
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4814267.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Dragon_Age_-_All_Media_Types, Dragon_Age_(Video_Games), Dragon_Age:
      Inquisition
  Relationship:
      Female_Elf_Warden/Delrin_Barris, Alistair/Female_Warden_(Dragon_Age),
      Female_Inquisitor/Cullen_Rutherford
  Character:
      Female_Elf_Warden_(Dragon_Age), Female_Warden_(Dragon_Age), King_Alistair
      (Dragon_Age), Leliana_(Dragon_Age), Cullen_Rutherford, Josephine
      Montilyet, Female_Inquisitor_(Dragon_Age), Rylen_(Dragon_Age), Delrin
      Barris, Fen'Harel_|_Solas, Blackwall_|_Thom_Rainier
  Additional Tags:
      Warden_joins_Inquisition, long_lost_loves, Necromancy, Character_Death,
      Violence, Alcohol_is_bad, Alternate_Universe, Lots_of_naughty_language,
      Smut, Unrequited_Love, Graphic_Description, Memory_Loss, eye_rolling,
      Regret, Chantry_smut, Chant_of_Light_worship, PTSD, Destructive_Coping,
      Emotional_Trauma, BDSM, so_many_feels, Orlesians_are_the_worst, Self-
      Harm, Suicide, uncomfortable_situations, Zombie_Nightmares, Everyone's
      going_to_die_of_Cirrhosis, Suffering, this_is_the_darkest_timeline, Drug
      Addiction, Drug_Withdrawal, Graphic_Violence, Drug_Use, Graphic
      descriptions_of_war, Now_with_beta, rewritten
  Series:
      Part 1 of Idalya_Mahariel_Stories
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-09-17 Updated: 2018-03-30 Chapters: 22/? Words: 61062
****** Once and Again ******
by Kmandergirl
Summary
     She had done it once, and it wasn't fair that they wanted her to do
     it again. Would they ask for her life a second time, or could Idalya
     take the broken pieces of her memory and make a better world this
     time?
     An alternative universe where the Hero of Ferelden finds out that
     death isn't sacrifice enough.
***** The Chapter Where the End is Just the Beginning *****
Chapter Summary
     This is it. The final battle for Ferelden's survival. Their job is to
     distract the Archdemon until Alistair can make the killing blow, but
     Idalya Mahariel has other ideas.
Chapter Notes
     Welcome to the rewritten Once & Again! For those returning, I hope
     you enjoy the changes and additions. For those new to the story?
     Welcome! I'm excited to share this story with you.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
It hadn’t been going well. One by one, Idalya Mahariel’s group had fallen under
the attacks of the Archdemon. She rolled out of the way as a wall of flame
poured across the battlefields, engulfing the last, lingering members of the
dwarves and elves that marched with the Wardens for this last battle. They
fought with courage; they fought with hope, and they fought knowing they were
the only thing keeping Thedas clinging to survival.
She listened to their death cries, filling the surrounding air. Their screams
barraged her ears as she covered her mouth with a filthy hand, trying to keep
the smoke and ashes of her burning allies from overtaking her senses. The
street of Denerim lined with ash from its burning alienage.
These flakes, floating on the breeze, the remaining pieces of the people who’d
helped her make to the platform she fought on now. Her skin crawled at their
intimate touch as she brushed the feathered bits from her face.
Morrigan launched fireballs into the dragon’s snout on the far side of the
battlefield. her staff circled her head as her mana churned out repeated plumes
of fire. She screamed taunts at the beast to keep its attention and advancement
directed towards her, buying the others on the field precious seconds. Her jet-
black hair soaked in perspiration, sticking against her cheekbones, her golden
eyes glowed with anger as she screamed out a summons in ancient languages
foreign to Idalya.
Alistair protected the mage from the waves of demons sprinting at them to
protect their master, and like a tide breaking against the shore, so broke the
legions of darkspawn as they met a grisly end at the warrior’s sword and
shield. His face pulled into a grimace, streaks of tainted blood smeared across
his helm, his caramel eyes locked with Idalya’s through the legs of the
shifting dragon. A resigned sadness emanated from within them before he broke
the glance to swing his broadsword at the next wave of darkspawn encroaching on
his barrier of support.
With a frustrated grunt, Wynne forced healing magic into Zevran’s broken body.
Leliana drug the incapacitated elf away from the action of battle, leaving a
crimson trail along the dirty ground. The auburn-haired sister released a sob,
hand grasped at her throat as she watched her lover’s blood spread across the
blackened stones. No stranger to battle, Wynne grabbed the rogue, shouting at
her to return to help those still up and fighting. Dropping to her knees, ash
being lifted into the air, Wynne closed her eyes. She summoned all the power
accessible to her then channeled it through her fingers into the rasping body
of the dying Crow.
Oghren tried in vain to find survivors from the dwarves of whom he’d just
watched burn to catastrophe by a wayward shot from the fearsome dragon. Between
swings of his mighty ax, he checked the bodies scattered around, looking for
any survivors, but found them charred beyond recognition. Tears threatened to
well up in the dwarf’s eyes, but it was not the time. He would remember his
battling comrades later, with an ale in his hand as he shouted and slurred
about the grand adventures of a stubborn group of dwarves that took on an
archdemon, but first, he needed to survive the swinging claws of the great
beast.  
As a fireball exploded between its eyes, the archdemon took its gaze off Idalya
to focus its attacks on Morrigan. The elf knew this was the moment; the
inevitability setting into her exhausted bones like a cool breeze in the center
of a roaring summer storm. Sprinting as fast as her legs carried her, she
focused away from the smoke burning her throat with every inhale. She struggled
to refill her lungs as even her Warden stamina neared empty, her steps
faltering as she forced her body onward.
Her trusted broadsword was lost early in battle after her body had been whipped
across the field by a flick of the dragon’s snake-like tail. As she ran, she
grabbed a great sword covered in stinking demon gore out of the hands of a
bloodied corpse lying broken on the ground. She pushed her legs to keep running
until she lined up with the tail of the dragon, gasping for breath she could no
longer hear, her pulse pounding like a distant, angry drum.
Never hesitating, she launched herself at the demon’s scales, climbing the
creature as deftly as her muscles would allow. She perched on its back, the
demon still unaware of her presence. She worked her way up its spine, careful
with her steps so as not to alert the beast intent on burning her companions
alive.
She continued until located at the base of the great dragon’s neck. Her stomach
lurched as she looked down, the ground far below her, wind rushing through her
ears as the dragon jerked his head. Drawing her sword up, she stalled.
This had not been the plan.
Alistair was the warden destined to take the final blow, to destroy not only
the beast but sacrifice his own life. They fought about this– hours and hours
in circles offering no exit. They were stubborn, both too embroiled in the
outcome, and neither could let go of the hopes and fears driving them onward.
At the end when explaining it one more time made her more nauseous than her
failure to make her point she had agreed. She relented, giving him what he
wanted, and she took solace on the wavering look of relief it brought to his
face.
She had lied. It was the only lie she ever told him, but she clung to the
reasons she told it to ease her conscience. He was too important to Ferelden -
and to her heart - to let him waste himself on chivalry. Alistair had an entire
life and kingdom waiting for him after the Blight ended. Idalya only had him,
and after the Landsmeet, she no longer had that. Alistair and Anora would take
Ferelden into a new age, and she was glad she would never have to see it.
He would never forgive her for lying to him. Luckily, it wasn’t a decision
she’d have to live with long.
Idalya’s eyes met Alistair’s as he fought to protect Morrigan and Wynne below
the dragon. Realization and fear took over the confidence in his gaze as he
understood what she was doing. Her deception and its poison filled him, and she
knew he understood she never intended on letting him carry out this task.
Her name left his lips, echoing across the battlefield as she pulled the sword
far above her head. For a moment everything slowed, the sun breaking through
the clouds of ash to paint her in a ray of light she saw as an encouragement.
The cries of the fallen faded, the roaring of the dragon disappeared, a strange
song of light and peace filling her, from head to toe. She knew she had won,
and that it had been the right thing to do.
Then she drove the steel deep into the demon’s neck. Alistair’s cry ripped
through the scarred air before being drowned out by the shrill screech of the
dying archdemon. The two screams blended in her ears as her heart thundered
through her body, blocking out every other sound. She pulled her sword from its
neck and closed her lavender eyes. She exhaled as she drove it down again,
severing the remaining muscles and tendons of the monster’s neck.
A force pushed into her abdomen like a fist, her body seizing, as she lost her
grip on the dragon’s scale. She had known it was coming, had known this was the
price, but she had not known it would hurt so badly. As the spirit of the demon
tried to pass and possess her, scrambling through her veins alongside the
bitter taint and vacant hopes, her body filled with flame.
Falling through the sky, she sensed the Old God's rage as its spirit died
within her flesh-covered cell. Her limbs filled with stars escaping through
every inch of her skin, piercing a million holes through her body as the two
souls warred within her. The soul of a creature that deigned itself a god,
older than their known history, being torn asunder by a mere mortal who lived
so little but had survived so much.
Her last thoughts were that they had done it, they were safe, and then it was
over. Embraced by the darkness, that thought was her last.
******
It was dark. So dark. The tiniest tingling sensation moved in her fingertips as
though a wind being drawn across them. The feeling spread into her palm; the
electricity moving its way through her body, each inch snapping and crackling
as it discovered existence once more. She couldn’t see or move or sense
anything else, but she was… alive?
Something about this was off. Energy rolled through her, wave after wave,
bringing a deep shadow to the back of her mind. She had no real notions about
what death was before she achieved it, but every instinct told her this was not
what it was. She was alive, and the wrongness of that permeated every inch of
her waking self. Her mind, or form, or whatever it may have been at this
moment, itched with the need to escape. She wanted to run, to shy away like a
roach hissing at the kiss of a torch’s flame, but she couldn’t yet move.
Her body jerked awake, the lightning that had been a murmur becoming a scream
as it sparked and shot across her limbs, searing her with unimaginable pain as
though being laid in a bed of hot coals. Heavy winds deafened her as sound
returned, and her ears ached with the sound of the screaming that filled her
head. Everything throbbed and writhed so she could not shut out the horrible
sounds, and with mounting panic, she realized that the scream was her own
Violent waves of pain took her senses, her screaming uncontrollable as they
scorched her tender limbs. Fire itself crawled out of her bones and across her
abdomen, consuming her from without and within. She was losing whatever
consciousness she had to the pain as she drifted in and out of awareness. As
her senses became sharper, she realized that she was not alone, that there were
many others talking around her, their voices harried and nervous.
“What is happening to her? Did it work?” The woman’s thick Orlesian accent
caught her attention and Idalya’s screams faded as she searched for the source
of the voice.
“I do not know. We are in uncharted waters, Leliana.” the other woman was
frightened. Idalya heard the uncertain shaking in her voice.
“Lel… Leliana…,” her voice cracked under the simplest of words. A sigh of
relief  was released before she moved closer.
“Oh, Dal! Thank the Maker, it’s you.” The rogue’s voice was thick with emotion
she attempted to hide. “I... I was so worried that the spell had not worked.”
What was going on? “Spell? I can’t see, Leliana,” Every word hurt as it escaped
her lips, and she gasped for breath as the pain kept swirling through her body.
“It’s a… it’s a complicated story we can’t discuss, Dal. I promise you,
everything will be okay. I need you to stay strong until you’re healed.”
Leaning in close, the Orlesian whispered, “I have missed you so, my friend.”
Leliana’s voice betrayed her concern and fear. Both these women were afraid of
her, and Idalya became afraid as pinpoints of light grew in front of her eyes.
As the light beamed brighter, fire poured through her sockets and she screamed,
her back arching as her muscles fought off the crushing pain burning her skull
from the inside out. The pain only increased as the light grew unbearable until
the universe came into focus with a sickening pop.
Her eyes could not adjust to the light as they ached each time she opened them.
Over time, pictures made their way through her sight, and she knew she was
inside some stone-lined room, surrounded by a ring of mages unfamiliar to her.
Their heads bent in focus with their staffs raised above her body as a jade
mist swirled around the room.
Her eyes flicked over to her side to realize the searing pain in her hand was
that half of it was missing. The bones and remaining tendons of her fingers
spasmed, her skeletal fingers curling. She screamed a blood-curdling wail and
sunk into unconsciousness again. A door burst open somewhere nearby, and she
heard a man yelling in the distance, demanding an explanation regarding what
the mages had done, but he sounded very far away.  
Mages shuffled around her on all sides, the smell of sickly sweet mana swirling
around her body. Pieces of their murmurs drifted by her ears as her sensitive
hearing returned. Corpse. Decayed. Rotted. Tattered. Maker. The undeniable
strain of retching.Each sound raising her anxiety over what happened, as she
felt the void calling for her. A hand in the darkness pulling her under the
waves as she struggled to breathe.
People were frightened, and they were frightened of her.
“Let me die.” She sobbed as the abyss drew near, begging and pleading with no
one in particular, to anyone that might listen. “Just let me die.”
Chapter End Notes
     Updates will come quickly as I get the story caught up to the end of
     Adamant. Overall the story will have more chapters, but fewer words
     as I aggressively edited.
     Follow me on Tumblr: http://kmandergirl.tumblr.com
***** The Chapter Where Idalya Discovers What's Happened *****
Chapter Summary
     The Hero of Ferelden wakes from a nightmare to find herself in a
     strange place. Where is she and what has happened while she
     slumbered?
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The sounds of paper rustling stirred Idalya, alerting her to someone moving
within the vicinity. Opening her eyes, she found they were no longer as
sensitive to light as when the fire poured through the sockets of her skull.
She glanced around the room before opening her involuntary squint expecting the
excruciating pain to begin again.
This was no place Idalya recognized, the walls made of a uniform gray stone;
the air holding a biting chill gripping into her bones even while hidden under
stacks of blankets and furs piled on top of her. The woman, who woke her,
straightened piles of scrolls, collecting empty dishes and vials unaware that
the warden watched her.
“Identify yourself, servant.” The elf stiffened, turning to face Idalya, her
eyes wide in horror as her hand tried to find purchase on the desk behind her.
“I’m so sorry to have disturbed your slumber, my Lady,” the woman bowed and
Idalya noted she backed away, drawn towards the exit door.
“No need to apologize; also, not a lady. Can you please send a message? I need
to speak to the leader of this camp, army or whatever this is.” The servant
nodded and exited letting the heavy wooden door slam behind her sending a gush
icy air across the room. Idalya shuddered, the cold ripping through her body
until she doubled over in pain from tremors that seized up her limbs.
She laid still under the mountain of furs piled on her. Without clear danger,
there was no reason for not hiding under the furs until she warmed again.
Flexing the muscles in her legs, the heat returned through her sore and aching
limbs while she analyzed her surroundings. Nothing telltale in the structure of
the room to identify where was, nor any sense of darkspawn anywhere close.
What she sensed was a deep vibration of magic flowing through the heart of the
building itself as though the building hummed to itself soothing those that
walked its stones daily with a silent lullaby. Tables lined all sides of the
room covered with texts, books, and scrolls with piles on the floor the servant
was clearing before she startled the woman to death.
Small rays of sun cut through the tapestries hanging in the window and draping
across the blankets thrown over her, spots of heat over her body making her
sigh in relief as it dispersed like a network of fingers spreading life again.
As images from her nightmare came tumbling back into her brain, she adjusted
the furs covering the hand she remembered vividly missing its sleeve of flesh.
She drew her breath, as she tried to still her heart threating to run rampant
from her chest as she pulled the cover off to find her hand appeared fine, no
bones, and no missing flesh. Huh. Gingerly, she ran her fingers over the top
applying pressure to pull the skin taunt, sore but no injury showed. She
released the sigh she was holding and thanked the Maker it was only a
nightmare. She flopped back onto the covers, fingers massaging her temples.
This must be in the lodging of one of her allies, but how she entered she had
no memory of.
What was the last thing she remembered? Every time she tried to think of what
happened before the nightmare, the visions blurred, pushing into greater
disorder. Every memory coated in a hazy fog, a barrier preventing her from
seeing clearly. My head injury must be worse than I suspected.Someone would
come to her soon to help her sort out what left her stranded in a strange bed.
Footsteps approached against the stone floors a tapping echo that vibrated
inside her ears. Leliana emerged through the doorway, sunlight flowing over her
shoulders, as she closed the door behind her Idalya’s hand rested over her eyes
as her pupils dilated only aggravating the headache threatening to take over
her mind. Her friend dressed in deep amethyst robes she didn’t recognize with a
dark purple hood hiding her face and lovely red hair. In her hands, she carried
a wide silver tray. The bard looked tired, dark circles cut into the layers of
her pale skin, lines formed around the edges of her eyes.
“I'm surprised to see you awake, my Lady. You’ve had a trying night.” Her voice
sounded strange, her Orlesian accent dulled to the slightest emphasis on words.
The rogue approached and sat beside her on the bed setting the tray on a nearby
nightstand. Idalya searched Leliana’s face to remember what happened. There was
something hovering close to her mind she couldn’t make sense of. A fuzzy truth
so tangible in front of her she could reach out and caress it.  
“I assume you have many questions for me now.” Leliana avoided eye contact and
her hand twitched before settling over a silver-handled hairbrush with thick
boar bristles laying on the tray.
“Where am I, Leliana? How did I get here?” She found no clues to explain where
she was. “Why am I here? I can’t remember. I’m… scared, it’s true. Something is
wrong…” Her words trailed off as she as the truth cascaded past her lips before
she could control it.
It was true. Somewhere deep in her soul, she was terrified of the unknown.
Leliana observed her while she reached for a sealed glass bottle on the tray.
She popped a cork on the vial, coating her hands in an oil with a fragrance
like a summer day in the streets of Denerim, spicy with a lingering whiff of
orange reminding her of the marketplace on any afternoon. Bringing her hands
together to warm the liquid, Leliana pushed her fingers into Idalya’s scalp and
worked through the tangled nest of knots in her long white hair as she spoke.
“We’ll start with the easier questions: you’re in a place called Skyhold. It is
the base of operations for the Inquisition. A trusted group of mages brought
you here as part of a very dangerous mission. Idalya, you are here because the
world is in danger and we need your help.”
“Wait. The Inquisition?” She'd never heard of this group outside of the ancient
Inquisition, the people who established the Chantry and Templar, or ever known
of Leliana’s affiliation with this group. Her lavender eyes darted around the
room, suspicious and on guard, as she noted the exits available to her. “Why do
they need my help?”
Leliana sighed as she drew the brush through Idalya’s tresses freeing hairs
from the tangles. “And that, my Lady, is where this story gets a lot more
complicated.” She paused pulling the brush firmer through a larger know. “There
is an ancient darkspawn magister named Corypheus who used ancient Elven magic
to tear a rift in the sky itself. He plans to use this magic to walk into the
Fade itself and conquer the Black City and their ancient gods. To help
accomplish this task, he resurrected an Archdemon, the Archdemon you killed to
end the fifth blight…”
Idalya’s eyes widened. The Archdemon. How had she forgotten the Archdemon?
That’s what happened; the memories flooded her head watching the dwarves and
elves scorched to death. A wave of nausea passed over her at the reminder of
the smell of her burning allies. Her hand ached remembering bringing down the
sword to the neck of the mighty dragon and of stars exploding through her body
as they pierced through her.
How could the demon live after having its head cut off? Her mind spun trying to
piece everything back together, blurred spots still existing as she tried to
remember the rest of the battlefield.
“Okay. So, the Archdemon survived, what are our options? Do we have any
resources remaining that survived the battle?” Trying to remember the battle
pained her, a stabbing radiating through her skull. Cringing, she pressed her
hands tighter against her temples. Something called to her, reaching for her,
begging for her to remember in these memories, but she couldn't find it. Her
head throbbed as her vision in the present spotted and she struggled to focus
on what Leliana said as her vision became as blurry as her memories.
“Our allies are a complicated issue- the mages and Templar are now at war over
their escalating feud. And no, the Archdemon did not survive, my Lady.” She
turned her eyes away from Idalya, staring out into the empty part of the room.
“The Archdemon was slain?” Her mind replayed holding the sword and severing its
spine behind her eyes. “How is that so? I’m sitting here talking to you right
now. Was the Warden magic untrue?”
Leliana returned the brush and vial to the silver tray before wiping her hands
on a towel. She rose and headed for the door her head pointed down towards her
boots. Reaching the door, her hand paused on the handle for excruciating
moments before she looked back meeting Idalya’s eyes and sighed, sadness
swelling over her features.
“No Dal, the Warden magic was true. When the Archdemon died, you also perished
with it over ten years ago.” She opened her lips to speak but shut them before
lowering her eyes in shame and sliding out the door.
The cold rushing past her again to chill Idalya’s frozen bones once more as the
warden laid there frozen in shocked silence.
Chapter End Notes
     Follow me on Tumblr: http://kmandergirl.tumblr.com
***** The Chapter Where Leliana Explains *****
Chapter Summary
     Leliana has been summoned to explain what's happened to the leaders
     of the Inquisition. Have her decisions hurt the fledgling
     organization?
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Leliana was used to speed walking through the stone corridors of Skyhold. Her
boots slipping between servants and couriers who traveled the halls at a more
relaxed pace. After leaving her discussion with Idalya, Leliana owned no sense
of urgency to arrive at the War Room to face the questioning faces of the
Inquisitor and her peers.
Her mind was reeling from the circumstances of the last twenty-four hours. For
years she'd served as Justinia's Left Hand. With that position came an
understanding that actions have consequences, but nothing had prepared her for
the guilt threatening to collapse her into oblivion. The guilt was a raging
beast inside her chest, clawing and screaming with every beat of her betrayer’s
heart.
Every time she closed her eyes she saw Idalya’s decayed corpse writhing on the
table, magic swirling around the room converging around her body until a scream
pierced the air terrifying Leliana more than any sound she’d ever heard. How
long had it been since she’d known real fear? Its terror grafting its way into
the shell of her bones?
What had she done?
The answer to that question was a lot more complicated than she was ready to
admit.
Reaching the heavy wooden door that served as the entrance to the War Room, she
paused. The urge to flee without having to face the unknown consequences of her
actions became more appealing as she stood motionless.
All night she’d perched at the top of the rotunda with her ravens, preparing
her defense when Evelyn’s summons had arrived. For minutes she’d stood in the
hallway, letting the mountain breeze from the Frostbacks blow through the
broken patches of the wall to run across her skin. The bite of the ice-frosted
mountain’s sigh was painful as she tried to calm herself, hiding the crushing
level of guilt living in her eyes begging everyone to see.
When able to breathe without a stutter to her lungs, she pushed the door open
and entered the room. Her eyes adjusted to the dim candlelight filling the
room, the curtains drawn, blocking out all natural light.
The Inquisitor sat in a high-backed chair deep in thought, her hand covering
the lower half of her face from any discernible reaction. Her other hand fisted
around a glass that reeked of whiskey.
While most residents in Skyhold had just broken their morning fast, Inquisitor
Evelyn was a good way through her first decanter of the day. Her mane of auburn
hair blew from the breeze of the shutting door, billowing the long curls around
her shoulders. She stared at the war table in front of her, her eyes unreadable
in the hanging darkness in the room.
Commander Cullen kept his face pointed at the table as he dug through piles of
correspondence in frustration. His lips were moving without a sound as he
pulled out one sheet of parchment after another, keeping his eyes glued on his
paperwork and ignorant of the tension in the room.
Cullen was over his head in most conversations with the three women at the war
table- his focus torn between trying to keep his eyes off the Inquisitor, his
lyrium withdrawal symptoms, and his frequent eye-rolling over any discussion of
politics. He was a gifted statistician and commander. Any problem Cullen
couldn’t hammer to death, he would instead eye roll his way to the same
conclusion until the other advisers would dismiss him with furrowed brows.
Josephine, the ambassador for peace in occupation and life, was the only person
making eye contact. The tension was so thick it hung like a fog. Her honed
diplomatic expression of neutrality failed as she saw the pain lingering in
Leliana’s eyes crawling its bloody way to the surface. Josephine took a deep
breath, stepping forward to the table to speak.
Before she uttered a word Cullen slammed his fist down on the table sending
enemy markers flying, toppling to the floor rolling in all directions- a
metaphor of how dispersed and chaotic their allies were. “What were you
thinking, Leliana?” He roared across the wooden table, his voice echoing in the
rafters, clearing away the last of the left-behind cobwebs. “She trusted you!”
Cullen, a man who never shared the inner dialogue that rambled inside his thick
skull was screaming at her, over the war table no less. His arms clenched to
his sides, massive hands making fists tight enough that his scarred knuckles
were turning white. He was shaking, his breaths drawn in erratic patterns, eyes
burning in intensity towards her. She knew this man well enough over the decade
their paths crossed to understand his level of self-control, otherwise, she’d
have had both of her daggers out in front of her bracing for impact by the
fuming beast of a man.
Josephine was fretting over her board of secrets, “Necromancy on the Hero of
Ferelden? Oh, what would we do if our allies find out?” She threw her writing
board onto the table, papers falling out of their usual immaculate order on the
barren surface since Cullen’s fist had cleared the previous occupants. “This
will ruin us, Leliana, and anything we’ve accomplished here!” Josephine sat
down in a vacated chair, desperation rolling off her sepia skin as she looked
to the other two advisers for any declaration of reassurance that wasn’t
coming.
The Inquisitor remained silent this whole time, her olive eyes focused on an
invisible point in the distance before she looked over to Leliana, narrowing in
contemplation. “Why?” Her tone wasn’t accusatory unlike the two advisers, which
surprised her.
Pointing fingers and shifting blame was one of Evelyn’s favorite past times.
That the woman sat quietly while analyzing the situation, shook Leliana to her
core. She met Leliana’s eyes and regarded her. “We may not agree on methods,
but I believe you have always done what needed to be done for the Inquisition.
What made this necessary?” The unspoken question, and why didn’t you tell me
first,lingered in the air.
“After the Corypheus attacked us with the dragon at Haven,” Leliana began, her
voice wavering. She doubted any of them would notice. “I sent out my spies to
find everything possible. Nothing came back for some time and I exhausted every
contact of the Inquisition until I got a lead on a lot of rare and unusual
supplies requested and purchased in secret in a magical black market in
Denerim.
"My contact followed the purchaser to a what appeared to an abandoned island
between the Free Marches and Trevinter where they found an outsider group of
Wardens preparing for a very large summoning. After their spell was over, the
wardens left the island, leaving valuable evidence behind. My contact found
forgotten parchments left behind explaining the purpose of the summoning was
for the dragon that Corypheus used to reign destruction on Haven.”
The Inquisitor’s face paled, the memories as fresh to her as anyone else here.
“They summoned an archdemon into this world.” She paused, waiting until the
Inquisitor gave her a reluctant nod to continue.
“When Fiona examined the books used by the Wardens to bring forth the demon,
she realized that it was not just an archdemon. They had resurrected,
Urthemiel, the archdemon of the fifth blight using magic placing part of
Corypheus’ spirit itself inside the beast. Corypheus and this monster are now
one.” She looked up at the other advisers who looked away from their notes to
give her their full attention.
“This information stays here,” all three nodded in understanding. She was
walking a shaking tightrope to plead her case, holding her cards tight to her
breast. “When you slay an Archdemon, its spirit travels into the closest vessel
with the taint to save itself. That’s why a Gray Warden needs to be the one to
strike the final blow, to house the spirit unto its destruction.”
Cullen sighed in the corner, his head rolling back against the wall with a
thud, “That’s why you were so anxious when the Wardens disappeared overnight.
You knew what Corypheus is.” His hand rubbed against the skin on the back of
his neck raw as he took in the Inquisitor's blank explanation. “Are all the
wardens working with him?”
“I don't know. I have located no Wardens other than Blackwall, so far,” she
replied. “With the archdemon being raised, Fiona, after many days of research
realized there was a loophole created by this unique and powerful magic.” Blood
magic. She paused looking down at her hands gripping the sides of the table,
her fingers numb from the loss of circulation. “Idalya Mahariel, the Hero of
Ferelden, possessed the spirit of the archdemon itself when she… perished.
While she remained dead, the Fade would protect the demon from harm while part
of it already had its foot in the Fade for Corypheus.
“I sent my spies to bring her remains from their burial spot to Skyhold under
the cover of night. Fiona and a group volunteer of former circle mages repeated
the spell, summoning her spirit from the beyond, and back into her remains.
They healed time's destruction of her body as she screamed in torment for hours
on end.
"The demon’s spirit no longer rests in the Fade and we have the ability to slay
it, should it attack us again.” Her heart ached, the pain spreading along the
lining of her ribs, as her sins spilled past her lips to her most trusted
friends and colleagues. She’d pray to the Maker for forgiveness if she wasn’t
convinced he’d strike her down on the spot.
“My job in this inquisition is to complete impossible things. Tasks no one
should be asked to do. I have never failed you.” She hardened her jaw towards
the other three as she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin faking
bravery. “Now we have a fighting chance against Corypheus.”
Three sets of eyes stared at her in disbelief and as a light breeze blew across
the room, she realized tears trailed out of her own. She wiped them away,
impatient at her display of emotion, and turned to head for the door in
embarrassment when she needed to stay focused on her job.
The Inquisitor stopped her, the woman’s smoky voice halting her mid-step.
“Leliana, all magic has a cost. What we will have to pay?” Leliana stopped at
the door and turned back to face, wiping stubborn tears that refused to stop
falling.
Images of Idalya’s twisted and screaming corpse appeared in front of her eyes
blinding her as she closed them, her teeth biting into her lower lip to contain
her own. “Have no fear my lady, the cost of the magic has already been paid.”
Pulling her hood over her head, Leliana slipped away into the darkened and
chilled halls of Skyhold leaving the Inquisitor and her advisers sitting in
shocked silence.
Chapter End Notes
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***** The Chapter Where Idalya Meets the Commander *****
Chapter Summary
     The Commander of the Inquisition forces drops by to check on Idalya.
     Is he the link to what she's forgotten?
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
“Mama, mama.” She propped her nose up on the edge of the bed as she watched her
mother sleep. Her dark curls framed her heart-shaped face, long dark lashes
that spread across the golden umber planes of her cheeks, as her chest drifted
up and down weighed down by the weight of the Fade. “MAMA.” At her hissing
whisper, her mother flinched, rolling to her side until she popped a violet eye
open at her eager daughter.
“Everything okay, Dal?” she yawned, stretching her arms to the side as she
twisted her back with a groan. She slept in her servant’s clothes again, far
more ornate than an elf would wear in the Alienage, from her evening shift
serving King Maric and the other royals in the castle.
“I missed you!” the girl whispered, at least she tried to whisper but just
hissed again at her patient mother, still hidden below the edge of the bed.
Her mother laughed a rich and warm sound that echoed in their meager housing
and stretched out her arms which Idalya, without hesitation, crawled onto the
bed into the circle of the woman ’s arms. They laid there in silence, content
with the shared warmth shared between mother and child. Her mother’s hand
drifted across the disordered strands of her streaked white and brunette hair.
Her other siblings resembled one parent or the other, but not her. She was a
perfect mixture of the love that had created her. Mother ’s rich brown luminous
skin, her father’s bright and glowing strands of hair, her eyes a harmonious
blend of their plum and storm gray.
“What should we do today, my love?” her mother whispered to the edge of her
pointed ear.
“Go see Daddy!” her mother laughed again, squeezing her arms around her bundle
of unending energy.
“Well, Daddy is busy at the blacksmith today and he’ll be home before we know
it, but that means it’s just the two of us today!” She announced as Idalya
cheered and hugged her mother tighter, kicking her feet behind her in joy.
Idalya opened her eyes, blinking away the traces of her dream. Under the pile
of furs, she could still feel the warmth of her mother wrapped around her. It
felt like a lifetime since she had seen her mother, but at that moment her
lavender eyes grew misty in her gratitude that her mother’s features were still
clear within the broken fragments of her mind. Her mother’s smile remained
etched in her mind, and the look of grief that had clouded her features later
that day when the Denerim guard arrived outside their quaint home to announce
that her father was dead after a scuffle between the guard and elves in the
Alienage.
She glanced at the small streams of light lurking their way under the door. It
was much later in the day than her routine rising time. Idalya had always been
an early riser. She had clear memories of her mother telling the family to keep
her barred to her tiny corner of the room she shared with her siblings when she
was a young child. This trend continued through her time as a Grey Warden, with
fast healing and stamina regeneration, she had no reason to stay in bed after
stirring and was often awake early enough to watch the sunrise and warm the
surrounding ground.
Today had been the exception. After Leliana had left her room in the early
hours of the morning, Idalya remained in bed until long after the sun come up
and considered hiding under her pile of furs for the rest of the day when she
heard the echoing footsteps of boots and the clinking of heavy armor
approaching her room.
After a light knock, a broad-shouldered man with a styled mop of blond curly
hair, wearing half armor. A fluffy decorative cloak thrown over his shoulders.
He pushed the door open and entered her stone prison carrying a lopsided tray
filled with food and drink. He set down the tray before taking a seat in the
chair at the foot of her bed.
“I am Cullen Rutherford, my Lady,” he began as he rubbed the back of his neck,
his eyes focused on the floor, “I am the Commander of the Inquisition army and
welcome you to Skyhold. Your help and… expertise will be of value to our cause
and I… we are glad to have you here.”
Idalya was compelled to order the bumbling man to leave, but there was
something comforting about this soldier who’d brought her breakfast, struggling
to speak to people he was not giving orders to. He could have sent a messenger,
but he saw her himself. It was a sign of respect she understood from one
warrior to another.
She realized he was still talking, and she had not been paying attention. “… we
want you to be comfortable. Let us know if you need anything.”
She had no words that would come to her, so she met the Commander’s hazel eyes
and nodded before her nose forced her eyes to look to the tray of food whose
smells were assaulting her senses.
“I didn’t think to ask Leliana what you preferred as meals, so I apologize if
this isn’t to your liking.” The Commander mumbled motioning towards the food.
Something in this man’s awkwardness was helping her feel more like herself than
anything else so far. Pushing herself up on the bed, she looked over the tray
and reached out, taking a warm biscuit from the tray. He smiled and motioned
towards the tea. She nodded between chews of the flaky biscuit as he poured a
cup for each of them.
“Four sugars, extra cream,” Idalya mumbled between bites of biscuit which came
out, fawzuger, hextra crem.Picking up the small bowl of preserves that smelled
like fresh berries, the warden smiled. Scooping the fruit with her biscuit, the
slightest of moans escaped her lips as the sweet jam melted against her tongue.
The Commander chuckled as he prepared her tea, a warm and hefty sound that
shook his chest under his heavy armor, “I had almost forgotten the infamous
sweet tooth of the Hero of Ferelden: destroyer of demons and pastries alike.”
Idalya raised an eyebrow and considered making a crude gesture before noticing
the plate of strawberries still untouched on the tray. Grabbing them and biting
into the soft flesh that dripped down her chin, her annoyance forgotten.
Realizing that it was too quiet, she turned to see the Commander watching her.
“It is you, isn’t it?” He whispered. The measure of confidence he had gained
disappeared, his hand rubbing along his neck again. “I know this isn’t the
time, but I…” his words trailed off as he found something far more interesting
on the floor to stare at.
Idalya interrupted, “I don’t know, Commander. I feel like me, but there’s
something missing. Every memory before waking up on that table is a haze I
can’t seem to find my way out of no matter how hard I try.”
“You remember nothing before being brought back?” the Commander questioned, his
eyes searching hers, “Do you remember me, my lady?”
“I’m not sure,” she shrugged, “There’s something familiar about you and you put
me at ease, but I’m sorry, I don’t remember what you’re hoping I do. I have
clear memories, like of my mother and growing up, but my time in the Wardens in
fractured and lost. Commander, please tell me, help me remember.” She placed
her hand over his and squeezed to reassure him to continue. His stared at her
hand atop his before swallowing, pulling his hand away to resume his frantic
neck massage.
“I… I was a Templar in the Ferelden Circle when it fell. I was a prisoner and
attacked by a desire demon for days as I listened to my brothers collapsed one
after another under the weight of the demons. Running out of ways to break me,
the desire demon appeared with the face of the girl of whom my heart had first
belonged. I had watched Solona die the day the tower first fell, she protected
the unharrowed mages for hours until... She died a hero, and the demons used
her face to inflict unspeakable pain and horror…” He paused, his eyes clouded
lost in memories of a decade ago.
“After the demon took her face, it was only a matter of time before I broke,
begging the Maker for death. As I prepared to give up, I heard screams echoing
down the corridor. The doors flew open and you entered. Blood and ichor covered
you, and I thought you were another demon come to break me. Instead, you asked
me for help. You asked what was happening and if I knew what Uldred was casting
in the summoning chamber.”
Sighing, he ran a hand over his face scratching at the edge of an unkept short
beard. “I said horrible things to you. I told you to destroy everyone inside
even if they were innocent. I was so broken and afraid and yet you never looked
at me with judgment; you told me to rest you would save me… and you did. You
returned and dropped the barrier and held me as I dropped to my knees. Told me
I was safe. I was so angry that you had saved those inside I couldn’t even look
you in the eyes and thank you. I pushed you away and said any abominations were
on your head- for that I am sorry. I was terrified, never preparing myself for
the thought of surviving that I didn’t know how to react to safety. I thought I
would never get the chance to apologize and thank you for not listening but
still showing compassion.”
