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The second of Bloomingtide, 9:42 Dragon.

Last night's blizzard has finally lightened somewhat, the blinding mixture of snow and wind turning to a soft, slow downfall of white flakes over the Frostback Mountains. The more devout Andrastians took this as a sign to pray and sing hymns with more fervency. They barely lasted five minutes before a certain irritable giant sent one of her healers to shut them up. The silence that follows is peaceful, almost.

Almost.

The tranquility is shattered by the events that transpired two days ago. The sudden appearance of templars afflicted by a disease Blackwall has never seen before. The bloodbath. The dragon. People are traumatized, injured. Some are even dying. As he emerges from his tent and limps to the edge of camp he can see the glow of Haven's ruins, still ablaze even half buried by snow and two days of burning. Perhaps the flames would never die, living forever as a memorial to the lives lost in the attack. He sighs, breath steaming in the cold, and withdraws himself from his breeches to piss. No. The flames will die, the charred bones of the cabins will be swallowed up by snow and the stone walls of the Chantry will be eroded by wind and time and its victims will lie there beneath its rubble, lost forever. And he lives.

Behind the sound of his piss hitting the floor, Blackwall hears snow crunching underfoot behind him. When he throws a glance over his shoulder, he sees a small figure bundled up in a thick coat that's several sizes too big for her, the hood pulled tight over her head. Despite all of the warm clothing, Sera's face is tinged red from the chill, one side sporting a dark, mottled bruise across her cheekbone.

"Want something that'll warm you up?" She asks, withdrawing a bottle of something from a deep pocket. "That bird who runs the tavern let me have a bottle. Well, she ran it. Either way, it smells like death so you know it's good."

Blackwall finishes his business and steps towards her, reaching for the bottle before she yanks it away.

"With those hands?" She asks incredulously. It's then that she reveals a wooden mug. How deep are the pockets on that coat? He doesn't bother asking, just nods his thanks as she pours him a generous helping of whatever the concoction is.

"You know booze doesn't actually warm you up?"

"Piss off, what?"

"It's true. Something about veins. Ask a healer for a more detailed answer-"

"I won't."

"-but it actually makes you more vulnerable to hypothermia. You don't realise how cold you are, then you've gotten naked and you're curled up in the snow."

"So what then? You're gonna start brushing my hair and dressing me up since you're my new mother?"

"I'm drinking the same swill you are. Just don't get too shitfaced, alright? Morale's low enough, people don't need to see your blue, bony little arse first thing next morning."

She gives a little laugh at that, but there's not much mirth in it. Somewhere behind them, there's the distant sound of crying. Blackwall downs most of his mug in one go, grimacing at the acrid taste while his aching toes curl within their boots.

"How is she?"

The question makes Sera huff and kick at the snow beneath her, and for a moment Blackwall thinks that's her way of saying she doesn't know.

"The healers told me to frig off, but I heard one of them talking about how she's got hyper-thinglier and she might lose some fingers."

Blackwall swears, his insides tying themselves in knots. He's a useless old bastard, standing outside and drinking while she fights for her life. It's the attitude his father had whenever there were problems at home that couldn't be solved with his fists. And he's supposed to do what, exactly? March into her tent and demand that the healers work harder? Threaten them with swords? Fix her himself, with his rough, murderous paws? The remaining booze tastes even more foul going down. 

"What's weird, though- besides the, uh, everything- is that when they brought her in from the snow, that Harlow tit started yelling, telling the healers to stay away from her. He made sure that only one healer got in to see her. Some Rivaini witch who'd only shown up a few weeks before Haven was attacked. Proper sketchy."

The Harlow tit that Sera speaks of is not someone that Blackwall wants to think about- even on a good day. His only response is a non-verbal grunt, cracking his knuckles.

Sera's silent for a few long moments before she looks back up at him, an impish smile on her face.

"So there's this bird in the guard, right? Her name's Nora, she's a few years younger than you." She shuffles closer as she speaks, voice low and conspiratorial. "Me and her were carrying on one night-"

"Is that a euphemism?"

"Your mum's a eupharism. Anyway, we were having a drink at Flissa's and she was telling me how about ten years ago she'd been in some Ander city, not long after the Blight got sorted. Winter night, miserable weather, all that."

"Like last night's weather?"

"Worse. She heads into this Chantry to take shelter before she freezes her tits off and there's a Sister lighting candles inside. The sister is in her mid-thirties, big hips, she's got a pretty face and dark makeup that makes her look all witchy and seductive. There's nobody else around, so they get talking. After a while, she notices that this Sister is acting proper friendly, keeps offering her wine and biscuits, gives her a towel to dry off from the rain, complimenting her muscles, and she--"

"Please tell me your friend didn't shag a Chantry Sister right there in the main chamber."

"She did!" Sera shrieks, her face reddening further as she's overtook by giggles. "On one of the pews, robes hiked right up over her head and everything! But it doesn't end there, right in the middle of them having it off, there's this awful scream. Nora looks up and it turns out that the Chantry Mother's caught them, this little old lady's gone purple and she's throwing books and candles at them."

"No, I refuse to believe that happened!"

"It did! And as Nora's running out the door, she even heard the old girl yelling 'Not again' like it'd happened before!"

They burst into laughter at that, cackling like schoolchildren in the snow. It makes his ribs ache, but a break from the dread is a welcome change.

"She sounds fun," he says, wiping his eyes, "we should have a drink with her later tonight. Any idea where she is?"

The laughter on Sera's face dies instantly, her smile tightening and screwing into a grimace. Maker, her whole body practically deflates.

"She didn't make it out of Haven. I nearly tripped over her on the way back to the Chantry."

--

They begin packing things up once the sun rises, bringing light that lacks any warmth. The more severely injured among them are loaded into the heavy wooden wagons, those who can walk have to make their own way through the snow. Blackwall manages for several hours, but by the time the huge caravan of survivors halts at noon, he's flagging. The snow has soaked right through his boots, his thick socks and to his feet. The numbing effect serves as a welcome reprieve from the throbbing agony of his toes and heel. He's halfway through his share of the rations when a bunch of stern-faced healers come looking for him. He makes a valiant attempt at arguing that he's fit to walk, but when the little battleaxe leading the group threatens to inform the still-bedridden Nousha that one of her best fighters is refusing to rest his clearly injured foot, Blackwall is forced to admit defeat and confine himself to one of the supply caravans, tail between his legs.

Determined to be of some assistance, Blackwall settles himself down on the rough wooden floor of the caravan and begins sharpening the swords contained beside him. It's a good, repetitive chore that keeps his hands and mind busy. He doesn't need to think about the fate that Nousha had narrowly avoided back at Haven, ran through by a templar's sword or bitten in half by a dragon or buried beneath a fucking mountain. He doesn't need to think about how Cullen's soldiers had described her when she'd been found in the blizzard: bloody and barely coherent from exhaustion. He doesn't need to wonder what kind of state he'd be in if it were him in Nousha's position.

He does, though. Of course he fucking does. On top of his fingers going numb from the cold, there's this tightness in his chest that's getting worse, climbing up into his throat. He forces himself to breathe slowly, counting to five before each exhale. Shuffling through the Haven Chantry's secret passageway and into a pitch black tunnel, people crying over the loved ones they'd lost in the carnage, his hands shaking, absolutely convinced that he'd never see Nousha again, the smell of blood and smoke filling his head, choking him, making him sick. It'd been like marching into his own tomb, all too aware of the tonnes of rock mere feet above their heads that could have come crashing down at any moment.

He'd found a bloody tooth embedded in the sole of his shoe yesterday morning, soon after they'd finally reemerged from the darkness of the tunnel. No way of telling who it'd belonged to, so he left it there in the snow. A speck of red quickly swallowed by the infinite expanse of white.

He wipes at his face with an unsteady hand, letting the shortsword fall unceremoniously into his lap. What a fucking mess. Since the first moment he foolishly agreed to join the Inquisition, the feeling of being trapped had grown at the back of his mind, scratching at the insides of his skull. Too many people knew his face. Important, powerful people. Despite all the good work he was doing around Ferelden, Blackwall saw walls raising around him, blocking all routes of escape. How's a man to fade back into obscurity after being seen working alongside the Herald of Andraste, after all?

Well. More than just working with her. The thought makes him straighten up, rolling the stiffness out of his shoulder uneasily. While she'd been taciturn and surly upon the first few days he'd known her, Nousha Adaar had proven herself to be warm and playful when given a sympathetic ear. After the much-needed venting about how unfair and nightmarish her predicament was, she was eager to swap stories, reminiscing about happier times. They'd grown close since then; far too close. Hands lingering when they passed bottles back and fourth, savouring the brief contact, bodies positioned closer together during their quiet chats, less-than-subtle glances towards each other's bodies when they were out of armour. It's ridiculous behaviour for two people in their forties.

Just as he's starting to relax, an unwelcome voice calls from outside the cloth covering of the wagon.

"Blackwall? Is our resident warden in there? Hello?" It's deep and clear, if a little nasally, and instantly recognizable.

"Yes," He replies, not bothering to mask his displeasure, "come on in."

As soon as the half-hearted invitation has left his lips, the curtains at the rear of the wagon are pulled back, almost blinding Blackwall with the sudden flash of sun reflecting off the snow. Even through the glare of light, he can see Harlow's warm brown skin framed by a thatch of tight curls, the mass of scars covering the left side of his face.

The intruder scrabbles into Blackwall's wagon and kneels before him, his scrawny frame struggling to keep balance under the thick, heavy clothing.

"How are you feeling, warden?" He asks, squinting down at Blackwall.

"I'm alright."

"Any aches or pains? Cuts?"

"None."

"The cold isn't giving you any grief, is it?"

"I'm fine. There's people amongst us who are seriously injured, why don't you bother them?"

"Hey, I'm a better researcher than a healer." Harlow holds his hands up in mock defence. "It's best to leave the heavy lifting to the experts, wouldn't you agree?"

"I suppose. But you're still wasting your time on me. I'm a soldier, experienced in battle; I can get along well enough by myself."

"So you're absolutely sure you don't need any healing?"

"Yes."

There's a long, tense moment of silence between them, the only thing audible is the creaking of the wagon and the distant voice of Leliana and Cullen, still tearing strips off eachother over what the Inquisition's next step should be. Harlow's skeptical gaze boring into Blackwall as if he's peeling the skin away from him and examining the man's very soul. Just as Blackwall's about to look away, Harlow rolls his eye and shrugs his shoulders, as if giving up. Then his hand flashes forward and he throws a punch into the aching bones of Blackwall's foot, really fucking hard.

For a split second, Blackwall can't even take in a breath, gawping in mute surprise as unexpected agony leaps upward, the sudden jerk of the limb reigniting the pain of his pulled knee. The next second, he's seized the mage by the collar. It's a serious challenge not to beat Harlow bloody for his audacity, or just to get some stress out following the last couple of days.

"What the fuck are you playing at?" He hisses through crooked teeth, the pain, still digging into his nerves, slurs his speech slightly.

"I thought you weren't experiencing any pain, warden. Why is a little smack on the foot so upsetting to you?" There's still a smile on the bastard's face, one that's stretched and warped on his left side by the scar tissue. A few well placed blows would wipe the insufferable expression off pretty damn effectively.

"Why don't you let me make it up to you? How about I heal your injuries, eh? Do my job? Would that be alright with you?" He knows he's untouchable. He has been since the first moment Nousha discovered him at Haven's gates, just over a month ago. Older and more scarred than he'd been when she last saw him, but immediately recognisable. Deflated and still in considerable discomfort, Blackwall releases Harlow and leans back onto the wall of the wagon. The healer shows enough common decency to not rub salt into the wound, waiting for him to remove his shoe before getting to work.

"Is it broken?"

"The whole foot? No, no-- You're a tough one, but you wouldn't be able to walk if that was the case. The toes, though, you're dealing with a few breaks here. See the discolouration of the nails? Yeah, those'll come off by themselves in due time." He abruptly lifts the foot, forcing Blackwall to straighten his knee out slightly and earning a hiss as the injured joint spasms in pain. "You've strained this joint, too."

"That's fascinating. What did you say about healing me?"

"Right, right-- here." As Harlow's hands begin to glow golden, Blackwall's relief is instantaneous. A warm light snakes up the battered limb, keeping him numb to the sensation of his bones being re-positioned beneath his flesh. He couldn't even feel the grip on his foot.

It's for the best that he gets treatment, even if it's from Harlow. How can a soldier fight with a bad leg? A warrior needs to run and dodge and keep their balance against heavy blows. More pressingly, untreated fractures are prone to infection. He could have gotten seriously ill, requiring far more time and effort from the healers. He wonders, briefly, what kind of resources are used for amputations--

--and then remembers Nousha's fingers. Something in his chest tightens and burrows into his stomach.

"Lady Adaar, is she--"

"She's fine."

"Her frostbite--"

"The fingers were removed a few hours back." Harlow doesn't even glance up from his work. If it were anyone else, Blackwall would think him unconcerned. "We've got the best mage for the job seeing to her."

"You mean you've got the best mage seeing to her." Blackwall can't help but push the subject- whether out of spite or genuine curiosity, he can't say. Harlow finally looks up then, slowly, with a deeply bored and unimpressed look on his face. He knew Blackwall would give him shit for this. "Why? Why interfere? There's mages here that have decades of experience as healers--"

"I did what Nousha wanted done," he says. The words come out measured and rehearsed, like he's answered this question several times already. "If you're desperate to know, ask her once she's feeling better. See how that works out."

Harlow leaves a few silent minutes later. Blackwall listens to the crunch of snow underfoot as he marches away from the wagon, knowing that he won't ask Nousha.

---

The rest of the day is spent recuperating in the wagon. In the evening the snow grows heavier, driving most people to take cover in their own vehicles. He's eventually found by Sera and Varric, who make themselves comfortable alongside him. The extra body warmth contained within the wooden walls is certainly welcome.

"I don't think Curly's on speaking terms with the spymaster," Varric says "turning against one another during a crisis, overcome by their stress and despair, only to reunite and grow closer than ever once they're ready to defeat the villain that threatens us all."

"Or maybe Leliana will just have one of her spies cut Cullen's throat while he's sleeping."

That earns a chuckle from the dwarf. "You've got no sense of story beats, Hero. Just watch; all three of our advisors will step up to the challenge."

"I should hope we all do. It's likely that the thing riding that dragon had something to do with the breach, after all."

Varric's smile falters slightly and there's an uncomfortable pause, like there's some sick joke Blackwall's not in on.

"He is." Sera's voice is solemn and low, displeased at being the one to share the news. "There's been talk among the healers about Nousha. They say she was ranting like a madwoman when Cullen's troops brought her to the medical tent last night. Something about the dragon rider being a god who'd opened up the breach and how he'd picked her up one-handed like she weighed piss-all. Once the medicine knocked her out, the soldiers just said she was half-mad from fever, didn't know what she was saying, all that, but people are scared shitless. There's been fights over supplies. Nobody trusts anyone."

Blackwall struggles to process the news, his jaw aches from how long it's been clenched.

"Fear like this among an insulated community can kill long before the threat reaches it. Back in Kirkwall, new arrivals from Ferelden were so desperate to hide behind the city walls that they'd get violent when they were turned away. Half starved from the voyage over the Waking Sea and trying to overpower armed soldiers. You can guess how that turned out."

"Is that how you met the champions, smuggling them into the city?"

Varric hesitates for a moment before answering, glancing away momentarily.

"No, no. The Hawke sisters didn't reach my neck of the woods 'til they'd lived in Lowtown for over a year. They had an uncle in the city to get them in. It was just as bad inside Kirkwall, the new arrivals realised that they barely felt any safer even with an ocean between them and the Blight. A lot of the refugees were on edge, totally convinced that the Darkspawn would arrive on their doorstep at any point. People tried stockpiling their supplies, getting ready to flee again once the Blight reached them; that just made them obvious targets for thieves. There was a lot of blood spilled that year."

"It was the same over in Denerim. You couldn't fart without someone jumping out've their skin and thinking there was a monster behind them. People would hide blades up their sleeves or their skirts in case a Furlock or whatever managed to sneak into the alienage. It was so stupid, looking back."

"Always is when it's in hindsight." At some point, Varric had produced a flask from one of the many pockets on his coat and takes a swig.

There's another moment of silence following both of his wagonmates' recollections and Blackwall feels compelled to add something of his own to the subject.

"A difficult year, to be sure."

He regrets speaking instantly. The statement is so obvious that it contributes absolutely nothing to the discussion, like a child pointing at a farmhound herding druffalo and squealing 'Doggy!'. He didn't set foot in Ferelden during the Blight, he didn't even know the Blight was happening until after the Archdemon had been killed. Not having lived through what Ferelden and its refugees did makes Blackwall feel as though he's lived a terribly charmed life.

Mercifully, both Sera and Varric seem content enough to let the silence settle over them, each lost in their own thoughts. Wordlessly, Varric hands Sera his flask, from which she takes a long swig. When it's handed to Blackwall, he's tempted to refuse, reluctant to intrude upon a moment of shared reflection. When he finally finishes the drink off, it tastes like poison

The most severely injured have either died or are on the mend by the time night falls, so the Inquisition doesn't bother making camp. People rest in their wagons and the dead are left behind in shallow, snowy graves.

The third of Bloomingtide, 9:42 Dragon.

Just as the night starts to fade, Solas arrives at Nousha's wagon and asks her to accompany him on a walk not far from the Inquisition's forces. She's been unable to sleep a wink since the medication wore off so it's not like Solas was interrupting anything. The many benefits of concussions, she thinks as she wrestles a pair of boots on. Even without her right hand in a bandage, it'd be a difficult undertaking given how swollen her feet are.

The few healers awake at this hour are busy enough tending to the wounded that Nousha can slip away unnoticed. As she trudges a few paces behind Solas, she wonders if the lights dancing in her vision are the first rays of dawn hitting the snow or just her rattled brain playing tricks on her.

The pair abruptly stops at a clearing where Nousha catches sight of something that makes her stomach drop. It's a dark metal brazier, standing alone in the middle of nowhere. She's sure that it hadn't been there just a few seconds ago. Solas waves his hand and the air around the brazier ignites, bursting into an ethereal blue flame.

"Did you bring me here to show off the new kind of veilfire you've created?"

He gives a quick smile before looking away from her, into the unnatural light before them. When the hideous, twisted face of her attacker at Haven flashes briefly within the flames, Nousha knows it's not her head injury.

"The thing that attacked you at Haven- the dragon rider, as you called him- he has a name. Corypheus."
"You're familiar with him?"
"Varric is, actually. He claims to have slayed this creature years ago alongside the Champion of Kirkwall. It's a long tale that I'll not bore you with."
"Thank fuck."
"What you need to know is that the magic he wields, what he used to influence the dragon, is elvhen. You mentioned an orb when you were brought into camp."

"I... I suppose I did, didn't I?" Nousha scratches her cheek uncertainly and scans the gloomy horizon, as if searching for the memory in the snow. She remembers being on her back, looking up at the canvas roof of her tent while an old, dark-skinned healer flitted around her, her motions bizarre and nauseating to Nousha's concussed brain. Her mouth was open, jaw moving, but all the sounds around her had warped and deformed into a deafening cacophony that rendered her almost insensate. Anything could have been coming out of her mouth- words, screams, vomit or an unending stream of the red crystals that had grown out of the faces of the things that torn through Haven, clustering on their flesh like a swarm of locusts.

But before that- long, untold centuries before her arrival at camp, Nousha had seen an orb clutched in the scrawny, elongated claw of the abomination she'd faced. Dark green at its core, the colour of her mother's favourite dress, but perverted and changed by his wretched magic, forcing the orb to glow an unnatural, sickly shade of red.

The memory exacerbates Nousha's headache, forcing unseen nails further into her temples, like her brain is actively fighting any thoughts of what she's been through. She screws her eyes shut for a moment in an attempt to blink away the pain. The ache remains when she opens her eyes, but for the briefest moment, something in Nousha's mind slots into place.

Solas isn't wearing any extra layers. He's in the same thin woolen tunic that he had in Haven. He's not even got any shoes on, she realizes, his bare toes are half-buried in snow, totally unaffected by the frigid cold and when Nousha looks back up to his face, she sees his eyes widen. She's never noticed the colour of his eyes before, but now, in the glow of the strange blue veilfire, she sees that they're green, the same shade as the anchor. As Solas exhales, like Nousha suddenly recognizing the terrible wrongness of his appearance has knocked the wind out of him, there's no steam produced into the cold air. Nousha takes a panicked step backwards but something catches the back of her foot, sending her scrambling backwards into the snow. There's something in the space where his face is, like there's two things there at once, overlapping eachother- sharp teeth and fur and countless eyes, the same shade of green as her corrupted hand. Her mouth opens, she isn't sure what for- to scream or to ask him what the fuck he is, when she--

--loses track of her thoughts. Her chest is still tight and her stomach continues to churn, but she can't recall what it was that brought this sudden dread on. In a daze, she glances around her, trying to collect her bearings for a moment. She's on her arse in the snow and there's a ringing in her ears. 

"Nousha?"

Her attention snaps back to the elf standing over her, inoffensive as ever, brow creased in concern. She climbs unsteadily to her feet, the exertion making her head feel like it's been filled with cotton.

"The... The orb, yes."
"It's responsible for the breach," he says, keeping his eyes on her as if she were about to keel over at any moment, "and likely the key to closing it again. Permanently."
"Right. So we..." It's hard to breathe. "We get the orb, we kill Corypheus, then we fix the sky."
"There's more," there always is, "I am concerned about how people may react if this information spreads. Blame for the breach could be laid on my people."
"I thought you didn't consider yourself Dalish."
"What I speak of is older than the Dalish, Nousha." Solas' face knits together in a grimace as he speaks and the word Dalish is said with-- not disdain, not anger, but something unpleasant. Bitterness, perhaps, or shame. "The Inquisition needs to keep this information from the public."

Once again, Nousha looks around at the miles of snow surrounding them, sweeping her bandaged hand across the landscape, presenting it to Solas like he hadn't noticed where they were.

"Well then, you can rest at ease, because this information will probably die out here with the rest of us!"

Despite the clear bitterness in her voice, Solas smiles at the spectacle, the creases around his mouth accentuating his prominent cheekbones.

"That brings me to the good news. I've consulted the Fade and its inhabitants- they tell me of a great, hidden fortress."

--

The trek back to the Inquisition's wagons is only about fifty metres at most, but the exertion leaves Nousha's head spinning, so she tasks Solas with informing the advisors of their change in course while she returns to her wagon. Despite her exhaustion, her sleep is troubled. She keeps jolting awake, totally convinced that a twisted horror beyond her comprehension is in the cramped, claustrophobic wagon with her, the dim light obscuring its true form, unnaturally bright green eyes dancing across her vision. In an attempt to settle her nerves, she writes two quick, simple letters. One to her family, the other the Valo-Kas.

Once the sun has risen properly, Darline, one of the more senior healers arrives to check on her, hoisting herself up onto the wagon steps with far more speed than a woman in her sixties ought to have. Nousha tunes out the scolding she gets while Darline checks over her bruises and listens to her breathing. She also makes an attempt at reaching for Nousha's bandaged hand, but it's pulled away before she can reach it, nestled safely against Nousha's stomach in the blink of an eye.

"They're clean," Nousha says testily, "and I've numbed them myself." 

At that, Darline rolls her creased, bloodshot eyes. "Aye, you've numbed them, any mage can do that. I can actually help them heal. Give it here- I'll not unwrap it." She pulls her weathered hand from beneath her heavy gloves and holds it out expectantly, palm up. There's some kind of binding fastened around it, looping over the space where her thumb is attached, presumably to stop cramping. As Nousha slowly acquiesces and places her hand in Darline's, her eyes stay focused on her healer, ready to intervene if she starts picking at the bandages. She feels her face twitch slightly, an unthinking shift in one corner of her mouth, when the magic seeps into her skin, her muscles, her bones, the tendons, veins, blood, even her remaining fingernails seem to vibrate as her injured hand is given another dosage of power to speed its healing along. It's even worse when Darline's hand moves up to Nousha's head, palm resting against her temple. It's behind her eyes, forcing itself through the spaces between her teeth. There's a hideous point of cold deep within her head, rubbing against the insides of her skull like a something fat and greasy. She knows that her brain has no feeling, it contains her every thought and memory and keeps the rest of her organs working, but it doesn't have any nerve endings within its little cell, and should not be able to feel if there truly was something else invading its home- the only answer, Nousha decided years ago, during one of the first times she'd had a mage treat her for a concussion, was that it was her very soul feeling it, rather than her body. Or perhaps it was her own magic startling at the invasion. Perhaps it was territorial, grown to be antisocial in response to its master's solitary lifestyle these past few years.

Darline says something under her breath, and Nousha doesn't bother trying to parse what it is- too absorbed by the sight of the gap in the older woman's front teeth.

Afterwards, as Nousha is tucking into her share of the rations, Darline settles herself by the makeshift bed and informs her that Blackwall has been asking about her.

"For a man who's supposed to be recuperating, he's terribly prone to wandering. Worse than you, even! Why, just yesterday I found out he'd been walking all morning on his bad foot. I had to threaten to inform you of his disobedience in order to--"
"Perhaps he's just nervous."
"We're all nervous. The least he can do is be nervous without adding to my worries." Darline picks at a loose thread on her sleeve as she speaks. There are several patches of dried blood on the fabric of her coat- something that Nousha has only just noticed. Her mostly grey hair is greasy and tangled and the dark circles under her eyes aren't dissimilar to bruises. She's exhausted.
"Look, why don't you just send him over here? I can keep an eye on him- he could keep an eye on me! That way you don't have to worry about either of us wandering."
"Or you'll just run away together, eh?"
"Yes, we'll limp our way through miles of snow to elope. Maybe adopt some chunks of ice as our children. Shall we name the first one after you?" That earns her a swat on the arm, but Darline's mouth relaxes into a little smile- the first one Nousha's seen from the old woman since before Haven fell.

Darline disappears briefly, only to shuffle back into the wagon minutes later, carrying two little mugs, followed by one of her younger assistants. Like Nousha herself, the girl clearly hasn't neglected building her strength in order to focus on magic. She's built like a druffalo, bright-eyed and exhilarated from the physical labour she's been doing all day, carrying a load of goods under her arms to be delivered between the Inquisition's wagons; food, medicine and the like. Dangling beneath it all, in her thick-knuckled fist is a hand-held kettle, the water within it sloshing when she places it a little too heavily onto the wooden floor beside Nousha's cot.

"Anything else, missus Darline?"
"No, no- thank you, dear. On your way." The young girl nods and hurries off, countless other deliveries to make. Darline lifts the kettle before her, grunting with the effort, and lays one of her hands against its bottom. Her palm begins to glow, and within a few minutes Nousha can hear the water boiling. Steam rises out of its spout, drifting towards the still-open door.
"It's a good thing the apprentices have the energy of youth, all this scurrying around is too much for me. It's one thing to do some healing in a Circle- everybody's kept all together in one place, but this..." Darline's accent is similar to Blackwall's, and even thicker. Presumably of Ostwick's Circle rather than Kirkwall, few mages in Kirkwall made it past thirty with their minds intact. Living in the Free Marches for most of her adult life, Nousha has enough familiarity with Ostwick to know that its Circle has a reputation for being far more placid than most others.
"What made you decide to join the rebels?"
Darline doesn't look up from her task of pouring the tea into the mugs, but Nousha thinks she sees her thin mouth form a little smile. Or a grimace.
"It was hardly a decision, really. The fighting grew and got more vicious and closer to us, and it made us all so paranoid. Especially the templars. Even living quietly, we never really forgot that the templars weren't our friends. Friendly, of course, but we couldn't truly bond with those who were watching us for signs of blood magic and the like. Even if they weren't trying very hard- it had been decades since someone was made tranquil. Ostwick was used as a place for older templars to relax, or maybe younger ones with rich families who didn't want to put their little darlings in too much danger. Sometimes, we'd be introduced to a new guard who had been through something quite unpleasant at their last Circle and needed a calm environment to recover, like that Rutherford boy before he was sent off to Kirkwall.

"I'm getting off topic- what I'm trying to say is that the templars didn't cope well with the reminder that we were every bit as dangerous as the monsters they'd been taught about in training. It made them panicky. They didn't like chatting with us anymore, got more demanding, didn't take their eyes off of us- or their hands off their swords. Then they started getting openly aggressive towards the apprentices, and we realized that there would be blood spilled if things carried on like that.

"When we decided to leave, I think most of the templars were glad to be rid of us. Those who intervened, I think they were just doing it out of a sense of obligation, like they had to do some kind of performance, to convince people that they'd tried to stop us. Quite a different scene from Kirkwall's uprising, based on what I've heard."
"I don't think what happened in Kirkwall was what an average Circle rebellion looks like. Unless you've heard tell of any other Circles exploding." Nousha gets another smack on the shoulder for her joke.
She picks up her mug of tea and feels the heat biting into her flesh even through the clay. It won't be drinkable for a good long while, clearly. As she blows onto the liquid in an attempt to cool it faster, a thought hits Nousha.

"Maxwell Trevelyan, did you ever meet him at Ostwick?" The stillness that his name brings to Darline is immediate- she widens her eyes in shock. Then she grows weary- sinks a little lower onto her pillow.
"He was a good lad. Very bright. He'd get letters from his family all the time, even little gifts, boxes of treats to share with the other apprentices, to help him make friends, I suppose. Now, in Ostwick, you have to wait until you've gone through your Harrowing before you can receive letters, and only the senior enchanters can get packages. Money and power can subvert any rules, you know. At least he had people who loved him outside the Circle."

That was certainly true- following the conclave explosion, the Trevelyan family had sent nonstop letters to Haven demanding answers regarding Maxwell's death. Josephine's diplomatic skills had been pushed to the limit in keeping them from outright denouncing the Inquisition; they were a powerful family, one with ties to Nevarra and Tevinter. Nousha had planned on sifting through the charred corpses in search of her friends from the Valo-Kas, they'd be easy to pick out due to their size and their horns. Perhaps the Carta dwarves would be able to identify their lost members, but it was a fairly cutthroat organization and they may not bother travelling all the way to lay their dead to rest. The elves and humans who made up most attendees of the conclave, so similar in size, would be impossible to distinguish. Perhaps the avalanche had buried the smouldering remnants of the temple, forever burying the charred, unmoving figures alongside Haven's casualties. Two mass graves merged into one, Nousha thinks. One that, by rights, she should have been a part of.

"He grew into quite the charmer in his adolescence; took after his father in that regard, according to the templars. Once he matured enough to notice anything other than chasing pretty girls, he started taking part in academic debates. And then, ah, less than academic debates, once things started to fall apart. Nobody was surprised when he was chosen to attend the conclave. I think..." Darline's voice falters, just for a second, and she covers it with a cough. "I think, if not for the explosion, he'd have proven himself to be a brilliant diplomat. I'm not saying that he'd have convinced all of Thedas to support the Libertarian's cause, I'm not delusional- but I'm certain that he could have risen to prominence among the rebellion, like miss Fiona. He had the makings of a historical figure."
There's no other topic that makes Nousha feel quite so old and haggard: Potential that has been cut short. Lives ended before they were able to begin. They sit together for a while in silence, contemplating the lives in the conclave. Once the tea cools enough for Nousha to manage a few sips, she speaks again.
"There was eight others from my company working alongside me at the conclave, just some extra hired muscle to keep things peaceful- or as close as possible. Most of us were professionals, people who'd been doing this kind of work for years. Decades, even. Except for two of us. There were these two girls and they-- they were little more than children. Nineteen and twenty, they'd been sent along with us under the assumption that, despite all the people in attendance, it wouldn't be too dangerous for them. They'd both seen a decent amount of fighting before, but I warned them to run if things got out of control- the mages and templars would be too focused on one another to go after a pair of qunari slipping away. Fat lot of good that advice did." Nousha pauses to take a long swig of her tea, emptying her cup in one go. "We'll not even be able to return them to their mothers, now."
Evidently, Darline prefers her drinks cooler, because after an experimental sip, she places the mug beside her lap.
"I'm sorry." She says, sounding even older than her sixty-odd years.
"So am I." The pain of a parent losing their child is an unpleasant topic, one that brings fourth thoughts that Nousha is unwilling to sift through.

"Is it true that Ostwick has a race where they grease cheese and--"
"Sit up."
"What?" Nousha glances towards Darline and notices the little lady sifting through a satchel held at her waist.
"Sit up," she says, "and hold still." Wordlessly, Nousha obliges, intrigued. A few moments later, she hears Darline shuffle towards her on her knees and then--

Nousha feels fingers reach into her hair, rubbing oil on her scalp. Darline takes care not to cause any pain or worsen her headache; she's especially careful around the stitches behind one of Nousha's ears. Then, a comb is run through her greasy, unkempt locks. The sensation, casual, warm and painfully familiar, brings tears to her eyes.

Years ago- just under three decades, to be precise- a Rivaini girl fell ill. Nothing serious, just enough to exhaust her, to make her stomach reject most of the food that went into it, to make her temples ache. Enough to make the pains associated with her monthly bleeding, already a very recent and unwelcome development in the girl's short life, even more burdensome.
Despite having an endless supply of chores, the girl's mother brought meals and soothing tinctures several times each day- even when her daughter picked at her food and snapped at her. She'd sit and care for the girl. Dote on her. Run grey, calloused hands over the girl's forehead to make sure her fever didn't leap too high. Nausea and fatigue muddled the finer details of this brief window of time, but one particular memory kept its clarity, even after so many intervening years.

Rain on her bedroom window, fat heavy droplets, a summer storm. The evening light shadowing her mother's form onto the far wall, the silhouettes of her gnarled, root-like horns deformed slightly by the texture of the wooden paneling. Something raking through her sweaty hair, great care being taken to avoid hurting her, while a tired, stern voice complained about how the dogs had been overexcited and disobedient when herding the sheep.
"Perhaps you're just better at directing them than I." She mused, bringing a tired smile to Nousha's flushed face.
"Nobody's better at giving orders than you, maman."

When Nousha begins to sob, Darline's work falters only for the briefest of moments before continuing.

--

In order to assuage her advisors' doubts that Solas' spirit friends can be believed, Nousha orders a group of scouts to trek ahead and report back when they spot the promised fortress. As the squad hurries south, the rest of the Inquisition pauses its trek for a few hours to let its cattle recuperate. The official story is that an enigmatic contact of Josephine's had heard rumours of an abandoned elvish tower somewhere to the south. Most people are aware of a nearby dalish clan that lady Montilyet had been exchanging letters with following the loss of its second in the Conclave- a likely candidate for where the information came from. Let them assume what they want, Nousha thinks as she rests on the outer ledge of her wagon and watches the scouts' figures shrink and fade into the mountains, cradling a mug of tea between her big hands. It's only after they've disappeared that Blackwall limps over to her wagon.

He pulls his eyes up from his unsteady feet to stare at her once he draws close. They're both still for a moment, taking one another in. He's quite the mess, hair in disarray- more so than usual- as well as some dried blood in his moustache a cut on his cheek that still hasn't fully healed. Perhaps it'll scar. She guesses that the worst damage is to his body, something made obvious even without his awkward gait- any fighter worth their salt knows that going for the head isn't worth the effort. The blow can be dodged or deflected too easily. She doesn't enjoy seeing him in such a sorry state, not by a long shot, but Blackwall is a warrior- cuts and bruises are a constant presence on his skin. Most evenings spent in the Singing Maiden when Blackwall would dress lightly in the tiny tavern's warmth, Nousha caught glances of countless signs of his training. Patches of purple and yellow on his forearms, maybe the sight of a cut or a bandage across his chest when he hadn't bothered buttoning his shirt all the way up. Maybe she'd done more than glance.

Blackwall, however, shows clear distress at her injuries. His brow creases and even beneath his beard, the tightening of his jaw is visible. In silent reassurance, Nousha offers a little smile as she pats the empty space beside her.

"Keeping out of trouble?" He asks as he climbs onto the wagon's steps alongside Nousha, their hips pressing tightly together in the narrow space of the doorway.

"Always."

He gives a breathless chuckle and moves his leg a little, just enough to rest his thigh against her own. "That's not what I've heard; people did see you wandering off with Solas."
"He just wanted to tell me about some old abandoned castle his spirit friends had found."
"I don't see why he couldn't have told you that without marching you through half a mile of snow."

"Let's not be dramatic, it was a two minute walk, and with the Inquisition's overt connection to the Chantry, I can certainly understand why Solas wouldn't want to discuss his dealings with the fade too openly." Her voice drops almost to a whisper as she speaks, casting a quick glance around them. It feels silly when everyone is clearly distracted with their own business, but one can never be too careful. Perhaps the elven apostate's reasoning didn't justify pulling a concussed woman recovering from hypothermia out of her sickbed, but Nousha could empathize with Solas' desire for secrecy. Even in warmth, she wore gloves- not only to cover the unnatural green glow on her right hand. The risk of anyone noticing the telltale cuts on her palm was an ever-present danger; a noose around her neck that could be pulled taut at any second.
Blackwall grumbles something else that Nousha doesn't hear over the din of a nearby horse whinnying in fright; alarmed by a fight between two young troops breaking out mere feet away from it. Two of Cullen's soldiers, young lads that can't be older than twenty. It's a minor scuffle, no punches are thrown- just some shoving and swearing. The boys are dragged away from each other by older troops and that's the end of it, other than an upset horse who has to be comforted by its driver.
"Regardless of how he told me, I'm glad Solas found somewhere for us to settle ourselves. Roofs and stone walls provide security; the opportunity for everyone to relax a little."
Blackwall makes a wordless noise of agreement as he rummages through his pockets in search of something. After a few moments he pulls out a miserable-looking piece of hardtack, sprinkling crumbs onto his admittedly already filth-covered breeches. For a moment, it looks like he's about to offer Nousha a bite, but he catches a glimpse of her expression and thinks better of it.
"Did Solas ask his friends how far their little hideout was?"
For a conversation she was paying full attention to, it's inexplicably hard to remember it too clearly. The exact words Solas spoke are twisted and vague, as well as the sight of his face. It's all swallowed up by an unearthly light, turning from blue to green, making her stomach rise in protest.
"A... a day or two?" She ventures, trying to quell the sudden onset of nausea. Blackwall furrows his eyebrows at her.
"Very reassuring."
"Oh, hush. It's the best option we've got; begging Ferelden for a new base would never have worked."
"And what if there's no fortress? Fade demons aren't known for their honesty."
"Then we'll keep going south- beyond Thedas' southern border and disappear into the uncharted territories. When Corypheus finds us, we'll have either allied ourselves with some undiscovered society or devolved into cannibalism in the wilderness. How does that sound?"
Blackwall sighs and shakes his head, gnawing on some more of his hardtack.
"As long as you don't eat me first, I suppose that's fine."

--

"It's very fine- similar quality to what the nobility sleep in, but without the outrageous prices!"

On the other side of Thedas, Cosima, a rotund seamstress peers upwards at the pair of qunari before her, their grey skin highlighted by the Antivan sun. The resemblance between the two men is uncanny, they share the same aqualine nose, same purple eyes, heavy jaw, thick neck and high cheekbones- the only thing that sets them apart is age and weight. Cosima risks a glance at the older man's bushy eyebrows, which meet in the middle, and his hairline, which has receded to behind his horns. Age, weight, eyebrows and hair, she amends.

The younger one, presumably the son, runs his hand over the fabric of a thick jacket, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger, his air of quiet contemplation contrasting with his father's excited babbling.
"Majid, what do you think of this texture? Will you be alright with it? Will it do? Good- how about the blankets, here, feel them. They're quite thick, too, Roxanna's always sensitive to the cold, skinny little thing, she'll probably want some extra coverings." The old man's words are fast and his hairy hands fidget nonstop, wringing together or picking at his clothes. It's quite a sight; such a huge man, even by qunari standards, appearing as giddy as a child. His accent identifies him as Rivaini- northern, probably. There are plenty of small villages along the northern coast where a lot of qunari live, their traditions and cultures varying more than one would expect from a cluster of communities situated so closely together in a fairly small patch of the country.

"And where might you gentlemen be headed to, somewhere nice?" She asks, hoping to butter them up enough to buy themselves something extra- something expensive. Perhaps this Roxanna might like a thick, luxury overcoat to keep her warm.

"Down to Ferelden- we're headed to see the Inquisition!" The father beams with pride, but the son, Majid, shoots him a warning glance.
"Oh? Are you thinking of joining?"
"Sort of, we--"
"Yes. We're going to do some work for them. As troops." Despite being a dead ringer for his father, Majid's voice is far deeper, taking Cosima by surprise.

"Well," she adjusts her approach, "I'm sure they'll be needing it after the attack."
The old man's smile twists and dies on his face and his weathered brow creases in concern.
"The attack." Majid echoes blankly.
"I-- yes, there was an army! Nobody knows the, ah, finer details, but there was a lot of deaths."
"What about the people leading it? The qunari, the-- what do the Andrastians call her? The Herald?" There's an urgency in his voice that unnerves Cosima. His purple eyes, which flitted around constantly during his time browsing her shop, are now fixed onto her own, boring into her.
"Nobody knows the details-- I just told you!"

The sun doesn't feel warm anymore and the men, both over seven feet tall, seem far smaller in their panic. The old man's face crumples in despair and he stammers, trying to say something, but his words are drowned out by a pouch of money slamming onto Cosima's stall.
"Here. Thank you."
Majid hurriedly throws the jacket over one of his broad shoulders and grabs his father- still clutching a blanket, and hurries him away from the stall and into the heaving crowd. Cosima usually insists on customers staying until she's made sure she's been paid properly and almost, almost calls for the city guard to stop them, but there's a vice grip on her throat telling her that these men have just received terrible news. In a daze, she opens the coin pouch and empties its contents into her weathered palm. Pure silver. Easily twice the payment she would have asked for.

The seventh of Bloomingtide, 9:42 Dragon

There it stands in the distance, proud and tall amongst the mountain peaks, just as the scouts reported. Blackwall produces a spyglass he's borrowed from Sera and peers through it in an attempt to discern some of the structure's finer details- the roofing on the main building is rotted and partially caved in, while a few segments of the outer walls are crumbling, but the fortress has real potential. With the only entrance being a narrow, uncovered bridge, archers could dispatch any approaching forces trying to attack.

"With a bit of love and care, she'll be impregnable." He affirms. To emphasize his point, Blackwall claps his hands together- though the gesture fails to rouse any enthusiasm from Nousha, sat beside him in the drivers' seat of a druffalo cart.

"She'd better be, after all the trouble we went through to find her."

Blackwall casts a curious glance towards Nousha. The bruising on her face has gone down, as has the swelling, but her eyes are bloodshot and sunken. He can see her jaw working as she chews away at some tough root that the healers gave her. Her hands, gripping the reins of the druffalo, are tight and white-knuckled.

"What a fucking mess this has all been," her voice is low as she speaks and she throws the occasional glance around them, vigilant against any eavesdroppers, "countless dead because the templars were looking for me at Haven- now I'm supposed to lead the survivors because I've got a glowing hand. Well, what's left of a hand."

Blackwall chews on the inside of his cheek for a long moment, weighing his options. Nousha's not one for mindless consolation- a pat on the back and a 'There, there' is a pretty reliable way to get brushed off or snapped at, which is unfortunate for Blackwall because that's just about the full extent of his ability to comfort people. After considering the best course of action, he finally risks speaking.

"What if we... build some kind of memorial for those we lost, eh?"

His words finally pull Nousha's eyes off the road ahead of them and onto him. Even disheveled and bruised, she's quite lovely. The lines displaying her 40 years of age are carved delicately into her skin, reminding Blackwall of the marble statues dotted around the Orlesian streets he'd grown familiar with during his years serving in the military.

"Like a statue?" For a moment, Blackwall thinks she was peering into his memories.

"Or a plaque- Varric was telling me about some scandal that had happened in Orzammar, years ago. Apparently, Warden-Commander Aeducan found a plate honouring casteless dwarves who'd held off Darkspawn while people were fleeing to Orzammar. There was a fair bit of embarrassment when certain houses found out that they would have been wiped out if it wasn't for the bravery of men they'd looked down on their entire lives."

The stress leaves her face as he speaks and she even smiles a little.

"Yes, the Kal'Hirol discovery. I read about that; there was a lot of effort wasted trying to hide that information from being made public. Perhaps we could do the same thing- mount a wall of names to commemorate Haven's lost. That's... That'll do." She rubs the thumb of her good hand over the frayed leather of the rein, contemplative. It's several moments before she adds a little "Thank you, Blackwall."

He doesn't know where the sudden burst of courage came from, but he lays a gloved hand against Nousha's back. The gesture goes unnoticed by anyone around them, mercifully, but there's an incessant barking in the back of Blackwall's head that he shouldn't be doing it- shouldn't be growing so close to her. The voice is easier to ignore when Nousha shifts her weight- leaning into him, just slightly. Their steaming breaths mingle together in the cold air while the noise of the other caravan members is momentarily forgotten.

"Tell me something."

"Like what?"

"Anything. Surely you must have had some fun as a soldier, drinking with your brothers and sisters in arms. Do you have any good stories?"

Blackwall racks his brains for something that won't be too risky to openly say-- something that won't mention any names. Don't name people, don't name places, don't name dates. Do not give any possible lead that Leliana's spies could follow.

"Back in... I suppose, sometime during the twenties," Maker, he's old, "I was somewhere in northern Orlais. We'd landed at some village. Forgot what the name of it was, but it had an inn with a tavern. Anyway, the woman at the bar took a liking to me--"

"Did you have the beard back then?" Nousha interrupts.

"No, no. I was a barefaced young lad. Very strapping- or that's what the ladies told me at least." Of course, his appearance was usually improved by his uniform or coin, but Nousha doesn't need to know that.

"You're still strapping."

"And you're still a lady trying to stroke my ego. Anyway-"

"What about the hair? Was it the same length you have now or shorter?"

"Will you let me tell the story?"

"I need to visualize it, Blackwall. Paint me a picture. Long hair or short?"

"Short hair, clean-shaven face, fancy armour, quite a bit slimmer. Satisfied?"

Nousha gives a quiet chuckle, one that makes Blackwall's chest just a tiny bit warmer. "For now."

"Anyway. She was pretty and willing, so I invited her to my room. Then, I was--" He pauses, struggling for the correct words to use. Do not use the words 'balls deep' in front of this beautiful, smart, possibly divinely chosen woman. That's what a boor like Thom Rainier would do- you are not that man.

"You were..?"

"I was... surprised by her husband barging in on us not long afterwards. Turns out they owned that fine establishment. He'd been caring for the horses outside when somebody let him know what his wife was up to. I got chased out of the building stark naked and spent most of the night trying to convince the fellow into letting me get my gear from his room."

"You know, you're very prone to outdoor nudity. Between this and the diamondback incident, we might have to put up a sign to warn people."

"Not illustrated, I hope." He can imagine Sera being called in for the job of painting him, her depiction crude and offensive as ever. She'd probably draw him with stink lines. And flies.

"Nah, we don't want to excite anybody. I was just thinking we'd write something like Do not be alarmed by that hairy, naked beast skulking around. He's one of ours."

One of ours. Blackwall feels just the slightest bit pitiful at how proud the description makes him.

"So, did he give you your clothes back?"

