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Chapter Text

He watches the sky as she thrusts her hand and the orb into the air, sending a beam of raw magic up into the Breach. The swirling green clouds draw in on themselves. The sky stitches itself back together at her command, like wounds on the battlefield or torn garments while she's curled up in an armchair.

The orb falls from her hold: intact, to his surprise. He does not go to it. He stands ready, staff still in hand, should she need support. He watches as she uses the Anchor to send the Tevinter magister into the Fade.

Rocks that had been floating, levitated like the very ground they stand on, begin to drop from the sky. She stares at the spot where her foe stood a moment before. Someone else calls her name. She staggers back just before a boulder crashes down in front of her.

His stomach lurches. They're falling. The night sky races by. He is the closest to her. He is the one who grabs her and casts a barrier around them as they plummet to the ground. She grabs his shoulder in one hand and pulls out her silver coin, holding it tightly, with the other. The wind whips at her fiery red hair, pulling pieces from the practical braided bun she most often wears into battle.

She slips into unconsciousness on impact, but her breath is warm against his skin. She's alive. He sends a pulse of magic to scan her for injuries, soothes what he can with the energy he has left after their battle.

She doesn't wake when he sits up and looks around. None of their other companions are in sight. But the orb. His orb. It lay fractured on the stone ground a few meters away. A shame, but the distress he had once expected to feel should this outcome occur is… dim. Flickering, like a flame about to go out.

She mutters something—a human curse—which draws his attention from the broken artifact. She pushes herself up, wincing.

"Careful," he urges and lifts a hand to support her, only to drop it a moment later without ever making contact. She doesn't reply to his warning. All she does is look up. She nods at what she sees: a closed Breach. Her smile usually comes easy, but her expression remains guarded at this sign of her triumph.

Her gaze falls to him. It is somehow kind in its scrutiny. Her fingers lift from the floor, brush across a tear in his robes. She peers at the cut beneath it—shallow, barely a scratch, though it bled enough to stain the fabric.

Apparently satisfied, she removes her hand and looks around like she's trying to orient herself. Her focus lands on the broken orb. She frowns.

"I—" She coughs, stirring the dust in the air. "I know you wanted the orb saved. I'm so sorry."

"It is not your fault," he says with a shake of his head. He gets to his feet and offers her his hands. "Besides, in all other aspects, you have your victory and you are alive to celebrate it." She accepts his help.

Once on her feet, she sways slightly. Her brow furrows, and she slings her arm around his waist. He stiffens, just for a moment, at the touch. She notices.

"There's more, though, isn't there?" Her voice is light but tired. She starts walking, clearly expecting him to support her as she does. He shakes his head again.

"Not yet." If he is to stay, she will need to know the truth. However, she deserves to enjoy her victory before he burdens her with the past.

She pinches his side. He cannot see her face from this angle, but he's sure she's scrunching up her face in displeasure. A small smile curves his lips at the thought and solidifies the decision he made only days ago. The decision to stay.

Chapter Text

The Inquisition was already celebrating when Cordelia and her companions arrived back at Skyhold victorious. A mage healer met them halfway to help with any serious injuries. Cordelia had her bruised—and potentially a little cracked—ribs taken care of, having ridden in constant pain for a day and a half already. But just because she was healed didn't mean she was in any mood to party.

So she didn't. Not that night, anyway. She took a bath and cried and fell asleep in Cullen's arms. Safe and warm.

The next day, they celebrated. The one after that spent nursing hangovers.

Today, Cordelia rises with the sun and walks out onto the balcony overlooking her home. She breathes in the mountain air, still cool, but certainly warmer than the winter months.

As he had the first morning back—as he will, she hopes, each morning she stands on this balcony—Cullen comes up behind her and drops a kiss to her shoulder. A few more up the line of her neck. Cordelia smiles and reaches back to tangle her fingers in his hair.

"Good morning, 'ma arlise."

He smiles into her neck and hums. "Good morning, da'haselan."

They stand in comfortable silence for a while, his arms securely wrapped around her middle. They're in no rush. There is still work to be done, yes, but without a looming Breach or the supposedly unkillable magister, they've been allowed some reprieve. She's not sure how long it will last. A day more, at most, she wagers.

"What do you have planned for the day?" She leans back against her love's chest and peers up at him.

"Our soldiers are still celebrating, I'm afraid. Apart from the ones on guard shifts." Their soldiers, who had still been a few days' march from the fortress when she left, have been reveling since the night she killed Corypheus. "Rylen's meant to spend today warning the rest it's back to routine drills tomorrow," he says. His voice rumbles through her, bringing a smile to her lips. She strokes his forearms absently.

"So, that's what Rylen is doing. What are you doing?"

He sighs. "Paperwork." She huffs a laugh and turns in his arms.

"How dreadful. To sit at a desk and do paperwork when only a couple weeks ago you were leading our armies through the Arbor Wilds," she says. She scratches his chest gently and kisses the underside of his jaw. "So terrible to not have to risk your life." He leans back enough to look her in the eye, a brow raised.

"I suppose you have suggestions on how I should spend my time?" Cordelia nods and smiles mischievously, giggling as she pushes Cullen back into their bedroom.

After a lovely morning spent lounging in her and Cullen's quarters, Cordelia ventures out in search of Dorian. She greets people as she passes through the Great Hall but doesn't stop to chat. It's still primarily nobility milling about in there, and she can't stand their brand of small talk.

Solas is working at his desk when she enters the rotunda. He isn't drawing… perhaps taking notes on something. Or writing a letter—though that's a rare occurrence as far as she's aware.

"Savh, lethallin," she says. He lifts his head, his quill stalling on the parchment. She continues toward the stairs.

"Aneth ara," he replies. The furrow between his brow deepens. "Would you be able to spare a moment to speak later today?"

"So serious." He doesn't smile at her teasing. "Yes, of course. I'll come find you after I grow weary of Dorian." He huffs a soft laugh—success!—but nods his agreement. She considers briefly that he might wish to speak of whatever he was holding back the night at the Temple. That would explain why he's all intense. She brushes it off as a concern for later as she crests the top of the staircase.

Dorian's reading nook is empty, so she makes her way quickly to his room and knocks on the door.

"Good morning," she sings through the wood. Something thumps inside the room.

"Now is not, aha, a good time, dearest," Dorian says, his voice light and breathy. She stifles a laugh.

"That's a shame," she says and leans against the door. "I was really hoping to spend some quality time with—"

"Go away!" Bull's deep laughter makes its way to her after Dorian's shout. She cackles. "Cordelia, I swear to—"

"I'm going! I'm leaving," she insists through her laughter. She backs away from the bedroom door. A servant in the hall and a clerk in the library both give her strange looks for the laughter she's trying very hard to calm. She whispers apologies and makes her way to the stairs again.

With another deep breath, her giggles cease. June'enaste, those two. Not that she has any ground to stand on when she and Cullen have fucked in several places that aren't their bedrooms.

Solas is still scribbling away at his desk. She leans against the archway and watches him. She likes to see how long it will take him to notice her; she does the same with Cullen and even Varric. But she has a notoriously difficult time keeping her mouth shut.

"Dorian's a little—" Solas startles and looks over at her—"preoccupied at the moment. We can talk now, if you like?" He nods.

"It's a private, personal matter," he says as he rises and closes his notebook.

"Okay, let's go then." She beckons him, walking towards the exit.

He remains quiet on their trek to the northwest tower. She speaks about the nice weather, about the dream she had the night before, about Sera's shenanigans during their celebration. He doesn't seem upset exactly… anxious, maybe? She's not quite sure what an anxious Solas looks like, actually. Worried for her, sure, but this isn't like that.

They make it to the terrace, and Cordelia lifts her face to the sun. He stands apart from her. This situation feels oddly familiar. They came here together before. The night he told her about her vallaslin. She touches her cheeks in remembrance.

When she turns to him, she straightens in response to the look on his face. His expression is one of… of fear. But it's gone as soon as she meets his gaze, replaced by resolve.

"What is it?" The words come out quieter than she intended. He swallows.

"You asked if there was more to know regarding the orb," he begins. "It has a name: the Orb of Fen'Harel." She crosses her arms in an attempt to settle her unease. "It belonged to me. Corypheus should have died unlocking it in the first place, but—"

"You're Fen'Harel?" She blurts it out the moment her mind catches up to his words. His head dips in a shallow nod. She steps back, her mouth hanging open.

"I was Solas first," he says as her mind reels. "“Fen’Harel” came later… an insult I took as a badge of pride." Funny, since "solas" is the elven word for pride. "The Dread Wolf inspired hope in my friends and fear in my enemies… not unlike “Inquisitor,” I suppose." She's not sure she likes that comparison. Had it not been for the Conclave, for the Anchor, she would have been the one to protect her clan. From him.

"But you aren't—I mean—" She laughs bitterly and rakes a hand through her hair. "At the Temple of Mythal, your depictions of the gods… your corrections of Dalish legend… and you—fuck! The statue!" She points a shaking finger at him. "You were all cagey about it being there. And Abelas said—How do you—" She shakes her head and puts it in her hands. Slow down. Slow down. Breathe.

"Your would-be gods were called the Evanuris, and they were nothing more than powerful mages. The first of the elves." Her hands fall from her face, resting at the base of her throat instead. "The Dalish legends of Fen'Harel are just as inaccurate, as you might imagine." He clasps his hands behind his back and faces the mountain range. "I sought to set my people free from slavery to the Evanuris. I broke the chains of all who wished to join me." He looks over his shoulder at her, and she quickly schools her face into something more neutral than… disturbed. "The false gods called me Fen’Harel, and when they finally went too far, I formed the Veil and banished them forever. Thus I freed the elven people and, in so doing, destroyed their world."

"The Veil? You created the fucking Veil?"

He is unfazed by her outbursts, which almost makes her angrier. "Yes. Do you remember the elven name for Skyhold?"

"Tarasyl'an Te'las… the—the place where the sky is held back…" She pauses in consideration. "You created it here?" He nods. In other contexts, she would expect a small, pleased smile at her putting pieces together. There is none of that in his face. Nor in hers.

"I performed the ritual on the mountain peak, though it was levelled by the early Fereldans who built the fortress. You've stood on the site many times. I'm certain you could sense it, if you knew to look for it." She stares at him. This is… this is too much. Her vallaslin being derived from slave markings was one thing. But one of her dearest friends… the great adversary of her people's mythology.

"Why now?" After all this time. After they've grown so close.

"When I woke from uthenera a year before I joined you, I found that the Veil had severed most people's conscious connection to the Fade. It was like walking through a world of Tranquil."

Cordelia cringes back as if he struck her. "We aren’t even people to you?" No wonder he scoffed at her suggestion that he and Briala were of the same people, if he thought so little of the modern peoples of Thedas. His brows pinch together.

"Not at first," he says. "You showed me that I was wrong… again." Right, because that makes up for it. Focus. Listen. "As I started to tell you, Corypheus should have died unlocking the orb. My agents had allowed the Venatori to locate it, as I was too weak to open it myself after millennia of unconsciousness."

"And what then?" What is the point?

"I would have entered the Fade, using the mark you now bear. Then I would have torn down the Veil." She inhales sharply. "As this world burned in the raw chaos, I would have restored the world of my time… the world of the elves." Has the plan changed? Or does he simply mean to warn her that he'll be leaving to find another way to accomplish his goal, now that Corypheus is gone? She bears the Anchor—his Anchor… He can't expect her to join him, can he?

"I never thought of you as someone who would do that, Solas," she says, her voice breaking as she tries not to cry. Not yet. Not… not in front of him. Not after this.

He looks down. "Thank you."

She shifts on her feet with her arms wrapped around herself to keep herself from shaking. "That doesn't answer my question. Why."

"Because I could not remain with the Inquisition without divulging the truth. You would be entirely justified in throwing me out, but you—"

"You don't get to tell me what would be justified," she snaps. "Does your plan still stand? Will you be looking for some other way to tear down the Veil and destroy this world?"

"No. I would have left before we returned to Skyhold had that been my intention." He would have just left her. With no word, no explanation. She feels sick at the thought of losing him like that.

More questions bubble up in her chest in tandem with the overwhelming grief and betrayal. How exactly did creating the Veil destroy the world? Why would he create the Veil when he loves the Fade so dearly? How did the Evanuris go too far? How did they come to be remembered as gods? But she doesn't want to be the one to relay all of this. No, he can do that himself.

She steps toward the ladder. "We're not finished." Her voice is that of the Inquisitor. Formal. Cold. "I merely think it prudent to have you share this with the rest of my inner circle before I ask any further questions."

"As you wish, Inquisitor." He bows his head deferentially.

She scurries down the ladder before he can look up. He doesn't follow her, thank the—well, thank whatever being is out there watching over them. If there is one at all. They can't be worse than elven mages who enslaved their people and—fuck… the vallaslin. Were the Evanuris the first to brand their people?

She does her best not to run across the battlements. She wishes for a shawl to throw over her head, but the warm weather has left them tucked in her dresser drawer. Maybe… maybe she can find one in Cullen's loft.

Her hands shake. She balls them into fists. Her stomach churns. She breathes steadily through her nose, keeping her breakfast down. Barely. She avoids eye contact with passing patrols. The door to Cullen's office can't appear quickly enough. She jogs the last few meters to reach it, desperate for shelter.

Her heart sinks when she slips inside and finds the room empty. He's doing something other than paperwork, then, considering the untouched pile of parchment on his desk. None of the candles are lit. He hasn't even been in today. She slumps against the door, her head dropping back with a thud.

For a moment, she just stands there and breathes, but she quickly feels exposed in the expansive room. Up she goes.

She doesn't bother removing anything—not her dress, nor her stockings—before climbing into Cullen's old bed. She wraps herself up in the blankets that still carry the faintest scent of him. She chokes on a sob.

Solas. The Dread Wolf. The Veil. The gods. The Fade. The Anchor. Her people. Solas.

She doesn't want to believe him. How could they have gotten things so wrong? How did they forget that they first enslaved themselves? How could they have villanized the man who endeavoured to free them? She knows how. Time. People. Their disconnection from the Fade, from their history. Surely there must have been propaganda, too. But that doesn't make it any easier to bear.

Solas. Her friend.

The betrayal stings like antiseptic ointment on a wound. How much of him was a facade? How much did he truly care? How would she ever trust him again?

Cordelia muffles a scream into the pillow beneath her head. Her tears and snot and spit wet the fabric as she sobs. She curls further into herself.

She doesn't want to believe him, but he's never lied before.

At least, she thought he hadn't. Now, she supposes he's lied to her hundreds of times, even if only by omission. Still, he would never be so cruel as to lie about something like this. And what would be the point? To break her? To trick her, like Fen'Harel does so often in the stories of her people?

She shakes her head roughly, tightening her arms and the blankets around herself. In her heart of hearts, she knows he is speaking the truth. He planted the seeds what feels like a lifetime ago. Then he watered them over months and months, gave them sunlight, protected them from the harsh winter. All this time… all of her questions, answered with precision.

It's terrifying. It's heartbreaking. It makes her want to pull the covers over her head and hide from the world forever, for it is not what she thought. Her faith, her life is a… it's a false legend. A story.

And she likely hasn't even heard the half of it. How much further can her world be shattered? Will it be ground to dust for her love to scatter on a summer breeze?

The Anchor flares painfully, the green glow illuminating the cocoon she's now buried herself in. She cries out and cradles her trembling hand against her chest. The pain in her hand dissipates after a few seconds, but the ache in her heart remains.

Chapter Text

Cullen pushes into his office with a heavy sigh. It's foolish, but he misses Cordelia already. It's only been a few hours. They've spent upwards of a month apart, more than once. He should be fine. She's probably having a grand old time with Dorian, as she always does. He'll see her soon enough.

He approaches the stack of paperwork on his desk but stops in his tracks at the sound of a quiet voice. He looks around.

"Hello?"

"Up here," the voice calls from above, still barely audible. An uncomfortable feeling twists in his gut as he crosses to the ladder.

He knows who he'll find in the loft, but the quality of her voice is such that he's still concerned. This doesn't seem like a faux coy attempt to seduce him. Those have become easy to spot.

"Vhen'an?" he says softly when he pulls himself up into the loft. It's clear from the lump in his old bed that she's there, but he can only glimpse a hint of her curls on the pillow. The floor creaks under him as he steps toward the bed.

Brilliant blue eyes peek out from under the covers. Brilliant blue and puffy red like she's been crying. He closes the distance quickly, sitting on the edge of the mattress and reaching out to touch her temple.

"What's happened?" Sniffles. Her eyes glisten with tears.

She hides again, though it's clear she doesn't mean to hide from him. She's hiding from the world, from whatever has her so upset. He allows her time to collect herself, uses it to remove his chestplate, his boots, his gloves.

The bed creaks slightly from disuse as he moves closer to her. He pets the top of her head, then reaches for the edge of the blanket. He gives it a gentle, hesitant tug. The blanket lifts, and he is roughly dragged underneath by the arm and leg Cordelia hooks around him. She tucks her head into the crook of his neck. In other circumstances, he might have laughed.

"Darling…" He teases his fingers through her unkempt hair.

She turns her head, the side of her face pressed into his shoulder. "Do you remember the story I told you about the Dread Wolf, Fen'Harel?" Her voice is just loud enough for him to hear.

His brow furrows in thought as he tries to recall. Was that the… "The trickster? Who banished the gods, separated them from the People?"

"That's right… partly right, anyway… " Her fingers fidget where her hand is stationed on his back. "As it turns out, the gods… or, who we believe to be gods, were truly locked away." He wants to ask what she means by the "who we believe to be gods" comment, but he holds his tongue for now. "But it was not out of hatred for the People, or… or jealousy of the gods."

She takes a deep, shuddering breath and pulls herself from his arms. She sits up, looking towards the corner of the room. However, her gaze seems far away. He follows her, rests a steady hand on her lower back.

"My gods are false. They were merely powerful mages. Slavers." Maker's breath…

"Solas told you this?" It's the only logical conclusion. He tamps down on the immediate urge to find and throttle him. She needs him here. At her side. Her head turns toward him, just a little, her eyes still unfocused. "And you believe him?" She rubs her thumb in circles on her left palm, where the Anchor rests.

"The Dread Wolf wanted to free the ancient elves. The Dread Wolf created the Veil to save the People from the gods and their tyranny. The Dread Wolf…" She barks a laugh, and he wonders where she could possibly be going with this. "The Dread Wolf paints frescoes depicting the progress of the Inquisition." Cullen's mouth falls open.

He stares at her in shock. "You can't be serious."

"Deadly, I'm afraid." A pair of tears roll down her cheeks.

He isn't sure what to say. What is there to say? There is no comfort to be found when your faith has been ripped to shreds. You have to painstakingly stitch it back together or leave it to wither away into nothingness. To have it ripped apart by one you care for so deeply? He can only imagine what's going through her head.

There's anger too, simmering under the surface. Not for her—well, maybe for her, but certainly for himself. He's angry they were all duped. He's furious that one of Cordelia's closest friends is the man responsible. Blackwall's lies were one thing, but this? An elven "god" in their midst. What kind of power does he wield? What kind of threat does he pose?

From Cullen's understanding, Fen'Harel is used as a bedtime story, a boogeyman to scare children into behaving. But more than that, the Dalish both respect and fear him. A Keeper's job is to protect the clan from him. It would have been Cordelia's job, had the Conclave not altered the course of her life. All this time, they've been living under the same roof as such a being.

After at least three tries at opening his mouth to speak, he finally manages to say, "What do you need?"

"A shawl," she says. She doesn't say why. He doesn't need a reason, though. He marches right over to the practically empty wardrobe in hopes of finding what she needs. Pulling out the bottom drawer, he spies a black shawl, embroidered with what look like lilies of the valley. He retrieves it, shakes it out, and carries it to his waiting love.

She eagerly takes it from him and wraps it around her head, covering her hair and part of her face. Like a shield. She fishes a pin out of her pocket to fasten the fabric in place. She looks paler but seems… soothed.

"Schedule a war council, please." He masks his surprise, even though she isn't quite looking at him. The request is… unexpected, but he supposes it would be a good way to assess the threat. "For as soon as possible. I have more questions, and my most trusted need to hear the answers as well." She lifts her gaze to his, her focus finally sharpening. "Disregard Vivienne, if you would. I'd rather avoid her biting commentary on this." He takes her hand from where it rests atop the blankets and gives it a squeeze.

"Would you rather I heed this order or remain here with you?"

She looks down at their hands and swallows. "Do it. But come right back." He nods, kisses her hand, and climbs out of bed.

He throws on his vest and boots but disregards his chestplate. If he's to come right back, there's little reason for it, though two years ago he would've cringed at the thought of being seen out of armour. He hurries down the ladder and out the eastern door to find a runner. He encounters a lad on his way up the winding stairs to the aerie.

"Pardon me…?"

"Jim, Commander… ser," the runner replies, straightening his uniform.

"Pardon me, Jim, but I need a message delivered to the Inquisitor's party members and advisors—save Madame de Fer," Cullen says. "They're expected at a war council tomorrow morning at nine." Cordelia asked for a meeting as soon as possible, which could have been this evening, if he so desired. She, however, will not going anywhere except her own quarters tonight. It's not for him to say what she can and can't handle… but as her advisor and partner, one look at her face says she's not ready to continue the conversation she and Solas had earlier today. He just hopes she'll be grateful for the time to process.

"Right, yes, ser, of course," Jim says. "Anything else?"

"That will be all," he says with a wave of dismissal, only for a thought to come to him a moment later. "Do remind Sera to be prompt. Tell Cole he can wake her if needed." Maker forbid she be late for such a meeting. The runner nods and heads up to the aerie to write down the messages.

Satisfied with his scheduling, Cullen makes his way back to his lover in the tower.

She sits in the same spot in bed, though she's thrown off the blankets. Undoubtedly, she got too hot. Green tendrils of magic float in the air before her. At the sight of him, she releases the threads. They disappear as if they were never there at all. The glow of the Anchor dims.

"He said that waking up in our world—a world with the Veil—was like waking up in a world full of Tranquil," she says quietly, her gaze flitting back to the space her magic was dancing a moment ago.

"That's… horrific," he says as he shucks off his boots and vest once again.

"I know." She flops down onto her back.

"We don't have to talk about it today," he says. "It can wait until the council in the morning."

Her head lolls to the side to look at him. "Thank you," she murmurs, stretching her arm across the bed as if to touch him. He crouches to take her hand. "What do you propose we do instead?" He rubs a circle into the back of her hand thoughtfully.

"There's always the mountain of reports." This brings a tiny smile to her face. "Or I could read to you."

"You could do both," she says. A bit of light returns to her eyes at the suggestion. He arches a brow.

"You want to listen to me read reports?" Her most common complaint in life is boredom. Reports tend to bore her more than most anything else. But if that's what she wants, he'll gladly provide. She nods and squeezes his hand.

"I'd listen to you read anything." He feels his cheeks heat in response, even after all this time. Report reading it is, then.

Cordelia paces the length of the war room while Josephine fusses over the positioning of the chairs—one for each member of her inner circle and advisory team. Usually they forgo chairs, but this could be… quite a long meeting if they let it. Her mind is full of questions. Her feet make little to no sound on the stone floor, though her lightweight robes rustle slightly with each pass of the room.

"Cordelia, your tea's getting cold," Leliana says gently. "Might it help soothe your mind?" Doubtful, but it can't hurt. She nods and approaches the table to retrieve her cup. A quick burst of magic heats it back to the proper temperature before she brings it to her lips. The warmth does soothe her, the tiniest bit.

Morrigan is perched in one of the chairs already, lazily stirring her third cup of tea. She looks far better than she did following their battle with Corypheus, which is a relief. Cullen stands at the table with a hand on the pommel of his sword.

Cassandra is the first of her companions to arrive. Cordelia's greeting is friendly, calm. No one was told what the meeting was for. She can't help but wonder what they think today's topic of discussion is. Likely, they think it a meeting to prepare for what comes next, now that their foe has been vanquished.

She meets Morrigan's gaze and realises the witch might have more of an idea than the rest—save Cullen. Considering her binding to Mythal, that doesn't surprise her at all. In truth, it only adds to her running list of questions. It's gotten so long, she's sure they won't get to everything today. Nor does she think she could handle receiving every answer in a single day. She might implode.

Dorian and Iron Bull arrive next. Dorian's brow furrows in concern at the sight of her. She ignores it, downs her tea, and pours herself another cup from the pot. Varric quickly follows, his cheerful demeanour doing wonders for Cordelia's thrumming nerves. He jokes with the rest of them as he finds a seat with ink, quill, and parchment at the ready. Ever the writer. She hopes he doesn't note down her behaviour.

Then comes Cole, Blackwall and a disgruntled-looking Sera, no doubt dragged from bed to make the meeting on time. Everyone finds a seat. Except Cordelia, and Cullen, who still stands protectively at her side.

"It's not like Chuckles to be tardy," Varric comments. She tenses, hiding it behind another drag of tea.

"He's not tardy yet," Cullen says.

"I was torn from my cozy bed only to have Mr. Elven Glory arrive after me? Bollocks." Sera kicks at the base of the table and crosses her arms. Blackwall swats at her in playful reprimand.

"Hey, you can rub it in his face when he gets here," Bull says. This seems to placate her.

Dorian, who's out of her line of sight, asks, "Are you to be our scribe, Varric?"

"Oh, I'm only writing the juicy bits…"

Sera perks up. "You think there will be juicy bits?" Cordelia cringes.

Cole shakes his head, frowning. "Juice is not involved. Unless you consider blood to be juice… I don't think it would taste very good."

Before anyone can tell Cole to stop, Solas enters the war room. Cordelia's gaze locks on him immediately. He has the good sense to look a little ashamed, if only for a brief moment, if only just for her to see.

"Good of you to join us," Cordelia says, her voice cold. "You can take a seat, if you wish."

"I'll remain standing for now, Inquisitor," he replies. Out of the corner of her eyes she sees her companions exchange looks.

She ignores them. "Right, then, Josephine, you'll take proper notes?"

"Of course…" She looks between Cordelia and Solas with a concerned furrow to her brow. This is far from the way she and Solas normally interact. She understands their confusion. They'll realise soon enough what has caused the rift between them. Cordelia nods to Josephine and finally takes a seat. Cullen sits in the one right next to her, Dorian a foot or so to the other side.

"Whenever you're ready," Cordelia says and crosses her arms. Solas bows his head in a brief sign of deference before he begins to weave the tale.

This depiction is far more eloquent than the day before. To be fair, he doesn't have her interrupting him in shock. No one else here is Dalish. No one else feels this loss so deeply. The betrayal of his lies? Sure. Varric, in particular, wears a guarded but grave expression on his face. They were close.

Cole, on the other hand, is unfazed, which doesn't surprise her. Though she wishes he had told her, even when Solas wouldn't. She understands why he wouldn't. Solas likely asked him not to, but it makes her think of all the strange, cryptic conversations they had on the road, as they traipsed across southern Thedas for a year and a half. How much would make sense with what she knows now?

When he begins to speak of the rebellion, of the eluvian pathways he created to get freed slaves to safety, of removing their vallaslin, of requesting support from Mythal, Cordelia's stony mask threatens to slip. These are parts of the story he did not tell her the day before. She hadn't thought to ask about the rebellion. He spares them much of the gory details, but he does answer more than one of her questions in his speech.

Like what the Evanuris did that was the final straw: they killed Mythal—who Solas claimed to be the best of them, benevolent, just—after she stood up to them. Morrigan runs a hand over her mouth, her gaze faraway, at this revelation. Is she listening to the memories? Perhaps Cordelia should have asked her more questions after she drank from the Well.

He explains what the creation of the Veil did to the elves. Their whole lives were magic. The world was cleaved in two. Elvhenan crippled. Immortality lost.

Cullen takes her hand, and she realises she's been clutching the chair arm. She squeezes his hand nearly as tight.

"You love the Fade," Cordelia says when Solas pauses, careful to keep her voice as unaffected as possible. "Why would you create the Veil to hide it all away?"

"Because every alternative was worse," Solas says, guilt lining his features.

"Meaning?"

"Had I not created the Veil, the Evanuris would have destroyed the entire world."

"What about the Blight?" This question comes from Leliana, who leans forward in her seat. Solas raises a brow in surprise at the question. "The Chantry believes that Blight was created when the Tevinter magisters, like Corypheus, entered the Fade and Tainted the Golden City. What truth is there in that?"

Solas considers this for a long moment before he speaks. "The first of the elves were not born, we were made. We were spirits first. Our corporeal forms were crafted of raw lyrium." Cullen's hand tightens around hers. She glances over at him in concern. "In the Deep Roads, you journeyed into the heart of a Titan and found that lyrium is their blood… As you might imagine, crafting bodies out of Titan blood angered them. A war began."

"The elves were losing this war. Mythal…" He pauses, shakes his head to himself. "I crafted a dagger out of lyrium and used it to sever the Titans' dreams, rendering them Tranquil." Someone gasps, Cordelia can't tell who. She feels a little sick herself. "As I feared, their dreams were driven mad, corrupted into what is now called the Blight. Centuries after the Titan war ended, the Evanuris sought to use it as a weapon."

"This weaponization was what lead Mythal to stand up to the rest of the Evanuris…" Which was what got her killed, he'd said earlier. A shadow passes across his face, as if thinking of that himself. "The Blight was sealed in the prison with them until it was breached by the ancient magisters. By then, the prison had already been blackened by blight." Hence, the Black City.

Cordelia's mind absorbs all this information like a sponge, gleefully slotting the puzzle pieces into place. Her heart, on the other hand, feels like it's been torn out of her chest and repeatedly stomped on. A man she cared for so deeply was capable of such atrocities. Such atrocities she never knew about until today.

"They were called by the Old Gods to do so. Dumat, specifically," Leliana prompts.

"Yes. The Evanuris created dragon thralls—archdemons—as Corypheus did, to maintain their immortality. Each dragon contained a small bit of the mage's essence. Dumat belonged to Dirthamen, Urthemiel to June, and so on."

Leliana looks to Morrigan, a thinly veiled look of horror on her face. Morrigan rolls her eyes.

"Mythal has absorbed the kernel of power for herself now, but yes, it is as you think," she says. Ah. Kieran… he had a part of June, then. Fascinating, if a bit unsettling. "I'd rather not speak more of it in present company." Leliana nods sharply and sits back in her chair. One of her gloved hands grips the arm of her chair so tight, the wood creaks.

The room is silence for a few tense moments before Josephine speaks up. "Is there anything else you would like to share, Solas?" She appears visibly shaken by the entire thing, but she manages to do her job despite it. Cordelia has always admired her for that.

Solas purses his lips and looks, again, to her. She wishes she could read his mind. There is more he wants to say, she can tell that much. But he won't say it here. A shame, since she doesn't plan on speaking to him for a long time yet.

"Only that I am sorry." He casts his gaze around the room. "Thank you for allowing me to speak." Only Josephine nods in acknowledgement.

"Inquisitor, would you like to discuss our course of action with those assembled?"

"I—No," she says, unsure what exactly Josie means by that. "Everyone but my advisors may leave."

"Solas may not leave," Cullen says. Cordelia frowns at him. His eyes ask for patience.

As they file out, Cullen and Leliana rise and put their heads together, talking in hushed tones. Dorian gives her shoulder a squeeze. Sera mutters rapidly to Blackwall. Cole stops to make prolonged eye contact with Solas before slipping out without a sound.

The war room door shuts with a clank.

"He's entirely too dangerous to exile, if you were considering that," Morrigan drawls from her seat. Cordelia stiffens.

"We were leaning more towards imprisonment," Leliana says. Cordelia gets to her feet. She can feel Solas's eyes on her despite the others actively discussing his fate. "I suppose you have suggestions on how to do that properly."

"Perhaps."

"The templars may—" No.

"No!" All heads turn to her. Morrigan is the only one who doesn't look surprised by her outburst. "We are not locking him up." Where once she might've suggested execution as an alternative, Leliana remains quiet.

"Cordelia…"

She backs away from Cullen's hand. "Templars? Really?"

"I only meant—" His forehead creases with concern. "Forgive me, it was a poor recommendation," he says.

"If I wanted him imprisoned, I would've had it handled yesterday. That's not what this meeting was for," she says, looking each of her advisors in the eye. "Solas, you are dismissed." He utters her title before retreating. "I would like your opinions on what he shared tomorrow morning, ideally. If you need more time to think, you need only ask for it." Leliana and Josephine bow their heads. Morrigan nods. Cullen just stares at her. "Thank you. You're dismissed."

Her love lingers as she looks through the papers on the table. Nothing that seems important in light of the meeting they just had. She sucks on her teeth and doesn't look up at Cullen when she speaks.

"He's not going to hurt me or anyone else."

He scoffs. "He already has!"

"Not physically. He is not a threat," she says. Her hands shake as she files the pages into a neat stack.

"Maker's breath, he lied, Cordelia!" Tears spring to her eyes.

"I know that," she hisses. "It doesn't change the fact that he's never harmed anyone in the Inquisition. What would be the point of making all of us doubt him?" She swallows roughly. "We're all suspicious now. If he planned to tear the Inquisition apart, he just made things a lot more difficult for himself."

"It's not about the Inquisition," Cullen says as he approaches her. She doesn't back away when he caresses her cheek. "He lied to you. Am I so wrong for wanting to throttle him for it?" She's nearly certain he would kill Solas if she allowed him to, if she wanted him to, but neither of them say that aloud. She can't look him in the eye, afraid she'll burst into tears if she does. She looks at his lips instead.

"No," she whispers. "I suppose not…" Her hands climb up to hold onto his chestplate. "He did horrible things, but you're most angry about him lying to me about who he was."

"…What about it?" As if it's the most logical thing in the world. As if she matters more than anything else.

She shakes her head slowly, dragging her gaze up to his. "Just an observation." He hums. She pushes up on her toes and tries her best to lose herself in his lips. At least for a little while.

Chapter Text

The summer sun beats down on Cordelia as she tends to the garden. Weeds grow far less here in Skyhold, but they're not completely absent from her flower beds. Uprooting the weeds and pruning the blooms and sketching little pictures to turn into embroidery later gives her something to do with her hands.

The first day, she thought it might help take her mind off… things. But for as peaceful and calming as the garden is, her mind has never stayed empty for long. Still, it's better than locking herself in her quarters, even if she wears a silk scarf around her head or a large floppy hat to shield her face.

The Titans. Lyrium. The Veil. Mythal. Solas.

She's yet to speak to anyone but her advisors about the tales Solas told them two days ago. It's not that she's completely isolated herself—though it's true, she's been less social than normal. Moreso, no one has wanted to speak about it. They're still processing, same as her. At least, most of them are processing. She's pretty certain Sera is trying to forget the whole encounter ever happened and Iron Bull is using the sparring ring as therapy.

"Ah, sweetling, there you are," Dorian says cheerfully as he interrupts her garden time. "Cullen said I might find you here." She twists to look at him. In his arms are a basket and a folded up blanket. Because of course he wouldn't sit in the grass. "Hungry?" She shrugs but gets up to rinse her hands in the fountain.

Dorian flares out the blanket and sits crosslegged on top of it. She settles down next to him, watching as he begins unpacking the basket. An assortment of berries, still-warm sandwiches on crusty bread, and a canteen of lemonade to share. She pops a strawberry into her mouth.

"So, the Veil," he muses. She slides her gaze to him. "It was created here, but where exactly in Skyhold? Any theories? Shall we go poking around running tests on the strength?"

She thinks back to her private conversation with Solas as she fiddles with a thread on the blanket. "I think he implied the rotunda would have been where the mountain peaked."

"How fascinating that he would choose to spend so much time there," he says, fussing about with his sandwich. "Perhaps it was meant as some sort of self-flagellation to motivate him to keep going. Something about spending oodles of time on the site where you created the barrier that destroyed your people just screams punishment to me." She pauses her unwrapping of her own sandwich.

"That's… a depressing thought," she says. It's already clear to her that he regrets what havoc the Veil wreaked on the elvhen. To think he remained there to remind himself of what he'd done? Perhaps even to remind himself of what he needed to undo? If that was the case, she's astounded to think he was able to redirect his path.

"Cole might know if—"

"Don't ask," she interjects before taking a large bite out of her sandwich.

Dorian snaps his mouth shut and watches her eat for several long moments. "How are you feeling about all of this?"

"We already knew that Fen'Harel had nothing to do with Mythal's murder," she says. "Abelas told us that at the Temple. I was already wondering where the truth lay. We—the Dalish—have gotten so much wrong. But for all of it to come crashing down in the span of a couple of days?" Her mouth twists. "I'm still working on acceptance."

"What of Solas?"

She takes another bite of her sandwich to avoid answering right away. Dorian mimics her. She rolls her eyes.

"I know what you all think of me," she says, brushing dirt off her skirt. "For allowing him to stay. For allowing him to live… But what would you have done if it were me? If I was the one who had kept such a huge secret—a huge bundle of secrets for all this time?"

"Well, for starters, I would be furious—"

"I am furious," she says emphatically. She presses a hand to her heart. "I'm heartbroken. I feel this betrayal like a dagger in my chest." Her voice threatens to break, but she manages to keep it steady. "But I don't think death or exile or imprisonment is what he deserves. Would you do that to me?" Dorian's expression softens.

"I suppose I wouldn't," he concedes. "A good shunning goes a long way." His tone in combination with the look on his face makes her snicker, which quickly turns into full on laughter. He joins her, a warm laugh spilling out of him.

"You're ridiculous," she says as her giggles die down.

"Your second best friend is an ancient elven god. I would say that is far more ridiculous."

"I'm inclined to agree with you," she sighs. "Anyway, I could hardly send him away when I still have questions I want answered." They both know she most likely isn't going to send him away at all, but that's beside the point.

"Of course you do," Dorian says with a smile. She elbows him. "Let him squirm a while yet. Watching him mope around while finishing the last fresco is peak entertainment for me right now."

Cordelia finds Varric crafting traps in the Undercroft the following day. Nothing experimental, just stocking up for the next time they head out. There are still rifts to be closed, unfortunately. She absently flexes her left hand as she slides onto the bench on the opposite side of his work table.

"Hey."

"Afternoon, Quizzy," Varric says, flashing her a grin. "What can I do for you?"

"Just wanted to see how you're doing," she says. In truth, she hadn't come looking for him, but she'd been meaning to chat with him privately. About Solas. He was—is?—Solas's closest friend apart from her. At least, that's the impression she always got.

"I'm hanging in there," he says as he measures out explosive powder for each of the half a dozen traps he has set up. "Have you spoken to Chuckles yet?"

"No…" She fiddles with a spare part. Varric taps her hand and places the part out of her reach. "Have you?"

A slow nod. His focus remains on his crafting. "Just once. I needed him to confirm my suspicions." Powder placed in the sockets.

"… And what's that?" A lid of sorts popped on the first trap and twisted into place with a click. He sets the trap aside and looks up at her.

"That the Titans' severed dreams are the reason dwarves don't dream," Varric says with a troubled look, " and the reason we can't wield magic."

"Oh. Right." He turns his attention back to the remaining unfinished traps.

"I'm not some Orzammar-native full of dwarven pride," he says. "You know how I feel about dreams and the Fade. But, well, it's shitty that a good friend of mine is the reason people like Dagna aren't mages." She glances over at the arcanist, who's gleefully tinkering on some items recovered from the Temple of Mythal.

"Do you…" She trails off and resists the urge to fiddle with more of the parts on the table. She settles for twisting one of her rings around her finger. She probably shouldn't ask this question. But she's going to anyway. "Do you think you'll forgive him?"

