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9:42 Dragon

Former Inquisitor Oya Lavellan took one step outside of the Exalted Council, her vision swimming from the pain of her upper arm. She could feel where her hand should have been, where her arm once was, squeezing her eyes shut to move fingers that are no longer there. Still, after the miles walked between Eluvians, she can feel Solas’ kiss on her lips. It is the only part of her body that does not hurt. 

She wanted to kill him. She wanted to find him and kill him. Then kiss him again. Oya doesn’t know what to think, what to feel. Her companions have told her three to four different variations of the same thing. It must be tough to comfort someone who loves an immortal being. She won’t call him a God, though Dorian gleefully does through clenched teeth. Nothing they say can ease her suffering. She has accepted it.

A shadow of a spirit appeared in the corner of her eye. It is the first time she has not looked away from it. 

9:43 Dragon

Oya can no longer be diplomatic or herself. So, she chose diplomacy. The three years as Inquisitor were hard enough; now she was dodging political arrows aiming straight for her heart. 

She smiled at the Orlesian advisors, invited the Ferelden Arls to great dinners, and spoke of union, justice, and peace. She rehearsed her conversations in the mirror, noting her eyebrow furrows and widening of her eyes. If diplomacy were everything, she would become everything. Late into the evening, she writes on a scroll in her bedroom. Furiously scribbling over her words to perfect the tone. By the end of the hour, the paper is covered in black scribbles and notes in the margin

The ink of her pen bled dry, her calloused fist clenched and stiff as she held the pen up above the parchment. She could get used to this manner of communication. Purely scripted, premeditated. She was an actor on a stag,e and she was rehearsing her lines. Back in the Free Marches, her Keeper would invite the young people of the clan to perform old tales based on the pantheon. She never had talent for any of the lead roles, nor did she want her face to be front and center. 

At first, Josephine commended her commitment to diplomacy. Editing her speeches and official letters, and praising Oya on her usage of language. She appealed to the nature of the tense political situation now in Ferelden and Orlais, the buttering up before the beating down. Months passed and Oya continued to edit the same letter, furiously changing vocabulary and structure to the point of madness. Her thumb turned black from the smudges of ink, her sleep restless. She muttered to herself, repeating the same phrases and words as she mulled them over.

Josephine interrupted her writing during the evening, Thom at her heels for extra support. 

“Let me take care of this for you, just tell me what you want to say.” Josephine snatched the paper away from the desk. 

It took Oya too long to realize what had happened to her scroll. She looked up, dazed, at her two friends. Her expression was schooled.

“I could not ask that of you, Lady Josephine.” 

Josephine frowned, “You rarely used my title before. What is different about now?” 

“I was foolish,” Oya chastised herself, looking down at her fingers. “If Solas is to be stopped, I can not be naive to the game any longer.”

“You don’t do it alone,” Thom added. 

Snapping up from plucking her cuticle, dried ink caked in between the dry skin, Oya squinted at the two of them. “I must do it alone.” She extended her arm out, her hand cupped for Josephine to pass the paper back. When neither of them moved, she wiggled her fingers for emphasis. “Hand it back.” 

Hesitating, Josephine’s eyes flickered between her friend and the scroll. 

Eventually, Oya’s arm lowered. 

“Let me do this one, Inquisitor,” Josephine said, Oya’s title enunciated on Josephine’s lips. “Get some sleep.” 

Oya obliged, though she displayed her distaste at the obligation. Her eyes squint, half out of annoyance and half out of tiredness. Her face sagged under the weight of her exhaustion. Her eyes were dry, sore from the hours spent closely reading her own scrawling handwriting. 

She had not left her desk in weeks, truth be told. Months. Leliana’s last mission ended in an empty field with a destroyed artifact. Or, perhaps, it was not the artifact that was destroyed but the Agent of Fen’Harel who attempted to honor their leader's request in fetching it. Many of Leliana’s leads ended the same way: No Solas, but his signature ruination. Her heart, fragile and locked away as it was, felt a pang of sympathy. The spymaster had not asked anything of her since. 

Perhaps it’s for the best. 

9:44 Dragon

Oya took her first boat ride to Tevinter. The seas crashed against the wooden side, rocking her body back and forth as she clutched the bucket next to her bed. If she could even call it a bed. It’s much more like the hammocks her father and she slept in during her childhood. She had never been on a boat for longer than a few hours, and it turned out she possessed the world's worst seasickness. Just her luck. 

The Lords of Fortune are kind enough to ferry her across the way in secret. During the voyage, they paid her no mind. Oya was not spoken to for days after the anchor was pulled up from the shore. She donned burlap colored robes, a hood that covered her ears and face, and the wolf bone necklace under the straps and harnesses. It’s horribly and disgustingly sentimental. Yet, she found she could not part with it.

Josephine reassured her that the south would be taken care of, that all of her previous advisors would inform her immediately (if something were to happen). Morrigan has eyes and ears in more places than Leliana across the sea, and she also promised Oya that she will be the first to know of any disaster. It still did not feel good, leaving the south in any hand other than her own. There was a voice in the back of her mind, suspiciously Solas-like, that informed her that those thoughts are the seduction of power. This turns her mood from sour to gloomy. Solas should have listened to his own words.

For the first time in years, there were no balls to attend, no speeches to make, no events to stand around in and make small talk, no dinners, no playing of The Game. She was polite, cold, quiet, and calculating. The social fire, that could burn as well as comfort, was quenched only so she could survive the dangerous politics of the South. Now, she does not need it. She felt feverish. Sweaty. Uncomfortable. 

She keeled over in her small bed, puking into the bucket next to her. 

Despite everything, she is not alone. She agreed to let a spirit follow her. The same spirit that enjoyed hovering in her periphery. 

“You can’t hold it in, can you?” A spirit of repression hovered nearby. 

Oya spat, cursing her stomach. “No. I can’t.” 

“Incorrigible,” The spirit took the form of a young elven man with a constant look of disapproval on his face. 

At first, she did not see the spirit's boyish form, only the wispy remnants of the fade. It swam around the formal events she hosted; its presence slipped between guests in the Skyhold common rooms. It changed colors often, appearing green, red, orange, and occasionally teal, which always caught Oya’s eyes. It was quite a distracting thing. 

It was at no event that she, and it, met formally. Instead, with a clenched jaw and frozen eyes, she passed the rotunda archway in the hope that she could ignore looking at the frescoes painted on the walls. Shortly after the exalted council, she realized she was being followed by the incorporeal being. As she passed the rotunda, she made herself several promises. Repeating them in her head over and over again. She would not linger near the desk. She would not look at the artwork. She would not look at the chair that became hers for a whole year. 

Visiting lords and ladies would quiet their conversation as she passed, gossiping. She ignored them, too. Many dignitaries would cross Skyhold’s great hall, speaking poorly about the inquisition under its own roof. It made for wonderful information gathering, Oya had to admit. But she was in no mood for Orlasian mistresses and their cruel tongues. Her aim was the Skyhold staircase, spiralling up and up until it reached the very top of the fortress tower. Leliana’s crows croaked above. Despite the crows, her spymaster had not visited Skyhold since becoming divine. To be fair, as much as Leliana had been an asset to the inquisition, she and Oya verbally spat more than twice. A friendly visit was simply not in the books.

She took a quick right into the door leading to the library. Guests knew better than to traverse the building outside of the main hall. The visiting voices muffled and quieted as she climbed the steps. Her shoulders removed themselves from her ears. The bookshelves remained full, but the library itself was empty; her footsteps echoed in the desolate rows of shelves. In the same alcove where Dorian and she enjoyed sitting around, Oya wandered about the area. The plush chair remained against the wall, beckoning. How was she to refuse? She tucked herself near a round window with a view of the garden. Merchants and pilgrims loitered about the yard. Oya watched the groups of people move without real purpose. Slowly meandering about the garden, and pointed out the flourishing herbs and flowers she had planted years ago.

The teal color misted into existence. Just a faint mist, hardly noticeable if she were not looking. A cloud of energy, mana. Within one whole blink, a warbling form appeared. The spirit stood at the foot of the Elfroot bed. Oya met eyes with it, keeping her gaze steady. She would not look away, not this time. 

In a moment, her solitude was interrupted by a presence behind her. The spirit no longer lingered in the garden. She turned her head to watch the teal spirit manifest as the younger elven man. He was not Dalish, couldn’t have been. He wore human clothing and bore no Vallaslin. She could turn it away, just as she had all the previous times. She could pretend she doesn’t see it, doesn’t hear it, doesn’t understand that it, too, was seeking companionship. For so long, she had seen her own fade-touched body as something to be ignored. How many spirits had begged for her attention? How many had she ignored?