Idalya was running over the information in her head. The memory of a circle
seemed familiar, as did his story, but she couldn’t picture it.
“But thank you for saving someone who didn’t deserve it. At that moment you
showed a greater strength than I knew could exist. I had all but resigned my
grave to Kinloch…”
Kinloch. With that one word, she saw it.
Demons, the smell of blood, bodies lining the halls as screams echo throughout
the halls. Being sucked into the Fade and fighting her way out. A broken man on
the floor crying in fear. Destroy them all, destroy the mages. Don ’t trust
them, can’t trust them… Someone argues with her, protect the children. Protect
the innocent at all costs. Protect them... protect them…
Idalya’s hands flew to the sides of her head as the memories exploded into her
mind, needles pressed into the corners of her mind. A pained cry slipped from
her lips. As the memories and the piercing pain attached to them dissipated,
she realized that the Commander had moved to take her within his arms as she
had screamed and trembled.
“Do you need me to fetch the healer or Enchanter Fiona for you, my lady?” His
eyes were as full of panic as she felt. Ignoring the man’s help, she regained
focus, getting her breathing under control.
“No, I remember. Not all of it, but enough. Thank you, Commander. I need to
rest, that was too much.” Her throat was dry, a cracking desert running the
length of her mouth to intestines as the heady smells of the corrupt Circle
still pressed into her nose.
The Commander nodded, guilt plain on his features, as he helped her recline
back into the bed. Her eyes were steel. A growing weight. Her lids already
fluttered shut from exhaustion after the assault on her mind.
“My lady?” Idalya made a sound of acknowledgment. “I was wondering if you
wanted the Inquisition to contact your companions to inform them of
your condition.” She opened her eyes, sitting in silence, before responding.
Cullen noticed that she wrung her hands together as she hesitated to answer his
question.
“We don’t know how long it will last, so no, please contact no one. My friends
have moved on with their lives in the last ten years. I don’t want them to
grieve all over again if its turn the magic was not powerful enough to sustain
me for long.”
Cullen frowned as he processed her words. “Understood, my lady, we will keep
your time here at Skyhold a secret as you wish. Let us know what we can help
with.” He stood, picking up the tray now empty of anything resembling sweet and
heading to the door.
“Commander?” He smiled, turning around to face her.
“I think it would be acceptable for you to call me Cullen, my lady.”
Idalya snorted. “And you should call me Idalya, as I am no lady.”
“Yes, I suppose, my la… umm, Idalya.”
She met his smile and couldn’t refrain from laughing at his discomfort
regarding her name.
“Fantastic, Cullen. Regardless of why I’m here now, I have a job to do and an
archdemon to kill which means training. I haven’t picked up a sword in over a
decade. I will need to train harder than I ever have if I stand a chance to
help the Inquisition. Could you set up appointments with your armor and weapon
smiths for me?”
Straightening his shoulders, he was the Commander of forces again, “You’ll have
everything you require… umm, Idalya. I’ll inform the healers that the advisers
are to know with haste when you may return to training and we have all our best
equipment available to you. Until later.” He bowed and exited the room.
Her limbs were exhausted as she curled up on her side under the piles of
blankets. Memories of death and killing were trying to push their way to the
front of her mind, but she needed rest. As her mind prepared herself to enter
the Fade, she thought of the now standing Commander in place of the frightened
and broken boy she had found in the tower. If the Commander could heal his
internal wounds and move on, then maybe she could too.
Chapter End Notes
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***** The Chapter Where Idalya Meets Skyhold *****
Chapter Summary
     Idalya is cleared to join Skyhold and meets the world that exists
     outside of the room she spent weeks hiding in.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Two weeks. Two weeks that moved at the pace of honey dripping before Skyhold’s
healers gave approval for Idalya to exit her prison and join the rest of the
fortress. As servants arrived with her breakfast, a heaping plate of biscuits
and the freshest strawberries, they also brought a large weathered wooden chest
with an Inquisition insignia carved in the hood. Inside she found a pair of
well-made leather breeches that color of tree bark, a simple white fitted tunic
with a lace up neck, a pair of worn leather knee-high boots, and leather cord
for her hair. Changing into real clothes went a long distance in helping her
feel like herself again. She made a mental note to thank whoever had sent her
new clothes.
Standing in front of the full length garish Orlesian styled mirror, she looked
at her features as though she expected to find something out of the ordinary.
Crow’s feet appeared around her eyes and the skin underneath was puffy and
squished at her touch. Her eyes maintained a constant look of exhaustion. She
looked much older than she remembered.  As far as she understood, the magic
returned her body to the state when she… well, you know.The stress lines and
cracks in her skin had already been part of her as she prepared to fight the
archdemon.
Her mane of silver and white hair was longer than she could recall and swung
loose around the curved of her waist mirroring her movements. Leliana had
requested servants bring her more vials of the orange scented oil for her hair.
She knew Idalya’s daily struggles to keep her hair untangled and straight.
Rolling a lock around her finger, she inhaled the sweet smell and smiled. As a
child her mother could never afford a luxury like hair oils, putting her
moonlight-highlighted hair in tight braids all hours of the day. She swore the
chronic headaches she suffered growing up had as much to do with the tight
braids on her head as the lack of food in her stomach.
Picking up a stiff bristled hairbrush from the table, she ran it through her
locks releasing the warm smell of spices and orange in the air. Closing her
eyes, she focused on bristles running through her hair and felt a tingle in the
back of her mind as something in her memory broke free. She felt the pull in
her mind as she searched to find the memory attached. After two weeks of
adjusting to this, she was becoming more familiar with the sensation of
remembering and was learning how to lead herself into those moments and try to
push past the fog surrounding them.
She could feel her edges blurring as the memory attempted to push its way
through. Her limbs trembled as she could see parts of the vision falling into
place:
A campfire. People ’s voices traveled around her. Leliana’s Orlesian accent as
she purrs at a man nearby who laughs in response, they cuddle together as
Idalya looks out across the fire. Fingers drag through her hair, loosening the
knots formed next to her scalp. Warm breath traveled across her neck and she
shivered, not from the chill in the air, but from desire and the warmth that
traveled under her skin, that spread across her body and lodged in her core. A
pair of lips hovered next to the curve of her pointed ear.
“Your hair is the color of the first snow falling from a winter storm.” The
voice spoke. She hummed in joy, laying her head back against something solid
and safe. She shifted her weight to turn around to locate the origins of the
voice. As she turned her head to see, her eyes met by a blinding light pushing
her away. It’s so bright. She can’t focus on what’s behind it and the pain is
blinding whatever vision she has left…
Idalya opened her eyes, the rocks of her uneven floor digging through the
leather covering her knees. Sighing, she placed her head against the mirror
with a thud as she tried to understand what she had seen. The previous visions
that had broken through had been similar, trivial details snapping into place
than other portions blinding her by something that was hiding them. She wasn’t
aware of what she was forgetting, but she knew it was angering her increasingly
every day. Leliana had avoided her since her first day in Skyhold, instead,
sending servants with trays of her favorite foods or needed essentials. She was
taking care of her, but without the courage to face her.
Pulling herself up off the floor, she wiped the layer of dust off her new
clothes. Permission to leave her bed could not have a moment later or else
Idalya would have fought her way into Skyhold and into some form of life
outside her stone prison.
Grabbing a gray cloak hung on a hook by the door, she left the room and cast
her eyes on Skyhold. The power Idalya could feel running through the stones
made so much more sense once she could see the entire keep and its monstrous
size. Skyhold was old, but not just in construction, power radiated off the
keep and held more in common with ancient Elven ruins than a military outpost.
Walking across the ramparts, she let her fingers drag along the stones feeling
the magic reach through her hands.
After over two weeks of being part of the living again, her body had time to
adjust to the freezing cold mountain air. Being on the outside was different.
As she felt the open breeze against her skin, she made a promise to herself to
order a heavy woolen cloak when fitted for her armor. She clutched the cloak
around her as she made her way down the stairs in the courtyard where soldiers
were running through training drills.
Idalya watched the drills run by duos of one Templar and one mage; soldiers not
only parring sword blows but ducking around spells that came flying towards
them seconds later. She had to give them credit, the Inquisition knew now to
train an army. Her sword hand grew an anxious itch as she watched the soldiers
train. From the corner of the courtyard, she saw unused training dummies next
to the weapon smith’s workshop.
Entering the candle-lit workspace, Idalya’s cheeks burned while assaulted by
the heat of the furnace and her exposed fingers singed with the heat she
welcomed. Rows of swords rested on wooden tables. She let her fingers run over
the pommels, unsure what she was looking for but would know when she saw it.
The Smith stopped hammering the sword he was working on to glare at her.
“You look like no soldier I’ve seen, if you don’t have permission to be here
touching my goods then you get need out now.” His scowl was so deep that his
eyebrows touched. Heavy footsteps fell behind Idalya.
“She is with the Inquisition,” a quick Nevarran accent answered, “she will have
access to everything at your disposal.  I believe the special order Leliana
placed with you is for her.” Idalya turned to take in a raven-haired, muscular
woman half a head taller than her. She stood tall, shoulders pressed back, an
Inquisition symbol painted across her breastplate. “I am Cassandra Pentaghast
and it is an honor to meet the Hero of Ferelden... even if you might be an
abomination.”
It was Idalya’s turn to scowl as she studied the woman in front of her. Her
face held no malice, but a streak of honesty that calmed her nerves. She had
spent the last two weeks catching up by reading history lessons for the last
decade with what history books had been available to her. Lady Pentaghast had
been the Right Hand of the Divine, serving with Leliana until the Divine’s
death at the Conclave. A distant descendant of the Nevarran throne, Cassandra
followed more in the dragon hunting footsteps of her family than the nobility
side. Idalya could see as she sized her up that the woman was a formidable
warrior even without her reputation preceding her.
“Well, I’d like to inform you I’m not an abomination,” Dal ground her teeth
together as she said the word aloud. “But I believe the honor is mine, Lady
Pentaghast.” She said with the slightest of bows.
Cassandra snorted. “Please, do not refer to me as ‘Lady’, I am only a soldier
to the Inquisition as you are. You may call me Cassandra.”
“As you say, Cassandra. I’m Idalya, you can leave off the ‘Hero’ business.”
Cassandra nodded in acknowledgment, the corner of her lips lifting in a slight
smile.
The Smith returned with two cloth bundles under his arm. Laying them down, he
opened the first one revealing a curved broadsword of copper hue. Idalya
gasped, pressing one hand over her mouth as the fingers of her other hand
stroked down the curves of the metal that hummed in response to her touch.
“Dar’Misaan…,” the words rolled off her tongue, a spell summoned from her lips.
For the first time since she had awoken in Skyhold, tears flooded her eyes and
rolled down over her ruddy cheeks. “How? I don’t understand.” Her fingers
caressed the pommel and found the small crescent-shaped indentions where she
would press her nails into the worn leather for extra grip. “This is my sword.”
Lifting it up, its weight felt familiar, a joyful laugh rang out in the room as
she hugged the sword to her chest. The sound of the smith clearing his throat
brought the elf back to reality.
“You'll see the blade has been restored, reinforced with dragon bone. The
leather of the pommel cleaned and restored, but saved, per request, by Lady
Nightingale.” He opened the other bundle of cloth which contained two swords,
both identical to Dar’Misaan except one had a dulled edge and weighted heavier
than her Dalish broadsword. The other built of wood. “These commissions are
from Commander Cullen for you. This is a weighted practice sword to build
strength and the wooden sword replica are Inquisition issue for all man-to-man
training.” For the expression the smith had started their interaction with, his
face now held a prideful smile at Idalya’s reaction to his work. Reaching under
the table, he pulled out a worn sword belt and sheath.
“This will be large for your frame, but it’ll do for now.” He passed the belt
to Idalya who pulled it around her waist and tightened it as small as it would
fit on her slim waist and slid Dar’Misaan into the sheath with a grin on her
face.
“Thank you for his… I can’t even express how much this means. Thank you.” The
Smith nodded and returned to his work like a small Elven woman crying over his
work was a daily occurrence. Cassandra picked up the sword bundle under her arm
and followed behind Idalya as she made her way out of the shop and made a
straight beeline towards the practice dummies. Handing her the dulled practice
sword, Cassandra stepped away to ease her back against the nearby wall, giving
the Hero some space.
Idalya held the sword out to her side feeling the muscles in her arm stretch
under the unnatural feeling weight. The sword was heavy, but not so that she
wouldn’t be able to swing it. Cullen knew what he was doing with his army and
how to train them. Bringing the sword back in front of her, she placed both
hands on the pommel, lining up her feet to the dummy. With precise movements,
she brought the blade to the ribs feeling the dull thud reverberate back up the
metal. Inhaled, spun, and struck the opposite side of the ribs. She pulled back
the handle to the side of her face and pierced straight into the dummy while
she rolled past its side, hopping up behind it and pushed the blade into the
dummy, splitting its back with a forceful flick of her wrists. She watched the
hay stuffing fall out to the ground, pleased the movement came more natural to
her than she expected.
Cassandra huffed from the wall, “And people say I’m hard on the dummies.”
Idalya smiled, a flush of exertion coming over her cheeks. She motioned to
Cassandra’s pile of practice swords on the side. “What do you say, Seeker? Want
to see the damage a corpse can do?”
A laugh erupted from Cassandra as she considered Idalya’s offer, it was a
relaxed sound that suited the uptight woman. “Thank you for the offer, but no.
Leliana and Cullen are protective over you, fear you are made of glass. I do
not wish to see the consequences of leaving a mark on you from sparring.
Cullen, I have no fear of, I could take him in combat.” The warrior shrugged,
no doubt held in her statement. “Leliana though, I need to sleep and would like
to keep my throat uncut.” She raised her eyebrow, a smirk on her lips. “Another
time perhaps.” And strode away towards the main hall.
Idalya stuffed the pile of hay back inside the dummy. Lining back up, she
squared her shoulders and took another hit as the dummy exploded hay back into
the sky. An infectious smile spreading across her face.
Chapter End Notes
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***** The Chapter Where Cullen Loses Focus *****
Chapter Summary
     Cullen has a difficult time staying focused when the Herald of
     Andraste is in his vicinity.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
“... next on the agenda is securing our invitation to the Winter Palace,”
Josephine continued her diatribe as Cullen rolled his eyes behind the
Ambassador’s back.
Evelyn held back a smile as her olive eyes met his across the table. She
inserted an occasional ‘mmm’ of acknowledgment into the conversation but
continued to watch Cullen as her eyes made their way down the length of his
body, her gaze undressing him one piece of, now too tight, armor at a time.
Cullen shifted on his feet trying to adjust the fit of his leather breeches
which were tighter the longer the Inquisitor's gaze lingered. He shot a pointed
look towards the other advisers to remind his leader why they were in the War
Room. Her smirk fell as she shrugged, rejoining the discussion surrounding
Grand Duke Gaspard and the Inquisition’s plans to the stop the assassination at
the Winter Palace.
That woman was insatiable. Just 15 minutes before the meeting, Cullen pressed
her against the stones of the darkened stairwell in Josephine’s office. One
callused hand under the waistband of her breeches and small clothes. The other
clamped over her mouth as she came apart from just the ministrations of his
fingers. A line of messengers traveled past the stairwell to give parchments to
Josephine. None of them knowing their own Inquisitor was muffled, crying out
into the hand of her Commander as she had begged for more of him, just yards
away from their discussions.
As she descended from her elation, her olive eyes rolled back into her head
resting against the chilled stones of the stairwell. Her chest pushed up to
gain oxygen through her heavy breaths as her heart fluttered within her.
Cullen’s hand moved from covering her mouth to holding her cheek. He sighed as
his fingers ghosted across her satin skin, caressing his thumb across the
smooth line of her jaw.
Beads of sweat formed on her temples, curling her auburn hair around her heart-
shaped face. Cullen could understand how people could believe she was the
Herald of Andraste from the second they met her. Her beauty was beyond anything
he had ever known. Leaning close to her, he removed his other hand from her
breeches and brought it to his mouth, sucking every succulent drop of her from
his fingers. The soft noise of suction caught her attention and as she opened
her eyes to meet his, a low moan escaped past her rose-painted lips.
Her hands darted to the laces of his breeches, but he smacked them aside with a
quiet chuckle and smirk. Adjusting his armor, he enjoyed the desperate look in
her eyes growing as she clenched her fists at her side. Gaining control of her
breath, her glare towards him softened, her bottom lip stuck out as she pouted
over not getting what she wanted.
The look she gave Cullen up through her lashes almost undid him there. He'd
turned and left as fast as possible without a response. Knowing if a word
passed by her plush lips, he’d have her pressed back against the stones, not
caring who heard this time.
Cullen needed to clear his mind, but this whole meeting all he could see was
the look in her eyes, pupils blown so wide her eyes turned black, hear her
muffled moans into the palm of his hand, or the smell of her on his fingers
when he rubbed his neck earlier in irritation. All he wanted was for this
meeting to be over so he could bend her over the war table, her breeches around
her knees, the sounds of her calling his name as he violated her. Cullen,
Cullen, oh Cullen...
“Cullen?” Josephine’s patient voice broke through his daydreaming bringing him
back into the real world with the most awkward of entrances.
Maker’s breath.Cullen’s eyes looked up at the three women staring at him,
waiting for a response. It was moments like this where he realized he might not
have been the best fit for his job.
“Yes?” His voice cracked as the response creaked out of his throat.
Josephine raised an eyebrow, studying Cullen’s expression. “Leliana and I have
shared our thoughts and wonder how you would like to proceed.”
Cullen tensed under the gaze of the Ambassador. His eyes flicked to the door,
and he wondered about his chances of just running away without the women
forever haunting him with this embarrassment.
Don ’t fuck this up Rutherford, you can do it.
“I believe the points the advisers made to be suitable,” He started, trying to
keep his nerves in check,” so I will defer to their judgment.”
Josephine’s eyebrows creased as Evelyn tried to hide a snort behind a pale hand
drawing the ire of the Ambassador. A smirking Leliana opened her mouth to
speak, but she was beaten to the punch by Josephine.
“While I appreciate the nod of confidence you have given us, I believe troop
movements are your responsibility, Commander.” Josephine huffed out. 
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 
She paused and collected her thoughts, face softening before continuing.
“Forgive me, Cullen, I understand the weight on your shoulders both from the
Inquisition and from your lyrium struggles. We should be more understanding. My
frustration was inappropriate. Do you need to adjourn the meeting until later,
Commander?”
Cullen felt the deep crimson pooling in his cheeks; his face burning as he
could see Evelyn’s body shaking with laughter in the corner of his vision
uncaring of the chaos she caused. He’d make her pay for this later.
Josephine’s gentle expression as she waited for him only increased his level of
mortification over her innocent misunderstanding unknowing of what Cullen was
guilty of in her office not even an hour prior.
“Thank you. I… I’m okay, I apologize for getting lost in my thoughts. It won’t
happen again.” He laid his gloved hand over Josephine’s and hoped she
understood that his apology was sincere. Her smile was kind as she squeezed his
hand and restarted from her long-itemized piece of parchment.
“Let’s move on, we need to discuss uniforms, noble allies, and transportation
for the Winter Palace.” Now it was Evelyn’s turn to roll her eyes as Josephine
spoke.
Cullen watched her pull a dagger from her hip and carve the closest edge of the
war table to her Ambassador’s dismay. The distraction lasted her ten minutes
until Evelyn, interrupted Josephine mid-discussion, to turn to Leliana.
“Tell me, how is Skyhold’s resident corpse managing?”
He watched Leliana’s body posture go from calm to restrained in moments. His
own hand gripping the pommel of his sword. The tension in the room was
suffocating until Josephine cleared her throat to interject into the
conversation.
“Cassandra finds the Hero’s battle skills to be impressive. She sees no reason
she will not be ready for full combat soon. She has also recommended
approaching Lady Mahariel to step in as a trainer for our warriors due to her
unique skill set.”
“She can stab things with a sword? Yippee,” Evelyn scoffed, eyes still boring
into Leliana, “but how is the woman holding up, not just the warrior? This
whole plan hinges on the ability of a walking corpse to understand what the
Inquisition needs and to follow through with those plans. If she is unable to
carry out our plan, then we need to dispose of her and look for other options.”
Cullen’s grip on his pommel made his fingers go numb as he channeled his
growing annoyance with Evelyn’s crass line of questioning. Dispose of.Those
were her words. She spoke of one of their soldiers no different from clearing
away the garbage of the fortress.
“First off, she’s not a corpse, so I would ask you to not refer to her that
way.” Leliana made a careful choice of her words as she spoke to the
Inquisitor. “Also, all trainers report her mental capabilities are adequate.
They agree with the Seeker’s opinion, she’ll be cleared to join the Inquisition
soon.”
If looks could throw daggers, then Evelyn would die in a pool of her own blood
in the center of the War Room.
Evelyn considered her statements. “What do you think? She was your close
friend. Was your magic successful?” The slight uptick of her mouth showed she
knew of Leliana’s forced distance since the Hero returned. Leliana was a person
who never left loose ends or obvious weaknesses, so Evelyn found immense joy in
having found a gap in her armor.
Unwilling to watch his lover and boss get stabbed by their own Spymaster,
Cullen blurted out the first coherent thought he had. “She has troubles with
her memory still…” Leliana’s eyes widened and focused on Cullen begging him not
to proceed as Evelyn whipped around to look at him, her eyes narrowed. It was
too late, Evelyn  smelled blood and was moving in for the hunt.
“What do you mean memory problems? Tell me, Cullen.” 
Fuck. Twice now in the same meeting, he existed without words to speak. He
rubbed the back of his head as he decided what he would say.
“Her memory is in pieces. Her recollections of fighting the Blight are…patchy?
She’s only recollected some of her companions. In the last few days of
training, she’s asked about where Wynne and Sten are, which the Iron Bull
helped fill in for her. My concern is that she doesn’t remember him…”
Leliana was shaking her head, her eyes pleading with him as she stood behind
Evelyn. Cullen had stumbled into another game the women of the Inquisition
played that he wanted no part of, but he knew Leliana would never hurt Idalya
while Evelyn  just referenced ‘disposing of her’. Looking at the mischievous
glint in Evelyn’s eyes, he realized the Hero of Ferelden’s secrets might not be
safe with her.
“I find it odd she doesn’t remember the only other Grey Warden in Ferelden who
fought during the Blight.” He said with a shrug. Leliana released a silent
sigh, mouthing a thank you to Cullen. Their eyes met and hoped his communicated
that they needed to discuss this later.
Leliana gave the slightest of nods before jumping back into the conversation to
move the conversation along with haste. “Enchanter Fiona has examined her
multiple times and says the memory loss could be temporary or long term, but it
doesn't hinder her abilities to slay the Archdemon. Her training routine will
continue.”
Evelyn’s disappointment was obvious at not finding out a juicier piece of
gossip as she rose from the table, but she appeared to accept Cullen and
Leliana’s answers for the moment.
“Fine. How do we make her part of the Inquisition? Ceremony? Sword lifting
while we yell out barbaric screams?”
“This is one those rare occasions where less is more, Inquisitor,” Josephine
responded with a frown, irritated by Evelyn’s description of her own Inquisitor
ceremony. “I believe a simple handshake and ‘Welcome to the Inquisition’
greeting will be more than adequate for the situation.”
Evelyn groaned and moved towards the exit of the War Room. “Anything else
needed from me before I go greet our newest soldier?” The room was silent.
“Commander, accompany me to see the Hero in case she stabs me.” Evelyn threw
the doors open, leaving her advisers without a word, making her way down the
hall towards the training courtyard while Cullen kept pace a few respectful
strides behind her.
Evelyn was a noble at heart and played the Game with mastery. A weapon like
Idalya would be dangerous in Evelyn’s arsenal. Even more than her skills in
battle, having the title of the Hero of Ferelden on their side could bring
Evelyn and the Inquisition immense amounts of power and influence with their
allies. Not only did the Inquisition have the Herald of Andraste but also
having the risen Warden-Commander herself could give a level of credibility and
influence Evelyn had never had before. Evelyn’s pace did not slow as she made
her way down the front stairs of the hall into the training yard.
Cullen’s eyes found Idalya’s slim frame, sun-kissed skin, and silver hair with
ease. She circled Knight-Captain Rylen in the sparring ring. Her Elven
broadsword ran the entire length of her body, but she handled it as though it
weighed nothing. Rylen threw his helmet off into the dirt, sweat pouring down
his forehead and the lanes of his tattooed face, as he narrowed his eyes at his
competitor. Idalya grinned and mouthed something to Rylen, causing his eyebrows
to crease as the surrounding soldiers chuckled, letting out a boisterous cheer.
The Templar grumbled and swung for her unprotected side, but the Warden was 
expecting the move and countered the strike with ease, sweeping behind Rylen
and taping him with force on the ass with her sword as the crowd grew more in a
frenzy.
She ’s toying with him. She could have ended this fight on first exchange of
swings, but she’s enjoying taking him apart in front of his troops.
Cullen shook his head while smiling to himself as Evelyn parted the crowd in
front of her to approach the elf. As the circle opened, she walked straight
into the sparring ring and met Idalya eye to eye. One quick raise of the
Inquisitor's eyebrow was all it took to dissolve the crowd gathered to watch
the fight. Cullen stayed close enough to protect Evelyn but far enough away to
keep their conversation their own.
Evelyn’s shoulders tensed, a ripple that spread across her body like her waves
of ecstasy earlier. Diplomacy was her skill, but something about Idalya made
her uncomfortable. A discomfort her muscles could not hide. Idalya looked
curious, but not intimidated by being addressed by the Inquisitor, herself.
Cullen assumed facing down an Archdemon would do that to anyone. Evelyn was
years older than Idalya at her death, but you couldn’t tell by their eyes.
Idalya’s eyes still carried the weight of the world making her look far older
than her two decades of life, while Evelyn’s calculating, and mischievous ones
made her look much younger than her twenty-six years.
“Commander?” Cullen approached into their conversation. “I would like to take
our new friend to the Winter Palace with us when we leave in a month. That
gives you a month to have her prepared to travel and be one of my companions
during the ball. I’ll inform Josephine and Leliana of my decision.” 
Shit. Evelyn was more than aware of the influence the Hero of Ferelden would
have to their cause.
Nodding at Idalya, she motioned Cullen towards her as she stepped away. “Come
to my quarters just after sundown so we can go over troop movements in
private, Commander.” The way she said his title had a flush of heat rip through
his torso and lower, electricity running straight to his cock.
“I have multiple meetings scheduled with the Templar tonight, Inquisitor.”
Evelyn raised an eyebrow at his perceived defiance and as she was about to walk
past him, breathed up towards his ear.
“Either you come then, or you don’t come at all, my Commander…” She sauntered
away, her hips swaying with every step. His eyes could not lift from her ass as
thoughts of throwing her over the war table cascaded back into his thoughts.
Cullen’s haze broke as Idalya cleared her throat behind him to break the
Inquisitor’s spell.
“So…” She began.
“Yes, that’s Evelyn. The Herald of Andraste herself. I should apologize she can
be very…”
“Bitchy?” Idalya offered. Cullen chuckled as he rubbed the back of his neck.
“Ah yes, that is one way to describe it. Headstrong, independent… I’m sure
Josephine has a whole list compiled for apology letters.”
Idalya laughed as she picked up her sword from the ground wiping the dust off
the blade.
“Evelyn is great with nobles and Orlesians, but her treatment to those without
titles is brash.”
“Thanks for the warning. I’ll remember to keep my Elven self in her good graces
then.” She watched him with intent as Cullen could feel his cheeks still
burning from Evelyn direct orders. “You’ve got it bad,you know?
She joked as she tightened her pauldrons while walking away towards the group
of soldiers who’d settled in front of the Herald’s Rest, while her words placed
a ball of worry into his gut. “Hey Rylen, you finished wiping your tears, so we
can end this?”
Cullen chuckled as he made his way towards his tower. Yes, he was aware how he
was drowning in his preoccupation with the Inquisitor. Every time he’d tried to
distance himself from her for the integrity of their organization, she’d come
back to the Skyhold from her travels and run straight to his office. Throwing
inkwells and parchments to the floor as he’d welcome her back home, a slave to
her desires.
He knew he needed to make time to talk to Leliana about what occurred in the
War Room and couldn’t help recoiling at the fear in Leliana’s eyes, and how
Evelyn referred to Idalya like she was nothing more than some tool for them to
use and discard. He pinched the bridge of his nose as he walked into his office
to bury himself in work to keep him and his thoughts occupied until sundown.
Chapter End Notes
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***** The Chapter Where Leliana and Fiona Give Some Answers *****
Due to her skills as a rogue, Leliana avoided being confronted by Cullen for
the next week. The sheer amount of meticulous planning required from all
advisers prior to leaving for the Winter Palace was enough to keep Cullen, and
his questioning eyes, far from the answers she didn’t have. The answers she
wasn’t prepared to give him. Her scouts were tasked to reroute the Commander’s
messengers, so the Spymaster had just left the vicinity when they arrived with
a summons to his office.
By day seven of their tactical battle, Cullen grew weary of her games. He gave
up trying to contact her. His own stack of work increasing tenfold since the
Inquisitor left for the Hinterlands with Dorian, Solas, and Blackwall for
visible humanitarian work leading up to their travels to Orlais.
The Inquisition is a peacekeeping force, Evelyn told them with a scoff as she’d
left a long list of orders for the Inquisition to complete in her absence, we
better pretend to act like one before we’re called on it.
Having the Inquisitor out of Skyhold did much to calm the lurking fear in the
back of her mind. For days after the last war table meeting, every set of
footsteps or movement in the shadows caused her fingers to travel to the handle
of her hidden dagger. To defend herself against what, she was unsure. If Evelyn
struck against her, Skyhold could have her surrounded in moments. Evelyn
herself moved at inhuman speeds with her flashing silver daggers without her
army. She would leave Leliana bleeding and gasping for breath in a darkened
corner of the Inquisition fortress with no one ever suspecting their graceful
and noble leader.
So far Cullen’s lies seemed to pacify their leader, but Evelyn was skilled in
the Game and Cullen, who was a logical man at heart, lacked common sense with
her. He failed to realize how dangerous she could be if she understood the
bartering chip Idalya would be to the royal court of Ferelden.
Alistair, with Anora’s guiding hand, was successful in rebuilding Ferelden, but
Leliana knew for his beloved Warden he would let the entire world burn and fall
to ashes. That could happen. There was also the fact the organization dangling
Idalya in front of the angry king had stolen her remains from under his nose
out of his kingdom.
Alistair was not on speaking terms with the Grey Wardens after he announced
that Idalya’s body would not be heading to the Warden tomb in Weisshaupt. If
they had a problem with his decision they could take it up with the entire
Ferelden army, he screamed at the Warden-Commander of Orlais. She was instead
housed in the royal crypt where a beautiful statue of her likeness was carved
and placed with her remains next to the plot where he would lay for his eternal
slumber after slipping away to the Fade.
When reports filtered in on the Inquisition’s progress in the Hinterlands,
Leliana knew it was safe enough to call a war table meeting to answer Cullen’s
questions. The next afternoon Leliana followed close behind by Enchanter Fiona,
entered the war room to find it occupied with advisers, the Inquisitor’s
companions, and Templar and army captains who all arrived early for prime
seating. The Spymaster swept through the doors, wearing a sculpted mask of
control, as she made her way to the head of the table. Dropping a pile of
parchment on the table, she made a simple gesture and Fiona came forward,
stepping around Sera who decided the best seat was the middle of the aisle
Varric and Iron Bull formed.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Leliana began, “I know this
meeting is long overdue, but Fiona and I wanted to be certain on diagnoses from
the healers before we briefed everyone.”
“Diagnosis? Is she ill?” Cullen’s voice reached across the room, concern clear
in its tone. Leliana did not meet his gaze but instead gestured once again to
Fiona who stepped forward to address the tense crowd leaning forward in their
seats, expecting answers to the largest question existing in Skyhold.
“Of a sort, Commander,” Fiona responded, her frail-sounding voice somehow
projecting across her audience. “Lady Idalya is suffering from a severe form of
memory loss. Her memories are fractured and recalling them has very painful
side effects as some of you have experienced in your interactions with her.”
She folded her hands against her abdomen. “I know you have many questions for
the Hero, but right now our healers have suggested against any talk of her
experiences. Triggering the wrong memory at the wrong time could have
devastating consequences as her mind tries to piece her memories back together.
Letting her memories unfold on her own time appears to be the safest way we can
help her.”
As Fiona finished, the room remained quiet until erupting in chatter. Leliana
rolled her eyes and cleared her throat. The room quieted down again, except for
Sera who was drunk and babbling something about zombies and abominations over
Varric’s shoulder until the dwarf shoved a hand over her moving mouth silencing
the archer who glared at him in annoyance.
Leliana stepped forward to the table and squared her shoulders. “Speaking of
Idalya’s safety, I’m sure it’s not lost on most of you that her existence puts
her in great danger. If Corypheus or the Venatori knew she lived, she would be
the target of relentless attacks. Idalya is the only thing standing between
Corypheus and his immortality for us in the Inquisition, and it is our job,”
she met Cullen’s eyes, “to keep her safe as we would any other member. For the
Inquisition to succeed and destroy Corypheus, we must have Idalya with us.”
The Spymaster gazed out the rest of crowd, measuring the gazes from within the
room. “I trust you will be careful with the information stated here.
Anyone could be a threat to the Hero, even within our walls.”
She paused and watched the expressions of understanding click on their faces
one by one. What she was saying was dangerous, but she was relying on the
loyalty Idalya gained from these people and prayed it was more than Evelyn
demanded from them. “Thank you for your time today, I know we’re all busy with
preparations, but I consider you all to be important parts of what we’re trying
to accomplish.”
Varric rose from his seat to exit with Iron Bull behind him, a passed-out Sera
laid over his massive shoulder. Cullen issued orders to the Templar captains,
Rylen and Barris, and his army Lieutenants standing beside him before
approaching Leliana and Fiona. The Enchanter gave a brief nod before slipping
through the bustle of the moving guards, still uncomfortable around that many
Templar after her years serving in a circle. Cullen waited for the room to
empty before clearing his throat and turning to Leliana.
“Memory loss? That’s all that’s going on?” Cullen searched her face with
narrowed hazel eyes that sought information she refused to give. “Why all the
secrecy?”
“Because certain pieces of her past could make her a valuable weapon, Cullen. I
know you care for Evelyn, but you need to open your eyes. If she knew about
Idalya and Alistair’s relationship, we would already be at war with Ferelden.”
She leaned forward, so they were looking eye to eye. “Idalya saved your life
once when you didn’t deserve it, I was there. I tried to tell her the merciful
thing to do was send you to the Maker and move on. She wouldn't listen. The
life of one man was of equal importance to her as all of Thedas. That’s who she
is. Remember that detail before you volunteer information that puts bulls-eye
on the back of her head from your beloved.” Leliana spat the final words and
walked past a stunned Cullen.
She needed out of this office. She was not much of a drinker, but there was a
bottle of vintage Ferelden brandy hidden in the bottom of her desk calling her
*****
 The stacks of paperwork and lines of messengers were endless. It seemed the
minute any headway was made into finishing stacks, another pile would appear as
though the parchments multiplied every time her eyes strayed. Leliana was
drowning in row after row of paper, head gasping to stay above the surface, as
information on Corypheus and the Red Templar came in from all corners of
Thedas.
After signing the last missive in a pile, the rogue dropped her quill in midair
watching it strike the ink-stained wooden desk. Reaching above her head, she
interlaced her long fingers and arched them, sighing as her knuckles popped one
after another.
Her focus was damaged.
Fiona was to have a final status meeting with Idalya before she left with the
Inquisitor for the Winter Palace. Leliana argued every point with Evelyn over
the safety of bringing Idalya. Evelyn ignored her protests claiming Fiona
deemed the Hero fit for combat, and as an asset to the Inquisition she would do
her duty. The temptation to play with her new toy was to inviting for Evelyn.
Her advisers warned her that once the Venatori knew Idalya lived she would live
under constant threat of attack until the final battle with Corypheus.
Even knowing Fiona’s dislike for direct confrontation, she expected the mage
would approach her after the meeting, but the day grew long, the sun setting
over the ridge of mountains lighting the horizon on fire and Fiona had not
approached her nor returned to her work.
Collecting the remaining stack of parchment, Leliana tucked them under a weary
arm and proceeded down the stone flight of stairs towards the desk where Fiona
worked on her research for Skyhold’s growing library of magical volumes. She
was unsurprised to find the desk empty, the candle long since burnt down to the
wick, hardened lines of wax reaching out across the corner of the desk.
Fiona’s pile of spell books remained in the organized pile she left them in
before heading to her assessment of the Warden. As she examined the research
table, far off footsteps approached until a messenger acknowledged the
Spymaster with a nod. He handed off a significant pile of parchment full of
annotated notes in Cullen’s blocky script as she sighed.
“Enchanter Fiona?” She inquired.
“In the garden, Nightingale.” He responded in the flat tones of his Starkhaven
accent as she dismissed him.