"He did apologise. He's not one to admit fault if he doesn't mean it." Varric shrugs. "I think if I can forgive you for letting Hawke sacrifice herself, I can probably forgive this." Guilt pangs in her chest at the reminder of Adamant. She doesn't think she'll ever quite forgive herself for that one, but she's eternally grateful for Varric's magnanimity. "Probably. Someday. Not just yet." He huffs a quiet laugh. "Cole is distressed over the whole thing. It's like the kid's parents are getting divorced or something."

"Close enough," she says. Varric snorts. "I'm… relieved to hear you're feeling… gracious." He flashes her a knowing look.

"Whatever else he is, he's my friend," he says thoughtfully. "I don't intend to leave him to rot."

After a week of avoidance, Cordelia can't take it anymore. She marches down to the rotunda with purpose and stops a few feet from the desk in the center of the room.

"Solas."

He looks up from the sketch he's creating and jumps to his feet, dropping his charcoal on the desk. "Inquisitor." His eyes flick over her. He seems to focus on the head covering she wears. She resists the urge to pull it over her face in response. She may have denied his offer to remove her vallaslin, but that doesn't mean the whole truth of their origins hasn't shaken her.

"When you told me about my vallaslin," she begins with no further preamble, "I said to you that it wasn't the gods' fault their worshipers were slavers. And you stood there and continued to keep the truth from me." He cringes.

"I wanted to tell you—"

"I know," she interrupts. His brows shoot up, his eyes searching her face. She shifts uncomfortably on her feet. "I saw it on your face. I didn't understand it at the time. But I saw your regret that you couldn't—wouldn't tell me the truth. I told you it wasn't the fault of slavers that their worshipers were also slavers." She swallows the lump in her throat. "And you didn't correct me! Such restraint."

He absorbs that dig with a grace that infuriates her. "If it's any consolation, I decided that night that I couldn't leave. You matter too much."

She scoffs. "I matter, but you didn't…" She rubs her hands over her face, trying in vain to collect herself. "Fuck's sake, Solas, why didn't you tell me?" She hates how desperate she sounds, the strain in her voice.

"It wasn't the right time, Cordelia." He so rarely says her name that it startles her a little to hear it. "Your forces were still in the Arbor Wilds." They've been back less than two weeks, yet it feels like so much longer since they emerged victorious. "We were soon to be planning for a final assault on Corypheus. I could not let my secrets hinder the victory we had fought so hard for. Is it so arrogant of me to think it would have been a distraction?"

She stares at him. The revelations he bestowed upon them all tore her world to little pieces. She's still trying to stitch it back together, but it's the most difficult mending she's ever attempted. "No. It's not."

The admission hangs between them for a beat, two. He doesn't appear pleased to have been correct. A small consolation.

"But you didn't tell me any time before that," she counters. "All the hours we spent together, you never thought to share?"

"Of course I thought to share." His hands clench, and he sways like he's holding himself back from surging towards her.

"So what was it then? You couldn't trust me?" She steps forward, tilting her head to the side. The question of trust has hounded her more than most. "That's rich considering you were lying to me, to all of your friends."

"I did trust you," he says and paces around the table, "but I still planned on tearing down the Veil for most of the time we spent together." She tracks him with her narrow-eyed gaze.

"You questioned that plan though."

He stalks over to her. "Would I have changed my mind that night in the tower if I hadn't previously questioned my plans?" She lifts her chin defiantly. She refuses to let him cow her, even though he stands so much taller.

"I don't know," she bites back. "I don't know how much I even know you anymore." He snarls, his eyes flashing with irritation.

"Yes, Cordelia! Yes, I had been questioning. You made me question everything." She stares at him, both of them breathing heavily.

"Fasta vass! Take it to the ring, you two," Dorian calls down from the library. They both glare up at him. "I can't read a single word with your racket." She sucks on her teeth and closes her eyes for a moment of calm.

"The yard. Ten minutes," she says to Solas, then turns on her heel to return to her quarters for her staff.

She finds herself in the ring seven minutes later. Solas is already there, leaning on his staff as he watches Cassandra watch him. Cordelia takes advantage of the extra time Cass has afforded her. She runs through a drill with her staff, stretches out her stiff muscles. She's all warmed up by the time the Seeker gives up her staring contest.

"Care to play judge, Cassandra?" Cordelia carefully unwraps her silk scarf and sets it on a bench outside the perimeter. It would only get in her way or be used against her. She'd rather not have him touch it.

Cassandra purses her lips. "If I must." Which is probably the most enthusiastic agreement Cordelia is going to get today.

"No barriers," she says to Solas. He arches a single brow.

"And if you hurl a fireball at me?"

She shrugs. "Dodge." Where once he might have cracked a smile or shaken his head in fond exasperation, he does nothing. She wants to believe there's a hint of a smile, one he's forcing down, like he doesn't think he's supposed to find her amusing when they're at odds like this. But perhaps that's wishful thinking.

Cassandra signals for them to begin. The first thing Solas does is cast a sheet of ice on the ground beneath her feet. She's lucky to have practice balancing, otherwise she would have easily lost her footing. He knows that, yet he cast it all the same. He's not fueled the way that she is. She hops right off the patch, keeping her eyes glued to him as she does so.

Circling, circling, now—She swings her staff thrice in quick succession. Bolts of flame shoot towards him. She ducks as soon as she's done swinging, sure he'll send a volley of icicles flying her way in an instant. Indeed, they whiz past her head and embed themselves in a dummy behind her.

He sends an icy wind toward her. She throws up a fiery wall that melts the ice, making it sizzle and steam. He frowns at her through the flames.

"What? That's not a barrier." He rolls his eyes. "Would you rather a fireball? I'd be happy to deliver." She conjures a small ball of flame, taunting him. He does not reply.

More icicles fly her way, she rolls and hurls her fireball at his chest. He dodges, like she told him to. He waves his hands and several white swirling orbs appear around the ring. They're… everywhere. Shit.

"That's new," she mutters as she casts bolts of fire at a few of them. They slowly creep toward her, like they know she's their target. Great. In other circumstances, she would marvel at the intricacy of such a spell. Right now, all she can think about is how to keep them from hitting her.

"It isn't," Solas says and freezes the ground again. Ah, so he heard her.

"Am I to believe in all your years you never learned to wield the other elements?" She dances around, attempting to deal with the ice motes while he continues a barrage of frost and her feet threaten to slip out from under her at any second.

"It's merely a preference. Would you rather I shock you?" She sees a burst of lightning between his fingers. No, thank you. One of the orbs crashes into her side and sends frost crawling over her leathers. She curses.

"Your chatter is a distraction," he comments. She swings her staff in an arc of fire to rid the ring of the rest of the little floating ice balls.

"To you?" A blast to melt the ground. A tug on the Fade to feed her mana pool.

"To yourself." His staff swings toward her, close enough to make contact, but she blocks it with her own.

"Ah. So I hear." Block, strike, strike, strike, dodge. "Hasn't stopped me from kicking ass." Their staves meet in the space between them, both thrumming with magical energy. "Perhaps you should learn to tune it out. Unless you like my chatter?" He shifts one hand from his staff to hers, and ice begins to climb over it.

"Don't be absurd." The derision in his tone makes her skin crawl. She kicks him square in the stomach. The blow sends him stumbling back. He grunts, though she swears she catches a glimpse of satisfaction on his face. She casts a stonefist, knocking him back farther. Somehow he maintains his footing.

He starts to weave a spell she recognizes, the telltale green hue of rift magic crackling at his fingertips, but she dispels it before he can finish and hurries to slam a veilstrike down on him.

She drops her staff and pounces. Both her hands, red with heat that would burn bare skin, press into his shoulders. Her knees dig into his sides. He's not finished yet, apparently, because he pushes himself up and tries to roll over. She wraps her arm around his neck in a headlock. He tries to throw her off him. She tightens her hold and sneaks her other hand up to pinch his armpit. Hard. He hisses and falls forward. She shifts quickly, digging one knee into his back and unsheathing her dagger.

She presses the blade to his throat. He tries to lift his head, but she uses her left hand to press the side of it back into the dirt. He's lucky she let it cool enough that there won't be a hand shaped burn on his scalp. He huffs.

"Yield," she orders. He's still trying to think through getting out of this; his hand twitches on the ground, like he's about to reach for her or the knife or cast another spell. She grits her teeth. The dagger heats in her hand. "Vaslasa, fenlin." He opens his mouth to speak—

The Anchor flares up. She hisses and yanks her hand from his head as agonizing pain radiates up her arm. Fuck. She slides off his back and cradles her hand. She distantly hears a gasp that must be from Cassandra.

Solas rolls over in confusion, which morphs into concern the second he sees her hand. She eyes him cautiously, tears welling up from the pain, as he sits up and hovers his hands around the Anchor. The sensation dissipates. Her shoulders slump in relief.

He gives her a moment to breathe before he speaks. "Has it done that since closing the Breach?"

She thinks of herself curled up in a blanket cocoon. "Only once or twice," she says. "And never this bad." She wonders if it would have stopped had Solas not been here.

"Now that the Breach is sealed, I'll look for a way to remove it," he says, his expression still troubled, cloudy. "I worry it will continue to harm you if left untreated. It's likely to get worse." She feared as much.

"'Ma serannas," she says.

"Sathem lasa halani [Pleased to give assistance]," he says with a small bow of his head. She lets him help her to her feet.

Once she's steady, he backs away to a safe distance.

"Tath eman av'ahnaan [I still have questions]," she says, conscious of Cassandra still observing them with a reasonable level of suspicion.

"Eolasan [I know]," Solas says, a regretful tinge to his voice, to his gaze. "Mah'vir, lethallan [Tomorrow, lethallan]." She swallows at his use of the familiar term. Tears burn in her eyes. She snags her scarf, throws it over her head.

"Mah'vir," she whispers, unable to extend the moniker of "kin". It's still... it's still too soon. Her wounds too raw and fresh. She hurries away before she can break down crying in front of everyone.

Chapter Text

"I do have some exciting news to share, among all the recovery efforts," Josephine pipes up, a light in her eyes that suggests a party might be involved in this exciting news. "We've been invited to the palace in Val Royeaux to celebrate our victory!"

Cordelia glances sidelong at Cullen, fidgeting with the pin that holds her headscarf in place, then back to the ambassador. "For how long, exactly?"

"The festivities will take place for a week next month," Josie supplies. "We have only three weeks to prepare. I've already sent for our preferred tailor. She has some wonderful new pieces in mind for the season."

"Oh, goody," Cordelia says, hoping she doesn't sound completely uninterested. She does have a fondness for beautiful clothes. It's the events they're being made for that kill her enthusiasm. Josephine's smile tells her she was convincing enough.

"I'll keep you well-informed about the itinerary as we get closer to our departure, but do you have any pressing concerns?"

Cordelia shakes her head with a tired smile. "No, Josie. Thank you."

"My pleasure, as always."

"I have concerns about footwear, actually," Leliana says. Cordelia chuckles, and Cullen huffs in exasperation.

"I highly doubt that topic is pertinent to a war council," he says dryly.

"We are no longer at war, Commander," Leliana purrs.

"Tell that to the Venatori pillaging the Fereldan countryside," he bites back. "Or the unsealed rifts across Thedas? There is still work to be done."

"And we will do it," Cordelia says, placing a hand on his arm. "But I don't think the world will end if we talk about shoes for a little while." His expression softens.

"Perhaps not… May I be excused from this discussion?" Cordelia smiles and pushes onto her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

"Of course," she says. The blush that colours his cheeks warms her injured heart. He gathers his things and bows before hurrying out of the room. Leliana and Josephine erupt into giggles the moment the door shuts.

"You said elves were spirits who took on a physical form," Cordelia says as she makes herself comfortable on the small couch against the wall of the rotunda. Her work is clipped to a board that rests on her thighs, abandoned for the time being. A long time ago, she had joked with him about not being a spirit, unable to be corrupted by her romantic advances. She wonders what kind of panic went through him at her commentary.

Solas's only response now is a small sound of acknowledgement. He stands before the final panel of his fresco, brush in hand. He spends more time doing that than actually painting, she realised after several hours spent chatting with him while he worked. He's lucky to know enchantments to keep the paint from drying out while he ponders.

"What kind of spirit were you?" She fingers the edges of her scarf, pinned more loosely today.

"Wisdom."

"Like your friend." She remembers the spirit vividly, though she only saw it for a few moments after freeing it from the bindings that had been placed on it. The loss had driven Solas into solitude for a time.

"Yes."

"What made you want to become corporeal? Were you not… nevermind. One question at a time." Her eagerness must be commonplace for him because he appears unfazed.

"The simple answer is that I did not wish to take a body. I was perfectly content to observe the world from the Fade," he says and steps forward to swipe paint onto the wall. "I also thought there was risk in using lyrium to create physical forms." He'd been right about that. And yet…

"Then… why? Spirits are not easily made to do things they don't want to," she says with a tilt of her head. If they're forced into this plane of existence, they are, more often than not, corrupted… like his friend became a Pride demon. Could Solas—? She shuts that thought down before it can fully form.

"I was asked to. Mythal…" He hesitates, as he had before, in the war room. It's curious, the way he seems almost unwilling to speak of her. They saw statues of Fen'Harel in her temple in the Arbor Wilds, and when he has spoken of her, it is positively. Then again, Cordelia doubts he's ever spoken of leaving the Fade before. She can't imagine it was easy, given that he hadn't wanted to in the first place.

In contrast to when he hesitated in the war room, he continues with his original thought. "Mythal wanted me to join her. She had already crafted her own body, but she needed my Wisdom to withstand the others, like Elgar'nan."

"You needed a body to do that?"

At this, Solas looks over his shoulder at her with an almost… startled expression on his face. "There was to be a war, the Titan war I spoke of. I could not have left her to face that alone. She was my oldest friend." The way he speaks seems rote, like he's repeated this reasoning to himself for millennia.

"Do you regret it?" He looks down at the bowl of paint in his hand and takes a deep breath. He's silent for so long, she nearly speaks up to tell him he doesn't have to answer.

Before she can, however, he says, "For most of my existence, yes." His attention returns to her. "My feelings about it are more complicated now."

"How's that?"

"…This world is not so terrible after all."

Over the next few days, in between reading over findings from the Temple of Mythal and translating the transcribed runes and writings, Cordelia asks about the Forgotten Ones, about archdemons and Titans… about June. After most of her questions, Solas takes a few moments to think, then launches into one of his monologues. Whereas, when she asks about June, he sets down his quill and rubs his chin in contemplation.

"Are you sure you want to know?"

"I have his markings on my face." Not that she's spent much time looking in the mirror as of late. She's opted for lightweight long-sleeves and skirts that reach her ankles to cover the spiraling ink on her right arm and leg. Her face is not so easy to hide, but she's… handling it.

"That is why I ask if you're certain."

"I want to know."

Solas sighs and leans back in his chair, folding his hands over his abdomen. She's not sure what else he expected. He should know very well by now that she would rather cope with painful truths than live in ignorance. Could the reality of what her patron was like truly be any worse than what she already knows? Well… it could be worse, but it seems unlikely. She would probably prove too optimistic, bordering on naive, to survive ancient Elvhenan, if she's being honest with herself.

"June had a great mind. Many of the Evanuris did," Solas tells her. "But he also made use of other great minds and took credit for their inventions." Not uncommon.

"The minds of his slaves?" She can read between the lines.

"Yes."

"What else?"

"His experiments were never so… grotesque as Ghilan'nain's, but he did experiment on other elves while working on his contraptions. His architectural designs were beautiful, but he never laid a hand on the stone used to build the structures. There were others in the Evanuris who spearheaded actually making the designs a reality, developing the stone carving techniques. They were dead by the time I created the Veil."

"Hence everything being attributed to him as time went on," she concludes.

A slight smile twitching at the corners of his mouth—approval. "Correct." He tilts his head in thought. "Arguably his greatest invention were the eluvians."

Cordelia sits forward with wide eyes, bracing her forearms on the desk. "He created the eluvians?"

"Not as you have experienced them in the Crossroads," Solas says. "The eluvians were originally created as one-to-one pairs." He reaches for a blank piece of parchment and begins to sketch with a piece of graphite. He draws four eluvians and labels them 1, 2, 3, and 4. "Eluvians 2 and 3 exist in the same physical space. In order to get from eluvian 1 to eluvian 4, you would need to travel through the first and exit the second. Then you would enter the third and exit the fourth. It's complicated… messy." He waves a hand over the drawing in emphasis. "My people and I created the Crossroads to utilize eluvians throughout the empire with ease to aid the rebellion."

"You—" She laughs in astonishment. "The place that Morrigan—You created the Crossroads?"

"Yes. Crafting her own eluvian, especially one that connects to the Crossroads, is an impressive feat on the witch's part," he says with a shrug. "I would never say it to her face, of course, given that I did it first."

"Can you… I mean, do you still have access to it?"

He arches a brow. "If I did, do you think I would have abandoned it for the last 18 months? Or that I would have left it as lifeless as it stands today?"

"It doesn't always look like some kind of Nevarran graveyard?"

Solas snorts. "No. It was once just as beautiful as any place at the height of Elvhenan. Without me or mine to tend to it, to give it life, it has decayed."

"Could we fix that?"

"If you think you can convince Morrigan to allow us unrestricted access, be my guest," he says, knowing very well how unlikely that is. It would have been difficult prior to the past coming to light, but now it would be near impossible. Morrigan has every reason to distrust Solas, and Cordelia can't fault her for that, even if she forgave him herself. She trusts that he is speaking the truth about the past, but she… doesn't trust much more than that. "Other opportunities may present themselves in the future. I would not lose hope." She smiles softly before looking away after a second too long of eye contact.

"How does one go about creating a Crossroads for eluvians, then?"

Cordelia sits in the yard, sipping tea with Dorian and working on letters of condolence to the families of their fallen soldiers. There's a spare piece of parchment on the table, already half full of questions she means to ask Solas, so she doesn't forget. Their discussion of eluvians sparked a rejuvenated interest in the areas she finds most interesting—ancient magicks and techniques, fashion, food, architecture, music, the arts.

"Am I to assume from the continuation of your long discussions that you have forgiven Solas?" She looks up from the note she's writing to find Dorian eyeing her list of questions.

"I wouldn't quite say I've forgiven him." No, she still lies awake in bed each night, her mind swirling with tales of the past. Her dreams feature tricks and wolves maniacally laughing when she falls for them. She can push her way out of them, of course, but the images still haunt her. The anxious part of her, the part that didn't exist before she was raised up as Herald of a prophet she didn't believe in, screams to run and hide. Begs her to look beneath the surface. To root out the deception.

Only, she doesn't think she's being tricked. Solas speaks more freely than he ever has before. He's still cautious around certain topics—Mythal, in particular—but for the most part she's sensed no dishonesty. Her doubt says that she wouldn't be able to tell if there was dishonesty, given how she didn't sense it for a year and a half.

So no. She hasn't quite forgiven him. But she's trying. Maybe it's pathetic how desperate she is to find a way to forgive him. She doesn't know how else to deal with this. She cares too much to give up on forgiveness.

"If I hadn't started asking my questions, I would've imploded." Given the state of her mark, she actually might have. "I need answers, Dorian. And he's the only one who can give them to me." Dorian sighs.

"I know. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious as well," he says, "but really… Do you trust him to answer you truthfully?" She twirls her quill between her thumb and forefinger and props her head on her other hand.

"At this point, what would be his motive to lie? He's seemingly laid himself bare before us for judgement. I think he expected to be thrown out by now." Or killed. She definitely thinks he considered that possibility and willingly confessed anyway.

"A reasonable expectation." She rolls her eyes.

"I just… I want to forgive him," she says, sitting back in her chair. "Cullen's having a hard time grasping it, too. For as much as he understands how close Solas and I were, he…" She frowns, scribbling inattentively at the bottom of her questions page. Cullen's expression sours at the mere mention of Solas. He's been taking the long way from their quarters to his office in order to avoid so much as laying eyes on him. He is still angry. To be fair, so is she, especially on nights she can't fall asleep because her mind is spinning with the thoughts of what the ancient elves suffered when the Veil went up and the agony of the Titans when they were rendered Tranquil.

"I don't know," she says. "We're all trying our best, I think."

"Really put a damper on the celebratory energy, that's for sure." He brings his teacup to his lips as he casts a glance around the garden.

"I'd rather listen to him tell me stories about Elvhenan than write letters to nobles eager to win my favour now that we've won," she says with a gesture to the stack of letters requiring responses beside her finished condolences.

Dorian makes a face. "We'll have our hands full keeping their little claws off you at the palace, won't we?" She groans and has to stop herself from planting her face in the damp ink on her parchment.

"Don't remind me."

"Meinwen, would you mind fetching Solas?" Cordelia angles her head towards the girl aiding the dressmaker—not the one she brought with her, but one from the Inquisition's own ranks. "I've a few questions to ask him."

"Yes, Your Worship." With a simple curtsy, Meinwen hurries out of the room, leaving Cordelia with her arms out to the sides as she stands on a short pedestal. The seamstress, Lorraine, fusses about with her pins. She's very efficient. With any luck, they'll be through the full set of dresses in the next hour or so.

She hears the door to her chambers open as she's shimmying out of the first dress. The dressmaker's apprentice, Odette, gasps, and Cordelia looks over with an arched brow. She stifles a laugh at the Orlesian girl and her appalled expression.

"Good, you're here," she says and gestures for Lorraine to continue. The older woman looks between her and Solas skeptically. Cordelia puts her hands on her corseted waist. "What, really? I invited him." Neither master nor apprentice move. "The sooner you put another dress on me, the sooner I'm no longer standing here in a chemise and corset."

With a pair of muttered Your Worship's, they get back to work. Meinwen joins them, going where directed. She turns to Solas with a roll of her eyes. He doesn't return her exasperation. Instead, he's giving her an odd look with slightly wide eyes. He seems rooted to the spot.

"Oh, you can't be serious." She holds back a comment about how old he is, that she's surprised a state of undress would faze him at all. Hopefully, the look in her eyes says it all the same. "Sit down." He does, taking a seat in a nearby armchair. "Now, what do you know about the culture of the ancient Elvhen?" Another carefully phrased statement. She doesn't wish to give anything away that could be used to expose or exploit him. Or her. Or the Inquisition as a whole.

"I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific, lethallan," Solas drawls, his composure clearly returned. The dress they put on her shows more skin than the previous one. It's certainly more suitable for summertime than many of the gowns she has—lightweight with shorter sleeves.

"How does the fashion compare to modern styles? Particularly those of Orlais, since that seems relevant to my current situation." She gestures to the dress, and an expression similar to the one he wore upon arrival flashes across his face.

"For starters, they never wore anything so… large as the skirts currently in fashion in Orlais," Solas says. "It doesn't seem they were interested in masking the elven form. Their bodies."

"You're saying they showed more skin," she says with a small smirk.

"Unless in battle, yes," he says. "Footwear wasn't popular—similar to the Dalish in that way. Not even fully armoured did they wear anything akin to boots. Their footwraps or sandals were sufficient."

"It isn't always warm. Did they experience temperature differently?" She herself never had any issue until experiencing winter in Ferelden and Orlais. She is grateful for her warm stockings and boots every time she journeys out into the cold. Thankfully, he follows her train of thought without hesitation.

"To an extent…" He glances at the Orlesian women. When next he speaks, it's in elven, which makes Odette pause a moment in puzzlement. "We used wards to keep most places a comfortable temperature… but remember that the world was not as it is today. Without the Veil, bodies functioned differently. It is hard to explain and even harder to grasp. It might be easier in a dream." Cordelia shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Lorraine squeezes her waist to urge her to stay still.

It feels like a lifetime has passed since the last time she and Solas dreamt together, exploring the Fade, experiencing his memories. She wonders now if those memories were not from explorations while dreaming, but things he experienced himself. In ancient Elvhenan. Some of it certainly occurred after the Veil was created: events or people witnessed by Solas while in uthenera… but some of it…

She switches to elven herself. "Did each of the gods inspire different styles of clothing? Or perhaps they had colours their followers wore?" Lorraine and Odette strip her out of the second gown, and Meinwen returns it to its protective bag. Solas ducks his head, looking away from her.

"Both, depending on the time period we're speaking of. The empire existed for many, many years. There were trends—styles that came and went, colours that became easier to produce, same as we see today." He lifts his gaze once she's dressed in another gown. "I doubt your lady dressmaker wore this kind of garment when she was an apprentice herself… Nevertheless, if you're truly interested, I can sketch out as much as I can remember, for your perusal."

"That would be fantastic, Solas, yes, thank you."

He gives a slight bow of his head. "You wished for comparison… in the last century or two before the Veil was created, the nobility took to wearing masks not unlike the ones the Orlesian aristocracy wear. They didn't need to adorn their servants with similar masks, however. Given that their servants were slaves who were branded." The reminder turns her stomach. Orlais isn't all that different, even with slavery outlawed.

"How much do you know about the Dalish before the Exalted March? I assume so much had already been lost, but…"

"I've shared much of that already, while we were in the Dales, but I suppose you mean their culture. They had lost Arlathan. They had been given the Dales by Andraste as recompense, but so much of the elven population remained enslaved by Tevinter." He shakes his head. "I had created the Veil to save them from enslavement by the Evanuris but made them vulnerable to the humans who eventually came to settle in the North."

"You couldn't have known. You said your ritual went wrong?"

"Correct. The Veil… should not exist. I meant to seal the Evanuris away, not sever my people's connection to the Fade. It's complicated magic that would have required far more power than I possess to undo…" The Orlesian women take her out of the third dress, and Solas purses his lips. "How many dresses do you have to try on?"

"Several. Why?" He shakes his head and looks out onto the balcony, a hand rubbing his lips. She's helped into another dress, but her eyes remain fixed on Solas. Odette nudges her to turn. She obeys reluctantly. "Did you pierce your ears?" She feels his focus return to her. "Or other spots on your bodies?"

"It wasn't a common practice. Honestly, when we first met, I was surprised to see so much adornment on your ears, given their sensitivity," Solas says.

She shrugs and fiddles with her jewelry. "I think they're pretty."

"I never said they weren't," he says.

"What of other parts of the body?"

"Other piercings, in the nose or navel or nipples were not unheard of, but, as I said, they were not particularly commonplace."

"I assume you did not partake in any such adornment?" Teasing comes easier each day, and she stopped wearing her headscarf a few days ago. The latter wasn't wholly intentionally; really, she forgot to put it on and didn't notice until halfway through the day when Solas gave her a strange look.

He doesn't take the bait. "That is correct."

"How much court intrigue surrounded the outfit choices? The lack of footwear would certainly put a damper on Leliana's observations." Solas cracks a little smile.

"It was about as important as it is in Orlais. A choice of clothing could signal one alliance and break another. Sylaise and her closest companions caused the most trouble on the fashion front," he explains. Fascinating.

"Pardon the interruption, Your Worship," Lorraine says, "but the next few dresses have built-in support or use a breastband, so you won't be needing your shift and corset." She looks pointedly between Solas and the privacy screen in the corner.

With a sigh, Cordelia steps behind the screen to remove the aforementioned garments, with some help from Meinwen. Lorraine brings over the next dress. It's beautiful. Palest green chiffon adorned with leaves and flowers at the top and bottom of the bodice, which is semi-sheer apart from the part that covers her breasts with the same pale green fabric.

The second she's laced up, she hurries out to stand on the pedestal in front of the mirror. The other dresses are just as beautiful, but she'd been able to take them in as she got dressed. The fabric glitters in the sunlight as Meinwen and Odette adjust the skirt so it falls properly. She barely has enough self-control to not swish the fabric around playfully. She looks ethereal in this gown, if she does say so herself. Cullen's head is going to explode when he sees it.

Lorraine tsks at the long hem. It's better than the first time she ever had a fitting. Josephine was good at estimating measurements, but Lorraine had been somewhat reluctant to make a dress so short. Cordelia is sure there was some back and forth about elven stature that Josie spared her from. No matter, the hemlines have been reasonable ever since. Chiffon is just fussy—a hassle to hem.

She looks to Solas. His lips are slightly parted, and she's worried his eyes are going to bulge out of his skull they're so wide. "What? Is there something wrong with the dress?"

Solas stiffens. "No, of course not. It's lovely," he assures her. But he's not looking her in the eye. Her brows furrow. "Is there any way we could continue this discussion later? I have something else to attend to." He gets to his feet and looks toward the stairs.

"You could have told Meinwen that before. I didn't mean to pull you away from anything." Something like disappointment twists in her stomach, but she ignores it.

"Ah, I had forgotten about this task. You'll come find me later?"

"Perhaps tomorrow," she says warily. She needs to protect herself.

"Right. Inquisitor." A quick bow, and then he's gone.

Two days later, they hold a memorial for everyone they lost in the war. It's held outside the camp down the mountain, to accommodate the bulk of their forces. So many gave their lives to save this world. Letters of condolence have been sent to families, loved ones, along with any belongings of the deceased. But the memorial is for the Inquisition to honour them and grieve. Several people take time to speak, including Cordelia herself.

When it's over, she links her arm with Cullen's and walks back up the mountain with her head bowed to hide her tears. He's told her not to linger on the "what if's", but he also told her once that it never gets easier to lose people. With any luck, their losses have come to an end. She leaves tomorrow on an expedition to seal a few rifts before the celebration. They're not certain if the tears will mend themselves over time—some seem to have closed in the days since she sealed the Breach. But not even Solas seems to have a clear answer, which is unfortunate.

She and Cullen go up to his office. It's a closer place to rest after the long hike back up the slope. She steps away from him, sits down on the couch—an addition she's proud to have made months ago—and wraps herself up in the crocheted blanket draped over the back of it. It's more for comfort than anything, since the summers in Skyhold are surprisingly mild.

Cullen doesn't move from her side. He stays standing where she left him, his gaze fixed on her. It's soft, if slightly concerned. She scrunches her nose in disapproval, and the concern morphs into fond amusement.

"You always look so cute wrapped up there," he says, answering a question she hadn't voiced. She hums. He glances at his desk—one day it won't be covered in paperwork… one day—then back to her. His debate is clear: work or snuggle?

Her heart swells when he chooses to snuggle, sitting down on the sofa and embracing her: blanket and all. She huffs a soft laugh and twists her head to look at his face.

"You're terribly sweet on me," she says as she leans into his strong form.

"Oh, you finally noticed," he says dryly. She rolls her eyes. He pecks her cheek. She sighs heavily and feels the tension and pain the memorial caused seep out of her. He lifts one hand to turn her chin toward him. She smiles, somewhat tiredly, and presses her lips to his. Soft, languid, comforting.

They adjust so Cullen is leaning against the arm of the couch and Cordelia is curled up on his chest. He sneaks his hands under the blanket to stroke her back and the outside of her thigh. She wishes she could spend everyday like this… or at least… spend more time everyday like this. She does have other things she enjoys doing, but the Inquisition still has work to do.

As unfortunate as that feels for her on a personal level, she still feels… responsible. She has to do her best to put the world back on its feet after it was torn apart by demons and Venatori and an ancient Tevinter magister—and before that the Mage-Templar war… or… conflict? People have varying opinions on how to refer to what happened between Kirkwall falling and the failed Conclave. It doesn't matter. The point is that they're not out of the woods yet. There will be a new Divine soon, and she will decide how to move forward with the mages and templars. Cordelia can only hope both sides are allowed more liberty.

She's almost dozed off by the time Cullen speaks again.

"I have a… proposition," he says. His deep voice rumbles through his chest and into hers. She shifts her head to let him know she's listening. "After we return from Val Royeaux, I was thinking, maybe, if you're open to it, that we could visit my family in South Reach? You could meet everyone. Only if you wanted to, of course. I don't want you to feel pressured. I know we've talked about going together, but it's relatively soon, and—"

She cuts him off with a firm kiss, one hand cradling his face. He wants her to meet his family, to be there for the first time he's seen them in nearly two decades. His arms tighten around her smaller frame as his lips part to invite her in. The caress of her tongue on his scar, on the inside of his bottom lip, against his own, draws a pleasant groan from deep in her love's throat. He grips her upper thigh, something that never fails to make her head spin, but she retreats from the lure of desire that tugs at her.

"I would love to go," she says upon breaking the kiss. "I'm sure it will be a welcome reprieve from Orlesians and politicking, et cetera et cetera." She waves her hand a few times in a circle to emphasize what a drag Val Royeaux is going to be. Except for the clothes. And the wine (though they have perfectly good Antivan wine here in Skyhold thanks to Josephine).

Cullen beams at her and kisses her again, more teeth than lips, but she doesn't mind.

"Good, that's good. I'm glad. I'll write to Mia and sort out travel with Josephine while you're gone," he says. His hands slide up and down her back. A shadow enters his eyes, and she knows why. Her expedition into Ferelden is the first time they won't be in the same place since the battle at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

He worries, as usual. She'll be fine, as usual. That doesn't change the fact that she hates being apart from him. They won't return until just before the delegation leaves for the Orlesian celebration. It's necessary, for more than just the safety of the people. Solas wishes to observe the mark's behaviour in proximity to open rifts, to study how it reacts, what sensations it causes, and the like. If he's going to find a way to remove it, this is a logical step towards a solution. He won't be her only travelling companion, of course. That would be unwise. On many levels. Dorian, Varric, and Iron Bull will also be accompanying her—her most common party.

She runs her fingers through Cullen's curls. The gesture soothes him somewhat; he leans into her touch. "I'm not gone yet," she says. "Don't make that face."

He frowns. "I'm not making a face." She gives him a look. He purses his lips. "I know it's illogical. The risks of this mission are far lower than what you've faced this past month, but…"

"But you love me." He chuckles quietly and thumbs her lips.

"Yes. I can't help it," he says, resting his hand on the side of her neck, over the scar she got in the Fade. She kisses him again, short and sweet. He returns the gesture when she pulls back. A knock at one of the doors stops her from continuing the cycle. She disentangles herself as Cullen calls for his runner to enter. Always something more.

Chapter Text

Cordelia's Wild Hart, Isenama, huffs and shakes her head as they enter Val Royeaux. The golden gates—opened to accept the delegation of Inquisition members—reflect the bright sunlight. Gold and red and blue sheafs of fabric hang between the buildings on either side of them. And there are many, many people lining the street, held back behind simple rope barriers.

She understands her mount's displeasure.

"It'll be all right," she murmurs to Isenama as she adjusts her seated position to something more… proper. 'Befitting of her status', Josephine would say. Straight back, chin up, a single hand on the reins.

Despite the assurance she gives her mount, she looks over her shoulder at Cullen, whose horse's head is in line with her hart's right flank, with a long-suffering expression. His mirrors hers for a moment before their polite masks slip back over their faces.

If nothing else, the crowds near the gate appear to be common folk, not nobility. Relatively wealthy common folk, but common folk nonetheless… she expects she won't see many nobles until they reach the sprawling area full of their city estates. She's been to a single Val Royeaux estate, and, at the time, it was the most lavish building she'd ever set foot in. That was before their expeditions in the Dales and their visit to the Winter Palace. Josephine says the Imperial Palace is even grander. Cordelia isn't quite sure how that's possible.

She sees the White Spire towering above the city and the top of the Grand Cathedral peeking over the other buildings. She hasn't yet had a chance to visit the University. She's not even sure in which direction it lies. If she had been listening more closely when Josephine and Leliana talked through the detailed map of the Orlesian capital, she might have a better idea. No matter, a visit to the University is on the itinerary, of that she is certain. It may be the most exciting excursion of the coming week.

Trumpets sound their arrival as they make their way down the avenue. Well, isn't that lovely.

"What a lovely fanfare!" Cordelia had not meant "lovely" in a genuine way when she thought it. Josephine, on the other hand, is entirely genuine. She warned them all that there would be something of a parade upon their arrival. That doesn't mean Cordelia was prepared, and even if she were, she still wouldn't be enjoying herself.

The crowd throws flowers and what look like small coins—caprices, perhaps. She does her best to smile, even to wave. These people are alive because of the Inquisition's actions. They're grateful for that, she reminds herself.

But do they truly understand what it cost? The Anchor twinges on her hand, thankfully hidden under her glove. It isn't painful, more like an itch than anything. She clenches and unclenches her fist a few times. The feeling recedes.

Solas hasn't had much, if any, time to reflect on his notes and findings from their rift-closing mission. They've been back on the road since the day after they returned to Skyhold. She hopes there's something useful. Each little sensation, which could have before been written off as a side effect of the Breach, makes her a tiny bit more anxious about how the mark is affecting her.

Cordelia is exhausted. She's going to cherish the no doubt luxurious bed in her guest room at the palace. Whenever they finally get there.

"Inquisitor Cordelia Lavellan, Herald of Andraste, Vanquisher of Corypheus, and cherished ally to Orlais. Accompanied by Cullen Stanton Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition's forces."

The murmuring of the crowd, which began the moment she stepped through the ornate double doors with her arm looped through her love's, grows louder, more fervent. She ignores them. Josephine's approval of Cullen's presence at her side came only after she swore she would dance with at least one person of Josie's choosing each evening. 'For the sake of diplomacy', she insisted. Cordelia supposes she should be thankful her ambassador didn't present the dance partners as potential suitors.

The ballroom itself is larger than the one at the Winter Palace… every part of the Imperial Palace is larger than its seasonal retreat of a counterpart. The moment it came into view earlier today, Cordelia gasped. It's a stunning work of architecture, really. But who built it, she wonders. The Winter Palace was built upon the ruins of elven Halamshiral. What stood here before the glittering jewel of a palace?

Suddenly, there's a pastry pressed into her hand. Her brows lift, and she looks up at her partner.

"What's this?"

"You were looking pale," he says. "I thought eating something might help." Her doting lover. She can't imagine wanting anyone else. Let alone an Orlesian noble. She shoves the little pastry in her mouth. Cullen reaches up to brush away the powdered sugar dusting the corners of her mouth and the bump of her chin. The gloves he wears are different than his normal leather ones. These are made of a soft fabric similar to her own gloves. It caresses her skin like the brush of a kiss. She inhales sharply and turns her head away.

She spots Josephine immediately, the Antivan's dark eyes locked on the pair of them. Oops.

"You'll get lipstick on your glove," she says. A cursory glance around the room tells her nothing. Any chance of spotting someone who had borne witness to the tiny intimacy is lost behind the sea of metal masks. "We couldn't have anyone thinking you'd done something scandalous. Think of the Inquisition's reputation, Commander." She reaches out to take a flute of sparkling wine from a passing servant.

"My hands are clean," he replies, his voice low. He plucks up another treat from the nearby table and puts it in her hand. She arches a skeptical brow. "Eat it." She does, maintaining eye contact the entire time. His eyes darken.

"Yoohoo! Friends! My dears!" Cordelia brushes her hands together to dust them off as she turns to face Dorian, ever the interrupter. "A little birdie has asked me to separate the two of you. Quite tragic, I know, but fear not, sweetling, you get to dance with me first." He grins and offers her his hand.

"What am I to do, then?" "Does this count as her choice of dance partners for tonight?"

"Firstly, no, of course not. A birdie told me. I'm not sure to whom you're referring," Dorian says, answering Cordelia's question first. "Secondly, I'm not your handler, Commander. Find some corner to stand there and look all dashingly handsome while you watch everyone in the room like a hawk, hm?" She hides her snort behind her hand, more for the benefit of appearances than for Cullen.

He frowns and crosses his arms. She holds out her wine for him to take care of while she's on the dance floor. He looks down at it, hesitates, then takes it, arms still crossed.

