaching him, she murmured, “Hello, little one.”

The fox considered her fingers carefully, then bumped its head straight into her hand. She scratched it behind the ears and it climbed up into her lap. Constance murmured comforting nonsense to it the whole time. It watched and yipped for more pets when she stopped. 

Ellana left the deer to cut a long pole to bring it back to the farm and stopped in her tracks at the sight of a wild fox checking Constance’s pockets for treats. She swore in the Dalish version of Elvish and said, “What.”

-Did you get what you need?- Felassan casually sorted through the items in his belt pouch until something like food came under his fingers. He pulled it to the top and waited. 

-Yep! I’ve met this one before.- Her thoughts felt…furry. Like she already wore the fox-skin.

The fox gave up on Constance’s pockets and climbed to her shoulder to investigate Felassan. It let him hold its weight while it pulled the piece of jerky from his pocket. It jumped down, prize found, and trotted off into the underbrush. 

Constance stood and stretched. She said, “I like animals.” She didn’t elaborate or explain, much like her mother would have done.

Portia called, without looking, “Not as much as your Aunt Sibylla!”

“No one likes animals that much.” Constance rolled her eyes and went to help with the pole. She explained, “Aunt Sib is my mother’s sister. She can talk to animals, understand them. And probably likes most of them more than people.” 

Ellana’s eyes flew to Felassan’s and he shrugged. He said, “I have never met her. Animals like Constance, that much is observably true.” He asked, “Are we ready to head back down? The sun will be setting if we wait much longer.”

Ellana visibly decided to deal with all the weirdness later. “Um, yes, I think so.”

Chapter Text

Solas’s horse was nervous and he tried to stay calm to not add more anxiety to the beast. He didn’t like riding—most equines could sense the wolf within and didn’t want to carry him—but the rest of the team would be riding and he didn’t want to reveal how quickly he could travel if the situation required it. 

He finished with his saddlebags and petted the horse’s shoulder. It snorted and started to shy away, but calmed down.

Solas looked over and saw Constance holding the horse’s bridle and looking it in the eye. She spoke and the words were in that unknown language, but sounded like reassurance and confidence. She listened to the answering whicker and the horse nodded its head. She laughed and scratched behind its ear before heading to her horse. 

Solas’s horse tried to follow and she laughed again and said in Trade, “No, stay. It will be well, silly.” She walked away and the horse sighed and gave Solas a look that clearly said he was a far distant second to the tall human and even if she said all would be well, it had no such certainty.

The large mercenary, the one who called himself Adaar, looked up from his horse. He said, “Rosindi, can you come whisper to my mount, too? She doesn’t seem to like me much.”

“Sure. Just let me stow these first.” She lashed a large case to each side of the pack mule’s harness and came back. She caught the mare’s bridle and spoke sternly and kindly to the animal. 

The mare nuzzled her and looked at Adaar with deep suspicion. Constance tapped the end of her nose and said, “Behave.” 

Adaar took Constance’s place and the mare stayed calm and let him continue getting her ready. “Thanks, Con. Appreciate it.” He asked, “Everyone else ready?”

Constance looked around the yard. She said, “Not yet. I still have a couple of things to get from Mother and I think Father is…” She trailed off and snapped her focus back to the house. She tipped her head like she was listening and, even though Solas knew his senses were better than any human, he could not hear anything distinct. “Ah, about time,” she nodded and went back to the house.

The Seeker and her Enchanter came over. The Seeker complained, “Getting a large group moving is too difficult.”

Her Enchanter rolled his staff from one hand to the other and said, “Yes, but we will have two mages, two warriors, two rogues, the Herald, and whatever Connie is. So if we need to split up to better bring stability to the area, we have two equally-balanced teams. And we have mounts, which will get us to Leliana’s scouts tomorrow rather than next week. All of these are good.”

Of the other people who had taken shelter beneath the Rosindis’ roof during the crisis, the mercenary warrior and the human assassin had elected to accompany them on this trek to the Hinterlands. The elf with Elgar’nan’s slave markings declared that she needed to return to her clan for new instructions and the female dwarf hadn’t yet made a decision. It had been somewhat concerning that they were all to have regular appointments with Mistress Livilla, but that obstacle could be evaded when it appeared.

The Seeker sighed and said, “All that is true. I am not good at waiting.” The Seeker impatiently crossed her arms and watched the cousins come from the house. Constance had a pack over her shoulder and several bundles of paper in her hands. The Herald— no, Portia. She wishes to be called by name —had her gear and was bouncing with ill-suppressed energy.

Solas startled as Constance handed a bundle of paper to each him and the Enchanter. She said, “Mother’s recipes. These are the ones she thinks an average herbalist would be able to follow. Probably. Can the both of you give it a read and let me know if you agree?” She tied her pack to her horse and shoved the rest of the pages into a saddlebag. She waved back at the house where her parents watched them go.

The Enchanter’s face lit up and he started reading immediately. The Seeker sighed and buried a fond smile beneath a mask of irritated impatience. She steered him towards his horse. 

Portia called after them, “Cass, take the lead and let’s get on the road. With any luck, we’ll be able to set camp in a slightly warmer elevation.” She swung up onto her horse and waited for it to settle. 

Solas’s horse looked at him with renewed suspicion, but let him mount. It took a moment to settle the reins and the papers and his staff, but he managed. The halla that the wanderers have bred are but pale shadows of what we once had in Arlathan. Surely we may find mounts other than horses for our team? That would be ideal.

As soon as it was properly dark, Constance crawled into the tent she and Portia would share. She pressed a button on her ear cuff to activate a personal psy shield. No one here can shield properly and I am tired of the mental pressure. The immediate relief of peace and quiet let her relax into her blankets and fall asleep in moments.

She opened her eyes to the memory of her island. It was a small island—too small to truly live off of without imports—but it was her place. She stood on a beach of black volcanic sand and looked out over the water. Along the horizon, she could faintly see the next closest island in the archipelago. The beach was a small arc of land, bordered on one side by a cliff, the other by the dock, and sandwiched between the ocean and jungle. It was untamed and isolated and perfect.

A bright green snake slithered around Constance’s leg and scaled her body. It pressed its snout to her cheek and said, “You are troubled?”

“Yes.” She petted its head and said, “I have been outside Mother’s influence before, but not like this. The thoughts and feelings of the others are loud and something about the future is…pressing on me.” She stroked the snake and watched the water. Driftwood bobbed on the waves and the wind blew fine saltwater mist over her face.

Partway down the dock, a large wooden door stood without support or reason. It didn’t belong to the memory, not like the outrigger sailboat, lush vegetation, or open pavilion. There weren’t any permanent walls on the island in reality, so this door was entirely out of place in both substance and style, but it was necessary to connect the memory to the rest of the Fade. 

Constance wiggled her toes in the sand and enjoyed the feeling. She asked, “Where are the others, Longing?” She pushed her hair out of her face and turned to head to the pavilion. 

The snake looked out into the island’s interior. It said, “Guile and Worry are playing chase with Patience in the trees. Excellence is waiting for Portia…oh, she’s here now. And Brilliance is off visiting Wisdom and then Knowledge, I think.”

Portia waved at them. She knelt next to Excellence. The once-Pride spirit was in the shape of an exceptionally large house cat, more like a tabby tiger than anything else, and was purring hard enough to rattle the dried leaves on the ground nearby. Portia said, “So far, so good. Everyone is on their best behavior, of course, and we’ll likely be in a fight tomorrow, but we should be able to make it to the Crossroads without trouble.” She kept rubbing the cat’s belly while she spoke.

Constance shook her head. She said, “There’s something bothering me, but I don’t have a handle on it. I don’t want it to be one of those things where I only recognize the importance after it happens, but—“ She trailed off in frustration.

Longing head-butted her chin and squeezed her arm with its coils. Excellence craned his head to fix her with one slitted eye and said, “You need the practice and no one expects you to already have the decades of practice that your father needed to bring his sight fully under control. Remember that you first have to recognize that the world is telling you something. The translation will come in time.”

Constance started to say something, to argue that she knew the theory, but the actual implementation was significantly more difficult, but stopped. A piece of the pressure crystallized and she recognized the pattern. She whistled and called, “Anyone who doesn’t want to deal with the wolf should stay in the trees! I won’t let him off the beach if I let him in at all.”

Portia facepalmed with feeling. She said, “I follow your lead, cousin.”

Three loud knocks came from the door to nowhere. They echoed across the beach, bouncing off the cliff and sending a small flock of wispy sprites scattering from their nests.

Constance sighed and went to open the door. It swung outward and she said, “Hello, Solas. Can I help you?”

Chapter Text

Solas sank his awareness from the tent he shared with the dwarf to the Fade. He had elected to take the first watch to allow the longest possible unbroken stretch of time in the Fade. Assuming I am actually outside the radius of Lady Jeva’s hall, I ought to visit Wisdom and my agents almost certainly need my direction to proceed.

The Fade was a similar landscape to the place he’d fallen asleep, but seen through a filter that muted the colors and sensations while adding whimsical elements. The puddles of water could not be trusted: they might be barely deep enough to be a splash, but they just as likely could swallow even the large mercenary whole. He avoided them out of long habit. 

A smattering of spirits were about. Mostly just wisps and fragments of forgotten dreams, but a few were cohesive enough to have identity. A trio of spirits were deep in conversation with each other, their postures and auras intermingled and not inviting additional people to their conference. One was a Faith, one was Creativity or Inspiration, and the third was something like Dedication or Determination. 

Solas bent his thoughts to the path to Wisdom’s grove. He formed the intention but stopped before leaving the area. Something was…different. Unexpected. Complicated.

A door. A wooden door. 

No walls attached to the lintel or frame. It stood in the midst of the vague water, generic rocks, and typical landscape. It was dark and heavily embellished with inlaid patterns: spells that curled and twisted, will and warding woven into brilliant charms to protect, guard, and preserve. 

Solas paced a circle around the door. Both sides appeared identical. Neither had a handle, knob, lever, or anything that looked like a keyhole. He cautiously touched it and it felt real. The spells were inlaid, not carved, and the surface was smooth beneath his fingertips, not a join to be seen or felt. Who created such complexity and left it here? This does not appear to be the Enchanter’s style, it is not nearly straightforward enough.

He looked around the area again. The trio of spirits was still deep in discussion and not paying him any attention. There was a Fear spirit of some kind approaching, but those could be bargained with or frightened off easily. 

Solas knocked on the door. 

After a few seconds, it opened. He took a quick step back so that it didn’t run into him. He looked at the person standing there and froze, shock twisting his thoughts away from caution to something almost reckless. 

Constance looked back at him and she did not belong to the Fade. She looked nearly identical to how she’d appeared at dinner, during the day, or any of the days before. She wore something… scandalous on her body: tiny scraps of fabric held together with string barely covering her and a gossamer-thin wrap doing more to enhance and tempt than conceal. She looked him up and down and said, “Hello, Solas.” There was no surprise to her voice and it sounded like her. “Can I help you?”

Solas scrambled for mental footing. Behind Constance, he could see a beach with trees waving in a breeze, more finely rendered than anything in the Fade since Arlathan, since the Veil. He said, “I…did not think to see you in the Fade. I am going to visit a friend, but your door was in my path.” He kept his eyes on her face by will and luck alone. Her hair was loose, tumbling around her shoulders and halfway down her back in lustrous brown waves. She always has it braided and pinned up. I did not know it was so long.

“Hm. Then you should be on your way. The night grows old and we will be traveling again shortly after first light.” Constance looked past him. She had a spirit wrapped around her arm and shoulders. It was a bright green snake, vividly colored scales glinting with iridescent rainbows. It watched him closely and felt like…Lust? Or maybe Despair? 

Does she have a demon as a companion? Is that how she coerced the Pride to heed her cousin’s words? Solas watched the snake nuzzle Constance’s chin possessively. He asked, “Who taught you to befriend the ones that mages call demons?”

Constance’s entire attention refocused on him and her snake hissed. She reached up to pet the spirit with a quiet, “Yes, I know. That was terribly rude, wasn’t it?” Her expression didn’t change, but her aura solidified in a tangible, visible shield that coated her body, clinging and caressing and moving with her breath. It highlighted the ridiculous brevity of her…ensemble. Why is it harder to argue with someone wearing undergarments than nothing? No, Solas, do not picture her wearing nothing!

Before Solas could apologize, a polite cough came from behind him. He looked over his shoulder to see the Fear demon standing only a few inches away. It was mostly Elvhen-shaped, but had dark pits full of needle-sharp teeth in place of eyes and nose, a mouth that literally stretched ear-to-ear, and fingers that could probably wrap all the way around Solas’s neck. Twice. 

Fear asked, voice a wispy rasp, “Could you please step aside? You are in my way and this seems like it will take a while.”

Solas whipped back to Constance. She nodded and said, “He is welcome here.” She looked past him and said, “Good to see you. Did it go well?”

“As well as can be expected, yes.” Fear waited for Solas to step aside. When he crossed the threshold, the menacing, terrifying form melted away. He shrank and stretched and Constance embraced him. He turned huge, bright eyes on Solas, wrapped his wings around himself, and the large bat snuggled into Constance’s arms like an infant. He looked back at Solas with a smug, satisfied stare.

This is really far too much. Solas snapped, “No matter how clever you think your wards and shields will be, you cannot deny the danger in which you place yourself!” He drew an unnecessary breath, but Constance shook her head. 

She said, “You really need Mother’s help, if that’s how you view entirely normal emotions.” He tried to interrupt, but she kept talking, her absolute conviction pushing him physically backwards. “All emotions are good and valid. There is no such thing as a bad emotion, Solas. Fear is a gift, not a problem to be destroyed. Fear is what tells you that you are in danger. Fear is what drives us to seek safety, to ask for help. Fear is a gift and a friend.”

Solas tried planting his feet, but the force of the human girl’s emotions was stronger than his will. Which was impossible. 

She didn’t raise her voice, just spoke with intense passion, “Anything ‘good’ can be toxic in extreme quantities. Water, hope, sunlight, joy. All those can and do kill just as easily as fire, despair, gravity, and gluttony. There is no ‘good’ and no ‘bad’ when it comes to emotions, just ‘balance’ and lack thereof.”

Constance looked Solas up and down and said, “I do not trust you in my home until you understand that extremely basic concept. There are too many here you would harm with such void-and-nova thinking.” She nodded and the door slammed shut between them. 

Solas walked back and a new set of curlicues in the wards lit at his approach. He raised his hand to knock, but his hand could not contact the wood. It bounced of an invisible shield. 

He glared at the door in baffled frustration. He looked around the area and saw a wisp. It hovered in place and did not seem to have a purpose. He beckoned to it with magic and will. When it came near, he impressed his will into it, commanding, “Watch this place for me. When I come back, tell me what has occurred in my absence.”

It flickered agreement and did not move away. 

Solas shot one last irritated look at the impossible, improbable, incomprehensible door and headed off to the deep Fade. He no longer had time to visit Wisdom and that was annoying. He needed to get his agents on the trail of this inconvenient, inconceivable family. He needed leverage and to find a way to use them, since he was beginning to suspect that he wouldn’t be able to simply remove them from his path.

His memory unhelpfully reminded him of Constance’s…choice of clothes and he stumbled. Someone out there had to know more about this family, didn’t they?

Chapter Text

They left their horses and the bulk of their supplies at the camp with Scout Harding. Portia let Cassandra and Adaar take point, since they could see the fighting from the camp and hear it all the way down the hill. Her sword was still sheathed, as the hill was steep and she wasn’t sure of her footing. 

Behind her, Solas asked, “Could you, perhaps, clarify some of your words, Constance?”

Constance, with predictable confusion, answered, “Now?! You want to have a conversation about words now?! Your timing is…interesting, Solas.” Portia looked over her shoulder at them and Constance’s face matched her voice. 

Solas was outwardly calm, but his thoughts were vibrating with intention. Portia couldn’t read them, not really, not until she knew him better or got a hand on him, and she couldn’t read his emotions at all the way Livilla or Con could, but he was more agitated than he was letting on. He said, “There is yet time. What does ‘void and nova’ stand for in regards to thought?” He was behind Constance and the path was steep and narrow enough that he couldn’t always see her face. 

Constance sighed and said, “It is to ‘black-and-white’ thinking as an active volcano is to an ember escaping a campfire.” She glanced back, judged that it was insufficient and said, “Black and white is dealing in absolutes, yes? Not seeing the many shades of gray between? Void and nova is an expansion of this. The ‘void’ is the darkness between the stars: there is no light, no dark, just nothing. And a ‘nova’ is a star. A dying star. The brightest thing in the sky.” She shrugged and fell back into her usual silence. 

Varric had a notebook out and was scribbling something. He said, “That’s a good one, Firebird. Mind if I use it? Might need to change the terms a bit, but I like the comparison. You a poet, too?” He managed to keep his feet on the steep slope and take notes and pay attention to the battle that was unfolding in the valley below. Portia was impressed. 