Leliana added Cullen’s pile of parchment to the previous one still under her
arm, the stacks of paper crunching together as she tightened her elbow over
them. Light steps took her to the stairway, in the nearby reading nook, Dorian
was curled up asleep in his reading chair wearing his garish leather ensemble
with more buckles than fabric. A heavy volume on Trevinter magisters laid open
against his chest which rose and fell with his deep slumbered breaths.
Heading down to the main hall she relaxed, the overwhelming mobs of nobles that
filled the grand hall as visitors vacated when darkness descended over Skyhold.
Varric was writing at his desk, an open bottle of wine keeping him company as
his narrative unfolded, his brow furrowed while his quill scratched out his
next hit. Allowing him privacy she passed, her boots making only the slightest
clicks on the worn stone floors. Entering the garden, she found it free of the
occupants and the servants that made their way between wings of Skyhold.
A soft green light emanated from the wooden gazebo. Leliana drew closer to find
Fiona seated at the edge of the Inquisition’s garden. Sky-blue robes spilled
around her on the ground, soft green tendrils of light drifted off her fingers
into the soil. As the sprouts of elfroot would break the ground, her index
finger would run along the edge of the plant, its leaves taking on an ethereal
glow as they stretched higher and higher. When the plant reached full size,
Fiona sighed and hung her head, her hand dropping into her lap in exhaustion.
Leliana settled onto the carved wooden bench observing her. Fiona made no
motion to speak after a pregnant pause.
“How is she? I had expected you to check in at least after the meeting.”
“Idalya? She’s great. Amazing…,” Fiona scoffed. “Accurate to say, stronger
today than the day she died.”
“What is it?” Worry spread through the Spymaster’s gut, a wave of nausea
settling in over news of her dearest friend. 
Fiona shook her head, regretful while looking out over the garden. “I
am so tired, Nightingale.”
“Of what?” Concern flooded Leliana watching Fiona like this. The two women were
not friends. For the Inquisition to succeed, the two would have to carry out
their duties.
“Of this, of everything. Have we done the right thing, Nightingale? She was
just a girl. A girl with the weight of the entire world placed on her shoulders
and she never bowed or broke and now we’re doing it to her again. She is but a
child and shows more strength and grace than I’ve ever possessed.”
Leliana chuckled despite herself. “Yes, that would be Idalya. She has that
effect on people.” She peered up at the constellations forming in the night
sky. “I don’t know if we were right, but I know the two of us are old enough
now to know the world isn’t made in black and white decisions. Life is hard and
brutal and wars are fought in the gray areas between. Right and wrong no longer
mean the same thing.”
“That is true.” Fiona turned to face her. “Within my life I’ve been a mage who
lost the only life they knew, a grey warden conscripted to be something more,
an enchanter who was brought back to the circle to remain until death, then the
leader of a rebellion who had the chance to free my people only to become
enslaved to Trevinter. After living all these things, I find myself now a
traitor to the few things I thought I held sacred. I’m ready for this to end.”
Her eyes were pointed down, shoulders quivering in the cool mountain breeze as
her fingers worried the fabric along the hem of her periwinkle robes.
Leliana stood and moved closer to the frail-looking mage. Placing a hand on her
shoulder, she squeezed. “The pieces are in place, Fiona. We must follow through
on the path we have set them on. You will find the end you seek soon enough;
the Maker will see us through. Excuse me, I have to go to the Chantry.”
Fiona’s nod in response was numb, as Leliana made her way to the small Chantry
attached to the garden with its white marble statue of Andraste. As she closed
the heavy wooden door behind her, her legs gave and she stumbled the final few
steps, falling to her hands and knees at Andraste’s feet. Gasps escaped out of
her lungs, her nails digging into the rough stone floor as tears flowed out of
her eyes. The dam broke; she could not hold back the tears as they flowed over
her cheeks, dripping to the floor. Shoving a dirty fist to her mouth, a scream
ripped its way out of her throat and ended in more gasping breaths as she laid
down to place her head against the cool stone of the statue.
Over time, she calmed her breaths, but she remained laying there staring up
into Andraste’s eyes in her filthy hooded cloak. The words of Transfigurations
worked their way out of her soul, up her throat, and out onto her lips:
“Those who bear false witness
And work to deceive others, know this:
There is but one Truth.
All things are known to our Maker
And He shall judge their lies.

All things in this world are finite.
What one man gains, another has lost.
Those who steal from their brothers and sisters
Do harm to their livelihood and to their peace of mind.
Our Maker sees this with a heavy heart.”
The blessing candles blinked in the drafty room. Words she had spoken to Fiona
came back into her head. She was right: right and wrong no longer meant the
same as they had when she was an idealistic girl following Idalya across
Ferelden.
The Maker may never forgive Fiona and her for their actions, but there was
still time to make it up to her friend. Pushing away Idalya only worked in some
fantasy where watching her friend die a second time didn’t hurt the same way it
did before. As Leliana knelt and wept next to her body atop Fort Drakon, she
would have given everything for just one more moment with her dearest friend.
Leliana received the most extraordinary gift from the Maker: a second chance.
She would no longer run from the fear of pain. After everything she had done to
bring back her dearest friend, the last thing she would do is leave her alone
in the darkness when she could once again fight by her side for the fate of
Thedas.
***** The Chapter Where Barris Trains *****
Chapter Summary
     Idalya needs to prepare to fight the Red Templars, but can Knight-
     Captain Barris stay objective when it concerns her?
Arriving early for the scheduled training session arranged with the Hero,
Knight-Captain Delrin Barris expected both combatants there and preparing in
their respective corners.
When approached for training by the Hero, Barris contemplated her proposal
before locating Captain Rylen, who was (no surprise) at the Herald’s Rest. It
wasn’t uncommon to partake the elf and the Templar sparring for a rowdy crowd
of soldiers after consuming a few ales. He hoped Rylen would be more
comfortable stepping into the training ring than himself.
Rylen looked up at him with a frown while tipping back his tankard. With the
last of ale swallowed down, Rylen slammed down his cup onto the wooden table
and shook his head at Barris.
“Sorry friend, can’t help you with this one. First off, I like the girl too
much to beat the shit out of her. Second, I think my men are laughing at me
because she shows me up too much in there as it is.” He ran his worn hands over
his jaw tattoos. “Why don’t you climb in there with her? Maker knows how long
it’s been since you been close to a woman that beautiful. Though knowing how
serious you are about your work, I’m guessing there’s a chance you’ve never
been close to a woman of half her worth.”
Barris’ shifted in his plate armor, uncomfortable with the current topic. “It’s
complicated,” he grumbled, avoiding Rylen’s stare.
Rising from his bench, he clasped Barris by the shoulder, squaring his to his
friend as he addressed him with a grin. “It always is. If there’s hope for
Cullen, there’s hope for you, Brother.” Rylen chuckled as he walked away. “Just
talk to her, I’ve seen the looks she throws you across the courtyard. You might
be as serious as a heart attack, but you’re real easy on the eyes.” He called
out to him.
Barris huffed and peered around, to see who was witness to his embarrassment.
Not wanting to stay in the overbearing tavern, he left for the Templar wing
where a younger recruit, Lysette, volunteered eagerly to show her skills.
With everything arranged for training the next day, Barris laid awake in his
bunk trying to keep his mind clear. He rolled back and forth, listening to the
sounds of sleeping Templar, but his mind kept venturing back to Lake Calenhad a
decade ago.
Barris was the second born son of a Ferelden noble family and in being the
“spare” son, he followed his own path, unlike his brother who spent his days
being groomed to be the heir. On warm summer days, he would walk down to the
edge of the Lake and stare across at the mighty circle tower rising out of its
center. As a child, he played out fantasies in his mind of fighting demons with
his sword and shield. As he gained years, he took on more roles within the
family estate. Barris was a natural with animals and would spend hours working
in the family stable with his father’s prize mabari. Though he found plenty of
find time to sneak away and daydream.
On one such day, he spotted her.
He had ventured closer to the ferry docks than typical for his routine,
watching the crowds drifting in and out of the Spoiled Princess tavern. He was
fourteen then. All legs his frame hadn’t grown into yet.
From the imperial highway, he heard a group of voices traveling towards him.
Barris found them to be a confusing group. They contained a mabari, a massive
Qunari, a chantry sister, a petite warrior, a broad-shouldered warrior, and a
thin woman with jet black hair and yellow hawk-like eyes missing most of her
clothing.
The dark-haired woman was arguing with the excited mabari who was barking and
jumping around her as the large warrior laughed at the scene.
“I’ve told you, I have nothing for you to eat dog. Go away!” The mabari
flattened its ears and whined as the woman stormed past him ahead of the rest
of the company.
The large warrior knelt, scratching him on the head until his tail wagged
again. “Don’t listen to her Barkspawn, she’s just jealous of how handsome you
are. Yes, she is, yes, she is! I bet she’s so jealous, she’ll have treats for
you. Go! Go get her!” The mabari resumed its jumping and barking its approval
and ran after the raven-haired woman reaching the docks. The warrior stood
frozen in his spot until an angry cry echoed up from the docks along with a
bright flash of light. He pumped a victorious fist in the air before he ran off
towards the altercation.
As the rest of the group headed past Barris observing them, the smaller warrior
slowed down, removing their helmet. Her removal unveiled the most beautiful
creature Barris had ever seen in his fourteen years of life. Long silver hair
poured over her shoulders as she pulled the leather tie from her sweaty hair.
Her skin was a dark shade of tan complimenting her violet eyes.
The world slowed down and narrowed so all he observed was her. She turned to
the auburn-haired chantry sister standing next to her.
“They’re children. They’re behaving like children, Leliana. I’d punish them by
forcing them to work together if it wouldn’t turn out to be more of a
punishment for the rest of us.” For such a young face, her voice belied a
strength and confidence beyond her years.
The sister laughed, a high pitch harmony like the ringing of a bell, “You
should threaten to put him in charge that would calm him down if he thought
he’d have to decide where we’re going next.” The friends grinned at each other.
“If he doesn’t watch it, I’ll put him in charge of the whole country then we’ll
see how funny he thinks he is.” The elf joked with a mischievous glint in her
eye.
Shaking her head, the sister motioned forward. “Come, Dal, let’s go. Begging a
circle for help wasn't on my wish list. Let’s get this over with.” The women
locked arms and followed their group. “You know, I have to say for as obnoxious
as he can be to your traveling companions, Alistair is pretty to look at, don’t
you think?”
The women kept walking until they were out of Barris’ sight. He spent most of
the day waiting near the docks for the woman and her traveling companions to
return. As the day grew long, he made his way back to the estate for dinner
with his family. That night she featured in all his dreams. Now as he battled
imaginary demons, her face blushed with gratitude as she thanked him for saving
her.
The messenger arrived early the next morning to inform the Barrises that the
Circle had fallen to abominations. The Rite of Annulment was requested, but not
needed.
Barris didn’t understand what the last part meant, but all he thought of was
the silver-haired girl, only a few years older than him, stuck in the tower
while abominations attacked.
He ran down to the docks, waiting all day until the ferry returned. His stomach
sunk to the floor as he waited for the boat to come close enough for its
occupants to be visible. As the sun shifted overhead, the glint of white off
her silver hair reflected and he exhaled, his breath jagged and stressed. She
lived.
The ferry came upon the shore. Their excitement gone, the group withdrew out of
the boat without a word. The elf and the warrior, now helmless with a ragged
mop of rusted hair, were the last ones remaining. Standing up, he reached down
to wrap his arm under hers and he helped her stand with concern in his eyes.
Her face grimaced from a pain deep in her side as he assisted her onto the
docks.
None of her companions spoke a word as they made their way back to the highway.
Barris stood with the crowds forming outside the tavern to observe the unusual
group who prevented the tower from falling. As she drifted by, the elf’s eyes
locked with his and he gasped finding her eyes weren’t just lavender, but a
swirl of gray and purple. The underside of her right eye was bruising, streaks
of blood dried on her face, armor, and clumped through the strands of her hair.
After that day, Barris traced the warden through her journeys during the
Blight. He sat silently through the celebrations in town for the slain
Archdemon that while Ferelden might now be free, it lost something precious.
The next morning, he informed his father he would join the Templar. One month
later he left his family behind to gain another.
Now a decade had passed. He saw his brothers and sisters lost and corrupted by
red lyrium. At his weakest moment, the Maker granted him a gift: she had
returned. A ghost sent to remind him of why he wanted to protect those weaker
than him. He kept the secret of her identity when she was introduced to the
Inquisition until the Commander pulled him into his office to explain who she
was and why it was important to let her train with the best they offered.
If the Commander was surprised Delrin met the Hero during the Blight, he didn’t
show it. Barris knew Kinloch was a very difficult time for Cullen multiplied by
his withdrawal symptoms so Barris did the kindest thing he could think of--he
pretended he didn't recollect Cullen served at Kinloch and the two served next
to each other with no problems.
He was nervous to train with the Hero, but it was hard to discredit her
dedication. She trained warriors and rogues alike with her mesmerizing speed
and was open to any feedback the Inquisition trainers had for her. She pushed
herself harder than any soldier on the field and the others respected and
followed her example every day. So Barris hadn’t expected just the Hero early
and preparing to spar, but also Lysettte.
The two women stood facing each other as they observed the other across the
ring. The Templar lifted her sword above her head, stretching out the length of
her neck and back. With a graceful sweep, her mahogany strands of hair flowing
in the breeze, she brought the sword down blade first in the dirt, dropping to
one knee, kneeling behind the flaming blade of the Chantry emblazoned on the
blade. Her lips moved with fervor: “Blessed are they who stand before the
corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the
champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In
their blood the Maker's will is written.”
The Hero creased her eyebrows watching Lysette then looked to Barris and
shrugged toward the praying Templar, “Uh yeah… what she said.”
He couldn’t help the grin that appeared for her. She smiled back holding his
gaze for too long and as she turned away to move to the center of the ring, he
noticed the tips of her ears shaded the brightest flush of pink. A heat rushed
through his limbs as he stared at the visual mark of her response to him.
Remembering his place and why they were here, he walked towards the ring to
speak to them.
“We’ll start with basic sparring with Lysette following regulation Templar
movements. Warm up. Feel out your partner.” He found Rylen’s voice in his head
about to say something vile before he squelched the sound. “When you're
comfortable, Lysette will use pure force on you and you will fight to stay
alive. It will be ugly, but this is the reality of what you’ll face when you
leave these walls.” Both women nodded while taking their stance in the center
of the ring. Barris tapped his sword, bang, against the wooden fence and the
fight began.
Two training swords clanged together as the Templar and warrior swung towards
each other, the sound echoing through the training grounds. Barris circled
outside the sparring ring as he observed the technique of the two combatants.
Calling out a footwork critique for Lysette, he was pleased with the competency
of both women.
The Elven warrior Dal, as she asked the other soldiers to call her, was an
impressive swordswoman. Her movements were quick as she maneuvered around her
opponent. Far stronger than her smaller rounded frame gave away. Lysette, one
of the strongest Templar in Skyhold, even as a recruit, found herself
outmatched in direct combat by the sarcastic and wise-cracking elf who had an
unnerving ability to destroy her opponents with ease.
When he asked her why she came to him for help instead of another Templar, she
stated Barris was there and watched the Red Templar lose themselves to
corruption. The Inquisition viewed them as nothing but monsters, but Barris
still remembered when they were men and watched their descent into madness. He
knew how the men fought then observed the influence of red lyrium and how it
changed them. Dal was committed to remembering these men were used by those
they trusted the most, a position, unlike the Inquisitor who told her army she
would cut down every single red Templar abomination until the rivers of
Ferelden and Orlais ran crimson with their blood.
Trying to keep his gaze objective as the women sparred, his eyes kept wandering
to Dal. Her long silver hair tied into a high ponytail which stressed her long
face and the points of her elongated ears.  Barris watched beads of sweat form
across her forehead and run down the curve of her cheeks, across the slope of
her neck, and under the collar of her cream-colored sleeveless tunic. Her
fitted shirt and tight leather breeches as she crouched in a defensive
position, left nothing to the fidgeting Templar’s imagination. The collar of
his own armor tightened as the minutes passed and though the day was setting in
the icy mountains, his skin bathed in fire as he watched the elf move.
Lysette attempted to charge Dal, but she dodged the attack, coming up behind
the off-balance Templar with a lopsided smirk on her face. As Lysette struggled
to maintain her balance in her heavy armor on one side of the ring, Dal turned
and met Barris’ emeralds for eyes with her gray-purple ones. A shock ran
through his body making him warmer as she looked through him and her smile
faltered as she turned back to the Templar who had righted herself. Grunting
with a scowl on her face, Barris saw Lysette was losing her composure against
the elf. Tapping his sword against the edge of the ring, he changed up their
strategy.
“Good work. Next round: Lysette, I want you to come in close. Disarm Dal. Dal,
try to take Lysette off balance and remove yourself from close combat. You’re
fast, but you need to know how to defend against pure strength. When battling
anything infected with red lyrium, you must be careful to mind their armor.
Shards of the lyrium piercing through the metal slicing into unprotected skin
can infect you. This aspect makes battle for warriors and close-quarter rogues
dangerous.” He tapped his sword again against the wooden planks to resume
combat.
Lysette was quick to take a step to Dal’s right, bashing her pommel into the
Warden’s hands. Using her elbows, she freed the sword held loose in her
competitor’s injured hands. The sword clanged as it landed in the dirt, and in
one step Lysette kicked it away while her free hand clasped Dal by the throat.
Dal’s long, thin fingers tried to find purchase in metal edges of Lysette’s
armor, but Lysette squeezed harder, lifting the elf off the ground. Dal’s eyes
widened, but she continued to struggle. Giving up on grabbing the Templar’s
armor, Dal wrapped her arms around Lysette’s strangling arm. Rearing back as
far as the angle would allow, she pushed her momentum forward, kicking forward
into Lysette’s midsection with her remaining strength.
Lysette gave out a choked cry and dropped Dal as her hands flew to her abdomen.
Dal landed on her back in the dirt, her limbs twisted at strange angles. She
held her hand over her throat in a protective action. Coughing, she rolled onto
her knees to get to her feet. Lysette’s arm shot out and grabbed her foot,
pulling her off balance as she crashed face first into the dirt.
An armored boot struck Dal in the ribs as she crawled away. Dirt entering her
mouth from the sharp intake of breath as she gasped in pain. The Templar
grabbed her by the wrist and threw her onto her back. With split-second timing,
Dal spit the mouthful of dirt into Lysette’s eyes and the Templar roared
hobbling backward, her fingers desperate to scrape the debris from her eyes.
Dal moved to her stomach to distance herself from her opponent. The two women
were determined to follow through though both would spend the rest of the night
in the healer’s tent. Lysette cleaned the dirt out of her eyes, picking her
dusty sword up and stalked the crawling elf to the edge of the training ring.
The metal of her armor clinked with every heavy step as she neared the warrior,
she showed caution.
A heavy boot came down on Dal’s ankle. The Warden muffled her scream of pain
into her arm, but Lysette’s boot met her ribs again in the same spot and Barris
knew she was in trouble. His stomach clenched as he watched her become
desperate to get away.
Rolling her onto her back, Lysette stood over Dal’s chest and dropped to her
knees, trapping the tiny elf beneath her as she straddled her chest. The
Templar brought a heavy glove towards Dal’s head, but she moved it out of the
way just in time. Lysette grimaced in pain as her fist collided with the
ground, armor crunching with the impact. Barris watched Lysette in her
frustration to end the match, reach back and grab her sword, pommel pointed
down she reached both hands in the air. He held his breath as he waited if Dal
would dodge the serious blow. As Lysette’s hands brought down the sword, Barris
felt the crackle of magic in the air.
In the blink of an eye, a bright light flashed in the ring with Lysette thrown
halfway across it, landing with a heavy a thud. Before Barris moved, Lysette’s
training took over, the ring bursting into bright light as the smite hit Dal
straight in the chest. Her scream was tight and over in a second as her body
heaped over in the ring.
***** The Chapter Where Barris Saves the Helpless Warden *****
Chapter Summary
     Idalya is injured in training, but the Templar are reluctant to let
     Barris help her.
Barris jumped the wooden barrier, reaching Dal in three paces. Fresh streams of
blood flowed from her nose, mouth, and ears while purple bruises of gloved
imprints formed around her neck. With two fingers pressed against her neck, he
sighed in relief sensing a weak pulse beneath. Hearing a sword unsheathed
behind him, Barris turned to find a bloodied Lysette standing, sword
outstretched, with two other Templar also directing their swords toward him and
Dal.
“Stand down! What are you doing?” Barris commanded, but they remained unmoved.
“Knight-Captain, she’s an apostate, ser. An unharrowed mage, she not allowed to
roam through Skyhold!” Lysette grimaced out. She pointed to the side of her
blackened armor, small tendrils of smoke curling off the scorched metal. “She
struck me with lightning, ser. You witnessed it. She attacked a Templar, she
must await the Inquisitor's judgment.”
Barris stood up to his full height, unsheathing his sword as he pointed it at
the three Templar. “You will not touch her, and she is going nowhere other than
to a healer. STAND DOWN. THAT IS AN ORDER!” His voice echoed off the courtyard
as people turned to discover the source of the commotion happening in the
training yard. The two Orlesian Templar beside Lysette stepped forward with
their swords still outstretched.
Barris' voice was low and threatening, “No one will put their hands on her. Her
name is Idalya Mahariel, the Hero of Ferelden, vanquisher of the Archdemon,
savior of the Blight," The faces on all three Templar fell as they stared at
the still limp body of the elf that bled out in the surrounding dirt. “I order
you to stand down.”
Something moved behind the Templar, but he didn’t focus on it. In a concise
movement, the three Templar were struck in the back of their heads and they
collapsed to the ground, their bodies limp. Barris’ eyes met Blackwall’s as the
Warden moved forward to check on Idalya.
“Better get the girl to a healer. I’ll take care of your buddies here until
they come to. I’m certain their Commander will have choice words for them after
all this. Go quick! Make sure the warden is fine.” Blackwall urged.
Barris scooped Idalya off the ground into his arms and moved as quick as his
legs allowed towards the main hall of Skyhold. For such an intimidating woman,
Barris found himself confused at how small she was in his arms. She'd curled up
like a child as he cleared the steps and aimed for the doorway to the rotunda.
Exiting into the hallway, he came into Solas’ work area. The mage painting on
his massive murals.
Turning at the commotion, he saw Idalya in Barris’ arms and jumped down from
his scaffolding mumbling the word no, repeatedly. The mage swiped his pile of
books off the desk and motioned for Barris to place her down on the table, to
analyze the extent of her injuries.
“What happened? How could this happen…” Solas’ hands glowed a vibrant green as
he pressed them against her abdomen and chest sensing her injuries.
“She was smited, ser.”
His eyes narrowed as he stared down the Templar. “Smited? She’s not a mage.”
Solas projected his discomfort as he examined her body.
Sure that they were alone, Barris leaned forward forwards Solas and spoke under
his breath, “She was sparring with a Templar as practice for Red Templar… she
attacked the Templar with lightning and the Templar smited her in defense.” 
Solas’ face was a war of emotions as he processed the Templar’s words. With a
sigh, he placed his hands on Idalya’s chest and Barris sensed the rising of his
magic as the green swirls penetrated through her tunic into her body. Her
breaths became shallower, quickening as her body arched to his magic. A whimper
escaped her perfect pink lips and Barris stepped forward in concern but halted
as Solas shot him a sideways glare from where he worked.
Her body slid back down to the desk as the mage’s magic wore down. In a more
relaxed position than before, she looked asleep other than the streams of dried
blood streaking her face, the marks on her neck already lessening from Solas’
outpouring of healing.
Stepping away from the desk Solas stumbled, before receiving help to a chair to
recover. Barris’ eyes drifted back to the sleeping elf on the desk. Now that
she was safe it was indecent to be standing over her. If he found her beautiful
awake, it was nothing compared to her beauty as she relaxed, the weight of the
world lifted off her shoulders.
He chided himself for thinking thoughts like that about the Hero. Barris swore
to protect the weakest of those who needed help and this girl was the epitome
of those who needed his protection. As beautiful and vibrant as Dal might be,
she needed his help. She needed everyone's help if she was to succeed.
A fast-moving pair of footsteps caught his attention, his hand gripping the
pommel of his sword as the door from the main hall busted open into the rotunda
and Leliana came running through it to Idalya’s side. She dropped to one knee
and placed her forehead against the Hero’s.
Barris stood straighter and stepped back from the desk unsure how to handle the
spilling emotion from the Spymaster. Squaring his shoulders, he directed his
line of sight towards the enormous paintings now covering the walls of the
rotunda and tried to block out the soft whispers the Spymaster spoke into the
Hero’s ear as she smoothed her silver hair. The minutes lasted for hours until
Leliana stood and was once more the Nightingale.
“Solas, please… dear Maker, please tell me…”
“She will be fine,” Solas interrupted from his chair, “I don’t know what
happened, but I know you and Fiona are dabbling in magic you don't understand!”
His voice escalated in volume as he stared her down.
Leliana’s eyes darted to Barris standing away from the commotion.
“What is he doing here?” She asked, suspicious of his role. “Did he do this?”
Her hand motioned towards Idalya.
The elf rolled his eyes. “No, he’s the one that saved her, and I assume he’s
here because he’s worried she’ll attack someone else, Spymaster.”
Leliana huffed out a breath of air as she removed a handkerchief from her
pocket and cleared the blood from her friend’s face.
“That’s ridiculous. She wouldn’t harm any-"
“She summoned lightning on a Templar!” Solas’ fist pounded the arm of the chair
as he stood to face the Spymaster. “A warrior with no discernible mana summoned
lightening then was injured to the point of death by a smite. Whatever you have
done has bent the rules of magic to their breaking point. If you keep me in the
dark, I can’t help you and I can’t help her! I drained all of my mana to heal
the internal damage she sustained… damage she shouldn’t be able to!”
As the two argued, the crackle of Solas’ magic filled the room as his anger
grew towards the Spymaster. His purpose for bringing Dal here wasn’t to
suppress the magic of the elf, but if he needed to protect one of the
Inquisition’s advisers, he would do it with no hesitation. Taking a step
forward, he reached out his non-sword arm towards the mage, pulling the lyrium
in his system to the front. At the first pull of lyrium, Solas turned towards
him and hung his head down, releasing a groan. The magic in the room dissipated
as the mage ran his hands over his face and swore in Elven as Barris lowered
his arm.
“First the Hero is smited outside, then I’m almost silenced in my home. The
more things change, the more they stay the same.” He turned to Leliana. “You
can both leave now, Spymaster, I need you to send couriers to bring a healer’s
cot to the room, so I can make her more comfortable. She’ll have plenty more
hours to rest and I need to continue my work. I'll have a messenger fetch you
when she has awoken.”
Leliana shook her head and stormed out up the stairway heading to her ravens.
Leaving the mage and Templar alone with the Hero.
“And I need you to head to Commander Cullen and inform him about what has
happened. I sense there will be damage control he must complete with your
Templar before the night is through.”
Barris bowed and made his way to the exit to the Commander’s tower when the elf
spoke once more.
“Oh, and Ser Barris?” Barris turned to face him. The mage held his hands linked
behind his back as he made his way toward the Templar with deliberate
footsteps. When he was face to face with Barris, he stopped to analyze him.
“Thank you for protecting the Hero. Without your quick response, she would have
perished in the custody of the Templar when they apprehended her.” Barris
nodded in acknowledgment as Solas continued, “Evelyn might have chosen to work
with the Templar and bring you into the Inquisition as equals, but if you ever
threaten me again in my home, not even your Maker can protect you when I get my
hands on you.”
Barris’ entire body tightened at the mage’s words. This was no idle threat.
“Understood.” His voice rasped out as he refused to drop his eyes from the
mage’s.
“Would you leave that part out of your discussion with the Commander? He’s
jumpier around mages than you are, and I’d hate for him to single out mages as
being dangerous because I take the Templar doing their jobs personally.” Solas
regarded him for a moment with an eyebrow uplifted. “You keep my secret,” he
motioned towards Idalya’s sleeping form, “and I’ll keep yours.”
Barris rolled his eyes and continued out to the Commanders tower with heavy
footsteps as he heard Solas’ quiet chuckles echo through the silent rotunda as
the wooden door closed behind him.
***** The Chapter Where Solas Finds the Unexpected *****
Chapter Summary
     Solas follows into the Fade to check on Idalya, but what he finds
     will change his life forever.
Hours ticked by after the Knight-Captain left the dim candlelit rotunda, but
Solas remained motionless at his desk. His long fingers interlaced under his
chin as his eyes glanced over the piles of texts on his desk now the least of
his current concerns.
Idalya's limp form dozed on the cot Leliana’s messengers delivered minutes
after the Spymaster stormed from the room. Solas lifted the incapacitated woman
and brought her onto the cot afterward, careful to not hurt her lingering
injuries. Her sepia skin drained of its glow now held a sickening pallor. Deep
bruises under her eyes and running the length of her neck. Streaks of dried
blood remained on her tunic and through strands of her long silver hair. Traces
of violence and grime speckling the surface.
Daylight grew dim through the gap of the heavy wooden doors. The hours of the
day ending as the night took over its reign. The stirrings of visitors and
servants throughout the tower quieted as people left the dining hall for the
Herald’s Rest to close out their day.
Looking up into the balconies, a silhouette stood at the edge of the railing
unmoving as they watched him at work. Solas resorted his haphazard piles of
paperwork and texts, pretending not to notice Dorian above. The wafting
judgment from the Trevinter mage drifted towards him though he had no interest
in being on the receiving end of the mage’s venom-filled glare.
Solas’ eyes never moved from his desk and a slight grin appeared on his
features when Dorian’s footsteps echoed across the stone floors as he exited
the rotunda, joining Evelyn in their ritual overindulgence of wine.
No other sounds lingered in the tower as Solas turned to the sleeping elf. She
tossed and turned in her cot, soft whimpers escaping her lips.
Rising to his feet, he walked to her cot, checking for any signs of infection.
He sighed in relief to find her clammy, but without fever. She would heal, but
the consequences of the day remained unseen. His bare feet moved without sound
against the stones as he paced back to his chair. Standing over the desk, he
shook his head, arms crossed over his chest as he headed to his sleeping alcove
and stepped inside.
Laying down on the minimalist bedding, he pulled a thin woven blanket over his
legs as he settled in. Willing his body to relax, he closed his eyes, preparing
to enter the Fade. The muscles in his body twitched as sleep overcame them. He
focused on Idalya’s face and features, the feel of her spirit, as he drew
himself into the part of the Fade she occupied.
The familiar heavy weight of the Fade melted over him as he slipped deeper into
the dream world. As Skyhold’s ancient stones over the eons became clearer,
Solas moved towards something in the Fade much further away. Images and long-
lost dreams blurring around him as he flew around countless memories laid into
the surrounding land until it stopped.
His balance was impaired, his vision muddy as he opened his eyes. They adjusted
to an image of a camp ahead bathed in night. Abstract parts of the memory were
missing. Similar to how dreams resembled when the Fade projected to those who
traveled its paths, but much stranger spots in the camp were missing than Solas
had experienced.
Objects ripped from the fabric of the Fade itself or covered in light so
blinding, he turned his eyes away. Careful not the interact with these missing
pieces of time, he walked further into the camp on delicate footing. Unlike his
other travels while Fade walking, this memory remained frozen in time.
A large bonfire seated at the center of the camp was the focal point, its
flames unmoving, the world paused.
A young Leliana, in thin armor and bow at her side, laid next to the fire. Her
head in the lap of a towheaded elf running his hands through her hair, an
expression of adoration covering his face as he looked into her eyes. Moving
closer he saw how the last decade had worn down the Inquisition’s Spymaster,
her eyes so bright and holding no circles underneath.
Without knowing Leliana, you would miss how weighed down from the daily
decisions in her job she was. To see her happy and at her most relaxed? Solas
turned away uncomfortable with his intrusive spying through memories. Seeing
someone who no longer existed. It bothered Solas to see her cold and
calculating eyes turned warm and thoughtful, knowing the girl with the kind
face had many hard years to face in front of her.
On a further side of a camp, a large Qunari, the current Arishok, sat unmoving
in the center cleaning a large broadsword in his lap. Nearby, an older woman
with white hair in a tight bun, soft blue mage robes spread around her on the
ground, held a massive tome open in hers.
Solas remembered Wynne. He'd observed her in a memory of Cole’s he'd walked
through with the spirit. She was a mother figure to the group, looking out for
their wellbeing. Using her experience of overcoming adversity in the Circles to
help these children survive fighting a Blight alone.
Solas stepped over a Fade hole in the ground as he crossed the camp, finding
what he had been searching for.
Idalya rested on the ground, knees to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs.
In front of her, a version of herself leaned back in a bundled cloud of light.
The light stung at Solas’ eyes, but Idalya remained steadfast as she stared at
herself in this memory locked in time.
Solas contemplated leaving.
All of this was wrong.
The holes in the Fade, Idalya separate from a memory watching it as an
outsider. Only the most powerful of mages contained this level of power to
manipulate the Fade, yet here she was. This moment was too intense; he should
not have come here. Preparing to leave, she spoke to him.
“You followed me here.” Her voice was deep, rougher than normal, her throat
aching from crying and the damage she taken from strangling in the training
ring hours earlier.
There was no accusation in her voice. just more one thing to surprise him in
dealings with the Warden. Over his life, he met many that would live forever
through mythology and legends. All of them mere fractions of the people in
those stories, but Idalya was the exception. Her legend and the surrounding
stories didn’t do her justice.
Leading was in her blood, her presence demanding respect. Within days of
joining Skyhold, she was respected more by the soldiers than their own
Inquisitor. Every morning she was the first warrior out training and every
evening the last one on the field. Cleaning up and preparing for the next day
to the horror of the servants who begged her to stop lest the Commander think
they were shirking their duties.
Solas contemplated if Idalya existed in the time of ancient elves, their fate
might not have been doomed. Idalya could have prevented the Exalted March and
saved the elves from themselves and those who sought to bring fear and
ignorance into the hearts of humans concerning them. It was ironic she had
little care for the elves and saw herself as only a person existing in Thedas
rather than someone representing elves as a race.
Stepping around pieces of the Fade falling apart, Solas walked to her side. “I
followed you here, but I find myself speechless at what I've found.”
Idalya stayed stationery staring at the image of herself.
Lowering himself to the ground, he sat cross-legged next to her as he observed
the scene. Within this memory Idalya grinned, tiny lines formed around her
eyes, her cheeks glowing with a rosy tint, white strands of her hair frozen in
the air flowing in the breeze.
The shape of light behind her mesmerized Solas. He knew of nothing like it in
the Fade before. When people experienced memory loss, their visions still
existed in the Fade, they were just unable to access them.
This was something else.
Idalya’s memories existed broken and disjointed, her mind disassembled like a
quilt, patch by patch. Tears ran down the lengths of her tanned cheeks, pooling
onto her arms as she peered over them to watch herself.
“You see it don’t you?”
He looked back to the frozen image in front of him and regarded it, his brows
creased.
“I was happy, Solas. What if I can never find what I lost?” Her voice wavered
as her fingers clutched into her skin. “Something is missing. I’m… missing?”
With that last word, great sobs shook her core as she placed her head down on
her arms, letting the tears fall.
Part of him wanted to reach over and comfort her, but he understood when the
grief experienced by a person was greater than the comfort one person could
give them. He waited out her cries until her breathing returned to a steady
rise and fall of her chest.
“Is this what your memories are like?” He asked, and she shook her head in
response, her eyes still glazed with her tears.
“No, I see memories through my eyes. Not like this.” Her hands wrung together.
“I wasn’t expecting this. This hurt. I’ve lost something and now I've confirmed
it. It's no longer a lingering question I'm too afraid to ask.”
Watching the armor of the honorable warrior crumble away, leaving behind the
trembling girl was too much for Solas to watch. How often had he sat amongst
memories of times gone past yearning to be part of something so much larger
than himself? He recognized her pain, acknowledged it, and internalized it so
much more than he could ever tell her.
“The only people who can access the Fade in this fashion are demons, spirits,
and mages.” He watched her face for any change in expression. She winced as he
said demon but seemed unsurprised when he mentioned mage.
Idalya hesitated. “Is she… all right?”
Solas nodded. “The Templar?” She was concerned for a Templar who would have
slain her without a second thought hours ago. “She’ll be fine. You remember,
don’t you?” Idalya nodded as her body shook. “I assume she’s confused and even
more so after she woke up from being incapacitated by Blackwall.”
She frowned as she absorbed his words.
“Don’t think poorly of him, you owe Blackwall and the Templar Captain your
life. The Templars wanted to throw you into a Skyhold cell until the Inquisitor
sentenced you as a hidden apostate. They would have let you die in that cell…
well, again.” He gave her a brief smile as she snorted at his inappropriate
humor.
She turned back to face the frozen grin in front of her. “Have you seen
anything like this before?” Idalya motioned towards the blinding light. “Does
this happen when people forget memories? How does that happen? It feels so
familiar, yet it’s nothing. There’s nothing there.”
“No, I’ve never seen anything like this before," he lied.
This girl was already broken and the last thing he'd let her hear was parts of
her memories had been ripped from Fade. This wasn’t an alteration of her
memories, but an attempt to rip them out of space and time itself.
