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Chapter Text

Leliana went over the missive again. She knew that she had made no mistakes decrypting the cipher, and yet she could hardly believe what she was reading.

Leliana had done what she could to keep track of Tamsyn Amell’s movements over the years, of course, but even her best resources only got her vague reports of a human mage and an elven assassin popping up here and there. First in the Free Marches, then near Weisshaupt, and then in Tevinter, of all places. Every once in a great while she received a cryptic note assuring her that both Tamsyn and Zevran lived, or requesting aid finding a piece of information, but the fact that the pair were constantly on the move meant that messages were rarely more than a few lines. Despite Leliana’s offers of help, Tamsyn remained evasive on what exactly they were looking for, beyond vague references to Warden secrets.

And while Leliana had assumed that Tamsyn had followed the events of the Conclave and the formation of the Inquisition, she'd hardly expected to be contacted directly. These days, the Hero of Ferelden hardly involved herself in the affairs of Southern Thedas.

The message was clear, however:

L--

Z and I are coming to Skyhold. We have news, and I think I can help your Inquisition.

No announcement, no fanfare. We’re traveling quickly and quietly. Send someone you trust to bring us in.

With any luck, we’ll arrive about a fortnight after your bird delivers this letter.

That is, assuming the damn thing can do more than show up at inconvenient moments and wake my dog.

--T

Tamsyn Amell, Warden Commander and Hero of Ferelden, was returning to her homeland, and she was coming to aid the Inquisition.

Chapter Text

Lanyla and Cullen were in his office. Officially, he was showing her summaries of the latest field reports from the Dales.

Unofficially, she had swiped a bottle of brandy from the castle's cellar, and they were enjoying a rare moment alone.

"You know," Lanyla gasped, "people are going to wonder exactly what creature managed to leave such-- oh!-- strange marks on the the Inquisitor's...mmmm...neck."

She felt Cullen smile against the skin of her throat. "Let them wonder," he growled, and returned to where he was sucking another love bite just to the left of her windpipe. "As long as I'm the only one who gets to make them."

She chuckled and pulled his face up to hers for a kiss. "Always."

He was just beginning to slide his hand under her shirt, stroking the smooth skin of her back, when they were interrupted by a pounding on the door.

Cullen groaned and buried his face in her shoulder.

"Commander?" a faint voice inquired from the other side of the thick oak planks.

"You should probably answer him," said Lanyla, stifling a giggle at the look on his face.

Sighing, Cullen reluctantly pulled away from her, raking a hand through his blond hair. He watched as she straightened her clothing, waiting for her nod before he crossed the room to yank open the door. "What?" he snapped, fixing the recruit with a glare that could burn a hole through plate armor.

The young man gulped, his eyes wide. His gaze darted behind the Commander to Lanyla, who was trying to seem composed as she pretended to look at the documents spread across the desk. "Um... Ser. Sister Nightingale... she said that there's someone coming. And Ambassador Montilyet wants you two to come meet them in the War Room. Soon. Um. Ser."

Cullen looked back into the room to meet Lanyla's gaze. "Were you aware that she was expecting someone?"

She shook her head. "Leliana never told anything about it. Not that she's usually that forthcoming with details, but Josie never mentioned it either."

He turned back to the recruit. "The Inquisitor and I will come and meet her advisers shortly."

The recruit remained in the doorway, shifting his weight awkwardly.

"Dismissed!" snapped Cullen, and Lanyla bit her lip to suppress another giggle at the look of sheer terror that crossed the young soldier's face before he turned and practically ran across the ramparts.

Cullen shut the door and turned back to his lover. He had a drawn, resigned look on his face, more appropriate for the eve of battle than for preparing to greet some visiting dignitary.

Lanyla crossed the room to him. "I think you scared the poor boy. It's not his fault Leliana chose him as the messenger."

Cullen heaved a sigh. "You are probably right."

He looked up and tucked back a loose strand of Lanyla's hair. Her long, pointed ear twitched a bit when his finger brushed it, and her breath stuttered. He often forgot just how sensitive her ears were, but he loved the tiny gasp she always made when he touched them. Momentarily distracted, he leaned in to kiss her again--just once, he promised himself, then they'd leave--but she ducked away from him.

"My love, there is nothing I want more than to stay in here with you for the rest of the morning," Lanyla said, "but if I let you kiss me now, we'll never make it out of the room." She smirked and cupped his cheek with her hand. "Later, alright? We'll go meet this mysterious visitor, smile politely, and then you'll meet me in my quarters as soon as we can get away."

They checked that there were no mused clothes or errant strands of hair to give away what they'd been doing in the Commander's office--and Lanyla made sure her scarf covered the purpling marks on her neck--and then opened the door and descended to the courtyard.

Hawke stared at the parchment in front of her, reading over the lines that she’d scratched out and rewritten a dozen times already.

So, I’m not dead…

The Fade has not gotten more pleasant since our last visit…

As it turns out, Thedas is even more fucked than Varric led us to believe…

The fear demons looked like Mother the last time I saw her...

I wish you’d come with me, Fenris. I was so scared and I couldn’t let anyone see…

Nothing she wrote came out right. There was no easy way to tell your lover that the trip you’d sworn would be simple took a detour through the Fade and nearly killed you.

She blew a few wisps of ginger hair out of her eyes. Maker, but she missed that man. The few letters Varric had managed to smuggle for her hadn’t been more than a few scrawled lines confirming they were both still alive. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d been apart for so long--even during the awkward years when they’d barely been speaking, they still worked and fought together almost daily.

It felt wrong to go into battle without him at her back, especially when she was fighting for something so important. And sleeping alone was even worse; she woke up nearly every night cold and haunted by nightmares.

She chewed her lip. There had been good reasons to come to Skyhold alone. She knew that, he knew that. Granted, those reasons were rather hard to call to mind now. It was harder to justify the longer she stayed with the Inquisition.

And the Inquisition needed her, she saw that now. The Inquisitor was a fine woman, and she led well for someone thrust into a leadership position so abruptly, but Hawke knew better than most how badly someone in such a position needed people to lean on. Tensions between the rebel mages and the rest of the Inquisition forces still ran high, and there were rumblings of assassinations and growing enemy forces. The Inquisition army was loyal, and they’d proven themselves at Adamant, but they still needed more time to train and improve before they were ready to take on an entire army of Templars, not to mention a dragon and a darkspawn magister that apparently couldn’t stay dead. She couldn’t leave, not when she might be able to help.

Now she just had to find the way to phrase that in a letter.

Hawke was still trying to figure out how to tell Fenris she couldn’t leave when she was interrupted by the sound of someone coming up the stairs. She frowned. She’d chosen the loft above the armory specifically because it seemed deserted that time of day, and she hadn’t wanted to be disturbed.

It was Varric, walking to her table with his usual swagger. “Still haven’t figured out what to say to Broody?” he said, gesturing at the crumpled pages before her.

She sighed. “Yes. I’m just… at a loss. Funnily enough, none of the etiquette lessons Mother tried to force me into covered how to tell someone that you were dropped into the Fade, fought a gigantic fear demon, fell back out of the Fade, and somehow got roped into helping a Dalish elf lead some ex-Chantry soldiers against the ancient magister that you thought you’d already killed.”

Varric snorted. “Yeah, I’m guessing they save that for the advanced lesson. Want some help?”

“Tempting, but no. I think this has to come from me.” Hawke twirled her quill between her fingers and stared down at the page. “But it’s not getting any easier the longer I stare at it.” She looked back up at Varric. “Sorry, did you need me for something?”

“If you wanted a break from the letter writing,” Varric said, “there’s someone our Sister Nightingale wanted you to meet. Should be arriving any minute now. And a little birdie told me that it’s someone very interesting.”

“Really? Who?” she asked, following him down the stairs and across the courtyard to the main hall. Varric’s “birdies” always had the best bits of news. If they thought it was worth telling him, and he thought it was worth passing on, it had to be someone very important or very dangerous. Probably both.

“Just wait, Hawke,” he said. “Trust me, if it’s who I think it is, you’ll want to see for yourself.”

"You might’ve warned me about this sooner," said Josephine, directing a pointed look at Leliana. "You've hardly given me time to prepare rooms for them, much less something appropriate for their status."

"I felt that in this case, discretion was more important than etiquette, Josie," the other woman replied. "Besides, I doubt she will be too choosy about the accommodations. She's spent most of her life in a Circle, fighting darkspawn, or on the road. He’s lived and worked in the worst parts of every major city in Thedas. And they've been living rough for the better part of the past year. You shouldn’t worry about the rooms."

The ambassador heaved a sigh, her accent more pronounced in her irritation. “But this is the…” she glanced around as if afraid someone would overhear them, “She’s not an ordinary guest. She hasn’t been seen in public in over three years. She deserves something more than… than sneaking in the back door and a last-minute guest room.”

“Who deserves more?” asked the Inquisitor, walking through the doorway with Cullen just as Josephine finished speaking.

“A very… special guest,” said Leliana carefully. She’d kept knowledge of the Warden’s visit from everyone who didn’t need absolutely need to know. Even in the privacy of the War Room, she was reluctant to say it out loud.

“Were you planning on telling us who we’re meeting, Leliana?” asked Cullen.

“Not yet,” she replied. “I only want to say it once, and we’re waiting on one more…”

As she said it, the door creaked open again, and all four pairs of eyes flew in its direction as Hawke walked into the room.

“Oh,” she said, halting in her tracks. “So there’s a whole welcoming committee, then.”

“ Now will you tell us who we’re waiting for?” asked Lanyla. “I think we’ve waited long enough.”

Leliana pursed her lips. “I apologize for the secrecy. I generally prefer to keep you informed when it’s something so important. But this particular visit needs to be handled…delicately. There are certain interested parties who I’d rather not know about it until we’re ready to make it known.”

“Well that sounds nice and cryptic,” said Hawke, leaning over and examining the maps on the table. “Are you going to get to the big reveal anytime soon?”

“She does love her dramatic timing, our Leliana,” said a lilting, male voice from the doorway. The five people in the room turned as one to face the intruder, none of them having heard him come in. A slim elven man leaned against one of the doors, his smirk twisting the dark tattoo inked into the side of his face.

“Zevran!” exclaimed Hawke.

He swept an elegant bow in her direction. “My dear Champion, it is truly wonderful to see you again.”

Zevran turned to Lanyla. “And you, my dear, must be the lovely Herald of Andraste I’ve heard so much about.” His Antivan accent made her title sound like something mysterious and alluring, rather than the burden it so often felt. He took her hand and kissed it lightly, bowing again. “The rumors do not do you justice. It is an absolute pleasure to meet you.”

Lanyla smiled in spite of herself. She generally wasn’t taken in by the courtly gestures people used with her since becoming Inquisitor, but somehow it was charming coming from him. “Are you the guest Leliana wanted us to meet?”

“Alas, my dear,” he said, straightening from his bow, “today I am just the escort for a far more interesting visitor.”

“That would be me,” said a cloaked figure, a woman, who had slipped into the room behind Zevran. “Although I don’t know that I’m all that interesting.” She tossed back her hood, revealing a thick brown braid and bright blue eyes. She smiled crookedly. “Sorry to keep you all waiting.”

Lanyla felt Cullen stiffen at her side.

“Inquisitor, Hawke, Josephine,” said Leliana. “May I present Tamsyn Amell, Warden Commander and Hero of Ferelden.”

Chapter Text

The Hero of Ferelden was… not exactly what Lanyla had imagined.

From the way people talked about her, she’d half expected the Warden to be ten feet tall and breathing fire. And the petty, insecure corner of her heart that had remembered when Cullen talked about his first love had had her picturing Tamsyn Amell as some tall, willowy Fereldan beauty, with gold hair and perfect lips.

But in reality, she was just a woman. She had a crooked smile and bright eyes, and her nose was just a touch long for the rest of her face. Pretty enough, yes, but in an unassuming sort of way. The kind of common pretty that wouldn’t seem out of place in any Ferelden town Lanyla had visited.

Although, Lanyla thought, the longer she watched, the more she realized there was something about the Warden that made it hard to imagine her being overlooked. She had an air about her, something that made a person want to lean a little closer when she was speaking, that made the eye follow her as she moved through the room.

Leliana made introductions, with the most genuine smile Lanyla could remember seeing on her spymaster’s face. The elf was named Zevran Arainai, and, along with Leliana, had been one of the Warden’s companions during the Fifth Blight.

The Warden herself-- Call me Tamsyn, please , she said, when Leliana introduced the others in the room--was soft-spoken, and listened carefully as Lanyla’s advisors explained what had happened at Adamant.

She frowned, hearing what the Wardens had been up to in her absence. “I felt it, what Corypheus was doing. Just… the edges, of it, really. We were too far away for me to feel the true force of it. It seemed his reach, for whatever reason, was limited to Southern Thedas.” She chewed her lip and looked down at the War Table map. “I’ve been in contact with a few other Wardens, men and women I trusted, and they felt it too. But I never thought it would be something like this. None of us did.” Tamsyn let out a long breath. “Blood magic, deal with demons, sacrificing their own people… Maker’s breath, I can’t imagine what the false calling really felt like, if it drove them to this.”

“I’ve been collecting reports from the Wardens who survived,” said Leliana. “I can have them sent to you, once you’re settled.”

Tamsyn nodded. “Thank you, Leliana.

“And thank you, Inquisitor,” she said, turning to Lanyla, “for allowing the Wardens to work with your people to repair what they’ve done. Not everyone would have been so forgiving. ”

Lanyla was surprised at that. Honestly, she hadn’t even considered making a different decision when it came to the Wardens. They’d been manipulated by Corypheus, true, but they were still the Grey Wardens ; even among the Dalish, she’d grown up hearing stories about them, and she remembered when the Hero herself had ended the Blight. Not giving them a chance had never crossed her mind.

She nodded, not sure how to reply. Was she supposed to thank the Warden for her thanks? Say “you’re welcome” like she’d lent her a water flask?

Luckily, Josephine saved her from looking too awkward.

“If I may, Warden Amell,” she said, “are you planning to stay with us for long? Not that we’re not happy to host you,” she added, “but I do admit to some curiosity as to your plans.”

Tamsyn exchanged a look with Zevran. “Honestly, that depends on your Inquisitor.”

“Me?” asked Lanyla.

“Yes, though I apologize if this is a lot to put on you,” Tamsyn replied. “We’ve been… away, for a while now. And I know that people looked for me to help when all this started, and that I wasn’t there. Even now, I don’t know that it’s the best idea to make it known that I’m here…But, regardless, I want to help. In whatever capacity you need me.”

Lanyla’s advisors--she still wasn’t used to that, having advisors--looked to her for an answer.

“Of course,” she said. “We would be honored to have the Hero of Ferelden working with the Inquisition..

Leliana and Josephine looked at each other with the expression Lanyla always thought of as “focused scheming.”

In a matter of a few minutes, they had a plan to go forward. Amell would serve, officially, as an advisor and a liaison between the Inquisition and the Wardens. They decided to wait until the right moment to announce that the Hero of Ferelden had joined them; according to Josephine, their dealings with Orlais would be complicated by having her there. Few people actually knew what she looked like, so as long as they didn’t say right-out who she was, they didn’t think it would be an issue. Zevran would assist Leliana’s people. Both of them would travel with Tamsyn and her companions as needed.

“Now,” said Josephine, once even she was satisfied with the arrangements, “I’m sure Warden Amell and Master Araini are road-weary.” She turned to Tamsyn. “I’ve had rooms prepared for you, if you’d like to retire.”

The Warden smiled gratefully. “Thank you, Ambassador. And you, Inquisitor,” she said, “for your hospitality. If you have the time, I’d like to meet with you later. And Hawke, if that’s alright. We should get to know each other a bit if we’re to work together.”

“An excellent idea,” said Josephine. “I can arrange for dinner to be served in the Inquisitor’s suite this evening. You--and the Champion, of course--can have some privacy to discuss how you want to proceed.”

With a final farewell, Tamsyn and Zevran left the room, and the others returned to their duties.

Ambassador Montilyet had left Tamsyn and Zevran in their guest chambers to settle in, again apologizing profusely for what she insisted were “inadequate accommodations.” Tamsyn assured her that, really, the rooms were perfectly lovely, that they didn’t require anything else, and that she wasn’t in the least offended by the fact that they hadn’t had a formal event to greet their arrival.

Finally alone, Tamsyn collapsed into one of the chairs before the fire. She had been exhausted even before the meeting with the Inquisition’s leaders; long days on the road weren’t quite as easy as they had been when she was nineteen, and Grey Warden endurance only went so far.

She had thought it would be easier, coming back to Ferelden. Back to civilization, really. She couldn’t remember the last time she and Zevran had stayed somewhere people knew their real names. It felt a little strange, being somewhere without hiding who they were or the reason they were there. A good feeling, but still a strange one.

And seeing Cullen again had been… she didn’t know exactly how to feel about it. She’d known, of course, that he was in command of the Inquisition forces, but she hadn’t spent too much time thinking about what that would actually mean if she joined them. What it would feel like to see him again. The last image of him at Kinloch Hold, broken, frantic, and raging, had been burned into her brain for years. It was a relief to see that he had recovered. He looked good. Older, but then she probably did too. But he seemed… lighter, somehow, like even with all his responsibilities, a burden had been lifted.

Or he had, until he’d looked up and realized who she was.

He’d looked at her like he was seeing a ghost. His whole body had gone tense, and his jaw had clenched so hard that a muscle jumped and Tamsyn could practically feel his teeth grind from the other side of the room.

Zevran moved behind her, kneading her shoulders with nimble fingers. She leaned into his touch, releasing a long sigh. “Mmmm…. Thank you, love. But you don’t need to worry about me.”

He bent forward and kissed the crown of her head. “You are entirely too tense, my dear. That worries me. And it is my job to worry about you. How would it look for my reputation if I let my wife leave our bedroom with such a displeased expression on her lovely face?”

Tamsyn smiled. “I suppose I can’t argue with that logic…” His fingers were wonderful . More than ten years together meant that he was intimately familiar with her body; he could find and loosen every knot in her muscles in a matter of seconds. “Granted,” she continued, “I doubt that anyone here even knows that we’re married. Maybe Leliana. Don’t think it would be possible to keep a secret from her these days.”

Zevran chuckled, kissed her again. “Our Chantry Sister has certainly come a long way since we first met.”

“Zevran, when you two first met, you were trying to kill us.”

“So she is not the only one who has changed.”

Tamsyn laughed, and for a little while let her husband distract her from thoughts of Inquisitions, Wardens, and ancient magisters.

Chapter Text

Hawke wasn’t entirely sure what one was supposed to wear to dinner with the leader of the Inquisition and the Hero of Ferelden.

Especially because one was a Dalish elf and the other--she was fairly certain--was her cousin.

Not that she’d really packed for dinners in polite company. Packing for this particular journey had been more along the lines of “how many weapons can reasonably fit in one pack” than “clothing for all occasions.” Which meant that she pretty much only brought armor to Skyhold. Most of the spiky bits were, fortunately, detachable.

She made her way up the stairs to the Inquisitor’s quarters slowly, still not sure what to expect.

She wasn’t even sure if her presence was still helpful to the Inquisition at this point. It wasn’t like she had any tremendous skill to offer, other than, apparently, a tremendous gift for falling in and out of unusual situations. And even though people still called her “Champion,” she didn’t have any real power or authority. But she couldn’t bring herself to leave, either. Especially when she saw the same emotions in Lavellan’s eyes that she remembered feeling herself, once upon a time--terror at the sudden realization that people were looking to you, coupled with determination to give them something worth looking up to. Hawke could help. And there was so much at stake, for everyone, enough that she knew she’d never forgive herself if she left.

But she did wish that she wasn’t alone.