"Hm? Yes, sort of- not willingly, mind you. The other soldiers I was with eventually took pity on me and fetched my things while the innkeeper was calling me a filthy, rotten bastard. He wouldn't give me a refund for the room either, so I had to go book another one in a place at the other side of the village. I paid for two rooms in one night, then in the morning I had to set off with only three hours of sleep."

Nousha snorts at his plight. "I can't imagine you without a beard, but I can certainly picture your expression."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, it's like the face you made when I'd made us go through all those dragonlings to get that shard. I asked you to give me a boost up to climb the rocks in the middle of some awful, half-burnt clearing that was still crawling with the little bastards. You gave me this look that was just--" Her words devolve into wheezy cackles, her chest still irritated by the cold. "It was-- It was just this incredible mixture of, like, anger and exhaustion and self-pity. You'd only joined a few days before and you'd already adopted this air of, like, a long-suffering victim of mine. Or like a kicked dog."

"Ah, yes. If I recall correctly, that was the first thing you had me do as part of the Inquisition." At that, Nousha explodes into shrieking laughter, drawing a few glances from nearby drivers. Her face turns red from the exertion and Blackwall can see her eyes watering. It's a good minute before she composes herself, wiping absentmindedly at a stray tear.

"What a fucking nightmare," she sighs, breathlessly, "It's a wonder you didn't desert!"

--

As the sun sinks into the horizon and its rays bathe everything in sleepy shades of orange and plum, the caravan pauses to prepare food. Trying to distract themselves from the tantalizing smell of spiced meat and vegetables on the air, Blackwall and Nousha trade more stories from their youth. Drunken escapades, risky battles, the occasional disastrous romantic entanglement. When Nousha offhandedly mentions her past relationship with Harlow, Blackwall has to repress a grimace. He knows that the reaction is hypocritical, he's mentioned his own past relationships; why should he be so offended by Nousha doing the same? But Harlow is here, isn't he? Nousha continues to spend time with her old flame, sharing drinks and laughing together. It sets his teeth on edge.

Before Nousha can finish the tale, Blackwall hears a shrill voice announcing that the meal was ready. He's out of the wagon and racing for the front of the foodline in a heartbeat, ignoring the pain in his foot.

Dinner for the evening was meat and vegetable soup, as it had been for most days since departing from Haven. A reliable, easy to make meal that didn't require too many ingredients. Despite being more cultured than its sister city, Markham wasn't free from poverty and starvation. A common practice in the poor district was for the womenfolk of various different families, sometimes a whole street, to chip in with providing vegetables for a soup like this- the meal would be prepared in one woman's kitchen, usually the one who had brought the most ingredients as a show of respect. Afterwards, the other families would line up with bowls from their own home. The Rainiers hadn't taken part in many, his parents' pride would rarely allow it, but Blackwall remembers himself, tiny and quiet beside his father at a neighbour's dining room table. It had been a cold winter, so everybody squeezed themselves into one already cramped house. An older girl was nice enough to let him have her piece of bread. He'd burnt his tongue in his hurry to eat.

The soup steams as he returns to the carriage, heat biting into his palms even through thick leather gloves. Nousha's climbed from the driver's seat and now awaits him at the side doorway. She's not sitting upon it, though- she stands within the carriage and beckons him to join her. Blackwall tries not to hurry up the wagon steps too quickly lest he spill hot soup all over himself.

The vehicle's interior isn't particularly big- just long enough for the seven-foot Nousha to lie comfortably across its floor. There's a window on the right and left sides, but the curtains on them are drawn tightly shut. Something about the enclosed space and low light feels terribly intimate. Nousha's decision to sit on the floor to his right, their thighs touching once again, does nothing to mitigate this. Almost a full minute passes between them with no words.

"Does it bother you that Harlow and I are still close?" Blackwall's stomach lurches at the question. The warm, quiet wagon suddenly feels like more of an interrogation room.

"No- I just... It doesn't matter."

"It matters."

"Why?"

"Don't change the subject. Is it a problem?" The urge to snap at the probing is a tough one to resist, especially when he notices the stern look Nousha gives him, her lip creased in annoyance.

"It's just hard not to worry. About you being, ah, distracted from your duties."

"Sure," she snaps, throwing her spare hand up in annoyance and letting it land on her thigh, "let's go with that."

"What does that mean?"

"It means what it means. Look, Harlow is--" she glances to the wagon door, still open. When she looks back to Blackwall, her voice has dropped to a whisper. "Harlow is Rulf's father, alright? He and I are tied together in parenthood." She crosses her fingers together, as if Blackwall needed a demonstration. "It's best to have a good relationship." A few seconds of shocked silence pass before Nousha frowns again. "What?"

"I thought the boy's father was dead. You said he was gone." That draws a little huff from Nousha- whether a laugh or a sigh, Blackwall can't tell.

"That's what I thought, too, right up until he blindsided me at Haven. He was dragged off by templars just a few weeks before I gave birth. I always figured he was killed or made tranquil; that's usually what they do with older apostates." She pauses to blow at her soup. "He'd been meeting some associates from this secret mage thing, I can't remember the name. I guess someone tipped off the templars, because according to Harlow, they surrounded the camp in the blink of an eye, springing out of bushes. He saw his friends slaughtered and knew that he would get the same treatment, so he... he panicked and dropped his staff, flung himself to the ground and begged for mercy.

"The templars laughed at him, called him pathetic, beat the living daylights out of him- that's how he lost his eye. Then they took him over to the White Spire. He told them he was the son of some travelers and never had the opportunity to study magic in an academic environment; really laid it on thick so they'd feel sorry for him."

"What happened next?" Blackwall asks, despite himself.

"He then spent the next few years acting the part of a dutiful student. Once the circles started to rebel, he and a few other mages rounded up most of the tranquil and fled into the wilderness. They've been roaming around looking for safe homes for the tranquil ever since. Once he heard about me being the Inquisition's mascot, he came running to help."

"To help the Inquisition, or to help you escape?"

"To assist in closing the rifts, of course!" She says sternly, before winking. The laughter that follows melts most of the tension that had filled the wagon over the past minute or so. Blackwall risks a spoonful of soup, confirming that it was still too hot. While he's staring down at the bowl, his stomach desperate for more, he feels a hand on his knee. His face, already red from the steaming soup, flushes even deeper.

"So it doesn't bother you, then? Me and Harlow being friends?" Her expression is painfully soft and her voice is gentle and worried and just the slightest bit shy. It's intoxicating; this concern for his comfort. He can't keep the smile from his face and his gaze falls onto his lap. His hand, clumsy and rough, finds its way atop Nousha's and tucks his fingers within hers.

"No, my lady. He's a good man, little Rulf is lucky to have a father like him."

She smiles, her eyes and cheeks creasing. "He is, and he is."

--

"He is?"

"Of course, Josie."

"We can't all be spies."

"You don't need to be a spymaster to notice it. Just look at his necklace."

"What's wrong with his necklace?"

"There's nothing wrong with it, but I've heard that in dwarven culture that necklaces like that are used to signify--"

Leliana's musings are cut short by Cullen placing his freshly emptied bowl on their crate-turned-table with more force than necessary. "I'm sure we have more pressing matters than speculating on our associate's... proclivities." He wipes at some residual soup on his chin with the back of his hand, wincing at the feeling of scruffy facial hair, almost a full ten days since his last trim. His hair has tightened back into their natural curls, his tonics and waxes abandoned at Haven. "Have you received word from Anora yet?"

Leliana and Josephine share a look, silently promising to continue their conversation later.

"Queen Mac Tir has confirmed that Fereldan's best stonemasons and carpenters are at our disposal- we will, of course, need forces to escort them through the mountains."

"Yes, yes, of course." Cullen rubs at the bridge of his nose, slumping in his chair. "Which will be made slower and riskier by the lack of watchtowers or roads."

"They can hardly build these things from the outside, Commander."

"What about the request for heraldry?" Leliana cuts in. Josephine pauses to check through her papers- her sunken eyes flitting around frantically. Her hair, tightly pulled back from her face, is frizzy and, more pressingly, filthy. She had fallen while escaping Haven and her head had fallen directly into a hideous mixture of slush and mud. A handful of snow had cleaned most of the dirt from her face, but the filth caked into her hair will require a thorough wash to get rid of. All she can do is tie it back and try to ignore it for now.

As she searches, Cullen leans over to Leliana, his voice hushed and disbelieving. "Heraldry? You want a coat of arms for the Inquisition?"

"A symbol for Thedas to unite under," She explains breezily, "along with some Chantry imagery to remind people of our ties to Andraste." Cullen's eyebrows furrow.

"And have you informed her Herald of this choice of decor?"

Before Leliana can answer, Josephine reemerges from her pile of papers, clutching a crumpled letter in triumph. It bears the stamped sigil of the Chantry. She makes a little "Ha!" sound and flattens the parchment upon the pitiful excuse for a table, sifting through unreasonably elegant handwriting and flowery language before finding the relevant paragraph.

"Here it is. 'Regarding your request, we would be honoured to supply your organization with whatever decoration you could possibly desire. Our Brothers and Sisters work tirelessly to craft beautiful, intricate pieces of art that bring glory to the Maker and remind all who gaze upon them of his presence. Embroidered art, curtains, bed covers, banners, carpets and statues. We--'"

"Perhaps we'd be better off consulting Orlesian sculptors," Leliana cuts in, resting her chin against her fist in contemplation, "Val Royeaux's marble statues are simply iconic." At a glance, the spymaster doesn't look as disheveled as her cooperators- the strands of her ginger hair that stick out from under a thick hood are clean, and short enough that a prolonged lack of brushing doesn't reduce it to a rats nest. Her eyes, though, are bloodshot and sunken, her pale skin slightly yellow, like she's terribly sick. The scabs on her face make it obvious that she's been picking at it. Most concerning of all is her neck. Without her cowl and high-collared armour, the pale expanse of skin is all too visible, despite her wooly overcoat, the deep scar over her throat can easily be seen, even in the low light of their carriage. It reaches from ear to ear- a wound that would have nearly decapitated her. A wound that should have been fatal.

"I doubt we need marble statues to show our piety." Cullen, lacking Josephine's diplomacy skills, is unable to hide his unease at the sight of Leliana's scar and chooses instead to avoid looking at her entirely. His gaze lands on anything but her.

"We shall be entertaining nobility, some measure of ostentatiousness is to be expected. Don't you agree, Josie?"

"Oh, yes." Josephine replies mindlessly, her eyes back on the letter. "There is one minor issue, though."

"Another one." Cullen sighs.

"Another one. Grand Cleric Beatrice warns that there are many Chantries in the Free Marches still refuse any allegiance to the Inquisition because of the Trevelyan's quarrel with us. It seems that they are just as influential as we feared."

"But of course, Bann Trevelyan is a prominent financial supporter for most institutions in the eastern Marches- he was a close friend to Elthina, too. Following the Herald's decision to ally with the mages, the only thing stopping him from denouncing us was the influence of his remaining children."

"I have been in contact with his oldest:  Ser Caldwell. He seems far more sympathetic to our cause than his father. Perhaps he could influence the Bann into putting aside his grievances and lending some support- especially if we convince him of the Inquisition's allegiance to Andraste. His piety takes precedence above all else, after all." As Josephine speaks, Cullen begins massaging his temples and screws his eyes shut, as if in the grips of an unforgiving headache.

"So we're to collaborate with various Chantries to drape Skyhold in Chantry imagery in the hopes that we will get the approval of an old man... in order to collaborate with other Chantries."

"Cullen does have a point," Leliana says, smiling thinly at Josephine, "would it not be simpler if Bann Trevelyan were removed from the picture? He is in his seventies- the stress of his job must take quite the toll on his health. I doubt any questions would be raised if he were to--"

"Absolutely not!" Josephine is on her feet, her face flushing in outrage. "Why hire a diplomat at all if your first instinct is to reach for-- for poisons and knives and those horrid little lengths of rope to strangle people when you encounter even a whisper of pushback? I am a professional, I'm good at what I do! I have worked out deals with bigger foes than Bann Trevelyan and I will deal with this-- this stubborn old oaf by myself!" Leliana throws her hands up in mock-surrender while Josephine glares down at them both. There's a spot of spittle on her lip and a vein protruding on her forehead. After a moment of furious silence, which quickly turns into embarrassed silence, she turns on her heel and marches out of the carriage. Cullen winces when she slams the door shut behind her and forces himself to give Leliana a quick glance, somehow managing not to look at the scar.

"As inconvenient as the situation is, I do agree with Lady Montilyet. Bann Trevelyan is, after all, a grieving father."

Leliana smiles again, one that doesn't reach her eyes. "How many other sons and daughters will be killed if we fail to close the breach?"

Cullen does not reply.

--

Blackwall raises an eyebrow. "My childhood?"

He doesn't know how this has happened. As they chatted, their bodies relaxed against the wall of the wagon more and more, until they were lying beside one another on the wooden floor. He only realised what had happened when Nousha rolled onto her side to look at him, supporting her chin on her wrist. Mindlessly, he mirrored her. Now they're face-to-face, their noses almost touching, eye contact unavoidable. Whenever he pulls his gaze away from her face, the only other thing he can look at is her body- even under the heavy, dark fabric of her coat, it makes his mouth dry. The shape of her hips, the outline of a thigh, the suggestion in where her belly is. Maker's balls, it's been too long since he last--

"Yes. You're from Markham originally, you said?" He pulls his eyes back up to her face, ashamed to be caught staring again, despite the smile on her lips.

"Markham. Right. I--" He clears his throat, trying to collect his bearings. "My parents, we... we weren't particularly well off. My mother often mended garments for people, sometimes she'd take up work as a cleaning woman when money was tight. Tighter than usual. My father, he... he'd been a hunter or a guardsman or something. I never did get all the details. Sometime before I was born, he injured his leg and never fully recovered. Nothing too bad- he didn't lose the leg, but he had a limp. Couldn't run very fast." The amusement in Nousha's eyes has been replaced by something else. Tenderness or sympathy. Not pity- he'd encountered enough of that in his youth to recognise it from a great distance.

"He'd take up work as a labourer. In big, bustling cities like Markham, there's always jobs that need doing. I remember when he'd take me on jobs with him; usually when my mother wasn't in the mood to watch over me. He'd leave me to amuse myself while he moved supplies or some other physical work. I'd always wind up getting under someone's feet- if they didn't clout me round the ears, they'd tell my father about it and he'd give me a proper hiding." There's a smile on his face, for some reason.

"Was it just the three of you, then?"

Blackwall pauses, weighing his options. He doesn't like to talk about Liddy. He doesn't like talking about his childhood at all. But the woman before him wants to know him, or at least wants to think she knows him, and he can't bring himself to lie to her. Not when her golden, unblinking eyes lock upon his, staring with such sincere interest.

"Not always. There was... I had a sister." His eyes retreat from her face again- not to look at her body, this time. He keeps them on his other hand, pretends to inspect the details of his thick, leather gloves, protecting him from the cold. Keeping him hidden. "We lost her one winter."

"How old were you when..?"

"Very young, I must have been seven. She was five. It was the anniversary of her death a few months back." Just a couple of weeks before Justinia's attempted conclave between the mages and templars. He briefly wonders if the breach will still be around by the time of the next anniversary. "I ran off when she died, couldn't stand to be in the house. It must have been hours before I'd pulled myself together, because I remember the sky was starting to go dark. On the way back, I snuck into somebody's garden to pick a flower for her. She loved flowers, always had one in her hair- our mother would always go on at her for the grass stains she'd get on her clothes. When I got back home, her body had already been taken away, to get wrapped up for cremation. I had to throw the flower into the fire, instead."

As he watches, the hand that he's fixated on is reached for by another. Nousha's left hand, the uninjured one. It's tentative, the way the tip of her fingers touch his, waiting for permission. Blackwall pushes his own fingers forwards, intertwining them with Nousha's. He looks back up to her face and sits up, alarmed at the tears brimming in her eyes.

"My lady--"

"It's fine," she waves him off, sniffing wetly while an attempt at a smile twists her mouth, "I just-- you know, hearing about this kind of thing, as a parent--"

"I'm sorry, I--"

"No, no, I'm sorry--"

They talk over each other for a few moments, exchanging sheepish apologies. Finally, Nousha pulls her hand from Blackwall's and cups his face, her thumb stroking at his cheek.

"I'm sorry for what you had to go through, Blackwall. She must have been a lovely girl."

"She was." It's an understatement, a huge one, but he can't bear to discuss her any further. Any subject but this. He remembers when she was still a toddler, barely able to walk, but still making what must have been a difficult, tiring journey around their cramped living quarters to share her toys with everyone. Generous and kind. The perfect child. The perfect sister. Blackwall lowers himself back onto the floor of the wagon beside Nousha again, staring straight up at the ceiling. "What about you? I recall you mentioning a sister."

"Yes," she says, her voice still a little shaky, "and two brothers. I'm the oldest by a fair bit- eight and twelve years."

"So you were thirty when they were born?"

"What? No, I mean I'm the oldest by--"

"Oh, right, right. So they're all around thirty."

"More or less. Last time I saw them, they were doing well."

"When was that?" The silence that answers him is thick and heavy. "I don't mean to pry--"

"It's fine. Shokrakar, the leader of the mercenary group I'm in-- I guess that makes her my boss, but things are pretty informal over there-- she took one of the wagons and drove me back to my parents' farm after we found out about Harlow. I was-- you know, I was distraught. Grieving. Not a good state to be in so close to giving birth, so she wanted to cheer me up. Took me all the way from the Green Dales, up through Antiva, all the way to the northern shores of Rivain." He can hear the smile in her voice, warm and genuine. When he brings his eyes back to her, there's a faraway look in her eyes, reminiscing. "After Rulf was born, I stayed about two months, give or take a few days. Then I left. I..." The smile fades, and her brow creases. Slowly, she rises from her prone position to sit straight up. "I suppose that must be almost eight years." Her eyes widen, alarmed at her own words, and she places a hand over her mouth.

Perhaps she hadn't realised just how long it'd been, or saying it out loud had made the reality all too real. Something is knocked loose inside of her in that moment and her expression crumples, like she's about to--

Oh, shit.

Blackwall's arms wrap themselves around Nousha's neck as the first sob cuts into her. A hand places itself at the back of her head, fingers folding through her hair as her face is pressed against his chest. She weeps with such intensity that her shoulders shake, and she clutches at him with painful strength. 

"Hush, I've got you. I've got you." He hears himself say the words, though he has no idea why. He's not sure what the feelings welling inside of himself are, either. Something strong and nauseating that he wants more of. Distantly, a muffalo cries out, a distinctively guttural noise. It's unthinkable that the rest of the Inquisition can continue going about its business while this happens. It would be unthinkable if anyone came in and tried to involve themselves.

Occasionally, Blackwall will hear a gasp or a wet sniffle, the sound softened by the fabric of his gambeson. The words "I know" keep repeating themselves on his lips. He doesn't really know, though. Not all of the details of her problems, nor the solutions. All he can do is hold her while she gets the worst of it out. He's just able to kick the door shut, all too aware of how easy it would be for someone to see them. Nousha doesn't register the sound of the door slamming, or the newfound darkness within their wagon. They rest together in almost pitch-black for an unknown length of time, either minutes or hours. Even after Nousha's crying stops, she turns her head aside and lays there on him, still sniffing. Unseeing and unthinking, Blackwall brings his lips to her scalp, and feels the grip around his waist tighten. The side of his face rested on his chest, right against his sternum, nestles against him. Either looking to get comfortable or a silent show of affection, he can't be sure. Regardless, it makes Blackwall's breathing falter, just for a second. He's smiling- he knows he shouldn't be, given Nousha's obvious despair, but his mouth won't correct itself. She came to him with her feelings-  wept in front of him. It's a selfish response, he knows. Andraste forgive him, he clings to her for dear life, the only source of warmth in Thedas.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

At some point, there's another sudden burst of noise from nearby that makes Nousha tense up. Slurs and threats, the sound of impact. More voices join them, admonishing them for fighting like children- Cassandra's distinct accent among them.

Once the brawlers appear to have been pacified or dragged away, Nousha crawls off of him. The absence of her body wrapped around his is almost painful, a vital source of heat that he's deprived of in a storm. She gathers something off the floor and climbs unsteadily to her feet, putting her weight against the door frame. Even in the dark, Blackwall can see her eyes on him.

"I'm... going to bring our bowls back to the cook." Her voice is uncertain, and a little breathless. Her good hand manages to work the door open and the light let in reveals the bowls held against her chest by her three-fingered hand.

"I'd better get back to my bedroll, then." He says, the thought deeply unwelcome. She nods and climbs out, and he can hear the crunch of her feet as she steps back into the snow. As he follows her, Blackwall registers the colour of the sky. Darker than it had been before they entered the wagon, but still not night. He's not sure what time he had expected it to be. Not this. Blackwall's feet are carrying him back to where he belongs- the wagon he shares with Varric and Sera. He's certain that there are eyes on him, interested and whispering. Unthinkingly, he gnaws at the inside of his lower lip, even when he tastes blood. Anything to distract from the tightness in his chest, the ice in his belly.

"Good night, warden." Nousha's words are tossed over her shoulder with deliberate nonchalance. They are not returned to her.

When he removes his gambeson, getting ready for sleep, Blackwall's calloused thumb lingers on the wet spot where Nousha's face was buried. And then he throws it into the corner. In his sleeping roll, he lies with his back to the garment. Sleep does not find him easily.

The sixteenth of Bloomingtide, 9:42 Dragon

It's awkward holding the tray steady with three digits, but Nousha manages it. Using her good hand, she cuts the brick of tahchin into more-or-less equally sized squares. It's a job well done, she decides. The outer layer of rice has cooked nicely, a gorgeous colour of golden-brown. Good to know that her cooking skills haven't rusted too badly.

"It's traditionally served with a side of herbs and vegetables. Tarragon, radish, that kind of thing. I think I'll save all that for a bigger meal, though." She steps back from the tray and allows the kitchen staff to share most of the pieces between themselves, the occasional grain of rice or cut of chicken spilling across the countertop or falling onto the floor. The crowd of cooks and cleaners murmur behind their mouthfuls of food in agreement that it's a delicious dish.

Nousha's first visit to the kitchens had alarmed its staff, all convinced she was looking for any mess or fault in their work. A few hours later, after some chatting and experimentation with recipes, and more importantly, Nousha forcing an apology out of the head cook when she'd caught him harassing the younger hands, she was very much welcome.

Within a few days, the kitchen had turned into one of her favourite areas in Skyhold. Recreating recipes from her village proved to be a therapeutic distraction from the reality of her situation. Inquisitor. The official face of the Inquisition. A group historically allied with the Chantry, the Templars, the Seekers. Another sword-hand of Andrastianism; a long-lived foe of the so-called 'tyranny of magic'. And now she's its new leader, shackled to her throne. She tries to push the wave of icy dread down, like holding back vomit.

One of the youngest cooks, a dark-skinned elven girl with intricate braids, approaches Nousha, holding two steaming bowls.

"You know, lady Adaar," she says as she pushes one of the bowls into Nousha's hand, "that recipe should go into Donatien's book!"

Donatien, the Head Chef, stiffens at the girl's words and glances in alarm towards his book of recipes, safely contained within a leather cover on a high shelf. Nousha has seen people less protective of their own children. She's half tempted to pursue the idea, just to see how red the little bastard will go.

"Perhaps some refining is needed first."

A few minutes later, she steps out of the kitchen and into the courtyard, bathed in orange by the evening sun. She squints as her eyes adjust to the sudden light and uses her tongue to pick at some rice stuck between her molars. Cole is perched atop the dilapidated well's brick wall, skinny and birdlike, staring down into its murky depths. If it were anyone else crouching on such a fragile-looking structure, Nousha would be afraid of them falling in, but this boy, this spirit, can glide across the ground so smoothly, scarcely disturbing the blades of grass at his feet, that she's not entirely certain he weighs anything at all. Were Solas to appear before her and announce that the boy was almost entirely immaterial, only solidifying when it was time to cut something, Nousha doubts she would be surprised. That said, she does feel better when Cole's interest is stolen away by one of Dennet's horses sneezing, causing him to step down from the well's bricks and towards the stables, intrigued.

Dennet himself is shoeing Dusty, Nousha's ride. He's a huge draft horse that would be better suited pulling a plow than being ridden- but it's the best option for carrying the weight of a chubby giant. His thick neck and solid head are a sharp contrast from the willowy, angular horses from the qunari villages in Rivain. Brute, Bull's steed who matches his brother in size, greedily munches at a bucket of oats and fruit, a reward for enduring his own shoeing. Dusty throws the occasional envious glance his way. A few meters behind them, a grey streak amongst dark hair catches Nousha's eye. She recognizes a broad, stooped figure, retreating through the stable's main entrance, disappearing out of sight.

He's avoiding her, that much is obvious. What she can't figure out is why. The idea of a few tears scaring a grown man off is ridiculous, and yet there he is, fleeing from her. It's not like she can't pursue him- demand why he refuses to spend any time with her after they'd been joined at the hip up until their last moment alone. When he'd kissed her. She sill recalls the tenderness of his gesture- the warmth of his lips.

Perhaps she isn't ready to seek answers from him just yet.

--

"Just answer the damn question, will you?" Skinner's never been one for tiptoeing around the subject- which is unlucky for the red-faced Dalish.

"Halam sahlin! It's really not a big deal, alright? It happened years ago, before I even joined!"

"If it's not a big deal, why are you so desperate not to answer it?"

"The more you try to avoid telling us, the more determined she's gonna get!" Krem's advice is solid- despite pretending to be above tale-swapping about past conquests, Skinner can't resist picking at people when they start to squirm; that means they're hiding something really juicy. The rest of the chargers watch on, like sharks smelling blood in the water. Rocky, sitting to Bull's right, has all but forgotten about Dworkin the Mad's research notes resting on his lap, wheezing with laughter. Even Grim has a smile on his face. Every few seconds, one of them will chime in, encouraging Dalish to share whatever sordid secret she's hiding. She swears in her native language, realising that she'll find no mercy from her companions. Beneath the din of their discussion, a few other tables chatter between themselves and the minstrel, Maryden, strums at her instrument and sings something lively and fun- adding to the atmosphere.

As entertaining as the interrogation is, Bull's attention is drawn away, distracted by a figure filling up the tavern doorway, almost as big as he is. He's been waiting for her to show up- waiting for her to see The Addition.

The Inquisitor's shoulders are tense- they're always tense, so this is no surprise. As is her expression. It's a terrible shame that Blackwall has distanced himself from her lately, he looked pretty close to killing a lot of her frustrations- his own, too. She trudges past the Chargers without even glancing towards them, heading straight to the table that doubles as a bar, standing beside Varric and Dorian. One glance at the shabby little stools at her feet can explain why- most Qunari have at least one story about breaking the puny bas chairs when they sit on them, him included. It's a hard learned lesson; one that's put a few scars on his ass. There's a good reason why he prefers to sit on crates and barrels. He still needs to ask Josephine about a good, sturdy armchair that'll reliably support his bulk.

She's swapping words with them, leaning casually against a support beam. If it wasn't for her clenched jaw or her fidgeting hands, she may look genuinely relaxed. She doesn't look at them as she speaks, her eyes wander around the tavern, interested in every inch of her environment- everywhere except the corner he and his Chargers have crowded into. She's not good with eye contact, can't maintain it for more than a second or two; not in a shifty or guilty way, either- it just clearly doesn't come to her naturally. Not the strangest quirk he's come across, but one that mislead plenty of the other students during Ben-Hassrath training.

As Cabot serves her a tankard of his very best swill- even more watered down than usual because he's only got a few barrels in store- she says something that makes Dorian laugh. He's got a nice laugh- Bull decided that during the trek through the mountains. Nice face, too. Warm brown skin, a bold nose, strong jaw. Bull's caught him staring at his chest a few times; clearly Dorian returns the sentiment. For a Vint, he's not half bad. He says something that makes Nousha roll her eyes as she forces down an unpleasant mouthful of her drink.

Suddenly, there's an uproar of chaos at the table; Bull casts his eye over his Chargers, all but Dalish are bellowing with laughter. Clearly she's finally spilled the beans- the punchline catching Krem mid-sip and causing him to spit ale all over himself. He silently vows to ask his second in command about it later and looks back towards Nousha.

She's already looking at him, eyes narrow. Here it comes, he thinks, and offers an amiable smile. The friendly gesture only makes her frown deepen- her usual response to anything he does. Just as she starts to turn away, her eyes flick just above him and go wide in disbelief. There it is. Bull sees her mouth move, saying something to herself, and walks stiffly towards him.

"Who put that there?" She demands. The steel in her voice kills whatever remnants of laughter the Chargers had. Her eyes stay on the wall behind Bull. He doesn't need to turn around to know what she's referring to. He noticed The Addition when he arrived at the tavern an hour ago.

"Probably one of the serving girls. Maybe Cabot himself, but I don't think he's an Andrastian." Andrastian's tend not to say 'by the stone!' when they're alarmed. Nousha leans over him to grab it. There's half a second of resistance, and then Bull hears the thin rope suspending it from the ceiling snap. The whole of the tavern is silent now, watching as The Addition is violently ripped from the wall. Nousha stumbles slightly, red faced and white knuckled, staring down at her prize. It's a tapestry, about a meter long in either direction, of the Chantry's sun sigil. Slowly, she twists her head around to fix Cabot with a vicious glare. The dwarf throws his hands up defensively.

"Hey, don't look at me! They arrived this morning; those Chantry girls-- the sisters have been handing them out! It's not my job to ask questions!" At Cabot's explanation, Nousha gives an incredulous laugh. Then, she turns and drags the tapestry out of the door.

Within twenty seconds of Nousha's exit, Maryden starts singing again.

--

The bastards. The fucking little liars. All these warnings about how Thedas would force the title of Herald upon her no matter what they did. The fake sympathy in their eyes. As if they put any effort into rejecting the name. As if she hadn't seen their letters- hadn't seen it written in their handwriting. The Herald of Andraste appreciates your support. The Herald is recovering steadily from her injuries. The Herald will most certainly ally with you, as long as you offer enough money and influence. It's not like she's a real person with morals, after all.

At the top of the courtyard's narrow, barely stable staircase, the double door leading to Skyhold's main hall hangs open, revealing the interior. The sight of what waits inside distracts her just long enough to make a misstep, the very tip of her foot landing on the edge of the final step. Putting her weight on it causes it to slip, and she lurches back- almost, almost falling headlong down the stairs. A little arm flailing manages to help her regain balance, thankfully, but the brief moment of panic leaves her stomach churning. Distantly, in the back of her mind, past the rage, she makes a note to have some railings built onto the staircase before someone breaks their fucking neck. A flustered glance down into the yard reveals that her little scare hasn't raised any panic amongst the people below- everyone's still going about their business, same as before. That doesn't mean that nobody saw, of course, Skyhold's countless eyes never blink.

There's more of them. More Chantry suns than she cares to count- curtains and ornaments spread across the tables where she's expected to eat. Pots of Andraste's Grace hang by the far windows. There's even a few shields bearing the templar crest hung upon the walls. As she prowls through the great hall, she overhears one of the sisters discussing where statues of Andraste would be best located. How long has she been grimacing? Since the moment she left the tavern, perhaps? Maybe even longer. Maybe since the moment Conclave exploded.

One of Cullen's troops emerges from the side door just as Nousha's approaching it- almost running into her in his hurry. When he recognises her, he gives a relieved smile.

"Inquisitor," he says breathlessly, "what luck! Commander Rutherford is requesting your presence in the-- ah, the war room."

His voice, and smile, both falter as he takes in the full sight of her. Leering down at him, baring her teeth in something that could only barely be described as a grin, clutching a piece of fabric that has clearly been dragged through the mud.

"How convenient. I had best go see what he wants. I would hate to disappoint, after all." Her eyes' baleful grip releases the lad and swings, like the arc of a headsman's axe, towards the door to the advisors. She can hear the muffled sound of their voices, arguing again.

One night, when she'd been about thirteen, a jungle cat had gotten into her family's hen house. By the time she, her father and the dogs had gotten there, it was already gone, and five of the chickens were torn to shreds. As she reaches the door, Nousha finds herself wondering if this is what the cat felt when it discovered the weak spot in the structure that could be torn through, when it smelled its prey, when it heard their clucking. She thinks of blood and feathers as she pushes the door open.

Their voices fall silent at her arrival. Sheepish, almost. A flag of the Inquisition sigil is hung on the far wall. She can't look at any of the advisors without noticing its presence behind them. Looming. Oppressive.

"Lady Adaar," Josephine says a little too loudly, a little too happily, "Cullen's man found you quicker than I expected!"

Nousha gives her a quick, tight smile.

And then hurls the filthy cloth across the war table, staining the map and flinging its markers onto the floor. Josephine startles at the sudden chaos, while the other two merely grimace- Cullen screws his eyes shut in resignation.

"Explain this."

After what feels like an eternity, Leliana steps forward.

"We've a great deal of Andrastian followers, they--"

"They're common folk. These are high quality works. Even if they could afford this, which they can't, there's no sign of wear or tear from Haven. Don't try to pin the blame on them."

"I didn't say that," Leliana's voice remains agonizingly even, like trying to reason with a child, "do not put words in my mouth." In the corner of her eye, Nousha can see Cullen's stance change- steeling himself for things to escalate. Inexplicably curious, Nousha resists the urge to snap back at the spymaster. "If they're to serve the Inquisition, they should feel they're contributing to a cause."

"Oh, so saving Thedas isn't a worthy cause unless we're acting as a religious army, right? What next, shall we march on the Dales again? How about an invasion?"

"She doesn't mean it like that, Inquisitor." Cullen combs his fingers through his hair, one of his habits when he's uncomfortable. "Faith is a great source of comfort during conflict. Morale is a precious commodity in times like these."

"What about the elves and-- no, I'm not letting you pull me away from the question. You're intentionally not addressing what I'm saying." Nousha closes her eyes and rubs the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. The piercing there pushes against the tips of the digits and she can feel the skin its embedded in shift slightly. Beneath her flesh, beneath her bones, there's an unbearable heat building. A wildfire in the making. "Skyhold is suddenly drenched in expensive Chantry shit. Why?"

She can hear Leliana inhale and she opens her eyes just in time to see her square her shoulders. She opens her mouth, revealing her perfect teeth. Before she can speak, Josephine cuts in.

"The Inquisition is a Chantry-based force, historically. Reinforcing that connection will only benefit us. You remember our confrontation with Mother Hevara, yes? She is not the only one to believe that we are conniving murderers looking to claim the Sunburst Throne."

"Of course. We've got to keep sucking the Chantry's tit, don't we?" The vulgarity makes Cullen wince. Good. "Tell me, is that why you're leaning into the whole Herald of Andraste thing? Because the old Mother didn't much appreciate me being given that label. Surely you must know that, assuming your little spies haven't been feeding you bad information." Leliana's brow furrows at the barb thrown her way, shooting an intoxicating bolt of giddy satisfaction through the all-consuming heat building in Nousha's head. "Giving me the title of Inquisitor was just a fucking performance. It's insultingly transparent. You expect me to mindlessly cooperate, dance along with whatever tune you sing, eat whatever shit you feed to me--"

Cullen, scratching at his jaw, huffs an exhausted laugh at her tirade. "I think we learned not to expect cooperation from you long ago."

The primal energy that explodes from Nousha's raised hand hits the wall to her right in the blink of an eye, a flash of light that fizzles out in an instant. Cullen and Leliana reach for their weapons on instinct while Josephine recoils, but all that's left for them to react to is a smoking stain against the stone.

"If it was truly as benign as looking trustworthy," she begins, trying to keep her voice steady, "then you wouldn't just be rolling out all the luxury Chantry decoration just now. Sure, there's always been an Andrastian influence hanging over us. Even in Haven. Shit, even before Haven! You remember our first meeting; don't you, Leliana?" The spymaster, still holding her knives defensively across her body, squints slightly- her neutral mask briefly knocked askew. "I mean, even before you vultures decided I was useful, it was the famous Right and Left Hands of the Divine herself interrogating me! What an honour!" She can feel herself smiling- one that's full of teeth. Her first instinct upon waking up in chains, Cassandra seething and pacing around her, was to spit at her captor. That had earned her a savage, gauntleted backhand. It had taken weeks for her lip to heal fully.

An uneasy look is shared between the three advisors. One of concern and alarm at her behaviour. It makes her queasy. Makes her palm tingle with the urge to fire off more magic- not aimed at the wall this time. She averts her eyes, stares down at the filthy tapestry on the table. Another piece of Andrastian imagery draped all over an ancient elven fortress. Another piece of their history claimed by the Chantry. "Exactly the pick-me-up I needed after my companions were blown to smithereens!" They'd been left there in the mass grave. Kaaras, Ataash, Tic, Herah and Issala, burnt and mutilated beyond recognition. One of the only things she remembered from the Conclave was Herah's young face, twisted in horror, beneath an unbearable green light.

"You have to understand that we--"

"Of course, you see someone survive a disaster, you immediately shove the blame on them! I'm shocked you didn't clap me in irons again once I was dragged out of the blizzard." She turns her head to fix Cullen with a vicious glare. "Or perhaps you wanted the Commander to finish me off instead." He balks at the accusation, takes a step back in bewilderment. "That's why you were so ready to recruit the Templars, wasn't it? More hands around to help you kill me? You'd love an excuse, wouldn't you?"

Cullen grimaces at her words as he lets his hand fall limply from his sword. Behind the anger and the redness of his pale face, there's a real hurt in his expression that Nousha chalks up to self-pity. "You know that isn't true."

"I don't know shit about you. And I don't want to. I've gotten off topic," she says, and her voice is devoid of her previous anger- briefly revealing the exhaustion behind it. "I'm no politician, I know, but that doesn't make me stupid." Josephine opens her mouth to protest, but Nousha holds up a hand. It's intended as a dismissive gesture, but she flinches. "Tell me the real reason for this," she says, gesturing to the tapestry crumpled across the table, "or I will be burning each and every Chantry sigil I see in front of everyone in Skyhold. That won't help morale much, will it?"

When they fail to answer within a reasonable time, a generous two seconds, Nousha turns and reaches for the door.

"The Trevelyans!" Josephine's voice is a squeal, twisted and shaky with... something. Panic? Guilt? Nousha's too tired to care. "The Bann- the father of one of the mages we--"

"Maxwell, yes, I know."

"He's a very influential figure in the Free Marches, especially among its Chantries- His sister is the Grand Cleric of Tantervale! After some back-and-forth, I've..." She flushes slightly and looks down, wringing her delicate hands together. "I have convinced him to visit- only to ensure he does not denounce us, of course."

Nousha closes her eyes again and tilts her head back. Inhale. One, two, three, four five. Exhale. One, two, three, four, five. Nousha opens her eyes at the trio before her.

"He'll be here soon, then?"

"No more than a week or so."

"And you kept this from me."

Cullen steps forward to defend Josephine. "We thought you'd be away by the time he got here." Nousha tilts her head, perplexed at how he thought that made it any better. Leliana's icy glare at the commander makes it obvious that she feels similarly.

"We're doing our jobs, Inquis-- Nousha," Leliana's voice is uncharacteristically sincere, almost believable, "and that includes securing alliances and funding."

Nousha shakes her head and itches at her cheek absentmindedly. Her eyes itch like she hasn't blinked for hours.

"Fine," she says, "whatever. Once he's gone, we're getting rid of all the Chantry shit. We've already got a shrine in the garden- perfect place to pay respects to Andraste and the Maker and whoever else." She turns back to the door, hesitates, and throws a glance over her shoulder. "Leliana?"

"Yes?"

"The-- ah, the birds you sent. With the letters. Will they have arrived by now?"

"Considering the distance, I would say that the first reached Redcliffe within a day of my sending it. The scouts stationed there are a watchful bunch, they'll see your recipients coming from miles away."

"And the other?"

"Well- Val Firmin is a fair bit further away than Redcliffe; I've yet to hear from my contact in the area, but I assume they'll have received your message."

Nousha nods. "Right," she says. The urge to say 'thanks' makes itself known in Nousha's chest. She smothers it and pushes through the doors.

--

Sera's slender fingers pluck one of the half-made wooden creatures from their corner of the stable. When Blackwall can't find any work that needs doing around Skyhold, he sits and works on these things, hidden away in his den. It's an animal, this angular thing in her palm, with its jaws open in a silent snarl.

"The bear's good," she notes as she holds it up, turning its rough edges in the firelight, "when do you think it'll be finished?"

Beside her, Blackwall is seated on a stool he dragged out of the tavern a few nights back- one that Cabot hasn't figured out is missing yet, still adding the finishing touches on a project he's planning. He throws a glance towards her, and the carving in her hand, furrowing his brow when he catches sight of it.

"That's a panther," he says, returning to his picture, "I haven't gotten around to making the tail yet." Sera rolls her eyes at that- the old pisser can never take any praise, can he? After another moment of sketching, he lifts the parchment and turns it around for Sera to look over. "Think the little ones will like this?" His voice is just a little hopeful, excited even, as Sera squints at the drawing.

It's a griffon rocking chair. The sharp beak opens to hold onto a bit and bridle, with reins that loop around its patterned neck. Round pegs are drawn in with more pressure, highlighting their importance. Each part of the creatures body are labelled with a colour, various different ideas scratched out and redone. Sera places the supposed panther back on its spot by the stairs. Old Taraline had one like that at her estate, an intricately painted unicorn made for a small child. When she'd been taken in, Sera was too big for it, though she'd ridden it anyway once or twice, just to make the old woman smile. She remembers how silly and childish she felt, even at a young age. The memory makes her wince.

"That bad, eh?"

"No, no," she amends hurriedly, "the eyes just creep me out. Why does it have those gross bits around it?"

"They're tear ducts."

"Why should griffons cry? Are they sad over dying out?" Blackwall gives a little smile at that and folds the paper up, placing it in one of his gambeson's many pockets as he rises from his chair. "Ready to go, then?"

Blackwall nods and follows her through the stable's door- and not a moment too soon. The stink of horses was getting unbearable. As they leave, Sera catches sight of some people lined up side-by-side facing the outer wall, gathering just beneath the underpass leading to Cullen's office. Someone has carved five targets of various sizes into the stone, each one sporting several dark burn marks. At the top of the battlement stairs, several of Cullen's troops lean over to watch. The lanky, dark-skinned man that Adaar sometimes spends time with stands at their front, holding a staff. He speaks clearly and confidently to them, talking about the importance of being able to hit a moving target. There's a sinking feeling in her stomach when she realises what she's looking at.

The mages are practising.

She slows, almost to a stop, reluctant to pass it by, reluctant to turn her back on them.

"Looks like Harlow's taken up teaching," Blackwall notes. Something akin to admiration lightens his voice.

In reply, Sera keeps her voice a low hiss. "Couldn't they do all the magicky stuff somewhere else? Isn't that what the towers are for, for them to learn how to do magic?"

"I don't think they focus on combat magic in most circles- makes them easier to... to, ah, manage."

The man, Harlow, gently tosses the staff to one of the mages before him and, with his upturned palm, begins to change the air. It ripples as if beset by a terrible heat, and then glows- an orb forms, immaterial and weightless. Sera's wariness gets the better of her and she swerves away from the group- knocking her shoulder into Blackwall's arm. It's not right having them do that here. Not right at all.

The orb rises gently from Harlow's hand, making figure-eights a few metres in the air. Harlow shouts "Now!" and the mage holding the staff begins firing white-hot bolts of magic at it. Despite their speed and alarming brightness, they're small. Each one misses, always just a moment too late, and bursts harmlessly against the wall, leaving nothing but another small burn mark. Harlow begins giving more advice- reminding the caster to aim where their target is going, rather than where it is.

Sera and Blackwall have drawn up alongside the gathered mages by now, and it hurts her neck to keep staring. She forces herself to look away- keep her eyes ahead. The healers pay no mind to Harlow's little class, too focused on their patients. They don't notice the pale thing that's been hanging around since those red templars attacked Haven. The one that looks like a bloodless corpse. It's drifting through the medical tents like a ghost, its limbs moving with eerie fluidity. One of the healers, a short human woman in her sixties, wipes at her forehead absentmindedly. There's blood under her fingernails. The man that lies at her knees is deathly white- deathly still.

She feels a little more comfortable when there's some solid walls between her and the mess outside, even if there's a tense atmosphere hanging over some of the tavern's inhabitants. Bull's stood by the door, talking in a low voice with most of his Chargers, and nods a greeting at them as they pass. One of the downsides of summer starting to hit is that the massive qunari has started walking around with his tits out- she's right at eye level with them. Awful. His right hand man sits with his back to the bar, watching Maryden play a little too closely- like it's not the song he's interested in. Beneath the music, there's the sound of a few quiet, indistinct conversations, but nothing compared to the usual raucous yelling that fills the tavern by this time in the evening. Sera frowns and feels her ears twitch a little, uncertain. While the noise could sometimes get too much for her, too disorienting, it at least meant that people were happy. Lively.

"What's gone on," she asks as she corners Dorian and Varric, nursing ales next to Bull's second-in-command.

Dorian looks confused, his attention suddenly pulled away from staring at Bull's bare chest and belly, but Varric doesn't even look up from his pile of letters. "A certain someone didn't appreciate the latest attempts at redecorating," he says casually.

"What," Blackwall asks from over Sera's shoulder, stepping forward. Always so interested whenever she's brought up.

Dorian, remembering where he is and catching up to the conversation, chimes in. "Come now, surely you've noticed the new Chantry sigils scattered throughout Skyhold? Presumably an order from our higher-ups; an ill-thought-out one at that, considering Lady Adaar's feelings about having her name associated with Andraste. She made something of a scene over it in here- ripped it down and stormed out." He pauses to take a sip of his ale, wincing a little. "I expect our advisors are being chewed out as we speak."

Sera's frown deepens further and further at the mage's words- his language is as irritatingly flowery as ever, but she gets the gist of what he's saying.

"Who does she think she is," She spits, her voice high and indignant, "What's next, banning anyone from speaking the name 'Andraste?'"

As usual, Blackwall leaps to the Inquisitor's defence. "I don't think that's fair, Sera--"

"Oh, piss off."

"She's never had anything bad to say about people being Andrastians. You've seen her be perfectly cordial with the sisters. It's understandable that she's gotten frustrated by--"

"Yeah, yeah; she's frustrated. She's stressed. She's lonely. That can only excuse so much bitch-ness." He stiffens at her words, for some reason. Sera is only just polite enough to not point out that Blackwall himself seemingly couldn't stand her either, he's been avoiding her like the plague lately. "Now she's ruining the mood for regular people. Too far." She stands up from the table with enough force to tip her chair backwards, sending it clattering against the wood flooring. "Oi! Bull!"

The massive Qunari looks up from his conversation, as do a few other drinkers. He's smiling already like he knows what she's planning.

"Come 'ere, let's do something fun. Like a drinking game or something- yeah, that's it."

"I've already been drinking," he says, holding up his pint in demonstration, but he's walking towards her, intrigued.

"And I'm half your size- it works out pretty equally."

His Chargers have set up a cluster of mugs on one end of their table within a minute, and the elfy one grins as she holds up a marble.