“Am I… am I a mage?” She looked down towards the ground, her shaking boots
digging paths into the dirt.  
“No, you are not,” Solas answered with confidence. He waited until she turned
to gaze at him, with red crying rings around her purple and gray swirled eyes.
“You have no discernible mana. The Templar had the advantage, you sensed great
danger, and something protected you. In a situation like that, many circle
mages would become abominations, but you defended yourself. I do not understand
how. That and how you were smited.” That caught her attention.
“Smited? How in Thedas was I smited?” Her eyes stared at him in disbelief as he
considered how to answer her question.
“If you haven’t figured out by now, I’m not here just rifling around in your
memories… or what’s left of them. You were injured when hit by a smite.
Warriors should not be hurt by such an attack, the same way a warrior shouldn’t
shoot lightning from their hands. It seems we have many mysteries today.”
She motioned towards the bundle of light again, “What do you think would happen
if I touched this dream? Or whatever this is.” Solas considered her question as
his own curiosity took over.
“I don’t know, but I am intrigued to test it out.”
She nodded and rose to her feet and approached her smiling twin and its glowing
companion. As she reached out of her hand to graze her fingers over the edge,
Solas interrupted her.
“I don’t know what will happen. Hold on to my hand to keep us from being
separated. Fade walking is not a skill you have developed. You could be trapped
because I lost my connection to you.”
Idalya reached behind her, sliding her long fingers into Solas’ palm as her
other hand stretched forward hesitantly towards the pulsing glow. Her
fingertips buzzed as they drew closer and as her fingers made contact a
blinding light overtook their eyes as she was pulled to some other place.
The room was composed of nothing but bright light from floor to ceiling. The
buzzing in Idalya's fingertips now worked its way up and down the length of her
entire body.
“Fuck!” she screeched, her voice echoing in the strange room. “I am so sick of
this shit! I didn’t want this! No one would ask for this.” Her voice broke on
the final words. “I don’t know why I thought it would be different with you
here.”
Solas squeezed his hand around hers in reassurance he recognized as inadequate.
She shook her head and pulled her hand away and wrapped them both around her
chest.
“I don’t know what I am or who I’m supposed to be. I have almost no memories,
I’ve fallen into a time I don’t belong. Maker, I’m not even a warden
anymore...” Solas stepped in front of her.
“What did you say?” His eyes scanned her face in panic.
She looked at the ceiling, holding back tears, as she refused to make eye
contact.
“After a warden undergoes their joining, they are forever linked to the
darkspawn. I no longer have that connection.” She closed her eyes, squeezing
tears out through her thick lashes.
Solas’ mind had gone blank. All of this for nothing. So much pain this girl had
endured, and she might not be what they needed.
“How are you sure the connection is severed?”
Idalya looked him straight in the eyes. “Blackwall.”
“Has Blackwall said something to you?”
“Not yet, but I can no longer sense him. I should be able to sense every Grey
Warden and darkspawn within a range of Skyhold and I sense nothing from him.
I’m too scared to approach him and ask if he can sense me still. What if he
goes to Leliana or the Inquisitor?”
Solas shook his head. “Warden’s protect their own. Blackwall has already shown
that today, your secret is safe. We should investigate before the Inquisitor is
aware.”
He was concerned for the wellbeing of the Hero. If the Inquisitor discovered
she had no value, there's no telling what Evelyn would have planned for her.
Experiment? Sell her off to the highest bidder? Anything that gained her more
power over others made it worth it to Evelyn. Solas snooped through enough of
Evelyn’s memories to know she was not to be underestimated.
The deadliest predators were the ones that looked the least threatening,
letting you drop your defenses before stabbing you in the back.
“You would help me?” At that moment she looked so young.
She exuded strength, but this was pure vulnerability and she was trusting it to
him. He'd disappointed many people in his life, she would not be one of them.
“You can trust me. I will warn you that sometimes the past is lost from history
for a reason, what you find may hurt more than the absence of the memories
themselves.”
She smiled and nodded in acknowledgment.
“Are you ready to leave Idalya?”
Her eyes scanned the empty room. “Yes.”
He leaned close to her. “Then wake up.”
Her eyes widened in shock and she faded out of sight exiting the Fade.
Solas sighed and pressed his fingers to his temples. This was far more
complicated than he imagined. Some spell or magic destroyed the essence of who
this girl had been, leaving behind broken pieces for her to put back together.
It was cruel torture. Idalya didn’t deserve this.
Solas came into the Fade to make sure she could complete what the Inquisition
needed from her. He left wanting to help her. He understood the dedication
Leliana and Cullen vowed to the elf, he also understood Evelyn’s deep-seated
hatred and mistrust for her. Something deep in that girl’s soul demanded
respect and Solas would help her find what she needed even if it destroyed her
because she asked for it and not ordered it like the Inquisitor.
Upon preparing to exit the Fade to meet Idalya in his rotunda, something caught
his eye. In the corner of the room something, out of place, rested on the
floor. Walking over and kneeling, Solas reached out and picked up the object.
A single long-stemmed red rose.
Perfect on all sides, left alone somewhere in what used to be a memory, he
theorized. Unsure of the significance of a single flower, Solas placed it back
on the ground before willing his soul back into his body.
***** The Chapter Where Idalya is Terrible With Company *****
Chapter Summary
     After being smited, Idalya is stuck on bed rest. At least she has
     visitors to help her pass the time.
Six days passed since Idalya was the unwilling recipient of a smite in the
training ring. Awaking from her Fadewalk, Solas was waiting, his eyes patient,
even if sarcasm flowed from his lips. He used a steady hand holding on to her
shoulder to help her sit up while he summoned the healers to assist her back to
her room. Her head spun, but the healers forced her to make the walk across the
fortress.
Upon arrival, they set about removing her bloodstained clothing and forced her
into a metal basin of hot water where they bathed the remnants of blood from
her hair. Though she sustained no lasting visible injuries, Idalya found
herself to be much weaker than expected. By the end of bathing, she gasped for
breath, holding onto the edge of the tub until her knuckles were white in
contrast to her tanned skin as the healers’ words became a jumble of
overwhelming sound around her.
She sighed in sheer relief when Solas enter the room unannounced. He instructed
the servants to remove her from the bath and prepare her for rest. Reentering
the room when they finished, he thanked the healers and handmaidens and told
them he had important Inquisition business with the Warden and would notify
them when needed.
Idalya slumped back into her bed in exhaustion and he left her to get rest in
peace. Visitors were allowed, but she was advised to stay on the strictest rest
since she was leaving for the Winter Palace with the Inquisitor in less than
two weeks’ time. Solas warned her that Evelyn had no patience for those who
could not pull their own weight.
She assumed no one would have time with preparations for the Inquisition’s
voyage, but visitors dropped by during her week of solitude.
Cullen came by with an old weathered chess set and two chatted about their
memories of growing up in Ferelden and their mutual love of mabari as they
played through a game she lost to the strategist.
Cassandra dropped in with some of her favorite novels for Idalya that turned
out to be smutty love stories which Idalya hid under her bed and only took out
to read with flaming pink cheeks and a roving hand when alone.
Dagna, whom she helped out of the Deep Roads so long ago, now worked with the
Inquisition, came by multiple times to ask for samples of her for testing while
Idalya turned her down while internally cringing in horror.
Even Blackwall made time from training Idalya’s soldiers to visit and check on
his fellow Grey Warden. Idalya avoided the subject of her not sensing the taint
in him and was grateful he avoided the subject. They shared stories of
traveling across Ferelden and different anecdotes about their time in the
Wardens.
For giving the first impression of a man of few words, Blackwall became more
comfortable as he told stories of the sights he’d seen and the places he
someday wanted to show Josie. Idalya was shocked when Leliana told her about
the Warden and the Inquisition’s Ambassador. Listening to Blackwall speak of
her with such warmth and care made it seem unbelievable that she ever thought
they would be a mismatched pair even if she knew someday they would be
separated by the taint that ran through their veins.
She thanked him for saving her without question in the training ring, but
Blackwall was adamant the thanks should go to Knight-Captain Barris. The man
standing defiantly in front of a row of Templar swords when Blackwall overheard
the commotion. Blackwall recounted how he dragged off the incapacitated Templar
and dropped them onto the floor into a very confused Commander’s office as he
was in the middle of a lieutenant meeting.
Idalya laughed until tears peaked at the corners of her lavender eyes, holding
her ribs in pain at Blackwall’s description of Cullen’s reaction to the
disturbance. Blackwall might appear stuffy and cold to others, but as a brother
in arms, she was glad to have him fighting by her side.
When time wasn’t pulling her in a million directions, Leliana would come and
brush out Idalya’s long silver hair, re-oil it and braid into the current
trending hairstyles in Orlais. The Spymaster claimed it was practice for the
Inquisitor’s hair for the peace talks, but Idalya knew better. She smiled to
herself as she listened to Leliana’s melodic voice drift over her explaining
the newest trends in Orlesian shoes.
When Leliana wasn’t there rambling about fashion, Varric would come by and read
selections from his works and his fresh finished chapters, much to the envy of
the Seeker. Through the darkest hours of the night, Varric would keep her
company reading and asking her honest opinion on stories since she hadn’t been
alive to read his novels.
The squabbles of the carrier pigeons traveling in and out of the Spymaster’s
rookery overhead awoke Idalya from her sleep. Her lavender eyes opened and
squinted shut as the rays of sunlight bore into her skull. She groaned throwing
an arm over her eyes and rolling to her side.
Asleep in the chair next to her bed was Varric, his head tilted to the side, an
open copy of Tales of the Champion in his lap from where he had fallen asleep
once again reading to her.
There was the softest rapping on her door and Solas entered his bare feet
silent on the stone. He paused and watched the dwarf sleep in amusement before
making his way to her side.
“How are you doing, Asha'lan?” He made his way to the empty armchair next to
her bed opposite of Varric.  
Her expression soured, and she rolled her eyes. “I don’t speak Elven.”
“I know.” He stated. “But I do, deal with it.”
The Warden arched an eyebrow at the mage but didn’t argue with the matter-of-
fact tone of his voice.
“I’m very weak. This will improve, won’t it?” Her fingers picked at the sheets
of the bed as her hidden level of concern showed through the cracks in her
exterior.
“To be honest, it has already. The bedrest was a safety precaution while I
waited to see what info made it to the Inquisitor. It appears your loyalty
outranks hers since no one, not even the Commander, mentioned what happened in
the training grounds.” Solas leaned back in the chair, crossing his legs with a
smug look on his face Idalya assumed was his joy over having any advantage over
Evelyn.  
Varric stirred across the room, grumbling in displeasure as his eyes adjusted
to the rays of light from the bright morning at Skyhold.
“Morning sleepy head.” Idalya giggled as the dwarf straightened himself in the
chair and wiped the stream of drool off his face on the back of a tanned
muscular arm.
“Shit Kitty, why did you let me oversleep so long? I’m long overdue for my
first ale of the day.” Varric raised his arms of his head stretching as a deep
yawn worked its way out of his body.
Solas shot an eyebrow up as he took them in. “Kitty?” He asked incredulously.
“Ah, yes.” Idalya began, “After many weeks of trying every nickname on the face
of Thedas, Master Tetheras has decided my nickname is Kitty since the
Inquisition is hoping I have nine lives.” She shrugged, her shoulders dropping
back against the headboard. “Nice sentiment, but I’m starting to think two
lives are one too many…”
Standing to his feet, Varric looking at Idalya, his expression softening. “Hey
Kitty, two sounds just about right. One life to live the way you see fit and
another to fix the mistakes you made in the last one.” She nodded and turned to
him with a genuine smile on her face.
“Thank you for keeping me company Varric, even if you snore like a Hinterland
bear.”
“Don’t tell Cassandra that!” Solas scoffed. “She has enough prejudices against
bears at it is.”
Varric rolled his eyes and made an exaggerated bow as he left her room.
Idalya and the mage sat comfortably in the silence until he spoke. “Why don’t
you understand any Elven? Your mother was Dalish.”
“’Was is the key word there. Her clan struggled for years with resources, so
they picked a clan representative to trade good and wares within cities they
passed. In one such city, she met my father. He was a city elf, an assistant to
a blacksmith. It was love at first sight.” She looked out the window to place
thousands of miles away.
“He would give up everything to be with her. She returned to the first of her
clan and asked for permission to bring him in. Even though he was a city elf,
his skills with weapons and metals would be invaluable for the Dalish. The clan
disagreed. They said she'd never see him again and if he came looking for her,
he would be shot on sight.”
“My mother was stubborn. She thanked the elders then in the dark of night,
packed her belongings and hiked back to the blacksmith’s cottage and found my
father sleeping in the barn. She helped with small jobs in the city until they
saved enough to move to Denerim. The Alienage isn’t a wonderful place, but they
made a life together there. They had four children while my father worked odd
jobs for blacksmiths and cobblers. He died in riots with the Denerim Guard when
I was five.”
“I’m sorry Asha'lan, I should have realized this would not be an uplifting tale
for you to share, forgive me.”
Idalya turned and found nothing but compassion filling his eyes.
“I’m not sure how many of us here today have a happy backstory, Solas.” She
noted. “My mother blamed her clan for his death. She knew he would have
strengthened the clan for the better. They were stuck in the past and refused
to see reason. After my father died, she never mentioned her upbringing again.
She taught my siblings and I to never forget that how we treat others defines
you and to not get too caught up in titles or to hold on too tight to your
past, so you suffocate your future.”
“She sounds like an intelligent woman.” Solas nodded in appreciation.
“She was. I think you two would have gotten along well.” As difficult as it was
to comb through more recent memories, her memories of her family were
untarnished and almost enough to fill in the empty voids in her mind. Losing
her families’ memories would have been more than she could handle.
As Idalya sifted through her thoughts, Solas carried on prattling away on
planning for the Winter Palace and what their roles would be when they
infiltrated the Elven staff for the night to be the eyes and ears of the
Inquisition. She noticed the sound of a particular set of metal boots making
their way across the stone walkway outside the windows of her room.
In the near week of being stuck in the room, she amused herself by listening to
the sounds of walkers outside her windows, identifying them and creating
stories based on what she perceived as they walked by. One set of steps became
intriguing to her, a set of heavy metal boots that came by in the morning and
as the sun would set in the sky. Their fast steps would slow to an agonizing
pace outside her door before picking back up their speed to continue down the
walkway like nothing happened. She thought it was fellow soldiers checking in
with the guard stationed outside her room, but with her sensitive ears, she
would have heard any conversation.
Here were the boots again.
In her deep thoughts, she missed that Solas had stopped talking and was
analyzing her with a raised eyebrow. Hearing the same steps, she did, he rolled
his eyes, jumped up from his chair, and made his way over to the door. Without
pause, the elf threw open the door of her room to unveil a very awkward Knight-
Captain Barris, who stopped and stared at Solas in horror before the elf hit
his limit on teenage bullshit.
“Ah, Ser Barris, I believe the Lady is awake for visitors if you’re
interested.” Barris was silent as he looked back and forth between the two
elves and Idalya struggled with all the self-control she owned to not burst out
laughing.
Barris cleared his throat, “Yes… I, uhh… I would like that if the Lady is
available.” Solas stepped past him out the door while shaking his head.
“Thank you for coming to visit, Solas.” Idalya thanked him with a cheeky grin.
“You’re welcome, Asha'lan. Remember, you are resting. Try not
to overexert yourself.” He gave a crooked grin to the elf who now blushed all
the way to the tips of her ears. 
Maker, take me. 
Barris was staring at his feet, his own blush showing through his dark
complexion as Solas left them alone with a chuckle that carried down the stone
walkway. Her heart raced as her initial excitement faded and she found herself
frightened at speaking alone with the Templar. She imagined spending time alone
with the handsome Templar before, but talking wasn’t a part of those
festivities.
“Please come inside, Ser Barris. I’m sorry I have nothing for hosting, I could
order us some tea if that pleases you.” She hoped her voice sounded less shaky
than it felt it her chest.
Barris snapped out of his silence and moved forward after closing the wooden
door behind him. “Thank you, my Lady, but I cannot stay. I wanted to see how
you were feeling.” He took the seat closest to her, his armor dwarfing the
average-sized chair, electricity traveling up her spine at the velvet sound of
his voice.
“Ser Barris, I am no Lady. I’m an elf and a warrior. I’m confident that moves
me as far out of the Lady category as possible.” She laughed as she sat up
straighter against the headboard, realizing she was wearing only a thin
sleeping tunic underneath her piles of sheets and blankets. The thought set off
a cascade of thoughts running straight to her core. She needed to change her
train of thought before she said something stupid.
“I am doing well. Blackwall says I have you to thank for that fact.”
“No, my La… Dal. It was my fault you were in the fight. I cannot take credit
for helping when I put you in danger.”
His sword hand tightened around the pommel of his sword as the pink in the
creases of his fingers suggested as he talked over her without making eye
contact finding something of importance on the ceiling.
Idalya took this moment to study him if he was unwilling to look at her. The
muscles in his neck tensed, accenting the handsome slope of his jaw, her eyes
traveled over his broad shoulders accentuated by Templar armor. Her mind was
cascading down a rabbit hole as she removed each piece of armor with slow
precision to see what delicious surprise lingered underneath.
“I suppose we must agree to disagree, Ser Barris. Either way, I’m thankful it
was you I had watching over me. You didn’t have to turn yourself against your
men after what happened.”
She looked down at her hands, calluses in her palm and lining her fingers.
These were the hands of a warrior, not a lady or a woman. Not the refined hands
of a Lady that a noble like Ser Barris would look twice at as more than a
comrade. These were the hands belonging to a difficult mission, an impossible
one if she was honest with herself.
She snapped out her self-depreciation by Barris leaning forward to look in the
eyes, his deep emeralds swimming with complicated emotions.
“Yes, I have to protect you. Not only is my duty to protect those that cannot
defend themselves, but I could never let anything happen to you…” His words
trailed off in a whisper and Idalya’s heart seized.
Her eyes opened in surprise and found Barris shared the same look on his own as
though his words had gotten away from him. She moved forward as the compulsion
to touch him was screaming through her veins.
Barris’ eyes glanced off her fingers stretching out towards him before drifting
back to her eyes. His scanning emeralds traveled the length of her body as he
tightened his fists at his side.
This day was taking a much different turn than Idalya expected, but she was
okay with that.
As she stretched forward to reach for the Templar that was so close yet so far
away, the door to her room opened. An elven servant entered with a full tray of
tea and pastries. Unaware of what she just interrupted, the servant hummed to
herself as she brought the tray to the empty table.
“Compliments of Master Solas for the Lady and her guest.” She bowed to Idalya
and Barris before exiting the room.
Idalya sat in stunned silence, her jaw slack.
She would murder that smug bastard.
“You fucking asshole,” she growled under her breath.
“Excuse me, my Lady?” Barris was standing against the far wall since he jumped
to his feet, not looking suspicious at all when the servant entered the room.
His eyes were wide with horror at her flippant words.
Idalya gasped. “Oh no, not you Barris! Solas. I was referring to
Solas…nevermind. I’m just going to stop talking now.” She slid a hand over her
mouth to keep any other words from leaking out.
Barris shifted from foot to foot as though his armor was on a bed of hot coals.
“I… uh, I must make my leave, my Lady. Thank you for accepting my visit, I am
glad to see you in full health again.” He bowed stiffly from his waist, hand
wrapped back around his sword.
Idalya nodded still refusing to remove the hand from over her mouth for fear of
something else stupid being said in front of this man. Barris waited a hesitant
moment wondering if she would speak, but upon realizing she'd committed to
keeping her silence, he mumbled something to himself and exited out the door,
shutting it behind him without another word.
Idalya listened as his boots paused on her doorstep and she fought her self-
control to not run out the door and apologize for acting like an idiot.
After a long pause, his boots began their trek away from her door. Sighing, she
threw an arm over her eyes and flopped backward on the bed.
Solas was so on her shit list even if he was her mentor.
***** The Chapter Where Blackwall Learns Sera's Seduction Skills *****
Chapter Summary
     Blackwall awakens for another morning in Skyhold.
The sun broke early over the peaks of the Frostback’s its reach bathing Skyhold
in golden light. Blackwall grunted a muffled sound of displeasure as its
unwelcome rays fought their way through the windows. He wasn’t ready to leave
the comforting warmth of fine Antivan bedding as soft and silky as the skin of
the Antivan who had chosen them. Reaching out a weathered and scarred hand, he
found Josie’s side of the bed long absent, his dark-skinned princess having
risen for another full day of hectic planning in the final push before the
Inquisition would depart for the Winter Palace.
Gripping the sheets in his hand, he pulled them to his face inhaling her sweet
scents of soap and the perfume she applied to her neck every morning before
dressing. A relaxed smile spread across his features as memories of the
previous night awakened in his mind at her smell. Feeling his cock harden
between his stomach and the mattress, he sighed face down into the feathered
pillow. It would be many hours before Josie returned to his arms, much less
moaning underneath him.
With a groan, he rolled to the side of the bed throwing the trunks of his legs
off. His bare feet met the cold stones of the floor and he pushed back
stretching his weary back, his joints popping to ease the pressure. Picking up
his breeches and tunic from the floor, he shivered as his legs slid into the
cool leather. He made his way to the washing basin, his knees cracking and
complaining about these first steps of the day. The life of a warrior was
difficult, taking its toll on Blackwall in many forms, between nightmares
interrupting his sleep, nerve damage and scars over his body, to a past he
spent a lifetime running from.
Looking into the ornate Orlesian mirror hanging above the basin, Blackwall
stared into the eyes of Thom Rainer always staring back at him. He changed his
armor, his hair grown long enough to cover his shoulders, and covered his lower
jaw with a massive beard. The one thing of Rainer’s Blackwall could never hide
were his eyes. Those sky-blue orbs shining out of the weary lids of the would-
be warden would always give away the truth and he avoided looking at them.
Blackwall avoided mirrors so often that age crept unnoticed into his features.
Years of guilt wearing him down pulled at his skin, leaving behind lines and
wrinkles he associated with men much older than his 40 years. He did not
understand what Josephine saw in him- a haggard and gruff man.
She was soft and exquisite, her skin’s glowing flush from his traveling
fingers. What meant more to him was her heart. Diplomacy was important to her
not only because of her upbringing, but because she strove to find a peaceful
solution to problems. Josephine committed herself to helping others and
stabilizing Thedas as Ambassador for the Inquisition.
The only way Blackwall solved a problem was with the sharp edge of a sword. Her
love and compassion were more than he deserved. He was more than aware.
Months before after returning from a difficult Red Templar hunt, he’d spent the
night in the Herald’s Rest self-medicating with Evelyn and Dorian. Blackwall
found himself outside Josephine’s bedchambers in the middle of the night as the
fortress slumbered. He was staggering on his deadened feet using a forearm to
brace himself on the door when it opened.
With nothing to hold him, he collapsed on the floor, air rushing out his body
as his chest hit the floor with a whoomph. Josephine, without judgment, helped
him to his feet, easing him down to sit on the edge of her garish Antivan
poster bed. As she doted on him, he broke down in tears and told her for the
first time that he was in love with her. He also told her he was not the man he
pretended to be. He spent hours telling her every detail of his former life as
Rainer, every detail haunting his waking nightmares hoping the truth would push
this precious creature away from him for her own safety.
She sat in an ornate chair facing away from her windows, casting her face in
shadow, as she listened to this mess of a man break apart at the seams as a
hidden life of secrets came rushing through. No words broached her lips as she
sat in silence, absorbing the information he was speaking. After finishing his
head dropped into his hands as the beginnings of sobriety made their appearance
and the consequences of what he just told the Ambassador weighed on his guilty
conscience.
He jerked with fright when her gentle hands slid along his. Opening the eyes of
a traitor, he expected to see hatred and fear emanating from hers. The look of
compassion and love shining out of her beautiful brown eyes as she knelt in
front of him blew him away. She was more than most good men deserved much less
a vile one like him. She accepted his truths and loved him, sharing the joy of
her life with him regardless of the sins of his past. He offered her time apart
to think, but she was adamant she chose him because she knew inside was a good
man.
He was not a good man, nor would he ever be.
After running away from himself for so long he knew the closer you kept
yourself to someone, the harder it was for them to see your flaws. If Josie
stayed supportive by his side, she could never see the monster Thom Rainer was.
As he splashed water from the basin over his face, he hoped that Cullen
wouldn’t have to experience the same pain when he stepped back one day as Josie
would. Sometimes the truth can be in front of someone’s face and they can still
disregard it.
From the sounds of the birds greeting the sun’s climb through the sky, it was
still early in the morning. Throwing on his insulated pieces of armor, he
exited Josie’s room avoiding detection from the guards lining Skyhold’s halls.
Blackwall needed to speak to Cullen at some point. In months of his covert
traveling to Josie’s room, not once was he spotted. Where were they recruiting
these unobservant bastards, anyway?
The only people awake were servants and the night patrol moving seamlessly
across the pathways from one destination to another.
Exiting the front door of Skyhold’s hall, he inhaled, taking in a full breath
of the fresh mountain air before his attention was caught the sound of a sword
clanging in the distance. Heading down the hall’s steps, grimacing as his
muscles ached down each step, he followed the rhythmic sound of metal meeting
wood.
Cassandra’s line of training dummies came into view. Blackwall smiled to see
Idalya alone swinging her sword at a stuffed dummy. Pieces of hay sticking out
in every direction.
The Warden was thin and looked fragile to the plain eye, but Blackwall knew how
much strength it took to power a two-handed sword with the ease she did. He
wondered what the Warden was like in her first life and how many secrets she
carried around in her pockets, ready to spill out the way he was.
Convinced the elf knew he wasn’t a Grey Warden, he wondered why she hadn't sold
him out. She never mentioned his deception or pushed him to speak Warden
knowledge to prove his membership to the club. Blackwall was hiding in plain
sight and recognized the slight hesitation in her glace every time she looked
at him. The tiniest glimpse under the armor she wore to hide from others that
revealed she knew more than she was saying.
Why she chose not to say anything, he was unsure, but he hoped the woman he
admired found him to be of value to the Inquisition and was the reason for her
continued silence. Were he a braver man he would have approached her, dropped
to his knees, and begged her in secret to make him a real Grey Warden, but he
was a coward who, instead, made conversations about recruiting and what they’d
seen during their travels throughout Ferelden.  
Not far over his shoulder, the door to the Herald’s Rest flew open and Bull
ducked his massive horns to exit outside. Perched upon his shoulder a yawning
Sera stretched out, a roll of bread in her hand she took too-large bites out of
that filled her cheeks like a chipmunk. Bull nodded in acknowledgment and made
his way towards him with large labored steps.
“Morning friends,” Blackwall greeted the strange pair, “Headed to the tavern
early this morning, I see.”
The elf snorted, spilling crumbs down the front of Bull to the Qunari’s
annoyance.
“Late. We’re just leaving.” Bull corrected, his voice rough from drink.
“I’m eating breakfast in bed!” the elf chimed in as she continued gnawing on
the bread like a ravenous toddler.
The Warden chuckled, “I have to say I’m not sorry I wasn’t part of the gang
last night. I’m too old to drink myself into a stupor anymore.”
“Yeah, you are!” Sera enthusiastically agreed, her ridiculous laugh echoing
through the empty courtyard. Blackwall frowned and looked down to Bull.
“Why are you up so early, Blackwall? Talking in some of the more beautiful
sights of Skyhold?” The Qunari winked as he gestured back towards where Idalya
was still striking the Seeker’s dummies leaving a ring of hay floating down
through the surrounding sky.
“Dal? Nah, not that attractive- too thin and too elfy for my taste,” he lied.
Bull arched a non-believing eyebrow at the warrior, but let it go.
“Even better. More for the rest of us. I see nothing wrong with every inch of
the Hero.” Bull said with confidence. “I know what people need. That woman
needs to release tension badly. She’s a bow strung too tight, needing to be
stretched and worn in before her thread snaps”
Blackwall cleared his throat as he avoided listening to the specifics of Bull’s
words.
Sera laughed, throwing her head back. “Good luck with that! Sounds like a great
plan if your goal is to get run through by a Templar sword! She doesn’t even
have red hair! Now Quizzie? That one’s got your filthy name written all over
it, you brute.” In a single graceful movement, the elf vaulted herself off the
Qunari’s shoulders and landed in the dirt, making no sound. “You go keep
yourself entertained with redheads and leave the luscious Hero to me. If
there’s one thing I know, it’s how to work a bow.” She gave them a cheeky grin.
Pulling her bow from her back, a single arrow was pulled from her quiver with
feathers the color of fresh blood. Bringing the tip of the arrow to her mouth,
she pressed a single kiss to the line of plumage. Without turning her feet
towards the training area, she reached the bow to the side, pulling back the
string while wiggling her eyebrows at the two warriors and released.
Blackwall’s heart caught in his throat, but in the blink of an eye, the arrow
landed in the heart of the training dummy as Idalya was in mid-swing. Her
reflexes kicked in and she jumped back pointing her sword at the resting arrow.
Looking in horror towards the group she hadn’t realized was there, she flipped
them off then screeched, “Fuck off, Sera!” Her words echoing through the
courtyard.
Sera giggled. “I think she likes me!” The elf skipped back to the Herald’s Rest
to start a new day’s worth of drinking.
The two men stared ahead, unsure of what had just happened. Blackwall cleared
his throat again.
“Can’t imagine why I never thought of shooting at a woman to get her interest,
could have won Josie’s heart over months earlier if I tried arrows instead of
flowers.”
Bull laughed and clapped Blackwall on the shoulder as the two of them followed
behind the skipping elf to start the day properly.
***** The Chapter Where Cullen Prays-NSFW *****
Chapter Summary
     Cullen's preparations for the Winter Palace are complete. He thinks
     he's ready until Evelyn pays him an unannounced visit. NSFW
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
He was so close. Weeks of frantic planning were winding down, and the
Inquisition would set off for Val Royeux in the morning. Countless hours of
planning between himself and Knight-Captains, Barris and Rylen, came down to a
simple pile of parchment sitting atop his desk between the three exhausted men.
The papers contained the Inquisition’s plan to save Empress Celene, along with
every contingency plan the men could think up. Ferelden shows up to
talks?  There was a plan. Corypheus and his dragon attack the Winter Palace?
Plan. Dorian gets so drunk he retches during the peace talks? Plan.
Cullen’s brain was emptied from the sheer number of what-ifs the group covered
in the past week but was confident in his soldier’s abilities to execute any
contingency thrown their way.
The Winter Palace was a different battle for Cullen, with most orders being
given out by Barris and Rylen. Cullen argued with Evelyn when she told the war
council her plan to take the remaining members of the Templar Order to the
peace talks. She wanted to flex the Inquisition's power for show. As time drew
to a close, the Commander found himself comforted to know two of the best
Templar he’d ever worked with would run the show. They’d issue orders while
Cullen was the smiling face of the Inquisition’s forces for the crowds. At
least that’s what they thought.
The three men were standing around the table, long stripped from armor as
darkness descended. Empty bottles of wine lined the edges of his wooden desk as
Rylen keep years of compounding hangovers from catching up with him at once. As
the night progressed, Cullen pulled a glass out of his desk and imbibed a glass
or two over the passing hours, to placate a pounding withdrawal headache
looming underneath the surface of his mind.
Barris, ever the professional, raised a judging eyebrow at the two but
continued his work without a word writing out the plans since Cullen’s shaking
hands prevented him from holding a quill straight, and Rylen couldn’t put down
his wine and free up a hand.
Cullen had another reason for drinking he wasn’t willing to admit.
As the weeks barreled towards the peace talks, Evelyn became more withdrawn
from everyone, including him. Before, she always made time between meeting
nobles and running the Inquisition to visit him. Their relationship wasn’t one
based on words, but Cullen found enjoyment in it. She was honest with her
needs, having no trouble expressing wants Cullen struggled to phrase in his
mind, much less speak out loud.
In the past few weeks, her time became not her own. On leaving each war
council, Leliana or Josephine would grab her by the arm to steer her towards
her next dress fitting for the ball. Cullen held no inkling of what a noble
woman’s closet resembled for an event such as this. If her constant fittings
were an example, it was a world he wanted nothing to do with.
Having Evelyn snared into the Ambassador and Spymaster’s web of planning for
the Game only freed up Cullen to bury himself that much deeper into the work he
struggled to keep a healthy balance of when she was around.
In the last week, his head had become a stranger to the vicinity of his pillow.
The few times he snuck into Evelyn’s quarters when the need to see and feel her
became too great, he found her long returned to the Fade in her ornate bed.
Empty bottles of wine cluttered her desk and littered about the floor where
Cullen assumed she’d tossed them in her frustration at their empty status.
Her sleep was not a restful one. Beads of sweat formed on her brow. The mark
sparked erratically in her hand, casting an ominous jade glow over her skin and
the room. He tucked back the pieces of her auburn hair fallen out of her loose
bun as she’d tossed and turned, trying to find peace in the Fade. The peace
that eluded her.
He knew the pressure weighing down on her—playing the Game was what she was
raised for. The Inquisition’s hope at Halamshiral would rest on the shoulders
of the women of their war council. Cullen only knew how to hurt others with a
swing of sword and shield, but Evelyn, Leliana, and Josephine could destroy
generations of a family with a well-placed sentence. If it wasn’t for his
fierce loyalty to Evelyn and their mission, he would have stayed behind in
Skyhold, letting Barris and Rylen the army in his stead.
His eyes grew heavy as the trio compiled the last plans for soldiers housing
and guard duties. The door to his office flung open. Its impact cracking
against the stone wall, the draft extinguishing half the candles in the office.
Blowing the stack of compiled paperwork to the floor.
Fingers reaching instinctively for the sword missing at his side, his eyes
focused on the person making a grand entrance into his office in the middle of
the night. Hidden by the cover of night, a vibrant flash of green from one
hand, the outline of a bottle clutched in their other. Cullen’s hand relaxed as
it gripped his side, still looking for his sword stowed with his polished
armor.
Evelyn sauntered into the office, staggering on her feet and bringing the
scents of wine and one of Bull’s Qunari concoctions wafting off her. As she
stepped into the circle of light from the one remaining candle, Cullen’s breath
caught in his chest. She wore a simple, white, sleeveless dress flared at her
knees, brown leather boots at the hem. Her hair a cascading halo of red curls
fell down her back hugging her bare shoulders as the draft from the open door
blew the tendrils.
Cullen could feel the Templar’s awkward stances around him as they looked in
confusion back and forth from one another, but Evelyn’s olive eyes locked to
his and paid them no heed.
“Get out.” Her words sounded gentle, but the meaning behind them was not.
Without hesitation, Barris and Rylen crossed the room and exited. They feed
without a glance back.
If Templar did one thing well, it was taking orders without question.
As he took a step towards her around the desk she mirrored the movement, taking
a step back in perfect sync. Cullen paused, analyzing her expression, but the
drink was keeping her true face hidden from him. He took a slow, deliberate
step towards her, and she took a measured step back towards the door. They
continued this game, one step after another, in unison until her features
disappeared into the dark and he heard the muffled sounds of her shoulders
meeting the heavy wooden door.
He continued his laborious pace towards her. She lifted the wine bottle to her
lips tilting her head back against the door, downing the rest of the bottle. As
her head bobbed back in his direction, her hand flung out to the side, throwing
the bottle, where it exploded against the bookcases.  
“Evelyn! What in the Maker’s name is -” He never finished his sentence.
At that moment Evelyn grabbed him by the stiff collar of his tunic and flipped
them around until he crashed into the door, the back of his head slamming
against the wood.
His anger flared to the surface from the pain radiating through his neck and
spine, but as he looked into the endless depths of her green eyes, he pushed it
back down as he controlled the hands at his sides pushing into the wood of the
door to maintain a level of control.
Evelyn narrowed her eyes as she observed him. Her marked hand drifted up over
his abdomen, her fingers playing over the edges, causing his muscles to twitch
beneath her touch. His long golden lashes fluttered shut as he listened to the
pounding of his heart within his chest. Still racing with anger and being taken
over by another emotion, one far darker and hungrier than the one before. 
At least it was until, fast as lightning, Evelyn struck him open-handed across
the face. Cullen’s eyes flew open in fury, his cheek burning from her assault.
He was gasping for breath and fighting to keep control of his anger towards
this ridiculous woman.
A slight smile played on her lips as her tongue flicked across the wine-stained
flesh.
“You would never hurt me, would you Cullen?” Her question rang through his body
like another hit. 
Was that what this was? A loyalty test to prove he wasn’t like the men who hurt
her in the past? The realization helped him release the anger rising in his
throat, the sting on his cheek and the lack of tension leaving him deflated.
“No.” He croaked out. He couldn't swallow his throat was so dry, his head
pounding with a complex maelstrom of emotions. “I would never hurt you,
Evelyn.”
“Mmm.” His response pleased her as a wicked grin spread across her plump lips.
Reaching up to his face, she ran her thumb over his lower lip with a pressure
that was painful.
Cullen stifled a moan deep in his chest as he waited to see what her end game
would be.
“You care for me Cullen, don’t you?”