However, she was reminded of Wisdom. The spirit took the form of a woman who was so loved by Solas. So tragically lost in its corruption. She was reminded of Cole. Missing. She smiled. 

“Hello.”

“Ugh,” The spirit groaned, “Don’t smile at me.” 

Oya quickly dropped the smile and shrugged. Such beings from the Fade do not play the same smoke and mirrors as the politicians do, and she was good to be reminded. Humbled. She was so cold in the spirit's presence. “Are you looking for something?” 

The spirit looked down at itself, examining the form and rubbing its clothing between its fingers. Its expression is curious, inquisitive. Cute. Oya was endeared. Unfortunately, it caught her watching. 

The expression transformed; now, a face of wariness was evident. “I am Repression.”

Before returning to the window, Oya muttered a greeting under her breath. “You can stay here, if you’d like.” 

It is not that she desired its companionship, not truly. But Oya was undeniably lonely. Skyhold was isolated, even more so now that the others had left. She hoped it could not hear her thoughts, could not feel the emotions she exhumed by walking the same halls. Solas had encouraged her to make contact with the fading beings who reached out to her. In a selfish, utterly foolish manner, this was a way of honoring a request.

Repression does not leave. Instead, it followed her up the steps of the ramparts, in the alleyways of Val Royeaux, at her side while she used a newly sharpened broadsword on an unsuspecting darkspawn in the deep roads. Repression, especially enjoyed watching her unleash violence. She shouldn’t encourage Repression’s love of battle, still thinking of Wisdom as it twisted a boyish grin into a vicious smile. Yet, there was a kinship she could not deny. The snapping of bones and piercing of flesh felt good to her, too.

Repression was often upset, either at itself or Oya. Its temper tantrums were award-winning. When angry, it would throw things across the room with nothing but a glance. Oya asked for help, asked what it needed, but it would never reveal an answer. That was the nature of Repression; everything was balled up inside. Yet, she couldn’t help but feel comforted in its presence. It was obvious why it chose her, of all people, to follow. She was not unaware of how she appeared to the others, to Thedas. To herself.

She woke up, uncertain for another day of chasing down a man who does not want to be found, and felt a wave of calm come upon her at seeing the spirit sit at her desk, going through her belongings. A day became good when the wispy elf made itself known immediately. Her thoughts lacked purpose, wandering and angry otherwise. She pretended to sleep, cracking one eye open as the elf read through a stack of personal correspondence. 

“You are…” the spirit tried to tell her one day, as they walked together along the wooded hills of the Exalted Plains. 

Oya’s eyebrow raised, curious about where the sentence would end. However, Repression stopped entirely, unable to finish. It often left sentences and phrases unfinished. She never minded. Hopeful that her silence encouraged the spirit to open up. Solas would be proud, though she didn’t want to think about that now. It had been a rough day. A combination of the weather and the lack of distractions forced Oya’s mind to wander restlessly. A dangerous thing for a dangerous woman. A flash of irritation sparked inside of her gut when Repression did not finish its thought.

“You always seem like you want something,” Oya said, facing forward so as not to startle the spirit. She did not change her stride. “It is alright to ask me about it.” 

The face of the spirit winced, crinkling up its nose and huffing. If it were a being of reality, she would hear Repression’s footsteps close behind. As it was, Oya could only feel its chilling sting of resentment.  

It spoke low. “No.” 

“That’s fine,” Oya said. “If you ever have anything to ask, just ask it.” 

Repression’s face unfurled from its grimace, deep in thought. 

She continued walking down the burnt pathway, now growing flowers and prairie grasses in its ashes. Following behind her, he mimicked her glances. Following her gaze. Oya’s eyes focused on a Dalish couple in the distance, watching as the two elves splashed each other with cold water from the river. Next, she would move on to the large stone wolves, perched on either side of a temple entrance. Then, back on the road ahead. Oya swallowed roughly. Her throat was dry. She wanted to tell Repression that she was grateful for its company, though she knew it did not want to hear it. Thinking the same thought aggressively, she hoped the emotions carried through. Repression did not leave. That was something.

Now, as the boat continued to rock, Repression joined her in the journey to Minrathous. Three weeks of nausea and headaches. At first, Repression was annoyed. Horribly so, in the fact that Oya can not hide from her sickness. There was no physical way for Oya to stop the bile from erupting. By the middle of the second week, it started to walk up the steps leading to the top deck, watching the sailors and pirates maneuver around the thick ropes. Even in the moments of distance, she could feel the spirits' presence. By the third week, it stood at the bottom step, looking at Oya, who was cautiously reading a book in her bed. Her cheeks had regained their color.

“Come with me.” It said, the voice was less of a demand and more of an ask. 

How interesting.

However, Oya hesitated. She was afraid that viewing the horizon and the waves would push her over the edge. The last four days, she had been without regurgitating entirely. It was a lot to ask of her body. But, this was Repression's first request. She would honor it. She dog-eared the book and tossed it on her blanket. The hammock, which made up her bed, swung from side to side in time with the waves.

Satisfied, the spirit turned and walked one step up, looking behind itself for assurance that Oya was still following. Oya followed dutifully. The spirit took another step. Then glanced behind. Oya met its gaze. A few more steps of the same pattern. Finally, the salty breeze of the sea hit her nose. She schooled her expression. Repression watched her face with vested interest, its young face wide and round and staring.

With the breach of the outside, cool, merciless wind whipped at Oya’s face. It’s hard to see past a few feet in front of her, the fog heavy in the air. The world was salty, a hint of seawater upon everyone's skin. Brass tenor bells rang about the front and back of the ship. The ship’s crew marched on the wooden planks. No one looks at her longer than an accidental graze of the eyes, and for that, she was grateful. More bells joined in, harmonizing. One of the Lords of Fortune winked towards Oya, brushing her shoulder, then bound for the very tip of the ship. The lord wiggled her hands above her head, gracefully performing a ritual unknown to Oya. She watched the mana crowd around the woman, snaking around her body like worship. The woman snapped her fingers. With a sudden blast of wind, the fog is gone, and in the distance she can see the city. They can all see the city. Oya watched the horizon, the sky dancing alongside the city's edges.

Minrathous was beautiful and intimidating. The Archon’s palace was hardly bigger than a tooth from this distance, but its presence haunted the buildings below it, casting a large shadow which enshrouded the remaining settlements. Everything was cloaked. She pretended she could see Dorian at the docks, ready for her arrival with an easy smile that instantly erased her seasickness. 

“I would like to join you,” Repression said. It jumped out of her thoughts. While she watched the Archon’s palace breach the shore, the spirit observed her. Repression’s expression was hard to look at, multiple masks of emotion layered on top of the same face. “On your quest to find him.” 

She slid her eyes over at the spirit, “I’d be happy to have you.” She did not ask what he meant by him. She already knew. Perhaps, all spirits knew of the great Dread Wolf. 

“Ugh,” It groaned. The veneer of emotions ceased, replaced with a pure expression of teenage embarrassment. 

Oya could not help but laugh at the sight. 

“You are so genuine, it pains me to look at you.” 

It did not drop the shame which dripped from his face, though something softer was behind its eyes. Haunted.

“Maybe that’s what you are looking for,” Oya hummed quietly, not to get the attention of the sailors close by. “Perhaps you were not always Repression.” 

“Just as you were not always The Inquisitor,” It said.

“I’m not the Inquisitor,” she shook her head. “Not any longer.” 

“Liar,”  It replied, though no malice seeped into the word. 

9:45 Dragon

Varric was leaving. His story had to continue. 

It was becoming clearer by the day that Oya was needed in Skyhold. Oya became a pair of boots on the ground that would lead the south. Oya never knew Thedas as stable, even in her childhood, the Blight threatened her clan. This year was no exception. Just as the world flew into chaos after the Conclave, magic began to fray at the seams. The breach was closed, a scar in the sky to remind the world of what could have been. But now, demons crawled out of old abandoned temples. Angry creatures possessed those of little willpower and puppeted them around like hollowed-out scarecrows. Though the anchor no longer simmered under her skin, she could feel his magic brush against her bones. That green and purple she knew all too well. She once was a part of his mana, magic which ripped deeper into the veil with each passing month. Oya wondered, somewhat indulgently, if he knew he would have such a lasting impact on her fade sight.

She was scared.

“Trust me,” Varric patted his crossbow. “I know what I’m getting into.” 

“And you’ll…” She sighed. 

“Yes.” He doesn’t let her finish. “Yes, I’ll tell you the minute I catch the tail of the bastard.” 

“Thank you.”