"Ar lath ma," she reminds him.

Cullen softens a moment. "And I, you, vhen'an." She smiles before she lets Dorian pull her away to ready themselves for the next dance.

"Fasta vass," Dorian mutters minutes later. "Don't look now, but the ladies have already swarmed the poor man." She tries to look over his shoulder at Cullen. He clicks his tongue. "I said don't look. Being Inquisitor has really gone to your head I'm afraid, can't follow simple instruction."

"You could have just kept your mouth shut," Cordelia drawls with a slight glare.

"But where would be the fun in that?" He twirls her under his arm, and they come back to center. "I'm sure he'll have a grand time when Josephine makes her pick. I think she was onto something. These people want a taste of you even more than they did at Halamshiral. More still, since you convinced her to let Cullen accompany you." Her stomach twists.

"I'm going to burn them from the inside out."

Dorian chuckles, though where someone else might have been nervous, he seems genuinely amused at the threat. "All of them? How will you manage that? Or did you mean it more metaphorically?" She doesn't answer apart from an indifferent shrug. He shakes his head at her with another laugh as the song draws to a close.

"Bonjour, pretty rabbit." Cordelia forces herself not to bristle. "Would you do me the honour of sharing the next dance with me?" She plasters on a placating smile.

"I'm afraid not, my lord. I believe my ambassador needs to speak with me. You understand, of course." A tight smile from the lord—someone minor, based on the level of adornments on his mask.

"Inquisitor." The man gives a slight bow and stalks away.

"To Josephine, then?"

"Let me get my drink first," she says, holding up a hand as if to say 'slow down'.

"Tiny elven mage to the Commander's rescue, as per usual," he says quietly enough that she's the only one who hears. Most likely. She squeezes his arm tightly. He hisses. "Testy, testy. A shame, since you look so captivating this evening."

"I hate you."

"Oh, I know, dearest."

They weave through the swathes of nobles, though not without being stopped half a dozen times to exchange greetings and receive congratulations. Her love has attracted a group of five women and two men, all tittering away.

"Excuse me," she says in a sharp yet still acceptable tone. Her title carries authority, her reputation precedes her. She is allowed to speak this way. Even so, she worries she's overstepped as all but one of the cluster turn to look at her. Cullen's eyes light up. She slips between the two closest women. "I'm afraid the Commander has my drink." She takes the flute of wine and sips delicately before leaning in to speak in his ear. "Just as a warning, I'm on my way to speak with Josephine about her pick for tonight." He grunts in acknowledgement, his hand grazing her waist so lightly she's not sure it actually even connects.

She twirls around to face the group. "Lords and Ladies." She curtsies shallowly and floats back to Dorian's side.

Her friend snickers as they link arms. "Half of them have murder in their eyes," he says.

"Only half? How disappointing." More snickering. She downs the rest of her wine and swaps it for a new one, passing one to Dorian as well. "What are the stakes?"

"Hm?"

"On the bets you've all placed." She casts a lazy glance around the room and sips her sparkling wine.

"I haven't a clue what you're talking about."

"I imagine there are several. Perhaps Varric will enlighten me."

"If there were bets placed, we all know better than to bet against you," Dorian says with a saccharine smile.

"Even Sera?" His silence is all the answer she needs.

The next day features a tour of the Grand Cathedral. The Chantry is currently holding a conclave to decide the next Divine. According to the Dowager, they're hoping to reach a decision by the end of the week, but she gives no indication she has any more information than that. Several of Cordelia's companions take a moment to pray in the pews. She stands at the back, admiring the architecture and ignoring the part of her that aches to believe in something again.

Solas and Iron Bull discuss the Qun, Sera eyes a statuette of Andraste, Cole… Well, she's not sure where Cole has disappeared to. In the streets, his gaze lingers on the White Spire when he thinks no one is looking. He hasn't been entirely forthcoming about his experiences in that tower, but she knows enough to want to keep him as far away from it as possible.

The evening brings another party, albeit a smaller one than the first night. Gaspard, who had been Josephine's choice the night before, is not in attendance, but Briala is. She watches from the wings, much like Leliana and Charter, the latter of whom is being primed to take over for Leliana should the need arise. Although, Leliana seems to be itching to get onto the dance floor tonight.

It isn't Leli who asks her to dance, however, but Solas.

"Do you even know Orlesian dances," she asks with an arched brow and an undercurrent of teasing.

"You're not the only one our Lady Ambassador forced into dance lessons," he says, his hand still casually offered to her.

"Forced you?"

"I went willingly, but some of the others…" He looks pointedly at Sera, and Cordelia snorts.

"I will share a dance with you, if only so you can prove to me your competence." He rolls his eyes, but the corners of his mouth lift enough for her to notice. Satisfied, she lets him lead her out onto the dance floor as the previous song comes to a close.

An upbeat tune begins. Cordelia smiles and picks up the dance with ease. All those lessons actually paid off, not that she minded them to begin with.

"It's a beautiful dress," Solas says, falling into step with her. She snorts.

"You didn't seem to think so the first time you saw it." The pale green fabric swishes and sparkles as they dance. She's caught more than one party guest eyeing her semi-sheer bodice.

He frowns. "I told you it was lovely."

"Your face said something else." His eyes dart away from hers.

"I was preoccupied with other matters. The dress had nothing to do with it." She's not convinced, but she lets the topic drop anyway.

"There's something I didn't mention when we discussed eluvians," he says as they circle each other, hands hovering in the space between them, not quite touching. She raises a quizzical brow. "Briala has control over a network that spans across Orlais." She blinks. They switch directions, her marked hand now held close to his. "She supposedly uses them to help the elven people. Whether that's through spying or something else, I'm not certain."

"I think we can assume spying is part of the operation," she says, stealing a glance at Briala. "How long has she had them?" Step in, step out.

"It is my understanding they came into her possession around the time the War of the Lions began," he says.

"So she was already using them when I put her in power." A nod from Solas. "Fascinating…" Briala is not a mage, and they have no idea if she has mages working with her. What echoes of the past might they find if they had access to the network? What might she have already discovered on her own?

"It may be beneficial to speak with her about it," he says, "whether you wish to use them or not."

"She's sort of intimidating," Cordelia admits. "I'm not sure I want to approach her without warning." He laughs softly. "What?"

"You're plenty intimidating yourself, when you want to be. The Marquise of the Dales did not slay Corypheus herself, nor close the Breach in the sky… among dozens of other extraordinary feats."

"That's different. She's scary in the way Leliana is…" Even with her outlook shifted, Leliana is still a force to be reckoned with.

"That's because they're both bards," he says. "I'm not saying you shouldn't be a little apprehensive, I'm merely reminding you that you are completely capable of holding your own." The song draws to a close. They bow to each other, and she turns away.

She's stopped by a couple in matching masks on her way to find something to eat. They are… very forward in their invitation. To their bed. She declines as politely as possible and moves away before they can make any further attempt to "convince" her.

She makes it to the fruit-laden table and resists the urge to stand there shoveling berries into her mouth. She does, however, pile various pieces of fruit on a small plate to bring with her as she makes a round of the room.

"Ah, Quizzy, Curly's looking for you," Varric says, appearing at her side when she's halfway through her plate. "Seemed urgent."

"I'm busy." She gestures with her plate for emphasis, though she's curious what urgent matter needs her attention. Varric snorts.

"I won't tell him I found you then."

"That's right," she says and pats his shoulder before continuing on her way.

It isn't long before she sees Cullen coming toward her. She finishes up her fruit and looks for somewhere to put the plate. She spots a servant with a tray of dirty dishes and eagerly deposits the plate with a brief thanks.

"I heard you were looking for me," she says when her love gets into earshot.

"Mmhm…" Cullen's gloved hand snatches hers and uses it to pull her along as he starts walking swiftly. The glittering chiffon of her dress ripples around her. She holds the hem up with her free hand. She shouldn't trip, but just in case.

It soon becomes clear that Cullen is leading her toward a side exit of the ballroom. A less noticeable exit.

"Where are you taking me, Commander?" she whispers conspiratorially to him as he surveys the ballroom in a glance. His eyes meet hers for half a second, then he pulls her through the door and doesn't look back. "I have little legs, 'ma vheraan, slow down, please." He does, barely. She's grown very familiar with how desire appears in her partner. And something apparently has him quite worked up. "Do you even know where we're going?"

He shakes his head, and she giggles softly. He squeezes her hand before trying a door to their right. It doesn't budge. Not in there then. Another door to the left. Success!

They tumble inside. She's stuck between him and the door as he closes and locks it. There's no place she'd rather be. He takes her face in one hand and kisses her fervently. She sighs, wrapping her arms around his neck and parting her lips for him.

"You taste like strawberries," he remarks. His tongue slides along the inside of her mouth.

"I got hungry." She bites his bottom lip. He groans softly and drags his hand down from her face to grip her waist. "Careful. Don't crush the decorations." He scoffs but shifts his hold to avoid the filigree.

His mouth descends on her neck, and he bunches up her skirts until his hand can wrap around her thigh and hike it up. She moans into the dark room, raking her fingers through his hair and tilting her hips as an offering. He follows her silent request and grinds his pelvis against hers. He's already hard beneath his trousers. And he feels glorious rubbing against her cunt. Fuck.

She tries to hook her calf around him to pull him closer, but his grip just tightens on her thigh. He scrapes her collarbone with his teeth. Her back arches. Her breasts are nearly spilling out of her bodice. He kisses the tops of them—wet, open-mouthed kisses that make her toes curl.

He reaches behind her and tugs at the laces of her bodice.

"You don't have to—ah—we could just do it like—" He silences her with a kiss, then turns her so he can see better. He must have a plan, because usually he isn't opposed to a quick, half- or mostly-clothed fuck. Luckily, he's had plenty of practice by now and unlaces her with ease. She shimmies out, letting the garment float to the ground.

Left in her smalls, assorted jewelry, and heels—with ribbons wrapped up her calf—Cullen scoops her up and walks farther into the room. It appears to be some kind of drawing room. With a wave of her hand, the lamps in the room illuminate, along with the fireplace. Certainly a drawing room, decorated in pale blue and silver.

Her love lays her down on the chaise and kisses her languidly. As if they aren't in the middle of a ball at the Imperial Palace. She unbuttons his jacket hastily and shoves it off his shoulders. He hums and returns to her neck, kissing a trail down, down… he lingers on her breasts first, leaving a few marks on the sensitive swells.

"Everyone's looking at you like they're mentally undressing you," he growls against her skin. She whines and arches into him.

"They can do that—mmm—as much as—ah—they want," she says. He glances up at her with a dangerous look in his eyes. She pushes his hair off his forehead. "It's not like they—" The words catch in her throat as Cullen sinks his teeth into the softness of her stomach and sucks. Hard. All while staring into her eyes.

"Fuck," she breathes. He swirls his tongue around the forming bruise before releasing her skin with a wet noise. He does it again in another spot, lower this time. "Ahhh, Cullen!" He rumbles a questioning hum through her body. She writhes, her knees sliding up his sides.

He lets go of her skin and slithers down farther. "I'm not finished yet, da'ise," he says. His breath blows across her inner thighs. It barely caresses her covered core. The last marks he left on her thighs have all but disappeared, thanks to her mission. If he intends to remedy that, she has no intention of stopping him.

She spreads her legs wider for him. He smirks with his cheek against her skin. The nibbles he trails up both thighs leave far lighter marks than the two on her stomach. They're teasing, little things. She wants more.

When she tells him so, he chuckles darkly and hooks his fingers into her panties. He maneuvers to drag them down, carefully slipping them over her shoes without the fabric touching. He tosses them on the tea table, and she reaches for him.

Their lips meet in a greedy kiss. She sneaks her hands under his shirt and rakes her nails through his chest hair. He groans and squeezes her breast as his body presses closer to hers.

"Do you still want me to taste you?"

"Yes. Please." She arches her back, pushes down on his shoulder. He shifts her body up to make more room for himself as he moves down between her thighs again. He sighs contently with his hands on her hips before delving into her heat. She moans, long and loud, already dizzy with the sensation of his tongue on her.

Her hands chart a path across her body. She tweaks her nipples, squeezes her breasts, caresses her collarbones and ribs and abdomen. Cullen sucks her clit into his mouth. She whines and hooks her left leg over the back of the chaise to further open herself to his attentions. He knows just how to wind her up, which makes her feel even hotter every time… Cool air hits her slick entrance when he lavishes her bud. Her walls clench, aching for more. Always more…

She moans wantonly at the light scrape of his teeth and grips the back of the sofa.

He pulls back barely an inch from her dripping cunt to murmur, "Someone's going to hear you."

"I know you're not telling me to be quiet," she says. She leverages her hand and leg to push herself closer, wanting his mouth back where it belongs. He huffs a laugh and gives a slight shake of his head.

"Of course not." His hands leave her hips to stroke up and down her thighs while he works. A shiver runs through her body.

She sinks her fingers into his hair, panting and smiling like a fool. "Yes, yes, ah, right… mmmm." Higher, higher…

Just as she's about to reach the summit, the door handle jangles. Cullen doesn't seem to hear it, but he does notice her catch her breath. She covers her mouth with a hand. He arches a brow and follows her gaze. A few muffled words, followed by feminine giggling from more than one party. She can't quite tell how many, but their laughter fades quickly with distance as they continue down the hall.

Cordelia exhales in relief, then takes a deep breath and looks down at her love. "Don't stop now."

He focuses his attention on her clit, intent on bringing her over the edge. She is quick to recover from the interruption, all things considered, and crests her peak shortly after they resume. His own competence seems to please him, his lips curved into a smile as he peppers kisses to her inner thighs.

He climbs up her body and captures her lips. His hard, confined cock brushes against her leg.

"Stupid, fucking…" she mutters as she tries to undo his dress pants. He gently removes her hands and does it for her. She slides her hands up under his shirt again.

Once his trousers are discarded, he wastes no time plunging himself inside her. She throws her head back and claws at his shoulders. He rocks slow and steady to let her adjust.

"Pala em, vhen'an." He groans in her ear and picks up the pace, skin slapping against skin. Her toes curl in her shoes at the wet sounds her cunt makes with each thrust.

For at least this little while, her head empties, and she doesn't think about the Game or Orlesians or politics or the Inquisition. She doesn't really think at all. She merely surrenders to the sensations.

Her heels dig into Cullen's ass. His hand tightly grips her hip. Their lips meet again and again, messy and brief but perfect nonetheless. Before long, they find their release on that chaise, each crying out the other's name.

"Maker…" Cordelia huffs a laugh and runs her fingers through Cullen's hair. He pulls out but doesn't go anywhere, his lips still brushing her skin with each panting breath he takes.

"We should get back… I still haven't—" She yawns. "I haven't danced with Josephine's choice." She gets to her feet and retrieves her soiled smalls.

Something else on the table catches her eye as she pulls on her underwear. It looks elven. With a frown, she reaches for the object. The moment her hand connects, a buzz of energy pulses through the Anchor. She pushes a pulse back into the artifact, and it glows softly. It's more than just a lamp, she thinks, but she would need more time to tinker with it. Fucking Orlesians.

When she turns around, Cullen's already back in his trousers and retrieving her dress.

"Look at this," she says, crossing to him and holding up the artifact.

"What is it?" He arranges her dress for her to put on.

"Not sure. Definitely elven, though." She turns it over in her hands as she steps into her dress and Cullen pulls it up into place. She sticks her arms into the off-the-shoulder sleeves and lets him turn her around to lace her up. "How many things like this do you think they have? There were so many at Halamshiral…"

"I couldn't give an accurate estimate," he says, tightening the ribbons of her bodice. "They collected Fereldan items as well. During the occupation." She frowns.

"Well, this one is coming with us," she says and stows it in one of her deep pockets.

"A small tribute." He ties off the laces, and she looks down to check the arrangement of her skirts. Her skirts are fine, but her bodice is semi-sheer and someone seems to have left a few dark marks within view. She has no doubt he did it on purpose. Especially not when she turns in his arms and he smirks and brushes his thumbs over the spots. She bites her lip as they fix each other's hair.

Josephine's head is going to explode.

The next night features not a ball, but a banquet. Cullen sits on one side of her, some nobleman she can't remember the name of on the other. The conversation is pleasant enough and easy to navigate. The food is delightful, as is Cullen's calf pressed against hers for the majority of the meal.

Their absence the night before did not go unnoticed. Neither did the bruises Cullen left on her. While Leliana laughed, Josephine's face had turned as red as a tomato. Not from anger, but from embarrassment. She couldn't even bring herself to scold them until this morning. Cordelia's surprised no one has tried to bring it up at supper.

When Gaspard departs for a post-meal smoke with a handful of men, a serving girl approaches Cordelia and invites her to a private audience with Briala. Her stomach flutters with excitement. Finally, she'll get to speak with her about the eluvians. It's been nagging at her all day, all through the lovely tour of the University, and lunch, and tea in the gardens.

"I have… a meeting to attend," she says quietly to Cullen, giving his hand a squeeze under the table. "I'll see you after." She bites her lip to keep from leaning in to kiss his cheek. He squeezes her hand and nods in acknowledgement.

With that, Cordelia excuses herself and follows the serving girl through the halls, to a sitting room equipped with a balcony. It's there that she finds Briala. The Marquise leans on the railing, looking out over the grounds in silence.

Cordelia doesn't mask her approach, though even if she tried, the bard would have likely noticed her anyway.

"Aneth ara, Inquisitor," Briala says. She turns her head slightly, though not enough to make eye contact. Titles, then? But her greeting is informal…

"Cordelia is fine," she says as she comes to stand at the railing. "Forgive me if I assume too much by saying we're on equal footing." Briala hums, a hint of a smile on her painted lips, and reaches behind her head to untie her mask. She casts it aside, onto the nearby table. Cordelia does her best not to appear surprised. She's seen Briala unmasked before, when she fought with the Inquisition in the Arbor Wilds, but that was battle and this is court.

"Now, I believe we are, yes," she says. "Do you smoke?"

"That depends…"

"It's elfroot, not that shit Gaspard smokes," Briala clarifies. Cordelia nods. "Good." She turns to the table to retrieve a joint. She places it in her mouth and reaches for a box of matches.

"I've got it," Cordelia says, conjuring a candle size flame to the tip of her finger. Briala blinks, the only sign that this gesture is unexpected. The paper catches, and she takes a drag. "I have something to ask you." Briala takes the joint between her fingers and exhales.

"Go on, then," she says and passes the elfroot to Cordelia. She takes a puff before posing her question.

"Is it true you have access to a network of eluvians?"

Briala pauses. Cogs turn behind her eyes, Cordelia can see it. Calculating whether she wants to share that information with Cordelia? Or puzzling out who let the information slip?

"Yes," she says simply after a moment. She inhales an extra time before handing the joint back to Cordelia. She's waiting for Cordelia to make the next move, that much is clear.

"I'm interested in aiding your efforts," she says carefully. Briala arches a brow. "Improving the lives of elves across Thedas is a cause that's close to my heart. I imagine your current position has helped greatly." The barest glimpse of a smirk. Pleased that Cordelia is playing the Game? Amused at her poor attempt at doing so? She hoped her time with Leliana would have prepared her for a conversation like this, but she can't help the frustration rumbling inside her.

"It has," Briala says. "Though your interest seems more personal than professional. That's all well and good, we couldn't have our Inquisitor playing favourites with the people." Her tone is dripping with sarcasm. Cordelia can't discern whether she approves or not.

"It is somewhat more selfish, yes. I would like to explore the network, study it—the ancient magic at work… I'm something of a scholar." She fears she's said too much, revealed too much about her intentions. Briala watches her with an appraising look, leaning against the railing and taking a drag of elfroot.

"I'm certainly not opposed to the idea. As a mage, I'm sure you could discover far more than I ever have." A look of… longing passes across her face. She's biting her tongue. Whatever she feels vanishes in the blink of an eye, however. "Once things settle down, I'll reach out." Cordelia masks the excited thrill the words send through her. She's actually going to have access to a network of eluvians. Morrigan's eluvian would have been, well, better, considering it's connected to the Crossroads, but she was never inclined to sharing. Plus, Morrigan does not plan on returning to Skyhold after the celebration is over.

"Thank you."

Briala shakes her head. "Don't thank me yet. I could change my mind." Cordelia doesn't doubt the truth of that statement. "Supposedly, the Divine will be chosen from a few members of your circle. Have you any thoughts on the election?"

"I don't think it would be wise to share, lest I jinx her," Cordelia says, putting out the finished joint on a crystalline ash tray.

"So you do have a preference on who receives the Sunburst throne?"

"I've prepared for multiple outcomes," she shoots back. Briala snickers. "What?"

"Nothing, nothing… only, your spymaster has trained you well. As well as one can be trained in a matter of months, anyway… I, for one, am interested to see what Sister Nightingale could accomplish if put in charge of the Chantry." The implication in her words is clear: I know your pick. She wants to ask what gave her away, but she could just as easily be guessing. To ask such a question would certainly be a misstep.

Instead, she asks, "Do you have any hobbies?" If Cordelia didn't know better, she might say Briala looks surprised by the inquiry.

"Herbalism, I suppose," Briala offers. She opens her mouth again but closes it before saying anything else. That she's able to censor herself while the high of elfroot courses through her is… impressive. Cordelia would probably be better off keeping her mouth shut, but, well, she's never been very good at that.

"Oh, for poisons. That makes sense," she says, nodding. "I was hoping for something more… mundane." Briala smirks.

"I hardly have time for "mundane" hobbies, Inquisitor," she says dismissively.

"There's truly nothing you do just for yourself? Because you enjoy it," Cordelia pushes. This is the point where Leliana would tell her to back off. But Briala considers her words.

"Does hunting count?" she asks after a long moment. Cordelia answers with a gesture to continue. "On the rare occasion I have a spare few hours, I'll go through an eluvian into the wilds with my bow, arrows, and daggers, and hunt for myself. I cook myself a meal, seasoning with whatever I can forage." Briala shrugs. "It reminds me of… a different time." She sees a loneliness in her then, so earnest, Cordelia isn't entirely sure she's not imagining it.

"I understand." She doesn't reach out, because despite the brief instance of vulnerability, Briala does not seem like the type to accept touch from acquaintances. But she hopes her words bring the other woman some comfort. "It's only fair I share about my hobbies now, no?" Given how I pried yours out of you, she doesn't say.

"I'm listening."

Over breakfast, her friends recount the tale of their game of Wicked Grace. Their antics make her laugh. Apart from informing poor Josephine that they had smoked elfroot on a balcony and conversed for a while, she keeps her lips sealed about her and Briala's chat last night. There was nothing in their discussion that needed to be shared with her advisors. She has little doubt Briala has filed away the bits of information Cordelia gave her for later use. But that doesn't mean she's going to do the same.

Today is some kind of tourney. A few of their people, including Cullen, will be participating. It's only fair, given this whole event is in their honour.

In the shade, a fan in hand, Cordelia watches the crowd, watches the competitors warm up, watches bets being made. Josephine and Leliana are tittering away with some noblewoman a few awnings away, leaving her alone. At least until Solas approaches.

"What had the Marquise to say last night?"

"We smoked elfroot," Cordelia says with a light laugh. "She said a lot of things." She knows what he meant, but the roll of his eyes is oh-so-amusing.

"About accessing the eluvians."

"She's agreed to aid and study," she says and flutters her fan to cool herself.

"Have you already been through?"

"No," she says, shaking her head absently as she spots Cullen across the way, in discussion with Rylen. "We're waiting for the dust to settle on Corypheus's defeat."

"I see…" She drags her gaze away from her love to look up at Solas when he says nothing more.

"You're disappointed," she observes. He meets her inquisitive stare.

"I'm—" She gives him a look. "Yes, I am disappointed we cannot venture through the eluvians yet. I had hoped…" He looks away again. "Nevermind that." She narrows her eyes and closes her fan.

"How did you know she had the eluvians?" She should have asked in the first place. She was too caught up in the excitement of the opportunity to question the information. She let her guard down.

He clasps his hands behind his back. "That is a long story." She's nearly certain he's lying.

"We have some time," she says, crossing her arms.

He purses his lips, then continues in elven. "She retrieved a keystone from Imshael, the "choice spirit" you met in the Emprise, somewhere in Orlais. An agent of mine—" He frowns in reconsideration. Trying to be more honest? Or to concoct a better lie? "My friend, Felassan, was with her." His friend. This seems like a kernel of truth. He's never spoken of friends before. Except for Mythal… "They had developed a bond after he saved her life many years ago. His assignment was to acquire access to this portion of eluvians himself, so that we might utilize them."

"I'm assuming he didn't," she drawls. Given they still belong to Briala.

"He did not. He chose not to. Briala would have given him the passphrase she had set for the keystone," Solas says. "He stopped her from doing so, effectively barring my access because he wished to give Briala a chance to do her part for the elves. I, convinced my path was the right one, killed him for his betrayal."

Cordelia reels back. "You—how long had you known him, exactly?"

"He was my second-in-command during the rebellion." A half-truth, not a proper answer. The rebellion lasted centuries if not longer. He isn't looking her in the eye anymore. She stands and steps in front of him.

"How. Long." She switches to elven to emphasize her words further.

He swallows. "Longer than most everyone else, save the Evanuris themselves," he admits. She feels a bit ill.

"So, you betrayed one of your oldest friends for these eluvians, and then have the audacity to ask me to pose the question to Briala," she says, her volume rising. "That's why you brought it up, isn't it? You were using me to get to the eluvians." How could she have been so foolish?

"No," he says firmly. "I mentioned it because you have a fascination for them. It was a useful and relevant bit of information."

"And if I told you you weren't allowed to come with me? That I would go alone? Or with someone else? Dorian, maybe." Something like hurt darkens his face. She feels a flicker of satisfaction at the sight.

"Then I would wish you well."

"I don't believe you!" The Anchor flares, stinging beneath her glove.

"What would you have me say, Cordelia? I cannot change what I have done."

"You killed him! Your friend. You killed your friend." You could kill me.

"He knew I would." She shakes her head again and again. "He refused the passphrase anyway. I should have listened. I was wrong."

"He knew you would kill him for it? Now, what does that say about you, Dread Wolf?" Solas flinches as if she struck him. Fucking good. She wants to shake him and shove him. She wants to lock him in a room just so she doesn't have to look at him. She wants to scream with rage at him. At herself.

"My dear Inquisitor," interrupts a familiar voice. Solas looks down at the ground. Cordelia turns as Leliana sets a hand on her shoulder, a smile plastered on her face. "The two of you are making a scene. I've come to separate you. Walk with me, Cordelia?" Her anger fizzles out. For now, anyway. She shakes off the nagging of the Anchor before looping her arm through Leliana's to let the spymaster lead her away.

It feels like a century has passed by the time Cordelia and Cullen arrive to their guest room that night. A century of bottled up emotions and idle prattle.

She plops down on the stiff sofa and puts her head in her hands.

"What happened this morning?" Cullen's voice is calm, soothing. Even if his question is not. He sits beside her and carefully begins to pull pins from her hair.

"Solas killed a friend of his. A long time friend. Because he didn't do what Solas asked," she says, sounding hollow even to her own ears. Her love stills. She knows what he's thinking. She's thought it all day. Could he do the same to her? Would he? Despite abandoning his plan for the Veil? If she made a choice he disapproved of, would he do away with her too? She wants to believe the answer is no. But how could she possibly know that for certain?

With a sigh, Cullen continues with her hair until the ringlets are free to cascade over her shoulders. She slumps against him, needing the comfort of his touch. He kisses the top of her head but nudges her to sit upright.

"Dress off first, darling. Then we can go to bed." She nods shallowly and unclasps the front of her bodice. He helps her out of it, then starts on the laces of her corset. She reaches over and squeeze his knee in thanks.

"I love you," she whispers, stroking the outside of the joint with her thumb. "You take such good care of me."

"And you take care of me when I need it," he says and drops a kiss to her shoulder. The reassurance soothes some anxious part of her. "Besides, I like doing this for you." Her lips twitch into an almost-smile.

When they're both down to their smalls, they crawl into the massive bed. She curls up on his chest, making herself as small as possible. Cullen draws shapes on her back.

"I won't let anything happen to you," he says into the dark room. She strokes his face with one hand and tilts her head up to meet his gaze.

"I know." Even so, he holds her a little tighter as they drift off to sleep.

It's not long into Cordelia's dream that Solas intrudes. Her summer picnic date dissipates at the sight of him. She gets to her feet and crosses her arms. She should send him away, but her curiosity gets the better of her. As usual.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I should have been transparent about the eluvians sooner. I should have told you about Felassan." At least it's a precise apology. It's not good enough for immediate forgiveness, but it's good enough to accept.

"It's not me you should be apologizing to," she shoots back. "What if I told Briala? Should I let her kill you?"

Solas bows his head. "If that is the retribution she wished for my crimes against her hahren." Cordelia blinks, straightens her spine. She was not expecting that answer.

"I'm not going to tell her," she says, baffled he took her jab so seriously. "She doesn't know he's dead. I'll spare her that grief." Though, mostly, it's for selfish reasons that she won't be telling Briala.

She does not want to lose Solas. And she wants access to those eluvians. Revealing what Solas did would make her guilty by association. It's a delicate Game, and this piece of information could risk everything.

He watches her curiously. He seems to realise just what she's thinking, but he does not call her out on it. He does not speak at all.

"There are more events to come," she says. "We should rest." In truth, she doesn't want to look at him any longer.

"Yes. Goodnight, lethallan." He fades into mist.

"Goodnight."

Chapter Text

The party that returns to Skyhold is smaller than the one that left it weeks ago. Leliana, having been elected Divine at the end of their week in Val Royeaux, stays behind to take up the position. Charter assumes the position of spymaster, as planned. Vivienne and Blackwall already had (separate) plans of their own, their belongings accompanying them on the journey to the celebration. The rest of her companions remain, for now.

When Cordelia isn't peppering Solas with questions and getting into debates that end with matches in the ring more often than they used to, he's allegedly working to tap deeper and deeper into his magic. He hopes it will aid him in dissolving the energy corrupting her hand. It's clear to them both that the use of the Anchor or being in proximity to ancient artifacts has a negative effect on the stability of the mark.

That doesn't dissuade her from adjusting her and Cullen's travel path to deal with an unsealed rift on their way to South Reach. Solas urges caution. Dorian reluctantly seconds the sentiment when she mentions it to him.

The rift does not prove particularly difficult to deal with—the demons are quickly dispatched… but her hand… It flares up. Not terribly. Just enough to concern Cullen—the bar isn't very high in that regard, in truth. He spends the next several hours stealing glances at her gloved left hand like the Anchor is going to lash out at any moment. She manages to take his mind off of it in the inn that night.

She and Cullen haven't travelled alone like this in ages, since he brought her to Honnleath and gave her his lucky coin—which still hangs comfortingly around her neck. She likes it. Maybe one day they'll have more time to spend like this, riding through the countryside, talking and laughing and pointing out animals and plants to each other.

On the eighth day of travel, they make it to town, where they stop for more precise directions to the family's property. More than a few people eye her purple hart with a mix of curiosity and wariness. She just smiles warmly and soon enough they're back on their way.

It's a short ride out to the plot of land where two farmhouses sit proudly a little ways off the main road. One is obviously a newer build, for Branson's little family, she assumes. The other must be the home they made after the Blight. She's not sure how long it took for them to have this place of their own, but even from the outside she can tell it's been loved for years already.

Cullen is quiet. He's been quieter since they reached the outskirts of South Reach this morning. She doesn't need to ask to know why. This is the first time he's seeing his siblings in nearly two decades. She isn't sure what they've been told; he's not one to share such private information about his past in written form.

A squeal floats out an open window as they dismount in front of the house. Cullen looks up toward the source of the sound, then turns to Cordelia, nervousness in every inch of his body. She steps closer and takes his face in her hands.

"Everything is going to be okay," she says. His hands settle on her waist, his head ducking towards hers. "Whatever conflict may or may not arise, I am here for you." She strokes his cheeks with her thumbs. "Always."

He opens his mouth, but the front door swings open before he can get a word out.

"Oh, how cute!" The young woman with golden curls beams at them. "Mia! Hurry up!" This is Rosalie, then. There's a shout from inside the house that Cordelia can't discern, but it makes Rosalie roll her eyes.

"She hasn't changed a bit," Cullen mumbles. He turns toward the house, sliding his arm around her back. "Except she's older and taller, I suppose." She smiles up at him. Rosalie starts down the steps, and Cordelia steps out of her love's loose hold before his youngest sister throws her arms around him. He steps back from the force of her embrace. "Hi, Rosie." She makes another squeal-like sound and hugs him tighter.

Mia appears in the doorway, an apron tied around her waist. Her hair is not as bright as Rosalie's, the dirty blonde curls twisted up in a bun. "Well, if it isn't the wayward brother, finally come home." Cullen looks up. Cordelia catches a glimpse of the anguish in his eyes at the sight of his eldest sister. She comes down the stairs and stops with her hands on her hips. "Rosalie, you're hogging him. Move."

"You may have to pry her off," Cullen says, his voice strained.

"I have no qualms in doing so." Mia lifts her chin. Rosalie groans and releases Cullen. Mia stares at him like she's seen a ghost. Before either of them shed a tear, they clutch each other tightly.

"And you must be Cordelia," Rosalie says, taking up her hands. "Such a pretty name." It's a relief to not be 'Inquisitor' for once. Though she wouldn't be surprised if that was Cullen's doing—requesting informality from his siblings during their visit. The younger woman starts chattering away, but Cordelia's attention is fixed on Cullen and Mia.

She must mourn the lost years. How could she not? Cordelia can't imagine being apart from her clan for so long, especially not as a child herself. Yet still, Mia was always his biggest supporter. Depite the distance, despite the years. They exchange a few hushed words.

They pull apart, and Mia rubs at her eyes before turning to Cordelia. She doesn't, however, move any closer. Instead, she looks expectantly at Cullen.

"Wha—? Oh! Cordelia, these are my sisters, Mia and Rosalie," he says, gesturing to both of them. She smiles, both at his fumbling and at his sisters in greeting. "Sisters, this is Cordelia." Mia must consider this an acceptable introduction because she comes closer and gives her a brief but firm hug.

"Welcome. It's so good to finally meet you," Mia says as she pulls back, smiling. "I wish I could say I'd heard so much about you, but Cullen tends to be stingy with details." Rosalie snickers.

"Forgive me for wanting to keep my private life private," Cullen says with an adorable scowl. He puts his arm back around her waist. Cordelia tries and fails to hide a smile.

"You could have told us how tall she was," Rosalie chimes. "You're so little." Cordelia snorts.

"Rosie!"

"What?" She throws her hands up in surrender. "She is!" His frown deepens.

"You're barely taller than her," he says.

"I'm right here," Cordelia says through poorly restrained giggles. He looks down at her, and his expression softens a bit. "And anyway, she's right. She's closer to your height than she is to mine." He grumbles and squeezes her waist. She raises her brows. He purses his lips. She smiles. He melts.

"That was beautiful," Mia says, touching a hand to her heart. Cullen blushes furiously. His sisters laugh. "Let's get your things inside."

Branson, his wife Martha, and their little one, Finlay, arrive a couple hours later for supper. He and Cullen look remarkably alike, though Branson stands a hair shorter and has grown out a bit of a beard. Cullen goes for a handshake, and Branson yanks him into a hug. Introductions are made, both of Cordelia to the family, but also Cullen to his brother's wife and child.

Cullen's face is tight like he might cry as they set the table for supper and bring out the dishes. It isn't until they sit down and he looks around the table that he breaks, that he hangs his head and weeps. One hand covers his eyes, the other reaches blindly in her direction. She takes it and rubs circles into the back. She knows not what to do but offer comfort. No words can soothe the overwhelming experience of sitting at a table with your siblings for the first time in 18 years. He's spent longer apart from them than he ever did with them. She can only imagine what kind of ache he feels.

As he begins to calm, he pulls his handkerchief from his pocket—one embroidered with Fereldan heraldry—and wipes his eyes and nose. She brings his hand to her lips and offers him a reassuring smile when he looks her way.

"Forgive me, it's—it's been a long time," he says, the simplest explanation he can give. His siblings offer grace and understanding, despite the questions in their eyes. He squeezes her hand tightly before letting it go.

They stick to lighter topics over supper. Branson asks about the lucky coin she's wearing, so they speak of their relationship—to Cullen's chagrin. His siblings are happy to hear tales of him from her perspective, giving them insight into the man he is now.

After the meal, Martha retires to put Finlay to bed. Over berry-flavoured tea, Cullen shares what he can of the last two decades with his siblings. Cordelia offered to leave the four of them alone, but he insisted it was fine she stayed. Nothing he says is new to her, which makes her feel… a bit guilty. That she knows these things about him, about what he's been through, but his own siblings do not. Tears are shed, apologies exchanged, hugs given.

As his siblings cut in with questions, she sneaks up to the guest room to retrieve the gifts she brought along for each of them. Dresses for Mia, Rosalie, and Martha, a nice jacket for Branson, and a small wooden halla toy for the babe. The clothing she intends to tailor to fit each wearer perfectly while she's here, but she wants to give them a little preview.

When she returns downstairs, more tea has been poured and Cullen laughs heartily along with his siblings. Her heart swells with love and pride for him.

"I have… things," she says as she enters the living room with her arms full.

"Oh, Cordelia, you shouldn't have," Mia exclaims.

"It was nothing, really," she insists and sets the clothing down on the couch next to Cullen. "I'll have to tailor them to make sure they fit, but…"

"We didn't get you anything," Rosalie says, her eyes wide.

"No, no, that's not—" Cordelia glances at Cullen, wringing her hands. "That's not what this is about. I just… wanted to bring some things for you all." She reaches for the wooden halla. "This is for Finlay. I asked Loranil, one of our Dalish scouts, if I could have it. He's always carving little figures like this. He likes to give them to children he sees while he's on assignment, especially refugee children and, uh—" She falters as Cullen touches her arm. His gaze is warm and reassuring. "Sorry, I just… like to give gifts."

"It's true. There's a wall in our room covered in drawings she gifted me during our courtship," Cullen says, his hand sliding down to intertwine with her own. "Not to mention the sweaters, the embroidery on my clothes, the herbal remedies. Given with no occasion except that she wanted to." His thumb rubs circles into the back of her hand. "You'll find she's especially fond of clothing." Her cheeks heat slightly.

"That is… not untrue," she says and shifts on her feet.

"Ar lath mar en'an'salen, da'haselan [I love your gifts, little weaver]," he says. Out of the corner of Cordelia's eye, she sees surprise light on his siblings' faces.

"'Ma serannas, 'ma arlise," she says, nearly in a whisper. He brings her hand to his lips.

"Can we see?" The question comes from Mia, whose eyes are glimmering like she's holding back tears. Cordelia can only hope they're happy tears.

"Of course." She sets the halla on the low table, only for Branson to pick it up and turn it over in his hands. A small smile tugs at his lips before he sets it in his lap and looks up at her again. Relief floods her, and she turns to pick up one of the dresses. Frowning at the poor lighting, she lifts a hand, ready to cast a magelight on instinct. She halts before tugging on the Fade.

"Can I—Sorry, you can't see the colours very well in this light, can I… make more?" Cullen may not be fazed by her magic anymore, for the most part, but she doubts his family has had a similar level of exposure to mages and magic.

"Yes, please," Rosalie answers for the group, a smile on her face. Cordelia conjures a large magelight in a heartbeat and lets it hang in the space above them. She holds the dress back up and inhales to talk about it. But the Rutherfords—save Cullen—are gazing up at the light with thinly veiled awe. Cullen runs his hand up and down the back of her leg in a comforting motion.