Galyan whistled. He asked, “What was the context for that? I haven’t known you long, Solas, but you strike me as someone who understands nuance.”

“I challenged her apparent habit of consorting with demons.” Solas’s gaze sharpened. 

Constance threw her hands in the air and Portia instinctively ducked. Con muttered an apology, swallowed her first answer, and snapped, “There was no consorting happening! Blood and ash, besides the whole problem with gaining adequate, full, informed, and enthusiastic consent, all consorting happens while awake! And I told you that there is no such thing as a bloody bad emotion! Just because you have the emotional intelligence of a newborn turnip doesn’t mean the rest of us are so stunted!”

-Reel it in, Con. Channel Aunt Liv after. Send some blades into those Templar helms, if you wouldn’t mind.- Portia counted the Templars and mages in the valley, all converging on the Inquisition’s entrance. Aloud, she said, “Right. Table this for later. Protect civilians first. If you want to try to talk the idiots down, you’re more than welcome, but protecting the non-combatants in the area is our primary objective. Don’t be stupid and let’s all get to the Crossroads in one piece.”

Trevalyan and Varric both slipped into stealth to take up position to cover their flanks. Cassandra shouted a challenge at the nearest Templar squad and Adaar spun into the melee. Both mages fell back and started casting. 

Portia nodded at Constance. She opened a pouch on her belt and shards of steel floated out telekinetically. Each was about the size of her pinky finger and razor-sharp on every edge. They shimmered in the air, then darted across the valley, slicing through visible necks and finding gaps in armor. Mages and Templars alike fell, clutching uselessly at wounds they never saw coming. 

Varric sighted down Bianca and sent a bolt into a Templar trying to work his way around the wall of Cassandra and Adaar. Trevalyan stepped out of stealth to slam a dagger up and under the man’s helmet as he reeled. 

Portia scanned the valley. The Inquisition was drawing almost all the attention, even though both mages and Templars still fought each other. Okay, look at the terrain. Catalog the features. A ruined tower, probably a temporary campsite. That looks like a broken gatehouse, been scavenged by the locals for building materials, also a campsite to clear. A homestead on fire? Maybe multi-generational dwelling? Another temporary campsite. Wait. Screaming? Kids?! Oh fuck no.

Portia grabbed Con’s arm. She said, “Time to do something stupid,” and pointed at the burning buildings.

Varric looked over at Spark in alarm. I spent too much time with Hawke to be totally comfortable with the person in charge proposing something stupid. He fired again and kept more than half an ear on their conversation, just in case.

Firebird simply followed the direction Spark pointed and nodded. She said, “I can get us there. Grab someone who can keep up to help with the evac. Give me a five count and we go on your mark.” She pressed her hands together, palm to fingertip, in front of her chest and closed her eyes. 

Spark looked at him and said, “Sorry, Varric. Next time.” Her eyes flicked over the field and she cupped her hands around her mouth, “Marcus, to me! Now!”

Charming stepped out of stealth and dashed their way. He asked, “What?”

“Get ready to run.” Spark put one hand on Firebird’s shoulder and grabbed Charming with the other. She said, “When I hit zero, we’re running to that farm. It’s not as stupid as it sounds. Five, four…”

She counted down and Varric watched Firebird slowly pull her hands apart. Something shimmered between them and she didn’t seem to be breathing. Okay, I guess I knew they were both mages of some flavor, even though they don’t act like any mage I ever met. What’s she doing?

“…Zero.” Spark finished the countdown and Firebird clapped her hands.

Varric felt his mouth fall open. The three humans were sprinting across the field. They moved so quickly that they were blurs in the air. In less than a breath, they were on the far side of the valley. They’d moved so quickly that the clumps of fighting hadn’t had a chance to react and try to stop them. He said, “What—“

An explosion of lightning flashed in the center of the groups of fighters attempting to take over the burning house. It burst from a single point and raced outward in a cloud of sparks, shards of metal, and body parts. It didn’t touch the house, but washed over it, like a wave hitting a pillar. 

The houses were still on fire and Varric couldn’t quite tell how many people were getting shepherded out. He lifted Bianca and fired again. The group that the Seeker was handling didn’t seem to have noticed anything unusual. 

Enchanter came up next to Varric. He asked, “Where did the girls go? They were here and I looked away and now? How did we lose them so quickly?”

Chuckles sounded as bewildered as Varric felt. He said, “The Herald said ‘something stupid’, but ‘remarkable’ might be more apt.” He spun his staff and a series of Fade-green wards lit beneath their feet. 

Varric squinted to see if he could tell anything else about the situation at the farmhouses. He said, “Let’s try to join them. They have it under control, but I don’t want to face Lady Spider if we let her girls get hurt.”

Chapter Text

Constance slipped around a Templar’s mace and stabbed her sword into the weak place in their armor’s armpit. They dropped their shield with a howl of pain and tried to swing at her. She parried, turning them so that Marcus could stab through the slim gap between their helmet and gorget. 

The Templar fell and she looked for a new target. Right, I think we have a bit to breathe. The others are about halfway across the field and we’re running low on enemies. Portia’s doing a good job leading the refugees, so let’s just keep everything away from them.

Marcus stepped up next to her. He said, “You move like an assassin.”

“So do you.” 

He chuckled and said, “That is where I learned to fight. My first teacher was once the finest Antivan Crow. But why don’t you step into the shadows? Strike from stealth?” He nodded at a mage who was starting to cast a spell. He vanished into the shadows. 

Constance followed his progress through the ether. When it was clear he wouldn’t need help taking down the mage, she used her telekinesis to shatter the fallen Templar’s sword and sent the shards flying at the backs of the last squad in between her and Cassandra’s incoming charge. I need more kinetic blades. I just hate having to sharpen them by hand. Maybe I should just carry a whole bunch of pins and needles? But it’s hard to slice with those and I usually need to do more damage than just bursting eyeballs. Hmph.

Marcus reappeared at her side. She said, “Because that’s not the kind of assassin I was trained by. It’s a neat trick and I’d like to learn, but not my teacher’s style.” They caught up with the last family in Portia’s rescue train and Constance scooped up a child who was struggling to keep up. 

Marcus didn’t pick up a child, but swapped sides to put himself in between Con and the few Templars who were still barely on their feet. He asked, “What does or did your teacher specialize in? If it’s not a secret.”

“Poison and being ignored and forgotten.” Constance kept her eyes moving across the field. The Crossroads and the squad of Inquisition soldiers were just ahead and the promised safety struck her as the perfect place for an ambush.

Marcus agreed, “That is a useful combination.”

A shout from the hill overlooking the village snapped her head around. “The Herald! The Herald of Andraste! She came!”

Constance sent a pulse of calm amusement at Portia. It’s okay. They don’t know you, just the role that serves a specific purpose. She didn’t completely overwrite her cousin’s annoyance, but put a little space around the emotions. Portia looked over her shoulder and made a face, but waved at the soldiers and shouted greetings back. 

Constance put the child down and took stock of what was available. She said, “Right. I’m going to put the fear of my mother into the healers. They seem to be stationed near enough to the Chantry, where I assume that Mother Giselle is waiting for Portia. I should be close enough to intervene in the event of…incident.”

Marcus bowed with full Antivan flourishes. He said, “Please allow me to escort you, Bella. I will simply stand at your shoulder and glower menacingly in their direction to drive home the danger that disappointing you would bring upon their heads.” He held out his blood-spattered arm and his eyes twinkled with invitation.

Reflexively, Constance checked his emotions before answering. He was amused, but not out of malicious intent. He genuinely seemed interested in her and that was surprising. He doesn’t know my rank or anything about our family other than the surface lie. He’s still calculating, still looking for an angle, but it’s not pure ambition. And he thinks I’m pretty. There are worse ways to spend an afternoon than being flattered by someone taught to flirt by an Antivan. She curtseyed, pretending to hold out her non-existent skirts, and took his arm. “That sounds lovely, thank you.”

There wasn’t a spare room or hut to be had, so they set up the tents again. They were set back from both the Crossroads and the camp where Corporal Vale was trying to make the Inquisition recruits into a respectable team. Cassandra settled onto the ground at Regalyan’s side. She leaned up against the log he was using as a backrest and stared into the fire. 

The people here are…hurt. But they have hope. Hope that we can bring stability and resolve the endless fighting. But they are wounded in soul. She looked up at a cup that intersected her line of sight. Portia, their Herald, held it. And we put a heavy title on her shoulders and she’s wearing it with more grace than I thought possible. Cassandra took the cup and murmured thanks. 

Galyan shifted his book to one hand and put his arm around her. She blushed at the public affection, but no one else commented. 

Constance was across the fire from her. She sat cross-legged and leaned against a rock. Her eyes were closed and her breathing regular, but she didn’t seem to be asleep, just quiet. The Trevalyan lad was near her, had been at her side during the whole of the afternoon and evening. Portia sat near them and they talked quietly, letting Constance rest. 

Why did I think she was quiet? She swept through the healers’ tent like a summer thunderstorm. She has them washing everything with soap and boiling tools and bandages between uses and what else? I didn’t see most of it, but her voice carried like a general’s. Cassandra sipped at the tea and tried to relax. The Qunari chatted amiably with Varic and Solas was…not there. Did he go down to the pool for a bath? Where did the mage go?

Solas stepped into the firelight and loomed over Constance with folded arms. Cassandra tapped Regalyan’s knee and he looked up from his book. He took in the position of the others and sighed, “Let’s not fight in front of the children”. He murmured a spell and pressed a hand to the ground. Energy spiraled away from his fingers and looped the campsite, muffling them in a veil of silence. 

Portia looked up and asked, “What’s pulling your tail, Solas? You look like the cat who got stroked the wrong way.” 

Trevalyan’s mouth quirked up in a playful smirk. He asked, “Is stroking on offer, then? I thought we were restricted to basic travel rations and activities.” Varric snickered and pulled out his notebook. 

Solas ignored them. He glowered at Constance. 

She didn’t open her eyes or change her posture. She simply said, “Stop poking at my aura and use your words, like the adult you appear to be.” She inhaled, exhaled, and stayed the picture of tranquility. 

Solas asked, “Where even is your aura? You are an idiot to detach it from your body without proper precautions. And changing how the time around you flows?! You will tear this world asunder, you foolish—“

Constance came to her feet in a smooth, swift motion. Her eyes were pools of glowing power, as brilliant as a star. She smiled and there was nothing of kindness in it. She said, “Do not speak of what you do not understand. Call me an idiot again, I motherfucking dare you. By tide and tempest, by blood and ash and fire, I will tear you apart and leave nothing but gristle and a splash of viscera for the pyre.” Her eyes flared and Cassandra felt a rush of something in the air. It impacted the young woman’s body with a thump that was more felt than heard and her eyes cooled to their normal shade.

“Language, cousin.” Portia cracked her knuckles and watched the argument with the air of fine entertainment 

Solas looked pleased to have gotten a reaction. He challenged, “And so a demon has taken possession of your form. I would say I told you so, but—“

Constance grabbed him by the throat. Her smile was still in place. She said, “Wrong again.” 

Portia held out a hand and said, “Do not interfere, Seeker. They need to fight this out now.”

“But if she’s been possessed—“ Cassandra protested, needing to find a Templar to cast a Purge. I let down my guard and this is what it gets me!

Solas struggled to say something and clawed at the hand cutting off his air. Constance said, “Mother is probably disappointed with me. She taught me to use my words to deal with rude assholes, but I think that Father approves of my choice.” She raised her voice and said, “I am not possessed, Seeker. Like you, I can’t be. Nor can Portia. And I knew exactly what I was doing, both during the fight and a minute ago and even now.” She yanked Solas to her and hissed something in Elvish before shoving him away and releasing his neck. He recoiled and rubbed at the bruises that were blooming. 

What?! How does she know about the vigil? Cassandra finally got to her feet. She demanded, “When were you going to tell us about your magic?” Her voice was brash and accusing, just like her trainers always scolded her for. 

Constance didn’t look away from Solas. She said, “Never. Of everyone at this fire, only Portia has earned the right to my secrets and I, hers.”

Galyan asked, “You can manipulate time? That is impossible.”

Portia laughed, “Not impossible, just highly improbable.” She stood and took a place just behind Constance’s left shoulder, where a bodyguard would typically stand. 

Cassandra looked between them. They stand like they’re royal. Or in that echelon, not the children of a trader and herbalist. Constance could give my noble cousins a lesson in posture and poise. 

Solas growled something in Elvish and Constance answered in the same language. His eyes flew wide and he stammered, “You—you are not parroting something you heard seventeenth-hand from the shadows who call themselves elves.”

Portia snorted and shook her head. “Wow. You win. Clearly.”

Constance smirked and said, “Told you. Now, I am going to get back to work and you are going to leave me alone for the rest of the night. I suggest you meditate on the concept of manners or go to the Fade and find a nice spirit of Etiquette to help you understand where, precisely, you went wrong in this conversation.” She looked past Solas, to the darkness in the trees, smiled, and returned her attention to the mage. 

The mage who was still staring at her in shock. He blinked rapidly, then turned and stalked to his tent. 

Constance settled on the ground again and leaned against the rock. Portia put another log on the fire and sparks floated to the sky. 

Cassandra looked at the others. Adaar seemed worried about the conflict, Trevalyan was even more interested in the girl than before, and Varric was scribbling in a notebook. Galyan tugged on her pants and she sat next to him again. She quietly asked, “Is this going to be a problem?”

“Oh, probably. But let’s save that for tomorrow. Tonight, we are alive and we have next steps, such as they are. Do what we can here, see about the horsemaster, and then go to Val Royeaux.” He squeezed her shoulders and settled into the quiet. He released the silence ward with a subtle snap of his fingers. 

Cassandra watched Constance. She quieted her breathing and slipped into the same stillness as before, as if the whole ugly confrontation had never happened. A feeling like at the end of her vigil caressed her mind and Cassandra relaxed, sensing the Maker’s peace and taking comfort in her faith.

Chapter Text

Solas retreated to the tent, but did not sleep. He watched in annoyed magesight as the idiot, belligerent human child recklessly detached her aura from her body again and spread it across the entire village. She brushed tendrils of power across the minds and… hearts of every non-mage in the whole valley. He could only barely sense those auras, but they sparkled with peace and warmth in the wake of the girl’s passing. 

Her words, hissed in anger, rattled around and around in his mind. “I do not fear you or your anger, Dread Wolf. You should fear me and mine.” I should have expected that from her, given what her grandparents said within the Fade. But why allow me to remain and keep my secrets from the rest? He continued tracking her progress, dodging and weaving to remain outside of her mental reach. 

Mages didn’t get given the same grace as the common folk and soldiers. Some mages unconsciously bristled and she gave them space. Some tried to trap her with wards and spells. He held his breath, but she simply stepped over the trap and continued to soothe and restore all who would let her. Why? She is expending more energy than she can hope to regain in sleep and these are temporary, fleeting measures, not lasting change. Why bother?

It was late when she pulled her aura back to her body. He heard her exchange words with the annoying assassin and retreat to the tent she shared with her cousin. No sound came from that tent, even though they had been talking when they entered it. Warded? But I can sense no wards. How have they managed this?

Solas gave up trying to understand and slipped into the Fade. 

The door was there. Its defenses were spiky tonight. As he watched, a pair of spirits came out and flitted away. He glanced around the area and saw the wisp he’d ordered to watch. He stalked to it and said, “Tell me what you have observed.”

“They give us names. I want a name. But I can’t go in.” The wisp seemed more solid and…petulant. It was hunched, curled away from him. 

Never have I known a wisp to pout. Solas raised an eyebrow. He asked, “You cannot cross the threshold?”

It turned to face him and he felt his body in the waking world shudder. It was vaguely human-shaped, still wavering between forms, but across where its face would maybe be, a glowing red vallaslin sketched three pairs of stylized eyes in poisoned knots. It repeated, “I can’t go in. I can only watch and repeat what I see.” 

That was not my intention! I must fix this. Solas stretched out his hand and muttered the spell. He missed a few of the words in his agitation, but this was the Fade and intent counted for a lot. The lines dissolved from the wisp’s face with a faint scent of burning hair. He said, “I release you from that task. Ar lasa mala revas. I…apologize.”

The wisp straightened and stretched. It said, “I think I know my name, but I am going to make sure. You should go before Excellence comes back out and eats you.” It didn’t wait for a reply, but streaked to the door and passed through without knocking or opening it.

Solas turned away and went to Wisdom’s grove with heavy steps. 

Her portion of the Fade was peaceful and familiar. Trees and shady paths led to a central garden. Today, it was full of herbs and flowers with complementary scents. He followed the spiral path until he reached the bench where his friend contemplated a bloom.

She looked up at his approach and smiled. She shifted on the bench to make room and said, “Solas! Welcome! Please sit and tell me what has you tied in knots.” She patted the bench in invitation. 

Solas dropped onto the bench gracelessly. He rested his elbows on his knees and stared at the ground. He said, “Where to even start?”

Wisdom patted his back. She said, “It cannot be that bad. Start from the most recent and work backwards.”