After another hour or so of rewriting, she’d finally managed to finish a letter to Fenris. I can’t leave. They need all the aid they can get. I’m sorry. I love you. She hoped--in vain, she knew--that it would somehow manage to reach him before the rumors of what happened at Adamant. Rumors that, she was sure, had only grown with the telling, and probably made everything out to be worse than they had been.

Which was saying something, considering.

Hawke had given the letter to Varric, who was the only person she trusted with the location of where she’d left Fenris. Where, until recently, they’d both been staying, doing their best to avoid the attention of the Inquisition, the Chantry, or any of the countless people who wanted to kill them at any given moment. Varric had promised to get the letter to him as quickly as possible, through the same channels he’d used to call her to Skyhold.

Finally, after climbing Maker-only-knew how many blasted stairs, Hawke reached the door to Lavellan’s rooms. She knocked and waited for an answer, fiddling with one of the clasps on her shirt. It had been so long since she’d gone anywhere without full armor, and she felt practically naked in just the dark shirt and breeches she wore beneath the metal plates.

Hawke sent a silent prayer that the evening would go well. That they’d be reasonable and polite and work together well. That, somehow, they’d figure out a way to hold together a world that seemed determined to tear itself apart. She honestly didn’t know who--or what--was out there, whether it was the Maker or Merrill’s gods or something else, but if there was a higher power in Thedas, she hoped they were listening.

Lanyla watched two members of the Skyhold staff as they set up a small dining table in her room. She still wasn’t used to that, having servants, or even having a room, for that matter.

And now she was here, in a castle, about to have dinner with two of the most important women--the most important people--to have ever left their mark on Thedas. Creators, she still wasn’t sure how that happened.

A knock at the door startled Lanyla from her thoughts. She waved the servants away and went to answer it herself.

At the foot of her short staircase, she paused to take a breath and brace herself. This had to go well. For the Inquisition’s sake, of course, but she also hoped to make a good impression for herself. She wasn’t a Hero or a Champion, but, hopefully, she could hold her own in their company.

She opened the door to reveal Hawke waiting on the landing, the Warden climbing the last few steps behind her.

The Champion looked up from examining her boot, seemingly startled by the door swinging open.

“Sorry, are we early?” Amell asked.

“No, it’s fine,” she replied, wincing internally at how stiff she sounded. “Come in, please.”

Lanyla, Amell, and Hawke stood awkwardly in her room as the servants finished their preparations. The pair dipped quick bows when they finished and exited quietly, leaving the Inquisitor, the Warden, and the Champion alone.

“So… is it just the three of us?” asked Hawke.

“For tonight, yes,” said Lanyla, and the room fell silent again.

Alone, and apparently incapable of making conversation. Lanyla glanced around the room for something, anything, to break the tension in the air.

“Wine?” she offered.

“Maker, yes,” said Hawke, relief clear in her voice. The three women laughed, starting to feel a bit more at ease. “Well, that was nice and awkward, wasn’t it?” she continued, as Lanyla poured three glasses.

“Oh, thank goodness it wasn’t just me,” she replied.

Hawke laughed again. “Trust me, it wasn’t. I swear, the whole way up here, I was going over my mother’s etiquette lessons in my head, trying to see if any of what I remember applied here. Naturally, none of the bits that stuck were helpful.” She smiled over the rim of her glass as she took a sip, copper-coin eyes twinkling. “This is very good,” she said, looking down at her wine.

“I agree,” Amell said, and took a seat at the table. “A good choice, Inquisitor.”

“Please, call me Lanyla. The title still feels so strange.”

“Well, then,” said Hawke, gracefully folding herself into one of the chairs at the small table. “Lanyla, you have excellent taste.”

Lanyla sat to face the Champion, looking down at the warm scarlet liquid in her glass. “I can’t take credit,” she said. “I think Josephine picked it out.”

“Word of advice?” said Hawke, leaning forward. “When someone compliments you, always take credit.” She winked, and took another long sip of her wine. “On a more serious note,” she continued, “I know a little about what it’s like to have people slap a title on you. It gets easier. And, for what it’s worth, I think you’re more than capable. You’ve done well with your people.”

Lanyla looked down, feeling a blush rising in her cheeks. “Thank you,” she said. “That means a lot, coming from you.”

Hawke smiled warmly, and the three women sat in silence for a moment, drinking their wine.

After about an hour--and most of the bottle of wine--the atmosphere in the Inquisitor’s chambers was considerably more comfortable. The food was delicious, and as they ate, Tamsyn realized how long it had been since she’d actually sat down and eaten somewhere that wasn’t a run-down tavern or crossroads inn. It was a nice feeling.

Tamsyn rarely felt humbled, these days. Slaying an archdemon tended to outweigh the deeds of just about anyone she could encounter. She wasn’t arrogant about it, but the facts remained.

The Champion of Kirkwall and the Herald of Andraste weren’t just anyone, however. They had both accomplished a great deal under extraordinary circumstances. Hawke had pulled her city out of chaos twice, and had become a sort of figurehead for the mage rebellion. Which, remembering her own confinement in the Circle, Tamsyn approved of wholeheartedly. And Lanyla had not only lived through the Conclave explosion and come out with the only way to seal rifts, but managed to unite disparate forces against a common enemy. Both of them had more than earned Tamsyn’s respect.

Besides which, the two women were excellent company.

Lanyla had finally stopped calling her “Warden Amell,” and had relaxed enough to use her first name. She’d been a bit awestruck at first meeting the woman who stopped the Blight, as apparently the stories had only grown in the years since it ended. They’d grown enough that even a Dalish clan in the Free Marches had heard the tales. But as the night went on, Lanyla seemed to grow more comfortable seeing her as a human woman, not just a legend.

Tamsyn liked her. As they talked and the Inquisitor got over her nerves, she revealed herself to be a witty, intelligent young woman. Tamsyn felt for her; she remembered what it felt like to be suddenly expected to save the world. She wasn’t sure if anywhere could truly be prepared for what the Inquisition was facing, but that was why she had come: to help prepare Lanyla for whatever was coming.

It had been a surprise to find that Hawke had come for the same reason, though perhaps it shouldn’t have been; if even a fraction of the tales about Kirkwall’s Champion were true, she was not the kind of woman to ignore a threat like Corypheus, or to abandon a cause once she’d found it. No, she was the kind to charge headfirst into danger if she thought there was even a chance she could help.

That valiant idiocy was a quality Tamsyn appreciated, given that it had motivated Hawke to help Zevran defeat the Crows that hunted him to Kirkwall. Her husband liked to exaggerate when he described a battle, both to make it seem more dramatic and to assure her that he was in no real danger. But Tamsyn suspected that had it not been for Hawke’s intervention, Zevran would not have made it out of Kirkwall alive.

Spending the evening with Hawke and Lanyla reminded Tamsyn a bit of the Blight. Not the danger and darkspawn, obviously, but the camaraderie she’d found with her companions. It had been too long since she’d had the chance to let her guard down with anyone but Zevran. The more time Tamsyn spent in their company, the more certain she was that her decision to come had been the right one.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Tamsyn decided to visit the Skyhold library.

She liked getting the chance to explore the castle before most of its residents were up and about. It reminded her, a little, of mornings spent in the Circle Tower, when she’d spend most of her time studying.

For the most part, Tamsyn had few regrets about leaving the Circle. She was happy in her life and with her work.

But she did miss being able to surround herself with books. In her time as Warden-Commander, she’d done what she could to build up the library at Vigil’s Keep, but books about Warden history and the Blight had to take precedence in that collection.

Skyhold’s library, on the other hand, seemed to have everything, from a serial about a Kirkwall guardsman to a history of Nevarran dynasties.

She chose a title at random and flipped through its pages, as much for the feel of leather and vellum in her hands as for the book’s contents.

“You have good taste, I see,” said a clipped, accented voice from behind her. “That’s an excellent first edition. What do you think of Brother Genitivi?”

“A nice man,” she replied, “but he makes a terrible cup of tea.”

The owner of the voice--who she now saw to be a bronze-skinned man with an impeccably groomed mustache--laughed. “Not quite what I meant,” he said, “though no doubt an important point. One should always examine a scholar’s drinking habits before reading his work.”

Tamsyn smiled, returning the tome to its place on the shelf. “Naturally,” she said. “For example, a man who prefers Kirkwall spirits to Antivan brandy… well, his conclusions simply can’t be trusted, can they?”

The man laughed, gray eyes twinkling. “A woman after my own heart.” He extended a hand. “Dorian Pavus.”

“You know, I take offense to that comment about drink preferences,” said Hawke, joining them as Tamsyn shook Dorian’s hand. “I happen to be quite fond of Kirkwall swill.”

“And you fought the Arishok in single combat,” said Tamsyn. “My point about poor judgement stands.”

Hawke laughed and leaned against the library railing. “Fair point.” She looked to Tamsyn’s companion. “I remember you,” she said. “You fell into the Fade with the Inquisitor. The Tevinter magister.”

“Yes, fighting through a living nightmare does tend to make traveling companions stick in the mind, doesn’t it?” replied Dorian. “I am not, however, a magister. Just a mage from Tevinter.”

“Good. Historically, magisters and I have not gotten along.”

“Yes, that seems to be the reception most of my countrymen invite.”

Before Hawke could continue the conversation, they were interrupted by the Inquisition’s ambassador. “Mistress Hawke, Warden Amell,” she said. “I’m glad you’re both here. If you’ll both come with me, I have a few things to show you.”

Over the next hour or so, Ambassador Montilyet gave them a tour of Skyhold. Sections of the castle seemed to still be under construction, though it was apparently going well. Not an easy thing to do in an occupied fortress, something Tamsyn knew from her own experience restoring Vigil’s Keep.

Tamsyn was surprised at how smoothly the place seemed to operating, especially so soon after a battle as intensive as Adamant. And even though they’d only been officially made part of the Inquisition the day before, Montilyet already had spaces set aside for both Tamsyn and Hawke.

Hawke had an office connected to the upper level of the castle’s tavern, with a small bedchamber on the level below it.

“Master Tethras took it upon himself to prepare these accommodations,” said Josephine. “He insisted that he knew your taste best, though of course if they are not to your liking I can your things moved--”

Hawke laughed and waved the ambassador off. “No, this is perfect. Noise, foot traffic, and stale liquor? I feel like I’m right at home.”  

Though, personally, Tamsyn greatly preferred the workspace set aside for her.

“Leliana suggested that this space would suit your needs, Warden-Commander,” said Josephine, leading her to a tinylibrary tucked away near Skyhold’s kitchens. “It’s very private, I assure you, and we can obtain any books or resources you require.”

Looking around the small chamber, Tamsyn couldn’t tell what the room had originally been intended for, but she could see its potential. It would make an excellent place to continue researching the Blight while she was with the Inquisition.

Yes, she thought. This was exactly the kind of place she needed.

Meanwhile, Lanyla was in the practice ring, nursing a hangover and cursing Commander Helaine’s name.

Silently, of course, because the Commander did not take any lip from her recruits, Inquisitor or not.

She ran through the forms as Helaine called them out, trying to ignore the pounding in her head. Trying to match the drinking a Grey Warden and Hawke , of all people, was not one of her better plans. Helaine had woken Lanyla for training before she could gulp down a potion to cure her hangover, and her aching body was protesting the activity.

Finally, Helaine deemed her progress “acceptable,” and released her. With a sigh of relief, Lanyla exited the ring. Hoping it looked like she was merely stretching out sore muscles, she bent over and tried to will her body to stop punishing her.

A pair of booted feet walked into her line of vision, and she looked up to find the Warden Amell. Straightening-- slowly --she tried a smile that she was fairly certain was more akin to a grimace.

“Here,” said Tamsyn, holding out a small potion vial. “My signature hangover cure.” She smiled reassuringly. “I’ve been making it for years, for everyone from Circle apprentices to the King of Ferelden. Always works. And Zevran swears by it.”

Gratefully, Lanyla took the potion and uncorked the vial. The scent of its contents was not unpleasant: elfroot, she thought, and few other herbs, with the little spark she associated with magic. It went down easily enough, and almost immediately a cooling sensation spreads through her body, easing everything from the pounding in her head to the rolling nausea in her stomach. “Oh, Creators be thanked,” she said, tilting the vial back to drain the last few drops.

“Thank you, Tamsyn, really,” she said, handing back the empty vial. “I usually don’t… last night was an exception. I promise, I’m usually more responsible than that.”

Tamsyn laughed, as they walked to the retaining wall and looked over the lower courtyard. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I don’t hold it against you. Even the Inquisitor deserves a night to enjoy herself, right? And Hawke and I are probably at least partly to blame.” She shook her head. “ I have Grey Warden stamina to thank for my alcohol tolerance, but Hawke… If I didn’t know better, I’d question whether that woman was entirely human. I’ve only ever known one person to drink that much in one sitting, and he was a dwarf and a Warden.”

“Really? Sounds like someone I’d like to meet,” said Hawke, sauntering up to meet them. “Personally, I blame too many nights at the Hanged Man. The swill they serve there would build up a resistance for anyone.” She leaned against the wall with a crooked smile. “Though I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting you to match me glass for glass, Lavellan. I can admire a woman who won’t back down from a challenge. Even a foolish one. How’s your head?”

Lanyla could feel a blush rising in her cheeks. “Better, with some help from the Warden.”

Hawke laughed. “Glad to hear it. I’d hate to hear the Inquisitor was brought down by drink when she still had so much to do.” Looking down at the courtyard, her tone turned more serious. “I have to admit, I’m impressed by everything you’ve built here. Your ambassador took us on a tour of the place. It’s amazing, truly.” She grinned. “And did you know, I have an office now? Granted, it’s in a crumbling tower and connected to the attic of a tavern, but still. I’ve never had an office before.”

She turned back to Lanyla. “Which reminds me… That boy, Cole, who’s always in that attic. He’s not entirely… normal, is he?”

Lanyla sighed. “It’s… a long story. I’ll explain everything later.” A commotion near the gates caught her attention. “That’s strange… I didn’t think the trade caravan usually brought an armed escort this far up the mountain.” She frowned. “And I could be wrong, but from here, the one with the big sword looks like an elf.”

Hawke and Tamsyn looked towards the gates, and, with a gasp, the Champion was racing down the stairs in a clatter of armor and stomping feet.

Hawke could hardly believe what she was seeing. It was Fenris , in the flesh, and only feet between them instead of leagues. In all the times she’d dreamed and fantasized about reuniting with him, she’d never imagined that he’d come to Skyhold. That he’d come in through the castle gates like a man on a mission, hood up and sword strapped to his back. Even with his face in shadow, she’d known him immediately. He still refused to wear shoes, even in the southern mountains, and the way he held himself as he walked--practically prowling --was unmistakable.

And he still wore her red ribbon around his wrist like a promise.

In a matter of moments, she was in the lower courtyard, watching him as he turned and scanned the area. She hesitated, suddenly shy as she waited for his gaze to land on her. If Fenris was in Skyhold already, then he’d never received her last letter. For all she knew, he thought she’d died at Adamant.

Even if he didn’t, what must he think of her? She didn’t know if Fenris had forgiven her for leaving to fight without him, or for not returning to him when she’d promised. Maker, but she hated the thought that she’d hurt him.

Frozen by her indecision, Hawke remained near the foot of the courtyard steps, chewing her lip as she waited for Fenris to notice her.

All of her hesitations were forgotten when Fenris looked in her direction, green eyes lighting up with they landed on her. There was no blame in his gaze, just the same joy and relief she felt upon seeing him. His mouth curved into one of his rare smiles, and oh how she’d missed the sight of that smile.

Hawke lunged forward at the same time that Fenris took a step, and she wasn’t entirely sure how it happened, but in what seemed like an instant they met in the middle.

Fenris pressed his face into the crook of her neck as his arms wrapped around her, and Hawke let out a long, shuddering breath. For a moment, they just stood there, holding each other, not caring what was going on in the courtyard around them.

Finally, finally , he kissed her, hungry and hard, pulling her as close as their armor would allow. She could feel tears leaking from the corners of her eyes as their kisses slowed and softened.

When they parted to take a breath, Hawke leaned in to press her forehead against his.

“Hello,” Fenris said, his voice low and thick with emotion.

Hawke let out a short laugh through the tears in her eyes. “Hello.”

Chapter Text

Tamsyn leaned over the War Room table, carefully studying the maps before her.

What Wardens remained in the Western Approach had sent word of Venatori activity in the desert. Tamsyn was working with Lanyla to coordinate the Wardens’ movements with those of Inquisition forces.

Hawke was notably absent, having vanished after a hasty introduction of her elven guest.

Although even if she hadn’t introduced them, the way Hawke clung to Fenris made it clear just who he was to the Champion.

The War Room seemed enormous with only Lanyla and Tamsyn; they were still waiting on the Inquisition’s Ambassador, Spymaster, and Commander.

Commander Cullen Rutherford. The druffalo in the room.

Tamsyn wasn’t entirely sure how much the Inquisitor knew about what happened at Kinloch Hold. More than that, she wasn’t sure how much of it was hers to tell.

While she was still trying to decide whether to broach the subject, the War Room door swung open.

Leliana and Ambassador Montilyet entered first, speaking softly. They ended their conversation as they reached the table, taking their places across the map from Lanyla and Tamsyn.

Cullen followed, one hand holding a sheaf of papers and the other gripping the hilt of his sword. He had the air of a man heading into battle rather than into a meeting, and Tamsyn suspected that under his gloves his clenched knuckles were white.

“Warden-Commander, Inquisitor,” he said. His tone was clipped and brusque, but his gaze softened when it landed on Lanyla.

Ah. That explained a few things. And likely complicated a few others.

Deciding--for now--to act as if nothing was amiss, Tamsyn looked back to the map as Cullen began to describe the state of Inquisition forces in the Approach. Though the bulk of their army had withdrawn after Adamant, they maintained a significant presence in the region. Tamsyn was particularly impressed by the fact that they’d taken and held an ancient Warden outpost.

New reports confirmed the Wardens’ information; there were Venatori in the area, and they grew more active by the day. While the Inquisition captain in the area--a man named Rylen--had things under control for the moment, whatever the cult was doing deserved investigation. The last thing they needed was Corypheus trying to re-establish control over the Wardens.

Cullen reported that a small caravan would be taking supplies, correspondence, and fresh troops to the Western Approach in three days. Lanyla, Tamsyn, and a group of companions could travel with it and evaluate the threat personally.

“And Hawke, too,” said Lanyla. “She’s been in the Approach before. And we don’t know what we’ll be facing; we might need another mage.”

Cullen sighed, clearly not thrilled with the idea of involving Hawke. “If you insist, Inquisitor.”

He turned to Tamsyn, looking straight at her for the first time since he entered the room. “And, Warden-Commander, will your…” he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly searching for the right word. “Your... companion, will he be accompanying you?”

“Zevran will be staying at Skyhold for now,” said Leliana, smoothly moving past Cullen’s discomfort. “He has information that I need, and contacts that should be useful to us.”

“Contacts?” asked Lanyla.

“Yes,” agreed Tamsyn, as she flipped through a stack of documents on the table in front of her. “Zev knows the details better than I do, but there are people all over Thedas who owe one or both of us favors.” She looked up with a small smile. “Favors that they now owe the Inquisition.”

“That reminds me, Warden-Commander,” said Montilyet. “We are planning to reach out to Ferelden. Once we’ve revealed your presence here, of course.”

“Which won’t be for some time yet,” added Leliana. “At least not until the situation with Orlais is resolved.”

“Regardless,” continued the Ambassador, “we should make plans as to how we will proceed when the time comes. Do you have any advice for dealing with the King?”