"I picked this one with Mia in mind," she starts, drawing focus away from her ball of light. "But really, you two and Martha can decide amongst yourselves which one you each would like. There's enough fabric to tailor any of them to any of you."

"I trust your judgement," Mia says. "Where did you get it?"

And so go the questions and answers with ease until Branson heads home and Cullen insists on washing up the teacups while his sisters go up to bed. Cordelia leans against the kitchen counter, watching him clean after he denied her offer of help.

"Did I do okay?" She's never had to meet a partner's family. With her clan, everyone knew everyone. She tried her best to be herself—as Cullen told her to—even when her self is… a distractable, chatty elven mage with an ardour for clothing and embroidery.

He snorts in disbelief. "You did more than okay, darling. They love you." She hums.

"I'll have to take your word for it."

Days later, Cordelia sits at the kitchen table tailoring Rosalie's dress while Martha and Mia play chess and Rosalie works on an embroidery piece. The boys, including little Finlay, left that morning to go fishing and gave no indication what time they'd be back. By suppertime was Mia's best guess.

"So, Cordelia," Mia pipes up as her and Martha's conversation slows. Cordelia glances up to indicate she's listening before continuing her stitches. "You wear a lot of rings." Her motions stall for half a second, then carry on like she doesn't understand exactly what Mia means by that.

"I love jewelry," she says neutrally. Rosalie stifles a giggle.

"I couldn't help but notice one finger is bare," Mia says. And there it is. She sets the garment down and turns to Mia.

She hasn't always worn her rings this way. Before the Inquisition, she wore them however she liked, having no knowledge or consideration of human traditions. Certainly not wedding customs. When they became clear to her, however, she stopped wearing anything on her left ring finger. While the two of them have discussed a future together, marriage has never never actually come up. Yet, she hopes.

"Such keen observation," Cordelia replies with a slight smile. It's amusing, really, to watch Mia try to dance around the topic. "What do you think about my bare finger, then?"

"I suppose I had hoped Cullen would have proposed now that you're all… victorious and whatnot," Mia says with a wave of her hand. It hasn't even been two months.

"When he said he was bringing you, we may have jumped to conclusions," Rosalie says. Cordelia fights the blush rising to her cheeks.

"We did nothing of the sort. You were the one who wanted to plan some fancy engagement dinner," Mia says.

"Martha thought it was a good idea!"

"I said no such thing," Martha declares before moving a chess piece. Rosalie gasps in betrayal.

"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint," Cordelia says, mostly lighthearted.

"You've done nothing wrong," Mia says. "Cullen, on the other hand, is lucky Martha had her own family heirloom. We still have our mother's ring. If he wants it." Cordelia swallows. "And he should want it. Whenever he's ready, of course. Whenever you're both ready." She only hopes Cullen is on the same page as she is about the matter.

After a nice, albeit long, day of fishing with his brother and nephew, Cullen takes a damp rag to his skin to wash away the dirt and grime. He peeks at Cordelia, who is sat at the vanity unpinning her hair. It falls against her upper back, shielding what her nightgown does not.

Focus. Clean yourself up first.

He swipes the washcloth under his arms. Cordelia drops a hairpin into the little tray with a clink.

"I had an interesting conversation with your sisters today," she says casually. A glance over reveals she's watching him through the mirror.

"That is a slightly worrying statement to start with," he says as he rubs the now-folded washcloth over the back of his neck. He can only imagine what kinds of things they might have shared with her. Embarrassing things he hasn't thought about in years are high up on the list of possibilities.

"They're busybodies, just like Josie and Leliana," she says with a smile. Oh, Maker. He does not like where this is going. He swallows and averts his gaze. "They're wondering why you haven't proposed, and I didn't know how to tell them we haven't exactly discussed marriage yet." He sucks in a breath.

In all honesty, he's surprised it took this long for Mia and Rosalie to bring this up. Mia has not-so-subtly hinted at the topic in her letters, and he has staunchly ignored it thusfar. He hasn't—They have so much going on all the time, even now that Corypheus is dead. They're going to have a future, that much they've decided. But he doesn't need marriage, as much as he might like it. As such, he hasn't felt the need to bring it up. It's just like his sisters to force him into addressing it.

Dropping the last pin into the little tray, she turns on the stool to face him. He opens his mouth to respond, but what is he to say? His hand clenches around the rag.

"I—apologise for their prying," he says through the lump in his throat. "They shouldn't have…" She shakes her head and slowly gets to her feet. Nevertheless, he persists. "I'm sorry, Cor, I didn't—" She takes both of his hands before pushing up on her toes to kiss him sweetly. His eyes flutter closed, and some of the tension eases out of him.

"We're going to have a future," she says when she pulls back the tiniest bit. "Whether that includes marriage is up to us, yes?" He nods, amazed how similar their line of thinking is, then leans down to kiss her again. She hums.

He tosses the cloth in the bowl and wraps his arms around her, holding her close. She drapes her arms around his neck in turn. Her skin is warm through the thin fabric of her nightgown, always so warm…

He considers Mia's nonchalant mention of their mother's ring while he helped her in the kitchen a couple evenings ago. It would look nice among his love's delicate, decorated fingers… but not yet… No, he's perfectly happy with how their relationship stands in this moment.

Eventually, they press their foreheads together. "I'd like to get married," he confesses. "Someday." She smiles up at him, her fingers twirling in the hair at the base of his neck. Her blue eyes are glowing with happiness. Her smile is breathtaking. Maker, he adores her with every fiber of his being.

"Someday soon?"

"If you like." He would have to plan a proper proposal, one she wouldn't see coming an ocean away.

"Noted." She pecks his lips. He circles her hipbones through her nightgown.

"You are… so beautiful," he murmurs. Her smile turns seductive. She bats her lashes coquettishly.

"What would you like to do about that, my good ser?"

The giggles that tumble out of her as he scoops her up and drops her on the bed are worth every second of the war that brought them together.

Among the laughter and conversation and games and songs of their visit to South Reach, Cordelia finds time for reflection. Primarily on Solas, sorting out how she really feels about the whole thing now that she has room to breathe.

For starters, he lied. She understands why, even if it hurt. Still hurts, sometimes. But ultimately, he did tell her the truth, even if it came far later than it should have. Would she really have wanted to know one of her closest friends was the Dread Wolf and actively planning to tear down the Veil? No. No, she doesn't think that would've been helpful for anyone. In the early days, before she trusted him so completely, she probably would have laughed in his face. Told him he was lying. Perhaps even been angry with him for "joking" about such a thing.

She's supposed to be more angry. Leliana and Cullen wanted to lock him up, for fuck's sake. Is she weak for being exhausted by anger? For not wanting to let such a feeling linger in her body, heart, and mind? Is she weak for wanting so desperately to forgive him? For things to go back to how they were? The latter isn't entirely possible. She knows that. Things have changed. She wants to believe they're all better off for it. She wants to. Maybe she does… she's just too afraid to say it out loud for fear of what others might say.

Ignorance is a state she has never enjoyed living in. She is glad to know the truth about the past.

But then comes the other part. The more important part, in the grand scheme of things. The things he has done. Severed the dreams of the Titans. Created the Veil. Killed a close friend. Among many other, smaller acts, smaller betrayals, likely too numerous for him to name. Could she forgive him those? Was the forgiveness even hers to provide?

It's this she ponders as she workshops a spell. In the ring, weeks ago, he used a spell where a bunch of icy little orbs appeared and targeted her. She's managed to conjure the motes of fire, that part was easy. Weaving the spell to make them move without her having to maintain focus on it? Not so much. She hasn't been able to get them to move on their own, much less towards a singular target.

She sighs.

It matters that Solas regrets the things he did. It doesn't absolve him, but it matters.

It matters that he changed his mind, that he no longer intends to "undo" his millennia-old mistake. It matters that he wishes to atone, in whatever way he can.

Sweat drips down her forehead in the late summer heat. She has her large hat to shield her face from the sun, but that doesn't stop the heat from getting to her. With her brows furrowed in concentration, she attempts to apply a similar technique as to how she gets a conjured stone fist to launch itself at an opponent. In order to conserve energy, she works with one orb only while toying with this aspect of the spell.

She knows Solas would teach her if she asked him to. But solving a puzzle has always been a good way to focus her mind and ground herself.

In spite of everything else, he is her friend. He does care about her. And, more than that, he cares deeply for the world, and spirits, and oppressed peoples. He is far from perfect. He has done horrible things. He has killed and betrayed friends before. His view of modern elves still leaves something to be desired…

But he also hates the taste of tea. He sasses Dorian and philosophizes with Varric. He draws. He painted frescoes of the Inquisition's deeds. He has always indulged her many, may questions. He is wise. He is trying to change.

And she cares for him far too much to waste her energy on staying upset with him. Which isn't to say she won't hold him accountable. She's more than willing to argue with him when necessary; she did that plenty before any of this came to light.

She takes a deep breath and releases the spell. The ball of fire moves forward slowly for a second, two, three, four, then fizzles out. She breaks into a grin and huffs a disbelieving laugh. She covers her face with her hands as the giggles overtake her.

That's certainly progress.

Chapter Text

Cordelia feels… rejuvenated upon their return to Skyhold. Autumn's chill has already begun to creep into their mountain fortress, but she doesn't mind at all.

The rest of their time in South Reach proved just as fruitful and joyous, apart from the celebration of All Soul's Day. The annum, dedicated to remembrance of the dead, was a rather solemn affair in Ferelden, she learned. They attend a Chantry service that ended with a public fire to mark the immolation of Andraste. The Rutherfords spoke, though briefly, about their parents and honoured them with a toast of wine over supper. Cullen spoke of them further, when they retired to bed that night: expressing his regret at not being there for his family during the Blight, at having missed those final years with them. She held him as he hung his head and wept, perhaps for the first time, over that particular loss.

Now, they stand in the war room, receiving updates from Josephine and Charter.

"As we hoped, several more rifts have closed without intervention," Charter says. "According to Solas, the Veil is repairing itself. Our scouts have been on the lookout, but it seems as though only a few remain in the South. Up North, the tears seem to have vanished completely, whether due to their distance from the Breach or something else, it's hard to say."

"You consulted Solas about it?" Cordelia asks, pleasantly surprised. She told them not to hesitate to consult with him on magical and Veil-related matters, in the absence of herself and Morrigan. She just didn't think they actually would. The two women exchange a glance.

"It was a mutually beneficial set of discussions," Josephine says. "He wished for updated information on the rifts for his study of your mark. We wanted to know what he thought about the reports we were receiving."

"I'm glad to hear it," she says. She absently rubs at the Anchor. "Can we expect these remaining rifts to close on their own as well, or will I need to do it?"

"Solas requested a meeting with you on the matter," Charter says, her lips pursed. "If it's decided you will seal them, I've already drawn up a travel plan."

"Right, are we caught up, then?"

"I believe so," Josephine says. "There are several documents that require your attention on your desk, however." Of course.

Cordelia nods. "Thank you. Meeting adjourned." She gathers her things from the table and hurries out, eager to hear what Solas has to say. Cullen catches up to her before she even reaches the door to Josephine's office.

"Where are you scampering off to?"

"To meet with Solas, as he requested," she says. He doesn't hide his frown. "Don't make that face. No matter your personal qualms with him, he is trying to figure out how to get rid of this." She waves her left hand as best she can with her left arm carrying her book, parchment, and pen.

"I know," Cullen says, looking away from her. She doesn't press the matter further as they near the Great Hall, where their conversation is likely to be overheard by a dozen people if not more. She grazes her knuckles against his, however, in quiet reassurance.

In the rotunda, Solas stands near the table against the wall and pours over a book. Cullen seems intent to pass right through without so much as a parting look.

She catches his hand. He turns back to her with the look of a chastised pup. "I'll see you later." She tugs gently to get him to lean down. He obeys, and she kisses him with warmth and tenderness. He brushes his thumb over her rings before giving her hand a squeeze and letting go. "Back to work." It's more of a tease than any sort of command. He rolls his eyes and departs the tower.

She spins to face Solas. He is already looking at her. "Savh, lethallin." His brows lift ever so slightly, and she realises it's the first time she's referred to him as such since he shared the truth. It came naturally; perhaps her reflection in her time away actually did shift something in her mindset.

"Aneth ara," he replies. His gaze alights on the Anchor for a moment before returning to hers. "Did you need something?"

"My advisors told me you requested a meeting," Cordelia says, arching a brow as she steps toward the center of the room.

"I… did, yes." He traces the edge of the book in his hands.

His unsteadiness makes her hesitant to set down her things. "If you're busy, I can come back," she says. He shakes his head as if to break himself out of whatever daze he seems to be in.

"No, no. I have good news," Solas says and puts down his book. She places her own things on the desk in front of her as he approaches it. "I believe I know how to remove the Anchor." Relief washes over her.

"That's… that's wonderful, Solas." His lips twitch in a tiny smile. "Is it—" She frowns. "You spoke with Josephine and Charter about the Veil and the rifts." He nods. "Would it be irresponsible to remove the mark without closing those last few rifts? Would they close on their own?"

"Our current data suggests they would, but there is no way to be certain," he says regretfully. "Moreover, I have some concern that closing them may do you more harm."

"Enough to risk the lives of anyone nearby in leaving them be?" Not to mention the spirits being forcibly drawn from the Fade.

He dislikes this question—it's all over his face, suggesting this dilemma has troubled him for several days in her time away. The correct answer is that whatever pain she may bring upon herself is worth it to protect the innocents who live near the rifts. She thinks he knows that, no matter how much he might not like the idea of her getting hurt.

She sighs. "I'll seal the rifts. You'll accompany me. Then once it's done, we'll remove the Anchor."

"If that's what you wish, Inquisitor," he says, his eyes cast down at the desk, or perhaps at the Anchor itself. She frowns. Distance again. She doesn't wish to dwell on it.

"You'll receive a travel plan by the end of the day." She picks up her things and turns on her heel back toward the main hall.

"Dareth shiral…"

They leave only a few days later: Cordelia, Solas, Cullen, Varric, and Dorian. Though their mission is something of a nuisance, she's glad to have her favourite people with her. Even if Cullen watches Solas like a guard dog waiting to strike at all hours of the day.

The first rift does little more to affect the Anchor than any rift she closed before they defeated Corypheus. It's on the smaller side, which may be why. The second rift is larger and takes more out of her and out of the mark. Pain flares in her hand throughout the skirmish with the demons and simmers after the rift is sealed, though Solas is able to soothe the lingering twinges. The third… Well, the third rift brings her to her knees as she draws it closed. Searing pain climbs up from her hand to her forearm. She can barely breathe as Solas and Cullen rush to her side. The former's expression is grim, with concern hiding behind it. The latter is pale with fear.

"Fuck," she groans, pressing her forehead to the ground. Tears slip out of her tightly closed eyes.

"Just a moment," Solas says softly as the calming coolness of his magic wraps around her hand. She sags in relief when the pain recedes. "There."

She inhales a shaky breath and exhales a wet sob. Cullen, based on the leather gloves, pulls her head into his lap.

"I want it gone." Her voice breaks at the end of the phrase. She clutches at Cullen's legs. He smooths a hand up and down her back.

"How soon can you get rid of this thing, Solas?" Cullen asks. Were she not crying so hard, she might have given him a scolding look for his tone.

"We can do it here," Solas says. "The Veil is still thin and will grow thinner as the sun sets. We'll remove it then, hm?" She turns her head in Cullen's lap so she can look at her elven friend.

"Yes, please," she croaks. It will only get worse the longer they wait, that much is painfully clear. She's glad this was the last rift on their mission plan.

She calms, after a time, and tries to help as they set up camp a little ways away from where she closed the rift. Dorian hip bumps her out of the way, which is a shock because he usually tries everything he can to get out of helping. She must have really scared the shit out of all of them.

When their tents are erected, Varric goes out hunting for something fresh for supper. Solas meditates—tunneling into his power, she would guess, or calling on friendly spirits who can lend their support. Cullen starts a fire, then sits at her side and offers her a handful of dried fruit. She accepts. Dorian futzes with his fingernails. She tries to focus on the embroidery piece she brought along, but her left hand trembles uncontrollably under the fabric. They feast on a pair of rabbits as the sun sinks lower and lower in the sky.

Finally, the moons rise, and Cordelia follows Solas back to the site of the rift. The Veil is still quite thin; the magic prickles her skin. Cullen walks at her side, where he's been for hours. He may be more afraid for her than she is.

She and Solas have already discussed at length what removing the Anchor entails. Visually, it won't be very complex, at least from a non-mage's perspective, but the power needed is great. He's spent weeks carving out more access to his magic in order to accomplish it. Cullen doubts the efficacy of his techniques, in spite of everything.

In the clearing, she sits down under the night sky and crosses her legs under her. Solas kneels across from her, and Cullen sits to her right, taking her right hand. She gives it a squeeze. She's going to be just fine.

Solas exhales slowly, and when he meets her gaze, his eyes glow a soft violet. She can feel the magical energy radiating off of him. It makes her shiver a little.

"We can begin whenever you're ready," he says, palms facing her.

She takes a deep breath and nods. "I'm ready." He nods and takes her marked hand between his own.

At first, there is merely a tingling sensation concentrated on her left hand, heightening the prickle of the thin Veil. It grows stronger, and stronger, until it stings. She winces but keeps her breathing as steady as possible. Solas's eyes glow brighter with each passing moment.

"Is it working?" The words come out in a whisper. He glances up at her, those luminous eyes somehow soft and kind when they look upon her.

"Yes, it is." She swallows and nods in acknowledgement. Different from the familiar thrum of Solas's magic are the presences on the other side of the Veil. She can feel them hovering, helping—Wisdom and Determination are the strongest. If the activity draws demons, will the spirits keep them away?

Solas's fingers curl and twitch. When she focuses, she can see the magical threads they're plucking and unraveling, but it makes her head spin to look at for too long. She takes another steadying breath and shuts her eyes.

A dull ache radiates out from the Anchor and through the rest of her body. It stretches on and on, unending. There's a spirit of Compassion that approaches and pets her hair, as her mother would when she had a nightmare as a child. The caressing gives her something else to focus on, something to break up the monotony of pain.

A sudden sting like the slice of a knife swipes across her palm. She whimpers, her grip tightening on her love's hand.

"That's hurting her," Cullen snarls. The first words he's spoken since they left camp.

"It will kill her if I don't remove it, Commander."

"Cullen, it's all right," she says, scrunching her face at another slashing sensation.

"I'm almost done, da'hale," he assures her. Sweat beads on his forehead despite the cool evening. She manages a strained smile before the Anchor pulls more sharply, feeling as though part of her is being ripped away. She keens in agony and turns her head into Cullen's shoulder.

"Solas," Cullen growls in warning.

"I'm nearly finished," he snaps at Cullen. "Let me concentrate or we may find ourselves the victims of an explosion." Like at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

The pain continues to increase for the next few seconds, then peaks for what feels like an eternity, and then… nothing. She slumps into Cullen. White flashes behind her eyes, rapidly fading back to blackness. Her chest aches, less a pain and more the tenderness of something missing. A piece of her that was never meant to be there in the first place.

Cullen holds her delicately, if awkwardly, until she manages to push herself up. Her chest heaves like she's just run for her life. She looks to Solas. His hands are braced on the soft ground, his head hanging between his shoulders, and he, too, is panting. She half-expected him to be passed out after the magical exertion of the task, but no, he's awake. For now, anyway.

"Solas," she croaks.

"Yes?" He lolls his head to look at her, his voice weak and breathy.

"It's gone?" She thinks it must be. Her sense of the spirits beyond has weakened noticeably. She doesn't dare try to cast yet.

He sighs and closes his eyes with a tiny smile. "Yes."

Delighted, she lunges forward and throws her arms around him with what remains of her energy. He grunts a little, his shoulders tensing. But then he slowly twists to return her embrace, albeit with less force than her own. Tears roll over her cheeks.

And she realises, as she cries with gratitude, that this is the first time they've hugged since the truth came to light. It's nice. She… missed him.

After a few moments, Solas stiffens and pulls back. "We should get back. We both need rest. I can examine the after effects when we wake… though I may sleep far longer than any of you…" He gets to his feet on his own and nods to her and Cullen.

"On nydha, lethallan," he says and begins the short trek to their camp.

Cordelia sniffles. Her love pulls her into his lap and nuzzles the dip where her neck meets her shoulder.

"No more Anchor," she whispers, holding her hand out in front of her. No green glow. A faint scar from where it once was, now dormant.

"One less thing I have to worry about," Cullen mumbles. His teeth graze her skin, then sink in slightly. She chuckles and leans into him. "How do you feel?"

"Weird? I don't know. My connection to the Fade feels sort of… garbled." She turns her hand back and forth in examination. "I imagine my magic will be somewhat unstable for a little while, like it was after I got the Anchor." He hums thoughtfully.

"I hope Josie has drafted a statement," she says.

He snorts. "I'm certain she has had several written for months now."

"You're probably right," she says with a soft laugh. "…We should get back." Otherwise she might pass out right here.

Cullen maneuvers her with care before getting to his feet with her cradled in his arms.

"I can walk, Cullen," she protests, even as she lays her head on his shoulder.

"Let me do this," he says. "You're practically falling asleep already." Well, she can't deny that.

"You're impossible." She yawns and snuggles into his chest. "But I love you." She felt him press a kiss to her hair as she drifted off.

In testing Cordelia's hand and her magic the following day, they find that the nerves in her left hand are, for lack of a better term, finicky. The things she's able to feel seems to vary from minute to minute. She hopes—they all hope—that it settles down in time. For now they assume that any sensation in her left hand will be dulled at best.

Her magic is, as expected, unstable as well. Each time she attempts a simple spell, like conjuring a magelight, either it fizzles out immediately or it shines bright enough to blind them all. Concern surrounding how her emotions may affect her magic exists but is not so easily tested. She resolves to try to keep her feelings as level as possible to avoid any magical mishaps for the time being.

The journey back to Skyhold allows for light practice and experimentation, free of prying eyes. The amount of feeling she has in her left hand varies less and less. She's able to move it just fine for the most part—at no point does she lose all mobility or all manner of sensation. At times it feels stiff and tingly, like its fallen asleep, but she's always able to work it off.

Her magical experiments prove… less fruitful. Mainly because she doesn't want to put any of them in danger by wielding her fire. Her rift magic is not exactly inaccessible, but she worries that pulling on it harder might be dangerous as well. Solas suggests he can create a barrier to protect others from her experimentation once they're back in Skyhold, for which she thanks him readily.

"I've been thinking," Cordelia says on the last day of their trip as their mounts move slowly up the incline. She and Cullen ride ahead of the others. Far enough ahead to give them relative privacy for what she wishes to discuss.

He glances over at her. "About?"

"It's clear you have some lingering resentment towards Solas," she says carefully. "Was him saving my life days ago not enough to sway you?" Cullen frowns—the only answer he gives her. "Why don't we sit down with him, so you can get all of your overbearingly protective questions answered?" She's teasing him a little—she doesn't actually find him overbearing. Not at all. Still, he bristles.

"They are not all related to my concern about your safety," he grumbles.

"But most of them are," she presses.

"…Perhaps." She nudges his foot with hers, urging him to look at her. He does, that frown still marring his face.

"I just—I would prefer that you two weren't at odds," she says. "He is trying to make up for what he's done." He bows his head in acknowledgement.

"We'll speak with him."

She smiles tentatively. "Thank you, vhen'an."

Cullen stretches his arms over his head, his shoulders free of the weight of his armour after a day spent responding to reports and requests from all across southern Thedas. He can feel Cordelia's gaze from where she sits at her desk. That she's working after supper and he is not is so uncommon he isn't entirely sure what to do with himself. Could he pull her from her work, as she's so often done to him?

He turns to her with a crooked grin. "We can always reschedule this… meeting," he says. She rolls her eyes.

"You make it sound so formal," she says. "It's a conversation between friends."

"Friends is a generous term for he and I," Cullen says dryly. She is not amused.

"Acquaintances, then," she says with a wave of her hand. "I only mean we're not talking in a professional capacity… though some of your concerns may stem from your position as Commander."

"I would say so, yes." He crosses to her desk and braces his hands on the wood. She arches a brow, and her gaze flicks down to his exposed forearms. "Come sit with me?" She, unlike him, does not need to be asked twice, or convinced at all really. He bites back a smile.

He leads her over to the chaise, where he takes a seat and beckons her closer. She positions herself between his legs with her back against his chest. Where she belongs, if he has anything to say about it. He bands his arms around her.

"Hi," she whispers next to his cheek.

"Hello." He turns his head so their lips meet in a gentle caress. He lifts a hand to tuck a curl behind her ear, to brush his knuckles along her jaw. She sighs happily, and he pulls back. "Shall we read while we wait?" He reaches behind him for the historical fiction novel they've been working their way through.

Cordelia wiggles around dangerously as he opens to the marked page. He is going to ignore it. They haven't the time…

He clears his throat. "Is it my turn?"

"Yes." Cullen is nearly certain it is not his turn, but he wouldn't have asked if he wasn't willing. He hums and squishes his cheek against hers for a second before he begins to read.

They only make it halfway through the chapter before there's a knock on the door.

"Come in!" She starts to get up, but Cullen pulls her right back into place as he sets the book back on the table. Her ginger brows furrow. The door to their quarters opens and closes at the bottom of the stairs. She looks down between their bodies. Does she think so little of him? He is not using her to hide an erection… not today, anyway. Evidently satisfied of his innocence, she shrugs and settles herself back in his embrace.

Solas crests the top of the staircase without so much as a hint of a footfall—though perhaps that is more the fault of the pretty runner Cordelia placed on the steps than her fellow elf's stealth. She pulls her knees up, her feet flat on the cushion, and smiles at him. Cullen thumbs her waist, watching how Solas looks around the room before his gaze lands on the pair of them on the sofa.

"Good evening," Solas says. He is dressed no different than normal. Cullen, on the other hand, is so rarely dressed casually in front of people. He doesn't quite feel naked, but something about it is slightly uncomfortable.

"Hello," Cordelia says, "did you have a nice supper?" Solas's eyes flick to Cullen's, then back to her.

"Yes, quite." He still stands just past the top of the steps. Cordelia beckons him with a hand.

"The armchair is waiting," she teases. "Sit." He approaches the chair in a few quick strides and does as she bids him. He crosses his legs and all but lounges in his seat, as if he belongs there. Cullen has to disagree. He says nothing, however. Just stares.

His darling love pinches his thigh. A silent message: You're being rude.

"As you might imagine, my most pressing concern regards Cordelia," Cullen says with no care for greeting or preamble. They all know why they're here. She shifts in his hold, trying to look at his face, no doubt. "Losing the Anchor has already had some side effects. Is she in any danger from her own magic? Or… or at elevated risk for possession?"

"Possession, no. She is far too strong-willed for any demon to trick her into possession," Solas says, "and spirits require consent. Whether she would do so is up to her." Cullen purses his lips. Cordelia squeezes his hand. "As for her magic, its current level of instability is manageable. The Anchor posed a greater threat than her own magic does now." He seems… earnest in his assessment. Enough that Cullen actually finds himself somewhat soothed by his words.

"I see."

Solas waits patiently for him to pose another question, his hands folded in his lap.

"You said, in the war room, that the orb belonged to you," he says. "As such, the Anchor did too… when you removed it from Cordelia, did you absorb the magic yourself?"

"No. Had it been that simple, would I not have tried to do so in the first place?" He tilts his head to the side.

Cullen quirks a brow. "You said you were too weak to open the orb. I assumed you were too weak to remove or transfer the Anchor as well." Solas opens his mouth to fire back, then closes it with a look that could almost be called amusement.

"That is not untrue…" He waves a hand. "Nevertheless, the raw magic held in the Anchor has been reabsorbed by the Veil."

"Still, you must have access to more power now than you did two years ago," Cullen pushes.

"Yes."

"Will you ever have the same godlike power you once did?"

Solas's eyes light with realisation. "You wish to determine if I am a threat." Cullen frowns.

"And why shouldn't I?"

"No, no, you should. I'm only surprised it took this long for you to do so."

"Solas," Cordelia scolds. Solas looks down at his hands.

"The truth is… I'm not quite sure," he says. "My magic has steadily grown over the nearly three years I have been awake, but it is still a fraction of what it once was." He meets Cullen's gaze. "Hypothetically, yes, I could access my full well of mana someday. Decades from now. Forgive me if I do not regret utilizing and expanding my power given that it allowed me to save Cordelia's life."

"I… understand…" Cordelia rubs circles into the side of his knee. Steady, steady. Next question. "Going back to the orb—are there any similar artifacts that exist? To your knowledge? If there are, they're a danger, are they not? Someone or something like Corypheus could find and use it to create mass destruction. Would there be any way to find them? Make sure they stay out of the wrong hands?"

"For starters, it is hubris to presume we are the right hands for such artifacts to be in," Solas says. Cullen fights the urge to roll his eyes. "That said, any remaining artifacts of the orb's caliber are nearly impossible for any ordinary mage to use or activate—even with a group and a large amount of lyrium. Plus, they would have to locate one in the first place: no easy feat. Less powerful artifacts may exist in Arlathan Forest, in particular, and have the potential to cause small scale damage if malfunctioning in some way. They would still have to be tampered with or at least encountered for this to occur."

"We could go looking for those," Cordelia says, sitting up straighter. "Stop them from malfunctioning."

"We… could… though I believe other tasks are of more importance," Solas says. "You have agents across Thedas monitoring for threats. If you wished, you could easily add magical interference to the list of things to look out for."

"What would that look like? Signs of magical interference, I mean."

After that, Cullen becomes engrossed in their discussion. He isn't sure how much time passes as he seeks clarity on a number of topics: lyrium use in the elven empire, records kept before the Veil, if humans could have or would have existed in a world without the Veil (which sparks a lively debate), and more. Cordelia's participation in the conversation diminishes the longer it goes on, her fingers tracing little shapes on his chest.

Solas is still speaking when Cullen realises that she has fallen asleep on him. Her breath is slow and warm against his skin, her head nuzzled into the crook of his neck. He smiles softly and tenderly strokes her hair. Solas trails off. Cullen looks over and finds his gaze has fallen to the sleeping woman in Cullen's arms.

"Thank you for sharing all that you have," Cullen says, surprised to find he is earnest in the sentiment.

Solas dips his head in a nod. "I know you find it hard to trust me, Commander," he says. "I've given you plenty of reasons not to. But I have no intent to bring harm to the woman you love, nor the world you live in. I only wish to support her—support the Inquisition—to the best of my ability."

His feelings for her have always been clear, which is part of what made Cullen so angry. The pain he caused her… Cullen would never be able to live with himself if he had caused Cordelia even half the amount of pain Solas wrought on her. He has no intent to harm her, but does he regret the harm he has already caused? Cordelia seems to think so, seems to think he wants to atone for the wrongs he's done.

"I think I am beginning to believe you," Cullen admits. And he wants to believe, if only for the sake of his love. Solas's lips twitch, the shadow of a smile.

"That's very gracious of you," he says, making Cullen half-want to take back what he said. "I fear I've overstayed my welcome." He gets to his feet. "Goodnight."

"Hm?" Cordelia stirs, eyes barely opening. "Goodnight, Solas." He smiles softly at her—an actual smile, not the hint of one he had given Cullen just a few moments before.

"Rest well, lethallan." She hums sleepily. "Commander."

After another unsuccessful night of dreaming, Cordelia heads down to the training yard, where Solas waits to help her stabilize her magic. It reminds her of the early days, when she struggled to handle the augmentation of her magic from the Anchor and he would help her outside Haven's walls. This is essentially the opposite of that. Adjusting instead to the missing buff the mark had provided her for so long.

"I can't dream," she tells Solas as she climbs over the rope fence. The barest hint of frost clings to the blades of grass under her feet.

"On dhea," he says. "I assume you mean you cannot walk in your dreams." She nods.

"Not since we removed the Anchor." She begins her stretches with ease. "Not really. I try to wander and it feels like I'm walking upstream." He conjures the wards to protect anyone nearby from stray magic and mishaps. "It's not impossible, but with the Anchor it came to me as easy as breathing."

"Ah, I had wondered," he says, leaning on his staff. "Shall we pick up our old dreaming practice, then?"

"I would appreciate that, yes."

He smiles a little. "Then I'll see you in the secret library after lunch. But first: spells."

Cordelia soaks her sore muscles in a hot bath after her morning training session and takes lunch in Cullen's office. She gives him a quick kiss in farewell as she heads to the library.

She's never been sure if the small library was always there, or if it just appeared one day. She leans towards the former, even if she hadn't noticed it in her first tour of the fortress. When she discovered it, she was giddy, despite the room being filled with cobwebs and covered in a thick layer of dust. She tidied it herself; Dorian refused when she foolishly tried to enlist his help.

Now, the library is pristine and preserved by magic. A pair of armchairs sit before a desk, which is adorned with half a dozen half burned candlesticks on their holders. Could she conjure magelight? Yes. And she often did, but sometimes she wants the warm glow of a candle. Also upon the desk is an incense burner that needs to be cleaned, last she checked.

Solas is already sitting in one of the armchairs when she enters the library, flicking through her most recent read. It's a personal diary from the height of the Dales. He looks up from it with another of his small smiles. He's already lit the bundle of herbs meant to aid Dreamers in entering the Fade.

"There you are," he says. She plops down in her own chair and inhales the smoking herbs deeply. "Would you be able to find me in a dream?"

She shakes her head. "I could try. But I don't think it will work."

"Remain focused—if you cannot make it, I will pull you the rest of the way."

She nods, too determined to deny the challenge.

With the herbs to aid her, Cordelia slips into a dream within moments of quiet concentration. That much hasn't changed—the traditional technique used to go from waking to dreaming works just as well as it did before. The Fade version of the little library shimmers before her. Solas is not at her side.

She walks toward the exit and opens the door. Outside is not the lower level of Skyhold, but a mountain range. Fantastic. The snow crunches under her feet as she hikes up the slope. There are a few spirits at her heels. Skyhold welcomes them with open arms. She is not here to speak with them right now, but maybe…

"I'm looking for someone," she says, as if they aren't already aware. "Could you help me find him?" One of them comes forward, a spirit of Adventure, she thinks, then runs ahead of her up the mountain. She chuckles and follows after it. She does not move nearly as fast as her spirit companion, the snow serving as a manifestation of the difficulty she's having.

When she reaches the top of the slope, Adventure points below, to what appears to be a forest in the distance. It looks farther away than she hoped. Maybe, if she's lucky, the path will shorten from her peerless focus.

No such luck. In fact, at the base of the mountain, the forest seems twice as far away as it was at the top. A spirit of Determination comes to give her a push. But she's exhausted from the journey already. This is the farthest she's ventured in weeks. Another push. She frowns. And then a gentle tug.

Tall, tall trees rise around her, their bright leaves somehow glimmering in the sunlight. Or maybe it isn't the leaves themselves but the space around them… shimmering tendrils of raw magic twist around the branches. The forest thrums. Is this—?

"Welcome to Arlathan Forest," Solas says from behind her. She startles and turns to him with wide eyes. "Your spirit friends were disappointed to not accompany you." She snorts. More like they were disappointed she didn't have the willpower to make it here on her own.

"You didn't want to bring them?"

He shakes his head. "Not right now, no. Come, there's something I would like to show you." Whether from Solas's shaping of this area or from the Fade's enthusiasm over his choice of venue, her fatigue subsides. She follows his path with ease, prancing over roots and branches just the same as he does. Well, he doesn't quite prance, but he navigates the forest floor as any Dalish elf might. He knows just where to place his half-bare feet.

Eventually they exit the copse of trees. She halts in an instant. Before her is the most magnificent set of ruins she's ever seen. It almost looks like… like a city. All pale stone and stained glass and magic. It weaves around the stone structures like ribbons tied into a braid. Could they really be looking at what remains of the city of Arlathan, the capital of Elvhenan? They could be, given Solas's past, but she supposes it could also be another city within Arlathan Forest… No, this must be what she suspects.

Solas stands ahead of her, his own attention on the ruins. The buildings flicker—they don't disappear, quite the opposite, actually. In brief flashes, she sees the ruins not as ruins but as they once were. In all their splendor. She takes a few steps forward, squinting her eyes.

There. The image—the memory, surely—of what Arlathan looked like all those millennia ago. Her hand comes up to her mouth, her eyes sting with tears. It's… fuck, it's truly unlike anything she's ever seen. How beautiful. To have lost this… her heart aches for the Elvhen. Her People.

"If I could give you a tour, I would. The Fade was… resistant to my showing you this much."

"Strange. Could it be a mental block? Something tied to your memories of the city?" Surely, he has countless memories encompassing a wide range of emotions.

"…Perhaps. In time, we might try again."

They stand there gazing at Arlathan a while longer. She recalls what Solas has told her of daily life in the ancient city and imagines elves and spirits milling about in the streets she's able to see.

"I've been meaning to ask: were you actually a shapeshifter?" She's not sure where the thought comes from—but that's a common occurrence for her. Solas is used to it by now, she thinks. "Could you turn into a wolf?" She reconsiders. "The better question might be did you… Morrigan is a skilled shapeshifter. And she's human, so I assume…"

"Yes, I was able to, though I did not do so very often," he says without looking at her. "The wolf was my favoured animal form, which was reflected in the hooded cloak I sometimes wore."

"Can I see?"

He turns his head. "Which part? The hood or the Dread Wolf?

"Both." Obviously.

The cloak appears first—the hood itself is a fur that shields the top half of his face from view, with the fur seamlessly woven into the cloth of the cloak. She reaches out to touch it, and Solas's head lifts enough for her to make eye contact with him beneath the wolf's head.

"It feels well-made," she says as she brushes her hand down the thick fabric. It has intricate golden embroidery stitched into it.

"There was a woman—one of the first Felassan and I freed—who had belonged to June… she was very skilled with needle and thread," Solas says.

"Ah…" She lets her hand drop and circles him slowly, examining the cloak. He fidgets a little on his feet, which brings a smile to her face.

"Have you looked your fill?"

She hums in consideration before she nods. "I believe so. Dread Wolf now."

"Just one question first: shall I size it down to a regular wolf?"

"… How large is it normally?"

"About the size of a high dragon." He says it like this is a perfectly normal size for a wolf to be, even a magical wolf.

Her jaw drops. "You're kidding."

"Why would I lie about this?"

"Men lie about the size of things all the time!" Him more than most, she reminds herself.

"Are you really—" He rolls his eyes. "Fine, I'll show you." He jogs forward, putting some distance between the two of them.

Cordelia gasps as he morphs into a wolf the size of… well, about the size of a high dragon. Andraste's tits, he wasn't fucking with her. He prowls in a tight circle to head back towards her. Six glowing blue eyes blink down at her.

She reaches out expectantly. He hesitates. She steps closer. He bows his head so his nose bumps against her tiny hand. She giggles—it's damp, like a dog's is. She strokes up his snout. He huffs. She lifts her hand from his fur.

"What?" A quiet grumble. Quiet for a Dread Wolf, anyway. "You're ridiculous." She reaches under his chin to lift his head. "Such big teeth. You could chomp me in half!" He growls and stalks away, nearly knocking her over in the process. She cackles as she runs after him. "Solas!"

"You're not very good at being a big scary wolf! The least you could do is let me ride on your—" In a flash, he shifts back into his elven form and whirls around to face her, barely a few paces in front of her. She doesn't think that's how that would work in the waking world. But this is the Fade, and they're both skilled at manipulating it. He's right up in her face for a reason, though she hasn't yet discerned what that reason is. She swallows. "Back."