“I just removed the vallaslin which I applied by accident. I commanded a wisp to watch and was more forceful than I meant to be.” He closed his eyes and let the words fall as they would. “I was surprised by the abilities the human girl displayed but shouted at her instead of asking reasonable questions. I do not understand their power and they clearly have much of it, but—“ he sighed and trailed off.

Wisdom’s hand was still on his back. She asked, “But you let your pedantic pride speak instead of patient curiosity? And then doubled the bet when she called your bluff?” 

Solas sighed again. He asked, “Am I truly so predictable?” He lifted his head to look at her. 

“Yes, these are the problems you keep making for yourself, my wolf.” Wisdom patted his back once more and then rested her hand on the bench between them. She said, “I have met both the girls, you know. And their parents and grandparents. While the way they use their power is…different, it is not truly unique.”

Solas’s mouth fell open, but Wisdom continued, “Approaching this family with curiosity instead of judgment will be more likely to help you reach your goals.” She paused and delicately asked, “Do you know what your goals are with regards to them?” She turned her palm up on the bench.

Solas dropped his hand into hers. He admitted, “I do not. I must regain control of my orb to undo my mistake with the Veil, but I do not know how much this family will help or hinder me.” He laced their fingers together.

Wisdom started to say something, but paused. She squeezed his hand and said, “You will perhaps have the chance to practice curiosity sooner than you thought.” She nodded at the garden gate, where the slightly hazy form of a Dreamer was approaching.

This cannot be one of the girls. So who? Solas stayed at Wisdom’s side. She would send them or me away if she did not want this meeting to occur. The Dreamer’s form was…indistinct and Solas had a difficult time keeping his eyes on it. His attention slipped and slid to the side. Maddening. 

The Dreamer bowed deeply and spoke just at Wisdom, “Greetings, Wisdom-in-the-Garden.”

“Lady Livilla, what brings you here?” Wisdom squeezed Solas’s hand again and he tried to listen to what was not said. 

Livilla inclined her head and said, “Wisdom-of-the-Grotto and Wisdom-under-the-Mountain both send their best wishes and asked me to convey their regret at missing you at tea today.” She gestured, as if pulling something out of a pocket and added, “I was able to distill the memory for you. As you wished, I will let you uncover this plant’s properties on your own.” She handed a plant to Wisdom with another deep bow.

Wisdom let go of Solas’s hand to accept the plant. She asked, “What kind of soil does this one prefer?”

“None. In the wild, it is to be found in the junction of a larger tree’s branches. Like mistletoe, but not as parasitic. An epiphytic plant, my first mother would call it.” She stood with her hands clasped together before her, totally at ease and totally ignoring Solas. 

What game is she playing? Solas glanced at the plant, but it had leaves and was…plant-y. They talked about the plant’s lifestyle and still completely ignored him. Pride stung by the snub, he finally asked, “Are all humans this rude, or is it just your family?” He heard the words even as he said them and internally winced. 

Livilla kept her eyes on Wisdom until the spirit nodded. She turned her full attention on Solas and said, “In the presence of a Sovereign, one does not acknowledge a paramour or concubine or even a companion until and unless the Sovereign brings them into the conversation. Wisdom-in-the-Garden is Sovereign here and so I bow to her wishes.” Her smile was fleeting and she turned back to Wisdom to say, “I fear I have overstayed my welcome and have much yet to do this night.”

Wisdom inclined her head at the plant she still held. “Thank you, Livilla. I look forward to discussing this one with you in the future.”

Livilla bowed and vanished without ceremony or theatrics. 

Solas stared at the place where the human had stood. Nothing about her visit made sense and, yes, he had handled it badly. He asked, “Sovereign? What social hierarchy does she seek to place us within? And though she knows my name, why assign me as your vassal?”

“Probably because in this place, you are. Just as I would be to you in one of your holds. We all have those whom we bow to and who bow to us and location dictates much of it.” Wisdom stood and placed the plant in the crook of a nearby tree. It rustled and reached its leaves to the sun. She turned back and asked, “Please try curiosity? That family is…terrifying and protective of each other. I do not want to lose you to your own poor choices. Again.”

Solas sighed and got to his feet. He let his friend pull him into her arms and he tried to let go of the worry that he wouldn’t be able to escape the trap again.

Chapter Text

They made it from the Crossroads to a campsite just outside of Horsemaster Dennet’s lands. The trip was largely peaceful, with only a couple of skirmishes between their group and rogue mages and Templars who hadn’t yet gotten the memo that the Inquisition should not be taken lightly. 

Varric came out from his tent after unloading and getting the camp in order. Spark crouched on the riverbank and he came next to her. She glanced up from the bubbling water and said, “Hey, Varric. Just waiting on Con. She wanted to write down everything from that message board. When she’s done, we’ll head up to talk to that Dennet guy.” 

Varric squatted next to her. He asked, “What’re you doing, Spark? I thought you were maybe cleaning armor, but now I don’t know.” He couldn’t quite make out what was happening under the water’s surface. 

“Making blade blanks for Con.” Spark laughed and handed him a small, thin piece of metal. She brought a ruined pauldron out of the water and pinched the edge. It melted under her fingers and came away in a glowing shard. She dropped it into the water and it bubbled and hissed as it cooled. She said, “Con’ll sharpen them later. I’m better at controlling the shape and I checked with the Inquisition’s armorer to make sure I’m only wrecking things that’d get entirely recycled anyway.” Another blade fell into the water, even as she explained. 

Varric turned over the blade in his hands. Small. Really small. Not sure how this would work as a blade, but as shrapnel, it’d give someone a bad day. He tucked it into his notebook as a shadow fell over them. 

Spark looked up and said, “Hey, can you show off your throwing skills? I don’t think Varric gets how badass you are yet and wanna see the look on his face when he realizes.” She held up one of the fresh blanks, pure mischief on her face 

Firebird plucked it out of her cousin’s hand and examined it. She said, “Sure, I guess.” She glanced across the river and said, “There. That stump with the knot in it. See it?” 

This’ll be interesting. Varric stood up and stretched his back. “Yeah, Firebird. I see—” He opened his mouth, but lost his words. 

The shard lifted an inch off of Firebird’s hand, then streaked across the open air. It thudded into the wood, embedding itself deeply in the stump in the dead center of the knot. Firebird hadn’t moved a muscle. I don’t think she even looked at the target after she identified it. Andraste’s ass, who have I signed up with? Aloud, he said, “That’s…wow. Neat trick.”

Firebird inclined her head graciously and asked, “Do you want to learn how?”

“Pretty sure that’s impossible.” Varric took out his cigarette case. How does she not know that dwarves can’t do magic? 

Firebird tipped her head to the side. She said, “As you wish.” She bent down to take the pile of blades from Spark. She thumbed through them and hummed in approval. 

Spark tossed the remains of the pauldron into their tent and dried her hands on her pants. She looked around and loudly said, “Who’s coming to talk with the Horsemaster and who’s making dinner? Let’s get this caravan moving!”

Varric put his cigarette case back and lit the one he’d pulled out. He turned to head up to the Horsemaster’s house, still turning over the “offer”. Not sure if her asking means she doesn’t see me as a dwarf or what. Weird. Like, the stuff last night with Chuckles was weird, but this? Not sure I can handle it sober. 

Firebird followed her cousin after pulling a flask from an inside pocket and pressing it into Varric’s hand. He stared after her for a solid ten seconds before hurrying to catch up. 

Constance stared at Portia. Portia grinned back. 

“Wolves,” she said, voice flat. 

Portia corrected, “Possessed wolves. And that druffalo. They’re the same direction. And you’re the best one to deal with critters, so…”

Constance didn’t sigh or react. She just nodded and started walking towards the river. Behind her, she could hear snippets of discussion and conversation. 

With utmost confidence, Portia said, “She can handle it, but if you want to tag along, go ask. Just be ready for her to say no and you get left behind. Right, everyone else, let’s figure out how to get watchtowers in place, the garden weeded, and anything else that needs doing done.” 

Soft footsteps caught up as Constance hugged the riverbank to avoid bringing a Rift to life. Feels big and angry. Maybe we try to set a perimeter tonight so that fewer spirits get pulled through when we close it? Worth a shot. She stopped across the river from where the Horsemaster had said the wolves used to live and turned back to see both Marcus and Solas watching. Wonderful. She said, “Silence is paramount. If you cannot be silent, turn around now. Patience is next. If you cannot be patient and let me deal with the problem, leave now.”

Marcus bowed and said, “Ah, Bella, what kind of assassin would I be if I were deficient in stealth or patience? I follow your exquisite lead.” His smile was made of red flags and bad decisions. 

Solas simply nodded with grim challenge.

Eh, good enough. Constance picked her way across the stream, grabbing a convenient nug as it crossed her path. She broke its neck and motioned at the rest of the nug herd, hoping the other two understood. Two sharp squeals from behind her raised her hope that this would go well. 

-I am on top of the ridge, just to the south. You are not alone and your mother would like me to remind you that you are perfectly capable of disabling, disarming, and disappearing your uninvited, unwelcome, and unhelpful backup before just getting on with the mission.- Father’s mental voice was calm and composed and was followed by a faint telekinetic hug. 

Constance settled herself on the ground, just outside the wolves’ den. She gutted the nug and cast an emotional lure into the wolf pack. It was a feeling of friendship and safety with tempting bits of curiosity added. She waited and mentally “fished”, casting the lure and drawing it back in, over and over. 

A young wolf followed the impression and crept close. It sniffed at the nug and looked at Constance with wary curiosity. She extended a feeling of home and comfort and it came close enough to touch. She held out her hand and let it sniff her. Ten seconds later, it was all but in her lap, demanding to be petted. 

-Hello, beautiful, let me check you and then you can have a snack.- Constance ran mental fingers over its mind and didn’t find any of the tendrils she recognized as demonic possession. She said, -This piece of prey is yours, head out into the sun while I check the rest of your family.-

The wolf shook its head and bounded back into the den. Constance watched it go, puzzled, but then it brought back another wolf, this one older and less curious. It nudged the new wolf until it was brave enough to go to the nug, even though a weird human was there. 

Well, that was more helpful than I could have hoped for. Good dog. Constance pushed a feeling of approval at the wolf. Its tail wagged and it went back to convince more of the pack that there were free snacks and ear rubs available. She worked on each wolf as it came, gently extracting the bits of Fade magic from the psyches of the wolves. She didn’t hear anything from Marcus or Solas, but there was always another nug ready to go, so someone was being helpful. 

The last wolf to leave the safety of the den wasn’t a wolf. Not biologically, not spiritually, not a wolf at all. It tried to mimic the way the other wolves had approached her, but its grasp of the form and mannerisms was so weak that Constance was embarrassed for it. She heard a sharp inhale from behind her and put a hand up to stop the demon-spirit from approaching. 

Fear, but fear of the unknown, not the known. Fear that makes an insular society build walls. Fear that creates a cult, creates isolation. How do I name you? She thought about the emotional flavor of the fear coming from the spirit-demon-wolf and made her decision. She said, “Trepidation. You have outstayed your welcome in this place. Do you wish to return to the Fade as you are or in pieces?”

The voice that came from the wolf-shape was weird and wrong. It glowed green and accused, “You took them away! They’re mine!”

“Of course I did, because they do not belong to you. As you are? Or pieces? This is the last time I will ask.” Constance readied a mental spear of paralyzing fear and worry and stress. She didn’t move a physical muscle. The first wolf came to stand by Constance’s shoulder. It trembled, but was steady. 

Trepidation hesitated. It pushed fear at her and she twisted the emotion into harmless harmony before it impacted her, a wolf, or the men who were watching with horrified curiosity and genuine bafflement. It pouted, “Fine. Send me back. I will find another place to grow strong and find you again here.”

Constance sent her mental call to the Fade and Jeva responded with a laugh, -We have it and it will learn. Good job, granddaughter.-

The spirit-demon vanished and all but that first wolf ran back into the den. Constance turned to look at it and it leaned on her in a canine hug. It pressed a feeling of home and belonging to her, along with the wish to have more of those tasty treats. 

Constance rubbed the wolf’s ears and said, “Sure, why not?” She stumbled when she unfolded to standing and Marcus was there to steady her as she shook the pins and needles out of her feet. 

He said, “It is getting dark. We should head back to camp and fetch the wandering druffalo tomorrow.” He looked at the young wolf and asked, “Do you have a name, mistress wolf?”

It—no, he was right, she —sneezed at him. Constance smiled and asked, “Kess? Does that sound right?” The wolf considered this and nodded. 

Constance looked at Solas. He was staring and his emotions ricocheted wildly from confusion to covetous anger to reluctant approval. She counted to seven, but he didn’t say anything, just continued staring with silent, chaotic emotions. The pins and needles were finally gone, so she said, “Back to camp, then. We can see how the other group did.” 

Solas turned on his heel and all but vanished into the dusk. Constance tracked his position in the shadows and watched with amusement as both Marcus’s head and Kess’s ears turned to follow his progress. Marcus chuckled and very quietly said, “Beware of that one, Bella. He has not forgiven your retaliation from last night and did not watch your actions today with approval. I think he expected or even wanted you to fail or fall to that demon.”

Constance scanned Solas’s emotions and quietly cursed, “Blood and ash, you’re right. Thank you.” They headed back to camp, splashing across the river and soaking their pants and paws again. Kess stuck close to her side, ears and eyes up, ready for anything coming out of the dark.

Chapter Text

The rift was loud and angry and a crowd of active spirits surrounded it. Exellence sat with his tail curled around his paws and watched the tumult with feline disdain. Portia rested a hand on his back and said, “A perimeter sounded like a good idea, but I don’t think we can get close enough to execute it.” She idly stroked the spirit’s head and watched the energy of the rift with concern. 

Constance petted Longing and considered the problem. She said, “I can draw off a good chunk of them to get you some room to work, but does that Anchor even work from this side? Could you create a static cage around it or something?” 

Longing was still a snake-shape out here, away from her island, just as Excellence was still a vastly overgrown tabby cat. But when she looked at Portia, she saw a human-ish spirit coated sometimes with electricity and sometimes with molten metal. When she looked down at herself, she was hazy, indistinct. Not as much as her mother, but Livilla was the galaxy’s expert on slipping past attention and being forgotten.

Constance returned her attention to the Fade and the surrounding spirits. Cassandra’s Faith is still interrogating Varric’s Creativity? Huh. And Solas is being a creepy stalker, like we wouldn’t recognize a six-eyed wolf for who he is. She did a quick scan and looked off into the distance. She raised a hand in greeting and muttered, “Rontari’s approaching.”

Portia followed her line of sight and murmured back in Galactic Common, “To buffer us against the wolf or the rift?”

“Both?”

He reached them in the next second, saying, “Your parents are…occupied and Jeva is busy with that Fear variant you handed over. What is your goal and do you need help?” His voice boomed across the dream landscape, startling a small flock of bird-shaped spirits to flight.

“We will be dealing with this rift in the morning. It seemed prudent to minimize interference, if we can.” Constance went back to studying the accumulated spirits, categorizing them by archetype and making note of their opposites.

Rontari crossed his arms and said, “Execute your plan, children, then get a good night’s sleep. Actual rest, if you can.” A pulse of psychic energy left him, even as he pivoted his feet to take a better guarding position. 

“Yes, Grandfather.” Portia raised a hand and envisioned the path the electricity would need to take to cordon off the rift and secure the area against intrusion. “On your mark, Con.”

Solas watched the girls from a distance. Outside of the improbably detailed dream, they appeared as normal Dreamers: vaguely shaped like their race and shot through with threads of their favored elements. The spirits—no, those were their pet demons, were they not?—accompanying them were not in the typical shape of demons of those kinds. 

Baffling. How? And, possibly of more importance, why?!

The girls examined the rift and discussed…dealing with it? He privately agreed that the Anchor would be unlikely to seal the rift from this direction. Possible, but unlikely.

The tall man—Rosindi. Rontari? The Lady Jeva’s spouse—appeared, but did not seem inclined to intervene with the plans. He listened and allowed them to proceed with their foolishness. 

His voice came from directly behind Solas’s right shoulder in a quiet command, “Pay attention, Dread Wolf.”

How dare he condescend to me— Solas did not have time to finish the thought. Four things happened in quick succession, shaking the very Fade beneath his feet. 

First, Constance changed. No longer a human-ish, smoky figure, but a seven-foot tall bird with plumage all of fire. She flared and made herself into a beacon of hope, of the promise of rebirth. Then, the crowd of spirits around the rift left off their investigation of the anomaly and flowed to her. 

In the next moment, the Pride demon disguised as a large cat sparked. The lines on its coat turned to pure lightning. The Herald—no, Portia—kept her hand in its ruff and directed the lightning across the gap between her and the rift. It spiraled at her command and circled the rift in power, shocking and paralyzing any spirit who dared come too close. 