He tried to hide any change in his expression, but he knew it was no use when
faced with a master of the Game. This wasn’t how he imagined telling her the
depth of his feelings, but there were a lot of things in this relationship that
were not what he expected.
“Y-yes,” he stumbled over the words in her presence. He trusted Evelyn, but
sometimes he could not help but sense she was balancing on the edge a
bottomless pit with holding his hand.
“Tell me.” She purred, leaning her upper body closer to his so only her lips
were close to touching.
Words were not his skill, but he was a desperate man, and he’d do anything at
her call. He swallowed as he looked into her eyes, olive laid within a sphere
of brown.
“You are the first thing I think of in the morning. The last before sleep.” She
was a desire demon, summoned from the pits of his fear, dark and carnal and
whispering promises bound to be broken. “Every moment I’m near you I want to
touch you, pleasure you, worship you.”
“Oh, worship you say.” She arched a formed brow at him. “That sounds
delightful.” She backed up, swaying her full hips until her spine was square
with the ladder to his loft. “Do you like that I’m the Herald of Andraste?” she
leaned her head back against the rungs of the ladder, running her hands over
her collarbones and dragging them, ever so slowly, over her breasts. “Or do you
imagine that I’m Andraste herself as you slam your hard cock in me?  That as my
cunt comes around you, I’m absolving you of your filthy sins, one by one?”
In two strides, Cullen was pressing her into the wooden ladder, his hardness
jutting into the curve of her hip. He was out of his mind with desire and the
simmering shame Evelyn’s words ignited in him, her depravity brushing closer to
the truth than Cullen knew.
Electricity sparked through his fingertips at his desperation to touch her,
soil her, mark her as his. All of it bringing him closer to his breaking point.
As he leaned in to press his lips to hers, her hand flew over his mouth,
stopping him with cruel efficiency. Her eyes bored into his, olive challenging
amber, before motioning with her hand to the floor.
“Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not
falter,Cullen. Get down on your knees and pray, sinner.” The groan he’d
suppressed worked its way out of his throat as he collapsed to his knees on the
stone floor, a broken man come to beg a favor at the altar of his redemption.
He bent down and pressed his lips to the top of her covered foot. Evelyn hummed
in approval as Cullen worked his way up her laces. Pressing open-mouthed kisses
against the leather, the smell of earth, leather, and Evelyn filling his
senses.
“Maker, hear my cry: guide me through the blackest nights.” He spoke against
her boots, the leather dragging deliciously against his lips. He reached the
top of the border, his lips meeting the skin of her thigh, he moaned into her
flesh, marking her not only with his mouth and teeth but with his words.
With his unworthy hands, he pushed the fabric of her skirt up while licking,
biting, and kissing his way across her inner thigh while she panted above him.
“Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked.” His erection strained
against his breeches as he uncovered her white lace small clothes. Callused
fingers hooked into the flimsy cloth he pulled down her milky white legs.
Leaning forward, he pushed his nose into the auburn curls at the apex of her
thighs and inhaled. “Make me to rest in the warmest places.”
Evelyn gasped, and Cullen leaned back on his heels to look into her eyes as his
fingers slid over her sex to tease at her folds. “See me kneel: for I walk only
where You would bid me.” Every muscle in his body tightened as her wetness
slipped past his fingers to drip down her legs. His fingers glided between her
smooth folds, trailing them around the edges before drawing his thumb across
her clit.
Evelyn moaned as her thighs shook with his ministrations. Fingers dragged down
the length of her sex, he slid two fingers inside her, fighting back a grin as
her eyes rolled back into her head with a sigh. “Stand only in places You have
blessed.”
Languidly inside her, his fingers worked feeling every clench.  He was drunk on
the power of watching this woman, martyr, leader, fall to pieces around his
hand. The tiniest of mewls escaped her lips, which meant she needed more, would
beg for more. Pressing his nose back into her curls, his tongue sliding over
the outside of her sex. “Sing only the words You place in my throat.” 
At the end of his words, he slid his tongue between her folds and Evelyn moaned
loud enough to echo off the walls of the office. Cullen lapped at her like a
starved man while his fingers continued to stroke inside of her. Her climax was
approaching, and he wanted to hear her scream, to throw her head back and cry
his name as her walls came crashing around him.
His tongue trailed up the length of her sex, lips wrapping around her bundle of
nerves and sucking as he stroked harder within her. That was all it took. Her
legs shook before the tremble starting within her core overtook every muscle
along her refined curves. Hitting her peak, her cries filled the empty places
within the room and she pressed her thighs against the sides of his head. As
she arched her back into the rungs, his mouth released her bundle to lick her
sweet nectar as it spread down his fingers. “Tell me I have sung to your
approval.”
Evelyn’s legs were shaking as she dropped to her knees in front of Cullen.
Leaning back against the ladder, her breathing unsteady, a deep flush running
across her porcelain skin.
With a moment of clarity, he took her shaking hand and pressed it against his
pounding heart. “Know my heart.” He whispered. “Take from me a life of sorrow.
Lift me from a world of pain. Judge me worthy, Evelyn… Touch me with fire that
I be cleansed.” 
An unreadable expression passed over her features. He thought for a second, she
might jump to her feet and run out the door, but when her eyes met his again,
her walls were secured back in place.
Crawling on her knees away from the ladder, she paused in the stream of
moonlight drifting down from the ceiling hole in the loft. Her pupils blown,
turning them black as night. Her voice husky as her body quivered with need.
“All this is yours… Join me in heaven and sorrow no more.”
Cullen moved forward and wrapped his arms around her as her deft fingers
unlaced his breeches, freeing his erection from its confines. As he shrugged
his breeches off, he grimaced as his knees came down onto the stone, into the
grains of glass from the shattered wine bottle.
Behind her on the floor, Evelyn reached for one of the larger shards and
brought it to the front of her dress, slicing through the fabric at her neck.
Her other hand grabbed the collar of the dress and tugged, the fabric splitting
down the front of her chest exposing her breasts covered by matching white lace
Orlesian lingerie.
Not moving her eyes from his, she slid the piece of glass between her skin and
the lacey material, gasping a low moan as the glass caught along the smooth
surface of her skin. As she pulled the glass forward along the lace, the
pattern splintered and broke open, spilling her breasts out to meet the open
air, a trickle of blood running down the valley between them. His hands moved
with a determination of their own grabbing her breasts, rolling her nipples
between his fingers and pinching them as her pants and pleas grew louder until
she was crying for him.
Desperation winning, he closed the distance between them. His tongue drove into
her hungry mouth. Ev moaned, pushing her chest upwards into his hands, grinding
her sex against his bare thigh to find the friction she needed.
“Do you want me to fuck you, Evelyn?”
“Yes.”
“You want me to fuck your cunt until you can’t walk straight, don’t you?”
“Maker, yes.” She moaned as he continued to work his fingers roughly over her.
He pushed her down onto her back, her chest heaving with every
breath. “You need me to defile you, don’t you? They all look at you like you’re
Andraste, a god returned to save us all, but I see you, Evelyn. I fucking see
you.” He pushed her thighs apart. As he crawled over her, the clouds moved in
the sky above, highlighting her face where tears were falling from pale green
eyes widened as they looked into his.
He turned his head away unable to meet her gaze and moved to pull away before
her hands shot to his face to turn him to face her.
“Please,” she begged. His eyes searched hers before she rolled her hips,
running her sex along his erection, which throbbed in response. “Please.” She
asked again, her voice unsteady.
Cullen inhaled and held the breath as he pushed past her folds to situated
himself inside her. Evelyn arched her head back, her auburn hair fanning around
her head, tangling with shards of glass.
She was home. The place he could lie down his secrets and fears and live
without their weight.
He buried his face into the side of her neck, wrapping an arm around her lower
back and thrust inside her. Keeping the pace slow, he felt her quiver with
every slow pull of his cock, and every tremble as pushed back inside. “Find me
well within Your grace. Make me one within Your glory.” His lips moved against
the sensitive skin of her neck and her moans grew louder as she approached her
break point again.
“Cullen.” His name spilled from her lips then, becoming her mantra and plea as
she repeated it over and over again as the tightness built up within her heat.
He needed to hear her, need to feel her clench him in desperation, needed to
feel her absolve him.
Wrapping a hand around her thigh, he hitched her leg towards her chest and
thrust forward, moaning at how much deeper he was situated in her cunt.
Evelyn’s whimpers and cries grew louder, her fingers digging into the sides of
his back, and Cullen thrust harder as her walls trembled.
“Let the world once more see Your favor.” 
Words spilled from her lips- his name, the Maker’s, her cries of yes filling
the empty spaces within his heart. Two thrusts later and Cullen followed her in
his own release. His eyes shut, he cried her name and the Maker’s as stars
exploded across his vision. His lungs were burning as their passion ignited the
surrounding air.
Opening his eyes, he found Evelyn staring into them, an unreadable emotion
screaming through.
“Get off me.” Her voice was quiet, but Cullen moved like she shouted the words
from the ramparts. Rising to her feet without a sound, she pulled the sides of
her dress closed before walking to the door, her arms wrapped around her chest.
“Ev…” Cullen’s words failed him.
Evelyn never turned back, opening the wooden door of the office and exiting,
letting the door swing shut behind her. Cullen laid back against the rungs of
the ladder. A sigh exhaled as he ran a hand over the back of his neck.
“You are the fire at the heart of the world, and comfort is only Yours to
give.”
Chapter End Notes
     I hope everyone is enjoying the story!
***** The Chapter Where Idalya is Distracted By Handsome Templar *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Skyhold panicked as the morning arrived for the Inquisition to depart for the
Winter Palace. Weeks of meticulous planning executed with efficiency in the
courtyard below Idalya as she watched with curiosity. She sat on the ramparts.
Her long legs dangling off the side, watching the crowds scatter in the
courtyard. Soldiers struggling to drag carton after carton of supplies to the
waiting carriages.
The best part of posing as a servant, Idalya discovered, was packing one small
travel bag with her servant attire and light armor. Josephine forbid her to
bring her swords, so she sheathed multiple daggers on her body she dared the
Ambassador to go hunting for.
She chuckled watching servants carry another crate of Evelyn’s clothing and
supplies for the ball. By the looks of it, Josephine and Leliana planned to
bring everything in Evelyn's room to the peace talks. The Inquisition would
stay less than a week, yet it required numerous fittings and every tailor and
dressmaker the Inquisition could find to finish all her dresses before their
departure.
Today she appreciated not being in charge.
A heavy wooden door side tower creaked open behind her. The Commander exited
with Knight-Captains, Rylen and Barris, in tow. Their caravans and carriages
would leave within the hour, so the three dressed casually, tunics and breeches
replacing their heavy armor. For men who looked so intimidating during their
jobs, the three now looked no different from anyone she would pass in the
Skyhold halls during the day. Except the three were far more attractive than
anyone she ever crossed paths with.
These were men she viewed as comrades in arms and brothers. Men she trusted,
without question, with her life. As she watched the under-dressed warriors make
their way across the battlements, blood rushed to her cheeks and other less
conspicuous places.
Cullen was tall and broad. It was surprising how broad his shoulders remained
after the removal of his armor. His heavy plate fit well and disguised his
size. He spent the last two decades conditioning, and it showed. She much
preferred the muscled and confident ex-Templar to the mental image of the
bloodied and terrified boy she met in the tower.
While Kinloch happened over a decade ago for Cullen, for Idalya it was only
months. Sometimes she struggled to separate the two in her head as she worked
with him. Memories of his bloodshot, crazed eyes, fear filling his voice with
such venom. He was not that man anymore and deserved respect for what he
overcame. She vowed to no longer associate him with his weakest moment.
With his sleeves rolled up and spiraling tattoos winding the length of his
arms, Rylen’s rebellious nature was on display for all to see as he laughed. In
her many passes through Skyhold, she heard attractive serving boys and girls
whisper in darkened corners of the tattoos underneath his clothes discovered
during drunken flings in the middle of the night.
Her and Rylen sparred each week since her arrival to Skyhold and in all those
rounds he never treated her with less respect than any other soldier on the
field. When she stepped in the ring, it didn’t matter she was a woman, an elf,
or the Hero—he always treated her like a soldier and wasn’t awed the way some
recruits were. Sometimes that was not to her advantage as she spent the rest of
the night tending to bruises and aching joints in the healer’s after their
spars.
And then there was Barris, oh Maker, Barris. He was beautiful. It was the only
word that came to mind when her eyes would catch him in her line of sight
across Skyhold. He was shorter than Rylen and narrower than Cullen, but thickly
muscled and limber. She watched him train with the recruits more times than she
would admit and found him built for speed and strength.
What also piqued her interest was that he was also an intelligent fighter. He
predicted the next moves of battle as much as countering them from his
opponents. He moved shifted constantly in his civilian clothes, just as awkward
as Cullen at being out of his uniform. She wondered if they slept in their
armor and just took it off for polishing before replacing it to feel safe
again.
She hadn’t seen Barris since he visited her during her bedrest the previous
week. Everyone of importance in Skyhold was burdened down with planning duties
as the time to prepare ended. Idalya was certain after her venomous slip of the
tongue that any conversation they could have attempted would be a disaster. She
stood by the decision to keep her hand clamped over her mouth to prevent
herself from speaking.
When he didn’t approach her for the next week in the training area, she knew
she destroyed any chance of getting to know the handsome Templar better. Though
the two of them unable to phrase words appeared to be a theme between the two
introverted warriors.
The first day she could leave her room and explore Skyhold, she found herself
drawn to the training circles after she met with Cassandra and watched the
movement and footwork of the soldiers. She was at home in the clang of swords
and grunts of trainees in this strange fortress humming with magic. She spotted
Barris from the side as he barked out orders to a group of exhausted Templars
stumbling through the end of their training.
As she approached the ring to observe, he saw her from the corner of his eye.
Turning to face her, she’d never forgotten the look on his face. His eyes
narrowed as his lips parted, staring in confusion like his world was crumbling
around him.
They stood in silence taking in one another until Josephine appeared, a
whirlwind sweeping through, summoning Idalya to the War Room. When she found
the two warriors still staring, the Ambassador apologized for her rudeness and
introduced Knight-Captain Delrin Barris of the Templar Order and her as Dal, an
experienced volunteer who joined the Inquisition.
Barris stood frozen.
Josephine frowned before clearing her throat to snap Barris from his trance.
Idalya held out her hand for him to shake, a common gesture between soldiers.
When he took her hand in his, turning her palm down to bow low over her
tingling fingers while never breaking his gaze from her.
Her hand was on fire as his skin touched hers. She didn’t understand what his
look was about, but she understood what it did to her. The fire burning on her
skin moved into her stomach and down into her core, an undeniable throbbing
causing her to press her thighs together as she kept her focus in front of the
Ambassador and the soldiers surrounding them she was sure were staring at this
point.
Who was this man? Never in her life had she felt such an instant attraction to
someone… at least she thought she hadn’t.
The thought she didn’t know who she was much less who this stranger was, broke
her from his spell and she stepped back, ripping her hand back with her from
the confused Templar.
Josephine whisked her away after, but as she walked across the courtyard
towards the War Room with the Ambassador, Idalya couldn’t help but keep looking
back over her shoulder at the Templar who remained unmoved whom she’d never
spoken a word to.
After that first day, she always was hyper-aware of when Barris entered the
training fields with her.
She investigated the past of the mysterious man but hadn’t needed to since Iron
Bull and his chargers loved to tell stories so all she needed was to mention
the Knight-Captain’s name and that the next round was on her and the Chargers
were more than happy to indulge the rest.
She learned of the fall of the Templar Order at Therinfal Redoubt. How Barris
stood with the Inquisition as the envy demon attempted to eliminate all the
Templar uncorrupted by red lyrium. Idalya saw the level of respect Bull held
for the man as he recollected the story. The Qunari understood how difficult it
was to give up everything you believed in, turning against it for the greater
good.
Now she knew he was a good decent man, she didn’t avoid him in her paths
through Skyhold. Their conversations stayed brief and professional, even their
embarrassing exchange in her room the week beforehand. Part of why she
approached him for the Red Templar training was because she knew he would
remain a professional. Though she avoided his eyes knowing the temptation that
laid behind them.
Barris out of his Templar uniform was not helping her self-imposed control. His
tunic and breeches were snugger against his body than the other two since his
main skill was speed and deflection over strength. As he shifted back and
forth, Idalya could see the hard muscles of his thighs contracting and
releasing, his hand opening and closing so the muscles of his arms flexed and
peeked out the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearm. The knowledge that he
held her in those arms when he protected her was not helping keep her mind out
of the metaphorical gutter as her crafty mind was stripping the handsome
Templar piece by piece.
“Idalya, are you okay?”
She looked up in surprise to find Cullen standing over her, a look of concern
on his face, with Rylen and Barris by his side. 
Shit, how long have I been daydreaming?
“Yes… I fine. Yup, fine. Why do you ask?
Cullen narrowed his eyes at her, small wrinkles framed framing the ovals. “Your
face. You were staring at us like something was wrong.”
“Oh.” Idalya looked at them desperate for any inspiration or answer. “Um, you
look strange.” 
Dammit, Dal. 
The pit in her stomach sank as she suppressed a tragic groan from passing
through her lips. A burning passed over the edges of her ears and she regretted
pulling her hair up into a loose ponytail, so everyone knew of her spreading
blush.
There was a moment of tense silence from the three Templar before Rylen burst
into laughter, holding his side in near pain as his two companions looked at
him in confusion, their brows raised. He wiped a tear out of his eye as he
looked at Idalya, now stabbing him with mental daggers.
“Oh sweetheart, I’m sorry.” His voice was rough, and he coughed as his laughter
threatened to overtake him again. “I’m sorry, I am. I wasn’t expecting that
face and adorable blush.” He cleared his throat. “Thing for Templars? I could
see that. Have you never seen a Templar out of armor, dear?” He gave her a
cheeky grin. “If you haven’t, I’m sure I sure I can fill in some blanks for you
if you’re interested.”
“You will not!” Cullen and Barris turned in unison to glare at Rylen.
Tears welled back up in Rylen’s eyes as his chest fought the laughter
threatening to rip its way out of his body which would put him in danger of the
Commander ripping his heart still beating from his chest. He pulled himself
back together when saw the fury in Idalya’s violet eyes. Every minute Dal spent
out with the soldiers and wandering the halls of Skyhold, she was the
consummate professional. Her presence exuded strength and precision, so to see
her so flustered over boys had been too much for Rylen. It made her a more
relatable person than an untouchable hero which she wasn’t, but he wished
others would remember that.
Idalya ears and cheeks burned as she imagined all the ways she could hurt Rylen
before he defended himself. Cullen looked like he was seconds from tackling
Rylen himself, but Barris… he was looking at her with such gentle eyes. No
anger, no embarrassment, he looked concerned for her.
Her gaze shifted back to a red-faced, teary-eyed Rylen.
“I could slit your throat in your sleep with no one noticing," she hissed under
her breath.
“Oh, I’m aware, my dear, but you wouldn’t because like these two,” he pointed
behind him at the annoyed Templars, “you’re the honorable type.” He kneeled to
looking her. “You wouldn’t take a life unless you forced to unlike others
around here…” as his voice trailed off, his eyes drifted unconsciously to the
carriages below where was Evelyn conversed with Leliana. “I’m sorry if I
offended you. It was fun to see something human out of you.” She frowned.
“Well, you know what I mean. Taking down the walls you keep up won’t kill you…
again.” Both laughed at the shocked expression on the Commander’s face.
Rylen stood and turned to Cullen, “I’ll head down and start the final
checklists before Josie erupts in flames. Barris.” He gave a nod and wink to
Barris as he headed down the flight of stairs into the main courtyard.
Cullen rubbed the back of his neck as he sighed.
“Some days, I’m not sure why I thought it was a promising idea to invite him
into the Inquisition. He didn’t just show up at Haven’s front gate out of the
blue looking for a job, I insisted he join.”
Idalya pointed a finger at her chin and peered towards the sky in thought.
“Because he’s handy with a sword and Bull can’t keep all the servants of
Skyhold satisfied by himself?”
Cullen choked, pounding a fist against his chest, Barris throwing a smile in
her direction as he chuckled at his Commander’s death throes. Idalya laughed as
Cullen’s face turned the brightest shade of crimson.
“You okay, Commander?” she inquired, batting her lashes at him.
He tilted one side of his mouth downward as he turned to Barris, “I will follow
Rylen before I die of shock. See you two down there. We’ll be heading out in
under an hour.” Cullen left shaking his head and mumbling something under his
breath about having the weirdest fucking day as he made his way toward the
gathered Advisors.
Idalya looked up at Barris, who was still watching her, a coy smile on his face
as he relaxed back against the battlements.
“Sorry for that,” Barris shrugged. “I swear, Templars can speak with a woman
for over two sentences. We’re decent people when we haven’t been awake for a
week straight planning military strategy.” As she studied his face, Idalya
could see the same set dark circles under his eyes Cullen carried, his
shoulders slumped.
“Plan ready to go?” She kept her voice steady and her eyes on acceptable areas
instead of the constant flex of contracting muscles below his neck she would
not allow herself to watch for her own safety and Barris’ if she was being
honest.  
“The Commander is an outstanding tactician. Every variable accounted for.
Cullen and our army will succeed in eliminating the physical threat to the
crown and everything else will fall to the Inquisitor. Cullen believes in her,
she will not lead us astray, Dal.” He dropped his hands to his sides and took a
step towards her, offering his hand. “We should prepare to leave.”
She looked at his hand before her eyes flicked up to his. Here she was peering
into his gorgeous set of deep hazel-green eyes. As she held his gaze with no
hesitation, his eyes opened in surprise before he reached down, sliding his
hand into hers to help her off the floor while never breaking eye contact.
Her hand closed around his as he pulled her to her feet, much closer than she
expected to stand. When she tilted her head back, their gazes realigned, and
she focused in on his eyes.
There it was.
The tremors escalated from the back of her mind. A pounding in her skull
working its way to the front. A cascade of drums rushing past her. Clenching
her eyes shut, she pushed her hands against her ears mumbling “No, no…  please
no.”
Her vision failed, but Barris’ surrounded her as he pulled her into his arms,
securing her against his strong chest as the fractions of memories washed over
her.
Her memories could crest over her like waves on the shore, but this time they
stabbed like the thinnest of daggers, an image here, a sound there. Nothing
concrete and painful. 
Brown eyes- the color of melted caramel. A laugh. “I will follow you forever,
Idalya…” Short black hair, a flare of magic. “Well, well what have we
here?” Swirls of color and shape soared past until the images jarred and faded.
An earthy taste was the first sense that returned. She could taste dirt in her
mouth and the acid creeping up her throat caused her to gag. She sprang forward
to her hands and knees retching onto the stone pathway. There were voices
muffled behind her she could not heed. She couldn't breathe, her body shaking
uncontrollably. She jolted in fear when a steady hand appeared on her back. The
touch not of fire, but of ice- Solas.
The elf cooled the skin over her shoulders and neck. He opened his mouth to
speak, but his eyes drifted to Barris and he pressed his thin lips together
before turning back to her.
“It’s… okay. I trust him.” Words stuck in her throat from the violent trembling
in her body, beads of sweat forming on her brow.
Solas rolled his eyes before continuing.
“How many times have you slipped into the Fade?” He whispered.
Over his shoulder, she saw Barris’ eyes grow wide before regained control of
his demeanor.
“This, this has never happened before. I was awake… how could I be in the
Fade?”
“Yet another mystery you have created for me, Asha’lan. I think every mage in
Skyhold felt you slip in- that took a tremendous amount of power. Your clever
Templar friend here learned from last time and eased you into a dampening field
to prevent you from hurting anyone. It drew you safely back. Speaking of, Ser
Barris,” the mage turned to the concerned Templar with no humor in his eyes,
“How about you drop the field, so I can heal our friend?”
Barris met Idalya’s eyes, conflicted as he outstretched his hand. Solas shook
his head in annoyance as the field flickered around them and dropped. The mage
reached forward and helped Idalya lean back on her heels, placing his hands at
her temples as his healing magic pressed into her.
As the pressure loosened in the base of her skull and shoulders, an illicit
moan passed over her lips and her eyes popped open in horror as she saw Barris’
cheeks fill with red as he shifted to the side facing away from her.
Solas’ rolled his eyes again as he continued to send healing magic through her
temples. If the elf rolled his eyes again, she theorized they would get stuck
that way. As he pulled his hands away, Idalya’s body slumped forward with a
sigh, her forehead resting against his shoulder.  
“Barris,” Solas turned his head to look at the Templar, “get her downstairs to
the carriages. I will cover and say it was a training exercise. For her safety,
do not mention this to the Inquisitor. I fear for her life if the Inquisitor
believes her to be a danger.” Helping Idalya to sit on her own, he stood to
look Barris in the eye. “You will protect her, won’t you?”
Barris nodded and moved to her side, wrapping a muscled arm around her to lift
her to her unbalanced feet. “You have my word.” He answered, his authority
clear, never breaking eye contact until Solas exited down the side path of
stairs to meet with the group of confused mages gathering in the main courtyard
over the source of the immense magic radiating through the fortress.
Idalya stood up straight, her posture uncertain, and took a few wobbled steps
with Barris’ hand guiding her from the small of her back. Her breath was
unsteady, her eyes focused on what was ahead instead of the feel of his fingers
pressed against her sensitive skin.
she rolled her shoulders letting her muscles relax. She inhaled, holding it
with her eyes closed until she exhaled with a shudder. Her balance strengthened
when she opened her eyes. She stepped out away from Barris with hesitant steps
until she was sturdy enough on her feet to walk. She paused at the stairway,
her back still the Templar. Without his heavy armor that echoed with each step,
she gasped to find him silent at her side.
“Are you okay?” He whispered close to her pointed ear. A chill ran the length
of her spine at the timbre of his voice.
His face already read he wouldn’t believe whatever bullshit answer she made up
to pacify people into leaving her alone.
Her eyes flicked away from him back out over the courtyard full of scurrying
servants and soldiers. “I’m not sure. One moment I'm terrified, to being
surrounded by friends the next, motivated by a cause I can dedicate myself to.
I fall asleep and I'm so lost, but then I wake up…” her eyes flicked over to
meet his, “and for these brief moments I’ve never been more home.”
Barris’ breath faltered as she watched him. His eyes searching hers before he
backed a step away.
“I understand what you mean. We… we should go before the Inquisition leaves
without us.”
Idalya nodded, dropping her eyes to the ground as she followed him down the
stairs moving one numb foot after other as she made her way to the courtyard.
She was unsure if her order to leave Skyhold was the worst decision the
Inquisitor could make.
Chapter End Notes
     Follow me on Tumblr: http://kmandergirl.tumblr.com
     If you're enjoying this story, check out Burning in the Flames, a
     Cullen/Evelyn prequel fic, in the Idalya Mahariel stories link above!
***** The Chapter Where Iron Bull is Stuck in a Carriage *****
Chapter Summary
     The Inquisition is traveling to the Winter Palace at break-neck
     speed, which leaves Bull, Cassandra, and Dorian stuck in their
     carriage in silence.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The parade of carriages lurched forward in the middle of the gravel-filled road
leading to Halamshiral. Iron Bull sighed attempting to rotate the heft of his
shoulders in the confined space. His cramped neck yearned to stretch as the
Orlesian-style monstrosity Josephine referred to as transportation wasn't
designed to house the height of a Qunari much less the spread of his horns.
The constant ache in his neck began early in the journey and continued as they
sped over roads an entire day without stop. Bull hated traveling like this. He
was loath to admit he missed Evelyn’s eclectic mix of mounts she kept in
Skyhold. The beasts groaned, moving at a sluggish pace under the weight of a
Qunari rider, but at least Bull moved his entire body instead of being caged
like a Saarebas.
Out the window of their varnished cage, Dorian stared while holding an empty
bottle of Tevinter red in his shaking hands, his thumbs running over the smooth
glass as his mind was miles away. Distant. Cold to others. Hiding something.
Trusts no one. Bull assumed Dorian would travel with his regular ‘drink until
they passed out’ companion on their journey to Halamshiral. The Trevinter
cursed out Evelyn as a witch, in front of her soldiers, when she grabbed the
Commander by the collar and ordered him to her private carriage.
The mage resigned himself at having to slum it with the rest of the companions.
Over the past few hours he settled himself in to drown in the bottles of wine
he slipped past the Ambassador as Cassandra and Bull watched him in silence
from the other side of the carriage.
The Seeker was one of the last companions to join their ridiculous caravan as
her, Cullen, and the Templars rechecked the final lists for their voyage. As
the carriage door swung open, her weary face fell when she found the only
vacancy to be with Bull and Dorian, sitting on opposite sides of the carriage
in silence. To the warrior’s credit, she hid her distaste as she took the small
opening left on Bull’s side, throwing her bag of supplies on the end of
Dorian’s empty seat. She creased her brows at the mage who didn’t appear to
have noticed the Seeker joined their party.
Hours later, Cassandra buried herself in a stack of books she’d brought in her
bag. Cheeks blushed. Heart rate stammering. The smell of arousal. Bull smiled
as Cassandra cleared her throat and adjusted her legs to press her leather-
bound thighs together as she read further into the smutty novels she presumed
no one knew she read. The Seeker was a woman of many facets she kept hidden,
but Bull saw the true romantic lurking inside as much as the woman hid
it. Breathing becoming faster. Flush over neck. Legs pressed together tighter.
“Good book?” Bull enjoyed giving the Seeker a good ribbing since he was certain
she wouldn’t permit him to give her anything else he’d like to.
Cassandra stiffed at his voice, sitting straight up. Uncomfortable.
Embarrassed. Core throbbing while she pretends to respond in disgust. “It’s
fine.” She spit out at him before slamming the cover of the book shut as the
carriage stuttered to a stop on the road. Relief. Wants out- away from us. Bull
grinned as the Seeker disappeared out the carriage door before the wheels
stopped their forward momentum.
“It appears we have the carriage to ourselves if you could think of some ways
to waste time.” He turned to Dorian, but the mage had not heard his innuendo as
he continued to stare at the canopy of forests lining both sides of the shoddy
road. Bull cleared his throat and Dorian startled out of the state to face his
Qunari lover. Dark circles under eyes. Slight tremor in hands.
He ran a hand over his weary jaw along the slight growth of a new beard, as he
sighed. “I’m sorry… I lost track of time, Bull.” Voice tired. Slurred.
“When are you going to talk about it, Dorian?” Flare of anger in eyes. Fist
clenched.
“I don't understand what you’re talking about. I’m great.” The mage scoffed,
throwing the empty bottle onto the floor in frustration where it ricocheted
across the painted wooden floor. Lies.
“I don’t know what you’re hiding, Dor, but you need to spit it out to someone
before your secrets run too deep.” He resisted the urge to reach out and lay
his hands on the mage. “Trust me, whatever your reason, it isn’t worth this
kind of madness.”
Bull once stood at the edge of the abyss, looking across its nothingness until
he thought no option existed but Qunari re-education. At the last moment, he
changed his mind and asked for reassignment. After looking at Dorian’s dead
eyes and loss of life, he understood how one found so much sickness within
their soul that starting over appeared the only path.
Anger. Drunk. Needs to escape. Dorian jumped to his feet far more graceful than
a man who just consumed a cellar full of wine should be able to but stopped
with his hand clasped on the handle of the door, his back facing Bull. “Just
because we fuck doesn’t mean you have any authority to give me advice. What
makes you think I want the opinion of a fucking Tal-Vashoth dathrasi, anyway?”
Bull’s face remained unchanged as the mage swept his way out of the carriage, a
flurry of robes swirling behind him. The door of the carriage slammed hard
enough the hinges creaked with the effort.
The great Qunari shook his head and followed his lead out the carriage door
expecting everyone to be staring after Dorian’s scene, but found the members of
the Inquisition too invested in stretching their own sore muscles to pay much
heed to the Trevinter’s typical antics as of late. Bull rolled his shoulders
with a groan as the muscles loosened throughout his upper body.
Dorian disappeared as the other companions filed out of their similar
carriages, appreciative for the chance to get out and move from the frantic
pace Evelyn had the drivers pushing the horses.
Out of the next carriage, the apostate elf came meandering out, eyes narrowed
in his usual suspicion of everyone around. On guard. Hiding. Feels
trapped. Close behind him were Knight-Captain Rylen who seemed in good spirits
(Smell of lyrium and bourbon, relaxed, but concerned) and the hero herself,
Dal. The Templar leaned close to Dal, whispering something in her ear she
nodded numbly to before he slid something into the pocket of her jacket. Dal’s
dark-tanned skin held a yellow tint. The girl staggered on her feet, her eyes
unfocused. Smell of bile and booze. Heart racing. Fear in her eyes. 
She had been sick as of late but didn’t strike him like the type to get motion
sickness or drink herself to excess in the morning, unlike his traveling
companion. Dark circles pressed under her lavender eyes and there was a
desperation showing on her face she kept hidden from those around her.
The Hero looked over her shoulder and Bull’s eye followed her line of sight to
see Evelyn and Cullen emerge from the front carriage. Evelyn moved lithely, her
body swaying more feline than human, as she stepped down into the chaos of the
emptying carriages. 
Smell of sweat and semen, eyes twitching over the huddled masses, anger
swelling to the surface. She paused as she entered the crowd, taking in the
surrounding scene instead of ignoring what wasn’t relevant to her. The
Inquisitor found herself lost in her thoughts and her attempts to fuck them
away on the trip to Halamshiral didn’t appear to help given the look of her
very worn out and disheveled Commander. His head a bed of disturbed curls he
ran his hands through as he spoke to his captains.
Evelyn made her way to Josephine (Nervous. Hesitant. Feels less strong with
Blackwall by her side) and appeared to be drilling her adviser on progress as
the Spymaster approached the conversation. Defensive of Josephine. Thinly
veiled dislike of Evelyn. Eyes darting around the crowd until they fall on Dal
and she relaxes. 
Feisty redheads were Bull’s cup of tea, except the spy learned after being
around these women for minutes that anyone would be insane to get involved with
either of them. Sure, they were beautiful. The most dangerous predators always
were.
If Evelyn could not close rifts- Bull would never have allowed the Chargers to
join the Inquisition. The Inquisitor was selfish. Only looking to improve her
own status as the world came crashing down around her. People presumed life as
a noble was kind to the woman and she’d never faced adversity in her life until
Corypheus’ hand gripped her throat as the fires burned inside Haven.
Bull saw deeper inside the soul of the redhead. There was something dark
resting inside the heart of the woman they called the “Herald of Andraste”.
Bull wasn’t sure what happened to the woman to cause such anger to live in her
since her skills of deception were equal to those of the best spies he’d worked
beside.
Sometimes making tough decisions as a leader came down to saving the entire
world instead of just collecting gold for another mission. If the breach
remained open, there would no world for the Chargers to work in. So, to the
Inquisition they came—where they would stay until they saved the world from
Corypheus and his followers.
The Inquisitor and her advisers shifted to their focus to the side and Bull
groaned as an inebriated Dorian stumbled his way into their conversation. With
an unmasked look of disgust, the Spymaster took her leave motioning the
Ambassador to follow, while Evelyn quirked a well-shaped brow at her Trevinter
cousin as she assessed his current state.
Bull's sense of concern for his lover grew as he continued rambling to the
Inquisitor. Dorian was full of secrets—he had been for some time. It was only a
matter of time before those secrets spilled out. Bull couldn’t shake the
nagging feeling that confessing the tales torturing the man in the late hours
of the night to Evelyn would only lead to more trouble for Dorian.
Chapter End Notes
     Follow me on Tumblr: http://kmandergirl.tumblr.com
***** The Chapter Where Bull Gives What's Needed- NSFW *****
Chapter Summary
     Dorian has changed and refuses to speak of what's happened. But the
     Iron Bull can still provide his mage with what he needs. NSFW
Dorian changed the day Idalya arrived back in Thedas.
He awoke to his large nostrils assaulted by the stench of magic permeating the
air of Skyhold, no different from the battlefields of Seheron. Dorian was
absent from their bed and as Bull walked around Skyhold, he found the residual
magic lingered everywhere. 
Few people sensed it, he deduced. Hesitation and fear existed in those who
sensed the choking clouds of magic. Solas paced in his rotunda, piles of
parchment swept to the floor, elvish words slipping out between his lips. Sweat
on brow. Heart racing. Indecisive. 
Enchanter Fiona sat in Skyhold’s garden staring at the plots of medicinal herbs
she tended during the day, her hands outstretched empty in front of
her. Regret. Sorrow. Fear. Haunted by her memories. 
It wasn’t until Bull located Dorian hidden in his library nook he knew
something terrible happened. Dead eyes. Loss of color from face. Dirty hands
and grime on leathers.
Bull’s heart pounded within his chest as he dropped to one knee, putting them
face to face. Dorian, still unaware of Bull’s presence, stared out across the
courtyard through the window until the Qunari slid his hands over his.
Instead of being startled, as Bull expected, the mage’s eyes moved so slow
until they faced him. Exhaustion and grief painted his features, and it broke
Bull to see the vibrant man so devoid and stricken. A different man than the
one Bull held dozing against his chest the night before.
His lover didn’t speak, he stared at him with a pained expression as he
remembered how to react. It was the lousiest of times for Bull to realize the
depth of his emotions for the mage, but one can seldom plan when they fall in
love.