Tamsyn sighed. “Honestly… I don’t. I haven’t seen Alistair in more than three years now. I can tell you what side he favors in combat, what he puts in the atrocity he used to call soup, Maker, I can even tell you what his snoring sounds like. He was my best friend, but most of my information is only useful if you’re planning on fighting or traveling with him.” She looked across the table to Leliana. “I don’t know that I can actually help with the political side of dealing with him, no matter how close we used to be.”

Josephine nodded, looking back down at her ever-present tablet and quill. “Hmmm… In that case, it would probably be wise to spend some time preparing what we will say when we contact Ferelden. When you return from your business in the Approach, perhaps.”

As the meeting drew to a close, Tamsyn and Lanyla left the room together. The Inquisitor had proposed a tour of the castle’s garden, and Tamsyn was hoping to restock her personal supply of healing herbs before they set out for the Approach.

Before they made it down the corridor, however, the Ambassador caught up with them.

“My apologies, Warden-Commander,” said Josephine, “but I have several documents that require the Inquisitor’s signature and personal approval.

Tamsyn assured her that there was really no need to apologize, and after confirming directions with Lanyla--“just take a right out of the office, then the last right before you leave the throne room”--continued on alone.

The garden was easy to find, and the space was bustling with quiet activity. Tamsyn examined the rows of plants, impressed by the variety and rarity she found. There was an excellent specimen of royal elfroot, and with the resident herbalist’s approval, she knelt to collect a few clippings.

Just past the herb garden, beyond a walkway surrounding the area, there was a doorway to what looked like a small chapel. Tucking the elfroot into her belt pouch, she walked over to take a look inside.

Tamsyn had had mixed experiences with the Chantry over the years, but there was something about small chapels that always felt comforting to her. They reminded her of the one at Kinloch Hold, one of the few places she’d been able to find a quiet moment alone growing up.

She paused in the door of Skyhold’s chapel, taking in the scent of wax candles and incense and letting her eyes adjust to the dim lighting. As they did, she realized that she wasn’t alone.

Cullen was kneeling before the statue of Andraste, clearly deep in prayer.

Slowly, Tamsyn backed out of the chapel and returned to the garden. She and Cullen clearly needed to have things out between them--they’d never be able to work together if he couldn’t even look her in the eye--but she didn’t think interrupting him now was the best way to do that.

Zevran was waiting for her in the garden with a smile and a steaming cup of tea.

Tamsyn took the cup gratefully and let her husband lead her back to the main hall. She listened to Zevran talk about the work he'd begun with Leliana, sparing one more backward glance for the tiny chapel and the man inside it.

As usual, Josephine’s “simple task” ended up being both involved and time-consuming. Many of the recent offers of support the Inquisition receive apparently required personal replies from the Inquisitor, and even those that Josephine wrote required Lanyla’s seal and signature. Then it was time for a lesson in Orlesian politics and etiquette, followed by meetings with Dennet, Harding, and the quartermaster.

By the time her duties were complete and Lanyla returned to the courtyard, the sun was already starting to dip behind the Frostbacks.

She crossed paths with Varric, who was making his way towards the Herald’s Rest.

“Cards tonight, Goldie?” he asked. “I convinced your new liaison to join us for a game, and if we can tear Hawke and Broody away from the bedroom, they’ll be there too.”

Lanyla smiled but kept walking. “I’ll be there in a little while,” she said. “I have one more thing to do first.”

“I see,” said Varric, with a knowing grin. “Well, tell Curly he’s welcome to come too.”

Ignoring the dwarf’s chuckle, Lanyla mounted the stairs to the battlements and continued on to Cullen’s office.

She knocked softly and, hearing no response, opened the door.

To her surprise, the room was nearly dark, a single lit candle on the desk illuminating the--apparently empty--space,

Unsure whether something was wrong or if she’d simply missed him, Lanyla took a hesitant step into the room. “Cullen? Varric wants to know if we’re coming to the Rest.”

A stirring sound from above drew her attention, and Lanyla crossed the room to the ladder. “Cullen?” she called again, her concern growing. “ Vhenan ?”

At his muffled response, she climbed the ladder quickly. When she emerged, she found Cullen sitting on the edge of his bed, cradling his head in his hands.

He jerked his head up when he heard Lanyla enter, then winced as if the motion pained him. She realized then that he was wearing only a shirt and trousers, his plate armor and surcoat on the armor stand in the corner.

“Oh, Cullen,” she said, moving to sit by his side. “Headache?” She rested her hand on the bed between them, but didn’t move closer; if he wanted comfort she was happy to give it, but sometimes even a gentle touch only made his pain worse.

“Mm-hmm,” he murmured, grasping her hand like a lifeline.

“Did something happen?”

“No,” he said, then broke off, pinching the bridge of his nose with a grimace. “Yes.” He sighed. “Stress makes it worse. And now with the army growing, and the Wardens, and Hawke…”

“And Tamsyn?” Lanyla prompted gently.

Cullen sighed again, rubbing the back of his neck. “I… I apologize,” he said. “I never… I didn’t want my past to interfere with the Inquisition.”

Lanyla looked down at their linked fingers, chewing her lip for a moment. “What exactly happened?” she asked. “I know you don’t like to talk about it, and I don’t want you to if it’s too…”

“No,” he said. “You deserve to know. You have to work with her, and now that we…” he trailed off, meeting her gaze. “Well, I don’t want to keep secrets from you.”

He looked away as if collecting his thoughts. “When the two of us were at Kinloch Hold… well, you know that there was a certain amount of… puppy love, I suppose you could call it. On my part, anyway. It never went anywhere. Even if she had felt anything, and I don’t think she did, it would have been an inappropriate abuse of power.”

Lanyla squeezed his hand. “You told me this before. And you were both so young, I don’t think she would hold it against you.”

“That’s not everything,” Cullen continued. “After her Harrowing, when she left for the Wardens, when Uldred and the demons and… everything… it was…” He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Something I don’t like to relive, even now. Uldred--or, the abomination he became--used illusions of things that mattered to us, then twisted them, turned them into nightmares. Our families, our goals, things they pulled from the farthest corners of our minds… And, for me, Tamsyn.”

“Oh…” Lanyla said, softly, not sure what else to say.

“Then,” he continued. “When the Wardens… when Tamsyn came to the Tower, they fought their way through the demons and abominations that had overrun the place. And they found me. I was… in pain, raving. I begged her to kill me.” He looked away, his brow furrowed. “And… the things I said to her… they were… unkind. Untoward.” He gripped her hand a little tighter. “More than that. They were cruel. I accused her of being another vision, sent to torment me. When I realized she wasn’t… I told her that the mages were monsters, that she needed to kill them all because of what they were capable of.”

Cullen let out another long breath, staring at the wall like he was seeing something else.

“After… it took me a long time to overcome that… that hate . I am ashamed of who I was then, what I wanted to do, what I said to her… I regret it, deeply. Seeing her now… brings it all back.”

He looked at her again, searching her gaze for something. Whatever it was, he must have found it, because he leaned in and pressed his forehead to hers.

They were both quiet for a long moment, until Cullen spoke again. “Thank you, Lanyla. For… listening.”

“Always, Cullen,” she replied. “Do you want me to stay?”

“No,” he said. “I’m alright. Let me rest for a little while. I’ll join you later.”

Lanyla kissed him and stood, pausing before she went down the ladder. “For what it’s worth, Cullen… I think if you talked to her, it would go better than you think.”

Chapter Text

Hawke knew that she was probably grinning like an idiot, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

After a long afternoon in bed--and on the desk, the wall, and the floor next to the bed--she and Fenris had left her quarters to rejoin the others in Skyhold’s tavern.

As they descended to the main level, Hawke could hear Varric’s voice, his tone rising and falling as he told a story that was no doubt grossly exaggerated.

Seated around a long table was his audience: a blonde elven woman, a burly, bearded man, and a massive, one-eyed Qunari. All three were nursing mugs of ale and laughing at something Varric said.

“Although,” Varric continued, as Hawke and Fenris made their way to the table, “if this is anything like the last time they reunited, we’ll all need to pretend that we don’t notice when they disappear to a bedroom for a week.”

The elven woman--Sera, Hawke reminded herself, they’d been introduced before--cackled, tipping back in her chair precariously. The man next to her chuckled, trying to mask the sound with a cough when he noticed Hawke and Fenris approaching.

“I see some things haven’t changed,” said Fenris, dryly.

“Broody!” greeted Varric, completely unabashed. “Take a seat.” He slid a pair of tankards their way with a grin. “Though if you’re going to keep smiling like that, I might need to give you a new nickname.”

Hawke tried to hide her laugh as they took a pair of chairs on the long side of the table next to Varric. Fenris rolled his eyes, but didn’t say anything. Probably because Varric wasn’t wrong; Fenris had been smiling softly since he’d left Hawke’s rooms, and he knew it.

Before Hawke could say anything, she was cut off by a familiar-sounding bark. Even though she knew it couldn’t be Wrex--her mabari was across the Waking Sea, somewhere in the Marches with Carver, and this one was a warm brown compared to her own’s kaddis-streaked grey--but she smiled anyway to see it bounding up.

Tamsyn and Zevran followed the hound across the tavern. With a whistle and a click of her fingers, Tamsyn gestured for the mabari to return to her side.

The dog completely ignored her, instead shoving his head into Hawke’s lap.

Hawke laughed. “Hello, gorgeous,” she cooed. “Where did you come from?”

Taking a seat at the table, Tamsyn shook her head. “Eleven years together,” she said, with an exaggerated sigh, “and he still doesn’t listen to me. I wonder if he even hears me when I talk anymore.”

Hawke cupped the hound’s face in both hands and scratched behind his ears. “Don’t listen to her,” she said. “You’re doing great, you beautiful boy, you.” She continued to stroke his head as she turned to Tamsyn. “What’s his name?”

“Barkspawn,” replied Tamsyn. “I know, it’s kind of…”

“It’s an amazing name,” said Hawke. Barkspawn huffed contentedly and laid his head against her knee.

“Not that we don’t love watching you bond with another giant dog,” said Varric, “but are you going to introduce everyone to your new friend?”

“Hmm?” said Hawke, looking back up from where she was rubbing underneath the dog’s chin. “Oh, right.” She straightened in her seat. “Varric, Fenris, everyone, this is Tamsyn Amell, the…” As she spoke, she realized that she wasn’t sure how many people knew who Tamsyn was, or how many were supposed to know. “The Grey Warden liaison to the Inquisition,” she continued.

“Amell, huh?” said Varric, giving Tamsyn a thoughtful look. Hawke watched him for a moment, not sure how much he put together. “Any relation to Hawke’s grandparents? he asked. Aliss breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Even if he had made the connection between Warden Tamsyn and the Hero of Ferelden, he wasn't going to give them away. Not yet, anyway. Although she fully expected him to interrogate her in private.

“I am, actually,” said Tamsyn.

“Really?” said Hawke, surprised.

“Yes,” the other woman replied. “I did a little research not long ago, and I learned that our mothers were cousins. I grew up in Ferelden, but my people are Marchers.”

“Small world, huh, Hawke?” said Varric, a knowing look on his face.

“And you two already know Zevran,” she said, ignoring him. “Though I’m not sure if the rest of you have met…?”

The other companions introduced themselves as Tamsyn took a seat.

“Are you thirsty, my dear?” Zevran asked Tamsyn, still standing at her side. When she nodded, he swept a bow towards the group and left for the bar.

Varric turned back to the others sitting around the table, launching into the story of the last time he and Hawke had met Zevran, when they’d helped him escape the Crows’ pursuit.

“That reminds me,” said Tamsyn, turning to Hawke. I’ve been meaning to thank you for helping Zevran back in Kirkwall.” She looked over to where the elf stood, waiting for the bartender’s attention. He glanced up and met her eyes, giving her a soft smile. “I know he can get himself into a lot of trouble on his own. He’s a bit of an idiot, sometimes. But he’s my idiot, and I would miss him if something happened.”

Hawke glanced between them, suddenly understanding why the assassin had come to Skyhold.

“Oh… you two… you’re together?” said Hawke.

Tamsyn smiled. “For more than a decade now. Since the Blight.” She looked at him again, a fond smile on her lips. “Why? Is it that surprising?”

“Well, no, I guess not…” Hawke wasn’t sure how to put this. “I was just… under the impression that he had been… involved with a friend of mine in Kirkwall.” Maker, she hoped she hadn’t said something stupid to ruin the tentative friendship between them.

To her utter astonishment, Tamsyn laughed. “Oh, you mean Isabela? Lovely woman. Technically, we were both… involved with her. He’s a terrible flirt, I know, but he wouldn’t do anything without me there.”

Hawke could feel a hot flush rising on her cheeks. Not that she was a blushing virgin, by any means, but somehow hearing about the sexual exploits of the Hero of Ferelden , of all people, seemed… wrong.

Lanyla entered the Herald’s Rest alone, her eye immediately drawn to where Varric was telling a story from the head of a table, surrounded by Hawke, Tamsyn, and several of her companions. His voice rose and fell, his hands gesturing dramatically, and he paused for reactions every so often.

Across the table, Hawke laughed and rolled her eyes, leaning in to say something to the tattooed elven man at her side. He smiled as he looked at her, watching her face even when she turned away. Fenris, going by the description in Varric’s book.

Waving to Sera, she crossed to the bar, taking a place next to Zevran.

Cabot grunted at her when she called out an order, but didn’t move any faster at his current task; in his tavern, even the Inquisitor had to wait until he was good and ready.

“Are you settling in alright?” she asked Zevran, awkwardly trying to make conversation as they waited for their drinks.

He inclined his head in her direction. “Yes, thank you, Inquisitor.”

“Lanyla.”

“A lovely name,” Zevran said, smiling broadly. “Thank you, Lanyla. You have a magnificent fortress. I think my Warden and I shall be very comfortable here.”

Before she could ask what he meant by calling Tamsyn “his” Warden, Cabot slammed a pitcher and a tray of tankards down on the bar in front of them. He grunted again when Lanyla thanked him, gesturing for them to leave as he moved on to another customer.

Lanyla helped Zevran gather up the drinks and take them to the table. As the group helped themselves to fresh drinks and refills, she sat down at Varric’s right hand, across from Hawke and Fenris.

Though she took a tankard for herself, Lanyla only sipped at it as Varric continued his story. If the previous night had been any indication, she was going to need to pace herself.

Sera broke in with a story of her own, leaning forward from her precarious spot on the edge of her chair, her feet planted on the wooden seat. She gestured wildly as she described… actually, her description didn’t help Lanyla picture the events at all. And she didn’t know enough about human cities to be sure whether or not Sera’s account was even plausible.

Lanyla started as a warm hand landed on her shoulder, looking up to see Cullen--out of his plate armor, but wearing his usual cloak and fur pauldrons--standing behind her. He looked a bit tired, but better than the last time she’d seen him. Giving her a small smile, he took the seat at her side, close enough that their knees could brush below the table, but not so close as to draw stares.

“Curly!” said Varric, pushing another drink Cullen’s way. “Glad you could join us.”

Blackwall, Iron Bull, and Hawke seconded the greeting, Hawke making an exaggerated salute with one hand and toasting him with the ale in the other. “Not so curly now,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to ask, what did you do to your hair?”

The tips of Cullen’s ears turned a faint pink and he looked down, one hand moving up to rub the back of his neck.

Fortunately, he was saved from having to answer by Tamsyn, who half rose from her seat to call out to someone near the tavern’s door.

“I was wondering when you’d come down from your tower!” the Warden said, stepping away from the table as Leliana and Josephine walked towards them. “It’s so good to see you.”

To Lanyla’s surprise, Amell embraced Leliana. Even more surprisingly, the red-haired woman returned the hug warmly, a smile on her face.

“Come, drink with us,” Tamsyn said, retaking her seat at the table. “And your ambassador, too. It’s been too long.”

“I can’t stay, I’m afraid,” replied Leliana. “Josephine and I have work to complete.”

Josephine nodded. “Perhaps another time, Warden.

“I look forward to it,” Ambassador,” said Tamsyn. “But I won’t keep you from your work.”

“One more thing…” said Leliana, stepping closer. Despite her serious tone, her eyes had a glint of mischief that Lanyla had never seen before. “Should I be calling you Tamsyn Arainai, now?” she asked, catching hold of the Warden’s left hand and arching a delicate eyebrow. Tamsyn wore a thin gold band on her ring finger, the metal glinting in the light.

A ring that, now that Lanyla looked closer, matched the one on Zevran’s hand.

Tamsyn laughed. “No, it’s still Tamsyn Amell.”

“Actually,” said Zevran, slipping an arm around Tamsyn’s shoulder. “It’s also Zevran Amell. I much prefer the name of my lovely wife to the one given to me by the Crows.

“Which, I believe” he continued, turning to Hawke, “makes us cousins, Champion. And a finer family to marry into I cannot imagine.”

Leliana and Josephine said their goodbyes--“Though we haven’t finished discussing the wedding you had without me,” Leliana added--and left the tavern.

The group settled back into their seats, pouring refills into empty tankards.

Varric and Hawke started what sounded like an old argument, debating whether Ferelden ale compared to what came from Kirkwall, with Blackwall and Bull chiming in every so often.

“So,” said Cullen, looking across the table to Tamsyn. “You’re… married?” His voice was calm, carefully so, and he met the Warden’s eyes for what Lanyla was fairly certain was the first time since her arrival.

Tamsyn glanced fondly at Zevran--now giving his own opinion of Kirkwall ale--and nodded. “Yes. About two years now.”

“Congratulations.”

She smiled. “Thank you. It’s good to see you doing so well, after… well, it’s just good to see it.”

Lanyla rested  a hand on Cullen’s knee under the table, squeezing reassuringly as he looked down to his drink. He looked up and nodded to the pair across the table. “And you, Tamsyn. I’m glad you’re well.” They shared a small smile, and Lanyla could feel some of the tension leaving his body as Cullen relaxed.

Lanyla hoped that it was a start, at least, to the two finding some closure to their long history.

As the ale continued to flow, Tamsyn leaned back in her chair to watch the others.

Blackwall had taken his leave--he’d claimed that he was tired, though Tamsyn suspected it had more to do with the nervous glances he gave her throughout the evening--and the rest of the group had gotten steadily more intoxicated.

Grey Warden stamina meant that Tamsyn herself wasn’t feeling the effects, but watching her husband, Hawke, and the others get deeper and deeper into their cups was entertainment enough.

“We should play a game!” said Hawke, leaning back in her chair. “Nights like this are always more fun with a game.”

Fenris sighed and took a long drink of his ale, clearly familiar with Hawke’s idea of “fun.”

Lanyla smiled, her cheeks already flushed from the ale and the warmth of the tavern. “What kind of game?”

“A drinking game, my dear Inquisitor,” replied Hawke. “Varric, what was that one you made Carver play with us when he was in Kirkwall for Satinalia?”

“I Never?” asked Varric, laughing. “You really want to subject Goldie to that?”

“Yes! That one!” said Hawke, standing and pouring refills for everyone at the table. “Alright, the rules are simple. We go around the table, and each person says something they’ve never done before. If you have done whatever they say, you drink. Got it?”

Cullen and Fenris groaned almost in sync, but neither left the table.

“Why don’t you get it started, Tiny?” said Varric, looking down the table to where Iron Bull sat at the other end.

The Qunari chuckled and leaned back, scratching at his stubble in thought. “Alright,” he said. “I’ve never… kissed a dwarf.”

“Really?” asked Lanyla, tone incredulous.

“I said ‘kissed ,’ Boss, not that I haven’t done anything .”

Tamsyn and Zevran both drank, glancing at each with small smiles. They’d spent some very... enjoyable time in Orzamar a few years before.

Predictably, Varric also took a drink, but Sera drank as well Lanyla leaned around Cullen to get a better look at her friend. “You did? Finally!” she said. “Tell Dagna I'm happy for you both.” The tips of the rogue’s ears went a bit pink, but she grinned widely.

