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Chapter Text

Excerpt from Solas’s Journal

Haven, 9:41 Dragon.

Attempt 2

The ritual was successful. After nearly a decade of work, I was able to create an adequate duplicate of Alexius’s amulet. The efforts against me, led by the Champion of Kirkwall, did not succeed. 

The only unexpected concern is that I cannot go back to a time before the orb was activated; the explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes has become a fixed point. However, I was able to reach Haven quickly enough to make myself indispensable. I have plenty of time to change the tides of the past, and retrieve the unlocked orb without it being destroyed.

I am walking a dangerous line. Last time, I failed in retrieving the orb, but the Inquisition succeeded in killing Corypheus, against strong odds. Corypheus cannot survive if I am to prevail. I will need to make sure as many things are similar to the events of my previous attempt as possible. Without Redcliffe, or the fall of Haven, would the Inquisitor succeed in growing stronger over time? Without the death of Celene, would the Inquisition gain enough power to triumph at the Temple of Mythal?

Perhaps not. 

In any event, Leliana was accommodating. She has once again provided me with a hut of my own. I am content to sit back, for now, and help where I can. 

With any luck, the orb will be mine within a year. 

-Solas

Eleanor Hawke sat on a bedroll in the middle of the desert, reading the latest letter she’d received from Varric. He was alive, at least. Thank the Maker. If he’d survived Kirkwall only to blow up in a foreign country, she’d be pretty ticked off. Who else would keep her abreast of current events in the south? Not Aveline, whose closeness to Hawke seemed to have happened through osmosis rather than any real fondness. Not Merrill, who had been cold and distant ever since Hawke had refused to help her fix her Eluvian. Not Fenris, who’d died defending Meredith Stannard. And not Isabela, who'd disappeared the night Hawke killed the Arishok. 

Certainly not Ser Carver of the fucking Templar Order. 

She put the letter down with a frown and stared off into the middle distance, chewing her fingernail. Should she be offering her services? She didn’t want to offer her services. She’d tried that angle for six years, and look where it got her. Friendless and alone, in the middle of the Blighted desert, hundreds of miles away from a good source of shrimp. 

Probably best that I don’t, then, she decided. Things had a tendency to go a little sideways whenever she got involved, and Thedas had had enough sideways for a lifetime. At least this explosion, no one could blame on her. 

Wellllll, she thought to herself, wincing. 

An image flashed in her mind, of Anders giving her one last look before fleeing into the dark as the city burned around them. 

Okay. Maybe this could be her fault. Had it been Anders? Blowing up religious institutions was kind of his modus operandus. She’d given up the chance to kill him, once. She almost had killed him, in fact. He’d asked so nicely, and by that point, she'd been so very tired. 

But then she’d realized she’d be doing something Sebastian approved of, and frankly, fuck that guy. 

On the other hand, the Conclave was exactly the sort of thing Anders had been hoping to bring about. Wasn't it? Peace. Interference from the Divine.  Discussion. She made a face. That’s why it was better she not help. She’d never been very good at talking to people. 

Not to mention, she had it on good authority that Cassandra Pentaghast wanted to give her actual responsibilities. Why, Hawke had no idea. They probably wouldn't even pay her. People tended to forget that, despite the lofty title, Hawke was just a mercenary at the end of the day. That's all she ever had been, and all she ever would be. Killing the Arishok had been the exception, not the rule. She hadn't even been able to save her own family, as Carver was so fond of reminding her. 

There was a brush of magic. A tall boy in a hat appeared before her. Hawke let out a curse. She leapt to her feet and pulled out her staff. 

“Wait!” the boy said, holding up his hands. “My name is Cole. I’m here to help.”

Hawke narrowed her eyes at him. “Where did you come from?”

“I was with the templars,” the boy said. Hawke’s eyes narrowed further. She took a menacing step toward him. “No! Not like that!” He peered at her. “Solid steel, stretched plate covering his chest. That symbol stamped into it like a brand. You used to think Father would hate seeing it as much as you do, but these days, you aren’t so sure.” He smiled. “See! You know good templars, too.”

Hawke lowered her staff a fraction. It sounded like he was talking about Carver. “What?” 

“Here,” the boy said, thrusting a piece of paper under her face. 

“What's this?” she said, confused. It was a torn title page from a copy of Tale of the Champion. Someone had scribbled a quick note on it. “Hawke,” she read out loud. “Find Curly.”

Hawke blinked. She looked up, asking, “Who the fuck is Curly?”

But the boy had disappeared.

“Andraste's ass,” she muttered to the empty air. She strapped her staff to her back again and sat down, rubbing her face as she reread the note. She shook her head. “And I thought the weird shit was over.”

Chapter Text

Excerpt from Solas’s Journal

Skyhold, 9:41 Dragon.

Attempt 2

After a few minor setbacks, the second attempt is proceeding well. 

Corypheus attacked Haven, as planned. After its destruction, I led Trevelyan to Skyhold. She has been offered the role of Inquisitor and accepted her title. Today, Leliana suggested that the Inquisition attend the ball at the Winter Palace in Halamshiral in three months time.  

Cole has joined us. While a part of me is pleased to see him, it hurts that he does not remember me. I have to shield that part of myself from him. It is a shame. Erasing his memory was the only way forward. 

I could not prevent the recruitment of Sera, nor was I able to stop Varric from reaching out to the Champion. I was able to send Hawke’s Warden contact on a distant quest that will prevent her from joining us. With luck, that will slow the research on the orb. I have also not mentioned the origin of the foci this time around.

I am not too worried. The four people who nearly stopped me - Hawke, Cullen, Trevelyan, and Sera - had several years of time and research on their side that they will not have this time. They knew of my plans; I had underestimated them and told Trevelyan the truth. 

I will not make that mistake again. 

-Solas

For several months, Hawke ignored the piece of paper. It was the standard way she handled things these days. She could not quite bring herself to throw it away, or burn it, but she folded it up into a tiny little square and shoved it into the bottom of her pack.

Out of sight, out of mind. 

Then, one day, she visited the merchant’s stand that was tucked under the canyon near her campsite. She bought supplies there about once a month. Why a man would set up a trade post in the middle of the Hissing Wastes was beyond her, but it was a lucky thing, and she wasn’t going to spit good fortune in the face the few times it remembered she existed. 

After doing business with the merchant, and patting his dog on the head, she asked if there was any news for her. 

“Aye, serah,” he said, holding out a small stack of letters.  

She thanked him. She found a comfortable rock, sat down, and began to read. 

Frowning, she opened Alistair’s letter first. Red lyrium had been the one threat she could not bring herself to brush aside. The fact that Varric still owned a slice of the original statue made her more than a little nervous. As it had been found in the Deep Roads, she had wondered if the Wardens might know something. Of the few Wardens she knew well enough to contact, only Alistair had responded.

Then the Order disappeared. Luckily, Alistair kept sending letters, and she was able to tell him a bit about Corypheus. He agreed with her concerns that the Wardens were being corrupted. In fact, he said Corypheus's abilities reminded him of those of an archdemon. He brought the idea up to his superiors. 

It had gone badly. According to this new letter, he was now on the run. He asked if she knew of anyone who could help him.

Her mind uneasily drifted to the Inquisition. If Alistair was right, some part of Corypheus could have survived. The thought turned her stomach. 

So far, it was only a hunch, though. Even Alistair said as much. She’d prefer not to involve the Inquisition - or herself - until she had clear proof either way. 

She’d think on that later. She put the letter away.

The next one was from Carver. He expressed worry over some rumors he’d heard about the Southern templars. They were all holing up in some remote reproach. She rolled her eyes. Her brother knew better than to ask for her aid when it came to the templars. If he was so curious, he could investigate.

The last letter was from Varric. She pulled it from its envelope. The back, which she glanced at first, was a map of the Frostback mountains. There was an X drawn over a remote valley toward the south. She furrowed her brow and flipped it over. 

H, 

Look, I hate to send this letter just as much as you hate to receive it, but you’d better get your ass over here. Haven’s been destroyed. The templars are using red lyrium. And that’s not even the worst of it. 

Corypheus is back.

-V

Hawke squeezed her eyes shut. So much for later. “Motherfucker," she muttered out loud.

During the long journey to Skyhold, Hawke revisited the note she’d received from the strange boy in the hat. She’d been in no mood for a wild goose chase before, but with Corypheus back, she needed all the help she could get. Maybe this Curly person had more information.

Besides, trying to solve the mystery of the note was a pleasant past time. Far more pleasant than, say, wondering what the Chantry was going to do with her when she arrived, or reflecting on the fact that, apparently, she and the rest of Thedas would be feeling the aftershocks of her colossal failures for the rest of time.

And so, each night, she unfolded the leaf of paper, looking for clues. Three short words written in great haste gave her very little to go on. Upon closer examination, she suspected it was her own handwriting. This was exceptionally odd, because she had no memory of writing it. She’d never even read or owned a copy of Tale of the Champion. The thought of it seemed maudlin. Living through it was bad enough.

“‘Find Curly,’” she muttered as she walked backwards down a dusty road five days from Val Royeaux, one thumb stuck in the air. Carriages passed her by without notice. Little did they know they were turning their Orlesian noses up at the Champion of Kirkwall. Tiny pebbles crunched under her boots as she considered. “But who is Curly?” she wondered out loud. 

There was no answer. She was talking to herself a lot these days. "Probably not a good sign," she mused, then winced and pinched herself.

A week later, she was throwing dirt over her most recent campsite when a thought struck her. “Or what is Curly?” she realized, standing up straight. “Maybe it’s not a person at all.” She stretched her back, trying to think of curly things. “A type of Antivan noodle, perhaps?” she guessed. She shook the thought from her head.  “Ridiculous.”

Five days after that, she strode up the side of a mountain and observed, “I can’t go around asking people if they’re Curly.” She wrapped her thick cloak tighter around her shoulders. The Frostbacks were frigid this time of year; she was thankful she’d thought ahead. The incline beneath her became punishing, and she planted her staff in the snow to propel herself forward. “But they must be at Skyhold, right?” She chewed her lip. “Maybe Varric will know.”

Finally, she crested the peak. Her eyebrows climbed as she got her first look at the Inquisition’s new fortress. It was massive - more like a city than a building. Red and yellow tents surrounded it, dots of color in the white snow. Flags fluttered in the wind above the gatehouse. Sunlight streamed down, making the snow around it glow. 

All that was missing was the Chantry choir.

“Well,” she sighed, leaning on her staff. “I guess I’ll find out soon enough.”

She began her descent to the valley below. 

Chapter Text

Excerpt from Solas’s Journal

Skyhold, 9:41 Dragon.

Attempt 2

The Champion has arrived. 

Her attitude concerns me. Last time, she was despondent. Self-involved. She and Trevelyan barely interacted. She showed no interest in the other inhabitants of Skyhold. This time, she seems more… invested. Curious about her surroundings. 

I wonder what has changed. 

Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps I simply paid her less heed, not realizing that she was a threat. Now that I know what she is capable of, I have been watching her quite closely. It is possible I simply notice more. 

Still, to prevent a situation in which she and Trevelyan bond too quickly, I have taken new measures. Trevelyan has an arrogant, jealous nature; I’ve made sure that she is often in earshot of people praising Hawke, particular the ambassador. I even ensured that she overhear a conversation between Cassandra and myself, in which the Seeker admitted Hawke was her first choice for Inquisitor. 

I can tell the Champion’s presence is grating on her already. 

As for Hawke’s relationship with Sera and the Commander, interference will not be necessary. It took the three of them years to even begin working together. Sera’s attitude toward magic is enough to keep them apart for now. And given Cullen’s history with the Champion, I doubt they will exchange more than five words between them.

-Solas

Hawke leaned on the battlements of Skyhold. It certainly was an impressive building. She wondered who’d built it. There was a strange sort of magic in the air that felt very old, but the architecture did not look Imperial. And it didn’t appear to be Alamarri or elven, either. 

Varric had gone to fetch the Inquisitor. She was wearing her old armor, which…. Ugh. It itched, for one thing. The weight of it felt uncanny after so many years. Varric’s idea, of course. Why she let him talk her into these things, she had no idea. 

That was a lie. Nine times out of ten, it was to get him to shut the fuck up. 

“Inquisitor,” she heard his voice say behind her. She turned, and her jaw nearly dropped open. Varric  approached with a glamorous looking woman who stood at least five foot ten. Hawke couldn’t help but let her eyes flick over the woman’s body. Wow. As it turned out, the Herald of Andraste had legs, and curves for days. Varric smirked, catching the look in Hawke’s eye. “Meet Hawke. The Champion of Kirkwall.”

Hawke shot Varric a glare at that, but he just stared back at her evenly with that shit-eating grin of his. 

“I don’t use the title much anymore,” she added.

“Hawke,” Varric went on, ignoring her. “This is Inquisitor Tahani Trevelyan.” He picked up the mug of ale he’d left on the balustrade. “I figured you might have some friendly advice about Corypheus.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but Trevelyan cut her off with a beatific smile. “Before we begin,” she said primly, “can I just say how much I loved reading your book? So charming. It’s adorable how Varric here made protecting a quaint little place like Kirkwall sound important!" She tilted her head. “Protecting it for half a decade, at least, I suppose.” She let her smile turn apologetic. “Oh, but the boiling over was inevitable, really, wasn’t it? All that tension and anger, and just a tiny thing like you to prevent it.” 

She gave Hawke a once-over. As she did, Hawke blinked at Varric, her smile tight. What the fuck? she mouthed. He shrugged and took another sip of his ale. 

“How tall are you, exactly?” Trevelyan asked brightly. 

“Five feet even.”

Trevelyan shook her head. “Goodness! You must be part dwarf."

Hawke forced a surprised bark of laugh. "Wow! That's the first time I've heard that one."

"But then you'd at least have some muscle, one imagines," Trevelyan sighed. She dragged her eyes to Hawke's face. "And you defeated the Arishok!”

“That’s what they tell me.”

Trevelyan threw a glance at Varric. “Was he quite as large as The Iron Bull?"

"Larger,” Varric told her. Then he backtracked, rubbing his chin. “Actually, it’s hard to say. I don't think I ever saw him on even ground. The guy had an eye for stairs."

Trevelyan hummed and turned back to Hawke. “How ever did you do it?”

Hawke tried to match Trevelyan’s bright smile, but felt more like a mabari baring its fangs. “Mostly by running in circles. Which, incidentally, is also my advice on fighting Corypheus. Not that you should take it. Varric’s right that we fought him. Fought and killed, in fact. But seeing as he didn’t stay dead, I don't think I can be considered an expert on the subject.”

Trevelyan seemed to relax a little at her self-deprecating tone. “I see,” she said, studying Hawke’s face. “Still. Any information you could share would be useful.”

Hawke looked back across the Skyhold courtyard with a frown. “Last time, he was able to use his darkspawn powers to… well, manipulate the Grey Wardens, somehow.”

“He got into their heads,” Varric added. “Turned them against each other.”

“With the Grey Wardens gone,” Hawke continued, “I can’t help but think he might be doing it again. Corrupting their minds.” She thought briefly of Anders’s struggles underneath Corypheus’s prison and prayed that she was wrong. Her mind turned to Alistair. “I have a friend in the Grey Wardens. Someone who was helping me research something else.” She winced. “Something I hoped was unrelated, but now…. I’m not so sure. His superiors did not like his research. He’s now being pursued by his own organization. Last I heard, he was hiding out in an old smuggler’s cave in Crestwood.”

“What were you two researching?”

“Red lyrium.”

Trevelyan's face twisted sourly. “Ah. Yes. I’m familiar with the substance. Corypheus has an army of templars who appear to be using it.”

Hawke knew that from Varric’s letter, but hearing the words out loud felt like a punch to the gut. The thought of Meredith Stannard’s glowing eyes duplicated across an entire army of templars made her shudder. “Right. I'd hoped that particular rumor was false.”

“Do you know how he got access to the lyrium? And to the Order?”

Hawke shook her head. “Hopefully, my friend in the Wardens will know more.” 

Trevelyan nodded once. “We’ll need to go to Crestwood ourselves, then, I suppose.” She tapped her bottom lip, considering. “I have a hostage situation I need to deal with in the Fallow Mire first. We’ll leave once I return.” She flashed Hawke a sweet smile. “Hopefully, that will give you enough time to get back into combat shape. It's been a few years since you last fought, I believe?”

Hawke blinked. “Um.”

“I thought so. Look at you!” Trevelyan squeezed her arm. “So skinny! Hardly any muscle at all.”

Hawke stiffened. “Yes, well. Luckily, my connection to the Fade doesn't go away.”

Trevelyan laughed as if this was the funniest joke she had ever heard. “Of course, of course. Quite right.” She looked at Varric, delighted. “Mages. Aren't they just adorable?” Letting go of Hawke's arm, she reached out a hand and pressed her finger briefly on Hawke's nose. “Boop!”

Hawke stared at her, speechless. 

“Anyway! I must be off to the war table. So much to do. Running all of Thedas is--. Oh, you know how it is. On a much, much, much, much smaller scale. Ta-ta for now!”

A moment passed before either Hawke or Varric spoke.

“She booped me,” Hawke said, incredulous.

“Hawke.”

"She booped me on the nose.”

“She’s just jealous.”

“Jealous?” Hawke said, turning to blink at him. “Of what? She’s the Inquisitor.” She began ticking off her fingers. “She’s head of a massive organization. She owns this huge castle. She’s worshipped by her own religion, and has already saved the world twice.” Hawke made a face. “She’s tall, she’s beautiful, she has a perfect ass, and the thickest, most kissable lips I have ever seen, and…. ” Hawke exhaled roughly. “And now I’m complimenting her. And maybe a little turned on.”

Varric laughed, walking toward her. “Okay, yeah. But she’s still jealous.”

“Why?”

He gave her a proud grin. “Because whatever she is, she’s not you, Hawke.”

That made Hawke smile, despite herself. “Shut up, you idiot.” She gave him a fond shove with her elbow. “I missed you, buddy.” 

“Yeah, yeah. I missed you, too.”

That night, Varric took Hawke to the tavern, because apparently fortresses had those now.

It was called The Herald’s Rest. Outside, Hawke saw the sign and frowned. She made a comment to Varric about how she wanted a bar to be built in Hightown called the Champion's Nap, and Varric suggested the Champion's Snooze instead, and of course she had to switch her request to Champion & Chill, which they both agreed was the better choice, and that brought them right to the door. Inside there was a pretty bard with a lute, a just-surly-enough bartender, and three floors of extensive seating. 

Hawke grimaced. “Even her pub is the nicest pub I've ever been in.”

Varric smacked Hawke on the shoulder. “Hey!” he scolded. “The Hanged Man is nicest pub you've ever been in. It's unimpeachable. There isn’t a better tavern in all of Thedas.”

“Clearly you,” a familiar feminine voice drawled behind them, “have never been to Denerim.”

Hawke turned, not even bothering to hide the shock on her face. “Isabela?”

Isabela smirked, her knee pushed up against a table, and her hat dipped elegantly over one eye. She leaned forward to pick up her drink. “Hawke. Or is it Champion now? I hear you've moved up in the world.”

Hawke gave her a dark look. “Yeah. You missed seeing that ceremony in person by about… oh, half an hour or so,” she said dryly. 

Isabela's expression hardened. She glanced away. “Right. I’m sorry about that, Hawke. I shouldn’t have left, after…. Well, after everything.” She tapped the table to an unheard rhythm. “But I did. If it helps, it's because I had total faith in your ability to clean up my mess.”

“A compliment?” Hawke said with a mock low whistle. "Wow. The Qun really put the fear of the Maker in you, huh?"

“The fear of something, that's for sure,” Isabela said darkly, downing the rest of her drink. She shuddered.

Hawke reached for the old ache within her. She felt nothing. She sighed. Maybe time healed all wounds; maybe all her other supposed friends had just stabbed her that much deeper. She'd never trust Isabela again, but that didn't mean she had the energy to keep hating her forever. So she sat down in a chair across from her old friend. Varric, who'd been watching so carefully that Hawke could practically see the adverbs floating in his eyes, took the seat beside her.

“Well,” Hawke said slowly, keeping her tone overly casual, “I’m not saying it would make up for everything, but a couple of rounds of drinks would be a good place to start.”

Isabela looked up. She blinked in surprise. Her lips quirked into a smile. Hawke thought she might even look proud, though why, Hawke had no idea. “That I can do," she said. "What can I get for you?”

Hawke leaned her chin on her fist. “Oh, let’s see. How about the most expensive thing you can afford?”

“So, rat’s piss,” Varric guessed cheerfully.

Isabela chuckled as she stood. “You're on. And I think you’ll both be pleasantly surprised by the price range,” she told them. She tapped her extravagant hat. “I’m an Admiral now, you know.”

She walked away, and Hawke looked at Varric curiously. “Pirates have admirals?”

“I guess so.”

“Does that mean she controls an entire fleet of pirates?”

“I don’t know, Hawke,” Varric said. “If I had to guess, I’d say it just means she gets to wear a fancy hat.”

Hawke looked across the room. “It is very fancy.”

They talked deep into the night, drinking some shockingly good whiskey that Varric swore up and down he’d never even seen at Skyhold before. After they made a great show of "catching up", with all the honesty and enthusiasm that three professional liars could muster, they began to reminisce about the years they’d spent together in Kirkwall. Isabela asked after Carver, and Merrill, and Aveline. For someone with absolutely no tact, she did an admirable job avoiding the topics of Anders and Fenris. 

At one point, however, she did lean forward with a smirk. “You know who we should invite out next time?” she said, her eyes lidded but sharp. 

“Who?” Varric asked warily.

“Commander Cullen Rutherford. He was in Kirkwall with us, after all. Surely he has a few stories.” 

“Ugh,” Hawke said, rolling her eyes. “I keep forgetting he’s here.”

“Oh, he’s not so bad,” Varric said. Hawke gave him a look. “I'm serious, Hawke. He’s changed. A lot.”

“Mmm,” Isabela agreed, putting her chin on her hand. “Indeed. He went from a maybe to a yes.”

“Not what I meant, Rivaini,” Varric said, though he laughed as he spoke. He turned back to Hawke. “You should say hi tomorrow.”

Hawke gave him a thumbs down and blew a raspberry with her lips. “That would be a big fat no.”

“You do owe him your life,” Varric reminded her. 

Hawke frowned. “That barely counts. Anyone would have helped me at that point.”

“I’m not sure that’s true,” Varric said. “He wasn’t the only Knight-Captain there that night, you know.” Varric wasn’t wrong about that. Hawke grumbled, putting her head in her hands. She was getting a headache. Varric went on. “I’m just saying, you and Curly haven’t seen each other in a long time, and it might be good--”

Hawke’s head snapped up. Suddenly, despite the five drinks burning in her veins, she felt stone-cold sober. “Did you just say Curly?” she asked, incredulous. 

Varric sighed, misinterpreting her outrage. “I know, I know. Look, I swear, I’ll come up with something for you. Some day. It’s just Hawke is already such a great name--”

Hawke placed her hands on either side of her face and stared at nothing, horrified. She felt the blood drain from her face. “Cullen is Curly.”

In her peripheral vision, she felt more than saw Isabela and Varric exchange a confused glance. “Yeah. You know what his hair used to look like.”

Hawke sagged. She placed her forehead on the cool wood of the table. She was somewhere between laughing and crying. 

Isabela placed a hand on her arm. “Are you alright, kitten?”

“Maybe we should have stuck with the rat’s piss,” Varric observed.

Cullen was Curly. Of course, Hawke thought to herself bitterly. Of course some mysterious, distant, amnesiac fucking version of herself wanted her to find Cullen fucking Rutherford and, presumably, ask him for fucking help. 

“Hawke?” Varric asked.

“Andraste’s ass,” she muttered to herself, ignoring him. “This might be worse than Corypheus.”

Chapter Text

Excerpt from Solas’s Journal

Skyhold, 9:41 Dragon.

Attempt 2

The Inquisitor has left Skyhold for the Fallow Mire. 

My efforts to sow discord between her and the Champion seem to have been successful. Better yet, in what I assume must have been a show of dominance, Trevelyan took Varric with her, and sent their pirate friend north, leaving the Champion to her own devices. Hawke is beginning to act more like I expected. Despondent. Depressed. 

Lost. 

It is unfortunate that doing this was necessary. Despite her leading the forces that opposed me in the false future, I have always respected Hawke. She did nothing that I would not have done in her situation. 

An equivocal compliment, I am sure.

But I cannot take risks. What’s done is done. Hopefully, with no Warden Tabris to draw her attention toward the orb, Hawke will return to retirement after Adamant, and find peace. 

-Solas

Now that she knew who Curly was, Hawke needed to talk to Cullen. That much was obvious. It still took her three days to work up the courage. In her defense, Varric was there for two of those days, and she really, really, really did not want her best friend and erstwhile biographer to think she was, for once, taking his advice and burying some sort of hatchet. Hawke did not bury hatchets. She clung to them bitterly, like a corpse that had gone into rigor mortis. The only two things she had in common with her brother were her pale blue eyes and the capacity to hold grudges long past the point of social acceptability. 

Incidentally, both of these traits seemed to come from the Amell side of the family. 

But to Hawke's dismay, she had no choice in the matter. There was a mysterious Tale -reading, note-writing version of herself out there, and that Eleanor Hawke wanted this Eleanor Hawke to find Cullen Rutherford. Whatever the reason, it had to be important. 

Well. Either that, or Varric was playing an elaborate prank on her. 

The odds were about even there, now that she thought about it. 

Either way, she knew she should at least talk to Cullen before she made up her mind. 

Instead, she procrastinated. She kept her head low. These days, she preferred not to be responsible for anything more serious than a game of correspondence chess with Varric. Even introducing Trevelyan to Alistair was reaching her upper limits of involvement. Over the years, it had become clear that she had to focus on herself. Favors and good deeds were overrated, and tended to go sideways. She was safest when no one owed her anything, and so was everyone else. 

Escaping attention was easier than one might have expected, for someone of Hawke’s notoriety. Thanks to the book, most people assumed she’d be six foot three with shoulders the size of Denerim. No one gave the tiny blonde mage a second glance. By her count, there were only five people she truly needed to avoid at Skyhold - Cullen (obviously); the Ben-Hassrath spy (regardless of what the Qun said, she had to assume they still kept an eye on her); the redheaded nun from Lothering (obviously); Cassandra Pentaghast (obviously); and a Carta dwarf named Luka (this was according to Varric; Hawke had no memory of ever meeting the woman). 

