Chapter Text
Excerpt from Solas’s Journal
Haven, 9:41 Dragon.
Attempt 2
The ritual was successful. After nearly a decade of work, I was able to create an adequate duplicate of Alexius’s amulet. The efforts against me, led by the Champion of Kirkwall, did not succeed.
The only unexpected concern is that I cannot go back to a time before the orb was activated; the explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes has become a fixed point. However, I was able to reach Haven quickly enough to make myself indispensable. I have plenty of time to change the tides of the past, and retrieve the unlocked orb without it being destroyed.
I am walking a dangerous line. Last time, I failed in retrieving the orb, but the Inquisition succeeded in killing Corypheus, against strong odds. Corypheus cannot survive if I am to prevail. I will need to make sure as many things are similar to the events of my previous attempt as possible. Without Redcliffe, or the fall of Haven, would the Inquisitor succeed in growing stronger over time? Without the death of Celene, would the Inquisition gain enough power to triumph at the Temple of Mythal?
Perhaps not.
In any event, Leliana was accommodating. She has once again provided me with a hut of my own. I am content to sit back, for now, and help where I can.
With any luck, the orb will be mine within a year.
-Solas
Eleanor Hawke sat on a bedroll in the middle of the desert, reading the latest letter she’d received from Varric. He was alive, at least. Thank the Maker. If he’d survived Kirkwall only to blow up in a foreign country, she’d be pretty ticked off. Who else would keep her abreast of current events in the south? Not Aveline, whose closeness to Hawke seemed to have happened through osmosis rather than any real fondness. Not Merrill, who had been cold and distant ever since Hawke had refused to help her fix her Eluvian. Not Fenris, who’d died defending Meredith Stannard. And not Isabela, who'd disappeared the night Hawke killed the Arishok.
Certainly not Ser Carver of the fucking Templar Order.
She put the letter down with a frown and stared off into the middle distance, chewing her fingernail. Should she be offering her services? She didn’t want to offer her services. She’d tried that angle for six years, and look where it got her. Friendless and alone, in the middle of the Blighted desert, hundreds of miles away from a good source of shrimp.
Probably best that I don’t, then, she decided. Things had a tendency to go a little sideways whenever she got involved, and Thedas had had enough sideways for a lifetime. At least this explosion, no one could blame on her.
Wellllll, she thought to herself, wincing.
An image flashed in her mind, of Anders giving her one last look before fleeing into the dark as the city burned around them.
Okay. Maybe this could be her fault. Had it been Anders? Blowing up religious institutions was kind of his modus operandus. She’d given up the chance to kill him, once. She almost had killed him, in fact. He’d asked so nicely, and by that point, she'd been so very tired.
But then she’d realized she’d be doing something Sebastian approved of, and frankly, fuck that guy.
On the other hand, the Conclave was exactly the sort of thing Anders had been hoping to bring about. Wasn't it? Peace. Interference from the Divine. Discussion. She made a face. That’s why it was better she not help. She’d never been very good at talking to people.
Not to mention, she had it on good authority that Cassandra Pentaghast wanted to give her actual responsibilities. Why, Hawke had no idea. They probably wouldn't even pay her. People tended to forget that, despite the lofty title, Hawke was just a mercenary at the end of the day. That's all she ever had been, and all she ever would be. Killing the Arishok had been the exception, not the rule. She hadn't even been able to save her own family, as Carver was so fond of reminding her.
There was a brush of magic. A tall boy in a hat appeared before her. Hawke let out a curse. She leapt to her feet and pulled out her staff.
“Wait!” the boy said, holding up his hands. “My name is Cole. I’m here to help.”
Hawke narrowed her eyes at him. “Where did you come from?”
“I was with the templars,” the boy said. Hawke’s eyes narrowed further. She took a menacing step toward him. “No! Not like that!” He peered at her. “Solid steel, stretched plate covering his chest. That symbol stamped into it like a brand. You used to think Father would hate seeing it as much as you do, but these days, you aren’t so sure.” He smiled. “See! You know good templars, too.”
Hawke lowered her staff a fraction. It sounded like he was talking about Carver. “What?”
“Here,” the boy said, thrusting a piece of paper under her face.
“What's this?” she said, confused. It was a torn title page from a copy of Tale of the Champion. Someone had scribbled a quick note on it. “Hawke,” she read out loud. “Find Curly.”
Hawke blinked. She looked up, asking, “Who the fuck is Curly?”
But the boy had disappeared.
“Andraste's ass,” she muttered to the empty air. She strapped her staff to her back again and sat down, rubbing her face as she reread the note. She shook her head. “And I thought the weird shit was over.”