--

As she climbs the stairs, Nousha balances the tray against her hip with her good hand, the three remaining fingers on her right wrap awkwardly around the key to her quarters. The bowl of stew feels far heavier than it should- her shoulders ache. Stiff from tension, she reasons. At the top of the unreasonably long staircase, a stooped figure waits for her silently. She opens her mouth, about to tell them to piss off and bother her tomorrow, but her voice falters when she recognises who it is.

She's tall for a human, and skinny enough that it seems a stiff breeze would knock her over. Her grey hair is held in tight, intricate braids on her scalp, then trails down her shoulders. Despite the weather getting warmer in recent weeks, she's wrapped up in thick layers. Understandable; she's probably used to Rivaini weather, Nousha thinks. She's old, too- her dark skin is weathered and leathery. Well into her eighties, it appears. They always feel the cold harder. Deep in their bones, as Nousha's grandmother often said. The memory makes her wonder if the old girl's still alive.

"You missed me this morning," She says impassively. Her accent is thick, far thicker than Nousha's, and similar, but growing up in Rivain allows Nousha to pick up subtle differences that mark the hedge witch as a southerner.

"I did," Nousha replies, ducking her head in apology. "You should have sent for me, Fatuma- you don't need to be climbing all these steps--"

"I am a fit, healthy woman. I walked all the way to Haven from Rivain, and good way through the mountains when Haven fell. It is important to exercise if I'm to see my hundredth year." She's proud as she says it- almost revelling in her vitality.

Nousha smiles and rolls her eyes as she steps back, unlocking the door and letting the old girl step through first, climbing one last flight of stairs into the room.

"Have you experienced any swelling on your digits," she asks, openly staring around Nousha's empty, lifeless quarters. "Heat, pus, more pain than usual?"

"No, no to all four."

"Any odours?"

Nousha gives the stumps of her thumb and forefinger a quick sniff. "No."

"Wonderful!" She spins back to face Nousha at that, clapping her hands together and giving a little smile. "Infection is far less likely now that we're off the road and have access to clean water- but it still pays to be safe. Sit."

They settle themselves down on Nousha's bed, since there's no other furniture than that and a desk- She considers if it's even worth decorating this place to her tastes, but doubts there's anything that can be done that will make this massive room feel cosy enough to sleep in. Perhaps a partition would help, or a bed with curtains.

She removes the glove from her right hand, along with the bandages beneath, and holds it, palm-up to Fatuma. The old, deep scars that cover her flesh are unmistakable, even when partially covered by the green cracks of the anchor. Any mage would know what scars like this upon her hand would mean. Templars, too.

"You are still putting the cream I gave you onto your wounds?" Fatuma doesn't look up as she works, inspecting the stumps, occasionally prodding one to check sensitivity.

"Yes."

"Good, good," she hums approvingly. "You really should thank Harlow, I think."

"I have."

"Splendid. Your people were at their wits end when you were found. Paranoid, looking for someone to aim all their frustrations at. If a group of their healers saw this- if word got out about it--"

"I'd be fucked."

"Language!"

"Sorry."

"But you would be, yes." She releases Nousha's hand and reaches into the pouch at her hip. After a moment, she withdraws another length of fabric to wrap around her fingers. She doesn't need it- not really; the wounds where her fingers were have stopped bleeding, but the tight leather of the gloves, custom made to fit over her stumps, chafe unpleasantly against the tender flesh. Nousha mumbles her thanks and stands- walking Fatuma to the door. Always chivalrous, she thinks to herself.

"Take care of yourself, girl," Fatuma whispers, lingering outside for a moment. She lays a warm hand against Nousha's forearm and grips it, not tight enough to hurt, but enough to stress her words. "It would be terribly embarassing to be executed after building up such an impressive reputation for yourself." She smiles again at that. A little sadder. Nousha nods grimly at the warning, all too aware of her dangerous position. The eyes upon her. The steel in their hands.

Once back in her room, Nousha considers collapsing dramatically onto her bed, but knows she'll only wind up getting frustrated by her inability to sleep. She managed to pilfer a bottle of wine from the Cabot's storage- before he could water it down, thankfully. She could have a glass of that, but she'd only drink herself into a stupour. Not the kind of habit she wants to feed. Determined for something to pass the time but refusing to leave the safety of her private room, she wanders over onto the balcony that overlooks the rest of Skyhold. The sky is darker now, purple, the sun's bottom just starting to dip into the horizon.

Shadowed under Skyhold's walls, the courtyard has to be lit by torchlight. And, of course, the tavern's interior. It's bustling- more so than usual, silhouettes cutting through the orange glow of the windows, shadowed onto the outside dirt. People are stumbling out of its open door, keeping balance by clinging onto one another, laughing and chattering. She spots the huge, distinctive figure of Iron Bull, doubled over, vomiting into a flowerbed by the stairs. One of his Chargers, the dalish mage, stands behind him, slapping his arse while the other members howl with laughter. Nousha chuckles before she can stop herself.

Another shape stumbles through the tavern doorway- a large, broad figure, supporting a small, skinny frame. There's just enough light on their backs to highlight the pattern of their clothes. The gambeson, the hair colours, the plaidweave leggings. She knows who they are immediately.

He's looking at her, immobile. His face is in shadows and she can't see it clearly enough to be sure, but she can feel his gaze on her- his face is turned up to the balcony. She stares back, placing her hands upon the railing before her, gripping the stone.

She's not sure how long they stand there, motionless, trapped. Sera's knees buckle and she almost falls into the dirt before Blackwall readjusts his grip on her. He throws her over his shoulder and keeps moving, carrying her across the courtyard. He doesn't look back.

--

The Adaar family,

Hello. It's Nousha again. If you've not heard already, there was an incident at Haven; an attack. I should have seen it coming, it wasn't a very defensible place to claim as a base of operation. There was a considerable amount of people killed casualties. We escaped into the mountains through a back exit, that's where I'm writing from presently. We've heard of a hidden fortress somewhere nearby and have sent runners to find it. Obviously, this changes our plan somewhat- there's no Haven left for you to travel to. Hopefully, by the time this letter reaches you, we'll have settled into our new base. If so, there will be a troop of soldiers already awaiting you at Redcliffe- they will guide you through the quickest path to me Skyhold.

Sorry for any unnecessary worrying I've caused. I miss you all.

Nousha.

"Her writing's always such a nightmare to read," Majid remarks as he squints down at the smudged ink. Ferelden's weather is grey and miserable as his mother said- he's barely seen an hour of sun since arriving at Amaranthine. Another fat raindrop hits the parchment and he pulls it closer to his chest protectively.

Reading over his shoulder, Pantea shrugs dismissively. "She's left-handed, what do you expect?"

The pale woman before them shifts her weight, her feet shuffling in the mud. Either awkward or eager to depart. She's dressed differently than the guardsmen Majid has seen around Redcliffe- no village crests or bright colours. Her uniform consists of a fairly hideous combination of pale greens and earthy browns, contrasting with the blacks and golds and reds of the usual inquisition heraldry. The soldiers that camp nearby are more fittingly dressed, their coats accented with bright scarlet. He catches one of them staring at his horns before looking away sheepishly. Not the first, not the last.

"Right," Pantea announces as Majid folds the letter away in his pocket, taking charge as usual, "we're off to regroup with the rest of our family. We'll be back sometime next week- then we can head off to this Skyhold place." Some of the nearer soldiers groan in disappointment, while the woman dressed in green widens her eyes.

"There's-- there's more of you?"

"Yeah." As usual, Pantea doesn't elaborate.

Feeling a little sympathetic to the young woman's confusion, Majid explains a little. "The wagons aren't particularly fast, so we decided to ride ahead- see what was what. Now, we're to meet up with them and explain the situation."

Pantea, deciding that the conversation has gone on long enough, turns on her heel and marches back to their horses. The woman in green opens her mouth, then shuts it again, looking a little deflated. Majid shoots her a quick, apologetic smile, and follows his sister.

"Do you think Yu and Yas will be up for visiting Skyhold," Majd asks as he mounts Niloofare, his brown-and-grey horse.

"Depends on how safe it is." Pantea's horse Shab snorts in excitement, his ears swivelling backwards to listen to his rider fish through her pockets, a moment later, she brings a handful of raisins to his mouth and strokes his neck. "If I had kids, I'd be pretty reluctant to bring them somewhere with no defenses after an attack."

Majid spurs Niloofare forward ahead, which prompts Pantea to hurriedly follow. "Well, if worst comes to worst, they can always stay here instead."

Pulling up abreast of him now, Pantea's face is visible enough for Majid to watch as it splits into a wry smile at the idea. "Yeah, I'm sure Yu'd love that. A busy human village where his family sticks out like a cracked horn. Not bloody likely!"

The laughter between them is the first moment of levity they've had in a good while- there's been a tension hanging over the family since they learned of Haven's fall. Watching their parents sob, inconsolable at the thought of what had happened to their firstborn, still hasn't left Majid's mind. Considering how grim Pantea's been since leaving them, he's sure it hasn't left hers, either. Now, they speed ahead on their horses, determined to return to the Adaar wagons as quickly as possible, desperate to tell them the good news.

Nousha is alive.

The eighteenth of Bloomingtide, 9:42 Dragon

Apparently, the winds that mercilessly pummel Skyholds walls are from the tail-end of a storm over in Orlais. Arriving traders and couriers are in rougher shape than usual from their trek through the mountains. The scout who enters Cullen's office (if you can call a half-collapsed hovel covered in vines and insects an office) is still shaky and weak, hair in disarray and soaked to the skin in the melted snow. Her eyes are unfocused and her hands tremble despite their thick gloves. Cullen orders that she get a change of clothes and a hot meal immediately as he unfolds the letter she has brought him, breaking the wax seal bearing the Blades of Hessarian's sigil in the process.

Commander,

Your soldiers' presence was a much-needed boost to our defenses- we've slain more darkspawn than I can count and I've already noticed a decline in sightings of them in the area. There's a dedicated team of our men working tirelessly to burn every one of their putrid corpses in our territory- the stench is indescribable!

However, I fear that this is simply a temporary solution to what may be a long-term problem. The darkspawn have to be coming from somewhere- perhaps their tunneling has lead them into a nearby cave system. There are plenty of them on the coast, after all. The upside is that, besides our camp, there are no communities nearby to be plagued by these horrors.

We ask that you spare some labourers and materials so that we may seal up whatever opening they've crawled out of.

Ivor of the Blades

Cullen leans further back in his seat. Sinks lower. Lower still. His head's pounding like his skull is being fractured from the inside, but slowly. Excruciatingly slow. The bones, the flesh, the very veins are pulsating, throbbing. Coming apart and knitting themselves back together, but wrong. Nothing fits right on his body. The skin feels too tight, like it's about to burst, expelling gore and naked muscle out of itself, birth him anew. Perhaps it's already happening, he thinks. Perhaps it's not sweat leaking from his pores, sticking to his shirt and saturating his hair, perhaps his skin, the only solid part of his body, is shrinking, dehydrating, while his liquefied innards are forced out, out, outside. Will it kill him, this process, or will they find him here, hours from now, a puddle of pulped gore, twitching and spasming in agony, dripping out of his chair? The idea makes him lick his dry, cracked lips. There's something thrilling about it- the catharsis of his suffering being made so satisfyingly visceral. He clenches his bare hands around the letter and watches the bones beneath his skin shift. Still solid. For now.

He'd only managed to grab the one box of lyrium before fleeing Haven. Stepped away from helping people to make sure he could indulge himself. The shame of his act had suppressed his urges for a few days, but lyrium is a jealous vice- one that never goes ignored for long. There was just enough for two weeks if he was careful. He'd always told himself that his dependency wasn't that bad- there are plenty of templars who can't go more than a few hours without it. One mouthful every other night, just before bed. Thought himself so disciplined. Four days without lyrium and he's coming undone.

Any day now there will be a shipment of it, supplied by... someone. Leliana had told him who it was, how she'd secured the trade, of that he's certain. Cullen assures himself that he can't remember because he wasn't listening. It doesn't matter who it came from or how it gets here, as long as it's soon. When every second is torment, the concept of patience becomes obscure and foreign.

There's a deafening crack from outside, like lightning, and for a split second, Cullen is certain that another attack has been launched, another army of red templars bearing down upon them, the twisted abomination and its equally hideous rider tearing through the skies. Then he hears the applause, recognises one of his guard's voice call out words of encouragement. The fucking mages are at it again. If he had any energy, he'd march outside to bollock them for being so loud. A commander shouldn't be disturbed while he works. Or while he should be working, at least.

Instead, he sinks further onto his desk, boneless. He's no commander. Just a lyrium-addled templar thrust into a position of authority. Cassandra's refusal to fill the position herself, stand alongside Leliana, right and left hand leading the Inquisition together as a united front, was madness, pure and simple. She's infuriating, truly. He never should have agreed to this. Should have told both of them that he wasn't cut out for such a responsibility. If Kirkwall's collapse wasn't proof enough, then his breakdown at Kinloch Hold certainly was.

Apparently, Leliana had been present when the Hero of Ferelden freed the tower from Uldred and his abominations- she'd walked past him during his imprisonment and torture, heard him claim that the mages weren't to be trusted. Weren't to be left alive. The whole incident was a nightmarish blur for Cullen, trapped and endlessly tormented with nightmares and visions. His family lying dead, blood pooling at the feet of immaterial abominations, clawed hands tangling in his hair, teeth at his neck, Solona Amell's face twisting in panic and rage, her final moments as herself being spent screaming vicious condemnations of the circle. That moment was recreated more than any other- her thrashing, desperate attempt to escape the branding rod, howling in terror and impotent fury. Afterwards, while the empty vessel of her body drifted around Kinloch, working mindlessly alongside Owain, he'd overheard another templar make a sick joke about how his chances with Solona were far better now. The thought had made him miss dinner that evening, still nauseous. He should have said something, should have argued, gotten violent, killed the bastard for even suggesting it. He didn't even check to see who it was.

Despite the deaths, the terror, the agony of Kinloch's capture by abominations, there was one mercy: the husk that had once been Solona was killed - released - by the claws of an abomination. Finally herself again, beyond the veil, made whole at the Maker's side. That didn't undo the scars that the ordeal left on him, though- both in his flesh and his mind. Why Greagoir put him back to work immediately is a mystery, back among the monsters who'd subjected him to horror and pain he didn't think possible. The memory of his hatred still makes his mouth taste foul, even after a decade away from them. All that hatred and fear. All those faces looking at him, hiding around every corner. All those dark spots in his vision. All that quiet muttering, conversations he couldn't hear. All of that inside an enclosed, cramped space. Was it any surprise when he slaughtered those apprentices?

That's what it was. A slaughter. Three people dead for the crime of... what, exactly? He doesn't even recall what they'd done that had made him so sure they were a danger. His frantic mind had been searching for any excuse to preemptively strike, anything to stop it from happening again.

They should have left him in prison for that, let him rot, but the order forgave him. Pardoned him. As soon as he was somewhat lucid again, he was placed in the care of a Chantry healer, given medicines that made him drowsy and a list of things to do when he felt his fear getting the better of him. What was it called again? A... a grounding technique, yes. After a few months spent at Ostwick's mind-numbingly boring circle without any more deaths at Cullen's hand, he was considered to be 'fully recovered' from his 'little incident' and sent to Kirkwall. He genuinely thought that he'd proven himself worthy of serving again. What a sick joke.

There's another magic blast outside, lighting up his window, followed by the sound of cheers. The mages are getting better at their marksmanship. How wonderful.

The twentieth of Bloomingtide, 9:41 Dragon

A droplets of sauce from Josephine's cheese-stuffed olives lands onto the table. She sighs in exasperation, rushing to clean it with a napkin before it can stain the woodwork.

"Y'know Ruffles, I don't think a little mark is gonna make or break a noble's decision to support us." Varric sits opposite her, letters spread out beneath him. Josephine shakes her head in response while swallowing the last of her mouthful. A loose, black curl falls into her face, and she tucks it behind her ear as she speaks.

"One can never be sure- even the tiniest detail can be scrutinised by an eagle-eyed noble."

"Especially when they're looking for excuses to avoid parting with their sovereigns," Blackwall adds, making Sera laugh hard enough to choke on her mouthful of spiced meat, while Dorian rolls his eyes. He's been miserable all day, drinking and scowling. Probably spending too much time around common rabble for his liking. Josephine huffs a little laugh of her own in response, a smile playing at her mouth.

She is beautiful, unquestionably. Blackwall has always had a weakness for black hair and arched noses. Refined, polite, gentle. Better yet, lady Josephine is unattainable. If he had been happy pining from a safe distance like he'd intended during his first days at Haven, Blackwall would not be in his current predicament. A flower or two left on her desk, a meaningful glance here or there. The kind of thing he'd gotten up to in his youth with Orlesian noblewomen. One of his partners, a married lady slightly older than him, had taught him what that kind of fling was called in Orlais- though he's long since forgotten the words. Something about lost hearts. He'd thought it so romantic before his tastes drifted towards barmaids and women serving alongside him in the army.

Then Nousha had started to relax around him. Started making him laugh and sharing stories, demonstrated more goodwill towards the needy. It made him proud to stand at her side. Next thing he knew, they're flirting nonstop and practically inseparable.

Josephine and Varric continue discussing their shared woes with having to play along with powerful boors- the dwarf is ever eager to find a distraction from his letters.

On the other side of the great hall, near its open doors, there's a team of labourers hoisting a tapestry over one of the rafters. Moments later, Andraste's impassive face stares down upon them. Sera doesn't even try to repress her shudder.

"Proper creepy when you're trying to relax, isn't it? No surprise why Chantries are always so grim."

"It makes you wonder why the Inquisitor agreed to it," Varric adds and inclines his head to Josephine. "Did your diplomacy skills have a hand in this?" He gestures to the room around them. Even more Chantry sigils have appeared around Skyhold over the past few days- not what anyone expected following Nousha's outrage when she'd discovered it. Blackwall is simultaneously relieved and frustrated that he wasn't there to witness it. Despite himself, he misses her. Misses her smile, her warmth, the feel of her scalp against his lips.

"Partially," Josephine answers cheerfully, "alongside my fellow advisors, of course. Despite her- ah, more challenging behaviours, the Inquisitor is a reasonable woman who can understand that we must rely upon the support of nobility and, of course, the Chantry." Her use of the word 'reasonable' makes several people around them break into laughter. Even Sera snickers at it.

"Very diplomatic of you," Dorian says, smirking into his glass of wine.

When Blackwall returns to his spot in the stable after dinner, he can feel that the air is thick and oppressive. Perhaps the storm from Orlais is moving towards them. He's still thinking about the laughter. The scorn in Dorian's eyes. Besides himself and Varric, he doesn't think Nousha has any positive relationships within the Inquisition's inner circle. He'd heard her snap at most of them at least once, outright screaming matches with some. Apparently, her first act upon being released from her chains was to take a swing at Cassandra- they'd both been bloodied and bruised when they met Varric and Solas, and several scuffles broke out between them on their way to seal that first rift. She hasn't even had dinner in the great hall since arriving at Skyhold. What will this reputation mean for the Inquisition long term? What may the Corypheus creature may do if the Inquisition's forces don't care enough to defend Nousha- what may the Chantry do?

The knock at the stable's door makes Blackwall jump so much that he almost slices his thumb open with the whittling knife.

It's Nousha. Of course it is.

"Hey," she says. Her voice is soft and sad. Resigned. "We should talk."

He knew she'd come looking for him at some point, and yet he's completely lost for words. All he can do is nod mutely and avert his eyes. She takes a few uncertain steps forward until she stands about a metre away from him.

"I... I want to ask you about. Ah. You-- you know. What's going on? Are we-- is this not what you want anymore?" Her gloved hands fidget nonstop as she talks, intertwining her fingers and gripping her knuckles. No, my lady, I want this more than anything.

"I care for you, certainly. More than I should. But," he pauses for a moment, considering his words, trying not to look at the way she winces. "But... you are the Inquisitor. The Herald of Andraste--"

"I'm no Herald! I'm not chosen by anybody, there's no divine presence behind me."

"It doesn't matter what the truth is- this is what people see you as, and there's no changing that." She's silent for a moment, stunned. And then she breaks into a bitter laugh.

"No changing it? Do you have any idea how many times I've been told that? Tell me, how hard have you tried to change peoples' minds? How hard has anybody tried? Why should the people of Thedas call me anything other than Herald when that's what the people in my own army call me it?"

"What would you have us do, prohibit the troops from using that title for you?"

"Yes!" There it is- there's the anger. "The soldiers have to do latrine work or extra laps if they show disrespect to any of their seniors. Why can't I have that same protection? Why is it that when I ask for people to call me by my fucking name, all I get are excuses and these wide-eyed stares like I'm the idiot?" There are tears in her eyes threatening to spill down onto her cheeks. Unthinkingly, Blackwall reaches for her, the memory their embrace in the mountains springing forth in his mind. His hand is batted away in an instant while Nousha steps back. "Don't fucking touch me!"

The venom in her voice makes Blackwall's stomach drop. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but can only gawp while she continues her tirade.

"I'm an apostate, I'm from Rivain, I'm a fucking ox! Since the moment this magic infected my hand, I've had all of that painted over with some stupid fucking Andrastian title! Now you use it to justify giving me the boot!"

"Nousha--"

"I get it!" She cries, raising her hands in exasperation. The loudness of her voice seems to jolt her out of her anger, and she looks outside, a little embarrassed. When she looks back to him, her face betrays her weariness. "I get it, okay? I know I'm not the easiest person to deal with- even before all... this. I've been rejected before, most people have. It's a pretty common experience. I'm a big girl, just-- can you have the decency to be honest with me?"

He bows his head in shame, unable to meet her gaze. I can't be with you because I'm a liar. I had a family slaughtered in return for money, I left my men to face a noose without me, I got a good man killed and then stole his name to keep evading justice. The spot where the real Blackwall died, the spot where the name of Thom Rainier was abandoned, flashes through the pretender's mind.

"There's somewhere I need to take you. Alone. I'll explain everything."

"Where?"

"The storm coast- one of the cliffs there. You deserve to know--"

"Why the fuck would I traipse all the way over there just for you to tell me why you're not interested?"

"I am interested," he chokes. All it does is enrage her again. Her face twists into a scowl and she draws further back from him.

"You're a liar," she spits, more correct than she realises, "and so self-involved that you expect me to go on a wild goose chase for you to explain something that could just as easily be said right here."

I can't tell you right here because I'm scared shitless. I can't tell you here because people may intervene if you decide to kill me for my crimes- may stop you from giving me the justice that the Callier's deserve. He doesn't say this. Doesn't say anything. The long, pregnant silence that passes is agonising. Blackwall's eyes are fastened tightly on straw and dirt-covered floor beneath him. His skin itches maddeningly. Once Nousha realises that she will receive no explanation from the red faced wretch before her, she gives another laugh- quick and incredulous. "Fucking ridiculous," she mutters to herself. Then she spins on her heel and leaves.

Blackwall rubs his thumb along the jagged edges of the panther in his hand as he watches Nousha retreat through Skyhold's courtyard. His vision starts to blur, and he has to wipe at his eyes.

The twenty first of Bloomingtide, 9:42 Dragon

The Trevelyans' carriage arrives early in the morning. Nousha had made a hopeful comment about the torrential rain potentially slowing them down by a day or two, but it appears to have done the opposite, making them hurry to get out of the storm. When it pulls to a stop at the main gates, three figures step out, their faces obscured by hoods. The tallest among them unties the horses and leads them into the stables. Dennet approaches, clearly offering to assist, but is waved off. Josephine and the Inquisitor approach the remaining two.

"Welcome," Josephine chirps, shaking their hands in turn- luckily Nousha doesn't have to be told to do the same. "We hope the weather was not too unpleasant for you."

One of them, a chubby, brown-skinned woman with wide-set eyes and a strongly arched nose, smiles and nods politely, though there's a tension in her shoulders that suggests she's not used to socialising.

"I-- we're-- we're glad to meet you, milady. The journey was fine." She's dressed nicely, a smart frock beneath her woolen jacket, but no sign of the Trevelyan crest- not even the family colours. Blythilde; the bastard, Josephine registers. "Bann Trevelyan wants to return to Ostwick as quickly as possible, though I imagine that my-- that ser Caldwell will use the weather to justify spending a night or two here- if that isn't too much of an imposition, of course."

Josephine smiles and waves at the air with carefully practiced nonchalance. "Not at all! We would be honoured to host your family! Our cooks have already prepared a lunch, if you are feeling hungry."

Before the girl can open her mouth, the figure beside her speaks, pulling down his hood to reveal a pale, ruddy face. "I'm afraid bann Trevelyan is quite eager to get our business out of the way first." His grey hair is kept short and the sideburns that reach down to his jaw are well-maintained, even after the long journey, but there are several scars on his face, as well as a nose that looks to have been badly broken. A guardsman, maybe even an ex-soldier, who has spent so much time among the nobility that he's picked up their preening habits.

To Josephine's left, Nousha interjects. "Is bann Trevelyan feeling alright?" She nods towards the carriage as she speaks, where the curtains are pulled tightly shut.

"Ah, yes- he gets quite travel sick," The guard says casually, "Let him get his bearings before he joins us."

Caldwell returns from the stable at that moment, his hood also pulled back, revealing his face. He absentmindedly runs a hand through his receding hair. He glances to the carriage as he passes it, highlighting his facial profile and the grey streaks in his beard. Josephine realises that his right ear is undeveloped- half the size that it should be, looking like it's collapsing in on itself.

His skin is several shades darker than his daughter's. On top of that, his body type and face shape is almost the exact opposite, tall and thin, with an aqualine nose. Besides their small mouths and brown eyes, there's no family resemblance between them. Josephine could imagine him two decades younger, successfully rejecting the babe, claiming that she was another man's bastard, had he been so inclined. Blythilde smiles up at him as he approaches, stands a little taller with him present.

"Good to meet you at last, Herald." Josephine stiffens at his use of the title, but Nousha manages a queasy smile as she shakes his hand. "My father's very interested in your Inquisition."

A cult of frothing lunatics looking to use another magic-induced tragedy to usurp the sunburst throne, he'd said. Very interested indeed.

After a few minutes of exchanging pleasantries, Josephine notices that Blythilde is staring in the direction of the kitchens, where breakfast is still being prepared. The smell of spiced porridge wafts through the keep, and Josephine feels her stomach jump to life, aware that she hasn't eaten since last night. Caldwell notices it, too- but only asks Josephine if his daughter may eat when he hears the carriage door open, and his father grunting in discomfort as he steps down and into the mud.

Bann Manley Rosamund Hart Trevelyan's advanced age has not done much to lessen his imposing stature. While his back has grown stooped and he uses a cane to support himself, his sharp eyes flit around every inch of Skyhold- and every person within its walls. Unlike his son, he keeps what remains of his hair short and close to his scalp, while his face is kept clean shaven. His clothes are the blue and white of the Trevelyan heraldry, and there is a horse emblazoned on his breast pocket. Blythilde scurries towards the kitchen as he draws near- her bowed head makes it clear that it's no longer the smell of food that's drawing her away. Josephine wishes she could retreat, too.

She points out where they got each piece of Chantry imagery, names each sister they pass by, stories of her own experiences as a young girl attending Chantry services. It makes her feel like a tour guide or a vendor, trying to sell the Inquisition as worthy of funding. Luckily, she's had to do this several times already with visiting nobles from Orlais. While Caldwell smiles politely and feigns interest, bann Trevelyan looks almost as unimpressed as Nousha does. If anything, the disgust in his face has only grown since stepping out of his carriage.

"The chairs are nice," Caldwell says, nodding towards them. "Look, father." They're made of good, dark wood- thick legs that were crafted with structural integrity rather than opulence. One of their backs has a stylised mabari painted into it. "Fereldan made, yes?"

"Yes," Josephine says quickly, "our Commander thought that since so many of our troops were from Ferelden, some fitting decoration would be appreciated." She turns to the bann, a conversational smile on her face. "Your mother was from Ferelden originally, wasn't she?"

The bann grunts "Aye," and scratches at his jaw thoughtfully. "From West Hill."

There it is- the softening of his expression. Lady Blair Trevelyan had been over a hundred years old when she died just a few summers ago. The bann's love for his mother is still alive and well, though, clearly visible on his heavily lined face.

"Grandmother would visit home every summer- I remember when she'd take us with her as children."

"How lovely," Josephine smiles and clasps her hands together, "I'd love to hear more about her before you depart."

A warm smile creases Caldwell's face. "You'd need to clear a few hours in your schedule- she was a woman with a lot of stories, wasn't she?"

As he nods in agreement, bann Trevelyan's thin-lipped mouth twitches slightly, the beginnings of a smile. For a split second, he looks relaxed. Grandfatherly, almost.

Then his eyes spot something across the hall, and the smile dies on his face. A moment of shock that almost, almost turns to pain. Then a furious scowl. "I believe we've wasted enough time listening to your clumsy attempts at endearing yourselves." He waves a hand dismissively. "Show us to wherever it is you conduct your meetings- let's get this shite out of the way."

The optimism drains out of Josephine in a heartbeat. As she mutely ushers them through the side door and into her office, her gaze flicks over to the direction the bann had looked.

One of the dwarven masons is working to hang the memorial plaque on the far wall. The words 'REMEMBERING THE LOST SOULS OF HAVEN & THE CONCLAVE' is carved at the top in bold letters. How a man in his seventies could read the writing from across the other end of the hall is beyond Josephine.

When the Trevelyan men are seated - their guard insists on standing alert - Josephine offers them her best wine. The bann grimaces as he waves it off like he's been presented with a steaming mug of horse urine. "Save your swill," he spits. "Get to the point."

Josephine throws a quick, worried glance towards the Inquisitor, who only shrugs. "Well, ser Trevelyan, the Inquisition's goals of sealing these rifts that have been appearing across Thedas - releasing demons and the like - cannot be done by a small group."

"And why is that?" As he asks his question, the bann leans back in his chair and puts his feet up on Josephine's desk. The mud on his boots glistens in the candlelight, crumbs of it break off and land on the rich wood. She sees ser Caldwell wince in the corner of her eye.

"Well," she pauses to give a quick, polite smile, "we need contacts to bring word of where the breaches are found- and scouts to deliver the message. These breaches tend to occur in clusters, a handful of them will appear within a few miles of each other. As a result, the Inquisitor cannot simply travel from place to place, shutting them. I wish it was that easy. Until we can get the Herald there, we also need troops to clear the area- prevent demons from wandering too close to nearby settlements and camps. On top of that, we need healers and cooks to keep our soldiers healthy, and armourers to keep them- well, armoured." Bann Trevelyan rubs absentmindedly at one of his eyes, not hiding his boredom. "In order to to that, we need--"

"Money," he cuts in. He smiles as he said it, one that radiates derision and contempt. "The almighty sovereign."

"Yes, ser Trevelyan; money. The Inquisition has strong ties to the Chantry- as it has since the first Blight. The templar order and the Seekers came from the Inquisition, in fact." Still maintaining his horrid smile, the bann raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. "In order to honour and maintain these ties, we have been collaborating with many different chantries; they support us financially, send us their goods, there are even a few sisters at Skyhold who take part in various jobs. We could not manage without their input. In return, we have soldiers defending them, we've built watchtowers near their communities, and our couriers will assist with their important deliveries."

"Of course, of course. It's important to protect your own, after all." The sarcasm isn't subtle.

Caldwell sits a little straighter in his chair. "What my father means--"

"I don't need to be translated." He doesn't even glance at his son- too busy aiming an unpleasant smile at Nousha, who still stands beside Josephine's desk, hand resting casually on her hip. Andraste help them all, Nousha makes no attempt at hiding her dislike of the old man. Her lip curls as she returns his stare. Despite her eyes being such a warm golden colour, there's a horrible iciness to them most of the time- including now.

After a moment, in which Josephine half expects the seven-foot Inquisitor will leap forward and strangle bann Trevelyan to death, She continues. "Due to your well-respected position among the Free Marches, there are many marcher chantries who feel... reluctant to ally themselves with the Inquisition, since you have expressed disapproval of our work." He actually chuckles at the word 'disapproval'. "For the sake of Thedas, we are interested in allying with your family. While these tears are only occurring in Ferelden and Orlais, if the problem is not fixed at is root, we believe that the veil's stability will degrade- leading to these incidents spreading. Ostwick itself could be threatened by--"

"Lady Montilyet," Caldwell interrupts, "I understand the Inquisition's quest and respect the work you do- but my father's concerns about the organisation have gone unaddressed in your letters. While the lack of support from the Free Marches must be frustrating to you, it has inconvenienced us as well. We've received serious push-back from other noble families, we've had alliances threatened because of this. I appreciate your diplomacy, but I really must ask that we skip ahead to the real discussion." Blunt like his father, but mercifully lacking his temper.

Josephine opens her mouth to reply, but Nousha speaks first. "It's hard to 'get to the point' when all your father does is roll his eyes and glare at me. Tell me, old man: what is it you want to say?"

The air goes out of the room at the Inquisitor's bluntness- she and Caldwell exchange a horrified look, and the Trevelyan's guardsman steps forward, his perpetually red face flushing further.

"How dare you speak to the--" Bann Trevelyan holds up a silencing hand, still glaring at Nousha.

"You and your fucking Inquisition," he growls in a low voice. "The divine dies, my son dies, and your first instinct is to go around sucking up money and influence across Thedas. You devour it. All the while you call yourself a Herald. A symbol of hope." He says the phrase with such venom that Josephine cringes. "Fucking ghouls," he spits as he rises to his feet. There's a vein standing out on his temple. "Some nobody shows up and decides to have a crack at the sunburst throne. Ridiculous. And yet there's countless simpletons out there who believe that you've been chosen by Andraste herself! That's what fear does, isn't it? Makes you desperate? Makes you look for a saviour? Someone to fix everything? Very clever of you. How politically minded, to see a tragedy and immediately leap to capitalise off of it. Fucking animals. No wonder the Orlesians hate you so much- you're even more cutthroat than them!"

Nousha, who has been impassive throughout the old man's tirade, grimaces slightly at the comparison. If it were any- any other situation, Josephine might have laughed.

"I've kept a close watch on you all- watched you grow rich and powerful. Build yourself an army of fanatics looking to seize power. They talk about you like you're the Maker made flesh. They actually knelt before you when you sealed that first rift, I've heard. And then what? What comes next, eh? You going to invade a country? Shall you annex Ferelden?"

Josephine rises from her desk and raises her hands in an attempt to diffuse the situation. "Ser Trevelyan, the Herald's abilities are not a lie; she truly can close the veil's tears and protect Thedas from the demons that--"

The bann turns to glare at Josephine and bellows loud enough to make her jump. "I don't give a shit! I don't care what she can do!" His face is flushed now and he's breathing hard. "The point is that your Inquisition is using Andraste's name to prop itself up- to make itself look trustworthy. And they do this with this fat fucking ox!" His use of the word makes Nousha stand up straighter, her fists bunch at her sides. The slight jowls and frown lines on her face are exaggerated by how hard she's scowling, but Trevelyan pays her no mind. "It's insultingly transparent. you pretend to honour the dead, you pretend to serve Andraste. You're just another lying cult that's struck gold and gotten hold of an ox with some special magic abilities- now you're trying to swallow up Thedas. You're like another blight. If I was a decade or two younger I'd have waged a war against you. I'd run you through myself!"

Nousha's huge fist closes around the old man's collar in the blink of an eye. She yanks him upward - almost off his feet, bringing their faces within a few inches of each other. The sudden jerk causes his back to straighten, Josephine hears him hiss in pain. The cane he was leaning on is dropped and clatters uselessly on the floor. In an instant, he's a fragile old man again rather than a vicious enemy.

Caldwell's eyes are wide open as he surges forward. He cries out for his father and throws an arm in front of the old man defensively. Behind them, their guard draws closer, his hand on his sword.

"Don't interfere," the bann barks stubbornly. When his son doesn't step back quickly enough, he's nudged aside by his father- Josephine doubts that the old man could truly force Caldwell to step back through a contest of strength. It's gentler than that- a reassurance. The younger Trevelyan allows himself to be pushed back, and is given a small, almost unnoticeable pat on the shoulder for obeying.

One year when she was young, when Yvette had gone through an unexpected growth spurt at sixteen that put her at a full three inches taller than Josephine, they had gone hunting in the Tellari swamps with their father.

While Yves Montilyet was distracted, carefully leveling his crossbow at a pack of babirusa, figuring out which would make the best dinner, Josephine heard her sister's breathing stop. When she turned to look, she saw a massive gurgut standing before them. Silent and still as the trees that it had appeared from, no more than five yards from her. The blood on its snout was still wet. The black slits in its golden eyes were fixed right on her. She's not certain how long she stood there, paralysed before the hulking beast, transfixed by it. After what could have been an eternity, she was pulled backwards by Yvette. Her little sister had wrapped her spindly arms wrap around Josephine's shoulders in a desperate attempt to keep her safe.

The gurgut's appetite was evidently sated by its recent meal, because rather than attacking and tearing them both to pieces, it continued on its path, giving them a wide berth, and slipped away. Their father shot, missed, and swore in frustration as the babirusa scattered.

Something about it - the love in the gesture, the bravery, knowing that this girl that Josephine could still remember watching take her first steps was all that stood between her and certain death - marked a dramatic shift in her relationship with her sister. They grew closer. Yvette's frustrating habits grated on Josephine far less. Perhaps Josephine shouldn't have let her get away with so much tomfoolery in their adulthood, but every argument between them brings forth memories of being shielded from the huge, unblinking gurgut. It's hard to scold someone too viciously when they've risked their life to protect you.

Nousha stares down at the Trevelyan men. There's a look in her eyes that Josephine can't identify. She tilts her head as if deep in thought.

Then she smiles.

"You know," Nousha says in a soft, syrupy voice that one might speak to a child with, "you're partially right. The reliance on people seeing me as Andraste's Herald is quite horrid." Bann Trevelyan squints at her response. "I'm not even religious but even I find all this performative piety horribly offensive."

Josephine finally summons the presence of mind to attempt to intervene. "Lady Adaar-"

"No, no, Josephine; he wants sincerity, let's be sincere. Now, ser Trevelyan-- Manley- the part that you're wrong about is just about everything else. I don't want power, don't want money, don't want the sunburst throne. I hate all the attention that I'm getting, and all of the nobles we have to entertain- I was just a mercenary hired to preserve the peace during the conclave. Once we deal with this problem, I'm getting out of here.

"The work we're doing is vital to keep Thedas safe. I can't leave. I can't oversee every letter that my advisors write about me, can't listen in on every conversation. The amount of times I've told people that I'm not Andraste's Herald..." She pauses to grimace. "I stopped counting after a week. I am not Andrastian, but the politically minded people who arrested me wanted to create an Inquisition, so they decided to go with the whole Andraste's Herald thing that people have been whispering about. People come to Skyhold and they're horrified to learn that I'm their Herald. Me being a mage and not human isn't mentioned. It's already happening- I'm being rewritten by these fools. They remake me, turn me into something else. I'm not just saying this to make the whole conversation about my feelings, by the way. I can see why a devout man like you would see through that. I'd be insulted if someone expected me to believe a lie so obvious. Frankly, it's a wonder that more people haven't said what you said." She shakes him a little, despite her almost friendly words, and Josephine sees him wince in pain. His back will be seizing up for days.

"You are self involved," he says slowly, "but I can forgive that. What I object to is having my son's death be lied about. That memorial you've got outside- how are you supposed to pay respects to the dead if the story of their death is being twisted into something else? You surviving the conclave because you're Andraste's Chosen paints the dead as... as unworthy." The tiredness that enters the bann's voice is unmistakable- as is the sadness in his eyes.

Nousha's face softens, then. Genuine warmth that Josephine has never seen from her before. "I can redouble my efforts to set people straight, if you like. Maybe that'll finally make my advisors actually listen to me- the threat of you going against us."

"It's terribly good of you to play diplomat," he says defiantly, "but you've still got a hold of my shirt."

She tilts her head at that, making a show of contemplating something that Josephine's certain she already decided. "Okay. I'll let you go- but know this: You use that word again, or make any threats against me or anybody else in my Inquisition, and you won't be returning home in one piece. Do I make myself clear?"

The other two men shift their weight. One of Caldwell's hands disappears up the opposite's sleeve while their guard has a vice grip on the hilt of his sword. Silently, Josephine reaches for the underside of her desk- the dagger she keeps strapped to it. After an eternity of what would have been silence if not for the thunderous sound of blood rushing in her ears, the bann nods grimly. Nousha drops him, and he rolls his shoulders while his son dutifully picks his cane back up and hands it to him.

"Good," Nousha remarks casually, "good to know we can pretend to be friendly, at least." Trevelyan just grunts and shakes his head, as if he regrets not escalating things into a bloodbath. "So, is that our deal? We drop the Herald of Andraste thing and you'll give the go-ahead for--"

"No," he spits. "You've already embraced it. Maybe not you personally, but your people have." He jabs a contemptuous thumb towards Josephine at that, like she's solely to blame. "Most of Thedas are already calling you Herald. Simply stopping isn't enough." His eyes glance towards the fire.

"Then we'll actively reject it," Nousha steps towards Josephine's desk and takes the wine that had been offered to their visitors. She pulls the cork out with her teeth and takes a swig. She doesn't even like wine, Josephine notes. "It'll be dropped from our letters entirely, nobody will be able to say Herald of Andraste around here without getting a swift kick in the--"

"That's not all." He pauses after that- either reluctant or genuinely struggling to get the words out. His eyes are still on the flames, and the bitterness in them fades for a moment, revealing more of that deep, aching grief. "I want the site of the conclave dug up. I want my son brought home for burning."

There is far, far too long of a pause after he says that. Mutely, Caldwell places a hand on his father's shoulder.

After throwing a helpless glance over to Josephine, Nousha answers. "We'll do our best"

It's honest, but a painfully wrong answer. The old man's face twists and his mouth forms into a thin line.

"Don't feed me that shite about 'doing your best'. Get it done! You've got workers, don't you? Send them down there and--"

"Listen. I was there, I saw the damage done to those people, alright? It's not that we don't care, my own friends were among the casualties. We may not be able to identify your son's..." the unsaid 'corpse' hangs in the air over the Trevelyan men like a mourning veil, and Josephine notices both of them blinking hard a few times.

The bann returns to his seat, almost deflating into the chair. His eyes are bloodshot, Josephine notices. He rubs an unsteady hand over his mouth, staring into space. Behind him, Caldwell pipes up again.

"Even if it's a slim chance, I think it's worth doing. Maybe someone will be identifiable, and they can be sent home. The rest can be given a proper funeral, sent off to the Maker together." He catches Nousha's unconvinced expression and steps towards her, narrowing his eyes and pointing an accusatory finger. "You want to hang a plaque for the dead? Honour their loss? Back that up with action. The dwarves, the Qunari, they can be separated from humans easy enough."

"And what about the Dalish? Some elves can be big, big enough to blend in with humans." Nousha's question makes Caldwell roll his eyes.

"Like I said, they can be looked at. Thoroughly examined. They'll have trinkets, won't they? Scraps of clothes? Those feet bindings that they wear? I think it can be done." He throws a hopeful glance to his father, who hasn't looked away from the fireplace.

Bann Trevelyan pinches at the bridge of his nose, and itches his mostly bald head. "What's the point? I'm not looking to drag every human back to our estate. I just want Max home."

Josephine wrings her hands together, painfully aware of how quiet she's been since things turned sour. "Ser Trevelyan," she begins uncertainly, knowing that coming across too understanding will almost certainly set the old man off again, "I know that it is painful, not being able to have your son's funeral where you would like. I cannot imagine your pain." She catches him closing his eyes, as if struck by a headache. "But I think ser Caldwell makes a good argument. Having his soul returned to the Maker alongside the other lives who were lost at the conclave is the next best thing, is it not?"

The bann gives a deep, world-weary sigh, but doesn't respond. It's only as Caldwell crouches beside his father's chair, getting on eye-level with him, and grips his shoulder, that he looks up.

"It's worth doing, da. It's the least we can do to take care of him now, right?" The younger Trevelyan's eyes shine with unshed tears as he speaks, and the bann clears his throat, trying to stop the emotion from affecting his voice when he replies.

"Fine," he murmurs. "Have the bodies burnt. I'm willing to retract my condemnation for now, but if I've not heard about your Inquisition making serious changes regarding this Herald of Andraste nonsense, don't think I won't reissue it."

When they return to the main hall, the tables are filled with various Inquisition members eating their breakfast, a few kitchen hands offering bowls of porridge to the few people with no meal before them. Nousha and Caldwell strike up a conversation about the bleak food that people usually have to rely on when traveling and are in the middle of swapping their own awful experiences when a couple of visiting orlesians approaches.

Cyrille and Bernadetta Jauquin- a brother and sister from a lesser noble house. Cyrille had once been suggested as a potential marriage candidate for Josephine. Following the scandal caused by one of their cousins running off to marry an elf from Val Royeaux's alienage, the idea had been dropped.

"Lady Josephine," Cyrille cries, raising his arms and embracing her in a quick, polite hug. "What a pleasure!"

As he releases her, Bernadetta lays a quick kiss to each of Josephine's cheeks. "It's been so long, dear thing! Tell me- is the Herald here?"

The bann smiles at her question. It's the same humourless smile that he had on before he started yelling. "The Herald."

"Yes, we've heard stories of her bravery- apparently she's a wonderful swordswoman!"

Nousha stares blankly at the orlesians. Her eyes flit towards the bann, who watches her. He nods, almost imperceptibly, and Nousha appears to come to a decision. Caldwell grimaces in anticipation.

The realisation of what is about to happen reaches Josephine just a moment too late.

She only manages to open her mouth to object as Nousha throws a vicious punch into Cyrille's jaw.

He lands heavily on his back, forcing the air from his lungs, and Bernadetta gives a piercing shriek of horror. The shrill noise bounces against the walls and ceiling of the great hall and draws the attention of its inhabitants. The various troops and labourers seated along the long tables, previously chattering amongst themselves, suddenly jolt in horror, some managing to leap to their feet before they realise that Nousha is the aggressor, rather than the victim. They stare, slack-jawed at the sight, some of them still have half-chewed food in their mouths that starts to run down their chins. There are other visiting nobles, faces that Josephine recognises, people who she and Leliana had done hours of work contacting, convincing, bribing, now blanched at the sight of Nousha towering over one of their own, who hacks and wheezes, trying to get his breath back. One woman covers her mouth with a gloved hand, smudging her lipstick. Bernadetta falls to her knees and makes a valiant effort trying to cover her brother from whatever blow she expects Nousha to dole out.

Her golden eyes are bright and wild, glancing around the room with something approaching excitement, a little smile playing at the corners of her mouth that she takes a moment to smother before speaking. "Over the past few months, the people of Thedas have labelled me their Herald." At her use of the word 'Herald', several of the nobles balk at the realisation that this is the Inquisitor. Josephine can't quite believe it either. "It's a title that does not fit. Despite this, it has stuck, it's... it's a thorn in my fucking side. I do not follow the Maker, I have been brought up outside the Chantry's teachings, yet you still paint me as Andraste's chosen.