Trevelyan’s animosity was actually a blessing in disguise; it helped her lay low. On Hawke’s first day at Skyhold, she was given a small room in the cellar, far out of everyone's way. There was a straw mattress, a wheel of cheese, and a dark stain near the door that smelled vaguely of vinegar. She suspected it had been a pantry before her arrival. The illustrious Inquisitor also declined to introduce the Champion to the council. Or to the court. Or to anyone, really. 

"Wouldn't want to get ahead of ourselves," Trevelyan had said with a cheerful smile. "Let's wait until you have some information that's actually useful, shall we?"

While Hawke felt the full weight of the insult, she couldn't bring herself to mind much. If anything, she was grateful for the privacy. She'd been something of a recluse since fleeing Kirkwall. Being around so many people again made her anxious. Plus, once he’d seen her accommodations, Varric was kind enough to give her the key to his suite, meaning she spent most of her time cooped up in there, catching up on some reading (a great many books that were not about her had also been published while she was in hiding), or drinking copious amounts of booze. Or both.

On the bright side, the booze in question was very high quality. The Inquisitor, Hawke learned, was not just a stuck-up bitch; she was also a connoisseur of some of the finest liquors and ales in all of Thedas. Hawke found her private collection while exploring the halls. After the booping incident, Hawke decided it was only fair that she help herself to a couple of bottles. 

She assumed Justice would be proud. Or maybe Vengeance would be prouder. Whatever.

The day after Trevelyan dragged Varric out of Skyhold, Hawke found herself looking at the note more often. She wasn't sure what she'd find there. Maybe an update in her own handwriting - something like, Never mind, we meant the hot Qunari guy, or On second thought, leave Curly alone. No such luck.

By nightfall, she was pacing outside Commander Cullen Rutherford's office. She chewed her thumbnail. She’d seen him around, of course - training in the courtyard, or walking up on the battlements, or arguing with the Seeker, or the redhead. He was impossible to miss. Every time she saw it coming, she turned around and walked in the opposite direction. 

Hawke paused. She sighed, fixing her eyes on the door. "You can do this," she said to herself under her breath. "Just don't call him Knight-Captain." Maker. That would really start things off on the wrong food. She held up a fist. 

The door swung open before she could knock. Cullen Rutherford almost stampeded over her, a massive wall of fur and metal that could have flattened her in an instant if she hadn’t let out a startled yelp. He froze, blinked, then stared down at her in shock. She’d forgotten how tall he was. His mouth parted as if to speak. The words took a moment to manifest. 

"Champion," he said, finally. 

Oh, titles, was it? "Commander," she replied, crossing her arms. His brow lowered in confusion. She closed her eyes, sighing. Shit, she thought. Wrong foot. "We need to talk," she told him.

Three days earlier

Cullen Rutherford was having a miserable week. 

It had started with the matter of Haven’s dead. When the time had come to gather names, Trevelyan was out in the field with Cassandra, Vivienne, and Sera. The council agreed that they could not wait for their new Inquisitor to return. Families needed to be told. Positions needed to be filled. Numbers needed to be written down for posterity. Someone needed to make a list.

Cullen had volunteered himself. Truth be told, it was out concern for his colleagues. Both Josephine and Leliana were up to the task, of course, but that was not the point. If he’d learned one thing from the Gallows, it was that capability and capacity were not the same thing. Sometimes, these things had a hidden cost. One that was much harder to quantify than time or energy.

Leliana's open wounds were healing into scars. She saw blood on her hands already. The Divine’s death had hit her very hard - the hardest out of all of them. She was functioning, and yet, at times, Cullen saw a hard, bitter look in her eye. It hit a little too close to home for him to ignore. 

Josephine, on the other hand, was still adjusting to the horrors of a true war. Despite the fact that Cullen was fairly sure that her reserved diplomacy was the glue holding the whole Inquisition together, Josephine was more or less an innocent. On more than one late night, when heading toward the back room in Haven’s chantry to work through his insomnia, he’d reached the door only to hear her quiet sobs within. It was obvious she’d never dealt with losing so many people, so suddenly. 

And, well. Cullen had. 

Even so, it was difficult to see the names of all those he’d failed written in stark, black ink. Cassandra told him not to be so hard on himself, but he could see no alternative. He was commander of the Inquisition forces. He should have realized that whoever had caused the explosion would still be a threat. Instead, he’d let a growing group of soldiers and civilians come pledge their fealty. He'd lined up a row of sitting ducks in a village that, famously, the Hero of Ferelden had once wiped out with a mage, a dwarf, and a single dog. 

Perhaps that was why the withdrawal symptoms were worse. Last night, he’d barely slept at all. He’d had to forego a council meeting in the morning, uncertain he could hide the shaking in his hands. Rylen attended in his place. 

And now…. Now this. The report he held trembled. He placed his elbow on his desk, steadying himself. 

According to the report, a red templar lieutenant was hiding in the Dales. Trevelyan had tracked him, and word of his activities was disturbing, to say the least. The man had convinced two separate parties that he was uncorrupted - that he was a templar loyal to the Chantry. By the letters they’d been able to recover, he was well-spoken. Charming. 

Cullen pursed his lips. This went against his understanding of things. He'd assumed that the red lyrium templars had not just changed physically - that something about Corypheus, or the lyrium, or the Breach itself, had corrupted their minds. He’d believed them to be little more than pawns - monsters, unable to think for themselves, standing and fighting at Corypheus’s beck and call without conscious thought. 

But this lieutenant was a thinking man. He had his wits about him. Which meant this was his choice. He chose to follow Samson. He chose his path with Corypheus. Cullen was long past the age where he'd believed all templars held themselves to some righteous code, but this--. This.

Cullen exhaled, placing the report down. A headache was building behind his eyes. He pinched his nose tightly. 

How many times could one man be so wrong?

The door swung open. Cullen jerked his head up as Cassandra stalked into the room. He stood. Something about her stormy expression gave him pause. Cassandra often looked spirited, but her eyes were harder than normal today.

"Cassandra," he greeted. 

"Sit down, Cullen," she told him, waving a dismissive hand at his formality. She threw herself into the chair across from him and let out a growl of frustration. "I am going to kill that dwarf.”

“Ah,” Cullen said, confused. He retook his seat. “Um. Which dwarf would this be, exactly?”

"Varric, of course," Cassandra snapped. “Who else could I mean?"

"I thought you two made peace. And there are several dwarves in the Inquisition now," Cullen explained. “Lace Harding, for one. And Dagna.”

Cassandra stared at him, incredulous. "Why would I want to kill Dagna? Or Scout Harding?" 

"I don't know," Cullen admitted with a shrug. "Frankly, I'm still not certain why you want to kill Varric."

"Because of the Champion!" Cassandra exclaimed, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world. Cullen stared her, not understanding. The tension in Cassandra's shoulders loosened. "Oh. You have not heard." She glanced away. "The Champion is at Skyhold."

Cullen blinked. “What?”  

"She arrived this afternoon.” Cassandra's nostrils flared with residual annoyance. “Varric has been in touch with her this whole time. Trevelyan met with her before any of us were even informed.”  She threw a hand in the air. “And yet, now, no one can find her! I asked Trevelyan if I could speak with her, and she had the gall to tell me to take it up with Varric. As if I am in any state to talk to Varric calmly!” She peered at him across his desk. “You knew her. I don’t suppose you could--”

“No,” Cullen said instantly, cutting her off. “I…. That would be…. Hah. Well, we weren't exactly friends.”

“You stood with her against Meredith, did you not?”

“Yes.” He looked down, not meeting Cassandra’s eye. At the last possible moment, he added in his mind. 

He felt more than saw Cassandra’s scrutinizing gaze. If Cullen were honest with himself, time had softened his views on Eleanor Hawke. It was not just that he’d drifted closer to her way of seeing the world - though that had certainly happened. It was that, with each passing year, their squabbles and disagreements grew more difficult to recall, while the shadow of her triumphs loomed ever larger. True, her methods were not always sound, and her motivations often started in the realm of self-interest. But by the end, her actions spoke louder than anything else. 

In the end, she had been right. 

Given his behavior in Kirkwall, he doubted Hawke had gone through a similar change of opinion. Besides, behind his frustration and annoyance, he’d always admired her, a little. Even when he was not supposed to. She was resilient. She was beautiful. She did not give up. Whereas he doubted she’d ever felt anything but contempt toward him. She would see him as she’d always seen him: a steadfast Chantry boy whose presence was a less than welcome surprise. 

Cassandra’s anger seemed to fade as she observed his silence. “Very well,” she said. “However, if you do happen to speak with her, would you urge her to come find me? It is… it is extremely important.”  Cullen came back to himself. He noticed Cassandra’s voice held a sentimental quality to it, and raised an eyebrow, suddenly amused. Cassandra noticed. "What?" she demanded.

“Hm? Nothing,” he said. He tried to keep his face straight. "If I can't send her your way, would an autograph suffice?" 

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Are you mocking me?”

“No,” Cullen replied quickly. “But your fondness for the Champion isn't exactly a secret, Cassandra.”

Cassandra stood, outraged. She stuck her chin into the air. “I am already committing one murder today, commander,” she said. “Try not to force me into a second.”

Cullen let his chuckle melt into a cough as she strode out of the room.

For three days, Cullen saw neither hide nor hair of Hawke. He wasn’t terribly surprised that she wished to avoid him; however, Skyhold was a small place. It seemed a little strange that she seemed to be avoiding everyone else, as well. Were they back in Kirkwall, she would have caused some kind of commotion by this point, surely. Or, at the very least, she’d have been seen out and about with some new groups of allies - a ragtag band of misfits everyone else had overlooked.

Perhaps she was simply being discreet. 

Either way, he had little time to speculate. He was the commander, and the Inquisition was at war. There was work to be done. 

On the third day, he was reading a report of Skyhold’s defenses. Jim came marching into his office, a missive in his hand. Cullen stopped himself from rolling his eyes. He’d told the recruits that they needed to knock a dozen times, but the lesson never seemed to stick. 

“Leliana said you’d want to see this, commander. Immediately.”

Jim had a tendency to be melodramatic, so Cullen ignored his dark tone. He gestured at the pile of missives on his desk. Jim placed it at the top and then waited, his hands behind his back. 

“Dismissed,” Cullen told him absently. He stroked his chin, still focused on Skyhold. It was better defended than Haven, certainly. Largely because of its geographical position and the walls. They could survive a siege. However, surviving was not the only goal. He’d feel more confident if they had a way to fight back.

Trebuchets, his quill scratched in the top corner of the report.  

Once his door closed, he glanced at the missive Jim had left behind. He saw it was about the red templar lieutenant in the Dales. Snatching it up, he tore the seal and read it quickly. 

Leliana had been able to track down a name, and--

Cullen froze. He gripped the report tighter, abandoning the Skyhold schematic entirely. He read the name again, and then again, and then leaned back into his chair in shock. 

Ser Carroll of Kinloch Hold. 

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen whispered to himself. 

Once, a very long time ago, Carroll had been the ferryman at Kinloch. He'd been Cullen’s age, or thereabouts. The man had been a bit of a cad at times, and not the brightest of the bunch, but he was steadfast, and boisterous, and loyal to the Order. They’d even been friends. After the Blight, Cullen had lost touch with everyone at Kinloch. Carroll included. 

And now…. Now….

Cullen closed his eyes. The red lyrium must do something, then. Carroll could not have decided to blindly follow Samson. It was not in his nature. Being around the lyrium must have… corrupted hin, somehow. Left him vulnerable. Or perhaps they’d relied on his addiction, on his cravings. On how difficult the withdrawal could be. 

Cullen dropped the note and placed his head in his hands. "There, but for the grace of the Maker, go I,” he muttered. If someone like Carroll could fall, then he had little hope for the few friends and acquaintances from Kirkwall whose whereabouts remained unknown. His chest grew tight. He considered how often he’d been around Meredith’s sword, those last three years. Bile rose in his throat. Was he...? Had he been...?

What was he doing? He could not lead the Inquisition forces. He was too close to the enemy. How many times had he considered taking lyrium this past month alone? He was an addict, suffering from withdrawal, whose very presence put the Inquisition at risk. 

Panic turned to purpose. He needed to find Cassandra. He stood quickly, his heart racing, and made for the door. 

As he threw it open, a sharp yelp stopped him in his tracks. Startled, he looked down to see Hawke standing there, one hand raised to knock. His mouth fell open. 

The years had not been kind to her. It was an uncharitable thought, he knew - she was an attractive woman, she always had been - but her face was thinner, and there were shadows beneath her eyes that he did not remember seeing before. The robes she wore hung off her thin frame. Wherever she had been, it must not have been pleasant. 

Though he doubted he looked much better. 

“Champion,” he managed to spit out.  

It was the wrong thing to say. Her expression iced over. “Commander,” she said in a hard voice that sounded all too familiar. He did not know what to say. She winced, seeming to regret her tone. “We need to talk.”

“I’m afraid I’m in the middle of something--”

Hawke interrupted him. “We need to talk now.” She put a hand on his chest and pushed him back into his office. Despite the fact that he could easily have resisted, he was surprised enough to let her shove him. She shut the door behind them. 

“What is it?” Cullen asked. 

She glanced around his room. “Are we alone?”

“To my knowledge, yes,” he replied. Hawke gave his ladder a suspicious look, and Cullen crossed his arms. “It leads to my bedchamber. No one is up there.”

Despite the tension, she huffed out a breath of a laugh. “The more things change, the more they stay the same, huh?”

Cullen sighed. “If you’ve just come to insult me--”

“No,” Hawke said, growing serious again. She pulled a folded paper out of her pocket and handed it to him. “Listen. Six months ago, just after the explosion at the Conclave, a strange boy in a large hat appeared out of thin air. He handed me this. Now, it’s in my handwriting, but I’ve never seen it before in my life. Plus, I didn’t know that Varric was calling you Curly until I got here.”

“A strange boy in a large hat,” Cullen said, trying to keep up. Hawke had always spoken as if talking were a race and she was determined to get to the finish line first. “You mean Cole.”

“Cole?” Hawke asked.

Cole appeared with a brush of air. “Hello!” he said to both of them. 

Hawke jumped back, cursing. “Andraste preserve me.” She blinked at the boy, her eyes wide and a hand on her chest. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“You live… here? At Skyhold?”

“Yes,” Cole confirmed. 

Cullen unfolded the paper as they spoke. It was a title page of Tale of the Champion. On it, a spiky, jagged script read Hawke - Find Curly. There was something else about the paper that caught his eye as well. He frowned. 

Hawke was staring at Cole. The fight seemed to bleed out of her. “Of course you do,” she said darkly. “And I suppose you’re friends with Varric Tethras.”

“I am,” Cole said in an earnest tone. “He helps.” Hawke squeezed her tired eyes shut and rubbed them with the heels of her hands. “Oh,” Cole said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make it worse.” Cole tilted his head. “I don’t think he gave me the note. I don’t know who did. I found it in my pocket just before--”

“Sure,” Hawke said. “Look. You can tell Varric I figured it out." She spread out her hands . "Ha ha! Very funny. He got me good this time.” When Cole opened his mouth to speak, she shook her head. "Just scram, kid. I’m not in the mood.”

Cole hesitated, then disappeared.

Hawke snatched the note back from Cullen. Her smile was tight. “Well, commander. It appears our resident trickster is playing yet another elaborate prank on his least forgiving friend, and somehow, he roped you into it. My apologies. I’ll get out of your hair.” Her eyes flicked up, and a baffled look crossed her face. “Your.. curiously stylish hair. I like it.” She dropped her gaze again and smiled. “Nice chat. Hopefully, I don't see you.”  

She turned to leave. Cullen stopped her, grabbing her arm lightly. “Wait. Hawke. Let me see the note again.” She glanced over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “Please,” he added. Sighing, she handed it over. His eyes drifted again to the right hand corner. “What’s this?” he asked. 

She came around, and he pulled it down to her level. “What’s what?”

He ran his finger over the area. “These faint black lines.”

“Oh.” She shrugged. “Smudges of ink, I assume. Varric’s hands are usually covered with the stuff.”

Cullen considered them. He handed her back the note and went to his bookcase. It took him only a moment to locate his copy of Tale of the Champion. He pulled it out and opened it to the title page. 

He breathed in sharply. 

“What is it?” Hawke asked. 

Wordlessly, he held out the book to her. She took it from him. Her eyebrows rose as she stared down in shock.

“That isn’t possible,” she said.

Back when they were crossing the Waking Sea, Cullen was in the earliest stages of withdrawal. He needed a distraction. Desperate, and on the cusp of trying to confront his past, he’d asked Varric for a copy of Tale of the Champion.  

Varric had not only obliged him. He’d added an inscription: 

Curly - Try not to take anything in here too personally. We all did shit we’re not proud of. Believe me: you’re a good guy. - Varric Tethras 

He must have closed the book too quickly afterward, because the inscription had left a smudge on the title page. 

The same smudge as the one on Hawke’s note. 

Hawke glanced back and forth between the two pages. “They’re identical. But it's a smudge. How can a smudge be identical?" She looked up, meeting his gaze with wide eyes. "What the fuck, Cullen? How did I get this?”

“I think I may have an idea,” Cullen said slowly. He paused. “There’s something you should know. About the rebel mages. And a Tevinter group called the Venatori.” He paused, rubbing his forehead. Shockingly, his headache was all but gone. He gestured toward a chair. “Perhaps you should take a seat. We may be here a while.”

When he finished, Hawke looked lost. “I don’t understand. I mean, it sucks for you guys, but.... What does this mean?”

He let himself fall into his chair. “I think it means that there must have been another false future. One no one remembers, this time.” The implications of that were horrifying. He saw Hawke shudder, as well. “We need to go the Inquisitor.”

“Trevelyan?” Hawke exclaimed. “No. Out of the question. I trust her as far as I can throw Mount Sundermount.”

“But she's the Venatori target. She deserves to know if they’ve made further efforts against us.”

Hawke leveled him with a glare. “Cullen, if Other-Me wanted Current-Me to find the Inquisitor, she would have written that. She wrote your name. There has to be a reason. Besides, we don’t even know if the Venatori did it, yet. Anyone with access to that magister’s research could have replicated the spell.”

Cullen conceded the point. “Fine. Then who do we trust?”

Hawke considered. “Well, Varric, for one.”

“No.”

“What?” she cried, outraged. “You can’t be serious.”

“If you have the right to dismiss Trevelyan as an option, I have the right to dismiss Varric.”

“Maker’s breath! Really? Because I don’t like your friend, you don’t like mine? Of all the petty, immature, childish things to do--”

Cullen cut her off. “No. It isn't about that. I’m being honest.”

Hawke’s lips thinned. “Wow. You don’t think we can trust Varric Tethras. And to think, he was defending you in the tavern just the other night!”

“Do not mistake my meaning, Hawke. Varric is a good man. And if I could be sure that the man he is today is the man he will remain….” Cullen felt his gaze flick to the missive on his desk, the one about Carroll. He sighed. “I read Tale. I know he kept that damned shard of red lyrium. And red lyrium, well.” He looked back to Hawke. “You of all people know how it can change a person. Surely we’ve seen enough proof of that.” He shrugged. “And, as you pointed out, the name you wrote, for whatever reason… was mine. Surely if this future version of you trusted Varric, she would have written Varric’s name.”

The anger on Hawke’s face dissipated. It turned to pain. “Fuck,” she said after a moment. 

Cullen tasted the guilt in the back of his throat. “I know you two are close. I apologize for implying--”

“No,” Hawke cut him off, looking away. “No, you’re right. Okay. Varric’s out, on account of the lyrium.” She let out a breath. “What other choices do we have?”

There was a pause. “Carver?” Cullen suggested. 

“No,” Hawke said. “Until we know what we’re dealing with, I’m not getting my brother involved." Cullen didn’t fight her on that one; the Hawke siblings had a complicated relationship, but he did not doubt their desire to keep one another safe. Hawke bit her lip. “Aveline?”

Cullen thought of the guard captain, the picture of practicality. “I’m not sure she’d believe us,” he admitted. “What of your other friends in Kirkwall?”

“What other friends?” Hawke said bitterly. She began ticking off her fingers. “Fenris is dead, Anders is missing, Sebastian’s waging a war against me, Merrill….” Her eyes snapped up to his. “Has her own issues to deal with.”

“She’s a blood mage,” Cullen said shortly. Hawke’s eyes widened in surprise. “I told you. I read Tale.” 

Hawke's stunned gaze drifted. “I didn’t realize that was in there.”

This time, it was Cullen’s turn to be surprised. “You... haven't read Tale?"

“Of course I haven’t,” she said. “Why the fuck would I? To be honest, I’m a little surprised that you have.” 

“I needed to,” he said. “It helped me process some things. Confront with my past. Focus on who I wanted to be in the future. You should--.” He cut himself off. He'd almost said, You should give it a try, but that seemed like advice so far beyond his wheelhouse, it was practically in the sky. 

They both fell silent. She studied her hands and cleared her throat. “What about your people here?” she said, after a moment, as if he hadn't said anything at all.

Cullen took a deep breath, thinking. “Well, if we don’t want Trevelyan to know, we can’t tell Vivienne. Or Cassandra. Or Josephine.”

“What about the redhead?” Hawke asked. “I doubt she’ll be pleased to see me, but I know she traveled with the Hero of Ferelden. Surely she’s used to weird shit and dark magic.”

Cullen shook his head. “I would agree, under normal circumstances,” he said. “But Leliana... she's experiencing some sort of... crisis of faith. She was very close with the Divine, you see.”

“Right,” Hawke said.

“She has become impulsive. Unpredictable.” He thought further. “We cannot tell the Iron Bull, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Hawke agreed. 

“Sera is out of the question. Cole already knows, but…. Well, I’m never quite sure how much he understands of anything. I don’t have a good read on Blackwall. He’s a capable soldier, but when pressed about his past, before he joined the Wardens--” 

“You have a Grey Warden here?” Hawke interrupted.

“Yes. But he has not heard anything from his Order.”

Hawke narrowed her eyes. “And he’s… fine?”

“What do you mean, fine?”

“He’s acting normally? Not under duress?”

Cullen studied her, confused. “As far as I can tell.”

Hawke chewed on her lip. “We’ll need to keep an eye on that one,” she said softly, as if to herself. She looked back at Cullen. “Sorry, go on.”

“Right.” He paused. “Ah. Dorian is an option.”

“Dorian. As in the Vint who worked with the big bad Magister from your little Redcliffe story?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, no. Absolutely not.”

“He’s a friend, Hawke,” Cullen insisted. “By the time Alexius actually used the amulet, Dorian was not involved--”

Hawke held up a hand to stop him. “Don’t care. It’s very cute that you’ve been charmed by a mage, but anyone with proven ties to the Venatori is out. Who else you got?”

Cullen flushed, nearly defended himself, then shook his head. “Well, there’s Solas.”

“Who’s that?”

“An elven hedge mage. Keeps to himself, mostly - though he talks to Cassandra from time to time. He showed up right after the Conclave exploded and healed the mark on Trevelyan’s hand. Without him, she'd be dead. He was the one who figured out how to seal the Breach. And he led us to Skyhold.” He winced. Before Hawke could reply, he added, “Right, yes. Now that I’m saying it all together, I can see how that might look suspicious.”

“Yeah,” Hawke said. “Another one to keep an eye on.” She twisted her lips into a frown. “Oh, maybe.... Do you know the Grey Warden Alistair?”

Cullen swallowed. “I, ah--. No. That is…. We met once. But, given the circumstances, I am not sure he would be inclined to think well of me.”

Hawke sighed. “Well, I guess it’s just us for now, then.”

“So it would seem.”

Hawke shook her head. “Ugh,” she said, sliding down in her chair. She covered her face with her hands. “We’re going to have to investigate, aren’t we? And stop some big, evil group from doing big, evil things. I hate all this hero crap.”

“Really?” he asked. He chuckled, thinking back to Kirkwall. “You seem to have quite a knack for it.”

Hawke's laugh was humorless. “Yeah. A knack for it. That’s why parts of Kirkwall are still literally on fire.” Cullen stared at her, his amusement fading. She picked up the note from his desk and studied it intensely. “Honestly, maybe whatever went wrong with this Hawke happened because she got involved. That’s the way it seemed to go with everything else.”

“Is that really what you think?”

Hawke gave him a small smile. “I’m pretty sure it’s what everyone thinks.”

"I don't think that's true. You saved a lot of people.”

“Yeah,” Hawke said with a snort. She stood and stretched. “Look, I’m exhausted. We can talk more tomorrow. There's got to be someone else who can handle this.”

Cullen's throat bobbed as he watched her leave. “Wait,” he said as she reached the door. “Trevelyan… she didn’t get a chance to share with us what you told her.”

Hawke rolled her eyes. “Surprise, surprise.”

“Perhaps tomorrow you could come to a council meeting. I think it would be valuable for us to discuss whatever information you have about Corypheus. Especially in light of….” He waved a hand at his copy of Tale. “This.” He let out a huff. “I also think the Seeker would kill me if I did not at least attempt to introduce you. She quite idolizes you.”

Hawke’s expression shifted into something unreadable. She didn’t reply for a moment. Then she nodded. “Fine.” She opened the door. “But make it a lunch meeting. And if the Inquisition has any shrimp in its kitchens, make sure it’s there. I don’t care if it’s the canned stuff or not. I haven't had shrimp in nearly three years and I am dying.”

“As you wish.”

She gave him a mock-salute with a bit of an ironic grin. “Commander,” she said. 

“Hawke,” he returned. He found his mind hung up on her little salute. There was too much to unpack there. It threatened to bring back his headache.

As she left, Cullen turned back to the report on Carroll. It still hurt to see his old friend's name, but there was no panic now. He was not Carroll. He was Cullen Rutherford. He’d faced his demons, both literal and metaphorical, and survived. 

Making a mental note to send word to the Inquisitor, he filed the report away.

He glanced at his copy of Tale. It had been nearly a year since he’d read it, and he’d been half-delirious then. Perhaps it was time for a reread. 

He took the book and opened to page one. 