He breathes heavily, as though he'd been running, but says nothing. His eyes glow a bit brighter than before. She tilts her head to the side.

"Why those light blue eyes instead of violet?"

His brows pinch together. "I never thought about it."

"Violet is prettier," she says, thinking of Kiara's eyes in addition to his. Kiara's are a warmer shade of purple than his, however. Cordelia isn't quite sure which she prefers.

"I'm not sure I agree with you," he says. She narrows her eyes.

"If you think the light blue is prettier, why didn't you give yourself those eyes when you took a body?"

He inhales to respond, hesitates, then speaks, "That's not quite what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter." She stares up at him, willing him to give her a proper answer. He holds her gaze steady for several long seconds, but he is the first to look away. "That's enough for today."

Chapter Text

Cullen wakes at the sound of clattering porcelain and his love swearing under her breath. "Mmm, Cor?" He rubs his eyes and props himself up on his elbows. The sight that greets him is… Maker's breath…

Cordelia is clad in nothing but red and gold lingerie, and she's leaning over the table to move something, giving him a delectable view of her ass and thighs. And, apparently, her cunt, since the panties have no crotch. His mouth goes dry.

She turns from the table and gasps. "You're awake! You're not supposed to be awake yet," she scolds playfully as she sashays over and climbs in bed. Her breasts threaten to spill out of her balconette. He drags his eyes up to her face, where she's grinning at him. The red of her garments makes her blue eyes pop.

"And why is that?"He sits up properly and tilts his head to the side and keeps his hands firmly to himself.

"Because I wasn't finished getting ready, 'ma vherain." She leans down to kiss him, a gentle, easy thing. Her hand caresses his face as she pulls back.

"What are you getting ready for? And why does it involve your pretty underthings?" He fingers one of the straps curiously.

"It's your birthday, of course," she says, thumbing his bottom lip. Ah, she'd been very put off that it passed last year without her knowledge, had belatedly crocheted him a sweater as soon as she heard. He hasn't celebrated his birthday in… many years. Since Kinloch—but even that was mostly Lila and her attempts to make his day even brighter than she usually did with what limited resources they had. "I very much intend to spoil you."

"Is that right?" He slides his hands around her bare waist with a little smile, and she clicks her tongue and pulls away.

"Stay there."

He watches with endearment as she hurries over to the table for a tray of breakfast.

"Ah, Cor, the crumbs," he protests halfheartedly.

"We're going to have to change the sheets anyway," she says, wiggling her eyebrows. He blushes despite himself and doesn't stop her from placing the tray in his lap.

Hearty Fereldan scones, his favourite and a comforting food, filled with cheese and bacon, are piled in the center of the tray. They're still fresh and warm. Surrounding the scones are sliced fruits and potato wedges—the latter no doubt seasoned far more than they ever would have been growing up… but he's come to enjoy the little kick of spice Cordelia adds to so many dishes.

He reaches for a scone, and she gently swats his hand away. "Let me?" Her voice curls up like a question, but the look in her eyes is one he's come to know all too well. He waits.

She picks up one of the larger scones and breaks off a smaller piece, which she proceeds to hold to his lips. He takes the offering into his mouth, brushing against her fingertips. She appears mostly unfazed, though her eyes glow a little brighter, a detail most people wouldn't notice.

She gradually increases the size of the pieces she holds to his lips. He doesn't really notice or mind until she picks up an entire scone—albeit one of the smaller ones, but an entire one all the same. His brows pinch ever so slightly. She quirks one of her own.

"What?"

"It's just, well, it's quite big, isn't it?"

Cordelia smirks and presses the scone more firmly against his lips. "You can take it." The look in her eye promises pleasure. He gulps and feels his cock twitch under the covers. She waits. He sinks his teeth in for a bite, and she pushes the pastry insistently, urging him to take more before swallowing. He obeys, his cheeks on fire. Warmth blooms in his chest when she beams at him.

He watches her carefully as she takes the tray and sets it on the nightstand. He inhales sharply as she straddles his lap. She thumbs his lip, brushing away stray crumbs.

"How did it taste?"

"Good," he chokes out. She tilts her head to the side.

"I think you can do better than 'good', vherain," she says and reaches over for the half of pomegranate on the tray.

"It was delicious." She smiles as she plucks out a few seeds from the fruit and pops them into her mouth. Good. She's satisfied with that answer.

"Do you like pomegranate?"

"I like it well enough," he says, taking a chance and curving his hands around her thick thighs. He looks up at her through his lashes. "I think I'll like it better if you feed it to me." Cordelia giggles and shifts around in his lap. The movement is intentional, he thinks, meant to tease his cock with a hint of friction. He keeps his breathing as steady as he can. She wants to get a rise out of him, and he's not going to give it to her. Yet.

He opens his mouth in invitation for the seeds. She retrieves a couple and drops them onto his tongue without touching her fingers to his lips. Tricky…

"Thoughts? Feelings? Opinions?" she queries as he swallows the slightly tart, slightly sweet seeds.

He shrugs. "Could be better." Her eyes darken with the casual challenge. He strokes her thighs with his thumbs. And waits. She retrieves another pair of little morsels from the fruit, but this time, she holds them right to his lips, not pressing in, just grazing. He tries not to grin as he takes them into his mouth slowly, so his lips close around her fingertips for the barest of moments.

She licks her lips and goes again. Her fingers grow stained with the juice, so too, he guesses, do his lips.

He catches her wrist and sucks her fingers into his mouth. He flicks his tongue over the soft pads of them, savouring every bit of flavour left behind from the seeds. Her lips part, her pupils blown wide as she watches and feels.

"Naughty," she whispers, the scolding definitely not doing its job, given the flush on her freckled, inked cheeks. She considers him with lust burning in her eyes.

Mind apparently made up, she sets aside the pomegranate and takes his face in her hands as she pushes up on her knees. Her breasts come dangerously close to his face in this position, but he resists. She hesitates before kissing him. Not out of trepidation, but to build anticipation. He knows how she loves the hitches in his breath and the way he squeezes the softer parts of her body in silent urging.

It is his birthday, and he wants her to kiss him and touch him… and keep that pretty lingerie set on as long as possible.

She's smiling when she finally seals their lips together. Her hands run through his hair, and her tongue slips into his mouth. She tastes like pomegranate and smells like lavender and vanilla. And he could get lost in her forever.

After a while of slow, intoxicating kissing, he sneaks his hands up her torso to cup her breasts through the pretty lace.

Cordelia gasps and clambers back only enough that she can grab his hips and yank them toward her so he falls onto his back. He huffs a startled laugh, his eyes wide. It's rare she catches him off guard enough to move him like that… though he would've gone willingly if she asked. She crawls over him and braces her hands on his shoulders, gently pinning them to the bed. He lifts his hands to graze them along the outsides of her arms.

"What are you plotting now, da'haselan?" She clicks her tongue and shakes her head.

"That's for me to know and you to find out," she says. "Now stay. Try not to move."

The look he gives her is certainly close to a pout. "It's my birthday, shouldn't I be able to do as I wish?"

This makes her pause. "And what is it you want?"

"To be able to touch you while you, no doubt, lavish me with strokes and kisses." He pushes against her hands to bring his own to rest in the middle of her back. She keeps her expression neutral, but her touch lightens.

"Hmm, I'll allow it."

"So gracious, Inquisitor," he says with a little grin. He kisses her cheek, over the first scar Corypheus caused.

"I can take back what I said," she says, but there's no bite to it. She tilts her head to kiss his jaw. She suckles onto the spot just below his ear as her hands skim over his torso, particularly his ribs. Warm, wet kisses down his neck make him feel heady all too quickly. Her teeth scrape his collarbone, and he whines.

His barely-covered cock nudges against her thigh when his hips move of their own accord. She chuckles against his skin. Her curls scatter around her head, grazing his skin so lightly one might think he's ticklish. He's not… at least, not on his chest…

After sucking and licking at his neck a little while, she sits up and her hands come to to the base of it. Her thumbs dig into the tight, ever-present knots at the point his neck meets his shoulders. He groans loudly. He grabs hold of her waist to ground himself. Maker's breath… She always knows just where to press to coax the muscles into relaxation, at least for a time. Her face is set with concentration. He reaches up to tuck her hair futilely behind one ear.

It's enough to draw her attention. The smile she gives him is sweet, meant only for him.

Then she shifts herself down. Her hands slide under him as her lips descend on his nipples. Flicks of her tongue, nips of her teeth, the press of her breasts on his abdomen. She can likely feel each twitch of his cock against her belly, each slight adjustment of his hips.

Once she has thoroughly attended to both his nipples with her mouth, she pulls back and rubs them with her pointer fingers. He utters her name, which draws her gaze to his. Whatever she sees spurs her into action before he can catch her face and pull her into a kiss.

She plants a trail of quick biting kisses down from his upper chest, shimmies between his legs, and positions herself with her ass in the air. The morning sun shimmers off the golden filigree on her bra and panties and catches in the coppery ringlets of her hair.

"Andraste preserve me," he mumbles, unable to look away from the sight of her pulling her hair to one side and placing an openmouthed kiss just under the head of his cock.

She looks almost holy like this, all illuminated by the sun, her eyes glowing as she glances up at him with her small hand wrapping around the base of him. If he didn't know very well what she actually looked like when on the verge of combustion—yes, actual combustion—he might think she had caught fire. Her hair shifts with each slight move of her head, like a rippling flame.

"I've barely touched you, and you're already gazing at me like I'm your beloved Andraste," she teases.

"You are…" He swallows down the words, fearful the Maker may smite him for voicing them. Her nose traces the seam of his tip. He shudders.

"I'm what, my love?" A minx.

"You are more beloved to me than Andraste." The words leave him in a rush.

Her eyes widen. "Bold words from a former templar."

"Keyword: former."

"Still, you're awfully devout," she says. She sounds genuinely concerned, but she keeps touching him. "I would hate to be the one who turned you from your faith."

He scoffs. "I'm not turning from it. I merely said you are more beloved. Which you are. Andraste was the Maker's bride, and one day you'll be mine, and—ah, Cor!" Her teeth have sunk into the dip of his hip, but they release him when he stops talking.

"I understand what you're trying to say." She slides one hand up to touch his chin, then rest over his heart. "You need not continue trying. Let me make you feel good, hm?" Those words bring goosebumps to the surface of his skin and pull him back into his body, into her touch. She licks her lips, a motion she often does when trying to hide a smirk, which never works.

She licks up his length and teases the lip of his head with the tip of her tongue. He lets out a breathy moan—a sound that still makes him blush, but no longer makes him want to stifle himself. She's worked far too hard to rid him of shame for that.

"You're so good to me, 'ma arlise," she murmurs against his cock. "And I don't just mean in the bedroom…" She angles her head and nips at the tendon on his inner thigh. He hisses. "Though I do so love the way you make love to me… the way you let me have my way with you." Her hand tightens and so do the muscles in his ass. "I'm so proud of you, for everything you've accomplished."

She emphasises her last phrase by finally wrapping her lips around the head of his cock. He invokes the Maker, which makes her wiggle her plump backside in the air with glee as she takes him deeper into the wet heat of her mouth. His hands twist up in the sheets. She hasn't asked him not to grab her hair, but it makes it harder to see her face when his arm is in the way. If he keeps his hands off, he gets to keep his gaze on her full lips stretched to accommodate his girth.

Her eyelashes flutter, and she hums lightly. His hips roll up slowly enough that she can stop him if she wishes. Which… she doesn't exactly do. She doesn't push his hips back down, she just… lifts her head up off of him. The wetness left behind cools quickly in the brisk autumn air, making him gasp.

"I won't do it again," he breathes. She chuckles and leans over to kiss him. He seizes the opportunity to sink his hands into her hair. Her lips part in the softest of moans, inviting his tongue to dance with hers.

Her hips tilt, and Cullen is abruptly reminded that there is no crotch on her pretty little panties. The slick warmth of her cunt glides over his cock. They both sigh and shiver. He grabs her hips and moves them to repeat the motion. She presses her forehead to his with a choked sound, eyes burning with desire.

"I wasn't quite finished down there," she says, her hand cradling his face.

"Forgive me," he says, sporting a crooked grin and not meaning it at all.

"And now all I want is you buried inside me." He groans and digs his fingers into her soft flesh. "Shall I remove my garments?"

"No," he growls. What a ridiculous notion. He won't have her efforts to dress up for him go to waste. "Leave them."

She blushes. "Okay." He marvels at her ability to be so confident and seductive one moment and adorably bashful the next. She sits upright and situates herself above his length. With the ease of someone who's done it countless times, she takes him in her hand and lines him up. She pauses.

He aches to drive himself up into her waiting core, but once again… it's worth it to wait. She rubs the head of his cock through her folds. It catches on her clit, and her eyes flutter prettily. He smiles despite his predicament. He loves when she falters.

Finally, she begins to lower herself. He's barely in an inch when she keens, her brows delightfully furrowed. He lets her set the pace; for as well as he knows her body, she knows it better. He won't push unless she asks him to. But, Maker, the tight grip of her walls is… is… he blows out a breath.

"Sorry, ah," she says as she slowly continues to sink down, "it's just… mmm, tight. Not painful! Just—a lot, ha…"

He runs his hands up her sides and down her thighs. "You feel… divine." She giggles, one of his favourite sounds, and rakes her nails through his chest hair.

"Like Divine Victoria? Do you think she'll send you a card? Or a gift?" He squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head. That is not where his mind is right now. "I think both. Josie's probably holding onto them until tonight…"

Finally, as she trails off, she settles with him fully sheathed inside her, and he groans.

She moves languidly at first. Her eyes are fixed on him, he notices. Behind the lust, she's tracking every minute reaction of his. Her lips twitch in a pleased smile as she picks up the pace, and he hisses. The swells of her breasts threaten to spill out of the lacy balconette with each bounce. He half-wishes they would. He likes her ruined just as much as he likes her dolled up.

Her powerful thighs go a long way in supporting the hard and fast way she rides him, but in time, even they begin to tire. She furrows her brow, ever stubborn in her effort to bring them both pleasure… among other things. Nevertheless, he wants her closer.

He sits up, and his cock slips deeper. She inhales sharply at the change in position, her large eyes widening. He smiles as he wraps his arms around her.

"It's your birthday, you shouldn't have to—" He cuts her off with a deep kiss and moans when she returns it. She sinks her fingers into his hair and rocks against him, the frenetic fucking of moments prior giving way to something more intimate.

"Ngh, let me look at you," he says as he gently tugs her head back. He isn't sure how he got so lucky. Perhaps Bran's coin helped him, perhaps… Full, kiss-swollen lips—currently parted while she tries to steady her breathing. Soft, round cheeks. Deep blue eyes—glowing so brightly with the heat of love and passion. The prettiest smile he's ever seen.

Absently, he thumbs the pale scar on her neck. It's barely noticeable to the untrained eye as far as he's aware, but he'll never be able to unsee it. She catches his hand and brings it to her lips, rubbing gentle circles into his palm. She leans in to nuzzle his nose as her ankles hook behind his back.

"I love you, Cullen," she whispers.

He lifts her hips a little and guides her back down. "I love you, too." She mewls and kisses him again.

They continue moving together, their rhythm gradually increasing in vigor. He holds her ass. She wraps her arms under his, her hands on his shoulder. He pulls her down at the same time he rocks his hips, and she tosses her head back with a loud moan and drags her fingers through her hair.

The arch of her spine lifts her breasts closer to his face. He exhales against one, and Cordelia presses closer. With a smug smile, he kisses the top of her breast as he slides his hand up to tug down the fabric. The soft swell fills his eager hand, and she gasps. He holds it right where he wants it. His lips find her nipple, and he thrusts up into her again.

"You're so deep." Her nails gently scrape his scalp while she presses his face more firmly against her. He hums into her skin and nips at the tender peak in his mouth. She swears.

The longer he plays with her breasts, the harder it is to do so, seeing as her grinding grows erratic and needy… desperate. She's close. So close. He can feel it in every place their bodies touch. But she's holding back.

He pulls back from her nipple with a light pop and lifts his head. "I want you to come first," he murmurs against her ear.

"But—" He pulls back and catches her bottom lip between his teeth. Whatever words she would have said morph into a long groan.

"It's my birthday, and I want you to come first," he says upon releasing her. "I want to feel you come apart around me." She huffs a high-pitched laugh that might as well be a whimper, even with the smile curving her lips.

He snakes his hand between them, as he so often does, and circles her clit with his finger. Her brows knit together, her fingers dig into his shoulder. She moans his name, her breath hot on his face. He clutches her ever closer, rocking into her again and again. His cock is throbbing for release.

She convulses with a whine and drops her head to his shoulder, mindlessly grinding her hips through her climax, chasing every last shred of pleasure. The clutch of her walls around him is too much to bear, and he spends himself inside her core. She hums her satisfaction into the crook of his neck.

Their movements gradually slow to a stop, though their heaving chests have yet to calm. Her body melts into his, her arms and legs wrapped around him.

"Good morning," she sighs eventually. He chuckles and kisses her hair. She suddenly reels back. He raises his brows, meeting her gaze with somewhat bleary eyes. "Or… you tell me… was that good? Was the breakfast too much? I just figured we'd both need fuel, and, well, you brought me breakfast on my birthday so it only seemed fair." He lets his eyes close as he smiles.

"Should I have saved the lingerie for tonight? I meant to wake you up… differently, but it—" He cuts her off with a warm kiss. She's usually quite confident in her gifting abilities, which makes him wonder if this is a birthday-specific quirk, or something else entirely. Nevertheless, he finds her ramblings incredibly endearing, even if he interrupts every once and a while.

"It was perfect. You're perfect. Thank you, Cor."

The rest of Cullen's birthday went swimmingly, if Cordelia does say so herself. Which she does. It was lovely. Josephine threw a small gathering in the Herald's Rest, with his favourite food and drink, a collection of non-Wicked Grace games, and drunken speeches. After opening Leliana's gift, Cullen told Cordelia he missed the spymaster and wished she was there. He hadn't even been deep in his cups yet. Dorian attempted to lead him in a dance to a song Sera played, but it went about as poorly as everyone expected.

They both sobered up enough to enjoy a very steamy night in their quarters while still pleasantly buzzed. He thanked her more than once for… Well, she isn't really sure what he was thanking her for. Josephine had planned the little party. Perhaps… perhaps, he was thanking her for being in his life. He tended to do that on sentimental days.

Now, a few days later, Cordelia is sweating in the ring with Dorian. Autumn is in full swing, but not even the chill can keep her blood from running hot in a fight.

"Ugh!" She shoves Dorian back with her staff and a slight burst of magic, then dances back to plan her next move.

"There's something I've been meaning to discuss with you," Dorian says as he weaves a spell that looks like it's going to do some serious necrotic damage if she's not careful. She strengthens her barrier.

"You want to discuss it now?"

He cocks his head a little. "Admittedly, I'm slightly apprehensive as to how you'll respond to my concerns."

"Your concerns?" She arches a brow but remains otherwise focused.

"Mmhm." The spell sends little purple bats pelting against her barrier. She glares at them and starts to cast her own spell. "I'll just come out and say it, I suppose. I don't know that all the time you're spending with Solas is wise." She rolls her eyes.

"If you're trying to fuck up my casting, it's not going to work."

"I'm doing nothing of the sort," he says and strolls around to her left. She side steps, one foot crossing in front of the other, to keep him in her sights. "I am expressing a concern for the wellbeing of my dearest friend." She frowns.

"We have to talk about this right now? I'm very keen on flaunting this new spell." Is it one she learned about from Solas? Yes. That is not important.

"It won't do much if I still have my barrier up, now will it, sweetling?" Her frown morphs into a scowl.

"Drop it then." We'll see how you like getting pelted with a dozen fire motes.

He eyes her suspiciously. "No, I don't think I will."

The orbs of flame flicker to life, and Dorian's eyes widen. As he takes them in, Cordelia darts in and whacks the side of his knee with her staff to throw him off balance. He hisses and twists to meet the next swing she makes.

"You're not getting out of this conversation," he says as she ducks under his staff. She jabs him in the side with her elbow and spins out of the way.

"Then speak." He whirls and thrusts his staff towards her. She blocks and goes low.

"I don't want to see you get hurt again," he says, batting her staff away. Cordelia sucks on her teeth.

"He's never brought harm to me in a dream or in a sparring match," she counters. Their staves meet with force enough to make her younger self stagger. She holds firm despite her shorter stature.

"You know that's not what I meant." His grey eyes narrow with disapproval.

She steps back, arms dropping to her sides. "He stayed, Dorian. He could have left." She gestures toward the fortress gates. "He could be gone, searching for another way to tear down the Veil that doesn't involve the orb. He's not."

Dorian looks as if he means to say something snarky or speak some truth he thinks is particularly relevant, but he refrains.

"Don't ask me to pretend like I don't still want him in my life," she says. "I don't need you to forgive him, I just need you to understand. Or—or to try to understand." He softens and leans on his staff.

"I suppose that's fair enough," he says. "After all, you're a big girl. You can handle yourself." She snorts and shakes her head. "I think we've had enough athletics for the day, and I'm famished. Lunch?"

"Lunch," she agrees.

Chapter Text

The Fade version of the secret library is once again empty save Cordelia. She wonders where Solas's mind takes him each time they dream, if not the parallel to their waking world. She should ask him at some point.

The door opens into the hallway, for once. Hmmm.

She makes her way up to the rotunda first, the most logical spot to find him within Skyhold. Which is, of course, the same reason he's not there. It's like an elaborate game of hide and seek. A mischievous spirit knocks books off the shelves in the level above.

"I hope you know where those go!" The spirit sings a tune as if trying to block her out and rises to the aerie. She sighs. It isn't worth her time.

She returns to the main hall and heads out into the courtyard instead. Covering her eyes to block out the false sun, she looks up at the battlements. Nothing, nothing, nothing, there.

She groans. Could he not have chosen some place more fun? Less reminiscent of sour memories?

It'll be fine. She'll bring them somewhere else and it won't matter where they began. To the top of the northwest tower she goes.

He's facing her when she crests the top of the ladder.

"I can't help thinking you went a little easy on me," she says as she pulls herself up and steps closer.

"We don't need to go pushing your limits."

She crosses her arms with a frown. "Isn't that the point?"

"No." He doesn't elaborate. "Are we going somewhere?" She rolls her eyes and focuses on the world around her.

In moments, the fortress falls away, replaced by the sprawling forest she left behind going on two years ago. Moss-covered roots and berry bushes picked clean and tree trunks with divots from arrows and thrown knives. She lived in the clearing ahead and these surrounding trees, along the large stream on the other side of camp, from shortly after she was marked with her vallaslin until her departure for the Conclave. The longest she's lived any one place; her childhood was filled with almost yearly relocations. The clan planned to move again when she returned… They still did, only she wasn't there.

They don't even live in the wilds now. She isn't sure if they still have their aravels in the city, if they've been transformed for new purposes or… or if they've been left behind all together.

A twig snaps behind her, and she jumps, having forgotten she isn't alone.

"Good work," Solas remarks. She turns her head, not quite enough to see him, but enough to acknowledge his words. She beckons him to follow as she winds through the trees to the aravel-lined clearing at the heart of their makeshift settlement. She hears children laughing high up in the trees some distance to their left.

A halla greets her and Solas at the edge of the clearing. "Aneth ara." She strokes its head.

Once satisfied with her pets, the halla prances away, back to the herd near where Dhaviha sits carving a design into the antler of one of the younger halla. Her mentor tends to a small wound on the foot of another.

Kiara has her hands on her hips as she bickers with Deshanna. Her staff is propped against a nearby table beside the Keeper's. Cordelia creeps closer.

"I'm going for a walk," Kiara says, snatching up her staff and heading toward the trees.

"Don't go far, da'len. You and Cordelia have a lesson at midday," Deshanna calls after her. Kiara groans, and her footwrap catches on a twig. She curses and lifts her foot to remove it before she storms off. Their Keeper hides a smile behind her hand and returns to her work.

Solas comes to a stop at Cordelia's side. "That was Kiara?"

Cordelia nods. "She's a bit of a tempest… I find it hard to believe that will ever change." She watches Deshanna a few moments longer before turning down the path toward her parents' workshop. They pass the crafters and the cooks mashing berries and a child holding a toy out of another's reach.

She halts several feet from her parents. They work under an awning: her father checking the dressings on a wounded warrior and her mother sorting the morning's foragings. Cordelia's foragings, more than likely, as she used to get up at dawn to venture out for herbs, her staff strapped to her back. An unfinished embroidery project sits in a basket atop the wool her mother is crocheting into a shawl. Do they still have all of her pieces? All the works she created over the years—were they preserved in the conflict with Wycome? It seems a silly thing to concern herself with, but she wonders all the same.

"So it isn't just us," Solas says. She looks over at him with an arched brow. He looks… amused?

"What isn't just you? And who do you mean by 'us'?"

He points to the banners on the aravels first, then to more than one individual. "Embroidery. Everywhere. Kiara and the Keeper both had stitching all the way up their sleeves. Every patched hole in sight is bordered with flowers or animals or vaguely elven swirling designs." She realises this is what he was pointing at. The mark she left on her clan. They couldn't have lost all of it, could they? It seems highly unlikely. The thought is… reassuring. Whether he meant it to be, she's not sure. "You've done the same with your companions. That is what I mean."

"Oh. I—yes, I suppose I have." She shifts on her feet, her cheeks heating without her permission.

Her father says something to her mother that makes her laugh, and tears spring to Cordelia's eyes as her focus darts back to them.

"I miss them," she says lamely. "I want to—I want to visit. I want to write more. But I don't know how."

Solas is quiet for a long moment. "If you wished to visit with more ease, we needn't wait for Briala to give us access to her network of eluvians." She looks over, puzzled. "It's possible she has a connection that could transport you closer to Wycome. We could, potentially, override them manually and—"

"No! Why would you—Ugh…" She runs her hands over her face. "We're not doing that. We must play nice. You must play nice. Stealing eluvians from a woman whose hahren was your best friend who you killed is not a good look. Doesn't exactly scream 'I'm atoning for my misdeeds'."

He bows his head in deference. "Point taken."

At the beginning of Harvestmere, Cordelia and a handful of her companions set out to kill some Venatori stragglers causing trouble in Ferelden. Dorian bemoans their continued efforts to be a pain in the ass, wishes they would just give up now that their leader is gone. She heartily agrees with the sentiment.

She has her closest friends with her: Dorian, Solas, Varric, and Iron Bull. Varric and Solas have made up enough to bicker like an old married couple again. It warms her heart to hear. Dorian observes them with considerable suspicion, but she doubts he's gone to Varric all concerned for his wellbeing. Bull nudges him a few times, trying to get him to cut it out, which only annoys him.

They tether their mounts to a few trees about twenty minutes on foot from where the Venatori are said to be holing up. She double checks her things—staff, dagger, hair up out of the way, a handful of healing potions for emergencies. The others do the same and then they're off again.

It takes longer than expected to encounter their wards, though she's not sure what that means for the fight ahead. They keep an eye on the red tents while Solas unravels the barrier, ready, as they've learned to be, for the enemy to attack the moment the shield is down. She's only a little unsettled when they don't. She knows better than to think their defensive play means they're few in number. Still, she hopes that's the case.

She directs Varric and Bull to fan out to get a better look at what they're dealing with. Through a series of hand signals, they convey that there are four Venatori sitting around an active campfire, one patrols the perimeter, another is… occupied with some kind of text. It's unclear if there are more inside the tents. Cordelia is betting there are. And if not in the tents, then nearby, soon to return. They would do well to deal with these foes before they do.

She, Dorian, and Solas each duck behind a tree or bush as the patrol passes. As soon as he's headed towards Iron Bull, who lies in wait for him, Cordelia creeps toward the nearest tent. She gestures to the other mages what she's going to do and how she wants them to follow up. Dorian and Solas nod. Varric pulls out a handful of smoke grenades to toss into the tents.

She peeks over the top of the tent to gauge how far away she needs to place her spell. She tilts her head side to side as she approximates and tugs on the Fade to cast. She's woven this spell so many times it comes almost as easy as breathing, even without the mark.

She glances over at where Iron Bull should be. He takes care of the patrolmen without letting him make so much as a gurgling sound. Excellent. She checks her targets again.

Aaaaaaand, let go!

The Venatori around the fire are pulled together so quickly their heads knock together and one's long dagger pierces another's flesh. Not to mention their clothes begin to catch fire as they try to get to their feet. Dorian casually sends an immolation spell their way, exacerbating the issue immensely. One of them screams in agony. The one who was stabbed yanks the dagger out—which would be a terrible move for most people, but she presses her hand to the wound and red tendrils of magic wreath her arm. Cordelia's skin prickles.

The one reading gets a crossbow bolt through the throat before Varric hustles in and tosses grenades through the flaps of the two tents nearest to him. Bull charges into the fray.

The spell the bleeding woman casts bounces off the barrier Solas holds secure as Cordelia strides toward her, pulling out her dagger. She's in the woman's face before she has time to deflect. She slices her neck open without a second thought. The blood sprays all over her front, but she ignores it and turns to her burning foes. Iron Bull has cut one in half and Varric has incapacitated another.

Two more emerge from one of the tents as the last of the campfire group turns tail to flee. The telltale purple glow of Dorian's more… necrotic spells surrounds the man like an aura. He's been frightened artificially. When the spell is finished, so too will his life be.

One of the tent dwellers pulls out enchanted daggers and drops to a crouch. Varric asks the Venatori on the ground if there are any more of them. The other tent dweller spies Solas at the edge of it all. Unfortunately for him, Solas catches him, striking him down with invisible force as he takes a step toward him. He follows up with a frost that wraps around the Venatori and stops him from getting to his feet.

Cordelia throws a stonefist that shatters on impact… and has the same effect on her foe's body. Ack. Not the prettiest sight to behold.

"This smart man tells me there's at least a dozen more due here by nightfall," Varric calls. She looks up at the orangey sky. "I say we've got a quarter of an hour… twenty minutes tops."

"Let's get to trapping then. Dorian and Bull keep watch." For the next quarter of an hour, Solas lays down as many glyphs as he can and Varric places his traps a safe distance from the treeline. They don't need to go setting the woods ablaze. She debates snuffing out the campfire, but if their enemies are really as close as they think they are, they've already seen the smoke. No need to kill the light.

She crouches as she watches the trees in her section. She can see the faint glow of the glyphs among the brush, though, before long, that faint glow is drowned out by the magelight floating above the heads of the approaching Venatori.

"I have eyes on them," she stage-whispers to her companions, who rearrange themselves to face more in her general direction. Iron Bull comes to her position and nudges her behind him.

The group slows as they near the camp. They're not stupid; it's clear something is off, if only because the wards are down. They send one forward, a younger man, perhaps an initiate. A quick curse from Dorian sends him running in terror. Bull shoots him a look.

"What?" He gestures to emphasise his annoyance. "I didn't want him giving away the traps! Keep your eyes on the enemy."

"Whatever you say, kadan." Dorian growls but says nothing. Varric muffles a snort behind his hand.

The magelight goes out, but it's not as if they've lost all light. Not when their enemies' staves and hands glow with the power of whatever spells they're trying to cast. Cordelia and Solas both cast dispel on them, then crouch back behind the tent as the Venatori swear profusely.

She hears the sound of a blade being drawn and leaps up to fire a stonefist in the direction she heard it. They will not use their own blood to work around being dispelled. She won't let them. The mage is thrown back against a nearby tree. The way his head hits the trunk makes her worry the whole thing was for naught anyhow. If his head starts to bleed—

A woman steps on one of Solas's glyphs and becomes engulfed in solid ice. None of them bother to finish her off—she'll suffocate in there unless one of her comrades is generous enough to break her free. Cordelia sincerely doubts that. The younger woman, who stands just behind the first, gasps, her eyes going wide. She gets a bolt through the throat for her moment of weakness.

Someone else steps too close to one of Varric's traps, sending them and their friend flying backwards. They'll start to bleed any second now. And she's only spotted half the group.

Taking a risk, she casts Pull of the Abyss beyond the treeline. She's lucky: it catches three more foes in it's grasp.

"Solas, with me." She reaches out her hand, and he Fade steps them into the trees at the Venatori's backs without her having to give the instruction. The first mage to their feet draws power from the one she slammed into a tree. Fuck. Before she can raise her hand and staff, Solas impales them with a spike of ice.

More Venatori reach the trapline, but from what she can see and hear in a moments attention tells her that her other companions have things other control. If she's not mistaken, Iron Bull throws a jab at Varric about his traps getting in the way of Bull's desire to charge into the fray and slice them all in half.

She needs to focus on the foes in front of her. Especially since a couple of them turn back from the traps and most definitely spot her and Solas. She doesn't want to risk too many bolts from her staff, given their fiery nature, even though her mana slowly drains with each spell. A stonefist. Spikes from Solas's staff. He strikes them to the ground to interrupt their spellcasting. She throws yet another stonefist.

Someone she hasn't seen suddenly lunges at her from the side, both hands on their staff. She whirls and their staves clash between them. Their gazes meet. Her opponent's eyes narrow.

"You're the little elven girl they have playing Inquisitor, aren't you," he sneers. She leans back just so and kicks him hard in the stomach. He doubles over. She smacks his head with her staff and steps on his own to disarm him before kneeing him in the face. His nose gushes blood all over her leg. But he's not dead yet. He reaches to smear his own blood over his fingers. The hair rises on the back of her neck. She grabs his wrist in one hand and drives the sharp end of her staff through his unarmoured chest with the other. He coughs up blood as she yanks it out.

She turns back to Solas as one of the mages he's handling raises their hands above their head, a spell clearly prepped. They have no barrier, pouring everything into this attack. Solas is occupied with two other Venatori. Cordelia doesn't hesitate a single second before she conjures and hurls a flaming mote at the mage. They shriek as their robes catch fire. Solas's attention flicks to her in appreciation, brief but earnest all the same.

The combusting Venatori continues to scream.

"Oh, just die already!"

Solas chuckles. "You have more than one blade if you wish to speed things up, lethallan."

"I have more pressing matters to attend to," she quips back and knocks one of his opponents off her feet.

"Yet Varric is already looting the bodies nearest the camp. Curious." That traitor… "Thank you ever so much." He swings his staff to cast bolts of ice at the downed woman, her barrier dropped. The other one gets his neck snapped—an act that still makes Cordelia a little twitchy after what she saw at Adamant.

"Is that everyone?" she asks loud enough for the whole party to hear.

"Looks like it!"

Cordelia hasn't felt this gross in months. Truly! Months. She's covered in blood in varying stages of drying. It's in her hair. It's under her armour. It's on her neck and splattered on her face. Apart from the blood and sweat, the itchy feeling of blood magic still crawls under her skin. From the look on the faces of the Inquisition soldiers at the camp they find their way to, she looks just as gross as she feels. Probably stinks, too.

She needs a fucking bath.

She drops her things in one of the tents and digs out her toiletries and fresh clothes. For good measure, she removes the outer bits of her armour and brings them with her as she exits the tent. Iron Bull offers to clean it for her, which she gladly takes him up on. Then she goes off in search of a lake or pond or river or even a stream for her to wash up in.

Some kind of higher power must exist—probably Cullen… or Lace, deciding where to place their camps—because she comes upon a small lake after only walking for a few minutes in the opposite direction from which they arrived. She wastes no time stripping down and undoing her hair. She'll be lucky to get out every clump of blood, given how scattered they seem to be as she rakes her fingers through the curls.

She dives into the cool water once it's clear she'll need to wet her hair, and probably wash it, before any real progress can be made. Coming up for air, she sighs in content, already feeling cleaner. She rubs at her face and neck first, then works on her hair. She goes to the edge of the pond briefly to retrieve her comb, then swims out again to gently tease out the knots and clumps of blood.

When she's eventually satisfied, she turns back to the spot where she laid her things and only gets a foot or so closer before she halts.

"You couldn't wait until I was done?" She arches a brow. Solas stands near her belongings, his own bundled up in his arms. His mouth opens and closes several times, but his gaze drops from her face. She follows his line of sight to where the tops of her breasts peek out of the water. She can't help but laugh. "The man who created his own body is shocked by the female form?" She tosses her comb onto the shore. "Surely you've lain with a woman before." She turns around, for his sake, so he doesn't give himself an aneurysm from avoiding looking at her tits.

"The Dalish have never been concerned about modesty," she continues lazily, "at least my clan wasn't."

"That does not surprise me," he replies, his voice strained. "However, I will be finding my own spot to wash up. Enjoy your bath."

"Who'd have thought the Dread Wolf would be a prude," she says: quiet, but not quiet enough for him not to hear.

"What did you say?" She bites back a delighted chuckle at the offense taken.

She swirls around. "I said you're a prude, lethallin."

In retaliation, he casts out a hand and chills the water around her to almost freezing. She squeals and tries to warm it immediately. He laughs—a real laugh, like she hasn't heard since before. She slings a fireball at him, only for it to bounce off a barrier.

"You missed," he says. Another wave of his hand encases her in ice. She shrieks and smashes through it. She swims toward the lake bed as he tugs off his tunic and trousers.

"Solas!"

Before she can reach him, he Fade steps into the water, farther than she had been to start with. Tricky, tricky. He waves to her, still laughing softly at her outrage. She growls and veilstrikes him under the water as she swims out to him.

She grabs onto him the second he pops up and locks him in a chokehold. "I don't. Like. Ice."

"Sure you do" He grabs her arms with freezing cold hands and flips her over into the water before she can process his intent. Water goes up her nose. Fuuuuuuck.

When she comes up, she's coughing and her hair is all over her face. She shoves it out of her eyes so she can see his stupid face. His expression is unguarded, which makes her hesitate.

"Wolves can't breathe underwater, right?"

"Cord—" She dunks his head under with both hands on his bald head. He forces it back up and grabs her wrists.

He cocoons her in ice, again, but this time she cannot break it, she cannot melt it. She tries to. Fruitlessly. He keeps pouring magic into the barrier to prevent her from escaping. Only her head is free of the frigid cage.

"Solas." Her hard tone is undercut by the shiver that wracks her body. He tilts his head to the side, looking infuriatingly amused.

"I'll let you out if you agree to a truce."

She arches a brow and squeezes her biceps. "A truce?"

"Yes. So we can do what we came here to do: bathe." An enticing enough idea. She has her clothes to wash as well.

"Fair enough," she says with a shrug. "I promise I won't dunk you again." He narrows his eyes. "I can't exactly shake on it." She wriggles around within the ice to prove her point. He nods curtly, releases her, and swims away without another word.

"Well, you're in high spirits," Dorian says later as she hangs her freshly washed clothing on the line to dry. "A bath works wonders, I suppose."

She snorts, looking over her shoulder at him. She catches Solas's eye across the campfire. His look tells her he'd rather she didn't tell the others about their tussle in the lake. He probably thinks it's not good for his image for whatever reason. As if she hasn't done the same thing with Dorian on more than one occasion. Still, she heeds his silent request.

"Yes, it does." She gives Dorian a scrutinising once over. "You should give it a try sometime." Iron Bull and Varric roar with laughter, and Dorian looks terribly affronted at her suggestion. Even Solas chuckles a bit. She wouldn't have her boys any other way.

Chapter Text

Their success with the Venatori did not go unappreciated; several nearby villagers sent letters of thanks to the Inquisition in the weeks following their excursion. Josephine seems to have stuck them in between dreary reports and thinly-veiled proposals from Orlesian nobility to brighten Cordelia's mood.