"I've heard justifications that it's an attempt at maintaining morale- turning me into a symbol of hope. You know what I think? I think it's an attempt to remove me from history. Paint over my grey skin and my sharp ears. If I wasn't already hornless, you'd probably try to shave them off." The authoritative edge to her voice dulls, just for a moment, and that weariness from her last outburst returns. Just as Bernadetta lifts her brother to his feet again, Nousha rouses herself once more. Her eyes scan the room as she speaks, looking for any opposition. "But that ends now. I'm making an official statement on behalf of the Inquisition- any more of this Herald nonsense will be aggressively rebuked. Letters bearing that title will be burnt. Referring to me as that title will be met with..." She pauses, shooting a derisive glare at the retreating Jauquin siblings. "Considerable backlash. I will not be remade in your image."

She lifts her good hand and levels it at the wall she stands by, where a tapestry bearing Andraste's likeness hangs, worth almost eighty sovereigns, painstakingly woven by sisters at the Perendale chantry over the course of four years. A cry of alarm goes up as flames erupt from Nousha's palm and envelop it. Nousha watches it blacken and burn, devoured by fire in a matter of seconds, while the crowd panics and erupts with activity, fleeing visitors colliding with labourers hurrying to put the flames out.

Numbly, Josephine turns her head at the men beside her. Caldwell's face is locked in a grimace and his eyes sweep over the madness unfolding around him. His father's leathery old face is creased in a massive, toothy smile.

This time, it's sincere.

--

"Haven't you prepared your things?" The smug, taunting voice of that Tevinter fop cuts through the little moment of calm that Blackwall had found in the gentle crackling of the fire before him, setting his teeth on edge before the question is even fully out of his mouth.

"For what," he growls without taking his eyes off the jagged bear carving in his hands.

"Is the Inquisitor not keeping you up to date on our goings on anymore?" He can hear the smile in Dorian's voice, the gloating. "My sincerest apologies, big man; we've been called away to do some work for those Hessarian louts to the north."

The whittling knife pauses, hovering an inch away from the bear's too-angular face.

The Storm Coast.

Blackwall's on his feet in an instant. Both the bear and the blade used to bring it to life are tossed carelessly onto the worktable, beside the first pieces of wood that will be fitted together to create the rocking griffon. He moves quickly, hurriedly stuffing his travelling essentials into the pack by his bedroll, startling the horses in his rush. Dorian watches him in amused silence, leaning against the stable door and crossing his arms. His carefully groomed moustache twitches upwards in an insufferable smirk. It's only as Blackwall is hauling his bag downstairs that Dorian speaks again.

"So what did you do to rile her up? I doubt you've much practice courting anybody, woodsman. You didn't suggest a literal roll in the hay, did you? Be honest."

Blackwall is close enough to see Dorian's teeth beneath his moustache now- straight and unnaturally bright. A nobleman's teeth. Nice as they were, Blackwall thinks they'd look far better scattered across the stable floor. Despite the desire to make that improvement, he holds back. Pauses as he pulls abreast of the little bastard, regards him for a moment. The pristine clothes, the neatly kept hair, the dewy skin that must be used to outrageously expensive creams and tonics. It only makes him smile, causing Dorian's own expression to falter uncertainly.

"You know, I'm glad that you'll finally be seeing the Storm Coast for yourself. It's one of Ferelden's more picturesque regions for noblemen such as yourself looking to experience the world outside of your estates." His shoulder collides with Dorian's as he passes the smaller man, forcing him to steady himself against the stable door.

"Always making assumptions," Dorian scoffs at Blackwall's back. "Don't get your hopes up, warden; a little rain won't bother me."

Blackwall doesn't bother replying, already satisfied by the irritation in Dorian's voice, and instead focuses on hurrying to collect some provisions before they set off. There's a sickening jolt of energy buzzing away at the back of his skull, a thrill at what's to come. The end of his lie is on the horizon, the promise of justice being dealt. The noose that has been around his neck for years is finally going to be pulled taut.

--

Within an hour of setting off, a group of riders from Haven pass them by. Hob, ever ready to protect the Bann, seizes the sword at his hip and moves to confront them until Caldwell sets a hand on his shoulder. The steeds move at a light trot rather than a gallop, maintaining an easy pace for the mules among them to keep up with the horses. Blythilde spots the Inquisitor's profile among them, leaned forward on the bulk of her steed. While several of her companions give respectful nods towards the Trevelyan carriage as they pass by, she doesn't even glance at them. The Bann gives an indignant snort at her lack of acknowledgement but says nothing.

Caldwell leans his head out of the window, staring at the retreating shapes of the group. "Straight back to work, I expect."

"Aye," the Bann grunts, itching at a spot on his chin that his razor had missed that morning, leaving a patch of stubble that he's grown fixated on. "More than likely that the advisors want her out of the way while they're cleaning up her mess."

When Blythilde was around three, her father finally married someone- a Tevinter noblewoman. His decision to keep a bastard in his home was a massive deterrent to most prospective wives, and kept him a bachelor until thirty-seven. Lady Dymia Nihalias gave birth to a child two years later, and the Trevelyans held a party in celebration. Many Marcher nobles were there, though most of them have long since faded from Blythilde's memory, as well as numerous prominent Chantry figures. Even her great aunt Mercey had managed to step away from her responsibilities at Tantervale's Chantry to appear. Blythilde had wandered through the crowd of people dotted around the Trevelyan estate. She'd noticed that people tended to screw up their faces in distaste when she lingered long enough for them to recognise her, so she moved quickly and kept her eyes down. The only time she spoke to any of them was when she overheard somebody refer to little Orson as her father's first child, a harmless mistake that she would correct immediately. Her interjection was almost unfailingly met with an icy silence or a glassy-eyed smile as an adult feigned interest. She didn't linger more than a moment on these errors before continuing her adventure.

At some point, she'd reached a long line of tables spanning almost the entire length of the garden, an endless stream of plates being brought in from the kitchens so that the guests didn't run out of any options. She'd been sifting through the available food, looking for something that her childish palette found appetizing, when a distinctly Orlesian voice congratulated the Bann on his son finally becoming a father. Ser Trevelyan failed to set the man straight and instead thanked him. Feeling that her grandfather simply wasn't paying attention to the man's words, Blythilde came tottering over to remind them that Orson was, in fact, her father's second child. The Bann's leathery face went taut and a prominent vein started bulging at his temple whilst the Orlesian tittered from behind his moustache and adopted a high-pitched, immensely irritating tone that would be more appropriately used on a baby still learning to speak. His exact words were forgotten, several of them foreign to her, but even at her young age, Blythilde grasped that the Orlesian was explaining that in some strange way, she didn't truly count as her father's child, and would never be seen as such- especially now that he had a real heir to care for. Her attempts at asserting that she really was his oldest child were talked over as if she hadn't spoken, and she grew more and more upset by the man's words; his smug, impeccably groomed face was soon blurry. When a gauntleted hand gripped her arm and began tugging her forcefully away, her tears escalated into a screaming fit, kicking and clawing as she was unceremoniously flung over the guard's shoulder and removed from the garden.

Caldwell didn't realise what had happened until hours later, by which point the party had ended and Blythilde had cried herself to exhaustion in her room. He made a valiant attempt at cheering her up- walked her down to the kitchens to pick at the leftovers, and the Bann's guard who had dragged Blythilde to her room was severely admonished in front of his fellows, left bruised and limping when she next saw him, but the Orlesian's words were never discussed.

"In all fairness, Lady Adaar-"

"That ox is no lady."

"-Serah Adaar isn't a diplomat," Caldwell amends. "A mercenary is paid not paid to talk, after all. It's no surprise that she leapt to violence so readily."

"The kitchen staff say she's nice to them," Blythilde cuts in. "She comes down there and helps them with the cooking some days." The Bann gives a derisive smile and gestures towards her, his eyes on Caldwell.

"Well, clearly we're mistaken!" There's no warmth in his voice, and Caldwell releases a long sigh through his nose.

They lapse back into silence. Blythilde briefly catches Hob's eye and he gives her a smile that lies somewhere between reassuring and pitying before his gaze returns to the window.

After another hour, Blythilde speaks again, and tells them that she wants to join the Inquisition.

The twenty third of Bloomingtide, 9:42 Dragon

The skies over Redcliffe have split during the few minutes that Nousha and Dorian spent within the Gull and Lantern, there's a silent downpour of rain falling over the isolated little village as the pair step back out of the tavern doors. It's not too heavy- the hustle and bustle of people going about their business, carting goods back and fourth between the docks and market stalls or houses. Even the local children, squealing in delight as they scurry past, seem to be too immersed in their game to even notice that it's raining. The only person acknowledging the weather is, as always, Varric, wedged between Blackwall and Sera against the rock wall that overlooks the docks. He has the collar of his coat pulled up over his head, using it as an impromptu hood as if taking cover from a violent storm, and his broad features are twisted into a scowl. The fact that his ever-present stubble has turned into bristles from a few days on the road makes him look even more bedraggled.

(While waving Nousha and the others off, Shokrakar had told them to enjoy sunny old Ferelden. If not for the explosion, Nousha would have returned to their camp a few days before her birthday, give or take. Instead, she had turned forty-one in Haven, a bitter mock-celebration held alone in her cabin with a few bottles of wine, stolen from Flissa's bar.)

"Varric, go and round the others up. Sera, give us a hand with the horses." The dwarf immediately breaks into an eager half-jog, following the path around the back of the wall that leads to the docks, while Sera's movements are a little more subdued, her distraction obvious. Nousha steps forwards, positioning herself in front of Dorian, acting as a shield while he composes himself. His wet sniffing and ragged breathing are still audible, faced toward the tavern's walls in a futile attempt at hiding his tears. Despite the urge to give him time before calling everyone back, Nousha supposes that it's better to put some distance between him and this place as quickly as possible. She catches Sera's eye and impatiently jerks her head in the direction of their mounts, still tied to their respective posts a few feet away. Sera huffs and moves to untie them. The shape of Blackwall - which Nousha refuses to look directly at - lingers a few metres behind Sera, hovering uncertainly, like he's about to be asked to assist as well.

Turning her back to him, Nousha returns her attention to Dorian, placing a hand on his shoulder. The tears have stopped, mercifully, but their signs remain on his face. His eyes are puffy and bloodshot, while the subtle makeup he adorns them with have been smudged.

"You're alright, aren't you?"
"No, not really. But I think I will be, in time." He doesn't look at her as he speaks, eyes fixed on his feet, itches absentmindedly at his jaw.
"You did well. I'm--" She pauses and throws another quick glance over her shoulder to where Sera works on untying the horses and mules. When she returns to Dorian, she keeps her voice low. "You should be proud of yourself. It takes a lot to say what you did, you know? Take a little pride in that, if nothing else." He nods along to her words and runs his hand up from his jaw to his mouth, rubbing at his face like the skin is too tight for his comfort and he wants to shrug it off from the meat and bone beneath. Nousha's own hand grips the shoulder it rests on. "You've got something to clean off your makeup, don't you?" Her question piques his interest enough for him to look up at her finally, hand dropping slightly.
"Yes, in my pack. Why?"
"Because it's a fucking mess right now."

The quick, breathless laugh is quiet but sincere, his eyes creasing with a smile as he runs his fingers through his hair, as close to composing himself as he's likely to get while in Redcliffe. Nousha gives him a few affectionate pats on the back as she leads him over to their steeds, helping Sera with the untying while Dorian sorts himself out. The sound of their companions' voices soon approach from the docks.

Vivienne and Cassandra walk almost hip-to-hip, each clutching a little pouch tied with matching blue ribbons- probably bought something from the same market stall, Nousha supposes. When they reach the horses, Cassandra makes an attempt at assisting Vivienne onto her mount, more chivalrous than clumsy, only to be waved off.

"You know, you've proven a better hand with your horse than I was expecting," she notes, watching as Vivienne climbs smoothly into the saddle with her usual air of nigh-indestructible confidence. "Did you have access to them in Orlais?"

"Bastien owns several- they've been impeccably bred, too." The very mention of the man's name makes Cassandra's jaw tighten. "There's quite a few interested parties who are looking to have their mares 'introduced' to his stallions; it's rather shameless, the way they follow at his heels whenever he makes a public appearance." She pauses her boasting and runs a gloved hand over her horse's neck, scratching behind one of its ears, earning a contented snort. "On one of our first meetings, he brought me to his estate and introduced me to them. I've been riding ever since."

Sera gives a deliberately loud snort as she scrambles onto her own steed, a little mule that was confident and calm, an easy ride for beginners such as her. "Oh, I'll bet," she says, earning a quick, unimpressed glance from Vivienne.

A few minutes later, their steeds trot past Redcliffe's gates, where the road splits. Several members of the company make for the trail they came from, which leads north, along the western edge of Lake Calenhad, almost a straight line to the Storm Coast. Nousha calls them back with a low whistle.

"We're heading east," she informs them, and watches various bewildered looks pass over her companions' faces, while Vivienne simply raises a single, expertly groomed eyebrow. "Haven wasn't the only place buried by snow. There was an avalanche up north and the roads still haven't been cleared." There were conflicting reports, according to her advisors. The mangled shadow of Corypheus' dragon had definitely passed over the mountains surrounding Orzammar's entrance, the survivors' descriptions of the nightmarish beast were vivid enough to ensure that, but the exact role that it had played was unclear. Some claimed that the winged abomination had breathed fire onto the mountaintops, or crashed into them, or simply bellowed loudly enough to knock a few tons of snow loose. One of the gate guards had told Leliana's scout that she'd seen the distant shape of an army moving towards Haven on her spyglass two days before the attack began. Theories had been tossed around the dwarves that explosives had been left behind to cut off any rescue attempts from Ferelden. A few more excitable guards had sworn that darkspawn were responsible. Corypheus had, after all, excited them into a level of activity that usually warned of a coming Blight, according to historical text.

Vivienne's eyes narrow, scrutinising, and she slightly inclines her head. "The poor dears haven't gotten around to cleaning it up themselves? I hope they don't expect us to do it on their behalf." As always, the acidic judgement is hidden behind a transparent veneer of concern. Even so soon after the confrontation with his father, Dorian struggles to stifle a laugh, and Nousha hears his quick, choked splutter, slightly muffled from behind a hand.

Cassandra leans forward in her saddle, furrowing her brow. "How long have you known about this?"

"One of Cullen's men let me know before we set off."

"And you only told us now?"

"It's only relevant now."

"Your inner circle should be kept up to date regarding what--"

"My inner circle is the Valo-Kas," Nousha spits. "If you want to be in the know, then ask Leliana. You and her decided to start this Inquisition in the first place, after all. Even if you did abandon your duties."

Cassandra's face reddens, and Nousha spots a vein bulging at her temple. She manages to stop herself from smirking until her horse has turned away from them, and she spurs him forward into a steady trot.

"We'll follow the path east 'til we reach Lothering- then we push through the Bannorn to the coast."

She hears Sera let out a disbelieving scoff at the mention of Lothering, and Dorian's sleek, well groomed mare pulls up abreast of her a moment later. He leans towards her, hazel eyes wide and pleading.

"Are you certain that's wise, given the recent troubles?" He keeps his voice low, but his lips and jaw move exaggeratedly, carefully enunciating each word. Nousha inclines her head, giving a wry smile.

"Come now, Dorian- Fereldan Banns aren't that bad."

--

The twenty-fifth of Bloomingtide, 9:42 Dragon

It's early in the afternoon when they draw near Lothering. Despite her casual attitude on the way there, Nousha is as silent as the rest of them when the blackened, skeletal remains of a once bustling village looms before them. As they descend from a neglected bridge onto the dirt path that leads through the outskirts of the village, she fidgets atop her immense steed, and Varric catches her staring warily around them, though she resists the urge to look back over her shoulder, which is more than can be said for most of their companions.

Most darkspawn fled back underground when the archdemon was killed. The few stubborn (or stupid) packs who lingered were cut down and incinerated by foreign wardens who were brought to Ferelden to assist in the post-Blight duties. Lothering was no exception to this. The corpses of villagers who were slaughtered during its destruction were burned, too- on proper Andrastian funeral pyres, rather than with the pile of putrid corpses. That didn't undo the damage that had been done to the area, though. It didn't cure the local flora and fauna of blight sickness, liquid death that oozed from the darkspawn in the form of their black vomit and blood and sweat. Even a full decade later, the land is barren and dead. Terra Damnata. The grass beneath them is dehydrated and straw-like, while the trees look as though they've been dead for years. There are no nests within their branches, nor any sign of insect hives.

"You lot can smell them, right?" Sera's voice is hissed and urgent, like they're within the deep roads, full of twisting tunnels that serve as almost infinite hiding places for darkspawn. "You're not getting any whiffs, are you?"

It takes Blackwall a moment to process the question, and his own response is uncertain.

"I-- ah, no. No whiffs."

Consciously, Varric knows that Lothering is only a twisted, massacred shadow of its former self, almost unrecognisable, even to those who were intimately familiar with its layout. Despite himself, parts of his mind clamber for a sign of the life that the Hawke family was torn away from. Various memories spring forth, descriptions and stories of their experiences in the years they spent as Lothering's villagers. Within spitting distance of the local Chantry, they'd told him. Cordelia spent the odd afternoon there. Local farmers grew their crops nearby, that's where Stafford found Pirouette, her ratty little terrier, just before the darkspawn arrived. She'd probably been lost or abandoned by her old owners when they were passing through.

A river, too, feeding water into lake Calenhad. Children used to play there. The water is miraculously devoid of taint, but no kids remain to wade through it or splash one another. The grassy fields were dotted with mostly abandoned animal dens that made for perfect hiding spots. Carver had been 'close' with a local girl, and he'd endeared himself to her by playing hide-and-seek with her younger sisters. Stafford and Bethany laughed themselves to tears when they'd recounted it at the Hanged Man; big burly Carver, red-faced and flustered because he kept losing his footing in the long, wet grass, falling on his ass a few times while his sweetheart watched. One of the youngest girls decided that he'd not been humiliated enough and leapt out at him from a particularly dense thicket, twigs sticking out of her braids, and he took a particularly bad tumble, right down a hillock. He cracked his jaw on a rock and lost a couple molars.

All three of the Hawke girls had matching mabari tattoos inked in his memory, placed just below their left collarbones.

There are ragged, rotten pieces of fabric strewn about some patches of dirt, remnants of the tents that people were resting in. Well. Perhaps 'rest' is a strong word for it- the terror that built as the Blight's hideous army drew nearer with each passing second kept most awake.

The Hawkes didn't discuss those weeks leading up to the attack in too much detail, but there were countless books published following the archdemon's death. Most of them were focused on the leading figures in the story, the noble wardens Aeducan and Theirin, locked in a thrilling game of cat and mouse against Loghain, the reductively flat and simplified villain, avoiding numerous assassins and plots to discredit their order, camping in the wilderness for almost a full year rather than spending the night at an inn where anyone could recognise them. Fun reads, to be sure, but Varric had found himself fully absorbed, heart and soul, by a book called Surviving the Taint: Ferelden's stories of the Fifth Blight. While the wardens were collecting treaties from around their country, thousands of lives were ruined or lost, and this book captured their tales beautifully. Its author was a sister at Denerim's Chantry, and the massive influx of people fleeing the darkspawn had provided her with plenty of subjects to interview.

His mind struggles to rebuild the village before him, to make intact houses and shops out of the silent ruins, imagine the mixture of herbs and spices in the air, intermingling with the smell of warm bread in a bakery. Birds. Voices that weren't screaming. The way that one of the survivors had described it. In the weeks leading up to Lothering's destruction, the air had been thick with dread as more and more refugees passed through, many injured, wearing clothes that still bore traces of the blood they'd lost in their escape. Those who had contracted blight sickness through close contact with the darkspawn were left at its already cramped Chantry to be given some comfort in their final hours. Some of the local midwives who were proficient in herbalism brought tinctures, providing extra balms and remedies to ease their passing. The sisters requested herbs that would alleviate the pain and fever, but if their patients fell into a deep slumber from which they never awoke, no questions were asked. Who has time for an investigation when there's another wave of people seeking shelter at your door?

Templars and soldiers stood at the southern border of the village, watching for any sign of movement in the distance. At dusk, they lit torches to better illuminate the night's blackness, seeking any possible advantage they could get. The interviewee, who remained anonymous, described the seemingly endless tension of those dark hours; she brought her family's cots into the kitchen, by the backdoor, and had everyone sleep in their clothes, even in their boots. She and her husband took turns keeping watch out of the window each night, alert and on edge for any ill sign. Alert and hardly blinking despite the itch behind her eyes, babe clutched to her chest, jolting at any sound- even the wind or the snoring of her children. The sight of the sky beginning to lighten as the sun bled over the horizon was like Andraste's second coming, she had said, the relief of having made it through another night. The promise of safety for one more day.

The darkspawn attacked Lothering soon after dawn. The woman and two of her children were the only survivors in their household.

Countless other tales of a similar nature were born from the Fifth Blight, overlooked in favour of praising the wardens' journey. It's as if the land itself is holding a silent vigil in memory of its lost inhabitants, refusing to bring forth more life without them. Or maybe he's just looking for some kind of beauty where there is none, insufferable poeticisms, Stafford had dubbed this habit of his, once. Pretty apt, he muses.

Beyond a thin stream, as well as the broken remains of a stone bridge, there's a clearing. A brick wall, partially collapsed, hides the bulk of something big, and Varric leans forward in his saddle, trying to see it. The reveal is slow as his mule trudges forward, bringing it into view, though Varric knows what it is the moment he sees the ruined statues of Andraste at its front.

"Maker," Cassandra breathes, clutching at a necklace hidden beneath her gambeson. The Chantry's ruined entrance is still riddled with arrows, and parts of its doors are scattered across the floor, practically reduced to splinters by its attackers. The windows are in a similar state, and the building's roof has collapsed in on itself, blackened and charred. The mere sight makes Varric smell smoke, just for an instant, bringing an acrid taste to the back of his tongue.

"You know, Bethany once told me that if Lothering hadn't been attacked, she could have seen Cordelia becoming a sister here." It's a difficult concept to visualise- a woman so twisted by anger and violence donning the same peach coloured robes as the holy women that preached in Hightown. He could, however, see a controversial, sensationalist novella being written about such an idea. Probably by himself under a pseudonym.

"But it did, and she eloped with the mage who killed Elthina." Cassandra's voice is low and strained, like she's speaking around a lump in her throat.

Varric opens his mouth to make some half-hearted comment about the other lives lost before the Chantry explosion, but he notices that Nousha has stopped her horse and is craning in her saddle to peer at the broken ruins. Immediately behind her, Dorian and Solas pull their steeds to a halt and Varric is forced to do the same as he speaks.

"What's wrong, Stranger?"

"Maybe nothing. Hold on." She climbs hurriedly off of her horse and grunts as she drops to the ground. A few of their company make to follow her, but she holds a placating hand up at them, striding towards the statues of Andraste. She leans forward, getting a good, close look at them.

"You're not about to convert to Andrastianism, are you?"

"Shut up," she says, straightening up and turning back around, bewilderment on her face. "There's lichen growing here."

Sera and Blackwall's shared horse pulls up beside Varric. They're at his right, between him and Nousha, and he can see Sera's head tilt.

"So?"

"So, that means that life is starting to come back to Lothering. Maybe it'll be inhabitable again within our lifetimes"

"There's moss, too!" Varric spins around in his saddle to see that Cole's pony is now riderless, and the spirit boy stands several paces away on the other side of the path. He's pointing excitedly at the wood of a destroyed house. When Varric squints, he can see that there is, in fact, a healthy-looking patch of moss sprouting across a collapsed support beam. "Flourishing, flowering, feeding! Life goes on, even when buried beneath an avalanche of death!"

"It certainly does," Nousha says briskly as she climbs back into her saddle, "Come on, boy. These things happen quicker when you're not watching."

Despite the Inquisitor's hopeful tone, Varric's teeth remain on edge until Lothering is far behind them.

--

The twenty-seventh of Bloomingtide, 9:42 Dragon

It's late in the evening when the Hessarian camp finally comes into view, bordering on dusk.

Since acquiring the horses from Dennet, returning to the Storm Coast was a far quicker journey than it had been on their first visit, even with their detour to Redcliffe. To be away from the Bannorn drops a significant weight from around Nousha's neck; allowing her to sit a little taller in her saddle, far from the nobles who own the towns they passed through who were shamelessly eager to be rid of them. Traveling to intercept her on the road with a company of armed men, only pacified by the discovery that they were up against Inquisition members. It was the same in the Valo-Kas, interfering banns and the like who couldn't stand a bunch of armed oxmen on their land.

In her late twenties, she and her group had been stopped outside of Ostwick while they were travelling to do some mercenary work by a Bann's forces. The old bastard had decided that they were a militarised threat to the city and refused to allow them entrance. The noblewoman who'd employed the Valos-Kas threatened to contact Ostwick's Teyrn. Before things could escalate any further, the Bann's son had appeared and ordered the men back to their posts. He'd been very apologetic about his father's meddling, and promised that there would be no more interruptions during their work in the city.

Nousha hadn't thought about either man until she saw Caldwell's ear.

"I'm so honoured that you've brought me along this time," Varric hisses from beneath his hood, taking shelter from the torrential rain. "What a treat!"

"Hush," she says. It's enough of a challenge steering her horse down the wet, muddy path without someone yammering at her.

"What's the temper for, did the high from punching that Orlesian wear off already?" 

The Hessarian camp that awaits them at the bottom of yet another steep hill is still and silent as the trees that surround it. If not for the dim glow within its walls, easily visible from their vantage point, it would appear that the darkspawn had already broken through its defenses and left the outpost dead and empty. It's a far cry from how proudly the Blades had lit themselves on Nousha's previous visit- an impressive beacon amid several miles of gloomy forest. Now it's eerily subdued, even their flags have been pulled down, as if the Blades are in poor spirits, or mourning.

Or hiding.

The dense woodland surrounding Nousha and her companions shifts in that moment- they twist and loom and darken, the shadows within them are far more foreboding, wells of pitch black, perfect hiding spots for darkspawn to watch them from, glaring at the interlopers who stumble blindly through the forest, their newly claimed territory. The almost endless rain on the coast, combined with the equally abundant wind, serves as a cover for any movement in the underbrush. Out in the wild, the sound of a twig snapping or a sword being unsheathed could be the only warning you get before someone shoves a blade in your ribs.

Her aching toes curl within the confines of her boots. It's a challenge not to speed Dusty along, to hurry until there's a good, solid wall between her and the outside world. His massive hooves are already struggling to maintain stability upon the mud and rocks as he makes his descent. Nousha's eyes keep flitting through the surrounding trees as she scratches behind her mount's ears and whispers gentle encouragement. He snorts in response and soldiers on. An arrow could bury itself in his flesh at any moment, or a spell could hit him, or one of their warriors could leap, bellowing, from its hiding place and bring an axe down on his head before Nousha registers what's going on. Her grip on him tightens.

After a small eternity, Nousha does manage to reach the bottom of the hill without incident, as do the other riders.

They're not far from the camp's entrance, barely twenty yards, but its doors remain tightly shut. A few feet away from its stake walls is a pile of blackened, burnt corpses. Given the careless way their corpses have been thrown onto the ground, Nousha guesses that these are darkspawn rather than people.

The sturdy wooden doors to the outpost only swings open once Nousha rides within a couple of metres. One of their members, a woman with closely cropped hair, clad in their blue-and-white uniform, scurries into view and swings her arms, silently ushering them through the camp, prompting Nousha to speed her horse into a trot. Cole's pony has barely gotten past the doors before they're pulled shut again and latched shut with a huge, thick piece of iron. The woman who 'welcomed' them inside clutches her chest and sighs in relief as Nousha dismounts.

"Inquisitor, hullo," someone says in a low voice, and Nousha has to scan her surroundings for a moment before seeing who's speaking. A short, burly man with brown, receding hair trudges toward her, a mabari on either side of him. "I'm Ivor, perhaps ser Cullen mentioned my name to you. It's fine if he hasn't- what's important is that you're here." He grips her hand in a tight greeting, though there's nothing welcoming in his voice. His small eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, close set above his down-turned nose, and there's ale on his breath. As the mounts are led into the cramped stables by other Blades, Nousha and her companions are brought to the campfire where a pot of stew is being cooked. The access to Inquisition labourers has afforded some improvement to the camp. There's a roofed area over the fire pit, and the walls have been rearranged. On their last visit, there had been a section where part of the outer wall had collapsed slightly, creating a gap where something could get inside. Thankfully, this has been fixed. What's more, some extra walls, made with horizontal boards rather than stakes, reaching outwards that almost doubles the size of the camp. With the extra space, a longhouse sits, not fully finished, but structurally sound enough for people to rest within.

"Bit higgledy-piggledy," Ivor says, "but it does what it needs to do." Whether he's talking about the longhouse or the new walls is unclear.

Cassandra steps forward, alongside Nousha. "The soldiers we sent, are they inside?" She inclines her head toward the structure, like there's any confusion what she's referring to.

"Aye- what's left of them, that is." Ivor rubs at his scalp as he speaks. Cassandra fixes him with a hard glare, but he only shrugs impassively. "This isn't the time for mincing words, soldier."

"Seeker," Cassandra hisses. Ivor's only response is to roll his eyes, and Nousha cuts in before things devolve into a needless argument.

"How many of them remain?"

Ivor lifts a gloved hand to the back of his neck, and he draws in a long breath as he thinks. "About twenty, give or take. One of 'em's still in bad shape after the last attack."

"Attacks? Things have been escalating since your last letter, then?"

"Aye," Ivor says grimly, and lowers himself to sit on one of the logs surrounding the campfire. "There's a theory goin' round that it's a retaliation for us wiping out so many of their packs. I'm not certain darkspawn are capable of revenge, but it's hard to find any other explanation for it. Started soon after we sent our last letter. We've got 'taters growing up on one of the hills nearby. When the men in charge of tending to the crops didn't return one night, we went to go check on them. They'd been massacred, cut to ribbons. Everything in the area stank of the taint, almost brought my supper up. We've tried to be more defensive since then, don't send people out as far or for as long, and with larger groups. The soldiers have been a Makersend in that regard. But that deprives us of food- we've a decent amount of mouths that need feeding here, we need to hunt, fish, forage, harvest crops, all that. Stocks are running low. We've lost good people trying to keep us all fed.

"There've been attacks on the camp, too, but the darkspawn don't seem to take notice as long as we're quiet and not lit up too brightly. Out in the wilderness, though, they can be some stealthy bastards. Had a run-in with them a couple days ago, a pack of 'em leapt out at us. Barely got away with me life, which is... well, it's better than quite a lot of people can say."

He bounces his leg as he talks and keeps his eyes locked on the fire. Its soft glow illuminates the shape of his face, the sparse hair on his scalp, as well as the bags under his eyes. One of his mabari lays its head on his lap, whining.

"Did you figure out where they're coming from?" Nousha doesn't recognise her voice for a moment, distant and unsteady, like she's hearing it from beneath a heavy blanket of water. Ivor finally looks back at her, licking his cracked lips before speaking.

"There's a cluster of caves along the beach, just northeast of our camp, probably interconnected. We knew that even before your soldiers came to help us. Some of our fishers caught sight of the ugly bastards watching them from around there while they were out on the water. We managed to collapse a smaller tunnel that we found further inland, but there's definitely a few more in the area. A lot of the tunnels are interconnected, that's how they've been popping up all over the place, I'll bet- they were probably digging beneath us and opened an entrance into the cave system."

"Right," Nousha mumbles, mostly to herself, and opens up a map of the area, a richly detailed one that Josephine had spent good money on. "Would you mind specifying whereabouts it is?" From over her shoulder, Dorian sucks in a breath as Ivor sketches a few ink circles onto the expensive parchment.

Rather than trek back through the forest to the Inquisition camp so close to night, Nousha decides that she and her companions spend the night in the Blades' longhouse. They're given thin, watery broth, accompanied by an apologetic look by the woman who hands out the bowls.

The building is just one room, with everyone sleeping in beds that are small and narrow even by human standards. Not wanting to twist herself into a ball trying to fit on something so tiny, which would inevitably lead to a sleepless night and a sore morning, Nousha nestles into her bedroll on the floor. There is a merciful lack of trouble during the night, no panicked announcements that the darkspawn are at the gates again, but Nousha is woken a few times by the sound of Blades weeping in the dark.

--

The twenty-eighth of Bloomingtide, 9:42 Dragon

They're up early in the morning, woken by Cullen's remaining soldiers. Following another joyless breakfast, they set off, accompanied by the eighteen Inquisition troops who were still capable of fighting. Once again, the Inquisition is rushed out as quickly as their feet can move. A split second after they shut behind them, Dorian can hear the latch being replaced. Despite the morning light, there's a fine mist sprawling all around them. It's not quite dense enough to obscure their vision, but it seems to absorb sound, swallowing any signs of life.

"Right," Nousha announces, eyes fixed on the trail down to the beach, "since we've got some extra muscle alongside us, we can afford to split up. Me, Bull, Varric, Cole,"- she throws a quick glance between her fellow mages- "and Solas will will check the beach cave. The rest of you can look through the nearby territory for any tunnel entrances." As she speaks, she pulls a little bag down from her shoulder and tosses to Cassandra. "There's a few bottles of lyrium in there, as well as a little something that Dagna's been eager to introduce- the brass box, inside it is a good bit of powder. Mix it with water and grind it up with the mortar and pestle and it turns into a thick paste. You can coat it along the inside of an opening and lay some rocks over it- not only is it a strong adhesive, it hardens fast and foams up as it does so. I reckon you should be able to completely cover up a man-sized entrance within a couple of hours."

"Won't they just dig through it again?" The speaker is one of Cullen's soldiers, his uncertain voice muffled slightly from behind his helmet. Even with a visor covering his face, Dorian can tell that he's young, barely into his twenties, he guesses. He was about twenty five when he first caught himself thinking of a twenty one year old as a lad rather than a peer, and it had only gotten worse since then. Now freshly thirty, Dorian imagines the speaker to be pimpled and scrawny beneath his armour, despite his obvious soldier's build.

"Maybe during the next Blight," Nousha muses, tilting her head a little as if trying to estimate when that might be. "For now, though, their majority will be looking for the next archdemon. While they're doing that, it's only smaller groups like this bunch that are interested in the surface. Packs that have splintered off and are feeling a little curious- probably more than usual due to Corypheus riling them up. Without quick, easy access to the area, they'll lose interest and head back down into the deep roads to rejoin their brothers."

From the blurry, unfocused edge of his vision, Dorian sees a movement from Blackwall, a little nod, like he expects everyone to look to him for approval on any discussion regarding darkspawn, no matter how well known the information is. Perhaps he hasn't yet been informed about the numerous academic books published on the matter of documented darkspawn behaviour- assuming that he knows what a book is, of course.

Just as Nousha opens her mouth to continue, Varric's rough voice cuts in, thoroughly unimpressed. "You know, I may be a dwarf, but I'm not actually that keen to revisit the deep roads." His complaint makes Nousha roll her eyes and give an irritated sigh through her nose.

"Oh, for-- it's a cave, alright? We're not going that far in, just looking for a good, narrow spot. Save the dramatics for your writing." As she speaks, she passes something else to the Seeker: the map that Ivor had mutilated. "Here- it's just a rough estimation, but it's better than nothing. Several of them are hidden under thicket, so you'll want to be cautious."

"I am aware of basic martial strategies and obvious ambushes," Cassandra growls, her hazel eyes burning holes into the already desecrated map, "thank you."

The group splits into halves, each one sporting fourteen members. Nousha's group marches resolutely down the path to the beach, while Dorian's climbs upward into the hills. He catches sight of Varric, his clenched jaw visible even at a distance, his tight shoulders, and the way he keeps Bianca clutched to his chest. If that's what being in Nousha's good graces looks like, I should butt heads with her more often, he thinks. The nine soldiers that they're left with lead up the northerly trail, following a serpentine path that cuts through the coast's various dips and hills. He keeps catching Blackwall, trudging along a few paces ahead of him, throwing anxious glances over his shoulder towards the retreating shape of Nousha's group for the first few minutes. He and Vivienne exchange an exasperated look at this little display.

"Keep your eyes peeled," Cassandra says over her shoulder, voice low. "Darkspawn could be anywhere."

"Perhaps our resident Warden could be of assistance- he can smell them, as Sera claimed." The little elf huffs at Dorian's words and her pale face starts to redden. "What do you think, Blackwall? Caught any interesting scents?"

Blackwall shakes his head vigorously, sighing through his nose. "My senses aren't what they were. All I can tell you is that they're within a couple of miles of us."

"How fortunate we are that one of Thedas' most valued Orders is here to supply us with such valuable information," Vivienne crows. Blackwall's pace quickens, eager to put some space between himself and the mages. Once Sera hurries to join him, Vivienne lays a gentle hand on Dorian's shoulder. It's a quick, silent gesture, but it draws his attention and he turns to lock eyes with her. Her gaze is soft and empathetic, dark brown eyes full of unspoken concern. Despite several days passing since the confrontation with his father, Dorian hasn't reapplied his eye makeup. He smiles and nods to Vivienne in reassurance, trying to ignore the sudden tension in his throat, and she gives his shoulder a brief squeeze before releasing him.

A minute later, Cassandra throws her hand up before dropping into a crouch. The group follows suit, practically crawling up the last few meters of the hill before they reach her.

From their position at the top of a fairly steep hill, it's easy to spot the corpse. Even beneath the gore, the Blades' distinctive shade of blue is visible. He lies mere feet from the edge of a copse of trees. It's no larger than twenty feet in either direction, but the foliage is so dense that nothing within it can be made out.

Parts of him have been gnawed off; nose, hands, ears, while his legs look to have been painstakingly carefully cut through. On top of this, there are countless blades stuck into his torso. It's as if they're trying to see how many will fit into him. When we launch an attack, Dorian finds himself wondering, will the darkspawn have to retrieve their weapons from between this man's ribs?

"Maker's balls," Blackwall growls. Cassandra shakes her head at the sight.

"They did the same to those at Ostagar; a celebration ritual, scholars call it. Or perhaps another way of showing their hatred for the Maker's people."

"I think they're passing the time 'till nightfall," a soldier cuts in. "Playing with their kills." The girl sounds close to tears, or being sick, and Cassandra throws a quick glance over her shoulder, her face softening for a moment.

"He is at Andraste's side now. His fellows will give him a proper funeral when we've returned him."

After some discussion, Cassandra, Blackwall and the soldiers make their way down the hillside path. Sera, Dorian and Vivienne remain at the top, waiting. As the warriors move, Sera pulls something from her bag- something made of glass that's filled with some black liquid, and holds it protectively to her chest, watching Cassandra like a hawk.

His curiosity briefly gets the better of him and Dorian asks "What is that?"

"A bomb," She says without looking at him.

"I know that, but what I mean is--" At that moment, Cassandra raises her fist, and with practiced dexterity, Sera hurls the concoction into the air. 

It arcs beautifully towards the copse, missing the trees at its outer edges, before striking the branch of one of it's centremost firs, shattering upon impact. As soon as its contents are exposed to the air, they fizz and turn into a dense, dark fog that falls silently onto the ground. The screams start within seconds. Dorian and Vivienne work quickly, laying down glyphs as soon as they see the mangled shapes of darkspawn lurching out of the trees. The monsters hack and wheeze at the air and claw at their faces, rubbing their pale eyes and getting some kind of hideous discharge all over their fingers. It's hard to discern which of the blisters and burns covering their diseased flesh is from Sera's concoction and which are naturally occurring. One of the hurlocks collapses onto all fours just short of Vivienne's ice glyph, only starting to climb back to its feet as a genlock stumbles past and is frozen solid.

It's then that the warriors fall upon them. A soldier bearing mismatched boots slams a massive warhammer into the frozen darkspawn's ribs, reducing its entire upper body to chunks. As the previously prone hurlock pulls a filthy mace from its side, Blackwall leaps forward and shoves his sword through a gap in the sparse, damaged armour, up through one side of its stomach and into its chest. It gurgles for a moment, something dark and hideous bubbling in its mouth, before the Warden rips the blade back out and it collapses into a pile at his feet. Sera sends an arrow into it a moment later, as if making sure that it's dead and earning a thumbs up from Blackwall before he resumes the assault. Cassandra and the others hack into the darkspawn that flee from the poisonous mist. They move at a weak jog rather than a sprint and are easy to hit with projectiles and arrows, some of them don't even reach the soldier's blades. The fog dissipates quickly though, as do its effects, and within a minute there's more of their twisted bodies lurching from the thicket. They gurgle and twitch even more than darkspawn usually do, but they're no longer panicking or blinded, and they have enough strength to swing their weapons properly. A trio of Genlocks, their faces resembling bloated, waterlogged corpses, spill out from a bush towards Cassandra while she's removing another's head from its body. It's a tricky shot from this distance, but Dorian is able to raise a wall of fire between the Seeker and her attackers. Cassandra spins around at the eruption of light and there's an audible shriek as one of them runs directly into the fiery barrier. By the time they've come around the side of the inferno, she's ready for them. As she cuts into them, though, an arrow whizzes by her shoulder.

There's a row of archers hanging back from the main battle, huddled behind the outer trees and appearing to fire aimlessly. Perhaps their eyes are still irritated from the mist, Dorian thinks. He manages to hit one in the chest with a bolt of elemental power, knocking it off balance, but misses his next shot, the bolt of magic landing uselessly at the ground beneath his target. He can hear the one who he managed to strike let out an enraged scream, though it clearly struggles to see where the blow came from- its head swings around rapidly on its shoulders, looking in every direction without being able to see more than a few feet at most. The next of Dorian's spells is a fire glyph, large enough to throw all three of them off their feet, as well as scorching their legs. Sera's arrows bury themselves into their sides as they lie prone, leaving them to bleed helplessly into the dirt. 

"Do you think we'll need to throw in another flask?" He doesn't take his eyes off the battle as he speaks, nor does he allow his arms to stop moving, firing off countless blasts of magic down towards the darkspawn. Several seconds pass without Sera responding.

"No," Vivienne answers in her place, "notice how quickly the stream of chargers has dried up? The rest will have fled back underground by now."

She's quickly proven correct- once the final few attackers are dispatched, no more appear. The copse falls deathly silent.

Cassandra orders the assisting soldiers to pile up the darkspawn carcasses away from the trees whilst she and Blackwall look for the tunnel opening. None of them look particularly thrilled at having to touch the hideous creatures, even through their thick gauntlets, but tend to their tasks with no complaints. Sera hurries past him and Vivienne on their way down the side of the hill, slipping onto her backside a few times. When the pair of mages have reached the edge of the copse, he sees her kneel by the Blade's corpse and after a moment of hesitation, begin to wrench the knives out of his chest. Dorian tries not to look too closely at the dead man's face- his open mouth and eyes that stare up to the sky as if, even in death, he is seeking help from the Maker. The blades are rusty and neglected, but beneath their grime, Dorian can make out the telltale signs of dwarven craftsmanship. Their blocky, jagged inscriptions that he guesses had once signified which house it was smithed by. He's no expert on Orzammar's history- the weapons could have been taken from dead warriors within the last year or over a century ago, passed around long after their original owners were forgotten.

The soldier with odd boots calls out with a distinctly Ander accent that the pile is complete as she hurls the final hurlock off of her shoulders. It only takes one surge of an immolation spell to ignite the whole lot- darkspawn are a particularly flammable bunch. The stench only grows more unbearable, though, and by the time Blackwall comes marching back out of the trees to find them again, everyone's standing well over ten feet away from the blazing pile.

Cassandra waits for them by the entrance. It's small and cramped- one would easily mistake it for an animal's den if not for the black stains covering the dirt. Perhaps it was an animal's den once, and the beast dug its home too deep. Hopefully it had the sense to leave long ago. The upside to its small size is that it's clogged up quickly and easily- Blackwall grinds the powder up with water from his pack while the other soldiers collect decently sized rocks. It's Sera, the smallest of them, who is sent into the burrow, crawling on hands and knees a few metres under the earth. She struggles with some of the larger stones that are passed down to her from above, audibly grunting from the exertion of moving them. The process takes over an hour, leaving Dorian and Vivienne some time to discuss their predictions for how relations between the Inquisition and the Chantry are looking.

"From what I've been told, the Tantervale Chantry has already agreed to supply funding for Skyhold's repairs." How Vivienne receives her information so quickly is beyond him. "Many in Ferelden are torn between feeling snubbed by the Inquisitor's rejection of any Andrastian connection and applauding her for brutalising an Orlesian noble." She rolls her eyes at that and reaches to brush some imaginary dust off her shoulders. "Their sense of victimisation still hasn't faded."

"I'm sure it won't surprise you to hear that most respected figures in Tevinter will hardly even acknowledge us," Dorian says, leaning on his staff. "Other than Maevaris and some mildly sympathetic half-cousins, the rest of the country is burying its head in the sand regarding the whole situation."

"Did you hear that from your associates, or have you blindly assumed that after the rest of your countrymen didn't respond to any of your letters?"

"Both," he admits.

Sera eventually clambers back out of the tunnel, her hair stuck to her scalp and dirt on her face. Two of the soldiers return the corpse to his camp for whatever funerary rites the tiny community practices. After cleaning out and clogging up another two darkspawn tunnels, Dorian registers that Blackwall has barely said a word all day. He carves into the darkspawn with more ferocity than usual, bordering on recklessness, but only speaks when someone prompts him. Even during his more withdrawn moods, the warden would usually be open to discussing things with others, or at least have some involvement in putting together strategies in battle.

After dealing with three more tunnel entrances, it has begun to rain and the evening is setting in, prompting Cassandra to call for a return to the Hessarian camp. Even with several openings dealt with, everybody wants to be behind a good, strong wall long before it turns dark. It's as they draw near that Dorian overhears a discussion between two of the soldiers.

"You gotten around to reading your father's letter yet?" The voice and accent stops Dorian from having to look around to see who'd spoken- it's the Ander woman with mismatched boots.

"Aye," her companion responds. "Shouldn't have put it off for so long, but you know how hindsight is."

"I do."

"He says it's fine, just wants me to be happy, all the usual stuff. I'm sure he's not quite as alright with it as the letter says, but he'll get there."

"He will, he will. My mother was the same; less than pleased but she knew there was no changing it."

Dorian's legs start moving faster, quickening his pace until his thighs start to burn, determined to put some distance between himself and the conversation. In doing so, he comes up beside Blackwall, still mute.

"Is there a problem, Warden?" His voice is ugly with bitterness, and grows even uglier when Blackwall doesn't respond with anything other than a scoff. "Still in the doghouse, eh? You could at least try to disguise it, it's less embarrassing for everyone else that way."

Blackwall finally retaliates, spinning towards Dorian and jabbing an accusatory finger into his collarbone. "And what of you? What prompted your little breakdown in Redcliffe?" Dorian's chest tightens at the mention of it as Blackwall gives him another poke- harder this time. "Feeling sorry that you left your manor and your servants to waste time with a bunch of common filth?"

"Of course, of course you bring up my standing again- that's all you can use against me because you know nothing else of who I am."

"That's all I need to know because it's written all over your behaviour. The preening, the fixations on other people's appearances, the need to pick at others and wind them up to satisfy your need for any kind of interactions. You're an only child, aren't you?" He might not have been if his parents could endure one another's company a little better. Their failure to sire another Pavus heir had come back to bite them following Dorian's recent revelations to them. It only adds to the pit that's swallowing his stomach, dragging him back to the sight of his father's broken, defeated face at Redcliffe.