Hawke waited outside the war room, dressed once more in her old armor. Last time, she’d worn it for Varric’s sake. This time, she wore it for Cassandra Pentaghast. 

Or maybe she wore it for herself. 

She quite idolizes you, Cullen had said last night, unaware of the effect those words would have on her. 

She knew from Varric that Cassandra had been… well, seeking her, for lack of a better term. She knew that they wanted her to be Inquisitor at one point. But she had not realized that it had been for anything besides symbolic purposes. She was the most famous mage in Thedas. Having Hawke as the Inquisitor would have been the equivalent of waving a brightly colored sign that read: Mages! Look! You can trust us, even though we’re an arm of the Chantry!

She tapped her foot. Varric had turned her into some sort of folk hero, sure, but Cassandra Pentaghast's rank was a little higher than folk. If the Right Hand of the late Divine had forgiven her past actions - if she, in fact, had never held them against her, and even thought well of her - then maybe Hawke hadn’t fucked up as badly as she thought.

Her mind went to her mother. 

“Yeah, no, I fucked up pretty badly,” she muttered to herself, kicking the floor. 

But maybe there were times she’d helped, too. You saved Kirkwall twice, Cullen had told her, so earnestly that she almost believed him. And, Maker, if he could work past his issues and become commander of the Inquisition forces…. She’d seen his hands shaking. She’d watched his expression stay firmly neutral when he called Merrill a blood mage. She'd seen the softening of his manners, the considerate turn of his behavior toward her.  

Maybe Varric was right about him. Surely, if Cullen could try to become part of something better--

Hawke gasped, her head snapping up to stare at the wall across the way. “Second chances,” she said out loud. “That’s it. That’s why I told myself to find him.”

At that moment, the door to the war room opened. A tall, bald elf exited, saw her, and stilled. The door closed behind him.

“Champion,” he said. Then, placing his hands behind his back, he added, “I presume.”

For the first time in a long while, a smile rose to her lips at the title. “Yes. Of Kirkwall, at least. I'm a bit of a fish out of water, here. And you are?”

He studied her face before he answered. “My name is Solas.”

“Ah! The hedge mage,” she said. He raised one eyebrow, and she hastily apologized. “Sorry. That sounded condescending. I’m a bit of a hedge mage myself these days. Well. Sort of. Not many hedges in the desert.” She tried to move on as quickly as possible. “So! You're a healer, aren't you?"

Surprise flickered in his eyes. “Yes. Varric mentioned me to you?”

“No. Cullen told me a bit about the local mages,” she said, before thinking better of it. Solas blinked. Awkwardly, she added, in an attempt to explain why she and Cullen would be talking about Inquisition members, “Maybe it's a templar thing. They think we're all going to form a clique and hang out together.” She decided it was past time to leave this conversation, and made toward the door. “Well, I’m meeting with the council right now. But, hey! Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“I look forward to it,” Solas said, dipping his head in a brief bow.  

Inside, Cullen was waiting with three women. He stepped forward. “Hawke,” he said in greeting. “May I present the Inquisition council?” He gestured toward the woman next to him. “Josephine Montilyet.”

“A pleasure,” the woman replied brightly. “Cullen was good enough to convey your request.” She gestured toward the table. “We have three different types of shrimp for lunch: a Ferelden salad with tarragon and apple, the traditional Orlesian style, served in a cream sauce, and - my personal favorite - a spiced Rivaini pie, stuffed with potatoes and peas.”

A grin spread over Hawke's face. “Oh, you're a strong contender for my favorite person now.” Move over, Varric. 

Josephine laughed. 

Cullen gestured to the redhead. “This is Leliana.”

“We’ve met,” Leliana said with the hint of a smile. To Hawke’s surprise, she did not look the least bit angry. Another assumption turned on its head. Leliana bowed her head, her smile fading. “Allow me to tell you how sorry the Divine was that the situation in Kirkwall ended the way it did. She regretted her inaction until the day she died. Were she still with us, I am certain she would convey to you her appreciation for all you did to help.”

“Well said,” the last woman agreed, as Hawke stood, speechless. 

“And this, of course, is Cassandra Pentaghast,” Cullen said gesturing toward her. 

“A great pleasure, Champion,” Cassandra said sincerely. 

Cullen winced. “You needn’t call her--”

“It’s fine, Cullen,” Hawke stopped him. “The pleasure’s all mine, Lady Cassandra. I’ve heard a lot about you. And given the source, I believe… oh, about half of it.”

Cassandra looked startled. “That’s very generous of you,” she said.

“Toward you or toward Varric?” Hawke joked.

“In any event,” Cullen interrupted, giving Hawke a look, “I invited Hawke here today to share her findings about Corypheus.”

Hawke stepped up to the table and down at the map. She found Crestwood with a glance. “It’s not much. But I’ll tell you what I know.”

When the meeting was over, Hawke gave Cullen a significant look and held up one finger. He nodded his understanding and waited. Cassandra hung back, clearly hoping to ask a few questions. When Hawke suggested that instead they grab dinner, the Seeker was more than happy to agree. 

The door closed as she left. Hawke turned to Cullen. 

“I must say, your mood has much improved from last night,” Cullen observed.

“That’s because I figured it out,” Hawke said. She went back to the war table, standing across from him. “The past four years, I’ve been avoiding everything. Even after it became clear that I would probably be fine if I came back, I stayed away. Why? Because I don't trust myself. I've made too many mistakes.” She shivered, looking at the map. Her gaze drifted toward Kirkwall. “I felt... weighed down. By my own failures. I still do, a bit. It’s like, you hit a certain point, and suddenly, all you can think is, ‘why bother?’”

“That, I can certainly understand,” Cullen said darkly.

“But you worked past it!” Hawke exclaimed with a smile. “That’s the point! What was it you told me last night?” She snapped her fingers. “That's right! You said Tale helped you confront your past, and focus on who you wanted to be in the future.” She leaned forward. “And that’s what you need to teach me.”

“Hawke,” Cullen said, uncertain. “What I’m dealing with, and what you’re dealing with... they are very different things. You faced incredible obstacles--”

“--many of which I failed to overcome,” Hawke finished. “And now I need to. Even if it means throwing everything I know about myself out the window. What, that doesn’t sound familiar?”

Cullen's brow creased. He looked at the war map, thinking. “What does that mean, though? How do I teach you to do that? I'm not entirely sure how I did it myself.”

“I don’t know,” Hawke said. She pulled out the note and held it up so that Find Curly was visible. “But you must have figured it out in that other timeline, buddy, because here we are.”

Cullen nodded slowly. “Fine. I’ll help. But you have to help me figure out who reset everything to this timeline, and….” He hesitated. “And if we need to reset it back, you need to help me do that, too. Even if it means neither of us survive.”

“Right there with you,” Hawke agreed. She put the note away and clapped her hands. “Okay! So where do we begin? Some training? Some prayer? I've never been particularly religious, but I could give it a shot! Oh! Maybe I let Cassandra butter me up a little to raise my confidence? I really liked hearing about my strengths today.”

Cullen was giving her an odd look. “I think,” he said slowly, “given the other Hawke’s choice of stationery, that we begin with Tale of the Champion.”

Hawke stared at him. Her face fell. Groaning, she turned away. "Motherfucker.” Cullen began to speak but she just waved him off. “No, no. You’re right. That's clearly what she wanted.”  She sighed. “Okay. Let’s get started, I guess.”

“That stuff about Flemeth is true, actually,” Hawke was saying as Cullen tried not to stare at the boots she’d just propped up on his desk. “Dragon and all. I know it sounds ridiculous, but Aveline can back me up, if you really need someone else to--”

“Hawke,” Cullen interrupted.

“What?” she asked. He flicked his eyes meaningfully to her feet, and then back to her face, raising his eyebrows. Realization dawned on her face and she scowled. “Oh, for Maker’s sake. Really? You don’t even have any papers on it.”

“That isn’t the point,” he insisted. 

“Fine.” Hawke let her feet fall to the ground, her boots thudding on the stone floor one at a time. She let out a disappointed noise. “Apparently, you can take the boy out of the Order,” she said dryly, “but you can’t take the Order out of the boy.” Cullen tensed, trying not to take her words too seriously. He failed. Some of it must have shown on his face, because Hawke suddenly looked horrified with herself. “Maker’s breath. Sorry. I wasn't.... I just meant to tease you. Old habits, and all that.”

Her sincerity was clear. Cullen relaxed slightly. “Ah. You mean that you can't teach an old dog new tricks?” he tried, attempting a joke. 

She looked shocked, then gave him a delighted smile. “Commander! Are you calling me old?”

“I’m calling you Fereldan,” Cullen said, his own grin forming in response. 

“Takes one to know--,” she began, but then the door swung open, and Jim walked in. Cullen regretted not locking it. Now that he and Hawke had a secret, he needed to be more careful. 

“Commander,” Jim said. “Missive for you. From the Inquisitor.”

“The Inquisitor?” Cullen asked, surprised. “How? Isn’t she on the road?”

“She sent a raven.”

Cullen stood so fast the papers on his desk fluttered. Those ravens were reserved for emergencies only. He took the note, ripped the seal and began to read.

As he did, his concern melted away. Anger replaced it. 

Hawke looked worried. “What is it?”

Cullen glanced at Jim. “Dismissed,” he said. Jim hesitated, giving the note a curious glance, then left, closing the door behind him. Cullen turned to Hawke, clenching his jaw. “The Inquisitor says you’re to leave for Crestwood immediately.”

Hawke straightened in her chair. “I'm sorry, what?”

“She says that since the council has been informed of your mission, there is no reason for you to stay, and perhaps you should go and make sure your Warden is still in Crestwood.”

Hawke stared at him. “Someone told her,” she realized. “Someone told her I met with you.” He nodded his agreement. She stood, furious. “See? I told you I don’t trust her.”

“Yes, well,” Cullen said, throwing the missive on his desk. He rubbed his head, trying to ignore the pulsing in his temples.  “Apparently, you were right not to.”

“Fuck,” Hawke said. She drew in a quick breath, then threw him a frightening smile that did not reach her eyes. “Well, commander. Disobeying my first official order would be, as they used to say in Lothering, a dick move. Please, tell Cassandra I was sorry to miss dinner.”

“Hawke--,” Cullen began. 

She shook her head. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“No,” he said. He picked Tale of the Champion off his desk and held it out to her. “Take this.”

A series of emotions passed over Hawke’s face as she looked at the book. After a moment, she stepped around the desk to take it from him. Her fingers brushed his as she did.

“And stay safe,” Cullen added softly. 

She stared at the cover, then met his gaze, a more gentle look in her eye than he'd seen before. They were less than a foot away from each other. For the briefest second, he imagined she might embrace him into a hug. Strange - the thought made him swallow down something rising in his chest.

Instead, she took a step back and nodded. “You, too, Cullen.”

Then she walked out the door, into the afternoon sun. Cullen watched her walk away, until the door closed and blocked his vision. He sat back down. His eyes flicked over the notes in front of him - the beginnings of a lesson in Hawke’s past. He would need to file them away for her return. 

This was a setback, to be sure. He rubbed his chin, thinking. Who in Andraste’s name told Trevelyan? he wondered.

Chapter Text

Excerpt from Solas’s Journal

Skyhold, 9:41 Dragon.

Attempt 2

Separating the Champion from Varric was a mistake. Instead of encouraging passivity, it led her straight to the commander. I am surprised by this turn of events. I truly believed their disdain for each other would keep them at an arm’s length for several months, at least. It did last time. I misjudged how Hawke would react to outright isolation. 

Trevelyan remains predictable, however. I ensured the council's afternoon missive to her included a note about Hawke meeting them. That very afternoon, the Champion was sent into the field. 

I hope that this will be the last interference required of me. My focus should be on finding a way to protect the orb - not manipulating the errant social lives of four quicklings. I am beginning to feel like some meddler back in Arlathan, with nothing better to do but pull strings for my own amusement. 

Frankly, it is exhausting. 

--Solas

For the past decade, Hawke had dreamed of returning to Ferelden. She missed the green grass. She missed the bountiful trees. She missed the friendly faces, the sprawling hills, the changing seasons. She missed the snow, and the rain, and the taste of fresh plums in the summer. 

She missed home.

Which is probably why it was such a blow to learn that, in reality, Ferelden suuucked.

To be fair, maybe just Crestwood sucked. It wasn't Lothering, that was for sure. Between the red lyrium, the walking dead, and a brief appearance of a fucking high dragon, Hawke was pretty sure the whole place was trying to kill her. 

And then there was the weather. 

“How the fuck did I ever miss rain?” Hawke asked herself as she slogged through what must have once been a dirt road, but would now be better described as a river of ankle-deep mud. “Rain is terrible.”

She was soaked. Her clothes were soaked. Her boots, which were also soaked, had done an admirable job of keeping her feet dry for about eight minutes. Strands of hair clung to her face and neck. Shivering, she pushed them back, trying to blink away the endless pelts of water that beat down her face. The rain was freezing, but between the exertion of climbing those fucking sprawling hills and the weight of her mantle, she was sweating like an apostate at a templar party. 

She found a crossroads. One path led uphill, while the other led down. She peered into the valley below, trying to make out any openings in the rock and stone. Alistair had said he'd been in a smuggler's cave. And as it turned out, caves were abundant in Crestwood. Hawke had no idea what differentiated a smuggler’s cave from a regular one. Was it the cave’s proximity to a port? A pile of contraband sitting in the corner? The presence of an actual smuggler, who hopefully didn’t mind sharing? 

After a moment’s hesitation, she went with her gut and took the uphill path. How she was ever going to find this place, she had no idea. She felt like she was looking for a needle in a haystack. 

A very damp, very cold haystack. 

Not that she blamed him for staying well hidden. She’d already run into a group of Grey Wardens who mentioned they were searching for a defector. One of them had a glower that would put her brother to shame. Fortunately, they did not seem suspicious when she said she was an Inquisition agent hoping to help with Crestwood’s demon problem. 

Lightning lit up the sky. In the brief flash, she caught a glimpse of something ahead - something painted red, by the looks of it. It didn’t look like lyrium. 

Holding her arm up to block the downpour, she plodded up the steep incline, ignoring the way her toes squished together in her socks. “Dear Varric,” she narrated loudly, barely hearing her own voice over the rain and wind. “How are you? I’m good. Hey, so if I happen to drown in Crestwood, will you make sure Carver gets notified? I'm not sure how much he'll mourn me, but he’ll be tickled pink to learn that, in the end, it was bad weather that did me in. Thanks so much. Your friend, Hawke.” She grit her teeth. “PS If I don’t drown, I’m strangling you for dragging me into this mess the moment I’m back at Skyhold.”

She reached the place she’d seen the flash of red. Summoning a wisp of light, she examined the stone wall in front of her. There was a skull painted on it, wearing a red bandana. To her right, she saw a cave.

“Smugglers,” she realized. She let out a breath of relief. “Thank the Maker.”

Inside, it was blessedly still and quiet. She wrung out her hair as she walked toward what appeared to be a light in the back. Pushing open a rickety wooden door, she peered around. 

The cave was spacious. A fire flickered in a stone pit in the middle of the room. Above the flames hung a pot of water that was not quite boiling. There was a table with a few books on it, two chairs, and a bedroll laying flat on the floor.

Otherwise, it was empty. 

“Hello?” she asked. 

Someone grabbed her from behind, forcing her arms against her side. 

Hawke shrieked. Walking in without her staff drawn was a rookie mistake. She pushed a burst of arcane energy at her attacker. They stumbled, whoever they were, but held their own. She tasted a change in the air. Panic filled her as she realized that this was no ordinary attacker. This was a fucking templar, and they were about to Silence her. 

She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself. The first wave hit. It surged through her veins like a shot of bad whiskey on an empty stomach. 

To her surprise, it did not weaken her connection to the Fade. 

She held her breath. Sometimes, the full effects of a Silence were delayed. It depended on how recently the templar in question had taken lyrium. 

Seconds ticked by.

Nothing happened. 

"...is that it?" she asked out loud.

"I'm a little out of practice," the voice behind her said defensively.

Hawke’s eyes shot open. "Alistair?" she asked. 

The grip on her loosened. "Hawke?"

Hawke groaned. Annoyed, she grabbed him by the hand and gave him a shock - sharp enough to startle him, but not strong enough to do any real damage. He yelped. One arm let her go. She broke the rest of the way free and turned around to glare at him. 

Alistair gave her a wounded look. "Ouch," he said. "What was that for?" 

"What was that for?” Hawke said, outraged. “You Silenced me!"

"That was barely a Silence. I Quieted you. I Politely Hushed you. You know I haven’t been able to do a real Silence in years."

“Then why did you even try it, dumbass?”

“I dunno! It was a reflex! You… you used magic. So I got templar-y!"

“I was defending myself! You grabbed me from behind!”

“Ah," he said, suddenly looking sheepish. He rubbed his neck. "Yes. Right. Sorry about that. I sort of thought you were a Warden."

“You sort of thought…?” She blinked at him. “That’s impossible. Can’t you all… sense each other or something?”

“Usually, yes. But….” He sighed. “Things have been a bit weird since Corypheus showed up.”

Hawke felt the sinking sensation she always got when Corypheus was mentioned by name. “Weird how?”

Alistair paused. He pinched his nose. “I…. I can explain later.” Hawke felt her anger fade as she realized how exhausted he looked. His skin was pale, and he appeared to have lost weight. He glanced up, his face relaxing into a tired grin. “Maker’s breath. I know we're arguing, but I can’t tell you how glad I am to talk to someone. Other than myself, I mean. I've been hiding here since I sent you my last note. The solitude was really starting to get to me.”

Hawke glanced around the cave. Suddenly it didn’t look quite so spacious. “I bet.”

“I take it this means you found help.” She nodded. “Who?”

“The Inquisition. The Inquisitor’s coming to meet you herself.”

Alistair let out a whistle. “Wow. Fancy. Finally got themselves an Inquisitor, did they? When did that happen?”

“Two months ago. You hadn’t heard?”

“No,” he said. He gestured at the ceiling. “In my defense, I have been living under a rock. Haven’t even been to town in a week or two, what with all the Wardens hanging about.” His eyes became hopeful. “Speaking of which, I don’t suppose you brought any food with you? I’ve had to start rationing.”

Hawke suspected as much. “Some dried fruit and jerky,” she said, swinging her pack off her shoulder. Alistair came closer. He looked like he was salivating. She pulled out the damp package and frowned. “Though I’m not exactly sure how dried the fruit will be at this point.” She pointed over her shoulder with her thumb. “And I killed a druffalo down by the lake. We could go grab it.”

“You killed a druffalo?” Alistair asked. 

“Yes.”

“A druffalo. The gentlest of all the Maker’s creatures.”

“That’s fennecs.”

“That’s not what the sisters say in Redcliffe.” 

"In Lothering, it was fennecs," Hawke said. “Nice to know the Chantry can’t even keep a coherent message on local wildlife. Either way, this druffalo was not gentle.”

He chuckled. “Well. Thank the Maker someone’s out there protecting the poor citizens of Crestwood from the vile and dangerous druffalo population.”

“Hey. It attacked me,” Hawke insisted. Alistair didn’t look convinced. She added, reluctantly, “... after I hit it by accident. It’s not my fault it was standing next to a group of demons.” Alistair just smirked. Hawke went back to glaring at him. “Look, buddy. I’m offering you two hundred pounds of fresh meat, versus a handful of damp raisins. Maybe don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

He let out a mock gasp. “Why? Are you going to kill the gift horse too?”

"Alistair--"

"Is any creature, great or small, safe from your maniacal reign of terror?" 

Hawke rolled her eyes. “Ugh. I forgot how insufferable you are. Come on, the Wardens are all up by the village. Let’s go get the carcass while it's dark.”

On the way down to the lake, they found an abandoned farm. Eleanor explored what was left of the vegetable garden while Alistair stood guard, shivering in the rain. She was pleased to find spring onions, carrots, tubers, herbs, and elfroot. 

They dragged the druffalo carcass back to the cave together, where they both cleaned up and changed out of their wet armor. Hawke wore a comically large shirt that Alistair lent her. She kept on the leggings that she'd worn under her armor. They were damp, but sitting near the fire helped. He poured hot tea into a wooden mug and handed it to her. She took it gratefully. 

“So,” he said. “How long until this Inquisitor of yours gets here?”

Hawke resisted the urge to clarify that Trevelyan was not her Inquisitor. Nor did she mention that, apparently, Trevelyan saw her as some sort of threat, or nuisance, or rival, and had sent her out to Crestwood as punishment. Until she knew who she could trust, she had to be careful about what she said around people. 

"I’m not sure," she said. "I left in a bit of a rush." 

Alistair nodded, kneeling next to the dead druffalo. He pulled out a knife and began cutting into its thick skin. "I only ask because I was sort of hoping to leave Crestwood soon."

Hawke blew on her tea, cradling the cup in her hands. It smelled like dried oranges. She took a sip. “Too many Wardens around for your taste?”

“There’s that,” Alistair agreed. He slid his hand underneath the hide, separating it from the meat. “Also, I have a lead. There’s an old ritual tower in the Western Approach. Whatever the Wardens are up to, I think it’s happening there.”

Great, Hawke thought to herself. Back to the desert. “Well, it’ll be a couple of weeks, at least,” she said out loud. “Trevelyan’s resolving a hostage situation in the Fallow Mire.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Trevelyan?”

“The Inquisitor,” Hawke said. “Tahani Trevelyan. She’s the daughter of some Bann from the Free Marches.”

Alistair let his gaze drift, a puzzled look in his eyes. “Why does that name sound so familiar?”

“She was the Herald of Andraste.”

“No. It’s not that. Something else.”

Hawke shrugged. "Have you ever been to Ostwick?”

“No. Well. I’ve been beneath Ostwick. But I wasn’t exactly meeting Banns in the Deep Roads.” He shook the thought away and continued his work. “Doesn’t matter. Maybe she has a Warden cousin or something.” 

Alistair fell silent, focusing on his work. Hawke pulled Tale of the Champion out of her pack. She stared at it for a moment, debating. Her last conversation with Cullen came to mind. 

“Why am I reading Tale, again?” she’d asked as he’d walked her to the stables. 

“To forgive yourself.” She’d snorted. He’d stopped walking, turning to look at her. “Hawke. You can’t keep beating yourself up about the past. You wanted to help people. That much was clear. It’s clear in the book as well. I suspect on some level, you still want to help.”

“Yeah. That’s why I spent several years hiding in the desert.” 

“You would still be there otherwise. But you’re scared.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she’d told him. She’d crossed her arms and looked away.“Okay. Yes. There was a time I wanted to help. But that time is over. I learned my lesson. If anything, I’m jaded.”

He’d shaken his head. “No. You’re scared,” he’d insisted. “I know because I was the same way.” He’d stepped back, running a hand through his hair. “I… am the same way.” A heavy sigh. “Look. Whenever I have doubts, I try to remember why I--. Why I made certain choices. Why I joined the Order in the first place. A... sense of duty. One I believe you share, on some level.” She’d met his gaze. “The desire to help is not wrong, Hawke.”

“But it's so easy to do it wrong.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t try.”  He'd paused. “For far too long, I thought duty was another word for obedience. But it isn't. It’s another word for obligation.” His eyes had seemed very sincere, then. “The people we wanted to help are still out there, Hawke. The people you helped. They still need us. We owe it to them to try.”

Back in the cave, Hawke frowned. She knew he was right. But she also suspected she knew what happened in the first chapter. 

And she wasn’t quite ready to forgive herself for Bethany. 

Alistair interrupted her thoughts. “You don't happen to know how to cure meat, do you? There's no chance we finish this all before it spoils." Hawke didn't even look up, instead lifting one hand lazily. She felt the air change as a layer of ice materialized over the meat. Alistair huffed. "Ah. Right. That'll work, then."

Hawke put the book away. She took out her flask instead. 

Before Hawke left Skyhold, Leliana had given her a raven. She was instructed to send word when she found her Warden contact. The bird was trained to go between the fortress's rookery and wherever Hawke released it, carrying letters. 

“Do you give these to all your agents?” Hawke had asked dryly. She knew these types of birds were rare and expensive. 

“No,” Leliana had told her with an innocent smile. “But then, not all our agents are quite so notable.”

Hawke saw the bird for what it really was: a way to communicate without involving Tahani Trevelyan. Cullen told her that he was not the only council member questioning the Inquisitor’s strange behavior toward Hawke now. Trevelyan, he explained, was known to enjoy attention, and could be a bit of a snob, but the council had never seen her act petty. 

They were concerned.  

As promised, Hawke released the raven after dinner. It returned the next morning with a note confirming that it had reached Skyhold. Hawke wrote back that they were settled for now, and to send word when Trevelyan was on her way. 

Then they waited. 

Hawke hated the waiting. The rain never ceased. By the end of the first week, Alistair’s constant jokes and childish games began to grate on her nerves. Her tolerance for rum came back with a vengeance. And once she got around to it, reading the first part of Tale of the Champion was just as depressing as she’d anticipated. 

In short, Hawke was bored, annoyed, slightly drunk all the time, and increasingly morose. 

After two weeks, the bird came back. Alistair found it cawing at the entrance of the cave. The letter strapped to its leg was addressed to Hawke. She tore it open and read it, eager to see the light at the end of the tunnel. 

A deep sense of despair settled over her. 

Alistair noticed. “What is it?” he asked, concerned. 

“It appears that the Inquisitor has been waylaid in the Hinterlands,” she said bitterly. “She’s searching for a lost druffalo.”

“I’m sorry, she’s what?”

“Searching for a lost druffalo.” Hawke reread the note before crumpling it up into a ball. “And doing a geological study for the University of Orlais. It may take several weeks.”

Alistair stared at her. "You did express that the situation is very dire, didn’t you?”

She rubbed her forehead. “I was under the impression that ‘the darkspawn magister who tried to kill you is probably controlling an entire army of Grey Wardens’ spoke for itself.”

Alistair sat down next to the fire. “Apparently not.”

Hawke felt ill. Maybe Varric was right. Maybe Trevelyan was jealous of her. It seemed unlikely, but she could not think of a more reasonable explanation for the Inquisitor’s behavior. She sat across from Alistair and wrapped her arms around her knees. Guilt began brewing in the pit of her stomach. 

She thought of her note again. Find Curly. 

Fat lot of good that had done her. 