She nearly broke down then, hugging the dwarf. Tomorrow she will wake up, she will sprint down the stone steps, and he will no longer be in front of the fire. She will miss him. She will miss his quips to and from the nobles and pilgrims who dared speak of her in his presence. So many of the recruits had left, but he had stayed. Oya wished he would continue to stay. Oya wished for a lot of things. But, it was impossible to say no to him. Not when Varric and Harding were so determined to help her. Help him.

“Chuckles always was an idealist,” He shook his head and laughed. “He’ll listen to one of us.” 

Oya doesn’t want to tell him he was fatalistic, coming up with the worst scenarios first to be able to prepare for them. Ready to sacrifice his own soul for what he felt he must do. He was never a romantic. Perhaps, when the scars of Mythal’s vallaslin still haunted his face, he was a true utopian. Imagining a plight for the slaves better than what was also given to him. It is different now. No longer do his consequences seem so far away. Everything reminded him of his failures. Even Oya. No, Solas was not an idealist. Not when he first tugged on her wrist, and not when he last took that same arm from her. But she needed to at least pretend to have faith. Lest she fall into the same depression of 9:43. She was a religious figure, after all. So, instead of all the words she could have said, she spoke just four.

"Write to me. Often.” 

“You’ll have to break my hand to get me to stop,” He laughed. 

Skyhold is emptier by the day. More politicians and ranked officers of armies came to visit, and merchants stopped by to visit a larger city nearby. Yet, the people Oya was around the most. She had just started to get used to the routine, seeing the same people. And now, those same people were leaving. It was to be expected, the Inquisition was disbanded so many years ago. Being an inquisitor was a forsaken title. Being Oya Lavellan was a lonelier one.

Her favorite part of the day is answering letters. 

Sera sent one from Denerim, talking about the uprisings in the alienage. She gave a tiny throwaway line at the end, mentioning to keep an eye on “the weird” since “the weird” is happening more and more. Oya appreciated it, even if it was as crystal clear as the Hossberg swamp.

Oya asked Charter to investigate the lyrium trade, hoping to stop any red lyrium from the produced. Instead, she received a coded message. It took hours to understand; even Repression joined in on the fun of deciphering the lengthy words. Finally, the message becomes readable: No Red Lyrium Found. Instead, Entire Mountains of Regular Lyrium Stolen. Oya wrote back in the same cipher. Seize the means of production.

Vivienne sent her the most letters. Short and sweet, yet always exciting to get. They never contain news about Solas, nor about the strange happenings around the world. Instead, they are full of sentences that make Oya smile. Vivienne and the Duke’s wife have been taking care of the estate; she specifically chose a royal elfroot to line the edge of the landscaping in Oya’s honor. Celene asked to send her regards, though she does so with the added description that her dress is a horrible color for the season. 

Oya wrote back, replying to her teammates and other missives one by one. Some took her all day to write back, others finished within fifteen breaths. After the pile of letters was all replied to, Oya placed the letters in a large woven basket. A Skyhold staff member will pick up the basket early in the morning and deliver it to the messengers. She leaves the envelopes bare for this reason. She refused to accept paranoia as a main method of living, so instead, she became careful. Smart. Solas’s agents are present in the fortress, of which she has no doubt. 

She pulled a drawer from under the oak desk and placed a crisp new parchment on the surface. The drawer is full of sealed correspondence. At the sound of the drawer, Repression hovered closer. Its eyes observed Oya with intense focus. She knew that it was always interested in this ritual, though it would never admit it. Even with the spirit always close by, Oya would not let Repression read her letters. Not these. Not the ones to him. She kept all of them tucked away, a hidden compartment in the desk where even in an emergency, they could not be breached. She hung her hand above the piece of parchment, waiting for Repression to move back. Repression pretended to be interested in another aspect of her bedroom and floated away.

Dear Vhenan, 

I always wonder what to call you in these letters. Do you prefer Fen’harel? Dread Wolf? Solas? It is easier for me to call you what I know is true. I hope -

She resisted the urge to scratch out the sentence, her fingers pinched and cramped.

You are planning something. I know you are. The world is back in the same Chaos we met in. Varric and Harding left to find you, leaving me behind. I have new duties now. Duties that can no longer adhere to my whims and wishes to follow you. I’m sure you understand. A part of me wishes to tell you more, to explain my genius so you can pick it apart, and thus we both end up more knowledgeable by the end. But as much as I still love you, I can not trust you. 

Her hand quivered. She wrote in elven; the twisting, beautiful calligraphy a strain when drawn by unfamiliar hands. Partially, she chose the language out of secrecy. Not even the highest keeper in the great Dalish celebrations could read her writing fluently. Yet, as she grew away from her position as Herald and Inquisitor, she found the language flowed to her in a way it had avoided before. Even on her tongue, the ancient words spill from her uncontrollably and beautifully. Words she did not realize she knew sprang forth in her mind. She continued to write.

Skyhold will be emptied again in a few months. I am moving out. Well, we all are. Ferelden has granted us a stay for a year in Denerim, and then I will move on to help rebuild the Exalted Plains in the Dales. It has gotten worse there. Not even the meager Dalish Clan, you and I both met while traveling, stayed in the valley. 

Repression is nosy. I wonder if it knew you once. If you knew it. I do not know what I think about you, still. Missing you sounds foolish. Loving you, even more so. Yet, with each passing day, I find myself hoping that I can look at your paintings again. I stand in the rotunda with my eyes closed and count my steps in and out of the doorway. Two years ago, I thought doing this would hurt me less. Now, as I prepare to leave the fortress, I wonder if I will regret not looking at your artwork one last time. Perhaps, I will make a simple pilgrimage down the steps of my bedroom and into the rotunda. I will keep my eyes open.

You met me when I was full of anger. I expect you think I am angry at you because of this. Even then, three years ago, when we shared our last meeting…I was not angry at you.  The full picture is not yet clear. I don’t feel sorry for you or pity. What is true is unclear, and I am not used to feeling so uncertain. I hope you still chew on my words. The last ones I whispered in pain. I hope to find a way out for you. For us both. 

Yours, 

Oya did not sign the parchment. She does not have to. The ritual was a silly, unhelpful one. She folded the paper, then tucked it into another envelope. Not wanting to waste wax, she chose not to press a seal. The only one remaining was still in the shape of the Chantry symbol. She tucked the letter back with the others. Into the hidden compartment. Oya will leave the letters here. For as long as the desk remained in existence.

In her dreams, she tossed and turned, chasing after the wolf, which ran just a few feet ahead, running just too fast for her to catch him. She wanted to ask him what was happening, why he was doing this, but it was all for naught. In one dream, she begged for him, and she could feel his skin against hers, lips bruising, both of them clawing at the other. There was no time for questions, no time for words, he was crying. Their love burned with questions against her dreams. But, she still woke up without answers. Dorian would purse his lips with the knowledge of her dreams, so she kept it to herself. A secret. 

Her bedroom was no longer decorated in her ventures. The Avaar furs were packed away. The Dalish banners were removed. Instead of her home, which she had known for many years; it was bare and foreign. Her bed had a knitted blanket and a single pillow. The top of her desk was empty. Skyhold, for the first time in years, was silent. Josephine and she were the last to leave. By the way the sun caught on the stained glass windows of the balcony door, Oya had two hours before the caravan would arrive to take the remaining Inquisition members to Denerim. 

Repression stared at the empty spots on her wall. It looked older, wiser. As if the young boy it used for its visage was aging. Oya watched the spirit with pretend disinterest. A nonchalance, she knows it is more comfortable dealing with.

“Are you coming with me?” Oya asked, turning in bed to face the balcony.

“Are you asking?” It did not move to her, instead, it rubbed its translucent hands along the wall and watched as its fingers fell into a few stones. 

To anyone else, it appeared bored out of its wits. But Oya knew better. The act was not compelling to her.

“Yes,” Oya admitted. “You are a friend.” 

The sour expression of Repression is common, the young elf often turning its nose up or scoffing. When Oya offered any sort of emotion or platitude, the air would chill and turn icy around her limbs. The hair on her arm would stand up. She expected the same biting cold. It never comes.

The spirit smiled now, looking young and brilliant. It turned from clear to opaque and laughed as its appearance shifted. Young to old to young again. Ghost-like to physical. Fade to the world as she knew it.  

Repression had some trickery caught in its eye, a smirk on its lips. “Good. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

9:46 Dragon

The scouting report came back. 

A demon of regret. So many scouts lost. One retells his story in the report with poignant details, too specific to be lying. The demon appeared as an amalgam of Solas’s frescos. A terrifying wolf was created out of the paint. Her thoughts turned away from those who are lost, those who died by the strange magic. The same people who bore her symbol, her name on their lips. Her mind turned selfish. It slipped from her mouth too quickly for her to catch. 