The whole spell took but a few seconds to execute and the girls released—no, they absorbed?—the excess power. They returned to their former appearances and watched the results. The spirits who had been heading their way stopped and looked around. Some returned to the area of the rift, but most drifted off to other pursuits. 

Rontari asked the girls a question. When Constance nodded, he snapped his fingers and they vanished. The distant sound of a door slamming shut and the relaxing of the Fade let Solas know that they were probably safe in their private dream. 

He turned to leave and was unsurprised to see the Rontari standing in his way. The human was not as distinct as in the room with the intricate map, but his expressions and emotional state were easy enough to read. Solas unfolded to his bipedal shape and asked, “What do you want to say to me?” 

Rontari chuckled and said, “No phoenix of my line will ever fall or fail to a wolf. Find easier prey. Better yet, give up this utter foolishness and stop trying to make all the mistakes yourself.” He pinned Solas with a hard stare. 

Solas automatically shook his head. He said, “This world is silent, broken, lost. I must follow this path to its inevitable end. If I do not—“

“You would have to learn to live with the knowledge that you fucked up and eventually feel grateful to those who come after to fix it? Join the fucking club. It’s not at all exclusive, I can assure you.” Rontari interrupted and finished the sentence. He rolled his eyes. “You are not Pride, but Hubris, and the disappointing thing is that you do not realize it. I will tell you this once and then leave you to your contemplation of this day’s events: You are not the smartest person in the room. Not anymore. The sooner you realize the truth of that, the sooner your path will become clear.”

Solas opened his mouth to argue, but Rontari vanished. He was alone in the Fade. 

He stalked off to one of his hidden bastions. Frustration swirled around him in a tangible cloud and he burst into the safety of the planning room and channeled the energy into strengthening his wards. 

Josephine sat at her desk with a pot of tea and a stack of letters to finish. It was…more difficult to ask for monetary support without the shelter and tradition of the Chantry behind her. Not an impossible task, not really, but delicate. The reports from the Hinterlands were good, though, and having a history of success went a long way towards convincing the nobility of their future success. 

She dipped her quill and added another paragraph, talking about the importance of unity and dedication in such trying times. She finished the thought and looked over her words. That would do for the Fereldens, but she needed something more…elaborate for Orlais. Flowery. Overwrought. 

Josephine glanced up at the knock on her open door. She smiled and said, “Leli! Is it that late? How did I lose track of time?” She glanced out the window, but it was still early morning. 

“I had a raven from Cassandra this morning. They are wrapping up several tasks around the Horsemaster’s farm and the Crossroads today. They will come back tomorrow, probably very late. But—” Leliana came in and eased the door shut. She silently paced the space between the desk and the door. On her third lap, she stopped and asked, “You have had an appointment with Mistress Livilla. What happened? What is it for? Even Cullen refused to give me specifics!”

Josephine poured a cup of tea and held it out. She waited for Leliana to take it before topping off her own cup and sitting back in her chair. She said, “My appointment was not much of anything. We spoke of my family and my upbringing. I talked about my work and my goals, both with the Inquisition and my family’s business.” She frowned as she reviewed the details and added, “At least, that is my impression of our conversation. I admit, the exact words we spoke escape me. Odd.” She sipped her tea and gazed off into the distance. 

Leliana sat heavily in the guest chair and put her tea on the desk without trying it. She said, “That is what I fear. I can recite conversations I had years ago with Morrigan word for word, but I cannot remember anything that Mistress Livilla has said with the same precision.” She didn’t fidget, but was tense. Strung tightly with preoccupied worry. 

A thought bloomed to life and Josephine said, “Well, perhaps that is something you should speak with her about? It could be that there is a reason. A method to help your memory?” She relaxed, a feeling of ease and relaxation replacing the thread of worry. 

Leliana shook herself and looked at the scrap of paper in her hand. She said, “They will be back from the Hinterlands probably late tomorrow night. Will it be possible to start negotiating now with the Mothers about this meeting that Mother Giselle proposed or should we wait for the Herald to return?” 

Josephine drummed her fingers on the desk. She said, “Yes, we should at least begin looking into accommodations and a boat to cross the Waking Sea. I can start on those logistics while we wait for Portia’s return for the other details.”

“Good. Thank you for the tea, Josie. I will talk to you later?”

“Of course.”

Footsteps faded in the hallway as they chatted. 

Chapter Text

Cassandra finished the last set of her morning drills with a final salute and prayer. She sheathed her sword and walked back to the campfire. Galyan met her with a bowl of porridge and stewed fruit. She accepted with a smile and they sat on a log. 

Constance sat on the ground nearby with a dish of water, a whetstone, and two piles of tiny blades. Each blade was perhaps the size of her index finger and she methodically ground an edge along one side. She kept moving in a steady rhythm, picking up, rasping, and putting down. 

Something about the rhythm settled Cassandra’s nerves. She felt the knots of tension at the base of her neck relax fractionally. It was quiet, just the sounds of the horse farm up the hill, the whetstone, and the nearby stream. 

“Head’s up, Con!” The Herald’s shout had Cassandra snapping her head up and looking for danger. 

The wolf that had come back with Constance last night bounded through the camp, tail and head held high. She was soaking wet and skidded to a stop right in front of her new mistress. 

Cassandra instinctively flinched and covered her bowl. 

The wolf shook herself. Drops of water flew in every direction. 

When the tempest cleared, Cassandra blinked in surprise. None of the drops had hit her. Instead, they pattered harmlessly to the ground in a smooth arc in front of Constance. Like they hit a window. An invisible window that didn’t exist. She looked at Galyan, but he shook his head and nodded at the girl on the ground. 

Constance glanced over her shoulder at them. Instead of directly answering the unspoken question, she gently chided the wolf, “We don’t put our bath water in our friends’ breakfasts, darling. Did Aunty Portia use the flea and tick soap on you?” 

The Herald walked up, still towel-drying her hair. She said, “Yep, and she got a yummy, yummy dose of parasite prevention along with it. Good girl, Kess. Morning, Cassandra, Galyan.” She rubbed the wolf’s ears and went to the fire to get a bowl of breakfast. 

The wolf flopped down on the ground next to Constance. Over the next minute, she inched closer and closer until she could rest her chin on her leg. Constance put down the blade she’d been working on and turned her attention to rubbing the wolf’s ears. 

The Herald came back and settled on a nearby rock. She said, “Adaar is down at the bathing pool and Varric is over at the other fire, interrogating the supply officer Corporal Vale sent over. Anyone seen Marcus or Solas yet this morning? I want to get that rift closed, then go back to the Crossroads and make sure it’s in good shape. They need food, supplies, and support before we head off to deal with the political side of this crisis. Con, can you, Kess, and Varric do the hunting? That one hunter said there are plenty of rams, then some of us can go looking for those supply caches and anything else that needs doing to get the place stable and steady. Sound good?” She finally took a breath and a bite of breakfast. 

Galyan chuckled and said, “That sounds like a plan. I have not seen either Solas or Trevalyan yet today. I assume they are both still sleeping, but I can’t say for sure.” He looked at Cassandra and asked, “Would you like some tea while we wait, love?”

Cassandra blushed and nodded. 

“Okay, she’s ready for you. Go on back,” Malika Cadash looked up from her clipboard at Leliana. She gestured over her shoulder and added, “Up the stairs, second door on the right. Thanks.” 

Leliana knocked on the door and entered without waiting for permission. The room was small and clean. A window let in light, but not sound, casting warm sunbeams across a pair of comfortable chairs and a small sofa. A low table in the center of the room held a tea set and a braided rag rug softened the floor.

Both chairs and the sofa had small, brightly embroidered pillows tucked in the corners. A soft knitted blanket draped over the back of one chair and a quilt was folded over one of the arms of the sofa. A small table next to the sofa had a lopsided ceramic dish that was full of clean, folded handkerchiefs. 

It was oddly soundless in the building, especially with how busy and crowded Haven was and the sickrooms just below them. But here, it was hushed and peaceful, like the Great Cathedral at midnight. Like the chaos of the world didn’t dare intrude on this space. Like—

“Please, sit where you like.” 

Leliana tensed and looked over her shoulder. She hadn’t heard Livilla’s approach and that was impossible! She looked over the woman quickly, noting the tray in her hands with a steaming teakettle, several small canisters, and a sheaf of paper clipped to a writing board.

She steeled herself and headed into the office, prepared to give up nothing. 

Kess’s nose had made it simple to find the druffalo and the rift had been simple to dispel. No spirits came through and Portia was able to seal it without danger to anyone else. She shook her hand and grimaced at the ache, but getting out of the druffalo’s way as it headed home was truly more dangerous than that rift had been. Yay for planning ahead? I think the ward I created unraveled already, but we should make sure. She adjusted the crystal and stifled her sigh at the relief of it pulling away the outer threads of wayward power.

Solas had watched the rift close with his usual stoic disapproval and the line between his eyebrows deepened, but he didn’t comment on the previous night’s activities. On their way back to the Crossroads, Portia mentally nudged Constance and sent, -Do you think we can annoy him into an aneurysm? That vein in his temple seems to be under quite a lot of stress.-

-Hm. Perhaps.- Con patted her horse’s neck. A moment later, she sent, -Guilt. There’s far more guilt in him than pride today. And melancholy. Maybe Rontari got through to him after we left?-

Portia thought about the odds and sent, -Maybe. They’re pretty much the same person, what with their rebellions and failures and bad decisions, so it’d make sense. Maybe…what’s that?- Their group was halfway across a broken bridge and a flare of a lot of angry people pulled at her senses. She slowed her horse and peered down a small valley, trying to see what was twinging her psy abilities. It was staticky and unfocused, but there were definitely people that way. Angry people. But…hard for her to get a mental picture of. Hard to pin down from a distance. Not like Aunt Liv. More like Cullen. Ashes, did we just find the rogue Templar encampment? Probably safe to just slit all their throats and let their god sort them out later. 

Constance’s eyes went slightly unfocused. She tapped her thumb against the spaces between each knuckle, counting silently up to twelve and down again. She finally said aloud, “Yes, when it’s dark,” urged her horse back into motion, and whistled for Kess to follow. 

Portia pulled out her notebook and made a mark on the line for “Find the Templar encampment.” She scratched out “Find” and scrawled “End” in its place. 

Leliana sat in the chair without the blanket. She tugged the pillow out of the way and tossed it on the sofa. It seemed safe in the room. It felt safe in the small, enclosed room with a single visible exit. And it was making every nerve misfire and instinct tell her to run. 

Livilla put the tray on the table and set about blending a tea from the jars of loose herbs. She poured the water into the teapot and flipped a small sand timer. She sat in the other chair and folded her hands in her lap. 

Leliana kept her lips pressed together and a bland expression on her face. She could wait. Be patient. See what Livilla wanted and then see how to best work within it. Or just walk out because what was the point of this?

The sand trickled through the glass and neither woman filled the silence with words. Leliana felt her shoulders tensing and deliberately focused on keeping her muscles loose and relaxed. The room wanted her to be relaxed and that was an uncomfortable thought. 

The last grain of sand fell and Livilla leaned forward. She poured three cups of tea and the herbal scent filled the air. She settled back in her chair and said, “You may choose first.” When Leliana didn’t move to pick up a cup, she added, “I give you my word that it is just tea.” She chuckled and said, “If I wanted to poison you, Spymaster, I wouldn’t do it here. Stop being a rude idiot and accept the hospitality.”

Leliana shot her a suspicious look, but smoothed the expression away. She chose the middle of the three cups and sniffed the steam. There was tea and mint and something else. Something that smelled of green. Herbal. Light.

“Tarragon. And how does the saying go? I think it’s something like: ‘Poisoners and herbalists have very similar skill sets, but very different motivations.’.” Livilla picked up the cup nearest her and watched Leliana, but didn’t elaborate or continue speaking her mind. 

Leliana sipped the tea and found it palatable, if an odd combination of flavors. She counted to one hundred and when Livilla didn’t say anything else, she put the cup down and said, “I do not think this is a good use of my time. This is a mistake.”

Livilla reached to the table and picked up the papers. She flipped through them and pulled out one. She handed it to Leliana and said, “Then I need you to sign this and write today’s date next to your signature.”

Leliana glanced at the text and felt the blood drain from her face. 

Livilla nodded and said, “Yes, that’s your resignation. Effective immediately, of course. When Verrus gets back, we’ll get you to Val Royeaux and wipe your memory of everything having to do with the Inquisition. You can go back to playing that insipid, mediocre ‘Game’ and leave the actual work of changing the world’s politics to the professionals.” Her expression didn’t change. She may as well have been discussing the tea for the emotion and interest she showed. 

“No! I’m not resigning! Just not doing all this nonsense!” Leliana threw the paper on the table and snapped, “Who would do what is needed if I did not?! No one here is capable of running the network that the Inquisition is going to need!”

Livilla’s smile was patronizing. She said, “I will take it over, of course.” She shook her head, “You are a somewhat talented, but poorly trained amateur. You’ve spent your career cavorting in the puddles and you think you’re in control of the ocean. A common misconception and one I could help you fix, but you refused.” 

Leliana glared at the other woman. She growled, “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t have the skills to manage the Inquisition’s spies.”

“Don’t I?” Livilla arched an eyebrow. She asked, “What are your plans for Butler?”

“I will have him killed. Painlessly, if possible, but swiftly.” Leliana automatically answered, then accused, “How do you know about that? No one else knows!”

Livilla sighed and said, “I read the report before you did. And your answer reinforces my diagnosis. If you were a capable spymaster, you would know the agents who report directly to you. You would know their likes and dislikes, strengths and weaknesses, but most importantly, you would know how they can each be bought, bribed, or blackmailed. And since you would know those things, you would have done the necessary work to ensure that they would remain loyal to you even in the face of temptation or despair. But you have not done that work. How disappointing. Do you even know why he chose to betray you? Or what all he revealed when he did?”

Leliana snapped her mouth closed and shook her head. Livilla nodded and asked, “So wouldn’t it be better to bring him in and find out? You do not have enough people that you can consider them disposable. And if you do consider them as disposable, they will know and have no reason to trust you. That is something you cannot afford.” She watched Leliana without blinking or flinching.

Leliana grimaced. She ground out, “I will…find another way.”

“Good.” Livilla put her empty teacup on the table and folded her hands in her lap. She said, “You will come see me tomorrow and you will bring with you a chart with all the attributes I listed before for all the agents who report directly to you. Ask Charter for help if you have trouble getting started—she and I did this same exercise last week.” 

The abrupt change in mood nearly gave Leliana whiplash. She asked, “Why would I share that with you?”

Livilla stood and walked to the door. She put her hand on the latch and said, “Because you don’t want to resign. So you’re going to work harder than you’ve ever worked in your life and you are going to learn how to effectively manage an operation that spans the continent. Consider yourself on probation. We may still have to erase your memories and send you back to Orlais, but I’m willing to give you one chance to prove me wrong. Tomorrow. Same time. Don’t be late.” She walked out without waiting for an answer. 

Leliana stared at the door for seven seconds, then stood. She scooped up the other papers on the tray for future analysis and headed for the tent she used as a headquarters. It wasn’t until she calmed down and read through the pages that she found the outline of her agents already neatly organized in a grid. A feeling of cold dread crept up her spine. Her agents. Their real names and their code names and many of the attributes Livilla wanted. All already listed in crisp, neat handwriting. The bottom page was another resignation letter, taunting her with its simplicity. 

She gave the order to bring Butler in without harm and couldn’t shake the feeling that there were eyes on her the rest of the day.

Chapter Text

“All right, people, take thirty minutes to talk to as many different people as we can and let’s get a list of the things that we can fix in the next seven hours!” The Herald—no, Portia—clapped her hands and the Inquisition team scattered. 

Solas walked through the medical tent. It was cleaner than the first time they’d visited. The ones providing care—he couldn’t call them physicians, not even in his thoughts—were at least washing their hands and tools between patients now. They also had more potions at hand and Mistress Livilla’s notes pinned up with the recipes. 

None of her recipes involved lyrium or using the Fade to manipulate the ingredients. They were simple herbal infusions, but with a degree of knowledge he had not expected from a mortal. He stopped and leaned closer to the pinned-up recipe. It is not the same as the one that Constance handed me. This one is far simpler, meant to be brewed by anyone with a kettle and some time. Less effective, certainly, but in the absence of a good alchemy lab, it may still save a life. 

He frowned and headed out into the village, turning the problem over as he walked. Did she build her recipes by herself? And if so, how long has she lived? The research for the uses of a single plant would take decades, even in Arlathan. To know how to get these results with sub-standard equipment, limited reagents, and no magic? It seems impossible, but the evidence is unmistakable—the healers here have potions and are using them. How? He dodged a farmer delivering goods to the sole market table. A sharp bark pulled his attention away from his thoughts. 

The she-wolf from the gorge sat by the signpost. Her ears were perked up and she stood when she saw she had his attention. 

Solas tipped his head to the side, wondering what she wanted. She mimicked the motion and a laugh startled out of him. He approached and asked, “Where is your mistress, da’fen?” She turned and took a step down the path, then looked back to see if he followed. He suspected he knew whither she would lead him, but followed. 