Hawke shared a look with Varric and took a long drink of her own, prompting a laugh from Bull and an “I knew it!” from Lanyla.

She leaned over and patted Varric’s hand. “It is a memory I will cherish forever,” she said, her tone mockingly solemn. “Alas, a passion like ours burns too brightly to last.”

Fenris snorted, but smiled when Hawke leaned into him. He laid his arm across the back of her chair, and the Champion tugged his arm forward to rest on her shoulders.

“Your turn, Charmer,” said Varric.

“Hmmm,” said Zevran, swirling his drink in its tankard. “I have never… set something on fire in the throes of passion.” He grinned at Tamsyn as she took a drink; it had happened once , seven years ago, but he still teased her about it.

Fenris cleared his throat and gave Hawke a pointed look.

With a sigh, she drank again. “Look, all mages accidentally let off some fire once or twice.”

“It happened three times, Hawke.”

“It was just a little fire.”

“We almost died the second time.”

“But we didn't . And the burnt smell was gone in less than a month.” Hawke pulled a face and him looked down at her tankard. “This is much emptier than I thought it was.” She sighed. “Your turn, cousin Amell.”

Tamsyn smiled and eyed Zevran. “I’ve never run through a Chantry naked.”

Zevran chuckled and lifted his tankard in salute before taking a drink. “In my defense, my dear Warden, I cut a very attractive figure running between the pews.”

A loud laugh from Hawke and a giggle from Lanyla drew Tamsyn’s attention across the table to where Cullen was ducking his head sheepishly and taking a drink.“This is a story I have to hear,” said Hawke. “Was it a bet? A dare? A secret Templar initiation?”

Cullen heaved a sigh. “I will only say that I was young and foolish, and that certain Templar recruits turned future kings have terrible ideas at age fourteen.”

Tamsyn laughed. “Wait, I think I’ve heard that story. You’re the Honnleath boy with a stick up his ass?”

“I do not have a--” said Cullen, setting down his drink indignantly. When Lanyla, Hawke, Bull, Sera, and Varric gave him a look, though, he sighed. “Nevermind. Can we please move on?”

“My turn,” said Hawke, chewing her lip and leaning into Fenris a little more. “Let's see… Oh! I've never kissed an Orlesian.”

Tamsyn drank, again--at which point she was glad she couldn't feel the full effects of the alcohol--along with Zevran, Iron Bull, and Sera. Given how much time they'd all spent in Orlais, she wasn't surprised by any of them.

Lanyla frowned, a puzzled look on her face. “I have a question about what counts for this one.”

“Any kind of kiss counts,” said Hawke.

“No, I mean what counts as an Orlesian?” Lanyla asked. “Just people who live there now, or anyone born in Orlais?”

“A fair question,” said Hawke, a bit too loudly; clearly the last few drinks were starting to take effect. “Varric, a ruling?”

The dwarf leaned back and rubbed his beardless chin thoughtfully. “For purposes of the game, let's say anyone born in Orlais counts. Does that change whether or not you drink, Goldie?”

“No, not for me,” replied Lanyla. “It's just… I was born in Orlais.”

Varric laughed. “Drink up, Curly.” At Cullen’s somewhat panicked look, he snorted. “Come on, if you want to keep it a secret, you should start kissing her somewhere other than the battlements where everyone can see you.”

Cullen drank deeply, pointedly not making eye contact with anyone else at the table. His ears and cheeks were the same bright pink as Lanyla’s.

“Just when I was starting to like you, Lady Inquisitor,” said Hawke, shaking her head in mock disappointment. “And all this time, you’ve been an Orlesian.”

“Only technically,” said Lanyla. “My clan was returning from an Arlathven when my mother was pregnant, and we stopped near the Exalted Plains.”

Hawke sighed dramatically. “I suppose I’ll try not to hold it against you.”

“Your turn, Broody,” said Varric.

Fenris arched a thick eyebrow. “I never wanted to play this game in the first place,” he said. Everyone but Cullen drank, though Hawke elbowed Fenris as she did.

“You're having fun, admit it,” she said. She'd moved their chairs closer together, enough that they were practically sharing a seat. Fenris smirked and wrapped his arm a bit tighter around her.

“My turn, then?” said Varric. He eyed everyone over his cup, sweeping his gaze across them like he was trying to figure out the best way to get them all thoroughly soused. With a grin, he straightened in his seat. “I’ve never…” he said, drawing out the words and pausing for effect. “I’ve never had sex with an elf.”

Hawke groaned and rolled her eyes. “I feel like you’re targeting me personally,” she said, but leaned over to give Fenris a loud kiss on the cheek before drinking.

“Not just you, don’t worry,” said Varric, as Tamsyn and Zevran both drank. Lanyla, Iron Bull, and Sera followed suit.

The only two who didn’t drink were Fenris--unsurprising, given what Tamsyn knew of his history--and Cullen, who was very pointedly not making eye contact with anyone at the table.

If Tamsyn had thought his face was flushed before, it was positively scarlet now.

Lanyla looked down at her hands on the table, fidgeting with an imperfection in the wood.

Zevran leaned forward. “So you two have never…?” Neither answered, and he clicked his tongue in disappointment. “My dear commander,” he continued, “if it’s a matter of nervousness, or inexperience, I would be happy to offer any advice you need. You see, the trick with elven women…”

Cullen pushed away from the table and stood abruptly. “Goodnight,” he said, stiffly. “Warden. Champion. Inquisitor.” With a nod, he stepped away and walked briskly from the tavern.

Hawke smothered a laugh as he fled, then stood up from her own chair with a yawn. “Awkward as that exit was,” she said, “we should probably leave too. I’m not entirely sure what my job is here, but I’d like to be rested for it.”

As if just now realizing how late it was, the rest of the group started to say their goodbyes, departing alone and in pairs.

It reminded Tamsyn of when she was able to stay at the Vigil, when the other Wardens would spend the evenings together before retiring to the barracks.

She liked this Inquisition.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t that Hawke was afraid of horses, exactly.

She’d faced down a dragon and laughed, fought a Qunari warlord in single combat; it wouldn’t make any sense for her to be afraid of some animal.

If she seemed a bit nervous around them, it was only because she had little experience with them. Ferelden apostate families didn’t generally keep a stable, and when she’d lived in Kirkwall everything important was close enough to walk.

So if she was cautious around the beasts, there was every sensible reason for it.

That’s what she told herself, anyway.

Mounting one, however, was proving difficult. She could count on one hand the number of times she’d actually ridden , and most of those were a half-blind nag that belonged to a neighbor in Lothering. Which didn’t really compare to an enormous, purebred warhorse, no matter how docile the horsemaster assured her it was.

“You’re allowed to ask for help, you know,” said Tamsyn. The Warden rode up beside Hawke, calm and collected even in the chaos of Inquisition forces preparing to leave. Her mabari loped along beside the horse, mouth wide and tongue out in a doggy grin.

The Inquisitor’s party was just the head of a caravan that included foot soldiers, scouts, supply wagons, and extra horses; it was a far cry from grabbing a few friends and a dog to walk the alleyways of Kirkwall.

“Most people in armor need a hand mounting up anyway,” continued Tamsyn. “No one will think anything of it.”

“The Inquisitor doesn’t need any help,” Hawke said. She knew she sounded like a petulant child, and she hated herself a bit for it, but she was the Champion of Kirkwall, damn it, she shouldn’t this intimidated by an animal.

“Lanyla is a tiny elf who weighs six pounds soaking wet, even in that little coat she calls armor,” replied Tamsyn, arching a brow. “Not a six foot tall human in leather and metal plate.” She glanced behind where Hawke was standing. “But if you’re determined not to ask anyone for a boost, there’s a mounting block about three feet behind you.”

“Oh.”

Several minutes--and some undignified clambering--later, Hawke was on the horse and at least pretending she was ready to leave.

Fenris joined her near Skyhold’s gates on his own mount, a massive deer. He’d barely left her side in the few days since their reunion; the hovering would be almost irritating if she wasn’t just as eager to have him near.

“Are you ready to get going?” he asked.

“Oh, just thrilled ,” Hawke replied. “Grey Wardens, cultists, the middle of the desert? That combination always works out so well for us.”

Fenris chuckled, a half smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Next time,” Hawke continued, “if someone needs us to help them save the world, we only say yes if it’s somewhere nice. An ancient magister’s uncle laying siege to a beach, maybe.”

“Don’t even joke, Hawke,” interjected Varric, riding up behind Fenris on a sturdy little pony. “With your luck, jokes like that are just giving fate ideas.” He turned to Fenris. “Would you look at that, Broody’s still all smiles.”

Fenris growled at the jab, but only half-heartedly. And Aliss had to admit, Fenris had been in a good mood ever since he joined her at Skyhold. So had she, for that matter.

Fenris said something in return, but Aliss only half-listened, her attention caught by something across the courtyard.

Tamsyn was bending over in her saddle, leaning in towards where Zevran stood beside her. The assassin rested a hand on her thigh, saying something that Hawke couldn’t hear. Whatever it was, it made Tamsyn laugh and shake her head at her husband. Her smile softened as Zevran pushed back a loose strand of her hair, then grew wider when he tugged himself up by her saddle for a kiss.

Aliss looked away, feeling like she was intruding.

“Hair still soft, eyes still blue, wrinkles there that weren’t before. She’s leaving again, without me. Can’t protect her this time. Please come back, please come back to me, mi alma .”

“Cole,” said Lanyla, leading another horse up to the gates. “We talked about this. Try to stay out of people’s heads when they’re in a group, please.”

“Oh. Sorry,” said the boy--and Hawke really needed to figure out what was going on with him--though he’d apparently walked away by the time she turned to look. Which he seemed to do a lot, now that she thought about it.

“Is everyone ready?” the Inquisitor asked, pulling up and seating herself lightly in the saddle of her own horse.

“Whenever you are, Boss,” answered Iron Bull, as he and Dorian joined the rest of the party.

“I thought your Warden friend was coming?” Hawke asked. “The beardy one?”

Lanyla shrugged. “It seemed unnecessary, with Tamsyn coming. So he offered to stay behind and help train some of the new recruits. Besides,” she added, grinning up at Bull, “I hear there’s a dragon in the area.”

With the Qunari’s booming laugh echoing through Skyhold’s courtyard, they set off across the stone bridge.

Lanyla wasn’t sure whether to laugh at the expression on Hawke’s face or offer her some kind of poultice to help with whatever was causing her so much pain.

Varric had been teasing her ever since they left Skyhold, only increasing it once they’d took a break at noon and had to mount up again. Now that they were nearing evening, Lanyla was fairly certain that Hawke’s concentration on riding was the only thing keeping her from setting Varric’s chest hair on fire. As it was, she’d barely said a word in response in a few hours, focusing instead on her white-knuckled grip on the reins.

On Hawke’s other side was Fenris, apparently much more comfortable in the saddle, but just as quiet. He smirked every so often at one of Varric’s comments, but managed a straight face whenever Hawke looked his way.

Lanyla realized that they’d barely spoken since he’d come to Skyhold beyond the short introduction Aliss had given. She’d meant to ask him more about his time in Kirkwall and about Hawke, but he had an air about him that seemed to discourage casual conversation. Which only made things more awkward now that they’d be traveling and fighting together for the foreseeable future.

“Fenris?” Lanyla said, spurring her horse forward to draw even with him. The other elf nodded in acknowledgement.

“Inquisitor,” he replied, his tone formal and his posture a bit stiff. Hawke, on his other side, was even stiffer, glaring at her mount’s head like she expected it to turn and attack her. Fenris followed Lanyla’s gaze, and his expression softened marginally when he looked at Hawke.

“Is there something you need?” he said, turning back to Lanyla.

“Oh, um…” she said, feeling a blush rise on her cheeks. “Sorry. It’s just… Varric said you speak Qunlat?”

“Yes?” he answered, raising an eyebrow.

“The Qunari have reached out to us recently,” Lanyla continued, growing a bit more confident, “about allying against Corypheus, so I thought I’d learn some of the language to communicate better. Bull’s been helping me, but no one else I work with speaks it. And I’d really like to practice with another person, too, so I can get another opinion on how I’m doing.”

“If you like, Inquisitor,” he replied, nodding in her direction.

“Just don’t let him arrange any duels with the Arishok,” said Hawke, managing a quip even while holding her entire body as stiffly as possible. “He’s really good at doing that.”

“Be fair, Hawke,” said Varric, “that was at least half Rivaini’s fault too.”

Lanyla could hear Tamsyn chuckle on her right, where the Warden kept pace on her massive black charger. “If it helps, Lanyla,” she said. “I think the current Arishok would be a bit easier to deal with without a duel. He’s hard, but reasonable. Or at least he was when I knew him.”

“You know the Arishok?” Lanyla asked.

“Yes. Though he was a Sten of the Beresaad when we met.”

“Ha! Dorian, you owe me ten sovereigns,” Bull said, interrupting from where he and Dorian rode behind them. The mage shook his head and started rummaging in one of the pouches on his belt. “He didn’t believe me when I said you were that Warden,” Bull explained.

Tamsyn laughed again. “Yes, I am that Warden . I suppose it’s no use trying to keep it a secret when we’re going to be working together these next few weeks. Especially not from you, Hissrad .”

Lanyla glanced back to Bull, not sure what his reaction would be. But the Qunari only shook his head, leaning back a bit in his saddle for one of his deep barking laughs. “Should’ve known you’d figure it out, after all that time in Par Vollen. And your Crow seems sharp, too.”

Frowning, Lanyla opened her mouth to ask when Tamsyn had been in Par Vollen, and how Bull knew Zevran was a Crow, when she was interrupted by Barkspawn huffing as one of the Inquisition scouts came trotting up to their party.

“Inquisitor!” he called, reining in his horse. “We’ve marked a spot for a camp, just about a mile ahead. “The forward unit has already started setting up, your tents should be ready by the time you get there.”

“Thank you,” Lanyla replied.

“Fucking finally ,” she heard Hawke mutter.

“What’s your name?” Lanyla asked the scout, ignoring Hawke’s grousing.

He straightened a bit in his saddle and squared his shoulders. He couldn’t be more than nineteen, with barely enough goatee to cover his chin. “Bevis, Your Worship.”

“Thank you, Bevis,” Lanyla said. “Good work.”

The lad beamed, saluting with an arm across his chest. He dipped his head quickly and then rode off, presumably to report to one of the leaders further back in the caravan.

“Hear that, Hawke?” Varric asked. “We’ll be able to camp soon.”

“My hearing is fine, Varric, thank you.”

“Just in time to rest up for another three weeks of riding!”

Lanyla had to admire the creativity of Hawke’s profanity. Not to mention the quantity.

Tamsyn took a long drink to finish off her cider, listening to Hawke and Varric bicker on the other side of the fire. She had to laugh a bit, listening to them. She knew they’d been friends for almost as long as she’d known Zevran, and they clearly cared for each other, but once they got going they squabbled like children.

Fenris didn’t talk nearly as much, but he stayed at Hawke’s side, listening to her talk and rarely taking his eyes from her face.

Not that Tamsyn blamed him. She fingered the gold hoop in her right ear and looked down at her hand. The band on her ring finger glinted in the firelight. Maker, she missed Zevran already. And it’d likely be another two months, at least, before she saw him again.

They’d been separated before, had been apart longer, but it never got easier.

Barkspawn whined a bit and laid his head in her lap, looking up at her in that too-smart way he had. She smiled softly and scratched behind his ear until he huffed and closed his eyes.

“So, Warden,” asked Varric. “The Hero of Ferelden must have some stories.”

Tamsyn laughed and set down her drink. “Most of it wasn’t nearly as exciting as everyone seems to think. A lot of walking, a lot of camping, a lot of bad stew. You should know better than anyone how stories get blown out of proportion.”

“Bullshit,” said Hawke. “Even if only a tenth of the stories are true, you still have plenty to tell.”

“She has a point,” Dorian added, speaking up for the first time since they'd started eating. The mage had been uncharacteristically quiet since they'd left Skyhold. If Tamsyn had to guess, it was probably because of the looks Aliss shot him every so often and the long stares Fenris gave him.

“We heard things about you even in Tevinter,” he continued. “And most of my countrymen would rather die than compliment a Ferelden.”

“The Dalish too!” Lanyla interjected. “For months, it seemed like every bit of news we got was about refugees, the Blight, or you. Even out in the Marches.”

Tamsyn held up her hands. “Alright, alright!” she said, laughing. “I surrender.” She leaned back and supported herself with a hand. “Let’s see… Have any of you ever been to the Brecilian Forest?”

The evening went on like that, Tamsyn and the others swapping stories and feeding the dying fire.

After a few hours, Hawke yawned and stood, stretching her arms over her head. “Well, as fun as this has been,” she said, “I need to try and sleep if I’m going to be spending another month riding that creature.” Fenris stood to join her, taking her hand as they walked towards the tent set up for them. “Goodnight!” she called over one shoulder, laughing as Fenris tugged her through the opening in the canvas.

“Who wants to take first watch?” asked Lanyla.

“I’ll do it,” Tamsyn answered. “I’ll be up a while longer anyway.”

“I’ll join you, Warden,” said Varric. “Bianca’s still a bit antsy. She can never sleep the first night on the road.”

Lanyla laughed as the others started getting up. “Wake me in a few hours, I’ll take a turn. You’re sharing a tent with me.”

Barkspawn stood and trotted after Lanyla, then looked back at Tamsyn with a cocked head.

“Go on,” she said. “I’ll come soon.” The mabari stayed where he was, still watching her. Tamsyn raised an eyebrow. “ Go . Guard the Inquisitor. I’m fine here.”

Barkspawn turned away, apparently satisfied with his new orders, though he looked back at her twice more before entering the tent. Some days Tamsyn wondered why he didn’t start speaking Common just so he could argue with her outright.

As everyone made their way to their tents and settled in, Tamsyn and Varric moved to a spot out of the fire’s direct light. Their eyes adjusted to the darkness, and Tamsyn took a deep breath as she looked up at the stars. Eleven years out of the Circle, and it still felt like something special to look up and see sky instead of stone.

“Thirsty?” Varric asked, passing her a flask that he pulled from some hidden pocket.

“Thanks.”

Tamsyn took a swig, handed it back, and they sat in silence for a while, just watching the night. A short ways down a hill she could see the fires of the main Inquisition camp, figures moving in front of the light and between the tents.

“So, Master Tethras,” she said, after a long while without speaking. “I read your book.”

Varric chuckled. “Really?” he replied. “Well, I’m flattered.”

“Mmhmm,” said Tamsyn, reaching for the flask and taking another drink. “And I had a question for you.” She handed it back and turned to stare down the dwarf. “You know that Anders served with me at Vigil’s Keep.”

“Blondie might’ve mentioned it, yeah.”

“And while we worked together, I told Anders a few stories. Places I’ve been, battles I fought, that kind of thing.” She leaned forward and rested her chin in one hand. “And, you know, I couldn’t help but notice a few similarities between one of those stories and a certain scene in your book.”

“Oh?” said Varric, suddenly very interested in polishing the stock of his crossbow.

“Yeah, you tend not to forget fighting a nightmarish monster formed of corpses and blood magic.”

“Hmm?” murmured Varric, brushing an invisible speck of dust off of his sleeve.

“And when Zevran and I were in the Free Marches, we ran into this group of mages. Said they were from Kirkwall.”

“No kidding.”

“And, you know, the mage leading them… he looked an awful lot like how you described Orsino.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. He told us this great story, about how this apostate and her friends helped them escape the city. About how a brilliant author promised to cover for them once they were gone.”

“Sounds like a nice guy.”

“Yeah.”

They both fell silent, watching the quiet hills around them.

“Weird coincidence, isn’t it?” said Tamsyn.

“Yeah. Weird.”