“What happened to the rotunda?” 

Sutherland shook his head and murmured an apology. “It’s destroyed. The demon ripped the paintings off the wall and obliterated the tower in its entirety. I suppose it could be rebuilt with…” The scout chewed on the inside of his cheek. “With time. I guess.” 

“Thank you,” Oya said. “You and your men did well. I appreciate your effort and sacrifices. If there is anything I can do…” She used a platitude because there was nothing she could think of worthy of a reward for being the sole survivor. The man may think of something. “I am being sincere, I know others have difficulty seeing that.” She doesn’t sound bitter.

“Thank you, Inquisitor.” Sutherland bowed. “I will not forget you. I will not forget this.”

“It’s just Oya.” 

Alone in her small Denerim manor, she attempted to draw the frescos from memory. For a full year, she watched Solas painstakingly create the images. Hours, better spent resting, were spent on the visual depiction of her journey. It was an honor she had trouble appreciating after he had broken up with her. After he had saved her by taking the anchor. By declaring the world lost.

She had a small set of watercolors and a thick canvas on an easel.

First, she tried to mix the colors. This initial one could be simple, anything she remembered. Haven burning first came to mind. The red of the flames and the black of the old magister's silhouette. The first of Solas’ artwork that she had seen. She dipped her paintbrush into the paint. The tips of her fingers turned white from the grip on the brush. This shouldn’t be so fucking hard. 

Hovering above the water cup, a memory of Solas sketching out his paintings came to mind. 

Oya walked into the rotunda with her hands behind her back, attempting to appear at ease. At the noise of her footsteps, he turned, smiling at her and dropping the brush on the scaffolding. 

“My heart,” he said. 

He always spoke to her like it was the easiest thing he could do. Easier than the magic he wielded. Oya can feel his soft kiss on her cheek, her arms around his waist, the scent of fresh paint covering his skin. 

“Agh!” Oya screamed behind gritted teeth. 

The painting could not be replicated. She could not remember the exact shade of red and orange he used, how he arranged the buildings of Haven to appear just so. How the damnable layers of color could present such a beautiful display of memory. Of history. She was never an artist, never sensitive, never gentle. That was him. It was all him. She could not do this. Another growl rumbled from behind her teeth. Her hand twitched by the corner of the canvas.

She took the canvas off the easel and tossed it into the wall behind her, heaving it with the same force she used to wield a sword. The easel shuddered back and forth on its flimsy wooden legs. The cup of water she kept on its shelf sloshed from side to side, spilling on the floor. The liquid spooled around her feet and traveled between the floors' grout. The cup clanked while it bounced on the stone ground. The noise was grating, adding to the anger and frustration that crowded in her head. It echoed. She grabbed the glass and hurled it at the ground, watching it shatter and splatter in one large puddle. There was no deliverance from her own frustration. Blind rage guided her actions. She leaned down to wrap her hand around the easel’s third leg and flung it with her eyes closed. Her eyebrows twitched in an aggressive furrow. The easel landed with a crash. The wooden skeleton of the thing was pitiful, sad. She walked up to the legs and tossed it again. Then again. One more time. The wood cracked, splintering the easel into several different parts that sprawled across the room. She gasped. The breath she was holding released, though now she begged for air. 

Her breath hiccups in between her sobs, hot tears streaming down her cheeks and dripping onto the collar of her shirt. Between the chilly air and her hoarse cries, her face stung with a pain that she couldn’t stop. She attempted to take another breath, sucking in air -- she choked, coughing up phlegm and mucus from the snot that started to gather at the back of her throat. 

“Finally,” Repression manifested beside her crying body. 

Oya covered her face, not wanting her friend to see her like this. “Not now!” 

“Yes, now.” 

The spirit sat down beside her, its knees folding as if it were about to pray. 

Its voice was softer, older. It sounded much like the bells of the ship to Minrathous. She angled her head towards the voice. Repression was as it always was, young and haughty. Oya watched the young elf’s face change to a soft smile. It reminded her of the young hunters from her clan, the quiet boys who followed the Way of Three Trees better than anyone else. She sniffed and sat up. Tears still streaming down her cheeks, she faced the spirit head-on. It did not break away from her emotional gaze, nor chastise her outburst. It smiled. It smiled.

Repression was happier, wearing long silk-like clothing that draped around its body like water. Its face was open, eyes wide and searching for her own. 

“Dirth ma banal?” Repression asked. 

Though the words could be twisted as cruel, Oya could only laugh. She did so brazenly. Hysterically.

She had not spoken elven for a year, maybe even more. The words come to her slowly, then all at once. The well’s influence sung under her lips. She closed her eyes, and the swirling phrases and letters would come to her fingers as well. Oya snapped her eyes back open when she realized the cold room no longer felt inhabitable. She was warm, comforting. The image of her mother embracing her small child self comes to mind. Her head spun.

“Viran selan’aan?” She asked. 

Oya cocked her head to the side, remembering the moment of wisdom returning to herself. Repression loved to observe her, so she observed it now. She remembered the pride demon’s body shrunk into the wisdom spirit so small and broken. This was not like that. Instead, Repression seemed cleaner, larger than life, the young boy turned to a man, an egg into a bird; a transformation of the purest degree.

“Ir tel’him,” The spirit's laughter was carefree and full of something familiar. 

Nostalgia, a memory. 

“Permission!” Oya said with her mouth wide open. The emotion so suddenly blossomed in her chest. The feeling opened itself up inside of her heart, filling the empty spaces of her body. “Allowance, acceptance… Is it you? It has always been you?”

“You allowed yourself to feel, da’len.” The spirit using the diminutive felt strange coming from the lips of someone appearing so much younger. “Allow yourself to cry, to mourn, to yearn, to regret. It is how we heal. How do we learn to trust again?” 

“Lasan’an” Oya said its name, “Ma serannas, you have been such a wonderful friend.” The tears that come to her eyes now are no longer ones of petty temper, or frustration. They are catharsis.

“I have been by your side longer than you think, Oya.” The light inside the spirit brightened, and suddenly the figure transformed. A young boy, an older elven man, a motherly woman, a little girl, a tired dog.“I have always been your friend,” its gentle voice echoed. “As long as you allow.” 

“Ir abelas, that I have ignored you for so long. You came to me, after my father?” 

“Yes. Though I do not fault you for your inattention. Your world is not so kind to you, and much less kind to those like me.” 

“I…” The first questions that come to mind are inconsiderate, egotistical thoughts. She thought of Solas. She thought of Wisdom. She thought of them both on the shore of the Exalted Plains and the face of pure grief he wore when he returned. Above everything, she wanted to ask Lasan’an the same questions she wanted to ask Solas. 

“I know, da’len.” It said, rubbing her back as she continued to cry. She could not feel its touch, though the gesture alone was enough. “I would like to hear of him.” 

She looked skeptically at the spirit. Her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, both vicious and kind. 

“You would call me a fool.” 

“Perhaps,” The spirit's impish smile was reminiscent of the young elf Repression once had been. Permission looked fulfilled now. Satisfied. “But I’d want to hear it all the same.” 

“Why follow me?” 

The spirit laughed, and the voices of all its faces overlapped on top of one another. “You have always been destined for greatness. Our veil-healer. My treasured friend. The heart of Fen’harel. I could see all of the world folded in on itself within the fade. As if the Fade itself was a book with a beginning and end. All I had to do was look back.” 

“I understand,” Oya lied.

Permission allowed the lie to slip between her lips. There were other, more important topics to discuss.

“I knew of him,” Permission said coyly. “Before.” 

“Before what?” 

It put a finger in front of its mouth. “That is for him to tell you.” 

She sagged under the sudden weight of finding Solas. She turned towards the broken easel, the canvas covered in messy bouts of paint.

“If I have the chance. If the world would allow me back into it.” 

“That chance will come, da’len.” Tiny bells sing under its voice. “For many of us do not wish to see what pride will bring home. A child will wrap his hand around a venomous snake and call it a pet.” Suddenly, its face turned serious. No longer the young elf, Permission turned into the sallow old man. “Plans are in motion, you know this. You feel it. You will be in danger. I want to help.” 

“When?” Oya tried to grasp Permission’s shoulders, but her hand passed right through the translucent body. “Where?” 

“All in due time. We do not experience the progress of days like you.” 

9:47 Dragon

Morrigan had found Oya again.