It was only when Bull raised a scarred hand to the mages cheek he saw the guard
come up, as the man ripped himself away, burned by his touch. Without a word
Dorian rose and left the library. Bull followed behind at an undetectable
distance, ashamed to use his Ben-Hassrath training against his love.
He assumed Dorian would gravitate towards Evelyn, but instead Dorian’s numb and
labored steps led him to the bathhouse of Skyhold. Once inside, he stripped
from his leathers one buckled strap at a time as he on the edge of the copper
tub, struggling to lift his legs inside as it filled with water. Bull detected
Dorian’s moving mana as he heated the bath until it blistered against his
copper skin and the room filled with steam floating through the slat windows,
spiraling tendrils through the frigid winter morning in the Frostbacks.
As Bull stood unmoving against the wall outside the washroom, a sound struck
him like a lance through the heart—the muffled sounds of Dorian’s cries. Sobs
ripped their way out of his shaking body through the hands clasped over his
mouth.
Whatever caused Dorian to suffer was something he had no intention of sharing.
Bull would have no objections to secrets with someone who was sharing his bed,
but this was Dorian, his mage, his love. He was suffering, and Bull felt more
helpless than ever. He remained motionless until the sound of Dorian’s heart-
wrenching cries died away. The Iron Bull chose the path of cowardice, leaving
to take his seat in the Herald’s Rest like he hadn’t just listened to his own
heart cry out in pain and confusion.
A few hours and countless ales purchased for him by the Chargers later, Dorian
waltzed into the tavern with Evelyn on his arm—the two already on their way to
full inebriation. The mage was outspoken and lewd speaking to the Chargers in
tune with his normal behavior, but as he turned to speak to Bull it was
obvious, his smile reached nowhere near his eyes. Pain. Rage. Loss. Confusion. 
He jumped into Bull’s lap after uttering a joke to the Chargers that had the
tavern cackling. Bull knew how fragile he was as he wrapped his thick arms
around his mage and hoped his touch told Dorian volumes more than his words
would express.
Dorian stayed glued to Bull the rest of the night as the two both drank to
forget. Whether an arm touching, or Dorian’s leather buckled thigh set next to
his, he stayed connected like Bull was his only remaining lifeline in the world
and maybe he was.
Bull saw the streak of stubbornness and denial the mage used in place of
confidence when they confronted Dorian’s father in Redcliffe. Even confronting
the elder Pavus that wanted to change who Dorian is rattled Dorian less than
what transpired in the early hours within Skyhold. Bull let Dorian keep up his
appearances pretending he didn't see the pain twisting his soul as the mage
threw back drink after drink, pretending to be a whole person.
As the night grew dark, the soldiers filed out of the tavern leaving just a few
stragglers, the Inquisitor, and her companions behind. After losing a battle of
rock, paper, scissors, Sera and Varric grumbled, each taking an arm of the
incoherent mumbling Inquisitor whose feet dragged across the floor more than
stepped forward and assisted the woman out the door.
Dorian rose unsteady and staggered his way to the stairs heading towards Bull’s
room above the Rest, somehow able to still sway his hips like the rocking of
the ocean. He leaned back against the stone wall, focusing his eyes on him
before reaching out a smooth hand, beckoning for Bull to follow. Need. So much
need. Need to feel. Need to not fear.
Without a second thought, Bull was out of his chair and pressing his mage into
the wall, his thick horns pushing into the crumbling stone above him. One thick
hand slid behind Dorian’s head and threaded into his ebony hair, the other
gripped his hip he jerked forward to meet his own. He leaned his head back into
Bull’s hand as a moan worked its way up his slender arching throat.
The surge inside Bull surprised him, a flurry of emotions exploding from his
need to protect Dorian, his anger at being pushed away, working their way to
the surface as his fingers traveled over the bronzed skin of the infuriating
creature that dared to shudder against him. The urge to consume was too great,
to mark him, possess him, to show him the depth of his anger, love, and fear
for him.
“Open your eyes.” Bull’s voice wavered as he fought the violent need to claim
this man- his mage. 
Dorian opened his eyes, after a deep inhale of breath, to let Bull see what was
hiding inside. So much aching need. Need to remember. Need to… something. Bull
didn't understand the complexity of what was lying deep within his eyes the
color of ash.
“Please…” Dorian whispered as he pulled himself closer to the Qunari, wrapping
his arms around Bull’s neck and climbing up his muscular body so that every
toned curve of his own was flush against the hulking man.
It took all of Bull’s self-control to hold back the groan that wanted to free
itself as Dorian dragged a leather-covered thigh over his thickening erection.
The mage displaying his strength as he pulled himself to eye level with his
lover. Bull pulled back as Dorian attempted to press his wine scented lips
against his own. The mage raised an eyebrow, confusion crossing his features,
Bull didn’t need to be a Ben-Hassrath spy to know how thin the ice he and
Dorian were standing on was.
“Dorian… we’re drunk,” the words were heavy on his tongue as the air reached a
boiling point around them.
“That’s never stopped us before.” The mage leaned forward and whispered against
the corner of his lips, the edge of his mustache tickling over Bull’s skin.
Bull had never known a want like this- the need to heal and harm rolled up so
tight within himself that every brush of his fingers over Dorian’s skin was
pulling him towards a cliff he hadn’t stood at the edge of for many years.
This was what losing control felt like. In his rational mind he knew something
was wrong with his mage. He also couldn’t face the prospect he hadn’t protected
him from whatever happened or that this might be his fault. He couldn’t let
himself hurt Dorian more than he already had been- he would not. He pulled back
his body from Dorian, lowering the mage to the floor. The emptiness pressing
against his skin excruciating.
“Dor, we need to talk.” Panic. Fear. Need help. Need more.
Dorian’s hands were clutching at Bull’s belt to keep him from moving away, his
eyes wide with a gauntlet of fear behind them.
“Bull,” his fractured whisper was almost too much for the Qunari to handle. “I
can’t…” Pulling Bull closer he laid his cheek against the man’s full chest
mumbling. “I can’t do this. Please, I need…” He turned his face into Bull’s
chest as hot streaks of tears ran down the Qunari's abdomen. ‘… only you.’ The
mage repeated over and over as he shook in massive arms of his lover.
Bull closed his eyes and took deep breaths as he imagined backing away from the
edge of that cliff; regaining his control and stepping away from the madness
held at the bottom of that crevice. Bull needed to understand what was
happening, but Dorian was the priority. The rest of the Inquisition could burn
down for all Bull cared if his mage remained safe.
Dorian needed him- he trusted him, was helpless, and needed to feel something
not fear. Bull could do that for him. Show him how loved he was;
how precious he was even if Bull couldn’t say the words aloud.
Able to slow his breathing and heart rate, he leaned closer to Dorian and
placed his lips on the edge of Dorian’s ear. “Go upstairs. Remove your clothes
and wait on the bed.”
Dorian shuddered again and nodded into Bull’s chest before stepping away and
heading obedient up the stairs with a newfound swagger in the sway of his hips.
Sensing eyes on him, Bull turned to the last remaining patrons and Cabot, the
barkeep, staring with jaws slacked open. With an exaggerated shrug, Bull turned
and headed up the two flights of stairs remaining until reaching the broken-
down room he used in Skyhold, the wooden stairs creaking with each step of his
mass.
At the door he paused, eyes closed, the smell of Dorian bare in the next room
overtaking his senses as every inch of his body yearned to touch the golden man
laid just beyond. This wasn’t about him; this was for Dorian. He needed the
ability to fall to pieces in the safety of Bull’s care without judgment or
fear. These were things Bull could provide that he wanted to give his mage.
Taking a deep breath, Bull twisted the handle entering the room. Dorian filled
the ceiling with twinkling mage lights illuminating the room in cool blue
light, bathing his bare skin in the color of the sea. He was laying in the
center of the bed unclothed as Bull requested—eyes closed, and cock hardened
against his stomach in anticipation of his touch. Bull closed the door behind
him, taking slow, deliberate steps to the foot of the bed as he admired the
spectacular view.
“What do you want?” Bull’s tone was deep as he assessed all of Dorian’s limbs
and saw no bruising or cuts to show injury.
Though they were an asset to the Inquisition, Bull thought of nothing but the
Templars when he found Dorian so broken that morning—a proud Trevinter mage in
their midst more than enough to incite the anger of a Templar. There was
nothing to suggest a physical fight, plus Bull hoped if attacked, Dorian would
have come to him, so he could decapitate the attacker joyfully with his bare
hands.
Dorian scoffed and opened his grey eyes. “What do you think I want,
Bull?” Embarrassed. Vulnerable. What if he doesn’t want me?
“Not tonight, Dor. I need you to tell me what you need.” Bull needed clear
consent, anything less and he would sleep elsewhere. He would not cause Dorian
to suffer more because the mage couldn’t share what haunted him.
Rounding the side of the bed, Bull rested on the edge next to the mage turned
away from him, the bed groaning under his massive weight. He resisted the itch
in his fingers to lean forward and trace the length of Dorian’s spine.
“Tell me what you need, Dorian.” His voice was quiet, authoritative.
Dorian turned to face him, and Bull reached out a weary hand he pressed against
the mage’s burning cheeks. Running his callused thumb over Dorian’s lower lip,
the mage tilted his head back and moaned filling the entire room with warmth.
“Festis bei umo canavarum” Bull mumbled which earned a dark chuckle from
Dorian.
“I’ll be the death of you?Shouldn’t that be my line? You’re more than twice my
size, you beast.” Bull smiled at the lopsided smirk Dorian gave him but waited
until Dorian answered his question.
“I need… trust. I… I only trust you Bull,” and with that Bull understood.
Dorian needed to hand his trust to someone and to have it given back as freely
as given.
After double checking their watchword, Bull reached into a side drawer of his
bedside table and pulled out thin lengths of Orlesian rope wound with silk. He
tied Dorian’s wrists together, looping the rope through an inconspicuous metal
hook hidden in the headboard of the bed to the casual observer. Each leg he
caressed between his massaging fingers as he tied knots around the ankle before
securing each foot to a separate corner of the foot of the bed spreading Dorian
wide to him with a moan.
Last, he took a long length of pure silk he draped over the Dorian’s glittering
gray eyes. Running a scarred hand down the mage’s chest, he sighed as he took
it the vision Dorian created.
“You are so fucking beautiful.” The confined man arched his back, shuddering
under Bull’s feather-light touches, desperate to find something to move his
aching cock against. But Bull’s patience would not falter until Dorian had what
he needed.
Bull spent the next few hours covering every limb of his mage in kisses, nips
of teeth, and gentle caresses until Dorian moaned on the bed, begging like a
good boy for his release while Bull told him how spectacular every inch of him
tasted. He told him how every sound he pulled from his throat gave him life,
how every shudder of ecstasy drove his frantic need of him, how much his
compliance pleased Bull. He was a good boy and deserved his reward.
When Bull gave his mage permission for release, Dorian’s cries echoed in the
empty room, Bull pressed his teeth down into the man’s neck while feeling him
erupt into the palm of his hand until Dorian went limp in form and spirit
beneath him.
After soothing the bite with his tongue and soft kisses, Bull took a damp cloth
from the basin and cleaned Dorian’s body as he untied one limb after another.
Removing the silk strip from Dorian’s eyes, he found the mage asleep. Long dark
lashes fanning against his cheek, hair tousled from grinding his head back into
the pillows all night.
Bull pulled the covers over Dorian’s bare form and the sleeping mage sighed as
he rolled into the warmth of the blanket. Bull sat down on the edge of the bed
and groaned under his breath at his now throbbing erection refusing his denial.
Unlacing his large breeches, it only took three tight-fisted pumps before he
found his own release. After cleaning himself up, he relinquished the rest of
his clothes and climbed into bed with the beautiful man who was snoring in his
escape into the Fade.
Pulling Dorian against his chest he shook his head as he stared down at the
still man. He was a goner this time. Bull might have a lot of lovers, but he
never let himself move past that into more serious emotions. Dorian had broken
down the walls the Qun installed in him. Trevinter mages and Qunari were sworn
enemies, but here they proved enemies could be so much more.
“Kadan,” he whispered into Dorian’s ear as the mage snuggled closer to push the
early morning chill away
Bull awoke alone that morning. Only the lingering smells of sweat, semen, and
the cologne Dorian wore, were proof the mage had laid in his bed. Assuming
Dorian needed space, he arose as normal, working through training with the
Chargers and parts of Cullen’s army. After long days training and dueling then
drinking through the entire night until the world hurt less, Bull would flop
into bed ignoring the candlelight still illuminating Dorian’s corner of the
rotunda through his window.
It took a week for the mage to approach him once again inside the Herald’s
Rest. He looked exhausted, deeper circles beneath his eyes. A constant tremor
in his hands now existed not unlike Cullen’s lyrium withdrawals, Bull assumed
was from constant drinking from the smell of wine permeating from the mage’s
skin.
They’d spent the rest of the night keeping up appearances for their friends,
until they’d moved to Bull’s room and Dorian would hand over his trust like a
velvet-wrapped box Bull would treat as the most precious gift he’d ever
received as he commanded his mage who was so eager to please. Bull woke up
alone then and every time after Dorian would come to him when his fear became
too much to bear alone.
Months passed, and they’d continued this silent duel. Any attempt to speak to
Dorian about what happened turned into him berated by the angry mage. Whether
due to his proximity to Evelyn or the fact he was a skilled member of the
Inquisition, people let Dorian’s downward progression slide like nothing
changed in the mage.
The only time Bull saw a change in Dorian around others over their weeks apart
was when Idalya would be in his vicinity. Dorian’s eyes would fill with fear
and some unreadable emotion to Bull before he would leave and head alone to
Skyhold’s wine cellars—which Evelyn instructed be open to her cousin at all
times of day.
*****
Bull sighed, leaning backwards against the garish carriage. Dorian remained in
the middle of some tangent to Evelyn, annoyance written across her face even
for those without spy training. She waved him off as she headed away toward her
Commander and Dorian cursed in Trevene as he stumbled on the open ground with
nothing to hold himself up.
Bull cursed himself as he headed over to help the man who was too drunk for
daylight hours.
He took loud steps in the gravel as he approached Dorian, who tensed by
instinct as he heard the Qunari draw closer. His giant hand pressed to the
small of the staggering man’s back, the other gripping him by the shoulders.
“Hey Dor- “
“Stop…” Dorian’s voice was weak and foreign to Bull’s ears but touching the
mage outside of their weekly meet-ups felt good.
“We should get you back to the carriage, I’ll get you some food and…”
“Katoh.” Bull retracted his hands, the mage’s skin burning him as he stared in
shock.
“Dor, I…” he had to be misunderstanding him, he had to be.
“No Bull, katoh. I’m done with this, leave me be.” Dorian’s words answered his
question clearer than he'd hoped.
It was as Bull feared. Dorian was fighting his way back to surface to breathe
but chosen to let himself drown beneath the waters of his fear and guilt
instead.
A light and musical laugh broke him out of his shock.
“Well isn’t this just precious?” Evelyn stood in the distance, one hand on her
jutting hip, the other holding an uncorked bottle of Antivan Red. “Come Pavus,
I’ve had the wine stores brought to my carriage. Let me rescue you from this
mediocrity.” With a laugh she turned, her hair reminding Bull of the blood-
soaked beaches of Seheron.The members of the Inquisition filed back into homes
for their next long trek towards the Winter Palace.
Dorian let his chin fall against his chest before sighing, never turning back
to face Bull. He staggered after Evelyn as Bull watched his kadan walk away for
the final time.
***** The Chapter Where Idalya Drinks All the Alcohol *****
Chapter Summary
     The Inquisition is making its way closer to the Winter Palace, but
     Idalya still struggles with what happened before leaving Skyhold.
The constant jostling of the carriage made Idalya’s still weak stomach ill,
bile bouncing the back of her throat with every lurch of the cabin. After
falling into the Fade before leaving Skyhold, she’d been awake, afraid of what
happened if she entered the Fade. She was a disaster waiting to happen and
should not have come with the Inquisition for whatever purpose intended for
her.
For three days they traveled at breakneck speed, only pausing when the horses
refused to move any further, desperate for food and water. The Inquisition left
the Frostbacks behind them in record time.
On a stop to water the horses, she observed Cullen questioning Evelyn in raised
whispers behind the train of carriages on what made travel at that speed
necessary. Without hesitation, Evelyn threatened him with a forced demotion for
questioning her decisions before huffing away, her frustration far greater than
Cullen’s inquiry. 
Such a spoiled princess.
Leliana’s scouts and spies guarded the path ahead to make sure the Inquisitor
remained safe, but at the speed they traveled, the scouts struggled to keep
ahead while the Inquisition ripped through the gravel roads bringing them to
the palace.
The second day she overhead Scout Harding and Leliana in a heated exchange
after Harding lost two scouts to bandits. Their inability to move undetected
through the countryside compromised by rumbling coaches. The consummate
professional dwarf kicked a stone into the empty woods with a growl of
frustration before slipping back into the shadows to forge ahead for everyone’s
safety.
As much as being stuck in the carriage grated on her nerves, getting out during
stops provided a similar level of irritation. The drain on her energy from her
collapse into the Fade, and refusing to sleep, was taking a toll on the
warrior. Every time she exited squinting into the daylight, Varric handed her a
flask noting she needed a drink. Rylen continued the mantra as they shared a
carriage seat while Solas stared across the cabin in disdain every time her
shaking hands tilted the metal back against her mouth, sighing as the burning
liquid blotted out the feelings of discontent and fear haunting her.
As the carriages pulled to a stop, Rylen held a triumphant fist in the air.
“Praise the Maker," he stood, stretching his neck. He motioned out his hand
towards her, waiting. “Hand it over, Doll.”
Idalya raised an eyebrow, then in defiance raised the container to her lips,
draining everything left inside before handing it over to the Templar who
grumbled in annoyance.
“Oh whatever,” she huffed, “find Varric and tell him to refill that since I’m
still in need of that drink he claims I so need.” The Templar shook his head at
Idalya before exiting the carriage as Solas glared at her.
“What?” She yelled at him, surprised at the volume of her voice.
“Am I bothering you, sitting here?” His annoyance pronounced in his tone.
“Yes… No.  I don’t know.” She rubbed a weary hand against her forehead before
resting her head back against the plush seat. Three days without rest was
making the simplest interactions more complicated.
“How long have your memories been causing this?” He moved forward on his seat,
his elbows touching his knees.
“This… This was the first time it happened.” Closing her eyes, the images of
the visions soared behind her eyelids.
Eyes of the brightest yellow questioning with a strange curiosity and another
pair of copper ones caused an ache deep in her chest the longer she held them
in her thoughts. Solas remained silent until she continued.
“Before, I was pulled into the dream, surrounded by this overwhelming sensation
of everything rushing through me.” She lifted her head and opened her eyes
inspecting the elf to find only compassion within the mage’s.
“This time was different. Fractured pieces of memory. Painful, attacking, the
images were fighting their way to the surface past something stronger than
myself. It frightened me.”
The elf’s frown lines deepened as he listened to her confession. After a long
moment of silence, Solas reached into the simple traveling bag he brought on
the voyage, pulling out a dust-covered, bound volume he opened wide across his
lap and combed over the text, allowing Idalya to fall to pieces in peace on the
other side of the carriage.
Her limbs numb, her body choosing to fall asleep on its own, whether the
warrior herself rested. She released a sigh as her eyes rolled back in her head
as her body relaxed.
The carriage door opened. Sunlight filtered through and burned her eyes, aching
from the stimuli while her body tensed at the intrusion on her safe place.
“There you are, Kitty.” Idalya’s muscles calmed at the sound of Varric’s gruff
voice. “A bitter Templar informed me you needed this.”
More on instinct than the ability to see, Idalya caught the metal flask in
midair, twice the size she and Rylen shared the past day.
“Try not to drink so much you puke on Chuckles here.  As Dorian can vouch, he
doesn’t enjoy it.”
Solas’ eye roll was powerful enough to crash the entire carriage. If she wasn’t
inebriated beyond rational thought Idalya would have laughed her way to tears
at her mentor’s expression of venom.
Varric leaned out the hinged door. “Hey Squeaky, there’s room in this carriage
if you’re looking for a spot.” She cringed at the volume of the echoing dwarf
as she curled up into a ball.
“Thanks, Varric,” a voice with the timbre of velvet responded, and Idalya
groaned out loud when Knight-Captain Barris’ head came into view.  He stepped
up into the carriage, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of their
suite.
He motioned to the seat next to Solas, “Is this taken?” The elf shook his head
and moved his bag out of the way before shooting Idalya a pointed glance with a
raised eyebrow before returning to his book.
He used an awkward hand to rub over his eyes. Barris’ body tensed as he settled
into the seat, realizing who occupied the darkened corner of the carriage. His
glance moved back to the door as he contemplated sprinting away.
Never had she wished she remained dead as right now.
The Templar, still out of uniform, twitched, uncomfortable without the constant
safety of his armor to protect him. He opened his mouth to speak, reassessed
the decision, then reached into his bag to pull out a large handful of
parchments she assumed were memos from Cullen. Meticulous notes taken into a
small leather-bound notebook as he kept his eyes glued to his work.
After minutes passed in silence, Solas closed his book, reaching below his seat
for his bag to tuck the volume away before heading to the door.
“Where are you going?” Idalya didn't recognize the slurred voice exiting her
body.
“I’m just going to check on something, I’m sure you’ll be safe with your
Templar friend here.” The elf paused considering something as he watched
Barris’ nervous body language, “While we have a Templar here, rest. Go to
sleep, Asha, before I force you to sleep with magic. Do not mistake my threats
as idle.”
After Solas exited the carriage, the swinging door closed, the bars of a cage
snapping shut around her. She kept her eyes pointed out the window before
Barris deciding to broach the subject.
“You haven’t been sleeping.” It was a statement, not a question. She resembled
a corpse by this point. Dark circles taking over the plains of her faded and
ashen skin.
“No.” the anger carried in her voice startled her.  She swallowed, trying to
push the bile back that crept up her throat. “I…” she hesitated, unsure how
much to tell this man whose presence set her aflame. Her eyes flicked to his,
and the force of his emerald ones caused her to look at the floor, her focus
disrupted. “I’m afraid.” She wanted to hide the secrets terrifying her, but
someone needed to know the truth.
“I can protect you.” Another statement, with no hint of questioning, came from
the Templar, and Dal was becoming overwhelmed with everything within this
carriage.
Her hands fumbled with the top of the flask and she sighed, contented when the
pressure of the cap gave.  Nostrils twitched at the burning smell of relief
contained within the metal receptacle. Her hand shaking, she moved it to her
lips and tilted the flask back, body relaxing as the first drops of burning
liquor touched her tongue.
The liquid flowed past her dusty-rose lips, Idalya chasing a sense of peace she
never found at the bottom. As she pulled her hand back, her breaths coming in
shallow gasps while the liquor pushed its way through her limbs, trying to
restore the life slipping away while locked within the carriage carrying her to
the Orlesian throne.
Emboldened by the half flask of rotgut she just consumed, she locked eyes with
the Templar. “That's a pattern, isn't it?”
*****
She wasn’t wrong.
He tensed at her question. Every time danger reared its face near her, he was
there, his shield in hand, to step in front of it. She may believe he took his
role as a Templar seriously, but the truth was when she was near he never took
his eyes off her.
“Or maybe the truth is I bring danger around you, and you should avoid me.” 
Maker, what am I saying? 
The impact of his words bounced around in the cabin until they found a home in
the empty spot within his chest fueled by anxiety and fear. The elf watched
him, cautious, her lavender-swirled eyes narrowed as she rolled his suggestion
over inside her mind. After too long of a pause for the sweating Templar, the
side of her lips upturned in a lopsided smirk as she leaned her head against
the window, without taking her analyzing gaze from him.
“You’re trouble, huh? The cute ones always are.” She winked at the Templar, who
grew warm even without wearing his armor.
He watched the upward movement of her hands as she pressed the flask against
her pouting lips, wrapping them around the mouth of the shining silver. She
tilted her head back, swallowing the vile smelling liquor. The smell of the
fumes filled the cabin, the heat of her words pressing against him. Though it
was nothing more than a drunk woman continuing her downward descent, it was the
most erotic thing Delrin Barris had seen in his life.
Without his armor, he was helpless. Confined within this cabin staring at the
woman of his daily fantasies. She was older than him in the technical sense,
but Barris reminded himself she just entered her womanhood at age twenty.
A girl now sitting across the cabin from him, in tight leather breeches hugging
the abundant curves of her hips and a sleeveless high-collared tunic that more
than hinted at the outline of her shapely breasts. A grin that could crumble
the resolve of the most pious Cleric in the Chantry.
In their normal interactions, Idalya kept her eyes focused away from him, but
emboldened by drink, the swirls of violet and gray within her eyes were
mesmerizing him every moment. He had to stop this now, or within minutes he’d
have his trembling fingers sliding through the strands of her hair made of
liquid moonlight. His lips against hers coaxing the sounds he yearned to hear
from her throat.
Her eyes locked on him as if undressing him, piece by piece, and he knew from
that look alone he could bury himself inside her and bury his fear and his
inhibitions within her.
But he couldn’t.
She was a terrified girl dulling her fear with every flask available and could
not consent to anything between herself and Barris no matter how much both
might want it.
What wouldn’t he give to have an Idalya sitting across from him whose veins
weren’t thundering with poison? He would crawl on his hands and knees to beg
her to let an unworthy man run like hands and lips over every inch of her flesh
until he was the god she screamed to for release, the Maker a forgotten relic
in her past.
Clearing his throat, he looked away, his eyes trying to find an object to
anchor his focus on, to keep it away from the eyes luring him closer as the
moments ticked on.
“Why did you join the Inquisition?” Her question took him by surprise. The
slurring of her words reinforcing his willpower to keep his itching hands away
from her.
“The Inquisition gave me a purpose after my order ended. Recruited as a status
symbol for Evelyn’s fledgling Inquisition,” the elf nodded while listening.
“Cullen took me under his wing. He told me to never give up fighting or to
compromise on what you know is wrong. I’ve been given a second chance to atone
for what happened to the Templar, and it’s not one I take for granted.” He
flicked his eyes up to meet her lavender ones. “I should have died with my
brothers at Therinfall, but the Maker held another path for me. I intend to
walk it with no regrets in my heart.”
“Don’t say that, Barris.” Shock filled him when she turned on her seat to reach
forward and slide her thin callused hands over his. “Please, don’t say that.
You're supposed to be here…” her voice trailed away as she looked at him, her
eyes glassy with brewing emotions. “If you had died, you wouldn’t be… I…
Barris, I don’t know how you…”
“Delrin.” he interrupted. She raised an eyebrow at him as she waited. “My name
is Delrin.” A smile spread across her face and she nodded in understanding.
“Idal...” She started.
“Idalya Mahariel, I know.” He watched her eyes open in surprise before she
regained control of her cool exterior.
“How? Did Cullen tell you?”
He scratched at the edge of his overgrown beard. “I grew up in Ferelden, on the
north side of Lake Calenhad, north of Kinloch.  I saw you heading to and from
the Circle during the Blight.”
The color drained from her face as he finished the words. He had stepped over a
line of comfort for her into a subject of uncertainty as she pulled her hands
away. Her eyes wide as she processed before looking away with an expression
resembling shame.
“You knew who I was the moment I walked into Skyhold.” Her voice was thick with
emotion, fingers picking at the nails of her other hand, balled into a fist in
her lap.
Willed forward, he slid his large hands over hers this time, separating her
fingers to prevent the inadvertent harm she was causing herself. She released a
haggard sigh, looking up to meet his eyes.
“My lady, I would recognize you across the Fade, from this life or the next.”
Her lower lip descended downward, leaving her mouth open as her brows rose. She
stared in confusion while a fire burned beneath his skin, threatening to break
loose and bathe the cabin in flames.
Idalya pressed her lips back together, swallowing before reaching into her
jacket and shoving something into Barris’ hand. He investigated his palm to
find her flask.
“I’m drunk.” She pronounced out loud, causing a grin to break across Barris’
face. “I’m very drunk.” Idalya corrected as she wobbled, her body swayed with
the bouncing of the carriage. “I need to sleep. Will you watch over me?” 
I’m not sure I could look anywhere else if I tried.
“I'll keep you safe,” the words came out sounding confident. Thank the Maker
for years of Templar training.
Idalya slid to the middle of the seat before falling backward and landing with
a dull thud which caused a giggle to work its way out of his throat before he
stopped it.
“Why are you with the Inquisition?” Why did she allow herself to be paraded
around as a servant? She was the Hero of Ferelden. A Grey Warden. She was no
servant.
“Didn’t you hear? Your Spymaster suffers from extreme separation anxiety and
called up her oldest friend to fight more dragons at the first sign of danger.”
A barking laugh escaped Barris, and Idalya chuckled from her prone position.
“That’s why you joined the Inquisition, not why you’ve stayed.”
Idalya stared at the ceiling in silence, contemplating before she shrugged her
shoulders. She rolled her head to face Barris, and her exhaustion reflected in
her eyes and the purple circles spreading beneath them. She sighed, her lips
parting on the exhale.
“I don’t know,” she shook her head. “Maybe I stayed for you…”
There was no oxygen in the cabin. There can't be because Barris couldn ’t
breathe.
If his heart beat harder, the force would crack his ribs and explode through
his chest. He was a trained warrior of the Chantry, trained to stand up to the
most frightening of demons, and an elf destroyed his entire world with one
sentence.
She stared back at the ceiling, releasing another sigh as her body relaxed.
Barris’ hand flexed into a fist. Solas left behind a worn blanket on his side.
He gathered it in his arms and crouched in front of her before placed the
blanket over the fading girl, gaining him a hum of approval. As he turned away,
her quiet voice stopped him.
“Barris?” He turned back and met her eyes, a cascading universe behind them.
“Do you think I’ll remember any of this?”
A soft laugh answered her as he continued to stare into her eyes.
“I'd be surprised if you did.”
“Good.”
Before Barris raised an eyebrow in confusion, a pair of thin hands, far
stronger than he expected grabbed him, dragging him forward until his lips
pressed against hers. His eyes widened to the point of pain and he pulled back
so there was barely contact between them for a moment before his resolve broke
and he framed the smooth edges of her face with his hands as he pressed his
mouth and soul against her.
A deep sigh worked its way out of her lips as she moved them, agonizingly slow,
savoring every second of their touch. Barris kissed enough people in his life
to know the power of the first kiss. He was unprepared for the explosion of
longing pouring out of both.
It was a kiss that spoke not only of a moment but the possibility of a
lifetime. A lifetime stretching and unraveling itself.
With a final sigh, she pulled away, her eyes closed, a swollen smirk on her
face as she settled onto the cushion. Running the tips of his fingers over his
lower lip in wonder he realized he was wearing a matching grin. Settled into
the Fade, Idalya relaxed, and Barris had seen nothing more beautiful in his
life. He used his fingers to push the loose strands of hair from her face, then
tucked her in tighter amongst the worn linen blanket.
He was a goner.
Barris hid the torch he carried for the Elven beauty since the first moment he
laid eyes on her as she’d traveled to Kinloch. What he felt as a boy watching
her was an infatuation, but what he felt towards her now, as a man, was a much
deeper, richer emotion pouring its way out of his heart to fill the empty
cavity a life dedicated to service left him.
“In your heart shall burn an unquenchable flame, all-consuming, and never
satisfied.” After the words left past his lips, he knew they were true.
Idalya belonged to the Wardens, then to the Inquisition. Her existing was
enough for him. She would never belong to him, but the act of loving her filled
him with a greater sense of purpose and duty.
For all the grief he gave him, he understood Cullen. Evelyn would never be his,
yet Cullen understood that it was the act of loving someone itself that
transformed you.
Delrin Barris changed forever as his lips met the Warden’s, but he couldn’t
think of a sweeter battle to lose.
***** The Chapter Where Idalya Finds Solace *****
Chapter Summary
     It's time for Idalya to deal with the consequences of her method of
     coping. She hopes Solas can save her from her self-inflicted prison.
A piercing pain ripped through Idalya’s skull before her eyelids fluttered
open. With a gasp, her arm flung to guard against rays seeking to penetrate
through her sockets. She lowered her protective bar and felt her brows rise.
Night draped the unmoving carriage, her aching bones radiating in the hanging
darkness. The Inquisition set out as dawn stretched her arms across the open
sky. The effect of her chaotic inebriation was being pulled out of time and
placed into another. This time by her own hand.
On the ceiling, the images of Andraste and the Maker painted with a delicate
hand filled her vision. The creeping dark altering their visages into ominous
demons approaching as Idalya watched. She battled her mind to leave and cling
to the first area drenched in light.
It was a secret of which even Solas was unaware. Since returning, the dark
frightened her. A terror penetrating deep into her soul. The dark waited for
her, its relentless fingers of death reaching out to retrieve its prize, to
return her to the darkness where she belonged.
Every day she was envious of the soldiers training around her. They didn’t
understand their sprint towards death’s doorstep. Farmers, smiths, children,
mercenaries: they walked away from professions and families to put themselves
between Thedas and a monster.
Idalya was brave once too.
Now she understood it was ignorance that kept one foot falling in front of
another as she marched towards her own destruction, no thought for her own
survival. No one understood the emptiness of death awaiting them.
She pulled herself to a sitting position with a grumble. A gasp of pain escaped
her lips. A streak of agony ripping through the back of her skull. Her breaths
jagged.
The carriage was empty.
Solas waited near a warm fire, a grin of mockery splitting the plains of his
pale face. She needed to find the mage before her existence crumbled around
her. Every muscle in her body screamed as she placed her feet on the floor and
braced them with weight. With a whoomph, she landed hard on the seat below; the
impact pushing a groan from her chest. She could fall asleep and call him in
the Fade to come heal her. That could work, right?
Why did she bother waking up?
Her head in her hands, she pieced together the memories of the carriage. She
remembered setting out, her outburst at Solas for caring if she destroyed
herself one sinful sip at a time, Varric speaking to her, making room for…
Oh,sweet Maker. 
She knew Barris got into the carriage, and that’s where her memory ended. He
could be halfway across the country running away from her drunken rantings, she
suspected.
With her harsh hands, she rubbed life into her face. As her fingers drifted
across her lips, an image popped into her head. Soft lips, a pair of rough
hands massaging the sides of her face, a sense of sadness that stung…
“Maker.” Her hands wove into her hair as the images warmed her body.
Were these memories? Dreams? She knew it could be a trick of the Fade to show
her what she most desired.
Her cheeks burned thinking of a Desire demon fighting its way into her dreams.
She was an easy target as of late, unable to keep her thoughts out of the
gutter when the man was on the other side of a courtyard, much less confined in
a moving carriage with her.
She should tell Cullen or Rylen she suspected Desire demons of tempting her.
Rylen would torture her for developing feelings for his best friend. Cullen
taking her words to heart, so she would never sleep again without a Templar
watch.
She was torturing herself, and there was no point. After she found Solas and
forced him to heal this nightmare of a hangover, she would find the Templar
asking him something Inquisition related and watch his reaction. She wasn’t
sure what her feelings for him were, and to just spurt them in a drunken stupor
would humiliate her beyond belief.
She wouldn’t know until she was moving outside this blasted carriage.
The strain of moving was exhausting. Pain hammering in her head. She pushed
forward until she stood, her fingers digging into the sides of the door frame.
Breath coming in hard gasps. Idalya, determined to keep the contents of her
stomach within her body, moved in lazy movements, her eyes closed as she pushed
the door open.
The chill air escaped around the edges of the swinging door slapped her across
the face, and she doubled over as the rich smells of a stew pot and campfire
poured past her.
A soldier stationed to the side of the door straightened their posture as the
respected warrior wavered in the doorway of the carriage starting to collapse.
She blearily assessed the risks of the two stairs to the dirt road. After
clearing his throat, the soldier stepped forward, saluting Idalya.
“Ma’am.” He fidgeted in his Inquisition-issued armor, “The Commander stationed
me to keep watch over you.” She could sense the judging eyes of the soldier,
assessing her condition. “Anything you need, my Lady?”
“Y… yes.” Her voice cracked as she pushed sound through her swollen and aching
throat. “Solas, please bring me Solas.” The soldier nodded and left.
Idalya sighed and flopped on the stairs leading out of the carved monstrosity
that was her home for more days than she could remember. Her hands pressed hard
against the sides of her head, squeezing the pain away. She fought the waves of
nausea, the Waking Sea tossing a ship from coast to coast, in the core of her
stomach. The sound of pebbles crunching underneath a pair of light moving feet
greeted Idalya’s ears, and she sighed as she lifted her head, prepared for the
condemnation over her current state.
Her eyes opened to meet a pair of kind hazel eyes, housed within the shell of
the dark-complexioned chantry sister. Tight ringlets of brown hair stuck out
around the edges of her Chantry robes, a fuzzy halo, framing her face. A woman
standing too close for comfort.
“Who in the void are you?” Idalya said.
The sister’s eyes opened in surprise before returning to their calm state.
“I am Sister Dominique, Lady. You needed counsel?” The sister’s face remained
unchanged as she stared at Idalya, waiting for participation in a conversation
that would never happen.