"And what are you? You think I didn't see how defensive you got when I brought up criminals in the Wardens?" Blackwall's eyes widen at that and his red face goes pale. "I'll bet every bit of my inheritance that you were recruited from a prison." The finger stabbing against his chest is withdrawn, and Blackwall's gauntleted hand moves to seize Dorian's collar, wrenching him upward and forcing him onto the balls of his feet.

"You don't know what you're talking about," he hisses, voice dangerously quiet. Dorian feels the familiar hum of magic bleeding into the staff that he grips with white knuckles at his side.

There's another hand now- gripping Blackwall's wrist, and Cassandra's face appears between them. "Enough," she barks, "enough of this."

Blackwall releases him a moment later and allows himself to be pushed back by the Seeker as she steps between them. She's talking again, giving them both a pretty thorough bollocking for their behaviour, but her words drift over his pounding head. He can feel the eyes on him- all of them. Their footsteps have stopped, and everybody stands, openly staring at the argument, the realisation making his face heat. He's not sure when he and Blackwall stopped walking, either. His eyes drift over to where Vivienne stands, her dark skin lit golden in the evening sun. Her brow is creased in an expression that Dorian can't read. Judgement, concern, disappointment, embarrassment at associating with him. It doesn't matter. The sound of rushing blood fades from his ears slightly, and he glances back to the Seeker and the Warden.

"Just walk separately," she orders, pointing Blackwall over to where Sera is stood. "Vent your frustrations when we are back at camp." The warden gives Dorian one last hateful glare as he begins to turn, and Cassandra overtakes them again, intending to continue leading their group forward. Dorian shifts his shoulder slightly and feels a dull ache where Blackwall's finger poked into his chest, quickly registering that the spot would probably bruise. He drops his eyes to the ground, itching at his face.

"No wonder she lost interest when you behave like this," he growls, hearing the childish spite on his voice. 

By the time he registers the fist coming towards him, it's already made contact with his jaw.

--

After the final darkspawn's body crumples to the ground, Nousha takes a moment to inspect the woman's corpse. The light of day barely reaches this deep into the cave, so she uses her staff to illuminate the sight before her, covering her mouth and nose with her collar. The dead woman's skin is pale and slightly yellowed, and her face looks like it's starting to bloat. Two or three days dead, Nousha guesses. The wavy hair snaking out from beneath her headband is the same shade of brown as Ivor's- she has his nose, too, Nousha realises. His sister, perhaps, given their similar age. Her mouth and eyes are open, blue irises staring expressionlessly up at something beyond the veil. Her neck is open, too- throat yawning wide. Both the wound and the dagger in her limp hand are caked in dried blood. She's missing her gloves, and her fingernails are broken and shredded, like she had been clawing desperately at the stone beneath her. 

"I think they were dragging her," Nousha says to the others. "Trying to force her deeper into the tunnels. Maybe all the way down to the Deep Roads." Some of the soldiers suck in sharp breaths at that; the idea of being taken so far underground, away from the sun and the air and anybody who could save you.

"Sputtering, choking, fading," Cole's voice blurts out mere inches from Nousha's ear. "It's all over. It wasn't supposed to be over yet, there's so many jobs that need doing. Andraste, keep them safe where I've failed to." His white, knuckly little hand reaches out and closes her unseeing eyes.

She hears Varric sigh somewhere behind her, and the sound of fingernails itching at harsh stubble. It's no mystery why she ended her own life. Rumours have always flowed out of Orzammar regarding the kinds of abominations glimpsed in the darkness beneath Thedas. Immobile piles of flesh with bulging, distended stomachs, stinking of waste and gore and disease, things that scream and gurgle and vomit as glistening, dripping darkspawn crawl their way out of them. Their ruined bodies adorned with traditional dwarven tattoos, some designs legible enough to recognise what house they had once been from. Many people who saw such things left for the surface soon after returning to Orzammar.

Nousha feels her stomach begin to twist and squirm, like it's made of runny egg yolks, trying to climb its way out of her gullet, a live, captive animal. There's a flash of heat that explodes inside of her face, while the surface of her skin feels unbearably cold and the rivulets of sweat form on the back of her neck in a cluster, like boils.

"Feeling alright, Stranger? You need a moment?"

"No, no. No. No, as in, I don't need a moment. I'm fine, just--" She doesn't bother finishing the words and instead focuses on counting the seconds between breaths. It's been too long since she last took a dosage of herbs brewed in her tea. When we get back to the camp, she promises herself, I'll stew something up. 

"Lady Inquisitor, are you sure?" One of the soldiers steps forward as he asks, his posture unnaturally perfect. "Forgive my impertinence, miss, but it's already evening. The darkspawn grow more aggressive at night, and it's best to be back at camp when--"

"Soon. We've still got another couple of hours of daylight left. Just a little deeper, alright? We'll see if there's any narrow spaces we can work with." Her nose is running, and she has to wipe her arm across it while Varric mumbles something to himself that she doesn't bother listening to. Cole finally stands up from his perched position over the dead woman, wringing his hands together.

The twisted ends of her staff glow a little brighter as her grip tightens around it, somewhat improving the visibility as she steps forward. The tunnel is made of the same bizarre hexagonal stone that forms the cave's entrance. It's narrower than she'd like, too- she hears Bull's armoured shoulder collide with the tunnel walls several times as they try to move quietly, and his frustrated swears that quickly follow.

At one point, Varric's hushed voice cuts through the brittle silence. "Hey, kid- you don't need to grip onto my shoulder like that."

"But you might get lost," Cole replies plaintively. There's a childish whine in his voice, like Varric has just taken away his favourite toy. Like Rulf sounded when he didn't want to do his studies.

"He'll be fine, Cole- the Inquisitor's light will guide him." Solas' soothing voice chimes in. Cole gives a dejected sigh, which is followed by a quick word of thanks from Varric.

Nousha catches sight of a spider crawling along the wall beside her and she keeps her eyes on it for a few moment, watching as its long thin limbs scramble wildly across the stone. The abdomen is massive and swollen, and Nousha guesses it to be carrying a clutch of eggs. The little mother-to-be finds a crack and disappears within it. Good luck with the little ones, Nousha thinks.

When she brings her eyes back to the ground in front of her, her chest freezes and she takes a step back in her panic, knocking into Varric in doing so.

"Shit!"

"What is it?"

"Is everything alright, Inquisitor?"

She glances over her shoulder at them, seeing Varric, Cole and Solas, all looking alarmed. Varric rubs at his forehead with his spare hand. Behind them are a row of armoured soldiers, with the silhouette of the Iron Bull at their rear.

"It goes down, there's a drop. A steep one." she breathes, her fingers tingling from the sudden shock. She turns back to it- her toes are barely a foot away from its edge. "I wasn't watching where I walked, and I nearly stepped into empty air. Stupid me." She should have expected this, considering the hard angles of the unnatural-looking stones that cover the cave.

Letting more of her magic bleed into the staff, she increases its glow and holds it over the hole. The inky blackness shrinks back from her staff, revealing a metallic ladder bolted into the stone. It doesn't look like the darkspawn made it- dwarven, perhaps, or some other community that lived along the coast at some point.

"There's no way I'm gonna make it down there," Bull says warily.

"Wait here, then- I'm just going for a quick look." She hooks her staff back into its sleeve over her shoulders.

"I thought this was the quick look," Varric protests, but she only hushes him. There's a little thrill working its way into the flesh between her shoulder blades. Curiosity, the bane of her existence. After testing the weight of her foot on the first rung, Nousha begins clambering down into the darkness.

"This is how I broke my first bone," she breathes as she reaches the bottom, scanning her surroundings. There's no movement within the dimly lit passage, or noise. "Running around in a cave near my home. I must have been about nine or so. My parents had warned me about them, but I wanted to explore. Didn't watch where I was going and I fell. Broke my wrist, cried all the way home."

"I take it your parents were less than pleased?" Solas asks from the top of the ladder, using his own staff as a torch as well.

"Oh, I just told them I'd fallen jumping over a stream. What they didn't know couldn't hurt them!"

There's the scrape of metal on stone from above her and she startles, holds her staff across her body in defense, until she spots Bull struggling to maintain his balance on the ladder, grunting with frustration at himself for not staying at the entrance. She and Varric share a breathless laugh.

One end of the passage has a low, sloped ceiling with only a small gap to get through- perhaps usable for elves, dwarves and humans, but Nousha and Bull could never fit through. Not wanting to split up, they take the other exit which leads into a rock shelf that overlooks a much larger cavern. It's not made from the same hexagonal stone that they've been seeing- it's differently coloured and sports countless stalactites and stalagmites, reaching towards one another from the ceilings and floors. Nousha's heart freezes in her chest at the sight at what sits beyond them. There's another opening on the other side of it, a particularly huge one, some fifty feet away, lit by a crudely built torch affixed to the wall. Somebody tugs at her sleeve.

"We seriously need to be anywhere but here," Varric hisses, his voice barely audible. "If they're taking the time to keep the torches lit, then they're getting comfortable. Let's just go before they bring in the rest of the furniture."

Nousha opens her mouth to respond, to joke about Varric being scared, when a distant bellow thunders through the cave.

All fourteen of them startle, holding up their weapons and frantically looking around, searching for an army of darkspawn smashing through the rock, sweeping towards them like a wave of diseased flesh. There is nothing. No movements in the cave.

But the sound continues.

It's a deeper, raspier version of a darkspawn's usual scream, full of hatred and spite and phlegm, and it's accompanied by loud, thunderous footsteps. For some reason, Nousha thinks of an old storybook she'd read to her son years ago- a collection of tales from a Fereldan bookshop. Rulf's favourite story had been about a young man getting lost in a storm and trying to escape the rain by breaking into a huge house on the moors. After finding a hiding spot somewhere in the kitchen, he awakens to the sound of a giant stomping around and speaking in rhymes about how he could smell a man and his plans to make bread from his bones. She can imagine the massive beast stalking through the caverns towards them, lifting its head to sniff at the air and struggling to form its mouth around its words. Fee fi fo fum.

Nousha jerks her head around to catch Varric's eye and gives a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

"Get moving," she hisses. "Now."

--

The sun hangs low in the sky when a call goes up at the Hessarian camp's gate- one of the archers overlooking the wall cries out that another body has been found. Cassandra rubs at the back of her neck, wondering what to say to the Inquisitor, while a crowd of people forms at the entrance, steeling themselves to identify another corpse. Vivienne's hand is at her shoulder, giving a quick squeeze before releasing her and refilling both of their glasses with the Antivan brandy she picked up in Redcliffe. A luxury, the vendor had told them. It doesn't taste particularly different from any other brandy that Cassandra has had, but she's never had a particularly refined palette- no matter how hard Vestalus tried to enlighten her. Vivienne seems to like it, at least. She has her strange horned helmet off, revealing her hair which she has allowed to grow out in the months since arriving at Haven. The tight curls are still close to her scalp, but the glimpses of grey are more visible. It's hard not to stare at her, the soft glow of the fire dancing across her features, highlighting every pore and crease of her lovely skin. Thank the Maker for this brandy, Cassandra thinks.

"Do you plan on informing our Inquisitor of today's excitement, or shall I?" She raises her eyebrows as she speaks, wrinkling her forehead and smirking with obvious excitement. It makes Cassandra smile, despite the stress gnawing on her muscles and drilling into her skull. Vivienne often has that effect on her.

"I will break the news myself," she says, nodding her thanks as Vivienne passes her glass over. "Thank you for offering, though- I'm sure you would be very diplomatic about it."

"Aren't I always?"

As intriguing as Vivienne's face is, Cassandra's attention drifts slightly when she notices Dorian rolling his eyes in the corner of her vision. His right cheek is swollen and bruised, while there's a nasty cut along his lower lip from Blackwall's knuckles. The four of them have been huddled around the campfire since arriving back at the Hessarian camp- allowing Blackwall to sulk in the longhouse without them. The pot above the flames holds the same thin, watery broth from last night that would do almost nothing to fill them up, forcing them to instead nibble at the dry rations they've brought from Skyhold. Sera's leg keeps bouncing as she gnaws at her dried meat, throwing glances over her shoulder to the gate, watching for Nousha's approach. The Inquisitor is exchanging words with Ivor as the limp form of a woman wearing Hessarian colours is carried over the shoulder of one of the Inquisition soldiers towards the stables- the dead are stored in its attic for now. She'll be wrapped in linen and lain down beside four others to spend one more night in her camp.

Nousha's hands are fisted against her hips, occasionally reaching up to scratch at her jaw or brush some hair out of her face. Her brow is knitted, her mouth a tense line, nodding mutely whenever Ivor takes his turn to speak. At one point, he drops his head and rubs a gloved hand up his face and all the way up to his scalp, running his fingers through his sparse hair. Nousha places her hand on his shoulder and Cassandra can see her give it a squeeze. One of the mabaris comes padding up to her and presses its snout against her thigh, receiving a well-appreciated scratch behind the ear. It's a surreal thing to witness: this transformation into a caring, approachable woman who would comfort those in pain rather than rubbing salt in their wounds. How differently she would behave, Cassandra thinks bitterly, if the Blades were even slightly less willing to drop their use of the Herald title.

The Winterwatch cultists were far more persistent, and Josephine had had to send an apologetic fruit basket to its leader Anais while she recovered from her broken jaw.

The Cole thing reaches them first, gliding unnaturally towards the fire and making Sera shuffle away from him, wrinkling her nose in disgust. If he notices her little display, he doesn't acknowledge it, simply gazing into the pot, lips slightly parted to reveal his crooked teeth. Vivienne's body shifts slightly, her posture going rigid and all relaxation hardening, preparing for an unseen hand to reach towards her and into her mind. Bull is close behind him, itching at his beard.

"There's an ogre down in one of the caves," he says, his voice far too casual, and settles himself down beside Dorian. "The boss wants us all to go and deal with it before we bring down the tunnel."

Sera almost chokes on her food. "What, now?" The question earns a little laugh from Bull.

"No, no- tomorrow, she's thinking. That'll be fun, eh Seeker?" He gestures towards Cassandra, grinning. "Tearing into a monster like that? Sure, there's bigger targets out there, but a challenge is a challenge."

She gives a noncommittal shrug. "If we haven't all killed each other by then, perhaps." Dorian's scowl deepens. Bull eyes the mage's bruises with a knowing smile.

Nousha reaches them a few minutes later, rubbing the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger, Varric at her side. She clutches her staff in her right hand, leaning against it wearily.

"Good evening, Inquisitor," Cassandra says, though her voice is grim. It's painfully obvious that she bears more unpleasant news. "I hear that we're to sweep through the beach caves tomorrow."

"Yeah," she sighs, grunting as she lowers herself to sit cross-legged on the floor. "Ogre. Multiple, perhaps."

"Bull told us." The Seeker pauses and itches at her cheek, averting her eyes for a moment. "I think you should know that there was... there was a confrontation during our time dealing with the darkspawn." Nousha squints at her over the fire, frowning slightly.

"Blackwall gave Dorian quite a vicious beating," Vivienne cuts in. "He's terribly short-tempered, I'm afraid."

The Herald's mouth hangs open, her eyes widening incredulously. She turns to glare at Dorian, whose gaze is locked on his feet.

After a heavy, pregnant pause, Varric's rough voice cleaves through the silence. "What'd you say to him, Sparkler?"

Dorian scoffs indignantly while Bull smothers a laugh. "Of course, everyone blame the mouthy Tevinter! No, no, don't bother reconsidering your decision to bring in a feral thug who can't resolve anything without his fists into the Inquisition, just blindly assume that it's my fault!"

"Regardless of who said what, it was Blackwall who escalated the argument to violence," Cassandra points out to Nousha, gesturing towards the longhouse.

"Kind of a hypocritical statement when it's coming from you," Varric smiles as he says it, then throws up his hands in mock-surrender when she glares at him.

"Tell us what you said," Nousha demands, not even acknowledging that either of them had spoken. She's on her feet again, towering over Dorian with her hands on her hips.

Again, Vivienne takes it upon herself to answer. "He brought up the Warden's relationship with you. Poor thing didn't expect a retaliation." The Inquisitor's face drains.

"What?"

"So I hit a weak spot, that doesn't give him the right to--"

"Blackwall's the one who hit a weak spot," Sera interrupts through a mouthful of meat. How long has she been chewing that? "You went down like a sack of bricks."

"Glass jaw, huh?" Bull tuts in disappointment, and Dorian's face reddens.

"Right," Nousha snarls, "Why are you telling me this?"

"You're the Inquisitor, can't you talk to him? Straighten him out?" Cassandra catches the pleading note in her voice and winces at herself.

"How? Do you want me to put him over my knee?"

"He'd probably like that," Bull whispers to Dorian, and earns himself a glare.

"My dear, you should be able to wield your authority to some extent by now- I've seen you get quite bloodthirsty with most members of the Inquisition, why should the Warden get special treatment?" Vivienne's voice is light, despite the iron beneath her words. It only makes Nousha roll her eyes.

"Nobody is getting special treatment- if you're going to go after each other's personal business, don't be surprised when you get hit. I'm not your fucking mother, alright? If I step in with to solve this tiff, you'll all start coming to me whenever there's any disagreement. I've got enough on my plate!"

Her total lack of interest in such behaviour is maddening. It makes Cassandra's skin itch, knowing that Nousha would rather start fights over Andrastian imagery than lift a finger against Blackwall's violent outburst. "This is hardly a tiff, Inquisitor. A member of your company has attacked--"

"If I throw Blackwall out for punching someone, you'll have to go, too." Nousha jabs a finger towards Cassandra as she spits her words out. "You did split my lip open while I was still chained up, after all."

She feels her face heat as every pair of eyes around the fire swings towards her. Every pair and one singular eye, she amends, glancing briefly towards the Iron Bull. Nousha had never forgiven either Cassandra or Leliana for their unpleasant introductions. "You spat into my face. And you hit me, too! As soon as you were unchained, you blackened my eye!"

"I heard she broke your nose," Sera says.

"That was just a rumour!" She objects, offended. "Varric, did my nose look broken when the Inquisitor and I reached you?" The dwarf laughs at the question, but shakes his head.

"Fine, then I'd be leaving, too. How terrible, I do so love it here," Nousha spits, her voice heavy with sarcasm. "But outside of hypotheticals, I'm not throwing people out for brawling with each other. Sort it out between yourselves." Saying that, she spins on her heel and goes marching off towards the longhouse. Vivienne leans her head against Cassandra's shoulder, thoroughly amused by the infighting. A moment later, Bull insists on taking a look at Dorian's face.

"That's a good punch, you gotta admit. No wonder he knocked you out."

"I was not knocked out! I was on my feet again in a split second!"

"Only because Cassandra picked you up," Sera grunts.

As the group breaks into several different conversations, Cassandra notices Nousha pause at the longhouse's entrance. She pulls her hair out of its bun and lets its black waves spill down her back before stepping inside. A minute later, she and Blackwall walk outside together, towards the gate. They're let out quickly and quietly. Cassandra sees Bull's eye following them before he looks back at her, a little knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

--

Blackwall promised that the supposedly important spot he wanted to show her would be no more than a ten minute walk from the Hessarian camp, but it's more than twice that. The rain hardly makes the journey any more pleasant. She doesn't comment on the discrepancy- though maybe she should. The bottom of the sun is dipping below the western horizon. She grips her staff a little tighter as she watches him stare down at the patch of grass for a long moment. There's bones scattered around in the mud. He abruptly drops to his knees and begins digging at something half buried, getting his gloves filthy in the process.

"Getting yourself a souvenir? See if you can find an intact skull." He makes a noise at the back of his throat at her joke- she can't tell if it's a laugh or an irritated huff. After a few moments, he pries it loose from the ground and leans back into a kneeling position, holding it in his lap. Nousha steps forward to get a better look at it. Cradled in his mud-caked gloves is what looks like a miniature shield with a pair of twin griffons emblazoned on the metallic surface. "A badge?"

"The Warden-Constable's badge," Blackwall marvels. "I never would have expected it to still be here. Figured it scavenged by now."

"What happened here? How'd you lose it?" He looks up at her then, the first time he's been able to make eye contact with her since their confrontation at Skyhold. He opens his mouth for a moment before slamming it shut. A long, expectant silence passes before he's able to answer.

"Another Warden and myself were attacked by darkspawn. He didn't make it." Blackwall stares around as if expecting to see the man's corpse nearby, his wounds still fresh, blood still wet. "I should have taken the time to-- to collect the badge, but I didn't. I didn't come back until you brought me to come and meet the Bull."

"If you'd told me in advance, I wouldn't--"

"No, no. It's good. I'm glad you brought me." He smiles at her then, and climbs to his feet. "Thank you, Nousha."

She hates the way her own mouth stretches to mirror his smile, the giddy way her stomach twists. "It's nothing," she says, resisting the urge to brush her hair out of the way like a preening bird.

"Look," he says, gesturing towards the bones at their feet. "I brought you here to show you what my life is: death. All I do is fight darkspawn. It's no place for a-- for what you want." The smile on her face dies instantly, and Nousha's eyes widen.

"What I want?" His shoulders tense at her words.

"I didn't mean--"

"Fuck off, seriously. You act like this is all my fault, this-- what's been going on between us. You kissed me, remember?"

"I do," he chokes, "I remember." Blackwall moves towards her, and Nousha takes a long step backwards, blood rushing through her ears, mingling with the sound of the wind and, more distantly, the crash of waves.

"You waste my fucking time, that's all you've been doing for the entire month. Indecisive fools like you are an absolute nightmare to deal with, you know that?" She turns and takes a moment to spot the camp's walls in the distance, then starts marching towards it at a furious pace. She can hear Blackwall following her. There's this terrible heat spreading across the skin of her face. "All this agonising about what you want, what's for the best, while I humiliate myself waiting for you to make a decision. You know, most people outgrow this kind of behaviour by the time they hit twenty."

Blackwall sighs, smart enough not to get too close to her. "I'm sorry, I'm terribly sorry. I know what I want- I think it's obvious what I want. But a... close relationship between the two of us would only hurt you in time, Nousha."

"You don't get to tell me what I'll get hurt by," she snarls over her shoulder. "I'm sick of this attitude- you give me the boot while insisting that it's for my sake, acting like you know better than me. What next, do you want to kick me out of negotiations with the advisors? You want my job? Is that it?"

"No! No, no, no. I don't envy your position, I don't think anybody does. But surely, you must see that this would never work!"

"Must I?" The bitterness is thick in her voice, like phlegm. "Just stop, alright? Leave me be. Do your work in silence, since you're so fucking dutiful." Maybe we should close up the cave entrance with you inside, she thinks.

The rest of the walk back to the camp is mercifully silent. The rain grows even heavier, and her clothes are soaked through by the time she reaches the gate. They stick to her like an extra layer of skin, heavy and constricting. Blackwall hurries past her to the now burnt-out campfire, where Bull and Cassandra are struggling to set up their tents in the heavy rain. She intends to duck into the stables and change into her nightclothes in the company of horses and the dead Blades, but something catches her eye: Ivor, insensate, being half-dragged by an old man in the direction of the longhouse. It pulls Nousha's mind away from her own troubles for a short while and prompts her to step in, taking one of Ivor's arms and leading him forward. Up close, the smell of him is hard to endure- the alcohol is far stronger than it had been yesterday evening, as well as stale sweat and vomit. She has to breathe through her mouth to stop herself from gagging. The old man gives her a smile, revealing several missing teeth. What little hair left on his scalp is grey, but his small, watery eyes are the same shade of blue as the dead woman's, and he has Ivor's nose.

"Sensitive nose, aye?" He asks, and Nousha nods in response. "Makes me feel lucky- I can hardly smell anything these days. Maybe it's just age dulling my senses, or it might be lifestyle. I've been sat over brews since I was just a lad- medical tinctures and alcohol. My mam used to say 'one's for health and one's for fun, but both stink to high heaven'! Horrible stuff, like needles getting shoved up my nose! No wonder it fried my senses." She stoops under the low door frame to walk Ivor into the longhouse sideways, like a shitfaced crab. He groans, and scrunches his eyes tight shut, like a sudden wave of nausea has just struck him.

"My mother's parents used to own my family's farm," Nousha replies, "they spent years toiling in fields and caring for animals, only to develop serious problems with their backs and shoulders. Not a very fair deal, is it? Working your arse off in your youth, only to have your body battered and aching by the time you get old so your later years are spent in pain."

The old man laughs as he lowers Ivor into one of the cots. "It's not so terrible, not when the alternative is dying young."

It takes a moment for him to register what he just said, like he wasn't listening to himself or aware that he was even speaking. The warm, cheeky smile twitches and dies, replaced by the quiet devastation of a man who had just been reminded that he was, in fact, grieving. He runs a leathery hand over Ivor's forehead as he curls into a ball, covering his face with an arm in an attempt to hide from the dim moonlight outside.

"Thank you for helping me with the lad. He's not usually much of a drinker, as you've probably guessed. Drinkers can usually go through more than one bottle of ale before they fall apart." Nousha gives an awkward smile and nods again, not sure what else to do. It's only as he tries to step past her, seeking his own cot, that she stops him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Tomorrow," she breathes, hoping that the other nearby Blades don't hear her, "during the funeral, are your people wanting us to attend, or would you prefer to mourn privately?" Her voice adopts a stilted, unpleasantly neutral tone, like she's discussing an academic topic.

He sighs again and shakes his head, itching at the stubble on his jaw, eyes looking wetter than ever. Nousha knows, distantly, that it's not a particularly normal question to ask- it might even be impolite in its directness. She silently hopes it's not too offensive of a question.

"Your people don't know any of those we lost. I reckon you'd be better off in the camp while we send them off to Andraste. Yes, yes, that sounds right. Grief's an ugly thing- sacred, almost. Not the kind of thing you want to wrestle with under a stranger's eye- no offense, Inquisitor."

"None taken, that's why I brought it up." She smiles again, tight and awkward, mirrored by the old man, while his eyes remain miserable and wet. He clears his throat and turns back to his cot, his eagerness to be done with the conversation made quite clear.

The horses glare at her when she steps into the stable, displeased at their slumber being disturbed. She tries not to look at the attic as she strips naked, tries not to think about how disgusting it feels for her bare flesh to share space with several corpses. She works quickly, wringing the water out of her hair and wiping the worst of the moisture off her skin with a piece of fabric that looks just clean enough to use. As she waits for herself to air-dry, she pulls some food from her pack: two carrots and a handful of dry oats. Shokrakar used to make fun of her for eating like a horse when she was on the road. It's true, she has to admit. An Oxman with a horse's stomach, she thinks to herself, taking her first bite of a carrot.

She should have seen this coming. Blackwall was never going to commit to a relationship. An emotionally constipated Warden who was too distracted by delusions of honour to-- what, exactly? Have a fling? Nousha pauses mid-chew on her carrot for a moment, considering it. It's not like she's never had something casual before, and she wouldn't have been opposed to it with Blackwall, certainly. But she really did think that they could have been happy together. Maybe not for long, Wardens aren't known for their domesticity. Still, though, good memories are good memories, even if they're brief.

For all her bluster, she's self aware enough to recognise that her attachment to Blackwall wasn't born from the most ideal source. Livid with every face she saw at Haven, reeling from the Enclave explosion, terrified and lashing out while the massive, looming label of ANDRASTE'S HERALD was forced upon her like a heated branding iron. Her advisors thinking that they were entitled to information regarding her family, trying to reach out to the Valo-Kas on her behalf or sanitising everything about her in order to make her more palatable for Thedas to accept, as if she were a meal instead of a person. The gruff, inoffensive Warden who didn't pry into her background was a welcome respite from that. What's more, he was insightful and funny, and she liked his crooked teeth. She stands and gives the last piece of her carrot to the nearest horse, her appetite dying by the second. I'm just a desperate woman looking for some comfort. Her hands press themselves against her eyes until it hurts.

It's dark by the time she's fed and dry enough to pull her nightdress over her head. Though, as she steps out of the stables, she realises that it's still raining, and she has to hurry across the courtyard into the longhouse. She doesn't see Blackwall inside, and hopes that means he's decided to join the others in setting up tents by the fire. Her toes are numb as she climbs into a bed and despite her best efforts, she and her blanket are both damp from the rain. Lying on her back, feeling the lumpy bedroll beneath her, knowing that she'll be sore by the morning, Nousha watches the longhouse ceiling, waiting for her exhaustion to distract her from the heaviness in her chest.

Just as it was last night, the sound of crying can be heard through the camp.

The twenty-ninth of Bloomingtide, 9:42 Dragon

The Blades of Hessarian send their lost members to the Maker's side in a different manner from traditional Andrastian funerary rites; they're carried out of the compound while Blackwall uses a stale piece of bread to mop up the last dregs of soup from his bowl, bodies wrapped tightly in some kind of cloth rather than brought to their pyre wearing the clothes they died in. He tries not to look too closely, but he glimpses the stains on the fabric- blood and purge fluid, but some kind of grease or oil, too. It's shiny in the dawn light, making the bound cadavers glisten wetly like oversized maggots. He has to close his eyes until he hears the compound gates slam shut. Himself, Varric, Sera and Bull encircle the campfire, still too groggy to think of something to talk about. Bull keeps throwing dubious glances at a helmet that Nousha had custom-made for him two weeks ago. He's managed to avoid wearing it until now; Nousha demands that every melee fighter wear helmets that cover their mouths to minimize the risk of anyone getting sick from darkspawn blood. Even Cole has something, some leather mask that covers the bottom half of his face. Blackwall's helmet already covers his face- only showing his eyes. Thank the Maker he didn't have to risk getting the taint- it'd be a death sentence, both to himself and the costume he wears.

Dorian, Cassandra and Vivienne sip coffees by the stables, chatting among themselves as though there were never any bodies within the structure that Dorian leans comfortably against. Nousha appears briefly, in her bedclothes despite the chill, uses the campfire to brew herself some tea, adding a handful of herbs to the concoction that Blackwall assumes is for flavour, then returns to the longhouse without uttering a word. Varric keeps trying to catch his eye, presumably to deliver an exaggeratedly questioning look, but Blackwall stares resolutely at his now empty bowl.

Sera's voice is a blessed distraction from both the dwarf and the dead. "What's the best food you've ever had?" In her lap is a miserable-looking bowl of porridge, made from the very last of the oats she'd brought from Skyhold. It's severely overcooked- hard and dark and dry.

Bull makes a noise at the back of his throat, running a massive hand over his scalp in contemplation. "It depends on what you mean by best- are we talking about fancy meals made by skilled cooks or just what we like the best?"

"Both, either. I don't know." She wrinkles her nose at the question. "Like, if you were about to die, what'd you want to eat before you're done in?"

"Oh, that's easy," he replies casually, "lokma." There's an expectant pause between the four of them, which Bull sighs at. "Oh, for-- Lokma! It's this little sugary treat that they make in Par Vollen. Fried dough balls that're coated in syrup or honey- sometimes cinnamon, too. I always figured that it was only made back home 'till I visited this village in Rivain. Turns out the local baker was a Tal-Vashoth who'd brought the recipe overseas when she left the Qun, but she had access to a whole different variety of spices than she did up north. She used this thing called nutmeg. You ever hear of that?" He slaps Varric's shoulder as he asks the question but doesn't actually stop to let him answer. "It was phenomenal. A new spin on an old classic. Every time I've got a job in the area, I stop by."

Sera snorts and uses her little finger to pick at something inside of her ear. "'Course you'd pick some sugary frilly piss."

"Sure," Bull growls, rolling his eye, "the girl who coughs up a lung if she has to eat anything spicier than pepper is gonna get weird about my food preferences."

Varric gives a low, rumbling laugh in fond reminiscence before he puts forward his answer. "You know, Leandra made some of the best dishes I've ever had. Stafford began inviting us over when they moved into Hightown, said it was a thank you for helping them get there, but..." He trails off abruptly and itches at his jaw. Blackwall sees his cheek shift as he chews the inside of it. "I think they were both just feeling lonely. Bethany got caught by the templars while we'd been gone, and it lead to a serious falling out between Stafford and Cordelia. I don't remember who said what, but one of them had wanted to bring her along on our trip and the other wanted her to stay at home. 'Lotta blame got thrown around between them. Cordelia wound up leaving Kirkwall for a few months, just took off in the night, left a letter behind saying she wanted some time to clear her head. Two daughters gone, as well as their uncle staying behind in his shack. They had a merchant and his son staying with them, but it still must've been a big change.

"I'd known she was a good cook, I could smell her making something every time I went to go tell the girls about some job that needed doing- incredible. Mouthwatering.  But when she had enough money to afford a real kitchen? It was outta this world, I swear. Ferelden recipes that I'd never heard of before. One time she served us this sheep stomach that'd been stuffed with minced intestines, spices and onions, with a chicken and leek soup to wash it down. Life-changing. I'd never considered myself much of a meat guy, but after that, I was practically addicted. I'd go through the market looking for blood sausages--"

"Must've been haggis," Sera cuts in, a faraway look in her eyes. "Them lot were from those little islands at the tip of Ferelden, weren't they?"

Varric nods. "Yeah. Well, the father was. Leandra said she'd gotten a book of recipes from Alamar- that's where Malcolm had been born. She'd still been a pretty new cook at that point and just wanted to try some simple dishes as a surprise for him. She wound up liking them all so much that she hardly made any other kind of food. Growing up, whenever any of the kids wanted anything different, they'd have to make it themselves!" He stretches and sighs, leaning back and rolling his shoulders. "She was great."

There's suddenly a white shape between Varric and Bull, not stepping into view but simply allowing Blackwall to perceive it. It lays a skeletal hand on the dwarf's shoulder and tries to say something to him, something that Blackwall can't make out despite the short distance between them. Varric waves Cole off and invites him to sit between himself and bull, offering some soup.

Ignoring the new addition, Sera takes a moment of contemplation before answering. "Mine's goose stew with barley and chives. No mushrooms, though. Can't stand mushrooms. Buttered rosemary rolls on the side to dip in it." She grows too enamoured by her dream meal to focus on the disappointment in her lap and she takes an eager bite of it. Her face twists in displeasure as she forces it down, earning laughter from Bull and Varric.

"That sounds pretty luxe, Buttercup. You stealing so much food from nobles that you're developing preferences?" Varric's inquiry makes Sera pause the grimacing over her porridge. She glances away for a second, thinking.

"Yeah, I-- no. No, I was seeing a serving girl a few years ago." She answers quickly. "When the rich nob she worked for was holding parties, she'd warm up food that nobody had touched and bring it to me. Proper romantic, she was." Blackwall receives an expectant look from her, clearly wanting the focus to be off of herself, and he tries to think of a decent answer.

"Just meat and vegetable soup would do me fine, I suppose. You can do a lot with it and it doesn't require a great deal of ingredients." The responding chorus of unimpressed sighs makes him smile.

He can't see Solas anywhere- presumably with Nousha in the longhouse, his mind wandering through the Fade while his body dozes. Cole keeps staring in the direction of the not yet lit funeral pyre outside the main gate. Bull and Varric keep jostling him, trying to distract him with their stories and crass jokes that he doesn't understand. Blackwall tries not to look at him too much, afraid of catching his attention and all the trouble that follows. The sallow little ghoul had already alluded to Callier's children and the tune they'd sung in their carriage, something grizzly and macabre.

For all his delusions of being a better man than Thom Rainier, there's a squirming, gelatinous mass of greed and bitterness and self-concern snaking its way through his body, hooking itself into his organs and using its tendrils to tickle at his brain, far less nourished than it was during his time in the Orlesian military but undeniably alive, waiting motionless within the pitch blackness of Blackwall's insides. He once thought that he'd picked it up in the military like a foreign parasite, but the reality is that he was carrying it for years before setting foot in Orlais. Perhaps he'd been born with it. A twin that he ate in the womb, still living and exerting its control over him.

The danger that Cole poses to his lie makes the beast stir, self preservation its only concern. In theory, it wouldn't be hard to kill him. He's just a skinny little thing, sickly looking, too, and seemingly lost in his own world most of the time- perhaps the fade, like Solas, but demons don't need to sleep to reach beyond the veil. The armour he wears is fairly light- with patches that are left unprotected in order to give him full mobility. It'd be a simple job sliding a blade through the gap in protection at his armpit. A good, well-sharpened knife would sink through his ragged undershirt and into his flesh like butter, severing several arteries and blood vessels. Straight into the lung. Maybe even into the heart if the blade was long enough. The only uncertainty would be the matter of how well Cole's ability to peer into someones mind is- it senses hurt, apparently, and shame. If someone were riddled with shame about their plan to get rid of it, would it be alerted by their thoughts? Would it see the attack coming? Would it play along, pretend to be ignorant, before sticking its own knives between Blackwall's ribs? The thought of spending his final moments staring up at Cole's ghostly white face isn't particularly appealing. If there was a way to push down any reservations, bundle them up within himself alongside his parasite, then maybe he could-

"You alright there, Hero?"

Blackwall's eyes snap away from the fire to Varric. He's been staring at the blaze for so long that his vision carries the ghosts of the flames within it, a light obscuring the dwarf's face and making him blink hard several times.

"Just thinking," he says quickly, shrugging in an attempt to look casual. "Been a while since I faced down an ogre."

"Out of practice, huh?" Bull asks from the other side of Cole's tiny frame, itching at the base of one of his horns. "It's been a few years for me, too. We'd been escorting some skittish nobles and their kids through the Dales- the parents had swallowed a few too many bullshit rumours about spooky Dalish clans stealing human children..."

As the hulking Qunari goes over the (presumably) exhilarating tale, Blackwall drops his eyes to his hands. It's been over two weeks since he trimmed his nails and it takes no effort at all for him to pick at the ragged pieces of skin around the nailbeds until the flesh is raw and bloody.

Cole is looking at him, he knows. He can feel the lad's eyes digging into him like a trepanation drill. Through the Blackwall facade, the meat and bone of his body and directly into his core. There is no mass of hatred hiding inside him, nor is there a parasitic twin. It's just him. Just Thom Rainier. That's all there ever has been and all there ever will be. Growing up poor, Liddy's death, the beatings and cruel words from his parents, the desire to be something more than another urchin on the streets of Markham, it was all irrelevant. Nothing that he'd experienced as a boy could justify or excuse what he'd become as a man, what he'd allowed himself to be made into, what he'd actively striven to become, and no amount of masquerading as a better man would cleanse him. Thom Rainier, slaughterer of families, deserter, greed and selfishness incarnate, was still just as vile and twisted as he had been when the bodies of Callier's children were still warm, ruined and bloodied at his feet. Thinking only of how he would be affected, fleeing without warning his men of the consequences. A beast so concerned with preserving his lie that he'd planned on killing another innocent to rid himself of any threats.

His sunken eyes, itchy from a lack of blinking, drag themselves up, pulsing in their sockets, to look at Cole. The pale thing's vacant stare greets him from across the flames, no expression discernible. Firelight is reflected in its eyes- something that should be impossible in humans. Its knees are drawn up to its chest and its skinny arms wrap around them, dirty fingernails almost blue from a cold that nobody else seems to feel so close to the campfire. Like it's been killed already. Blackwall gives a barely perceptible nod to it, hoping that the gesture conveys how much he regrets humouring his cruel, bloody thoughts. In return, Cole cocks his head to the side, expression as blank as ever.

Outside the camp's walls, several people begin to wail as the pyre is ignited, while other voices begin to recite prayers that Blackwall can't make out. The oil that the wrapped bodies have been lathered in ignites quickly, as does the kindling that cradles them. Their broken, agonized howls ascend into the sky, lifted by the chanting and the rising smoke. Nousha ducks through the doorway then, seemingly roused by the sudden noise, an empty mug clutched loosely in her left hand and rubs at her eyes with the right. She's changed into proper clothes, now: thick brown breeches and a red woolen tunic. Her hair is held back in a tight bun.

Wordlessly, everyone rises to their feet, ready to depart.

--

The ladder that leads down into blackness looks sturdy enough, but it's filthy. Caked in something worse than human filth. Since there's no way of knowing how many darkspawn may be nearby, they move slowly, sending down Blackwall, Cassandra and ten soldiers before Nousha and Solas join them. Varric and Sera follow, then Dorian and, finally, Vivienne. She climbs down slowly, wishing that she'd worn thicker gloves as she feels something soft and wet between her hand and the iron rungs. Bull and the remaining soldiers bring up the rear. Every time a cuirass or a particularly bulky helmet knocks against the rungs, a clanging sound fills the small passageway, reverberating maddeningly off the jagged rock. There's an opening in the far wall, the only one that wouldn't require any squeezing to get through. Vivienne doesn't see much of what lies beyond it other than a few stalactites. She imagines it to be a vast, empty chasm, miles long, housing thousands and thousands of twisted, gnarled darkspawn waiting in the blackness like the bloodthirsty crowd of an amphitheatre. She imagines each one of these nightmares turning their grey, lumpy heads in the direction of the metallic clatter, the first sound in untold years down in this world of night. She imagines them moving, silently and slowly towards the intruders. Her.

Vivienne hears the leather of her gloves creak in protest and she realises how tightly she's been gripping her staff. Her knuckles ache, and she has to resist the urge to shake the stiffness out of her hands. She's too young to develop arthritis, she knows. (She hopes.) But ever since Nicoline, barely a full decade older than Vivienne, had hers diagnosed, the lingering threat has latched onto her thoughts. To lose one's dexterity would be devastating to any player of the Grand Game, whose clever hands must gesture and write and signal secret messages, but when one is a mage? When one must use their hands to wield a staff and craft potions? It would ruin her. The title of Grand Enchanter would be given to someone younger and brighter and she would be forgotten in a Circle, lecturing the apprentices for the rest of her life while half of Orlais tittered about how terrible it was that she had been shut away from the world. There would be no treating Bastien's illness without the use of her hands. Everything ruined, everything gone.

There's another clang then, a particularly nasty one, and she looks up to see the very last troop descending the ladder, reeling his head back from the rung he's knocked his helmet on. He hisses a vulgar Orlesian curse under his breath, earning a snicker from the other soldiers who understand the language.

"Do try to be careful." The ice in her voice isn't covered quite as cleanly as usual, prompting the troop's head to snap around guiltily. "You're supposed to be a soldier, my dear, not a dinner bell."

Even in the low light, she can see the brown skin on his face flush in embarrassment, and he clambers awkwardly to the ground. The Iron Bull gives him a sympathetic smile as the soldier steps past him, taking his place at the very rear of the group. Taking cover from her.

Nousha steps past the archers and directs the first group of soldiers through the passageway which opens into a massive, yawning cavern. Vivienne's eyes are drawn towards the soft glow of a torch on the far wall, planted next to a tunnel. Cassandra, stood at the very front of their group, throws a quick glance over her shoulder to Nousha and has her face illuminated. Her brow is knitted together. She's reluctant, they all are, but resolute. Such a knight. Nousha nods, confirming that, yes, that's where they're going. Her eyes meet with the Seeker for a fraction of a second before she returns her march forward. She hears several of the soldiers around her start to breathe harder as they approach the mouth of the cave. Stepping into it really is like being swallowed by a stone giant and sinking down its gullet. It's wide enough to walk in pairs, but has a low ceiling- she guesses that Bull will have to stoop several inches to fit within its confines. It was a smart move, leaving her horned helmet back at Skyhold and wearing something simpler (and shorter) to the Coast. At her height, it would be catching and scraping on the rough stone above her.

"This is where you heard the ogre, yes?"

"Yeah," Varric replies, "luckily, he was too busy throwing a tantrum to notice us hauling ass out of here."

Sera leans down as she walks beside the dwarf to say something, but Vivienne's attention is stolen away by one of the soldiers failing to smother a laugh behind her, making a choked, spluttering sound from behind her hand. When she sees Vivienne throw a withering stare from over her shoulder, she looks down, trying to appear appropriately sheepish, though there's still a smile crinkling her eyes. Children, Vivienne thinks. These soldiers are children, every one of them.

"They prate and prattle pleasantly, as they ride on the way. To those that should their butchers be, and work their lives' decay."

The voice is so quiet, the words so familiar, that, for a moment, Vivienne believes it to be coming from within her own head. Then she sees it, an impassive white shape at her shoulder. The mask almost slips in her hurry to put some distance between herself and the dead-eyed horror, the muscles in her face desperate to contort, to make her disgust and panic clear. Even after all her years, decades, of playing The Game, honing her reflexes and willpower, Vivienne is just barely able to restrain her face and set her mouth into a grim, tight line as she sidesteps away from it, her shoulder colliding with Dorian's.

"You are to keep your distance from me, demon, that is your one and only warning." It's a blessing that they're forced to keep quiet with the darkspawn likely nearby- Vivienne may not have been able to keep her voice stable if she spoke at a normal volume.

Its face remains impassive at her hissed words, like a badly preserved corpse or one of the many breeds of glassy-eyed lapdogs in Orlais, bred for their appearance rather than intelligence or hardiness. Even the most clumsy, inept demons who had appeared before Vivienne in the Fade do something with the faces they wear- raise eyebrows and smile and purse lips, knowing that people tended to express their emotions on their faces but not knowing any of the finer details. This wretched little thing gives away nothing. No smiles, no frowns, no raised eyebrows. It just stares at her with those foggy, vacant eyes as it glides away from her, squeezing between Varric and the rock wall with immaterial ease, not needing to look where it's going. It keeps moving past the other two rogues, weaving through the soldiers until it disappears from view.

The words it had purloined from her mind were lines from an old Marcher poem; one that, long ago, she'd had brought to Montsimmard's Circle. One of the newest apprentices, a little sprout of a girl with messy black hair and dark eyes. She'd proven herself adept at botanical study and enchantment, but was painfully skittish, never speaking or looking anyone in the eye. She barely ate, too, and her little body was growing thinner by the day. Every attempt at bringing her comfort and confidence only pushed her further toward an unseen edge, overlooking a drop that the girl could not yet understand. The late First Enchanter Gracien did her best to reassure the templars that the girl would soon adjust, but the Knight-Commander was soon informed of her juniors' fears that the girl was plagued (and soon to be consumed) by a fear demon.

Vivienne had been present for the argument between him and Gracien. He did not use the word 'tranquility' once, he was too cowardly to speak directly, instead hiding behind phrases like 'desperate measures' and 'the best thing for her'. The girl had been nine years old.

Her relationship with Bastien was still in its early stages and Vivienne took a risk with her written request that he seek out the girl's family and retrieve some of her possessions, but it did pay off. A ragged, stained old blanket and an equally battered book were delivered to the Circle within a fortnight, along with a perfumed note extolling Vivienne's many, many virtues. The book was an illustrated copy of a poem about two children who, after the death of their rich parents, were left with a greedy uncle that coveted their inheritance. They were abandoned in the depths of a huge, thick forest and starved to death, but the woodland birds covered their little bodies with leaves, and the Maker inflicted punishment on their uncle, leading to his downfall and eventual death. A grim tale, Vivienne thought as she leafed through it, but a relevant one- that those who would harm children that they had promised to protect would face divine retribution.