In her travels across the Dales, Oya found an Eluvian. At first, it appears dominant and murky. Permission floated near the reflective glass. The spirit's presence was a balm over the calamity that had once again hit the South. Would Thedas ever earn a break? Would Oya? Permission, as a young elf, waved her over. It was encouraging haste.

Oya spoke into the mirror. “Mythal enansal,” 

The voices of the well swirled in her head, the password for the mirror so hushed that Oya had to tip her ear up to the sky to listen well. The elven came to her as easily as breathing, filling up her soul and spirit with words and meanings, sounds that once felt clumsy on her tongue. She spoke to the mirror and watched it illuminate. Pride overcame her. 

The magic alongside the surface of the glass rippled like water, and through the hazy movements of the waves, Oya could see a familiar place. The crossroads. 

She did not hesitate, not this time. She encouraged the magic to envelop her body as she passed through.

When she passed the boundary, the friendly colors and mana from the fade swirled about the air. Her steps are lighter, her mind freer. There was a charge of pure energy that invigorated her will. Where once all the mirrors were dark, cold, empty - stood those among the graves full of light. The magic was returning. Solas had not spent his time unwisely.

“The Inquisitor,” A man said, his voice was gentle and soft, though his diction was impeccable. 

Oya turned towards the voice and saw a dark-haired man carrying an old wooden stave. He looked familiar, though he was too far to evaluate properly. His gait was matched by a woman.

However, it became clear who he was once she recognized who was at his side. 

“So it is,” Morrigan said, smiling as both she and Kirean stopped to stand in front of Oya. 

There was a subtle difference in the witch. A defiance simmered into silent rebellion. Oya looked at her curiously, her eyes raking over her body. There was more to Morrigan now. A mana that did not match the magic Oya knew belonged to her. When she had stayed with her in Skyhold, a purple haze crackled among the witch’s fingertips. Now, the haze is replaced by a translucent, peaceful power. Morrigan was not stupid. She looked at Oya with a familiar knowing smirk. Oya focused her attention back on the young boy.

“Creators, you’ve grown!” Oya barked out a quick laugh and craned her neck up to look at Kieran’s face. He was nearly a man, with harsh lines and strong conviction. His cheekbones are severe, casting shadows over the rest of his face.

Shyly, he hid his face behind his hands and turned. Between his fingers, a fine rosy red blush bloomed on his cheeks. Reminded of the old soul in the boy seven years prior, warmth spread to Oya’s smile. The burden of a God, and he had managed to drop it from his young shoulders. Even with Morrigan's changed disposition, Oya hoped that they both escaped Flemeth’s clutches altogether. That Morrigan’s mother did not stain either of their souls. Would all of them be so lucky? The well swirled inside Oya’s head. 

“You have encountered my secret entrance, I see,” Morrigan commented, jutting her chin toward the Exalted Plains mirror. “I did not know the password was so well known.” 

Oya spun around, hoping to find Permission by her side. However, the spirit dissipated long before she had spotted the two of them walking towards her. Both Morrigan and her son would understand, however, she kept Permissions' name off her lips. She opened her mouth to speak.

The whispers of the well hummed, Oya stopped to listen. She squinted at the mage who once helped her years ago, and a sudden understanding came upon her at once. The well was leaping at the chance to be used, to tell Oya all about who Morrigan now was. Elven words clawed at her skull, up and down her throat. There was little to do except speak.

Oya began a phrase. “Your mother-” 

“Ah, yes. The well…” Morrigan nodded. The infuriating, all-knowing smirk never left her lips.  “There are things I would speak to you about, should you have time.” 

9:48 Dragon

She caught a glimpse. Just the blur of movement. The color of his robes. Despite no longer having the anchor, his magic thrummed against hers. It could be no other than him. Despite his magic leaving her body, despite the lack of her arm entirely: the effects of being so near where he casted a spell creates goosebumps up and down Oya’s skin. Her eye, still a searing green, twitched with the mana that remains. She could see it, the purple wisps that he used for small incantations, along with large smoky residue of green magic that she once had access to. She swallowed, her mouth dry. It had been many years since she had felt his magic against her skin. The green mana still churned her stomach. It had almost killed her. Yet, she found she missed it. It was undeniably Solas’s. And still, she felt a claim to the piece of her. She hoped wherever he was now, he had not claimed the anchor entirely. She hoped, stubbornly, he thought of her when he used it.

Permission manifested at her side as a mangy mutt of a mabari. Its ears were pointed high towards the sky. The dog was fully ferelden. She reached down to pet its head and, despite it not being corporeal, it bowed and closed its eyes at the sensation. They were alone, the forest outcropping scorched to the high heavens from a ritual. She was not foolish, she could guess that one of his agents remained behind to watch for interlopers. So, she stayed put.

Though, she wondered (this time being foolish), if he would make an exception for her. If he still saw her as an interloper. Time was a fickle mistress and perhaps where time had sweetened his memory, it had soured her in his own dreams. Maybe he thought she still hated him. 

“I saw him,” she muttered, bending down to examine the magical remnants. Something had clearly exploded. Ash coated the burnt grass and forest floor.

The spirit dog sniffed at a particularly damaged bundle of tree branches. 

“He is letting you get closer.” 

Oya stilled her movements. “You think?” 

As the spirit spoke, the dog did not open its mouth. It was curious, as if words were being delivered straight into Oya’s ears. 

“You believe it.” Permission said. “You should believe it.” 

Her shoulders arched over her chest with a heavy sigh. She was noticing a pattern, but was so afraid it was her own feelings getting in the way of reality. Varric believed Solas could be talked down to, could be convinced. The patterns of his rituals and travels were erratic. Yet, even Varric did not believe what Oya felt so intensely in her heart. Their heart. Confusion clouded her thoughts.

“Would you let me talk through this with you for a moment?” Oya fully sat down in the ruined grass bed. Her arm crossed around her knees. She had a full view of the destruction before her eyes. However, no skeletons or melted bodies laid on the ash. No spirits hovered around the charged mana. Oya remembered the conclave remnants. The angry, sad spirits remained at the foot of corpses.  Permission spun in a circle at her feet, then sat down in a crescent shape.

“Of course,” Permission’s voices, all of them at once, said. 

“He had told me once, all those years ago, that he would not have me see what would become of him. What he would turn into.” She plucked a few burnt leaves off the ground. She brought them to her nose. It smelled, surprisingly, of nothing. “When I told him…” She started to rip the leaves into tiny little pieces. “That I would find a way to stop him. To save him. He looked as if…He was about to cry. As if he was grateful.” 

Permission hummed in response, a silent allowance for her to continue. 

“I could have read him wrong. I am not an expert on what his true nature is. What if he feels as if he has no choice? What if all of this is because he is bound to do it?  He did not need to leave Varric breadcrumbs leading me to this spot. He was so careful, after we had killed Coryephus, to leave not a trace of where he had gone.” She shook her head. “On the other hand, this could just show arrogant confidence. Everything could be slotted into place. He needs not worry about the inquisition on his tail, for the deed is done. The world as we know it is ready to die. He is ready to kill it.” She dropped the leaf. “I don't know which it is. Do you?”

“You know I can not answer this question, da’len,” Permission, ever patient, responded. The dog’s tail wagged.

“Not even an inkling of if I am correct?” She gave a half smile at the spirit. 

It shook its dog head in disagreement. “I am not old enough to know of the Dread Wolf’s past, all I have is the knowledge of those before me. And even that is not something I can give.” 

“Why not?” 

“There is much you do not know. I am forbidden to interfere with the lives of mortals.” 

“By who?” 

“You ask many questions today.” The dog peeked one of its closed eyes open towards Oya. “Perhaps you should try to answer them yourself. Feel the conviction of your own thoughts. Permit yourself to trust.” 

Oya was silent. 

“We are close to the edge of change,” Permission spoke into the wind. “I can only assure you that soon answers will come.” 

She moved down to pet the spirit, feeling nothing but air against her skin. It responded with a comforting purr-like noise and hunkered down.

“I still love him.” Oya finally said, softer than a whisper. “All the people he has hurt, that he has killed. I am ashamed to say it did not change my heart. I carry his love for me. I carry my love for him.” 

“Is it heavy?” The spirit asked. “A burden?” 

She shook her head. “No. It is the easiest thing I have done.” 

9:49 Dragon

Oya Lavellan no longer looked upon the time spent with Solas as a messy, painful thing. Instead, she found herself tracing shapes on surfaces while thinking of the lilt in his voice as he spoke. She missed him deeply and dearly. She was not brave enough to voice any of this out loud. Josephine would give her a look. The Look. The look that told Oya she was being pitied. She wouldn’t accept that. Not yet. 