“The fuck? I told that idiot I needed Solas, and he brings you.” This girl’s
only issue was existing in the spot where a bald elf should heal her.
“Yes, my Lady, I’m here to offer solace should you need it.”
“Oh, for fuck's sake…” Idalya groaned as she wrapped her mangled brain around
the idiocy of this moment. “No. Solas. Mage roughly yea tall with no hair and
pointy ears?” She could see no sense of recognition on the girl’s face. “The
fucking apostate!”
“Ah, yes. I… I am sorry for the misunderstanding. I’ll fetch him.” The woman
shuffled away, cringing at her obscenities.
Idalya would have remorse for her treatment of the young sister, but not now.
She’d have plenty of time to make amends to the girl, and the Maker himself,
though she wasn’t sure where the two of them stood on this whole “revived from
the dead” issue she experienced.
Silence crept around her, the quiet chatter of the Inquisition moving further
away. She blocked the imaginary demons and wanting hands reaching out to her
within the darkness.
She never heard Solas approach but sensed him long before his cool fingers wove
through the wild crown of her hair. He pushed the humming of his healing magic
through her temples where it throbbed along the harsh angles of her skull.
After the heavy magic trickled away, he massaged sides of her head, his fingers
laced with ice.
They maintained their silence as Solas healed her, without the condemnation she
expected. When she had the courage to open her eyes, she saw Solas’ face etched
with a sadness like her own.
“What’s wrong?” How long passed between opening the first flask with Rylen
until now? She didn’t trust herself enough to presume she went the whole period
without saying something brutal to everyone stuck with her.
“You’re in pain.” It was an acknowledgment of more than her immediate hangover.
Solas lived inside her mind every night. He’d seen the torment awaiting her
every time she closed her eyes, knew why she raced to see the bottom of the
metal flask. Concerned for her, he held no judgment for how she forgot those
empty gaps of herself haunting her every waking moment.
She looked away towards the ground as he continued massaging portions of her
skull with ice in silence. “The magic isn’t stable, is it?” She hadn’t dared to
form the question within her own mind, nor voice it out loud.
“All magic has its own complications…” he began.
“No, my magic. It’s unstable.”
“Stableis a subjective term. I’ve seen nothing of this magnitude succeed in all
my wanderings through the Fade.” He pulled his fingers from her hair, Idalya
sighing at the loss of contact. “But you,” he placed his icy fingers below her
rounded chin and tilted her head up towards him, “are one of a kind, Asha.
Never forget that. This magic may frighten you, but you are extraordinary.
You’ve shaped this energy to make something new and fledgling within this
world. I will fight to preserve it at all costs.”
Tears from relief and the weight of Solas’ words fought for release from her
lavender eyes. She allowed a genuine smile to bloom across her features despite
the hurt bellowing within her soul. The sadness on his features transformed
back to his traditional sarcastic expression. With an arched eyebrow and a
lopsided smirk, he looked at her.
“How was nap time with the hyperventilating Templar?”
With a miserable groan, Idalya collapsed backward onto the floor of the
carriage as the mage’s chuckle carried through the empty air, pushing the
darkness back inch by inch.
“That well, I see. When you’ve recovered from your mortification, come eat to
keep up your strength.” Solas’ chuckles grew quiet as he returned to camp, his
bare feet silent on the uneven gravel.
With a heroic effort, she lifted herself to a sitting position. The night’s
suffocating effects lessened now since alcohol was no longer threatening to
collapse her brain. After a deep yawn and the long stretch of her limbs, she
put her feet flat on the ground and stepped onto the lumber blocks forming her
legs, impressed with her decent balance. Each foot fell in front of the other
as she wove her way through the carriages, following the sounds of distant
laughs and the smell of game cooking over a fire.
Around the last bend of carriages, she entered the campfire clearing. Idalya
found a few members speckled around the fire. The separations by rank gone,
everyone remained sitting in a large circle, broken into small groups sharing
stories of past travels and battles.
Leliana, Cassandra, and Cullen sat in one corner, laughing over Varric’s tales
of Kirkwall hilarity about the self-proclaimed “Warrior of the Maker” Queen
Marion Hawke, and her husband the pretentious King Sebastian Vael. Idalya knew
little of the Champion of Kirkwall beside what Varric read from “The Tales of
the Champion”. She couldn’t rationalize a friend of Varric’s being as obnoxious
as her literary counterpart.
Bull and Solas were in the middle of an intense game of chess, both their heads
bowed over their respective sides of the board. Bull was at a disadvantage,
having Sera passed out asleep and wrapped around his horns like a hammock. The
Qunari showed no weakness as he moved a pawn to steal a rook from the Elven
mage, who let the faintest impression of a smirk pass his lips. Dal knew it was
only a matter of time before Bull would submit to his opponent.
She chose an empty spot on a log occupied by Blackwall, sitting apart from the
rest of the energetic groups. He regarded her with a nod as he stared into his
bowl of untouched stew. The chantry sister Idalya screeched at approached her
with her own bowl. She thanked the girl with the humblest words she could
before bringing a large spoonful to her lips and gulping down the hot food. The
stew was bland for Idalya’s taste, but she never turned away free food after
having spent so many years of her life consumed with the thoughts of where her
next meal would appear.
“I swear, somewhere in the tiny print on the Joining, there’s a clause that
states Wardens will always be separate from everything around them.” She
thought the words in her head and furrowed her eyebrows when she realized she’d
spoken them out loud.
Blackwall let out a gruff laugh as he put his spoon in his bowl.
“When you’ve seen the worst things in existence, people sense it and move away
for their safety. Can you blame them?” Blackwall put down his bowl and reached
into the side of his armor to pull a small leather pouch, which opened to an
aged wooden pipe with a small vial of tobacco.
With slow thorough movements, his thick and clumsy fingers packed the pipe
before bringing two small rocks out of his pocket; one a deep ebony sparkling
in the darkness, the other a brilliant red with orange flecks. As he struck
them together, they ignited a tiny flame he used to light the tobacco until it
glowed in the receptacle of the pipe.
He brought the mouthpiece to his lips inhaling deep from the chamber, the
embers glowing brighter as he pulled the heavy smoke into his lungs. With his
mouth round, he exhaled, forming the smoke into rings as it passed over his
cracked lips. The intangible circles drifting upward, high above the camp.
Idalya laughed at the ridiculousness of this man entertaining her with shapes
of smoke like a child. He didn’t know the irony of her nightmares that were
clouds of malformed smoke hiding the truth from her. But she appreciated the
effort. He paused, turning to Dal to extend it to her, offering her a chance to
partake.
With a smile, she shook her head. “No thanks, that stuff will kill you.”
Blackwall laughed again as he turned back towards the fire, inhaling again from
the wooden pipe while Idalya shoveled spoonfuls of cooling stew into her
awaiting mouth filling the silence between the two Wardens. Near to Blackwall,
she sensed nothing from the Warden. No sense of the taint crawling its way and
corrupting his veins. She knew he kept her secret. One perk of being old
friends with the Spymaster was it was hard to keep secrets out of her ears.
As the silence stretched between her and Blackwall, it became difficult to
entertain any topic besides Barris’ location. “The camp is quiet. Where is
everyone?” She kept her voice level, her face blank without emotion.
The Warden arched a knowing brow and chuckled at the dark-skinned girl, visible
blush on her cheeks as she avoided eye contact. “The Inquisitor couldn’t take
the speed we were moving at, so she took Dorian, Josephine, her Templars and
rode to meet the Grand Duke.” Obvious irritation coated the man’s words at the
thought of Josephine galloping across Orlais without the protective guard of
the Inquisitor.
Idalya contemplated telling him not to worry. Barris and Rylen would die before
they saw harm come to the Inquisition’s Ambassador. That wasn’t an outcome she
wanted either. She decided silence was the correct path instead of both Wardens
focusing on the people they cared for riding unprotected through the night.
“So, none of the Templar stayed?”
Blackwall laughed and nudged her shoulder with his own. “Sorry Dal, he oversaw
the party leading Evelyn away. Though he was concerned with leaving you asleep
and asked Cullen to station someone to your carriage to ensure your safety.”
The elf radiated multiple shades of flushing magentas and pinks through her
face as she absorbed his words. “Oh. That’s very… thoughtful of him.” She
responded, lost in the memories of Barris’ hands sliding over her cheekbones as
his full lips slid against hers.
“Mhmm… thoughtful isn’t the word I'd use for it.” Blackwall’s eyes glittered in
the night, seeing right through the wall Idalya built for protection.
She shook her head as she wrapped her head around everything. “I’m no good at
this.”
“No one’s good at this, Dal. Otherwise, there'd be more people in this world.”
The Warden joked as Idalya rolled her eyes at his quip.
“I know that. I get so overwhelmed by him I can’t think straight.” She grabbed
hold of the edges of her ponytail and curled the tips of the white hair around
the dark skin of her fingers. “It’s been so long, I can’t control what I feel.
Maybe I need to pick a random soldier and work this sexual frustration out.”
Blackwall choked on the drag of his pipe, smoke escaping through his mouth and
rolling out the ends of his nostrils as he beat on his chest with a closed,
dirty fist. “Well… I… umm…” the Warden spurted out.
“Oh, Maker’s breath, Blackwall! I’m not talking about you!” Idalya laughed as
the ridiculousness of this whole night continued.
Between not remembering her words or what happened with Barris, her
misunderstanding with the well-meaning Chantry sister, Solas breaking her with
his empathy, and now Blackwall thought she propositioned him. This trip was an
odd one for her, and she couldn’t imagine the night could get any stranger.
***** The Chapter Where Leliana Tells a Tale *****
Chapter Summary
     Nestled around a campfire, Leliana tells the tale of the battle for
     Fort Drakon
“… and then Marion turns to Isabella and says, ‘Turns out I didn’t know what
cuckold meant,’ and the Hanged Man erupts in laughter.” Varric grinned as he
delivered the punch line. A relaxed Cullen snorted, his hand flying over his
face in embarrassment as Varric and Leliana doubled over, clutching their sides
in pain, as laughter gripped them.
“Okay, now tell the one about Hawke trying to convert the Qunari on the
Kirkwall docks.” Cullen got out between gasps. “The look on their faces as she
asked if they had accepted the Maker is something I’ll never forget.” Cullen
laughed harder as Varric groaned, remembering the insanity of his former
leader.
“I’ll get that, Curly. I’ve waited long enough, Nightingale- tell me about the
Archdemon! Not a word will end up in a book, I swear, but you can’t hold out on
me any longer.”
Leliana’s face paled at the dwarf’s words. Her eyes drifted across camp where
Dal laughed with Blackwall. She knew, with her sensitive ears, Dal heard
Varric’s words. She sat in silence unable to form an answer.
It was a day Leliana tried to avoid but often ran through the back of her mind.
The images haunted her dreams. Dal’s lavender eyes grew curious as she watched
Leliana before she nodded in encouragement for her friend to continue.
“I’ve never spoken about it.” She stared into the rolling waves of flames, her
mind carrying her far away from Orlais to Denerim. “The streets burned.
Darkspawn everywhere. Climbing out of buildings, slaughtering every innocent
person in sight.” 
Their screams welcomed her into the Fade every night as her eyes closed. Men,
women, children… the Darkspawn destroyed indiscriminately until the streets of
the capital flowed with a river of blood. Even with reinforcements, it wasn’t
enough to save the citizens of Denerim. That guilt forever changed those who
fought within the city that day.
“We couldn’t save those crying for help, so our team pushed further into the
heart of the city. After being wounded, the demon landed upon Fort Drakon,
where we made our final stand.” The embers of the campfire caught in her nose
as the smells of roasting soldiers came to the front of her mind. Her own
screams echoing off the stones. Zevran falling beneath the giant cloven foot of
the beast, bones crunching under the weight until his agonizing staccato scream
turned to silence.
“It was not an easy fight. The Archdemon, even injured, took out our entire
army within minutes.” She paused, pulling her hood firmer over the top of her
head. “Soon it was our traveling party and few remaining allies left. I
remember watching Dal’s body flipped across the battlefield by the tail of the
beast. She flew through the sky like she weighed nothing, slamming against a
crumbling wall of the fort before collapsing.” 
Leliana thought she was dead on impact. The invincible elf became a broken
girl, her charred remains sliding to the ground. She sprinted to her side as
Wynne pumped her magic into Zevran’s body. When Dal’s eyes opened in confusion,
Leliana praised the Maker for sparing their leader.
“But a Warden is not easily slain by an Archdemon. She jumped to her feet, eyes
engulfed with fire. She grabbed any weapon within reach, destroying wave after
wave of Darkspawn, between turns flanking the beast.” 
The beast awoke something frightening within Idalya.
The gentleness of her friend melted away within the heat of the Archdemon’s
flames, forging a weapon whose sole mission was to destroy the beast at all
costs. Her and Alistair both channeled their fear and pain to make them
unstoppable, refusing to fall before the demon as they killed the Darkspawn,
their blades slicing through the blighted abominations with ease.
“When it appeared the battle was lost, I saw her climb the hide of the beast-
maneuvering around the dragon’s scales as she made her way up the spine of the
Archdemon.” Leliana shot every arrow in her quiver to keep the path cleared for
Idalya, and the rushing swarms of demons from Alistair and Morrigan, who were
keeping the dragon’s volatile attention on the ground.
She never forgot the sound exploding out of Alistair’s chest as Dal’s blade
sliced into the dragon’s neck. As a Chantry sister, she didn’t understand the
price Warden’s paid for fighting an Archdemon, but Alistair knew. The sounds of
sorrow echoing out of his chest crippled Leliana in her confusion. 
“On top of the beast, she grabbed her sword, plunging it deep into the neck of
the screaming Archdemon- it tried to buck her off, desperate to survive, but
she held on before pulling the sword loose and striking the monster one last
time, separating its head from its shoulders.” 
The melded screams of Alistair and the demon would haunt her until her dying
day. She couldn’t lift her eyes from the Darkspawn, still coming to defend
their master to its dying breath, but she knew something was wrong when
Alistair ran full steam towards the beast.
“The beast fell to the ground with a heavy thud. Then the dust cleared. There
she was, on the ground next to the slain creature. She was so peaceful like she
was asleep, but she… wasn’t.” Leliana’s voice broke. 
She pulled Dal into her lap while sobbing, her head tilted back, screaming her
words of damnation to the Maker and his cruelty. Wynne’s gentle hands pressed
on the back of her shoulders and she slumped forward, her tears washing across
Idalya’s soot-smeared face. Morrigan and Zevran held Alistair as he crumbled to
pieces, unable to look away from her face, as though if he blinked she would
disappear.
Idalya recruited these companions, and here they stood, her witnesses as she
exited this world for the next.
They took turns sitting with her, petting her mane of white hair, speaking
hushed words as they waited for the remaining army to reach them. After an
eternity, the army reinforcements arrived to find their King holding a dead elf
in his arms like she slept while he whispered into her ear, her companions
surrounding them, fiercely protective as anyone approached.
“We laid her to rest a week later in a formal ceremony in Redcliffe. It was
beautiful. So many turned out to show their respects to the Warden who saved
Ferelden. She was a legend. A story to become myth over time, but to us, she
was so much more.” Leliana wiped at the tears running out of her eyes, annoyed
at showing weakness in front of others.
As she continued, a weight pressed against her back. The smell of orange oil
wafting to her nostrils as a rough hand with thin fingers threaded between hers
she squeezed with her own.
Alistair carried her body himself to the castle, unwilling to let her go,
knowing it was the last time he would touch her. He headed to the Chantry
chapel, setting her limp body on the stretch of the altar before a taking a
knee in front of her.
There, Alistair, Leliana, Zevran, Morrigan, Oghren, Sten, and Wynne sat vigil
in the candle-lit Chantry for two days, until it was time for her final journey
to Redcliffe. The women and Zevran accompanied her to her final resting place,
but the new King could not follow. Leliana’s heart broke as she watched
Alistair’s eyes become desperate as the clerics came in to wash and wrap
Idalya’s linens for transport.
“Wait.” He stopped them as the clerics carried her out.
From the pocket of his golden breastplate, he pulled something small attached
to a silver chain. He fumbled with the object between his numb fingers before
Morrigan came to him and took the object with his permission.
It was his mother’s locket.
Alistair fitted the locket with a likeness of a griffon before giving it as a
token of his devotion to Idalya months ago. Morrigan saw the broken clasp,
reaching out her hand to cast a minor spell that fused the edges of the silver
together. When she reached the wrapped bundle, she loosened the cloth around
her face and held back her own sobs as she secured the locket around Idalya’s
neck.
The four companions traveled by her side, Morrigan keeping the Warden’s body
chilled until they arrived at Redcliffe where the clerics took her for final
preparations. Leliana chose a deep sapphire dress with silver stitching for the
ceremony. Idalya’s sword was placed by her side as she was surrounded by
thousands of blue and white flowers, a patchwork of their grief spread across
Redcliffe for all to see.
The King and his future Queen arrived the morning of the ceremony, and the
ruddy-cheeked, blushing and bashful former-Templar no longer existed. Frigid
eyes peered out of his skull as his expression remained blank, even as he
eulogized his “fellow warden”. Idalya’s companions allowed him his space to
grieve, even as they knew she wore the only memento he owned from his lost
mother- another woman lost to Alistair too soon.
The official royal wedding was within a fortnight, by order of Anora, claimed
the gossip traveling through the crowd. She wanted the wedding over with to not
only give their people something hopeful to look forward to but to mend the
damage caused by her father’s coup of Ferelden.
Leliana heard Alistair’s coronation, and the wedding that followed was
beautiful. None of Idalya’s companions attended the festivities.
It was only after working for the Divine that Leliana discovered Alistair
transported Idalya’s body back to Denerim in secret, her body laid next to his
own spot in the royal crypts. Bucking the Warden tradition of burying her at
Weisshaupt. He hardened to the rest of Thedas, but Leliana knew his every
heartbeat called for the person who would never respond again.
Her eyes came back into focus as the fires continued to lap at the night.
Leliana realized she’d fallen silent, lost within the thoughts she kept locked
out of her mind. Dal’s hand held hers as the elf curled up against her back,
and Leliana broke again knowing she could watch her best friend crumple at the
foot of an Archdemon once more.
Cullen and Varric watched in silence, the camp focused on her and story.
“I’m so sorry.” She whispered gripping Dal’s fingers. “There should have been
another way. It should have been someone else. I’m so, so sorry, Dal.” The
elf’s other arm wrapped around her torso and held the rogue as she crumbled in
the safety of her treasured leader’s arms.
***** There Chapter Where We Enter the Game *****
Chapter Summary
     Evelyn and her Templar ride to Grand Duke Gaspard's villa, but what
     awaits them when they arrive?
When Leopold entered the dining room to change out the tea service for his room
full of Orlesian loyalists, Grand Duke Gaspard knew his insurance policy had
arrived. The elf’s head pointed towards the plush carpet, his large brown eyes
with a golden sheen never looking up from their duties. His presence alone was
a signal for the Grand Duke to leave.
With a scarred sword hand, he lifted his crystal goblet of wine. The Grand Duke
stood, toasting his supporters on the eve of the peace talks. Celene weaseled
out of his grasp one time after another. This time she would sit at a table of
peers and listen to sanity. To argue her case why she should stay leader of
their empire while towns burned to the ground as the mages and Templar swept
through the charred hills of Orlais.
Gaspard could not argue that Celene’s focus on culture and education over her
twenty-year reign had not made Orlais the pinnacle of civilized society in
Thedas. But outside her protective palace, there was a war raging his cousin
was in over her head to resolve.
As his allies rose from their seats to raise their glasses in an early
celebration, Gaspard reveled at the moment he’d waited for his entire life. The
throne was his heart’s desire since he was a child and by the end of this week,
he would lead the greatest country in Thedas. He beamed a natural smile below
his golden mask, politely met and returned by his guests. Even after spending
his entire life in Orlais, he could never follow the rules of the Game like
Celene.
Mastery of words wouldn’t keep Celene on her golden throne any longer.
Gaspard waited while his supporters were lead out to their elaborate wooden
carriages awaiting their nobles to return home for the coming ball. He kissed
his sister Florianne, ever his supporter and cheerleader, on the forehead as
she retired to her chambers for the night. There was a frigid bite to the air
that night and the breeze chilled the golden mask on his face as he stood in
the front doorway of the villa. The line of carriages became smaller in the
distance of the growing darkness. When he felt assured any witnesses had
departed, he closed the door and entered the hallways now in utter chaos after
the farewells from their visitors.
Servants rushed across the hallway as Gaspard made his way towards the drawing
room hidden towards the back of the winter villa. With a wry grin, he chuckled
as the elves carried serving trays larger than themselves towards the dining
rooms to prepare for the Inquisition within the fortnight.
It was a risk to align himself and his allies with the Inquisition by inviting
them as a neutral guest in the peace talks. It was a risk that could pay off if
Gaspard could convince the established organization into backing his petition
for the throne.
 Members of the Inquisition’s cabinet included both the former left and right
hands of Divine Justinia. The Chantry separated themselves from the Inquisition
when it was struggling to get off the ground. The support of the hands of the
Divine and the Herald of Andraste could only boost Gaspard’s chances of proving
his worth to the council.
As he walked through the bustling servants, Leopold fell into line with
Gaspard, his suspicious almond-shaped eyes never leaving the lines of Elven
servants as they stepped out of Gaspard’s way, their faces and glances pointed
at the ground. Never in his years had Gaspard thought he would appoint an elven
servant as the spymaster within his home.
After seeing the benefits Celene received from her handmaiden Briala, who now
controlled the eluvians throughout Thedas. It was only natural to promote, the
hardworking and honest to a fault, Leopold to his point man for information.
Gaspard himself hoped to one day control said eluvians. Travel between the
mirrors was impossible for anyone, not Elven, and Gaspard needed an elf he
trusted to run missions.
Towards the rear of the villa, no servants were in transit. Gaspard stopped in
the middle of the long hallway. Bookcases lined one side, the moonlight
streaming through the stain glass windows portraying the life of Andraste on
the other.
“He arrived early, and I escorted him to the back room. He claims to come
alone. Surrounding areas are scanned, and I believe he tells the truth.”
Leopold’s voice was much deeper, gruffer than expected from the small thin
frame of a rabbit.
Gaspard nodded at the elf’s assessment before continuing to walk, Leopold
remaining behind as the Grand Duke approached the back office he used when he
needed a moment of silence. At the wooden doors rising to the ceiling, carvings
of Andraste inlaid, the chevalier paused as he considered how his coming
decisions reflected the code of chevaliers he lived his life by.
Dishonesty was not allowed, but tactics were. His critics viewed Gaspard’s
attempted overthrow of the Empress at Halamshiral as dishonest, but his plan
was tactics. Gaspard forced Celene’s hand as she torched the Elven uprising in
the slums and knew her tired army approached the Winter Palace and would fail
to protect their Empress. He was a strategist at heart and outplayed Celene on
every detail. Yet he’d let the woman and her former champion slip away as the
fires of the alienage continued to burn filling the night sky with smoke and a
reflected orange flickering light.
With a firm hand, Gaspard pulled the doors open and entered with confidence
into the room as the doors swung shut behind him. The walls were vermilion and
decorated with the mounted trophies from his many wild hunts over the years. A
towering and wide man that could fill a doorframe, stood stoically in the
middle of the room dressed in makeshift leather armor with a polished, plain
silver broadsword strapped to his side. Rust colored hair fell over parts of
his eyes and hid the man’s noticeable Ferelden features.
“I see you’ve accepted my offer.” Gaspard strolled past the man, taking a seat
in the plush leather chair at his desk while pulling a decanter out of the
bottom drawer with two crystal glasses.
The man huffed. “Just because I didn’t grow up in Orlais doesn’t mean I don’t
understand the Game. If I didn’t accept your offer, my men and I would be dead
before sunrise by the hand of your chevaliers. I have no choice.”
Gaspard shrugged, pouring the copper liquid into a glass he offered to the
mercenary captain who refused. “You’d do the same in my position, I’d wager. A
man always has a choice when he can die with honor.” As he drained his glass,
he noticed the mercenary stared at him with contempt, but his body language
relaxed. The man would help him with his plans and carry them out without
question. “Let us talk payment…”
“What point is there to discussing payment? Won’t you have us slaughtered the
minute our mission is complete to dispose of evidence?” The captain asked
incredulous regarding his intentions.
Gaspard's eyebrows pressed together in offense at the man’s accusation. “On my
honor as a chevalier, I swear no harm will come to you by my hand. When I
ascend to the throne, I will need trustworthy men willing to follow orders to
keep Orlais the greatest country in the world. As you know most of the Game
happens behind closed doors in meetings similar to this. So, whatever your
standard payment is, I will pay extra to convince you my orders are the only
ones you should consider.”
The mercenary’s eyebrows raised as he listened to the Grand Duke’s speech.
After a few moments, he nodded. “Agreed. We will carry out the plans as you
have outlined them, sir.”
Gaspard broke out into a true grin this time crinkling the aged skin around his
eyes hidden behind his mask. “Excellent! One last thing…” The Duke tipped up
his glass draining the last of the burning liquid before giving the captain a
sly grin. “If you’re caught, tell the guards you were hired by Arl Teagan
Guerrin.”
 
*****
 
As the night blanketed the fields of Orlais, Briala arrived exhausted to a tall
golden mirror hidden in the basement of an abandoned winter home. Her hand
rested flat against the glass, she whispered, “Fen’Harel enansal” and the glass
turned to a bluish-purple liquid throbbing, a wavering heartbeat, as she passed
through the eluvian.
The paths lit up, their runes spurred to life sensing her entrance. Inside the
door, she found her canvas bag with a change of clothes and a larger set of
distinctive Silverite daggers too distinctive to carry around when she needed
information.
Out of her plain servant’s dress and into her smooth Elven leather armor helped
Briala become herself. Even though she’d worn a servant’s uniform her entire
life before gaining possession of the eluvians. The longer she lived away from
Celene’s home, the stranger it was to dress in the uniform she wore in her
earliest memories. After stowing away any evidence of her links to Orlais,
Briala grabbed her pack and jogged over the rune-lit path now energized within
the elves domain.
Though she cleared distance fast, minutes became days as the time within the
eluvian passed with a different perception than the outside world. An empty
clearing with a canvas tent appeared ahead, Briala slowed to a casual speed as
she approached the remaining distance to her hidden camp. She had never run
into anyone unexpected within this place. She still used her senses for her own
safety for the day she did or if something ancient awakened like her first trip
here.
Briala dropped her bag as she flopped on a blanket next to a fire pit she built
by hand. Her fingers shivered as the freezing chill of Orlais lingered within
her bones as she struck the flints together to start a fire. After many
attempts, the kindling lit, a fire taking root in the dried sticks Briala
transported earlier in the week from a dry desert climate she found she
hypothesized was somewhere in Trevinter.
After removing her provisions of food out of her bag, Briala sighed, a sound
that echoed off the surrounding emptiness. She was in Orlais for days straight
to discover the information available for the coming peace talks this weekend.
The network of spies Briala established after her falling out with the Empress
brought together information from nobles attending the upcoming ball. Her book
of notes bulged from the information gathered. She'd spend hours looking at it
to find the one piece of information that didn't fit, pointing her toward those
who sought to derail the talks before they started.
These talks needed to happen. The future of the elves in Orlais balanced on the
outcome of these talks. Briala fought to make sure the elves came out of the
talks with the best chance of a future. Which leader running the country
depended on who stood against their constituents and said they supported the
elves and their demands for equal treatment.
If neither Gaspard nor Celene pledged their support, then Briala had
contingency plans in place for who brought the elves into their next golden
era.
Her hands warmed by the fire as she let her muscles release their tension. It
was so infrequent that she allowed herself a moment to relax and let her mind
empty of everything weighing on her shoulders for one precious moment. Before
their separation, that moment for Briala was laying within Celene’s arms hours
after devouring each other.
It was the only time she’d slept and felt truly safe in her life, even though
the danger of her being caught as the lover of the Empress always existed. On
the worst nights, she awoke alone in her tent, the smell of Celene’s perfume
still in her nostrils, the phantom warmth of her body burning its image into
her skin. Those were the nights she allowed herself to grieve the loss of her
love, at the lies Celene built their love around, the deceptions Celene
accepted the consequences of on her rise to power.
She loved Celene since she’d been a girl, devoting her entire life to the woman
and her empire only to learn Celene’s rise to power fueled by the vicious
spilled blood of her Elven parents. Her love murdered her parents to eliminate
witnesses and garner sympathy among pitiful nobles. They assumed Celene too
weak of a girl, after the death of her parents, to orchestrate a plan that
caused the death of the Emperor. She secured her ultimate rise to the throne
over her cousin Gaspard, the natural successor.
Briala knew there was nothing Celene was not capable of in securing her throne.
Even though her anger still clouded her feelings towards the Empress, Briala
couldn’t help, but yearn for the woman who occupied her heart her entire life.
Despite the lies she knew Celene told her, Briala never once questioned the
affection the woman swore to her. Celene cared for her regardless of her being
an elf, she believed Celene when she said she wanted the elves to have more
than they had in Orlais. She knew the push back and anarchy that would happen
within the country if the elves received the rights they deserved.
Briala believed Celene only cared for two things: Orlais and her. As much as
Celene cared for her, she knew without question Celene would do whatever it
took to keep Orlais out of Gaspard’s hands. The hands itching with the violent
need to declare war on Ferelden and reestablish the Orlesian empire he felt the
world deserved.
Her stomach ached with hunger, but she couldn’t force herself to shove any of
the dried meat or bread in her mouth. She crawled into her makeshift tent.
Sleep was needed before she could read over each line of her notes with a
critical eye. This was not a situation where she could afford to make a
mistake, missing a piece of information to help her maneuver herself in the
Game, so she could secure the gains the city elves of Orlais earned with their
blood, sweat, and tears.
Her head rested on the small stolen Orlesian pillow. She forced her muscles to
relax and mind to drift forward into the Fade. Her eyes fluttered closed as she
heard the voice that always whispered in her ear the second her guard was down:
“… I will take joy in my love finding her people, even as my breast aches with
every heartbeat I live without you.” She could see Celene’s battered face as
she uttered those words- the heartbreak shouting from her eyes as she reeled
from Briala’s unexpected deception.
“As does mine,” Briala mumbled into her pillow as the Fade carried her far away
from her lingering pain. 
 
*****
 
Someone’s here.
Briala’s eyes snapped open, aware of something moving within the space between
the eluvians. Her daggers were in hand as she exited her tent in a defensive
position. She'd spotted no one unexpected in the lands behind the mirrors, but
Briala remembered how she gained access to the eluvians and didn’t presume
Imsheal was the only creature who existed before the age of man, who knew a way
to access the ancient passages.
Her eyes adjusted to the light and found a figure in a dark cloak, hood over
their head approaching her, loud steps, to make their presence known. She
replaced her daggers into her belt, approaching the thin person who floated on
air as they traveled the rune enchanted path.
“Sorry for the intrusion.” The elf gave a slight bow to Briala, she relaxed at
the elf’s Orlesian accent.
“What’s happened?” she knew for a member of her network to come into the
eluvians meant something demanded her attention outside the mirrors.
“The timeline is moving ahead- Inquisition forces approach the Grand Duke’s
villa in the late hours of the night.”
“Confirmed?” This can’t be right. A headache pounded in the back of Briala’s
skull from the lack of food she consumed in the last few days. The
Inquisition’s early arrival was considered gossip-worthy rude by the rules of
the Game.
“Yes, a dream walker informed those with direct contact with you that the
Inquisitor, accompanied by a squadron of Templars, approaches the villa.
They’ll arrive soon.” The elf kept his face pointed towards the floor, the hood
obscuring the top of his features. Years of hiding behind masks made one
nervous to bear their true face in public.
“What was the name of the elf who informed you?”
Could it be Felassan?
Her Dalish mentor had been silent since Briala gained access to the eluvians.
She presumed he was off with his clan preparing for what the future held, but
the longer the silence became, the more her worries grew.
The elf shook his head. “No name, no memory of their face. A voice of warning
insisting you prepare.” With a more pronounced bow, the elf turned and walked
away, the path making him fly over the routes until he vanished from her
vision.
The Inquisitor was arriving early. This couldn’t be a random coincidence.
To travel alone through the Orlesian countryside while a civil war raged was
dangerous. The fact she had the nerve to travel without her army spoke volumes
of what Briala could expect from the Herald of Andraste than any expression she
read from the woman’s pale Free Marcher features.
She pulled her notebook of information out and a dinner roll, now stale from
the air. She needed to go over every detail and she needed to do it fast.
 *****
 As the heavy door shut behind her, Florianne exhaled, her shoulders falling
from their prideful position.
The week was a tiring parade of meetings with one supporter of Gaspard’s after
another as the peace talks loomed in the distance. Peace talks? What a joke. No
peace would result from these talks, regardless of the victor. Gaspard hungered
for the spilling of Ferelden blood, Celene hanging her brother from the gallows
as a traitor if she kept her throne, and the knife-eared “ambassador”
threatened riots if the elves requests for more rights were denied.
With solid strides, Florianne crossed the room to her mahogany-carved vanity
that filled an entire red velvet covered wall of her room. She sat on the plush
stool, reaching up to pull her golden mask off in annoyance, sending it
toppling to the wooden tabletop. Her fingers were careful to remove the pins
from the back of her platinum-blond hair. She sighed and massaged her scalp as
she pulled herself back together.
She'd sung Gaspard’s graces in public for the past few months. Each time
sanding away at her soul. Gaspard had always been an overpowered idiot with a
sword whose main qualification for gaining the throne was the act of being
born. Their mother did everything in her power to assure her son became
Emperor, even naming her own daughter to gain attention.
Mother never imagined Gaspard had any future than becoming Emperor, leaving
Gaspard without the skills to cope with the shocking event of her cousin’s
nomination to the throne. For the past two decades, she watched her brother
take on the mantra that his throne was stolen away, and no one would prevent
him from reclaiming it.
Gaspard shouldn’t plan a private salon much less lead Orlais. His only response
to obstacles standing in his way was to hit it with the largest stick at his
disposal. The attack on Celene’s life after Halamshiral occurred in the open
with her army surrounding her. Anyone half versed in the Game knew the proper
methods to dispose of royalty were up close and personal. Poison, assassins,
information… there were a million ways Gaspard could have attempted to take
Celene’s throne and been successful rather than attacking her army in the open.
But that was Gaspard and the infuriating code he lived by.
The Inquisition rode to Orlais to sway nobles to his side. Neither she nor
Gaspard had an interest in the Inquisitor, nor her organization, other than
their army strengthened by the remainder of the Chantry’s Templar Order.
Florianne scanned through reports of the attack on Haven as they arrived in Val
Royeux months ago.
The Inquisitor and her army were impressive to stand against a Trevinter
magister, an army of Venatori mages, and red lyrium affected Templar. Though
they lost Haven to an avalanche of snow, the Herald of Andraste rose from the
ashes of the burning buildings to live another day and live forever in the
legends of Thedas.
In the Intel for the Inquisitor, Florianne found nothing extraordinary in her
history other than the Herald, regarded as immensely stunning, was still
unmarried as she neared her thirties. The Trevelyans were successful, but not
rich. Most of their wealth secured through trades with Free Marcher noble
families and the successful marriages of Evelyn’s older brothers.
Evelyn’s personal history remained as boring as every noble woman’s until, out
of nowhere, her father sent her to the Conclave as an ambassador for their
family. While there the Maker chose her to stand against the coming evil. A
former spoiled noble now with her own army to march behind her? Florianne
seethed at the thought of having to entertain this gregarious woman and her
entourage of Ferelden dog fighters in their home.
Her fingers reached into one of the vanity drawers, they dragged along the
grains of wood until locating the edge of a lever. The latch clicked under her
fingers as the drawer popped open and a small inner compartment slid out
containing a thin piece of stone the length of her forearm. The surface covered
in engraved runes. After placing it on the top of the vanity, she prepared
herself with steady breaths.
Her unblemished fingers drifted towards the stone, she paused, her digits
dangling above the artifact calling to her. Energy pulsed out of the runes as
her fingers made contact. Her mind rushing open to a hurricane filling her
senses.
“Florianne…” the deep voice placed the words within her head. “what is your
status?” Within the speaking stone, there were no lies, no Game, only the
truth- the truth to set Orlais free.
“Everything is as you wish. My brother hired the mercenaries as you suspected.
It will be easy to tip off the Inquisition that Gaspard is trying to derail the
talks.” Florianne didn’t phrase or think the words, they appeared when she
touched the stone.
The Venatori gave Florianne something no one in Orlais ever had- a chance. She
was no less qualified to be a leader than her brother. Gaspard and Celene spent
last two decades squabbling over which would lead Orlais without considering
that the correct person to run the Game was right here.
“Excellent, the assassins are moving into place and await your orders. For
Corypheus and the Venatori!”
The voice faded away. She was alone once again in her cage of luxury. Only a
few more days to pretend to smile and continue playing their game before
Florianne got the power she desired. After Corypheus rose to rule Thedas,
Florianne would own Orlais as the magister remade the world. She'd win the Game
without Gaspard or her conniving mother’s useless help.
This was Orlais’ chance to lead the new world order as Florianne rode the front
of the wave from the golden throne itself.