The faint, feather-light brush against his aura confirmed their destination before they rounded the last corner. Constance was talking to a hunter, the one who’d taken the responsibility of feeding as much of Haven as he could. They spoke of hunting grounds nearby and the difficulties of the terrain and prey. 

The wolf went directly to Constance’s side and leaned against her. The woman shifted her weight to handle the pressure and dropped her hand to pet the wolf. For her part, the wolf radiated contentment and leaned further into the touch. Solas had to tuck his hands behind his back to hide his reaction. Instead of reaching out physically, he waited and watched the way the woman and wolf interacted without words.

Constance wrapped up the conversation and turned to him. She asked, “Do you have a task for the afternoon? If not, can I give you one?” She was poised and calm, but commanding. Like it wasn’t actually a request. Like she expected immediate agreement and a willingness to accommodate whatever it might be. 

“What is your request?” Better to know the full scope before agreeing or denying. Better to react with curiosity than disdain. Remember Wisdom’s words. Be curious.

Constance started walking back towards the camp. She said, “That house there—the one with the white and yellow flowers—houses an older couple. Their son is grown and gone. The wife has a sickness in her lungs. She described it as breathing cobwebs.” She took the stairs smoothly and kept her eyes up and moving. She continued, “Mother has a recipe that could help, but for it to work best, it needs to be…” 

She stopped walking and stared at the tiny pond in the center of the town. A tiny line appeared between her eyebrows. Several silent seconds passed before she finally huffed and looked him full in the face, admitting, “I don’t know the word for it in Trade. It’s—“ she struggled for another few seconds and finally landed on, “It’s not steam. Not heating the liquid, because that would change the medicine, but…breaking the liquid into small pieces. Droplets. Like a perfume bottle, not a kettle. So it can go where it’s most needed. What’s that method called in Trade?”

Solas felt his logical thinking slam into the same linguistic wall. He shook his head, “I know the process you describe, but not the common word for it.” He asked, “That is the task? To make the potion and help the woman breathe it in?” At Constance’s nod, he asked, without thinking, “Then may I ask a question of you in return?”

“It very much depends on what the question is.” Constance was back to her usual calm, her irritation at the inefficiency of Trade banished. 

What language did you want to use? What did Rontari mean by his failures? Why do you brush your aura against every person you see? Where did your mother learn her herb-lore and how are you so real? Questions crowded Solas’s head and he impulsively asked, “What’s a phoenix?”

Constance smiled and said, “I will answer that, but not now. That is a tale to be told around a fire and in darkness, not under the sun.” They reached the camp and she waved at Varric and Adaar. They headed up into the hills, hunting for dinner for the teeming refugees. 

Solas bowed his head and went off to find the ingredients and Livilla’s recipe. 

The potion was slightly complicated, but that suited him. Questions still crowded his head and he didn’t know if he’d made a wise or foolish choice in what he asked Constance. His hands were busy chopping and measuring and stirring and it left plenty of time for his thoughts to trickle back and forth. 

He was waiting on the final boil when his attention abruptly yanked away from the pot and towards the hills. There was a distant howl from a hunting wolf, one who was harrying prey to an ambush. A second howl answered, victorious and preventing their quarry’s escape. 

Two wolves. Two. The rest of the pack from the gorge had chosen to remain as they were. Two?! Where had the second wolf come from? One was certainly the one following Constance, but when did she recruit the other?

The pattern repeated twice more. The final time was as he was forcing a thin stream of bubbling air up through a dose of the potion and convincing the woman to breathe the cold, not-smoky air. Even though he kept an ear out for it, he did not hear anything else. 

The sun was setting when he made his way back to the Inquisition tents. He had found a pair of potential recruits, possible agents to rebuild his network. They were thin shadows, hardly even people, and definitely not his people, but they had a spark of anger that he knew well how to exploit. And since it was likely that the Inquisition would remain in the area, starting recruitment now was a safe risk.

He paused at the scene around the campfire, taking it in. Constance sat on the ground, one hand held up near her head and the other petting her wolf. Behind her, armed with hairbrush and comb, the Herald—no, Portia—was putting an intricate, elaborate braid into her hair. The Seeker and the Qunari were working on their gear, the dwarf was writing, the assassin lounged on the ground in a deceptively seductive pose, and the Enchanter was reading a book. 

It was…normal. And felt…familiar. And real.  

Solas took a seat on the opposite side of the fire from Constance and asked, “Is this sufficient darkness for your tale?” He didn’t react at the feather-light touch of her aura against his, but she opened her eyes and the reflected firelight turned them to molten metal, something wholly inhuman and alien. Something that could burn him to ash. 

She smiled and said, “I will tell it to you as my  grandmother told me.”

The Herald—no, Portia—plucked a hairpin from the pile that Constance held in her raised hand. She twisted it into the braid and asked, “Which grandmother?”

“Azureé.” 

“Ah.” She brushed out another section of hair and continued braiding without explaining the significance to the rest of them. The dwarf flipped to a new page in his notebook and the Enchanter lowered his book to his lap. 

Constance’s voice was low and rhythmic. She recited, “What is a phoenix? Long ago and far away, in a land much closer to the center of the galaxy than we are here, there is a barren desert where scorpions and snakes scuttle under a relentless sun. This inhospitable land is the birthplace of the phoenix. The phoenix is a bird with feathers all of flame. Where she flies, forest fires and grass fires and conflagrations of all sizes spring up in her wake. The phoenix is immortal and every thousand years, she dies—“

The assassin started to interrupt, but the Herald—no, Portia—kicked him without pausing the rhythm of her hands in Constance’s hair. 

“The phoenix is immortal and every thousand years she dies so that she can live forever.” A faint smile touched the edge of her voice, as if many children over the years had protested in the same place. She continued, voice hypnotic, “When a thousand years have come and gone, the phoenix flies home to the desert. In the center of the desert there is a huge tree. It juts up to kiss the sky, wood long since petrified into rock. It has been dead longer than the world has been alive. The phoenix flies to this tree and builds a nest at the very top. All in a day, she builds this nest from camphor and cinnamon and cedar and sweet-smelling wood.”

Constance held Solas’s gaze. He could barely breathe as she spoke. “When the sun dips below the horizon, the phoenix begins to sing. She sings and the flames in her feathers ignite the nest around her, immolating her in her own flames. She burns and sings her dirge as the stars come out to witness. When the last light leaves the sky, the sun mourns and the desert is dark and silent.”

“When the sun creeps into the sky the next morning, he looks at the tree. There is a pile of ash, of charred wood and feathers, where the phoenix built her nest. There is also an egg. The egg is black and shiny with soot caking the shell. At the moment the sun’s rays touch the egg, it cracks and hatches. The phoenix soars into the air, fully grown and fledged, and the sun rejoices. She will return in a thousand years to build a new nest and sing and die and be reborn.” Constance blinked and her eyes shifted from molten fire to something avian and piercing. She finished, “Ta Rosindi. The phoenix. In the old, forgotten tongue, our namesake, our emblem, our inspiration burns and connects us to the tapestry of the stars. Rebirth and fire. Beauty and eternity. That is a phoenix.” She exhaled and her eyes shifted back to their normal appearance. 

The dwarf was busy scribbling the tale into his notebook. “Heck of a story, Firebird. Wait,” he looked up from his notes, read the answer on her face, and went back to scribbling, muttering something about how now it was too close to her actual name and he needed to find something better.

The Herald—no, Portia, get it right, Solas—tapped her cousin’s head and said, “Done. Call if you need extra backup. Love you.”

Constance stood and pulled a mask over her face and a hood up over her tightly braided hair. Solas blinked and took in the change of armor from what she’d worn during the day. No longer in the leather armor over bright, soft cloth, but an outfit all of mottled dark gray and muddy navy and deep, shadowy green. It fit snugly, but had soft bits along the seams that floated randomly and broke up her outline. With the hood pulled over her hair and mask and gloves covering her skin, she was nearly invisible, a camouflaged shadow in the light. 

The she-wolf stretched and yawned. She sat up and stared up at her mistress. Threads of aura went back and forth between them in a silent conversation. Constance finally shrugged and, voice muffled by the mask, said, “Very well.” She walked away from the fire, off into the trees, and vanished, steps silent and sure, even in the gloom, the wolf at her heels. 

Solas pinned Portia with a narrow, accusatory stare. She simply said, “She’ll be back in a couple hours. Don’t tie your tail in knots.”

The assassin propped himself up on his elbows. He asked, “Whom is she going to assassinate? And why did you tell her to go alone?”

Portia snorted and said, “I didn’t tell her to do anything. She saw a problem and is choosing to deal with it as she sees fit. Apparently, that’s on her own tonight. And she’s not going alone, don’t be ridiculous.” She picked up the comb and asked, “Cassandra, do you want me to do your hair, too? My hands are all warmed up and ready and, honestly, I could use the distraction. Con’s going to be fine and I need to keep my hands busy so I don’t worry about it more than necessary. Varric, do you have a story that could pass the time?”

Solas watched as the Seeker hesitated, then put her sword away and took Constance’s place by the fire, tension in every muscle. He looked past them, to the spot where Constance vanished into the darkness and wondered what kind of fire she was intending to set and who would rise from the ashes.

Chapter Text

“Hey, Firebird! I think we’re good! How about you and Fluffy stop rounding up more sheep and help us carry these ones back?” Varric slung Bianca over his shoulder and drew a dagger to start the gutting. He and Adaar (maybe Blades? No, that’s too predictable. What else makes this guy unique? Still haven’t gotten a handle on him. Good with that ax and more than okay with a bow.) had been able to set up a decent kill chute for the wild sheep-goat-ram-things. Firebird and the wolf she’d adopted had somehow herded them to just the right spot. (Huh. Don’t think I ever saw Firebird, just Fluffy. I want to know, but do I really?)

Adaar looked up from field-dressing a sheep. He nodded at the tree line where Firebird was pulling some kind of sled behind her. The wolf trotted at her side, head and tail held high. (Just like Hawke’s mabari when it got a hold of a slaver. Proud of itself.)

Firebird raised a hand in greeting. When she reached them, she said, “I don’t really feel like carrying these one at a time. This way, they can have the bones and hide to work with, along with the meat.” She unloaded two large pieces of bark from the one she’d been dragging and tied spare pieces of rope to them. 

(Definitely hunted before. Good thinking.) Varric hauled carcasses to the makeshift sleds and chuckled at the wolf inching closer and closer to the pile of viscera that Adaar removed. He said, “Fluffy, if you ask nicely, I’m sure he’d share.” His mouth fell open as the wolf tipped her head, visibly worked through the problem, then gently nudged Adaar to show him the biggest, saddest puppy eyes he’d seen since Daisy tried to get Rivani to get her a griffon for Solstice. (I was joking, but did she actually understand?!)

Adaar chuckled and said, “Go ahead. Just be ready to go when we’re done. The sun’s setting and we should be sure to get all this back while it’s still light out.” Fluffy woofed softly and nosed through the organs for her favorite pieces. (That is one smart dog. Is she part mabari or something?)

When all the rams were gutted and divided, Varric picked up the rope to his sled and yanked to hopefully get it moving, despite the weight and friction. The ground was covered with vegetation and rocks, but it slid forward as easily as if it was on a perfect sheet of slippery ice. It thwacked into his calves and he stumbled forward. (What?!)

Adaar watched and cautiously, gently tugged at his sled. It glided forward and bumped his leg. He looked from the sled to Firebird. When she simply smiled and easily pulled her sled a few steps. Adaar got down on the ground and peered at the bark. He sat back on his heels and asked, “How?”

Firebird shrugged and rubbed Fluffy’s ears. She said, “Same principle as how I throw blades, just a different application.” She tipped her head to the side and said, “I offered to teach Varric yesterday. I feel comfortable extending the offer to you, too. It’s not magic, has nothing whatsoever to do with the Fade, just a trainable ability by anyone with a soul.”

Adaar barked out a laugh and said, “Pretty sure the Chantry has some real strong and clear opinions on that, Con, and neither Varric nor I make their list.” He got to his feet and pulled the sled. 

“They’re wrong. You have a soul. If you did not, you wouldn’t be half so good at music and you wouldn’t be able to write stories that shape the world.” Firebird didn’t wait for an answer, but started walking back to the Crossroads, idly pulling a huge amount of weight with no visible effort. Fluffy trotted at her side, eyes and ears scanning for a threat. 

(Okay. I gotta know. None of this makes sense, but there’s a story here. And wait, he’s a musician? How did she know?!) Varric shared a disbelieving look with Adaar and hurried after her. He said, “All right, assuming you know what you’re talking about, because the evidence is pretty obvious, how does it work?” He needed one hand on the rope and couldn’t take notes. He sank the conversation into memory to write it down later. 

Firebird slowed down. She said, “Meditation. Lots of meditation. Then, I introduce you to the universe and you’ll be friends.” She opened her mouth to say something else, but stopped and stared at a small hill that overlooked their campsite. She muttered, more to herself than anyone else, “Who is that up there? The most patient scout in the history of the system?” She frowned and didn’t explain.

After dinner, Constance changed from her daily armor to a suit designed for night stealth. Even if she got mentally exhausted or incapacitated, the physical construction of the suit would keep her hidden. It wasn’t black, because nothing except the Void was truly black in normal sight, but dark gray and green, brown and blue, with fringes and free-floating bits in the seams to break up her outline even further.

She settled in front of Portia and asked, “Braid my hair, please?” She held up her comb, brush, and a collection of hair pins and bits of leather. Kess immediately draped herself half across her lap, looking for attention. 

Portia put down her cup and sectioned her hair. She asked, “All the way up so that it doesn’t move?” She silently sent, -You’re going to the Templar camp. Is Uncle Verrus meeting you there?-

“Please. The hood helps, but I don’t want to have to think about it.” Constance stared into the fire and checked the emotions on display of all their traveling companions. She didn’t delve beneath the surface, just checked what was on the top of their mind. She sent back, -Yes to both. And Solas is coming up the path and doesn’t feel like a prideful or guilty storm cloud. Who knew? And…- She trailed off and focused on the emotions swirling under the assassin’s outward calm. -…Did Marcus get a raven? Or a note?-

Portia picked up a hairpin and twisted it into place. She thought about the afternoon and sent, -Maybe? He’s on edge, but doing a good job of hiding it?-

-I agree.- A mental sigh, followed by, -If I have energy when I get back, I’ll find out. If not, it can be tomorrow’s problem.- Constance’s mental voice fell silent as Solas asked for the story of the phoenix. 

When she was finally able to walk off into the dark, Kess trotted happily at her side. Once out of sight, Constance pulled the hood all the way over her face until it met the edge of the mask. The hidden connectors clicked and a HUD shimmered into place. The forest was lit up in IR, thermal, and radar imaging, brighter than day and twice as useful. She set an easy, loping pace through the trees, eating up the miles with ease. Kess stuck by her side, joy at the run and excitement for the hunt echoing between them. 

Verrus met her on the cliff overlooking the Templar camp. He had a similar stealth suit, but instead of comms, they stuck with psy. He sent, -They are only watching the entry of the gorge, not any of the other access points.- He pointed at the two armored humans watching the road and the lack of watchers of the cliffs, the opposite side of the ravine, or the waterfall at the rear of the camp. 

-Noted. ‘Port me in at the back?- Constance opened her belt pouch and a half-dozen psy blades came out and hovered, ready for use. 

Verrus shared a feeling of approval for her preparations. He sent -I will start from the front and meet you in the middle.- He hesitated, then added, mental voice showing worry and concern, -Try to only touch them with telekinesis, kiddo. They are…corrupt. Your shields are good, but you have not had much practice yet with partitioning memory and I do not know how your psychometry will handle that amount of evil. You are your mother’s child, as much as mine, and from what I can tell, all their thoughts are poisonous.-

Constance flinched and Kess leaned up against her with silent affection. She sent, -Understood. Maybe preemptively tell Mother to meet me in the Fade tonight? Better to be prepared than have to rush?- She dug her fingers into the thick fur of Kess’s ruff and accepted the offer of comfort and support.

-Done.- Verrus put a hand on her shoulder and the world rippled around them. It cleared and they were behind the waterfall at the back of the Templar camp. He squeezed her shoulder and sent, -I will see you in the middle. Offer no quarter. Accept no surrender.- He vanished.

Constance slipped out from behind the waterfall and sent a blade through the nearest Templar’s neck. She grabbed his armor in a telekinetic hold and slowly lowered his corpse to the ground without a sound. Six seconds later, the next closest met the same fate. 

She worked her way around the camp. Though they wore armor, their helmets were discarded so they could eat and relax. Some even felt safe enough to do away with more. Not that armor would help them. Her blades were sharp as thought and didn’t quite move at the speed of sound, but it was enough. She had a spot of bad luck when a Templar turned around at the perfect time to get a face full of blood spray from their neighbor’s artery. She clenched her fist, casting a fast and crude kinetic ward to prevent his shout from warning the rest. He died six seconds later, crumbling to the ground with his friends. 