Amell, that's what her name was. Her thin little face had lit up when she recognised her blanket, and she wept at the sight of her book. It had been a perfect moment, one that cemented her decision to succeed Gracien as First Enchanter, to oversee the mages with even more power, with political sway, with the ability to play The Game. Countless more children brought to Montsimmard, a place of safety and knowledge, educated and cared for by one who could ensure that they were given comforts that she was deprived of during her own apprenticeship. The girl's smile, her bright eyes, blind to the child she would one day conceive with one of her fellow mages and only have a moment with to bestow with a name upon before the babe was taken from her, blind to her sister falling victim to the rite of tranquility before being slaughtered by demons, her limp body found cradled by a screaming templar, blind to the conclave explosion that would one day kill her, beamed up at Vivienne as she thanked her over and over again.

"If we can just find an opening that's small enough, the four of us could bring it down." Dorian observes, glancing up at the rock ceiling above him. His words are slurred by his swollen jaw and he has to speak slowly to be halfway coherent. "We'd have been able to reduce this section to rubble if a decent amount of the rebel mages in Skyhold had accompanied us." From a few feet in front of them, Nousha hums in response.

"They're hardly rebels at this point, Dorian- watching your countryman effortlessly wrest control from Fiona and having Queen Anora herself order them out of Ferelden must have brought the poor, deluded things back to reality. They seem perfectly content in Skyhold's tower now. I suppose the Inquisition's original goal has been fulfilled."

"And once Corypheus is dead, what then? You think they'll just let themselves be trotted back into the Circles? Have you spoken to any of them on what they plan on doing once all this is done, I wonder?" It's quite perplexing, really, the way that he thinks himself a rugged everyman after spending two months away from home.

"Once Corypheus is dead, the Inquisition will have no reason to defend them." She smiles in the darkness to herself. "They'll be entirely devoid of allies in a world that they have no knowledge of. Anyone with sense would recognise what their best option is."

Dorian opens his mouth to argue, but Nousha's ever-hostile voice interrupts him.

"A huge chunk of the Inquisition's growth can be attributed to the apostates' research into magic. We have every reason to take their side."

Vivienne allows her responding laugh to be loud enough for the Inquisitor to hear. "And yet you neglected bringing them to the Coast with us."

"I was in a hurry."

"You mean our diplomat was in a hurry to be rid of you so she could mitigate the damage you did with your little outburst. Or, perhaps she simply couldn't stand the sight of you."

It's Nousha's turn to laugh, now- brazen and ugly. "Let them seethe."

Them. Of course. Of course she'll have escalated the fight when lady Montilyet tried to pull her up on the incident, brought Rutherford and the spymaster into it, got personal. Resorted to abuse at the first sign of criticism. Just another apostate making everything worse for everyone in some juvenile, myopic rebellion. It's no surprise that she and Fiona have been so chummy since Redcliffe.

Dorian's ability to scowl is held back somewhat by the swollen jaw, but he bravely manages a brief one when he catches the wry look Vivienne throws him.

There's a sudden halt within their march, Nousha and Solas almost collide with the soldiers in front of them, then hurriedly turn to stop the archers. Vivienne peers forward, trying to see what caused this, while Dorian stops the troops behind them. She can just about see the tunnel suddenly bend right, but nothing else. Nousha makes some incomprehensible gesture over her shoulder while she snuffs out the light emanating from her staff, and the other three mages instinctively do the same. After several moments of breathless silence, a whisper is passed down the line towards her. Nothing more tangible than a buzzing at the very edge of her hearing at first, until it reaches a couple of rows ahead of her and Dorian.

"Lady Pentaghast spotted more torchlight up ahead," a voice breathes. From behind her, Vivienne hears someone repeating the message to the others further down the tunnel to those at the rear. "They're sending the demon in to see what's what."

She grits her teeth so hard that it feels as though they'll crack in her mouth.

Solas' insufferably pompous voice cuts in at that, interrupting the whispering's smooth glide backwards. "The boy is a spirit, he--"

"Cole's going to investigate some lights," Dorian hisses over his shoulder.

Several agonisingly slow minutes later, they receive word that the demon has spotted a group of darkspawn up ahead, too focused on tending to their gear to notice the ghoul watching them. No more than ten or so, easily dispatched in theory, as long as there are no others within hearing range. It's a nasty risk, the possibility of bringing a wave of rotten, corrupted nightmares down upon themselves, but their numbers and the majority of them being clad in heavy, clanking armour makes stealth an impossibility. They hardly dare breathe as they move through the turn that leads into another dark chamber.

The light is mercifully dim, twenty yards away, illuminating eight squatted figures on the stone floor. It's only at that moment that Vivienne notices how wet the cave is, and she wonders if it connects into an underwater tunnel. Perhaps it floods during high tide. Hopefully not so badly that the lights are snuffed out, not even a full five feet off the ground. The thought of being down here in the pitch black, freezing cold water reaching up to her chest, trapped with no visible way out forces Vivienne to harden herself, make herself iron against the dread and desperation to run and climb until she sees daylight again.

The Inquisition's members are shrouded in shadow, hopefully invisible to the darkspawn, who replace the leather bindings on their sword hilts or sharpen their blades. One of them has a brush, and uses it to scrub at the filth of his chestplate. Mundanities that she's seen soldiers carry out more times than she can count. It looks almost like a mockery, their strangely shaped fingers working away at something so uninteresting. Their helmets sit by their feet, leaving their glistening, patchy scalps visible in the light.

When Vivienne hears a clatter behind her, she instinctively snaps her head around, but the attempt to see what has happened is wasted because of the darkness that blankets them. She couldn't have looked away for more than an instant, but when she turns back, the darkspawn are up. Up. Standing at their full height, unhelmeted, the vicious hatred in their waxy eyes totally visible. With a great, shrill scream, they surge forward.

She, the archers and the other mages unleash a volley of projectiles towards them, hurting them even before the warriors get the opportunity. They don't even stumble as they're riddled with arrows, as fire and electricity and poison eats away at their flesh. Cassandra brings up her shield as a hurlock swings its axe at her in a feverish, spluttering rage. The blow is deflected and she cuts into its side. Beside her, Blackwall uses his own shield as a battering ram, tackling one of the horrors and sending it reeling onto its back. Another reaches for him as its brother falls, and one of Nousha's blasts of fire hits it directly in the chest. A genlock leaps with incredible agility, latching onto a soldier's arm and clinging to her like an oversized tick. She reaches an arm to push at it, and Vivienne sees the pale strip of flesh where one of her forearms is uncovered. Grey, rotten teeth sink into the skin immediately, pulling a shriek from her not unlike that of a dying animal.

Vivienne's spell hits it in the back- right between the shoulder blades. It wheezes, breath knocked out of its lungs, and falls limply away from its victim. While she collapses, sobbing over her injury, another soldier brings his axe down onto the beast's face. He struggles to pull the weapon free, lodged so deeply within the genlock's skull. 

She begins to spin, wielding her staff close to her body to avoid hitting any of her fellow mages, hurling countless spells into the fray, sharp and glowing and painful, a sure method of drawing the darkspawn's attention away from the melee and up to her, distracting them and allowing the warriors to cut into them. The fight lasts barely two minutes like this, darkspawn dropping like flies. One manages to duck past several blades in its determination to retaliate against the still smouldering burn on its shoulder that Vivienne sent its way, but Bull's axe cuts into its chest just as it gets within a few metres of her, almost bisecting it. The final hurlock, several inches bigger than the others, puts up a good fight against the assault, but goes down abruptly when Cole shoves his blades into the back of its thigh- hamstringing the brute. It just has time to look up before Cassandra beheads it. She looks over her shoulder at Vivienne and gives a breathless nod.

She's an attractive woman, with impressive muscles and bone structure that almost makes up for her haircut. But she's painfully sincere- they've exchanged a few meaningful glances and lingering touches, and the dear thing is already scanning the area for Vivienne every few minutes, as if there's some budding romance between them. It's sweet- would be sweet if Vivienne were anyone else. It's a shame, really, that such casual flirtations would affect her so profoundly. This isn't Orlais, and Cassandra is not familiar with The Game. She nods, and gives her a quick, polite smile before looking elsewhere.

The soldier with an axe stuck in a genlock's skull pulls his weapon free, then. He stumbles backwards, almost slipping on the wet floor, but regains his balance just in time and sighs, satisfied and proud of himself.

Then something knocks him off his feet, something that wasn't there before. She thinks it's Cole for a second, thinks that the demon has finally shown its true nature. But it's not shaped right, not at all. The abomination that tears into the soldier looks like an emaciated, hairless dog that stands upright, with pointed ears and an elongated mouth that almost resembles a muzzle as it bites at his neck. The armour it wears is even filthier and more ragged than the other darkspawn's, tatters hanging uselessly in the air. Several of the closest soldiers recoil backwards in horror, hesitating and allowing it to massacre their companion for a second while he screams and struggles beneath it. She sees Blackwall and Cassandra hurrying forward to help, but they have to shove their way through the young troops. Vivienne's fire makes it squeal and withdraw from its prey. The noise is so shrill and loud that she has to grit her teeth against the urge to cover her ears. The nearest warriors finally come to their senses, raising their weapons defensively as it snarls and spits. Someone tries to drag the fallen man away from his attacker, but the amount of blood that he leaves behind confirms that his wounds will certainly kill him.

An arrow buries itself deep into the abomination's chest, and just as it looks to where it came from, Blackwall's stocky form leaps towards it. His sword slashes into its upper arm, almost amputating the limb. It howls in rage and tries to claw at him with its intact arm, eager to shed more blood, but the talons only hit the warden's shield. He pushes forward, forcing its arm aside as he closes the distance between them, and buries his sword deep into its armpit. It spasms and tries to shriek again, but all that comes out is a gurgle. The lanky beast goes limp, sagging onto Blackwall before he shoves it to the floor in disgust.

Solas hurries towards the dying soldier, as do several others, crowding around him as he splutters and chokes, trying in vain to cover the massive, gaping wound in his neck. The helmet that he knocked against the ladder mere minutes ago only reaches his jaw. The apostate pulls it loose, revealing his face. He's young, and elven. One of his pointed ears is pierced. His mouth hangs open, bringing in both air and blood through his ruined throat. Behind her, Vivienne can hear Nousha scold the injured girl for her wailing, telling her to hold still, though her own voice is thick and shaky. Solas holds his hands over the dying man's eyes, and after a faint, green glow, his breathing slows, as if he is placed under some kind of trance.

"Blackwall, what is that?" Vivienne hisses at the twisted thing he stands over. The warden sighs and shakes his head, refusing to look at her.

"Darkspawn. These types are... well, they're less common than the normal types, but they show up sometimes."

Varric curses and leans against the rock wall, nudging one of the dead hurlocks with his boot. "Anders called them something like Screamers or Squealers. Guess where they got that name from." His mouth twists into an attempted smile, but there's no mirth in his eyes.

--

Aubert's body is left where he fell. Nousha promises that they will carry him out once they've done what they came here to do. Rather than turn back to rest at the Blades' camp, Magdalene insists on staying with the party, pulling the sleeves of her gambeson down her forearms until they reach her gloves, leaving no skin bared. Hildemor steps near her, mismatched boots clicking on the rough rock floor, and places a kind hand on her shoulder. Beneath her helmet, Blackwall knows that she's giving an awkward, gap-toothed smile, trying to be comforting. They come across a no more darkspawn for another twenty minutes, but they do find equipment. Pieces of blue and silver armour beside brushes or swords beside whetstones. Like they'd been discarded in the middle of being cared for. The hairs on the back of Blackwall's neck stand on end at that thought.

"Hey, Hero- you have any idea what this might mean?" As he speaks, Varric lifts an arrow out of a quiver which seems to be made from animal hide that hasn't been properly tanned, guessing by the smell. He frowns at what even Blackwall can tell is shoddy craftmanship, with a crooked shaft and fletching that looks like it's been chewed on, before dropping it onto the stone.

Blackwall swallows and gathers himself, trying to keep his voice from sounding as lost as he feels. "I suppose it means that they're up to something. No fighter would leave their weapons for long, not even darkspawn, so they won't be far, I'd guess. Sound can reverberate a long way in these tunnels- perhaps they heard our fight and ran to get reinforcements."

Sera spits and swears beside him. "Don't think there'll be any more of those Squealies down here, do you?" When he shrugs, she itches at her nose and shifts her weight between her feet like a giddy horse.

"This tunnel seems to be fairly linear," Nousha says, striding ahead of them and suddenly taking the lead, prompting several warriors (Blackwall included) to hurry after her, "that means that there's a lower chance of us getting ambushed. The only way they can attack us is head-on. Any threat that comes our way will be seen in advance."

Her words prove correct, any paths that stray from the main trail only leads to various dead-ends within fifty yards. Another advantage to this is that the risk of getting lost is eliminated. If they need to leave, they can just turn on their heels and keep moving. That thought is a soothing balm on Blackwall's nerves, even as they pass the occasional piece of filthy, abandoned armour or the mutilated corpse of a deepstalker. We can just turn and run, he repeats internally as he keeps his eyes fixed on the path ahead, not letting himself linger too long on the signs of death surrounding them. The tunnel opens up into another chamber some seventy yards ahead- pale moonlight bleeds in from gap in the ceiling that reaches the surface, illuminating the thick column in the middle of the space, forming from a stalactite and stalagmite fusing together after spending thousands of years growing towards one another. As they draw near enough to see more of the area's contents, he guesses that the intact portion of the ceiling to be thirty or so feet high, with the occasional stalactite hanging down. Any of their ground-dwelling counterparts have been destroyed by some massive blunt object, shattered with only detritus and their bases left remaining, strewn around on the floor.

Cassandra's prayer is barely audible beside him, more breath than voice. "Guide me through the blackest nights. Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked. Make me to rest in the warmest places." Her pale face is angled upwards, eyes massive and locked on some nightmare high above them. Blackwall's hand instinctively flies to the pommel of his sword, mind conjuring an army of demons hanging from the rock by their feet like huge, malevolent bats, glaring down at them.

He doesn't see it at first. There is no creature on the ceiling, no horror twisted between the stalactites, some of which reach several metres before suddenly ending, rather than tapering off naturally. That's when he realises.

The stalactites have been smashed, too. Judging by where they've been broken off, whatever did it must have been able to reach around twenty feet. He feels their group draw closer together as everyone scans their surroundings, as if whatever did this could be hiding within the shadows unnoticed. A genlock's bloodied corpse lies near the column's base, its head crushed instantly by a chunk of rock, black blood still wet and glistening in the glow of Nousha's staff. Someone swears at the sight. Other than the entrance they just came from, there's two other openings that they can take, their luck regarding a linear path finally coming to an end. Nousha allows the light on the end of her staff to grow brighter as she approaches each option. The first stretches forward into a much smaller tunnel, with a ceiling so low that Bull and Nousha would both have to stoop to fit within. The other is massive, cavernous, and curves sharply down.

"We could probably collapse the smaller one," Varric says, squinting at it.

"We will," Nousha replies, itching at her jaw with her three-fingered hand, "once we've sorted the larger problem out. A few of Dagna's bombs should do the trick, maybe some of the paste."

Varric looks up at the Inquisitor, smiling a little more convincingly than his last attempt. "Think she's gonna give the bomb an official name?"

"The paste? She's already named it: Rock Paste. Bit uninspired, but it does the job."

"No, I mean the bombs," Varric scoffs, almost insulted that Nousha would think him even slightly interested in paste.

"She's been kicking a few ideas around," Sera cuts in, "a few dwarven phrases, one of them meant, like, 'Dragon-Through'. Like it would blow through a dragon, I guess." She realises her mistake too late and tenses as Varric inclines his head, already prying into the nature of her relationship with the arcanist.

"That's a terrible name," Nousha says, "it doesn't even make sense."

Cassandra places her hands on her hips, peering down into the blackness that yawns hungrily before them. "Inquisitor, I think that we should use the torches that we packed when we--"

It happens then.

Someone cries out in pain and alarm, and Blackwall spins to see one of those filthy, crude arrows lodged in a recruit's arm- a woman who Blackwall had spotted training with Cullen's other troops, but who hadn't yet sparred with him. She clutches at the foreign object, either trying to rip it out of her flesh or perhaps stopping it from being knocked as everyone moves around her. Another genlock is in the cavern with them, a poorly maintained bow in its filthy hands. The twisted little monster grins and drools at the smaller opening as its brothers spill in, like a dam has been bust and an endless stream of their diseased, wretched bodies spew forth. Their company leaps into action immediately, the mostly-uninjured warriors forming a barrier in front of the mages and archers. Just as a hurlock raises its blackened sword and charges at Blackwall, he spots one of Varric's own arrows strike home into the genlock's left eye, hard enough to force its head backwards, its warped skull colliding with the rock behind it. The wretch falls silently, crumpling to the ground like a pile of discarded clothes as Blackwall's shield catches the hurlock's blade. When he retaliates, aiming to cleave his enemy's skull with a downward slash, his own blow is stopped by the darkspawn holding its sword horizontally above its head, holding its weapon at each end, drawing blood from the bare hand that grips the blade. The impact is strong enough to jar Blackwall's elbow, but in the second it takes for the beast to place its spare hand back on the pommel of its sword, Blackwall attacks again, slicing a black, weeping line into its bared thigh.

It bleeds like a stuck pig and throws itself at Blackwall with renewed vigor, perhaps knowing that its blood loss would soon render it clumsier and sluggish. It tries to pounce over Blackwall's shield, feral with its desperation to kill, brandishing its sword above its head, and he barely brings it up quickly enough to prevent its face from colliding with his own. The milky, empty eyes of a corpse stare at him from over his shield, mere inches away. Its rotten blade impacts against his back, but he's wearing good, sturdy armour, and the attack does nothing but scratch the metal. Its eyes are still on him. Perhaps the bleeding has already sapped its strength- it leans against his shield, all of its weight against him. Even in its weakened state, it snarls and bites onto the edge of his shield that it glares over, snapping its jaws against the metal with enough force to break its teeth. Still it growls, and flails its sword weakly overhead with its bare arm that sports black veins and open sores. Like a dying insect, Blackwall thinks, all spasmodic limbs and frantic movement. He shoves it backward and pierces through its stomach while it's still trying to regain its balance. None of its brethren give it a glance as it keels over, and the next frothing hurlock steps over it to continue the assault before it's stopped moving. It's as he deflects the coming blow that he first hears something that turns his lungs to ice- a rhythmic pounding, the beating of massive, heavy feet on rock floor. Distant, for now, but he knows it won't stay that way. Not with the signs of its recent visit scattered across the floor.

When he's cut the second darkspawn's neck, sending black blood cascading down its torso, Blackwall hazards turning his head away to shout a warning to the Inquisitor, barking that they need to leave, quickly- as if he's the only one who's heard the ogre's approach. Nousha doesn't reply, wide eyes flicking to him with open irritation before she continues firing spells into the heaving mob. Blackwall returns his attention to the oncoming darkspawn just in time to block an attempted slash at his legs.

He's not certain how many of them he cuts down, or how long the fight lasts. It's like an eternity, each second allowing the thundering footsteps to grow louder, the massive behemoth that makes them drawing nearer. The urgency of their situation keeps Blackwall's arms moving in a flurry as more and more enemies throw themselves to their own death at his feet. An added benefit to fighting real enemies instead of sparring with allies is that the body knows that the alternative is death. This knowledge energizes warriors further, keeping them fighting much longer, despite being weighed down by heavy armour- but the downside is that once that second wind runs out, the exhaustion is far more intense. An unwary fighter may lose the strength to lift their weapon. He and the other warriors don't budge from their position, allowing the darkspawn to come to them, trained to be ever aware of their slowly depleting energy. Even Bull, always made more brutal by bloodshed, fights conservatively. The only fighter to move around is Cole, flitting around at the edge of the battle, only slightly more material than the shadows he hides within, silently cutting down archers and spell wielding genlocks before fading out of Blackwall's vision. He can only hope that they'll have the strength to escape back through the tunnels before the ogre reaches them.

There's an endless barrage of magic projectiles flying overhead, elemental mines being placed at the darkspawn's feet that erupt after a second, either freezing or scorching them, bringing forth agonized screams and a smell so repulsive that it burns Blackwall's eyes. Every now and then, a circle appears around a group of darkspawn and seemingly paralyzes them for several seconds, allowing countless devastating wounds to be dealt to them; One of Nousha's spells, Blackwall recognises- he's heard her and Solas discussing the ins and outs of entropic magic a few times, some less-known school of magic originating from the Fereldan Dalish clans.

There is, mercifully, a limit to the darkspawn gushing out of the cramped opening- when Blackwall cuts down his latest foe, it's several seconds before another takes its place. He casts a quick glance over the area and sees that there's less than fifteen of the abominations left. The prospect of being able to move so soon feels so good that he could weep, as the ogre's footsteps are almost upon them, rattling Blackwall's teeth. The rising panic is almost suffocating, pushing everyone to annihilate the final darkspawn. Bull's huge axe cuts a diagonal path through a hurlock's torso from shoulder to hip, reducing the sad remnants of scrap that served as its armour to mere shards as its diseased, discoloured intestines spill out onto the floor. It looks like it's been dead for days and has already started to rot from the inside out. They tear through the darkspawn ferociously, and Blackwall cries out with in exertion as he drives his sword through his final enemy, cold sweat covering every inch of his skin beneath the armour.

From the cavern's massive, gaping hole, the ogre bellows a response to Blackwall, so loud that he can feel it in his bones. Everyone lacking helmets instinctively claps their hands over their ears, trying to protect their hearing, while Cassandra cries out.

"Oh, Maker, there! It's right there!" She's right, against his better judgement, Blackwall looks to the opening. Its twisted horns are visible from the darkness, and within an instant, the top of its head follows. He's moving as he turns away from it- they all are, racing to find a decent position in their cramped, dark prison. Most of the archers and mages have reached the relative safety of the tunnel they used to enter the chamber, already placing mines for the ogre, but there's a face he's not seeing that his frantic mind is struggling to remember, someone--

Nousha.

He looks again, and there she is- mere feet away from the massive opening as the ogre pulls the rest of its massive form from the darkness, utterly dwarfed by the horrific size of the nightmare before her. It has to be fifteen feet tall, not counting its horns. Nousha's head is tilted back as she chugs the contents of a huge lyrium bottle, some of the blue liquid rolling down her cheek. He screams for her, so loud that he thinks his throat will tear, but she remains where she is. The bottle is flung aside, shattering upon impact against the rough floor. Nousha raises her hand towards her foe, and there's an explosion of light between them. The ogre freezes mid-step, its sickly pale eyes rolling in their sockets as paralysis grips it, and Blackwall realises what she's doing.

Everyone throws themselves into the assault, desperate to put it down before it can move again, arrows and magic projectiles ruining the grey, rotten flesh on its bare arms and neck, while the warriors inflict countless bloody wounds on its legs, but the beast's skin is so thick and tough that it functions as a natural armour, providing far better defence than the scrap metal strapped to its chest. He sees some black-green oil coating Cole's daggers as he climbs up the ogre's torso to gouge at its stomach and armpits with them, attempting to poison it. Through the wet sound of blades cutting into meat, Blackwall can hear Nousha gasping and wheezing as she struggles to keep the spell active. Even with the lyrium burning inside her, it's an obscenely massive creature to constrict, and he hacks as savagely as he can at its ankle in the hopes of slowing it down once it regains its mobility, hoping against hope that it will die before it has the chance to move. His jaw aches from gritting his teeth for so long- as do his shoulders, but he doesn't dare stop. Just as he feels something in the knotted flesh give under his blows, and an eruption of corrupted blood hits the floor, Nousha cries out. Blackwall jumps back as soon as he hears it, as do several other warriors.

The exact moment her spell stops holding the ogre back, it brings its foot down with all its might, narrowly avoiding a soldier who throws twists away just in time. Someones arm is grabbed and they're thrown aside like an unwanted doll, cracking against the wall before going limp as they land on the floor. Blackwall stares up at its snarling, lipless face, aimed over him and the other warriors towards Nousha, breathless and on her knees, not blinking or looking away even as the arrows and spells continue to hit it, even as other soldiers hack at its ruined legs from behind, even as the wounds that Cole inflicted blacken and start to bubble and froth, even as Blackwall yells and tries to distract it, even as he drops his shield and uses both hands to lodge half of his sword into its thigh.

It lunges forward, stepping through the warriors who are forced to fling themselves aside to avoid its feet, vomit and bile running down its chin and onto its chest, massive grey hands reaching for Nousha, screaming so loud that Blackwall thinks the ceiling will cave in. He does, too, desperation and animal fear replacing any reasonable thought. Perhaps other people do, too, he sees open mouths in his peripherals as he leaps after the monster's legs, hoping to do anything, anything at all, to save Nousha, to die before she can. Just as its immense paws begin to close around her and Blackwall freezes, eyes incapable of looking away, expecting to watch her head be popped like a grape, she's gone.

Blue light replaces her, or the space where she was, and in an instant she's on the other side of the chamber, stumbling against the rock wall before righting herself and shambling into the small, cramped opening where the swarm had only recently come from. The ogre gurgles, briefly pausing as it registers what has just happens before rushing again for her, several warriors on its heels, Blackwall trying to reach the pommel of his sword, which still sticks out of its leg. She sees it coming and retreats further into her sanctuary. No sooner does she disappear from Blackwall's sight than the ogre reaches its opening and forces its arm in after her. Her scream from within is terribly audible, making Blackwall's stomach lurch like he's falling, and a moment later, its massive fist withdraws- not holding Nousha, but the small bag that had been tied to her waist, its straps cut cleanly. The beast steps back, peering up at its prize.

Despite the sound of blood rushing in his ears, Blackwall hears Sera's shrill, panicked voice. "Dragon-Through!"

Everybody moves, the others hurrying towards the tunnel they'd come from while Blackwall flings himself through the cramped passageway that houses Nousha. Behind him, the ogre gives one last bellow of rage, furious that its prey, the one who had forced it to endure its wounds for almost a full minute, managed to escape its wrath. He sprints through the blackness for several seconds, hoping that he can put a good amount of distance between himself and the ogre before it drops the bombs, hoping that the incoming explosion won't deafen him, hoping that he'll see the light of Nousha's staff soon, hoping that he'll see her face.

He only registers his escape route's sudden sharp incline when he steps into empty air. His foot lands awkwardly when it reaches the floor a fraction of a second later than he'd been expecting and he loses balance. On instinct, he flings his body weight backwards, elbow throwing itself behind him to catch his weight rather than falling forward into the unknown, but the stone beneath him forms a slope that he slides down, his armour clanging and jostling him as it hits each of the jagged rocks that jut out of the floor. His sickly feeling of shock only sets in proper as he reaches the bottom a moment later, dazed and bruised, suddenly able to see again as he's thrown into some kind of dim, blue light. He doesn't register why he can suddenly see at first, lying on his back and staring up at the barely lit ceiling, more of the stalactites peering down at him, his mind knocked out of his skull during the fall and needing a moment to climb back into its proper place.

A voice calls out a name in the darkness, neither of which he recognises.

"Blackwall," it repeats urgently, "are you alright?"

Thom is still in the process of pulling himself up into a sitting position when the world above him breaks into a blinding, deafening cacophony of light and smoke and blood.

--

All that remains intact of the ogre's body is its elbows and upwards- the Inquisitor was right; the explosion from these bombs are strong but surprisingly small, contained. There's burns along the lower inches of flesh on its crumpled form, but above that, its grey skin looks as it did before it made the mistake of hurling the satchel of fiery death to the ground in its tantrum. Hildemor swears that she sees it try to move, try to crawl on its ruined, charred stumps, but there's still smoke in the air and the mages' staves tremble in their hands, making the shadows in the cavern dance and sway. It's the shadows, she tells herself. There are rocks everywhere, and scattered pieces of gore. And voices.

Everyone is speaking, struggling not to yell, as though the blast hasn't already alerted everything within fifteen miles. Even with the mages' barrier protecting them from the worst of the explosion, both from flying debris and the sheer volume that, at such close range, would easily have ruptured their eardrums, Hilde's head is full of ringing. She hears voices, sees wild gesturing between the Inquisitor's inner circle, but can't catch any individual word, the sound muffled and unfocused like she's underwater. As Seeker Pentaghast points a livid finger between the tevinter mage and the pile of collapsed rock that had been replaced the entrance that ser Blackwall and the Inquisitor disappeared through, Hilde can't help but remember the times when she'd spent too long in the bath, floating on her back in tepid water, unintentionally getting the liquid into her ears. She remembers being in the restrictive, itchy dress that she'd have to wear to the local Chantry's sunday sermons, her hair pulled into pigtails, watching the Mother drone on in a voice that her ears were too clogged to hear properly. Her family had strong ties to the Chantry, the Mother who spoke to them on sundays was, in fact, her great aunt Hildebrand (who her regular aunt Hildegard had been named after, and who Hildemor had been named after in turn), but regardless of their familial connection, Hildemor often took advantage of her temporary deafness to imagine her great aunt's impassioned speeches to be full of profanity and blaspheming. Sometimes she'd intentionally let the water get into her ears during her morning baths to make tuning out the words easier. If she let her amusement show on her face, though, she'd get a quick elbowing from her actual mother, sat beside her with Esther in her lap.

Someone's shaking her shoulder- the oxman. The bullman. Bull. The visor on his helmet is up, revealing a brow that's furrowed in concern. No, the underwater feeling isn't like taking a bath, she decides. It's like when she used to go swimming in the lake outside Kassel, one of the few bodies of water in the country that didn't have its ecosystem destroyed by the Blight- fish still swam in it, algae still bloomed. Like a lone oasis in the desert. Terra Damnata, that's the term that many sisters used to describe the land of their country. The Anderfels is a frigid country, even during summer, and she'd be almost frozen by the time she finished. Shivering and weak-legged, digits numb, breathless. Her fingers are clumsy and awkward trying in vain to pull at the straps of her helmet. Freezing, she thinks, I'm absolutely freezing.

"Hey, hey, it's alright," Bull assures, giving her shoulder a pat. "We're gonna see if there's another way through, another route to where the Boss and Blackwall went. If we don't find them in another hour, we're just gonna collapse the entrance and turn back." He says the last sentence touch louder, looking briefly to Sera, whose face twists into a scowl, eyes shining with unshed tears. "Think you're up for that?" Brandolf is being pulled into a sitting position, someone takes his helmet off and tries to inspect his pupils. After being flung against the wall by the ogre, he's remained motionless and looks deathly pale. He wasn't in the blast radius, but his ears are bloody and he doesn't seem to register what's being said to him.

"Hilde." She looks up, and Magdalene is beside the Bull, her voice high and gentle. "Are you there? Can you understand what is happening?"

She nods. "They're gone. The Inquisitor is lost, we lost her. She's lost." It's all over, now.

"We don't know that," Bull growls. "We might find her within ten minutes, or she might find her own way out and meet us back at the camp. But if we're going to go looking for her, we need everyone to be able to think clearly. If you're too out of it to follow orders--"

"I can do it," Hildemor interrupts. "I can keep going."

The grey face staring down at her creases with a determined grin. "'Attagirl." He gives her shoulder one more pat as he steps away to check on the others. Magdalene still hovers around her, neck craned, trying to peer into the narrow slit of Hilde's helmet. She gives her hand a quick squeeze but doesn't lie, doesn't tell her that she's fine.

Even with a healing tincture, Brandolf's mind remains clouded, and his eyes don't respond to the dim flame that Solas produces in front of them. Gwyneth's shoulder will need a proper healer to take a look at it, to remove the arrow and clean her wound. Moritz offers to guide both of the injured soldiers back through the tunnel and into the Blades' camp. He's told not to bother returning; they're in too great of a rush to find the Inquisitor to wait for him. Lucky bastards, someone mutters, though there's silence when the ser Pentaghast's glares in the direction that the voice came from. Sera tries to push for them to spend longer searching, but the Seeker will hear none of it. Moritz and Gwyneth both throw one of Brandolf's arms over their shoulders and half-march, half-carry him back through the tunnel they had only recently come from. They lurch awkwardly together at a crawl, their receding forms disappearing into the dark.

Hildemor's eyes keep drifting towards the ogre's corpse, looking very much like a massive, horned slug on the floor. Its white eyes are open in death, staring into nothing. Even pupilless, it seems to be staring directly at her, watching hungrily as everyone steps forward, venturing into the womb that spat it out.

--

"It's all I've got, I'm afraid." Nousha holds the dagger out to Blackwall uncertainly, like he may break it. Blackwall nods his thanks as he takes it from her, inspecting it momentarily. It's not particularly ornate, and the craftmanship is fairly basic, but it's been well maintained- the blade is sharp enough to cut through flesh with ease. It'll do until he can get his hands on a proper sword. Stepping past Nousha, he takes the lead, walking slowly through a tunnel that's barely any bigger than the one they came through escaping the ogre.

"Why's a mage sporting knives?" His question brings a little huff of laughter from behind him.

"As a last resort; what if an enemy gets close while I'm low on mana? Or, hypothetically, what if an ogre were to grab hold of a loose satchel and I need to cut myself loose?"

"Just hypothetically, of course."

"Of course!"

He's smiling, despite the horror of their predicament and the ringing in his ears.

The path splits after a minute or so of walking, Blackwall struggling to move silently in his heavy metal armour. He hesitates for a moment, peering at each passage, both leading into seemingly impenetrable blackness. Nousha's body leans against him when he stops, and her hand rests on his shoulder as she stares over his head.

"Seeing as nothing's come running, they're either out of earshot or the blast scared them off." Despite the words, Nousha keeps her voice low, not wanting to put her theory to the test. The left passage leads into a dead end, an open, empty space that takes up several metres. There's nothing within that interests him, save for the shed skin of a deepstalker.

The right passage leads them further through the darkness, the ceiling growing higher and higher until it disappears into the eternal subterranean night. Sometimes, Blackwall glances upwards and finds himself surprised by the lack of stars filling the black sky above them. 

A pale, naked shape darts past them, eliciting a noise from Nousha that's somewhere between a gasp and a yelp while Blackwall nearly jumps out of his skin. Just a nug, he realises as it scurries beyond the reach of their light. He gives a quick, breathless laugh in his relief, and looks up to Nousha.

Her eyes are brimming with tears, and her mouth quivers, struggling to suppress a sob. Blackwall feels his stomach drop as she covers her mouth with a hand, struggling to take a shaky breath.

"Nousha--" He begins, taking a step toward her. She's crying, now, whimpering into her hand as tears roll down her cheeks, leaning against the rock wall and sinking to the floor. "Nousha, it's alright." It's like he isn't speaking, isn't there- she only grows more folded in on herself, bringing her knees up to her chest and burying her face in her arms. "It's alright, don't cry." The gauntlets are picked off his hands and dropped unceremoniously on the floor so that his fingers can undo the leather chinstrap keeping his helmet on. His scalp tingles as it meets the cold air, and his range of vision increases considerably.

The bare skin of his palm is pressed against Nousha's shoulder, which heaves with sobs. He opens his mouth to speak again, pulling his mind apart in search of something comforting to say- but he can't bring himself to lie to her, either. Not about this, not when the truth of their position is all around them, walling them in and burying them beneath itself. Impartial, unsympathetic rock, staring down at them without any concern for Nousha's tears or her sobs, which bounce uselessly against the walls of their prison.

"I know," he says, finally, and sits against the wall with her, stroking at her shoulder. "I know."

When she finished crying on Blackwall's shoulder during their trek through the Frostbacks, the air grew awkward, even embarrassed. But now, when her sobs quiet and finally stop, there is nothing. Nousha does not attempt to return to any kind of normality, she sits with him in exhausted silence, occasionally giving a wet sniff. Blackwall doesn't remove his hand from her, or his gaze. If she knows that he's staring at her face, she doesn't show it. Her eyes are fixed ahead, glazed over while her mind wanders.

"Do you feel any better?" He asks.

Nousha takes a moment to sigh and clear her throat before she answers. "Not really," she grunts wearily, "but I'm out of tears." Finally, her eyes turn to look at Blackwall, something warm entering her expression. "I'm sorry for getting you stuck down here."

"It's fine."

"No, it's not. It's not. We could die."

"And what's the alternative?" He asks, inclining his head toward her. "Leaving you down here by yourself? Letting Thedas get overrun with demons? Losing you?" Nousha only smiles at the last question, turning her face away from him just a moment too late.

"I shouldn't have gotten so worked up last night," she sighs, itching at her nose. "It's fair for you not want to go any further. I know you prefer to avoid too much attention; getting involved with me would be--"

"You earned the right to give me a tongue-lashing, I think. If I had a little more sense, I'd have remained professional from the get-go. But I've been... less than consistent, admittedly. Must feel like you're getting strung along. I'm sorry. It's not on purpose." He catches himself mirroring her, picking at his beard as he speaks.

"Why were you doing it, then? The dithering?"

His mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again, panic squeezing at his lungs. The long silence draws Nousha's curiosity, and she looks back around at him, squinting.

"I suppose it's just because I... Well, even though it's not smart or realistic... The truth is, I enjoy the closeness of our relationship a great deal, and it's a struggle not to, ah, be... close. To you." The juvenile stumbling over his sentence makes him wince, and Nousha looks away again, quicker this time. But Blackwall can still see her pointed ear, the way the grey flesh darkens and flushes.

They're moving again a few minutes later, Nousha helping Blackwall re-fasten his helmet over his head. It's unnecessary, he's done it countless times unaided. She's seen him do it. He does not mention this.

Their progress is slow, with Blackwall dipping his head into each opening they come across; some merely side-chambers that lead to nothing, some reaching further, probably branching out into their own many-headed system of tunnels. It's tempting to investigate, to look through them for a miraculous, divinely lit passage that would take them directly to the surface in mere minutes. Perhaps they should; Blackwall knows that there's no reason why the passage they follow is any more likely to grant them an escape than any other tunnel. But it's peaceful here, Blackwall reasons, and Nousha's breathing is slow and calm.

He doesn't try to fill the silence as he walks in front of Nousha, too focused on straining his ears for any warning of an impending ambush. It's an endless battle against his own mind, trying to prevent himself from thinking about the very real possibility that they may die down here, trapped in the dark. Or darkspawn, a fitting way for his life to end; becoming Blackwall and, consequently, dying as he did. It's almost an attractive concept. He's not sure which is worse, the fear or the temptation.

At some point, they hear the sound of rushing water ahead, and Blackwall has to quicken his pace in pursuing it to stop his heels from getting stepped on. The light from Nousha's staff intensifies, illuminating twenty feet ahead of them, revealing what they've been hearing.

A river, not particularly deep nor wide, hardly more than a stream, breezes past them. A lone deepstalker, heavy with eggs, looks up from gnawing at a disemboweled nug at the water's edge, alerted by the light. Not wanting to fight in its state, it skitters away, following the current. Nousha drops to one knee, dipping a finger to the water and bringing it to her lips. She looks up to Blackwall, her golden eyes bleached yellow by her staff's pale glow. He's never seen her from this angle before, both himself and the light above her. It illuminates the silver strands in her hair and emphasizes her cheekbones when she smiles.

"It's saltwater! If we go against the current, it'll lead us to the ocean!" There's laughter in her voice, so palpable is her relief, and Blackwall can't help but smile, too. He can't guarantee that they won't discover that the water passes through a tiny crack during its journey to where they are, every bit as impassable to them as a solid wall of rock. But there's hope in her eyes, so he stays silent, helping Nousha up to her feet and then struggling to keep up with her as she hurries along at the water's edge, ripples spreading in her wake.

The size of the tunnel that feeds through the water varies wildly, sometimes open enough for Nousha to walk upright, going through chambers which sport several other exits, sometimes so cramped that they have to crawl on their hands and knees, one after the other, through the water.

Blackwall tries to sound casual as he plays the gentleman and lends a hand to Nousha, climbing to her feet once she's wriggled her way out of their latest squeeze. "Let's hope we've reached the surface by the time the tide comes in; I'd rather not have to swim back to shore in this armour."

She glances at him for a moment, straight into the slit where Blackwall's eyes are located. A little smile plays at her lips, and she goes to reply, gets a syllable out, when her gaze drifts. The noise chokes and dies in her throat, her expression going slack while her eyes widen.

He spins, gritting his teeth, ready to cut down some looming horror. For a moment, there is nothing but rock and shadow before him. Then he sees movement- the blinking of two hideous white eyes.

A genlock. Grimy and half hidden by a pile of boulders that it lurks among, totally still. It doesn't wear any armour, not even a piece of jagged metal tied awkwardly to its flesh, like some of its brethren. Its lipless mouth is part open, perhaps in shock, or perhaps its jagged, rotting teeth prevent it from closing its jaws properly. There's only a handful of stark white hairs across its scalp, hanging down to its shoulders, while a livid rash covers the exposed skin, yellow with infection.

A moment passes in unblinking, unbreathing silence. Two. Three. Four. Nousha's staff comes to life as she readies a spell. In the instant it takes for her to hurl her magic at it, the little beast turns and sprints in the opposite direction with unexpected speed, disappearing into the shadows. It's howling, frothing. An alarm has been raised.

"Move!"

Blackwall's not certain who said it, or if it was even said, it could have been his mind screaming the word at him. Either way, they both take off running through the water, limbs pumping and splashing as the distant screaming of the genlock is joined by countless other voices, twisted and warped with an ancient, prehistoric hatred.

They sprint for longer than they should, several minutes pass with them both moving tirelessly while the sound of their pursuers echo along the cave after them, terror keeping them safe from fatigue. He doesn't look back, doesn't risk slowing or stumbling, convinced that at any moment he'll be leapt upon by a hoarde of disease and corruption, torn apart in the dark, his body never found. Running through the back alleys in Markham, fleeing the bigger boys or his father or a shopkeeper who had noticed his sticky fingers, ducking through crowds, numb feet pounding against the rough cobblestone paths, lungs burning, unable to stop until he's certain it's safe.

With her longer legs and lighter armour, Nousha maintains her position several yards ahead of Blackwall for what feels like an eternity. As the distance begins to close, Blackwall initially thinks that he is speeding up, but when he draws near enough to hear her sobbing and gasping, he realises the truth: She is running out of energy. Eventually, Nousha uses magic to slingshot herself forward again, just as she did to escape the ogre, but Blackwall catches up quicker each time. They turn a corner and there, no more than a hundred yards away, is daylight. It bleeds in through an opening in the rock, as does a steady supply of water, like a burst dam. Blackwall almost weeps with relief, and throws himself forward with all of his draining strength. The water flowing in from outside is split, giving the river they've been following a sister that travels through another, bigger tunnel. Just as they reach the place where the other river branches off, a mere twenty yards from the exit, a hurlock appears before them, lurching out from the other opening like a demon spilling through a tear in the veil.

Its jaw hangs open, revealing a mouth full of broken teeth and swollen, infected gums, drool running down its chin. The sword it grips is jagged- barbed, Blackwall realises, warped metal, shoddy craftsmanship. Six others of its ilk join them a moment later. The screaming of the hoard behind them is unbearable now, louder than the explosion, the sound getting in through the gap under Blackwall's helmet and reverberating endlessly inside of it. Loudest of all is Nousha, openly wailing in despair as she hurls lightning at the nearest of the pack. It arcs through four of them, the metal of their armour carrying it. They scream and stumble, but keep moving.

Blackwall moves, too.

He leaps at the first to draw near Nousha, burying the dagger into its neck in an instant. Something impacts against his armour as he withdraws the blade, but there's a flash of red above him and a scream. When he stands and turns, the hurlock that struck him is clawing at its face, trying to pull the fire from its skin, either too panicked or foolish to think to extinguish itself with the water at their feet. Its discarded sword lies beside Blackwall, and he's able to bring it up just in time to deflect the swing of an axe aimed directly at his head. The shock travels up Blackwall's arm, all the way up to his shoulder, and it's only through a mix of desperation and adrenaline that he manages to maintain his grip.

Another blast of magic, this time freezing an archer where it stands, followed by a scream. It's from Nousha, and Blackwall risks a glance at her while his sword half-shatters the wooden shield his enemy hides behind. No other darkspawn have reached her, but she's frozen in horror, staring up at the ceiling of the tunnel that the hurlocks came from. Blackwall doesn't risk following her gaze and focuses on dodging the hurlock's axe. He sticks his sword into the beast's ribs as it reels back for another swing, and there's a deep, guttural noise nearby that freezes the blood in his veins.

It's incredible how stealthy a large animal can be- the flat, huge paws of a brown bear can carry it almost soundlessly over the soft forest floor, allowing it to glide through its habitat. Massive feet stepping easily through the shallow river, its approach masked by the sound of rushing water and fighting. Now it's here, the gargantuan ogre's face a hideous mask of triumph as it gazes down at them. It's stooped to fit under the ceiling, horns catching slightly on rock as it approaches, the casual, slow steps of a predator who knows that there is no escape for its prey. He hears Nousha attempt to fire off more spells, but her staff fizzes, not enough mana in her body to cast anything more than the most basic projectile, which bounces uselessly off the ogre's bicep. She's sobbing in terror, muttering to herself. The hurlock whose face she ignited is on all fours between Blackwall and the beast, blind and stinking. It would take no effort to step over its brother, but the ogre brings its foot down on the charred head of the hurlock with vicious force, the first step it's taken that wasn't gentle. The skull is crushed underfoot instantly, cracking over like an eggshell, body spasming before going still. The three remaining hurlocks don't even glance down at it, focused instead on drawing nearer to Blackwall. There's a deep rasp in one of their chests that sounds horrifyingly similar to a laugh.

The sound is an insult, a humiliation, and it brings Blackwall's frozen limbs back to life. The sword in his hand slashes through the stomach of the nearest darkspawn; the first hurlock to appear before them, with its gaping jaw. It screams as it leaps forward, stabbing at Blackwall in an attempt to slide its blade through a gap in his armour. Just as he's running it through, a blunt object slams into the very centre of his back, driving the breath from his body as the shock of the impact leaps through the armour. He collapses, wheezing and staring up at the culprit, drooling and gurgling, holding a club. The ogre is at its side, diseased, pale eyes almost certainly the last thing Blackwall will ever see, reaching for him. Nousha will escape while I die, he thinks, Nousha will get to safety and survive. She will save Thedas without me.

He takes an instinctive breath as the long, gnarled fingernails of the nightmare scratch at his breastplate, and he catches a scent of blood that wasn't there before- blood. Proper blood, not the liquid taint that was spilled when cutting down darkspawn. Iron coats his tongue, and there's the sound of fizzing in the cavern with them. The ogre looks up.

And then its eyes burst in their sockets.

The monster reels back, flailing, howling in agony, wrapping its massive hands over its face. The hurlocks are screaming, too. They claw at their skin, which blackens and bubbles, and parts of their abdomens seem to grow and distend. It's like the boils that appear on their skin are a light rash compared to what grows within them, like a cluster of parasitic eggs. They stumble around, panicking, bumping into the walls and each other. Blackwall only just has the strength to scramble backwards on his arse to avoid a hurlock tripping over him. The thought of it falling and landing on him is more repulsive than ever, their rancid visage made so much worse by whatever hideous curse that grips them. Then there's the ogre- shaking its head like an angry bull, trying to physically knock the pain loose from its brain, snarling and smashing its fists against the rock walls, bloodying its knuckles. The screeches of the hurlocks reach a new volume, a new shrillness, a new level of suffering. The one that had hit him with its club gets too close to the ogre, sprinting in a manic, animal desire to escape its pain, and the beast's huge foot kicks out in a blind rage, smashing into its torso.