“Well,” Alistair said, forcing a cheerful tone. “Looks like we’re stuck together a little longer.” He leaned back on his elbows and offered Hawke a weak smile. “Fancy another round of Person, Place, Or Thing?”

The third week stretched into the fourth. Hawke began to linger in her bedroll each morning. The rain made her tired, and it wasn’t like she had any particular place to be. At first it was just for an hour or two, but soon enough, she could not drag herself away from the warm cocoon of her blanket before midday. A weariness washed over her whenever she moved - whenever she breathed, really. 

Sleep did not come easily. The Veil was too thin here. When she shut her eyes, she could feel nightmares coiling, watching her from the edge of her mind, ready to pounce. She huddled herself into a ball at night, facing away from the fire and wishing for darkness. 

Her thoughts ebbed and flowed. Sometimes, they trickled through her without a sound. Other times, they rushed by, overwhelming her mind. When it became too much, she retreated to a dark corner of the cave that afforded her some privacy. There, she burned dead leaves, or carved words into the wall, or tried to tie strings of flowers together with her trembling fingers, like she and Bethany had done as children. 

Alistair took over cooking duties. Whether he was as bad as he claimed, she could not say. Her stomach could not handle much food. She drank more than she ate, and barely tasted that either.

Alistair gave her worried glances, but he held his tongue. He kept a running commentary throughout the day, as if everything were fine. The less she responded, the more chatty he became. She did her best to ignore him. 

After eight days, he broke. 

“Aren’t you going to head to the village?” he asked in a curt tone that tried to hide the fact that it was a plea. “You haven’t been in over a week. We’re out of bread.” He paused. “And rum,” he added. Not his own benefit; they both recognized it was a carrot on a stick to get her on the road.

Early on, they’d agreed Hawke would go to Crestwood proper every so often, to gather supplies and keep an ear to the ground. The Wardens were still lurking nearby, but so were the demons, meaning she had a solid excuse for why she, a supposed agent of the Inquisition, was still out here. The villagers were grateful. The mayor himself had thanked her after she cleared out a particularly vicious group of shades.

Hawke sighed. She drew herself from her bedroll without speaking. As she forced her heavy arms to lift her armor, Alistair waved his hands in the air, stopping her. 

“Never mind. I can’t send you out there like this. Maker’s breath.” His worried look became sympathetic. “Hawke, what’s wrong?”

“Besides the fact that you refuse to play Fuck Kill Or Marry?” she asked dryly. Or, as dryly as one could, marinated in rum and rainwater.

“Hawke,” Alistair said, all humor gone.

Hawke took a moment. She was not used to admitting something was wrong - not used to acknowledging the quiet, sad, monstrous thing inside her. She felt the sting of tears at her eyes.

“I’m prone to these,” she began, pausing to swallow, “... fits. Of malaise, I suppose.” Hawke’s cheek was suddenly wet. She used her wrist to wipe it. “My mother had them, too, and--” 

That was all she could manage before a high pitched noise came out instead. She was crying. Weeping, really. She covered her face with her hands. It seemed Crestwood had done the one thing the desert never had: it had cracked her wide open. 

Alistair hesitated. She could hear him approach her, warily, as one might a mabari who’d gone rabid. An awkward hand landed on her shoulder.

“Um,” he said. He sighed. “Look. Obviously, you don’t want to talk to me.” Hawke shook her head, looking up at him, but Alistair spoke over her attempt at a denial. “No. No, it’s fine. I’m not offended. We don’t really know each other. And I’ve never been the best at this sort of thing, anyway. But I do think you should talk to somebody. You owe it to yourself.” He peered at her. “Is there anyone at Skyhold you trust?”

Hawke paused. If he’d tried to get her to open up himself, she probably would have ignored him. If he’d phrased his question differently, she might have asked for Varric.

But he'd said owe.

She looked away. “Cullen,” she said, before she could question herself. 

“Rutherford?” Alistair said, his eyebrows raising. “Cullen Rutherford? As in former Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford, of the templar order.”

“Yes.”

There was a long, long pause. Alistair clearly hadn’t expected that answer. After a few blinks, he shrugged. “Well, okay, now I’m a little offended.” Hawke’s gaze snapped to him. He held up his hands in surrender. “Kidding! That was a joke. Promise. Cullen Rutherford it is.” He went to his pack, scrambled around for a moment, and came back with a strip of velum, a quill, and a travel-sized ink pot. “Okay. Write to Cullen.”

“I can’t,” Hawke replied. “The ravens go to Leliana. The whole council will read it, and--”

“Oh, no,” Alistair said. He pressed his lips together. Hawke got the impression he was suppressing a smile. “They won’t. Believe me.”

The certainty in his tone swayed her. It wasn’t like she had many other choices. She accepted the vellum, thanked Alistair profusely, and sat by the fire. She began to write.

Cullen sat in his office, frowning at a report. It was the sixth he'd read about requests for Inquisition military support from minor lords from the Free Marches. The words were beginning to blur together, and he could barely hold his quill. Finally, he gave up, dropping the quill back into its inkpot. 

There was a knock at his door.

“Come in,” he said. Leliana entered. She gave him a searching look as she closed the door behind her. He returned it as he stood; she did not usually visit him unannounced. “Leliana. How can I help you?”

“There’s a letter for you,” she said, stepping closer to his desk. Something about her tone expressed interest - and perhaps a touch of amusement.

Cullen’s lips thinned. The old guilt over his family reared its head. Quickly, he reminded himself how important his time with the Inquisition was. “Right. I told you that you could leave letters from my sister in the War Room--”

“This is not a letter from your sister,” Leliana interrupted. She held up a folded piece of paper with the seal still unbroken. Cullen leaned forward and plucked it from her hands. A spiky script on the front read: 

L- yes, the contact is me. I suspect you already knew that. Do me a favor. Don’t read this message or share it with anyone except Commander Rutherford. It’s from a little bird. I’ll explain later. Much love, A

Cullen glanced up, raising an eyebrow. 

“Oh, don’t give me that look, commander,” Leliana said, her grin escaping. “I had no idea you were on such friendly terms with the Champion of Kirkwall.”

Cullen let out his breath. So this was the source of her amusement - Hawke had asked for privacy, and she was reading into it. He could only hope she hadn’t told Cassandra anything yet. “We did work together,” he said by way of an answer, somewhat peevishly, knowing he sounded about nineteen years old.

“Yes,” Leliana said simply. “I read the book.” 

She stood a moment longer, curiosity radiating off her. Cullen shot her a look. “Will that be all?”

“Yes, commander,” Leliana said, slipping away with a coy smile. “Enjoy the letter.”

Cullen tried not to roll his eyes. The moment she was gone, he flipped the letter over and opened it. His annoyance melted into concern as he read. He pulled out a leaf of paper and picked up his quill again, this time barely noticing the shake in his hands. 

Cullen,

I think I need help. 

Don't panic - not help, like, send an army after me or something, but help, like, I'd really like to talk. I was doing better. But the problem is that there's nothing to do here but dwell. Every day, for two weeks, I collected a bucket of rain in the morning and set it over the fire. I added spring onions, carrots, thyme, and rosemary, and thawed some frozen druffalo meat. Then Alistair and I started talking about the past. We compared war stories. We compared peace stories. We played Person Place Or Thing. We played Xs and Os. Alistair turned down my many attempts to play Fuck Kill Or Marry.

We’d eat the druffalo stew for lunch, and speculate what Trevelyan was up to. We’d eat the druffalo stew for dinner, and I’d read a chapter of Tale. We’d clean up. I’d go to sleep, or try to. Sometimes the Veil feels too thin for sleep. 

All this while the world is burning? While I'm here twiddling my thumbs? And, plus, maybe it burned down before?

I don't know, it just got to me. All of it. Alistair cooks now, and I’m almost out of stories. 

I suppose I need you to chastise me so I’ll stop moping around and actually be useful again. 

Hawke

Hawke,

I'm not going to chastise you. I also regret the position in which you find yourself. Perhaps you should put off reading Tale until your return. True change happens in small steps. I think, for now, gaining a sense of purpose and self is hard work enough. To confront the past without some sort of framework, or at least something to engage you, would be a mistake. You need an anchor to the outside world before you start looking further inward. Does that makes sense?

My advice is this: distract yourself. Find an occupation. The Chantry says that idle hands are Demon's playthings. Sometimes, if I am feeling out of sorts, I clean my desk, or sharpen the swords down at the forge. Having a minor victory under one’s belt can provide a newfound sense of strength and accomplishment.

-Cullen

PS, I am aware that you actually enjoy exotic foods, and that the stew you described was meant to be boring, but I must admit that it sounds very good. Or at least, it sounds very like the stew my mother made me as a child. It would be much more to my taste than what they serve here at Skyhold. Josephine and the Inquisitor have conspired to wipe the kitchens clean of anyone who’d even suggest stew as an acceptable meal. The other night, I was relieved to see druffalo on the menu, only to be served a plate of raw meat, chopped up with an egg yolk. I asked Josephine if perhaps the staff had forgotten to actually cook it, and was upbraided for my ignorance. Apparently, it is a popular Rivaini dish, by way of the Anderfels. 

Cullen,

Andraste preserve me, if you were anymore Ferelden, you'd bark at messengers. 

Hawke

After that, there was silence. He must have deemed her last note unworthy of a response. It was a shame. She thought for a moment there that she'd glimpsed something resembling a personality beneath the layers of steel, lyrium, and obedience that made up Cullen Rutherford. 

Apparently she’d been wrong. 

Still, he was trying to help her. And he was not wrong about idle hands. For the next few days, Hawke chewed on his advice. Find an occupation, he’d written . Easier said than done, given the circumstances. She asked Alistair to put away her flask. She tried cleaning the cave, but there wasn’t much to clean. Her staff was in good shape and didn’t need mending. And he’d recommended she stop reading Tale for the time being. 

Hawke realized she hadn’t had developed many hobbies over the years. Well. Unless one counted killing as a hobby.

Which was how, at last, the idea came to her. 

Alistair glanced up as she put on her breastplate. “Going back to the village?” he asked, his voice hopeful. 

 “No,” Hawke said. She buckled one strap into place. “I’m going to kill the dragon.”

There was a beat. “The dragon,” Alistair said. “You mean the one down by the old watchtower.”

Hawke gave him a look. "No, the other high dragon hanging about," she said sarcastically. “Yes, the dragon by the watchtower.”

It was a testament to Alistair’s fortitude (or perhaps, more accurately, to the legendary Warden Tabris's) that the whole of his response was a sigh and a resigned, “Then I’d better go with you, I guess.”

"There’s no need,” Hawke told him, placing her staff to her back. “I'll be fine. I didn't get my title just by looking pretty, you know. And the Inquisition needs you." 

Unlike me, she added in her mind. 

"Come on,” he said, stretching. “It's always easier with two people. This way we can flank it."

Hawke opened her mouth, but then reconsidered. There was a gleam in Alistair’s eye. If she was getting stir crazy, then poor Alistair - who'd been in the cave for over three months now - had to be half-mad with restlessness. He might not be banging a shovel against the ground to see if it was rock bottom, but this was not vacation. And the watchtower was in the opposite direction of the village - the risk of running into a Warden was low.

"Fine," she said. "But I get to keep the scales."

The dragon had the advantage to start, what with them being on muddy ground and the dragon having wings. Within the first ten minutes, however, Hawke summoned fire. One blast burned a hole straight through the dragon's left wing. She was grounded. Screeching, she spun around to spit bright sparks in Hawke’s direction. 

Hawke let out a  creative curse involving at least two Divines and a donkey. She dove out of the way. There was an odd ache to her jaw. She realized she was grinning. 

"Oy!" Alistair cried out, waving his sword arm. The dragon's long neck twisted toward him. "Over here!"

"That's your battle cry?" Hawke yelled over the field. "'Oy over here?'"

"Not all of us fight like we're trying to make a Chantry sister blush, Hawke!" Alistair shouted, keeping his gaze on the dragon. His shield was half-raised. The dragon had lowered her head closer to the ground and was in the process of snapping at him with her massive jaws. "And - just for the record - 'oy over here! ' worked on the archdemon!"

“Fair enough!" Hawke called back. 

She tugged at the air with her free hand. A wall of ice erupted beneath the dragon. It made the beast stumble. Alistair dug his sword into her chest. She roared, leaping onto her haunches. Alistair lost the grip and she took the sword with her. Hawke zapped it with some arcane energy. It fell to the muddy ground. 

"Thank you!" Alistair yelled, lifting it.

“Welcome!” she yelled back. 

He attacked again, this time going for its leg. The dragon focused all its attention on him. Seeing her chance, Hawke braced herself and took a running jump. With a shout, she jammed the blade side of her staff into a point between the dragon’s ribs. 

The blade went deep.

The dragon froze. With a rattling roar, she shook herself, throwing Hawke off her side. Hawke landed and rolled twice through the mud. She watched from the ground as the dragon stumbled again, trying to find her footing.

After another weak roar, the dragon collapsed, dead. 

Alistair sheathed his sword and walked over to her. He held out his hand. 

“Whew!” she said as he pulled her to her feet. “That felt great.”

“I haven’t done anything that exciting in ages,” Alistair said, sounding almost surprised. He gave her a sidelong glance. “One question, though. Did you ask it for its name first?”

“She,” Hawke explained helpfully. “High dragons are female. And I did that in case it was a person in disguise.” Alistair stared at her blankly, but she just brushed her hands on her pants. “So! How do we feel about killing bandits?” she asked cheerfully. 

“Bandits?” Alistair asked. He glanced over his shoulder with a frown. “You want to storm the fortress?”

“I think we’re on a roll. And the gang in there's harassing the locals.”

He rubbed his jaw. “That’s pretty close to the village.”

“We killed a dragon, Alistair. I think we can handle a couple of Wardens, if push comes to shove.”

“Mm. Still not sure how I feel about killing my fellow Wardens.”

“Well, they seem pretty confident how they feel about killing you, so forgive me for not being magnanimous.”

Alistair looked back at her. “You do have a point.” He seemed to weigh his options. Finally, he shrugged. “Alright.”

“Yeah!” Hawke said, pumping one fist. “That’s the spirit!” 

“But only if we can play Person, Place, Or Thing on the way.”

“Fine. But no more Divines. I can never keep track of them.”

“You know plenty Divines when you're trying to describe the things they might've done with goats.” 

“Mine are famous Divines. Yours are always from the long tail. And I think you're making some of them up. Like, come on, there's no way there are really three Divine Hortensias.”

“Four,” Alistair corrected. “What else am I supposed to do with this Chantry education? ...That was rhetorical, by the way. I know my options, and honestly, I think I'd make a terrible Chancellor--”

“Person,” Hawke interrupted firmly, “place, or thing?”

Alistair took her annoyance in stride. “Person.”

“Man?”

“Yes.” 

Hawke narrowed her eyes. “Have I met him?”

“Yes.”

“Alive?”

“Very much so.”

Hawke pursed her lips again. “You’re not doing yourself again, are you?”

“Well, you told me I couldn’t do Divines, didn’t you?”

With a groan, Hawke started walking toward the fortress.

Alistair hurried after her. “Hey! Wait - Hawke! It’s your turn now! Person Place Or Thing?”

Inquisitor Tahani Shahd Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste, daughter of Bann Waqas Trevelyan, previously of Ostwick, and most recently of Skyhold, stood at Crestwood’s basecamp in gleaming armor, with her hair flowing gracefully behind her. She looked out over a very dreary scene. What a dismal place this was! And yet, she could not help but smile. One hoped that six weeks in the middle of nowhere had reminded Hawke that she was not Inquisitor, and that Tahani Trevelyan’s organization was not at her beck and call. 

Harding was saying something about the mayor and a rift under a lake. Trevelyan shuddered to think of it. Apparently Crestwood had its own problems with the undead. A nightmare, really. She'd hoped to leave walking corpses behind in the Fallow Mire. At least this place wasn’t a swamp, she supposed. 

Dorian exhaled noisily beside her. “What is it with us and bodies of water and the dead rising?”

Varric grinned. “Why so blue, Sparkler? Isn't the dead rising sort of your whole thing?”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “And I suppose you enjoy crossbow bolts just as much when they’re flying at your face.”

Trevelyan dragged the conversation back on track. “How exactly do you recommend we approach the lake?” she asked Harding. 

“Oh, don’t worry. Hawke drained it for you already.”

Trevelyan stared at her. “She what?”

“She drained the lake. She also captured you a fortress, and killed a dragon. And found evidence that the mayor was the person who flooded old Crestwood in the first place. Crazy, right?” Harding waved in the direction of an imposing tower in the distant. “He’s locked up in the fortress, waiting for your judgement.”

Trevelyan crossed her arms. Her good mood was rapidly fading. As if to add insult to injury, Dorian broke in, asking, “I’m sorry, did you just say Eleanor Hawke killed a dragon?” 

 “Yeah! You should see the size of its corpse! It's head alone is the size of a boat--”

Trevelyan interrupted. “Thank you, Harding,” she said briskly, hiding her annoyance. “Come along, team. If we're not back by dawn, send a search party.”

Hawke’s Warden contact was Alistair bloody Therein. Of course he was. Everything Hawke did was effortless and impressive, like somehow she had erupted from Varric's brain as the perfect protagonist. Hawke introduced him, and Tahani kept a pleasant smile on her face. Then the two of them began exchanging light banter, however, and she felt the little cool she'd gripped onto slipping away. She could tell she was radiating tension from the odd look Varric gave her. 

This. Was. Absurd. Trevelyan had sent Hawke to Crestwood to remind her who was in charge. The Champion of Kirkwall was meant to reflect on the wide, wide, wide gap between their relative experiences--not kill dragons, and capture fortresses, and flirt with legendary warriors who had royal blood. If anyone should be flirting with King Maric’s son, it was she - Inquisitor Tahani Trevelyan. 

The situation simply could not get worse. 

And then, because the Maker had no love for Trevelyan, it did.

“Hang on a sec!” Alistair said, snapping his fingers. His eyes lit up. “I do know you!” He grinned. “Tahani Trevelyan. You’re Kamilah’s sister!”

Trevelyan felt a familiar feeling. A sinking sensation opened deep within the pit of her stomach. She’d all but bribed Leliana to keep that little fact from the Inner Circle. The last thing she needed at Skyhold was all that scrutiny and torturous praise.

Evidently, that had been in vain. Alistair had not even hesitated. Varric and Dorian were staring at her with widening eyes. 

“Kamilah?” Varric asked, shock and awe in his voice. A shock and awe that she'd never heard in his voice when discussing her. And she'd walked the bloody Fade. He went on. “Kamilah as in the famous pirate hunter? The captain of the Golden Grace. You’re her sister?”

“Half-sister,” Trevelyan told him after a pause. “She’s my father’s natural child. A product of some affair with a Rivaini seer, as I understand it.”

Alistair let out a snort, crossing his arms. “‘Natural child.’ I always enjoyed that euphemism. What does that make the other children? Unnatural?”

Varric was still giving Trevelyan an appraising look. “Man. Kamilah. The Queen of the Waking Sea. That's amazing.”

“Ridiculous title,” Tahani muttered under her breath. “As if a body water could represent any sort of domain. Who would even be her subjects? The squids?” 

Varric was still starry eyed, which was embarassing, really. “What I wouldn’t give to interview her," he said.

Dorian broke in. “Is it true that your father made her his heir after she stopped a trade war between Nevarra and Ostwick?” he asked. “Putting her ahead of his four legal children. Including you, I imagine?”

Trevelyan gave him asmile. “That is what happened, yes.”

“And your mother approved?" Varric asked.

“That’s correct.”

Dorian paused. He added, “Despite not being her mother.”

Trevelyan tried to look unaffected. “Kamilah is an extremely impressive woman.”

Hawke was biting a smile back. “Sounds like it.”

“I met her in Denerim once,” Alistair observed. In an aside to Hawke, he added, “She’s friends with Isabela.”

Hawke barked out a laugh. “A pirate hunter and a pirate? That seems like a bad match.”

“You'd think. But Isabela’s fondness for freeing slaves seemed to win Kam over.”

Kam?  Trevelyan thought to herself, furious. He calls her Kam? Maker, is nothing sacred?  She breathed deeply, giving herself at least a little credit for not bringing Cole. Confronting these thoughts in front of people was a chilling prospect. 

She cleared her throat. “As happy as I’d be to make introductions in the future, I do believe our focus should be on what Alistair knows. Whatever Corypheus is doing with the Wardens needs to be our top priority.”

“Actually,” Hawke said, pulling a note out of her armor, “the Winter Palace should be out top priority.” She unfolded the paper, handing it to Trevelyan. “Leliana wasn't sure she could reach you on the road. She wrote that our efforts will be required in stopping an assassination attempt in Halamshiral.”

Trevelyan blinked at the note before taking it. Sure enough, her spymaster’s neat script informed her that they’d succeeded in gaining invitations for the Inner Circle - Hawke and Alistair included. Trevelyan tried very hard not to crush the words between her palms.

She forced a smile. “Excellent,” she said, glancing up at Hawke. “Of course. Fabulous. So, so, so happy you could join us.”

Chapter Text

Excerpt from Solas’s Journal

Halamshiral, 9:41 Dragon.

Attempt 2

We have arrived at the Winter Palace. The Inquisitor's party follows. Josephine expects them as soon as Thursday, if the weather holds. 

According to reports, a Grey Warden travels with them. It would seem that the Champion of Kirkwall remains well-connected, even in Warden Tabris’s absence. I am not concerned. This Warden is a human who fought during the most recent Blight. Leliana considers him a personal friend. She mentioned to me that he was raised in the Chantry and once trained as a Templar. It is doubtful, then, that he will share Warden Tabris's particular penchant for studying ancient elven artifacts.

I cannot help but wonder whether Briala will be able to sway Trevelyan toward her cause without Tabris's influence. 

I suspect not. 

--Solas

As they rode west, Hawke’s sojourn in Crestwood began to look more and more like a blessing in disguise. Much as she hated to admit it, Trevelyan had been right. Hawke had been out of shape when she arrived at Skyhold. Desert living had kept her scrappy rather than fit, and Trevelyan set a relentless pace over the mountains. It was only thanks to Crestwood that Hawke was able to keep up at all. By the end of the journey, she was exhausted and haggard. Trevelyan, on the other hand, glowed. She looked striking astride her pure white stallion, as if she hadn’t been near a cave or a mountain in weeks. 

Hawke wasn’t sure if she wanted to strangle the woman or make out with her. 

Josephine met them at the gates. She’d rented stalls at a stable somewhere in the city. As they walked the horses through the busy streets, she explained that the Inquisition itself was welcome to stay at the palace, but that the Empress’s invitation did not extend to Hawke and Alistair. They’d have to find an inn, further into the town.  

“What a shame,”  Trevelyan said innocently. 

Hawke rolled her eyes. Definitely strangling, then. 

The horses were fed, watered, and brushed. Hawke swung her pack over her shoulder. Trevelyan gave her a cheerful look as they exited the stable, a bounce in her step. 

“Well, I suppose this is where we part ways,” she said. 

“Actually,” Varric said, gesturing at Hawke and Alistair, “I think I’m going to bunk with these guys. I spotted some Carta folks on the way in. I can handle them, but I’d, ah, rather not get bloodstains on Celene’s drapes the day before her big party.”

Even that didn’t dim Trevelyan’s brilliant smile. “As you like,” she said. With a little wave, she turned and said, “Ta, darlings! See you at the ball.” 

She walked away, taking Josephine by the arm. Apparently, she was far too pleased that Hawke would be in some seedy part of town, drinking cheap ale, while she dined on potted hare with the Empress. Well, the joke was on Trevelyan. Hawke loved cheap ale and seedy inns. The potted hare would have been nice, though.

Dorian hung back. “Do you know, I’ve never been to Halamshiral before,” he said to Hawke brightly. “Perhaps I could join you all for a drink after dinner? See the sights? Meet the locals?”

“Sparkler!” Varric exclaimed with a grin. “You want to slum it with the likes of us for an evening? I’m flattered.”

“For the society, of course. I wager an evening with the three of you would be well worth the slumming.”

Hawke adjusted the strap on her pack, avoiding Dorian's eye. “Oh I doubt the inn has anything suitable for you, Ser Pavus."

Peripherally, she could see him pause. "I assure you, I am not nearly as fussy as Varric would have you believe. I would never survive at Skyhold if I were."

"I think we're pretty tired anyway," she lied. "We’ll have to take a rain check.” She nodded toward Trevelyan and Josephine. “Go on. They’re waiting for you.”

Dorian looked disappointed, but not surprised. “Ah, well,” he said with a cautious smile. “Another time, perhaps.”

Hawke watched him as he joined the others. The top of the Winter Palace was barely visible over the top of a row of buildings. As the Inquisitor disappeared into the crowds, Hawke let her eyes drift up.

It was hard to look at big buildings anymore without wondering how big of a footprint they'd leave if they came tumbling down.

She turned. With a jerk of her head, she indicated that Varric and Alistair should follow. She led the way, despite not having directions. Over the years, she’d developed a sixth sense for finding inns, taverns, and places of ill repute. Varric obediently matched her pace. Alistair trailed behind them. 

“What’d Sparkler do to deserve that?” Varric asked. 

“Dorian?” Hawke asked. “He spent the entire trip here trying to woo me.” Varric started to object, but Hawke cut him off. “No, no, I don’t mean like that.” She grimaced. “I think he wants to become friends.” 

“Oh, no,” Alistair drawled, mimicking the offended tone of her voice. “Not friends.”

“The audacity,” Varric agreed. 

“The horror."

“The very idea!”

Hawke pointedly glared ahead. “I don’t need more people in my life.”

“Becuase you have so many,” Varric said dryly. “You’ve been a hermit for four years, Hawke. Maybe it’s time to climb out of that shell.” 

“Varric. Are you calling me a hermit crab?” 

“Come on. Admit it. You could use some friends.”

“I have friends,” Hawke insisted. Varric looked unimpressed, and she narrowed her eyes. “I definitely have friends.”

“Name five.”

“Well, you for starters,” she replied. 

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll be the free space on this metaphorical Bingo board. Four more.” 

Hawke considered. As they reached the poorer part of town, the streets got thinner and more uneven. They had to slow their pace. A workhorse plodded into their path, and they were briefly split into two parties. 