***** The Chapter Where We Meet the Girl *****
Chapter Summary
     *Trigger Warning* NSFW
Chapter Notes
     Please be aware of the story tags and warnings.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
“Rise and shine!”
The covers lifted off her legs as another servant threw open the velvet
curtains, spilling daylight into her chambers. With a smile, the girl stretched
her arms above her head, sighing as each vertebra popped and released its
tension. Helen, her handmaiden, hummed as she poured a fresh cup of tea for her
mistress from the porcelain set seated to the girl’s left. She propped herself
up on an arm still coated in sleep, as a massive yawn erupted from her thin
frame, both servants giggled at their mistress’ playful nature that morning.
“Someone appears in bright spirits.” Helen mused as she collected the blankets
from the bottom of the four-poster bed, her heavy Starkhaven accent melodic.
“Though I suppose it isn’t every day a Lady turns seventeen.”
The girl squealed and jumped out of bed, grabbing Helen by her wrists. “Please
tell me, dear Helen, do you know what my father got me for my birthday?” Helen
laughed, removing the girl’s porcelain hands from hers.
“Ay lass, I’m but a servant and am not informed of important dealins in your
family.” There was a twinkle in her eye as she finished, and the girl groaned,
her chin falling forward to her chest.
Helen gestured the girl towards her enormous vanity where her fresh cup of tea
rested, and a beautiful white chiffon gown for her presentation ball that
night.
The girl sat on the cushioned stool as a team of servants poured into the room,
half cleaning her bed from rest, the other half to prepare her for guests. A
waif-like girl approached her from behind with a brush in her hand and worked
the bristles through the multiple tangles in her waist-length, fiery auburn
hair.
As she sipped her tea, a hardy morning blend, she reached to pick up the
notated list her father left her on the families attending the ball and the
details she was to memorize about each one. He also supplied a list of
conversation topics for her to limit her conversation to, and what family
business dealings she was to omit.
Most of the topics covered a recent warm stretch of weather occupying the Free
Marches or the newest breeds of horses her family gained from their renowned
stables. The Blight and political unrest in Ferelden topped her barred
subjects.
A Ladies mind were not meant for politics, her father always told her. A woman
was unattractive to young men if she held too many opinions different from her
future husband. The girl listened and keep her mind away from subjects her
father deemed unfavorable to the other sex, and so far, she was successful. At
her ball tonight there would be a handful of families bringing their heirs to
see her unveiling. The girl hoped she showed she could be a considerate wife
who knew how to follow the rules of the Game.
The waif servant, pleased with removing the knots from her hair, called to
Helen, who came over and separated the girl’s hair into strands and braided the
pieces around her head, pulling tight against her scalp. Only preoccupied with
herself, the girl squinted at her reflection to see if she looked any older.
After inspecting every feature- her porcelain skin, her angled cheekbones, her
plump rose lips, and rounded chin, she found everything the same.
She noted the shape and color of her eyes with pride: almond-shaped eyes, of
the palest green, thick dark lashes surrounding them. They were her father’s
eyes, identical in color and structure. She watched them move in the mirror.
The outsides lined in the deepest brown fading into the pools of olive green as
Helen continued to braid intricate designs into the back of her head.
Her hair finished, a team of servants swooped in with brushes and tubs of
makeup, proceeding to paint her face until the greens of her eyes popped across
a room, a natural blush painted across the apples of her cheeks, and her lips
coated in the deepest red lipstick she had ever seen.
As she rose to her feet, the servants motioned for the girl to place her hands
above her head, and four women surrounded her in a circle. Two tightened her
corset while the others lifted the white dress over her head. She remained
still as the servants pulled the smooth fabric over her body until it rested
into place around her trim waist, fanning out in all directions like a princess
from a storybook.
The thin servant appeared behind her, draping a shoulder cape of matching soft
material over her shoulders. The servants nodded in unison at the vision she
made, proud of their work. She spun, her dress orbiting around her, as she
headed towards the door to the hallway, floating on air. She remembered exiting
the door before she stood at the entrance to the ball.
Each family announced in line before entering, and she would be last since this
was her presentation. Time swirled around her in a mass of sound before she saw
her father waiting at the doors with a toothy grin and his hand outstretched.
She placed her trusting hand in his and moved into the spotlight. The room
focused on her as they hushed to a murmur.
“Now presenting Lord Trevelyan and the Lady Evelyn Trevelyan.” A polite clap
worked its way out of the crowd through hushed whispers as they walked to the
middle of the landing.
“Thank you, everyone, for attending.” Her father’s Free Marcher accent boomed
along the walls as he projected his voice. “This is an important day for our
family, as my only daughter has reached womanhood. If her mother were still
alive, I know she would be proud of our Evelyn.” The room’s applause grew
louder, and her father stepped away to engage families on one side of the long
room while the girl went to other side and her brothers mingled amongst
families throughout the ballroom.
The night moved like a dream as she passed from one set of warm dancing arms to
another until she staggered lightheaded from the spinning.
By the end of the night, most families left to return to their Free March
estates, leaving just business partners of her father’s and close family
friends. As the girl leaned on a wall at the side of the dance floor to catch
her breath, a flute of champagne in hand, a throat cleared behind her. A
servant awaited her attention.
“Lady Trevelyan, your father expects you in his study for business.” The girl
acknowledged the servant before he left on his next errand.
She turned, her skirts gliding around her, and made her apologies to the next
in line for a chance at her graces. Her heels traveled with haste towards her
father’s drawing room, where he retired to smoke pipes and drink scotch with
old friends after these sorts of festivities. She’d never entered these
meetings before, but it could be part of her new adult responsibilities.
Arriving at the door, she rapped against the thick wood which echoed in the
empty hallway, until the servant who informed her earlier opened it, showing
her in. Her father seated behind his large desk, a full glass of thick amber
liquid in his hand, three older men seated in the plush chairs her father
furnished his office with. She was hyper-aware of the sets of eyes observing
her in a way they hadn’t when presented to the crowd.
“Come forward, Ev.” Her father motioned, and she walked into the room with
hesitation, to hide her sudden nervousness with each solid step. When she was
ten feet from his desk, her father motioned for her to stop with his hand, his
chunky fingers twitching, and she stilled, unmoving as the men in the room
continued to stare.
“So, gentlemen, these are the terms: ten thousand gold per night, unless you
have a trade to offer. No bruises, no marks, nothing to harm her maidenhead,
but other than that, I leave it between you and your Maker, you sick fucks,"
Her father said with a laugh, as the other men chuckled.
She couldn’t swallow. Her throat so dry the act of breathing made her lungs
squeal. Beads of sweat broke across the top of her forehead and the back of her
neck as she became lightheaded. This had to be a misunderstanding. This was her
father. Her only parent. They were never close, but no father would consider
doing this to their only daughter…
His words as he dropped off the lists to her last night echoed back into her
empty mind, ‘It’s time you can help the Trevelyan family.’ She was proud when
she heard those words, thinking they meant her securing her a marriage to boost
the family’s status at the ball. 
She was confused about what was happening. She had to be. If she wasn’t, then
she was nothing more than one of her father’s prize horses being put up on the
auction block.
What would they do next? Check her teeth, examine the long lines of her form,
look under her skirts? She had the giddy thought perhaps she should prance
about the room, showing them what fine trotting skills, she had, to toss her
silky mane so they could see her careful breeding. The giddiness turned into a
fissure of terror working its way through her chest, and the girl bit down a
cry trying to escape her throat. 
She thought to call out for help but knew no one would come to save her in her
father’s house. She couldn’t breathe. Her stays kept her lungs from expanding,
and as her heart beat faster, less oxygen made it into her limbs. Her legs
shook beneath the many layers of now sweltering material.
The man sitting closest to her father, with a mop of thick white greasy hair
and matching handlebar mustache, stroked his chin with one hand before licking
his lips. He turned to her father without breaking his sight from her. His
hollow cheeks seemed to flutter as the muscles along his jaw rippled, tensing
as he clenched against a smile she could feel in his predatory gaze but find no
trace of across his mouth.  She was among wolves, and this man, with his
starving eyes and sunken skin, had the look of a scoundrel on the hunt long
before she heard its howling in the woods. He was hunting, and he was hungry.
“Twenty thousand for tonight.” Her father burst into laughter before reaching
over and shaking the man’s hand as he looked the girl up and down. Pleased with
his purchase.
“Well gentlemen, it appears we must take our negotiations elsewhere for the
night.”
Her father and the three men rose to their feet, and the two strangers exited
the room before her father came to her. Leaning forward, he whispered, his
mustache grazing her skin. “Do what the man says Ev, or I’ll beat you until you
wish you died with your mother.” With a smile, he patted her on the shoulder
and exited the room, leaving her behind with the greasy-haired monster whose
dubious grin matched her father’s. Though her father shut the door quietly
behind him, it was an explosion of thunder bursting across her eardrums,
causing her to jump.
As she watched, the man approached her, the hunter closing on his prey. She
closed her eyes, trying to calm herself before she passed out.
This was a story. This was all a bad dream. She was the girl lost in the woods,
wearing a hood of red against the cold and the shadows, against the things
wearing the faces of the people she once loved. 
She would not be afraid of the big, bad wolf.
Don’t be afraid, just survive. Just survive. She repeated the words in her head
as a mantra, even as she sensed the greasy man’s foul breath on her skin.
*****
Hours later, hours she hadn't counted and didn’t want to, Evelyn sat on the
edge of her fresh bed, still adorned in the white dress she’d been so excited
to wear that morning. Every inch of her body numb.
Looking down at her hands, she noticed the smallest speck of blood dried onto
the top of her skin. One bead of crimson proof, staring into the face of all
the denial echoing in the cavernous hole in her heart. She jumped to her feet
and ran to the wash basin where she thrust her hands into the freezing water
and grabbed the bristled scrub brush.
She focused her attention to where she’d seen the spot. She couldn’t see it
anymore, but she felt it, nestled against her skin like a tattoo, a sign to the
world her worth was compromised. She scrubbed and scrubbed, trying to remove
the spot until she had taken off the top layer of skin, her hand bleeding
freely into the basin, turning it into a spiraling crimson pool.
With a sharp cry, she grabbed the basin and threw it against the wall where it
shattered. Pieces of heavy porcelain exploded against the force, flying by her
face in slow motion as she continued to scream, a blood-curdling sound that
channeled her fear and pain. 
Helen burst into her room, her nightdress and hair out of sorts as she ran to
her screaming mistress.
“Lass, what is wrong?” Helen grabbed her profusely bleeding hand seeking to
keep her from harming herself, but Evelyn pushed her away as she continued
screaming—nonsensical words pouring between her lipstick-smeared lips.
Helen’s was terrified. She didn’t know what to do.  From the shadows of the
open doorway she saw a large figure walk through, she sighed in relief at
seeing Lord Trevelyan enter to investigate the commotion occurring within his
home.
Evelyn’s heart froze as she saw the man heading towards her. He gripped her by
the wrist, dragging her across the expanse of floor, to examine her bleeding
hand dripping streams of maroon liquid across the plush Orlesian carpets and
her ruined dress.
“Ugh, that beast Tomlinson. I told him not to ruin the goods... Though for
twenty grand?” He shrugged with a sneering grin, and she melted away to absorb
into the carpet like the pools of her blood. “Go to sleep Evelyn and appreciate
that due to your help you’ll have a roof to sleep under for that much longer,
instead of living on the streets of Kirkwall as a disgraced noble trying to
earn food in her mouth the way you did last night.”
With a chuckle, the man left, leaving his bleeding daughter with her servant,
whose eyes were filled with fear. He hadn’t bothered to send the handmaiden out
of the room before speaking his vile words out loud.
Her lips quivering, she avoided Helen’s eyes and collapsed as the servant
wrapped her worn limbs around the trembling child. She dropped to the floor
sobbing and laid there until the early rays of the sun peaked through the edges
of the window.
Helen pulled herself from Evelyn and rose clasping her hand as she helped the
shaking girl to her feet and over to her closet. She opened the swinging doors
and chose a simple dressing gown. Evelyn was stripped from her soiled clothes
and into the soft fabric. As she slid into bed beneath the heavy covers, and
her eyes shut, she heard Helen whisper.
“Get rest, My Lady. I believe you have many long days ahead of you…”
 
*****
 
“Rise and shine!”
Evelyn lurched forward in bed, gasping, her hand wrapped protectively around
her throat. Her desperate eyes took seconds to recognize her bearings, but the
Free Marcher style furniture melted away, leaving behind grand pieces of
Orlesian fashion. When she was sure she was no longer within the bedroom of her
former estate, she swung her legs off the side of the tall cushioned bed. She
placed her head between her knees as her gasping breaths shook her abdomen.
When a calmness slid across her body like a gown, she sat up, wiping her sweat-
soaked hair out of her eyes.
It had been weeks since she’d dreamed of her father and months since a
nightmare so vivid about the hell that was the last decade of her life. She
knew she was in the guest suite of Grand Duke Gaspard’s winter villa, but she
still had a fear swirling within her gut she’d open her eyes and find herself
locked back within her gilded cage. Cracking her pale eyes open, she found the
villa as she remembered. The decorating was exquisite, speaking of the cultured
people of Orlais. An elegance worthy to aspire to, one she would claim for her
own because she willed it.
Her sweaty dressing gown clung to her fear-frozen skin, and she trembled from
the light breeze drifting from the cracked window. For a moment her body craved
a pair of strong arms wrapping around her shoulders from behind, the pair of
soft lips pressed against the skin just behind her ear to tell her the dreams
were over, the way they had the past few months.
Evelyn shook the thought away as it entered her mind. Cullen did not differ
from the men who used that frightened girl. In ways he was worse than those
men—he pretended to be something more to her while using her title, power, and
body.
The clients her father secured understood what the arrangement was and there
were no lies, only the brutal honesty that comes along with stripping the
humanity from another human being. Men stuck around for one reason, and it was
that they hadn’t taken everything they wanted from her. 
She was the girl no longer and understood the rules of the Game. Taken enough
lessons on the matter to fill a textbook. Someday she’d repay her father for
teaching her the lesson of trusting no one and finding any way to survive that
you can. For years while her father sent her from estate to estate to comfort
lonely and rich nobles, Evelyn always kept her eyes and ears open.
In the beginning, it meant telling her father the pieces of information she
deciphered from her conversations with her father’s clients.  Over time it led
to her being braver, making her own requests of the men who paid exorbitant
amounts of their family fortunes to spend a night with her.
From one client, she blackmailed, threatening she would inform his family of
their dealings. In exchange for her silence, she received training as a
rogue. From another, she beguiled away jewels and Orlesian trinkets
unaffordable on her own, and from yet another, she extracted information on her
father’s dealings to find a loophole to buy her freedom from her father’s
clutches. His grip over her grew tighter after her two middle brothers died in
service as Templar, another favor granted by a dedicated and fearful client of
Evelyn's.
The less Trevelyan’s existed, the more value Evelyn gained, and the prospects
of a potential marriage she could secure. As her list of clients grew, the
potential marriage opportunities slimmed. Well-respected men had no qualms
sexually assaulting a girl for a cash exchange but grew a conscience when it
was time for their heirs to marry. Evelyn descended from the most desired catch
in the Free Marches to alone and followed by whispers as she traveled to the
weddings of far less desirable and younger women.
The morning of her twenty-fifth birthday, her father threw open the door of her
room and announced she was too old and matronly for the prospect of marriage,
and his heir, her oldest brother Michael, would escort her to the Divine’s
conclave, where she and Michael would speak on behalf of her family. She'd be
given to the Chantry, in a sign of solidarity with the Divine, to live out the
rest of her years as a Sister in service to the Maker.
She sighed a breath of relief and anger in unison. Her father deemed her of
having no more value to him, so he was disposing of her. She failed to secure a
marriage since he forced her to service the men of the Free Marches for
business partnerships and opportunities for himself. Her worth as a commodity
used up, and so she was being donated to charity to make space for something
more precious.  
She secured one last favor from her clients before boarding the ship to take
her across the rolling ocean to the Conclave; a vial containing the essence of
hemlock. When she gained the vial, its purpose had been to feed it to her
father.
She fantasized the ways she would deliver it to him- in his brandy, in his
food, pouring it into his mouth as he slept. Whatever the way, she wanted to
watch the fat fucker die, to watch the life pour out of him onto the floor the
way her blood had from her hand that first night.
As the nights drew closer to her to leave, she realized murdering her father
would not improve her situation and would condemn her life to the Chantry since
she couldn’t survive as a poor spinster.  Never lose a chance to gain,
Evelyn. Never give up power until you get what you want. Revenge, like all
things, had a sweet purpose she would bend to her will.  She would gain, and
everyone else would lose, and that suited her better than a simple murder.
Into the pocket of her dress, she stashed the vial, with the comfort when the
time came she would drink it, freeing herself of the cage her father placed her
in, the fear that cursed her womanhood.
But first Evelyn would destroy his world.
She would follow his plan and speak at the Conclave, but no one could keep her
from telling the truth to implicate not only her father but every noble house
in attendance to the Divine. The minute she opened her mouth for those black
words to tumble out she knew she would live on borrowed time. No one in the
Game could destroy so many houses in one fell swoop and survive to tell the
tale.
She would tell them the truth, drink the vial, and forever free herself from
having to do anything that corrupted and vile man wished of her again. Her
poison tinged lips would be the wings she would use to fly, and the devastation
she left in her wake would be the vengeance she deserved. 
But Corypheus’ plan and an exploding Conclave changed her fate.
As Inquisitor, Evelyn was provided with opportunities she’d never received in
her father’s house. Instead of being valued for her beauty, they valued her
honed skills in battle, her ability to think quickly in the Game. She was
elated after Haven as the first marriage proposals poured into Josephine for
the great ‘Herald of Andraste’. She told her Ambassador to string the families
along as she found as much information as possible about the those who now
clamored to have Evelyn boost their family’s status.
The world watched her every move as she collected pieces of power to throw
around the board. Surrounded by her own staff and advisers, ultimately, she was
always alone, as mornings like this one proved.
Leaving the sweat soaked bed behind, she took steps appearing more confident
than the shaken noble inside. She peeled her drenched sleeping gown over her
head, letting the moist satin fall to the floor before pulling a heavy dressing
robe off a hanging hook. Wrapped tight around her curves, she sat down at the
massive vanity stretching across one side of the room and towering to the
ceiling.
With a slight knock, the door opened and a line of servants wearing the golden
masks of the royal family entered, each carrying a small silver tray containing
everything from beauty supplies to snacks and tea. A tray of tiny cakes caught
her attention, but Evelyn feigned ignorance of the small tower of confections
making its way to an adjacent table. As the food and tea were set down along
the tabletop stretching to infinity, the line of servants turned and exited,
leaving behind the two handmaidens Gaspard appointed for her while the
Inquisition stayed with him.
Evelyn ignored the servants as they brushed out the long red hair curling over
her shoulders and cascading down her back. She thought about the plans for the
day while sipping her tea. Her arrival two days early from the expected for the
Inquisition, gave Evelyn enough time to speak with their host and see what kind
of man the future Emperor was.
She received enough letters from the Grand Duke to understand what his purpose
was and how she could help with those goals, but she liked to speak with people
in person to see what their tells told her. Watching, gathering
information. Men could hide behind the brush of the pen, but in person, their
rushing blood and filthy thoughts always gave them away. They could never hide
the truth in their eyes. 
Glancing up from her tea, Evelyn froze. The eyes in the mirror were not her
own, but her father’s, always shining out of her skull, judging her every
decision. She thought of the eyes once belonging to that bright-eyed girl who
sat in front of a similar vanity, in the excitement of walking out and joining
the Game, unknowing the evil resting within men’s hearts. No matter how far she
ran, no matter how much power she gained, his eyes would always remind her of
how easy it was to become powerless.
Her fist flew out and smashed into the mirror. The glass cracked up to the
ceiling before shattering in pieces to the ground as the two servants screamed,
fleeing to the other side of the room letting the shards rain down on their
mistress, who didn’t flinch as the pieces of glass cut her ivory skin.
As the eyes disappeared from the mirror, she breathed a sigh of relief and slid
back on her own mask of protection. She raised an eyebrow as she took in the
two shaking handmaidens.
“What kind of service is this? You destroy my mirror then stand there instead
of cleaning it up? I’d hate to report this to the Grand Duke and get you
whipped.”
The women nodded, their faces pointed towards the ground as they darted across
the room to pick up the broken pieces of glass from the floor. She reveled in
their obedience, in the power that came from commanding their fear. The nasty
petty things were no doubt there to watch her, to send details along to Gaspard
and inform him of all the cracks in her armor.  He would never get the
information. He'd find her armor flawless, as smooth as the mirror she
destroyed. 
Let the servants see the fear in their own eyes as they plucked the reflective
shards from the ground and let the jagged edges scrape against the palms of
their hands. Let them remember that when Gaspard asked them for a report. Let
them remember what her wrath could look like. 
Evelyn walked over to her hanging closet to look over her dresses, every step a
declaration of her superiority over the dithering handmaids. There was a loud
and sloppy knock before the door opened, and Dorian stepped through, dressed in
a suede leather outfit that contained more buckles than actual fabric. In his
hand sloshed a large goblet of wine, and she licked her lips watching the
alcohol move closer to her.
“My, my… what has happened here?” Dorian sauntered forward and rested against a
post of her bed.
“Sloppy servants, that’s all.” She replied as she pulled a deep crimson dress
from within the wardrobe. Dorian shook his head in disapproval before walking
up beside her. He pulled a slim black dress with gold trim from its hanger and
tossed it towards the bed. As he reached to remove the red dress from her
hands, he stilled observing the crimson cracks oozing across the tops of her
knuckles, still shaped into a fist.
“Those servants are truly careless.” He muttered as he pushed his healing
energy over her fingers, sealing shut the wounds. His magic spread across her
arms, healing the many tiny cuts from the raining shards of glass. “Bad dream?”
his whisper barely reached Evelyn’s ears. Her silence enough of a giveaway that
the mage sighed and reached behind her, pushing the goblet of wine into her
hands. “You need this more.”
Evelyn tilted the goblet back, consuming more than half the large glass in just
a few swallows. She sighed as the familiar burn enter her chest, and Dorian
made his way to the bed to unlace the bodice of the black dress he chose for
her.
He motioned her forward and Evelyn stepped into his domain. Stepping out of her
robe, her cousin pulled the smooth black dress over her curves until the fabric
gathered on the floor. They were silent as he pulled the laces on the back of
her corset to tighten it until she looked the part of an ancient goddess. She
swigged down the rest of the wine and turned to Dorian, who clucked in
appreciation.
“My darling Evelyn,” he mused. “You look to die for.”
Evelyn smiled, her wine-stained lips tilting sideways. “That’s the plan,
Dorian… that’s the plan.”
 
Chapter End Notes
     PS. Thank you to everyone who let me know I pasted the chapter twice!
     Whoops!
***** The Chapter Where Solas Gain a Hat *****
Chapter Summary
     The Peace Talks have arrived and Idalya finishing prepping for her
     role, but her hardest challenge may by avoiding the monstrosity on
     Solas' head.
Morning arrived, and the Inquisition was in turmoil. Their party arrived the
night before to the villa. Greeted by the Grand Duke’s personnel, the
Inquisitor’s companions and council were guided to their lodgings while the
rest of the army marched to join the Templar in the army camp set up just south
of the Winter Palace. Now the halls of the villa bustled, crowded with servants
running back and forth bringing crisp uniforms to members as the Inquisition
prepared to make its first official presentation to the nobles of Orlais.
Idalya sat in the corner of the suite she shared in secret with Leliana. Her
long legs folded beneath her, a dusty tome on ancient magisters splayed wide in
her lap. Her head bobbed, nodding off since she hadn’t slept well, averse to
accept Solas' babysitting in the Fade.
Leliana laid out every set of Orlesian slippers she owned, handling them like
pet nugs, undecided regarding her attire for tonight’s festivities. It had been
so long since the auburn-haired rogue attended an Orlesian event she struggled
over which of her jeweled slippers would make their debut to the crowd.
“You're so smug.”
Idalya looked up at her friend keeping her features neutral, but a grin cracked
at the edges of her lips.
“And why would you suggest that?” She gestured to the hefty tome. “Does
homework from Solas look fun? Because if it does, I’m doing it wrong.” She
slammed the book shut and frowned as the poof of air blasted the front strands
of her silvery hair in a thousand directions, the volume over her current level
of glibness.
“No, you are smug because you believe you won't take part in the Game.” Leliana
settled her hand on a pair of emerald slippers with miniature jewels sewn in a
swirling pattern. “But you forget servants are one of the most significant
pieces on the chess board. They have entry to all areas, invisible in a noble’s
line of sight. They hear secrets every day that could crumble the entirety of
Orlais.”
Putting the pairs of shoes aside, the rogue sat on the corner of the bed
closest to Idalya. “Your own mother was a servant, surely she must have taught
you these things, no?”
“She was a servant in Ferelden, not Orlais, and wouldn’t lower herself with the
game.” Leliana was listening, her cobalt eyes thoughtful. “I don’t want to say
those of us from Ferelden are simple, I’m just saying ham tastes like ham
there, if you know what I mean.”
“Think what you will,” Leliana rose, strolling to the vanity to grab a brush to
straighten out the strays in her own hair before she struggling to tackle
Idalya’s rat nest of cascading hair, “but appearing simple does not mean what
you think it does.”
She motioned for Idalya to sit in the chair as she finished glossing over her
auburn locks. The elf rose with a groan and grumbled as she sat on the
cushioned stool worth more money than she’d ever owned in her lifetime. When
told she would be a servant during the peace talks, Idalya assumed they meant
simple attire and being left alone. She forgot she was working in the Winter
Palace with the Empress in residence.
Leliana poured the orange oil through her hands, running it through Idalya’s
tresses with her bare hands to ease out knots before taking the assortment of
brushes before her to the elf’s defiant locks. They spent many nights on the
road traveling like this. Hair oils were a luxury they could not afford, but
Leliana made due with dampened brushes and leather cords she used to tie off
Idalya’s braided hair to keep it presentable until the next battle they faced.
One night darkspawn attacked in camp as Leliana finished straightening her
hair. Idalya would never forget the rogue’s fury and reddened cheeks matching
her hair after stabbing the last creature to see the elf’s completed hair now
knotted, thick streaks of tainted blood coating it.
Idalya smiled, remembering her laughter at her friend’s anger over something as
menial as her hair, but she was appreciative to have a lucid memory of
something not painful from that time she kept for herself.
Solas spent the last few nights on the road helping her navigate through the
Fade. Her ability to move from one memory to another improved, focusing her
attention on a certain location and seeing the memories it contained over
history. They were nowhere closer to her being able to unlock her missing
pieces.
Solas stayed by her side the entire time much to the warrior’s growing
annoyance. He knew the minute she was alone she would try to Fadewalk through
her own memories to learn what happened between her and the muscle-clad dark-
skinned Templar. The mage chuckled at her obvious frustration.
After piecing together everything she remembered, she was confident the kiss
happened… she hoped. She grew apprehensive, a knot forming into her abdomen
instead of her hair for once, knowing she would see him soon. After the talks
concluded she travel with him and broach what happened, but until then there
was a lot of work to complete.
She never voiced it, but she was excited to be a servant during the
proceedings. Not only was she out of Skyhold, but amongst strangers. To be a
servant, even for a night, brought her closer to her mother. Her mother lived
an entire life Idalya never saw. There was a growing warmth in her chest to be
part of that world for just one night. One chance to appreciate the years of
work her mother dedicated in serving the royal family of Ferelden to support
Idalya and her siblings after losing her father.
Satisfied with her progress against the knots, Leliana brushed her luxurious
hair with long strokes as electricity crackled between the strands. Tight
against her head her hair was secured into a high ponytail. Idalya winced at
the pressure against her scalp but knew there was no point in arguing.
Leliana nodded in approval before walking around to her front to survey her
face. She moved a metal box from the top shelf of the vanity. The rogue opened
it unveiling makeup in every color Idalya could ever imagine. Leliana combed
her fingers through the pieces before choosing a deep liner, wine-colored
lipstick, and a few more unfamiliar pieces to the city elf in over her head in
Orlais.
She applied the black liner around the elf’s eyes, smudging the line to make
Idalya’s lavender eyes pop before applying the rich lipstick to her lips and
dusting something else over the rest of her skin. Leliana hummed in approval of
her work.
Idalya didn’t recognize her own reflection. Her deep skin glowed with a
glittering shimmer and the colors of her eyes swirled on their own, lined by
the darkened kohl. She tore her eyes from the image as she knew it was an
illusion created for the Orlesians as she rose to retrieve her red servants
dress from the closet.
The fabric was stiff as she slid into the jacket, Leliana straightened the
collar around her neck and unfastened the silver Warden locket Idalya wore
around her neck. Royal servants may have nice uniforms, but they didn’t own
silver jewelry, much less wear it in front of nobles who could order them to
hand it over.
Leliana paused clutching the locket in her hand. She wasn’t sure why she gave
it back to Idalya after her restoration. It was a stupid idea to hand the hero
back a piece of jewelry belonging to the King, but it was as much a part of her
and who she was as her flowing mane of hair. Pulling open her own uniform
jacket, Leliana stuffed the necklace into a hidden inner pocket to ensure its
safety.
A knock at the door startled both women lost in the past. The heavy door
opened, and Cullen stepped through in his own matching velvet uniform fitted
much tighter than Leliana’s or Idalya’s.
“Hey Cullen, you sure you aren’t wearing Dorian’s uniform?” Idalya called over
Leliana’s shoulder and the Commander’s face flushed, a rose tint rushing from
the apples of his cheeks to his temples, a hand flying to his blushing neck,
overly aware of how fitted his uniform was.
“Maker’s Breath,” he scowled, “are you two ready for…” Cullen paused in mid-
sentence as Idalya stepped out from behind the Spymaster. “Wow… Dal…,” he
cleared his throat, “you look beautiful.” Now it was Idalya’s turn to blush,
though her dark skin shielded her from being as obvious a target as the
Commander.
“Commander, lift your jaw off the floor, we have work to do.” The Spymaster
mused as Cullen turned an even deeper shade of blush.
“Dal,” Cullen said, his eyes focused on an interesting patch of carpet, “I’ll
take you to Solas, he can show you to the servant quarters.”
Idalya followed behind and as she passed Leliana, the bard cleared her throat
and thrust the pair of emerald slippers into Idalya’s gut. The elf laughed at
her bare feet forgotten in her eagerness to get started. She gave her best
friend a grin for loaning the beautiful shoes as she dropped them to the floor
and slid her feet into them before catching up with the blushing Commander who
exited the room.
“If Solas must wear shoes here, so do you.” Leliana’s Orlesian accent carried
to the elf as she exited to chase down Cullen.
Every single detail from the bookcases to the end tables spoke of a legacy of
elegance and wealth. This wasn’t a part of any history Idalya understand, nor
wanted to be a part of.
Cullen moved with a grimace on his face, his heavy boots making no noise in the
carpeted hallways unlike the obvious commotion going on inside the Commander’s
head. Everything around her so controlled from the servants to the attire it
stifled her. To Idalya, her mother was a free spirit and to think of her in
such a controlled environment made the elf’s heart ache as the memory resonated
in her mind.
“Sorry about making fun of your jacket.”
Cullen huffed but slowed his demanding speed so the smaller-stature woman could
catch up.
“It’s tight. Who did the measurements for that? If you swing a sword, you’ll
rip the fabric right across the back…”
Cullen’s feet stopped, and he turned to the elf babbling in the empty corridor.
“I’m aware that it’s tight, thank you for informing me.” His eyes squinted, a
pain running through his head into his eyes. Possibly a lack of circulation
from his coat. “Your apology is unnecessary.” He shifted on his feet not making
eye contact with her.
“I do.”
He raised a brow in confusion.
“Need to apologize, that is. That’s what friends do, at least I’d like to be
your friend if I’m not… I consider you a friend so… yeah.” Speaking wasn’t her
strongest skill some days.
“I would like that,” Cullen mumbled as her observed the elf who looked so
different tonight. “When you’ve seen the things we have, it’s important to
surround ourselves with those who care about our wellbeing, I accept all
friendship you wish to grace me with.”
A smile lit up her features and the knot in Cullen's stomach grew once more
over risking this woman needlessly when she had an uphill battle in front of
her.
He knew Evelyn demanded Idalya be a servant on this mission as some message to
the Warden. What Evelyn didn't understand was even thrown into an environment
where Idalya should falter, the Warden would prosper and gain the respect of
others. The Warden could dress in rags beneath a golden mask and still stood
greater than the surrounding people. Her heart generated kindness, and she
always put others before herself. Something, Cullen could admit, Evelyn lacked
on the best of days.
“We should get you to Solas, so you two can begin.”
“Yeah, he’s salty enough in the first place, he doesn’t need extra motivation.”
Cullen snorted and slowed his walk to a pace she could follow. The Commander
was uncomfortable surrounded by this much wealth as she was. His body posture
remained stiff their entire trip through the hallways.
“So now that we have the friendship discussion out of the way,” Idalya stared
down at her emerald slippers as they maintained their pace, “have any of your
other friends, by chance, mentioned me?” The end of her sentence rambled out.
The silence between the two remained until the elf peeked up, unable to handle
her curiosity and found the former Templar staring at her, his brow furrowed.
“What?”
He was making her uncomfortable.
“You want to know the details of Rylen’s shared fantasies?” He questioned,
incredulous to her motives.
“No… I wanted to… wait, ew!” The elf stopped in her tracks, her jaw gaping
open. “Andraste’s frilly knickers! No, that isn’t what I wanted. Never mind.”
She took off ahead of Cullen who caught up in a few large and silent strides.
“If that isn’t what you were asking about, who were…” Cullen paused and
chuckled, understanding why the elf was so embarrassed. “No, he hasn’t
mentioned you outside his duties.” When he saw the elf’s shoulders slump, guilt
flooded through him.
He answered her question since she asked if Barris spoke of her, but anyone
with eyes could see the way his friend burned for the Hero when she graced his
presence. Most of Rylen’s detailed boasting about Idalya’s abundant features
was to see how long the Templar could handle hearing about the Warden in the
basest terms possible before storming away.
Rylen’s prized record stood at a mere thirty seconds before his best friend
threw a gauntleted fist into Rylen’s armor-covered abdomen after a vivid
retelling of a sweaty sparring match the Templar and elf just finished. Idalya
ended the match in spectacular fashion pinning Rylen’s shoulders to the ground
with her knees. It took Rylen and Cullen days to get Barris to speak to them
again after Cullen laughed as Rylen doubled over with the hit.
 “Can we forget I mentioned this?” Her shoulders slumped, head down as she
followed.
Cullen nodded as they turned the corner into a wide furnished room with many
service members of the Inquisition inside.
“Thank goodness, there’s Solas… WHAT IS ON HIS HEAD?”
With loud and defiant steps, the elf strode away from the Commander, not
hearing his response to her question, to where her mentor stood with the most
ridiculous monstrosity of hats perched upon his head.
“What is this?” She demanded, pointing to the top of Solas’ covered head. Solas
looked taken aback before raising a brow. The top was metal with a red scarf
wrapped around the bottom. It was the single most insulting piece of clothing
she ever laid eyes on.
“It’s a hat, obviously.” His irritation was clear as he adjusted the hat’s
placement on his head.
“I thought we're supposed to be inconspicuous on this mission?” Idalya blurted,
confused why anyone would wear something as ridiculous as that hat.
“We are,” Solas replied flatly.
“Then why are you wearing that?” She flailed her hands in front of him in
frustration. “I can’t take my eyes off that abomination! Do I need to find a
Templar to vanquish it?”
A rueful grin broke across the apostate’s face. “I suppose any excuse to speak
to a certain Templar.” He mused.
“Excuse me?” Idalya’s voice rose an octave as tried to hide her annoyance
brewing with the mage since they set out on this mission.
“I don’t think you’re angry at my hat. I think you’re upset I wouldn’t let you
search your memories to see what you forgot in your drunken stupor."
“Yeah, maybe I am! Maybe I’m embarrassed by my actions!” Idalya yelled back,
her face turned to one of embarrassment as the truth spilled past her wine-
colored lips. She leaned forward to the cocky mage. “How do you do that?” She
whispered now aware of the surrounding glances.
“Do what?” His confidence was obnoxious.
“Make me tell you things I would never admit to others.” Her nostrils flared as
her breath exited through them.
“Ah.” He sighed, some of his sarcasm melting away. “It is but the folly of
youth, Asha. It’s been a long time since I’ve been young, but as mind-blowing
as the concept may seem to you, I was young once and loved.”
The warrior darted her eyes to the floor as a deep flush came into her cheeks.
“No matter how extraordinary your own history may be, humanity is universal,
Dal.” He waited for the girl to look up at him, but she was stubborn like
himself. “I’m sorry I upset you.”
“I still hate your hat.” She mumbled, guilty regarding her outburst, but not
enough to apologize.
“We must disagree on that subject.” A deep chuckle resonated within his chest
and Idalya shook her head as she looked at him. “Ready to get started?”
The warrior nodded, and they made their way together to the carriage taking
them to the Winter Palace.
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