Still, her brain declines in functioning the longer she goes without a break, so presently, she's lounging on Solas's sofa, stitching a piece that depicts his Dread Wolf form. He eyed it suspiciously when she brought it out. She told him he should be grateful she didn't decide to embroider the wolf onto his clothing. He let the matter drop after that.

He himself is working on a creative endeavour, one to fill his time now that his frescoes are complete. She wonders if he'd like to paint elsewhere in the fortress. She wouldn't even know where to suggest he work, but she could offer up the walls no matter. His fingers are stained with the charcoal he's using to sketch. She has no idea how he manages to keep it off his sleeves. She might think they're enchanted to prevent staining of any kind, but she's seen his tunics stained with blood and dirt many a time.

Curious as to what he's drawing so diligently, she sets her embroidery down and crosses to the desk. He glances up at the sound of her movement and swaps the pieces of parchment before him as she perches herself on the edge of his desk. She didn't catch what was on the other page—maybe it's a reference of sorts and he doesn't want her to see and give away what his end goal is.

She sits so close that his arm brushes her thigh as he fiddles with the parchment. The touch draws his attention first to her leg, then to her face.

"Yes?"

"That's pretty," she says, gesturing her head toward the drawing of what looks to possibly be the Emerald Graves.

"Oh—Thank you," he says. "It's not particularly inspired, but it's better than a blank sheet of vellum." She hums, reaches for a blank page from the pile he has sitting on his desk, and holds out her hand expectantly. Solas arches a brow. She makes a "give me" gesture, which he must understand since he passes her the charcoal he's holding.

With casual strokes, she sketches the structure of an elven ruin she'd seen in one of their more recent dreaming sessions. She can feel his eyes on her the entire time. On her, not on the parchment or the drawing. Her hand? Yes. Her face? Certainly. But not exactly where she'd be looking while watching him draw. She doesn't comment on it. Some people prefer the artist to the art, she supposes.

When she's satisfied, she adjusts the parchment to lay over his copse of trees. "You think this will fit in your forest?"

"I can make it fit, if you like," he says, fingers closing around the charcoal she returns to his hand. "Or I could simply add foliage to what you've already drawn?" She nods; she likes the sound of that.

"You have other colours, don't you? If you're drawing a forest, I would like to see shades of green."

"You're quite fond of green," he says softly. "Yes, I can use my pastels…" He reaches to open one of his desk drawers to retrieve the supplies. She swings her legs back and forth. He sets the supplies on the table, but her legs seem to draw his attention again. "Are you going to sit there the entire time?"

"Why? Do you find it hard to work under pressure, lethallin?"

He tilts his head and adjusts his supplies with another tiny smile. "No, da'hale, but you're something of a distraction."

"Would you rather I return to the sofa?"

"Yes…" She sighs dramatically, hops down from the desk, and strolls back to the edge of the room. "How is your wolf coming along?"

"Quite well… do you think you'll dress up for Satinalia?" She sticks her needle through the fabric, pretending not to care about what answer he may give her. She would like for him to dress up. He didn't last year, to her dismay. She took such joy in seeing what everyone masqueraded as, and he, artificially stoic, had not deigned to even attend any of the festivities.

"I… may have an idea. Do not go asking the Lady Ambassador; she's been sworn to secrecy," he says. That's more promising than she anticipated. He swaps his pieces of parchment again, and she lets the topic drop in favour of quiet companionship.

It didn't take much convincing to get Varric to stay for the holiday before leaving for Kirkwall. Cordelia and her advisors—Josephine, mostly—had already decided he would be King of Skyhold for the day when he told them of his plans to return home. Josie began to panic, but Cordelia promised she would handle it. And she did! Not until after their Venatori hunt, but she did get Varric to stay, which is all that matters.

Now, Cordelia stands on the same steps where she was made Inquisitor all those months ago. The whole fortress has been bedecked with banners and streamers and more, all in vibrant colours. Her own attire is in shades of reddish-orange, like a fox's fur, to match the fox mask that adorns her face. The base is a simple dress with large, long sleeves over a pair of petticoats to fluff it up. On the top is a corseted bodice with ribbon ties and intricate embroidery in a shade slightly lighter than the corset itself. A short, fur-trimmed cloak is draped around her shoulders, and Cullen's coin hangs from her neck, on display.

In her ring-decorated hands is the same ostentatious crown they used for their celebration last year, though the revelry this year is sure to be far grander, now that there isn't a war going on. According to Josie, they've lined the walk down to the army camp with tall posts connected by the same drapery that hangs around the fortress.

The current crowd is chattering away while workers finish setting up the makeshift tables for later.

"Good morning, fair denizens of Skyhold!" The chattering slows at the sound of her commanding, yet kind voice. "I'd like to thank you for joining us for our second annual Satinalia celebration. May this year be rowdier than the last. As for what you're all, surely, waiting for… our King of Skyhold for the day is…" She pauses for dramatic effect. "Varric Tethras!"

He laughs heartily from the base of the staircase and whacks Dorian when he makes a comment she can't discern, then starts up to the landing to receive his crown. The crowd applauds and cheers, and he, as she expected, basks in it, blowing kisses and waving. She's going to miss him when he leaves.

The nearly three-hour-long Feast that begins at midday is interrupted only by two dozen confetti poppers rigged to go off as the final course is served. Where usually she might scold Sera for such a trap, Josephine laughs in merriment as she swats confetti away from her food. Charter helps her pick the colourful pieces out of the feathers of her owl ensemble. Sera, in her rabbit mask, cackles at the success of her prank. Cordelia only worries what else she has planned.

Their troops slowly trickle into the castle as the feast winds down, and games and dancing and practical jokes and drinking begin. Cordelia steals away for a quick snooze to recharge before she can get swept up in the revelry. Cullen follows her up to their quarters, and, when they wake from their nap, fusses over her hair to make sure it's all back in place as she had it before.

She can hear music streaming in from the balcony doors, so she takes his hand and drags him with her.

The main courtyard, outside the Herald's Rest, is full of upbeat dancing. It's very Fereldan, still organized—they're all following the same steps—but it lacks the stiffness of the dances at Orlesian court. Luckily, she knows this dance too, and she's pretty sure Cullen knows it best out of any of the dances they were taught in the lessons Josephine got for Cordelia and her companions.

Cullen laughs behind her as she pulls him down the steps to join the dance before it ends. They only make it for the last verse and chorus, but it's still a good way to start their evening.

There are so many casks of wine lining the courtyards, she can't count them all, which has nothing to do with the fact that she can't see over the crowd and everything to do with Josephine going all out for this celebration. Just as she's taking her first sip of warm, honeyed red wine, she sees a flash of something familiar. She peers around Cullen to get a better look and gasps.

"Hold this, please," she says, placing her goblet in Cullen's hand as she hurries over to the masked—hooded?—man standing near another table.

"What is it?" Cullen follows after her.

"Solas!" He turns, and she beams. "Oh, you didn't!" She laughs in disbelief as she reaches out to touch the wolf's head that hangs over the top half of his face, just like he showed her in the Fade.

"I think it's fairly clear I did, da'hale," Solas says dryly, though a smile tugs at his lips. His little nickname is even more fitting today. She strokes the fur once, twice, before stepping back to get a better look at the full ensemble. He's in robes of varying shades of grey with hints of the light blue that matches the eyes of his Dread Wolf form.

"You look rather dashing in this costume," she says and turns to Cullen to retrieve her wine. "Doesn't he look dashing, Cullen?"

"I'm not sure that's the word I would use…" She clicks her tongue in disapproval, but he just wraps his arm around her. She leans in.

"Well, I think you look very nice, Solas," she says. He bows his head, and she takes a sip of wine. "Thank you. For dressing up." It pleases her greatly that he's done so. He looks up at her from under the mask.

"You're welcome…" She smiles. "I'm sure I'll see you later, but right now, I must keep moving to avoid another of Sera's tricks." He looks over his shoulder as if concerned she's in the act of sneaking up on him right this second. She covers her mouth to stifle a snicker. "Lethallan. Commander." He slips into the crowd with the grace of a predator, despite him obviously being the prey in Sera's games.

"Another dance, darling?"

She gazes up at her love with a silly smile. He leans down to kiss her, like he just can't help himself. She giggles. "Let's finish our wine, first. Then we dance and dance and dance."

"Sera, what the fuck did you do to the mugs?" The question comes from Varric, whose tankard of Dwarven ale has said ale trickling out of the bottom. It's been doing so the entire time and now there's a puddle of ale on the table.

"Nuthin' bonkers! Just a little itty bitty tiny hole in the bottom of a few of them," Sera says, holding up her thumb and forefinger very close together to demonstrate how small the holes are. "I couldn't tell you which ones have holes… and 'm not sorry!"

"Of course you're not," Dorian says with an overexaggerated roll of his eyes. "Can we play something? I'm in the mood to rob someone blind."

After hours of dancing and field games on the lawn below, the inner circle holed up in the Herald's Rest. It's not off limits—there are plenty of other patrons filling the tavern tonight. But they've arranged two tables in the center of the main floor to sit together, like they had the first time they played Wicked Grace. Varric, as King, sits at the head of the table on the most throne-like chair they could find.

"Sparkler," he says, touching a hand to his heart, "I thought you'd never ask. We're starting at two silvers… or your mask, Curly." Various degrees of laughter erupt around the table. Cullen shakes his head and pulls out his coin purse. The others do the same, except for Solas.

"Lethallin, where do you think you're going?" Cordelia says, swirling her wine around in its goblet as he starts to get up from his seat to her left.

He shrugs and steps out from the bench. "I don't care much for gambling." She seems to recall him telling Varric he doesn't gamble anymore. However, she also remembers that Blackwall taught him Diamondback and Blackwall lost everything, including all of his clothing. And he's already here! He might as well.

"You do today! Sit down," she orders and points to where he'd been only moments ago. Payback for all the games he's skipped out on.

"Cordelia…"

"Varric!" Her holler is somewhat whiny, but she's a little too tipsy to care. "Command Solas to play with us!" Varric pauses his shuffling of the cards to stare down their friend.

"Chuckles, stop being such a sourpuss and sit your bony ass down." Solas still hesitates. "Unless you want to disobey your king." He purses his lips and looks between her and Varric before exhaling a long-suffering sigh and returning to his seat.

Cordelia has never been very good at cards, but she's decent enough to not lose every hand. The second she makes back more than she put into the pot, she pulls right out. She's met with jeers, of course. She cares not. Cullen, on the other hand, is committed to continuing on with another round. She considers him for a moment, then swings her head towards Varric without consulting her love.

"Can we play as a pair?" She bats her lashes in hopes of being more convincing. Varric just laughs.

"Go right ahead, Quizzy."

"Lean back," she says as she turns back to Cullen and runs her hand down his arm.

"Pardon?"

"There's not enough space, lean back." She pushes on his shoulder, and though he still looks confused as far as she can tell, he does as she bids him. "It's easier to play together if I can sit…" She maneuvers herself into his lap… "here." Sera and Krem whistle at them. Josephine's eyes widen and the flush on her cheeks darkens. Cassandra scoffs and shakes her head, but Cordelia sees a smile hiding under her mask. Varric is unfazed, just raises his mug in salute. Dorian and Bull wear matching smirks. Solas is decidedly not looking at them.

She looks at him over her shoulder, the nose of her mask bumping against his. "See? Better." He hums dubiously as the next hand is dealt, but his arm wraps around her middle, holding her steady. "You want me to hold them?"

She doesn't wait for his reply to swipe the cards from the tabletop and fan them out so they can both take a look. She organises them by suit and numerical value, then waits for instruction. It's a respectable hand. They'll see if he can swing it.

Someone refills goblets of wine midway through the game, and Cordelia crosses over from tipsy to drunk. Cullen's arm is warm around her and his breath is warm near her ear. She unwittingly tilts her head to the side as he points to one of their cards. She slides it face down on the table. His hand falls to her thigh.

"What are you doing?" She shifts around at his voice in her ear. He grips her leg.

"What do you mean 'what am I—'" His lips brush against her neck. She holds back a gasp. "It's not intentional." Her gaze flits around the table. No one appears to be looking too closely, which may just mean they're desensitized to her and Cullen's displays of affection, not that the two of them are actually being subtle.

"If you say so…" He releases her thigh. She takes a sip of wine and turns her head to look at Varric.

Her gaze alights on Solas, however. His posture is self-assured, almost lazy. His expression beneath the wolf's head is the same. His pointer finger gently taps the back of his cards, likely more a way to feign boredom than a tell of some kind… not that she can piece anything together in her intoxication. His free hand rubs over his lips as he observes the other players. The entire image sparks something in her.

As if he's noticed her attention, Solas's eyes slide over to meet hers. She half-gasps, half-hiccups and turns away, not anticipating the intensity of his stare.

They don't win the round—Solas does—which isn't a surprise, though Cullen still has his clothes on. Some might consider that an improvement, certainly on his skills, not so much for her. She wants to get him naked too much to be totally satisfied with his neutral gameplay. Alas, Wicked Grace is too complex for those of them deep in their cups, so they opt for another, simpler game. That involves drinking and no cards to fumble with. Solas looks to her with pleading eyes. She shakes her head. He's not getting out of this game either.

Bull takes orders for another round of drinks, which Solas takes him up on with a sidelong glance at her. Cordelia slides out of Cullen's lap but remains pressed to his side. When the qunari returns with their drinks and Solas is handed his hot toddy, he holds it up as if to say "Satisfied?". She is, very much so. Cole, sat between him and Sera, taps his shoulder and says something she can't hear. Whatever it is makes Solas sigh and shake his head.

"All right, starting out easy, never have I ever had a dream," Varric says once everyone is settled again. The rest of them groan and take a swig of their drinks. Varric snickers.

"I never expected you to say something so boring," Iron Bull says.

"Too bad it's not your turn next. Seeker, you're up."

The first round of statements is rather tame. She still ends up in stitches laughing. Her favourite, she thinks, is Solas saying, "Never have I ever read one of Varric's books." Cordelia takes a drink, having read "Tale of the Champion" and forgets his other works entirely.

Dorian does not. "Unfortunately," he says, his nose crinkling as he takes a drink. "I could feel myself getting dumber reading Swords and Shields."

"That is cruel. It is a powerful story, Dorian," Cassandra exclaims, swatting him in the shoulder.

"I only finished it for you," Varric says. "It's far from my best work."

"You sell yourself short," Cassandra says, then hides her flushed cheeks behind another sip of wine. She isn't one to go around giving compliments, least of all to Varric, though their friendship has grown considerably since this all began. "Friendship" would have been a very generous description in the beginning, actually.

Sera ends the first round with: "Never have I ever had sex on a sturdy desk."

Cordelia gasps loudly. "SERA!" The blonde menace cackles. Cullen scowls. He and Cordelia both sip their drinks.

"Oh! That—that was a targeted attack," Josie says, a hand coming up to cover the smile creeping onto her blushing face.

"Ha! That's more like it," Varric says before offering his own assertion.

"Never have I ever…" Cassandra taps a finger against her lips in thought… "lied to someone in this room."

"Cheers, Chuckles," Varric says, raising his mug. "I feel like you should have to take two drinks, personally."

"If that's what you decree," Solas drawls after his first sip. Varric laughs, rich and warm.

"You know what? Yeah. Drink again." Solas obeys.

"Never have I ever thought about having sex with Cordelia," Dorian says pointedly. Who it's pointed at is not clear to her in her state of intoxication, but it could definitely be the obvious answer which is the man whose hand has been tracing shapes on her back for a while now. Cassandra gasps in scandal, and Josie giggles.

"Really?" Cullen says as he drinks. Looking around the table, Cordelia sees Sera, Iron Bull, and Krem also drink.

"Varric, are you sure you haven't? I don't think I believe you," Bull says.

The accused throws his hands up and pleads innocence. "I'm only into dwarves!"

"I think Hawke would beg to differ," Cass argues, then blushes at the laughter she gets from the rest of the table.

Movement out of the corner of her eye catches her attention. Solas drinks… very, very slowly as if trying to hide it. But Cordelia notices and leans over to speak quietly to him in elven. "I didn't know that about you. I'm not sure how I feel." She's teasing, but panic flashes in his eyes all the same. He blushes and looks anywhere but at her face.

"He—"

"Cole. No." The spirit boy shrinks back, not in fear, just back into listening mode. She tilts her head, curiosity piqued.

Before she can push, Cullen pulls her closer so he can whisper in her ear about what he has planned as revenge. She giggles and touches his jaw. He nips the tip of her ear.

"You like that idea?"

She nods. "Mmhm." She turns her head to kiss him slowly.

"Never have I ever been in love with someone without them knowing," Iron Bull says, breaking them from their little moment of bliss. Cullen starts to raise his goblet to his lips. Cordelia places a hand over the top.

"If you mean Lila, do not drink. She knew." He lowers his cup and glances around the table. Varric, Dorian, Krem, and, surprisingly, Solas drink. Maybe it shouldn't be surprising—he's lived a very, very long time. Cole swings his feet and mumbles to himself words she wishes she could discern.

"Oh, unrequited love! Do tell," Josephine sighs, her head propped up on her hand. The only one who doesn't share is Solas, which is suspicious but not out of the ordinary. Perhaps he'd be willing to share in a smaller group, or one-on-one.

They continue around the table until it gets back to Cordelia. "Never have I ever thrown a jar of bees at Solas's head, on purpose or otherwise."

"I'm not ashamed to admit that," Sera says too loudly and takes a long swig of her drink.

"So much buzzing, he couldn't hear himself think," Cole says. Solas huffs and shakes his head. More than one person chuckles.

When they finish the second round, Cordelia sits up straight and stretches her arms over her head. "I'm hungry," she says before getting to her feet. "I'm going up to the Great Hall for food, if anyone wants to join me." She retrieves her cloak from the hook on the wall and drapes it around herself as she sashays out of the tavern.

It really is her plan to go get something of sustenance to fuel more games and dancing, but she sees the dessert tables on her way and… well… She just can't help it! She lingers by the nearest table, practically shoveling chocolate covered fruit into her mouth. She watches the dancing, lit warmly by the surrounding lanterns. It's devolved since she and Cullen first came down, morphed into something far more… messy? They certainly aren't following a set of steps, and there are so many people!

The majority of their troops must be in the fortress right now. She distantly recalls Cullen ordering patrols of the mountain path while they planned the festivities, out of concern for intoxicated soldiers. He refused to lose anyone to falling off the cliffside path.

She starts to sway to the music—she thinks the original band has been given a break, or they've taken shifts or something. But she can barely see them.

Once she and her wine goblet are full, she melts into the dancing crowd. She wishes Cullen were here. It's odd he didn't follow her out. Maybe he did, but lost track of her before he reached her. That's not unlikely. She sways on her tiptoes, trying to see over the taller people around her. Hmm. Well, if she just stays put, surely he'll find her eventually.

And she's right, of course, as the band transitions to a new song, there's a tap on her shoulder. She whirls around and smiles brightly.

"Hello, Commander! My handsome Commander," she says, draping her arm around his neck. His hands fall to her waist. Like they belong there. Which they do. The curve of his mask reveals enough of his face to see the scar that cuts into his lip, and the small smile he wears. She licks her lips and pulls him down so she can whisper in his ear over the noise of the music and the crowd. "Ane ir'palasha, 'ma'vheraan [You are very sexy, my lion]." He inhales sharply. She presses her body even closer to his. Her breasts squish against his chest and threaten to spill out of her bodice. "Dera em [Touch me]."

"I am touching you, da'ise," he says and squeezes her corseted waist for emphasis. Still, she scowls.

"Not enough." She undulates against him, drawing a hiss through his clenched teeth.

"Here?" He sounds… disbelieving, doubtful, uncertain. None of these things are what she wants him to be. Though, she supposes, he is still aroused by her. He wouldn't be clenching his teeth otherwise.

"Mmm, it's not like we're keeping a secret," she says. Her fingers slip into his soft curls and she takes his earlobe gently between her teeth. "Everyone knows what we get up to." Her fingers twist in his hair.

"That doesn't mean I want everyone to see me touching you…" He doesn't pull away. In fact, he seems to hold her closer as they move languidly with the music. "…the way I touch you."

She huffs a sultry laugh. "Then you'll just have to be careful…" She drags her lips down his neck. "‘Ma’haurasha, Cullen… Please?" She whines. He's close to giving in, she can tell in the way he smooths his hand over her ass. She bites back a smile and tries to shift so his thigh goes between her legs.

"We can go up to your quarters?" He gives her backside a squeeze that suggests he would carry her there. She pouts.

"If we go up there, we're not coming back down, and I'm not ready for the night to end."

"Perhaps a hallway, then? Or the armoury?" She shakes her head and bumps the nose of her mask against his face. "Then we'll stay here and you'll have to be patient," he says, sounding amused by her plight. She whines again and pulls away. "Cor…"

"I have to keep my hands off you, vhen'an," she says when he reaches for her. "Otherwise, I'm going to do something very irresponsible like get on my knees." He makes a shocked noise and looks around at the nearby dancers. She smiles knowingly. "Nobody's listening. I'll find you later!"

She downs the rest of her glass of wine and makes her way towards one of the casks, humming along with the music. Cullen doesn't follow her. She laments his absence for a moment before she refills her goblet and turns to survey the crowd once more.

It's in this survey that she spots Solas sneaking sweets from the dessert table. She says "sneaking" because he's very clearly trying not to be seen; he stands behind a cask of wine as he filches festive and frilly Orlesian cakes from the table. If he can be sneaky, so can she. She weaves through the dancers to get around behind him without him seeing and slowly approaches.

"Have you not yet satiated your sweet tooth tonight, lethallan?"

Cordelia gasps, only a few steps away from spooking him. "How did you know I was here?"

"You're too intoxicated to be stealthy, I'm afraid," he says as he turns to her with a smile. "You were peeking over at me every other step you took as you were making your way over here. I noticed." She frowns and drinks some of her wine. "Cookie?" He holds up a cookie in the shape of the moon Satina, frosted to match the colour of it.

She takes the offering, stepping closer and glancing, again, at the revelry. "Do spirits sing and dance? Do they enjoy music?"

"Music and art are some of the things that fascinate spirits the most." She bites into her cookie and flicks her tongue over her lips to secure the crumbs. "They capture emotions in a way many spirits aim to emulate."

"But do they dance?" Ugh, she misses dancing.

"Not as you are thinking of it," he says, shaking his head.

She peers up at him with an arched brow. "How am I thinking of dancing?"

"Presently?" He gestures to the crowd. "Whatever you would call the chaotic, sensual way your people are moving right now."

"My people?"

"The members of the Inquisition who are reveling in the holiday, yes." Which he is not. He seems practically sober to her. Does he have a negative opinion of revelry?

"Ah…" Her people. Not his people. Simply because she is reveling and he is not? Or something more? Hmm. "And you group me among them?" Hopefully her tone conveys her meaning.

"You're misunderstanding me." Well, she's drunk. What does he expect?

"Did the ancient elves not move this way, then?" She swishes her hips slowly in demonstration.

At this, he laughs. "I never said that." She sways closer.

"That makes it sound like you were having—hic, orgies," she says, poking his chest. He inhales to speak, but she doesn't let him. "And now I have several more questions. Did the ancient elves have sex with spirits? If so, how did that work? I suppose probably not—spirits don't have those kinds of motivations, desires." She strokes the fur that cascades down his back. "We talked about that a loooooong time ago. So that answers my next question which was do spirits have sex? Wait, wait, so then—" Her eyes widen, and her hands pause. "What was it like having sex in your new body? Er, what was it like for the ancient elves to have sex in their new bodies?"

"Awkward," Solas says, his voice somewhat strained.

"That makes sense," she says and resumes petting the fur. "All new limbs and sensations and such. It must have been somewhat… fun, though? Exploring all that novelty? Maybe that's why you all were having orgies. I can't really blame you." She tilts her head and slides her hand to squeeze his shoulder, then his upper arm. Structure built by him. "How did you go about choosing your body? Were there many examples to inspire you by then?"

He doesn't answer right away, his expression somewhat troubled. "I had some reference, yes."

She nods thoughtfully and sips from her goblet. "Were you able to modify it later? Or did you have to be absolutely certain? If you were able to modify it, did you? Like if you realised you wanted a—WAIT! Did you give yourself a big dick?" She looks up at his face. It's dark, but she's sure he's blushing. "Sorry, I didn't mean—I know the whole making a body thing is personal and not really something you wanted to do." She toys with a fold in his robe, feeling a bit ashamed for not thinking before she spoke. He lifts a hand and strokes his knuckles down the soft fur trim of her cloak. "Oh, it's so soft, isn't it?" She pets it and peers up again and smiles at what she sees. "Your eyes are glowing. Juuuuust a little. You're having fun? Enjoying yourself?"

"Juuuuust a little," he says, mimicking her. She snorts, which quickly turns into a fit of giggles so violent that she stumbles. And puts her hands out to catch herself against him. Both hands. Including the one holding her goblet of wine. The deep red liquid sloshes and spills onto Solas's robes.

"Shit!" She clumsily sets down her empty cup, reaches for a nearby napkin, and whirls back to him, still a bit unsteady on her feet. She presses the cloth to his chest, trying to sop up the worse of the spill, but the fabric is likely going to stain regardless. "I'm so sorry."

"Really, it's fine," he says in a rush.

She shakes her head. "It's noooooot!" He got all dressed up for her, and now it's ruined. "Let me—" Solas catches her wrists in his capable hands. Her eyes widen as she looks between her captured arms and his face. She tries to wriggle free, tries to continue dabbing at his robes, but he holds firm. She feels her cheeks heat for a reason she can't quite discern. It's not from the alcohol, which has already surely made her look all flushed in the early winter night, but…

"I'm taking you to the Commander," he says, releasing one wrist and plucking the napkin out of her grasp.

"Solaaaaaaaaas, noooo, he'll cut me off." She makes the sweetest, most pleading expression she can. "Please, don't." He hesitates, gazing into her eyes, and she almost thinks she's won. But he shakes his head and gently tugs her wrist as he begins to walk. "Do you even know where he is?"

"I have a pretty good idea." Whatever that means. Disliking the way he's holding her wrist, she wiggles it out and slides her hand into his instead. He glances at her but says nothing. It's easier this way, plus she doesn't feel so much like a punished child.

They find Cullen along the edge of the dancing area; he looks for all the world like he's keeping watch. At a party! She walks away from him and he decides to work?! That just won't do.

"I believe I've found something of yours, Commander," Solas says as they near him. His hand slips out of her grasp and momentum carries her forward a few extra steps. She smiles up at Cullen in an attempt to charm him into thinking she's not incredibly intoxicated. Her love arches a brow and examines them both.

"Apologies for the spill," he says, gesturing to the dark spot on Solas's clothing.

Solas waves him off. "That's not necessary." Talking about her mistake like she's not right here. She rolls her eyes. But Cullen's gaze settles on her and, ugh! He still looks so unfairly good! On impulse, she throws herself at him and kisses him sloppily on the mouth. He steadies her with hands on her waist. "Enjoy the rest of your night."

She partially breaks from Cullen, really just her lips and the hand she uses to wave goodnight to Solas, before engrossing herself in him again. He indulges her a short while longer.

"Vhen'an…" he says as he pulls back.

"Hmm?"

"You are very drunk." She nods and fusses with the collar of his jacket. He tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"Don't make me go to bed. I don't want to." Not yet.

He smiles softly. "What would you like to do, then?" She shrugs, swaying in his arms. "We could look at the stars? I know a place."

Chapter Text

As she passes by Varric's favourite spot, Cordelia's heart twinges. He left only yesterday, but she misses him already. Kirkwall won't be quite the same without Hawke, he said, but it's still home. She gave him a hug. He extended invitations to visit whenever they want, even Solas, who was as sad to see Varric go as any of them.

Speaking of Solas, he lifts his head from the book he's reading when she enters the lowest floor of the rotunda. She raises a hand in greeting and offers him a small smile as she passes through to the stairs. She needs something new to read; hopefully Dorian can help her find something decent.

"Good morning, dearest," Dorian says from his reading nook, book in hand. He places a bookmark between the pages and sets it aside. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I need something new to read," she says, holding up the novel she completed most recently and wiggling it around.

"First off, you'll need to return that to Helisma." He rises from his armchair and straightens his robes. "I don't know how many times I have to tell you." Cordelia throws her hands up in self-defense and brings the book over to the librarian. "What are you in the mood for? Another magical adventure?" She scrunches up her nose and shakes her head.

"I was thinking something a little more mundane… cozy?"

Dorian purses his lips. "All right." He beckons her over to a shelf and they get to browsing.

"She changed everything." She nearly jumps out of her skin at Cole's sudden commentary. "He has not forgotten the dream."

She turns to look at the spirit boy with a frown. "…What?" His big hat shields his face from view, though she's learned that when he's reading someone, his expression is usually quite blank anyway.

"I love this game," Dorian says in a tone far too giddy for what Cole is relaying to her.

"Pointed comments and questions. Too drunk to filter herself. Too drunk to sense the pain of regret or the ache of love," he continues. "Her smile. Her hands on him. Is this forgiveness?" She shifts on her feet, her heart beating faster. If she's talking about who she thinks he is… "She is happy. I want for nothing else."

Dorian covers his mouth with one hand. "Oh, dear." She shoots him a glare. He raises his brows, waiting for her response.

"Why…" she swallows… "why are you telling me this?"

At this, Cole looks up and makes steady eye contact. "Losing him would break me. Almost as much as losing 'ma arlise would." Her breath catches. It's true. Of course, it's true—he's recalled her own thoughts. That doesn't mean it's a feeling she's fully acknowledged. She thought about it mainly in the days directly following his confession, about how he could have left her with no warning, no explanation. It would've broken her heart. Her heart was still broken, but in a different way.

Her frown deepens. "Cole…" She doesn't know what he expects from her, what his intentions are.

"He wants for nothing else," he reiterates, "but he would want you if you wanted him to." The words hit her like a punch to the gut. She reels back. Cole casts his gaze over her, brows slightly furrowed.

"Cullen and I are discussing marriage, Cole," she says, shaking her head. Whatever she and Solas had is over and done. It has been for over a year now. She loves Cullen more than anything. She doesn't need anything, anyone else. She certainly isn't going to leave him. Cole said himself that losing Cullen would break her. So what is the point of this?

Cole touches her arm. She flinches, but he does not retreat. "He would not steal you away," he says. He looks at her with an almost unsettling intensity. "Cullen is your hearth, the fire lit only for you, your home. To take you from that would be torture. Of this, he is certain. He does not want that for you." Tears prick in her eyes.

"I don't understand," she whispers. Does Solas still harbour feelings for her? He must. He remembers the dream. He thinks of how she does not love him—which is not true, she does love him, but she's not in love with him. Could she be? Could she love them both someday?

Cole's expression brightens, like she's on the right path, like he feels he has succeeded. "Your heart is big enough." It's the closest to a direct answer she's going to get from him.

"Thank you, Cole." The words come out strained, almost raw.

"You are welcome, Cordelia." He strolls off, where once he would have disappeared. She feels Dorian's attention on her, but she can't bear to look at his face, to see what judgement his expression might hold. She exhales heavily and steps toward the railing.

"So, that happened," Dorian says, coming to stand beside her.

Below, Solas is still at his desk. She wonders what he's reading. She could go ask. He would tell her. He always tells her, and he always indulges her questions, no matter how frivolous they might be. He's even more open now that she knows the truth. He doesn't hide behind a mask anymore, at least not with her, at least not that she can tell.

But does she feel how she used to? Could she feel more than how she used to? Does she want to? She's not sure.

Dorian speaks again when she says nothing: "Someone was going to say it eventually, I suppose." She quirks a brow and glances over at him.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean we all have eyes," he says and looks down at Solas, "and Solas looks at you like you've hung the moons in the sky." She blinks and shifts her weight from one foot to the other and back again. She and Solas have a dreaming session later… perhaps she can use it to investigate what she may or may not feel for him. "Let's get back to your book, shall we?"

Today, Solas instructs her to bring up a memory of the Dales, and he offers up more information about the Emerald Knights. He speaks of them without the filter he had when they were exploring the Emerald Graves months ago. More than that, though, his passion for their People… or, her People, at least, is evident. He cares. He didn't used to care. There is… wisdom in understanding, in putting yourself in someone else's shoes, imagining what led them to this point. She tells him as much.

He bows his head almost bashfully, and it strikes her just how blind she's been. His feelings for her are obvious. They're all over his face, written in his tone, and mapped in his body language.

"It is not the fault of the Dalish, nor the city elves, that they have forgotten," he says thoughtfully. "The fault belongs to me. I broke the Elvhen."

"You did not break them, break us. We are still here." She gestures to the memory around her. She would keep telling him so until it got through his bald head.

He hums in acknowledgement. "You once entertained the idea of teaching the Dalish the true old ways." One of their earliest conversations, on a walk outside Haven. "You told me that if I knew better, then I should share that knowledge."

"You did not agree with me."

"I was prideful and… somewhat temperamental." 'Was' is presumptuous, she thinks. He has not come so far as to renounce his pride entirely.

"The Dalish did not accept your knowledge in the past," she recalls, crouching down to pluck a stalk of felandaris from the ground. "You told me you'd grown tired of fighting."

"…As I said." She snorts and twirls the thorny stalk between her fingers.

"Are you saying you would now like to try again?"

"'If we don't keep trying, we'll never get it right', or so you astutely informed me," he says with a slow nod. She told him that the same night he told her of her vallaslin. Her lips twitch in to a small smile.

"Sometimes you quote me like I'm some wise ancient scholar," she says. She likes it though. She… well, shit, she likes him, doesn't she?

He tilts his head quizzically. "You are a scholar of sorts, and you are wise."

"But I am not ancient," she says, crossing her arms. "How do I measure up?" He arches a brow. "To the ancient elven scholars you knew." He stares down at her.

"Elven scholars were usually Spirits of Knowledge or Learning, whether they had taken bodies or not. Curiosity…" He trails off, studying her face. She tilts her head. "Curiosity spirits have a more youthful energy. Knowledge and Learning often grew irritated with the lack of focus in their studies, so any Curiosity spirit did not last long as a scholar." She narrows her eyes. He shifts on his feet under her scrutiny. "Traditionally speaking."

"And Wisdom?"

He pauses. "What about Wisdom?"

"Does—Did it grow irritated with Curiosity's lack of focus?" Was that flirting? Did she just flirt with him? Her tone was definitely flirty. This was not part of the plan.

His violet-tinged eyes widen slightly, and he shakes his head a little. "You have a more rare and marvelous spirit than Curiosity, da'hale." He just—he…Well, he caught her meaning. Shit, her cheeks. She's blushing. Great. "To answer your question though, it's fairly uncommon. Wisdom is typically amused by Curiosity." She hums noncommittally and continues walking through the landscape she conjured.

"Your manipulation of the Fade has improved," Solas says appreciatively as they come to a babbling stream.

"That's the goal," she says lightly.

"Your dedication to it is… admirable."

She glances sidelong at him. "Admirable?"

"That is what I said, yes. You could have let the loss of the Anchor stop you from honing your magic, but you have not." There is pride, the good kind, in his eyes. Proud of her. Proud of the work she's put in.

"Did you expect me to?"

"… No." She looks away from the intensity of his gaze and steps into the stream.

"With Morrigan gone, I find myself in need of an arcane advisor," she says, twisting one of her rings around her finger. "Would you be interested in filling the position?" She can feel his surprise, even though she can't see his face.

"If you like, I would be happy to."

She nods sharply. "Good."

Cordelia all but runs out of the secret library when they exit the Fade. She darts up the stairs to find Dorian. She needs to speak with him.

He's exactly where she expects him to be. But he's not alone. Of course he isn't. He's in the middle of a chess game with Cullen. Fuck.

"Hi, vhen'an," she says, rushing through the words in the slight panic that's trembling inside her like a tree in the wind. "Dorian, I need to talk to you."

"What about?" He hasn't even looked up from the board. Evidently, it's his turn and he finds that more important than whatever she's doing here.

"It's, ah, a delicate matter." Cullen frowns in confusion. She tries to offer him a reassuring smile. He doesn't buy it, but how could he? When she doesn't even buy it herself. Dorian looks up with an arched brow.

"How so?"

"Please, Dorian," she says, hoping her desperation is clear in her eyes. "I need to speak with you alone." He considers this, then sighs dramatically.

"Terribly sorry, Commander." He rises from his seat. "Your lovely partner wishes to steal me away." Cullen snorts, though he still eyes Cordelia with concern. "We'll pick this up later? I'll know if you cheat." Cullen rolls his eyes.

Cordelia takes Dorian's arm and drags him down the stairs. She releases her hold on him once she's certain he's following. He remains silent until they reach a quiet stretch of the battlements and she leans on the wall, looking over the edge. That's not helping the sick feeling in her stomach from the voice that's telling her she's going to lose Cullen over this. Over this revelation. She squeezes her eyes shut.

"Fasta vass, take a breath, sweetling," Dorian says as he gently touches her shoulder. "If you want this conversation to remain uninterrupted, you'll have to stop looking so distressed." Right. Guard patrols.

"I think I have feelings for Solas," she blurts.

Silence. Only the winter wind howls softly. He pulls his hand away. Fuck. Her hands dig into the stone before her.

"Is this because of what Cole said this morning?"

She turns to face him. "Yes. No… sort of?" She shrugs helplessly. "I hadn't thought about it until he brought it up." Dorian hums and looks out at the mountains. She swats at his arm, temper rising to replace her anxiety. "Stop that. You have an opinion, so spit it out." He swats her right back before crossing his arms.

"Can I have a moment to process what you're saying?" He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I mean, Maker's tits, Cordelia, this man confessed to you, what," a vague gesture with his hand, "five months ago, that he's the trickster god of your people?" She bristles.

"He's not a god—"

Dorian rolls his eyes. "Yes, yes, it was a role he played and other such explanations." She sucks on her teeth. "The fact remains that he is a powerful, immortal mage who lied to you for a year and a half."

"He's never harmed me," she says. It comes out less firm than she wants, but it gets the job done. Even if it makes Dorian laugh.

"Because he's in love with you! Sweet Maker," he grasps her upper arms gently, and her eyes widen, "he's been in love with you the entire time. He gave up his mission for you." He sighs. "That is not my point." He releases her and turns away.

"If you're trying to convince me not to pursue him, this is not the way to do it," she says with skepticism. Not that him being in love with her is a reason to pursue him, but it certainly isn't a detracting factor. Dorian groans.

"I just think you need to be careful," he says as he faces her again. "He may never have physically harmed you, but he's caused you plenty of emotional turmoil. I would sooner see him turned into nice wolf furs for Orlesian nobility than see your heart broken at his hands again." His earnestness makes her deflate, and she links her arm with his.

"I would expect nothing less." He pats her arm and lets her lean her head on his shoulder as they begin to stroll.

"Unfortunately, he's probably fantastic in bed," he says ruefully a few moments later. Cordelia laughs, surprised as much as she is amused.

"How is that unfortunate?"

"It would be easier to dissuade you if I thought him a poor bed partner," he says like this is a perfectly reasonable line of thinking. "But the man is millennia old. I'm sure he knows all the tricks in the book. Even more than Iron Bull." She snorts, and he squeezes her arm. "Not that I think you should be jumping into bed with him right away. No, no, you're much too romantic for that… even if you do want him to pounce on you." Cordelia's cheeks heat. She hasn't thought about that since before their first kiss. "You and Cullen waited far longer than anyone gave you credit for."

His name is like a bucket of ice dumped over her head. It sobers her mood in an instant.