“I’m waiting,” Varric reminded her once they'd drifted back together.

“Well… there’s Merrill.”

“You haven't spoken to Merrill in years.”

“Correction: she hasn't spoken to me in years.” She realized this didn't help her case. “It's a phase.”

“Okay,”  Varric allowed, clearly picking his battles. “For the sake of time, let's limit the list to friends you're on speaking terms with.”

“Aveline, then,” she said.

“I asked you how many friends you had, not adopted elderly aunts.” 

”Oh, that’s not fair,” she said. “Just because she mothers me doesn’t mean she isn’t a friend.”

“That's not what I meant. Does she know where you are? When was the last time she wrote you? And it wasn't your birthday?”

Hawke frowned. She couldn’t remember. She conceded the point and moved on. “Isabela?” 

“Hawke.”

“What?” she said. “We’re on civil terms. For now.”

“Uh huh,” Varric said.

“We had a nice time, that one night at Skyhold. You were there!”

“A night of drinking together does not a friendship make. And new rule: I’m disqualifying anyone who once abandoned you and, more importantly, me, in a burning city to deal with a horde of people calling for our heads.”

“Then I suppose that means Anders is--”

“Yes, that means Anders is disqualified,” he interrupted before she could finish, giving her an offended look. “Andraste’s ass, Hawke.”

“Well, I didn’t kill him or anything,” she pointed out. 

Behind them, Alistair snorted. “Charming. You can weave that into your friendship bracelet. ‘I didn’t kill you! Besties for life!’ ”

Hawke turned to glower at him before going back to Varric. “Sebastian?”

Varric sighed. “He’s literally at war with you.”  She opened her mouth, and Varric said, “Nope. Nuh-uh. Don’t even try to list Junior.”

“He writes me,” she argued. 

“Only because you’re family. And you feel the same way. You’ve told me a million times how much you hate his guts.”

Hawke thought harder. She had to admit she was running low on people. She just didn't like spending time around other people these days. Less likely she'd have to end up killing them that way. 

Then the obvious answer came to her. “Oh! Alistair!” she exclaimed. She gestured to him with both arms, like an auctioneer who'd come to a prize pony. “Alistair is my friend.”

Varric’s eyebrows climbed. “Him?” 

“Me?” Alistair said with an equal measure of disbelief. 

“Yes.”

Alistair whistled, long and low. “Boy, I thought Varric was kidding, but if I’m number two on your top five friend list, then you're really scraping the bottom of the barrel.”

“Why?” Hawke asked, a little hurt. “You don’t like me?”

“No! I mean, yes! I mean….” Alistair blew out a breath. “I like you just fine, Hawke. I do consider you a friend. But top five?” He shook his head. “We barely know each other!”

“How can you say that? We just spent six weeks cooped up in a cave together.”

“Right. But we never bonded.”

“We killed a dragon together,” she said, turning around to walk backwards. “That doesn’t count as bonding?”

“I’ve killed a lot of different things with a lot of different people, but I wouldn’t call them all my friends.”

“We traded stories,” she insisted. 

“Sure. The surface stuff. The sort of stuff you'd tell your grandchildren. You never told me your opinions about stuff, or y'know. What your life is like.” He gestured at Varric. “Like I had no idea that you hate your brother’s guts.”

“Really?” Varric asked, genuinely surprised. “That’s her favorite topic.”

“The most personal question you ever answered was Person, Place, Or Thing.”

Hawke chewed on her thumbnail. It wasn’t an inaccurate description of their time in Crestwood. “Well, we didn’t try to kill each other,” she said at last. 

“Back to the not killing thing!” Alistair laughed. “Maker. By that standard, I’m friends with Morrigan, too. Which… no. I'm really, really not.” He gave Hawke a sidelong glance. “I notice you haven’t mentioned Rutherford yet. Don’t you have some sort of… I don’t know, casual camaraderie with him? Or something?”

“Curly?” Varric exclaimed before Hawke could say anything. She winced at the amusement in his voice. Varric was still clueless about her correspondence with Cullen. He laughed. “Nah, he and Hawke hate each other.”

“Ah. Do they?”

“Oh, yeah. Big time. Lotta bad history there.”

Alistair glanced between Hawke and Varric. By some miracle, he read the situation correctly. “I see,” he said simply. “My mistake.”

“Okay, so I don’t have that many friends,” Hawke said, dragging the conversation away from the topic of Cullen. “But who cares? I don’t need them. Obviously. I'm thriving.”

Varric looked at her with his lips pursed, as if he was about to start arguing. Then he shook his head. “Alright. I’ll let sleeping dogs lie. For now. But once this whole Corypheus thing is over….” He paused, not noticing how Hawke’s whole world tilted at the magister’s actual name. “Well. We need to get you into some social situations.”

“I’m going to a ball, aren’t I? You should be thrilled.” Hawke stopped walking and squinted at a sign. Her Orlesian was a little rusty, but she was fairly sure she was looking at an inn called Peter’s Horse. Or perhaps it was The Stone Pony. Either way, the faded painting of a bed and a mug of ale was unmistakable. “Here,” she said, pointing. “This place will do.”

They went inside. It was nothing to write home about, but after two weeks of travel, and four years in the desert, Hawke wasn’t going to complain. Varric went to pay for their rooms. She turned to Alistair, about to speak, but he waved her off.

“Don’t worry,” he said in a low tone. “I’m not going to tell him about the letters. You have your reasons, I’m sure. Your secret’s safe with me.” 

Hawke relaxed. “Thank you, Alistair.”

“Don’t mention it. I understand needing to keep something private.” He looked at her, amused. “You know, I hear it's something good friends do for each other.”

Varric returned a moment later, a single key dangling. “Hope you guys don’t mind sharing a suite.”

“Maker,” Hawke complained. “You and your suites.”

“It was the only room left,” Varric said.

The innkeep overheard, looking up. “It was not the only--,” he began in a heavy Orlesian accent.

“Welp,” Varric said over him, ushering Hawke and Alistair toward the staircase with a sense of urgency. “Time for some food, don’t you think? It’s been a long-ass journey, and I’m starving.”

The room had a fireplace, a comfortable-looking reading chair, and two doors leading to bedrooms on opposite walls. In the middle sat a table with four chairs. There was a writing desk in front of one of the windows. Hawke found herself impressed with how clean it was. Maybe there was something to be said for Orlesian sensibilities. 

Alistair glanced between the doors with a frown. “Only two rooms. How will we bunk?”

“Even if we had a third bedroom, I’d fall asleep in the reading chair anyway,” Varric told him.

“He prefers to be put to sleep by his own writing,” Hawke explained.

“Hey!” Varric said, offended. “It's called editing, and it's an exhausting process.” 

“Sure.” She put down her bag and shuffled through it, grabbing a change of clothes. “I call dibs on the first bath.”

Neither of the men protested, so she went down to the inn’s shared washing chamber. Much like the room, the bath was a pleasant surprise. It was copper, featuring dwarven plumbing and an enchanted rune. The soap even looked like it had once been shaped like a flower. Or perhaps a swan. She took a tentative sniff. It smelled like lavender. 

“Oh, I’m definitely coming back here before I leave,” she murmured to herself. 

A few minutes later, she slid into the steaming tub. Sighing, she let the weeks, months, and even years soak out of her. Maker. How long had it been since she’d used a bathing chamber? It had to have been the Amell estate. Her estate, really, though she rarely thought of it in those terms. Varric assured her he had people taking care of it. 

She took a slow breath, closing her eyes. For the first time in weeks, her mind stopped spinning. A minute passed, and all she thought about was heat and the sweet smell of the citrus oil she’d added to the hot water. 

Then she opened her eyes. She grabbed the soap and started a healthy lather. True relaxation would have to wait. There were too many uncertainties - uncertainties in the now, and uncertainties regarding the other future. She’d been able to ignore it in Crestwood, where there was nothing she could do, but now she needed to focus. Cullen was at the Winter Palace, thank the Maker. Hopefully, he’d observed something useful in her absence. She wondered if she should try to sneak out and meet him before the ball.

She snorted. She never thought she’d look forward to seeing Cullen Rutherford. Then again, these were strange times. Even without the note, there were demon armies, and tears in the Veil, and ancient magisters come back to life. 

But the note was the strangest factor, she had to admit. 

She wondered what horrors the other Hawke had encountered. Cullen’s tale about Redcliffe’s dark future was sobering. Had Corypheus succeeded in the other Hawke's timeline as well? Did the Venatori win? Was red lyrium involved?

She sighed, soaping her hair. Why had the other Hawke provided so little information? Had she been rushed? Cullen was helping her overcome her… malaise, to be sure, but there had to be something more valuable that he'd done for her. Key knowledge that Hawke could give the right person, and then return to the desert, where Trevelyan couldn't feel threatened by her presence, and strange men from Tevinter didn’t invite themselves over for drinks, and Varric never lectured her about having friends. 

Whatever the danger, she was increasingly sure it was not Trevelyan. The Inquisitor’s brand of cruelty was just too petty to be evil. Corypheus might think of her as a sewer rat, but she doubted he’d boop her on the nose. The guy had a real anti-booping energy about him.

As she rinsed her hair, her mind went back to Cullen. How had the other Hawke come around on her view of him? She was beginning to, yes, but only because of the note. Without that, she would have still considered him a stuck-up prig - a walking, talking sword of Mercy. How close had they been? How much had they been through, that led to him winning her trust, without any nudge in the right direction?

She slipped beneath the water and blew out a frustrated noise. It came out muffled, and a burst of satisfying bubbles came out instead. There was no point in asking these questions. It was a waste of time. As far as she could tell, no one remembered the other future, so no one could answer them. 

The important thing was to try and figure out who was responsible, before they could do it again. 

By the time Hawke returned from her bath, dinner had been served. A pot of sausage and cabbage stew had been set out on the table, with two long loafs of bread next to it. Hawke’s stomach reminded her it had been a very long time since she last ate anything save for bland druffalo stew and travel meats. There was one used bowl, one clean bowl, and one bowl currently being demolished by Alistair. He was scarfing down his food like a mabari who hadn’t eaten in six weeks. 

“Wow,” she said as she scooped up her bowl “I didn’t realize my stew was that bad.” 

He swallowed. “Oh, on the contrary,” he said. “It was excellent for the first week and a half. But y'know, we didn't exactly have a larder. It got repetitive.” He looked down at his stew. “And these sausages really are amazing.” Piercing one with a fork, he squinted at it. “I think they have fennel in them?”

“Ah, yes,” Hawke said. “Variety is the spice of life.” She watched him stuff the whole sausage in his mouth. “Or fennel is the spice of life in this case, I guess.” She glanced around the room. “Where’s Varric?”

As if summoned by her question, Varric emerged from one of the bedrooms. He’d changed into fresh armor, and strapped Bianca onto his back. “Hawke,” he said cheerfully. “You’re looking marginally less like a Witch of the Wilds.”

Alistair choked through a chuckle. He coughed and took a swig of water. “Well, she is a witch,” he rasped once he’d recovered. “And we were in the wilds.”

“See?” Hawke said, ladling herself some stew. “I was just trying to look the part.” Her eyes flicked over his armor. “Big plans tonight?”

“Yeah,” Varric said. “Gonna go deal with those Carta thugs I mentioned.”

“They’re real?” Hawke asked, surprised. She tore off a chunk of bread and slathered it in butter. “And here I thought you were eager for my company.”

“They’re real. Your company is just an extra guerdon.”

“Ooh,” she said, grinning. “Guerdon?” She glanced at Alistair. “Maker's breath. Three hours in Halamshiral, and he’s gone native.”

Alistair poured himself some more stew. “If you wait, we can come with. After we eat, I mean.” He looked a little sheepish. “Might take me a few more helpings.”

“Nah,” Varric said. “Too risky.”

Hawke made a pfft sound. “Oh, yes. Thank you for thinking of us delicate, wilting flowers.” 

“Actually, I’m more worried about the citizens of Halamshiral.”

As he spoke, Hawke took a bite of stew and was immediately distracted. Alistair wasn’t kidding. The sausage was sweet, and savory, and gamey all at once, and the pickled cabbage cut through its grease with a light burst of brine.

 “Oh, cuisine,” she sighed at her bowl. “I missed you so much.” She pierced another piece of sausage. “Is this elk?” she asked Alistair.

He shrugged, his mouth full.

Varric began making motions to leave. “You’ll be happy to hear I ordered us some ale. The good stuff. Just because we’re not dining with the Empress doesn’t mean we can't enjoy being within the confines of civilization again.” 

“Varric, you absolute angel,” Hawke cooed. “You’ll spoil me.” 

He gave her a grin as he opened the door. “Well, somebody has to. Try not to finish it all without me, alright?”

“No promises!” Hawke called after him as the door slammed shut.

In Hawke's defense, they didn’t finish all the ale without Varric. 

They made a very serious attempt, however. Two hours later, Hawke was feeling very warm, and a little bit giddy. She was slouched in the reading chair that would serve as Varric’s bed, while Alistair lounged on the carpet in front of the fireplace, leaning back on his elbows. With his earlier comments on her mind, Hawke had asked Alistair to tell her a bit about himself. 

“You know,” she’d said, leaning over the plush arm of the chair. “So we can bond.”

Alistair had winced. “In hindsight, that sounded way better in my head. I just meant that I--”

Hawke had waved him off. “I know. It’s fine. But you aren't wrong. So just... I dunno. Tell me something interesting about yourself.”

So Alistair told her about his childhood. He kept his tone light, but she could tell some of it was worse than what he was sharing. She didn’t press; Maker knew she did the same thing sometimes. Fortunately, he moved on to his Chantry years, which were far more hilarious than she'd anticipated. Currently, she was laughing hysterically at his impression of the Revered Mother from his youth who always fell asleep part way through reading the Chant out loud to the orphans on Sunday mornings.

“... so one of the other boys replaced the page in front of her with a leaf from the Randy Dowager,” he said. “And then he startled her. She jerked awake, started reading again, and got three full sentences before she noticed.”

Hawke was laughing so hard she snorted.

Alistair gave her a pained look. “That was the first time I heard a woman say the word bosom."

“Maker’s breath,” Hawke managed.

Alistair glanced around the room. “Where is Varric?" he wondered suddenly. “Surely it doesn’t take this long to kill a handful of thugs.”

“Maybe there’s more than a handful,” Hawke said, wiping her eyes. “Or maybe he’s having trouble finding them.” She tapped her chest and burped. “Or, maybe he’s lying about the thugs and he’s doing something else. Really, there’s no telling with Varric.”

“Why on earth would he do that?”

“Lie?” Hawke said. She slid down in the chair until her chin touched her chest. It was very comfy. “It’s Varric. Lying comes to him more easily than breathing water.”

Alistair blinked at her, amused. “Oh, is breathing water easy for you? I didn't realize the Hawkes were mermen. Or does that come from the Amells?”

“Oh, shit,” Hawke said, realizing her mistake. She squeezed her eyes shut, covering her face with her hand. “More easily than breathing air, I meant. Or he takes to lying like a duck takes to water. One or the other.” 

"I figured," Alistair said, chuckling. He glanced up at her. “Since we’re doing personal questions… can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Is it true what Varric said about Rutherford?”

“What, that we hate each other?” Hawke asked. He nodded. She hesitated. “Yes, and no. We used to. Well, I used to hate him.” She twisted the hem of her shirt. “I’m not sure he ever hated me.”

Alistair processed that, looking at the fire. He turned his gaze back to her. “Then why was he the one you wrote to?”

Hawke chewed her lip. She almost confessed that she’d been wondering the same thing herself. But that would be betraying the fact that there’d been another timeline - that they’d all been through this before. And Cullen had vetoed Alistair. Not to mention, she wasn’t sure she needed to add anything to Alistair’s plate. He carried his current burdens heavily enough. 

She tried to think of the kindest thing she could say about Cullen Rutherford. A memory flashed, one from nearly half a decade ago, now - the image of him stepping between her and Meredith. Sword raised, eyes hard, damp curls sticking to his sweaty forehead. The shock and gratitude and surprise and relief she’d felt in her chest when she’d realized what he was doing. 

And then, suddenly, she understood.

She thought, for a moment, that she knew why the Other Hawke had trusted him, too.

Alistair cleared his throat. “Listen. If you don’t want to answer, you really don't--”

“The people I listed today,” Hawke said, cutting him off. “When Varric asked me about my friends. They're all people who left me. They abandoned me. Some of them for good reason, mind you, but after a while, it's hard not to, you know. Take it personally." She began counting off her fingers. "Carver joined the templars. Isabela fled the city. Merrill - well, I guess in a sense, I betrayed Merrill. But I thought I was doing the right thing. And she never forgave me. Anders--.” When she looked at Alistair, he was uncharacteristically serious, waiting for her to finish. “Everyone knows what happened with Anders. Sebastian ditched me when I let Anders go. And Fenris stood against me when I decided to protect the mages. Only Varric and Aveline stayed. And Aveline - I don't know. She never really liked me, I don’t think. She just felt obligated to be there, since everyone else…. Well. Since everyone else died. Or left me.”

“I’m sorry,” Alistair said in a sincere tone.

Hawke looked at her hands, wondering how she hadn’t seen it before. When she next spoke, it was with the other Hawke in mind - the one who’d sought out Cullen herself, who’d accepted his help, and gone on to see him as her only hope. And now, Hawke understood. 

“Everyone else left me,” she repeated. “They drifted away like…. Like paper boats on a pond. Everyone except Cullen. He never lied about who he was, or expected me to be someone I can't be. We drifted closer.” She offered a sad smile at Alistair. “In the end, Cullen Rutherford joined my side.”

Alistair watched her for another moment. “Wow,” he said after a moment. He held up a half empty mug. “To unexpected friendships then, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Hawke sighed, draining her own mug. “To unexpected friends.” She sat in thought for a moment, feeling morose, but in a detached way. Like she was looking in on her thoughts through a window. She shook her head, not wanting to dwell anymore than she already had. “Alright, your turn. What's up with you and Tabris? I thought you two used to be close.”

Alistair let out a woosh of a breath. He forced himself up, and held out his hand for her mug. “Alright, that's gonna require at least two more mugs of ale.” 

“Cheers,” Hawke said, shoving her mug in his general direction. He took it, and she let her eyes closed, warmed by the lull of the fire.

It was the last thing she remembered before the haze of alcohol took over.

Chapter Text

Excerpt from Solas’s Journal

Halamshiral, 9:41 Dragon.

Attempt 2

Tonight, we attend a ball at the Winter's Palace.

At least this, I can leave in Trevelyan’s capable hands. Vain she may be, but she understands the Game. Last time, Tabris convinced her to allow Celene’s assassination to occur. They promoted Briala as the true ruler, behind the thin veneer of Emperor Gaspard. 

Tonight, I am certain she will choose Celene.

It does not matter. As long as Orlais is stabilized, we can focus on the Wardens. 

Tomorrow, I will be one step closer to the orb. 

--Solas

“Rise and shine, Champion!”

The sound of Varric’s voice ripped Hawke from the Fade like a hammer shattering glass. She jerked awake, startled. There was a flutter of movement, followed by painfully bright light hitting her in the eyes. She groaned, pulling her blanket over her head as she sunk lower into her - chair? Was she in a chair? Why was she sleeping in a chair?

It didn’t matter, she decided. Varric was wrong. There would be neither rising nor shining.  

A second curtain opened. The world beyond her blanket grew even brighter. She made a noise of protest and curled up into a ball.

“Hawke. It’s time to get up.”

“Fuck off,” Hawke mumbled into the blanket.

“Now, now,” Varric chided. “That’s not very ladylike of you.”

“I’ll show you ladylike.”

“I doubt it,” he said cheerfully. “But I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

She growled. “Fuck off, I said.”

A whimper came from somewhere behind her, on the floor. “Have you two considered the possibility,” Alistair said in a weak voice, “that there is an innocent bystander in this very room and you’re slowly killing him with the sound of your bickering?”

“I did warn you not to drink all the ale,” Varric said. 

“We didn’t,” Hawke said. 

“Are you sure?” Alistair asked. “Because it feels like we might have.”

Varric clapped his hands, making Hawke’s pounding headache worse. “Come on, you two. Look alive. There’s food and water on the table.”

The thought of putting anything in her stomach made her want to hurl, but she heard a ruffle of interest from Alistair’s direction. “What kind of food?” he asked.  

“Cold roast chicken. Potato salad. Some fruit.”

The floor creaked as Alistair stood and went to investigate. Hawke stayed where she was, buried in linen. A moment later, she felt the blankets being tugged off her. 

“Hawke,” Varric said again. He came into view and gave her a pointed look. “You really do need to get up.”

She scowled. “Why?”

“We’ve got the ball tonight.”

“So?” she said. “That isn’t until seven.”

“Yeah,” Varric said dryly. “And it’s mid-afternoon.”

Her eyes widened. She sat up straight, glancing at the window. “Mid-afternoon?”

“Yup,” Varric said, turning away. As Alistair helped himself to a leg of chicken, Varric went to the table and poured a mug of water. “I know you guys had a rough time out in Crestwood, so I decided to let you sleep in.”

Hawke grit her teeth. Maker. She’d meant to track down Cullen during the day. They wouldn’t be able to speak at the ball - not openly, at least. As the popular saying went, even Orlesian walls had ears. 

She paused. Thinking about Cullen rang a bell. A vaguely remembered, far too personal conversation with Alistair flickered in the periphery of her mind. One in which she’d said some very affectionate things about Cullen. She groaned, putting her head in her hands. Ale always did turn her into a sentimental fool. 

This was why friends were a bad idea. 

“Leliana brought outfits for us,” Varric was saying as he returned. “And, uh. Don’t take this the wrong way, Hawke, but I’d recommend another bath.” He shoved the mug into Hawke’s hands. “Here. Drink up.”

Hawke took it and gulped down a grateful mouthful. She realized that Varric had added elfroot. That would ease her headache. “Thank you,” she told him as she stood up. 

“I hung your dress on your door,” Varric told her, waving at one of the rooms. How he’d decided which door was hers was a mystery. She’d apparently stolen his reading chair, meaning he must have slept in one of the beds last night.

Then she realized what he’d said. “My dress?”

There was a twinkle of amusement in Varric’s eyes. “Yeah. A loan from Nightingale. She didn’t think you’d have anything suitable for an Orlesian masquerade.”

Leliana wasn’t wrong. Hawke hadn’t owned a dress since Kirkwall. Her plan had been to wear her armor, but she supposed that didn’t send quite the right message. 

She took another swig of water. It was already coursing through her veins, making her feel more human. On her way to the bedroom, she picked up a handful of berries and popped them into her mouth, hoping she could keep them down. 

Then she closed her door. She almost choked. There was a dress, alright. She stared at it, flabbergasted. 

“Um, Varric?” she called out. “I think there’s been some sort of terrible mistake.”

“I think there’s been some sort of terrible mistake,” Inquisitor Tahani Trevelyan told Josephine and Leliana as they stood in the guest chambers of the Winter Palace. She looked at the brightly colored uniform laid out on her bed - the one she’d just been told she would be wearing to the ball that evening. “Surely you can’t expect me to wear….” She motioned in the outfit’s general direction. “This.”

“It is what we all will be wearing,” Josephine explained apologetically. “We need to appear united in front of the court. It will lend weight to our authority.”

“Our authority?” Trevelyan said. She crossed her arms. “Josie. A marching band looks united, but no one thinks they’re in charge.”

“Inquisitor--”

“And these aren’t even Inquisition colors,” Trevelyan complained.

“Vivid colors are in vogue this year,” Leliana told her. 

Trevelyan levelled Leliana with a glare. “I know what’s in vogue, Leliana. Vivid would be jewel tones. Perhaps something in gold. This? This is just clownish.”

A smirk played on Leliana’s lips. “The goal is to make a statement.”

“And what is this saying exactly?” Trevelyan asked dryly. “That our seamstress is partial to primary colors?”

“That we are a force to be reckoned with,” Leliana said. 

Trevelyan huffed in disbelief. She frowned. “Has Vivienne seen this?”

“Lady Trevelyan,” Josephine said, placing a hand on Trevelyan’s arm. “You are well known at the Orlesian court. Your sense of style is renowned. Surely, no one would question your choice to express your commitment to the Inquisition for one night.” She gave her a sincere look. “Once you have saved Empress Celene, I doubt anyone will care what you’re wearing.”

Trevelyan sighed. Being Inquisitor was worth a few hours in crimson. No mattter what Mother said it did to her skin. “I suppose you’re right,” she said. She gave Josie a little shrug. “I mean, what’s the harm. It’s like my good friend Lady Madeline always says - one doesn’t lose a game of chess with a single move.”

“Precisely,” Josephine said with a smile. 

Leliana clasped her hands behind her back. “We will leave you to prepare. The council will meet in the Vestibule in one hour.” 

“And remember,” Josephine added. “No matter what happens, we must be on our best behavior. This is Orlais. One word, one wrong move--”

“Please, Josie,” Trevelyan interrupted, amused. “I, of all people, know how the Great Game works.”

Josephine relaxed a fraction. “Right. Of course.” She smiled. “I will save my speeches for Sera, then.” She nodded her farewell. “See you soon, Inquisitor.”

The first part of the evening went smoothly. Hawke and Alistair were running late, thankfully, which spared Trevelyan the trouble of having them announced. She met with Celene and Gaspard - both of whom she knew quite well, of course. She was introduced to Celene’s spymaster and ex-lover, Briala. She nibbled on canapés and chatted with high society, gossiping about Celene’s oddly timed renovations and Gaspard’s choice to wear armor to a ball. It was so lovely to be back amongst her own people. She even danced with Grand Duchess Florianne, much to Josephine’s delight.

And if she maintained reservations about her terrible outfit, those fell by the wayside when she began to investigate. An apostate named Morrigan provided her with a key to the servants quarters. She was horrified to find that someone had slaughtered most of them. With the help of Vivienne, Cassandra, and Blackwall, she unravelled several conspiracies that implicated the two Valmont cousins, as well as the elven spymaster. 

In the end, however, it turned out Grand Duchess Florianne was the one plotting to kill the empress. 

Like an amateur, Florianne left Trevelyan and her party to die in the courtyard. Either Corypheus had not informed her that the anchor could close rifts, or she was more concerned about losing the court’s good approval than she was about risking the Inquisitor’s death. Trevelyan closed the rift as quickly as she could and went back inside to find the council. 