She reached the center of the camp a step behind her father. He cut down the last Templar and they saw the “entertainment” the Templars had been enjoying. 

Mages. Young mages. Tranquil. Some with still bloody lyrium brands. 

Constance knelt to recite the litany for the dead and her knee and hand touched the blood-soaked ground. The tsunami of memories crashed into her and she could do nothing but witness.

Chapter Text

Galyan leaned against a tree and watched the fires and darkness over the Crossroads. They probably didn’t need to set watches, not with the number of soldiers and scouts around, but Portia had insisted. He was to watch over the town and she was watching out the back of camp, into the darkness under the trees. Solas was, oddly, still awake, though he didn’t have a set watch tonight. Is he waiting for Constance? That seems likely, but why? After their…argument the other evening he seemed out for her blood, but during the story of the phoenix tonight, he looked at her like a man infatuated. I wonder if he even knows what he thinks and why he’s still waiting.

A clatter from the camp pulled him from his musings. Portia came into the fire circle at a sprint from where she’d been keeping watch in the darkness. She skidded into the tent she shared with Constance and came out just a few heartbeats later. She juggled a silver tube and a shiny bracelet. Or a cuff? What? Galyan took a step back to the fire to see better.

Portia muttered at the objects, running her fingers along them. “That’s set. And that…that should work.” She looked up and, to the open air in front of her and said, “Ready. Mark.”

There was no flash of light, no detonation of the Fade. Between one moment and the next, there was nothing and then there was a dark, amorphous shape kneeling beside her. Portia lunged and wrapped her arms around it. She tugged at the figure’s hood and it fell apart, revealing Constance, her eyes tightly shut and face contorted in grief or rage.

Galyan wasn’t consciously aware of making the decision, but he came over, hand outstretched. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Solas recoil and nearly fall off his log in shock. He knelt and checked Constance for visible wounds with a quick diagnostic spell.

Portia grabbed at her cousin’s hand and slid the shiny cuff in place on her wrist. She then pressed the open end of the tube against her neck and whispered something in that language that they’d never explained, “Three minutes. Just long enough to get to the good part of your favorite song. Put on something soft and I’ll be in. One hundred and eighty seconds and Aunt Liv will help.”

Constance nodded once and stood, movements less graceful than usual. She ducked into the tent, followed by the wolf.

Portia rubbed her hand across her face and looked past Galyan into the dark. She said, “What happened? What do I need to know before I go in there and squish love and acceptance physically into her body?” She stood and tucked the silver tube into her pocket.

Verrus stepped into the light. He said, “The Templar encampment is extinguished.” At a huff from Portia, he added, “Con needs to parse the memories she picked up. Rontari and I will give her all the time she needs.”

Portia sucked in a breath, but said, “Understood. Can you take the rest of my watch so I can–” she waved at the tent.

“Go.” Verrus watched her duck into the tent, then turned to Galyan. He said, “You need to talk to my wife about the instincts that have you immediately approaching a traumatized person to render aid. You have innate abilities that she is an expert at training.” He crossed his arms and frowned at Solas, “Meanwhile, you…”

Solas had picked himself up by this point. He accused, “How did the Templars make her Tranquil without leaving a visible brand?! Why did you let–”

Verrus raised a hand and Solas’s voice cut off. His eyes flew wide and he stopped trying to talk. Verrus’s voice was cold as deep winter when he asked, “How did you possibly come to that conclusion? Even for you, that seems illogical.” He lowered his hand and stared with silent expectation. 

Solas inhaled and said, “Her aura is missing! Her presence is a fog, a blanket that envelopes all of us and it is gone!” He held out his hand and his staff leapt from the ground into it.

Verrus shook his head. He said, “The education systems here have failed all of you many times over. My daughter is not Tranquil. She is simply both trained and polite. She is keeping her mind to herself, buried beneath the strongest mental shields she can conjure.”

Galyan asked, “How is that polite? I mean, it seems only reasonable to keep your thoughts to yourself, but…” he trailed off, not sure where he wanted to go with the sentence, just that he’s answering questions. Kind of. More information is always better.

Verrus kept staring down Solas and said, “She is currently experiencing all the recent memories of all the young mages and Tranquil that those void-born, light-forsaken addicts were torturing. The ones who were the Templar camp’s entertainment in the days since the Breach. Since their leash slipped and they were let free to indulge all their basest desires.” He nodded at the blood draining from Solas’s face and said, “If she were not exceptionally well trained and extremely polite, everyone in a several-mile radius would also be enjoying these memories right now.”

Galyan swallowed. Memories? Picking up memories and sharing them? That…doesn’t sound like anything the Circle taught. 

Verrus turned and nodded at Galyan, saying, “And that is why you need to train with Livilla. You might surprise yourself.” He stalked out of the firelight and took up Portia’s recent position in the trees. 

Galyan shared a long look with Solas. Solas, who looked like someone just walked over his grave, turned and headed into the tent he shared with Varric.

Galyan returned to his watch, counting down the minutes until Adaar would relieve him.

Solas settled the wolf jaw on his chest out of long habit, without truly thinking about it. He reached for his staff and froze. Like the pressure change before a thunderstorm, the Fade around the camp shifted and pressed in on his senses. It lifted after a moment and things felt…right. And real. He hurried through the rest of his daily preparations.

Upon leaving the tent, he saw Portia leaving her tent. She looked tired, but calm. An Inquisition scout intercepted her before she took more than a step, handing a pile of messages to her and reporting updates. She took them with a wry smile and said, “Thank you. Please, stay for breakfast and tell me what I need to know.” She turned the scout towards the fire and as they passed she said, “She’s at the stream, pretending it’s an ocean.”

Solas didn’t need the directions, not really, not once he followed the pull in the Fade towards the epicenter of the pressure. He stepped into the trees and felt the feather-brush of Constance’s attention. But…that is not the same. Before, it was the softest plume, something that would not disrupt a mote of dust. Now, it is more like…a quill. Something with heft enough to whisk away a layer without harming what is beneath. It was still comforting, an indication that whatever harm befell her the night before did not leave any lasting, obvious wounds.

The wolf pressed against her mistress’s side, but faced away from the water. She watches for danger? A sentinel? Her ears pricked up at Solas and she stared at him in canine curiosity and challenge. He felt another brush against his aua and stopped walking. That felt…that was no feather, but fur?! The wolf made a nearly inaudible sound and Constance’s hand came up to pet her. She settled, but maintained her watchful posture.

Solas approached, keeping the wolf between him and the young woman, silently respecting her task. He could see her face from this angle. She stared at the water, attention fully on the eddies and bubbles, the sticks and leaves. May as well attempt to ask. He quietly asked, “Why do you do that?”

“Water is calming. It’s not the right water, but good enough for government work.” She exhaled and didn’t move, but to pet the wolf and stare into the water.

“I meant the brush of your aura against all whom you meet.” He continued watching her face. Something flickered across it, there and gone too quickly to be analyzed.

She shook her head and leaned back. Her eyes traveled up the bank and to the hill opposite. She frowned, squinting into the trees. Instead of answering the question–or anything at all helpful–she asked, “Who is that?” 

Solas followed her gaze, but didn’t see anyone. He looked back and she was pushing to her feet. She ran her fingers over the shiny, clear cuff her cousin had pushed on her the night before–no, it wasn’t clear. Nor was it shiny. It held lights inside the material and her touch changed them. She caught his look and a faint smile curled the corners of her mouth, though she didn’t explain. She stepped across the stream and her wolf followed.

Solas followed, curiosity now entirely engaged. They climbed the hill, which required a bit of a scramble in one part to allow the wolf to make it up. When they reached the top, there was no one there.

No one living, anyway. 

A skull was fastened to a post. It had a large crystal embedded in the back of the skull and the eyes glowed with light blue magic. Magic wreathed the thing, spells of seeing hidden things and…others more esoteric. It felt old. And new. There was a draw about it, something calling and inviting.

Constance stopped in her tracks. Her face went pale and she stared at the skull, horror in her gaze. She had one hand on her wolf and the other went to her ear. She tapped one of her earrings and said, “I need you.”

In a blink, her father was facing her. His hand was on his sword and he looked at Solas with the same fire in his gaze that hers had had during the story, before the mission that went wrong. He stopped when he saw the look on her face and turned around to see what held her attention. “Huh. That is…what is that?” He paced a circle around the skull and finally asked, “This why you called, kid?”

“Yes. Who put it here, why, and what do we do about…them?” Constance pointed at a spot just to the side of the skull on the last word.

Her father pulled his glove off and placed his hand on the skull. Power swirled around him in a flurry of invisible burning feathers. It took but a few seconds for him to pull his hand back with a grimace of distaste. He said, “This, daughter, is what happens when unethical mages locate a Tranquil’s wandering soul somewhere out in the ether and bind that soul to their bones, but not their body. They do not restore the Tranquil as a spirit would do, but bind them into further service, using their connection to the ether to locate hidden treasures.” He shook his head in disgust.

“Ashes. Can we break it? Or…” She trailed off and deliberately looked at the hilt of his sword and then back at his face.

What secrets is she keeping now? Solas stayed quiet. He wanted answers to his questions, wanted them badly, but a modicum of self-preservation whispered Wisdom’s words. Keep listening, wolf, and perhaps enough clues will lead to answers.

Her father opened his mouth, but didn’t immediately reply. He stroked his chin in thought and stared at the skull. Power swirled again, a whirlwind of fractured moments. He eventually nodded and said, “Ask them. If they want to stay, we can transfer them. If they want to go, pull the ether from this point and the whole matrix should collapse.” He pointed at a spot on the skull’s forehead. The place where the lyrium brand still etched into the bone.

Constance went to the skull and after a brief hesitation, placed her bare hand on it. Her feathers were softer, but closer to visible. Less of fire and more of water. Still capable of immense destruction, but also greater comfort. After a long moment of contemplation, she bent to look in the skull’s eyes and said, “Rest. You have more than earned it.” She touched it, very gently, on the forehead. A tiny pulse of power jumped from it to her and the light faded. Tension bled out of her shoulders and she said, “Right. Another thing to add to the to-do list. Ashes, the ghost’s presence was gnawing at me.”

“Of course it was. Go, Portia needs you.” Her father kissed her forehead and vanished.

Constance looked at the hill-cliff and sighed. She said, “Great. At least these should be easy to find, unlike everything else.”

Solas followed her down the steep slope, using his staff and magic to keep from falling. He asked, “Should we not be somewhat concerned about what they were intended to locate?” Not that freeing them is anything but right, but so much is lost that having any of it would only help my cause.

“There are always other ways to find things. It probably…doesn’t…need—” Constance shook her head and caught herself on a tree, skidding to a halt. She gasped as the Fade constricted around her in a crushing grip, taking her to her knees. The wolf scrambled to her mistress and crawled into her lap, licking her face with a worried whine.

Solas Fade-stepped to her side, put a hand on her shoulder, and flickering visions of possible futures assaulted him from all sides. A desert and a giant, burning pain and arsenic-laced pleasure, a cavern with lava, red and poisonous regret, icy ashes and toxic vines, crushing guilt and blinding pain, power and riches beyond counting. And pain. Pain of every emotional and physical flavor. He flinched away and his sight cleared, even as his nerves continued to misfire. He stared at the human and demanded, “What was all that?!” The visions teased at the edges of his sight, phantoms of past and future woes and dangers, flitting through possibilities. 

Constance got one deep breath and then another. The Fade eased and the echoes of her vision faded entirely. She hugged her wolf and stood. She looked at him with eyes that were far, far too old for her face and said, “Please don’t do that again, Solas. It’s not safe for you.”

Despite any way he worded his questions, she didn’t say another word until they got back to camp.

Chapter Text

Portia scraped the last bit of porridge from her bowl and set it to the side. Cassandra was ranting, the others were alternately upset or confused, the scout had wisely fled after delivering the stack of messages, and Con was finally on her way back. The watcher’s signal is gone. Had to’ve been annoying the shit out of her. Wonder what was up with that?

Portia tapped her fingers on her knee as Cassandra continued to work through her feelings about what the scouts had found at the Templar encampment early this morning. Huh. I still can’t tell if she’s more mad about the massacre or not being invited to help. She kept tapping, checking the others as Cass stomped around the clearing. 

Thank the stars, Con’s back and…and she’s walking around the camp so she can come into sight behind Cass. Drama queen. Portia called, “So who was up there? And are you up for providing crowd control while I talk to the rogue mages? Not the ‘rebel’ mages, since they’re still holed up in Redcliffe, but the ones who’ve been having running battles with the Templars and getting normal folks caught in the crossfire. Anyone else who wants to talk them down is welcome to come along, but the goal is to talk, not fight.” The edge of her thumbnail caught on the seam of her pants and she rubbed it with her fingertips.

Cassandra whirled and shook the pages in her hands at Constance. She shouted, “And what about the massacre?! She executed those Templars and you want her help to talk to the mages?!” She stomped closer to Constance and Portia pre-emptively winced as the wolf’s hackles rose.

Constance put a hand on Kess’s head. She plucked the papers from Cassandra’s hand and scanned them quickly. She flipped to the third page and pointed at a paragraph in the middle. She said, “If we find this same number of young Templars being tortured in this same way in the mages’ camp, I can assure you that there will be another massacre.” She waited for Cassandra to start reading and added, “Even if what we find is as…detached as this report, I will still end those responsible. But, so you know, the words written here do not do those victims justice, Seeker. They are a faint shadow of the atrocities that these children experienced.”

Cassandra paled as she read, protests rising and dying on her lips. Galyan put a hand on Cassandra’s back and asked Constance, “Are you recovered enough? Last night, you seemed…shattered.”

Constance’s smile was faint, but real enough to dial back Portia’s stress level. She said, “Time in the Fade is…flexible. And I am related to people who are experts in its manipulation. It was at least several months, if not a year, that I spent learning how to handle those memories. Thank you for your concern.” 

“Time?! Memories?! Mages cannot change these things! It is not possible!” Cassandra rounded on Constance again, horror at the information in the report instantly transmuting to anger at a tangible foe. 

Constance simply stared at her. When Cassandra paused for a breath, she said, “Two things. First, I am not a mage. Second, your Chantry has much to answer for, but specifically in the areas of education and practical research, they have done you all an extreme disservice.” She waited to see if she’d get any reaction but spluttering and sidestepped Cassandra. She came over and held out a hand to help up Portia. 

Portia said, “And on that unifying and team-building note, anyone who doesn’t want to kill mages, come with me. Anyone else, find something to do around here. Cass, you are absolutely staying here, I’m not even kidding.” She crossed her arms and attempted Aunt Livilla’s patented Disappointed Look. 

Cassandra growled something under her breath and headed to the scout who kept the ravens. Galyan hesitated, but followed her.

Varric tagged along with Spark and Firebird. Chuckles and Charming both came along, which was entirely expected and potentially interesting. Fluffy bounded along, darting into the underbrush at random, chasing unfortunate critters. At least one of us is having fun. Could be worse, I guess. At least they keep a pace that I can keep up with. Not like Hawke, especially at first. 

The scout’s map had them walking through a low valley, full of fog, shadows, and magical ice. It was atmospheric, nearly as dramatic as anything he’d ever written. Really sells the ‘here be mages’ angle. I wonder if the mages have ever thought about the opera? They’d go nuts for this in Orlais. 

As they approached the cave, several mages came out, staffs raised. Guards. Great. Gonna be fighting before we get a chance to talk. Varric started to take Bianca off his shoulder, but stopped when Spark raised her hand to halt their group.

The guards froze in their tracks and…relaxed. Two of the three put their staffs back on their backs. The third wavered in place for a few more seconds before turning on his heel and striding into the cave. Varric’s hand fell back to his side and he looked at the others. Charming’s hand hasn’t left his dagger, but he’s watching the mages. Spark’s watching the fog, not the ones we can see, while Firebird is just as serene as always. And Chuckles…well, shit. 

Chuckles was staring at Firebird, horror and fascination dueling for supremacy in his face. He took a step back, away from her. Fluffy looked over her shoulder at him and deliberately sneezed before leaning into her mistress’s leg. 

Spark said, “That’s the guards done. And the crowd?” She looked at her cousin. 

“Ready to talk.” Firebird’s voice was slower than usual, like she was thinking very hard about her words. 

“Great!” Spark walked confidently to the cave opening, weapons still away and no visible signs of preparation. Firebird walked at her side, calm and distant. 

Varric hurried after them, catching up with Charming. Solas followed, feet dragging like he couldn’t decide if it would be better to keep his eyes on the girls or just wash his hands of the lot of them. 

Inside the cave, a dozen mages stood and sat around a fire. None of them were visibly angry and there weren’t any suspicious puddles of blood or summoned demons. It was…homey. Relaxed. Not the kind of thing he expected from “rogue mages”, especially after Kirkwall.