Chapter Text

The weeks of riding to the Western Approach were difficult, but not unpleasant.

The whole experience reminded Tamsyn of traveling with her own companions during the Blight. Granted, the food was better, the tents more comfortable, and the riding was much better than walking everywhere. It was the camaraderie, the sense of shared purpose that was the same. As much as she missed Zevran, Tamsyn found herself enjoying the journey.

Fenris and Dorian seemed to have struck an uneasy truce that mostly involved ignoring the other’s existence. They were content to fight for the same cause, at least for a time. Lanyla had overcome her apparent case of hero-worship enough to start incorporating Aliss and Tamsyn into combat drills with the others in the evening; it had been a while since Tamsyn had answered to any kind of commander, but Lanyla was one she could respect.

Nights were spent around the campfire, pouring drinks, trading stories, and keeping watch. Sharing a tent with someone again was somewhat comforting, and Lanyla didn’t snore nearly as much as Zevran or Alistair.

Still, it was a relief to see the walls of Griffon Wing Keep over the next rise.

Hawke evidently felt the same, letting out a relieved groan at the sight of the fortress.

“Oh, Andraste’s sweet bosom,” the Champion said. “Lanyla, please tell me your impressive desert stronghold has some impressive desert bathtubs.”

Lanyla laughed and prodded her horse ahead. “Don’t worry, Hawke. Plenty of tubs. Hot water, too.”

“You just became my new favorite person.”

True to Lanyla’s word, Griffon Wing Keep was well appointed for a desert fortress. It wasn’t luxurious by any means, but the baths were deep, the food was hot, and there was plenty of both to go around.

Once she’d eaten and dressed, Tamsyn found Lanyla in the courtyard, consulting with the Inquisition’s representative in the area. The man had a tattoo and a thick Starkhaven burr, and nodded in Tamsyn’s direction when Lanyla introduced him as Captain Rylen. He leaned over a table of maps, pointing out markers for both dangers and resources in the area.

There was still a significant Venatori presence in the Approach, and, worse, reports of Darkspawn sightings. Work was already underway to bridge the sulphur pits that blocked the source of the Darkspawn, but it would be another week before the Inquisitor could take a party across.

“So for now, it looks like we should focus on the Venatori,” said Lanyla, pointing to a spot on the map. “Those ruins west of Lost Springs Canyon worry me. None of our scouts can tell what they’re trying to do, but there’s a lot of magical activity.”

Hawke joined them at the table, shading her eyes against the setting desert sun. Fenris was at her side, as he'd been since he’d joined them at Skyhold. “So, Inquisitor,” Hawke said. “What do you want to do next?”

Lanyla checked one of the reports strewn across the map, fiddling with the pendant hanging around her neck.

“We wait until morning,” she replied. “I don’t want to get stuck in that canyon after dark. Not when we don’t know what’s out there."

Rylen nodded and held his arm to his chest in a sharp salute. “Yes, Inquisitor,” he said, and turned away, presumably to update the keep’s forces on the Inquisitor’s decision.

“A moment, Rylen,” said Tamsyn, calling out to him before he walked away. “Would it be possible to have copies of those reports sent to my rooms? I’d like to look over them before we head out.”

“Of course, ma’am,” the captain said. “I’ll send a runner straight away.”

Tamsyn thanked him and said goodnight to the others, then made her way to the chamber she’d been given.

Barkspawn was already in Tamsyn’s room, stretched out in a patch of fading sunlight. He huffed when she entered, but didn’t move from his spot as Tamsyn crossed the room to the small desk in the corner. Even though all she really wanted to was sleep, she needed to start writing her reports for the day.

Tamsyn wasn’t entirely sure whether Lanyla expected one from her, but at the very least writing things out helped her remember them. It was a habit she’d taken up after being made Warden-Commander, and one that had stuck even after leaving Vigil’s Keep.

She had just finished describing what she’d seen of Griffon Wing Keep so far--impressive and defensible, if in need of some improvement--when there was a knock at the door. Barkspawn started and barked softly at the noise, then went to Tamsyn’s side as she answered it.

An Inquisition soldier, one of Rylen’s people, was waiting. They handed over a stack of the reports Tamsyn had requested. The ones about magic in the area were on top, then maps of the surrounding desert.

“One more thing, Your Ladyship,” the soldier said. “A letter came for you,” they continued, holding it out as they spoke. “Arrived with a special courier right after you and the Inquisitor did. From Skyhold.”

“From Skyhold?”

“Yes, Ladyship. Sent out a few days after you left, maybe a week. Couriers are faster than a full caravan.”

Tamsyn took the letter and thanked the soldier.

The letter was addressed to her, in a familiar angular hand. Zevran.

Tamsyn smiled as she opened the letter. She could practically see his grin as she unfolded the parchment, could almost hear him laughing as he said her name. It was just like him to do something like this, send something ahead on her first trip away from him in months.

She got into bed with it, reading by the glow of a small magelight, and fell asleep with the letter still in her hand.

Hawke didn’t know why she was surprised that they ended up in a fight not twenty minutes after leaving Griffon Wing Keep.

They’d no sooner gotten out of sight of the place when they’d walked straight into a group of Venatori. From the rear of the party, the only warning Hawke had was one of Lanyla’s barriers sparking to life against her skin.

Fenris drew his greatsword and took a defensive stance a few feet in front of her.

With a thought and a gesture, Hawke summoned rocks from the ground around them, forming another layer of protection over her armor.

“I’m following you, Inquisitor!” she called, readying her staff.

Lanyla already had her own staff out, along with the hilt to her magic sword. “Right,” she said, golden eyes scanning the cluster of Venatori at the base of the next rise. She straightened a bit, her voice taking on an air of command that reminded Hawke why there were entire armies ready to follow her into the Void.

“Bull, Fenris,” she said. “With me, blades out, to the front. Dorian, keep our barriers up and torch the mage if he tries anything creative. Hawke, Varric, stay at range and keep them contained. We can’t let a runner go for reinforcements. Tamsyn, stay back with them, but have your blade ready if any of them get close.” Lanyla took a deep breath, as if bracing herself for the fight. “Move!”

They jumped into action, surrounding and attacking the venatori. Surprise was on their side, but the venatori were prepared enough that they still put up a fight.

The fight seemed to go by in flashes, snatches of action and light and blood.

Flames curled around the length of Lanyla’s staff, lashing out to catch a spellbinder in the chest, igniting his robe and burning the man to ash before he could take a full step.

Blades flashed, more enemies falling before Fenris and Iron Bull. Hawke could hear Bull laugh as his greataxe arced through the air.

Hawke couldn’t look at them, couldn’t let herself look away from what was in front of her, but she could hear Varric and Tamsyn fighting at her sides.

Bianca twanged on Hawke’s left, the hiss of each soaring bolt ending with a thump as they found their targets. Feathered shafts seemed to sprout from the chests and throats of venatori soldiers.

Light caught Tamsyn’s blade as the Warden drew her sword, flashing in the corner of Hawke’s eye. It was less familiar than Bianca’s creaking, Hawke hadn’t fought with her before, but she’d seem Tamsyn practice enough in camp to know she was deadly with her weapon, mage or not.

Hawke tugged on her mana, drawing it up from her core, and flung it out through her staff as a bolt of lightning that arced between three venatori on the edge of the battle.

She couldn’t tell if it all lasted hours or moments; time had a way of stretching when she fought, drawing out and then springing forward.

When it was over, the venatori had fallen, blood soaking into the sand. She stayed where she was for a long moment, catching her breath and letting her rock armor fall to the ground.

“Everyone alright?” asked Lanyla. “Any injuries?”

“Fine here,” Hawke said, stepping over a venatori agent Tamsyn had slain. She walked down the dune to Fenris and the others, grinning as the rush of battle started to fade. “What about the rest of you?”

“Nothing that’ll scar,” replied Iron Bull, sounding almost disappointed.

Hawke smiled and went to Fenris. He was still whole, still standing, though there was an ugly gash on his forearm.

“You’re bleeding!” she exclaimed, grabbing his wrist to examine the wound.

“It’s nothing,” he said, reaching out to clasp her shoulder with his other hand, looking Hawke up and down for injury.

“It’s not nothing! We need to get a healer, or some bandages, something.”

“It can wait. Don’t worry about me.”

“Fenris…”

“You should at least let someone take a look at that,” interjected Tamsyn, sheathing her sword as she joined them. She reached for the injured arm. “May I?”

Reluctantly, and only after a pointed look from Hawke, Fenris extended the arm. Tamsyn took it gently, smiling apologetically when he winced. “Hawke was right,” she said. “It’s not too deep, fortunately, but with all the sand and grit here, it’ll get infected if you don’t take care of it.” She looked up at him, a crease of concentration between her brows. “Are you alright with magical healing? I have bandages if you’d rather go the mundane route, but there’s still a risk of infection if the wound remains.”

Fenris hesitated but, after a sharp look from Hawke, grunted an affirmation. With a small gesture, Tamsyn pulled a wisp of energy out of the air to curl around her fingers. She pressed it to his arm, letting the energy sink into the wound. Slowly, the flesh knit itself together, the glow of the wisp sealing the edges and cleaning away the grit.

There was something familiar about how Tamsyn healed him. Maybe it was the way she twisted her wrist just a bit as the energy pooled in her hand, or the words she murmured under her breath, but all together it reminded Hawke of another healer, another Warden.

“There,” said Tamsyn. “It’ll be tender for a bit longer, I think, but your body can do the rest on its own.”

Fenris nodded his thanks and took up his sword again, examining the blade for damage.

“That technique you used,” said Hawke, after a moment, “that incantation… I think I’ve only ever seen one other mage use it like that.”

Tamsyn smiled, but something in her eyes seemed sad. “Anders?”

“Yes. He tried to teach me, but I never had the knack for more than a quick fix to keep someone from bleeding out.”

“Makes sense, I suppose,” said Tamsyn. “He was a few years older than me, but we grew up in the same Circle, had the same teachers.” She paused. “I’ve been meaning to ask… How is he? Or, how was he? The last time you saw him?”

It was strange having someone to talk to about Anders who actually knew him. Hawke had gotten so used to covering for him these past few years that she rarely even said his name out loud lately. They’d parted sometime after Kirkwall, deciding that two notorious apostates traveling together was too tempting a target. Last she’d heard, he was somewhere in the Free Marches, helping what mages he could find and using his healing skills where he was able.

“He’s alright,” Hawks said, finally. “After… everything, he’s doing what he can to help.”

Tamsyn sighed, and they began to walk together, trailing the group by a few feet. “I’m glad. Like I said, we grew up together. It’s because of me that he joined the Wardens, and then when I wasn’t there to help, everything went wrong. I never would’ve let a Templar go after him, but by then I was so busy with my own pursuits I’d all but left the Wardens to govern themselves.” She set her jaw and looked into the distance, lost in thought for a moment.

“He talked about you, sometimes,” said Hawke, gently. “He didn’t have good memories of the Wardens as a whole, I think, but he always spoke well of you.” She smiled. “He said you gave him a cat.”

Tamsyn laughed. “Ser Pounce-a-Lot! He was one of my best recruits.” She smiled for a moment, and then her expression turned sad. “I just wish… well, there’s a lot I wish I’d done differently. But I’m glad he wasn’t alone in Kirkwall. Thank you, Hawke.”

Lanyla hated the desert.

It wasn’t even the venatori everywhere; at this point, she was used to being on guard whenever she traveled.

It was everything else that was awful: the sand, the heat, the creatures everywhere that seemed determined to attack whenever she let her guard down. Even the springs were a death trap. It was taking Inquisition forces twice as long as expected to build a path over the sulfur pits, and they had to keep soldiers posted the entire time to protect the workers from roaming bandits and wild animals.

With a groan, Lanyla wiped a bit of sweat from her forehead and hooked the hilt of her arcane blade to her belt.

Dorian returned his staff to its spot on his back and walked over to join her. “Well,” he said, “that was… invigorating.”

“Think it means we’re on the right track?” Lanyla asked. “I mean, if they’re attacking us on our way to those ruins, then there’s probably something worth protecting.”

“Good point. Of course, they may just not like us very much. Not that I can imagine why.”

Lanyla smirked. “Really? No reasons come to mind?”

“Not at all. We’re incredibly charming.”

Iron Bull laughed at something Varric said, snorting loudly and shaking the blood off of his great axe.

“Well,” said Dorian. “Some of us are.”

As they continued through the desert, Lanyla realized that they were in familiar territory--the road they walked would eventually connect to the first camp the Inquisition had established, and beyond that was where it joined the main road.

Before they got any closer to the camp, though, something made her pause. There was a wagon at the side of the road, no horses in sight, and half of its contents spilled onto the sand. Lanyla dropped her hand to the hilt of her arcane blade as they approached, and scanned the surrounding area for any threats. The whole situation screamed of a trap, but the only creature in sight was a fox running deeper into the canyon.

Slowly, the group approached the wagon, picking through what was left of the cargo. Lanyla tucked away the research supplies marked for a Professor Frederic, making a mental note to ask Rylen and Harding if they knew of anyone in the area by that name.

They continued up the slope to a mine entrance that seemed abandoned. There was something off about it, though--Bull pointed out that the tunnel was clear of debris or plant growth, like someone had cleared it out. His suspicion seemed to be an accurate one; even though the only living things they encountered were spiders that they made short work of, there was equipment and notes left behind. The clearest note they found--something about a mine and moving operations to the Emprise de Lion--confirmed Harding’s reports of Venatori activity in the region.

The mine let out in another small valley, where they were once again swarmed by giant spiders. Lanyla cursed under her breath. The spiders weren’t terribly difficult to dispose of, but she hated them. Something about the number of legs and the skittering noise they made her skin crawl.

As the party collected themselves, Lanyla took stock of where they were, checking the landmarks against her map of the Approach. They were only a short way from the ruins now, and she could actually see the gates further down the canyon.

“What’re you thinking, Boss?” asked Iron Bull. “Want to sneak up on ’em?”

Lanyla shook her head and pursed her lips, checking the map again. “I don’t know if we can. It seems like there’s only one way in--or out--of those ruins. A direct approach might be our only option.”

Bull grinned. “Good. Barely even broke a sweat taking that last group out.”

“Did your people have much information about the ruins?” Tamsyn asked, as she and Hawke joined them and the group continued down the canyon.

Fenris took a place at Hawke’s side. His sword was back in its sheath, though he still stood like he was about to spring into action.

Hawke answered first. “I think we can assume they're not going to be terribly fun. I mean, personally, cult-filled ruins in the middle of the desert aren’t one of my favorite places. I’ve had a few negative experiences.”

Fenris snorted, but didn’t say anything.

Varric wasn’t nearly so restrained. He laughed out loud, startling a pair of birds perched on an exposed root jutting from a rock face. “Hawke, our last two trips to desert ruins involved falling ass-over-boots into the Fade and waking up an ancient magister who wants to rule the world. I don’t know that I’d call them just ‘negative experiences.’”

“We experienced them both, and personally, I’d say that they were both extremely negative.”

Varric opened his mouth, clearly about to continue the argument, but Dorian interrupted.

“Not that this isn’t a fascinating debate, but, no, Hawke, we don’t know a lot about the ruins. I read over the reports myself, and there's definitely something arcane going on, but we don’t know what’s causing it.”

Tamsyn nodded in thought and adjusted the way her sword belt sat on her hips. “They’re Tevinter-built, aren't they?” She asked.

“Yes,” Dorian replied, “though I’m afraid I’ve never read anything about them myself.”

“Alright,” Tamsyn said. “Well, in my experience, this could go one of two ways. Either an ancient elven spirit teaches us a forgotten combat discipline and we make peace with a pack of werewolves, or we end up having to fight the mother of all darkspawn while her children try to eat us.”

With that, she continued down the canyon.

No one seemed to know what to say, staring at the Warden as she walked away.

Finally, Varric broke the silence.

“I have got to get her to share some more of those stories.”

Chapter Text

Whatever Lanyla had expected to find behind the sealed gates, it wasn’t anything close to what was actually waiting.

“This is… extraordinary ,” said Dorian. “The amount of power and complexity behind a working like this… It’s beyond any application of time magic Alexius and I even theorized.”

“That’s right, Leliana told me about what happened in Redcliffe. You studied time magic?” asked Tamsyn, features brightening in interest.

“Yes, although it was all theory until the Breach. Its decidedly unpleasant applications weren’t reality until Redcliffe.”

“That’s amazing,” said Tamsyn. “I’ve read a bit about it myself, but nothing in-depth. My focus has been elsewhere lately, though I do remember reading something by an old Tevinter scholar, Falconia Auspex. Are you familiar with her work?”

“Naturally,” replied Dorian. “I studied her work quite a bit when I first started looking into temporal magic. Years ahead of her time, though she did miscalculate the effects of lunar positions on—”

“Maybe not the time for this, you two?” interjected Hawke. “Perhaps hold off on the theoretical magical discussions until after we get out of the creepy frozen ruins full of demons.”

“What?” said Tamsyn, already kneeling to examine a pile of rubble held mid-collapse by green energy. “Oh. Yes. Good point.”

Their group moved through the ruins cautiously, piecing together what happened—“of course it was blood magic,” said Hawke—from the scraps of records left behind as they went. It was eerie, the way mages and demons were frozen in place; Lanyla didn’t know whether they were aware of what went on around them, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that they were watching.

Still, she found herself almost missing the eeriness when the ruins started shaking and the demons sprang into motion.

The party fought their way out, the weeks of combat drills on the road proving effective, helping them to move in sync and guard each other’s backs.

Lightning crackled from Hawke’s staff, the scent of burnt ozone heralding each bolt striking an enemy. Fenris cut down a Terror before it could get close to Hawke, snarling as ichor sprayed across his face. Lanyla called down fireballs to cover their retreat as Iron Bull cleaved another attacker in half with his axe. The last demon shrieked as it was consumed by flame.

Lanyla panted with the exertion. Her mana reserves were low, and a Despair Demon had grazed her shoulder with a shard of ice. The wound wasn’t deep, but there was a chilling numbness spreading through her left arm. Even as she raised it to seal the rift, she could feel frost crackling across her skin.

A hand fell on her shoulder; Tamsyn, standing behind her. Warmth spread from the Warden’s fingers, banishing the chill and tingling along the edges of the wound. Lanyla rolled her shoulder against the itch as her skin shifted to seal itself back together. With a grateful smile for Tamsyn, she adjusted her armor back into place and got a grip on her staff again.

Out of the ruins their party finally had a moment to breathe. Hawke sank to the ground and sat back against a crumbling stone block. She tugged Fenris down next to her and leaned into him as he settled at her side.

“Well,” said the Champion, taking a swig from her water skin, “that was nice and interesting, wasn’t it?”

“I did tell you that the Inquisition wouldn’t be boring,” said Varric.

“Actually,” corrected Hawke, “I think your exact words were ‘you need to help this kid clean up the Corypheus mess we made.’”

“Kid?” interjected Lanyla. “I’m not that much younger than you.”

“I am nearly ten years your senior, young one,” said Hawke. She capped her water skin and feigned a superior pose. “I have more experience, and knowledge, and—”

“And sworn enemies, and failed business ventures,” added Varric.

“And assassination attempts, and pubs that have banned you from entering twice ,” said Fenris, muttering it to himself so quietly that Lanyla almost missed it.

“The point I was making ,” asserted Hawke, “is that when I came to help, out of the goodness of my heart, in the spirit of altruism and solidarity, I wasn’t expecting weird ruins where time doesn’t make sense.” She took another drink and passed the water to Fenris. “And that pub was boring, anyway.”

They all sat for a moment in relative silence, drinking deeply from their waterskins and brushing off sand from wherever it had accumulated.

“I am sorry about dragging you to the desert, Hawke,” said Varric, breaking the stillness. “I hate the fucking desert.”