“Well done, Inquisitor!” Josephine exclaimed. “Once Celene begins her speech, we can stop the assassination and expose her to the court.”

“Or,” Leliana said slowly. She paused.

“Or?” Trevelyan asked. 

“We let Celene die. That would pave the way for Gaspard to take control. Possibly with Briala at his side.”

“Or even alone,” Cullen suggested. “The choice is yours, Inquisitor.”

Trevelyan balked at the idea of letting the empress die. “We save Celene, of course,” she told them. “Orlais benefits from the security she represents.” 

“And what of Gaspard and Briala?” Leliana asked. 

Trevelyan let her chest puff with a smile. “I believe I have enough evidence to force them all into a truce.”

Josephine grinned, delighted. “Excellent,” she said. “Then we’ll be able to end this without any more bloodshed.”

“Just make sure you are there when Celene announces her speech,” Leliana advised. Looking amused, she glanced to her left. “Ah - commander. It appears some of your admirers are approaching.”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen muttered. “If you’ll excuse me.” He stepped around Josephine, heading in the opposite direction. 

“The commander is very popular tonight,” Leliana told Trevelyan in a conspiratorial whisper. “Three separate families have asked me about his lineage.”

Trevelyan laughed. Before she could reply, however, she spotted a familiar face across the room, amongst a group of revellers. Trevelyan’s smile faded. It would seem Hawke had arrived. 

The crowd cleared. Trevelyan saw the rest of Hawke’s outfit. Her mouth dropped open. The Champion of Kirkwall was in a beautiful, deep green silk dress that jutted out over a crinoline at her hips. The neckline was low across her chest and arms, exposing her shoulders and cleavage. Her waist had been cinched into a golden corset with metal bracing. Even at this distance, Trevelyan could see the amethysts and emeralds embedded in the sides. 

“I’m sorry,” Trevelyan said, feeling a swell of heat in her chest. “Hawke is wearing that?”

Leliana followed her gaze. “Ah,” she said. “Yes. A piece from my own collection. I did not have a chance to wear it before the Conclave, sadly. But I think it suits the Champion rather well, don’t you?”

Trevelyan glared at her two advisers. “Why isn’t she in the uniform? I thought we all needed to look united.”

“The Inquisition does,” Leliana explained. “But Hawke is not part of the Inquisition. As you are fond of reminding us.”

“Besides,” Josephine interjected, “she was not at Skyhold long enough for me to get her measurements.”

Trevelyan looked back at Hawke. She took a deep breath, trying to calm the burning rage in her chest. It did not work. “Excuse me,” she said, stalking off. 

She heard Josephine call out, “Inquisitor, wait!” She ignored that. The ballroom was crowded now; as the night went on, more and more people spilled in from the Vestibule. Finally, Trevelyan made it to Hawke, who was speaking with Blackwall. 

“Champion!” she said, as cheerfully as she could manage. Hawke turned, clearly surprised. Trevelyan saw she was holding an open flask in one hand. The blatant indecency only fueled Trevelyan’s anger. She forced a smile. “Don’t you look stunning! You did forget your mask, though. How embarrassing.”

Hawke’s surprise faded into distaste. She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, her eyes flicked over Trevelyan’s shoulder. Her face lit up. “Here, hold this for me, will you?” she said, pushing the flask into Trevelyan’s hands. 

Trevelyan stared after her in shock. The commander was in view, cornered by a group of nobles. As she watched Hawke approach him, she overheard a whispered conversation behind her. 

“What is Lady Trevelyan wearing?” a light Orlesian voice asked. 

“Ridiculous,” someone replied. “You can tell why the father prefers his bastard.”

“Not technically a bastard anymore, though, is she?”

Blackwall slid into the space next to Trevelyan. “Pay them no mind,” he said sternly in a low voice. “Who cares what these idiot nobles think, milady? What matters is that we all look like men of honor.”

Trevelyan rolled her eyes at his attempt to comfort her. Who in Thedas wanted to look like a man of honor? She would prefer to look like a goddess in silk brocade, as she had at the Duke of Kellington’s annual First Day party in 9:39 Dragon. 

She turned to the open flask in her hand. The hardest part of the night was over. All that was left was sharing what she’d learned. 

Mentally, she shrugged. Lifting the flask, she took a long, long swig. 

In the end, Hawke and Alistair were an hour late to the party. Varric left before them, promising to find them later. He was as good as his word. Minutes after they arrived, he approached them in the Vestibule.

“Hawke,” he said grinning. “You clean up well.”

“Spare me,” she snapped. 

“Aw, what?” he asked, all mock innocence. “You don’t like the dress?”

“This monstrosity barely qualifies as a dress,” she said, trying to flatten her skirt with her hands. She couldn’t even reach the edges. “You could fit a family of four under this skirt. Plus a dog.” She frowned. “That’s not an approximation. I did the measurements. It’s bigger than Gamlen’s hovel.” Varric laughed. She glanced at Alistair, then turned back to Varric. “How come I have to wear the entire garment district of Halamshiral, and he gets to wear his armor?”

“Because the Grey Warden armor is also a uniform,” Alistair answered. He tugged at his belt, trying to loosen it. “And this isn’t technically mine.” He winced. “I don’t even want to know where Leliana found Warden armor at a time like this. I have an uncomfortable feeling the answer is ‘off a dead Warden’.” 

“She had it made,” Varric told him. “We bought the schematic from a Dalish clan.”

“From a Dalish clan?” Alistair looked down at himself. “Wow. That explains why it’s so tight. I thought I overdid it on the stew.”

Varric jerked his head toward the ballroom. “You guys ready?” 

For better or worse, they were. Hawke’s skirt tugged uncomfortably at her waist, slowing her pace. It was difficult to breathe with her corset. She glanced around as they walked through the crowd. At least Orlais was ridiculous enough that she didn’t stand out. A few peoples’ masked gazes followed her. She wondered if they knew who she was, or if it was simply her lack of mask.

“I wish I had my staff,” she murmured. 

“They wouldn’t have let you in,” Varric said. 

“Even better,” Hawke said. Varric gave her a look, and she pouted. “I just feel so exposed.”

Varric’s eyes flicked to her cleavage before meeting hers again. “You are pretty exposed.”

“Thanks,” she said dryly. “I guess they ran out of fabric while making the skirt.” 

They entered the ballroom together. There was no caller. The time for being announced was over. Hawke breathed a sigh of relief. The last thing she needed right then was for a room full of Orlesians to hear her title.

“Where’s Trevelyan?” Alistair asked. 

“In the gardens,” Varric said. “Killing Venatori, if Ruffles is to be believed.”

Hawke couldn’t remember which one Ruffles was. For the moment, she didn’t really care. The mention of the Venatori drew her focus. She needed to find Cullen. 

“Oh, shit,” Varric said to himself, spotting three dwarves huddled conspiratorially by a table of desserts. “Are you kidding me?”

“What?” Hawke asked.

“Carta,” Varric said. He rubbed his chin. 

Alistair narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Varric. Didn’t you spend over four hours killing Carta thugs last night? How could there possibly be any left in Halamshiral?”

“There’s always more Carta,” Varric replied. “They’re like cockroaches. You crush a five, and a dozen more pop up. Right, Hawke?”

It was true, but she noticed something odd. Varric was tugging on his earring. That was one of his tells in Wicked Grace. “Right,” she said anyway, eyeing the crowd. She could figure out why Varric was lying later. She had bigger fish to fry.

“I better make myself scarce,” Varric said, looking around. “Will you guys be alright?”

“Unarmed with my tits out in the middle of an Orlesian soirée?” Hawke said. “Why, I’ve never felt more at home.”

“You’ll be fine,” Varric said. He walked off. “Just try not to get yourself killed.”

“No promises!” Hawke called back. 

“So,” Alistair said, once Varric had disappeared into the crowd. “What does one do at an Orlesian party, anyway?”

“I’m not sure,” Hawke said. “See any wyverns?”

“Any what?”

“Never mind.” She brushed the thought away. She scanned the crowd again. No annoyingly stylish golden hair. “Actually, I need to find - someone,” she finished lamely.

“You mean Cullen,” Alistair said. When she shot a glare at him, he had a little smile on his face. “Go on. I think it’s cute.”

Hawke’s lips thinned. “I was hoping you’d forgotten that bit of the conversation.”

“No such luck.” Hawke opened her mouth, and Alistair waved her off. “Go on, I said. Find your rubber duck. Or paper boat. Whatever the metaphor was. Last night’s a little fuzzy. I have a person or two I want to look for as well.”

Hawke remembered that he’d been friends with Leliana during the Blight. He probably hadn’t seen her in years. She nodded, and the two of them parted ways. 

The crowd was thick. Hawke was used to having more mobility than the skirt provided. On top of that, she was short, which put her at a distinct disadvantage. Luckily, the Inquisition had chosen a bright red uniform that could be spotted miles away. In her search, she noticed, from a distance, the massive Qunari by a tray of champagne. She spun on her heel and went in the opposite direction. No Qunari today, thank you.

After half an hour, she sighed. Apparently, Cullen was nowhere to be found. 

She passed an open door to an empty, dark room. Peeking in, she saw a woman in the Inquisition uniform with short, choppy hair. “Hello?” she asked. The woman spun, startled. Hawke realized she was an elf. “Excuse me. I didn’t mean to scare you.” The woman just stared at her. “Um, have you seen the commander?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. She stuck her chin in the air. Striding forward, she held out a coin.  

Confused, Hawke took it. She stared at it. It was smooth and round with a hole in the middle. By the time she’d looked up, the woman was halfway out the door. “Wait!” Hawke exclaimed. The woman didn’t stop. Hawke rushed after her, but when she got to the hallway, the woman was gone. 

“Shit,” Hawke hissed. That was strange. Could the woman know something? She placed the coin in her pocket. 

Soon after, she caught a glimpse of a red arm. Chasing it, she pushed her way through the crowd. “Excuse me,” she called out. “Excuse me! Inquisition?”

But when the person turned, she saw a beard and a pair of blue eyes. 

“Yes?” he asked. His eyes narrowed. “Wait, don’t I know you?”

Hawke had seen him around at Skyhold, but never learned his name. “I don’t think so,” she said, playing dumb. “Sorry. Thought you were someone else.”

His expression became cautious. “I see.”

Hawke glanced around. The ballroom was crowded. This was pointless. She’d have to find Cullen in the morning. She slipped her flask out of her skirts. Unscrewing the top, she lifted it to her lips.

“Champion!” a horribly familiar voice exclaimed. Hawke jumped. When she turned around, there stood Trevelyan, looking as tall and magnificent as ever in that ridiculous uniform. The Inquisitor’s grin widened as she looked Hawke over. “Don’t you look stunning. You did forget your mask, though. How embarrassing.”

Hawke grit her teeth. She opened her mouth to say something snide. A flash of red caught her eye. Beyond Trevelyan, in the corner of the ballroom, Cullen stood with his arms crossed, surrounded by Orlesians. 

Thank the Maker.

“Here, hold this for me, will you?” she said, handing the flask to Trevelyan.

Hawke fought through the crowd, pardoning herself in Common and Orlesian. She pushed past the fawning nobles. Cullen stared straight ahead, as if looking at a fixed point, his jaw clenched. He did not even seem to recognize her as she placed a hand on his arm. 

He snapped his eyes to her. “Please don’t touch--,” he began. He blinked, his eyes clearing. “Hawke,” he said as he relaxed. 

“Commander,” she said, hoping her voice sounded official. “You’re needed by the, ah. Ambassador. At once. It’s very urgent.”

Cullen looked relieved. “Very well,” he said. “Take me to her, please.”

There was a chorus of disappointment from the others, but Hawke ignored them. She kept her hand on Cullen’s arm. She felt, more than saw, Cullen’s confused eyes take her outfit in as she dragged him across the room. 

“What are you wearing?” he asked. 

“Don’t ask,” she said bitterly. Finally, she found an empty balcony. Lowering her voice, she turned to face him. “I think I have a lead.” She pulled out the coin. “An elf with choppy blonde hair gave me this. She was in an Inquisition uniform. It could be a clue!”

“An elf with choppy blonde hair?” Cullen said. He blinked at her in disbelief. “Sera? You think Sera is involved somehow?”

“Oh, yeah,” Hawke said, nodding. “Deeply involved. I bet she knows exactly what’s going on.”

Sera scowled. The room was crawling with the wrongest type of noble. Worse, it was boring. After all that piss about the Great Game, she thought there’d be a bit of - what did Leliana call it? Courtly intrigue. What Orlesians called gossip. So far, all she’d seen was a couple of kids who were too daft to hide their tracks when they snuck off to the closets.

And the stupid Inquisitor had kept her off the stupid ground team. Again. Shame, really. Sera had two friends on the inside, here. All sorts of good stuff laying about in a fancypants place like this, if you looked for it. Hidden behind locked doors. Buried under rose gardens. Tucked behind velvet curtains. Guess it was going to stay there. 

At least the empress was pretty. In love with an elf, though. Of course. Her servant, too. Boring. All of it sounded like something from one of Varric’s stories. Not one of the good ones, either, with the ‘heaving bosoms’ and the ‘turgid whats-its’. One of the rubbish ones, with the fighting, and killing, and nobles being odd about other nobles, and all that who-ends-up-on-top-today garbage. 

Sera snickered. Both were who-ends-up-on-top-today, when you came down to it. 

“Canapé?” a breathy, Orlesian voice said beside her. She glared at the servant, who was holding up a bunch of fancy stuff on a plate. The servants were treating her too nicely. Bringing her wine more often than was right. They were proud to see somebody with ears invited. In a frigging uniform and everything. Buying into this piss as much as the masked ones were. 

It made her sick, being part of the circus.

“Piss off,” Sera said, drinking deep from her cup.  

The elf’s eyes widened. He gulped like a fish. He nodded once, then darted away, terrified. 

“Shit,” Sera muttered. That wasn’t right. Things worked badly here. Or, well. They didn’t work, did they? That's why there were three Orlesian Jennies for every Fereldan one. The nobles here kept things dark on purpose. Wasn’t his fault he was there, and she was here. 

And the fancy stuff had looked delicious.

“Ugh,” she groaned, annoyed. Slamming her empty cup on the table, she pushed off the wall. If she hurried, she could track the stupid man down and take the whole stupid plate as an apology. Sort of. Maybe. Not that he cared about the plate either way. It still felt better than leaving it.

In the Hall of Piss and Tits, she almost tripped over something. Sera blinked down at the person she hadn’t seen. Dagna, the Inquisition arcanist, was crouched on the floor, peering into a keyhole. She had an odd looking stone in one hand. 

Sera’s face cracked into a genuine smile. “Hello, you!”

Dagna hushed her frantically, looking both ways. She sighed in relief. “Boy. For a second there, I thought you blew my cover.”

Sera squatted next to her. “Cover?” she said. That was more like it. She knew all about cover. “If you need it, I can be a pair of eyes.” 

Dagna looked surprised but pleased at the offer. “Thank you. That would be helpful.” She went back to doing whatever she’d been doing.

Sera peered up and down the long corridor. One passageway opened to the ballroom; the other to…. Well, a different room. A room not for balls, apparently. Sera grinned to herself. No balls. It was funny because she and Dagna had none between them.

A moment later, she asked, “What you need cover for, anyway?”

Dagna’s teeth were clamped tight. “Trying… to open… this door….” 

“What for?”

“Because it’s locked.”

Sera snorted. “Nice.”

Dagna had pressed the stone against the door. It began to glow. Sera leaned away. Dagna was a dwarf, which meant no demons, but glowing could mean a lot of things. Good or bad, depending. It was fine when Inquisitor Rich Tits did it. Less so when the Breach did it. Really, really bad when Red Templars did it. 

A click sounded. The stone went dark. Sera relaxed. 

“Got it,” Dagna said with a grin. She wiggled her eyebrows. “Want to see what’s inside?”

“Yeah!”

They entered the dark room together. There was a desk, a few chests, and one of those weird torch thingies that only mages could use. Sera wrinkled her nose at a painting of a man in a hat. As she stepped closer, something moved beneath her boot. She leaned down and picked it up. It was one of those tiny coins with a hole in the middle. 

“Stupid,” she muttered to herself. Typical. Real money wasn’t enough. No, the people up top had to make fake money to throw into fountains. She glanced up at Dagna, who was rifling through the papers on the desk. “What’s that stone thing you’ve got, anyway?”

“It’s an enchanted rune based on a mixture of ancient dwarven and elven design,” Dagna explained. “It makes an arcane, physical force that’s about the size of a key. Then it presses down inside of a keyhole until the door opens. Theoretically, it can open any lock in the world. But I needed to test it out.” She looked up with a grin. “I decided the Winter Palace would be the perfect place.”

“Any lock? Brilliant,” Sera said, her eyes widening. 

Something caught Dagna’s eye. Her pretty face twisted into a frown. “Oh, dear,” she said. “These are about Gaspard.” She read more closely. “Wow. Wow. This is way over my head. I’d better go find the Inquisitor. Or Leliana. Wait here.”

“Not going anywhere,” Sera said, spinning the fake coin between her fingers. As Dagna left, she glanced around the room. Books on every wall, but if she had to guess, not one of them had ever been opened. Probably chosen for their colors and heights and widths, too. Who cared what was inside?

Pissing nobs. 

“Hello?” a new voice asked.

Sera almost wet herself. She spun. Someone had caught her somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be. Shit. Piss.

“Excuse me,” the woman said politely. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Sera stayed frozen. The woman grew uncomfortable. “Um, have you seen the commander?”

Sera thought quick. No accent, but that didn’t mean safe. Plus, Dagna needed those papers for a reason. 

A distraction, then. 

Well. Nobles were easy to rattle, right? Just throw them off their game a little and they took ages to recover. 

Sera stuck her chin in the air. She stepped forward and held out the fake coin. The woman looked down, baffled, as she dropped into the woman’s hand. While she was still trying to figure things out, Sera bolted for the door. 

“Wait!” the woman cried, but Sera was already halfway to the ballroom. 

She dove into the crowd, trying to blend. The further she could lead the woman, the better. When she glanced over shoulder, she lost her footing, and almost fell over. Someone cried out in Orlesian, offended. Sera couldn’t help but laugh. Finally, she ducked behind a pillar and caught her breath.

Sera grinned. Her heart was racing. Not so boring after all, yeah? she thought to herself. All thanks to Dagna and her fancy lockpick. Once they saved the pretty empress, she’d have to track the dwarf down again and apologize. Offer her services in the future. 

Nice to have an accomplice, sometimes. 

Eventually, she found herself a place to stand, out of everyone’s way. She tried to be a little nicer to the servants who wanted to spoil her. Didn’t like it, though. Things were just getting boring again when she saw Celene approach the edge of her dias. 

"My friends,” the pretty empress said, holding up her hands. “We have lost much. We have each seen a child, a lover, a friend, consigned to the flames. The darkness has closed in around us, but even now there is light. We must be that light. We must--”

“Ugh,” a new voice said. “Maker. Boring!”

To Sera’s surprise, she hadn’t accidentally spoken out loud. Her mouth fell open. Inquisitor Rich Tits herself rose to the stage, plastered as a street sign, pushing the pretty empress away. Sera snorted, then cackled. She held two fingers in her mouth and whistled. This was more like it. 

“You tell ‘em, Quizzy!” she cried. 

“I’d like to say a few words, if nobody minds,” Trevelyan slurred, holding up her hand. Murmurs of surprise and horror rippled through the crowd. “I am Inquisitor Tahani…. Shahd Jamila Kir--.” She hiccuped. “Kir--.” Another hiccup. “Kiran Trevelyan. And it has truly been an honor to have you all here.”

Sera laughed again. Legend, this was. Trevelyan kept going. She was talking about her clothes or something when Cullen appeared beside her. 

“Inquisitor,” he said, gently touching her arm. “I think you’d better--”

“No! Let me speak. The people want to hear me.”

Cullen looked like he’d swallowed a toad. Despite herself, Sera felt a stab of sympathy for the man. He fit the clothes, sure, but that didn’t mean he fit in. If anything, he might hate this place more than she did, because he had to go along with things.

She wondered how his night had gone. 

Not well, she guessed. 

Yeah. Probably badly. 

As he stood in the grand ballroom of the Winter Palace, surrounded by tittering Orlesian nobles in fine Orlesian clothing, Cullen Rutherdford began to wish he’d been too ill to attend the ball. 

He and Cassandra had discussed the possibility. He still suffered from episodes. Their frequency had decreased over the past few months, but he was well aware that travel and stress could disrupt his recovery. At Skyhold, he’d been sincere when he’d said that he hoped nothing would happen.

That changed the moment he was announced.

As he followed Cassandra from one dias to the other, he heard murmurs among the crowd. 

“So handsome,” one voice said.

“I wonder if he’s married?” another asked. 

“We will have to inquire.”

Cullen winced. While they’d waited for the Inquisitor, Leliana and Josephine had teased him about how fine he looked in his uniform, and how popular he’d be at the ball. He had paid them little heed. They enjoyed teasing him, even when the subject of their amusement was questionable. Leliana brought up her suspicions about him and Hawke as often as possible, for example. 

Even that evening, she’d said something. “Careful, Cullen,” she’d told him, smirking. “If you garner as much attention as I suspect, the Champion will become jealous.”

He’d doubted her sincerity. He was aware that some people found him… attractive. But he was the son of farmers, and Ferelden to boot. What could the Orlesian court possibly want with him?

Quite a lot apparently.

“Commander, are you married?”

“No,” he replied evenly. He crossed his arms and stared out over the ballroom. He’d endured an hour of questions like this, and suspected he had several more to go.

“Hm,” the man asking replied, his grin visible, but his eyes hidden by a mask. 

A woman broke in, stroking Cullen’s shoulder with a gloved finger. “Smile, commander!” she exclaimed. He flinched at her touch. “You are so handsome when you smile.”

The original man smirked. “He is just as handsome when he doesn’t.”

And so on. 

It was a nightmare.

Almost literally, in fact. The touching. The faceless bodies surrounding him. The murmured solicitations, all begging him for answers. It all felt far too familiar. At moments, he found his mind drifting, his memories overtaking him. 

Show me what you want. 

A demon, wrapping its plump arms around his body. A low voice, whispering in his ear. Hands, covering his face, his eyes, his ears. Blocking out the sounds and sights, the screams and blood and corpses.  

His own hands? The demon’s? No way of knowing. 

Show me what you want. 

The nightmares always began that way. A simple request. And, every time, Cullen’s mind would open helplessly, like an errant child’s fist exposing a stolen sweet. Hidden temptations. Humiliating secrets not meant to be seen or heard by anyone. His innermost thoughts. His dreams. His desires. 

Show me what you want. 

A dark-haired girl, nearly as tall as he was, long since dead. 

A dark-haired girl he’d failed to protect. 

A dark-haired girl who would have kissed him, if only he wasn’t--

He was dragged back from the edge when he felt the unmistakable squeeze of a woman’s hand in a most inappropriate place. He jumped. Shocked, he turned to stare at her. “Did you just… grab my bottom?” he asked, incredulous. 

“I could not help myself,” the woman giggled behind her mask.

Cullen grit his teeth. “I must insist that everyone keep their hands to themselves,” he said tightly.

“Ooh,” the woman said coyly. “So commanding.”

The rest of the night was more of the same. Brief rendezvouses with the Inquisitor and the rest of the council. Harassment from the court. Teasing from Leliana and Josephine. He knew he could put a stop to their jests if he spoke to Leliana, but that involved discussing a part of his life he had no wish to discuss. And at the Winter Palace, no less - in the lair of the world’s most well-oiled gossip spinners.

At least Trevelyan was winning. 

After the Inquisitor made her decision to save Celene, he found himself cornered - quite literally - by his admirers. He tried to drown them out, tried to keep his mind on the present, but felt himself being tugged back again. 

Show me what you want. 

Cullen clenched his jaw. A hand on his arm made him jump. He turned toward the offending noble.

“Please don’t touch--.” He stopped himself as he recognized the face. “Hawke,” he realized. 

“Commander,” she said. Her tone was uncharacteristically serious. “You’re needed by the, ah. Ambassador. At once. It’s very urgent.”

Cullen wasn’t sure if it was a ploy to help him escape, or if Josephine really needed something. He could not bring himself to care. “Very well,” he said. “Take me to her, please.”

Hawke did not let go of his arm. She dragged him through the crowded ballroom. Now that they were away from the tight ring of Orlesians, he noticed why he’d mistaken her for one. She was in some extravagant ball gown, green as moonlit grass, and wrapped in golden trimmings. It hugged her waist down to her hips. 

He’d never seen her in anything like it. Hawke’s armor and robes never hid her curves from the world, but nor did it emphasize them in quite the way this dress did. He couldn’t help but wonder if his hands could span her tiny waist. 

He realized he was staring. Forcing his gaze to the back of her head, he asked, “What are you wearing?” 

“Don’t ask,” she replied. She pulled him onto an empty balcony and glanced over her shoulder. No one had followed them. “I think I have a lead,” she told him in a whisper. She reached into her pocket and then handed him a caprice coin. “An elf with choppy blonde hair gave me this. She was in an Inquisition uniform. It could be a clue!”  

Cullen processed what she was saying. “An elf with choppy blonde hair?” He blinked at her in disbelief. “Sera? You think Sera is involved somehow?”

“Oh, yeah,” Hawke said. “Deeply involved. I bet she knows exactly what’s going on.”

“Hawke, that’s… very unlikely. Sera hates magic. And she’s not exactly subtle.” He lowered his voice. “Besides. We shouldn’t discuss this here.”

“Right,” Hawke said, glancing toward the ballroom. She seemed just as displeased with their current surroundings as he was. Somehow, that bolstered him. He felt a little less alone. 

“I heard what you did in Crestwood,” he said. He gave her a look. “That was rash.”

“What, the dragon?”

“All of it.” He shook his head. “What were you thinking?”

“You’re the one who told me to do something,” she replied. 

“Yes, but not….” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I told you to clean a desk. Or sharpen a sword. Killing a dragon is a far cry from chores.”

Hawke crossed her arms. “I know this might come as a surprise, but we didn’t have a desk in our abandoned smuggler’s cave.” She paused. “We had a table we used as a desk,” she conceded. “But it was already clean.”