Spark stopped in the middle of the room and started a conversation with the mage who introduced herself as the leader. “So, if you want, you can come back to Haven with us. Or if you want to stay here, that’s fine, just stop preying on the local farmers and such. The Templars are very dead, so either option works for us.”

Varric drifted to the side of the cave. Firebird leaned against the wall, watching everyone with slightly unfocused eyes. The pouch of metal shards was open at her waist, but she didn’t have any spinning around her. He murmured, “Everything okay?” His fingers itched to pull out his flask or cigarette case or notebook, but he held back on the off chance this would all turn bad. 

Firebird was quiet. She eventually agreed, “All is well.” Fluffy nudged her hand with a tiny whine and she said, “Well, all but Solas.”

“Noticed that, too? What’s his problem?” Varric gave in and pulled out his cigarette case. He tapped one free and struck a match. Firebird shrugged noncommittally and didn’t answer. 

Spark shook the hand of the leader and said, “Sounds good. I’ll leave written orders with the Inquisition soldiers at both Dennet’s farm and by the Crossroads. They’ll help you as they can and if you decide you want to come to Haven, they’ll make it happen.”

The mage leader nodded and said, “And as long as the Templars leave us be, we will be content to remain here and do what we can to mend the land and care for the refugees.”

Spark rocked up onto her toes. She chirped, “Great! Lovely to meet you all, but we need to go organize camp so we can head home in the morning. I don’t know when we’ll be back in the area, but let’s keep in touch. That Breach isn’t going to fix itself.” With one last bow, she turned and motioned the rest of them to leave with her. 

They made it out of the weird mist-fog before Chuckles snapped at Firebird, “How dare—“

Varric facepalmed. This is gonna be the other night all over again. Shit. 

Spark stepped in between her calm cousin and the furious mage. She crossed her arms and asked, “Would you have rather turned that cave into a bloodbath? Because last I checked,” she held out her left hand, the sparking green mark in her palm angry and nearly alive, “this catastrophe made all of them put me in charge. I didn’t want to add their souls to my ledger, so I asked Con to handle the crowd, keep them from becoming just another mob that we’d have no choice but to put down! Just because your ethics are different and, frankly, given your whole deal, weird, doesn’t give you the right to attack my family for what I ordered. You have a problem with my decision, you come at me and you say it to my face. Is that understood?!” She glared and her hands were clenched into fists. 

Chuckles took a step back, naked shock on his face. He rallied, pulled his arrogant, aloof mask back in place, and said, “You ordered her to steal their will? Despite your pretty words about your demon friends, you are as much a slaver as any other human.” 

Spark scoffed, “That wasn’t stealing their will. That was…huh. How would you describe it, Con? Use small words so he can understand.” She relaxed her hands, but still looked a second away from throwing down. 

Firebird’s smirk was there and gone in an instant. She said, “I erased their fear and eased their anger. Just as a spirit of Compassion would. Just enough to let them use their logic and talk without taking our mere presence as an attack.” She looked Chuckles in the eye and asked, “Do you want to remember what that’s like? It would be no trouble.”

Chuckles raised his staff and cast a barrier around himself. Spark shook her head, voice full of disappointment, “That’s the wrong defense, but we’ll take that as a no. Con, leave him alone. Solas, you’re talking to Aunt Livilla as soon as we get back to Haven.” He started to argue and she added, “Or you can just talk to Uncle Verrus right now. Either way, you’re going to get educated so we can stop having these arguments out in public.”

Chuckles glowered at both girls, then abruptly turned on his heel and stalked off in the direction of the camp. Spark rubbed her temples and asked, “Varric? Marcus? Either of you planning on flying off the handle or stabbing either of us in the back any time soon? Because I don’t want to deal with it today if it’s all the same to you.”

Varric saw Charming startle at the mention of stabbing in the back and mentally sighed. He said, “I’m good, Spark. I might need some details on what it means to erase someone’s fear, but if it means we don’t have to kill everyone in order to make things better, then I can get behind it.”

Chapter Text

It didn’t occur to Solas until later that he had been incredibly lucky. Though Constance did not seem to have much, if any, control over her visions, the way she’d used her aura to manipulate the emotions of the rogue mages, and only the rogue mages, was precision beyond his understanding. Even the oldest spirit of Compassion he knew wouldn’t have been able to handle that many individuals at once, while also leaving specific people to their own devices.

Yes, he was lucky. Constance had him be angry at her. She had let him feel fear and frustration. She had let him walk away, fuming and…fearful of power so like that which the Evanuris had wielded against their followers.

Even in the camp, he saw now that she allowed the Seeker to be angry. She did not remove the concern and worry from the assassin or the enchanter. Her aura encompassed the whole area, offering a place of calm confidence and serenity, but she did not force it on any of them, despite the inner turmoil that she could certainly sense in each of them. 

Why? 

The evening had passed uneventfully. Constance, Varric, and the Qunari went hunting again, coming back with meat and food for the refugees gathered at the Crossroads. Again, he clearly heard the distinct calls of two wolves. He’d been on the other side of the valley at the time and by the time he made his way to the hunting ground, the only wolf to be seen was the one attached to Constance. 

The Hera—Portia worked with the healers and helped organize the Inquisition volunteers, having the rest of them help as they were able. That evening, around the fire, she’d pestered Constance relentlessly for a favor. 

“Adaar said I could borrow his guitar. Please?”

“No.”

“Please?!”

“No.”

“Pretty please?”

“No.” 

“I’ll play one of your favorites, too. Please, Con?” She gave Constance the same wide, pleading eyes that the wolf gave when food was involved. 

“Fine.” Constance’s consent was annoyed and grudging, but she listened to the tune that Portia played and sang along. Her voice was…compelling. Clearly trained and all in that language that he still did not understand. But the emotions behind the unintelligible words? Those were clear. 

The first song was bright and…sweet. Young love, like spun sugar on the tongue. The second was darker, angry. Still love, but turned inward and corrosive. Bitter and astringent, like sugar burned into ash. 

When she returned his guitar, the Qunari had tried to get her to talk about the language. The Her—Portia had spun a fanciful tale and named every language in Thedas, claiming that it was Antivan or Dwarven or Qunlat. Each time one of them said, no, it couldn’t be that, she’d blithely move onto the next one. Not a word of it was believable, especially with Constance refusing to get involved. She retreated to their tent and her aura vanished entirely the moment the flaps closed behind her. 

Why?

When Solas was able to fall into the Fade, he was unsurprised to find himself in the room in Lady Jeva’s hall. He tried to move himself to one of his holds, but the wards bounced him straight back into the small room. Annoyed, he was about to force himself awake so that he could physically move to a place outside of the hall’s reach, but a knock at the door stopped him. 

“Solas? Come on, we’re waiting.” The He—Portia’s voice came through the door. 

Solas approached the door and asked, “Who all is included in your ‘we’?” He didn’t open the door. Not yet. 

Portia sounded exasperated, “Me, Aunt Liv, Con, Excellence, Fear, Longing, Punctuality, and Wisdom-in-the-Garden.” She sighed and the annoyance passed through the door as if it was fog, not Fadestuff.

A denial was on his tongue, but his hand was on the door before his thinking mind caught up with his ears. Wisdom?! Is here?!? He yanked open the door but did not cross the threshold. “What.”

Portia stood there, the giant cat by her side. It sat on its haunches, tail wrapped around its front paws. Its ears were of a level with Portia’s shoulder. It must be the “Excellence” she named. Beyond them, where he had expected a hallway leading to countless doors was…what?

Portia grinned and said, “Yeah, the house rearranged itself. Welcome to the memory room.” She turned to head off into…into the misty, foggy, dank Witchwood where they’d found the rogue mages that day. Music filled the space, unfamiliar in all aspects, instruments and drums and voices arranged in a pattern he’d never heard. 

No. ‘Never’ is incorrect. That is the song that Constance sang, but…this is the Fade. Of course the words make perfect sense as this is drawn from her memory. The singer was male and his voice held a growl, something feral and untamed. And, as he had guessed from Constance’s rendition, the song was one of love gone wrong. Something unhealthy for the singer, who seemed one moment to want to cast off his beloved and the next have them back as before. 

Portia led him through the fog to the clearing. The clearing was almost the same as the waking, though more vivid than he expected of the Fade. The rocks and trees were muted, but consistent with his memory of the day. Except for that…what is that? He intended to investigate the silver plinth with a glowing ball floating above it, but motion from the side of the clearing caught his eye.

There, perched on a pair of rocks, were Constance and Wisdom. A Fear—the one who had been a bat?— stood behind Constance and she had the same green snake-spirit from her beach wrapped around her. Its fangs were buried in her neck, but she didn’t seem to be in pain. She was…petting it!? While it attacked?!

Wisdom raised a hand to wave him over, but a weight landed on each of his shoulders. Solas tried to move, to see who it was, but he was instantly bound, fastened in place, wrapped in gossamer threads of pure force that tightened the more he struggled until all his movement ceased. 

“Normally, I would gain your consent first, but I do not feel like being polite tonight.” Livilla’s voice was cold and calm and Solas felt her aura in the invisible bonds. He made a protesting sound in his throat, but before he gathered the mana and the will to Fade-step away, his alarm and discomfort vanished. He relaxed into the bonds, feeling at peace with the entire situation. An image came to mind, a memory of watching a moth caught in a spiderweb, how it struggled and fought until the spider’s fangs sank in and it relaxed into its fate.

Livilla said, “There. You will likely have most of your free will back by the time you rejoin the waking world. I just need to get these memories from you to stitch into the whole.” A phantom presence invaded his thoughts, which slowed like cooling molasses. It seemed to know precisely what it sought, for in a matter of seconds, it retreated and she said, “Done. You may free him at your leisure.”

Solas opened his eyes and saw Wisdom standing in front of him. She brushed her hands across his shoulders and the webs evaporated under her touch. She whispered, “Please try curiosity. The only power I hold in this place is that of mutual respect.” She brushed the webs off his form and turned back to face the group. 

Solas caught her hand and squeezed it. The odd numbing of his emotions was…helpful. Panic and anger are…not available to me. Instead I want to know. They followed Livilla to the plinth. 

She carried a nebulous ball of glowing power that flickered with images, emotions, and thoughts. She tipped it into the radiance atop the plinth and everything around them sharpened, making the Fade into a perfect copy of the other side. She said to Wisdom, “Three points of view are the minimum data set for true accuracy. More do not help, but do add lines of sight and information unavailable to others.” She plunged her hands into the memories and twisted them. 

The Inquisition team walked into the clearing in the memory. Livilla let time go forward until lights flashed around the edges of the memory. Constance said, “Yes, here’s where I applied the analgesic. Most of them just required lancing their deep emotional wounds, but that one,” a vague figure changed from pink to blue light, “needed an active buffer. Took the majority of my concentration.”

Livilla left the pillar and walked to the blue figure. The perspective of the memory shifted, falling in and making them the new center. The mage’s mind lit with different colors and patterns and she peered closely at an area. Time ran forward and warm flames made of feathers wrapped around the section, partitioning it and preventing energy from flowing as it would. She nodded and the perspective and time snapped back to what it had been. 

Fear paced beside the blue mage and said, “This one…the others had septic fear, but this one changed their lifetime of fear into fury. They are fighting your control, are they not?”

“Extremely. I had to devote more energy to them than all the rest together.” Constance petted her snake with an exhausted sigh. 

Wisdom looked at the mage and asked, “When you departed, what happened? How did they cope with what they did with what they wanted to do?” 

The memory around them sped forward to the confrontation. Solas listened to his angry tirade and looked back at the mages Portia had convinced to stand down. All but the one were looking ahead, burdens lifted from their shoulders. The one, though…a shimmer surrounded their mind and they looked around in confusion. Livilla said, “Blurring their short-term memory. A reasonable choice for the field, but not what I would suggest for long-term healing.” She tapped Constance’s nose, but with love, not reproach.

Wisdom asked, “Is this the end?”

Portia laughed and said, “Not quite. Look over there.”

In the distance, a figure lit up. It started as a spark, but expanded to a human. 

Livilla gestured and the focus pulled to that figure. They were high on a cliff and had a bow. As Solas walked away from the Inquisition, oblivious to his surroundings, the archer aimed at him and drew back an arrow. 

A feather of force hit the bow, snapping the stock and sending the pieces ricocheting around. More feathers wrapped around the now loose string and pulled it tight around the archer’s neck. They struggled against the force they could not see, but did not last long. They sank to the ground and the spark that had identified them winked out.

Solas gaped at the assassin’s death and whirled to face Portia. She shook her head, “My range isn’t that good. That was all Con.” She shrugged and added, “If we wanted you dead, you’d be dead. Not gonna let some random Tevinter goon take you out.”

Solas opened his mouth, but Wisdom squeezed his hand and he reconsidered his words. He said, “I…I spoke harshly and could not see the healing that you gave, only a potential harm too like that which I fought against. I do not agree with your methods, but you might not be all wrong.”

Portia covered her face with her hand at the non-apology and Constance went back to her rock. The angry love song started up again and flashes of upset thought and conflicted emotions flowed between her and her spirits. 

Livilla sighed, “Can you take him to your garden, please? I need to talk with my girls.” She shook her head, disappointment and worry on her face, but not her aura. 

Wisdom bowed shallowly and said, “Yes, of course. Thank you for the invitation.” She drew a sigil in the air with her free hand and the Fade shivered. The room with the too-solid memories vanished and Wisdom’s garden came into focus around them. She sat Solas down in front of a candle and wearily said, “Meditate for a time on what you saw tonight. You need to grow, my friend, and you need to do it soon, lest they lose patience and you force their hand.” 

Solas settled in, watched the flame, and thought about free will and what healing might require. 

Chapter Text

They’d gotten a late start, tearing down their camp and getting back on the road to Haven, but Constance was content. She took care of the horses, telling them to carry their riders politely, with a minimum of attitude, please. She spent most of the prep time arguing with Solas’s horse about its upset at carrying a predator, not a partner. 

When they finally got moving, Adaar asked, “Know any other songs in that language, Rosindi? It was pretty.” 

Constance glanced his way and shrugged, “Thanks.” She didn’t feel any malice from him, just curiosity, but stopped her answer there. Just in case. I don’t think it’s time for that reveal just yet.

Varric laughed, “You do that real well, Firebird.”

Galyan asked, “Sing?”

“Nah, I meant the not answering questions thing she does. Spark’s good at spinning a story and I respect that, but Firebird’s figured out how to keep her mouth shut, which is a damn hard thing to teach.” Varric tapped a cigarette from his case and lit it with a match. 

Portia threw back her head and cackled. She crowed, “I knew Varric would be the one to call you on it!” She twisted in the saddle and told him, “You’ll understand when you spend more time around Uncle Verrus and Aunt Liv.”

Varric looked at her expectantly and Constance sighed, “I never learned how to tell a believable lie, so I don’t even try. Instead, I learned how to gray rock. It works out.”

Varric puffed his cigarette and asked, “Gray rock?”

Time and tides. How do I say this? Constance struggled for words in Trade. She finally landed on, “It’s like…change your mind, your self, into a boring gray rock. There is neither truth to be found nor falsehood to be disproved nor thought to be extracted because there is nothing but a boring rock in front of you.” There. Safe enough. 

Adar’s eyebrows were nearly in his hairline. He asked, “That…works?”

Galyan quietly answered, “If your will is strong enough, it can. But it’s hard.” Cassandra steered her horse closer and bumped his leg with hers. 

Adaar grinned. He said, “So what I’m hearing is that if we can get you to talk, we can believe what you say.” He considered this and added, “Though, there’s a lot of gray area around telling the truth.”

Varric dropped his cigarette. His emotions flared with alarm and Constance looked around for the threat. There’s nothing but small, scurrying creatures. What’s wrong?  

Varric choked out, “So when you said you could teach…” He caught the tiny shake of her head and her quick glance at Cassandra and Solas and ended with, “Huh. That’s…interesting, Firebird.”

Portia laughed and said, “And don’t worry about Con getting captured and tortured into giving up all our secrets. There are only two people in Thedas with the power and skill to break her and they haven’t yet, so—“

“The Custard Incident?” Constance interrupted with a wry smile.

“—And they haven’t in the last fifteen or twenty years and they had a very good reason at the time. Major diplomatic incident. Fates of nations and worlds hung in the balance. Totally justified.” Portia smoothly corrected herself and waved expansively, encompassing both the trespass and the fallout of the aftermath.

At Adaar’s questioning noise, Portia started telling a heavily embellished and extremely edited version of one of the times they’d gotten in enormous trouble. It had turned out okay, with Cousin Octavia dealing with the diplomats and Grandmother Az using it as an opening for a new set of missions into contested territory.

The others seemed entertained by the story, but Constance kept her eyes and senses up and moving. She wasn’t sure now if the message Marcus had gotten was a contract on either her or Portia’s life or if he’d been ordered to get close to them for other reasons. Either way, his motivations have changed. He wants something now. Rust. I liked the flirting, but now there’s…something under it. Ashes. Something else to worry about.