"I can't lose him," she says over the lump in her throat. "Not for Solas, not for anything. I cannot. I will not." She needs to speak with him, however. That's the next step. And she needs to do it soon, lest all of this get bottled up and explode down the road.

Dorian shakes his head. "You won't." He says it with such certainty, she almost believes him. She hopes he's right all the same.

Cordelia slips into her room that evening and sags against the door.

She's faced hundreds if not thousands of demons, several dragons, an ancient Tevinter magister, but now, apparently, the most stressful aspect of her life is the fact that she maybe, possibly, definitely has feelings for her friend. Not just any friend, the one who only a few months ago revealed himself to be the man behind the figure she would have protected her clan from.

Once faithful, she now has no higher power to pray to, to ask for guidance, to use in expletives. All she can really say is fuck and hope for the best. It's not that having more than one lover or partner is completely foreign to her; there is a trio of people in her clan who are together, and at Arlathvhen, it was clear that some people had a lover in their own clan as well as in another. She can't say it's common, but it's far from unheard of. She just never expected that she would find herself in this situation.

Not to mention Cullen doesn't have that experience, hasn't witnessed that kind of love. He's plenty open-minded, but this is… they are so deeply devoted to each other, she can't imagine he'll take this well. Will she be able to reassure him of her own commitment to him? What's more, Cullen does not like Solas, not since he revealed the truth, though they'd never exactly been friendly. At least he isn't moments away from killing Solas anytime they're in the same room anymore…

She changes into her pajamas and silken dressing gown and washes up in the adjoining chamber. After, she paces the bedroom, teasing the knots out of her hair.

It isn't long before she hears the door below open and the sound of Cullen's boots on the stairs. She halts in her tracks and waits. He smiles softly at her as he reaches the landing. She tries her best to return it. He approaches her and leans down to kiss her sweet and quick. Her stomach twists with guilt.

"Cullen, there's something I need to tell you," she says when he turns away to begin removing his armour. "And we need to... talk about it." She crosses to the sofa and sits down stiffly.

He sets his chestplate on the stand. "It must be serious if you're talking with that voice," he says. He sounds like he's smiling, but she can't see it from here.

Easily distracted, she asks, "What voice?"

"Your serious conversation voice," he says, twisting to flash her a smile. She rolls her eyes. He takes off his boots, and she runs her trembling hands through her hair.

"Can you stop taking your clothes off?" Not a sentence she's ever said. Well, unless she wanted to take over. But that's said with a very different tone. He raises his brows at her. "Please? I can't—I can't tell you this if you're standing in your underwear, so just pause for a minute." He heeds her request, standing and watching her with his hands on his hips.

"Before I tell you, you need to know that it changes nothing between us," Cordelia says, gesturing for emphasis. "I love you endlessly and eternally."

Cullen frowns. "Cor, you're scaring me a little." He starts to come to her, but she holds up both hands to stop him from getting any closer. They tremble. She retracts them, balls them up against her abdomen.

"I think—fuck—" She fights the urge to hide in her dressing gown, makes herself look her partner in the eye. "I think my feelings for Solas have returned." He straightens.

"Your... feelings," he says neutrally. She can practically see the cogs turning in his head as he tries to process the information.

"Yes, my feelings. Romantic feelings," she clarifies, perhaps unnecessarily.

Cullen sits down in the armchair, rakes a hand through his hair. "Has anything happened between you?" She wills herself to remain calm, not to panic. This is a perfectly reasonable question given what she's just said.

"No! No. I would never." The thought of something transpiring behind his back sickens her. She's sure he knows that, but he did ask so maybe he doubts…

He nods, still thinking. "Is it—do you—" He cringes. "Maker's breath, forgive me, but I'm… surprised." His hands clench and flex and clasp in front of him.

"Me too." His brow furrows in concern before he looks down at the floor.

He remains silent long enough that that panic she's trying to suppress starts gnashing its teeth in her belly.

"You've done nothing wrong, vhen'an," she says, desperate to reassure him. "Loving you and being loved by you is the light of my life. So, I'm confused, too." He leans forward like he might stand and reach for her, but he stays in his seat. "I don't… understand. Anything I felt for Solas was gone before you and I started. But now it's back."

"How did you realise this?"

"Cole." Cullen sighs, somehow long-suffering and fond at the same time. "He told me that Solas… still remembered our kiss."

"Well, he's been in love with you ever since," he says, a hint of snark creeping into his voice. Has she really been so blind to it? Dorian had said something similar.

"I…" She wants to protest, but he's not wrong, according to Cole. She steadies herself with a deep breath. "He told me that Solas would never take me away from you, but that… that if I wanted him to, he would pursue me."

"Am I to understand by your telling me of these feelings, you are interested in that? In… being with him?" Suspicion, doubt, and anxiety all line his voice as he speaks.

"I don't know!" She shrinks back from her own outburst. "I don't know. I never considered I could have feelings for anyone other than you. Not since early on in our relationship. I'm confused, and I didn't want to keep it from you." She wrings her hands. "I wanted to be honest. Working through it together seemed like a better plan than spiralling in silence."

"I appreciate that," he concedes. "And I agree that it's better to work through this together." She nods, adjusting and readjusting how her dressing gown falls over her lap.

When she looks at him again, he's staring off in thought. "I understand you're upset…" His gaze darts to hers, focused again.

"I… I don't quite know how I feel, but I do not think 'upset' is entirely correct." He rubs his chin. "May I finish undressing now?"

"Yes." She rises and goes to stand on one of their balconies, placing her hands on the railing. She clenches and unclenches them as she looks down over the fortress she's called home for so long. Her unbound hair and silk dressing gown stir in the mountain breeze.

Her love comes up behind her, engulfs her in his arms. Tears well up in her eyes. He hasn't bothered with nightclothes; it's rare that he does. He drops a kiss to her shoulder, then behind her ear. She sighs, some of the tension seeping from her muscles.

"You don't have to be okay with it" she says, barely above a whisper. "'Working through this' can just be about reaffirming our love and commitment to each other." He sighs and shakes his head.

"I am not opposed to that, obviously, but I think…" he begins, tracing shapes on her abdomen. "If you're interested in exploring this, which I believe you are, we should talk more about what that would look like before we make any decisions." Very practical, as always.

She agrees with the sentiment but says, "Not right now." It was hard enough to tell him about the feelings part.

He chuckles warmly, and the tightness in her chest loosens. "No, not right now. Tomorrow, over breakfast, perhaps?"

"Mmm, gives us time to sleep on it." They both could benefit from time to mull things over. What they want, what they don't want, what they're concerned about. She lays her arms over his, leans into him.

"I trust you completely, you know that, right," he murmurs into her ear. She nods and reaches up to touch his face as she turns her head to kiss him gently. A few tears slip from her eyes. He presses his forehead to hers and lifts a hand to brush away the fallen tears. What did she do to deserve this wonderful man?

Wrapped in her fuzziest robe, Cordelia munches on hearth cakes on the balcony the next morning with Cullen across from her, eating scrambled eggs and toasted whole grain bread dressed with jam.

"I cannot lie to you: there is certainly a level of… jealousy—possessiveness, that I feel at the thought of you with someone else," Cullen admits, a perfectly vulnerable statement to start out their discussion. "Anyone else, not just Solas. But also… he, in particular, is…" He sighs. "You know how I feel about him."

"I do," she says. "I said it last night, and I will keep saying it, but I would be okay with letting these feelings fade. You are my priority, Cullen."

"I know that. Logically, I know that, but I… I do feel better hearing you say it." He blushes a little and looks down. They each take bites of their breakfast.

"I want you to be as fulfilled as you can possibly be," he says after taking a sip of tea to wash down his food. "I don't want to get in the way of that."

She sits forward. "You're not getting in the way."

"Cor. You're trying to downplay how much the idea of…" his brows pinch as he searches for a word… "this excites you for my benefit." She blinks and sits back again. She's become a book written in giant letters for him, apparently.

"I don't want you to think you're not enough. Because you are." She sighs and rubs her hands over her face. "This intrigues me, yes, but it also confuses me. Until yesterday, I never thought I could ever…" She meets her love's gaze. "I am so unbelievably happy with you that I feel… ungrateful? For wanting something else in addition to the beautiful thing I already have."

He doesn't say anything. So she keeps talking to fill the silence.

"There are some Dalish who are… they have multiple romantic entanglements. Multiple may be an exaggeration, I don't know that I've seen one person have more than three partners. Doesn't matter. My point is that… it… exists. And Cole told me my heart was big enough. He seemed to think I was entirely capable of being with you both."

"I see…" He mulls over her words, and she stuffs pieces of hearth cake in her mouth. He rubs the back of his neck. "I'm afraid that in developing something romantic with Solas you may lose feelings for me," Cullen says. His next words are barely more than a whisper. "I don't want to lose you." She doesn't want to lose him either.

She reaches across the table and takes his hand in both of hers. "'Ma vhen'an. 'Ma arlise. I will not leave you. Not for Solas, not for anything. Shivasan na [I swear to you.]" He covers her hands with his free one and squeezes. "I do not make promises I can't keep. I will continue telling you, continue promising you, as long as you need me to."

"You're going to get butter on your robe," he says when she tries to lean closer and bring their hands to her lips. She freezes and looks down. He's right. She's dangerously close to bumping into her food. She chuckles softly as she releases his hands and gets to her feet instead. His brows raise in question. She rounds the table and takes his face in her hands.

"Ar lath ma," she says and leans down to kiss him firmly. He sits up straighter to meet her, and his hands clutch at her robe, holding her close. She can taste remnants of jam on his lips. His tongue traces her bottom lip. She moans softly at the caress and has to resist crawling into his lap and staying there for the rest of the day.

With considerable effort, she pulls her mouth from his and presses their foreheads together. "Let's take a break from our discussion. We can reconvene this evening. I just…" She strokes her thumbs across his cheekbones. "I just want to enjoy breakfast with you now."

Chapter Text

The next three weeks are littered with conversations about Solas—working through anxieties and ways they can try to mitigate them, what they anticipate this "courtship" to look like, what boundaries they both have. When they're not talking about that, things between them are remarkably normal. She feels awkward spending time with Solas, but that doesn't stop her from doing it anyway. If anything, their time together has solidified for her that this is something she wants to try. It might not work! And that would be okay! But she would like to try.

Cullen is… Cullen. Her love. Her heart. He's as supportive as she could possibly expect him to be. Their conversations turn into arguments only twice, and both times ended with them holding each other in silence for a long, long while. There's also… the sex. They've always been quite active, but he seems almost to want her more since she confessed. He takes her on his desk more than once, another time against the wall on the walk up to their room, a handful of times on the sofa in their quarters. He steals her away from other activities—chatting with Dorian, crocheting scarves, training in the yard—just so he can get his hands on her.

She's certainly not complaining. Though she has, on more than one occasion, reminded him that her interest in Solas has nothing to do with any sort of dissatisfaction with his own sexual performance. She tells him he doesn't have to prove himself to her. That she loves him. His face always softens as her words sink in. He hasn't fully internalized them yet, but she hopes that, with time, he might. To aid in this endeavour, she makes time to take care of him on a few different evenings. She washes his hair and body in the bath, gives him a full body massage that ends in slow, sweet lovemaking, and reads to him while he lays on her stomach. It may not have been their intention, but… she feels their bond strengthen throughout it all.

Towards the end of the three weeks, she curls up on the sofa in Cullen's office to work on a woolen hat for Branson's boy. Cullen is working diligently at his desk—something about winter rations for the troops, she thinks. Her own work is on the low tea table, waiting for her to return to it.

They've started to go over how exactly she's going to broach the subject with Solas. The Subject. What she's going to say is what she ponders as she crochets. Cullen mostly indulges her, now that they've decided he will not be present for the first conversation. To him, it doesn't much matter what she says or how she says it, but he helps her sort out her thoughts and words all the same.

"When I tell him…" she begins, breaking the comfortable quiet of the room… "when I discuss all of this with Solas, am I allowed to kiss him?"

The scratching of his quill on vellum pauses. She fidgets with her crochet hook and wool. He sets the quill down and folds his hands under his chin. She watches him consider her question, decide how he feels about the prospect.

"You and I kissed the same day we expressed romantic feelings for each other," he says carefully. "I think it seems… fair that you have the same opportunity." Her heart swells with gratitude and love. She nods and smiles at him.

"Thank you."

She invites Solas to her room during the day. A relatively safe time. The place is the only one she knows to be wholly private. And it's safe to her, comforting, a little haven. She trusts him not to desecrate it. He's been here all of twice since Cullen moved in, and neither time were they alone.

"The Commander's left his mark, hasn't he?" he comments as he takes in the space. She watches as he notes the table where they eat or play games, the currently empty armour stand outside the closet, the nearby shelves—full knick-knacks, a chess board, skeins of wool, and assorted thread—an empty bottle of headache medicine on his bedside table, the Ferelden banner she insisted he hang up. He passes no judgement, at least not verbally.

"You can call him Cullen," she says, hands on her hips.

He casts her a wry grin. "I'm not so sure the Commander would agree. He's not exactly fond of me, and I cannot blame him for it." She hums thoughtfully and breezes out to the northern balcony. He follows her after a moment, stopping a few feet behind her. She runs her hands over the railing nervously.

"When you said you would always remember 'a surprising moment stolen in a dream', did you mean that?" She asks the question to the mountains, unable to make herself turn around to look at him.

That she remembers the exact phrasing should not come as a surprise—she has a very good memory—but he is silent for a long moment. She doesn't think she's overstepped. Cole doesn't lie. She isn't sure he even knows how to lie. This isn't like when they kissed in the Fade and he told her afterwards that it was impulsive, ill-considered, and generally a bad idea. At least, it shouldn't be.

"I did," he finally says.

She turns to him slowly. "Right..." He waits for her to say something else. She should say something else. She planned on saying something else. She and Cullen had talked about what she might say. She's usually a very good conversationalist, but this is... a unique circumstance.

When she can't find her words, he speaks again. "...I pushed you away because I could not tell you the truth, and I thought it selfish to foster something under those false pretenses." Oh. Well, that makes… complete sense. She got over that rejection; she moved on, but she never put those pieces together. She feels almost grateful? For the explanation… for the assurance it wasn't her fault.

She blinks at him before recovering her wits. "Would you still want to foster something now?" She steps closer, her tone of voice slipping into something more flirtatious.

The look Solas gives her makes her think she might have broken him. That would be a shame. After all the hard work she and Cullen put into establishing boundaries…

"You are..." He clears his throat, glances briefly at the ground… "very deeply entangled with the Commander, Inquisitor."

She smirks. "That's true. What if I said we had discussed it? The Commander and I."

Solas tilts his head, like he's trying to discern if this is genuine. She takes another step closer, clasping her hands behind her back. His lips part, but he doesn't speak right away. She tries not to look smug at catching him so off guard.

"Then I would say yes, I would like to foster something now." Her heart flutters in her chest. That's good news! She smiles and—

Oh, his eyes. She saw her clanmates' eyes glow growing up and she's noticed it from Solas in the Fade, or sometimes a reflective flash in lower lighting, but not like this. Not in broad daylight and certainly not this close. Solas's are a pale shade of purple, of course, not deep blue like hers. But still… alluring. She wets her lips, which draws his attention to them so quickly she almost laughs.

She's not doing any better, however. Her gaze drops to his lips as well. She twists her fingers around each other behind her back to keep from reaching for him.

"Tell me not to kiss you," he says with a lower pitch than normal. It makes gooseflesh spread over her skin. His brows furrow with restraint. His hands clench at his sides. She shakes her head slowly. She is not going to tell him that. She and Cullen agreed that it was all right if they kissed as long as that's all it is. She's not going to pass up the opportunity when Solas is standing right there, looking at her like that.

He takes a shaky breath. She tilts her head up and smiles at him wickedly.

"Are you going to start with tongue," she whispers, close enough that she's certain he can feel the caress of her breath on his lips. This draws a chuckle out of him, seems to ground him. She sways a little on her feet.

He steadies her with a hand on her hip. She gasps, and his hand tightens slightly. A month ago, she would have laughed and called someone ridiculous if they told her she'd be in this situation.

"Only if that is what you wish." She dips her head in a slight nod.

His free hand cups her face, and then his lips are on hers. And it's different than it was all those months ago. Not bad different. It's… crisper. He said things have always been easier for him in the Fade. Has that changed? Does this feel as exhilarating to him as it does to her?

He parts her lips with his tongue, and she moans softly. She unclasps her hands and slides them up his back instead. He exhales unsteadily into her mouth. He tastes of… cinnamon, making her wonder what he had for breakfast or to drink that morning. His fingers are cool against her jaw, trailing down to her neck.

She leans into him, and he tilts her head back farther as his tongue dances with hers. She… forgot… well, she didn't forget, but she hadn't thought about how he kisses for quite some time. As of late, it's occupied… at least a portion of her brain space. He kisses her like he's trying to discover some hidden secret he can only discover between her lips or under her tongue or… wherever. Within her. She doesn't plan on letting him find it today, but her hands twist in his tunic even so.

He shifts to press her against the railing, trapping her between him and the stone. Admittedly, she's grateful for the stability… and rarely opposed to being backed against things. She releases the fabric in her hands and winds her arms around his neck instead.

His hand inches down from her hip, like he's waiting for permission. She can only assume his hesitation comes from her relationship with Cullen, given he had no issue dragging her against him in the Fade. She doesn't stop him. It takes him a few more moments, but eventually he gets the message and smooths his large hand over her ass. She smiles and cradles the back of his head. He squeezes, and she gasps again, arching her body against his.

Abruptly, he takes two steps back. "I'm sorry—" Her hands fall to her sides as she frowns.

"Why are you apologising?"

"I do not wish to overstep," he says, flexing his fingers, "or ask for something you are not willing to give." She shakes her head.

"You have done neither of those things," she says calmly. She doesn't step closer. If he's going to be difficult—

His face contorts with anguish. "What do you want?" He speaks with an almost desperate tone. Ah.

"To give this thing between us a chance." She doesn't know where it will lead, if anywhere at all… but she wants to try. "I know the truth now. You do not have to hide." He tilts his head in doubt, his brows furrowed in uncertainty.

She sighs and steps forward to take his hands. "I do not want you to hide." He lets out a ragged breath and hangs his head for a moment before meeting her gaze.

"Then I will endeavour not to hide." She smiles softly and lifts one hand to his face. His lips part, and his eyes search her expression. Carefully, she raises herself and draws him down to meet her.

This kiss is gentler. He slips his arms around her waist. Loosely, like the situation is so delicate he's afraid he'll shatter it if he holds her too tight.

She pulls back, letting her hands rest on his chest. "Cullen and I would like to speak with you together, about some boundaries we have," she says. "Do you have time this evening? Perhaps after supper?" His eyes widen, but he soon recovers his composure.

"That's a wise idea. I'll meet you after supper." She smiles up at him. The look he gives her is still somewhat disbelieving. However, he smiles back, not as big or as wide but a smile all the same.

"I have to go spar now," she says regretfully as she steps away. "You're welcome to walk down with me, if you like." She goes to retrieve her staff.

"I… have some work to do, actually. Enjoy your training. We'll speak later."

"In the Herald's Rest! After supper."

"Yes." He hurries down the steps, and she wonders what she did to scare him off.

Cassandra, quite frankly, kicks Cordelia's ass in the ring. Even under Cullen's steady observation, she can't manage to get a hit in. Though maybe his attention is a distraction more than a motivator, at least today. When she's in such a good mood, that even when Cassandra gets her legs out from under her and she lands on her back and finds Cass's training sword at her throat… she hops right back up.

"Good match," she says, shaking a befuddled Cassandra's hand. She prances over to her love and goes up onto her tiptoes to present her lips for a kiss. Cullen helps her keep her balance by resting his hands on her waist as he obliges her with a sweet peck.

"You're in a good mood," he says when he releases her mouth, brows raised. He's right, she is. Considering she usually isn't a fan of getting her ass handed to her, it's no surprise that he would comment on it. She lowers herself on her heels.

"I spoke with Solas."

His eyes light with realization, and he shifts on his feet. "It went well, I take it?"

She nods and glances around to check for eavesdropping ears. "We kissed," she says when satisfied no one will hear. His grip tightens on her waist. She watches his eyes darken.

"You kissed." She dips her head slightly as she wraps the fabric of his vest around her hands.

"You said it wouldn't bother you."

He leans in closer. "I said it was fair, that you two should be able to kiss after expressing romantic interest in each other." His voice pitches lower, almost a growl. "I did not say it wouldn't bother me." His jealousy should probably upset her, but all she feels is heat in her belly. Cordelia licks her lips and looks up at him through her lashes.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" His eyes flare. Got you…

"Come with me," he says and turns around without even taking her hand. He walks slow enough for her to catch up, and really, it isn't a far walk to their destination.

He wrenches open the armoury door, holds it open for her, then crowds her up the stairs to the loft. She hurries to throw up soundproof wards before he catches up to her. He grabs her hips and spins her around to face him. She waits. He thumbs her lips, tugs her bottom one down. She lifts her chin into the sensual touch, and he responds with a searing kiss.

If the taste of cinnamon lingered at all from her kisses with Solas, it's quickly washed away in the familiarity of Cullen. She meets his fervour with her own, not missing a beat. His hands drag over her body in broad sweeping motions that leave her wanting more.

They stagger back against a nearby wall. He places one hand above her head and the other possessively on her hip. His metal chestplate squishes her breasts; she wriggles around to try to relieve some of the pressure. Only for Cullen to move his hand down from her hip. It grips her thigh and hauls it up, keeping her off-balance as he begins to grind against her cunt. She moans and sinks her fingers into his hair. The friction is delicious. So are his teeth nibbling her ear and his hold on her thigh that seems hard enough to bruise.

His length begins to harden against her hip as he moves. She knows by now she can't move much herself from this position, not without risking falling over. All she can do is grab at him—his hair, his mantle, his arms—and mewl as wetness gathers in her core. He presses his nose into her neck and inhales deeply.

He groans and drops her leg in favour of undoing the ties of her pants. Her breath stutters in anticipation. "This was easier when you were wearing skirts all the time." He removes a glove and shoves it in his pocket.

"I still wear skirts," she argues as he pushes down the top of her trousers. He glances up at her and blinks slowly.

"You aren't right now," he says. His fingertips dance along her exposed navel.

"I had sparring with Cass! Why would I—oh—" He slips his hand into her smalls. "Why would I wear a dress or skirt?" He splits her damp folds with a single finger, then shrugs.

"You could've worn robes." She scoffs and rolls her eyes, even though he circles her clit.

"How—mmm—was I supposed to, ah, know you were going to react—oh!— this way?" In all honesty, she didn't think about it. He gave her his approval and she thought nothing of it. She should have, she realises. But she's also not at all complaining.

One finger enters her, then two. They pump steadily inside, twisting and curling to make her mewl and writhe. He watches her intently—the way she reacts to each stroke. She tries to lift herself but has no leverage. She'll just have to take what he so lovingly gives her.

"I get to make you feel like this," he says and rubs her clit with his thumb. She smiles, her back arching.

"Yes, vhen'an," she says. She cups his face in one hand. "You make me feel so good." His eyes light up. She presses an ardent kiss to his lips. "Don't stop." She holds onto him—one hand on his shoulder, the other twisted in his vest—to ground her, even as he fingerfucks her into oblivion. With his other hand above her head, she's surrounded by him. She loves being surrounded by him.

When she comes around his fingers, she can't help her loud moan. He doesn't shush her, doesn't kiss her to muffle it. Without her wards, everyone, at least in the armoury, likely would've heard. He winds down his movements through her orgasm, eventually pulling his fingers from her smalls and bringing them to his lips. She watches with rapturous attention as he sucks them into his mouth.

"Cullen," she murmurs, eyelids drooping in her blissed haze. "I hope you're not done with me yet."

"Certainly not." He flashes her a crooked grin that tugs at his scar before gently turning her to face the wall. She braces her forearms on the wood and tries to be patient. She's not very good at it. She peers over her shoulder at her love. He pulls himself out of his smalls, hard and ready to fill her. She licks her lips and shifts her weight from side to side.

He tugs her smalls and her pants down just a little more to allow him the room he needs. The head of his cock nudges her entrance. She's not even bent over, really, just using the wall as support so she doesn't fall on her face when he—oh, fuck, yes. He sheathes himself inside her in one smooth thrust.

She whimpers and her hands threaten to slide up the wall already. She keeps them firmly where they are, just above her head.

"Maker, it's so hard to think straight around you," he confesses. His chestplate presses into her back, and his lips find her shoulder and neck.

"Is that right?" She lets a smirk curve her lips. He can most definitely hear it in her voice because his next thrust is a little harder.

"You don't have to play coy when you're squished between me and a wall," he says with a nip to her skin. "You know quite well what you do to me. Watching you spar with Cassandra was bad enough, but then—" He exhales a jagged breath.

"Then you got jealous," she supplies.

"It's not a feeling I'm proud of, da'ise." She knows that. She's glad for that, but…

"Do I seem upset to you?" She twists her head slightly uncomfortably just so she can try to catch his gaze. His eyes dart to hers wide and lust-addled. He shakes his head and tilts her hips for a different angle, forcing her up on her toes. "Oh, fuck—" Cullen chuckles.

"Are you saying you like when I'm jealous?" She's not not saying that. They've already discussed how he plans on managing the uncomfortable feelings that are no doubt going to arise. They don't need to do it while he's balls-deep inside her.

"No. But it does, ha, have its benefits…" He grunts. Cordelia slides one hand farther up the wall and reaches behind her with the other, grappling for Cullen's backside. He places his own hand over hers on the wall and interlaces their fingers.

"Benefits, you say," he whispers in her ear as he wraps an arm around her. She whines instead of answering. He caresses her abdomen, and she shivers. His cock is so deep, and it twitches when her walls clench involuntarily. "Like this?" He slips his hand between her legs to massage her clit. She keens and squeezes her eyes shut. Pleasure coils tight inside her. "You're almost there, Cor. I can feel it." She nods, whimpering and lifting her hand to touch his face and neck desperately. His thrusts grow irregular. "You're going to—mmm—take me with you."

"Good," she breathes. A shudder wracks her body, followed by Cullen bucking his hips into her with a low groan. His hand contracts around hers. She twitches in his arms as he slows to a halt, his face in her hair. They fight to catch their breath in the moments after.

She strokes his cheek when she's no longer panting. "Feel better?"

"Much," he murmurs. He kisses her palm, then leans in for her cheek and finally her lips. She hums contently. "I believe we've indulged enough for this afternoon… perhaps more than enough." He steps back and helps her right her clothes before tending to his own.

"Oh, no, I think we indulged just the right amount."

Chapter Text

"Before we discuss anything, there's something that needs to be said," Cullen begins. Cordelia tilts her head curiously. What could he possibly— "If you hurt her, I will kill you."

"Cullen—"

"I would expect nothing less, Commander," Solas says, remarkably gracious and accepting of the threat her love just made. She sighs and takes a sip of her mulled wine. Cullen looks surprised by Solas's response as well. They probably shouldn't be. Solas has been protecting her longer than any of them—even if it was primarily due to her carrying the Anchor at first.

"Any other pressing matters to mention?" He swirls his own goblet of mulled wine around on the tabletop. Their table in the Herald's Rest is far enough from any prying ears and eyes that they can speak freely.

"Only that I have no intent to pursue you myself," Cullen says.

She watches Solas almost laugh, then resist. "That much was clear the moment we arrived," he says dryly. "The feeling is mutual." She wishes Dorian were here. She's not sure how another man would balance the fucking male posturing, but at least he could lighten the mood.

"Now that we've cleared that up: rules," she says and unfolds a piece of parchment where she's been keeping track during her and Cullen's conversations. "These are obviously to start with and are subject to change, all that good stuff. Some require your input." Solas just nods. "All right. Well. I suppose we'll start with the juicy bit. Cullen does not want us to have sex without him there, which I insisted wouldn't be an issue yet, but there it is. Is that—do you object to that?"

"Not at all," Solas says, shaking his head. "I am well aware that I am the outsider here. I am comfortable with whatever you are comfortable with."

"And it's all right that Cullen and I have sex without you?" Cullen shifts in his seat. She knows he's uncomfortable with talking about their intimate life outside of their own bedroom; he's always felt that way.

Solas chuckles. "Certainly. I wouldn't expect either of you to go without on account of my... courtship with you." He rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Though I wonder about other physical intimacy. We have kissed, as I'm sure you're aware, Commander."

"I have no problem with kissing or handholding or—" Cullen waves his hand— "whatever else."

"Whatever else?" Solas quirks a brow and leans back in his seat.

"Like what, vhen'an?"

"I, uh… cuddling is fine? Assuming you're clothed." He cringes and rubs the back of his neck. "Maker, I feel ridiculous. I don't want you to think you can't touch him just because I might be uncomfortable."

"I know," she says soothingly as she grasps his hand. He looks at her with the sweetest eyes. "Here. I already told you I would keep you updated on... progress. That can include physicality."

Cullen nods firmly. "Right, yes. That's agreeable to me." She huffs a gentle laugh and brings his hand to her lips for a brief kiss. His cheeks flush a pretty pink. She feels Solas's eyes on them in quiet observation.

"Solas, do you have any concerns?" she asks. "Any... boundaries you have?"

He considers this over a sip of wine. "Not a boundary," he says, "but I would like if the three of us could spend time together on at least a weekly basis. If I am to, theoretically, share a bed with you both at some point, I would prefer to know the Commander better." Cordelia smiles brightly.

"I think that's a lovely idea," she says before sliding her gaze to Cullen in question. He nods and takes a swig of his ale.

"Perfectly reasonable."

"You may find Solas a better chess partner than me, 'ma arlise."

"I think we can say that with certainty," Solas says. "Dorian has never beaten me, and you've never beaten him. The logic follows that—"

"I'm terrible at chess, yes, yes," she says, dropping her focus to her list as her cheeks heat. Most of the items listed are only for her and Cullen's use, however— "Moving on, I would like to limit public displays of affection for the time being, as we're just starting out… "

"Just with me?"

"Yes…" She hopes that's not bothersome, but she would rather not have their courtship on display for the whole of the Inquisition when things might not work out.

Solas nods in understanding. "Alright."

"I also… I think you already know this, but just for clarity, Cullen remains my top priority," Cordelia says. "That is… subject to change, of course, as all of this is, but that is where we stand right now. If either he or I—or you!—feel that we don't want this to continue, then it won't."

"Naturally," Solas says, his brows furrowed. "I would never want someone to feel trapped in a relationship in such a way." His eyes darken. She wants to ask what he's thinking, but she gets the idea it isn't something he wants to share in this moment. Because Cullen is here or for some other reason, she's not sure.

"Of course," she says. "And thank you. Both of you." The soft smiles they give her make her feel all warm inside.

The next morning, Cordelia is looking over things Josephine gave her to sign when Solas enters the war room. Her other advisors halt—bar Cullen, who only spares him a glance.

"I hope I'm not tardy," Solas says as he shuts the door behind him. Josie and Charter's gazes slide between him and Cordelia. Josephine merely looks surprised, whereas their spymaster seems suspicious.

"You're right on time," Cordelia says with a smile. "The rest of us are early."

"Is there something you'd like to share with the group, Inquisitor?" Charter asks. She knew she'd forgotten something…

"Oh, yes, right. With Morrigan gone, I thought we needed a new arcane advisor," Cordelia explains. "I hope there are no objections?" Charter sighs.

"No, Your Worship."

The majority of topics for the day prove irrelevant to Solas's new position, but Cordelia is glad to have him here all the same. He observes silently, with his hands behind his back.

"Professor Kenric has at last returned to the University of Orlais and published his findings from his time in the Frostback Basin," Josephine says. Cordelia's brows raise. They've been waiting for him to pull together his paper for several months.

"And?"

"The Orlesian family who has long claimed descent from Inquisitor Ameridan, the d'Amerides, have complained of harassment from Clan Ghilain in light of the new evidence that the Inquisitor was an elf," Josie explains. "The clan historically made the same claim of descent but have been ignored. They believe reparations are owed from the d'Amerides, who have allegedly profited off their claim for centuries."

"Have they profited?" It's the first time Solas has spoken in the meeting, let alone asked a question. Josephine appears surprised once again and looks to Cordelia like she needs permission to answer the question. Cordelia gestures for her to go on.

"… It appears they have, yes, but we could silence the Dalish with some mementos we recovered." Cordelia bristles, and Cullen and Solas smartly keep their mouths shut.

"You can't be seriously suggesting we silence this? I told Kenric about Ameridan being an elf for a reason," Cordelia says, crossing her arms.

"The d'Amerides have spent years profiting from a name they claimed falsely," Cullen says. "The Dalish deserve honest reparations." She shoots him a grateful look. Solas nods his assent as well.

Josephine blanches. "My apologies, Inquisitor. I spoke carelessly."

"We could always use more Dalish scouts, Inquisitor," Charter suggests. "Recruiting them to serve may appease the clan without alienating the d'Amerides entirely."

"The Orlesians are paying for their false claims. That is what I wish," Cordelia says decisively. A glance at Solas reminds her of the dream they shared shortly after Satinalia, when he told her he would like to try to connect with the Dalish again. "I would, however, like to meet with Clan Ghilain…" Recognition lights in Solas's eyes. "Has there been any word from Briala?" Charter shakes her head.

"Are you expecting there to be?" Josephine's brows knit together in puzzlement. "Is this about what you discussed with her in Val Royeaux?"

"That's the hope," Cordelia says with a sigh. "No matter, I'd like to visit the clan once reparations have been negotiated. Winter is here. The sooner they can receive support, the better. I trust your capabilities, Ambassador." She's not usually so formal with Josie, but the Antivan's commentary on the situation rubbed her entirely the wrong way.

"Consider it done, my lady." She bows her head and scribbles something down on her vellum.

"If there's nothing else?" Her advisors shake their heads. "Meeting adjourned."

Josie and Charter depart with friendly farewells. Solas starts to, but Cordelia grabs his arm, briefly, just enough to stop him from going anywhere. Cullen rounds the table and runs his hands down her arms.

"You know she didn't mean anything by it," he says. She knows that, but—

"This was the natural consequence of divulging the information to Kenric," she argues, her face still pinched with frustration. "We're not at war anymore. I don't need noble support, not like this."

"Would you rather we dismiss Josephine altogether, then?" He gently squeezes her shoulders.

"No! No, of course not, I just… ugh…"

"If you're… concerned about overreach, might you speak with the Lady Ambassador about your concerns?" Solas slides his hand into hers hesitantly. "She's very reasonable."

She sighs. "You're right." Solas squeezes her hand, and Cullen kisses her forehead… She could get used to this. Comfort from two handsome men who tower over her. She looks between them, amused at the situation she's found herself in.

She pulls on Solas's hand. "I need to do something with… magic. I don't know. Maybe you can teach me something new."

Cullen catches her sleeve. "Shouldn't you speak to Josephine first?"

"Yes, fine, okay," she says, pushing up on her toes to kiss Cullen's cheek before dragging Solas out of the war room.

Solas takes her to his quarters, though he released her hand the moment they reached Josephine's office. Strict rule follower for a god of rebellion. Her conversation with Josie had gone over well, ending with a hug and a reassurance that Josephine would see to the reparations at once.

When they step into Solas's room, she pauses near the doorway to take it all in. A neatly made bed with simple linens. Assorted artifacts strewn across a table against the adjacent wall. An astrolabe standing proudly by a window. A cozy chair nestled between bookshelves.

"These aren't all things I gave you," she notes as she approaches the artifact table.

"No, many of them I collected in my own travels before we met." He was only awake for a year or so before the Conclave. She wonders how he travelled so easily, or if he'd simply been in a place with a high concentration of artifacts for some time.

"And you never showed me?" She understands why. His knowledge would likely have proved too great, even for a self-trained elven mage who travelled Thedas all his life. Still.

"Most of them weren't functional when I found them," he explains. "I've been attempting to fix them." She picks up one of the trinkets and holds it up to the magelight glowing above the table.

"Dagna might be able to help."

Solas snorts. "Dagna might be able to blow them, or the entire Undercroft, up into bits of rubble," he says drily.

"Tsk, she does more than explode things," she says, setting down the bit of metal in her hands.

"Perhaps I can supervise her investigations of some of the functional pieces," Solas offers. He glances sidelong at her with a smirk. "The ones that are least likely to explode."

"That's probably wise," she says through a small laugh. "Now, show me something I haven't seen before."

"…You haven't seen several of these before."

She rolls her eyes and leans back against the birch footboard of his bed. "I mean magically. Show me how to activate one. Show me what it does. Tell me what it was used for." He hums and studies the artifacts. She takes the opportunity to study his backside without shame. Varric said it was bony, but it certainly doesn't look it. His hand flits over the items as he thinks, debating which to use.

He plucks up a spherical artifact and presents it to her in the palm of his hand. "Try to open it." She arches a skeptical brow.

"Is this like a June's knot?"

"Oh, no, it's far more complex than that. Though the design did come from one of his people…" And by "his people", Solas means 'the talented slaves he acquired with brutal precision', she guesses. She hums and takes the artifact from him, turning it over in her hands.

"What does it do?"

"You'll have to open it to find out."

"Does opening it activate it?"

"That's a logical conclusion to draw, yes."

She looks up at him with what is probably a pout. "You're impossible."

"Try to open it."

She examines the etchings on the metal—ancient elven script. She can read only some of it, the markings worn away from time in the elements in some places. Along with the writing, there are intersecting grooves across the surface. She runs her nail through them.

She levitates the small orb so she has both hands to direct probing tendrils of magic. Solas steps closer. His arms are crossed over his chest as he observes her.

"Am I doing something wrong?" He doesn't answer. She looks up at him. The glow of her magic casts light on his face, a pale, pale green light, lighter than the magic of the Anchor.

"Oh, you actually want an answer? I thought you were being snarky… I'm not going to tell you. If you're doing something wrong, you'll know… and if you don't…" He sighs. "It's likely my fault for not teaching you well enough." Cocky.

"How long do you expect this to take?"

He shrugs. "I like your odds. A few more minutes, perhaps." She narrows her eyes at him. He's answered her prior question indirectly. She must be on the right track if it will only take her a few more minutes to get the thing open.

She prods at one of the smaller shapes created by the intersecting grooves and it moves inwards. There's no clicking sound like she's heard when her rogues are picking locks, but there is a slight zing of magical energy. She doesn't need to look up to know Solas is smiling down at her.

With the 'button' pressed, she attempts to follow the grooves to another small piece, her magic illuminating the path she follows. The text she can discern seems to mention three pieces, so she finds that one too, then speaks the engraved words.

"Close," Solas says. He repeats the phrase, and she hears the difference in pronunciation. The orb opens, the metal pieces orbiting a small display with a smooth, glimmering rock placed on it. "It's a memory stone. It has been kept in the orb as one would keep a jewellery box, or even wrap a present."

"Can we… can we view it? The memory?" Cordelia is certain her eyes are bugging out of her head in her eagerness.

"If you'd like."

"Of course I would like!" Solas chuckles. "Do I just—" She reaches for the stone, but Solas stops her.

"It may be easier to bring you along than for you to bring me," he says.

She frowns slightly. "Teach me how."

"How to bring someone into a memory stone with you?"

"Yes." Sometimes he asks stupid questions. "It can't be all that different from pulling someone into a dream."

"It isn't," he admits. She watches him expectantly. He takes her left hand. It tingles in his grasp. "There's another word written under the stone. Speak it when you're ready to enter."

"Then what?"