It explodes from the impact, the pockets of fluid building up in its body rupturing the skin, expelling a black mist into the air around it while the ragged carcass flies in several directions at once. Blackwall's hand flies over the part of his helmet that covers his mouth and nose, instinctively trying to stop himself from inhaling any of what must be a horrible underground plague. The ogre pauses for a second, its agony giving way momentarily to confusion as it wheezes, breathing in the rancid gas that belched out of the hurlock. He doesn't hear the mob that had pursued them anymore, and he hopes that it's because the ogre's howls have scared them off. The great, lumbering beast begins to cough; deep, wet hacks, like an unimaginable amount of phlegm is coating its lungs.

He's still breathless as he scrambles back onto his feet, his limbs leaden, but hope drives him up. There's a smile on his face, spinning and hurrying away from the ogre as it writhes and gurgles, as the remaining hurlock disappears down the path that it had emerged from, its death imminent. Nousha stands before him; the glorious, divine saviour that she is. Strands of hair loose from her bun, her eyes frantic and wide, teeth bared, nose running, gripping the dagger he'd left at her feet, the glove covering her right hand discarded, her palm cut open, blood dripping down into the water.

It takes him a moment to fully process what he's looking at, what she's done. He stops running. Stops breathing. The amber of Nousha's eyes don't look warm or beautiful in that moment. Honey turns to pus. She flares her nostrils, wipes at the tears and the mucus running down her face, pulls her lips together into a grim line. Then, wordlessly, she turns and starts climbing through the opening of the rock, struggling to keep her footing on the wet stones. 

The opening is two metres up a rocky incline, water cutting a path through the stones. Several small pebbles are kicked down as she steps on them. When she's passed through completely, she stands upright, her upper half disappearing. Blackwall watches her legs turn around, waiting. Inevitable.

"Come on!" She hisses impatiently. The ogre's coughs have turned into a death rattle behind him, and he knows that the other darkspawn will soon grow curious.

He crawls through slowly, reluctantly, warily. When Nousha extends her good hand towards him, he cringes away, averting his eyes as he claws his way into the daylight. They're on the beach, knees and arms soaked with seawater from the climb through, hexagonal columns of rock towering over them, salt on the air, birds overhead. And the sun, too. Directly above them. Noon.

It's been around five hours since they entered the cave.

Smoke from the Blades' camp trickles into the sky some two miles away, no longer a funeral pyre but a gentle, domestic campfire, ready to cook, ready to provide some much needed warmth. Nousha pulls her hair out of its bun. The black waves are immediately flung into dissaray by the wind, buffeted around her head and in her face like a mourning veil, the equally dark sea rolling behind her.

With blood still running from her hand, Nousha raises her arms. For a brief moment, there is nothing, but a large piece of rock buried among the pebbles at their feet is ripped from the earth, revealing a boulder thrice the size of Blackwall's head, and is then wedged tightly into the opening.

She gives a deep, exhausted sigh, and sits heavily onto the ground, rubbing at her eyes with her uninjured hand, before withdrawing a rolled up piece of fabric from her pocket, wrapping it around her sliced palm. A sound like muffled lightning rolls across the coastal hills, causing Nousha to look up, alarmed.

"They've brought down the tunnel's entrance already?" She asks incredulously. "We could still be trapped down there, for all they know!"

"How long?" He can't even bring himself to say it. There's nausea building in his stomach that chokes him like bile at the back of his throat. The responding sigh from Nousha makes clear her disappointment that she failed to distract him with complaints about their companions.

"Since I was fourteen," she says, voice even. "I'm well aware of the risks, so I only do it as a last resort."

The scoff that erupts from Blackwall's mouth isn't intentional, but he can't bring himself to regret it, either. "If you were as aware of the risks as you say, you would never have started practising this in the first place."

She laughs at him. She actually fucking laughs at him, harsh and cruel. "And you know so much better, do you? You're the expert in blood magic?" His face heats, and he grits his teeth so hard it hurts his jaw.

"This is the kind of magic that Tevinter magisters slaughter their slaves for," he spits, "this is how countless people have died!"

A pause follows his words, and she raises her eyebrows, contemplating. He actually starts to believe that he's made a good point. "That's a very compelling argument. Maybe I'll stop slaughtering my slaves."

He spins on his heel, unable to stand the sight of her. "Of course, of course. Deflect with cheap jokes, don't bother taking anyone but yourself seriously."

Another quick, nasty laugh. "If you want me to take you seriously, then say something worth taking seriously. Slaves are killed to feed someones need for more influence and political power. It's rare for me to use blood magic, and even rarer for me to use blood that's not my own- and I don't get it from slaves. Didn't think I'd need to tell you that. I use it from people who I've already killed. No less moral than stripping weapons and armour from our enemies, is it? Like that shiny chestplate you've got-" She points a grey, bloody finger at the armour he wears, the green anchor tinged red "-I remember how satisfied you were when we confirmed that it fit you. The body wasn't even cold."

He remembers, too. Its previous owner had been some hardhearted bastard plaguing the refugees in Redcliffe of a similar build to himself.

"So that's it, then? I'm supposed to be alright with this?"

"No," Nousha says. There's no scorn in her voice now, though it's far from gentle. "I know how controversial the practice is over here." That's one word for it.

"Does anyone else know?"

"Harlowe, obviously, and Fatuma- she's a healer who tends to me. And Dorian."

"Dorian. Is that why you two've been so chummy lately?" He turns to face her again, an accusation in his voice. Nousha's face twists, utterly baffled.

"Chummy? How? What, because of what happened in Redcliffe?" The utter incredulity in her voice makes Blackwall's skin itch. "Are you serious? He'd just... he'd had a really unpleasant run-in with... someone. He was upset- he was crying, for fuck's sake! Do you think I'd just shrug him off while he's in that state?"

Blackwall ducks his head, glad that Nousha can't see his burning face. "Well, you trusted him enough to let him in on your little secret. And he's from Tevinter, maybe he'd approve of that sort of--"

"For fuck's sake!" Nousha explodes. "You have no idea what you're talking about! You've seen us argue! You've seen me call him all sorts of names! To his face!" She's gripping her scalp as though assaulted by an unbearable headache, eyes screwed tightly shut. "And for someone who acts so familiar with men like him, you don't have a clue about what kind of scruples he holds. I didn't let him in on it because we've got some great friendship that I've kept secret for some reason; I had to use it when we were in that... the spell that Alexius trapped us in. Dorian was working on getting us back to reality- it'd take way too long. Demons were coming. I had to give him a little boost. He was even less happy than you."

Blackwall can't construe her expression; mouth twisted in a grimace, brow creased. It disappears in a split second, melts into a mask of exhaustion.

"But that doesn't really matter, does it? What matters is this: I don't do blood magic unless I'm in a life-or-death scenario and don't have any lyrium. Or worse than death. And the only times I use blood that isn't mine is when somebody is already dead. I know you don't like it, but I'm asking you, please, don't just bark out some knee-jerk objection against it because you've been taught the use of blood magic is, without exception, dangerous and evil. I want you to think about what I've told you- really think. Think about how I've been doing this for almost thirty years and I've never been possessed, I don't use slaves, I don't sacrifice people, I don't do any huge rituals in some grab at power. Please, just stop and think about it for a while, and we can discuss it further when we get back to Skyhold. Can you do that for me?"

An utterly world-weary sigh makes its way out of Blackwall's mouth unbidden. His eyes itch like he hasn't blinked in hours. He opens his mouth to say something, but snaps his jaw shut when no words come forth. Instead, he just nods, refusing to look directly at Nousha.

--

Ivor's bleary eyes struggle to focus on his surroundings as his consciousness slowly returns to him. It's dark in the stables, but the golden light streaming in from outside is a sure sign that it's the evening. He lifts his head off of the floor and rubs at his jaw, drawing attention from Gaenor, his sister's now orphaned horse, who points her white nose at him and gives a mildly curious sniff before returning to her hay. He stinks, a dizzying mixture of piss, sweat, and alcohol. And vomit, of course. Can't forget the vomit, he thinks, looking at the puddle of partially digested vegetables and regurgitated ale beside him and suddenly registering the sour taste of bile lingering on his tastebuds. He'd bathe if it made him feel any cleaner, but a smell more acrid than any other is the damn smoke. It's pungent and won't leave him. He washed his hair so aggressively that the balding process has probably been accelerated by a full year, and scrubbed his skin raw, but still the stench remains. Perhaps a piece of someone's ashes is lodged in his esophagus, or his lung, clinging to his insides forever, until he's thrown onto his own pyre.

His teeth hurt, like the stomach acid that he spewed up has burned the enamel. And his eyes, back, head, shoulders, stomach, ribs, knees, and hips. The discomfort is hideous, but not quite bad enough to push him to his feet and seek water or a proper bed. He just sits there in a hungover daze, knowing that a man in his position should feel somewhat relieved that he didn't choke on his own vomit.

From the shadows behind Gaenor, a shaky voice speaks.
"Morwenna's death was her own choice."

"I know." Clearly, the vomit has burned his vocal chords as well. Ivor's voice is croaky, like he's been smoking tobacco since he was ten. "I saw her body. Darkspawn don't do neat little cuts to the throat like that." She used a bow and arrow, just like him. The only blade on her person was the one he'd gifted her, many years ago, to celebrate the birth of her daughter. She kept it in a sheath strapped around her shoulder, at the ready in case an enemy came too close. He'd presented her with her own death. He'd killed her years ago, but neither of them knew it then.

"She was sad to leave all her jobs undone, and she prayed to Andraste to protect you."

"I know," he spits and rubs at his throbbing temples. "Maker, that's all she ever thought about. Wanted to take on every job, never stopped to relax. Too active for her own good, that's what our mam would say."

"Mother had to use a harness to keep her from running off when she was small." A white hand reaches from behind Gaenor's bulk to stroke at her chest and neck, standing out among the dark brown hair. The powerful horse snorts and pricks her ears, content. "Morwenna got so angry that she started chewing on it."

He wants to smile at the memory, and makes an effort at forcing his mouth into the right shape, but it's awkward, like writing with the wrong hand.

"Mam used to blame me for that. She said that Wen saw me running around and wanted to join me when she was a baby. She was right, probably- that's how it usually is with babies if they've got an older brother or sister." She'd been half-joking when she said it, and it was supposed to make Ivor feel proud of himself for inspiring his baby sister, but as they grew older and Morwenna's inability to slow down became less and less endearing, the words twisted into something far less complimentary within Ivor's chest.

"She wanted to be like you since she could walk."

"Since she could crawl." It makes no sense. It feels like both an eternity ago and mere weeks since Morwenna was a squealing, moon-faced infant, crawling after him through the grass. How could she be a woman? A mother? A corpse? It's so viscerally wrong that it feels like the world is ending. Has ended. And yet everybody continues with their business. Father keeps on brewing potions and ale, Mam mends clothes and trains the dogs, everyone expects him to do the same- to continue, like there's even going to be a tomorrow. Surely, the seas will bubble and burn and every mountain will crumble, fire will rain down from the sky while darkspawn surge up from the earth, surely the sun will extinguish itself and they'll be plunged into an eternal darkness, right? Any second now? Ivor tilts his head back and stares up out of the stable's windows, squints uncertainly at the world that inexplicably remains intact before him.

"No, no, she wouldn't want that." He returns his exhausted eyes to Gaenor's shoulder, where the hand has been joined by half of a face, peeking out from behind the huge mare. It's just as white as the hand, like a drowned corpse that somehow remains free of bloating. "She wanted you to continue, too. She still does."

"She can't want anything. The dead can't want."

The face doesn't show any emotion at Ivor's words, but Gaenor starts to swish her tail and dig at the ground with her hooves, as if she has some way of intuiting the ghost's feelings. "They can. She loves you, does death stop that love? Does it undo the person you've become because of her presence in your life?"

The pounding in his head is worse than ever, like there's insects gnawing at his brain. He shakes his head far more vigorously than needed, half expecting centipedes to come flying out of his ears with the gesture. "Don't start with all that shit, alright? She's gone."

"She is." It finally steps out from behind Gaenor, revealing its skinny, frail body. Ivor wonders if ghosts should look so material. "You sent her off. You gave her a proper funeral so she could go on her way. If it wasn't for your dagger in her pocket, the darkspawn would have dragged her underground. They'd have kept her there forever, even after her body finally gave out. She'd spend eternity down there in the dark." To lose her to such an unimaginably horrid fate sickens him. His eyes snap shut and he clutches at his head, trying to physically shield himself from the other outcome of Morwenna's runin with the monsters.

"Maker, no."

A hand places itself on his shoulder. Even through his shirt, he can feel that it's cold and clammy. If he wasn't so sick, perhaps he'd have recoiled or panicked. His grandmother had told him of ghost stories she'd picked up during her travels before she joined the faith. They were spirits who hadn't been given proper funerals and couldn't find their way to the Maker's side, she'd said. Belonging to a different plane of existence made them dangerous. Even if they didn't intend to, physical contact with such beings would kill a person instantly, causing their soul to slip cleanly from their flesh. One could only hope that their corpse would be found by good, Maker-fearing people who would lay them to rest, otherwise they would be forced to wander the world as a spirit for the rest of time.

Despite feeling very much like a corpse, Ivor's flesh remains warm and mobile, and he feels air fill his lungs as he takes a breath. Either Nana was wrong, or this creature before him is just a normal person. With its glazed, bloodshot eyes and total lack of body heat, the truth remains difficult to parse.

"She's free, you let her be free. You did her one last favour, the last favour you can give someone: a merciful death. Grieve freely, feel her absence as keenly as fingers lost to the cold, but don't blame yourself." Its voice is tremulous- not from any clear emotion, but seemingly a lack of familiarity with using its vocal chords. The irises that surround its massive pupils are just as pale as its skin and hair. "The guilt will kill you as surely as any blade."

Ivor climbs shakily to his feet. Other than the horses, he's alone in the stable. He must have stumbled in during the night- or perhaps the morning, judging by the late hour of the day. Upright, golden rays from the evening sun can easily reach through the small, square windows to caress his face. There's no sign of the Inquisition's members or their tents in the camp outside. Hopefully he won't be reprimanded too severely by their commander for sleeping through Lady Adaar's departure.

Maybe he will be, though- and would that be so terrible? He's not a bairn anymore, he doesn't have to fear a bollocking. He's a grown man. And alive. He didn't choke on vomit during his drunken stupour. The sun will continue to rise and fall through the sky. Life marches forward.

He'll feel better with some food in him, and water, and some sleep in a proper bed. Beneath the nausea and discomfort, he knows that he must be ravenous. Placing a hand on Gaenor's snout, he steps into the sun. His mother and Gwennol gut fish together at the butchering table, discarding scraps into a bucket. The distinct smell of gore fills the air and Ivor's stomach roars to life, finally realising how empty it is. Smoke reaches up into the air from another funeral pyre outside of their camp.

"You two need help?" He asks, trying to suppress the urge to bite into the massive cod that his mother has laid out on her workspace. She squints up at him and itches absentmindedly at her weathered hands, red from both irritated skin and fish blood.

"Nae," she croaks, "we're almost finished. Gwen's very quick, I reckon she'll make a fine butcher one day." Gwennol, at an age where everything embarrasses her, turns red and averts her eyes in response to the praise.

After a moment, he feels the need to address the obvious. "Did someone else die?" His mother glances at the column of smoke billowing just beyond their gates, like she's only just noticed it.

"One of the Inquisition troops was killed while they were underground, but that's it. We offered tae set up a pyre for 'im."

Gwennol frowns. "What d'you mean 'we'? I was the one who brought it up!"

Ivor can't resist the smile that pulls at his mouth. She's the spitting image of Morwenna. "The job's been done, then?"

"Aye, we certainly think so. They sorted a bunch of the smaller entrances yesterday, and used bombs tae destroy some tunnel the darkspawn had been using on the beach. We heard it all the way from here! After we healed their wounded and burnt their dead, we sent 'em off with some of your father's ale as thanks no more than half an hour ago."

Gwen's excited voice cuts in. "They made us burn their soldier in his armour, but I think some of it'll be salvageable."

"The knife-ear girl and the one-eyed ox were passing a bottle back and forth before we'd even closed the gates." Mam continues. She shakes her head as she speaks, grimacing down at the now eviscerated fish before her.

"I'd say they've earned a drink, seeing as they saved us," Gwen cuts in, a little laugh in her voice. Mother just huffs and shoves a cod toward her. "Ser Adaar says that if we have any more problems with darkspawn, to write to them at once."

Ivor scratches at his bristly chin and the underside of his forearm presses against a hard mass in his breast pocket. When he dips his hand within and fishes the foreign object out, there's a pair of his sister's earrings in his palm. They bear the Chantry's sun and look freshly polished, shining luxuriously in the sun. A token picked up in Denerim several years back, while their commune was trying to establish a house of worship in a more populated area. It was a terrible idea- no wonder Griffin's reign as their leader was so disastrous. The man was a fool. The Chantry hated any splinter groups, and preaching any alternate paths to the Maker always attracted the attention of guards and Templars. They treat us like mages or those Dalish heretics, Morwenna spat as they were escorted out of the city's walls.

"We'll be sending a few hunters out tomorrow," his mother ventures, "think you'll be up to it?" There's a hopeful tone to her voice, eagerness to have him do something other than wallow.

Ivor nods, and places his treasure back in his pocket, making a mental note to pierce his own ears before the week is out. "Aye, mam. It'll do me good to be out and about. Might have a quick kip before dinner."

She nods and rubs at her heavy brow with the back of her hand, unknowingly staining it with blood from her gory work. He steps past them, headed for the longhouse, then pauses. Quickly, he leans over his mother and niece and plants a kiss on their foreheads. Shows them love while he can.

The thirtieth of Bloomingtide, 9:42 Dragon

The moon sits closer to Thedas than usual, appearing particularly fat in the sky and surrounded by comparatively tiny stars. Satina, ever the introvert, will remain hidden behind her older sister until Umbralis, when she'll repeat her yearly peek out from around the moon's mass, before startling and returning to the safety of her sister's shadow.

On Liddy's final Satinalia, she and Thom had worn painted sacks over their heads with the eyes cut out. She'd gotten frustrated at how much better Thom's painting skills were, so he offered to help decorate her mask. They were both too young to get involved in the revelry that their parents and older cousins took part in, their legs too short and clumsy to keep up with the dances and their bodies too weak to help in the tug-of-war between their street, but it had enraptured them all the same, seeing the adults in their lives behave like animals, shrieking with laughter and dancing while discordant music filled the streets. The traditional fluffy mackerel pudding was rarely served in Markham's poorer districts as mackerel tended to get bought out by richer customers in the final days of Harvestmere, so their street's designated cooks had to make do with cod, mullet and bream. The smell of fish and alcohol filled the air, dense as a fog. They'd both laughed at their parents' clumsy dancing and terrible singing beneath their hoods, entirely ignorant of the sickness that would take Liddy away before the year was over.

Beneath the massive belly of the sky, the warm orange glow of their campfire looks very much insignificant in comparison. Blackwall knows he'll be miserable in the morning when they have to wake at dawn to continue their march to Skyhold, but he can't retire to his tent yet. With his mind buzzing so loudly, he couldn't find rest in a nobleman's bed, never mind the scratchy, lumpy sleeping rolls that they're using. So, he remains in his seated position before the fire, itchy eyes staring into the flames.

The Herald of Andraste: sole survivor of the Conclave tragedy, leader of the Inquisition, closer of rifts, slayer of demons, brave defender of Thedas against the wicked and disease-ridden Corypheus.

Blood mage: a power-hungry murderer, a wielder of evil whose wretched magic poses a threat to all mages, corrupted to the core, a justification for mass slaughter, the most hideous violation of the Chantry's laws.

Beneath the shade of both titles stands Nousha Adaar, golden eyes fixed upon Blackwall, creating a blasphemous mixture before him and daring him to react. The divinely chosen maleficar.

Had Dorian experienced a similar crisis when he discovered the Inquisitor's dabbling in such depravity? Had he felt dirty, to carry such filth in his chest? Did her practices remind the Tevinter nobleman of his home country? Was he filled with nostalgia?

If he wasn't so insufferable, if he hadn't earned himself a good thump in the jaw, Blackwall might have asked Dorian for his opinion on the matter, might have had someone to sit with and talk it through, so he may settle comfortably - or as close to it as one can get when discussing blood magic - on how he feels. As if in response, Dorian gives a loud, open-mouthed snore from the tent he shares with Solas, not sounding unlike a snort of derision.

He'd heard whisperings of the hedge mages dotted around Rivain's wilderness, treated as trusted sages by their countrymen, or even leaders. Scarred skin frequently re-opened to commune with spirits, summon demons, curse those who'd wronged them. Dairsmuid's circle had been annulled following the discovery that it's womenfolk were being trained in such arts. Maker, it's all so obvious, now. The glove that she never takes off, her secretive nature, the fact that Harlow only let a Rivaini healer treat Nousha after Haven's fall. What a fool he is for not figuring it out earlier. What fools they all are- the Inquisition. Thedas. What the opposing Chantries would say if they knew. What they would do if they knew.

That magic which fuels itself by harming others, by the letting of blood, is hated by the Maker.
Those mages who honor the Maker and keep His laws we welcome as our brothers and sisters.
Those who reject the laws of the Maker and the words of His prophet are apostate.
They shall be cast out, and given no place among us.

No place among us, save at the throne.

The darkly amused exhale that leaps out of his nose unbidden disappears into the campfire, swallowed instantly by the flames.

Grey Warden: noble figure standing against the endless waves of Darkspawn, protector of Thedas, a symbol of hope.

Wanted killer of the Callier family: a coward, a traitor, the worst kind of scum who deserves nothing but scorn.

Beneath the shade of both titles lies Thom, hiding under Blackwall's filthy, rotting corpse.

What a pair they are. What a couple they'll be.

Blackwall stands.

The fourth of Justinian,  9:42 Dragon

Saving Grace (previously known as Herald's Rest until Nousha set things right) has undergone something of a renaissance while the Inquisitor was away. The sign of Andraste that hangs outside has been removed, flowers and climbing vines are painted on each of the support beams, the tables have been covered with wine coloured cloth. Maryden is even playing a new (mercifully wordless) tune; one that Nousha doesn't recognise.

There are four shelves lined up beside the bar, all of which are packed full of various baubles. Carvings, figurines, pretty stones, knitted dolls, animal bones, rings, gold teeth, leather gloves, jars of marbles, painted idols, razors. There's seemingly no theme regarding what is displayed here. When asked about them, Cabot shrugs and says that one of Cullen's men suggested putting the shelves up for people to fill with things they liked.

"A reflection of the Inquisition's members, or some other deep meaning." He says, polishing a glass absentmindedly. "It's turned into something of a trading post, though. People take from it, and replace it with some other trinket. Fairly sacred tradition by now; I've seen fights break out when someone doesn't leave something after they claim a prize."

Nousha swears and scratches at her jaw. "We've not even been gone two weeks."

He offers nothing more than another shrug, then, after peering into the glass and deciding that it's clean enough for his liking, fills it with cider before handing it to Nousha. Just as she starts to turn away, Cabot abruptly lays a rough hand on her forearm. "One more thing, Inquisitor- there's been some talk."

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah. About you giving preferential treatment to that Warden." Nousha's mouth hangs for a moment before snapping shut as she rights herself, squaring her shoulders and putting a fist against her hip.

"Is that right?" She asks. Cabot just shrugs, again, and gives a sheepish smile.

"You let him smack that Vint around. Some people approve of that on account of him being a magister--"

"He's not."

"--but some are worried that it sets a bad precedent. What if he attacks someone else? That's what they're saying, after all." He doesn't take his eyes away from the grimy bar top, rubbing at it ineffectually with an equally grimy cloth.

Nousha scoffs. "We've barely been back half a day!"

"Word travels fast, what can I say?"

"I'll tell you what you can say; here." She thrusts a fist into her pocket and unceremoniously drops a handful of silvers onto the bar. "You hear people spreading misinformation around in here, you set those cunts right. Tell them that it's not my job to settle conflicts between members of the Inquisition. Understand?"

"Of course," he beams, pooling the silvers into a pile, "of course!"

The alcohol is in her mouth before she even reaches her table on the other side of the room, a bitter tang on her tongue that warms her throat as she swallows. Strong enough to take the edge off, but not enough to risk getting shitfaced without realising (a mistake she'd made more times than she can count during her early twenties; how her liver and stomach lining had endured such punishment is a mystery for the ages).

Bull has brought a chair sturdy enough to bear his weight over to Nousha and Varric's table while she was getting her drink. He rests an elbow against its surface, smiling easily at Varric's story, and offers her a brief nod as she approaches, bringing a tankard of ale to his lips.

"-she steps into the Hanged Man while we're in the middle of a game of Wicked Grace. I knew she was pissed immediately; didn't say hi to Corff at the bar. Comes stomping over to our table and I'm thinking she's gonna tell us all some bad news, but in the blink of an eye, she's dragged Fenris out of his chair and punched him straight in the jaw." His earring catches the light of the fireplace as he throws a right hook into his left palm. Nousha settles back into her chair, watching the golden glint blink out of existence within a second. "Next thing I know, they're beating the living shit out of each other, rolling around and swearing like sailors. It took about ten of us to properly separate them. Shit, they both looked like mincemeat at that point."

"That's just how it's gotta be with fighters, sometimes." Bull says, chuckling fondly. "I've lost count of all the times my crew had to use their fists to settle their differences. Clears their heads, lets 'em cool off enough to talk about it while they're recovering."

Varric nods and itches at the exposed fuzz on his chest. "You're right. Merrill stepped in to help heal Fenris since Anders was too busy re-setting Stafford's nose. While she was tending to him, he apologised for how he'd spoken to her. She must've told Stafford about it when they went home, because things were peachy after that. Like it'd never happened."

"You know, I've not been to Kirkwall in years; How's it doing these days?" Nousha asks, cider still lingering on her taste buds. Varric's smile falls, and his heavy brow furrows.

"Not good," he grunts, "not at all. The prince of Starkhaven's been glowering at us from his golden throne for years, but now he's amassed enough power to make himself a real threat. His troops have been causing no end of trouble for people moving goods around the city. Things are bound to escalate soon enough. I was actually considering asking if the Inquisition would step in. You know, just in case things get any worse before Corypheus is dealt with."

Nousha rolls her eyes and throws up a dismissive hand. "Why not? We're already involved in every other conflict this side of Thedas." Varric gives a sardonic little smile at her attitude, but takes a moment to lay a hand on her forearm and squeezes her wrist gently, appreciatively.

"Are you sure they'll even take your help?" Bull asks. The dark wisps of hair on his upper lip are saturated with alcohol. "The folks at Kirkwall aren't particularly fond of qunari." It's a fairly brutal understatement. The Valo-Kas' final visit within the city-state's walls had been two winters after the Viscount's death, and the death of countless commoners, carried out under the rogue Arishok's orders. They were in and out within a day to collect payment for a job that Nousha no longer remembers.

"Don't I know it. Shokrakar's still got a scars on her stomach from a surprise knife attack on the street by some overzealous young 'patriot' who was convinced we were a band of spies looking for... something to exploit, or a reason to mount another attack, or people to abduct and press into service of the Qun. I don't know. Seemed like every other person had a different idea of what we were doing there. Anyway, the second that we grab hold of this fool to get the weapon off of him, half the street comes at us. Some of 'em looked vicious, others were excited. A few were terrified, though; like they were still being besieged. Maybe they were, on some mental level." Maybe the attack will keep raging inside of them forever. "I couldn't use magic, not in Kirkwall, so I had to use my staff. We'd tied a blade to the end of it to avoid suspicion. Big, mean looking thing; barbed. It kept people from getting too close to me in the fight. The bastard who'd stabbed Shokrakar managed to escape in the madness, as did most of the other attackers by the time the guards finally felt like helping. And we were the ones to get thrown in prison. Lucky for us, our client stepped in to pay for our release. Don't know what would've happened otherwise. And she got our wounds stitched up, though the medic who did it didn't take a very close look at Shokrakar's gashes. I guess the man who attacked us had his dagger coated in poison or venom or something. We didn't realise until half a day later. She almost died." She swallows down another mouthful of cider, this one doesn't taste half as good as the last.

Bull sighs, and reaches up to itch at the base of one of his horns. "Think the healer was sloppy because you guys were--"

"I wouldn't put it past them." Nousha interrupts, hearing the spite in her voice.

She'd known Shokrakar since she was twenty-three. From this kind, warm, confident woman, Nousha had received both a steady job and a sense of belonging, two things that she was in dire need of. Seeing her pale-faced, bathed in sweat, vomit on her lips and dangerously feverish in their healer's tent made Shokrakar's mortality far too real for Nousha's mind to handle. Her lungs seized up and stopped working, and Nousha could only think that she had somehow been poisoned, too, and was surely dying. While Issalatar was working to keep Shokrakar alive, she instructed Katoh on where to find a jar of dehydrated herbs that were boiled into a tea for Nousha to drink, something that gradually soothed her nerves. She'd used the brew sparingly over the years that followed to avoid becoming too dependent on it. But then she was hired to stand guard at the fucking Conclave.

"I've never had the pleasure of visiting Kirkwall, myself," Bull begins after a moment. "Though I've gotten a few Marchers tell me how I'd be killed if I ever stepped foot in its walls. They can be very creative."

Varric gives an appropriately chastised smile over his city's behaviour. "If I were greener, I'd suggest that their opinions on you guys might soften if you save them." He shakes his head at the notion and rolls his eyes dismissively. "Just like they softened on elves and mages after they helped bring down the Arishok, huh?"

Once a community sinks its teeth into a perceived justification for its hatred, it takes years of hard work to prise those jaws back open- especially when those in power are so invested in tightening that evil grip. Even before the attack, the Valo-Kas had their every movement watched by guards and civilians alike, harassed every time they lingered anywhere for more than a minute under the pretense of 'dissuading loiterers'. Sataa, a devout Andrastian who'd been welcomed into countless run-down Chantries to worship alongside its congregation of labourers, was turned away at Kirkwall's Chantry, with its spotless limestone walls, built so high that it disappeared into the clouds, imperious golden statues glaring down at the unworthy heretics, flags hung on every wall, each one worth half a year's meals for a family of commoners while the brothers and sisters handed out collection plates within its heavy doors. Worry about the oxmen who threaten your way of life, they said; the knife-ears and the refugees who will rob you blind. Distract yourselves, at any cost, from the reality: the real thieves, clad in luxurious furs and the finest leathers, who sit in their warm, safe, pristine homes made of ivory, who make deals and pass laws that will add another handful of gold to their already overflowing pockets.

Nousha can only imagine what Sataa would think of this Inquisition. What she'd have to say, if she wasn't slaughtered by rabid Fereldans who blamed her and the other Valo-Kas for Justinia's death, of the 'Herald of Andraste' label, and Mothers from the most powerful Chantries in southern Thedas coming to visit and doing business with her diplomat. Another mouthful of cider. It tastes like death.

Bull rubs the back of his hand against his eyepatch, itching at the mass of scar tissue where his eye once was. "I remember when we were told about the old Arishok dying. He really fucked up attacking Kirkwall like that; the other members of the Salasari would have would have definitely killed him if your buddy didn't beat them to it."

"Oh shit!" Varric chuckles, a deep rumble echoing up from his chest. "The Qunari have political assassinations?"

"Ha. Not quite." From the tone of his voice and the little roll of his eye, Bull makes it painfully clear that this is a clarification he's had to make many, many times. "The Salasari don't have to resort to underhanded scheming like the yellow-bellied leaders over here - no offense, Boss - they're pretty open with it. They function as the body, mind and soul of a living person. If the Arishok fails in his responsibilities of leading an army - like, for example, going off on some half-cocked attack on a city without consulting the spirit and mind, then the body has clearly grown sick and needs fixing." He takes a swig of ale, clearly satisfied with his description, and licks at the residual bubbles at the corners of his mouth.

Nousha can't help but respect that transparency between the leaders. It's easily preferable over the endless performances that she has to endure as Inquisitor. "There's a few Tal-Vashoth villages in Rivain that govern themselves similarly," she says, catching the way Bull's jaw tenses, "but their leaders' retirements are a little less... severe."

Varric gives a knowing nod. "We've had a couple of those crop up in the Free Marches these past few years; nowhere near Kirkwall, obviously. Apparently they follow a, uh, revised version of the Qun?"

"Well, yeah." Bull's body language is casual, he leans back further in his chair and scratches at his gut, and his lips curl upwards in what Nousha supposes must be a playful smile. "They don't have the stones to endure the discipline that the proper Qun demands, so they change the rules. Like kids trying not to lose in a game." There it is, right there- the little trace of disgust that seeps through his words like a droplet of poison snuck into a bottle of wine.

"It's not about 'stones'. It's about what they think is the best way of living or running a community. Same as the different sects of Andrastianism." Growing up in Rivain familiarised Nousha with self-identified followers of the Qun who had left Seheron. Most followed Koslun's writings as small groups within a village, or sometimes as individuals who venerated his writings about stoicism and discipline. Settlements that were entirely based around the Qun were isolated and small, situated in the mountains. They were willing to trade and work with outsiders as a matter of necessity, but were otherwise known for keeping to themselves. Good, hardy people that Nousha had always considered respectable. Bull shakes his head, smiling wryly, and clicks his tongue. If the trek from the Coast hadn't worn Nousha out, she probably would have leapt at the opportunity to cause a scene over that little gesture.

"Natural consequence of any faith, once it gets big enough." As he speaks, Varric itches at one of his temples, contemplative. "I'd say the majority of people I know - outside of the Merchant's Guild, of course - are Andrastian. Still, you get a big group of 'em around a table and ask them any in-depth questions about how their faith has shaped their views, there'd be a brawl within a few minutes."

"Oh, absolutely," Nousha hums, "the amount of concerned parties that begged me to reconsider bringing Dorian into Haven, warning me about Tevinter's 'heretical' teachings about Andraste. Ridiculous, the way they went on over it. They were practically clutching at my skirts." Giselle still throws the occasional withering glance at Dorian when he strolls too close for her liking and she overhears him humming the tune of some Tevinter Chantry hymn, which he almost certainly does to annoy her. Once he's recovered from his little confrontation with his father, he'll probably go straight back to it. Varric gives a short, harsh bark of laughter at her description.

"They ever have this kind of theatrics back home, Tiny?" His question is asked mostly jokingly, but Bull gives a thoughtful glance into empty air before answering.

"Not quite as openly, we aren't known for our outpourings of emotion, after all. But no matter how well organised we are, the Qun is still a society made up of individual people, and each individual has their own idea of the best way to carry out their own responsibilities. With some jobs, you and whichever coworker you're butting heads with will consult a higher-up to decide. But as for the people near the top of the pile, that's where things get dicey. After our last Arishok died, the remaining members of the Salasari were split between two potential successors. There was speculation over whether there'd be a schism happening over the decision- speculations that were thankfully untrue. They wound up setting the candidates against each other in a one-on-one swordfight--"

"Just like the duel that killed their predecessor!" Varric interrupts, clapping his hands together approvingly. "Fantastic! Beautiful! Duels ending reigns and birthing new ones! I couldn't write a better theme of ascension if I tried!"

Nousha rolls her eyes at the dwarf, and turns to Bull. "How's your new 'Body', then?"

"Oh, he's great. Huge improvement. Level-headed, prioritises learning about the world outside the Qun, likes to discuss the logic behind other people's ways. In another life, I think he'd have made an incredible scholar. Him and the Arigena are like this." He crosses his middle and forefinger together as he speaks.

"Which one's that?" Varric asks.

"Mind. Manages labour and merchants, stuff like that. She also oversees what kinds of books get officially published."

The dwarf leans forward over the table, intrigued. It earns an encouraging smile from Bull. Nousha grips her drink a little tighter. "You guys have books?" Varric asks. "Like actual ones, not just reprints of your chant?"

"We use a tome, but yes. We're not just mindless workers, we have off-time. Can't say you've got a thriving society if your people don't have any hobbies. Obviously, the Arigena prefers non-fiction; she likes to promote intellectualism, but it's not mandatory. Depending on the role you get assigned, you can actually be expected to read fiction as part of your training. Helps familiarise you with things like symbolism, themes, the messages behind certain stories, stuff like that. Like my job, for example; literary analysis is a must for the Ben-Hassrath."

"The Qun has book clubs!" Varric laughs, slapping his knee like an old man. "Think your Arigena would ever publish one of mine?"

Bull tilts his head as though he'd never considered the possibility, the smile on his face wider than ever. "I think your books would fly off the shelves in Par Vollen."

Varric gives another warm chuckle at that, and says something that Nousha isn't listening to. Then, he drains the rest of his drink, hops off his chair, and heads toward the bar. In their moment alone, Nousha fixes Bull with an even stare, which he returns.

"You know, you've never done this with me," she states.

"Done what?" Bull's eye creases in amusement. He already knows what's about to be said.

"Talk about the Qun. Try to draw similarities between people's lifestyles and the kind of life they'd have over in Seheron." A certain bearded warden who Nousha doesn't want to think about right now had mentioned this little habit of Bull's before. She'd overheard him and Cullen discuss it, too. It's technically an inoffensive topic of conversation; innocent, almost. Who hasn't used similarities in cultures to establish common ground with others?

"Well," Bull says blithely, "it's not like I've got plenty of opportunities to swap stories with you about our homelands. You don't seem interested in talking to me." A sad, wounded edge creeps into that final sentence and he gives an exaggerated frown. He even sticks out his lower lip like a toddler.

But Bull isn't just anyone. He's a spy. To Nousha, that fact massively recontextualises these little chats- makes them decidedly unwholesome. Like he's trying to butter people up in preparation for if they convert. Or be converted.

She thinks of her father's father, then. Aban; the Qunlat word for the sea. It's hard to imagine what he looked like. She knows he kept his beard braided. Thick, black locks that he passed down to his son, who passed it down to Majid and herself in turn.

He'd always wanted to be a parent. Even during his life in the Qun, he would watch the tamassrans educating children from afar and picture himself in that role. Apparently, he'd shed tears of joy alongside Essie when her pregnancy was confirmed. All that happiness and pride evaporated when he discovered that magic could be passed from parent to child, and was replaced with a horror that devoured him from the inside out.

One summer morning when she was eighteen, Nousha had been trying to recuperate after reading for half the night. Majid came scurrying into her room and announced that he'd managed to climb a cypress tree on their land high enough to overlook the farmhouse. Too exhausted to humour him, Nousha gave some noncommittal hum of feigned interest, and Majid wandered back out. After a minute, her sluggish mind snapped what she'd just heard into place and Nousha stumbled her way to find her parents and inform them that their youngest child had just said his first words.

He'd been six years old. The same age as their father had been when his magic manifested. The same age he'd been walked down to the beach. Stood at the sea's edge and stared up at a face prematurely aged by misery and shame. Stitching scars upon his lips.

"Tell me," Nousha muses, mirroring Bull's insufferably transparent acting by weighing her chin on her fist, looking thoughtful, "have you ever tried to have these interesting little comparisons of culture with any of the other mages?"

The wounded look on his face cracks into a broad grin, and Nousha spots a dimple appear on his left cheek. "It's hard to talk about home with people who only want to focus on the Saarebas."

It's a mystery why Aban told his son to return home without him- why he changed his mind at the last second. Perhaps when he looked down at Navid's face, he realised that he simply couldn't go through with it.

Nousha thinks of Majid, a piece of him preserved forever in that memory, the spitting image of their father. She pictures him on that beach, and herself in the place of their grandfather. Wide purple eyes staring up at her, his little feet lapped at by the salty water, innocent and lacking any comprehension of the danger he's in- the danger that she poses.

The village that her family came from stood two miles away from the beach. It was the northernmost edge of Rivain's land, bordering the very same sea that the Tal-Vashoth had crossed upon leaving the Qun. To such a young child, alone and confused, that distance must have seemed endless. Anything could have happened to him. Every few months, word spread of a family in the area losing a son or daughter to the wilderness. Snakes, crocodiles, big cats, wildfires, typhoons. Sometimes, a child would wander a few short metres away from its parents, disappear from view behind some dense greenery, and just never reappear. Rivain is a beautiful country, full of rich cultures and history- but it is in no way safe.

Navid's choice to stay on the road back to their village was either borne of sensibility or because he was too afraid for the curiosity associated with his age to take hold. Either way, he made the journey unscathed, back through the sand dunes, over a dilapidated wooden bridge, along a dirt road in a forest, around the heavy hooves of horses and the wheels of carts, and up the path that brought him to his family's shack, full of the despairing wails of his mother who had returned home from the market to discover a letter written in Qunlat waiting for her.

"I wonder why." Bull rolls his eye at that and scoffs.

Aban's body was never found. Perhaps he'd washed up somewhere further along the coast, but Nousha prefers the idea of him still being in the ocean, held forever under the waves in its consoling embrace alongside every other soul lost to its depths.

Varric walks over a minute later, pulling at the cork of a wine bottle with his teeth and cursing Cabot for not doing the job himself. Nousha and Bull settle back into their chairs, and allow the dwarf to start telling them about another of his stories from Kirkwall.

--

Yellow, not quite warm enough to match her eyes, but it'll have to do. And red, she seems to like that colour, she wears it a lot. And just one white in the centre to bring it together. It also matches the only ribbon he could find. They're carefully placed into a pitcher of water for the now; it's not yet time to approach her.

His skin feels raw from the vicious scrubbing he gave them in the baths under Skyhold's foundations- ancient elven craftmanship is a thing of beauty, with their language carved into the walls, coals that produce thick steam when doused with water. As thorough as his bath had been, he's still not quite finished grooming himself. One of the countless Orlesian vendors hawking goods in the courtyard was clearly thrilled to sell him a pack of tiny combs and scissors- she even threw in some fragrant beard oil for free. It's a funny feeling, giving himself a proper trim again when he's spent the past several years mindlessly hacking away at the tangled knots with a razor when they got too long for comfort. Now he's methodical, like the gardeners back in Orlais who he used to see pruning the gardens, snipping off the split ends and shaping his beard. The mirror he borrowed from Sera is a little grimy, but it reflects his face much better than a stream or a river.

His time with the Inquisition has changed him- his eyes aren't as sunken and his cheeks have some colour in them. Most obviously, though, he's regained some weight. His cheeks are fuller and there's a familiar softness to his body that he didn't realise he'd lost in his years skulking around the wilderness.

For a brief moment, he sees Thom in his reflection, healthy and young, well groomed, crooked teeth flashing a dirty grin to one of his men, half-drunk, breathing in the crisp night air, the distant sound of music drifting through Val Royeaux's streets, smeared lipstick along his jaw and neck, blood on his boots. Then he sinks back under Blackwall's skin. It's a mystery, where that fool would have gone if he hadn't accepted Capuis' offer. Further ascension through the military's ranks, probably. Maybe he'd have aged better from healthier living, and less guilt eating away at his insides. Maybe he'd have met his end at the point of an enemy's sword, or a noble cuckold's saber looking to regain some honour from the brute who'd bedded his wife.

There's always the possibility of drink doing him in, too. Constantly getting shitfaced with the lads, trying absinthe and tobacco and imported shipments of bhang on special occasions. Just a more expensive version of his father drinking himself into oblivion at Markham's pubs, really.

Old Thomas was always going to die that way, even if Liddy was alive, and he was happy. Working fathers in Markham were, and are, constantly drinking. They're expected to. Obligated to. Sure, the womenfolk can partake in it as well, but it's not a responsibility for them. As a man, you work hard you and drink hard, so that when you're too old to provide for your family, you don't need to worry about burdening them much longer, because the poison you've been chugging for your entire adult life will do you in shortly. Less shameful that way. Fathers do not cradle and nurture as mothers do, and in turn are not cradled or nurtured as mothers are. Both of his grandmothers lived until Thom was well into his twenties, while his grandfathers had died before he was even born.

That's the way of things, his family told him. The way it has to be. Then why, he wondered, did the noblemen only sip their wines, and and latch stubbornly onto life for so long?

When the tangles of his hair have been (mostly) tamed, he ties it back at the nape of his neck with the same colour of ribbon he uses to hold the bouquet together. The clothes he's hand washed hang by the fire, almost dry. As he's about to add a coat of lacquer to a carved figurine, the sound of a horn being blown cuts through Skyhold's courtyard.

--

She's on her feet as soon as she hears it, prompting Varric and Bull to stand as well, but she's already flung herself out the door by then. Nousha is distantly aware of Varric yelling at her to slow down, but it's almost totally drowned out by the beating of her own heart and the blood rushing in her ears. It's a wonder how she manages to make it down the steps from the tavern to Skyhold's gates without tripping in her hurry. Troops are already crowding at the entrance, clogging it up. On the other side of the stone walls, the horn is blown again. The gap-toothed Ander and Trevelyan's bastard (what the fuck is she doing here?) both turn to her and attempt to say something, but their words are garbled, faraway nonsense. Magic surges and Nousha moves past the mass of bodies as an immaterial blur, reappearing beyond the mass of people. What awaits her elicits a noise that she doesn't think she's ever made before- something between a laugh and a shriek of delight.

Some thirty yards away sits a lone wagon, headed by a pair of druffalo, steaming the air with their breath. Holding their reins in one hand and a war horn in the other is a huge, silver, horned figure, who drops both as soon as they see her, and begins to wave their hands over their head. Sitting beside them is a much smaller, darker figure, whose horns stick barely three inches out of their scalp. Then her eyes blur, and the details of their appearance is lost behind her tears.

She takes off at a sprint toward them. Someone calls for her to wait, but they're forgotten immediately. Another fade step brings her to within ten feet of them. They've both climbed out of the wagon by then, and in the next instant, Rulf collides with her, burying his face into her side. She sweeps the lad up in her arms, pulling him close enough for her to kiss.

"My boy," she cries, "my little darling!" Rulf beams at the sound of her voice, wrapping skinny arms around her neck. "Delam barat tang shode bood, azizam."

Shokrakar is at her shoulder, seizing her in a fiercely strong hug, laughing, rubbing her back, crushing poor little Rulf between them. Nousha leans her face against the solid mass of her frame, wipes tears on her shoulders. The texture of her clothes, the weaved fabric and the familiar scent of her perfume makes Nousha's legs weaken. Something more raw and painful slips its way into her chest, and her sobs grow more violent, because they're dead. They're all dead. Sataa, Kaaras, Ataash, Tic, Herah, Issala, every life lost in the Conclave, every life lost in Haven's destruction, they're all dead and gone and she never got to say goodbye to any of them, and it's her fault in some vague way that she can't make sense of, but she knows that it's her fault- it has to be, because if it's not her fault, then she's blaming herself for no reason, and if she's blaming herself for no reason, then she's losing it. And she can't lose it, not as the Inquisitor. So it has to be her fault.

And Shokrakar holds her through it. "I know," she grunts, and kisses Nousha's forehead.

Despite being in her late forties, the leader of the Valo-Kas is a veritable monolith of muscle and scars. She's several inches taller than Nousha, with silver hair that is kept in tight braids against her scalp and tied back into a bun. Her long horns twist over her head like those of a Halla. Her nose, crooked and bent from several bad breaks over her years as a warrior, is flushed from the cold. She's smiling down at Nousha, scar tissue pulling at one corner of her mouth. "You look terrible," she says.