Cassandra was still upset about the Templars, but more at the necessity of it than the action. Galyan was worried, working through some of what Father had said and things he’d noticed. And Solas was…not quite his usual stubborn, prideful self—there was a crack in the regret that he wore like inflexible, but effective, mental armor. Interesting.  

Portia got to the part of the story where they’d managed to rig the formal dining table into a high-velocity pudding delivery system, though she described it more as a “catapult” than the “rail gun” it’d really been. Constance laughed at the follow-up questions and refused to confirm or deny the accuracy of the account, no matter who asked.

Josephine reworked a letter to King Alistair. It was always tricky to strike the right balance when dealing with royalty, but he’d been raised in the Chantry, not knowing his parentage. So the strategy she would use for Celene or the Archon needed to be tailored. Tweaked. She got the wording sorted out and reached for her tea cup. 

Her fingers closed on empty air and she looked up. Leliana held the cup, refilling it from a pot she held. She offered it to her, saying, “They’re almost back. They’ve lost the light, but the path is clear and the scout who ran ahead said none of them wished to camp.”

Josephine took the tea and looked out the window. It wasn’t yet full dark, but the mountains could be treacherous. Her eyebrows rose at the scent of the tea and she asked, “Isn’t this one of Mistress Livilla’s blends? It’s familiar, but not…” She trailed off as she tried to parse the flavors. 

Leliana poured a cup for herself and sat down. She said, “Yes. She made it for us. She…” she shook her head, looking for the right words. “How does a provincial herbalist know how to play the Game better than I do?! She has had me reevaluate my entire approach to my agents and I can see the pattern and how much better it could be. I’ll be in position to know anything before the decision’s even been made. But getting there is so much work! And how does she know?!”

Josephine shook her head and admitted, “I do not know. I had a look over several of the more lucrative contracts that my family has gotten over the last few years and ‘Rosindi’ shows up more often than not. Some of these deals would have to be a net loss for their family, but they uphold it every time. I cannot see the reason behind it, but…they’re saving us and I didn’t even see the pattern as it happened.” she trailed off and stared into her tea. 

“She threatened to erase my memory of working with the Inquisition! Said it as easily as I might threaten a knife to the neck.” Leliana blurted out. She put down her cup and started to pace. “She claims to not be a mage and Cullen says there is nothing of the Fade in what she does, but I don’t understand!”

Josephine started to shrug, but stopped the motion partway through. She tried, “Is understanding the most important question? The ‘how’ or the ‘why’ instead of the ‘what’?” She tapped her fingertips on the teacup and watched the ripples cross and recross the warm liquid. 

Leliana dropped gracelessly into her chair. She said, “I don’t know. I don’t know any of that. Just the ‘how’, as you say.” She admitted, “Is it wrong of me to be tempted? To go back to Val Royeaux and work for the Chantry and do what I know how to do? This whole Inquisition is just…we don’t even know the whole scope of the problem yet! How are we meant to fight that which we cannot see?”

Josephine put down her cup and reached across the desk. She covered Leliana’s hands with hers and said, “I need you to do this. And you can do this. We believe in each other when we cannot believe in ourselves. And we take the help offered to us, pick out the worst bits of obligation and keep moving forward. The —“

A knock at the door cut her off. The door swung open without waiting for a response. Mistress Livilla smiled serenely and said, “They just crossed into Haven proper. They’ll be at the gate in a few minutes.” She turned and walked away without waiting for a response. 

Leliana turned her hand to squeeze Josephine’s. She said, “Thank you, Josie. It’s probably too late to have a full debriefing with the Herald and her team, but we can see them.”

Josephine wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and said, “Don’t let Portia hear you say that.”

“Hm. True.”

Chapter Text

Portia sat at the kitchen table of the guest house. She had a list, a pot of tea, a basket of pastries, and a small pile of reports from Josephine, Cullen, and Leliana to review before their afternoon meeting. If they only knew how many deportment and etiquette and military lessons I’ve had, maybe they’d trust me to just get on with this Val Royeaux trip. Or maybe not—even Uncle Verrus still gets reminders before state visits. 

They’d had a short team meeting last night, emphasizing that everyone - yes, everyone - was expected to meet with Aunt Liv and that they’d figure out today who all would be going to Val Royeaux in two days and who would be staying in Haven to help in other ways. 

“Hey, Spark. You’re up early?” Varric leaned against the door frame. 

Portia put down the report on the newest military recruits and said, “Yep. Got the schedule from Aunt Liv and I’m to make sure everyone knows when they get to talk to her.” She double-checked the list and said, “You’re right before lunch.”

Varric glanced down the hall, then asked, “What’s this meeting gonna be, anyway? Firebird wasn’t too clear on it.” 

Portia extended her senses and caught a brush of Solas’s presence lurking in the hall. She wobbled her hand and said, “It really depends on the person and what they need. She’ll figure you out and help. Just be honest and you’ll be fine.”

Varric chuckled and came to the table. Portia pushed the basket towards him and he picked up a scone. He headed back out of the kitchen just as Solas stepped through the door, wearing prideful disdain as armor. 

Portia didn’t have to look at the list. She said, “You’ve got the first appointment after lunch, Solas. Don’t be late.”

Solas clasped his hands behind his back. He raised an eyebrow and said, “And if I should choose not to attend this meeting?”

Portia muttered quickly, got the translation from her implant and parroted in Elvish, “Then you will wake tomorrow far from here with no memories of the last two months. If you are lucky, Rontari will be busy tonight and so your soul will still be yours.”

Solas’s eyes went wide at the language and then the meaning hit him. He demanded, “Why all the threats from your kindred?”

Portia sighed and got another quick translation. She said, “You haven’t been pleased with the carrot, so instead you are shown the stick.” She stacked her papers and said in Trade, “You’re the last person I had to tell what time to show up. I’m about to be last for training, so I need to run. Make good choices today, Solas. Please.”

She left the basket of pastries on the table and headed out into the yard. She heard the Chantry bell and broke into a sprint. Being late for training with Uncle Verrus wasn’t the worst thing that she could do this morning, but it definitely wouldn’t help her be able to do things like “walk” later today. And I need to be able to walk if I’m going to effectively flirt with Josephine. Stars, she’s pretty.

An hour after lunch, Solas walked out of the medical building in a daze. He didn’t know or care where his feet were taking him, just that he needed to put some physical space between him and the small room where Mistress Livilla had unraveled memories he’d worked for centuries to shunt aside, to forget as much as he was able. 

“Nothing you say here will be repeated. Ever. I take confidentiality very seriously.” She poured two cups of tea and offered one to him. It smelled light and floral. Sweet, not bitter. She asked, “So, first, which of your names would you prefer I used for you?”

The ground beneath his feet changed. No longer packed mud and ice, but forest loam and leaves. The sounds of soldiers and commerce faded behind him and arboreal silence welcomed him in. 

“You have more regret tying you in knots than I’ve ever seen. We can start with your most recent regret or the oldest. Which would you prefer? Or would you rather I choose?”

The path was a game trail. Bits of fur and feathers, moss and mushrooms, decorated the trees and undergrowth. The mental fog still blinded his eyes, but his other senses were beginning to wake up. There was smoke ahead, still the silence of a healthy forest. 

“Very well. You were a spirit of Wisdom until Mythal convinced you to create a body from stolen lyrium. During that traumatic transition, she betrayed your trust and bound you to her will. You made the choice to steal the lyrium to create and inhabit a body, but she chose to harm you. You do not have to forgive her trespass, but you must, at minimum, accept your choice, if not fully forgive your former self for the consequences that they could not foresee.”

The game trail led through a clearing, if only in the most generous definition. Truly, it was little more than a wide place on the trail where two trees had recently fallen. The sky above was low and heavy with gray clouds, but there was a fire and Solas sat on one of the logs. He stared into the flames, thoughts still circling inefficiently and toes regaining warmth from the fire.

“View the memory again and put aside those thoughts of hindsight and trying to draw a conclusion about your present circumstances based on this one event. What would you tell your past self if you could speak with them right now? Can you offer that person some grace or forgiveness for making the best decision they could with the information they had at hand? No? Why not?”

Wait. There was a fire. A fire in a circle of stones, not something wild. A fire that must have been built by someone. Solas tore his eyes from the dancing flames and realized why his body and soul had chosen this place to take rest.

Constance looked up from her book and said, “Welcome back.” She tucked a piece of ribbon into the book and closed it. Her wolf laid across her feet and watched him with alert eyes. On the log next to her, a curled up fox slept, its tail over its eyes and its sides moving with its breath.

Solas’s thoughts moved through sticky syrup. He asked, “What?”

A smile turned up the corners of her mouth. She said, “You look like my mother got her fangs in you and started to unravel the knot of regret and pride upon which you’ve hung your entire identity. Now you hold a piece of that unspooled regret and while you know you cannot put it back where it was, you’re not sure how to integrate it into your view of yourself. Is that close?”

The accuracy was... Surprising. Solas latched on to the one part of the description that didn’t make sense. “Fangs?”

“Fangs. Chelicerae is more accurate, but doesn’t scan as well.” She shook her head with a small chuckle that echoed into her aura, “Varric’s not the first to call her ‘Lady Spider’ and almost certainly won’t be the last.” She reached down to put the book into a bag and rubbed the wolf’s ears before sitting up again. Her aura permeated the small clearing, her attention split between him and the animals and the whole area in a comforting blanket.

The word she used made no sense, but Solas felt the edge of her humor ease the regret and pain he’d been ruminating over. He asked, “And so I should ask you for the anti-venom?” Metaphor? Perhaps. But, though the dwarf named her a poet, she is more often distressingly literal, even if the topics are not anything that makes sense. And honest. Do not forget that she is honest.

Constance raised an eyebrow, but her smile didn’t fade. She said, “More like offering a soft place to land while you work the pain through your system. Palliative, not curative.” The fox’s ears twitched at their conversation and it picked up its head. It yawned expansively, showing off its teeth before chirping up at the young woman. She picked it up, letting it settle on her lap. 

The wolf rolled her eyes and huffed a canine complaint, but didn’t otherwise react to the interloper. Solas pressed his hands against the bark of the log, letting the wood bite into his skin and the pain ground him in the present. The memories of being a spirit–the memories of being intrinsically connected to the world’s magic and all other living things–were too close to the surface, too tempting, too unlike the silent world he’d woken in.

But…no. That was not true, was it? The world was not silent. Not here, not in this tiny clearing. Here, Constance’s aura softened the edges of harsh reality and replaced the silence of absence with the silence of compassion.  

Memories crept in. Not the artificial remembering that Mistress Livilla had forced on him, but something natural. Memories of being a spirit of Wisdom and simply existing in the presence of a spirit of Compassion after yet another argument with Mythal or Elgar’nan, letting Compassion help him work through the harsh emotions and return to himself. Solas closed his eyes, straightened his posture, and let his hands rest on his knees. As his fingers uncurled, his hands filled with tangible peace and confidence and his breathing softened.

The pain stirred up by the memories was still there, but now held at a safe distance, rather than lashing from all sides. Solas watched his old memories for the third time that day. Mistress Livilla had forced him to first experience those memories as if they were happening anew, then took him back to the beginning as an observer . He observed them again, watching the way Mythal’s expression changed when he was weak from the embodying, how she hesitated, but ultimately went through with enslaving him. 

The regret and the pain were still there and still strong. The regret said that everything else in his life that caused him pain came from this choice and, thus, it was entirely his fault. The regret held the pain close, never allowing the wound to heal. The pain kept convincing him to not listen, not accept direction from anyone, lest they lead him into another betrayal.

The regret was…wrong. He’d made the best decision he could with the information he’d held at the time. Had I not agreed on that day, I may have agreed a day, a decade, a century later. She was very convincing of her need for me. Or Elgar’nan would have destroyed or imprisoned me for some offense, real or imagined. Or when Ghilan’nain learned how to force spirits into bodies, she would have done so to me and I would have been enslaved to her instead. She would not have had the same burden of guilt as Mythal and it would have been much harder to escape. There is no way to know what would have been the outcome had I not taken a body on that day. It still hurts, but wishing to undo this decision is futile. That version of me is still part of me and…and is still here. He does not need to pay for this mistake, if it was a mistake.  

When he finally closed his hands and let go of the external peace, he was able to breathe easier. The world was still muted, still lacking the intrinsic magic that it had held before the Veil, but he was present in it. Solas opened his eyes and saw Constance still waiting patiently. The fox had gone and in its place, one of the spymaster’s ravens sat on her knee. She murmured to it in that unknown tongue, words rising and falling in a smooth cascade. Poetry of some kind, something rhythmic and soothing.

He listened and the words still made no sense, but sounded like they should make sense. She spoke in praise and softness and the bird preened under her hands. It eventually shook itself and launched itself into the air, flapping noisily. Constance watched it go.

She seems relaxed. Perhaps if I ask… Solas asked, “What is the name of that language?”  Constance smiled and said more words. He rolled his eyes, acknowledging the easy out he’d left in the question. He tried, “Does it, perhaps, have a name in the common tongue?”

“No. It was never heard in Thedas until our household arrived.” Constance shrugged and picked up her bag from the ground. She brushed the snow and dirt from the bottom before slinging it around her shoulders. She rubbed the wolf’s ears and said, “I need to head back to the house to help with dinner. Please put out the fire when you’re done here.” 

Solas gestured and the Fade rippled, lifting a pile of snow and dropping it on the blaze. He stood up and straightened his clothes. He asked, “If that is true, why can I understand the meaning, if not each individual word in order when you speak it?”

Constance clicked her tongue at the wolf, who bounded into the trees off to the side of the game trail. She started down the narrow path back towards Haven. She eventually said, “Probably because it was designed to be understandable. Flexible. Easy to learn and easy to use.” Her aura contracted, pulling in tight against her skin. A thread kept her connected to the wolf and another spread out along the ground, delving under the snow and trees.

“Designed? Who is able to design a language?” Solas followed her, ducking branches and dodging briars. The wolf shadowed them from the trees, enjoying the wild walk.

Another shrug. “Someone who needed one?” They stepped carefully over a half-frozen stream, the footing slick and treacherous.

Her amusement started threading through her aura. The calm confidence, the peace, the softness was threaded with enjoyment and humor at the game. Solas huffed, but had to hide a smile. He tried a different approach, “And is this ‘someone’ a person you know?”

Pure amusement now, even as her aura continued brushing back and forth along both sides of the trail. She looked over her shoulder at him and said, “No, nor does anyone in my family. Nine thousand, seven hundred and fifty-four years, give or take a few months, separate them from us.” She abruptly stopped at a gnarled oak tree, kneeling in the snow to push aside the leaf litter among the roots.

“So they are from your lands?” Solas stopped to watch. “What are you doing?”

Constance wobbled her hand back and forth. “Eh, not technically. Kind of. But not really.” She peered into the darkness under a root and said something in that tongue. A very large spider crept out of the hole and onto her hand. She stood and faced him. She held up the spider and said, “Chelicerae are the mouthparts of spiders. The fangs are part of them, but they’re modified limbs and can be used to manipulate objects or silk. And deliver venom, of course. See?”

The spider reared back on its back legs and held its front legs away from its body. It was big enough that the mouthparts were easy to see in the open pose. It flexed the chelicerae, showing off the complexity. “Fascinating.” Two smaller appendages flexed beneath the fangs, smaller than the legs, but just as flexible. He asked, “Are there names for the small legs? The ones to the side of the mouth?” 

“Pedipalps or just palps. Also multi-use appendages, but not technically legs.” She ran a finger along the spider’s back and it relaxed. She murmured a question and it waved a leg at her. Constance knelt and let the spider return to its den. She pushed the leaves back over the opening and stood, brushing her hands on her pants before heading back down the path. 

The language is ten millennia old, created for a specific purpose, and her family is not from Thedas. What…what else is there? There is that land across the sea, but I do not think that is what she meant. Solas thought about the wolf, fox, raven, and spider. All allowed her to handle them and seemed to understand the words she used. Perhaps it was a language designed to speak with creatures? If true, does she have to teach it to the wildlife? That seems unlikely.

They left the trees and were near Haven when he asked, “How do the native animals know the language, but the people here do not?”

Constance stumbled and turned to look at him. Surprise or disbelief stole a portion of the grace that guided her steps. She blinked rapidly, then visibly gathered herself and pulled a mask of calm confidence back over her features - Because it was finally clear to Solas that it was a mask, something worn to protect herself. Or maybe others? - and said, “You may believe that, if you wish.” The openness she’d had in the forest was gone, her posture and aura shuttered and remote.

Not that it is true. Not that it is what she does. Just that I may believe it, not that she wants me to believe it or that I ought to believe it. Solas inclined his head and waited there at the edge of the trees. Constance shook her head again and headed straight back to the manor house she called home. The wolf bounded along at her side and they both disappeared into the house.

Solas walked the path around Haven’s walls, listening to the boisterous humans of the town unwind at the end of their day. He picked up messages from the dead-drops his agents used and pondered what he had learned.