He steps closer, leans against the footboard with her. "Focus on our point of contact as the waking world fades away. It may also help to imagine pulling my spirit as you've seen it in Dreams." She peers up at him skeptically.

"That's all? What if it doesn't work?"

"Then you'll be alone in the memory. It is not a dangerous one, but you will have to play it out before you can leave."

"Okay…" She reaches between the revolving bits of the orb to pluck up the memory stone. She reads the etching on its display. Leanathe. It means splendor or glory. She holds the stone up to examine it closer. It's unlike any rock she's seen before. Solas waits patiently for her to speak the activation word.

When she does, the sensation is instantaneous, much like the feeling of drifting off into a dream. She does as he instructed her, and within a matter of moments, they stand in a garden, beneath a flower-wrapped arbor that extends down a path of sandy coloured stones. The flowers aren't any she recognises, plus they twinkle like they're imbued with magic.

"Ara tarlen, ara tarlan [My lord, my lady]." Cordelia jumps at the unfamiliar voice. Solas rests a hand on her lower back, which, she finds, is bare. A quick survey of her body reveals she's bedecked in a sleeveless glittering golden dress and matching jewellery. There are slits up the legs and a neckline that shows just the right amount of cleavage. Her vallaslin is gone; her arm and leg are bare, so she imagines her face is as well. She resists the urge to touch it; are her scars gone, too? Apart from that, she's going to have to recreate this ensemble when they get out of this memory.

Solas says something to the effect of: "We were just getting a little air before the display. You know how stuffy and loud these things can be." His accent is even more… posh than it usually is, but she likes it. She's always liked the way he speaks elven.

"Of course, my lord. The—" She doesn't know this word but tries her best not to show it— "will begin quite shortly. Lady Sylaise would hate for any of her guests to miss it." It's then that she notices the vallaslin on the man's face. It is different from her parents', but she sees the resemblance all the same.

"'Ma serannas," Solas says before guiding her forward down the path.

"What was that word he said?" She keeps her voice low, not wanting to be overheard.

"It's something akin to a… 'fashion show'," he says, somehow knowing exactly which word she meant. "The participants model clothing. Orlesians are fond of them today."

"I know what a fashion show is, Solas," she says with a roll of her eyes. Josephine and Leliana had spoken of them more than once. The arbor gives way to a crystal clear night sky that takes her breath away.

"I doubt it will be quite what you're expecting." She eyes him curiously, but he says nothing else.

The path for the models has been set up in the yard. Elves in brightly coloured and shimmering clothing mill about drinking and socialising. Some have vallaslin. Most do not.

"Try to avoid conversing with anyone."

"Why?"

"Your accent has improved greatly, but it is still Dalish. Not to mention I haven't briefed you on the intricacies of Elvhenan's aristocracy," he says, pulling her a bit closer by her waist as they near the throng of audience members.

"I see. Can I drink?" She catches sight of crystal flutes full of bubbling liquid. He plucks two of them off a passing tray and hands one to her. His hand goes back around her waist, and she fights the shiver that trembles in her spine. She takes a sip of the wine—she thinks it's wine—and touches her fingers to her lips in shock at the conglomeration of flavours. Solas's lips twitch into a secret smile. "It's magic, yes?" He dips his head in confirmation.

"Come, let us find some place to sit." He leads her through the crowd with ease. They must not recognise him, for no one notices his presence or addresses him by name. This is due to the memory, she assumes.

Solas positions them near the exit into the garden, which is a tactically sound idea, but she wishes they were closer to the middle. It's not like she can't see. She definitely can. As she sips from her glass, she takes in their surroundings. The levitating lamps illuminating the area, the large mansion with stained glass windows, the way she can see the magic thrumming around them.

A group of intoxicated elves stumble down the row in front of them and plop themselves down. Solas's hand tightens on her waist. She looks up at him through her lashes and leans closer.

"If we hadn't spoken yesterday, would you still be touching me so… protectively?"

His head snaps toward her. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. She quirks a teasing brow. Someone magically projecting their voice tells everyone to find their seats.

"Protecting you? Yes. Touching you? Not as I am now." He swallows and looks her up and down. "Not when you're in that dress."

"What's wrong with my dress?" She flashes a faux pout, tilting her face toward his.

His voice pitches lower and his breath fans across her face, smelling of the exquisite wine they've been drinking. She wishes he would speak the elven words directly into her skin. "Nothing is wrong with your dress." She starts to smile before she hears a crackling sound.

She whirls around with a gasp to see what it is and finds half a dozen fire motes whizzing down the path to the unlit hearth. She leans forward, bracing her hand on Solas's thigh, to watch them set the pit ablaze.

"If that's enough to surprise you, I can't imagine how you'll react to the show itself," Solas says in her ear, making her skin pebble. She side-eyes him. "Don't give me that look. You're probably going to love it, and the rest of us will never hear the end of it."

"I wish I'd brought a sketchbook," she mumbles.

"An'daran Atish'an," a woman addresses the crowd. "Thank you all so much for attending tonight's spectacular. Do remember that interfering with the enchantments is prohibited. Without further ado, let me introduce my new collection."

"That's Sylaise?!" Cordelia whispers. Was June here as well? She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

"You didn't believe the servant we encountered? Tsk, tsk, tsk."

"I don't think I was quite processing fully—Oh, Solas, look!" She points to the first model. The woman looks, for all the world, like a bird in elven form. The feathers that wrap her body look as though they belong there. She flaps her "wings" and floats off the ground for a few meters, twirling so the light catches on the almost iridescent feathers.

The other pieces are no less spectacular, as Sylaise suggested they would be. One man is draped in silver that ripples like water and sends shimmering dust cascading over the crowd. Another in a shade of black darker than any she's ever seen. A pair of women are dressed as if to embody the two moons in the sky. On and on it goes. Cordelia is on the edge of her seat. Each ensemble pulses with magic. She can feel it as much as she can see it rippling off of them in waves. It's beautiful. For as awful as Sylaise must have been, it is beautiful.

As the last model is announced, something shifts. The lights seem to dim. The crowd seems to go quieter. She looks to Solas in question.

"We've reached the end, da'hale." He strokes her cheek as the memory slowly fades away.

She blinks, and she's still looking into his eyes, but they're back in his quarters. His hand still cradles her face, but he towers over her. Her breath hitches. She sticks her hand out blindly to return the memory stone to its place and seals the artifact with a wave of her hand. A gentle shove sends it back to the table. She doesn't drop Solas's gaze for an instant.

He leans down and tucks a curl behind her ear with such tenderness that her cheeks heat. "Corde—"

She grabs the back of his head to keep him in place as she surges up to seal her lips over his. He groans in pleasant surprise and sinks his hand into her hair. She shivers. Her head falls farther back unwittingly. He presses his other hand into the small of her back, where it found a home in the memory they experienced. Only, her sweater now serves as a barrier between their skin.

His kisses fall like a gentle rain upon her lips, again and again and again until she's dizzy from it.

"I should…" Her fingers toy with the back of his tunic's collar. "I should sketch those outfits." Yet she doesn't pull away.

"I'll help," he murmurs, though he doesn't stop kissing her right away either. His hand slips from her hair, down to her waist. The other settles on the opposite side. With a sigh, he releases her mouth and spins her around to face the table. She giggles as he walks her over.

"Graphite." He points to a cup full of quills and sticks of graphite. "Vellum." He shifts to drag the stack over to them. "Pastels are in the drawer, when you want to add colour." She takes a page off the top.

"No watercolours?"

"They're in the same drawer," he says, hand braced on the tabletop.

"Noted," she says with a smile. He inches closer to her, then halts and pulls back. She tilts her head. "You can kiss me if you want to, Solas." He doesn't move. She looks down at the vellum before her and cringes internally. "Or, you don't have to."

Slender fingers on her chin, turning her head. Her brows flick up in the moment before Solas kisses her. It's brief, but sweet. Her smile returns, and he draws away once more. He reaches for a piece of graphite and starts on a sketch without another word. She just watches him for a minute or so. He looks almost peaceful as he draws.

But the images of the memory bounce around in her head and nudge her into action.

Chapter Text

"You did what?" Dorian's bafflement makes Cordelia snort, though she remains focused on colouring in the skirts of the design before her.

"We viewed a memory through a magical stone, I already said that," Cordelia says, blending the colours of the skirt to mimic the picture in her head. "Do keep up." Out of the corner of her eye she sees him lean against her desk, his arms crossed.

"No, no, I'm sorry," he says flippantly. "You watched an ancient elven fashion show? And then… drew the designs out."

"Yes?" She passes him the stack of coloured sketches as she finishes up the one she's working on. His brows raise.

"Maker, look at that…" He leafs through the sketches, that impressed look still on his face.

"It was hard to capture them accurately… They're all so…" She holds up her hands, fingers pinched together. "Alive? I don't know… Magic flows through the pieces like it was imbued in it." She moves her hand like a flowing river. "But then again, it flows through… everything. In the memory, I mean."

"How long has he been sitting on this?" She couldn't say, a while, probably. She shrugs. Dorian wrinkles his nose at her non-answer and flicks to another sketch. "Would you show me?"

"I don't know if the magic of the stone would disguise you? It might—no one seemed to recognize Solas, even though they were primarily nobility…" But Dorian is human. The magic is elven… "but I would have to ask to make sure. Otherwise it might disrupt the enchantment."

"And we wouldn't want that," Dorian says, and he means it. "These are lovely, by the way. I like yours better."

She tilts her head to the side. "My designs? Or my sketches of Sylaise's designs?"

"Both."

"You're biased," she says, huffing a laugh.

"I never claimed to not be, sweetling," he says with a saccharine smile. "What will you do with these? Display them? Embroider?"

"I would like to attempt to recreate them," she says and gestures for him to pass her the vellum. "This one in particular." She pulls it out of the stack. "It's what I was wearing." Dorian tilts his head side to side as he studies the design, fingers toying with the end of his manicured mustache.

Eventually, he nods. "Oh, yes. I'm quite fond of that."

"Solas seemed to like it, too," she says as he passes the page back to her. She feels a blush warming her face at the memory of his hand on her bare back, his eyes raking over her.

"See, now this is what I meant when I said I wanted an update. You and Cullen spoke with him?"

"Yes."

Dorian huffs and gestures for her to go on. "And?"

She shrugs. "It went well… Cullen and I, uh, well, okay…" She recounts the (second) first kiss she shared with Solas and her conversation with him, Cullen's jealousy—deliberately avoiding how they 'handled' it—and finally their meeting in the Herald's Rest.

"Thank the Maker. I've been needing this kind of gossip to fuel me. Things have been so bland recently."

"The almost-orgy in the courtyard on Satinalia wasn't enough for you?" she says with a snort.

"That was weeks ago," he says, waving his hand in dismissal, then draping the back of it against his forehead. "Charter's not as interested in indulging my queries as Leliana was. Plus, this involves my dearest friends, which makes it far more interesting."

She rolls her eyes lightheartedly. "Uh huh."

"Now, tell me more about this fashion show."

Later in the week, Cordelia and Cullen have their supper before tidying up their quarters for the first weekly gathering with Solas. She debates moving the furniture around to make it somewhat more cozy, but Cullen refuses to help her and she's not committed enough to the idea to use her magic to do it.

She's grateful the kitchen keeps a steady supply of mulled wine during the winter months because it's her favourite thing to drink on cold nights. Which means they're able to have a full pitcher on the tea table and a goblet for each of them.

When Solas arrives, he, not for the first time, takes a seat in the plush armchair as Cordelia busies herself filling the cups with wine. Cullen sits beside her, comfortably lounging on the chaise. He and Solas thank her for pouring. She just nods and takes a large sip. Sweet spirits, she's nervous. This whole thing had the potential to go very, very poorly.

To her pleasant surprise, Cullen is the first to ask a question. How brave of him.

"Where did you learn to draw and paint? Do you have other hobbies?" Cordelia squeezes Cullen's knee in reassurance; she sees that he's trying, and she's grateful.

"There are few things I haven't learned to do in some way," Solas says, not unkindly, "but I have a particular interest in the arts. It started mostly as a way to process the world around me through the eyes of one with a body. Sketches of the flora and fauna." His gaze alights on her for a moment. "Of other elves."

"No architecture?" She's drawn countless depictions of ruins across southern Thedas since she was dragged into the Inquisition.

Solas snorts. "No. June and his cohort were the leading architects in the empire, the Dalish got that much right," he says, swirling his wine in its goblet. "That's not to say I don't find it beautiful. If I didn't, I wouldn't have taken you to so many ruins, shown you so many memories of how they were before." She smiles softly.

Cullen sits forward as if drawn in by curiosity. "In dreams?" Solas hums affirmatively.

"Though Cordelia's depictions of architecture are finer than any I could attempt, anyway." He catches her gaze as he speaks and she feels a blush rise in her cheeks. She attempts to hide it—futilely—in her drink. "As for other arts, I'm fond of music."

She sits forward, now on the same plane as her love. "I didn't know that."

"You didn't ask." The barest hint of a smirk curves Solas's lips. She narrows her eyes, tapping her fingers on her goblet.

"What do you play?" Cullen says, either unaware of or unbothered by her minor annoyance.

"The harp, piano, lyre, the bass, and Zazikel's flute—the sort of… pipes of different lengths, bound together," he says, counting them off on his fingers. She's almost surprised there aren't more.

"Do you have a favourite?" Cordelia asks.

"To play?" She nods. "Piano. However, the music of a harp is entrancing."

"We have a piano," she exclaims, jumping to her feet. Both men's eyes widen, and Cullen moves as if to keep her from spilling her drink. She has it under control, however.

"Where are you going?" Solas asks.

"Where are we going," she corrects and grabs both men by the arm one at a time and pulls them out their seats. "To the piano. Grab the wine!"

With her own goblet in hand, she sashays over to the top of the stairs, miraculously keeping her wine from sloshing. Once she's sure they're following, she descends the steps and makes her way toward the stateroom where Josephine gave them dance instruction before their visit to the Winter Palace.

Inside, sitting proudly in the room, illuminated only by the moonlight through the windows, is the grand piano. Cordelia never did find out where it came from, if it was here when they arrived or if Josephine had it delivered to them. Though, getting it up the mountain seemed like an arduous task now; she can't imagine it being brought here in a prior age.

She conjures a few magelights to better light the room and starts a fire in the fireplace before downing what's left of her wine.

"I assume you expect me to play something?" Solas says as he approaches the pianoforte.

"Please. I think there's some music in the bench, or you could play something you know by heart?" She'd be interested to hear the latter. What songs stuck with him over the years… how different do they sound from modern music?

Solas sets his wine on a small, short table nearby, while Cullen places the pitcher on a sheet-covered table. She retrieves it briefly to refill her cup, then returns it. Still, Solas hesitates.

She shuffles on her feet in impatience. She wants music. He finally settles in on the bench, his fingers resting lightly on the keys. Is he deciding what to play? Has he forgotten how to begin?

Before she can spiral with her questions, Cullen takes her hand and leads her over to an armchair, where he sits and guides her to sit in his lap. She shifts around, throwing her feet over the side, and returns her attention to Solas. He plays a few testing chords and nods his approval. Then he begins.

The piece is delicate at first, as gentle as a breeze stirring chimes on a spring afternoon. It's not upbeat, nor is it sorrowful. It's… peaceful. As it goes on, the music grows more intense, like a fierce burst of fire to warm cold hands. The sound resonates through the room and sends goosebumps running across her skin. The slow glide of Cullen's free hand up and down her thigh only worsens her state of… of rapture. The song is beautiful, and Solas plays it so… effortlessly. There is no hesitation, nor stumbling on false notes. Eventually, the song crescendos, then trickles off with the same delicacy of the beginning.

Solas smiles. It's unguarded, almost raw. His hands slip from the keys as he looks over at her.

"Have you practiced?" she blurts out. The performance was so perfect he must have. No one could be that good after millennia asleep if they hadn't practiced. Cullen huffs a soft laugh and takes a sip of his mulled wine.

"I've been known to spend time playing in here," Solas says nonchalantly, casting a glance around the room. "I visit more often now that the frescos are complete."

"I don't know how I never noticed," Cordelia muses. "You're very good."

He bows his head and reaches for his wine. "Thank you."

After more music and conversation and wine, Cordelia resigns herself to the fact that they should get to bed.

She pulls Solas into a hug, squishing her face against his chest and swaying slightly. He returns the embrace, though he isn't looking at her when she peers up at him. He's looking over her shoulder. Ah, Cullen. This is within their agreement, however. So, she tugs Solas's chin down and kisses him. His hands tense on her back for half a second before he teases her lips with a flick of his tongue.

She hums and pulls back. "Goodnight, Solas." Unable to resist, she gives him a parting peck, then spins around to take Cullen's hand—and her wine. Her love tries to pretend like he wasn't watching them, averting his gaze, but she sees the conflicted expression on his face. He squeezes her hand as it slips into his; she turns her head to kiss his shoulder and squeezes back. Some of the tension in his body loosens at the silent reassurance before he leads them back to their quarters.

A week and a half after discussing Ameridan's heirs at the war table, they receive news of success. The d'Amerides are sending aid to Clan Ghilain. Cordelia wishes to visit the clan where they are camped in the southern Emprise, but she plans to bring only Solas along with her. No warrior to protect her—protect them. She is certain they will be fine.

Cullen is not so certain. He tries to remind himself that these are Dalish elves, whom they have just aided in receiving reparations. They would not care to harm the Dalish Inquisitor! Yet there are other people, other things, in the world that could and would do her harm. He knows he's being overprotective, so he keeps his doubts mostly to himself during the meeting.

It doesn't help that his disapproval of her sole companion is about more than just her protection. Even if he trusts Solas with her safety, which he is still not entirely sure about despite the feelings Solas has for her, there remains the simple fact of his jealousy.

The idea of Cordelia spending fifteen uninterrupted days with Solas alone is enough to make his blood heat. She is not Solas's to protect, she is Cullen's. And she would leave him here trapped in this fortress for weeks wondering what they might be getting up to. He trusts her, he does. He trusts that she will not cross a line, but the twisted, irrational part of him still rears its ugly head. Would Solas push her for more?

When Cordelia finally dismisses the council, Cullen braces his hands on the war table and hangs his head. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries, to no avail, to rid himself of the loathsome thoughts swimming about in his mind. He's being overbearing and unreasonable. He needs to… to…

"Cullen." A small, familiar hand rests on his arm. "What's wrong?" Of course she noticed. He wasn't exactly being subtle in his turmoil. He sighs and does not look up at her.

"I am uncomfortable with the idea of you and Solas travelling alone together," he forces out.

"Oh."

"It's not that I don't trust you," he says, lifting his head to meet her gaze. Her ocher brows are furrowed in concern. "It's—Maker, it sounds churlish. He's going to have your undivided attention for two weeks while I am cooped up here."

Cordelia barely hesitates in responding. "Would you like to come along?" He blinks at her. Why had he not considered simply asking to join them? She waits. She is patient, more than many realise. At times impulsive and eager to move things along, but when it comes to matters of the heart she is remarkably unrushed.

"I—uh, yes. I would like to come along," he says as he turns to her fully. She starts to smile. "I know it's an elf thing, but—" She shakes her head and cups his face in her hands.

"There are going to be a lot of 'elf things' in the coming months, if Briala and I can collaborate. You are my partner in all things, and I would have you be part of this… mission as much or as little as you wish."

"All of it. I want to be part of all of it." She beams, and he blushes. She kisses him sweetly on the lips, her thumbs stroking his cheeks. She wants him to be part of her life, he would do well to remember that.

Chapter Text

Cordelia frowns at the air around her. She hates Emprise du Lion. It was cold and snowy the first time she came here last winter, and it's cold and snowy now. It should be warming up, between the fire crackling in the center of their little camp, the magic she's encasing them in, and Solas's wards.

"Something the matter?" Cullen peers up at her from where he sits unpacking their rations for the evening.

"Just… the cold," she says, wrapping her arms around herself and tucking her chin into her scarf. "I need Solas to teach me how to do the… heating thing better." She looks through the trees as if she could will the other elf back from placing the wards.

"It works fine on the balcony," her love says with a slightly puzzled look on his face.

"It's a bit bigger of a space… I can handle warming myself and the area immediately around me, but a campsite is… beyond my capabilities." She gestures with a hand and shakes her head. "Plus in Skyhold, the worst of the cold is repelled."

"The campfire doesn't help?"

"No, it does!" she clarifies. "I'm sorry, I'm just frustrated by the limitations of my own abilities."

"I'm certain you are capable, even if you need more instruction," Cullen says and offers her a piece of jerky and a smile.

"Thank you," she says and hopes he knows she means it for more than just for the bite of food. She plops down beside him and ruffles around in her pack, holding the jerky between her teeth.

Her crochet project isn't difficult to find, and she pulls it out to continue working on it. The dark green wool pools between her crossed legs as she settles in with her hook. The unfinished hat is one part of a matching set she's making for Solas for First Day. He never says he's cold, but his ears get all pink and his head is far too bare. No, he needs a hat and a nice scarf for the winter. She has a little over a month to get them done—there are other gifts she needs to work on for Wintersend, but that's farther off. She has time.

She does a few stitches, then pulls the meat out of her mouth to chew and swallow before replacing it between her teeth.

"Not even the cold can keep you from doing more than one task at once," Solas says as he emerges from the other side of the large rock they're camped by. She smiles around her jerky, and he laughs with a shake of his head.

Cullen passes out the rest of their rations for the evening. Conversation comes and goes with relative ease as they eat. Cordelia and Solas share anecdotes from their month in the Emprise—entertaining ones, nothing about red lyrium or the quarry—and Cullen speaks of days spent skating on the iced over lake in Honnleath as a child.

When they've finished their meal, Cordelia cozies up to Cullen, her back to his chest while she continues with her hat. Solas sits across the fire, a book in his hands.

Their relationship hasn't actually changed all that much in the short time they've been courting—as Cullen calls it. Only the added "we have feelings for each other" and, well, kissing. It's not nearly so domestic as her partnership with Cullen, but the time they spend together is meaningful in a new way.

"Commander, I've been thinking about what you've been doing for your templar soldiers," Solas says, breaking the comfortable silence.

Cullen stiffens at her back. "How's that?"

"It's an admirable endeavour to aid those attempting to free themselves from the Chantry's clutches."

Cullen glances at her as if she, for whatever reason, put Solas up to this. She didn't. They've never discussed this topic. It isn't exactly widespread knowledge, though Solas did say he wants to get to know Cullen better.

"Cassandra and I are doing what we can," he says. "We've had some close calls, but I'm surprised and relieved we have yet to lose anyone to withdrawal."

"You underestimate the power of what your own journey has shown them," Solas argues. "You've made what once seemed impossible into a tangible course of action. They believe in you. Some revere you, even. They would not let you—their beloved commander—see them fail."

"I'm not—that's not why I'm doing it. To be… revered." His arm tightens around her, a grounding gesture.

"No, it isn't. But neither was Cordelia, nor I… so many years ago. You do not get to decide how other people view you. You can only decide what you do…" He closes his book, a furrow to his brows. "Forgive my melancholy. I only mean to say that I respect what you're doing and your dedication to it." Cullen just stares at him. "I will retire for the night, I think. Rest well."

On the second day of their journey, Solas reveals that he brought a chessboard along, in case Cullen wants to play. He hides it well, but Cordelia sees the pleasant surprise on his face at the suggestion. They play after supper while she crochets to her heart's content. Cullen wins, though he confides to her in their tent that he thinks Solas let him win. She tells him to confront Solas about it. When he does, Solas laughs and admits to using their first match as a testing ground.

The rest of the evenings on their five day journey are spent much the same, to varying chess match results. On the backs of their mounts, they go over a vague plan for what they're going to say to the clan. They've heard what Kenric revealed, given that they contacted the Inquisition, but it's not clear if they've read the paper or how much of it they believe outside the fact that Ameridan was an elf.

Cordelia would like to open their minds to the truth; she's just not sure how they would take it. The discussion of the plan is mostly for Cullen's benefit, but also serves to soothe Solas's concerns. They decide against sharing any truths about the Dread Wolf unless Clan Ghilain proves particularly lenient.

"Their wards are just ahead," Solas says at the same time she senses them. She nudges Isenama along to take the lead, wrapping and unwrapping the reins around her hand. Her eyes—and those of her companions, if she had to guess—scan the trees for scouts. Her own clan usually has a few hanging around in the branches.

"Cordelia—" Cullen starts just before an elven girl of no more than 20 years drops down in her path. Cordelia pulls up short, sucking in a breath in surprise.

"On dhea'him (Good afternoon)," she says as she leans around her hart's head to see the scout. "My name is Cordelia Lavellan. I've come to speak with Clan Ghilain?" The girl's eyes widen.

"You're the Inquisitor!" She dips her head in a nod. "You brought others." The girl eyes her companions with a healthy level of suspicion. Whatever she sees in them is satisfactory enough for now. "This way. You might want to dismount here." Cordelia nods again and motions for Cullen and Solas to heed the suggestion as she does so herself. She wraps the reins around the saddle horn, trusting Isenama to follow her.

The scout girl traipses down the path with ease, though Cordelia thinks she's slowing herself down so they can keep up with their mounts. She whistles as Cordelia spies aravels through the trees. There are fewer than her own clan has, suggesting the clan is smaller in size.

"Keeper! It's the Inquisitor!" Though she calls for the Keeper, the scout's words draw the attention of others in the clan. Isenama is remarkably calm under the eyes locked on her and Cordelia. It's a relief to know her hart does not consider these people to be a threat.

She smells stew cooking over the fire, spots children playing a familiar game, hears the cooing of a woman to the halla. Every clan is different, but there are enough similarities to bring Cordelia comfort… and also make her yearn for her own clan.

As First of Clan Lavellan, Cordelia has met Keeper Levinia and her First, Eirlen. Just once, at the last Arlathvhen. Eirlen had only just discovered his magic months before the conference and bore no vallaslin. That much has changed, Cordelia notes as Eirlen and Levinia approach; his face now bears deep blue lines in a design to honour Andruil. Not to mention he stands taller than Levinia.

"Isenama, stay," Cordelia says, giving the hart's nose a quick stroke before striding forward to meet the Keeper and First.

"An'daran atish'an, Inquisitor Lavellan," Levinia says.

"On dhea'him, Keeper, Eirlen," she greets. "My companions." She gestures behind her. "Commander Cullen Rutherford of Ferelden. And Solas, my arcane advisor."

"Ah, a Fereldan. I was concerned your ambassador had sent you with an aristocrat," Eirlen says. Solas snorts and covers it with a cough. She imagines Cullen is frowning; she's taught him enough of her people's tongue for him to understand what was said.

"Eirlen," the Keeper scolds.

"I would not have let her do that," Cordelia says. "Is there some place you recommend we keep our mounts? Isenama is not entirely tame, but she seems all right with you all for the moment."

"Our halla’amelan has experience with harts," Levinia says. "She can tend to them and your horse." Cordelia smiles.

"Ma serannas," she says, then turns to her hart. "Behave." Isenama huffs indignantly, but she's quickly persuaded by the treats that the halla’amelan approaches with. Cullen and Solas come to stand at her sides.

"Do your companions speak, Inquisitor?" Levinia swats her First in the arm.

"When there is something to say," Solas says.

"An'daran atish'an," Cullen says politely. "Thank you for allowing us to meet with you and your clan, Keeper Levinia."

Levinia smiles at him, amused, Cordelia guesses, by his earnestness. "We're happy to have you all. I expect you'd like to speak of Ameridan as soon as possible?"

"There's no rush. I'm sure everyone has their tasks for the day," Cordelia says.

Levinia waves her off and says, "We planned ahead to accommodate you. It is no trouble, da'len."

She calls for the clan to gather in the center of the camp and beckons Cordelia, Cullen, and Solas to sit in the stools near hers and Eirlen's. The other elders sit closest, followed by the children wiggling around on cushions and the rest of the clan.

"We knew relatively little about his life. He was born in Halamshiral," Levinia begins once everyone is settled. "He was from a noble house of the Dales, though not of the titled line. We think one of his parents' siblings held the title. It is their house banners that adorn our aravels to this day." Cordelia casts her gaze around to examine the banners.

"He either was a mage or loved a mage—both were stories that have been passed down. Either way, his lover was a woman he'd known a long time. They joined the Inquisition together." That's news. Cordelia has no reason to disbelieve the idea that Telana and Ameridan knew each other before the Inquisition. It seemed like they both considered Halamshiral home.

"We have never been sure what happened to him, just that he disappeared as the Second Blight raged," another elder pipes up. "I suppose the shems never could agree on that part either."

"What of Drakon?"

Levinia nods. "Our people believe what has been said about Ameridan being tolerant of Orlais and the newfound Chantry, even that he had a connection, an alliance with the empire. He wished for the Dales to help with the Blight… Our people, the other elves of the ancient Dales, made a grave mistake in refusing to band together with Orlais for the Blight." Cordelia thought the same, in hearing Ameridan speak of the alliance and how he wished to be home reminding people of it.

"It has always proved difficult when we gather for Arlathvhen, holding the beliefs we do. We do not blame them for what we have lost, of course, but we have always wondered how things might have gone differently, had we all set aside our pride to fight a greater evil." Solas's ankle presses into hers, as one might take someone's hand to gather themself when struck by turmoil. She does not look at him, but she returns the light pressure.

"Have you had a chance to read through Professor Kenric's paper?" She made sure a copy was sent to the clan shortly after they decided how to resolve the situation between them and the d'Amerides, unsure if they had merely heard the news through the grapevine, or been able to read the paper themselves.

"It is… dense reading," Eirlen says with a slight wince.

"I would be happy to share what we found," Cordelia offers. "I do think I speak a bit less like an academic." That earns her a few chuckles that loosen the tension in her chest.

"That would be much-appreciated, da'len," Levinia says with a small smile.

With regular pauses for questions, Cordelia's impromptu lecture spans the course of nearly two hours. Clan Ghilain is, however, far more open to these new discoveries than she anticipated. She starts off easy, with the facts of both Ameridan and Telana being mages and how he came to be in the Frostback Basin, how he passed away, before moving onto the harder tonics to swallow.

The fact that Ameridan and Telana honoured both the elven pantheon and Andraste and the Maker being perhaps the most difficult part. The Dalish, the elves of Orlais, have been so wronged by the Chantry over the centuries, it's hard for them to believe that one of their own shared that faith. Cordelia had found it hard to believe herself, and she'd seen the statues, the altars, herself! She'd heard their prayers!

Now, knowing the truth of the elven pantheon, she's found herself pondering the Maker more than once. Especially with her love's continued faith outside the bounds of the Chantry. She's not yet sure she believes in the Maker, but Andraste? Andraste may have value to her. Whether that comes from the title she'd been given—Herald—or from true connection to the prophet's story, she isn't certain.

It will take time to fully accept the discoveries Cordelia shares. She knows this. But it is a great relief to hear curiosity instead of malice from the lips of the Keeper and elders of the clan. They trust her, Levinia says, after all she's done for them. She wants to say she has not done much, that the reparations were deserved, that all she'd had to do was tell her ambassador to handle it and she had. But she does not. In her time as Inquisitor, she's learned to let people feel as they do about her, not to push back or question when they trust her, when they revere her. It does more harm than good, even if it makes a voice in the back of her mind scream that she's an imposter.

She shoves all of that down as the gathering disperses. Each clan member returns to their task. Those who've finished for the day play games, or chat, or not-so-subtly watch Cordelia and her companions as they make their way around the camp. She comments on differences she sees between how her clan operates and how this one does, mainly for herself, though both Solas and Cullen occasionally ask follow-up questions. Cullen becomes engrossed in the crafter with his ironbark. She lingers by his side—and Solas by hers in turn—with her arm threaded through his as he asks question after question.

Over supper, Cordelia somewhat tentatively asks after a story of the Dread Wolf, under the guise of hearing a tale from a different clan. One of the elders is happy to indulge her request. As he tells a story of the Wolf's exploits in the Fade after banishing the gods, she notices Solas smiling to himself.

"What?" she says quietly, so as not to interrupt the tale. Solas leans closer, his chest brushing against her shoulder.

"The only true part of this tale is that I explored the Fade while in uthenara," he says, only loud enough for her to hear. His breath curls around her ear.

"Oh, so you didn't feast on the souls of the dead," she teases. She brings her bowl to her lips and sips at the thick broth.

Solas hums in amusement. "I'm terribly sorry to disappoint." He angles his head to press a kiss behind her ear, and her eyelids flutter.

She glances at Cullen, who sits on the other side of her, watching her and Solas carefully. He looks down at his stew the moment their eyes meet like he's trying to hide the fact that he's paying attention… the fact that he's likely feeling some sort of possessiveness. She can't tell if he's hiding it because he's trying to work through it on his own without her input, or if he just doesn't want her to know how he's feeling. She'll have to speak with him about it when they're alone. Stewing—ha—won't help anyone.

Solas inhales again, and she feels his lips part as if he has something else to say. No words come out.

He pulls away. Not so far as he had been originally—his hand still rests on the ground behind her, his body is still slightly angled toward her, but he is no longer centimeters from entangling himself with her. Cullen appears to relax, even more so when she sets a hand on his thigh and tunes back into the story.

They spend the next day with the clan, trading more stories, mainly, though Cordelia gets into a heated debate over the rules of engagement for a game the young adults try to teach Cullen and Solas. Evidently, her clan plays it differently, and the two of them will just have to learn the correct way to play when they eventually visit her clan. Which is a thought she shoves down as soon as she has it. It's far too early to think about bringing Solas around her clan.

When they finally depart the morning after that, it's with promises of continued connection—including an offer to send a few scouts to join the Inquisition's forces—and small handmade gifts from more than one child. Her heart swells with the success of this trip as they begin their journey home.

Solas hears her first. A loud moan ringing out in the clearing. He stops in his tracks.

He should have expected this, really. They've been very polite, not indulging throughout their entire journey thus far. He's not certain he would have been the same. He considers perhaps they have indulged and this is the only time Cordelia has forgotten to cast a soundproof barrier around their tent…

No, the building tension between them over the past week is one of abstinence. Had he not gone out to check his wards on the perimeter and take a dip in the nearby hot spring, they likely would have continued to abstain. He certainly can't fault them for seeking pleasure. Still, he should leave them to their moment, their private moment.

Another sound from Cordelia sends blood rushing to his cock. A deep chuckle, barely audible from where Solas stands, follows shortly after.

"Shh, you'll attract wolves if you keep that up."

"It's not my fault your—ah!—tongue feels exquisite," Cordelia retorts. "Besides, maybe I—mmm—want to attract wolves. Or—hah—maybe just one." Him? A growl is followed by muffled words that make her musical laugh fill the cold winter night. What did the commander say to elicit such a beautiful sound—one of Solas's favourites?

"Oh, Cullen," she moans as her laughter fades. Solas leans against a nearby tree and squeezes his eyes shut. He should walk away. He should give them privacy. Space. With everything so new, he is little more than a trespasser on their devotion. Their loud, hot devotion.

Behind his eyes, he sees an image of Cordelia with her commander's head between her thighs and her mouth hanging open. He wrenches his eyes open and tries to banish the thought. His cock throbs and strains in his pants. He does not move.

Cordelia cries out the commander's name again, breathy and alluring. He can hear her breath picking up, hear the small sounds of pleasure escaping her with each breath. Is the rest of her body as flushed as he's seen her cheeks? Does she tremble the closer she gets to peaking?

Solas palms himself over his trousers unwittingly, then yanks his hand away.

It feels wrong. The commander—Cullen doesn't even want them discussing their intimate life. To touch himself while listening to them? Unseen? ...Surely they must have considered he would return. They can't have meant for him to hear. And yet—

Cordelia whines, loud and long. Fenedhis, this woman's mouth. She quiets in the moments after, leading him to believe she must have climaxed. He thinks of her chest heaving with every breath and her fiery curls fanned out around her head as she comes down.

He craves more and selfishly hopes they aren't finished yet. He was lost on her long ago, but this courtship has ruined him entirely.

With trembling hands, he unlaces his pants to relieve some of the pressure on his pathetically hard cock. Any relief he might feel dissipates when he sees there's a damp patch on his smalls from the weeping head of his length. He cringes and turns to face the tree, bracing an arm above his head onto which he rests his forehead. He hears the murmur of words exchanged between the lovers, indiscernible to him but intoxicating all the same. He exhales shakily, and his hips rock forward of their own accord.

There is only so much he can tell from listening. He has no idea what position they're in. He has no idea what her face looks like. He can't even hear the quieter things, like what her cunt sounds like when being licked or sucked or fucked, or the words they whisper to each other. He's imagined Cordelia more times than he would ever tell her, more than he ever should have, but this is ever so much more enthralling… and painful. She is so close, yet still so far.

Perhaps someday they will allow him to watch. He has actively avoided thinking of her with Cullen for more than one reason: jealousy, heartache, guilt, and plain and simple disinterest… he's had them all. It's difficult, however, to disregard him when he groans with pleasure mere feet away, no doubt sinking his human cock inside Cordelia.

He huffs in response to his own unbecoming thoughts. In truth, he has nothing against Cullen, nor his cock, which, by all accounts, is more than adequate in satisfying Cordelia's… needs. The image that comes to Solas's mind, of Cordelia's walls stretching to accommodate the Commander's girth is… it is… He slowly rolls his hips into the tree trunk, shame coursing through him. A voice in his mind whispers this is wrong, that this would be something she could not forgive.

Cordelia speaks loud enough that he can hear the pretty lilt to her voice, but not loud enough to comprehend the words she says. On the other hand, he understands her interrupting gasps and moans perfectly. Her near constant susurrations drive his body fully into action. The bark is rough, even through the fabric of his smalls, but the friction makes his eyes roll back and the slight pain is a welcome punishment for what he's doing.

The fantasy of watching Cordelia and Cullen make love continues in his mind. The arch of her back, the ripple of his muscles, the melding of their bodies as they kiss, completely entangled in one another. She turns her head to look at him as Cullen spreads her legs wider, pushes her knees up to her chest. She licks her lips and smirks, and Solas bites down on his fist. The scene breaks at her keening moan.

He wants to draw that sound from her. He wants to see what makes her tick. He wants to fulfill her every desire and fantasy. He longs to touch her bare skin, to feel how real she is, how warm, how soft, how sweet.

He presses forward so his chest is flush with the tree, wishing it were warm and soft instead of cold and rough. Perhaps cold and rough is what he deserves.

What would they think—what would she think if she found him rutting against the tree like an animal like this? He stifles the needy whine that rises in his throat. Would she look upon him with disgust or with the heat of desire? Would she turn away or stay to watch him fall apart as he imagined her hands on him?

The barely audible slap of skin on skin coupled with Cordelia's panting murmurs and choked whimpers bring Solas right up to the precipice. He holds himself back, his eyes screwed shut. His fingers dig into the tree bark, strained with the effort of resisting release.

As they crescendo, he lets himself go, soiling his underwear with his spend and biting down on his forearm to muffle his low groan. His hips rock mindlessly against the tree trunk a few more times before he shoves away from it. He should not have done that.

He can't help feeling as though he's being watched as he makes his way to his tent on the other side of the campfire. Not caring that he's being paranoid, he glances around the camp and finds his intuition is not wrong at all. Cordelia's hart stands at the edge of the clearing, wide awake and staring directly at him. She's judging him. If she could speak, he's certain she would be telling her rider what he did.

He winces. "Ir abelas, Isenama." The hart scoffs and turns away. She could have tried to trample him, and he might not have even stopped her. He's still grateful she didn't as he ducks into his tent alone.