“You are yearning again,” Permission all but groaned while it manifested in front of her new desk in Orlais. The young elf chastised her with a pointed finger. 

“No, I’m not,” she lied. She picked up a pile of papers and filed them down to even angles as she banged the papers on the desk. A clumsy action: performed with one arm, but performed nonetheless. “I was just thinking.” 

She had work to do. The South was destabilizing by the second. Demons were becoming as prevalent as when the breach had opened. Yet, no rifts appeared around Thedas. Even the floating stitches of the fade she sewn remained firmly shut. While she possessed a new powerful political capacity, there were still things she could not do. She no longer had the key to salvation. She no longer had the anchor. Guilt sat in her stomach like a rock.

She should hate him for this. She doesn’t. 

9:50 Dragon

Varric was on Solas’ tail, though he was unsure where the wolf was going. It would be impossible for Oya to follow, now with the politics of the Free Marches in complete disarray. She was asked for, over and over again, by princes and lords and viscounts. Josephine joined her once again, inviting her out to Antiva to help with the proceedings. 

Permission had not appeared in months, Oya was worried. 

She redonned the mask of The Inquisitor and joined Josephine for harried and serious conversations between factions. Hovering over large war tables nailed to maps. It was all familiar to Oya. Returning to the world she knew for only a short while in her life. The demons pour out of ancient elven temples by the day. The fade bled into the physical world, loved ones disappearing in the blink of an eye. 

Before going to bed, she looked around her empty room and spoke to no one in particular. “I hope you are alright, wherever you are.” 

She received no response. 

9:51 Dragon

Varric found another adventurer to join him and Harding. He swore this was all coming to an end soon. This adventurer used to be a Grey Warden. Perhaps, that will give them the edge they need. Rook, he called her. 

Permission hasn’t returned in a full year. 

Oya was alone again.

9:52 Dragon

Oya took many of her adventures back to the crossroads. She was hoping to find a clue to Solas’ plans. Varric, Rook, and Harding wrote to her recently. They mentioned that they know exactly where Solas’ ritual was. They were going to confront him. She should be there, yet Varric made her promise not to show up. 

So, she took to the fade. She found letters spread about old spirits and elves who had once used the crossroads as easily as she used a mount to get from town to town. She felt as though she was a historian, uncovering more and more old lives from under rubble. Though she was not asleep, she acted as a dreamer mage would. She wrote often of her explorations and tucked letters into a heavily bound notebook.

Morrigan joined her on occasion. Kieran had gone off on his own first adventure, taking care of the Hero of Ferelden. 

Oya opened her mouth, ready to ask to meet her, but Morrigan gave her a shrewd glance. As if she had already guessed what she was about to ask.

“I assure you, she does not want to meet the woman who made the choice to doom her idiot husband.” 

“Ah,” was all she could say in response. 

“Not that I fault you for the choice you had to make, mind you.” Morrigan added, her tone was much lighter.  “She has always been incredibly emotional. Quite the opposite of you, to be quite honest.” 

“Truly? Despite both being Dalish?” 

“Please, Inquisitor. You and I both know the Dalish are not an enigmatic large group that all share the same beliefs and practices. If they were, perhaps we would be able to find that Dread Wolf by now. She is strong, do not get me wrong. Just as you are.” Morrigan added an odd look in her eye that Oya did not recognize. “But she had always been sensitive. I used to see it as a bad thing.” 

Oya’s eyebrow arched. “And now?” 

“Perhaps there is some credence to it after all.” 

“Is that you speaking, or Mythal.” 

“It is both.” 

Oya nodded, satisfied with the response. 

They continue on the floating island, the abandoned houses decrepit and frozen in time. Morrigan enjoyed finding the small remnants of the ancient elven she could find. While Oya fought a particularly harrowing guardian, Morrigan would smile and run to grab what it was protecting. The role of protector was comforting. A return to her knowledge. She wondered if there were pieces and parts of the emerald knights she loved so dearly.

On the day of the ritual, they were together. Comfortably travelling in silence as they focused on the warbled road ahead. Other than a suspicious lack of spirits, the crossroads appeared as they always had.

The peace did not last long. With a horrific screech, the sky of the fade began to sunder. Enormous ripples in the sky tore open. Oya’s eye erupted with sharp pain, she bent over to press the palm of her hand against her head. Morrigan covered them both with a barrier as structures from higher up islands broke apart and fell around them. The ground rumbled.

At once, the screech stopped, and instead, a popping noise suspended the broken sky. When Morrigan put down the barrier, Oya’s eye had stopped hurting. She blinked, looking over her surroundings while the blurriness of her vision began to focus. However, much of the mana and magic of the crossroads had dimmed. Colors dulled.

“Permission?” Morrigan asked incredulously as the spirit manifested in front of Oya. 

“Where have you been?!” Oya yelled, her ears still ringing from the loud noise from earlier. 

Morrigan turned her incredulity from the spirit onto the Inquisitor. 

“You know of this spirit?” 

Oya ignored her. The spirit took precedence. “Lasan’an, please tell me you are safe.” 

“Da’len, none of us are.” The spirit said, taking the form of the young elven man. Its face was dire. Permission bore its gaze towards Oya.  It held onto an object, a physical statue in his corporeal grasp. Blue. “Remember what I have told you before. I will try to find you once again before it all ends. But, before that fateful day, I have something else to tell you.” 

It turned to Morrigan as well, “Both of you.” Morrigan and Oya stood at attention. “The Dread Wolf’s ritual has been interrupted, though what has occurred instead is not any better.” Permission stretched out its hand with the blue wolf statuette in its grasp. “This was about to drop on top of you during the storm. It must go to you first.” 

Oya grabbed the statue, and despite the cold exterior, the mana and magic inside swirled and beat against the surface like a heartbeat. It reminded her of the anchor, burning against the palm of her hand. Her eye reacted instantly, blurring around the edges. 

“What is it?” She asked, running her thumb along the edges of the wolf's ears. 

Permission ignored her question. “Elgarn’nan is free, along with Ghilinan’an. They are diseased, twisted, blighted.” Permission sounded panicked, a tone Oya had never heard it take before. “You must help, you must!”

“Elgar'nan?” Morrigan spoke, breathless.

“Return to the Tarasyl’an Te’las. You are needed.” Permission looked at Oya.

“I must speak with the Veil Jumpers in Arlathan.” Morrigan crossed her arms and looked Permission up and down. “Thank you, Lasan’an I appreciate your assistance.” 

The spirit bowed to the two women and started to dissipate against the fade. 

“Wait!” Oya cried, taking a step towards the spirit. 

In an echo where the spirit once was, she could hear the voice of young Repression:

“You can’t get rid of me that easily.” 

Thom Rainer looks ill as he and Josephine enter the Skyhold’s war table again. 

“It’s a blight,” He shook his head, and Josephine put a delicate hand on his shoulder. “It’s an honest to Maker blight.” 

“We haven’t seen the darkspawn yet,” Oya said, her voice commanding and calming. She had used the same tone one hundred times before. If those closest to her could not stay calm, they have no chance. Oya leaned on her leadership experience. 

“I can feel them,” Thom urged, slamming his pointer finger down at the war table. Several figurines tumble over. “Inquisitor, you have to believe me.” 

“I do, Thom.” Oya crossed her arms and looked at the map on the table, empty from all their previous strategic meetings. “We can use this fortress as a safe haven. Josephine?” 

“Yes?” She perked up at hearing her name. The ambassador once more crossed her face. 

“Can you reopen the trade routes to Skyhold once more?” 

“Of course,” She said with ease and wrote a note down on her clipboard. “We may need to make a few unsteady alliances while we are here.” 

Oya shook her head. “Call Leliana and Cullen back in. Tell them it’s urgent. Tell them…” She licked her lips. Everyone she had worked with was either dead or far away. What more could she accomplish? 

“Already done, they are both on their way. Leliana may take a few extra days due to her Divine duties but -” 

Oya put her hand up, “It’s fine, we don’t have time to fix these things. What else?” 

Charter, appearing from the dark corners of the room, handed the Inquisitor an envelope with a signed seal. “Scout Harding, your grace.” 

“Thank you, Charter. Do you know what -” 

“I advise you to read it alone.” 

“...Alright,” Oya said and nodded at everyone else in the room for her departure. 

There was no time to fix the destroyed rotunda where once beautiful frescos were painted against the walls. The old desk that Solas would study crumbled into pieces under some heavy stone. The chair she claimed as her own was nowhere in sight. She moved further down the hall and stopped at the undercroft door. Mountain air seeped under the cracks. Oya placed her hand on the handle and pushed with ease. When she opened the heavy, groaning wood, cold wind slapped her face and she was grateful for the silence. She took a step into the room. The blacksmith forge was still in its place. Everything else was removed. She looked behind her at the closed door before ripping open the letter in her hand. 