Fenris smirked. “Varric, you don’t like anywhere.”

“I like the Hanged Man. Hawke’s old place. The Herald’s Rest isn’t bad either.”

“I stand corrected. You don’t like anywhere that doesn’t have alcohol.”

“There you go.”

Another silence, this time somewhat awkward, fell over the group. Lanyla rose to her feet and brushed the sand off of her hands.

As they all made their way back into the canyon and out from under the small cluster of trees near the ruins, Lanyla had to squint. The sun was finally high enough to shine directly down on them, and the rays were piercing. Normally she’d hate it, but in this case she was relieved that time seemed to have passed at the same rate inside and outside of the ruins.

Even in the unflinching sun the party made good time on their way out of the canyon. They’d pretty much cleared the area of enemies out on their way in, and any wildlife or bandit that had lingered seemed to have been scared away by the noise of their fight with the Venatori.

The closer they got to Griffon Wing Keep, though, the more on edge Tamsyn seemed. She was watching the dunes more closely, her hand constantly on the hilt of her sword. It got worse as they went along the path, and as they started to climbing the rise to the plain around the fortress, she halted.

“Wait!” she called, softly but urgently.

Everyone else stopped, looking at the Warden quizzically.

She shifted into a ready stance and moved to the head of their small party, drawing her sword as she went. With one hand up towards them, she indicated that they halt. Tamsyn closed her eyes, her head tilting like she was listening to something.

“Darkspawn,” she said. “About… four of them. Maybe five. Nothing terribly big, none of the gigantic ones. None that can spellcast either, unless I’ve gotten really rusty.” She opened her eyes, frowning at the rest of them. “Listen, I know that you’re all extremely capable fighters, but the last thing I want to do is infect the Inquisitor with the Blight. And I don’t think the rest of you were looking to join the Wardens anytime soon.

“So, please, if only for my peace of mind… I need you all to hang back. Shoot them, throw fire at them, whatever, but do not approach until they’re all dead. And even then, give them a wide berth until you can get someone to dispose of what’s left safely .”

Lanyla wanted to object—it didn’t seem right, letting Tamsyn rush into a situation like this alone—but her points made sense, and Lanyla didn’t want to risk losing her people if she didn’t have to.

So she nodded reluctantly, and let Tamsyn lead them onwards.

Sure enough, Tamsyn’s estimation was correct. There was a small unit of Darkspawn just above the lip of the rise: three of the common ones, and one of the larger leaders a few steps apart from them.

As soon as they were visible, Tamsyn went into motion. Lanyla did what she could to help, casting a quick barrier and laying down a line of fire to keep them from running, but in all honesty Tamsyn barely needed the help.

Watching her was like watching a dancer with a deadly blade in one hand and magic in the other. She wove around the darkspawn almost effortlessly, her blade darting from one exposed vulnerability to the next. Slicing the head off of one Darkspawn, she continued the arc to slice into the next. One hand flew up to throw flame at another beast while she yanked the blade free, and the other two fell quickly under bolts from Bianca and a fist of stone from Hawke.

As the blood soaked into the sand, Tamsyn went still, catching her breath for a few long moments. She knelt to wipe her sword on a clean patch of sand, the rose to sheathe it with a decisive clink .

Their whole party went still, just watching the Warden and her handiwork.

With a matter of fact straightening of her shoulders, Tamsyn turned back to them, not a scratch on her blue and silverite.

“Now what, Inquisitor?” she asked.

Lanyla knew her eyes were wide, but she smiled. “Now,” she said to the group of people that, thanks to a coincidence of fate, looked to her for answers, “I think we have more work to do.”

Predictably, the work ahead was difficult, time-consuming, and could not be completed by anyone else available.

In a lot of ways, Tamsyn noted, working with the Inquisitor was more like her time in Amaranthine than her experiences during the Blight.

Although the giant spider nesting in the well of their main outpost was a first.

Other than the spider, most of what needed to be done was fairly run of the mill as these things went. It took a couple of weeks to deal with everything, but no one task was particularly difficult. There was vicious wildlife harassing merchants, a trade route that needed to be secured, and a mine that needed to be cleared of bandits so local craftsmen could use it.

The bandit group wasn’t an especially hard fight; the terrain was interesting, to an extent, but everyone in their party had faced much worse. It was only after the dust had settled, when Lanyla was marking the location on her official Inquisition map, that Tamsyn noticed how unusual the place was. It was just an old mine for shimmer stone, but there was something… it was like a ringing in her ears, or a note so low she could feel it in her teeth, except she couldn’t actually hear anything.

Tamsyn walked around the mine, slowly, trying to get an idea of where the sensation was coming from. Her attention was caught by an aging book tucked behind a sack of newer supplies, the leather crumbling from exposure to the elements.

Despite the worn leather, the pages were holding together well, and the Warden crest was still visible on the cover. The text was faded, but legible, and she could make out entries about a dig effort, Wardens hearing a song, an ancient thaig.

She slammed the book shut.

Even if wasn’t the worse case scenario, and Tamsyn sent a silent prayer to whoever was listening that it wasn’t, it was not a good one.

“Inquisitor,” she said, slipping into the familiar persona of professional, composed Warden Commander. It was easier deal with the idea of what could be under the mine if she distanced herself from it. “I think you need to take a look at this.”

Lanyla looked surprised by the formal title, but read the open pages when Tamsyn held the book out. She frowned, the creases on her forehead making her tattoos shift and move as she read. “This…” she said, “is not good, is it? Potential-Blight-starting-not good?”

“My thoughts exactly,” replied Tamsyn. She glanced around, then continued more quietly. “I can hear it, even on the surface. Or feel it might be the better word. It’s… uncomfortably similar to the call of an Archdemon.” She put the book into her satchel; whether it was accurate or not, it was Grey Warden history, and it was worth preserving.

“What do we do about it?” asked Lanyla. “What’s even possible, with something like this?”

Tamsyn took a deep breath, trying to center herself. Dammit, but she wished that Zevran were here. Or even Alistair. Someone she trusted, who knew her. She didn’t mind that people looked to her for answers, and after a decade she was used to it, but it was a lot easier to give those answers if she had someone at her side who didn’t look at her like a hero.

“You put guards on the place,” she said. “Not Wardens. In fact, steer Wardens away from here. And have someone who knows stonework reinforce the place. Use the stone you’ve dug up already, but do not go deeper. Make sure it’s strong, and if you find anything like the ruins the book mentioned, you turn back and you close the tunnels behind you with walls as thick as you can build.”

Lanyla nodded. “Alright,” she said. “I’ll tell Rylen as soon as we’re back at the Keep.” She bit her lip as she looked over the mine. “I know they wanted stone to help with repairs, but… it’s not worth what could be under there.” Turning back, she smiled softly. “Thank you, Tamsyn,” she said. “For this, and for everything else.”

Tamsyn smiled in return as they all began to leave the mine.

“Back to work, then?” she said, letting herself relax as they got further away from the mine and its sinister call.

So the work went on, and between hunting varghests and clearing out even more bandits, they came across a scholar named Frederic. A scholar who was, apparently, looking for an Abyssal High Dragon that was nesting nearby.

They were gathered around a table of maps and notes in Frederic’s camp, discussing the possibility of going after the dragon themselves. The Inquisitor’s thoughts were clear on her face as she considered. She seemed excited by the idea of the hunt, unsure as she thought a bit longer, then resolved as she started to come to a decision. Tamsyn made a mental note to mention that Lanyla needed to be a bit less transparent if she was going to deal with Orlesian politicians in the future, but also that they should play a few rounds of Wicked Grace first.

“It does seem like it could be a potential threat to anyone along this road,” Tamsyn said, pointing out the main trade route between Griffon Wing Keep and the closest major city. “If you want this outpost to be a strong presence in the region, your people can’t be constantly looking over their shoulders for a dragon.”

“And it’s a High Dragon , Boss,” added Iron Bull, a crooked smile on his face and an eager gleam in his eye.

“It’s practically begging for us to hunt it down!” added Hawke. Her eyes were wide with excitement, hands already twitching with a few arcane sparks. The dried kaddis streaked across her nose—despite the fact that she didn’t have a mabari with her—cracked a bit when she grinned at the idea.

Fenris and Dorian sighed in unison at Bull and Hawke’s enthusiasm, and both immediately looked horrified to have had the same thought.

Lanyla straightened her shoulders, clearly having come to a decision. “I don’t think that we can afford to ignore it,” she said. “You’re right about the trade routes, and with Venatori still in the area… well, I don’t want to take the chance that Corypheus could get his hands on another dragon.”

“So you will do this?” asked Frederic. “You will go after her?”

“Yes,” said Lanyla, and they started to make a plan.

Placing the lures for the dragon was slow going—especially since the local wildlife seemed to enjoy the bait as much as the dragon was meant to—but rather than dragging on, the suspense seemed to build with each one placed.

Bull and Hawke seemed thrilled by the very idea of a dragon. They traded boasts about their own experiences with fighting and hunting, laughter and jabs echoing over the sandy hills.

“And then she flew down—the Bone Pit is in a valley, surrounded by these low hills—and I swear by Andraste’s ankle bone, Bull, we could smell her breath, she was so close, it was amazing,” Hawke said, halfway into a story about her own encounter with a High Dragon, one hand making a swooping motion to illustrate her story.

Tamsyn tuned them out so she could focus on the landscape around them, and took a few steps ahead to give herself some space to focus. She loosened her sword in its scabbard as they got closer to the final site, exchanging a nod with Fenris, who was doing the same.

The mood shifted a bit for everyone as they approached the ruined pillars that marked their destination; excitement and story swapping turned to a sort of nervous, eager energy. Their group fanned out a bit, each member falling quiet as they set the last of the bait in place.

Shadows lengthened around them as they took their places, the sun slipping away behind the distant Hunterhorns. Tamsyn and the other mages of their party called up arcane lights and sent them to points around the baited area, providing enough illumination for the coming fight.

As impromptu arenas went, it wasn’t bad. Even with the setting sun, the magical lighting was more than enough to see by, and it was far enough away from anything important that they didn’t have to worry about collateral damage. The packed sand provided as stable footing as anywhere in the Approach, and the less armored of their party could find cover behind the blocks of stone from the long-fallen structure.

Bull and Hawke had matching gleams in their eyes that bordered on maniacal as they readied their weapons. Varric and Fenris exchanged amused looks at Hawke’s excitement, but both readied their weapons and kept their eyes on the horizon. Dorian had his staff out and ready, energy pooling in one hand in preparation for a barrier and more crackling along the wooden length of the shaft. Lanyla had hers out too, along with her arcane hilt, standing closer to the center of the space. Tamsyn drew a sword and took her own position, eyeing Lanyla, Fenris, and Bull to make sure that the space was covered.

The temperature started to drop as as the sun did. Tamsyn had a feeling, though, that between their layers of armor, the coming combat, and the approaching dragon, they’d all be warming up soon.

Hawke took a place that put her in range of most of the baited space, while also leaving plenty of room for the dragon.

The high dragon . The one that she was going to fight. She couldn’t quite stand still, she was so excited. She shared a grin with Bull and readied her grip on her staff, settling into a stance that she could both move and cast from.

A familiar silence settled over them, one that she knew from hundreds of battles. It was the calm before the storm, the collective holding of breath as they all waited for something to happen. Hawke could feel her own heart beating in her ears, pulses of mana in her veins, the breeze lifting strands of hair off of her face.

The breeze that, until a moment ago, hadn’t existed. And that had an odd, regular pattern to it. A regular pattern that was oddly similar to the beating of enormous, leathery wings

Hawke turned towards the setting sun, the source of the breeze matched by a sound she could now hear. A sound she recognized, that got her blood pumping harder and her energy spiking.

The dragon roared as it soared in, the last bits of the setting sun glinting off of crimson scales and wide-swept horns. Hawke shouted in return, her roar mingling with the dragon’s. Bull’s booming laugh and a yelled phrase in Qunlat joined the sounds ringing across the rolling hills.

Dorian and Lanyla cast barriers across all of them as the dragon landed, crackling green energy clinging to Hawke’s skin and armor.

Rocks scattered as the dragon’s talons dug into the sand.

Familiar battle calm set in, the world in front of Hawke narrowing to her staff, the dragon, and her own breathing. It was like the world sped up around her, reflexes that she’d honed for years letting her cast as quickly as she could think.

With another roar, the dragon swiped at Bull. He moved nimbly for someone so enormous, laughing again as he returned the blow with his massive axe. Fenris attacked from the other side, his sword barely making a dent in the dragon's thick red scales.

Hawke called up her usual rock armor, stones shooting through the sand to make a shell around her. She sent a blast of pure force into the dragon’s side with a swipe of her staff, getting her to react with a shriek and a swing that exposed her left flank.

Varric and Tamsyn took advantage of the opening, two bolts from Bianca sinking into the thinner scales under the dragon’s left wing as Tamsyn’s blade went for the less-armored place where one leg met the dragon’s torso. Hawke wasn’t sure exactly where Dorian was casting from, but balls of fire appearing in the sky and coming down on the dragon and the sand told her what he was doing.

Hawke lost herself in her magic, summoning all the energy she had to slam the dragon again an again. Each time she did, the others around her raced in to target its more vulnerable spots with their spells and weapons.

Slowly, as the arcane lights waned, they wore it down. No one hit seemed to do a lot of damage, and the flames that Aliss, Lanyla, and Dorian all favored seemed less effective than they should have been. But eventually, the dragon was limping, bleeding from slashes on its flank and neck, its head hanging lower and lower over the sand. The thing was close to done, but so were they all. Aliss wasn’t sure how many more blasts of force that she had in her, and she knew Fenris well enough to notice the flagging strength in each swipe of his sword.

Then, with a streak of blue energy, Lanyla moved through the Fade, between the dragon’s front legs, solidifying again directly below the beast’s belly. The Inquisitor was tiny, able to stand nearly upright under the dragon. She took advantage of that, her arcane blade flickering into existence right before she stabbed directly upwards, through the more vulnerable underbelly. Hot blood gushed over her, covering her body. The dragon roared again, this time in pain. Its whole body shook, as it began to fall to the ground in its death throes.

Fenris dropped his sword and dashed in to grab Lanyla, yanking the smaller elf away from the collapsing dragon and earning himself a matching coating of blood. As they raced away, a final slash from the dragon’s claws caught Fenris in the back.

Hawke wasn’t sure how her heart managed to stop and leap into her throat at the same time, but it did, and she was paralyzed as she watched.

Fenris disappeared under the dragon, shoving Lanyla ahead of him and clear of the dragon as it fell to the sand. Hawke silenced its final cry with a stone fist to its face, not even looking when the thing collapsed for good.

A heartbeat. Another. Hawke still couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

Tamsyn and Bull raced forward, using a combination of magic and brute force to try and move the carcass.

Another heartbeat pounded in Hawke’s ears. Her staff fell to the ground and she barely noticed. She stumbled forward. Another heartbeat.

One of Fenris’s armored gauntlets shot out from beneath the dragon.

Hawke finally sucked in a breath, her pulse racing as she staggered forward into a run. She fell to her knees beside Fenris, helping Tamsyn pull him out as Bull threw his weight into lifting the massive armored claw.

Slowly—too slowly, way too slowly—they got him free. It was still again for a few long moments as Aliss ran her hands over Fenris, healing energy already springing to life at Tamsyn’s fingertips. After another pair of heartbeats, Fenris’s body shuddered against the sand and he breathed deep.

Aliss was sure she was crying, her vision was blurred, but she couldn’t feel the tears on her cheeks. Even as she reached out for Fenris, she couldn’t feel anything other than the pounding in her ears that wouldn’t stop.

Tamsyn knelt at his other side, extending a hand that glowed white and green. “I always save a little energy, in case of something like this,” she said. “Is this alright?”

“Yes!” gasped Aliss, as Fenris nodded weakly.

Tamsyn pressed her hands to his side, magic spreading from her fingers to pool across Fenris’s body and sink in slowly. She frowned in concentration, sweat mingling with the dragon blood and streaks of soot on her forehead. No one else said a word. Lanyla gestured a few of the lights closer, let them hover over the three on the ground.

Everything on the battlefield was still as they waited, the others gathering to make a loose circle near the body of the dragon.

Aliss held his hand as tightly as she could, only easing up when his breathing evened out and his body finally seemed to relax. She sobbed out a shuddering breath as he gripped her hand and braced himself to sit up.

Aliss laughed with relief and cupped his cheeks in her hands, bent forward to kiss him. She could taste the dragon’s blood on him, copper and smoke and heat, and ignored it in favor of the familiar feeling of his lips on hers.

Tamsyn stepped back. “There,” she said. “He’ll be fine.” She stood and brushed off her hands. “Honestly,” she added, “I don’t know how he managed to get out from under there with as few injuries as he did. I closed up any broken skin, and the fractures are healed enough to finish on their own in the next few days. Being pinned like that, it’s a miracle he didn’t have crushed bones or internal bleeding. Dragon blood can burn, and I’ve even seen…” she trailed off as Aliss kissed Fenris again. “But this isn’t the time for that. As long as he doesn’t run into another fight right away, he’ll be alright.”

Fenris rose to his feet. It was slow, and he had a hand from Aliss, but he stood straight and didn’t lean on her once he was up. Aliss flung her arms around him and held him close for a few long moments. He returned the embrace, not flinching at how hard she held him.

“Do you know what you just did?” he asked.

Aliss pulled back to stare at him.

“You just killed another High Dragon,” he said, with one of the true smiles that he rarely showed anyone but her.

Aliss laughed, both with joy and relief.

“Fuck yeah she did!” shouted Bull. “Now, let’s celebrate!”

Chapter Text

The Iron Bull hadn’t been kidding. Once they got back to Griffon Wing Keep fires were lit, drinks were poured, and the soldiers helped haul back the dragon carcass to a chorus of cheers. Hawke spent the rest of the night celebrating, first with the group—loud, lots of drinking, fun—then in private with Fenris—quiet, less drinking, even more fun—until she collapsed in a hot, exhausted heap on a bed in the guest quarters.

The next morning, she woke up sweaty, aching, and with sand in places she didn’t want to think about.

It was the same the next morning. And the next, and the next; honestly, once they’d killed the dragon, the next few weeks in the Approach sort of ran together in Hawke’s mind. It was all a blur of fights and hikes and stabbing headaches from squinting across the sand. Everything they did was very important, she was sure, but it was exhausting.

No amount of tricks with hoods or soothing balms made the sun less awful. Everyone ached and complained until the sun went down, and then the chill wind chapped the sunburn and made it worse.

Hawke was relieved when, while they were resting at one of the Inquisition’s camps in the area, a messenger finally tracked them down with a summons from Skyhold.

She was less relieved when she was reminded that returning to Skyhold involved more weeks on horseback.

The saddle callouses Hawke had been promised by a few of the more experienced riders finally seemed to show up, at least enough that she didn’t ache as much all over at the end of the day. It still wasn’t comfortable —traveling for so long meant plenty of complaints, from her breastplate chafing to nausea from the bumpy road—but she felt a little better about her horsemanship on the return trip.

Feeling better didn’t mean she enjoyed it, however, and she joined in the cheers when Skyhold’s walls became visible over the mountain ridge.

Getting down from her horse’s back was a precarious business for a moment, but Fenris was there with a hand to lean on, and she managed to salvage at least some of her dignity. Not a lot of her dignity, judging by the snort that Varric didn’t bother hiding, but at least she was off the horse.

One of the stablemaster’s assistants took the reins, and Hawke happily handed the beast off, hoping that she wouldn’t have to deal with it again anytime soon.

To Hawke’s left, Tamsyn dismounted quickly and handed off her own reins. She glanced around for only a moment before flinging herself into Zevran’s waiting arms, her face brightened by the widest grin Hawke had seen on her face yet. Hawke glanced away, trying to give them as much privacy as the growing crowd would allow.