“So you killed a dragon,” Cullen said. 

“It worked!” Hawke argued. “I felt better about myself.”

“You could have died.”

“Cullen,” Hawke said. “I’ve killed dragons before. I killed the Arishok. I killed Meredith.”

“We killed Meredith,” Cullen reminded her.

Something flashed in Hawke’s eyes. Her gaze softened. “Right. We killed Meredith,” she agreed. “My point is you know I’m capable of handling myself.”

“It’s different now.”

“Why?”

“Because….” Cullen began. 

There were a dozen ways to finish that sentence. 

Because I was too young to know better. 

Because you seemed more like a god than a person back then. 

Because I know how vulnerable you are. 

Because if you’re truly as damaged as I was, every mission you send yourself on will be a suicide mission.

Cullen let out his breath. “Because--,” he began again, but this time they were interrupted. Solas stepped onto the balcony, angrier than Cullen had ever seen him.

“Who gave the Inquisitor a flask of liquor?” Solas demanded, his narrowed eyes darting between them. 

In a matter of seconds, Hawke expression shifted from confusion, to shock, to guilt. “Ah, shit,” she said.

Hawke and Cullen followed Solas back into the ballroom, where Empress Celene was finally giving her big speech. Solas explained that he’d had a brief run in with Trevelyan, and she was in rare form. She was not even speaking coherently. She’d run off before he could persuade her to leave. 

Hawke chewed her thumb guiltily. 

“My advice,” Solas was saying as he led them through the crowd, “would be to find her as quickly as possible. We must prevent her from doing anything that puts the mission at--”

“Ugh!” a voice rang out over the crowd. “Maker. Boring!”

All three heads turned toward the dias just in time to see Trevelyan shove the Empress of Orlais hard enough to make her stumble. Trevelyan herself was stumbling, too. Hawke balled her hands into fists and winced. There was some strong shit in that flask. 

A whistle drew Hawke’s attention to the corner of the room. There, the blonde elf stood, a finger in each side of her mouth. Hawke gasped. 

“Cullen!” she hissed, pointing. “That’s the elf! That’s the blonde elf who gave me the--”

“You tell ‘em, Quizzie!” the elf shouted, cackling. She applauded. 

Hawke made a ‘whoops’ face at Cullen. “Okay,” she said. “I no longer think she’s involved, and I’m pretty sure she was just messing with me.”

“I’d like to say a few words, if nobody minds,” Trevelyan went on. Around them, the Orlesians began murmuring. 

Solas gave Cullen a beseeching glare. “Do something,” he snapped.  

“Yes,” Cullen said. “Right. Of course. I’ll just….” He rushed toward the dias. 

Trevelyan waved a hand in the air. “I am Inquisitor Tahani…. Shahd Jamila Kir--.” She hiccuped. “Kir--.” She hiccuped again. “Kiran Trevelyan. And it has truly been an honor to have you all here. Even though I had to wear this dreadful outfit tonight, instead of something far more befitting of my station, I wanted to say that I truly… truly… am grateful for how gracious you’ve all been.”

Cullen reached the stage. “Inquisitor,” he said. “I think you’d better--”

“No! Let me speak.” Trevelyan swept her arms out broadly. “The people want to hear me.” Cullen hesitated, looking conflicted.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Hawke muttered. Trevelyan had given him a direct order, and Cullen was going to follow it. It seemed the more things changed, the more they stayed the same. She pushed through the crowd. Solas followed. Once she was on the dias, she slowed, approaching Trevelyan like she would a startled colt. She touched the Inquisitor’s shoulder. “Hey there, gorgeous. How about we let the empress speak for a little bit?”

“Don’t you dare touch me,” Trevelyan exclaimed, stumbling back. “You think just because I’m wearing this, and you’re wearing--!” Before she could finish her thought, she tripped over a candelabra. Down she went, the candles crashing with her. One curtain on the side of dias went up in flames.

“Fenedhis,” Hawke heard Solas mutter behind her. 

Grand Duchess Florianne appeared next to Celene. “As you can see, the Inquisition could never bring Orlais the stability we deserve,” Florianne said loudly, looking smug. “Neither can my cousin. But my brother can.”

Hawke’s horrified gaze shifted from the fire to the knife in the Grand Duchess’s hands. “No!” she exclaimed as she dove at the empress. 

But she was too late. 

Florianne stabbed Celene through the belly. The empress gasped and fell to her knees. She struggled to pull the dagger out. Her strength was fading. After one rattling breath, she collapsed on the floor, dead. 

The ballroom erupted into screams and shouts of alarm. Several guards rushed forward. They were killed or held back by men who appeared in harlequin masks. Trevelyan tried to climb to her feet, but she ended up toppling over. 

“Florianne,” Gaspard asked, alarmed. “What have you done?”

“Don’t act coy, Gaspard,” Florianne replied. “It is just as we planned. Now you will be emperor!”

“Me?” Gaspard asked. “Have you gone mad?”

It was Cullen who replied. “She has,” he said, stepping forward. “She did not do this for you, Gaspard. She did this for Corypheus. We have proof, in the gardens.”

Florianne sneered. Two Inquisition guards ran to apprehend her. She drew two daggers and slit one’s throat. The other, she stabbed in the chest.

“For Corypheus!” she exclaimed. She ran toward one of the balconies. “Kill the rest of them!” she instructed over her shoulder. Hawke heard Cullen draw his sword, and saw more harlequins appear. 

“She is escaping!” Solas exclaimed, frantic. 

Hawke growled. She gathered up her many, many skirts in her hands and ran as fast as she could for the balcony. She reached it just in time to see Florianne jump over the balustrade. Without hesitating, she launched herself over as well. She used a push of arcane energy to break her fall. She landed in the well-manicured gardens of the Winter Palace, and spotted her target.

Florianne saw, or sensed, that she was being pursued. She made it into a gated area, and then stopped at the edge of a fountain. With a smooth motion, she ripped off her dress. Beneath it was elaborate scout armor. From her discarded skirts, she drew a bow and quivers. She drew an arrow and shot it at Hawke.

Hawke ducked. The arrow whizzed by her head. She raised both hands, letting them snap and sparkle with electricity. “I knew I should have brought a staff,” she muttered through gritted teeth.

Then she threw herself at Florianne.

The harlequins were slaughtered. The ballroom was a madhouse. Cullen pushed through the fleeing revellers to the far balcony, where Hawke and Florianne had disappeared. He reached it. From a distance, he could make out Hawke, battling Florianne alone. She fought with no staff, raising barriers and raining down fire and lightning on the Grand Duchess. 

“Maker’s breath,” he said. For a moment, he could only watch, amazed by how the violet sparks of energy ran up and down her arms, illuminating the night. He turned. He saw he was not the only person who’d come out to see the battle. The soldier nearest to him, he grabbed by the shoulder. “Get down there! Aid the Champion!”

“At once, sir,” the man replied with a nod.

“All of you,” Cullen said to the soldiers who’d gathered. “Go.”

There was a flurry of movement. Solas emerged from the doorway. The mage had a grim, hard look on his face. Cullen did not need to give him an order. Instead, he simply nodded - a nod Solas returned before following the others. 

Cullen looked back at the battle. Hawke was aflame now - for a moment Cullen’s heart stopped, and he thought all was lost. But then she loosened the blast of fire at Florianne. It had been her own attack. He breathed in. 

Minutes passed. It felt like hours. He wondered where his men were - should he have ordered them to jump over the balcony, too? But then Hawke threw a bolt of energy at Florianne when she was standing on the edge of the fountain. Floiranne fell - she landed oddly, not able to catch herself. 

Several seconds passed. She did not rise.

Cullen realized it was over. Hawke had won. 

Just then, the first of his soldiers appeared on the grounds. 

The aftermath was a blur. 

Cullen looked over their losses. More than they’d planned for, unfortunately. Given how badly things could have gone, he would mourn the men, but count his blessings. He relieved the majority of their guards for the rest of the evening. Gaspard offered to bring in some of his own to assist. 

The ball resumed. The band started playing again. Cullen should not have been surprised, and yet he reached a new level of disgust for the Orlesian nobility. Their empress lay not two hours dead, and here they were, celebrating. 

Trevelyan was taken to her rooms. The council agreed they’d need to talk to her in the morning. She was in no condition to be scolded. With how out of character her behavior had been, Cullen had a feeling she would be more ashamed of herself than anyone else. 

“At least this was a victory for the Inquisition,” Leliana observed.

Cullen frowned. “In a manner of speaking.”

After he left Josephine and Leliana, he went to find Hawke. 

He found her on an empty balcony. She was leaning against the balustrade, staring up at the stars. Despite everything that had happened, she looked calm. He felt as though he were intruding. Still, he could not help but stare. The cut of her jaw against her neck - the way a few pale strands of hair hung around her face - the gleam of her skin in the moonlight. 

He knew this was an image that would not escape him soon.

The magic of the moment could not last. Magic. An odd thing to think at a time like this, about a woman like her. 

He cleared his throat.

She turned. “Hey there, Curly,” she said, giving him a crooked grin. 

From Varric, the nickname rankled, like an old set of armor that did not quite fit. Somehow, from Hawke, he didn’t mind it. Probably because of the note, he told himself.  

“Good evening,” he said. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not at all,” she said, looking back at the stars. She took a sip from the wine glass in her hand, then grimaced. She held it out to him. “Would you like some?” she asked. “I think I’ve had enough.”

He almost refused, then shrugged, accepting it. He took a long swallow. As he did, he noticed a bandage on her forearm. “Are you injured?” 

She glanced at the bandage. “Oh. Not badly. Grazed by an arrow. I doubt it will even leave a scar.” She made a face. “I couldn’t heal it myself. No mana left, I’m afraid.”

Of course. And she would not have thought to bring lyrium tonight. The memory of the fight came back to him.

“You were amazing,” he said before he could think better of it. That brought Hawke’s gaze back to him. She raised an eyebrow, amused. He winced. “I mean… the fighting. The way you controlled the battle. It was truly incredible.”

She laughed. “Has it really been so long since you last saw me fight?”

“This was different,” he insisted. “You didn’t even have a staff.”

“Ah,” she said. Her smile grew rueful. “Yes, well. Mages can’t put down their swords, remember?”

He did. He took another swallow of wine, looking away. “I know I advised you not to linger on regret,” he said. “That said, there are… several things I wish I could take back about Kirkwall.”

“Just several?” Hawke asked dryly. 

He gave a humorless huff. “Many, perhaps.” He met her gaze. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

Hawke gave him a searching look. He thought she might say something snide, but she simply straightened. “I know.” She held up her hand. “Would you care for a dance?”

And perhaps it was the wine, or the music, or the memory of her sparkling in the moonlight, but Cullen found that there was nothing he wanted more than to dance with Eleanor Hawke right then. To place his hand around her gilded waist, to pull her close to him, to spin her graceful body across the floor--

Show me what you want. 

Cullen took a step back. “I--,” he stuttered. He shook his head, clearing his throat. His heart hammered in his chest. “I’d better not.”

Hawke stood with her hand raised for a beat. She let it fall. Her expression was still friendly, but a light dimmed in her eyes. “I understand,” she said with a smile.

You don’t, he thought, but he could not speak the words. They opened doors that he wished to remain closed. He bit his tongue. 

“Good evening, commander,” Hawke said, rather formally. She brushed past him without waiting for a reply. 

Sighing, Cullen closed his eyes and pinched his nose.

Chapter Text

Excerpt from Solas’s Journal

Halamshiral, 9:41 Dragon.

Attempt 2

I find myself at a loss for words. I never imagined Trevelyan could be capable of such behavior. Celene lies dead once more, only this time, it was not a calculated action based on hours of discussion. It was the result of the Inquisitor’s poor choices. 

I suppose it does not matter who ends up in charge of Orlais, or why. The important thing is that the empire is stable. The Inquisition is still seen influential. The ambassador believes she can salvage the Inquisitor’s reputation. 

She certainly has her work cut out for her. 

Hawke and Warden Alistair leave soon for the Western Approach. Then, on to Adamant. I suspect that one of them will need to remain in the Fade, in Warden Tabris’s place. The other will be sent to Weisshaupt, as Hawke was. 

Truth be told, despite finding myself in Hawke’s debt, I am eager to be rid of both of them. 

--Solas

After Hawke killed Florianne, Gaspard thanked her in an impromptu ceremony. She found a bandage for her injured arm. A dozen dukes and duchesses gushed over her - well, gushed over ‘Serah ‘Awke’ at least - while Varric stood in the corner, smirking. She shot him a glare. If he was even thinking of a sequel, he had another thing coming. 

The attention became overwhelming. As soon as she could, she escaped to an empty balcony off the side of the ballroom. Behind her, the music began again, and she heard the sounds of people readying to dance. Hawke pursed her lips. She was in no mood to rejoin the celebrations. The first ball she’d been to in years, and she hadn’t even gotten a chance to participate.  

Mother would have been so disappointed.

The garden was quiet. Her ears rang in the near silence. A breeze blew past, rustling her giant skirt. She could feel her bare arms break into goosebumps, chilled, but her blood was still too hot from the fight for her to mind. She took a sip of her wine and looked upward. The sky was clear. As she stared at the stars, it occurred to her that Halamshiral was not that far from the desert. She’d spent a number of sleepless nights seeing many of these exact same patterns, tracing figures in the dotted lights. Not knowing the constellations herself, she’d created her own. There was one in particular she looked for - a bird she liked to fancy was a hawk. She found it toward the north. 

A thought occurred to her. What did the night sky look like in Kirkwall? Try as she might, she found she could not remember.

She wondered, then, if she’d ever really looked up. 

Eventually, Cullen joined her beneath the canopy of stars. His uniform was pressed, his hair was barely mussed, and his eyes were warm and dark. They talked of the evening, and the Empress's death. They sounded like old friends. She could almost imagine that they'd always been like this. She considered asking him what he remembered about the sky in Kirkwall.

But then, she guessed he rarely looked up then, either. 

When his compliments became too much for her to accept, she laughed, trying to brush them off. “Has it really been so long since you last saw me fight?”

“That was different,” Cullen said. “You didn’t even have a staff this time.”

“Yes, well. Mages can’t put down their swords, remember?”

Cullen’s face fell. His neck turned even redder.

Hawke looked at her hands, tapping the balustrade. She pinched her own wrist, leaning into the pain. Why had she said that?

A part of her knew. There was a frustration within her - a knot that felt too painful and tender to untangle. She wanted the warmth - this odd friendship, she realized. She liked him. But knowing that just made her want to tug and pull at every weak part all the more. Because if she blew it up now, before things went sour, she could control the collateral damage this time, instead of being the one left standing in the wreckage.

Please, Maker - make him cruel, make him heartless, make them incompatible in every possible way.

Make him worth shutting out.

In her peripheral vision, she watched him take a gulp of wine. She was half sure he'd just leave. It was late, and she had made things awkward. She kept her gaze averted, trying to let him off easy.  

“I know,” he said, eventually, to her surprise, “that I advised you not to linger on regret. That said, there are… several things I wish I could take back about Kirkwall.”

“Just several?” she teased, keeping her tone light.

“Many, perhaps,” he said. Another pause. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

An apology from Cullen Fucking Rutherford. Hawke was not expecting that. An astonished smile rose to her lips. Strange, that people could surprise her, even after all this time.

She turned toward him, and glanced up through her lashes. “I know.” She held out her hand. “Would you care for a dance?”

A flash of horror went across his face as he looked at her hand. He stared. Then he took a step back, clearing his throat, and shook his head. “I…. I’d better not.”

Oh. Her jaw snapped shut. Disappointment washed over her. She looked away, not wanting to see the disgust. “I understand," she said. Giving him a cool smile, she added, “Good evening, commander," and made her way to the door without waiting for him to respond. 

The corset was suffocating her. She tried to breathe in. Whatever had just happened - it had hurt. More than she’d expected it to. Stupid. Incredibly stupid. She’d been fooled by him speaking of her magic as if it had been some sort of miracle - something to be admired. By the glow of the night sky. By the shock of his apology. 

She knew he’d been sincere. He was sorry for how he’d treated her in Kirkwall.

That did not suddenly make him a different man. 

He still feared mages. 

And after a display like tonight’s, why would someone like him want to touch someone like her?

Fucking stupid. The reason he could place her so high on a pedestal was the same reason he’d been able to trample over her and everyone like her in Kirkwall. The same reason it had taken him so long to see Meredith for who she truly was. They could never be fucking equals.

Mages aren’t people. 

She needed space. This wasn’t his fault. He was still willing to help her, and she could not jeopardize that. She just could not put anything on the line.

“There you are,” Alistair’s voice said. Hawke spun as he emerged from one of the doorways. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “That stunt you pulled in the garden? Impressive stuff. I’ve never seen magic done like that.”

Hawke tried not to grimace. Five minutes ago, it would have sounded like a compliment. Now it was just another templar reminding her why circles were a thing. “Thanks,” she said anyway.

“Listen, Gaspard is offering us rooms for the night,” he went on. 

“Really?”

“Yes,” Alistair said. “Giving someone a crown tends to put them in a good mood, as it turns out.” He winced. “Well. Most of the time. Anyway, I took the liberty of accepting. Varric has some people bringing our stuff up from the inn.”

Hawke would have preferred the inn, but the allure of a bed less than fifty feet away was too tempting to turn down. Besides, it was an excuse not to go back to the ballroom. “Their soap better smell good,” she threatened.

“This is an Orlesian palace,” Alistair told her. “I’m sure their entire bathing chamber smells like a florist shop.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “I spoke with Leliana. The, um, situation with the Wardens. It sounds like it’s getting worse. Her people tracked down the ritual tower I’ve heard of, and they’ve seen Tevinter soldiers going in and out.”

“Vints!” Hawke exclaimed, happy to focus on a new target. “Wonderful. Of course they’re involved.”

“She wants the two of us to take a look ourselves.”

“Sounds like fun. When do we leave?”

“That was my question for you, actually. I’m ready when you are.”

She didn’t even hesitate. “Tomorrow morning, then. Break of dawn.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want to rest? At all?”

“We rested last night. We can rest on the road.”

“And….” He cleared his throat. “No unfinished business to wrap up? Nothing to talk about with Cullen? I mean, you barely saw him, and I know you wanted to--”

“Nope. Zilch. Nada,” Hawke said. 

“... is everything alright?”

Hawke smiled at him. “Everything is fine.”

Alistair gave her a doubtful look, then shrugged. “Alright. If you say so. Tomorrow morning it is.”

“Truly, I cannot express how sorry I am,” Trevelyan was saying the next morning, as Cullen gripped his nose. They were with Leliana and Josephine in an ornate basement room they’d been given by Emperor Gaspard. “I am deeply ashamed of myself.”

Cullen was barely listening. His mind kept drifting to the previous evening. It was the Inquisitor’s fourth attempt at an apology to the council, and while he appreciated the sentiment, there were other matters to attend to. 

“Honestly, if I were you, I’d fire me on the spot,” she went on. “Such a lack of decorum…! And in Halamshiral, no less!” 

Josephine offered Trevelyan a tense smile. “That won’t be necessary. Leliana discovered a rumor that you were pretending to be intoxicated in order to force Florianne’s hand. We are doing what we can to ensure that becomes the most common interpretation of events before word leaves the city.”

Cullen hadn’t slept well. He’d had disturbing dreams. At first, familiar images plagued him, made worse by the ball. Masked figures tried to tempt him with seductive words and glances. Demons took the form of figures from his past. Kinloch grew around him, its endless walls splattered with drying blood. 

Then an explosion rattled the building, and the stones gave way. He was in the Gallows. The masked strangers became metal statues, copper with red flames. Meredith stood amongst them, her eyes glowing. Cullen could feel the weight of his old armor on his shoulders. Blood dripped off his chin. He reached for his sword.

Before he could move, lightning flashed. Veins of blue sparks shot up from the ground. Meredith cried out and fell to her knees. Her features hardened. She froze in place, no longer a woman. The statues around her clattered as they fell apart. One person stood amongst the rubble, gleaming in her armor, the light of a burning city behind her. 

Eleanor Hawke smiled at him. “Would you care for a dance?”

He’d woken with a start. Now, he could not help but feel like a fool. Hawke had worked hard to open herself up to him, to let him help her, and he’d risked it all because of his own issues and insecurities. 

He needed this meeting to be over. He had to find Hawke and apologize before things got worse. 

“And I want to apologize to the Champion,” Trevelyan said, as if reading his thoughts. He glanced up at the mention. Trevelyan’s face grew even guiltier. “She’s been nothing but helpful, and I’ve treated her horribly.” Leliana and Josephine exchanged a glance; Cullen knew neither of them would disagree. “I promise I’ll do better, starting today. Where can I find her?”

“Ah,” Josephine said awkwardly. “Not at the palace, unfortunately. She left with Alistair this morning.”

Cullen’s head jerked toward her. “Left?”

Leliana eyed him. “That is correct.”

“You mean she’s gone?” Trevelyan asked, dismayed. 

“Yes. They are on their way to an old ritual tower in the west. There’s been unusual activity. We have reason to believe that whatever has happened to the Wardens is related.”

“We did make sure they were adequately supplied,” Josephine assured them. Cullen closed his eyes, frustrated. “They will notify us of whatever they find there.”

Trevelyan slumped over the table in front of them, sighing. “Well, then. The apology will have to wait until the next time I see her.”

Cullen silently agreed.

He hoped it would not be too long. 

A month passed with no word from Hawke. Cullen grew worried. This time, the Champion did not write. Alistair kept them updated, of course, but there were no secret letters that Leliana passed to him with increasingly suspicious stares - no teasing, no surprising openness from her, no recipes for stew. 

No requests for his help.

The thought that he may have broken whatever tangled thing had grown between them beyond that damned note hurt. He could not help but wonder if she was okay. He hoped that she understood the incredible feat she’d performed at the Winter Palace - that she took pride in the fact that she’d saved an empire. Concern that he’d done something to shake her confidence sat in his stomach, aching. 

Eventually, he had to acknowledge it was not just concern for her. He did not know Alistair well, but he suspected that the man would reach out if something was truly wrong. She was probably fine. No, the aching concern in his stomach was about something else. 

He may have lost her. 

He knew she would continue to work with him. Hawke excelled at many things, but working with those she did not like may have topped the list. Her motley crew in Kirkwall included people Cullen would never expect to associate with an apostate. For Maker’s sake, he’d worked with her six years. They’d been colleagues. And it was clear how she’d felt about him then. 

But when he thought of the casual smile she’d thrown him on the balcony at Halamshiral - her lips turning upward in the moonlight - and the way it had disappeared, he worried he’d gained a rare trust from her, and that now it was gone. He worried that they would go back to being colleagues. That he’d lost whatever chance at having what he increasingly suspected the other Cullen had. Her admiration. Her respect. At a bare minimum, her friendship. 

His dreams changed. 

Word finally came from the Western Approach. According to the note, Alistair and Hawke had noticed Wardens activity in the tower. When they went in to investigate, they were attacked by possessed Wardens and demons, all controlled by a magister by the name of Livius Erimond. Erimond was able to flee during the chaos. 

Alistair tracked him to a fortress called Adamant. From what Hawke and Alistair could see, this appeared to be the main site of the growing demon army mentioned in the dark future. Hawke also warned that there was something strange going on with the Veil, though she could not be more specific. They recommended the full strength of the Inquisition army come at once.

Within a week, Cullen was on the road with the Inquisitor and the majority of his troops. 

“Hawke!” 

The sound of her name echoed over the chaos of an army preparing for battle. Carts of supplies creaked past her on all sides, soldiers clanged as they marched in columns, and voices called out orders, and requests, and directions.

Hawke stepped out of the long line of soldiers. She turned, looking for the source of the call. Alistair went with her. Cullen appeared a moment later, silver and maroon emerging from a sea of green and brown. 

“Commander,” she greeted. Cullen looked frazzled. She couldn’t blame him. This battle would be a major turning point in the Inquisition’s fight against Corypheus. She glanced back at Adamant. “Tell us where we can best help.”

“Where you can best--,” Cullen started, surprised. He glanced between them. “You’re both going in there?”

Alistair crossed his arms. “No, of course not! Why would ever go in there?” He rolled his eyes. “We thought we’d stay and have a bit of tea. Watch the whole thing from a distance. Maybe eat some of those spiced nuts they sell in the Orlesian theaters.”

“But… you’ve done so much already.”

“Right,” Hawke said dryly. “You should definitely just send in the inexperienced people. Because that’s how war works.”

Cullen looked between them again. “Fine,” he said. “I won’t lie. If you’re truly up for it, I need every fighter I can get.” He gestured to one of the passing columns. “Go with Lieutenant Farrow. The blonde elf in the front. His team will try to secure the battlements for the archers.” Hawke and Alistair nodded. They both began to head back into the crowd, but Cullen grabbed Hawke’s arm first. “Wait.”

Hawke froze. Her eyes flicked to his hand and then back to his face. “Yes?”

“Hawke,” he said. “I wanted to apologize.”

She stiffened. “Is this really the time or the place?”

Cullen did not let go. “I would have thought you, of all people, would appreciate inappropriate timing,” he said flatly. Hawke couldn’t help but snort. Cullen relaxed a fraction. “Really, Hawke, the reason I said no on the balcony is that I--”

She pulled her arm away before he could finish, though she did give him a smile. Two apologies from Cullen Rutherford in a row. And he acknowledged that he’d done something wrong. Things certainly had changed . 

“Look. I would accept. But I’m rather attached to being alive.” He looked confused. She lowered her voice. “Confessions and apologies before a battle are bad luck,” she said. “Everyone knows that.”

“Ah,” he said. He looked relieved. “Well. Um. In that case, I rescind my apology until further notice.”

“Thank you,” she said, walking backwards toward the crowd. “And that better be enough. If it’s not and I do die, I warn you - my ghost will haunt you for the rest of your days.” With that, she spun and cut into the crowd, looking for Alistair. She heard Cullen’s huff of laughter behind her and grinned to herself.

It’s a good thing I’m not superstitious, she thought to herself.

An hour later, she was cursing Cullen fucking Rutherford and his stupid fucking apology under her breath as she and Trevelyan killed what felt like their twentieth pack of shades. The Fade, as it turned out, was a lot different in real life than in a Keeper induced dream. Alistair and Varric were still twenty paces behind them, downhill, fighting a rage demon. 