"I feel it," Nousha says, wiping her eyes against Shokrakar's shoulder. Her legs are shaky, and she has to sit with them in the wagon for a few minutes. Even after composing herself enough to stop the tears, Nousha rests against Shokrakar, who orders the druffalo to continue forward. Rulf, nestled into her lap, offers her a bite of some pastry he's been chewing on, which she politely declines.

The Valo-Kas leader takes charge immediately as they approach the amassed crowd of guards, still holding their weapons in preparation of a nonexistant attack. "Don't you humans have anything better to do?" She snarls. "Get back to your posts and quit gawking!" They scurry away like she's aimed a crossbow at them.

"I've been reading a lot of books while you were away," Rulf through a mouthful of pastry. Only a few months and he already feels so much bigger than the last time she held him. "Kaariss says I'm very good at it!"

"Like an eleven year old," Shokrakar adds proudly.

"I'm hardly surprised; you've always been such a smart lad." Rulf smiles at her encouragement, and gives a sweet little giggle when she presses a kiss between his horns.

He seems more freckly than ever, like she was at that age, and the dense coils of his hair are well maintained, parts of it weaved into the same intricate braids that Shokrakar wears. "What about languages? You been studying that?"

"Beleh, māmān!"

"Wonderful!"

He rests his head against her collarbone, closing his eyes and his knees up against his chest like he did when he was half his age. It breaks her heart, knowing that her baby missed her as much as she missed him. She tightens her grip around him, tries to protect the lad from the chilly air, lays a hand against his face. As they pull up alongside one of the guards standing by the gate (who is very deliberately not looking directly at them), Shokrakar holds out a pouch for him. "Give this to the redhead."

"I didn't know you were in contact with Leliana," Nousha observes, which draws a wry smile from her boss.

"I'm not, but I think she'll appreciate what I have to show her."

When their wagon pulls into Skyhold's walls, Varric awaits them, his hands on his hips. "Y'know, you gave everyone a real scare with that horn-blowing. The recruits nearly soiled their breeches getting into position."

"I didn't feel like waiting for them to go get Adaar for me," Shokrakar says breezily, "the horn was faster."

That fucking horn. She'd picked it up from a Dalish craftsman back in '32 and never put the damn thing back down- every time she wanted to assemble an impromptu meeting, she insisted on blowing it. She also did it to announce when they were going to camp, and to signify that they needed to start packing their things up.

"Ha. Well, if you wanted to do things fast, you could have--" As Varric speaks, he steps forward and Rulf sits up straight to get a good look at him, bringing himself into Varric's line of sight. The dwarf freezes. Nousha can see his eyes widening as they flit between her face and Rulf's, and she can't repress the smile that stretches across her face. "You... have a kid."

"Do I?" She asks, innocently.

--

Andraste's beautifully carved stone face shows no sign of disappointment before the supplicant Leliana, kneeling at her feet.

Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls.
From these emerald waters doth life begin anew.
Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you.
In my arms lies Eternity.

Her lips move, and she certainly hears the words being spoken, but the voice belongs to Justinia, echoing through her head from the deepest reaches of the fade. Justinia and Andraste, two of the most important figures in her life. Two people who she failed to protect.

She will never fully understand why Vharen did it. She knew his head was a mess after their business in Orzammar, supporting the weak-willed Harrowmont whose policies he disagreed with out of sheer spite. Spite for Bhelen. The violence and bloodshed that his political allegiance led to. Slaughtering his brother, staining the Assembly floor with royal blood. His descent from prince to Warden brought about by the accusation of fratricide, his ascent from exile to paragon punctuated by the act of fratricide. Whatever it was that made him decide to violate Andraste's ashes were never vocalised- he had no interest in discussing it. He just reached forward with the vial of blood and poured the vile substance over the holy relic as casually as one might fill a pitcher of ale. He was just as silent when he intercepted her attacks, parried her blades, slit her throat.

In her dying moments, Leliana remembers him looking down at her, his eyes wide with an emotion that she couldn't parse, Morrigan and Alistair's voices drifting in the air around him like smoke from an unseen fire. Maybe he sat with her as she died, or ended her suffering, or left her there to choke on her own blood. It doesn't matter, she supposes. All she remembers after that is the warm, divine presence of Andraste reaching into her chest, restarting her heart, sealing her wounds. An act of generosity and forgiveness that Leliana knows she didn't deserve, not after failing to protect her so miserably.

And that endless kindness is repaid with doubt and suspicion.

Ever since Justinia's death, Leliana's mind has begun to darken at its edges, uncertainty about the Maker and his bride gathering in the corners like cobwebs. She makes the effort to clean them out, but they only accumulate again when she turns her back, thicker than ever. Justinia was his most faithful, his most beloved. And now she's dead, so what does that mean for the rest of his followers? Spiders, spiders everywhere.

Someone is dithering, just beyond the door to the prayer chamber, Leliana knows they're there a second before they work up the nerve to knock.

"Lady Nightingale," they mutter, "the Inquisitor's associates have arrived. They've come with--"

She cracks the door open an inch, and the small sliver of her face peeking through from the darkness is enough to make the guard cringe. It's Winthrop, one of Cullen's men from Ferelden.

"What have they come with?" She demands.

Winthrop shakes his head and looks down at his feet, his wariness made more than clear. "A child," he grunts, "the Inquisitor's, apparently."

Leliana smiles at that, the first one she's managed in several days, and the first genuine one in weeks. Adaar is petulant and clearly revels in making things unpleasant for people around her, but she's skilled at covering her tracks. It took Leliana a full month to figure out what the woman's Andrastian name was, and the Valo-Kas didn't respond to any letters not penned by the Inquisitor herself- even when Leliana's agents managed to forge Adaar's handwriting. The mercenary leader never gave any unnecessary information; the child had never been mentioned in any of their previous correspondences, though the Inquisitor had asked for 'her things' to be brought. She must have figured out that they'd been reading her letters from the start. Gillaume had never returned from his mission to retrieve information from the Valo-Kas' encampment, usually nestled somewhere between Markham and Ansburg when they aren't on a job.

"We can find a room for the little one. Is there anything else I should know?"

Winthrop rubs at the side of his neck. He's so transparent, there's no chance he'd ever last as a spy. "The group's leader wanted to pass something along to you." Saying that, he unfastens a pouch from his belt and holds it up, like he expects her to identify what it is through the fabric it's wrapped in. From the way the hair at the back of her neck starts to rise and the distinct taste of blood spreading over her tongue, Leliana knows that the unassuming little sack contains something nasty, but the specifics remain a mystery.

"What is it?"
"Wha-- I-- pardon?"
"You haven't checked what it is?"
"Was I supposed to?"
Leliana lets out a long, deep sigh. "Parcels are supposed to be checked before they're handed over to guarantee that there's no poisons on them. Such an attack could be devastating, you know."
Winthrop nods quickly, his cheeks reddening, and moves to place the bag back on his belt, but Leliana places a gloved hand on his arm. "Don't worry; I doubt that the Inquisitor's people would attack us. But these protocols exist for a reason, they could save lives. Try to remember next time, won't you?"

The still beet-red Winthrop nods again, hands the pouch to Leliana, bows and then marches off, all without making a noise.

She glides through the garden with her delivery, hearing one of her ravens call a greeting as it returns from its latest task while a pair of sisters complain between themselves about some of their flowers being plucked. Up the stairs and through the great hall where the swollen-faced Dorian sips wine with Vivienne on the balcony that she's claimed as her own and an elven maid polishes the memorial plate. Up another flight of stairs to her corner of the tower. Fiona and her mages argue over some magical artifact that they've had brought in from the Anderfels. Solas and Cole's voices echo up from the ground floor, the teacher and his ghostly student.

Amongst the voices, Josephine sits at Leliana's desk, a pile of papers on her lap, reading a letter so intently that her arched nose is almost touching the paper. She looks up as Leliana takes a seat beside her, dragged out of her bubble. It's not a professional letter, that much is made obvious by her flushed cheeks. Nicolette Beauvau, a daughter of a fairly unimportant Orlesian house has set her sights on Josephine since visiting Haven. Her flirtations weren't direct enough for Josie to pick up on when they were face-to-face, but she's clearly grown more bold over paper. (Leliana thoroughly investigated the Beauvau family as soon as Nicolette's clumsy attempt at seduction came to her notice. Her younger brother disgraced the family by deserting the military, the stress of the incident lead to both her oldest brother and their father's deaths shortly after, another brother died under mysterious circumstances. While her older sister is a skilled player of the game, Nicolette herself is fairly unremarkable- a decent Chevalier, but more suited to taking orders than maneuvering through the thorned rosebush of political intrigue.)

Josephine folds the letter into neat squares and shoves it into her finely decorated satchel, then tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, a sheepish smile on her face.

"Have you received word from Celene yet?" Leliana asks, mercifully not drawing attention to the letter. Josephine claps her hands together giddily.

"The ball will be held on the eighteenth of Solace." She gestures animatedly as she speaks, her imagination clearly running wild with ideas for what to dress the Inquisitor in. "The preferred gemstones this year are ambers, bloodstones and lapis lazuli. A lot of nobles are incorporating asymmetry into their outfits; one-shouldered dresses are especially fashionable--"

"That kind of dress might work for us," Leliana interrupts, "but I doubt lady Adaar will be interested in shaving under her arms to appease the court. We'll need to keep that area covered." She removes her gloves as she says it, clenching them to crack her knuckles. Her fingernails have been painted the same coppery colour as her hair to cover the bluish tint that has sprouted beneath them ever since her death.

Josephine sticks her tongue between her teeth and furrows her thinly plucked eyebrows. "Perhaps some loose and flowing sleeves, then; something gentle to soften her image. Paired with a low neckline and some gems on her gloves-- she'll want gloves, won't she?" She doesn't wait for Leliana to agree. "Yes, I suppose she will."

"And which seamsters are currently in favour? Who does Celene go to for hers?" Being hired by the Empress to put together a garment is a sure way to have one's work explode in popularity. Even short-lived bursts of favour among the nobility is enough for someone to support themselves for the rest of their life, assuming that they're sensible with their money (though they rarely are).

Josephine briefly sifts through the papers on her lap and purses her lips together when she finally finds the one she's after. "There's an Ynes Gatica- she's an Antivan who Celene commissioned a gown from last year; the money she made in the following months allowed her to move to Lydes. Her designs are so diverse that she's managed to keep up with several changes in the fashion climate. Very up-to-date. There's also two brothers in Val Gamord who Celene has shown interest in commissioning- some say she might wear their a dress by them for this upcoming ball. If the Inquisitor matches the Empress in gown-makers, everyone will be clamouring for her attention. Their dresses are also known for being fairly comfortable to wear; no doubt lady Adaar will appreciate that."

"Any names to avoid?" Leliana asks, unfastening the pouch from her belt. It's difficult to untie the thin string holding it closed with her short fingernails.

Josephine nods briskly. "Eudes deAuberi; he's been making Gaspard's outfits for years and is now something of a pariah among Celene's supporters. We shouldn't be seen anywhere near his business. Others who have fallen out of favour are, let's see-" she flips her paper over and squints at the writing, "Yves DeGuerrier: his sister eloped with a rebel mage. Yves D'enHaut: his brother was caught rigging a dog race. How does one rig a dog race?"

Leliana gives a grunt of satisfaction as she finally works the string loose. "Drugs, poisons, bribing people to 'accidentally' stomp on the animal's paw." Josie grimaces at the idea. Leliana pokes an exploratory finger into the bag and feels a bunch of mysterious objects that are cold and soft, and pushes her thumb in alongside its sister to pluck one of them out. "Who else?"

"Lady Madeline Sidonia: she got very drunk at a party and verbally assaulted Marquis de-- Merda!" Josephine squeals and leaps to her feet, tripping over her chair in her panic and almost falling.

It's a finger. Fingers, in fact, considering how full the bag still is. And Leliana is touching it with her bare skin. A wave of revulsion passes through her as she fully registers the dead flesh in her grasp, and she drops the digit and the pouch, which spills saltpeter out onto the table. That must have been what kept them preserved, stopping them from stinking. Fiona and the other mages stop their arguing, and several of them hurry over, asking what's going on. Even Solas and Cole are silent beneath them.

Josephine makes a hideous, wet, guttural noise, and her hand clasps itself over her mouth and nose, lurching through the far door in search of fresh air. Someone else isn't as successful at containing themselves, and the sound of retching and vomit hitting the floor fills the tower as Fiona hurries out one of its many passages, calling for assistance. The finger is missing its nail- it looks like it's been ripped clean from its bed, quite roughly, at that. Torture, probably. More horrifying, though, is the little tattoo between the first and second knuckles: a star. Easily recognisable. It awakens a sickly tightness, deep in Leliana's stomach that reaches all the way up to her throat. So this is why Gillaume hasn't returned.

--

"You really think he's safe here?" Harlow asks, glancing down from the balcony toward the tavern, full of music and laughter. He wrings his hands together like he's washing them, and Nousha can see him chewing the inside of his cheek. He's clearly trying to avoid looking at her.

She nods. "Yes; Skyhold's much better defended than Haven. We've got eyes halfway across Ferelden, beacons and their keepers. They see any attacks coming and we'll know in less than ten minutes." Harlow doesn't look convinced.

"And what about that dragon, eh? Someone sees that coming, what then? How do we evacuate? There's only one path through the snow, we send anyone through that, they'll barely be out the gates before it cooks them." He reaches up to brush a loose curl out behind his ear as he speaks. The evening glow highlights his face, the occasional gray hair, the scar tissue around the empty socket of his left eye. Nousha hadn't realised it was so late- the sun's feet are already dipping beneath the landscape, turning the sky a muddled swathe of pinks and oranges.

She glances around before replying, making sure that nobody else is creeping around in her quarters, listening in on their conversation. "How safe would he be at the camp? There's demons falling into Thedas- more every minute! And Corypheus has allies all over the place; what if they find out about the Valo-Kas? Look, I know, I know it's scary to think about what would happen if Corypheus came after us, but at least there's--"

"If? No, Nousha!" While his voice is harsh, she can hear the genuine panic beneath the irritation. His lips pull back in a grimace, baring his teeth (and the spots of empty space where a couple of his premolars were knocked out) like he's in physical pain. "It's only a matter of 'if' when we're talking about the camp, it's small, mobile, and easy to hide around the Marches. Corypheus might never find them. But when we're talking about an attack on Skyhold, it's a matter of 'when'. Build your walls as high as you like, make 'em a mile thick, that won't stop a dragon from just flying over it. Won't stop an army from breaking down the door. And then what? Then they'll be inside, and the only way to escape will be to go through them. Is that the kind of situation you want Rulf in?"

Like Haven, with all its blood and fire and red lyrium, but no secret exit to slip out of. And an eight year old boy trapped in the middle of it.

It's a challenge keeping her voice steady. "Look," she says, "every option has its risks, okay?"

"Not every option. You could send him away."

"Send him-- where? Where could I possibly send him that Corypheus couldn't find him?"

"Anywhere!" Harlow throws up his hands in frustration, shaking his head. "A city in Rivain, somewhere he'd blend in, people to watch over him. Dairsmuid, that'd do nicely. Give him a fake name, keep him hidden. Only bring him back when the threat has been dealt with."

Little Rulf hidden so far away, surrounded by unfamiliar faces.

"There's no guarantee that that would work. They might not even reach Rivain; red templars might intercept them on the road. And then he'd be dead, he'll die halfway across Thedas without me there to protect him. How is that any better than him being here?"

"You're just making up possibilities to justify--"

"It's not made up! Anything could happen! We constantly get reports of enemy spies being found, they are coming out of the fucking woodwork. I send an armed group to watch over Rulf, I'm trusting those people with my boy's life! A bunch of strangers from the Inquisition! Can you tell me that there's no chance, none at all, of one of them being a spy? Can you promise that they won't hurt him?" Little Rulf, trying to force open the locked door of his safehouse, an armed killer who was supposed to protect him advancing on the frightened boy, drawing closer with each step through the dark room, malevolence incarnate, brandishing a wickedly sharp sword. Her hands are numb.

Harlow rubs at the bridge of his nose, exhaling loudly. He looks much older than Nousha knows him to be. "It's just too risky to keep him here with you when there's no guarantee of--"

"There's no guarantee of safety anywhere!" She cries, gripping him by the shoulders and forcing him to look her in the face. "Nowhere in Thedas is safe! He's never going to be safe while I've got some lunatic's magic stuck in my hand! The least I can do is keep him close by, for his own sake!"

Harlow scoffs at the claim, and aggressively shrugs Nousha's hands off of his shoulders. "For his sake? Sure, sure it is. He's here in a death trap for his sake. Be real. You're too selfish to keep him away- you think that because you're miserable, he must be, too!"

"Oh, fuck off," she spits, poking a finger into his chest with enough force to make him wince. "What do you know about what's best for him? You've only met him today."

She only really registers what she's saying as it leaves her lips. Harlow's face twists in a way that brings Nousha's heart up into her throat, and he inhales long and deep through his nose, holds it for a second, then releases it shakily. A suppressed sob pulls at his mouth, and Nousha can see the wetness of his eyes. "Yeah," he croaks, "congratulations, you got to raise our boy while I was stuck in a fucking tower. Hope you enjoyed it. But that changes nothing. I'm here now."

"You are." It's interesting, how suddenly this blanket of exhaustion has draped itself over Nousha's shoulders. "But you can't make up for lost time by micromanaging me."

"It's not micromanaging!" He looks tired, too, rubbing at the back of his neck like there's a millstone wrapped around it. "I just want to discuss things with you- be a parent, you know?"

"I do. I do."

There's a wind pulling at her clothes, her hair. It smells like some kind of baked good being put together in the kitchens. Harlow steps back and leans his bony arse against the stone balustrade, arms crossed. They're silent together for almost a full minute, both waiting for the hurt and anger to cool enough for the conversation to continue.

She'd met him the month before she turned twenty-nine. He and a bunch of his fellows in the Mages' Collective had hired the Valo-Kas to help them travel through the Vimmark Mountains, keep them safe from the local wildlife and bandits. Harlow was full of youthful cockiness and good humour, convinced that he'd live to see the dissolution of Circles altogether. Kind, too- always checking in on her and the other mercenaries, making sure they were all in good shape. One night, they'd sat smoking together, swapping stories. He'd made a stupid joke at one point, then told her she had a pretty laugh. Even back then, she knew it was cheap flattery. Maker, Shokrakar was not happy when she found out Nousha was sleeping with one of their clients.

"It's a total breach of professionalism!" Her rough voice hissed, pulling Nousha some fifty yards away from where the others camped, fingers clutching her arm hard enough to bruise. "Do you have any idea what kind of reputation we could get? 'There goes the Valo-Kas, they'll fight your battles and assign one of their whores to pleasure you!' I'm trying to run a respectable band here!" She said more, something about how hard she'd had to work to get where she was and how she wouldn't put up with any fools putting that in jeopardy, something about how proud she was to finally live the life she'd dreamt of during her youth in the Qun. Something about how as one of its most senior members, Nousha should be upholding the Valo-Kas' reputation with good behaviour.

"I know. I'm sorry." She must have said some variation of those two sentences at least fifty times throughout Shokrokar's rant, nodding and looking suitably chastised. When her boss finally seemed satisfied that she'd made her point and quieted down, Nousha looked up. "So, what about sleeping with people after we've finished the job?"

Shokrakar gawped at her for a second, making some sputtering, choking sound as she tried to process the question. "I swear, if we were back at camp, I'd smash a chair over your head." She mimicked throttling Nousha, but she was laughing. They both were.

Her second tryst with Harlow was the following year- the Valo-Kas had been celebrating Shokrokar's anniversary with her wife at the same inn they'd met at (its name is lost to her by now, but it was somewhere near Hercinia), and Harlow just happened to show up, meeting with some of his associates (shit-talking other mage resistance groups over a meal). They were the only two people who weren't actually drinking; she'd been prescribed a poultice by Issalatar that made her headachey and dehydrated, and she'd known that drinking would only make it worse. Harlow, meanwhile, simply wasn't in the mood. Drunkards are, unsurprisingly, not known for their deep and insightful discussions. and they inevitably wound up immersed in their own conversation.

They'd lain back in bed together afterwards, window open, letting in the night air to cool off their bare skin, passing a tobacco pipe back and forth.

He told her that he'd recently gotten word that his uncle was dead. Nousha asked if they were close, and Harlow smiled.

"He raised me after my magic came on."

"Yeah?" She asked, rolling onto her side so she could look at him properly- her neck was starting to ache.

"Yeah. Thank Andraste for that; I don't think I would have lived long enough for the Templars to come collect me."

He'd been seven. While he and his brothers were playing alongside some of the local youngsters, he'd tripped and put his hands out to maintain balance. The half a second of sickly alarm must have ignited his abilities, and lightning flew out of his fingertips, arcing directly into the girl he'd been chasing.

"It fucking stank," he grunted, exhaling a lungful of smoke. "A few people choked on it, spewed vomit all over themselves. Or maybe it was because of how she looked. I couldn't really register what had happened, I just kept looking back and forth, from my hands to the girl. She was still moving, trying to get up, but nothing worked right. I remember she said 'something's wrong with me' over and over again. Then my dad grabbed hold of me.

"He did something with dogs, I don't know if there's a word for it. He bred terriers, trained them to kill rats. People would pay him to bring the dogs to their properties, larders and farms, that kind of thing, and have the dogs slaughter every rat that they found. They weren't pets, though. No, not pets. A few times a year, one of them would get hurt, break a leg, get sick, that kind of thing. He'd just take them out somewhere. When he'd come back, the dog would be gone. I remember thinking that whatever he did to the dogs, he was going to do to me. I was going to wherever the dogs went, and I'd never come back. As you can see, that didn't happen." He gestured toward himself and gave a chuckle. "Dad dragged me into the cellar and locked me in. I crawled up the steps and I screamed and clawed at the door 'til my fingers bled and I thought my throat would tear. It was the summer. Nothing like your Rivaini summers, of course, but still hot- at least by my standards. The cellar was sweltering, really stuffy. Must've fallen asleep at some point, because I remember waking up all sore and dehydrated, still on the steps. There was this tiny window, right at the top of the cellar, it sat an inch or so above the ground outside, and I could see dawn light coming through. One of my brothers threw a waterskin down for me that day, and a crust of bread- I don't remember which one. I don't really remember any of their faces. Anyway, that second night, I got woken up by the door opening. My mother's voice tells me to stay quiet and come with her, and she walked me out the house."

"So she took you to your uncle, then?"

"Figured out how the story ends, eh?" He laughed, and took another deep drag of the pipe. Too deep, actually- it had him coughing and spluttering until his face flushed. "Yes, she did. Took me all the way from Ostwick to Wildervale on foot. Hardly more than a few mouthfuls of food each day. No idea how she managed it. My uncle had this little shack outside of the main settlement, always liked his privacy. Mother damn near broke the door, hammering away at it at the crack of dawn, demanding that he come out. My uncle agreed to take me in pretty quick, he knew better than to argue with her. He asked her if she wanted to stay and rest, maybe have a meal with us before she took off, but she refused. Wanted it all over and done with, she said. At the time, I thought it was because she was keen to be rid of me. Now, though, I reckon she just felt that drawing it out would hurt more. Clean breaks tend to heal easier, you know? Anyway, she was gone before I knew it. And I never saw her again."

Nousha remembers the faraway look in his eyes, the old scar that had reopened with his uncle's passing. The next time she saw him, Harlow had gotten a tattoo to honour his uncle's memory- OLD RULF written on his ankle.

"You have done a good job with the lad," Harlow admits.

Nousha scoffs, shaking her head. "I've done a fantastic job- he speaks two languages, did you know that? And he's great at reading, confident, gets on with other kids. He's the height of a happy child, okay? I'm a great mother."

Her words make Harlow laugh, his eyes wet. "Of course, of course. I knew you would be." The smile stays for a good few moments before the weariness returns to his face, and he itches at his creased brow. "I suppose there isn't a right answer regarding where he should be kept."

"If there is one, I haven't found it yet. At least he's here with us."

Harlow shakes his head and picks at the sleeve of his robe. The moment drags on for several long seconds, punctuated by the sound of distant revelry below them. When he finally looks back up at her, Nousha inclines her head, expectant.

"Do you think he'll be happy to meet me?" His voice is tinged with uncertainty, and he grimaces, reluctant to know the answer.

Nousha can only sigh and rub at one of her eyes in exhaustion. "I mean... He's not immediately going to leap into your arms or anything quite so dramatic. He's a child, he'll need some time to digest the news. Once he's ready to know more, he'll start asking questions. That's how kids are, they need a little more time to grapple with stuff like this."

"So what, then? Should I just introduce myself and then return to my usual business?" He's chewing at his nails, now.

"Well, not your usual business, since you're usually up in that rickety old tower with Fiona and the other researchers. Maybe you could spend some time with us each day, just so he gets used to you being around. Why don't you come to the tavern with me, have a drink? Shokrakar's been wanting to catch up with you."

For a moment, she thinks he's going to find some excuse to refuse. He cringes and hunches his shoulders. But then he nods, bleary-eyed. "You won't get mad if I swear in front of the lad, will you?"

"Ha! He's grown up with a bunch of mercenaries; I stopped trying to clean up their language years ago." As he laughs, Nousha steps closer to stand beside him, staring northeast across the snowy landscape, knowing that hundreds of miles away is the Valo-Kas camp, the ever-moving home she's shared with her fellows for almost two full decades. Perhaps, if she squints long and hard enough, she'll be able to see them, all smiles and scars. "I'm sorry for what I said."

"It's fine."

"It's not. I don't know, I'm never normally this nasty. I don't know, I-- I don't know why I've been acting like this lately."

"I do," Harlow says, leaning his shoulder against her, "you're not happy."

She shrugs and shakes her head. He's right; it feels like she's been drowning since the Conclave, thrown overboard by the explosion and into a violent sea, full of predators, some more obvious than others. Every other day she finds an excuse to lash out at someone, even with the herbs to help her relax. If she tries to go more than a few hours without it, her lungs stop working and she can't breathe. Sure, she's always been stubborn and argumentative, but the viciousness that exploded out of her following Harlow's disappearance was beyond anything she'd thought herself capable of. Once it died down, Nousha thought she'd gotten it out of her system, but clearly it's just been hibernating. Waiting for another bad thing to happen, another excuse to wake up.

"It doesn't have to be like this, though." As he speaks, Harlow lays an encouraging hand on Nousha's shoulder. "You've got Shokrakar, though I know she's heading back to the Free Marches soon. There's also Rulf and me. And you get along with that dwarf with the hairy tits."

"Don't call them that. And don't try anything with him."

"What?" Harlow asks with an innocent smile.

"I know your track record, you see a little body hair and lose all sense of decency, you're incorrigible."

"If I was that out of control, I'd have tried it on with your warden by now."

"He is not my warden."

"Oh, sure. Is that why he's been sulking in the stables since you got back?"

"That doesn't matter. Besides, Blackwall's not interested in men- at least, I don't think he is."

"Does that mean the dwarf is into men? Well, that's already obvious; you've seen the necklace."

Nousha elbows him in the side, earning a breathless laugh. "I thought you had a long-distance thing going with that Antivan woman you were telling me about. The elf. Did you call things off?"

"Her name is Branwen, and no, we're still very much in love, okay? I'm just joking around, doesn't mean I'm going to do anything."

"I still doubt she'd appreciate you talking like this," Nousha chastises, clutching an imaginary set of pearls.

Harlow snorts. "What, are you going to let her in on the joke?"

"Only if you make me mad," she warns. Then gives a little wink, and Harlow barks with laughter. For a moment, the grey disappears from his hair, as do the lines from his face. He even regains his eye, and he is as he was when Nousha first met him. Young, full of life and the ambition of a man not yet broken down by the Templars' weapons and the looming threat of the branding rod. The young fool that she'd once been in love with, though she never worked up the nerve to say so out loud.

Then it passes, and his face regains its earlier seriousness.

"I do mean it, though; you can talk to me whenever. Our relationship needn't revolve around our son. We were friends long before that little bastard showed up."

Nousha huffs. "Yes, I know."

"Good. I don't want you thinking that you can only go to your warden for support."

"He's not my warden, for fuck's sake." She growls.

"Then why was he picking flowers earlier?"

Nousha's mouth snaps shut, and her eyebrows shoot almost to her hairline, blinking several times as she registers what she just heard. Blackwall's been picking flowers. Blackwall's been picking flowers. Blackwall's been picking flowers. That doesn't necessarily mean anything. Blackwall's been picking flowers (for her).

"That doesn't mean anything; maybe he just wants to decorate the stables." She tries to keep the giddiness out of her voice, though the corners of her mouth refuse to stop twitching. "You know, you never got me flowers when we were together."

Harlow gives an exhausted smile. "You never struck me as the kind of woman who cared for them."

"No wonder we didn't last."

"Ha!"

--

When the sun finally retires from view and the marketplace's endless hustle and bustle begins to slow and quiet, Blackwall steels himself to make his trek. One quick sip of ale for courage, then he snatches up the flowers and the carving, and steps out into the night. The treasures he keeps clutched to his chest draw the occasional curious glance, but most people he passes are more invested in their own business. His face still burns at how obvious his intentions are, though.

Ascending the staircase up to the main hall's entrance has Blackwall throwing paranoid glances over his shoulder every few steps, like Varric and Sera and everyone else he travels with are right behind him, pointing and choking on silent laughter. Every time his foot hits the stone, he feels a tug on his back, like there's a string attached to the flesh between his shoulderblades that wants him to return to the stable's safety.

He halts momentarily when he enters the main hall, confused by the lack of guards at the door that leads up to the Inquisitor's private quarters. Other than himself and a lone member of the kitchen staff reading over her steaming beverage on the far end of the long tables, the only life (and noise) to be found in the huge room is Harlow and the qunari woman who arrived alongside Rulf earlier in the day, talking animatedly and picking at several bowls of food that litters the table between them. Blackwall tries to move slowly towards the door, but Harlow notices him just as his companion ducks to dip a piece of bread into some vegetable sauce.

The scarred mage looks between Blackwall's combed hair, polished boots and the obvious gifts cradled in his arms, and his mouth twists into a grin. Harlow's head jerks to exaggerate the blink of his one eye, and Blackwall takes a second to understand what the strange gesture means.

He's trying to wink at him.

Blackwall shoves his way through the door with Harlow's raucous laughter echoing behind him. This time, he doesn't slink up the stairs like a scolded dog, but speeds to Nousha's quarters, taking three, sometimes four stairs at a time, and he's rapping his knuckles against the door's wood before he can fully register what he's doing.

His mouth dries up in the blink of an eye and every inch of his skin starts to itch maddeningly.

What is he doing here, again? Looking to disappoint and frustrate the Inquisitor? Maybe throw the gifts out of a window while she watches? It shouldn't be so hot at this time of the day, should it? Perhaps he's coming down with something. It wouldn't do to give Nousha a fever; she can't lead the Inquisition from her sickbed. What if she's incapacitated for weeks? What if it's serious? She could die if he goes through with this. Then who'll close the rifts and argue with Cullen and Leliana and Cassandra and Vivienne and Sera and Dorian? Who'll destroy Corypheus? This was clearly a mistake, a huge mistake. He needs to retire for the night, maybe try again when he's feeling better. Fuck, this shirt is itchy; his skin feels like it's being stuck with needles. Maker, her footsteps are getting closer. She's coming. The sound of something being placed on a side table on the other side of the door. He needs to run, he needs to fling himself down the stairs, put some distance between them at all costs. His teeth ache from how hard he's gritting his jaw. The scrape of metal on metal as the latch is undone. When was the last time he blinked?

The door swings open.

Andraste's tits.

Framed by her black, wavy hair, Nousha's face looks almost luminous in the candlelight. Little hoops in her ears, her lips and eyelids painted a dark reddish-purple, contrasting with her golden eyes. She's wearing an outfit Blackwall hasn't ever seen before; a loose-fitting blouse the colour of peaches, with a low neckline and sleeves that end halfway down her upper arms. A belt at her waist draws his attention to her wide hips, and the lovely legs that he knows are hidden beneath the long skirt that reaches her ankles. Below that are her feet, bare against the stone floor.

"Blackwall," his eyes leap back up to her smiling face, "I wasn't expecting company. Is something wrong?"

"My apologies," he rasps, trying to sound more confident than he feels, "I hate to interrupt what is clearly a quiet night in." His act works, evidently, and Nousha's smile grows even brighter.

"I'm sure you've got a good reason for it." She holds the door further open as she speaks, inclining her head in a silent invitation.

Something about Nousha's playfulness invigorates Blackwall; makes him forget all about the panic and doubts biting at his mind mere seconds ago. It's like he's a young man in Orlais again, trading hints and suggestions with women, being brought into their bedchambers without ever making a direct proposition, but having it accepted nonetheless. He steps smoothly over the threshold and beside Nousha. Their close proximity allows him to notice the lavender perfume she's wearing.

"Nobody's guarding your room, you know."

Nousha takes a moment to replace the door's latch behind them and lifts up a small wooden tray from the side table, upon which sits two wide, short glasses of brandy. "Oh?"

He nods, stepping sideways up the stairs alongside Nousha to avoid looking away from her. "Quite irresponsible of them, leaving your chambers unprotected like that. Anyone could get in without them knowing."

Nousha hums in agreement. "Mmh, yes, very dangerous. Don't they know about Skyhold's wandering rakes, looking to rob a lady of her virtue?"

Blackwall wheezes a breathless laugh - a desperate attempt at hiding how her words have knocked the air from his lungs (and ignited a furious heat in his face and stomach). "I'm a bit too old to be a rake, don't you think?"

"Not at all. Slinking up to a woman's private quarters in the dead of night? Very rakish behaviour, I'd say." She turns to him as they reach the top of the stairs and enter her room proper, holding the tray of brandy closer to Blackwall. "And you certainly look rakish from where I'm standing." His fingers tingle as he reaches to grasp one of the glasses, like he could shoot fire from his palms.

He's seen this room before, helped carry a few pieces of furniture up here in the days following their arrival at Skyhold. Nousha's clearly made a project of redecorating since then, though: other than the architecture, her quarters are almost unrecognisable. Rather than her bed sitting proudly in the centre of the room, it's been pushed into the far corner beside the balcony, and, along with a solid-looking bathtub, fenced off with a wooden partition and a set of drawers, piled high with tattered old books. There are a few seats in the space where her bed had been, arranged around a low table to form a meeting area. For now, though, it's just for them. Nousha deposits the tray onto the table before her and leans back on one of the olive green sofas with her drink, reclining in it like a queen upon a throne. Trinkets cover the fireplace, things she's bought in marketplaces that they've come across. A horse blanket is pinned to the wall, made of some bright orange material with intricate patterns stitched into it, red tassels at its edges; Rivain-made, probably. Her desk overlooks the staircase, littered with unread messages. Blackwall hovers for a moment, eyes flitting around the available seats, before boldly sitting herself beside Nousha on the sofa, drawing a coy smile from the Inquisitor. He's close enough to feel the heat of her body against his own.

"You've been hard at work making this place yours," Blackwall notes, knocking back a polite half-mouthful of his drink.

Nousha looks over her shoulder to consider the space around them dispassionately. "I was actually thinking of moving my bed into a smaller room; I can't sleep in such a wide-open space, it doesn't feel secure. I could use this place as an office, though, it'd also work as a meeting place."

Blackwall can only nod. It's certainly more grand than Josephine's humble workspace, a visiting nobleman would certainly feel at home up here.

Nousha's eyes are back on him, sending a hum of electricity through his skin. "You didn't come all the way up here to talk about my interior decorating skills, though. Whatever could you have in mind?" The question is asked with playful innocence, like she doesn't see the flowers and gift cradled preciously in the crook of Blackwall's arm. 

"What I wanted was to... I wanted to apologise for how I've behaved lately." Saying that, Blackwall places his drink on the table and withdraws the bouquet of flowers from under his arm. Nousha holds her hands up and gives a gasp of mock surprise, but the way her eyes light up is sincere. Blackwall can't suppress the smile that pulls at his mouth as she takes it from him, giving the flowers a sniff and stroking her finger across a stray petal. "That's not all."

When she sets her eyes on the carving, Nousha's smile falters momentarily, frowning to see what exactly she's looking at in the dim light. Blackwall doesn't help, pulling it away a few inches, forcing her to lean further towards it, until he can feel her breath. To stop himself from going mad, he relents and finally pushes it toward her. This gift is passed to her open palm with less ease than the flowers- less nonchalance. It's reverent. In that moment, she is more than a queen before Blackwall. A step above royalty. A divine being, aiming her scrutinising gaze down at a lowly worshiper.

Then she realises what it is, and she beams, a little laugh, maybe even a giggle, bursts from her chest as she turns it in her hand, admiring each angle. The wooden panther's snarling face catches the light, highlighting the intricate details of its eyes and teeth and the lacquer that covers it. "Maker, Blackwall, it's lovely! When did you find the time?"

"I've been whittling away at it since we arrived at Skyhold. Just a way to keep my hands busy, and I..." He takes a moment to chew on his words, making sure his throat can actually get them out. "I just couldn't stop myself from thinking of you while I was working."

Nousha's smile softens, and her eyes drop into her lap. Bathed in the fireplace's warm glow, Blackwall can see the tips of her ears start to flush. "You're sweet, you know that?"

Sweet, there's a word he's not been called in a while. An elven girl in his street who'd made a few coppers each week scrubbing floors at his father's favourite tavern; the business owner had been fairly open-minded. When sent to retrieve his father on an evening, young Thom would always take a minute or two to comb his hair or check his reflection in a window before stepping inside. Mildred something, that was her name. Four years his senior, an impassable barrier for any romance between them. But a smile was enough. He'd presented her with a flower he'd wrenched from a neighbour's garden, face burning so hot that he thought his head would pop. 'Thank you, Thommy,' she'd said as she tucked it behind her pointed ear, 'that's very sweet!'

"It's only right; you deserve something for how long I've been dragging my feet."

Nousha rolls her eyes and gives a semi-amused sigh as she places the panther on the table. "It's okay, really. I've been terribly impatient with you. Truth be told, if our roles were reversed, I'd be reluctant to pursue anything as well. It's a big ask, putting up with-" she gestures at herself, the room around them, and out the window, "-all this. The first stages of a relationship are supposed to be the fun part; the undivided attention of all of southern Thedas kills that somewhat, don't you think?"

"That's not what gave me pause, my lady." He takes one of her hands, pulls it willingly towards him, and clasps it within both of his own, revelling in the warmth of her bare skin. "Being a Grey Warden means that I can't give you the life that the average partner could; you understand that, right? No house in the country to live out the rest of our years. Once Corypheus is dead--"

Nousha's spare hand, the one with the anchor and the stumps and the scars from a lifetime of blood magic, lays itself against Blackwall's cheek, silencing him instantly. "I don't care what happens in the future. I care for you, not some fantasy of where we might be in a few decades." As she speaks, divine glow of her hand makes it hard to see out of one eye, but his ears work fine; he hears the deep, shaky breath she takes before she continues. "I don't want the average partner, I want you."

His face twists and he shakes his head, but doesn't pull away from the woman before him, instead leaning forward to rest against her, tucking his face into the crook of her neck. Her arms wrap tightly around his body, enveloping him in warmth. The sob that comes out of him is not abrupt. It's slow, but irrepressible, like blood seeping through a bandage.

"I've got you," Nousha breathes, placing a hand over the back of his neck, keeping him stable as the outpour of tears wracks his body. "I've got you. I've got you."

They're dead. They're all dead. Vincent Callier, Lady Lorette, Ermentrude, Isabeau, Othenin, their retainers, even little Beatrice. They're dead and it's his fault. The lives of his men are ruined and it's his fault. Blackwall is dead and it's his fault. Everyone in the Inquisition believes the man to be alive, healthy, smiling, rather than rotting in the ground. They associate his name with the bastard who stole it. The woman who believes she cares for him invites a murderer into her room, into her bed. His whole life is death, everything is death. The hands he uses to touch Andraste's chosen are caked in blood and shit, and nobody sees it but him.

When she speaks again, Nousha's voice sounds far off. "I won't pry. I won't pry, but I think you've got a lot of regrets. A lot of nasty things piled up right here-" Blackwall feels a finger tap gently against his skull, "-maybe that's why you bristled when Dorian made a jab at the wardens recruiting from prison. It's none of my business. But I want you to know that... well, I'd say that most people working for the Inquisition have those kinds of regrets, don't you think? Mercenaries, soldiers, they're people who have to be violent. Have to be quick to attack. It becomes instinct, doesn't it? Fight or die. If you don't sharpen your edges, you'll never survive. I think that's why so many people in this kind of life tend to bring bloodshed into problems that don't require it. Once you've taken violence into you, you can't just put it back out when you're done with it. It's lodged in there far too deep."

The tears quiet and stop as she speaks, though his breathing still hitches.

"When Harlow was taken away, I was beside myself. Barely ate, barely slept. After Rulf was born, I didn't pay him much attention. My mother had to take care of him for me while I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. I never thanked her for that. No wonder she didn't want me to leave, she probably thought I'd keep up neglecting him. Once Shokrakar and I got back to our company's campsite, I started reaching out for information. Wrote to mages in the area who identified the templars who caught Harlow."

Blackwall pulls back from Nousha then, far enough to look her in the eye. Despite the steadiness of her voice, her face is weary. Her jaw, though, stays firm, squared in resolution.

"Once Rulf was about a year old, I left him with the other Valo-Kas members and travelled to Orlais. I buried my staff and bag in the wilderness and told people I was a travelling labourer, kept my head down 'til I reached the estate of the templar who'd lead the attack."

The inside of Blackwall's skull churns. Rulf would have had his first birthday in 9:35. The summer before the Calliers' deaths. Orlesians flitting all over, gossiping and speculating why the crime had taken place, theories that went unconfirmed due to a lack of information being recovered.

"He often visited home to have dinner with his mother. I waited until he was leaving that evening, when he was alone and it was dark, and I--"

"--You killed Émile Beauvau," he finishes. The discovery of his mutilated corpse, less than a hundred yards from his family's estate, had been one of the biggest mysteries of the decade. Lory was particularly invested in the theories being tossed around, and spent a good few weeks trying to convince everyone around him that there was some kind of conspiracy behind it.

"You know that he sired a bastard with a young templar girl? One from a far more powerful house? I reckon they had him removed as payback for damaging their daughter's eligibility for marriage. I mean, who wants a bachelorette with another man's baby at her tit?" Thom had had to administer several hidings to make sure he stopped bringing up the subject in front of the barmaids he was trying to bed.

Nousha's ear twitches and her eyes go wide, then she nods. "Yes. Shit, I forgot you used to work in Orlais. Look, I regret it, I really do. But I'm not going to deprive myself of happiness because of it. It won't undo the grief I caused that family. All I can do is go forward, do better. That's all anyone can do."

Andraste's chosen. The blood mage, the murderer. And him.

Some tether in Blackwall loosens and comes undone at her words; his sense of decency releases its vice grip. Why shouldn't he know some affection? Why shouldn't Nousha? Why shouldn't they take comfort in one another during this war? His face must betray this shift, because Nousha clearly sees it in his expression, and smiles, delighted.

He's pressed against her in an instant, kissing every inch of flesh that he can reach his lips to, leaning her back against the arm of the sofa. The soft material of Nousha's blouse creases under his calloused fingers as he explores the expansive contours of her hips and waist. One palm travels tentatively upwards, over her ribs, towards her chest. Like a statue, he'd once thought of her, but there's no statue in Thedas as warm, as soft as this. No statue smells so intoxicatingly good, you can't run your fingers through a statue's hair, no statue sighs and gasps and whispers how handsome you are, and no statue guides your hand down, away from its bosom, and up its skirt.

Let the name he wears carry out the deeds its real owner would have done; let him kill darkspawn, let him protect the weak, let him know love with a good woman. Let Thom enjoy these things, dishonest as they are, beneath the protective layer of his mask. Let him forget, momentarily, of the bloody collar around his neck. Let it tighten when his crimes are discovered. Let it become a noose. Let him look to these good memories when he is caught and marched to the gallows, and think of Nousha's warmth as the floor drops out from under his feet and his breathing stops.

--

The sharp, crisp edges of the orange and amber paint spike out from the blackened silhouette of Haven's Chantry, small bright dots interspersed to simulate embers that fell through the air like snowflakes. Corypheus' looming form towers above the wreckage, titanic and hideous, his malformed head and shoulders encircled by the moon like a twisted halo. The only aspect of the painting that eats at Solas is the mountains on either side of the abomination; the whites and greys are muddled together. Just a few strokes of paint to make the lighting of the mountains a touch more dramatic and he'll be done.

Well, not done exactly. There's still a great deal of wall that still lies bare. Still a great deal more to be done before he can reclaim his somnaborium from Corypheus. Fenedhis, his eyelids feel as though there's a pound of sand under them, every blink itches. Even so long after reawakening, he's far from peak condition. Always tired, always aching, always cold. Like a leaf in late autumn, gripping stubbornly onto its barren tree, all its siblings lost to the winds.

"It was terrible, really." Fiona's distinctly Orlesian voice echoes from higher in the tower. Since Leliana (finally) agreed to fix a large section of cloth over his floor to protect him from her raven's droppings, Solas has to rely on his ears to identify what's going on above him. Voices, footsteps that can be identified by gait or shoes, Helisma's constant knuckle-cracking despite being supposedly cut off from such compulsions. "Lady Montilyet was nearly sick, and Lysas actually was sick! All over his shoes, the poor thing." She tuts, and another voice, this one Fereldan, chimes in with a minced oath.

The smell of wine and meat drifts down from this late-night congregation. With his sharp, canine sense of smell, Solas detects honey, cardamom, cinnamon and ginger within it. Something luxurious by a commoner's standards. Even if he wasn't peckish, the smell of spiced meat would make his mouth water. It's been too long since he last tasted blood.

"Do you think the spymaster is going to have her workplace moved to somewhere more private?" Talwyn asks; he's busied himself assisting Solas since he and the other rebels joined the Inquisition. A respectful, honest man. "To avoid embarrassments like that in the future, I mean."

"It'll be us who get moved," answers the Fereldan voice, "miss Adaar says that one of the watchtowers are going to be repaired, and we'll be working there."

"So we're to be herded back into a tower, then?" Linnea's voice hisses accusingly, "We spend years fighting for our freedom, only to go back into the Circles with our heads down?"

"Oh, come off it, girl. You know full well it's not the same thing."

The mages above his head quickly begin to squabble and talk over one another, and Solas has to grit his teeth to tune their voices out. Thedas is overflowing with so many different problems, so many different arguments over nothing while the real threat draws nearer. How much simpler his rebellion against the Evanuris seems now, all the problems from Elvhenan's peak made golden and easy to digest, softened by time.

How simple it will be again, soon enough. He just needs patience. Solas steps back to admire the work he's done on the painted mountains. The highlights make them appear far sharper and more solid than they did previously. He leans against his desk appreciatively, leaving his brush and easel forgotten atop the luxuriously carved piece of furniture. With the hand bearing less stains from his work, he plucks a date from its bowl and sinks his teeth into the thick flesh, holding the hard pip in his cheek, savouring its texture and chalky aftertaste.

Living for almost two thousand years, it's impossible not to learn patience.