In the courtyard’s center, the Inquisitor dismounted with—annoyingly—much more grace and much less help than Hawke. She was immediately swarmed by people: advisors, nobles, servants, over a dozen people who all seemed to need her attention immediately. The relaxed Lanyla that Hawke had gotten to know on the road seemed to vanish, weighed down by the responsibilities that didn’t even offer a moment to breathe.

Hawke watched the growing crowd, running through ideas for how to break it up and give Lanyla some space without embarrassing the Inquisitor too badly. Hawke had long since given up on preserving her own dignity, it was true, but she didn’t want to make things any worse for Lanyla than they were.

Cullen beat her to it. He shouldered his way through the crowd to Lanyla, pushing past the hangers-on firmly with one hand on his sword and his fur collar practically bristling. He shouted orders as he went, sending soldiers scurrying to unload the dragon’s head, clear the way for incoming forces, and take the horses to the stables. Someone shouted something about ale for the dragonslayers, sparking cheers and even more activity around them. As the crowd shifted its focus, Cullen led Lanyla away, his hand just grazing the small of her back. Hawke saw Lanyla lean in and whisper something to him, something that made them both smile as they walked away.

The cheering and calls for ale repeated throughout the crowd, the Inquisition quickly turning its focus to celebration. It seemed impromptu enough that everyone was caught up in the rush of it, but was organized enough that Hawke suspected Josephine had started planning it the moment word of the dragon had gotten to Skyhold.

Given that there were nobles and dignitaries to impress, it was a bit less raucous than the celebration in the Approach, but it wasn’t a bad party. The food was better, there was actual music coming from somewhere, and the lack of sand was a definite plus.

Hawke ended up on a bench in Skyhold’s great hall, leaning into Fenris’s side and watching Varric tell the story of the dragon slaying to a rapt audience. Her chest and back still ached, but not so badly that she couldn’t ignore it. The plate and goblet in front of her were still mostly full; her stomach hadn’t settled from her time on the road and, as good as she was sure it was, the thought of eating and drinking her usual amount was less than appealing.

She seemed to be the only one who felt that way, because the feast was in full swing. Everyone laughed and drank and toasted their Inquisitor’s success, the celebration spilling from the dais all the way out into the courtyard.

Out of the corner of her eye, Hawke kept catching glimpses of Lanyla, walking through the hall to mingle. She was always surrounded by people, dignitaries and Inquisition forces and her Inner Circle. She joined Dorian in deep conversation with one of Fiona’s people, spoke rapid Orlesian with Vivienne and someone Hawke thought was a merchant, and smiled politely to everyone Josephine introduced.

Cullen, of course, was always close by. Not that Hawke could really blame him. The trip to the Approach had been a long one, and Hawke had enough recent experience with separation herself to know how hard it must have been on those in their party who left people behind. She hadn’t even seen Tamsyn or Zevran since they got back, but the Inquisitor didn’t have the luxury of ducking out of sight for an immediate reunion.

As the night wore on, and Lanyla moved in and out of Hawke’s view, Cullen and the Inquisitor both seemed to relax. Cullen’s hand lingered just a bit when he handed a goblet to the Inquisitor, saying something that didn’t carry over the general din. Lanyla leaned in to reply, perhaps a bit closer than was strictly professional, her lips lingering near his ear as she spoke. Cullen’s eyes widened slightly and he nodded slowly, then turned away deliberately.

After a moment, Lanyla walked away and slipped through the crowd to a side door, turning back just once to exchange a smile with Cullen that was clearly meant to go unnoticed by those around them.

Which, given the seemingly-bottomless nature of the Inquisition’s alcohol reserves, most people probably didn’t. They probably also dismissed the faint blush on their Commander’s and Inquisitor’s cheeks as a result of the heat or those same reserves.

Hawke had to fight to suppress a grin. She’d bet a dozen sovereigns that the next time they all played a drinking game, a few answers would be different. Oh, she was going to tease Lanyla about this for months .

And that was weird, thinking about months with the Inquisition. She’d going from meaning to get out as soon as possible to planning for future jokes. And since when was she so invested in the Inquisitor’s personal life? It was the story of her life, really: accidental heroism and stumbling into long term commitments.

Not that long term commitments were all bad, she mused, looking at Fenris. She liked having someone at her side. Especially now, when he was relaxed and laughing and wrapping an arm around her. With a content smiled, she leaned back against him to watch Varric finish telling his story.

Someone walked past them with another tray of steaming food, and the scent washed over Hawke like a punch to the gut. She pushed away from Fenris abruptly, muttering an excuse about seeing a man about a druffalo, and shoved her way across the crowded hall towards the privy.

She barely made it in time, internally cursing roads, saddles, and whatever demon inspired the Maker to create horses. She never got sick. Even when she’d been living in Lowtown, drinking swill and not eating much better, she never got sick. Nothing turned her stomach: not hangovers, not injuries, not even fighting the undead.

Distantly, she realized that Fenris had followed her, because there was someone holding back her hair and a gentle hand rubbing circles on her back. He murmured something that sounded nice but that she couldn’t quite focus.

When Hawke came back to herself, Fenris helped her into the hall and she slowly sat down against the wall. He crouched in front of her, concern all over his face.

“I’m alright,” she croaked, with a grimace at the taste still in her mouth.

“Can I get you anything?” Fenris asked. “A healer, a drink…?”

“I’m fine, really,” she protested. “Just need some air. Go back to the party.”

“I am not going to leave you like this.”

Hawke got to her feet, ignoring his outstretched hand in favor of awkwardly pushing up against the wall. “No, really,” she said. “I’m alright, see? Standing and everything. Some water, maybe a couple of shots, I’ll be ready to start dancing on tables.”

Fenris didn’t say anything, but raised one eyebrow in a look that told her exactly how he felt about that suggestion.

Hawke sighed. “Or maybe some water and rest?”

“Better,” he said. “I’ll get the water. Stay here . When I come back we can go to bed.” He cupped her face in his hands and tugged her head down to kiss her forehead. “I will only be a moment.”

Hawke smiled weakly. “Love you.”

“I love you too.”

She kept the smile up as Fenris walked away. Once he walked around the corner, though, she sighed and let her head fall back against the stone.

In her head, she was doing math. Trying to convince herself that the sudden, terrifying thought she’d had while bent over vomiting couldn’t be true.

The nausea, the aching. The last time she’d been even close to any of that had been when her monthlies had hit her especially bad.

Monthlies, she now realized, that hadn’t exactly been coming monthly.

Lanyla woke up curled up against Cullen, twining around his body like a vine. She smiled without opening her eyes, content to stay there for a little while. Cullen’s quarters were cold, and he kicked off heat like an oven; staying in bed seemed like an excellent idea.

Cullen was still asleep, his breathing slow and steady. Lanyla opened her eyes and spent a few moments just looking at him. Clichéd as it was, he looked peaceful when he was sleeping. The stress that he usually carried around was gone, the creases in his brow smoothed out, and even the order he forced on his hair relaxed. Lanyla tucked back a stray curl, and one side of his mouth quirked up in a smile. She knew that he never got enough sleep, and that this was a rare bit of peace for him. Lanyla knew that they both had responsibilities, both had too much that needed doing, both needed to get up eventually.

But still, with that look on his face, she couldn’t bear to wake him.

Slowly, she started to pull away, pausing every time Cullen started to stir. It took some time, but she gently disentangled herself from his arms without waking him. She scooped up her clothes from where they’d gotten tossed the night before, pulling on her breeches and tunic as quickly as she could.

Lanyla managed to tug on one boot while standing, but had to sit on the edge of the bed to fasten the other.

Behind her, Cullen stirred. The peace from earlier was gone, replaced by a furrowed brow and the clutches of a nightmare.

But they rode that out together, and they’d face the rest of it together, too. The day ahead, and all the days beyond that.

Lanyla left Cullen with one more kiss—that turned into two, and then three, and then she lost count—and said goodbye, going back to her quarters in the early morning light. She pretended not to notice the look Solas gave her as she crossed through his the rotunda or the silent toast and knowing grin from Varric in the main hall.

She’d barely spent any time in her room since getting back to Skyhold, only stopped in long enough to change clothes and clean herself off before the party got started in earnest. Predictably, there was a waiting stack of correspondence on her desk. Lanyla lit her fire with a gesture and settled in to go over her mail.

There were regular reports from Leliana, condensed versions of what she was sure were mountains of information the spymaster received each day. Cullen and his people had left troop movements to go over, new about supply routes and recruitment. Josephine included updates on the current political climate, information on dignitaries visiting Skygold, and any mail that needed to be seen by the Inquisitor. Which, today, included an elegant envelope containing a thick piece of parchment. The ink shimmered faintly gold, and, in curling Orlesian script, invited the Inquisitor to attend a ball at the Winter Palace in Halamshiral.

Attached was a translation of the invitation into Common and an added note from Josephine. We need to discuss, at your earliest convenience.

Lanyla sighed, and set the invitation down. She should have expected it, really. Not even a day back, and there was something new to deal with.

After the fastest breakfast she could manage, Lanyla went to the War Room.

Josephine and Cullen were there already, Josephine going over something with him on the clipboard that she never seemed to put down. When Lanyla entered the room, Cullen look up and smiled softly at her before turning back to the ambassador.

Leliana entered the room in deep conversation with Zevran, both of them speaking in a language Lanyla didn’t know but assumed was Antivan. Whatever they were discussing, they were both very passionate about their arguments; each statement Zevran made was punctuated by a gesture, and Lanyla had never seen Leliana quite so animated before.

Tamsyn followed, slipping into the room behind her husband. Like before, she was dressed to look as unassuming as possible: simple tunic, breeches, boots, and a plain scabbard at her side. Nothing to tie her to any particular faction, nothing to even mark her as a mage. She suppressed a smile when Zevran’s voice rose grinning openly when, slipping back into Common, he said, “and there he was, in his smallclothes, still giving orders! ”

Leliana laughed and shook her head, then took her usual place at the side of the War Table. Tamsyn and Zevran took up what seemed to be their favored places at the far end, with Tamsyn near Lanyla and Zevran close enough to Leliana that they could pass information easily. Tamsyn shared a nod and a terse smile with Cullen; they were still awkward around each other, but they were both trying, and Lanyla was glad for it.

The “something new to deal with” was, apparently, an assassination attempt. Because she couldn’t even attend a party without it also being a life-or-death situation.

“The Inquisition needs to put its best foot forward,” said Josephine. “To that end, we’ve hired several tailors to assist with the preparations. With their expertise, and our guidance, I am sure that we will have everyone outfitted in no time.”

“That includes you, Cullen,” said Leliana, amusement in her voice. “The members of the Inquisitor’s Inner Circle cannot be seen looking anything less than perfect.”

Cullen sighed heavily. Even from across the massive table, Lanyla could see his jaw clenching.

“Not to worry,” said Josephine. “A military uniform will suffice for the Commander of our forces. Perfectly tailored, to be sure, but I promise not to subject you to the sensibilities of Orlesian fashion.” She grinned impishly, a dimple appearing in one cheek. “Not any more than strictly necessary, at least.”

“There is still the question, however, of how to present Hawke and the Warden,” added Leliana. “The Champion of Kirkwall is a divisive political figure in much of Thedas. Besides which,” she continued, turning to Hawke directly, “your actions at the Chateau Haine did not endear you to Orlesian nobility.”

Hawke grinned, clearly not even trying to look sheepish about whatever had happened. “What can I say,” she said. “I make a lasting impression.”

“As things are now,” Josephine said, “we have two choices about how to present the Champion. We cannot afford to ignore the possible political impact, positive or negative. We either do what we can to publically distance ourselves from her actions—”

“Or we make it clear that she is an ally, and use her reputation to add to our own,” continued Leliana. “In Orlais, a scandal can have as much influence as a hero, and Hawke has been called both. Having her with us creates more conversation about our cause.”

“And if we control that conversation,” added Josephine, smoothly taking back over, “we can even use it to distract from any actions you are required to take on the evening of the ball.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow. “So… everyone will be so busy looking at me, they won’t care as much about the Inquisitor running around punching assassins at a party?”

“They may still notice punching if it’s in the middle of the ballroom,” said Leliana dryly, “but, yes, that’s the general idea. We’ll introduce you publically, and when we need Society’s eyes to be elsewhere, they can focus on you.”

“So I wear a fancy dress, drink someone else’s wine, and cause distractions when you need them?” said Hawke, grin turning positively wolfish. “I love it.”

“And you won’t be left vulnerable, of course,” assured Josephine. “We’ll have agents on you the entire time, and if it makes you feel more secure, you will of course have Fenris at your side.” She gestured to the elf as she spoke, nodding in acknowledgement. “Your weapons will be smuggled in and made available if a problem arises.

“When it comes to Warden Amell,” Josephine continued, “we face a somewhat similar problem. Your title and accomplishments are known throughout Thedas. However, your history—even your title—is tied to Ferelden, and that’s something Orlesian nobility may not be forgiving of.”

“Hawke would be a novelty,” said Leliana. “Something else to look at during the party, a new source of gossip. You, Tamsyn, would be an event . One that could take away from what we are trying to do.”

“Not to mention,” added Josephine, “that it is easier to explain Hawke at an Orlesian ball. She’s dropped off the map a bit in recent years, but not to the extent that you did, Tamsyn. It would require a great deal more… creativity to justify having found you and brought you back into the public eye just in time for a ball. Would-be assassins might choose not to deal with the increased scrutiny or, worse, might change their target.

“Leliana has arranged for you both to pose as Inquisition attaches,” the ambassador continued. “Important enough to justify your presence at the ball, but not so prominent that too many eyes will be on you. Your face is not well known, especially so long after the Blight, so I doubt that there will be any issue of recognition.”

“Makes sense,” said Tamsyn. “I’ve spent enough time as the center of attention to know that it’s hard to move much that way. Make us insignificant, and we can help when she needs us.”

Josephine nodded. “Exactly.” She looked down at her notes. “The tailors have been told that any garments they make must be something that each of you can move in. We hope that it will not come to that, of course, but we will be making every possible preparation.”

“Madame de Fer has graciously offered to lend her expertise, since she has had the most recent experience with the Orlesian court,” said Leliana. “She, and the tailors, will be waiting in your rooms to begin fittings.”

“Oh, fun ,” said Hawke. “Dresses I can’t walk in, people who can’t stand me, and assassins hiding behind corners. The free wine better be worth it.”

Two and a half hours of being poked, prodded, and measured later, Lanyla was inclined to agree with Hawke.

There was wine, actually, and it was delicious; someone had opened a few bottles of something light and bubbling and pale golden. Sipping it almost made the ordeal bearable. Even if it did come with a pretentious Orlesian name and awkward little glasses.

Hawke waved off the offered drink, claiming a lingering upset stomach from the night before. Fenris immediately shot her a concerned look, his eyes going adorably soft when he looked at her.

The seamstress, Madame Voclain was an Orlesian woman who, along with her small army of assistants, quickly took over Lanyla’s chambers in a flurry of fabric, pins, and sketches of gowns. The woman seemed to have a general’s eye for perfection and detail and, though she was barely taller than Lanyla, cut an imposing figure as she barked orders from the center of the room.

She seemed to know Madame Vivienne already, and the pair discussed dress plans in rapid Orlesian that, rusty as she was with the language, Lanyla had some trouble following. Getting everyone dressed in time for the ball at the Winter Palace was evidently a tall order; more than once, Madame Voclain seemed on the verge of quitting the whole endeavor. Masterfully, Vivienne pulled her back from the brink each time with a mixture of well-placed compliments and careful insinuations about the availability of Voclain’s competitors.

One by one, they were hauled up onto the small tailoring platform to have their measurements taken briskly by one of the assistants.

Tamsyn was taken care of first; her cover meant that she didn’t need to stand out, and one of Madame Voclain’s existing designs could be modified easily enough. Vivienne and Josephine chose a palette in Inquisition sage and gold, and everything was handed off to another of the ubiquitous assistants. The Warden was given a simple mask, just well made enough to pass muster at the Winter Palace, and Leliana declared it done. Zevran’s fittings had started while the rests of them were still in the Approach, and were nearly done now. They were given strict orders from Voclain to stay out of her way, and the pair settled into Lanyla’s sofa, each with a glass of the sparkling wine. They relaxed against each other, Tamsyn’s legs swung up into Zevran’s lap, and spoke together quietly. One or the other of them laughed every so often, just enough to give the impression that they were quietly judging everyone else in the room. Judging aside, it was actually very sweet; Lanyla had been able to tell how much Tamsyn had missed her husband when they were traveling, and it was nice seeing them have some time together.

Hawke was hauled up in front of the design committee next. The gown for her was clearly inspired by Marcher fashions, or at least the Orlesian idea of Marcher fashions: all dark fabric and strong lines, with a sash the color of Hawke’s family crest. She wasn’t given a mask; “She can get away with it, being from the Marches,” said Vivienne. “And everyone there will be so delighted to say that they saw the face of the notorious Champion , they won’t even mind that it’s not the done thing.”

Hawke bore the measurements with uncharacteristic—for her—restraint, barely making a quip as the assistant turned her this way and that. Fenris had that look again as he watched her, the soft one edged with real concern.

Lanyla didn’t blame him. It was possible that Hawke was just worn out after the travel and the party, of course. It was also possible that she hated the process of getting fitted for a ballgown so much that she didn’t think it was worth joking about.

It was also possible that nugs were currently flying past her windows. Somehow, Lanyla didn’t think any of those things were the case.

She wasn’t given the chance to dwell on it much; Madame Voclain took over taking Lanyla’s measurements herself, insisting that everything had to be perfect for the Inquisitor and that “the only way to ensure perfection, mes cheris , is for me to do it myself!”

Voclain began draping bolts of fabric over Lanyla’s shoulders, comparing colors and textures. They were surprisingly heavy, and Lanyla felt like she was being buried alive in a mountain of silk and linen. She met eyes with Hawke, who was standing across the room, arms held straight out from her sides to accommodate an assistant’s measuring tape.

The utter absurdity of their position seemed to occur to them both at the same time, and Hawke cracked a smile for what seemed like the first time all day. Lanyla grinned, and Hawke smirked, and one of them snorted a chuckle, and then they were both laughing, trying not to shake so much that they disturbed the work around them.

Lanyla wasn’t sure how long the fit lasted, but it ended with a pointed cough from Madame Voclain. “If you’re quite finished?” she said, voice dripping with disdain for dignitaries who thought humor was worth interrupting the artistic process.

Lanyla coughed and choked back another laugh. “Apologies, Madame,” she said, hoping she sounded properly contrite. “What were you saying, about the fabrics?”

“I was saying , my lady,” the seamstress continued, “that I believe the cream and gold suits you. They aren’t in fashion this season, but no matter! You will make them in fashion, set the trend by appearing in them!” She went on to wax poetic about the color choices, about how Lanyla would “shine like a beacon in the midst of the court!” and other comparisons to purity and divine light. Lanyla wasn’t sure how she felt about all of that, but the colors were lovely. Besides, she supposed that overblown symbolism in the form of clothing would make her fit right in at the Winter Palace.

“Now,” continued Madame Voclain, finally winding down on her speech about color and contrast, “about the design of the mask—”

“No.” said Lanyla. This she was sure about. “No mask.” She was greeted with shocked silence from Voclain and her assistants, and raised brows from Josephine.

“I’m not going to wear something that hides my face,” she said. “Something that hides who I am.” She touched a fingertip to her vallaslin self-consciously. “The Orlesian court can deal with me as I am, or I won’t deal with them.”

There was another moment of silence, broken by Leliana. “I like it,” she said. “Keep them on their toes.”