“Fuck!” Hawke cried as tore through the last shade with her staff. She shook it off and strapped it on her back. “I can’t believe I’m in the fucking Fade.” She glared at Trevelyan. “For the record, this one’s on you.”

Trevelyan sighed. She slipped her sword into her scabbard. “Yes. I… realize you might bear some resentment toward me, due to my recent behavior. Very justly. Allow me to assure you, I did not mean to be so cruel. I don't know what came over me. Ever since Solas told me what a legend you were, I've felt like I've had to prove that I was the right choice for Inquisitor. I’ve been meaning to discuss things since Halamshiral. I just never found a chance to stop and apolog--”

“Nope,” Hawke interrupted, waving her hand. “No you don’t. I’m not falling for that one again.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The last apology landed me in the Fade. The next one might kill me.”

Trevelyan stared at her for a moment. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Hawke opened her mouth, but before she could explain, another figure crested the hill. She groaned. “Here comes trouble,” she told the Inquisitor.

They both pulled out their weapons. Then Trevelyan tilted her head, frowning. “Wait. Is that… an elf?”

Hawke narrowed her eyes. Sure enough, a tall brunette elven woman approached with two weapons drawn. Her long brown hair was in a side part, and her large hazel eyes flicked between them. She stopped five feet away from them.

“You don’t seem like spirits,” the woman said warily. 

“We’re not,” Trevelyan said. 

The woman studied them. “How can I be sure?”

Hawke rolled her eyes. “I don’t fucking know. How do I know you’re not a demon?”

The woman began to grin. “Thank the freaking Maker. About time, you idiots!” She strapped her sword and dagger to her back and then, to Hawke’s great surprise, gathered Trevelyan in a hug. “I knew you'd come back, Tahani.” She pulled back and grew more serious. “Did you bring lyrium? Please tell me you’ve brought lyrium.”

“I’m sorry, but… who are you?” Trevelyan asked.

The woman held out her arms. “It’s me!” she exclaimed. “Have I really changed that much?” At Trevelyan’s blank stare, she  turned back to Hawke. “Come on. Hawke?”

Hawke narrowed her eyes. “How do you know our names?” 

By that point, Alistair and Varric had caught up. Alistair’s mouth fell open. “Mindy!” he exclaimed, striding forward.

The woman looked past Hawke and her eyebrows shot up. “Alistair! Fuck, at least someone isn't acting weird.” They embraced each other briefly. He patted her on the shoulder. “How about you? Did you bring lyrium?”

His brow furrowed. “You know I never carried the stuff.”

Mindy blew out a breath, disappointed. “Yes, but you saw how much I relied on it during the Blight, and--. Never mind. It was worth a shot. I thought if you were here to rescue me, you’d figure I was out of it by now. It's fine, I'll have some soon enough.”

“To rescue you? From what, the Fade?” She nodded. “I didn’t even know you were here. We didn't exactly come on purpose.”

Mindy shot a glare at Trevelyan. “She didn’t tell you what happened to me?”

“Me?” the Inquisitor exclaimed, lost. “How I was I supposed to know?”

“Because you’re the one who left me here,” Mindy explained. Trevelyan looked at her, aghast. Mindy shook her head. “I don’t understand,” she said to Alistair. “How did you get here, then?”

“Um, this is the Herald,” Alistair said, pointing to Trevelyan. “You know. The one with the magic hand.” He extended and retracted his fingers a few times for emphasis. “It does--. Veily things. We fell off a fortress during a battle and she ripped a hole in the Veil. Or something. You know. Standard stuff. Now we’re trying to get back.” He gestured to Mindy. “How’d you get in, is the real question? Not another Sloth demon I hope.”

“No,” Mindy said, looking increasingly confused. “I… I got in the same way. The fortress. Was it Adamant?” 

“Yes,” Alistair said slowly.

“And Corypheus’s dragon showed up. And it killed Clarel, and then the bridge collapsed.”

“How did you know about that?” Alistair asked, flabbergasted. “It just happened.”

“Because I was there,” Mindy said. “Except… except that was ages ago. I’ve been stuck here for at least five years, by my count.” 

Hawke’s blood began to grow hot. Her mind was whirring. The torn page in her pocket was burning against her clothes. 

Mindy glanced back at the Inquisitor. “You really don’t know who I am?”

“I’m afraid not,” Trevelyan said. “And let me tell you, I have an eye for faces. I once spotted that Duke Sandral Anaxas’s twin sons had swapped dance partners from across a crowded ballroom.” She lowered her voice. “Most people think they're identical, but they just look remarkably similar.”

Mindy looked at Hawke. “And you?”

Hawke was shaken from her reverie. She fixed her eyes on Mindy’s face. “Well. I can’t say I recognize you, but based on context, I think I can guess.” She stuck out her chin. “You’re Mindaera Tabris, the Hero of Ferelden.”

“The Hero of Ferelden!” Trevelyan exclaimed. 

“And if what you’re saying is true,” Hawke continued, leaning on her staff, “then we have all been through this before.” She turned to Trevelyan. “I think the Inquisition has another time travel problem on its hands.”

“Well, shit,” Varric said. 

Chapter Text

Excerpt from Solas’s Journal

Skyhold, 9:41 Dragon.

Attempt 2

Most of the Inquisition forces are now at Adamant. This time, the Inquisitor did not include me in her retinue when she left Halamshiral. She requested that I work on my research instead. I find myself wandering a near empty Skyhold. 

I am aware that this is for the best - I have put a great deal of effort into playing the reserved apostate. Much more reserved than last time. I need to bide my time. I should save my foreknowledge for moments where it is absolutely necessary. The council cannot suspect me of duplicity. The more distance between myself and Trevelyan, the better. 

And yet, I must admit, holding back pains me. After her display at the Winter Palace, I have lost faith in Trevelyan’s abilities. I took Corypheus’s defeat as a given, and kept my focus on the foci. 

I am now far less certain of the Inquisition’s success. 

Perhaps that is unfair of me. Perhaps I meddled too much, and interfered where I should have–

A sharp knock interrupted Solas’s thoughts. He glanced up from his journal, curious. Most of Skyhold’s notable residents were with the Inquisitor. And those who remained at the fortress would not visit his room this late at night. The man who still called himself Blackwall would have come to the rotunda during the day, and Cole would not have knocked. 

He closed his journal and shuffled it beneath the stack of papers on his desk. “Come in,” he said as he rose from his seat. 

The door opened. A familiar figure entered, closing the door behind her. Morrigan. Solas allowed his surprise to show. They’d met briefly at Halamshiral, which was fortunate; he could greet her by name. This time around, he wished to avoid friction with her. It had made things… complicated, in the other timeline, when she had inherited her mother’s memories. 

So he gave her a small smile. An inside joke, almost, befitting a stranger, apostate to apostate. “Morrigan. If I am not mistaken.”

Morrigan gazed around the room in stony silence. Her eyes fell on him, then ran up his full form, as though she were assessing him or searching for something. When she met his gaze, her smile was cold. 

He knew. Instantly, he knew. His blood ran cold. This was not simply Morrigan. “Ah,” he said in a more serious tone. 

Apparently, she, too, had found her answer. She squared her shoulders and crossed her thin arms. “So. Dread Wolf,” she said, the title dripping with dark sarcasm. “Here we are at last.” She tilted her head. “I believe you and I have matters to discuss.”

Solas sat back down with a sigh. He suspected he had no choice in the matter. 

“Well, shit,” Varric said.

“Time travel?” Alistair echoed.

“Hold on,” Mindy said. “This is the Fade. If the last thing you remember is Adament, maybe you're echoes. Or spirits. You know,” she gestured wildly, “figments of my imagination.”

Trevelyan pursed her lips. “We’re not spirits.”

“Legally we have to tell you if we’re spirits,” Hawke deadpanned. 

Alistair’s eyes snapped to her. “You’re taking this very well,” he said in a quiet tone, too low for anyone else to hear. A touch too sincere for sarcasm, and a touch too sarcastic to be sincere.

Hawke tried to let out a fascinated noise, as if to say “oh, am I? How interesting! I had no idea!”, but it came out somewhere between a squeak and a gurgle. 

Alistair squinted harder. 

Mindy had turned to Trevelyan. “Sometimes spirits don’t know they’re spirits. Right? Like in that old ghost story about the boy who sees dead people.” She looked at all of their blank faces. “You know, the one where this kid and his hahren go around the alienage and talk to all the people in mourning, but the whole time, the hahren doesn’t know he’s….” She seemed to realize in real time that none of them were elves. “Dead.”

Trevelyan frowned. “I’m fairly certain that only happens in stories.” 

“And Kirkwall,” Varric and Hawke both added in unison. 

Mindy ignored them. “You’d be surprised by what seems real here.” 

“Then how do we prove we’re real?” Trevelyan said. “I’m not used to being scrutinized like a pair of cheap knock-off Nevarran slippers.”

Hawke bumped Trevelyan’s arm with her shoulder. “I don't think it’s personal, hot stuff,” she murmured. “She doesn’t think any of us are real.”

Trevelyan looked aghast. “What did you just call me?”

Mindy glanced around, curious. “Where’s your Fade expert?” 

“Pardon?” Trevelyan asked. “My who?”

Varric glanced beside him. “You mean Hawke?” Hawke shot him a glare. He shrugged. “What? You’re connected to the Fade.”

“Varric,” Hawke said, offended. “That’s racist. Would I call you a Deep Roads expert just because you’re a dwarf?”

Varric made a face. “Is mage a race?” he asked.

Mindy was still frowning. “I’m talking about the other apostate. Shit. What’s his name?” She turned to Alistair. “You know, the bald elf guy? Dresses like a gay Chantry sister and looks like Zathrian?”

Alistair flicked his gaze away from Hawke, which was a relief. She could still feel the daggers he’d been staring into her neck. “No,” he said. “Not that I’ve seen at least.”

“Bald?” Trevelyan asked. “You don't mean Solas, do you?”

“Solas!” Mindy snapped her fingers. “That’s it! If anyone could tell us whether this is a Fade thing or a time thing, it’d be Solas.”

“I thought,” Hawke said, confused, “that his thing was healing?”

“Maker, Eleanor,” Mindy said, rolling her eyes. “I know you kinda tune people out, but it’s literally the only thing he talks about. That and the days of Elvhen empire, and how much we lost.” She put the word we in air quotes. “And ‘we’ is on a good day. Even for elves.” 

Hawke grew more confused. “The elven empire? What, you mean like the Dales?"

“No. Arlathan.” Mindy looked at their blank faces. “No? Really? This isn’t ringing any bells?”

“Nope,” Hawke said, as Trevelyan shook her head. Alistair didn’t react. He was back to watching Hawke like a… well. Like a hawk. She gave herself a mental high five for that one. 

Varric spoke. “He’s pretty buttoned up. I mean, he helped the Inquisitor with her hand. And he had some theories about the breach, but that’s about it.”

Mindy hummed. “What a weird thing to change about the timelines,” she murmured, almost to herself, tapping her chin. Hawke took this as a good sign that Mindy had at least accepted, for now, that there was another timeline, and that they were probably not spirits. Mindy glanced at Trevelyan. “Wait, what did he tell you about the foci, then?"

“Hm? The faulk eye?”

“The foci. The orb that opened the Breach.”

Trevelyan tilted her head. “Oh, you mean that illuminated ball of energy that Corypheus carries around with him?” She shook her head. “Solas didn’t mention it. Well, not outside of group meetings, at least. And never in much detail.”

Mindy’s frown deepened. “Maybe he saw something in my timeline that he didn’t see in yours.” 

Hawke held up her hands. “Okay so I’m not a Fade expert, but hear me out: all of this happened before, right? The physical realm has gone back in time. That’s the issue we’re dealing with. Why? We don’t know. But only the physical realm is repeating. The Fade stays the same. That’s why Mindy is from the timeline before ours.” She gestured around her. “And where do the Fade and the physical realm meet?”

“The Veil,” Trevelyan said slowly.

“Right!” Hawke said. She pointed to Mindy. “Which means that you must have felt the Breach open up a second time. Right?”

“That was ages ago,” Trevelyan disagreed before Mindy could answer. “Surely whatever loop we’re in started sometime sooner.”

“Redcliffe?” Varric suggested.

Trevelyan agreed with a nod. “My thoughts precisely. We know Alexius created one dark future. So Mindy must be from another.” 

Hawke hesitated. “I dunno,” she said. “I think that this happened before Redcliffe. Maybe around the same time as the Conclave.” She tried to say it with the casual calculus of someone who had no other clues to go on, and had not, in fact, received a note exactly at the moment when she suspected the new timeline began. “Which would’ve been about six or seven months ago.”

Mindy’s brow was furrowed. “That fits, actually. I did feel Nightmare’s presence come back around then,” she mused. “I thought it was just a memory of it. Things sort of… echo here. But it was strong enough to make me worried.”

“Nightmare?” Trevekyan asked. 

Mindy exhaled a long breath. “The demon that’s corrupting everyone at Adamant. It’s the reason I got stuck here last time. We’re not far off from it right now, actually.” She pointed over her shoulder with her thumb. All Hawke saw in that direction were dark green rocks and crevices. “I was tracking a Spirit of Virtue heading in this direction, and bam! I felt Nightmare’s aura hit me and was like, oh damn! That’s not where I meant to be at all.”

“Tracking a Spirit of Virtue?” Hawke asked. “What, like to kill it?”

“Oh, no,” Mindy assured her. “It’s tending toward Self-Righteousness.” She shifted her weight between her feet with a wince. “It’s, uh. Kind of what I do now. I’m the most malleable thing in this place, so when I feel a spirit start to go out of alignment, I try to find it and convince it not to.”

Alistair raised his eyebrows at her. “You talk demons out of being demons,” he said - more of a statement than a question. 

Mindy shrugged. “Yeah. Beats hanging out waiting to be rescued.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Hawke said, as something else occurred to her. “But if you’re in here, playing demon whisperer or whatever, then who wrote back to my letter? I wrote to you just before I left for Skyhold. You told me you were on a special mission.”

“Hey,” Alistair said. “That’s right. I wrote you, too. Just last month. You were holed up someplace up north, With Zevran.”

Mindy let out a low whistle. “Oh, wow. So I’m still out there,” she said, her voice distant. “That’s a weird thought.”

“Huzzah,” Trevelyan said miserably, forcing a smile. “Two Heroes of Ferelden.”

Mindy wasn’t listening. “Whoever did this must have pulled a couple of strings,” she guessed. “To try to keep me away this time. That’s what I would do at least. And, like, I know they’re probably pure evil, but, honestly, thank the Maker. I have no idea what would have happened if I met myself. Would we explode? Maybe implode?” She shook her head. “That’s gotta be breaking at least six rules in the space-time continuum.”

“The whos-it-whats-it?” Hawke asked.

“Not important,” Mindy said with a wave of her hand. “What is important is that you get out of here, and tell Solas that Corypheus’s orb is elven. Tell him its a foci. That’s how Corypheus opened the breach. It should give him a head start on what we were able to put together last time and help you guys get back to where you’re supposed to be in the timeline. Then you can actually save my ass and get me some damned lyrium.” She sighed. “Okay. One thing at a time. We’re going to have to kill Nightmare again, too, if we’re going to stop the demon army. Come on.”

As Morrigan took the seat across from him, Solas considered lying. He ran through a few quick scenarios in his mind. Even if Morrigan remembered everything, that did not mean she knew that he was behind this reboot. He could claim that an interloper had caused the timeline to revert. He entertained pretending to be as lost as she was.

He met her eyes. An expectant look was there, as though she knew his thoughts. Sighing, he abandoned the plan. 

“How much do you know?” he asked instead. 

Morrigan barked out a laugh at that. “Know?” she said. “Everything. Nothing. I am my mother’s daughter, am I not? She was as eager to teach me as she was to prevent me from learning anything of use.” 

He did not reply, knowing she had understood his question. 

She relented. “I know who you are. And who Flemeth was. Or, rather - I know that she carried Mythal.” Her expression soured. “Still carries Mythal, in this timeline. I know that this is not the first time we have lived through this series of events. The destruction of the Conclave. The rise of the Inquisition. And, eventually, the defeat of Corypheus, and the mysterious disappearance of the loyal apostate.” There was a rueful note in her voice at the end. She paused for a long time, until Solas looked up to meet her gaze. She gave him another cold smile. “I imagine that is enough to start, yes?”

“You still have Mythal,” Solas observed. 

“A part of her. No more than I had before.” She cocked an eyebrow at him, as if to ask him to answer in turn. 

“I do not have her powers,” Solas told her. “Not any longer. The ritual required that I sacrifice several things to go back. Physically. Otherwise, I would not have been able to retain my memories.”

She studied him a moment longer, then nodded. “I see,” she said. “I presume you mean to claim her powers once more? Yes? Once the Inquisition reigns victorious, and your deception is complete?”

“Yes.” That was a hard thing to admit. The first time, killing Flemeth had been a desperate measure. This time, it was premeditated. “Does she know?” 

“I would be very surprised if she does not.”

“You have her memories,” he pointed out. “Did she suspect me last time?”

“I have some memories,” Morrigan corrected. “But not all. I never had them all.” Solas gave her a surprised, quizzical look, and she sighed, annoyed. “When Flemeth sent me what was left of Mythal’s knowledge, she was… exact. I received only what she deemed necessary. It should come as no surprise to you of all people that some things were hidden from me.”

“Why?” Solas asked. “Which memories?”

Morrigan's smile did not reach her eyes. “Acquiring Mythal gave me no insight into my mother’s mind, I am afraid. Flemeth’s motives remain a mystery to me.” She tilted her head. “But she does have plans. Plans that she once believed aligned with yours.”

Solas frowned. “Once believed,” he echoed. “What do you mean?”

Genuine amusement played in Morrigan’s eyes now. “That is what I came here to tell you. She thought you were going to set the Evanuris free.”

Solas stared at her, astonished. “What?” Morrigan nodded, and he balked. “No.”

“Oh, yes. Why she thought such a thing, I do not understand. ‘Tis madness.” She sighed. “Mythal doubted. But Flemeth was sure. I have enough memories to see that.” 

“They disagreed?”

“Rarely,” Morrigan said airily. “On this subject, yes, but on little else. And when they did - well, it was not in the way you would think. In many ways, Mythal has become more like a mortal with each possession. I can feel how much she’s changed. But Flemeth was greedy. She held onto Mythal for a very, very long time. She exerted more control over Mythal than in any possession I have ever encountered.”

Solas had sensed the same thing. It was one reason why he had not sought her out, when he’d woken. The entity she carried was, in some ways, a stranger to him. 

He studied the woman in front of him. Morrigan’s eyes were unfocused, lost in thought. If Mythal became more like a mortal with each possession, then the most mortal version of Mythal yet sat before him. A strange thought.

“They were not well-matched,” Morrigan said at last. “I can feel that now.” She laughed darkly, without humor. “Or perhaps they were too well-matched. Each carried within them a fury that grew into an inferno. A betrayal. A desire for revenge. Everywhere their souls touched burned. How could it not change them both?”

Solas had no reply.

“By the end,” Morrigan continued with a sigh, “Mythal was blind. And angry, and confused. And alone. She wanted the other Evanuris to return to her side, regardless of what they had done. And Flemeth?” Another shrug. “Who can truly say. Perhaps she had plans of her own. Or perhaps she simply wished to watch the world burn. If a new one rose from the ashes, so be it. And if not….” She trailed off, with a morbid shake of the head. “Tis my nearest guess at her feelings.”

Solas adjusted the chessboard in his mind. It was not a literal one - it was simply how he tended to structure his plans. He’d learned early on that if he did not account for these bizarre actions of some invisible opponent, he’d get endlessly distracted by the surprises life threw his way. Mythal was an unknown entity, as she so often was. Her piece barely moved.

But Flemeth. Flemeth wanting Evanuris to return - that was unsettling news. 

Morrigan saw the expression on his face. “There is no present danger,” she assured him, her tone more brisk. Almost cheerful. “Flemeth’s curiosity outweighs her nihilism at present. And Mythal is fond of you. Whatever sentimentality is left in her, she is willing to wait and see what you will do next.”

Solas’s lips thinned. If Mythal’s so-called fondness had not been enough at the height of her power, he did not trust whatever remained in the human witch. He returned his focus to Morrigan. “And what is your opinion?”

Morrigan clearly did not expect the question. She blinked lazily, like a cat. “About them?”

“About this,” he clarified. “About the time magic.”

“Does it matter what I think? Am I to suppose you care at all what I think?”

Solas merely waited. 

She sighed, leaning back. “Very well. Tis a foolish endeavor. But here we are. Are you worried I will share your secrets with the Inquisitor? With the Council? Corypheus must be defeated. And I am aware how little power each of us truly holds. If a Witch of the Wilds walked into the Inquisition’s grand hall and accused you, an elven apostate, of treason, it would end with us both in prison.”

“You do not think your friends would believe you?”

Morrigan smiled. “My friends are not here, Dread Wolf,” she said. His jaw clenched. Before he could chastise her for the use of the title, though, she waved him off. “I am not eager to talk to my friends,” she said. She had a bitter look in her eye. “This... arrangement may not be the curse I feared in my youth, but that does not make it a welcome surprise. Were I to tell Mindaera Tabris that the spirit that had once possessed Flemeth now possessed me… .” She frowned, crossing her arms again. “Well. I do not want to know her reaction. Is that so strange?”

Solas thought of Cole, and the memories he’d erased from his friend’s head. “No.”

They fell into silence. Solas had much he wanted to ask, but he was far too aware of the future. The day would come when Morrigan would have to choose between the world she knew, and the world that a tiny spark within her might remember. She would likely move against him. 

Eventually, Morrigan spoke. “I do wonder, though. The Veil is thinner. Your time ritual weakened it. Did it not?”

“Only by a fraction,” Solas told her. 

“Oh, ‘tis more than a fraction,” Morrigan disagreed with a frown. “I can feel it. Even as far as Orlais.”

“It is not enough to cause any real concern,” Solas said. “There was some slight manipulation, yes, but the Veil will mend itself. It often does.” Privately, with more disquiet than he let show on his face, Solas acknowledged that it should have begun to mend itself already.

Morrigan looked unconvinced as well. “Often. How comforting.”

“I created the Veil,” he said firmly. “It can withstand a single act of chronurgy. Were I planning to repeat the ritual a thousand times, perhaps I would be worried. But I am not. Everything is fine.”

Morrigan studied him for a long moment. There was a glimmer of doubt in her eye, one that reminded him not of the spirit she carried, but of someone else. It took him a moment to place the expression: Felassan. 

Then she nodded, once, and stood. “Very well. Allow me to leave you with one piece of advice, Solas.” She gave him a significant, meaningful look. “Do not try this move again.”

“I have no plans to repeat the ritual,” Solas assured her.

As they made their way toward Nightmare, Alistair finally stopped trying to glower Hawke into some sort of confession. He was on to her, though. Hawke could tell. That was one more conversation that she did not look forward to.

He fell into step with Mindy, and the two of them began catching up. Trevelyan walked beside them, surprisingly withdrawn. She didn't even try to butt in when Mindy brought up Queen Anora, Trevelyan's erstwhile supposed best friend. Varric was next to Hawke. He'd tried a few weak avenues of conversation with her, but she couldn’t follow them. She was distracted. 

The whole orb thing puzzled her. Mindy said it was elven. Where had Corypheus found such a thing? He hadn’t had it with him in his prison in the Vinmark mountains. And some time had passed since she and Varric fought him there, but not that much. Three or four years, at most. Not long enough for a thirteen-foot-tall darkspawn to make many friends in high places. Did he know someone else? Someone from before the prison? Another immortal being?

And why had Mindy known about it? She said Solas had told her - that he had seen something in her timeline, something that he had not seen here. If Solas had been kept out of the inner circle, Hawke could understood that happening. But, as far as she could tell, he was extremely well-respected, and not kept out of any discussions. He’d been with Trevelyan when Haven was attacked, and when the Breach was closed. Some of the chantry sisters at Skyhold had kept an eye on Hawke, while she was there. She saw those same eyes following Dorian, and Enchanter Fiona, and even some of the templars. But never Solas. 

A memory struck her - Cullen, that first day she’d approached him at Skyhold, going over a list of people they could not trust. Listing out the things he knew about Solas. They discussed all the things Varric had just told Tabris - the fact that he’d been at the Conclave, the fact that he’d known about the Breach. The fact that he knew how to help Trevelyan’s hand. And then, Cullen finished the summary with an exhausted: “Right, yes. Now that I’m saying it all together, I can see how that might look suspicious.”

It was certainly suspicious. A lot of coincidences. And Maker knew that Hawke didn't like mysterious apostates, a pile of odd coincidences, and religious acts of terrorism. It made her skin itch, the way it did when she was casting electricity, or when a Smite hit her. Add in that he’d apparently tried to stir up Trevelyan’s superiority complex, and that he’d popped up and yelled at her and Cullen at the Winter Palace at exactly the right moment, after being mysteriously absent for the rest of the party - and that he’d been a master at Fade magic in Mindy’s timeline, and that whoever had helped Corypheus would have had to have been a mage, and–

Hawke froze. “That motherforker.” Varric and Alistair glanced back at her. She frowned and blinked, temporarily distracted. “That motherforker?” She screwed up her face into a scowl. “Fork. Fork! What the fork? Hey, Mindy! Why can’t I say fork?”

Mindy stopped and sniffed the air. “Ah. That would be the Self-Righteousness,” she sighed. She peered at their deep green surroundings, as the others stopped to look back at Hawke. “The other spirit I told you about. I was right on its tail - we must have wandered into its domain. You won’t be able to swear until we leave.”

“Fork!” Hawke yelled. She put a hand to forehead. “Fine. Not important. As I was saying , Solas, that motherforker–” She grit her teeth. “Actually, I was wrong, this is important, this is the worst forking time to lose the ability to swear, but listen. You guys.” The rest of them exchanged confused glances. She put her hands up. “I think, maybe, that Solas is the one behind the forking time loop.”

Varric, Trevelyan, and Mindy stared at her. Even Alistair went from giving her a sour face to looking shocked. 

“Well, shirt,” Varric said. He frowned. “Shirt? Shirt.” He made a face, as though he’d eaten a bad egg. “Okay, you’re right, that’s really forking annoying.”