Inquisitor, 

At the ritual, Neve Gallus and Rook pushed down several statues, which interrupted the magic Solas was doing. Some sort of binding? I have to get more information. That’s not the point of this letter.

Varric was right behind him, attempting to talk him down. They were in a screaming match. I had my eye on him, my arrow drawn. Solas had a dagger we recovered. Pure lyrium. Varric was no longer arguing to convince Solas of anything, he was distracting him for… For..

Oya noticed that the lettering is shaky, messy, and hardly readable. She could feel a lump in her throat. She took a deep breath and continued reading. 

He killed Varric. I should have taken the shot. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. We dragged his body away from the site, the veil jumpers assured to take good care of it. I’m sorry. Lavellan, he’s gone. I couldn’t protect him from Solas.

For what it is worth, Rook told me Solas regrets what happened at the ritual site. He has some ‘tenuous connection’ (his words) with Rook. While Rook dreams, he shows up and offers ideas and help. Though, judging by Rook’s reaction to his help it is often condescending and filled with lies. He is going to betray us, just as he betrayed Varric. I know it. 

There is a lot going on for you, I’m sure. Just know that we’re handling it currently. We have our own little team. I hope it is enough. I miss Varric so much that it hurts. More than anything.

I’m sorry, Inquisitor. 

Scout Lace Harding

Oya stared blankly at the snowy mountainside exposed to the undercroft. The snow dusted the railing leading to the outside world. 

Varric was dead. 

By Solas’ hand. 

Worse than grief, Oya felt ashamed. She had planned to do the same thing her friend had done. As if Solas could be argued with. Talked to. Solas loved Varric as Solas could love anyone. Oya was not unique in her love for him. Would her fate end the same? Now, more than ever, her guilt crept its way into her heart. Knowing that Solas had gone so far as to kill Varric told her one thing. He was at the precipice. She was not so egotistical as to believe that she alone could end Fen’harel and his army. But, before the world ended, she needed to do one thing. Solas needed to hear it one more time. Varric would understand. He would. Oya felt sick.

Tears dripped onto her cheekbones. She let them. 

Dear Lace, 

I believe I may be of help to you and Rook. Morrigan will stand watch at the Cobbled Swan if you could bring Noma Thorne and yourself. 

For what it’s worth, I’m sorry too. 

Oya

Skyhold was once again bright and busy, though the politicians who once festered in the great hall were replaced with sick and poor refugees. Thom was right, the blight was approaching quickly. On Orlasian’s borders, Antaam have started to infiltrate the lands, brutally killing and kidnapping anyone they come across. They do not wish to enlist, as the Arishok did with Kirkwall, but kill. They speak of their gods, but do not mean the Qun. No, they mean the Dalish Gods. They mean Elgar’nan and Ghilan'nain. 

Denerim has fallen. Not even Queen Anora’s forces can face the darkspawn, which bang at the door of the city. They are everywhere now, blight infesting and spoiling the lands in which Oya had travelled just ten years prior. Boils bigger than horses infect and spoil the land she had found so beautiful. The Dalish Clan in Exalted Plains was long gone, and the blighted boils began to grow on the flora and fauna. The Earth remembered all of its traumatic experiences. The Exalted Plains are empty now.

Ferelden has not yet healed from the Fifth Blight, so there are few defenses against the sixth. Morrigan assured Oya that the Hero of Ferelden had taken herself underground to defend against the hordes that spilled from the ground. The Commander of the Grey Wardens had taken up her mantle again, though few followed her. Instead, the majority of the wardens were in Weisshaupt. 

Kirkwall had fallen, absorbed into Starkhaven.

Varric was still dead. 

Oya Lavellan gripped her broadsword and led the armies of the south. She would fight her way through the evils of the world one last time. She would do it out of duty, but mostly out of love. 

Morrigan snorted as they passed the paper seller in Docktown. “Love sick puppy certainly is a childish play on words.” 

“And here I’d thought they’d drop the topic…” Oya shuffled her way inside the bar’s entrance, hiding behind her hooded cloak to avoid being seen. 

“Ha, as if they would look away from the theatrics of politics and love.” 

Oya frowned, her heart a lead weight in her chest. For so long, she had kept her relationship with Solas under tightly wound wraps. Her inner circle in Skyhold was the only one to know, and they even had to make assumptions and fill in gaps. In Skyhold’s tower, Dorian would watch her nap on Solas’ couch or share quiet meals while others went to the hall. Leliana above would find a way to learn everything and anything, but Oya was careful to put her affections on paper and never put words to the longing she felt in her chest. Now, in the city across the sea, her love for him was made bare and shameful. She, the dog who would lie at his feet and fetch whatever he fancied. The trashy newspapers printed headlines meant to poke fun at her.

“I just wish they’d write about how pathetic he was for a change.” Oya sat down at a table in the corner, still bundled in her hood and cloak. 

“Ah, but we are in Tevinter. A powerful mage being lusted after by a political figure? Much is akin to bread and butter before a large meal. Know this, Inquisitor…” She leaned in close, her lips in a cocked smile. “You and I both know how the wolf comes to heel.”

The bar was blissfully empty, with not even someone tending the bar to accompany them. How Morrigan managed to pull that off was a mystery that Oya dared not touch. The piece was a gift more thoughtful than anything she had received before. She had been surrounded by makeshift armies and dangerous creatures for weeks. 

“You have met Rook before,” Oya said, though it was not a question. 

“I have,” Morrigan met her eyes, “Is there something you’d wish to know of her?” 

“I…” Where would she begin?

“She is an elf. A Grey Warden. She reminds me much of -” Morrigan blinked, hesitating to continue her thought. She chose to avoid the remaining phrase.  “She is formidable, though cheeky. Older than expected.” 

Oya thumbed the blue statue in her hands, rubbing over the wolf’s nose and ears, feeling each crevice that shaped the beast into its shape. “And she has Solas in her head.” 

“Aye,” Morrigan said slowly. “Though he does not have full command of her thoughts. Nor can he fully see the outside world through her eyes. It is only through dreams, I believe, that he may communicate.” 

“I see.” 

“Jealous, Inquisitor?” Morrigan raised an eyebrow. 

“No,” Oya slumped in her chair, then took a breath and shuffled her shoulders back. “I just hope Rook knows what she’s doing.” 

“Your diplomacy skills have improved so much since the beginning.” Morrigan smiled. “Your Antivan Ambassador taught you well.” 

Moving a strand of dry hair out of her face, Oya recalled Josephine braiding her hair so it would stop falling in front of her eyes. As Josie braided, she would hand Oya a stack of papers to read out loud, “She had me practice quite a bit. Apparently, Orlaisan’s did not appreciate me being so candid.” 

“And you were so coy at the winter palace,” Morrigan teased. 

Oya laughed, “Trust me, if I dropped the act even once, I wouldn’t be able to put it back on.” 

Morrigan shifted, her attention waning from Oya to the door.

“She’s here,” Morrigan rose from the table, patting her hand on Oya’s shoulder before heading towards the entrance. 

The wolf statuette felt cool in her hands, yet each time she swiped over its carved edges, the material lit up in her hand, warming her skin to a near-scorching heat. It’s alive, in some way, the same way spirits are alive, the same way demons can kill you. She wanted to press it hard against her chest, lending it her own heartbeat. To part with the statue was a great challenge. One that was necessary.

“Andaran atish’an, Rook,” Oya bowed her head with a small smile. 

She had practiced this moment over fifty times in her head from the walk from Skyhold to the Crossroads to Tevinter. She had written it to herself a week ago. If Rook didn’t have vallaslin, another greeting would be necessary, but she was lucky June’s branches framed Rook’s face prominently. 

“Aneth ara,” Rook’s smile is easy, unpracticed, and natural. “You’ve been all over the Minrathous papers lately.” 

“Ah.” 

“Not that I believe them!” Rook added on, her laugh freely leaving her chest. “I know Neve talks about how ridiculous they are all the time.” 

For what Rook lacked in diplomatic language, she made up for with charisma. She was awkward and clearly uninterested in politicking, but her grace carried her words on a royal throne. Oya couldn’t help but feel envy over her demeanor. Above all else, she hoped that this woman knew what she was doing. What she was getting herself into. Oya did not know ten years ago.

“I wanted you to have something,” Oya had this sentence planned out as well; she hoped it would go over smoothly. “This appeared shortly after Solas’ ritual went awry.” She lifted the statuette from her lap and put it on the table. “Whatever me and Solas once were…” She paused. 