“It’s certainly an original approach,” said Vivienne, and Lanyla could practically see the wheels turning in her head. “Josephine?”

The ambassador pursed her lips in thought. “I… agree. Both that it’s original, and that it could be extremely effective, under the proper circumstances.”

“And why not go further with it?” said Vivienne. “Make it clear from the beginning that the Inquisitor is beyond the petty influences of the court. That she is something altogether new .”

Quickly the flurry of preparation took a new direction that focused on creating something unique with nods to both Lanyla’s Dalish heritage and her new position as a leader. Madame Voclain called it the single greatest artistic challenge of her career.

And, for the first time, Lanyla was looking forward to it.

Tamsyn left the Inquisitor’s quarters and made her way back to her makeshift workspace in the tiny library off of the small hall.

She liked the room; something about the towering shelves and aging tomes reminded her of the few good memories she had of the Circle. Someone had been in there while Tamsyn was away, clearing out most of the dust and cobwebs. They’d even added a small sofa. It was barely wide enough to be a sofa, but as places to curl up and read went it was better than the massive wooden chair.

They’d also added a ladder, fortunately, which made her new task—beginning to organize the collection into something useable—a great deal easier.

She was halfway up that ladder, book in hand, when she was interrupted by Zevran entering the room. She didn’t pause in her work, but she smiled at him, brightening at the sight of her husband.

“Already rearranging their cataloging system, my dear?” he asked, amused. “I should have known. Not even a day you’ve returned to me, and you’ve already been lured away by the siren call of a library in need.”

Tamsyn laughed, taking his hand as she stepped off of the ladder. “I seem to remember you doing your fair share of luring last night.”

Zevran laughed, throwing his head back in the full, easy gesture she loved. “A fair point,” he said, and tugged her in close without releasing her hand. “Can I be blamed for missing my lovely, brilliant, spectacular wife?” He kissed her, slowly, an echo of the greeting she’d gotten when she returned from the Approach.

He released her after a few long moments and followed her to the desk to give her a hand with sorting the library’s small collection. Zevran might not know all of the quirks of her organizational system—and to be fair, no one did: it was a system she devised for her own specific use—but he’d been with her on enough research trips to help get things where she liked them.

They worked in companionable silence, enjoying that they were back in each other’s company for so many weeks. Every so often Zevran would meet her eyes with a smile or catch her hand and kiss the back of it.

“Did anything exciting happen while I was away?” she asked.

“Nothing in particular,” Zevran replied. “I did enjoy having an office to settle into.”

“Really?” Tamsyn asked. “You like the office?”

“More than I expected, if I am being honest.” Zevran took a small stack of books, handing them one by one to Tamsyn when she returned to the ladder. “I like having a place among these people.”

Tamsyn paused for a moment. “I know what you mean,” she said. “Traveling with the Inquisitor and her companions… I missed you, of course, but it felt like being a part of something again.”

They fell back into silence again, setting a rhythm as Zevran collected books from the desk and Tamsyn sorted them onto shelves.

“As for excitement,” said Zevran after they’d finished with another shelf, “a great deal of that, I believe, is still ahead of us.”

Tamsyn snorted. “That’s one word for it. I can think of a few better ones to describe spending so much time with the Orlesian nobility.”

Zevran chuckled. “Fair enough.”

“Still,” Tamsyn continued, “the last time we had to make a public appearance at such a big event… it wasn’t all bad.” She smiled, remembering. She and Zevran had snuck away halfway through, and she now had some extremely fond memories of a certain linen closet in the Ferelden palace.

Her reminiscing was interrupted by a knock, followed by the creaking open of the massive wooden door.

“Tamsyn?” asked Hawke. “Um… Got a minute?” She stood nervously in the doorway, fingers tugging at the hem of her tunic and looking more unsure than Tamsyn had ever seen her.

“Of course,” said Tamsyn, descending the ladder and setting the book down. “Is everything alright? Is something wrong?”

“No? Yes?” Hawke bit her lip. “Maybe?”

Tamsyn frowned, concerned. “Hawke? What’s going on?”

Hawke looked nervous, glancing at Zevran. Taking the hint, he kissed Tamsyn on the cheek and took his leave, slipping out quietly.

When he was gone, Tamsyn turned back to the Champion. “Now what is this about?” she asked.

Hawke wouldn’t look at her, focusing instead on one of the shelves. “I don’t know for sure. Not yet. It’s just… you’re a healer, right? I mean, of course you’re a healer, you saved Fenris’s life, that’s a stupid question. What I meant was… do you do other healing? Not just battlefield medic, swooping in like a hero healing?”

“I was trained to do a lot of kinds of healing, yes.”

“Including…” Hawke trailed off, fidgeting again and still refusing to meet Tamsyn’s eyes.

“Including…?”

Hawke sighed. “Including being able to help tell if a person is pregnant?”

Oh. Oh.

Tamsyn reached out to touch Hawke on the arm but stopped, not sure if it would be more unwelcome than reassuring. She wanted to comfort Hawke, to help ease the stress she was clearly under, but she honestly wasn’t sure what words would even be comforting in this circumstance. She liked Hawke, but she didn’t know her well enough yet to know what news would even be welcome in this situation.

In the end she said the only thing she could under the circumstances.

“Yes, Hawke, of course I’ll help.”

It was a simple enough process, finding out. Tamsyn had learned early in her training how to send a wave of her magic over a person to look for anything unusual or different. The spell was painless, just a wash of blue-white light between Tamsyn’s hands that settled over Aliss before sinking into her skin.

Tamsyn knew the answer almost immediately. To be sure she cast another spell, a variant she’d learned in Antiva. Then another, and one more. The answer didn’t change.

“Aliss,” she said. It didn’t seem right not to use her first name, not in a moment like this. “You’re pregnant.”

Hawke staggered back a step, nearly collapsing against Tamsyn’s desk before catching herself on the edge. “You’re sure?” she asked.

“Yes. I used every version of the spell I’ve ever learned. Every one of them was clear, Aliss. You are pregnant.”

Hawke was silent for a long moment, knuckles white where she clenched the desk. She stared into the distance like she was waiting for some answer to appear.

Tamsyn moved to sit next to her and, tentatively, wrapped her arms around the other woman. When Hawke didn’t try to pull away, she drew closer and laid her head against the Champion’s shoulder.

“I never got to know my sisters,” she said, without preamble. “We were separated and sent away as children, and I don’t even know if they’re alive right now.

“Alistair Theirin was a brother to me, but our lives took different paths a long time ago, and I’ve made my peace with that.

“Which means, Hawke, that the sum total of my family is Zevran and you .

“And I promise you, no matter what you decide to do, no matter what happens, or how anyone reacts, I will be here to help. You will not be alone.”

Chapter Text

Hawke lost track of exactly how long she stayed there, propped up against a desk in a tiny library, the Hero of Ferelden’s arms around her. The Hero of Ferelden, who was also her long lost cousin.

Good thing I didn’t wear all the spiky bits today, she thought. She half giggled at the mental image of Tamsyn trying to hug her around her usual armor, and then found that once she started laughing it was hard to stop. Tears sprang to her eyes, and it was all she could do stop shaking long enough to try and wipe them away. She laughed harder at the ridiculousness of it, then started crying because it wasn’t ridiculous, it was her life and she didn’t know what she was going to do.

Oh. Hysterics. These were hysterics.

Tamsyn didn’t say anything, just let her laugh and cry herself out. When the sobbing and the laughter had faded, Tamsyn still didn’t speak, just handed Hawke a clean handkerchief and let her have a moment to wipe her face and catch her breath.

“Thank you,” Hawke said, her voice hoarse. “For everything.”

“Of course,” said Tamsyn. Her brow was still creased with concern. She watched Hawke warily, like she was waiting for another breakdown. When Hawke held herself together for another few seconds, the Warden continued. “I meant what I said about you not being alone. Whatever you decide to do next, I’ll be here to help you through it.”

Tamsyn walked to a box in the corner, one marked with both the Amell crest and a double griffon. She rummaged in it for a moment, eventually pulling out a pair of simple clay cups and a box of tea. Hawke watched every motion, letting herself focus on that instead of on the thoughts whirling through her head.

Setting the cups down, Tamsyn waved a hand over them, summoning balls of ice in each one. Another practiced gesture melted the ice, a third set the cups steaming. She added a precise amount of tea to each one, letting them steep as she turned back to Hawke.

“Does Fenris know?” she asked. Her voice was low, gentle, inquisitive without being pushy. It reminded Hawke of watching Anders in his clinic, watched him use his best bedside manner a scared patient.

Hawke wished that he was here now. She missed her friend, missed knowing that no matter how she messed up there’d be someone there with a hug and smile and a story about someone who’d messed up worse.

Hawke twisted the handkerchief in her hands. She was letting her thoughts ramble again, giving herself excuses not to think about what was actually going on.

“No,” she said, finally answering the question. “He knows that I felt sick, but I blamed it on the road and the party. I haven’t told him that I thought we were… that I was…”

“Are you going to tell him?” Again, Tamsyn’s tone was carefully neutral.

“Shouldn’t I?” asked Hawke. “Isn’t that… I don’t know, the right thing?”

“Don’t worry about what you think is the right thing, or what you think you’re supposed to do. What do you want?”

What did she want?

She and Fenris had talked about the future. About maybe, possibly, raising a family together. But it had always been more theoretical than anything else. Like the idea of packing away swords and not needing to wear armor every day, it was something that was always going to be later . When the wars were done, when they’d killed enough slavers, when it was all over . 

And, yes, the idea of a couple of little ones with Fenris’s eyes and her father’s nose and her own ginger hair had been a favorite daydream of hers for longer than she’d like to admit. But it had never seemed possible, not with the life she led. So she’d shoved them aside and only ever mentioned it on the rare occasions she and Fenris had a spare moment to relax and to fantasize about the future.

None of those fantasies had included a war with an ancient magister.

But… had anything in her life ever gone according to plan? Maybe she shouldn’t be so surprised.

It was an impossible situation, but… impossible situations were kind of her speciality.

So if she wanted this—and she did, she wanted it badly enough that it hurt—why the fuck should she let Corypheus get in her way?

She’d lost her father and her sister and her mother and her friends and everyone . Why should she let this be taken from her too?

“I want to do this,” Hawke said, finally. “I wasn’t planning on it, but… I want this, Tamsyn.” She could hear her own voice gaining strength as she continued. “I’m going to tell Fenris, and I know him, I know he’ll be there for me, but even… even if I’m wrong, I’m still going to do it.” 

She realized that she hadn’t actually said the words yet. 

“I’m going to have a baby,” she said. “And if Corypheus or Orlais or some new asshole tries to get in my way, I’m going to punch them in the fucking face .”

She stood up. Now that she had a decision, now that she wasn’t just scared and unsure, she wasn’t about to keep sitting and feeling sorry for herself. She very well might go right back to crying and feeling sorry for herself once the initial rush of certainty faded, but she was going to take advantage of that certainty while she had it.

She wiped her face again and waved away the tea Tamsyn offered. “Thank you, but, for now, I need to get going. I need to talk to Fenris before I do anything else.” She hesitated. “I don’t… I don’t actually know anything about what it means to be pregnant? Or, I know the basics, how I got this way isn’t some grand mystery, but… what do I do? To take care of myself and…” almost without thinking, her hand went to her middle.

Tamsyn set down the cups. “I can help with that,” she said. “There are a few teas, some herbs that will help you both stay healthy. It’s all basic enough, I’m sure the stores here will have it. And there are enough healers here that I can pull everything without someone realizing what I need it for.” She paused, thinking. “You are going to start showing, Hawke. Some of that can be hidden with your clothes, of course, but… you will need to decide how to go about telling people.”

Wonderful. Another thing on the to-do list she didn’t ask for. “I’ll… have to think about it,” she said. “First, though… I need to go find Fenris.” She turned away from the desk and started towards the hall.

“Aliss?” said Tamsyn, just as Hawke reached for the door. “Thank you. For trusting me with this. And… for what it’s worth, I think you’ll be an amazing mother.”

Hawke didn’t know where to look. She hadn’t been in Skyhold long enough yet to know all of the places where Fenris might be, and when she couldn’t find him with Varric, in the courtyard, or in the tavern, she’d essentially exhausted her list of places she was familiar with.

The longer she looked, the more she started to lose her nerve. She was confident that Fenris loved her, of course she was. They’d been through so much, and she knew that there was no fight he wouldn’t follow her into or enemy he wouldn’t support her against.

But there was a nagging part of her that had to wonder… was this it? The thing that would be too much?

She tried to shake off her fears as she climbed the staircase to the fortress’s outer wall and the door to her new office.

It was empty. Unsurprising, really; she’d only been in it herself to get to her quarters the next floor down, and in all honesty she wasn’t sure if many other people even know it was assigned to her now.

Hawke called down the ladder for Fenris. There was no answer, no light showing. He wasn’t there, which meant that Hawke had run out of ideas. With a sigh, she leaned against the edge of the desk.

She’d tried to focus on one thing at a time, on the actual process of finding Fenris before worrying about how exactly to tell him that she was pregnant. Compartmentalizing wasn’t always her strong suit, but it had worked for a little while. It was easier not to worry about how the conversation might go if she was busy thinking about how to arrange the conversation in the first place.

But now that she was alone, and couldn’t think of anywhere else to look, reality was weighing down on her again.

Andraste’s flame-roasted tits, how was she supposed to even open that conversation? Was she meant to just blurt it out? That didn’t seem right, but there wasn’t exactly a smooth way to drop a surprise pregnancy into conversation.

Biting a thumbnail, she drummed the fingers of the other hand against the desk. Planning was another thing that had never been a strong suit, but she felt like she ought to have one. Which would be easier to do if her head would stop spinning or her stomach would stop churning.

Maker, her stomach.

Just a moment later, she found herself bent over a vase in the corner that was probably meant to be decorative. Maker’s balls, but she was not looking forward to more of this.

Because whatever entity controlled luck and timing hated her, it was then that she heard the door open and close, soft footsteps entering the room.

“Hawke!” said Fenris, alarmed.

He went to Hawke’s side, dropping to his knees beside her, one gentle hand on her back. As she finished and sat back, Fenris brushed hair from her face and let her have a moment to collect herself. His brow was creased with concern, eyes searching hers as she wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

“Hawke, what is going on?” Fenris helped her stand, letting her lean on him for support. “This is the second time in less than a day that I’ve found you like this, and you haven’t been acting like yourself…” the concern in his voice turned to frustration. “Aliss, I know there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Hawke took a step back, fingers twisting together nervously. Fenris just waited, watching her.

There was a pitcher of water and a pair of cups on a table in the corner. Hawke went to it, busying herself with getting a drink and rinsing her mouth. She didn’t meet Fenris’s eyes, but she knew he was still watching.

Finally, she set the cup down and took a deep breath.

“You’re right,” she said. “I have… been keeping something from you. Sort of. I just… I wasn’t sure before, and I didn’t want to worry you if I didn’t actually know, that didn’t seem fair, and, alright, maybe I shouldn’t have kept it to myself, but…”

She was babbling. Funny how being aware of that didn’t actually help her stop.

“I was scared, Fenris, and I didn’t know what to do or what to say or how to bring this up, and I…”

She realized that she’d started crying again. Also apparently not something she could stop.

Fenris stepped close, pulling her against him. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, just held her to him and stroked her hair.

“I am yours, Aliss,” he said. “Whatever it is, let me help you.”

Hawke took a deep breath. She leaned back enough to look him in the eye without breaking contact.

“What I’m trying to say, Fenris,” she continued, as steadily as she could, “is that you were right. About me keeping something to myself. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I was scared and I didn’t know for sure until just a little while ago.”

She steeled herself for whatever came next. Watching Fenris’s face, it felt like the world slowed down.

“Fenris,” she said. “I’m going to have a baby.”

His face went slack for a moment, apparently in shock than anything else. The moment dragged on. And on.

And then he was smiling . A wide, white grin split his face, and he pulled her to his chest in a crushing embrace.

He whispered something into her hair, and she didn’t quite catch it, but it sounded like her name.

“So you’re not angry?” she said, hating how small her voice sounded.

Fenris pulled back. 

“Never,” he said. He cupped her face in his hands, eyes shining with love and unshed tears. He kissed her, tenderly, and leaned his forehead against hers when they parted for a breath. “Aliss, we’re going to have a baby .” He took a deep breath. “We have… discussed this, before, but I never really thought…” He pulled back to meet her eyes properly before continuing. “I never let myself hope for this. Not now, at least.”

Hawke huffed out a short laugh. “You and me both. I wasn’t exactly planning this, love.”

Fenris took one of her hands. “I know. But no, I could never be angry about  this. We may not have thought it would happen now, but… do you want to do this?”

Hawke smiled. “I do, Fenris. More than I thought I could.”

He grinned again, squeezing her hand reassuringly. “Then so do I.” 

She kissed him this time, and she could feel him still smiling against her lips.

When they finally parted, Fenris took a step back and looked her up and down. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked, some of his earlier concern returning.

Hawke grimaced. “My stomach is still not particularly happy with me, but I think that’s normal.”

Fenris kissed her forehead. “Can I get you anything to help? Do you need a healer?”

“I saw one already. Tamsyn. She’s the one who helped me… figure it all out. She said she’d keep helping. There are some herbs, I guess. Things to keep me healthy.” Hawke sat down in one of the solid wooden chairs in front of the desk. “Apparently, having a baby is a lot of work.”

Fenris smiled crookedly and sat down in the chair opposite her. “I have heard that,” he said dryly.

Hawke sighed. “There’s just… a lot. And I don’t know even half of it. Even with the help, I am in way over my head. And there’s a war! With a giant evil darkspawn mage that I may or may not be responsible for unleashing. I can’t just quit, but I can’t keep fighting the way I usually do, and I don’t know how to tell people. Should I tell people? Isn’t there some rule about how long you’re supposed to wait before announcing anything? I don’t even know the rules about how to tell people you’re pregnant, much less how to actually be pregnant, and—”

“And we’ll figure it out,” said Fenris, when she finally paused long enough that he could get a word in. Because she was, again, rambling. 

Hawke knew he was right. And she knew that she never had a real reason to be afraid of how he’d react. She loved Fenris. And she knew that he loved her. Whatever else was ahead of them, she would always have that to lean back on.

With that in mind, they started to put together a plan for how to move forward. 

With her being the Champion, and both of them working so closely with the Inquisitor, the news would spread quickly once it was out. Both Hawke and Fenris wanted to avoid that for as long as they could. As long as it wasn’t obvious that Hawke was pregnant, they would try to keep it under wraps. They decided not to tell anyone else—other than Tamsyn—until they were back from Orlais.

Luckily, her role in Orlais wasn’t meant to involve combat. Mingling, chatting, and being a flashy distraction wasn’t likely to have too many risks to her health. The only downside was that Hawke would have to deal with a palace full of Orlesians while sober.

In the meantime, Fenris wanted to be there the next time she talked to Tamsyn. If there was anything they needed to do to prepare, he reasoned, it would be easier if they both knew more.

Hawke lost track of how long they talked, figuring out details, tentatively planning for the future. The small window in the tower’s outer wall showed a darkened sky, the sun already sunken behind the Frostbacks.

Stretching out the new kinks in her back, Hawke got out of the chair. 

“I am exhausted,” she said. “This has been the longest day I’ve ever had that didn’t actually involve people trying to kill me.”

She reached out a hand to Fenris. “Come to bed with me? I’d like to just lie down for a little while.”

Fenris smiled, and together they made their way down to their quarters and into bed.

Lying there, in a warm bed, with Fenris’s arms around her, Hawke felt better than she had in weeks. 

There was a lot ahead of her. She knew that, knew that none of it was going to be easy.

But she also wasn’t going to be alone. And, with Fenris at her side, Hawke knew that she could handle whatever came next.