Rook looked at her. Eyes downturned and full of compassion and pity. Oya wanted to turn away, but knew it was not possible. Not now.

“Whatever you once were?” Rook teased. She let it slide.

“I just hope it helps.”

Rook looked Oya up and down, evaluating her in one way or another. The older elf pursed her lips. Oya should be used to it by now, the scrutiny, yet she feels small. Rook was someone who was fed stories by Varric and rumors by the tevinter paper. She must seem a wreck. Rook crossed her arms. Anger was apparent in the angle of her eyebrows. Oya knew this reaction well, first seeing it at the exalted council.

“We are cleaning up your mess, aren’t we?”

“Rook!” Harding seemed embarrassed for her friend. 

Oya shook her head, “No, Harding. It is my mess. The consequences are grave, and I am only sorry I can not be the one to deal with them. If I had stopped this long ago…” 

Rook rolled her eyes, and Oya pretended not to see it. Diplomacy was failing her here, for Rook was no diplomat, but a warrior. She knew she could come off as cold and calculating. Unfair in her statements and uncomfortable to be around. It seemed Rook agreed. Oya did not feel upset about this, though perhaps she should have. She helped the way she knew how. Rook now held the wolf with less care than Oya did. She was not jealous. She was not.

“Do you feel it?” She asked. “The magic of the statuette?”

Rook looked down at the figure in her hands. “It is heavier than I thought it would be.” 

“The heartbeat?” 

Suddenly glancing up from her hands, Rook shot Oya another look. This one was much harder to discern than the one of anger. This woman was not a woman of hatred, nor resentment. In fact, her eyes spoke nothing but kindness. Yet, a dissonance appeared when Oya spoke to her. She was evaluating Oya in a way that displayed her as…Uncharitable.

Rook spoke up. “You should have killed him when you had the chance. But, seeing as that world doesn’t exist…” She gazed out the window. ”We could use your political power. No one will listen to us.” 

Oya laughed, remembering how hard it was for anyone to listen to her while the breach remained heavy and bright in the sky. How politicians of both Ferelden and Orlais wrote off each argument in bad faith. Ah, there is little she missed when it came to her early days at Haven. “I have little allies in the North. You’ve already met all of them.”

“I have?” 

“Harding,” Oya counted one finger. “And Dorian.” She counted another. 

“Shit.” 

“I can tell you this, sometimes wearing them down works.” 

A letter appeared on her desk in Skyhold. 

Oya was in Ferelden, fighting masses of Darkspawn and organizing small armies to different settlements of the south. The official armies with royal crests no longer existed. The crown no longer existed. Morrigan told her that her presence was enough to inspire, and Oya hated that she was right. She watched bright-eyed young people stand up straight when she passed them, their passion palpable.

She needed a bath. She was repellent. Blight and blood clung to her armor and skin, painting her exposed arm a revolting dark brown. She smelled of battle, of the dead. Returning to her bedroom in Skyhold, she could still hear the roaring of people downstairs. The fortress would only be able to hold for so long, but holding it was. The mountains split up the demons and darkspawn from pushing further into the walls. More than triple the number of people were living here than during the Inquisition's time, and none of them were trained or trained soldiers. She was working with what she had, and she had very little. 

The letter was crisp, no envelope in sight. 

With dirty fingertips, she grabbed the letter and held it close up to her face (her eyesight was going in her left eye). 

Vhenan, I do not know if you will see these words. My ritual is ready and will soon be set in motion. Perhaps when you read this, the world will be as it once was, and you will see why all I did was necessary. I cannot ask your forgiveness, but I hope you come to understand. 

That night in Crestwood, when I shared the truth about your vallaslin... You do not know how close I came to breaking. I could have shared the truth, or even put my plans aside and simply stayed with you as Solas... as I wanted.

I regret the pain I caused you.

What I feel for you will never change.

“Permission?” She asked into the empty room, reading the letter over and over again. She heard no response. Her heart pounded, leaping up and down in her ribcage. 

She tried again. “Lasan’an?” 

Still nothing. 

Oya’s jaw set in a hard line. Her teeth clenched, while her neck and shoulders tensed. In a small act of weakness, she lifted the paper to her nose and sniffed. All she could smell was her own dirty body. Her hand quaked. Then she re-read Solas’ lettering. He still looped his letters in beautiful calligraphy. He had been meticulous in the neatness of his words. The question she had asked of Permission when it appeared to her as a canine seemed insecure now. He had loved her. He still loved her…

She gently placed the letter in the secret compartment where she once stored all of her own fake correspondences to Solas. 

It was empty.

She blanched, spreading her hand out wide and swiping it across the wooden shelf. They are gone. All of the letters across the years she had safely kept in the confines of her desk were missing. She thought back to everyone who had access to her room, and the even fewer who would know where to find it. Lasan’an. Mythal’enaste, Lasan’an, she thought desperately. Please tell me you did not do what I think you have done.

She wiped her hand. It was stained a deep red. She neatly folded Solas’ letter, careful not to crease any of his words. She grabbed an empty parchment from her pile and began to write to Harding once again. Oya had heard what occurred in Arlathan, what Solas had done to the Dalish. She needed to hear from Rook. She needed Rook to say it. She needed to be certain before her decision was made.

Rook’s eyes tell Oya that she thought Oya was insane. It was a normal reaction, she supposed, to tell Rook of how, after all these years and action,s she still loved Solas. Ten years of silence, broken up only by the removal of the anchor. It was harder to say in words out loud, how she had felt seen and safe. Even now, where he is not at her side, just the thought of his love against hers warmed her skin and heart. 

“You sound ready to join him in that prison,” Rook said, her words more calculated than anything she had told Oya previously. 

Oya put her hand up, trying to defuse the situation. “Not before the world is no longer ending, I assure you.” 

“Are you sure?” 

Crossing her arms, Oya suddenly felt observed.  “This is my home, too, Rook. I shall not see it devastated by our Gods.” Anger, a feeling she had not felt in years, came back into her voice, though she did not raise it. “If I love a man who would see it destroyed, I would not see it happen. But, I can still love him.” 

“Alright,” Rook said, though she did not sound convinced. “You should do what makes you happy.” She really didn’t sound convinced. 

9:52 Dragon

The night before the veil closed

Oya had written and rewritten the same words fourteen times within the last six hours. He was out there now, in the city. Working with the Shadow Dragons. She did not run to him the moment he was seen in Minrathous, and she would not run to him now. She was not the young woman she had been ten years ago. Eight years ago. A long time ago, in Haven, he had called her hot-headed and impulsive. What would he think of her now… She put her ink to parchment. 

She could not convince him. So, she did not try. She did not write to tell him something he did not know, only to remind him of what he possessed. What Oya felt. Every sentence starts with the same word. My heart.

He was trapped in his duty, just as Oya had been trapped with the title of Inquisitor. She could not pretend to understand all that he had suffered and endured, but she could understand that. She could understand him. It would have to be enough.

The warmth of a comforting embrace surrounded her shoulders. 

“Lasan’an."

“Are you still mad at me?” The spirit asked sheepishly. 

“Ah,” Oya bit her bottom lip so as not to expose her smile in her words. “So it was you who took my letters.”

“It was.” It did not sound apologetic. “I forgot to ask permission.” 

She laughed. 

The spirit danced around the room, sounding off the sound of tiny light bells in its wake. She looked up from her parchment, the sound of disaster right outside her door. Crowds of citizens were running away from the tentacles that threatened with forever sickness. Forever death. In the presence of Permission, she does not feel bad for finding joy in this moment. In its return. 

“You have learned so much since I first came to you,” It said. 

“You have taught me much.” 

The ghost of the young boy wavered. Its determination was shy. “Do you mind if I share one last kernel of advice for you?” 

“Is this truly the last?” She dropped her ink feather down on the table. She paid full attention to the spirit. 

“While I hope not,” Permission admitted with a grin. “This is where the story I knew of you ends. Perhaps... On the other side, I will see you.” 

“On the other side?” 

The spirit shivered, “I should not have said that.” Its mischievous giggle echoed in the empty living room. “But, I simply could not help myself.” 

Oya looked down at the parchment. Her elven looped in childish sprawl, exhaustion evident in her lines. It was memorized. The first part, at least. Now, with Permission's accidental admission, she was certain she did not need the other words that still floated about the margins of the page. Bellanaris.

Morrigan’s voice was muffled through the door. “It is time, Inquisitor. Elgar’nan is here.” 

Oya turned to where Permission was last, but not even its haze of the fade remained. Continuing to look at the empty space, she called back to Morrigan. 

“I am ready.”